by Boykin, Alma
“The bishops are meeting to decide what to do about the,” she spat, “heretics and you must be here.”
Pjtor kept his voice quiet. “What is wrong with Isaac?”
Grigory eased back. Yes, Pjtor thought at Grigory, you do not want to die, not here. You have at least one bit of functioning brain.
Sara too seemed to realize her error. “Nothing, Imperial Majesty. And the meeting is at midsummer, once the rivers are low and all can travel.”
“Excellent. That will be considerate, given the seniority of some of the men concerned.” Although given where most of the heretics chose to live, the Harriers would likely solve the problem, if problem it was. Godown knew His own.
Pjtor walked away. Once out of sight of his half-sister and her creatures within the private section of the palace, he stopped, curled one hand into a fist, and brought it down on the back of a chair in the hallway. The wood shattered under the second blow. A third time he struck and the seat and two legs broke loose from the rest. He picked up the seat and two remaining legs, snapped them apart with his hands, threw them to the floor, and stalked away. “I will break you,” he whispered to the Chosen Guards and Grigory. “I will break you.”
As the lights shimmered, Pjtor locked his legs and back, fixing his eyes on the far distance as the men around him worked to unload the boat from the improvised wagon. He did not fear the spells, he couldn’t. The peace and warmth that came with them, the pure joy that danced like the beautiful colors, if only they came after the attack as a reward instead of as a warning. But thanks be to Godown for the warning. Pjtor swayed a little but did not collapse this time. The spell felt milder than some, and he soon regained possession of his body, along with the all-too-familiar headache and bad mood.
“One, two three,” splash. With a quiet sound like watery sigh, Swift One’s hull touched water. Pjtor relaxed and walked down the bank, watching carefully. No water seeped into the boat, but he suspected come morning, they’d find a leak. Boats out of the water shrank and began to leak, Gerald Allen and Geert had both warned. Well, Pjtor grinned despite his miserable temper and headache. He’d been looking forward to working on the boat as much as to sailing it. And speaking of sails, he’d be sewing a new patch onto the bottom of the mainsail, since meez had gotten into the storage chest over the winter.
“Why did Godown make meez?” he asked Master Andrej.
“Better to ask why the Landers brought them with them. Perhaps some lady thought they would be good for children to play with, before they got larger animals to care for, or perhaps they served some function in the cities before the Fires, or on the star-crossing ships, Imperial Master.” The old man shrugged but smiled a little. “I also intend to ask Godown about fleas.”
“Ah. Fleas keep us humble, or so I recall Fr. Darius preaching many, many years ago.”
“Humble. I shall try to remember that. What do you remember about the Eastern Empire, Imperial Master?”
Pjtor finished supervising the service-slaves tying the boat to its moorings, then climbed back up the lake bank. “That they could do more against the Turklavi, or whatever they call them, and that there are stories about women who fight like men, in the army. And that the ruling family has been in power since the Great Fires, but that I am not so certain of.”
Andrej nodded and stroked his beard. He’d trimmed it shorter for summer, and he looked less like a goat and more like one of the saints in the grace screen. “According to the latest news from the Sea Republics and Frankonia, Imperial Majesty, that woman does exist and she is in command of all of their armies.”
Two years ago Pjtor would have thought his tutor suffered from sun-blast. Now he just shook his head in wonder. “She must be one of Godown’s chosen indeed.” Or her father and husband or brothers used her to hide their own skills for some reason.
“According to the ambassador from Frankonia, she is an unnatural bastard who will bring Godown’s wrath on the Eastern Empire, if not all of Colplatschki, if she is not put in her proper place.”
Pjtor tried to recall something he’d heard, humming a little as he thought. “Ah, correct me if I err, but did not Frankonia fail to capture some lands on the border with the Empire?”
Andre smiled. “Not exactly on the border, Imperial Master, but allied to the Easterners. Yes, I suspect a little frustration, since rumor has it that the woman’s mother was Frankonian, possibly one of King Laurence’s father’s concubines.”
Pjtor winced. That would make it even more painful, if true. “And what of the Sea Republics?”
“It is said,” Andrej walked just a little behind as well as beside Pjtor as they returned to the waiting horses. “It is said that King Laurence desires to take them for his own. But first he must deal with Turkowi raids against his coast.”
“Wait, Turkowi coastal raids? By sea?” That was a terrifying thought. The Harriers never traveled by sea, but what if . . . if their masters turned east once more, but came around the tropical islands, the spicy lands, and attacked NovRodi? I need ships, Pjtor thought, stomach as heavy as if he’d eaten two-year-old, triple-baked bread. Real fighting ships, not just little boats like Swift One.
He decided the next morning that although wet, there was less water than he’d feared in Swift One’s hull. After two tries, he’d handed the sail, the patch, and the thread to one of the servants, with orders to have a woman do the work. Pjtor’s head had ached so much his eyes would not focus. Baling out water and re-packing the tow and tar he could do without getting too close. Servants already had a small fire lit and the tar pot perched near but not over the flames. Everyone knew what happened when pine tar met flame. How long had it been since the last major fire in Muskava? Pjtor balanced carefully on the bank, then stepped into the boat and started baling out water. Several years, which meant that they might be due for one. How did New Dalfa escape the fires? Oh, yes, he remembered now, Geert said that they used fired earth bricks to build, and had roofs made of fired earth or that flat grey stone that looked like old wood planks. Slate? Sleet? Something like that. Pjtor finished baling and before the servants could move, got out of the boat and tipped it over against the bank, then scrambled back on shore. Now he understood why Gerald Allen insisted they remove the mast before storing the boat. How do they store the big sea ships? Surely they do not remove the masts and flip them over. Perhaps the Sea Republics had giant boat sheds, but where would they get the wood? A servant handed him tea and he quenched his thirst before starting the messy process of filling the gaps in the hull with pieces of untwisted rope and the pine tar.
Three days passed before Pjtor could sail. He almost upset the boat on his first run, but he survived and lazed along the lakeshore, watching the trees and cows pass by. The late spring sun warmed him all the way through. Here, on the water, no one bothered him. He imagined Grigory trying to pursue him and sinking under Lake Morava’s waters, pulled down by all his furs and gold chains. Pjtor smiled. All was right in the—
Creak. He blinked. Creeeeaaak swish thunk. Pjtor barely ducked in time as the boom swept over him. Damn it, by St. Issa’s fire, he’d forgotten to tie the— He ducked again as the wooden pole went the other way. What was going on? For the first time in several minutes Pjtor looked around, glancing at the sky behind him in time to see the sun disappear behind boiling black clouds. “Oh shit.”
A drenched, cold, miserable, furious emperor of NovRodi sat beside the fire that evening, drying out and thanking Godown that he’d managed to get to shore before the storm really hit. I know better, he grumbled, hearing Gerald Allen’s harsh voice and rough accent in his memory, along with laughter. Thanks be there’d been no witnesses. The service-slaves didn’t count.
He looked over at the pile of messages. At least he was not the only one caught in the sudden storm. The courier from Muskava had kept the papers dry, but now suffered a terrible cough and fever after his own drenching. Radu, the estate manager, said the man had said something about a verbal message, b
ut Pjtor would have to wait until he recovered from his illness.
“A son?” Pjtor demanded six days later.
“Yes, Imperial Master. A boy, healthy, small but strong. Emperor Isaac presented him to Godown but Archbishop Nikolas says he will not anoint the boy until you arrive.” The small, lean man kept his head down, back hunched, waiting for Pjtor’s outburst of anger.
Instead Pjtor stared at Godown’s symbol in the wall niche, thinking hard. “And Emperor Isaac’s lady? Has she delivered?”
“Yes, Imperial Master. A boy, but, your pardon Imperial Master, there are rumors that he is sickly. No formal news was given to me, and I do not wish to speak of what I do not know.”
Pjtor nodded. No baby left the homefold until three holy days had passed after the birth, for reasons known only to Godown and women. Not even the heirs to an imperial throne. Which child had come first, Pjtor wondered. Well, until both had been anointed, and both walked, it mattered not. Nor would he return early. It would be better by far if he did not see Girgory leaving for the south. He, Pjtor, might be exempt from many of men’s laws, but not from those of Godown, and Godown knew what lay in men’s hearts.
Pjtor stood beside Tamsin under the painted heavens inside the sanctuary of Godown of the Stars. She held little Pjtor, or at least she held a bundle of blankets that occasionally made a noise. Pjtor the elder had some doubts about the baby needing that many blankets in mid summer, but he was a mere man. Incense drifted over the three, and a tiny sneeze came from the blankets. Tamsin rustled a little, as if embarrassed, but Pjtor could not see her face because of the hard starched edges of her white headcover and the drape of her veil.
The priest officiating at the anointing nodded to Pjtor, who turned, took the baby—so tiny!—then turned back to the altar. He closed his eyes, hummed a few notes, then began singing, his deep voice filling the holy space. “Blessed be Godown, Lord of the stars, maker of all. Holy are You, Godown, full of mercy and love for Your children. Hear our prayers, oh greatest of Lords, defender of all who call to You, protector of those too young to speak.” He held out the blanket bundle toward the altar and Gates of Grace. “See this, your child, Pjtor Pjtorson, oh merciful Godown. Take him in Your care, bless us his parents that we may guide him right, and protect him until he comes of age and wisdom. Guard him from the terrors of the night and the evils of the day, great Defender of all, protect him as an eagle guards her hatchlings, stand as shield between him and danger, holy Godown, Father of All, Mother of All, all powerful, all merciful, all glorious Lord of all.”
“Blessed be Godown, guardian and guide,” the priest sang back. He took the child from Pjtor, bowed, and held the baby over the altar as Archbishop Nikolas waved a little incense over the bundle. Then the archbishop lifted the vessel of holy oil.
“Who presents this child to Godown and the church?”
Tamsin gulped. “We do, holy father.”
“And what is the child to be called?”
“Pjtor Pjtorson Nikolas Adam Martin Boris Anthony Svendborg.” Poor baby, Pjtor thought, his name is larger than he is.
“Godown, bless Pjtor Pjtorson Nikolas Adam Martin Boris Anthony, welcome him into Your family and protect him, grant him strength, health and wisdom.” The archbishop dripped a tiny bit of oil onto one finger and drew Godown’s sign on the baby’s forehead.
“Wah! Waaaahh!”
All present smiled and Pjtor let his shoulders droop. A good sign, evil being chased out of the baby. Nikolas must have read his mind, because he frowned, eyes narrow, glaring at Pjtor. No, it is not a church teaching but everyone knows that babies cry during their anointing and that it is good, Pjtor thought at the man. Tamsin stepped forward and took the fussing bundle back, rocking it a little. Rocking him a little, Pjtor corrected himself.
After the service, they stopped and bowed low to Godown’s symbol. Pjtor also took the time to light incense at the little memory altar on the north side of the main worship space, breathing a prayer for Isaac’s son. Godown had taken him not long after his anointing. Godown gives and Godown takes, blessed be Godown, Pjtor thought. He could not rejoice as much as he should for little Pjtor’s health, not after seeing Isaac’s soul-deep sorrow. The child, Boris, had died two nights after Pjtor’s return. He’d held his half-brother as the older man wept, shaking with grief, before Isaac recovered his calm and went back to his wife’s chamber in the homefold to comfort her. Both men agreed that Sara’s absence was a blessing.
Pjtor and Tamsin followed servants and several of Pjtor’s soldiers into the palace proper. To Pjtor’s surprise, Isaac stood in the doorway, holding a gilded tray with bread, salt, and purpleheart flowers in a tiny vase. “Be welcome Pjtor, son of Pjtor,” Isaac invited.
The room’s walls and the doorway shimmered as Pjtor the elder blinked away tears. He and Tamsin bowed. “Than—” Pjtor choked, coughed, and tried again. “Thank you, Isaac Adamson, for the blessing and the welcome. May Godown smile on this house and return your generosity ten fold.” The words might have sounded cruel, but they were not, somehow.
Tamsin took a little bread, dipped it in salt, and touched it to baby Pjtor’s lips before eating it herself. Pjtor did likewise. He felt the tears on his cheeks and ignored them. He had never loved Isaac as much as he did in that moment. Isaac’s face also bore wet tracks, and the edges of his mouth trembled a little as he smiled. All three adults sniffed at the same moment, and then laughed. “Enter in Godown’s name,” Isaac said, carefully stepping backwards and giving the family room to pass. How he managed without his cane or a servant to help Pjtor did not know, but he blessed his half-brother for such kindness and effort.
Only the presence of his mother and Tamsin and Strella kept Pjtor from tossing his father-in-law out the window later that night. Lord Nikolas Boison leaned too close to Pjtor, his bad teeth making his breath foul as he said, “So, my lord, now that you have a son, I trust you will have a proper court as befits an emperor and married man and father.” Pjtor had heard it said that some men’s eyes glittered with greed, but he had never seen it before now. Lord Nikolas suddenly reminded Pjtor of one of those half-wild pfiggies they kept on the farm to provide meat for the service-slaves. The round-bodied, small-eyed black-and-white animals would eat anything, and the larger ones pushed the smaller out of the way when the cook’s helper brought table scraps to add to the maize and quinly and dairy leavings the pfiggies usually ate. Pjtor could easily imagine his father-by-marriage grunting and shoving other nobles out of the way, grabbing at any gold or power he could touch. The pfiggies were as Godown made them, no better or worse. The same could not be said for Lord Nikolas Boison.
“I believe that will come in due time.” Pjtor resisted the urge to pick up his table knife and stab Lord Boison until the man moved away.
“Truly that time is now, my lord. I and the other lords of council have served the regent, and we know how to deal with many matters of the empire.” Nikolas leaned back but only a few centimeters, and sighed. Pjtor did not fan the gust of evil stench away, he did not throw his wine in the man’s face, or grab the scraggly grey and brown beard and pull the noble off his chair. He wanted to, oh how he wanted to, but some things could not be done with women present. Did Lord Nikolas not know that? Or was he too drunk to care? “Our long service surely deserves reward as you come into your power.”
The foul man had gone too far. Pjtor picked up the table knife, rolling the handle so that lamp and candlelight flickered off the mostly clean blade. “And what says my senior in power, Emperor Isaac?” Pjtor kept his voice calm and steady but pitched his words to carry. Several of the other nobles, and his brother, turned to listen.
“I’m sure he will agree, my lord. And you have a son, Godown be praised, unlike—”
Isaac called from his end of the head table, “You are very sure of many things, are you not, Lord Nikolas?” The menace in his voice killed all other talk, and the musicians at the far end of the banqueting hall stilled their instrument
s. “Godown’s Holy Writ warns about what became of those who grew too sure of their own power and ideas, does it not, holy father?” He turned to Archbishop Nikolas, seated on Tamsin’s other side.
“Indeed, the Book of Flame is most clear,” the priest replied. “And the ‘Song of the Watchman’ also reminds us what becomes of those who listen too closely to their own will instead of waiting for Godown’s own time.”
Either the knife, the threat, or the priest’s words penetrated, because Lord Nikolas murmured an apology and leaned away, out of Pjtor’s face, and returned to his food. Isaac nodded and gestured with one hand, and the musicians resumed a quiet tune. Pjtor hummed a few notes in his own range, locking the scene in his memory. Not as if he needed more to turn his favors away from Lord Nikolas. Pjtor finally spared a glance for his wife and saw nothing but headdress, this embroidered and trimmed with lace. Her hands shook, and he rested his own far larger hand over hers, patting it.
“Thank you, my lord husband. I believe I needs must go and see to our son.” He barely heard her whisper.
“Certainly, my lady wife. You are excused, and go in Godown’s favor.” She rose, curtsied deeply to him and Isaac, and left. Isaac’s wife had already departed, and Strella caught Pjtor’s eyes. She mouthed something, then pointed down the hall.
The carved and painted doors swung open and Sara strolled in. “I bring news of another great victory!” She called, stealing the air from the long chamber.
No, Pjtor swore. Damnit, not another disaster!
Could Godown have made Grigory any less competent? Pjtor wondered, then decided that he really did not want to know, because he was almost afraid to think what the consequences of that would be. Beside him, Isaac hissed, “Another such victory and we will be living in bark huts in the forest and swamp once more, like our ancestors.”
They sat on their double thrones, Sara behind them where she could whisper instructions and commands without being seen. She had wanted Isaac alone to rule, the lords had wanted Pjtor alone, and so both ruled. Or rather, neither ruled so long as Sara lived and they remained young and without families. The army messenger, one of the Chosen Guard, recited Grigory’s supposed accomplishments in the field of battle. Pjtor and his brother knew better. “Indeed. I wonder if the Harriers’ Chieftain will come himself to congratulate the victorious general.”