Elizavet Tsarevna squealed in delight as the musket in her arms kicked and belched black smoke. She staggered, but she did not close her eyes at the flash of powder, and her aim was steady. She was Tsar Peter's daughter, that much was clear. A piece of his fierce heart beat in her chest.
What effect her shot had was more difficult to tell. One of the great beasts fell, but a hundred other bullets whizzed into the mass of flesh and hair beneath them, and any one of them might have knocked it down.
Elizavet, however, was certain. “I killed it!” the dark-haired young beauty shouted jubilantly.
Adrienne congratulated the tsarevna absently, transfixed by the scene below. The airships were cruising only a few tens of feet from the ground, and the massive humps of the buffle seemed almost within arm's reach. Once beyond the western mountains, America was flat as a board, with no hills to run aground on or in which to hide enemy artillery, but still it seemed unsafe to be so close to such a herd.
Adrienne had seen a buffalo before, in Louis XIV's menagerie, when she was his mistress. She had been impressed by the size and savagery of that first bison. But she could never have imagined so many thousands, never extrapolate the din of their hooves pounding the earth like an immense drum, the furious bellowing that turned birds in the sky. The crack of one rifle or a hundred meant little to such a living earthquake.
Elizavet, whooping, took a fresh musket from a servant and fired again.
“God makes strange, powerful things, doesn't he?” said a man on her left, his own dark eyes also wondering at the spectacle. He nearly had to shout, even from a few feet away, to be heard.
“Good day, Father Castillion. Indeed he does,” Adrienne shouted back.
The Jesuit flashed a bright-toothed smile and shook a lock of his gray-streaked chestnut hair from his eyes. “Look at you!” he exclaimed. “You look just like that little girl in my mathematics tutorial, when I presented a new problem. Never daunted or puzzled—just quietly excited.”
She couldn't deny it, though his observation made her feel suddenly frivolous.
“Ah, I said something wrong. Look how your face transfigures. Surely you are allowed to enjoy yourself now and then.”
“I do not know that I am. I have little time for distraction.”
“Time enough, surely, to remind yourself of what you fight for? That the world is a beautiful place, worth saving?”
Surprised, she studied his lean face for signs of irony. “Are you serious?” she asked. “That does not sound like a Jesuit talking. Shouldn't you be preparing me for God's kingdom to come, rather than urging me to love this one?”
“This is God's kingdom, or one of them. I cannot believe He made it beautiful merely to tempt us.”
“Again, quite unjesuitical.”
He grinned wryly. “I'm fairly certain that if I were to return to Rome now—and open my mouth—I would be a Jesuit for no longer than the tick of a watch.”
“You've lost your faith?”
He scratched his chin thoughtfully. “When I was in Peking, my order was embroiled in a debate with the emperor. In fact, it wasn't much of a debate—the Chinese emperor is absolute, and when he says his final word on something, it is final. My order, however, had difficulty accepting this, and so brought the matter up again and again. The argument had to do with conversions and pagan rituals. The emperor, you see, cared not in the least if we made Buddhists into Christians— but he insisted that the rituals of obeisance to the throne continue, even for Christians. He said they were secular, despite their clear religious content. He was inflexible, but we argued it with him every few years. I think the emperor saw more clearly than we, for, despite their pagan origins, the purpose of those rites was secular—to bind his subjects to him. We Jesuits could not admit it because that might be to allow that we Christians have the reverse problem: we pretend that secular ceremonies—the crowning of a king, for instance—spring from religion. It made me wonder: How much of religion arises from social necessity?
“The thought festered in me until it produced a more terrifying one. I wondered how much religious ritual arises not from faith but to disguise the lack of faith? Like a child repeating, ‘It is true, it is true’ to convince himself.”
“An uncomfortable thought.”
He nodded. “And they aren't new thoughts, of course— indeed, in theology they are sophomoric. And yet the sophomoric is often true, yes? To me, the things I saw and heard in China proved to me that I had never had faith but only a desire for it and a fear of being without it. The very strange thing—another of those powerful and strange things, you see—is that I did not lose my faith—I achieved it. Abandoning my pose of knowing God, I came to truly know Him. So I believe, anyway.”
“Then perhaps you can tell me where He is in all of this?” Adrienne asked. “His angels are loose in the world without any governor, and it is impossible to distinguish between those angels fallen and those still in grace—if there ever was a distinction. Monstrous things tear at His creation, destroy His beauty, and war is everywhere. I cannot see God. Where is He?”
For an angry instant she thought Castillion's answering gaze contained pity, and so she nearly told him to go to hell, if he still believed in it. But then she realized that his eyes reflected something more complex, with no hint of condescension in them. He tapped his chest and then, carefully, hers. “He is there,” he said. “You cannot see Him—that would defeat His purposes, I think. Spectacles make Him no more visible than the naked eye, nor telescopes nor microscopes nor that fabulous hand of yours. It is the mistake that Newton and other philosophers in his vein made—to think that in dissecting the universe they would at last find God. God is not to be seen; He is to be felt.”
She drew back from him a step, staring at him with new suspicion. Not long ago, in a dream, she had heard nearly those same words, spoken by a creature who claimed to be Sophia, the mother of angels. Was this really the priest who had taught her so many years ago? Or was he more than he seemed?
And so she raised her right hand and looked, peeling away the gauze of matter that covered Father Castillion, dissecting him in just the way he had just been complaining about, revealing the ghostly etching of the vortices and secret knots that bind the world. She saw nothing unusual there, no hidden ifrit or angel.
But she no longer had faith in her power. What she saw with her hand came from Uriel, an angel she did not trust— who might not even be alive, for she had not heard from him since the battle of New Moscow.
Castillion hadn't noticed her reaction or her deep glance. He was still preaching, looking not at her but at the distant skyline. “Some things we see may reveal God, however, by opening our hearts. You feel nothing when you see that?” He gestured at the vast herd. “No joy, terror, awe, worship? I do, and I think you do, too. I said you looked like a little girl just now. Is it not said that only coming as a little child shall we find the Lord? That is what I mean. Mademoiselle, when I lived as a Jesuit, I never once felt like a child.”
Something in that lodged in her throat and pressed behind her eyes. With that foolish suddenness she had avoided for many, many years, her eyes filled with tears. She looked away, to hide it from him, but he would not be fooled. He took one of her hands and squeezed it. His hand was warm and rough, and it felt good. She felt foul for having doubted his humanity.
“Do you still hear confession?” she murmured.
“I do not,” he replied, “though I am willing to talk of anything you wish. Your confessions do not need me for God to hear them and forgive.”
“It is not forgiveness I need. It is advice.”
“I offer whatever I have, but I will not pretend to perfect wisdom.”
“You know by now we are searching for the tsar.”
“I know you follow the prophet and his army,” Castillion said cautiously. “I know you think the tsar may be a prisoner.” His brow wrinkled. “But there is more to it. You want to talk about the boy, the prophet.”
She nodded. “When I met you, you said you believed that this ‘prophet’ was the Antichrist, come to destroy the world. All of that is written in the Bible, yes? If we are to believe the Bible, this time was bound to come— God ordained that it should. And yet just now you exhort me to save God's beautiful world. But if God Himself desires that it be destroyed, what point in striving against Him?”
“Ah. I was unclear. I spoke in the language of the Bible, but I did not mean it literally. Revelations is a much disputed book, and for good reason. I do not trust it. Even if I did, I must trust all of it, yes, including that proviso that no one can predict when the end will come. No one. And, in terms of the signs, I am not aware that most of them have been fulfilled. What I meant was, this prophet supposes he is the Antichrist and intends to destroy the world.”
“Then you think he should be stopped.”
“That thing at New Moscow—Angelos keres, you called it, after the Greek spirits of death? It was an abomination. If the prophet was responsible for that, he must be stopped, yes. We are God's instruments in that.”
“Why does God need ‘instruments'?”
“I don't know. Why do the devils need armies and sorcerous engines? I do not deny that God is mysterious, Adrienne. It is His nature.” He cocked his head. “What is this about? Ostensibly, your expedition hunts for Tsar Peter, who vanished while visiting his wayward American province. But I've heard many on these fabulous flying ships whisper that you will join battle with the prophet and his army.”
“It is my intention to confront him, yes. I do not know if I can fight him.”
“Why?”
“Because he is my son.”
Castillion blinked, pursed his lips, but nothing came out.
“You see my dilemma?”
“How can this be?” He slipped his hand from hers, clasping it with his other, as if he were washing them.
“He was my son by King Louis, and he was stolen from me when he was but two years old. For ten years he has been lost, and at times I thought him dead. Instead, I find that they have made something of him. Something dangerous, as you say. We approach him—I can feel him more strongly each moment. The pictures in the chapel in New Moscow showed the prophet—I know it is Nicolas. I know it is my son. If I must kill him to save the world—I cannot.”
“Then there must be another way.”
“I don't share your optimism, Father.”
“You ask for my opinion. I do not think God would ask that of you. I think it is a clue that there must be another path.”
She shrugged. “Do you know what a certain angel told me about God, Father Castillion?”
“I would be very interested to hear it.”
“He told me that to create the world, God had to remove Himself from it—that to form the finite, the limited, He must in that sense limit Himself.”
Castillion's brow furrowed in fascination. “A very old heresy,” he murmured. “The gnostic heresy. It claims that the God of the Old Testament is really Satan, in disguise.”
“Exactly. Not being able to enter the world, God sent angels to do His bidding. Once free of His immediate command, they began doing as they pleased.”
“And an angel told you this?”
“One of the aetheric beings who style themselves angels, at least.”
“Are they, in your experience, always truthful?”
Adrienne laughed bitterly. “In my experience, they are rarely so.”
Castillion considered for a moment. “I see no contradiction,” he said at last. “God may be outside the world and yet present in our hearts. There must be some spark of Him in us, that we live at all.”
“But if this world is—and has always been—the kingdom of the fallen angels, we can hardly expect fairness or justice. It may be that destroying my son is the only way.”
“I won't believe it,” Castillion replied evenly. “But I will think on all of this, if you wish.”
“I would appreciate that, Father.” She looked down again, as the ship began turning.
“We're going back?” he asked.
“For the beasts they shot. We can use the meat and skins.”
“How long before we reach your son?”
“Less than a month, I think.”
After loading the meat, they flew on until near nightfall and then, on a narrow river copsed about with a few trees, they landed all the ships for the first time since crossing the mountains. The soldiers found, by some miracle, enough wood for a score of fires, and soon the scent of roasted meat filled the air. Adrienne had a table and high-backed chairs lowered to earth and a pavilion erected, so that she and her officers might dine in some civility. Wine and vodka were poured.
Hercule d'Argenson, the overall commander of Adrienne's forces, lifted a glass. “To this fine beast,” he toasted, gesturing at the meat before him. “In America, even the cows are bigger, it seems.”
“A little gamy for my taste,” Crecy remarked, raising her glass, “but a good fellow to die for our bellies all the same.” Her eyes glimmered darkly, and in the firelight her copper hair and the glass of wine were the same ruby shade.
“And to the other wonders that may cross our path!” Hercule said, taking another swallow.
It was good to see Hercule in a happy mood. He smiled, and that small difference in his face pulled away the years, and she remembered when they met, twelve years before, in the ravaged countryside of Lorraine. He had always been cheerful then, full of life and swagger, a rascal and a good heart. She scarcely connected him with the brooding character he had become. And she knew that she was in large part responsible for the change.
Could she amend that? So many of her works needed mending.
She lifted her glass. “To you, Monsieur d'Argenson. For being the soul of this expedition, for seeing it through dangers none of us could have imagined. And for being my loyal friend.”
That brought a strange, almost shocked silence to the entire table. Had it been so long since she had said such a thing?
Apparently. And Hercule was blushing.
Well. She could mend nothing with a single toast, but it was a beginning.
Glasses clinked, and Hercule downed all his wine. He would be drunk within the hour.
“Vodka!” Crecy called to one of the servers.
Across the table, Mikhail Sergeivich, a middle-aged artillery captain, laughed. “That's a Russian drink—not made for your French blood.”
“Oh?” Crecy said. “Or is it that I'm a woman?”
“No offense, please,” Sergeivich told the redhead. “You're a man in my book. You dress like one, you fight like one, you ride like one. But even a Russian woman could drink you down the river with vodka. It's what they bathe us in when we're born.”
“How would this be, then, sir?” Crecy asked. “I will match you, drink for drink. If I meet Morpheus first, you will have the opportunity to learn that in no book whatsoever am I a man. If you go under first, you give me that Hungarian saber you're so proud of.”
“Done, by the saints!”
“I'll go at that, too,” Elizavet put in, “to show what damage a Russian woman might do.”
“Then we need a fourth,” Adrienne heard herself say.
“Are you volunteering, Mademoiselle?” Elizavet made no attempt to hide her astonishment.
“Indeed.” She raised her voice. “More vodka for the table. Two —no, three more bottles!”
Crecy leaned so her lips were touching Adrienne's ear. “What strange wind is blowing between your ears?” she whispered.
“Don't discourage me,” Adrienne pleaded, just as softly. “Please.”
“No secrets!” Elizavet said. “And no scientifical trickery!”
“Never fear,” Crecy said. “We need no science against the likes of you. Have at it.” And she drained her newly filled glass.
The contest quickly involved the whole table, and within the hour was essentially forgotten. Crecy and Sergeivich were ar
m in arm, singing some off-key song in the Russian that Sergeivich had been trying to teach them. Hercule's head was tilted back, and gentle snores escaped him.
Feeling quite unsteady but not unhappy, Adrienne decided it was time to return to her cabin before she did anything even more foolish than she had already.
On the way she bumped into three of her students, who were swaying a bit themselves.
“Mademoiselle!” said the first, a tall young fellow named Lomonosov. “It is good to see you up and about.”
“It is good to be so,” she replied. Or hoped she did. Her voice was a strange roar in her own ears.
“We have much to discuss with you, Mademoiselle,” a young woman said. Even in the dark, Adrienne imagined she could make out the young woman's green eyes and infectious smile. She also saw that the third fellow, Carl von Linné, was standing quite near her. Had they been holding hands when she arrived? She suspected that they were lovers.
“Well, we shall begin our meetings again,” Adrienne said.
“Oh, we have kept up with them. We have found something quite astonishing.”
“We could even speak of it now!” Lomonosov said.
“Well …”
“There you are.” Elizavet's voice came, from behind. “Monsieur Linné, I disht— dishk—distinctly remember that we had an appointment this evening. How can you dish— disappoint a tsarevna?”
“I—but I—”
“Not because of this fat little thing?” She poked a finger at émilie.
“What?” émilie choked out. “What did you say?”
Elizavet paid no attention to émilie but stepped forward and gave Linné a sharp slap on the face. Then, laughing, she stumbled back the way she had come. “No matter,” she said. “There are men somewhere in this camp.”
Linné cleared his throat. “I—”
Émilie slapped him, too, and without a word she turned and ran, sobbing.
“Oh, dear,” said Lomonosov.
“Well,” Adrienne said, “I think we will delay our discussion until a more appropriate time, yes?”
“Yes, Mademoiselle,” Lomonosov said.
Feeling suddenly mischievous, Adrienne turned back to him. “By the way, since you seem to have lost your companions, perhaps you could ask Mademoiselle de Crecy for another fencing lesson.”
The Shadows of God Page 4