“Not that I’ve heard,” replied the functionary in light brown, frowning.
“That’s probably for the best. Where would one find the best fare in the Cite?”
For a long moment, the man, for all functionaries of Brother Paul were men and always had been, said nothing before finally replying, “For a believer or an unbeliever?”
“Excellent should be excellent to any palate, I would think,” replied Corvyn.
“I don’t believe I can help you. In any case, you need to leave.” The man stood, as if to escort Corvyn back the way he had come.
“I will depart in my own fashion.” Corvyn shrouded himself in unseen shadows, vanishing from the sight of the functionary in light brown. Then he waited to see what the man would do.
Predictably, the functionary looked around the antechamber. Less predictably, he opened a narrow drawer from which he took an energy scanner and played it across the space. When it failed to register anything, since the energy waves simply bent around Corvyn, he took a deep breath, and gestured.
“Yes?” answered a voice without an image.
“A man in dark gray appeared and asked for you. When I suggested that he should first see others and that neither Brother Simon nor Brother Meander was immediately available, he asked for where one might find the best fare in the city. I attempted to escort him out. He vanished.”
While the man spoke, Corvyn discovered what he needed to know.
The unseen voice replied, “He has either discovered what he needs to know or has not and withdrawn. In either case, there is nothing else you can do. Resume your vigil.”
“Yes, Brother Paul.” With a barely audible sigh, the functionary seated himself.
Corvyn continued onward to where the internal communications led him, that is, to a study behind the transept and apse within the Basilica Vera—both much larger than would have been the case in a traditional basilica, but far simpler than in a cathedral. The neither cramped nor commodious stone-walled chamber contained a desk and a comfortable chair, a closet for vestments, and a small altar on which rested a single leather-bound volume within a gold outer case, recently altered, or defaced, depending on one’s perspective. The closed volume rested on a stand beneath the simple cross.
Corvyn smiled as he sensed the volume. Then he moved to a position just inside the door and studied the Apostle, a man of slightly more than middling height, with a strong but not aquiline nose, short but straight legs, and a full head of hair and a neatly trimmed beard, both sprinkled with some gray, clearly an affectation, since graying had long since been unnecessary in the realms of Heaven, where death rarely came from physical aging.
After a moment, he emerged from his shadows. “Greetings, Brother Paul.”
“From which dark depths have you emerged, creature of shadows? Or are you Stolas from the depths?”
“That’s a bit illogical, Brother Paul. Without the light there are no shadows. I’m no more a creature of darkness than you are.”
“For as others have transformed Satan himself into an angel of light, so would you claim the same of yourself?”
Corvyn shook his head, smiling as he did. “I’m neither of Satan, nor of the darkness, although I’ve certainly been known to use it, as have you, you must admit, if you be true to yourself.”
“I have had no fellowship with the unfruitful works of darkness, but rather have reproved them.”
“That you have, and that is how you have used the darkness to spread the words of the One True Gospel.” That is, the one you believe to be true.
“All words have but one truth, and that truth is the true Christos.”
“There is truth as perceived, and fact as it is. So often they are not the same, and you, of all apostles, should know that.”
“You would judge me, shadowed one?”
“Spare me the words about when judging another, one condemns himself. I’ve long since understood and accepted that.”
“You would still place yourself above the Lord.”
“I presume you don’t mean the Jaweau of Los Santos.” Knowing this already, Corvyn offered the statement for where it would lead.
“Though there be those who are called gods, whether in Heaven or elsewhere, every soul is subject unto the higher powers, and there is no higher power than the Lord, and even you in your shadows cannot escape his powers.”
“I agree that we’re all subject to higher powers, Brother Paul. I’ve never questioned that. I do question what and who the highest power might be … and for that matter what higher power has burned a trident into the impenetrable cover of the One True Gospel. The one you call the original, I mean.” Corvyn’s words were merely to call attention to the trident burned in luminescent black into the gold outer cover of the volume bound in leather on the small altar, or the One True Gospel, which should really have been known as the Book of Marcion.
“What? That minor miracle of a Fallen technology?”
“If it has penetrated your aetherial shields, Paul, it is not minor, nor is your black-flamed trident the only one embossed throughout Heaven. You might wish to talk to Jaweau. Or are you considering that the trident upon your gospel is unique and signifies that the time has come for the Fisher of Men to come once more and unite Heaven under one true faith?” Corvyn smiled. “I rather prefer to think of it in the context of Thomas, the doubter. Or perhaps, as you have said, even here in Heaven, we see through a glass, darkly, and there are shadows, even in full sun.”
Brother Paul’s eyes blazed, and small lightnings issued from his fingertips. “Begone, dark one!”
Corvyn considered remaining, but that would have been merely further baiting Brother Paul, and to no purpose. Besides, bearing those forces would be painful. Even before the lightnings more than brushed his gathering shadows, he withdrew and departed in his own way, leaving the Apostle alone in his stone study.
The bombs will fall, the bullets fly.
The raven watches, standing by.
6
Men in black uniforms, trimmed in silver, the only insignia on their tailored jackets a double jagged lightning bolt, marched rhythmically. The synchronized steps of thousands of boots shook the smooth paving stones designed to last a thousand years. Behind them the twisted cross of silver and black led black metal monsters. Yet the cadence of the marchers and the deafening and continuing cheers of the spectators who lined the great boulevard, and those who watched from the heights of more distant buildings, drowned out the impact of the monsters’ oiled metal treads on the stone.
Graceful metal birds of prey, also emblazoned with the twisted silver cross, swooped down, racing along the line of march, before angling into the brilliant blue sky …
The sky split … and separated raggedly … each torn blue half sliding out of sight down into the distant horizon, revealing only an unending sky, blood red, where the birds of prey each found themselves the target of endless legions of smaller, uglier, stronger flying metal reptiles that spit forth glowing metal pellets that seared, crippled, and killed. Metal pellets that, when missing their aim, cascaded down upon the once-jubilant spectators, torching some, rending others, and leaving others so terrified that their hearts stopped instantly. Still others fled, that flight prolonging their lives only a few additional moments.
Even when the first graceful birds of prey had been shredded from the sky, the metal reptiles continued to spit forth their glowing metal missives of death and destruction. Long after the buildings flanking the great boulevard, as far as the eye could see, were shapeless rubble, death missiles pounded rubble into dust. Trails of thin black smoke rose into the blood-red sky, long after the last spectator had expired … except Corvyn.
Corvyn wove every shadow he had ever known, dancing, evading, twisting, to escape the dance of devastation he had attempted to forestall in so many ways. Dashing, dancing, appearing, vanishing, he evaded devastation missile after devastation missile, trying to reach the sole white structure in the star-distant
time so far beyond …
Corvyn woke, sweat-covered, burning, yet shivering.
Always a variation on the same theme … for how many eons?
He rose. He knew he would not sleep longer.
In his mind, the rain came down in sheets from the dark clouds overhead, and then poured in cataracts off the partial and ruined roofs of the houses lining both the narrow lanes and angled streets off the broad boulevard leading to the twin stadiums that once held over a hundred thousand spectators.
How long will the past be prologue? Or was it ever?
He no longer knew … if he ever had.
Although you wake at break of day,
the ravens have yet to fly away.
7
Once he had settled down and washed up, knowing that he would not sleep further, Corvyn dressed and then sat on the single chair in his rented room and concentrated, gathering the aether into the customary, for him, flat rectangle suspended before him, framing his search for the newer loci of power—first, the poetess. For a time, the faint sheen of the aether remained blank; then an image appeared.
Corvyn immediately saw that either what he beheld in the first aetherial vision had changed … or he was mistaken, for the poetess—if she was indeed that—was not so fair as he had thought, but possessed a complexion more like the color of amber honey, and her hair was silver-white, while her face was without lines. The irises of her eyes were deep gray, and her expression somehow tired-looking. She was not writing or thinking words or entering them into some repository to hold them for later presentation. She just stood, looking into a distance that the aether could not convey, a single sheet of paper in her left hand. She stiffened slightly, and Corvyn wondered if she sensed his observation.
He concentrated on the sheet she held, and the image changed to reveal the words, written in a tongue he had not expected, but poetic in any language.
The threefold, eternal dream, conscious stream
Winds, falls, through all time, a deceiving seam …
Belief in posing honor, lying pride,
and humble faith, deities undeified …
While he smiled at the words and their accurate, if poetic, depiction of the state of Heaven as it was and had been for some considerable time, he pondered how such abstruse verse could pose a threat to the Hegemony and to Heaven itself. Still, it was interesting that the poetess had tapped into power. That could prove even more intriguing if she intended to take up a particular perversion of an ancient myth that contained a tiny enough sliver of truth to persuade people, men especially. Men could so often be turned to the evil they would prefer, by the comfort of logic and cold rationality that lacked the truth of honest emotion.
He let that image fade and called up the other.
The tall, dark-haired man with the slightly squared chin stood in front of a hall that might have held two hundred people. He sang as he played a comparatively new version of an antique instrument, likely constructed to complement his voice. Corvyn had not seen or heard a lutelin in more years than he wished to count. Every person in the hall sang with the dark-haired man, word for word, creating another kind of power. Corvyn concentrated, moving the image to take in the audience. They were participants as well, yet the intensely vacant expression on each face told Corvyn that none of those passionately singing the words offered by the singer understood what those words signified … or cared. They only wished to be one with the singer, seeking a kind of near-mindless rapture.
Corvyn had no doubts that the singer knew exactly what he was doing, for all that tapping the power of music was one of the most ancient of powers, often squandered on meaningless causes, less often marshaled in the quest for dominance, but usually evil when so employed, and seldom appreciated or employed in its highest form, although too many purveyors of blind faith had insisted that such was the highest function of music.
After releasing the aether, he sat there in the darkness before dawn for a time, contemplating the trident and the two individuals he had viewed. Together they were also three, and that troubled him not a little.
As before, his investigations revealed that neither was that close geographically to him, and thus not within the sphere of belief of Marcion.
Some time later, Corvyn left the room in the structure that was neither inn, caravansary, pension, hotel, motel, nor boardinghouse, but which partook in part of each, in that it catered to travelers and their mode of transport, and that what it provided was serviceable, but not luxurious. He walked along one side of the courtyard, which contained no camels at present, and entered the café, although Marcion in his day might have called it a taverna.
He was among the few there, unsurprisingly, since the sun had yet to rise, but an older woman in a darkish brown chiton and underdress immediately appeared. He could tell she was older, because her features lacked the softness and roundness of youth, having become sharper, some would say more refined, with age, since radically visible aging was rare anywhere on the plateau of Heaven. In the lower and hotter depths of Limbo, that was not always the case, and certainly not in the even hotter and lower depths beyond Limbo, nor would it have been so in the bitter cold of the Celestial Mountains, had anyone been permitted there … or able to survive there.
She smiled politely. “Sir, would you care for juice or tea?”
“Tea, please.”
“Strong, sweet, or both?”
“Strong, not sweet, thank you.” Bitter as what he had dreamed and seen had been, the cloying sweetness of Paulist tea was the last thing he wished.
The platters the server set before him contained fresh figs, slices of melon, eggs scrambled with mushrooms, potato cakes, and flatbread with honey.
“Are you doing penance?” she asked, taking in his dark gray garments.
“Not in the sense of the faith,” he replied, carefully not implying any particular belief, “and not any more so than on any other day. Do you see many penitents or pilgrims here?”
“A few. Most prefer the hostels closer to the square. We get more merchants. Most are coming from or going to Yerusalem.”
“How many still use camels?”
“Very few anymore. They say most of the camels are used by those who travel the road to paradise and also trade with the small villages scattered throughout the Sands of Time.” At the mention of the Sands of Time, she paused, then added, “I’ll be back to see if you want more tea.”
Corvyn ate slowly. The melon was good, the figs better. The potato cakes were too heavy, and he only had two bites, but the eggs were light enough that he finished them, along with a bite of the flatbread with just a smear of honey. Then he sipped the tea … slowly, enjoying the strong but not bitter taste that only came from the terraced plantations south of Keifeng.
When the server returned and refilled his mug, he asked, “Are there Saint converts heading up the river these days?”
“There are always a few. Mostly young men. The only true saint is Brother Paul, but they don’t understand that. Some never do.”
“He can be most impressive.”
“Have you heard him preach?”
“No. I met him briefly. You might say we’ve established that we don’t agree on certain matters.”
For a moment, the server seemed to freeze. “He doesn’t meet many outlanders.”
“I’ve heard that. I was fortunate to talk with him even briefly. He is a powerful speaker with firm convictions.”
After the slightest hesitation, she replied, “That’s a great honor, you know, especially for an outlander.”
“It is indeed. I certainly won’t forget it.” Corvyn doubted Brother Paul would either.
The server smiled, and Corvyn handed her his card. She studied it for a moment. “Poe … I’ve never seen that name before.”
That was not surprising, seeing as C. O. Poe only existed as one of Corvyn’s sub-identities, although sub-identities were officially prohibited in Heaven.
She scanned the card and ext
ended it in return. “You have a good day.”
“I hope to.” Or at least a productive one. He accepted the card, then stood, and slipped from the taverna.
Once the basilica opened to the public, Corvyn joined the thirty or so who waited to behold its inner splendors. He was just another stranger who had come to Marcion to marvel at the Holy Temple to the Unseen Trinity that ruled Heaven and the universe beyond, for was that not what the One True Gospel preached? Inside the outer doors, but outside the gate, he, along with the others, donned the woolen foot covers over his boots—dirt, sand, and other grime must not mar the mosaic floors—then followed everyone else, led by a deacon.
He ignored their guide easily enough, and instead surveyed the interior of the basilica, to refresh his recollections. The floor plan was simple—an atrium at one end, and a transept with a large apse behind it at the other. The atrium lay beyond the comparatively narrow narthex; then the long nave, flanked by aisles on each side, extended to the transept. The nave contained twenty-four marble columns, twelve on each side, each representing an apostle. On the upper level, above the columns on each side of the nave, stained clerestory windows depicted various scenes from the life of the true Christos—except for the last window on each side. Each showed a man standing on a road, transfixed by a beam of light, his companions wincing and turning away, but the renderings of the two differed slightly, and that had always puzzled Corvyn, given the usual fixity of true believers, whatever their faith.
Corvyn’s eyes moved from the northern window of Paul on the Damascus Road to take in the carved capitals of the columns, ornamented by acanthus leaves, twisted as if being whipped by the winds of a storm. Then he studied the mosaics on the walls at the outer side of the aisles, again all scenes from the ancient Acts of the Apostles, reminding Corvyn, not for the first time, that Brother Paul had perhaps strayed the least from the antecedents he claimed, especially compared to the other nine hegemons.
Quantum Shadows Page 4