Forcing the Spring (Book 9 of the Colplatschki Chronicles)

by Boykin, Alma

  Ice then fire rushed through Pjtor’s body. “I come.” Boris took his chamber robe and helped him into the embroidered dark blue coat Strella had made for him. Pjtor stepped around the kneeling messenger and strode through the halls, ducking at every doorway out of habit. Guards at Isaac’s door gave him cold looks but did not challenge or stop him from entering. Pjtor entered the room and bowed. “I am here.”

  “Good,” came the faintest of whispers. As his eyes adapted to the near darkness, Pjtor saw a white figure on white bedding. He inhaled and smelled death despite the sweet candles burning near the bed. Pjtor crossed the room as servants and Isaac’s wife stepped aside, bowing. The priest on the other side of the bed nodded but did not leave. Pjtor went on one knee and took his older half-brother’s hand. “Good,” the whisper repeated. “Hear me, brother. I declare you of age and power before men and Godown. You have led men in battle, you have sat judgement in the courts, you have sired a son and served Godown as servant and emperor. Take up your place and duties, Pjtor Adamson, and may Godown,” Isaac stopped, gasping, trying to breathe. “Godown bless you and give you strength.”

  “May Godown hear your words, Isaac Adamson, and bless you for your wise council and generosity.” Pjtor choked, swallowing hard. “Godown bless and heal you, brother and lord.”

  Isaac beckoned a little and Pjtor leaned close. “Stop her, Pjtor. Stop her now, before Godown punishes you as well as me for not doing our duty to our people.”

  “I hear and obey, Imperial Master,” Pjtor whispered back. Isaac began trying to cough and Pjtor got out of the way of the priest and the churigon.

  Before the watchmen called the hour, Isaac’s spirit went to Godown. Pjtor closed his brother’s eyes, then led the others in prayer as the priest went to tell the archbishop. After the burial, he promised his half-brother’s soul. After the burial comes the reckoning.

  Pjtor had ridden out of Muskava, going on pilgrimage to one of the monasteries up the river to pray for Isaac’s soul, to think about the future, and to get away from the city before the world closed in for the winter. He’d brought a few of his regimental men as guards and two couriers, and was in the process of finishing the second memorial liturgy when he hears whispers and a small disturbance behind him. His neck crawled and he resisted the urge to run. No one, not even Sara and Grigory, would touch him during the liturgy, especially not here at St. Landis’s original house of retreat and prayer. Men had come here since the Lander times. St. Landis, perhaps given a vision by Godown as tradition held, perhaps too wise in the ways of men as Pjtor suspected, had built the walls thick and tall. The place of prayer became a refuge of body as well as spirit after the Great Fires had struck NovRodi. Even the Harriers had not taken the monastery, although they had tried. That the scorch marks from their fire arrows and battering ram on the great gates resembled Godown’s symbol only confirmed the power of the place.

  After the liturgy finished, Pjtor went out into the main guest entry area and found a courier with two messages, one from Sara and one from Capt. Anderson. Sara’s contained a command for Pjtor to return at once to Muskava for urgent imperial business. Anderson’s note, written in dialect that might as well have been a code, warned that thousands of Chosen Guards had arrived in Muskava with their commanders, streaming in from their small holdings and estates. Had Pjtor heard of more raids?

  No, he had not. Pjtor weighed the two messages. It could mean nothing. Autumn musters had occurred in the past, and perhaps Sara intended to release her power and make an official announcement to the Chosen Guard. Pjtor’s memory showed him the men again, twelve years before, on another cold winter day, the men hairy, foul, and furious. No, Pjtor whispered, the pages crackling as he closed his fist. No, I cannot trust you or the fool who shares your bed. And who will share it no more.

  Abbot Jakob had come to see what transpired, and Pjtor turned to him. “Ink and paper, Father, and prepare to defend the walls should it come to that, Godown forbid.”

  The bald man nodded, bowed and gestured. Novices disappeared, then returned, brown robes flapping, carrying a table, ink, pens, pen-knives and paper. A little part of Pjtor wondered if they were too weak to carry the only two chairs he fit into. The rest of him fought off both the red haze and another, more pleasant and seductive feeling. He wrote quickly, praying as the shimmer of colors wove across the page before him. A sealing candle appeared and Pjtor pulled a leather pouch off of his belt and removed two cloth-wrapped ring seals. One was his by birth, the other the imperial seal Isaac had given him. Pjtor double-sealed to message, then handed it to one of his couriers. “To Captain Anderson in the foreign settlement and to no one else. If someone tries to take it from you, destroy it.”

  The boy repeated Pjtor’s orders and rushed away. His horse had been saddled while Pjtor wrote. No, Pjtor snarled, it had better have been prepared, or I will hurt someone. But not just right now.

  He almost made it to a bench by the wall as the attack hit. This time he recalled nothing when he awoke. He lay on a pallet on the floor, watched by Abbot Jakob. Once he regained use of his body, Pjtor sat up and closed his eyes until the world stopped swaying. “How long have you had Blessed Toni’s fire, Imperial Majesty?”

  Too surprised to think, head pounding, Pjtor snarled, “Since a cannon gonne exploded near me, over two years ago. It has a name?”

  The abbot nodded. “Blessed Toni, Godown grant her rest, endured them for many years as she served Godown as healer and teacher. She beheld visions of the stars dancing and heard sweet music from Godown’s own kingdom, then collapsed as the power overwhelmed her body. She rose miserable and angry at the sinners who could not recognize Godown’s power and at the weakness in her body. Once or twice Godown blessed her with visions of the Great Fires, and thus the name later writers gave to her spells.”

  Why the hell did no one tell me, damn it, Pjtor snapped silently before he recalled where he was and winced. Forgive me Godown, I will attend the all-night vigil in two days as penance. Please don’t hurt me or strengthen Sara for my impiety and language. “How often did they come, Father? Blessed Toni’s visions.”

  “Some chronicles claim only after major feasts or plagues, when her skills were tested and exhaustion took her. Others say every fourth holy day, while a small group claim they took her without warning and at any time. But those are heretical writings, kept only for historical purposes.” He sniffed. “One of them even claimed that Godown was three, not one.”

  Pjtor’s jaw sagged at such blasphemy. “Godown save us from such folly.”

  “And they also claimed that a talking snake lived on the home world, and that praying to Godown would make the sun stop moving so people could work and fight without interfering with a holy day.” The abbot shook his head. “I suspect, Imperial Majesty, the documents were corrupted and mis-copied, as is known to have happened with several editions of the Life of St. Basil. There are at least two that claim she was a man.”

  Pjtor tried to roll his eyes and regretted it. He also wanted to kill someone and to break more wood, neither of which he could accomplish as weak as he felt. “Did anyone notice my collapse?”

  “Yes, but the messenger said that he had given you important news, and you have been fasting, perhaps in excess.” The abbot shook his finger at Pjtor. “You are not on penance, you are not ill with that kind of sickness, and you are not seeking a vision from Godown. Neither are you one of my novices, but I am going to order you to eat. Two portions, you will eat. Or I will beat you as if you were one of my novices.”

  And he could, here, Pjtor knew. Did he want to test the abbot and Godown? No, and he needed all his strength and wits and control for the next few days and weeks. “Yes, Father. To hear is to obey.”

  Abbot Jakob gave him a skeptical look, one grey eyebrow up, forehead wrinkling, heavy lips curved in a frown. Pjtor lay back down and closed his eyes. No, he was not going to test the abbot.

  It would be a day at least before anything happened, and s
o Pjtor made his plans and prayed his prayers, and struggled to keep his impatience in check. The Emperor of NovRodi did not break furniture in monasteries, he reminded himself that night. Especially not Lander furnishings. Pjtor blinked. Lander? He ran a hand under the bottom of the plain but very fine table in his chamber. Pjtor felt wood as smooth and polished as the top, if perhaps a touch less perfectly finished. He stood, took the oil lamp, book, papers, and other things off the table, moved the chair out of the way, and turned the solid furnishing over so it rested top down on the stone floor, legs in the air. He picked up one of the lamps and knelt, studying the joinery of the piece.

  “Oh. Is that . . . How did they? That seems odd, what does it, oh. Huh. What tool did he use?” Ax and adze and draw knife couldn’t make cuts and joints that smooth. And what was the finish made from? It reminded him of the yellow-brown gems made from tree sap, but with less color, and much smoother and even. Did them have a way to melt down the tree gems and use that? Part of Pjtor wanted to take the table apart and see how it was done. The rest of him pointed out the brothers and abbot would not be pleased by a guest dismantling some of their oldest treasures, even if that guest was the emperor. They would not stop him, but well, could he afford to anger men of Godown just now? No, but Pjtor hummed a tune he’d heard Geert’s wife whistle, memorizing how the pieces of the table fit together. Then he turned it back over onto its legs and replaced everything.

  Shortly after the noon meal the next day, a novice in brown robes and white rope belt trotted into the study room where Abbot Jakob, Pjtor, and some of the senior brothers were listening to a reading to one of the sermon collections of Brother Elmo. Pjtor had some doubts about Elmo’s understanding of the nature of men, but appreciated the long-dead man’s knowledge about governance and Godown’s demands and rewards. The novice bowed to the symbol of Godown and passed Abbot Jakob a message board. The priest read it, nodded, and pointed to Pjtor. The novice tip-toed to where Pjtor sat and handed him the wax-covered board.

  A troop of men, some on horse back, some on foot, approached the monastery. The farm servants reported that the men carried arms, pikes as well as firearms. Their leaders wore strange clothes and armor.

  Pjtor read the last line and almost lost control of his bowels from relief. He closed his eyes. Thank You, Holy One, he prayed, then opened his eyes again and looked a question to Abbot Jakob, pointing to the door. The abbot nodded his permission. Pjtor bowed from his seat, and slipped out of the room as quietly as he could. He shut the door with great care. The click of the metal tongue into the metal latch sounded very loud in the empty corridor. Godown be with us, Pjtor thought, then straightened up and walked to his chamber. He changed into riding clothes and went out into the clear, chilly afternoon sunlight to meet the riders. “Open the gate,” he ordered.

  The servants dared not disobey him. Three men rode into the courtyard and dismounted, then dropped to one knee before Pjtor. Captain Anderson, Basil von Deiman, and Michael Looven removed their hats. “We came as you called us, Imperial Majesty,” Anderson said.

  “Thank you. You may rise.” The men did, but kept their hats off because of being within the monastery walls. Pjtor started to invite them outside the gate, but caught himself. Did he want to leave the safety just yet? He wanted to ride straight to Muskava and toss Sara and her toy out on their asses, but the Chosen Guard . . . And once he left the sanctuary of the walls, Sara’s men could legally try something stupid. No, Pjtor decided, he’d stay here for the moment, until he knew what was going and he and Anderson had made plans. “What news?”

  “Its as bad as it looks, Imperial Majesty,” Anderson reported. “Chosen Guards all over Muskava, undisciplined and making pests of themselves. Sara has been giving them and their leaders food and drink, lots of drink, but we’re hearing nothing about why she called them in, other than, quote, ‘to reward them for their strength and determination fighting the Harriers and their loyal service to the Emperor,’ quote.”

  Pjtor felt his lips pulling back in a snarl and started to say where Sara could put her loyal service, but remembered where they were. “I see. Any other marketplace news?”

  Looven, the scars of too many tavern fights making white lace on his dark tan skin, nodded. “Aye, Imperial Majesty. There’s been a call for all fuel to be brought within the walls of Muskava, and word that the Reagent intends to restrict foreigners to our neighborhoods unless we have passes signed by the Regent herself. And that no more outsiders will be allowed to come into NovRodi, unless they are from the Spice Kings to the south. And stories about the Church doing something, but,” he shrugged.

  “That could be about the heretics on the frontier as much as about us,” Anderson agreed.

  Godown be with me and give me wisdom. Pjtor straightened up and squared his shoulders. “The time has come for the Reagent to set aside her powers. I am of age, have proven myself, and have a legitimate, acknowledged heir. Her reign ends now. Godown has little patience for those whom He intended to lead who fail to take up their duties.”

  The three foreigners nodded. “I brought all of our men who can fight, your regiments, Imperial Majesty, and there are at least four of the lords of court who have also grown tired of the Regent’s rule and who will order their household men to support you.”

  That was a few hundred against over a thousand, Pjtor knew. But they had discipline, technology, and surprise on their side, and Godown. And sobriety as well, Pjtor thought wryly. “Very good. Have the men spread out in the two unused guest houses behind the main monastery. There is room for the horses there, and sleeping chambers for pilgrims that should house everyone. I’ll have the monastery send food and fuel, and the water is sweet.”

  “Fighting within the walls will not be easy, Imperial Majesty,” Anderson warned.

  “So we do as little fighting as possible.” An idea began forming. “The Emperor can open the gates, no matter the day or the hour.”

  Basil von Deiman smiled, making him look like a blond wolf. “And Geert Fielder returned two days ago. He knows two old back ways into the city from the river side, noticed them a few years ago and has been keeping an eye on them.”

  Pjtor didn’t know if he should be offended that Geert had not told him. Maybe later he’d get upset, he decided, Godown willing. “Come with me.”

  The monastery had a map of Muskava and paper. Anderson and Looven sketched a more up-to-date version, adding the two river entries that Geert had located, or at least marking where they guessed they were. Anderson squinted at the map and ran a hand over his hair. “Pjtor Adamson, is Muskava built on Lander foundations?”

  Pjtor wagged one hand back and forth. “There was a Lander site where the citadel now sits, yes. To my knowledge there are not any Lander remains under the current city, not like the ones supposedly within Vindobona.”

  Von Deiman shook his head. “Your pardon, Imperial Majesty, but there is no supposedly about Vindobona. The entire city, walls, water system, eelektrik lights, is Lander. The same as parts of New Dalfa.”

  “The profitable bits, at least.” Anderson frowned and tapped the river side of the inner palace fortress. “Something about this has bothered me ever since I first came here.”

  Pjtor tried to look at the drawings as a stranger would. The palace section perched on a bluff over the river, with water almost lapping the bottom of the walls, at least for now. The river had moved more than once, according to the chronicles. The citadel, surrounded by wood walls on a stone foundation with two major stone gates, formed a circle. The main city walls spread out like a fan away from the river. A small creek ran past the south side. “Older walls were here,” Pjtor drew a sweeping curve. “Because St. Basil of the Lambs includes part of the old city gate, built when the Harriers first drove us north into the forests and swamps.”

  “Thus the street here, and the ditch, which had been deeper, I wager. And why these houses sit on a slight rise, which had been the dirt in the ditch.” Anderson tapped the map wi
th his unlit pipe. “And another line of defenses here, on Well Street.”

  Pjtor tried to remember. “Ah, I don’t think—Yes! Yes, that wall was burned when my great-grandfather was unifying the lords, after Martin the Mad tried to turn the citadel and all of NovRodi over to the Harriers and the Turklavi.” And had murdered his children and done a few other things, Pjtor recalled with an uncomfortable twitch.

  “And the foreign section has its own walls, built on stone that is Lander,” Anderson said. “I wonder if that is where the Lander wall ended up? Someone tore it down for some reason, and the stones got reused hundreds of years later.”

  Someone coughed behind Pjtor. “Imperial Majesty, gentlemen, I believe I can answer that.” An archivist-monk with a long white stick said. He approached the table, sweeping the stick across the floor ahead of him, back and forth. Pjtor saw that the man had white eyes and he made St. Klara’s sign, warding off the malady. “The original citadel had stone walls. The top courses came down because the thought was to build a great church to Godown, in hopes that He would be appeased and would undo the damage caused by the second wave of the Great Fires. A strange priest taught that Godown was punishing the people for daring to defend themselves on a peaceful word, instead of trusting to Godown. So they tore down the walls. And the third wave of Flame came, ended the last of the great machines and plunged Solana into darkness. That is from Father Stavros’s Chronicle of Flame, the oldest book in the monastery.”

  Pjtor blinked. That was interesting but what did it mean for his attack on Muskava?

  “So there is at least one hidden way in,” Anderson said.

  “And I wager it comes up, hmm, somewhere in the citadel,” Looven said. “Sewers always have access and clean-out points.”

  For some reason Anderson and Von Deiman both grinned and winked at each other behind Looven’s back. Pjtor shrugged. “There may be, but it is long lost and probably built over. But what we can do is use the Water Gate, here, on the stream side of the city. The houses all face away, so no one can shoot at us from windows.”