by Boykin, Alma
Alma T C Boykin
Kindle Edition
Produced by
IndieBookLauncher.com
EPUB edition ISBN: 978-1-927967-83-6
Kindle edition ISBN: 978-1-927967-84-3
Copyright 2016 Alma T C Boykin, all rights reserved.
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
1: A Feast of Nightmares
2: Studies and a Ship
3: Death and Mastery
4: The Consequence of War
5: Defeat and Victory
6: Harvest of Woe
7: Justice and Winter
8: New Dalfa
9: An Uncivil Surprise
10: Looking South
11: From Lake to Sea
12: The Fortress, the Sea, and Mercy
About The Author
The Colplatschki Chronicles
The Cat Among Dragons Series
Pjtor froze, terrified, as Grigory shoved his big, flat hands under Pjtor’s arms and lifted him, clutching the boy so tightly that he left bruises through the fur-lined crimson coat and fine shirt beneath. “See! He lives!” Grigory leaned forward, holding Pjtor out over the edge of the balcony rail. Pjtor tried to kick, to put his feet on the solid wood, but the cruel man leaned farther, dangling Pjtor ten meters above the soldiers milling in the courtyard. Pjtor imagined he could smell their breath, foul like their motley collection of dirty clothes and weapons, their long, food-stained beards. Grigory shook him and Pjtor kept his arms stretched out and locked: maybe he’d have a moment to grab Grigory’s arm or the railing if his half-sister’s favorite dropped him.
“See? He lives! The Little Emperor lives!” Grigory shook Pjtor again and the boy wanted to shriek from fear as the men below waved their halberds and spears, their heavy swords.
“What of the other, the false one?” A voice called from the field of points below.
“He and his children have gone to Godown.”
The roar from below drowned Pjtor’s whimpering, retching cry. His best friend had died in Pjtor’s own bed chamber, chopped to bits as his half-sister Sara pointed at the older boy, ordering, “Kill the wretch. He’ll be no better than his fool of a father. Bad nuts make crooked trees.” Swords and knives had flashed and blood had spattered everywhere, sizzling on the stove beside Pjtor, staining the floor and the heavy Turklavi carpet beside the bed. Simple Isaac, Pjtor’s older half-brother, wet himself and dodged the men, climbing the two steps to the door of the old cupboard-bed and pulling the heavy door shut, holding it fast with the strength of a terrified animal. Seven-year-old Pjtor barely had time to acknowledge the death before Grigory and Sara dragged him from the room, rushing him down the empty hallway to the balcony overlooking the great courtyard of the palace in Muskava.
I’m going to die, Pjtor knew, they’re going to kill me just like Father Boris said and I’ll go to the cold place forever just like Uncle Rozim and Gookarnov the Black. He’d heard whispers from the servants, whispers about how Sara favored her full brother Simple Isaac over clever Pjtor the son of their father’s second wife, about how Sara liked being Empress-Regent too much, about what happened in her chamber after the lamps went out. I should be praying, begging Godown to save me from the endless ice, praying for dead Alyx, Pjtor told himself. But instead he ran, dragged by the adults toward a growing roar, then lifted and held in thin air over the angry nobles of the Chosen Guard.
Their roar rose again, wrapping itself around Pjtor like a living thing, lifting him up, into the cold and wet, into the bitter darkness, dragging the terrified boy into the hell where Alyx cowered—
“No!” Pjtor woke with a start, blinking, biting his tongue to keep from calling out. Isaac slept lightly and Pjtor did not want to wake his brother. Tomorrow? Today? was the great feast of the Mercy of Godown and the service lasted for hours. The nightmare memory faded as Pjtor recited inside his head, “Godown the Great, maker of all, have mercy. Godown of the stars, maker of all, have mercy. Godown of Refuge, maker of all, have mercy. You who guard the watches of the night, You who scattered the stars, You who soothed the Fires and preserved the faithful, have mercy.” Today? Tomorrow? marked the quarter day, when light and dark balanced in Godown’s hand, and Pjtor and Isaac had to assist the priests in the great service of thanks for deliverance from the white death of winter. Sometimes, when he was especially cold, Pjtor wondered if the Great Fires had been tongues of cold and not of heat, and if Godown punished sinners by locking them in ice for all ages to come rather than drowning them in pits of liquid fire, like the painting on the wall of the palace chapel showed. He rustled a little in his nest of blankets and furs and returned to sleep.
Archbishop Nikolas led the procession from the palace to the Sanctuary of Godown of the Endless Stars just after sunrise. The morning light touched the threads of gold and silver in his green robes and gleamed off the top of his crook of office. Princess Sara followed close behind, carrying the holy image of the Stars of Godown. Pjtor wondered what kind of rumors would start because of her impiety, not that he was supposed to know anything about that. Only men carried the holy images, just as only men led the singing, only men rang the great bells, and only men could touch the elements before the final blessing and the distribution of Grace. At least Sara was not wearing more jewels than the two emperors wore—this time. A few women had always left the protection of the homefold, but they knew their place. But not Sara, no. Sara, well, some day Pjtor and Isaac would have to act, but not this day.
The procession and chanting slowed as the great doors of the church opened, revealing the silver-touched blue of the interior. Everyone paused, bowing low as they crossed the threshold. Incense billowed out and Isaac, beside Pjtor, sneezed and coughed. Pjtor mastered his reaction and held the sneeze in until the urge passed. He did not trip on the step into the church this time. Once inside, he walked confidently, even though he could not see yet because of the brightness of sun on snow outside. After eleven years, he knew the interior of the great sanctuaries around Muskava by heart. He stopped when he caught the first glint of the lamps and waited for the archbishop to finish the six prostrations and four signs of blessing. By then Pjtor’s eyes adjusted. He and Isaac continued forward until they stood at the front of the great space, exactly two meters from the gold-covered wood of the great screen that separated the main worship space from the chamber of holiness. Gilded and silvered metal gates kept the eyes of the unworthy from catching a glimpse of the instruments of grace. In perfect unison, Pjtor and Isaac performed six prostrations and three signs of blessing. Pjtor glanced around for Sara, saw that she’d retreated to stand with her women as was proper, and relaxed. Then he began to hum. Humming helped him remember the responses.
Archbishop Nikolas, flanked by two priests in gold vestments and two more in white and green, sang out, “In Godown’s name, be blessed.”
Pjtor joined the refrain, “Blessed be God-down.
“In Godown’s name, seek mercy.”
“Blessed be God-down.”
“In Godown’s name, be blessed.”
“Blessed beeeeeeee God-dooooown.”
With a mild start Pjtor noticed that he had no trouble reaching the low note anymore. Maybe it had to do with him growing again? Boris, his servant, had sent for a master tailor just two days before because none of Pjtor’s spring robes fit, or at least not well enough for imperial audiences. Pjtor did not see a problem with the bottom of his robe stopping at the middle of his shin instead of almost brushing the floor, but he was not consulted for his opinion. But someday he would be, and he had de
finite ideas about court dress. His son would not—
The ancient bell chimed and Pjtor almost lost the words. “All praise and thanks to Godown, holder of the Sun, maker of the stars, Lord of the endless spaces between worlds,” he sang, again in unison with Isaac. Blast it, he had to pay attention! For the rest of the hours of liturgy, Pjtor kept his attention fixed on Archbishop Nikolas and the priests. If he lost the words, Isaac probably would too, and then disaster would strike. Godown required both priests and monarchs to serve Him or he would withdraw His blessing from NovRodi and let the Turklavi and their Harriers return. Not that they were ever that far away—. Pjtor caught his attention wandering and brought it back once more.
At last, just after he thought the archbishop would never finish, the Gates of Grace opened and Nikolas removed his ornate head-cloth, revealing a plain cap as he left behind his worldly riches in order to enter the place of grace. Pjtor and Isaac bowed and stepped forward, following the prelate through the gates into the most holy, sheltered space in the great church, the tiny chamber of the elements. Here the three blessed the bread and oil, allowing Godown to use them as channels for His blessing on and in the elements. Nikolas took the bread and the young men carried out the two flasks of oil. Nikolas lifted the enormous loaf and the worshippers fell to their knees, praising Godown for His generosity and mercy. Pjtor and Isaac gave the oil flasks to the senior priests, then walked all the way to the back of the church as the archbishop briefly rested the loaf on the altar and covered his head once more. By tradition this one time of the year the emperor received last, as a reminder that all stood equally before Godown, the least and the greatest for once the same in the living world. As Isaac and Pjtor brought up the end of the line to receive the elements, Pjtor straightened up, standing tall for a moment. I can see the top of Nikolas’s head cover. That’s new. So was the head cover, and Pjtor wondered about the gold stitching on what only Godown usually saw. Then he bowed to accept the bread of grace and forgot about everything but the rich, filling sweetness as the bit of fine white loaf dissolved on his tongue. The oil on his forehead reminded him of all that Godown had granted His people, and Pjtor gave thanks.
And he gave thanks that they could eat at last. The fast days wore on him even though the spring fasts made a blessing of necessity, as his tutor, Master Andrej, phrased it when they were alone in Emperor Eugene’s old library. Pjtor and Isaac waited until the last words of blessing rose from the choir, then they walked quickly out into the blinding light of early afternoon and straight through the palace and courtyard to the great dining hall. Servants met them at the door, took their heavy coats and gave them lighter, fur-lined robes and indoor felt and fur shoes. One of the butlers offered Pjtor bread with meat drippings on it and he devoured the food. He shouldn’t be breaking his fast just yet, but formality be damned, he was hungry and he was an emperor. “Thank you,” he remembered to grunt.
“It is an honor to be the emperor’s slave,” the man murmured, bowing until his nose almost touched his knees, then rushing off to join the others. Isaac and Pjtor took their seats, and all too soon Sara joined them, her shadow Grigory lurking behind her. Archbishop Nikolas joined the Lady Regent.
“If your holiness would be so kind as to offer a blessing?” Sara asked, pretending modesty behind the hard-starched edges of her half veil. A gilded and jeweled coronet held the veil in place, something not quite appropriate for an unwed woman, even the sister of one of the emperors.
Pjtor ground his teeth as the food cooled and the words continued to flow forth from the archbishop. At last he heard “And in Godown’s holy name, be blessed.”
Sluuuurp. Pjtor risked a glance and saw his brother lifting the soup bowl to drink. He bit his tongue to keep from smiling at the angry look on Sara’s face. Instead he focused on eating his own soup, still faintly warm, with a spoon as Sara and the others insisted. The real beef broth warmed his stomach and soothed his headache. Hot roasted marrowbones followed, then a giant river fish with root vegetables, more beef, all served with white bread and jam. The cows had not started giving butter yet, and last year there had not been much to save after the harsh spring. Spiced fish with winterberries followed the beef, and then spicy cakes and tea. Stomach full and body warm, Pjtor played with his wine cup and listened to Sara and the priest talking. He learned more that way than she ever told him or Isaac in person.
“Your highness,” one of the hereditary lords, Stavro Karlinov, oozed, “am I correct in understanding that a great expedition is planned for the late spring?”
Pjtor listened closely, not-watching from the corner of his eye as Grigory frowned. Sara’s perfectly curved black eyebrows rose ever so slightly and the corner of her mouth drooped only the faintest bit. Otherwise she remained serene and as lovely as her official portrait showed her, the black-haired beauty with piercing blue eyes and soft red cheeks and plump lips. Pjtor was coming to prefer fair-haired women, not that he was supposed to know anything about women at all. Sara lifted one hand from the top of the table and made a tiny waving motion with her fingers, dismissing the matter.
“Should it be necessary. The Harriers retain their respect for the crown, as they should, and peace remains in place. Until they break Godown’s peace, it is better to concentrate on troubles closer at hand.”
Archbishop Nikolas nodded. “Blessed are the peacemakers indeed, and truly, unless the schism within the Church is closed, the threat of Godown’s wrath looms far larger than any worldly concern.”
Pjtor sipped the wine and watched the people around the imperial party. Several lords nodded their agreement, two foreign ambassadors at the far end of the table whispered to each other, and Lords Arkmandii and Tabor glared down at their plates, not bothering to conceal their disgust with Archbishop Nikolas. Pjtor knew that the two frontier lords tacitly supported and generally ignored the heretics, allowing them to build their own churches on the lords’ property and not confiscating their now-forbidden books of liturgy and prayer. The lords also fought hard against the horse barbarians, had opened new fields and pastures, and served as a fence between the Harriers and Muskava. Pjtor added them to the list of people to watch and to break only if necessary. Grigory he would break, break on the wheel if exile or imprisonment failed. Sara he’d break if necessary, not physically if he could help it. Pjtor had no sympathy with the self-styled True Spirits, but the archbishop’s self aggrandizement and meddling in the affairs of the Empire grated even more. The True Spirits risked their own souls. Nikolas threatened the power of the Emperor himself. Themselves, Pjtor corrected. Always remember that we are two, co-emperors because the council of lords wanted me alone but Sara and the church insisted on Isaac, since he is the older son. Isaac’s hand had begun to shake a little, a warning that he’d reached the end of his endurance and would be leaving soon.
“Stay that the feast may continue with full honor to Godown,” Isaac ordered as servants helped him stand. Pjtor bowed in his seat, head to his knee. He straightened up in time to see Sara catch herself, bowing too late and half-heartedly. Her coronet shifted and she grabbed at it. Pjtor bit his tongue to keep from smiling at the indignity.
Pjtor listened with one ear to Sara, Grigory and the others as he pretended to be mesmerized by the music and dancers entertaining the imperial court. The distraction helped. If his eyes had something to follow, he could listen without his mind wandering too far. And if he looked distracted, Sara ignored him. For the moment, he wanted to be ignored. Soon, though, very soon . . .
“What of the heretics in the foreign enclave, most imperial highness?” Lord Nilgal began. “They endanger our souls as well as our purses with their strange beliefs.”
“You believe they can pull coin from your purse?” Grigory inquired in a lazy way. He reminded Pjtor of a cave bear when he used that tone. Nilgal may be about to lose more than just his coin. I wonder what he did to anger Sara’s lover?
“They started printing their own books without the Holy Church’s sea
l of permission. I saw them with my own eyes. Books of sorcery, full of strange symbols and drawings, Godown be my witness.” At least half a dozen people made the new two-fingered sign of blessing. Pjtor wondered if they were like the books of numbers in his late father’s library, the ones Master Andrej called geo-metri and said were for measuring fields and seeing how much a barrel held without filling the barrel first. Or, he barely dared to imagine, were they the star books of the Landers, the ones that had guided them from the far distant Home where Godown dwelled to Solana? Could it be that the trade cities had found a way to return to the stars? Would they dare?
“Can anyone else see the book?” Grigory demanded.
“No, my lord, it is chained to a table and the cover has a lock. It must be cursed indeed.”
“It is more likely a ledger or a navigation book, the one sailors use to cross the bitter White Sea,” a new voice wheezed as Archpriest Tan leaned past Pjtor to look at Grigory and Nilgal. Pjtor drew back without meaning to as the stench of the man’s body made the emperor’s eyes water. Tan refused to use the steam bath, even in winter, and stopped bathing or changing his clothes once the rivers froze. No one in court smelled like a field of summer grain at the moment, but Father Tan, well, Pjtor and Isaac used to plot how they could dump soapy water over the old man, or drench him in perfume. Now they just endured and prayed for the streams to thaw. Tan continued, “Books that do not leave the foreign quarter and that are not for sale do not get inspected or sealed. The sea city princes are jealous of their power over the waves, enough so that it is said they pour gold into the sea as an offering to Godown-of-the-Waves.”
Pjtor wanted to see that book. He wanted to watch the sea and the waves, and to go to cities on the sea. He’d heard stories, and seen a few pictures, but what did a sea look like? What did a ship look like? Were they really houses on the water with big white flags on them? Maybe someday, when he was emperor in truth, he could go to the sea.