The Shadows of God (5 page)

“Ah. I was unclear. I spoke in the language of the Bible, but I did not mean it literally. Revelations is a much disputed book, and for good reason. I do not trust it. Even if I did, I must trust all of it, yes, including that proviso that no one can predict when the end will come. No one. And, in terms of the signs, I am not aware that most of them have been fulfilled. What I meant was, this prophet
supposes
he is the Antichrist and
intends
to destroy the world.”

“Then you think he should be stopped.”

“That thing at New Moscow—
Angelos keres,
you called it, after the Greek spirits of death? It was an abomination. If the prophet was responsible for THE SHADOWS OF GOD

that, he must be stopped, yes. We are God’s instruments in that.”

“Why does God need ”instruments‘?“

“I don’t know. Why do the devils need armies and sorcerous engines? I do not deny that God is mysterious, Adrienne. It is His nature.” He cocked his head.

“What is this about? Ostensibly, your expedition hunts for Tsar Peter, who vanished while visiting his wayward American province. But I’ve heard many on these fabulous flying ships whisper that you will join battle with the prophet and his army.”

“It is my intention to confront him, yes. I do not know if I can fight him.”

“Why?”

“Because he is my son.”

Castillion blinked, pursed his lips, but nothing came out.

“You see my dilemma?”

“How can this be?” He slipped his hand from hers, clasping it with his other, as if he were washing them.

“He was my son by King Louis, and he was stolen from me when he was but two years old. For ten years he has been lost, and at times I thought him dead.

Instead, I find that they have
made
something of him. Something dangerous, as you say. We approach him —I can feel him more strongly each moment. The pictures in the chapel in New Moscow showed the prophet—I know it is Nicolas. I know it is my son. If I must kill him to save the world—I cannot.”

“Then there must be another way.”

“I don’t share your optimism, Father.”

“You ask for my opinion. I do not think God would ask that of you. I think it is a clue that there must be another path.”

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She shrugged. “Do you know what a certain angel told me about God, Father Castillion?”

“I would be very interested to hear it.”

“He told me that to create the world, God had to remove Himself from it—that to form the finite, the limited, He must in that sense limit Himself.”

Castillion’s brow furrowed in fascination. “A very old heresy,” he murmured.

“The gnostic heresy. It claims that the God of the Old Testament is really Satan, in disguise.”

“Exactly. Not being able to enter the world, God sent angels to do His bidding.

Once free of His immediate command, they began doing as they pleased.”

“And an angel told you this?”

“One of the aetheric beings who style themselves angels, at least.”

“Are they, in your experience, always truthful?”

Adrienne laughed bitterly. “In my experience, they are rarely so.”

Castillion considered for a moment. “I see no contradiction,” he said at last.

“God may be outside the world and yet present in our hearts. There must be some spark of Him in us, that we live at all.”

“But if this world is—and has always been—the kingdom of the fallen angels, we can hardly expect fairness or justice. It may be that destroying my son
is
the only way.”

“I won’t believe it,” Castillion replied evenly. “But I will think on all of this, if you wish.”

“I would appreciate that, Father.” She looked down again, as the ship began turning.

“We’re going back?” he asked.

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“For the beasts they shot. We can use the meat and skins.”

“How long before we reach your son?”

“Less than a month, I think.”

After loading the meat, they flew on until near nightfall and then, on a narrow river copsed about with a few trees, they landed all the ships for the first time since crossing the mountains. The soldiers found, by some miracle, enough wood for a score of fires, and soon the scent of roasted meat filled the air.

Adrienne had a table and high-backed chairs lowered to earth and a pavilion erected, so that she and her officers might dine in some civility. Wine and vodka were poured.

Hercule d’Argenson, the overall commander of Adrienne’s forces, lifted a glass.

“To this fine beast,” he toasted, gesturing at the meat before him. “In America, even the cows are bigger, it seems.”

“A little gamy for my taste,” Crecy remarked, raising her glass, “but a good fellow to die for our bellies all the same.” Her eyes glimmered darkly, and in the firelight her copper hair and the glass of wine were the same ruby shade.

“And to the other wonders that may cross our path!” Hercule said, taking another swallow.

It was good to see Hercule in a happy mood. He smiled, and that small difference in his face pulled away the years, and she remembered when they met, twelve years before, in the ravaged countryside of Lorraine. He had always been cheerful then, full of life and swagger, a rascal and a good heart.

She scarcely connected him with the brooding character he had become. And she knew that she was in large part responsible for the change.

Could she amend that? So many of her works needed mending.

She lifted her glass. “To you, Monsieur d’Argenson. For being the soul of this expedition, for seeing it through dangers none of us could have imagined. And for being my loyal friend.”

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That brought a strange, almost shocked silence to the entire table. Had it been so long since she had said such a thing?

Apparently. And Hercule was blushing.

Well. She could mend nothing with a single toast, but it was a beginning.

Glasses clinked, and Hercule downed all his wine. He would be drunk within the hour.

“Vodka!” Crecy called to one of the servers.

Across the table, Mikhail Sergeivich, a middle-aged artillery captain, laughed.

“That’s a Russian drink—not made for your French blood.”

“Oh?” Crecy said. “Or is it that I’m a woman?”

“No offense, please,” Sergeivich told the redhead. “You’re a man in my book.

You dress like one, you fight like one, you ride like one. But even a Russian woman could drink you down the river with vodka. It’s what they bathe us in when we’re born.”

“How would this be, then, sir?” Crecy asked. “I will match you, drink for drink.

If I meet Morpheus first, you will have the opportunity to learn that in no book whatsoever am I a man. If you go under first, you give me that Hungarian saber you’re so proud of.”

“Done, by the saints!”

“I'll go at that, too,” Elizavet put in, “to show what damage a Russian woman might do.”

“Then we need a fourth,” Adrienne heard herself say.

“Are you volunteering, Mademoiselle?” Elizavet made no attempt to hide her astonishment.

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“Indeed.” She raised her voice. “More vodka for the table. Two — no, three more bottles!”

Crecy leaned so her lips were touching Adrienne’s ear. “What strange wind is blowing between
your
ears?” she whispered.

“Don’t discourage me,” Adrienne pleaded, just as softly. “Please.”

“No secrets!” Elizavet said. “And no scientiflcal trickery!”

“Never fear,” Crecy said. “We need no science against the likes of you. Have at it.” And she drained her newly filled glass.

The contest quickly involved the whole table, and within the hour was essentially forgotten. Crecy and Sergeivich were arm in arm, singing some off-key song in the Russian that Sergeivich had been trying to teach them.

Hercule’s head was tilted back, and gentle snores escaped him.

Feeling quite unsteady but not unhappy, Adrienne decided it was time to return to her cabin before she did anything even more foolish than she had already.

On the way she bumped into three of her students, who were swaying a bit themselves.

“Mademoiselle!” said the first, a tall young fellow named Lomonosov. “It is good to see you up and about.”

“It is good to be so,” she replied. Or hoped she did. Her voice was a strange roar in her own ears.

“We have much to discuss with you, Mademoiselle,” a young woman said.

Even in the dark, Adrienne imagined she could make out the young woman’s green eyes and infectious smile. She also saw that the third fellow, Carl von Linne, was standing quite near her. Had they been holding hands when she arrived? She suspected that they were lovers.

“Well, we shall begin our meetings again,” Adrienne said.

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“Oh, we have kept up with them. We have found something quite astonishing.”

“We could even speak of it now!” Lomonosov said.

“Well…”

“There
you are.” Elizavet’s voice came, from behind. “Monsieur Linne, I disht—dishk—
distinctly
remember that we had an appointment this evening. How can you dish—
disappoint
a tsarevna?”

“Not because of this fat little thing?” She poked a finger at Emilie.

“What?” Emilie choked out. “What did you say?”

Elizavet paid no attention to Emilie but stepped forward and gave Linne a sharp slap on the face. Then, laughing, she stumbled back the way she had come. “No matter,” she said. “There are
men
somewhere in this camp.”

Linne cleared his throat. “I — ”

Emilie slapped him, too, and without a word she turned and ran, sobbing.

“Oh, dear,” said Lomonosov.

“Well,” Adrienne said, “I think we will delay our discussion until a more appropriate time, yes?”

“Yes, Mademoiselle,” Lomonosov said.

Feeling suddenly mischievous, Adrienne turned back to him. “By the way, since you seem to have lost your companions, perhaps you could ask Mademoiselle de Crecy for another fencing lesson.”

She wished it were light enough to see him blush. Lomonosov was cute when he blushed.

“Good night,” she said, and continued on.

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Feeling a little dizzy, and fearing to lie down in such a state, she walked to the little river, hoping to clear her head. She paused to stare at the moon, huge and orange on the eastern horizon.

La loooon!
she thought she heard, in the voice of a child,
her
child. She remembered showing Nicolas the moon and teaching him what to call it.

Nicolas
? she asked, into the silence of the night.

I
said never to call me that. You said you would call me Apollo
.

“Of course,” she murmured aloud, her heart skipping. “Are you watching the moon, Apollo?”

Yes. So
are you
.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?”

Yes. Then, almost shyly, J
haven’t told anyone about you. Are you still my
secret friend?

“I always shall be. What—how are you?”

A face seemed to form on the moon, features between boy and man, Adrienne’s own dark eyes and the prominent Bourbon nose.

I
have enemies,
he replied.
Evil creatures who resist me and my heroes. But it
doesn’t matter. My teachers say it doesn’t matter.

“You are very strong,” Adrienne said cautiously. “I saw the keres you made.”

That was nothing.
But he sounded proud. I
have a secret. The keres, my
heroes, the great cleansing—it is all just the beginning.
My
great purpose is
above all of that.
It is?

Yes.
But—but something is missing. I don’t know what. I can’t do it yet
.

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“What is missing?”

This time a sort of panic crept into the voice. J
don’t know. What if—
He stopped.

“What, Apollo? You sound distressed.”

What if I can’t do it? They say I am the one, the prophet, the Sun Boy, but
sometimes
—
sometimes I think they must be wrong. They know there is
something missing. And I have enemies who want to kill me. And sometimes I
don’t think I have any friends. Not really. They say they are, but—

“I am your friend,” Adrienne said. “I ask nothing of you except that you talk to me.”

Yes. But
you could be my enemy, nonetheless. You could be tricking me. You
said you were my mother before.

The vodka wanted her to cry out that she was, that what he thought he knew was a lie. But she knew deep down that that would be the end of it, that he would break the fragile bond, as he almost had when first they spoke.

I cannot tell you what to believe,“ she said softly. ”If you think I am your enemy, I cannot dissuade you. I can only assure you that I care for you.“

Why? Because I am the Sun Boy? Because I hold life and death in my arms?

“No.”

Then why?

“Because you sing to the moon.”

He didn’t reply.

“Apollo?” But after a space of five minutes, he still hadn’t replied.

I shouldn’t have been drunk,
she thought.
1 shouldn’t have let my guard
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down. I said the wrong thing.

Her eyes clouded with tears, and she turned to go onto her ship. But suddenly a shadow sprang at her, and something hit her in the chest, very, very hard.

“Die, bitch,” a man said.

Adrienne’s hand went to her breast, and with dull shock she felt warmth spurting between her fingers, and her legs wobbled.

Her attacker yanked her hair back, turning her throat up to the moon.

3.

Return of the Margrave

James Edward Oglethorpe stood as still as the knobbed cypress trees that drew their dark outlines against the starry sky. He took in the thick, hot night air in small sips so the grating of his lungs wouldn’t deafen him to the faint voices in the distance. His eyes strained against the moonless night, until he saw, at last, through the trees and Spanish moss beyond, the flicker of firelight.