As the group moved forward toward the transept, Corvyn looked at the curved wall of the apse and nodded. There, above and behind the shimmering silver altar, a large mosaic portrayed the Christos, his arms extended as if to his worshippers, within an oval of gold braid and olive leaves. On each side were clouds, and within each cloud was an archangel, the one on the right with a flaming sword, the one on the left with a golden trumpet.
Those images, Corvyn knew, were not theological inventions or religio-mythic fictions, nor was Brother Paul as simple as he seemed.
The tour of those areas open to visitors took slightly more than an hour, and Corvyn learned little more of what he sought. Just before the tour ended, he stepped into the shadows cast by one of the marble columns and departed in his own fashion, eventually finding his way to Brother Paul’s private refuge on the northwest side of the basilica. The walled garden was far larger than Paul’s study behind the apse, and certainly more pleasant, with the fountain in the center and the olive trees spaced around the stone walls. Within the scope of the olive trees, the garden was divided into sections, one of flowers, dominated by anemones and lilies; one of spices, including black mustard, lemongrass, and coriander; and one containing several fruit trees, most prominently several pomegranate trees, but also a fig tree and a trellised grapevine.
Rather than attempting to maintain the shadows that concealed him, Corvyn manifested himself as a slightly overlarge raven, largely concealed in the most ancient of the pomegranate trees that shaded the table and chairs in the open space not all that far from the fountain. While he waited, he spent the time considering the various possibilities. Although he doubted that Brother Paul had any connection to the appearance of the tridents, he preferred to learn more so as not to be required to return to Marcion, for while the city was pleasant enough in climate and appearance, it had always been far less to his liking than many other cities of the Decalivre.
Well over an hour had passed before three men walked into the garden from the tunnel leading from the basilica and seated themselves around the table.
Paul looked to Michael.
“We’re shielded. The entire garden.”
“What have you discovered?”
“One of the visitors vanished this morning,” offered Michael, who bore a remarkable facial resemblance to the archangel with the sword. “He looked like the intruder you encountered yesterday afternoon.”
“Who is he?” asked Paul.
“He spent the night at the Road’s End. The account that paid for his room and his breakfast is listed to a C. O. Poe, out of Ciudad Helios. The funds and the identity are verifiable, but there is no address.”
“Then Poe is just a sub-identity,” replied Paul.
“More than likely,” agreed Michael.
“Those are forbidden by the Decalivre,” pointed out Gabriel. “That means he’s an agent of DeNoir.”
Michael shook his head. “DeNoir doesn’t have any agents. He never has. He doesn’t enforce the ban on sub-identity.”
“It’s too bad that’s not something subject to the Lances of Heaven,” said Gabriel.
Michael offered a condescendingly superior expression to Paul, as if to suggest that the other angel should have known better.
“Then this Poe is either a rogue or a power in his own right,” Gabriel said, unabashed.
“There’s another thing,” said Paul. “He didn’t know that there was a Satan’s pitchfork flamed into the gold, but he wanted to see if one had been. That doesn’t sound like DeNoir is the power behind the pitchfork.”
“Unless he’s attempting to cloud the waters,” rejoined Michael. “The Dark One is anything but straightforward.”
“That can’t be discounted,” mused Paul, “but the appearance of the shadowed one is too obvious for DeNoir … unless he had nothing to do with the appearance of the pitchfork and is trying to discover who is behind it.”
“He’s traveling by electrobike. If whoever sent him received a pitchfork at the same time,” declared Michael, “this Poe had to have come from Los Santos, Helios, Nauvoo, or Yerusalem. There aren’t any cities or villages of power close enough for him to have gotten here from farther away.”
“Unless he’s an aetherial and picked up the electrobike near here,” replied Michael, “and is trying to hide the extent of his powers.”
“That might be. It’s old,” added Gabriel.
From his perch in the pomegranate, Corvyn would have smiled, but a raven’s beak wasn’t suited to smiles.
“You’re forgetting one thing,” said Paul. “To travel the aether, or the shadows, for any great distance takes endurance and power, even for those who hold the powers of their Books. Such lengthy travel also risks triggering the Lances of Heaven.”
That last sentence was not true, although what preceded it was, and Corvyn wondered if Paul believed what he said, or wished the two angels not to know that the Lances could not penetrate full shadows.
“I can have the doves follow him, if you wish,” offered Gabriel.
“Let me think about that for a moment.”
“Why would an aetherial do anything that might benefit DeNoir?” asked Michael.
“Why does an aetherial do anything?” replied Paul dryly.
“There’s a raven up there!” exclaimed Gabriel, abruptly staring at Corvyn, almost as if he had noticed the corvid earlier and waited to draw attention to it.
Michael was on his feet, seemingly far taller and more imposing than he had been instants before, with a long sword of fire in his hand.
“Don’t damage the pomegranate,” ordered Paul.
Corvyn dived at the archangel, veering past his face before angling around the fig tree and past a lemon tree toward the wall. He had just cleared and dropped below the wall when the flame and power of the sword swept above him, its edge clipping him and nearly throwing him to the ground. He landed heavily, resuming his normal form, concealed by shadows. Only the fact that the smaller manifested size of the raven gave him greater protection allowed him to survive the power of the archangel’s blade without injuries he would rather not endure.
Hugging the various walls, he slowly and laboriously made his way from the grounds of the basilica. Despite the fact that the sword had only struck Corvyn’s protections, Corvyn’s upper back and right shoulder tingled with an uncomfortable burning. He also knew he would have bruises before long, and that it would be several days before the pain and tingling totally subsided.
He had learned what he came to find out, as well as a bit more, without crippling injuries, if barely.
Michael’s sword was also a reminder that each of the hegemons controlled powers that could prove devastating, and so did some of their retainers. Something you have a tendency to forget over time.
The truth may seem, but cannot be,
nor will doves learn what ravens see.
8
Although Corvyn could detect no sign of either Michael or Gabriel, or any of their minions, tracking him once he left the environs of the Basilica Vera, he saw no point in remaining in Marcion any longer than necessary. Since Paul might well change his mind, a confrontation would only reveal too much to too many of the powers and principalities of Heaven, with the always possible, if unlikely, risk that Corvyn might not survive … or survive so badly injured as to be unable to discover what he must or to be unable to act to prevent another Fall.
Ignoring the pain and the tingling still burning across the back of his shoulder, he returned to the Road’s End, gathered his limited belongings, and loaded them into the electrobike. Less than an hour after his hurried departure from Paul’s garden, he sat, somewhat uncomfortably, on the electrobike, heading northwest on the Boulevard of the Transformation. More than fifty meters to his left was the River Sanctus, some ten meters lower than the boulevard. Two terraces filled the distance between the roadway and the river. The lowest and widest terrace stood only a few meters above the normal water level, the second and narrow
er one was but a meter below the stone pavement of the road. Dryland gardens filled the lower terrace with winding paths that meandered through the bushes and scattered wildflowers. A well-trimmed false-olive hedge dominated the upper terrace, where Corvyn saw several robins picking at the small and bitter fruit.
The neat stone dwellings on the right side of the boulevard remained modest for the first mille or so from the end of the basilica grounds, then increased in size as dwellings for traders—who appreciated the river view and could pay for it—replaced the houses of the most faithful. But then, almost everyone in Marcion was faithful to some degree, as was true in every city, town, and village of belief—except for the lands of Helios. Paul, especially, would not have had it any other way, nor would the other hegemons. Among other things, that was why there were parish churches located in every neighborhood of the city.
Corvyn continued on the boulevard for slightly over an hour before the more closely spaced houses and structures of the city gave way to olive and lemon orchards and dryland pastures and fields. The boulevard became the river road to Nauvoo, once more pure white eternal stone, but still paralleling the watercourse. On the hills to his right sparse pastures alternated with woodlands that featured junipers and scrub pines. Beyond the river to the west, the great cedar forests filled much of the land between the River Sanctus and the River Jordan, and some stretched to the Celestial Mountains far, far to the north.
Two hours later, Corvyn pulled off the road at one of the frequent turnouts overlooking the river. He moved the electrobike close to the waist-high stone wall and looked down at the river nearly twenty meters below. The afternoon sunlight glinted on the gray-blue water. He stretched, gingerly and carefully, grateful that the burning and tingling were not so intense as they had been. They should fade over the next day—provided he didn’t create more difficulties for himself.
A flicker of something like a shadow intruded upon his greater senses, and he turned slowly, then smiled wryly as he beheld two white doves that had just alighted upon the far end of the semicircular stone wall. The doves belonged to Gabriel, and they would follow him until the archangel recalled them or until something ill befell them.
For the moment, there was little point in having the doves meet with an accident. They might prove useful in certain circumstances. He returned his attention to the river. A powered launch made its way upstream, carrying youthful-looking Saints, young men and women both wearing dark trousers and white shirts. They were most likely returning from their educational tours of either Los Santos or Marcion, the only sort of outreach attempted by the Prophet, Seer, and Revelator or, more accurately, by the minions who had controlled his image ever since the pogrom of the missionaries.
The doves remained perched on the end of the wall when he remounted the electrobike, but when he returned to the road, they took flight.
Another two hours brought him to the outskirts of Corinne, a town built on several hills, the upper slopes of which offered a view overlooking the river to the west. To the east stretched the level plain that had likely been a lake in some far distant past, and beyond that the beginning of the Ochre Mountains, which were as hills compared to the Celestial Mountains demarcating the northern border of the great plateau of Heaven.
Unlike the city of Nauvoo itself, or Brigham, some fifteen milles farther along the road toward Nauvoo, or for that matter any other of the towns or villages in the Saint territory around Nauvoo, the restaurants in Corinne offered wines, beers, and assortments of teas and coffees. Corvyn thought about where he should eat, but he really could not resist the lure of the only establishment he had ever frequented in Corinne—La Caille. So that would be where he dined—after a stop at the inn where he could change into attire more suitable for La Caille.
The Gentile Inn was two blocks or so to the east off the river road, which did not become Main Street or Center Street, as it did in Nauvoo and in all other towns or villages in the Saints’ domain, according to the dictate of an ancient prophet, but remained River Road. The inn was a handsome two-story building of red brick with limestone quoins, window frames, and lower sills, and a dark split slate roof. An actual garage offered locked stalls for electrobikes, but Corvyn drove up to the main entry and eased the bike into one of the stalls under the shelter of the roof that extended across the entry. Then he walked inside to the counter in the antique-style entry foyer.
“I’d like a room for the night.” Corvyn smiled and extended a card.
The blond-haired and dark-honey-skinned young man standing behind the counter took it and scanned it, then looked at the display before him, clearly surprised. “It’s been a long time since you were here last, distinguished sir. Before my time. I never would have guessed it. I’m Adam, if you need anything.”
“It has been a while,” replied Corvyn, understanding from Jared’s words that the inn’s system identified him as a possible power or principality. “There are times to travel and times not to, and times when one has no choice.” He smiled politely.
“Just the one night, sir?”
“Yes. Unless something unexpected happens.”
“Yes, sir. Would you prefer a suite on the upper or lower level?”
“Upper, if you have one.”
“The Apple Suite is available. At the far end. The door is coded to your card.”
“Thank you. I’ll be leaving my electrobike in front for just a little before I go out for dinner.”
“Yes, sir.”
Corvyn retrieved his two cases from the bike and then returned to the inn, where he climbed the wide steps to the upper level. The rooms were distinguished by numbers on the doors; however, at the far end were two doors without numbers. One had a fruited apple tree upon it, the other a lemon tree. At the other end of the long hallway, as he recalled, the two suites had doors with an olive tree and a pomegranate.
Once inside the modest suite—sitting room, bedchamber, and bath chamber—he removed his riding jacket and outer garments, washed up, changed into another set of grays, with a more formal gray shirt, and then added a darker gray dinner coat. After sealing and concealing the cases, he left the suite.
When he stepped out into the covered entry to the inn, Corvyn noted, unsurprised, the two white doves perched on the brick wall connecting the outer pillars supporting the entryway roof. He did not acknowledge their presence in any way, but merely eased the bike from its supports, mounted it, and then drove away from the inn, following his memories as they guided him to the wide avenue that curved up a gentle slope. Halfway up, on the right, he reached a large area sculpted out of the hillside. Two black stone pillars with white capitals framed the beginning of the entry drive, paved in a fashion that Corvyn had never seen anywhere else in Heaven. Jet-black but nonreflective stone paved the right side, while white stone surfaced the left side. In contrast, the curb stone and walk on the white side were black, while the curb and the walk on the black side were white.
Some fifty meters past the gardens he came to the oval swan ponds, each perfectly circular and a good hundred meters across. In keeping with the color scheme, the pond on the right was ringed by black stone, with a black stone fountain in the shape of a swan set in the center, while the pond on the left was similarly arranged, except in white. A pair of swans swam gracefully in each pond, white swans in white, black swans in black.
La Caille was built of pure gray stone in the style of an ancient château. Whether architects based it on an actual château on long-lost Earth, Corvyn could not have said, not after all the eons. He passed several private vehicles parked on one side of the drive and then dismounted outside the entrance, where he turned the electrobike over to a young man wearing formal uniform, a white tunic over black trousers, then walked through the heavy oak double doors that were swung back.
The man waiting at the archway beyond the entry foyer frowned as Corvyn approached. “Monsieur, we have—” He broke off his words as Corvyn looked at him. “This way, monsieur.”
Corvyn found himself at a small table for two, discreetly separated from others, as with all the tables in La Caille. He recalled that the servers were both men and women, attired in black trousers and vests with white shirts, their complexions ranging from light-honey to rich brown, a range common in most Saint communities.
The server who waited upon him was male, neither young nor old, and he offered an ornately printed menu and wine list. “There are no special entrees this evening, monsieur.”
“Is there anything that you would especially recommend?”
“The Veau du Diable is quite good, as is the chateaubriand.”
“I’ll have the veal, then.” Corvyn had had the chateaubriand more than a few times—many more. He just hoped that the diable reduction did not rely excessively or exclusively on the cayenne pepper. Raw heat and power left a great deal to be desired, whether in cuisine or in other aspects of life. “With the portobello mushrooms and the truffled red potatoes. Mixed greens to begin with, just a touch of the house balsamic. Would you suggest a Lambrusco or a Gamay with the veal?”
“The Gamay Meridional might be better.”
“I’ll try that, then.”
“Very good, monsieur.” The server glided away.
Corvyn studied those at the few tables he could see. All were attired far more elegantly than was usual in either Marcion or Nauvoo, although there were doubtless a handful of other establishments that catered to elegance in those cities.
A goblet of red wine appeared, so deftly presented that most would not have noticed it. Corvyn lifted the goblet, enjoying the restrained aroma, and took a sip. The vintage was among the better he had tasted, but then, that was one of the reasons why he chose La Caille.
The mixed greens that appeared next included thin slices of a powerful sweet basil, offset by a tangy arugula and small crumbles of goat cheese. The veal was perhaps not quite so good as the Gamay Meridional, but intriguing, with just the proper balance between the sweetness of the apple glaze and the bite of the cayenne pepper.
Quantum Shadows Page 5