Quantum Shadows

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  Almost as if she sensed his intrusion, and perhaps she could, she reached out and turned the paper facedown on the table before he could read more.

  Short as what he had read happened to be, his lips quirked in amusement, in part because he agreed with the sentiment, the meaning, and the parodying style of the words, and also because her awareness of his observation indicated that she was more than a mere passive piece in what just might be a highly convoluted but hidden struggle between those who sought power and those who sought to break it.

  He returned his concentration to the aether in order to seek out the singer.

  The dark-haired singer stood alone in what could only be a studio of some sort, playing the lutelin and singing. Abruptly, he stopped, frowning. He resumed singing and playing, then halted once more, clearly dissatisfied.

  Corvyn observed for a time longer, then let his control of the aether lapse, thinking. The singer had been working on perfecting either another song or a way of delivering that song, if not both, and that was scarcely unusual for a performer. Yet … there had been something …

  Corvyn shook his head.

  “Quaero, sed non invenio.” Except he had found another thread in the current tapestry of the Norns, or of Arianrhod, or Neith, or … Clotho and her sisters. The names of the Fates were endless, singular and plural, but too often the tapestry of Fate produced the same result, regardless of the intentions of those who wove the fabric of belief.

  Should you call up any of the Decalivre? With a wry smile, he shook his head. Then they would know for certain that times were perilous, and their desires for their beliefs to at last triumph would only increase the possibilities of another Fall. No. Matters, as before, must be handled in the shadows. A lesson he had learned too late and too painfully.

  After considering the situation for a time, he stood and let the light flood back into the sitting room. Then he freshened up, darkened the color of his jacket, checked the location of the Sundance, and left the suite. Once outside, he walked four long blocks, past several low structures behind gray stone walls that were clearly private residences, before coming to yet another low and long structure, comprised of massive peeled logs above low walls of mortared boulders, yet with wide windows as well.

  He took the polished stone walk that extended some twenty meters and entered through a honey-gold wooden door.

  “Might I help you, sir?” A greeter stepped forward, a tall, lean woman with gray eyes, wearing a slate-colored jacket and trousers, complemented by a cream blouse and gray boots of the type once associated with grasslands and ranching.

  “I know it’s a bit early, but is dinner being served?”

  “It is, in both the Smithy and the Arboretum.”

  “And you would suggest?”

  “I wouldn’t presume, sir, but you might better appreciate the Arboretum…”

  “The Arboretum will be fine.” Corvyn’s smile was part appreciation and part amusement at her effort to suggest that a man of refinement and taste would prefer the more elegant and doubtless expensive restaurant. “How long has the Sundance been here?”

  “Well before my time, sir. I couldn’t say. You’d like a window table?”

  “Yes, please.”

  As indicated by the name, the Arboretum consisted of a large space with tables on slightly different levels, each surrounded by living greenery of some sort. Corvyn was surprised to see that of the nearly twenty tables, almost a third were taken, despite the early hour. The greeter escorted him to a circular table with a wide window on one side and the arc of a gardenia hedge on the other, just high enough to shield him from those at other tables, or them from him.

  The greeter departed, and in moments, a server appeared, an attractive brunette of approximately the same age as Corvyn appeared to be, if with a hint of hardness on an otherwise pleasant face. “Might I get you something to drink?”

  “What might be the best dry white wine you have?”

  “The driest white is Atacama Pinot Grigio; the best of the drier whites is the Sundance gris.”

  Anything with the name Atacama was likely far too dry for Corvyn. “I’ll try the Sundance.”

  “If you touch the miniature bronze there,” said the server, pointing, “that will call up the menu.” With a smile, she turned and left.

  Corvyn studied the piece he had thought to be a decoration—a nearly solid bronze miniature of a barred window on top of a stone wall. Definitely one of the more bizarre menu bars he’d seen over the years. He touched the metal and perused the menu, noting the menu items, and the considerable prices of each, but nodded at several. He paused to listen to two men in somber brown garb at the nearest table, one clearly older than the other and doing most of the talking, loudly enough that Corvyn didn’t have to strain.

  “… beliefs are stronger than science, because they rest on what makes beings capable of thought comfortable. Actual thinking has an unsettling tendency, and being unsettled weakens the thought being expressed.”

  “Capable of thought? That’s an interesting way of putting it.”

  “Perhaps I should have said theoretically capable of thought. In any event, that’s why Jaweau and the old ones discourage thought. It weakens their power.”

  “Brother Paul isn’t known…”

  “Not here,” said the older man quickly. “We’re talking about other hegemons.”

  “What about the Hegemon of Helios? There’s never much said about him.”

  Of course there isn’t, reflected Corvyn, for good reason.

  “Little is said, but dark shadows always have power.”

  “Because they conceal what men do not wish to be seen?”

  “More because people believe that to be true.”

  Isn’t that always the case? Corvyn smiled sardonically even as he wondered just what the two Paulists were doing in the vicinity of Nauvoo, but the next sentences reflected on the food, as if neither had wanted to talk about Lucian DeNoir, or shadows.

  Corvyn turned his attention to the couple next-nearest him.

  “… keep track of who crosses the river…”

  “Sundance isn’t Saint … don’t report…”

  “Danites have their ways…”

  Corvyn shook his head. As if the First Counselor and his aides had that much interest in who drank spirits or met with those to whom they were not married for time and eternity. The ward bishop perhaps, if he happened to be petty enough, but not the First Counselor or the Danites. Their powers were concentrated on other matters in order to deal with those high in the Decalivre. Or you, if they but knew.

  A few moments later, the server returned, presenting a goblet and a carafe. “The Sundance gris, sir.”

  “Thank you. I’ll have a small house salad and the cranberry orange duck with the rice occidental and green beans almandine.”

  “That’s a good choice. The duck is always good. The owners raise them on a place farther up the river.”

  “Do you live on this side of the river?”

  “Most of us working here do. The ferry’s not cheap if you have to take it each way every day.”

  “Does serving spirits affect who chooses to work here?” Corvyn offered a smile with a hint of warm amusement.

  “Definitely. The perquisites and gratuities are far better, and the clientele far more interesting. You’re not from around here, not anywhere close.”

  “From where would you say I hail?”

  “You’re older than you look, and you’ve seen more.” She shook her head. “I’d say, that wherever you lay your head most nights, even for years, it’s not home.”

  “You see more than most.”

  “Most of us here do. Those who don’t get uncomfortable after a while.” She looked to the goblet. “You’ll like the Sundance.” With a cheerful look that wasn’t quite a smile she turned.

  Corvyn took a sip of the gris. It was good, not great—the taste crisp, but not too edged, and definitely not buttery, because, for him,
too buttery brought up the memories of the decadence that had preceded too much destruction.

  As he waited for the salad he knew would not be all that long in coming, he realized something else. The Sundance was shielded from the intrusions of almost all powers and principalities, except for those on the level of the heads of each House of the Decalivre. That partly explained the couple nearest him—and the prices.

  He took another sip of the Sundance gris, enjoying it more than he thought he might.

  If sleep, perchance, shall lead to dreams,

  the raven drinks at Heaven’s streams.

  12

  Two days later, the electrobike carried Corvyn through the sandy hills a good hundred milles northwest of the Sea of Galilee. While he could have covered the distances he had traveled more quickly by using the shadows, he would have been exhausted by such long shadow travel, and needed time to recuperate. Not to mention the fact that he would have been limited to what little he could carry, and he would have been unable to see the people and the lands through which he had passed. And that would have been a loss, because the people often revealed what a hegemon did not.

  Much farther behind him to the northwest were low mountains, a puny extension of Celestial Mountains so much farther to the north, but on that extension now towered mighty cedars, their metaphorical roots in long-gone Lebanon. The most pious of the Judaics still trekked to the northwest periodically to obtain that prized wood, but only periodically, mindful of the fate of those first mighty cedars whose descendants had fared far better than those of the even once-mightier sequoias.

  Corvyn’s immediate objective was the River Jordan, where the road turned to follow the southeastern course of the river as it wound toward the Sea of Galilee and Yerusalem beyond. What he would find in Yerusalem was another question, at least beyond another possible trident, for the Judaics were fragmented in all aspects of their faith, except in the Torah and belief in a deity whose name should not be often spoken and that no individual, and perhaps no rabbi, was above another in closeness to that deity.

  While traveling, he had summoned the aether, but found nothing different about the singer and the poetess, except they were still not close, nor had they moved from wherever they had been before.

  Ahead, near the top of a hill, he saw a shepherd boy with a border collie, moving a flock of sheep up the slope. The young man wore a long-sleeved shirt and trousers of khaki so washed out that the color was more like tannish white, and a broad-brimmed hat of a similar shade and color. His staff was likely a stunner in order to deal with the coywolves that lurked amid the hills, but his steps were measured as he climbed the boulder-studded and mostly grassy slope.

  Corvyn smiled and continued along the road.

  More than two hours later, he neared the point where the hill road met the river road at the town of Aenon. While there were no springs there, the water of the Jordan was clean, as were all the waters of Heaven, but Corvyn had more interest in getting something reasonably tasty to eat for a late midday meal.

  After passing several establishments that were either closed or had a feel to them that was not terribly interesting, he finally eased the electrobike to a halt in front of a building that looked like an overlarge stone cottage. A small signboard bore the name RIVER’S EDGE—a name appropriate because the cottage-like building sat only a few meters back from a stone wall that angled down to the greenish water of the river. A very restrained and barely discernible sense of power also enfolded the building and gardens that stretched northward, encompassing several other structures.

  The interior space looked more like an ancient public room—except far cleaner—and was empty except for an older woman walking toward him.

  “Are you open?”

  “From sunup to midevening, every day. What else would I do?”

  “Then you’re the proprietress?”

  “That’s me—Siduri Brightstone, the one and only. Window table suit you?”

  “If it suits you,” replied Corvyn cheerfully.

  With a broad smile, she gestured toward a square dark wooden table set before a window overlooking the river, then led him there. Cutlery and utensils rested on a pale blue placemat.

  Corvyn took the seat that allowed him to look downstream as well as in the direction of anyone else entering the public room.

  “Cautious type, aren’t you?”

  “Habit. It’s been years. What would you suggest?”

  “I do have a braised lamb shank with polenta, and a wild green salad. The greens aren’t that wild, though. They come from the garden.”

  “The lamb sounds good.” Corvyn hadn’t kept up with the Judaics’ calendar—there was something about some Judaics not serving lamb during Passover and others believing lamb was a special dish for Passover. He supposed it wouldn’t be served if it happened to be against the faith of the proprietress. “Do you have a wine that will go well with it?”

  “Lamb’s always good. I have a half bottle of a Tempranillo reserve that’s fairly good.”

  “Fairly good?”

  “It’s very good, but it’s pricy. Fairly good for the price.”

  Corvyn laughed softly. “I’ll try them both … if you keep me company while I eat. That’s if no one else shows up.”

  “I’ve had better offers. Also had much worse. You’ll have company, after you’re served.”

  The name Siduri was somehow familiar, but Corvyn could not place it. Finally, he accessed the net and asked the origin of the name. When the answer came up, he smiled. Then he made another inquiry and came up with a second name, just in case.

  He was still thinking in which of the many possible fashions Siduri had ended up on the edge of Judaic territory when she returned with two goblets and a half bottle, which she opened so deftly that Corvyn could not even hear the emergence of the cork. She did not pour, but said, “I’ll be back in a moment.”

  She was indeed, carrying two platters, one small, with the greens, and one larger, with slightly raised edges and containing a single lamb shank and the polenta, both lightly covered with a sauce that offered familiar scents in an unfamiliar combination. “There you are.” After setting them before him, she seated herself across from Corvyn.

  He lifted the bottle to pour.

  “Just a finger or so.”

  Corvyn obliged, then filled his goblet a little more than half full, after which he lifted it, knowing she would lift hers, which she did.

  “To the fruit of the vineyard and the bounty of the land.” He took a sip of the Tempranillo, enjoying the robustness that was not too much, with a certain … piquantness. He nodded. “Better than fairly good.”

  Siduri had also sipped. “A bit better.”

  Corvyn was not about to dispute her on that. Instead, he cut a morsel of the lamb and ate it, enjoying the restrained fusion of lemon, thyme, rosemary, and tomatoes … and, of course, olive oil. After several mouthfuls, he said, “I’m surprised you aren’t busy all the time.”

  “You’ll see why when you pay,” she replied with a smile.

  “Then you must have a stable of regulars who enjoy fine cuisine.”

  “Enough.”

  Corvyn enjoyed several more small mouthfuls before speaking again. “You have a vineyard here and others farther away?”

  “I do. The Tempranillo comes from the hill vineyard.”

  The lamb shank was just the right size for Corvyn, or almost so. He left a bit of the lamb and quite a bit more of the polenta, finishing his dinner with the greens.

  “You eat in the older style,” she said. “I thought you might.”

  “I eat in the style suggested by the food and the provider.” He lifted the half bottle and poured another finger into her goblet and refilled his, then took another modest swallow. “You enjoy it here?”

  “More than I would most places.”

  “You’ve been doing this for a while, Siduri … possibly you knew a man named Gilgamesh?”

  “I might have
, a long while ago, Enlil.”

  Corvyn shook his head. The name was the other one about which he had inquired. “I could be, but I’m not.” That was true in the strictest sense, but the distinction his statement implied was without a difference.

  “You’re older than you look, and more powerful.”

  “So are you.”

  Siduri shook her head. “I’m less than a principality, and that suits me these days. It’s enough to deal with small difficulties, and not enough to attract larger troubles and powers.”

  Corvyn nodded, understanding all too well what she meant. “Do you ever have any Paulists visiting?”

  “I’m sure we have, but I don’t ask. Most don’t mention where they come from.”

  “Then I will. Helios.”

  “I visited there once.” She smiled softly. “There was a garden there, and I spent a little time with a friend. But there were far too many powers, principalities, and others who would challenge the Dark One.”

  Ishtaraath had never mentioned Siduri to Corvyn, but then there was much that Ishtaraath neglected to mention, and Corvyn wasn’t about to mention Tammuz to Siduri, for obvious reasons.

  “You know her, don’t you?”

  “I do. We’re on friendly terms.” Most of the time.

  “You’re even more cautious than you look. But, then you would be. Why are you here? Certainly not to see me.”

  “I’m here in this room because I was looking for an excellent meal, and I sensed a restrained sense of power that suggested I’d find what I was first looking for.”

  “Then … why are you headed to Yerusalem?”

  “To see if a black-flamed trident has burned itself into some holy aspect of the Temple.”

  Siduri frowned. “The Dark One’s pitchfork? Why would he do that?”

  “I doubt that he did. Some power arranged for one to appear on the cover of the holy book of the Paulists, and in the stone of the study of the Saints’ Prophet, Seer, and Revelator.”

  Siduri shivered. “I cannot say that I like that. That can only raise troubles across Heaven.”

  “That’s obvious,” agreed Corvyn. “The question is twofold. Who is behind the tridents, and what do they hope to gain from creating such unrest?”