The Shadows of God

by J. Gregory Keyes

  Time eased by like a summer breeze, unhurried. Adrienne blinked at the stars, felt the tendons of her neck tightening in anticipation of the keen-edged knife that came to part them.

  Maybe it was best that she die.

  It was a brief thought, a coward's thought. The stars dissolved from patterns of light into spidery matrices of gravity and affinity, and her servant angels, her djinni crowded around.

  Mistress?

  Her attacker's body was a complicated minuet of matter and spirit, but its dancers were mostly one compound, water, which was in turn made of phlegm, aer, and lux. At her silent command, the djinn split each ferment of water into constituent atoms. The dance became a riot.

  The fellow never even managed a scream but fell away from her, a tongue of flame licking from his gaping mouth, twin jets from his nostrils, his eyes popping like fireworks.

  Without him to support her, she fell ungracefully. She barely felt the cold earth, but the stars were still there, untroubled.

  Fever slashes came after that. People around her, then someone lifting her, Crecy's face. Father Castillion, another bloody knife, a castle of pain that built higher and higher and finally collapsed. And then, at last, darkness.

  But not silence. She felt she was in a great mausoleum, for the voice echoed many times.

  I'm sorry. My enemies must have found you. They are everywhere. But I will help. I will help to heal you.

  Apollo—

  Do not exert yourself. Sleep.

  So she did.

  Adrienne woke, her hands resting on the quilts mounded upon her. She was nine years old, in her father's house, the chateau at Montchevreuil. She had the fever, she remembered, and she was cold. But where was Grandpapa? He had been here with her, and, despite what the doctor said, he made her know she would be safe, that the black angels had not come for her yet.

  “Grandpapa?”

  “Ah. You wake. How do you feel?”

  The voice wrapped her more securely and warmly than any blanket—for an instant only, and then that security turned to sudden fright. The gentle words had the same rustic accent her grandfather had spoken with, but it was not the same voice.

  She turned toward the sound and saw Father Castillion, and it all came back. She was not nine, she was thirty-two. Where could twenty-three years go, even for a moment? What was wrong with her?

  He must have seen the confusion and the terror, and he put a hand on hers. He was in a chair; and beyond him, in another, sat Crecy, chin dropped down to her breast. “All is well,” the priest said. “Your wound was grave, but God has given you the strength to survive it.”

  She remembered Father Castillion standing over her, and pain. “God gave you the skill to heal, it seems.”

  “He blessed me with knowledge, yes. I studied the healing arts and learned many peculiar things in China. Yet I know my measure. If my hands had been the only ones at work, you would no longer be among us. You lost a grievous amount of blood.” He gripped her hand. “Do you see Him now, among us? Can't you see He is here?”

  “He is here,” she repeated. But she did not mean God. She knew from whom the miracle had come.

  Nicolas, her son. She had given him life, and now he had done the same for her.

  “Who did this to me?” she asked.

  Crecy started awake then, with a sudden gasp, her fingers flying to the hilt of her sword. Then she understood and relaxed somewhat.

  “I told you to wake me,” she said to the priest, an angry edge in her voice.

  “She only now woke,” he said.

  “It's true, Crecy. We've only spoken a few words. I was just asking who tried to kill me, and why.”

  “It was Karoly Dimitrov, the Orthodox priest we brought along with us. I have asked questions, and believe he must have been a spy for the metropolitan.”

  “I see.” She frowned. “He was going to cut my throat, as Irena's throat was cut. Do you suppose he killed her, too?”

  Crecy hesitated. “Perhaps we should discuss these matters when you are stronger.”

  “Discuss them now, please.”

  “Very well. I've believed Irena was going to meet her lover when she was killed. And, as you say, her throat was cut ear to ear. But I have a reliable report that at that time Father Dimitrov was on board the Dobrynya, which never landed that day. Irena was killed in the woods. What's more, Dimitrov was never far out of sight of our men.”

  “Maybe your sources are not as reliable as you believe.”

  “I think they are.”

  “Where is Hercule?”

  “Questioning everyone who knew Dimitrov, and not too gently. He thinks, as you do, that the attempt on your life is connected to his wife's death. Dimitrov is dead—and in a singularly unlovely way, I must say—but the other killer is still free. We guess that both work for the metropolitan or perhaps the Golitsyns.”

  “Why Irena? What did killing her accomplish?”

  “It divided your people. It gave Menshikov the wedge he needed to steal some of your supporters.”

  “Because they thought I killed Irena. But why not kill me in the first place?”

  “You are too well protected, generally. Your guardians are not usually all drunk.”

  “This was not your fault, Veronique.”

  “Tell me no such nonsense. I should have been at your side, and so should have Hercule. We both failed you.”

  “I failed myself. If I had been sober, the man would never have touched me and, further, would still be alive for our questioning. Enough of this. Our people have lost their priest and I have killed him. How was that taken?”

  “We gave it out that he was killed trying to save you.”

  “That was good thinking.”

  “That was a lie,” Father Castillion said disapprovingly.

  “Yes, it was,” Crecy said. “Would you have told the truth?”

  Castillion shrugged. “I don't know. But to lie is to slap God. Best, perhaps, to say nothing.”

  “But now our Orthodox soldiers have no priest. That will not go well, especially if we must go into battle,” Adrienne noted.

  Castillion raised his hands. “I will minister to them.”

  “Father, no offense, but you may remember an incident or two in France involving religion? My Russians will not accept the Roman liturgy.”

  “Then I will learn theirs. The two have more in common than you think.”

  “You would do that?” Adrienne asked.

  “I told you China changed me. As strange as the religion of China is, at its base it is the same as ours. If that is the case, then the differences between Orthodox and Roman are truly minute. I will do what I can to minister to your people. I will do my best, and if you can find me advisers on the matter, I think you will be surprised at how quickly I can learn.”

  Adrienne regarded him silently for a moment. “God bless you, Father. You are an exceptional priest. And an exceptional man.”

  “All men are exceptional, and women, too. He made us, after all.”

  Adrienne nodded. “I tire now. Crecy, you must calm Hercule. We cannot have more strife, more hard feelings. If we find this killer, we must find him quietly. Very soon I shall have to ask things of my people that should be asked of no one. I must be confident that they will obey me.”

  “They love you.”

  “Love is fickle. It is not so strong as an empty belly or the fear of a bullet. If my people think I have betrayed them, they will not hesitate to betray me. Even Saint Joan was burned at the stake, after all.”

  “Politics, that was.”

  “Politics are all around us. Stop Hercule.”

  “I will not leave your bedside.”

  “Crecy, only you can do this. Set as many guards as you wish. Send for my students to keep me company. But speak to Hercule, and now.”

  Crecy's eyes were as hard as gemstones, but after a moment she nodded. “Very well.”

  “Thank you,” Adrienne replied.

 
Miracle or not, her wound did not heal quickly, nor did it stop hurting. Fever came and went, but it was mild. Father Castillion stayed by her side.

  The next day, émilie came to see her. Like Adrienne, émilie was French by birth, spirited away from the collapse of that nation by the mathematician Maupertuis, who had brought her to Saint Petersburg, where it was well known that Tsar Peter would enthusiastically welcome anyone with scientific talent, male or female. Maupertuis joined the Saint Petersburg Academy of Sciences, where Adrienne already had a position. When Maupertuis went to Amsterdam to help with the reconstruction there, émilie stayed as Adrienne's student.

  émilie was not exactly beautiful. Despite her family's class, she had a peasant's big bones. Her personality was forceful, however, and it made her attractive in a way her pleasant but unremarkable features could not.

  “I so fear for you, Mademoiselle,” she said.

  “No need to fear for me, émilie. I'm very hard to kill.”

  “God protects you.”

  “He may or may not, but I do not count on it,” Adrienne re sponded, with a glance at the priest. “Have you continued your research with Linné?”

  Émilie flushed a bit at that. “A little. He has been— distracted.”

  “Ah. Elizavet.”

  “What can be done? She is very beautiful, and a tsarevna.”

  Adrienne smiled. “I love Elizavet like a daughter, but she does things by whimsy. Her interest in Linné will wane as soon as she is certain she has him.”

  “I know that,” émilie said. “And yet if he rejects me for her, I shall not take him back. How can I? I may be no beauty, but I am no fool. I have my pride.”

  “But you love him.”

  She hesitated. “Yes.”

  “Then do not let her take him. Tell him what you just told me, and make him believe it. If that fails, you were better off without him.”

  Émilie nodded. “Thank you, Mademoiselle.”

  “And, émilie, you are far from ugly.”

  She nodded again.

  “Well. Now tell me of your research.”

  “Oh. Yes. The classification of the malakim proceeds—”

  “What's this?” Father Castillion asked.

  “Explain to the good father, Émilie.”

  “By the malakim you mean the angels?” Castillion asked.

  “We mean the aetheric beings science deals with,” émilie said cautiously. “Some may call them angels.”

  Castillion frowned but nodded.

  “Carl—Monsieur Linné—and I have been trying to classify them into kinds, as we might animals. A bird is a sort of animal, a raptor a sort of bird, a hawk a sort of raptor—”

  “I'm familiar with the idea,” Castillion said.

  “The trouble is that animals and plants may be classified by outward structure—wings, feathers, beaks, and so forth. The malakim, not being composed of matter— or of very much matter, anyway—have no outward structure to observe.”

  Castillion scratched his chin. “And yet I have seen some of them, as wisps of fire, and, by our Lord, the keres—that was indeed a thing of matter, was it not?”

  “In part,” Adrienne said. “There is, among the malakim, a hierarchy.”

  “As the Bible states, and rabbinical sources, and even the Chinese scripts. The seraphim, the cherubim, the ophanim, and so forth,” said Father Castillion.

  “They are masters who have servants, and their servants are in turn masters over yet weaker servants,” Adrienne said. “But it is the weakest among them, those of lowest rank, which have the most material substance. Some of my servants, for instance, are able to manipulate the substance of phlegm, others lux. Some can mediate between any two substances that I point out to them. But the great ones— call them the seraphim, if you wish—are creatures entirely of spirit. They cannot touch us or we them, save in spirit.”

  “Those nearest God are more of spirit; those nearest men are more of matter. But these seraphim can touch us, yes, by sending their more earthly servants,” Father Castillion said.

  “Yes. That is the old order of things. But it is changing, due to science. The keres, for instance, is a new thing. Generally, though, the malakim ignore mankind, until we achieve the sciences that let us affect the aether where they live. When that happens, they act, either killing the philosopher who made the discovery—as they did the man the Egyptians called Thoth and we call Hermes—or by offering their services to him.”

  “Why that last?” asked the priest.

  “With magical djinni to serve your every whim, why continue the difficult and often disappointing business of the philosophical experiment? And after a generation, all science is forgotten, magic prevails, and then the malakim vanish back into the aether, leaving only mumbling fools behind them.”

  Father Castillion shook his head excitedly. “It would explain much,” he said. “It would explain much of the ritual of China, for instance, or the worship of pagan gods. It is a short step from having a djinn who serves you to having a god you must beg for favors.”

  “Precisely.”

  Castillion looked to émilie. “And so we have digressed. If there are these sorts of malakim, each with a throne higher than the other, why not keep them in their natural categories?”

  “Because they are more various than their rank. And we did find a way! One of our colleagues—Monsieur Lomonosov— has proposed a startling hypothesis. In his view, there is no matter in the world. Newton himself approached saying this, but shied.”

  “I should say he did,” Castillion said. “The Church teaches that matter and spirit are separate. How can there be no matter?”

  “It is all spirit. Or rather, it is all affinity—attractions and repulsions. Like gravity, which is not made of matter, or magnetism.”

  “But both are created by matter. Gravity by atoms, magnetism by iron.”

  “Lomonosov does not think so. He believes there are various sorts of affinities, some nearly perfect—nearer God, if you will—some less perfect. The most perfect affinities do not diminish with distance. The middle ones, like gravity, weaken in a proportion relative to the distance from the source. The least perfect affinities are those things we mistake for matter. But since all of these things are spirit existing at different levels, one may become another, and all are connected,” émilie explained.

  “This is making my head spin.”

  “Think of a musical scale. All notes on the scale are different, and have different qualities, but all can be reached by lengthening or shortening a string.”

  “So if we ‘shorten’ matter, we get gravity? Or the holy spirit?”

  “Yes, very like that.”

  “And your malakim—those with the most masters between them and God and those nearest man—are the most imperfect, the most material. And the archangels, the thrones, and great powers, are farthest. But can one, then, become the other?” He sounded skeptical.

  “We are matter, and imperfect,” Adrienne said. “But aren't we taught that we can become spirit, and perfect?”

  “I must hear more of this,” Castillion said. “Much more. The implications—this has been borne out by experiment?”

  “It has been suggested by reasoning, and by some experiment. We have yet to devise satisfactory tests, though young Lomonosov is trying.”

  “And now—my head spins on—how does this apply to the classification of the malakim?”

  “They are made of patterns of affinities, each unique like the ridges on our fingers. We can observe the pattern, using certain instruments. The weaker, less perfect malakim are simpler and more specialized than their masters. What we have discovered is that these masters make their servants from their own substance—not by natural reproduction, but by excising some part of themselves, then changing its ‘musical pitch’ so to speak.”

  “All this we knew,” Adrienne said. “I thought you had made progress.”

  “We have. As a man's child carries resemblance to him, the
se malakim made from other malakim resemble one another, but much more strongly. Their patterns tell their parentage, as it were. And our calculations—based, Mademoiselle, largely upon your own papers and observations— suggest something interesting.”

  “And that is?”

  “That in all the world, Mademoiselle, there are really only two true malakim. Two, from which all the others are descended.”

  At midday, the sun scarcely touched the sluggish waters of the mighty Altamaha River. Not here, at least where it was narrow enough that the gallery of oaks it flowed through could nearly twine their branches in an arch, the Spanish moss hanging like stalactites from the roof of a cave. Somewhere the sun was shining; here the waters flowed dark and quiet. Cormorants perched on snags, and a great blue heron came flapping by on heavy wings.

  Oglethorpe glanced at Tomochichi, the aging chief of the Yamacraw. Even at his advanced years, he was arresting, his still-muscular chest tattooed with black wings, his earlobes slit and dangling with jewelry. His intelligent face, painted red and black now, expressed something Oglethorpe rarely saw on it: concern. He was staring at the water.

  “What's wrong, old friend?”

  “Things live down there. Snakes that once were men. Pale cannibals. An entire world we cannot see, should not see.”

  “That isn't who we fight.”

  Tomochichi met his gaze, something the Indians did only to express disbelief or emphasize a point. “Yes, it is,” he murmured. His certainty put ice in Oglethorpe's veins.

  The water rippled, and the forest moved. Yamacraws, Yuchi, Maroons, and rangers, shadows one moment, men the next, now shadows again. Oglethorpe kept his eyes focused on the bobs, little bits of light wood floating on the surface of the river with cords going down to weights on the bottom.

  An instant later, one went under, and then the next. And the next. A faint V appeared on the surface of the river.

  “Catfish large enough to swallow men,” Tomochichi murmured. “Panthers with rattlesnake tails.”

  Oglethorpe's heart was hammering. “Not yet,” he pleaded. “Not yet.”

  The next bob went down, then the next two.

  And there, where the deep channel came against a dry, clear bank, something poked its head from the water. It looked, at first, like the head of a giant turtle, a flat-topped cylinder a yard across, sticking two or three feet above the river. It was the color of black iron.