Quantum Shadows

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “We can learn to control what we feel, even if we should not control others.”

  “That’s a rather interesting way of putting it.”

  “At times, often many times, there are those who control others. Whether one believes that such control is good depends on what one believes about others. If one believes most people to be sheep or wolves, one likely believes such control is necessary, either to keep the sheep from being eaten or the wolves from slaughtering them and fighting over the spoils.”

  “Wolves aren’t like that.”

  Corvyn smiled again. “You’re right. They’re not. No animal other than humans is, and that’s the problem.”

  “So…” She drew out the word. “Who are you? The name you gave does not exist anywhere. Your card offers a sub-identity. Yet sub-identities are prohibited. That places you on a level close to the heads of the Decalivre, but the nets show only that sub-identity. You carry the hints of shadows that cannot exist, but do.”

  “I told you. I’m Corvyn. No more and no less. I’m not a sub-identity of any House or village.” Which he was not, although he used sub-identities and always had.

  Jael smiled sadly and shook her head. “I’m glad I’m only a guardian.”

  So was Corvyn, for more than a few reasons. “Is there more wine? I’d like to hear more about Arbel.”

  “There is. Let me refill the carafe.”

  Corvyn finished the last few morsels of curry, and the next to the last slice of the figs, before Jael returned and refilled their glasses.

  “I reported your arrival here.”

  “And?”

  She offered an amused smile. “I was thanked, told to learn what I could, and to enjoy your company before you vanished or otherwise departed.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Who or what you’re searching for.”

  Corvyn smiled wryly. “If I knew that I wouldn’t be searching. Some power, although it could be power, principality, or even the head of a House, is defacing the actual sanctuaries of at least some Houses of the Decalivre with an ancient symbol. That symbol is ambiguous, representing evil to some faiths and mastery of the mundane to others. I’m interested in learning who is behind this ritual defacement and what end they have in mind.” That was not strictly accurate, because Corvyn had a very strong suspicion of the end, but certainly not who the perpetrator was or why the perpetrator had chosen this particular time.

  “Defacing … how?”

  “I’d prefer not to say.”

  “Meaning that you have no intention of saying more.”

  “I’ve told you more than I’ve told anyone else.”

  “Why me?”

  “Why not? You’re not in a house of belief. You’re isolated, and you’re a guardian.”

  She frowned for a moment, then slowly nodded. “You actually want me to report that. Why?”

  “It’s obvious, if you think about it.”

  After several moments, she nodded. “I think I see.”

  Corvyn had no doubt that she did. She had no agenda, which any head of House would have, and no head of House would know from where the information came, except that it came from the Pearls of Heaven, because that was to whom the guardians reported. Some might soon suspect, but they would not know, and that was enough for Corvyn’s purposes.

  “Did you come looking for a guardian?”

  He smiled. “Not in the slightest, but I’m not loath to take advantage of an opportunity when it’s offered.”

  “That’s the only opportunity I’m offering.”

  “No. You’re also offering intelligent conversation and information without an agenda, and I intend to take advantage of that opportunity.” He took another sip of wine, then asked, “Were you from the Jordan Valley originally?”

  “Not the valley, but the hill country east of Yerusalem. I grew up in Shivta.”

  Corvyn frowned, but was pleased. He had never heard of the town. “Tell me about Shivta.”

  “It’s actually one of the older towns on Heaven, but there’s a fault line there, and that’s why the old-time elders decided to keep it small…”

  Corvyn took another sip of the wine, better than he’d expected, and continued to listen, enjoying a conversation without an agenda.

  Rivers flow from hill to lake.

  Ravens slight the ferry’s wake.

  20

  Corvyn woke late, readied himself for the day, enjoyed a leisurely breakfast with Jael, and then wheeled the electrobike out to the edge of the gray stone road that led to Cammat Landing.

  Jael stood by the door of the inn, an expression of amusement on her face as he looked at her.

  “Going back to your matrices? Or hunting escapees from the Sands?”

  “I thought I might investigate a little history,” she replied.

  “Just don’t believe everything you find. Even historians have agendas.”

  “Even historians?” Her tone of voice was amused. “Everyone has agendas, especially those who cloak themselves in shadows.”

  “I don’t deny it, but make sure it’s my agenda and not someone’s superimposition of their belief about my agenda.”

  “I should know that?”

  “Now that we’ve conversed, you might have a much better idea.” He offered a last smile. “Enjoy your days, each of them by itself.” Then he swung onto the electrobike. He did not look back.

  As he headed down the hill, he had to admit that the brief time he spent since leaving the Sands of Time had been the most enjoyable interlude since sometime before he left Helios. Perhaps he should visit Arbel again.

  He shook his head. Some things were best experienced once and remembered often, rather than the other way round.

  In less than an hour, he neared the outskirts of Cammat Landing.

  The fact that Cammat Landing was located on the River Jordan and not on the Sea of Galilee had always irritated Corvyn. But he’d been only one of the First on Heaven, and not one with the power of official nomenclature, so that naming authority had gone to one whose ignorance had trumped any knowledge of history on the part of his subordinates. As a result, the river town had been named Cammat Landing, and so it remained, even while Zafon was the name given to a town on the Sea of Galilee, not that anyone on present-day Heaven would have known, or particularly cared.

  Like the buildings in Arbel, the buildings in Cammat Landing were largely, but not exclusively, of one story and constructed of beige sandstone. The roofs were single-slanted, rather than pitched from the center, given that snow seldom fell on the southern part of the great plateau and that the rains were usually gentle. The air was far damper, unsurprisingly, since the town occupied part of a narrow river valley surrounded by hills, and the air was fragrant with mixed scents, two of which Corvyn thought were myrtle and rockrose.

  The gray stone road took him directly to the ferry slip, where he waited, almost alone for more than half an hour, before the ferry returned and he wheeled the electrobike to the front, where he again waited, if only for perhaps a quarter hour, before the whistle sounded, and the ferry departed. Although the Jordan was wider than near Yerusalem, the single ferry at Cammat Landing was far smaller, at little more than twenty meters in length, than those at Lee’s Ferry or south of Yerusalem. In the late morning, Corvyn was among a handful of people on board headed for Plymouth.

  Standing beside the electrobike as the ferry pulled away from the slip, he looked to his right, to the southeast and in the direction of Lake Lethe and its waters of forgetfulness some hundred or so milles away. The stretch of lakeshore between where the Jordan and the Sanctus entered Lake Lethe was called the Beach of Forgetfulness, although it almost might have been called the Sands of Death, because most who bathed in the waters of the Lake to forget their past not only forgot that, but also forgot most of those behaviors associated with survival, unless they were fortunate enough to be rescued by the Brothers and Sisters of Mercy. But then, Corvyn well knew, anyone who wish
ed to forget who or what they were was seeking death of another kind in any event.

  His eyes turned to the handful of others standing near the front of the sun-powered ferry, taking in first the tall blond man who stood beside the only four-wheeled vehicle, a sedan with aerodynamic curves that were hardly necessary considering that the curved roads of Heaven, smooth-paved as they were, did not lend themselves to excessive speed. On the other hand, the vehicle contained considerable forms of protection hidden under those curves. The sedan’s driver, for he was the only one near it, was lightly tanned and wore a white jacket, white shirt, white trousers, white shoes, and presumably white socks. His not-quite-chiseled features suggested comparative youth. His apparel suggested that he was some sort of junior functionary, either commercial or financial, but not ecclesiastical, although the strict whites indicated that those who employed him might well have some relationship with the White One. Either that, or his apparel was designed not to be offensive to anyone in the lands of the White One.

  Corvyn concealed a momentary smile and walked toward the young man, who carefully avoided looking in Corvyn’s direction. “Greetings.”

  “The same to you. You’re a ways from the abode of the Dark One.”

  Corvyn smiled pleasantly, but not warmly. “Actually, I just came from the Sands of Time.”

  For a moment, the other said nothing, then finally replied, “You’re fortunate to be here, one way or the other.”

  “Aren’t we all fortunate to be here?”

  “That’s true enough. What took you to the Sands of Time?”

  “The usual. Revisiting illusions and shattered dreams. Cataloguing and analyzing delusions before proceeding to Los Santos. What about you?”

  “Business in Bethlehem, Bethsaida, and a few other places.”

  “Bezalel’s descendants?”

  The man in white shrugged. “There’s always a market for good jewelry.”

  “And it’s less expensive on this side of the river.”

  The other shook his head. “It’s not that at all. The artistry is more unique.”

  Corvyn understood that. The Sands of Time were close to the south side of the river, and artistic genius, illusions, and madness have always had a special relationship. “Artistry is not always what it seems, but I wish you well.”

  “Artistry is what it is.”

  “Exactly,” replied Corvyn. It was what it was, and not necessarily what people saw in it, which might have been why, often, the best artistry was unappreciated, and the most outlandish praised for its “originality.” He smiled again. “I’m sure you do well in Los Santos.” With that, he turned and walked back to the electrobike.

  A woman in a long brown robe and matching brown shoes or perhaps ankle boots approached him.

  Corvyn looked at her openly, noting her age, evident only in the fineness of her features. “Yes?”

  “Are you truly a Skeptic from Helios?”

  “How much of a skeptic depends on the situation, but I am from Helios.”

  “It’s a stupid question, but I’ve always wondered what the appeal was of doubting everything. My son tried to explain it, but…” She shook her head.

  “He left and went to Helios?”

  “He did. He vanished. I haven’t heard from him in years.”

  Corvyn frowned. “I’d be surprised if he’s in Helios, then. The Dark One allows anyone who obeys the laws to stay, but not to become invisible.”

  “I heard that … but…”

  “You thought people were just telling you something that might be untrue?”

  She nodded.

  “He’s likely in a village of belief, somewhere on the fringes of the lands of Helios.”

  “But he doubts everything.”

  “There are those who believe in doubting everything.” Corvyn did not point out that belief could often have little correlation with either factual accuracy or logic. “There are invisible villages.”

  “Why?”

  The barely concealed anguish in her voice moved Corvyn enough that he said, “Sometimes, even the highest cannot answer that question, much as some of them would like to.”

  “Thank you, kind sir.” She eased away from him.

  No one else approached, and Corvyn turned his attention to the town on the north side of the river. He had no idea why those of the First named it Plymouth, except for the possibility that the name once signified both a point of departure and a point of arrival, and the Plymouth where the ferry had begun to dock was certainly both for the lands of the White One of Los Santos.

  The stone quays and river walls were white, as was the ferry slip, and most of the buildings that Corvyn could see—as he knew from previous visits—were also constructed of white stone, except, of course, for the dark rooftop solar collectors. Likewise, the majority of those in the land were fair-skinned and light-complected, with an extraordinarily high percentage of blonds, although many of those were the result of genetic engineering, either in the present or by ancestors.

  When the ferry came to a halt in the slip and the ramp lowered into place, the crewman gestured to Corvyn, who mounted the electrobike and rode slowly off the ferry and onto the North River Road, not that he would remain on it for long—only until he reached Appalachian Street, which turned into the Appalachian Trail Road on the north side of Plymouth.

  In riding through Plymouth, Corvyn was far more watchful than in other towns, because in Plymouth, Los Santos, and other towns under the white shade, there were fewer electrobikes, and small lorries or sedans were more numerous than elsewhere in Heaven. Corvyn had never been able to determine if that preference was primarily cultural or whether it had some basis in genetics, but given that use or analysis of any genetic material of an individual for any purpose involving anything but the health of that individual was strictly forbidden and resulted in immediate banishment to Limbo, on principle alone, and one with which he agreed, he had never had any desire to investigate his suspicions.

  He followed a white lorry, not that the lorries in Plymouth appeared to be any other color, for almost half a mille past various shops, eateries, and other establishments, noting as he had before that most residents preferred to eat or conduct other business inside rather than outside, even given the comparatively pleasant climate along the Jordan. All those he saw wore white garb, or garb that was white and barely tinged with the faintest shade of some color. Those who dared to wear such faint shades were often considered less reputable or more risk-seeking, if not both. With all the buildings of white stone or other materials also treated to be white, Corvyn found it difficult to easily determine whether there was any great distinction between structures and especially between houses.

  He was more than happy to turn right on Appalachian Street and make his way to the northeast past the seemingly endless expanse of white, and the glare reflected off all that white. Los Santos would be worse, but he would face that when the time came. As he neared the northern edge of Plymouth, the dwellings became larger, set on larger plots, with emerald-green lawns precisely set between houses and walks and the street, and perfectly trimmed trees and gardens, except … all the flowers he saw were white, which always struck him as ironically accurate in terms of the faith and doctrines of the White One. For some reason, the flowers also reminded him that his was the only gray electrobike he had seen since he rode off the ferry, yet electrobikes came in all colors … except in the white lands.

  Before long he was on the Appalachian Trail, riding up the first steep hill on a road with sweeping curves, taking in the barely visible scattered homes set within forests of beech and maple trees as well as a variety of pines, but largely white pine. All such homes were self-powered and contained, as effectively required, since the Lances of Heaven periodically destroyed unpowered structures more than a few meters square, supposedly when no one was present, although Corvyn always had some doubts. The rules were simple enough—maintain the structures and use the land wisely without degrading
it. Those who lived there had come to prefer matters that way, since living on the rugged hills without shelter was less than pleasant and usually eventually fatal.

  The Appalachian Hills were not especially wide near Plymouth, perhaps some sixty milles across, although a hundred and fifty milles to the northwest they extended close to two hundred milles from southwest to northeast. The distance was measured as how the raven flew, and the road covering those sixty milles in front of Corvyn was closer to a hundred and eighty milles. After four more hours of climbing rock-punctuated rugged forest land and descending into narrow valleys or vales where he might or might not see a dwelling or two, Corvyn began to wonder if he shouldn’t have stopped in Plymouth and allowed an entire day to cross the hills.

  That was when he saw what might have been an inn set alongside the white stone road on a rise before yet another twisting climb. Corvyn did not recall the inn, but then, it had been years since he traveled this particular road, and he had more than a few memories buried deep in his thoughts. He decided to investigate and eased the electrobike off the road and onto the drive leading to the low stone structure, which seemed almost part of a stone outcropping just below the top of the rise.

  When he stopped under the roof of the pillared portico, he glanced around, then saw a small sign proclaiming the Redstone Inn. He found no sign of shadows other than his own and no indication of other powers in the vicinity of the inn itself. Beyond that … he had some doubts. The structures were neither new nor ancient, but appeared well-maintained. The reddish stone of the building was offset by the white trim, sashes, and doors. He placed the bike in one of two stands, opened the door, and stepped into the small foyer, which contained little besides a counter of polished pine. In the wall behind the counter was a door, which opened, presumably at the hand of the man who stepped through it and behind the counter.

  The innkeeper stood well over two meters tall, with sandy-blond hair and the typical not-quite-pasty fair skin that dominated in the area, especially in the hills away from Los Santos itself. He looked at Corvyn and then through the windows flanking the door at the electrobike, not quite frowning. “That’s an old bike.”