“Questionable logic is always preferable to anarchy or illogic. Or to faith inherited and held on to through custom and lack of scrutiny.”
Corvyn was not about to argue that point, not logically or any other way, although he had seen enough times that illogic would have been preferable to any form of logic. “You do have a way with words. But then that is the tradition from which you draw.”
“I draw nothing. They draw from me.”
“Why do you tolerate the trident?”
“It wasn’t my doing, but it will plague those who have rejected me. It affords me a certain satisfaction, unlike you.”
“I beg your pardon, font of logic and puissance,” replied Corvyn sardonically, even while withdrawing more deeply into the shadows before Samael could touch him with either the power of destruction or the hand of death … for quite a few reasons, including the fact that, regardless of long-standing myths, Corvyn was anything but a masochist.
Both the blast of power and the chill of death found nothing.
Corvyn smiled again, because Samael would either have to remove signs of his presence in the Holy of Holies caused by the flames that did not strike Corvyn … or leave them, with the unpleasant implications they would create for the Judiacs … and Samael.
As he made his way from the Temple, still within his shadows, he was aware that yet another power followed him, if at enough of a distance that he could not determine anything more than the fact that he was being followed and by a power greater than a mere principality. He found that acceptable for the present, given how many more Houses of the Decalivre he needed to visit, especially since Samael’s disavowal of the trident had the ring of truth.
Once several blocks from the Temple, still cloaked in shadows, he slipped into an alley and shed them, stepping out into the sunlight and turning his steps back toward the King David under the pink sky of Heaven, tinged in the north by wisps of clouds.
Do not carrion birds still mourn the dead,
and ravens grieve where those bright banners led?
15
From a perch on a blackened girder, twisted and half melted, protruding from hundreds of meters of snow-covered ice, the raven surveyed the panorama of whiteness that stretched in every direction. The only colors visible were those of the predominant white, tinged with the blue of ancient upraised ice, and the black and rust of scattered metal skeletons—all that remained of the city that once extended hundreds of milles north, south, and west, along the continental coastline. Besides the raven, there were no visible signs of life under the white sun that provided light, but seemingly no warmth.
Under the ice, the old coastline was still there, the raven knew, but the present coastline was more than a score of milles to the east, and also buried under ice, the result of centuries of increasing cold and snowfall and decreasing ocean levels.
Spreading his wings, the raven rose from his iron perch and climbed into the chill and bright blue sky, pristine, without even a trace of smoke, for any fire built by the scattered remnants and descendants of those who built the great cities lay more than a thousand milles to the south, beyond the reach of the ice and snow.
As high as the raven climbed, he saw nothing but ice and snow, with the exception of the tallest of steel shards men had once thought challenged the sky. Clear the air was, and bitingly bitter cold, with the ice of the present and the memories of the past …
A chime struck, built … and died away.
A far softer light surrounded Corvyn, and he sat up abruptly in the spacious bed in the King David. He shivered, despite the fact that the room was anything but chill. But he recalled the ice all too well.
Ice colder than anything in the Celestial Mountains, ice no one else remembers, or would want to.
Those memories, memories not technically his, but memories long since his, nonetheless, that seemed so recent, and yet so distant, and the dream, told him that it was time to leave Yerusalem.
The Ten must seek the defeat of error.
The raven sees the beginning of terror.
16
A day after leaving Yerusalem and crossing the Jordan on an open ferry with camels and traders, Corvyn spent a night in a less-than-distinguished caravansary. The following morning, he departed early, and, in time, a good hour after midafternoon, he came to a side road of white stone, one far narrower than the main road to Jannah that he had been traveling. There was no sign, nor had there ever been one. He stopped the electrobike and debated whether he should take the road to the place with no name, a place he had only seen through the use of aether, but one of which he had long been aware.
When will you likely be this close again? And will a day make that much difference with all you have before you? Besides, he knew the only other place to stop would be yet another caravansary, and one scarcely to his liking.
Then, as he thought it over, he saw the pair of doves that had, for some reason, been less than visible in Yerusalem. Each was perched on a boulder rising out of the soil that was mostly sand.
Thinking of Gabriel, and knowing how Brother Paul disliked those at the end of the white stone road, with a wry smile he turned the bike onto the narrow white road and proceeded.
He did not have to travel far, only slightly more than an hour, before he came over yet another rocky hill dotted with tufts of grass and scattered shrubs and saw his immediate destination. Everything in the Mazdean community was white, every single structure, and the houses and outbuildings were constructed in circles or at least in arcs, so that from the sky the town might well have resembled a multi-petaled exotic flower. Only the solar panels half concealed on the roofs were dark. Likewise, from what Corvyn could discern, the only shadows of power were those he brought. On a grassy slope on the far side of the neat but slightly sprawling town, he saw a herd of goats, accompanied by a shepherd and dog. Given the beliefs of the town, he knew full well that he would see no cats, although there would be terriers to deal with rodents.
A handful of electrovans moved through the streets, as well as an electrobike or two, but fewer than he would have seen in a town of the same size in the lands of the Saints, and far fewer children as well. He continued down the slope toward the central plaza, which was also a circle, rather than a square.
Before long, he parked the electrobike in a public stall and looked around slowly. Small shops surrounded the plaza, two cafés that Corvyn could see immediately, and several other low-domed buildings he did not recognize, although he suspected that one might be a fire temple.
A young man in white saw Corvyn and immediately turned in to a narrow alleyway, walking quickly in the other direction. A woman a few meters beyond the alleyway averted her eyes from Corvyn, and turned, taking a small child by the hand back down a side street away from the plaza.
Corvyn continued to walk toward the nearest café, where two older men sharing a table watched him approach. Then from the nearer of the domed buildings beyond the café, a slender man emerged, moving briskly across the plaza in Corvyn’s direction, confirming in Corvyn’s mind that the domed structure likely had some connection with faith.
Corvyn turned and waited.
The man who approached wore a pure white high-necked jacket and trousers. Even his boots were white. His only adornment was a gold medallion, that of a winged disc. He stopped a yard or so from Corvyn and inclined his head politely. “You have the aspect of a daeva and are clad in the same way.” He smiled. “Few daevas would come here so obviously.”
“I’m not here in service to untruth,” replied Corvyn. “You might say I just stopped for a respite.”
“Respite? Then this is not where you should have come. There is never a respite in the struggle to reclaim Heaven.” For all his words, the athornan smiled. “My name is Alhazen, Alhazen Ibnsina.”
“I wasn’t aware that Heaven had fallen,” replied Corvyn. “You can call me Corvyn.”
“Join me for coffee, or tea, if you are so inclined, and we can discuss the m
atter.” Alhazen gestured in the general direction of the café.
“Thank you. I’d like that, both tea and the discussion.” And possibly a meal, if the café is good.
The athornan walked beside Corvyn, and the two proceeded to the café, where Alhazen walked to a shaded table under the awning. Corvyn took a chair that allowed him a view of both Alhazen and the square.
“The shadows behind and beyond you are deep,” observed the athornan.
Since Corvyn could sense no particular power surrounding Alhazen, the man’s observation was either a considered guess or the result of excellent perception. “You’re more perceptive than most. On what are you basing that observation?”
“Your shadow is distinct and unblurred at the edges. Under the light of the sun, as modified by the Pearls of Heaven, the shadows of us mere mortals blur at the edges. Even the shadows of lesser powers and principalities, or lesser daevas, blur slightly.”
“I wouldn’t think you’d seen many of those here.”
“We don’t.” Alhazen glanced up at the wiry and honey-skinned man who stood far closer to him than to Corvyn. “My usual.” He looked to Corvyn.
“Tea. Not too sweet.”
“Thank you, sir.” The man retreated toward the natural shade of the interior of the café, not looking back.
“What brings you here?” asked Alhazen.
“I told you. A respite from my current pursuit.”
“I’d be curious to know what a power of shadow might pursue or might even need to pursue.”
“That which should not arise in Heaven. A certain shadow of the past, if you will.”
“A power based in shadow pursuing a shadow of the past … I cannot say that I find that, in the words of those from Varanasi, auspicious.”
“You’ve been to Varanasi?”
Alhazen shook his head. “Not for more years than I’d wish to count. In my youth, I visited every city of the Decalivre, even yours.”
“Mine?”
“Where else could you come from, except Helios? Only the city named for the sun allows so many shadows.”
“Rather a witty observation.”
“Just an observation. All the worlds of men have been filled with two types of individuals, those who have wit and no belief, and those who hold to belief with no wit. Heaven is no different, except some of those with wit have power, and some of those with power have little or no wit.” The athornan paused as the server, who also appeared to be the proprietor, returned with the coffee, milk, no sugar, Corvyn knew, and the tea, as dark as the coffee would have been without milk.
Alhazen sipped his coffee.
Corvyn sipped the tea.
“So you pursue evil?” Alhazen raised his eyebrows. “To what purpose? To vanquish it nobly and forever, as so many paladins have attempted in vain for so many eons?”
“My goals are not that absolute.” Corvyn smiled sardonically. “What your ancient one understood was that to fight against evil, one perpetuates it. Evil cannot be vanquished by force of arms, because violence in service of anything merely begets more evil.”
“Then why do you even pursue, if the end is vain?”
“Sometimes,” rejoined Corvyn, “violence is necessary to prevent greater evil. Do you dispute that?”
“Violence ostensibly in the service of good can only forestall greater evil, but cannot vanquish evil itself.”
“Then you will admit that there are times evil must be forestalled?” Corvyn took another sip of the strong but not bitter tea.
“Define evil for me,” countered Alhazen.
“Any act or lack of action that results in harm to another.” That will do for a start.
“What if any act to prevent harm to another will harm the actor or others? Or what if the other is convinced that your way of life is harmful to him and that your way of life justifies his actions as preventing harm to himself or those who believe as he does?”
“Isn’t that the rationale behind the Lances of Heaven?” asked Corvyn. “To forestall mass action against others whose beliefs are different?”
“The Lances have proven to be necessary,” admitted Alhazen. “They do not address the question I raised.”
“If we are going to discuss the reasoning behind the Lances of Heaven and such,” said Corvyn with a brief laugh, “I need to eat. Would you care to join me?”
“Of course. How often does a mere athornan have a chance to dine with a power of darkness?”
“Not a power of darkness,” corrected Corvyn, “a power cloaked in shadows. There is a difference. I do not serve Ahriman or his attributes, nor, for that matter, the Dark One of Helios.”
Alhazen stiffened for an instant before saying, “I did not wish to offend.”
“You did not, but it is best to be clear about certain aspects.” Corvyn gestured to the proprietor, who hurried to the table.
“Yes, maitres?”
Corvyn turned to Alhazen. “What would you suggest?”
“The aash, the lamb stew with the stuffed grape leaves on the side, with the Ramian Shiraz.”
Corvyn nodded. He’d always been fond of good lamb. He just hoped the café would provide such. He finished his tea. “You were saying that the Lances of Heaven do not address the question, or perhaps, the intersection of belief and violence.”
“They merely forestall extreme violence.”
“On that, we agree. Is that so bad?”
Alhazen shrugged. “It is necessary. Would that it were not.”
“But those of strong beliefs so often wish to impose those beliefs on others, in the name of one deity or power or another. Each group of believers insists that its deity is the supreme almighty. Too many of them wish to impose their beliefs on others. Every time a mighty power has attempted that, the result has been terrible … or worse.”
“That desire, in itself,” replied Alhazen, “would indicate that they do not worship the true Ahuramazda, because in the supreme being, essence and existence coincide.”
“Couldn’t you say that of most higher beings?” asked Corvyn.
“Not even of powers and principalities, or of the hegemons, for how often is their essence contrary to some form of existence? And if their essence denies any form of existence, then they cannot coincide with what is.”
“You make a good point, not that most of the hegemons would accept it.” At that moment, Corvyn stopped because the proprietor arrived with two goblets of wine and two very small bowls of aash, which appeared to be a stew-like soup. He tasted it, at first gingerly, trying to determine what it resembled, then gave up, although while he could not pick out specific herbs, he could taste the lentils and the barley noodles. The small bowl was just right. When he finished, he looked to Alhazen. “That was good.”
“You’ll like the lamb more, I think.”
Corvyn suspected that he would, but continued the discussion. “So … you seem to be saying that no deity is supreme.” That was not what Alhazen said, but Corvyn wanted more of a response. He lifted the goblet and inhaled the scent of the wine, which was promising, then set the goblet down.
“None of those in Heaven claiming to be such, or allowing others to claim such, are supreme.”
“Then … perhaps there is no supreme deity … or that supreme deity has a myriad of attributes, reflected in the variety of the hegemons.”
“The variety of the hegemons reflects only the variation in believers, and the unwillingness of the majority of them to accept what lies beyond their own wishes for a deity.”
Corvyn doubted he could have phrased that concept better himself. He decided to refrain from more discussion for the moment, because the lamb stew arrived, served in a wide shallow bowl, the lamb over basamatic rice, accompanied by a small side plate with two stuffed grape leaves. The stew portion was modest, almost small. He took a small mouthful … and could not help smiling.
“I said you’d like it.”
“I do. Very much.” Corvyn took a sip of the Ramian
. It, too, was excellent, flavorful and rich, yet not heavy. After several bites of the lamb, he tried a dolma, which, if anything, was better than the stew. He decided to enjoy the meal and return to the discussion once he finished eating.
In time, he looked at the empty bowl and platter, then took another small sip of the Ramian and asked, “What do you think the purpose of Heaven is … assuming you think it has a purpose?”
Alhazen offered a sardonic smile. “Perhaps to prove that men are incapable of understanding fully the divine. Or to limit them until they can comprehend the divine, and to show, in the meantime, as Plato once imagined, that we see only shadows of reality, yet believe that we comprehend the universe.”
“But Plato was talking about men who were prisoners chained through their lack of education,” Corvyn pointed out.
“Is there any difference between being prisoners through lack of education or prisoners through lack of understanding?”
“The point is taken.” Corvyn laughed, softly, then asked, “How would you remove those shackles?”
“No man, no woman, no power can remove the shackles of willful ignorance. You already know that, or you would not be asking the questions that you have.” After the slightest pause, Alhazen added, “Ahuramazda is beyond all beliefs.”
“I think that’s a good place to leave the matter,” replied Corvyn, beckoning to the proprietor, then handing over his card. “Where would you recommend I spend the night here?”
“Our atashkadeh has a modest guesthouse. I’d be honored if you would accept the offer.”
“I’d be pleased to accept. I’ve enjoyed the time.”
“As have I.”
Corvyn meant what he had said, more than the words would indicate, although he felt a certain sadness as he walked from the café with the athornan, for the tasks that lay ahead of him would be so unnecessary if more in Heaven thought as Alhazen did. Yet the fact that so few did also reminded him that the wisdom of the athornan’s beliefs did not translate into physical, technological, or, Heaven forbid, military superiority.
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