The Shadows of God

by J. Gregory Keyes

  “We are still one. The great lady became flesh with me, and flesh she remained when the world became new.”

  “No wonder you are so adept at cards,” Voltaire said. “You see beyond me.”

  “No.” Euler's voice was drenched with sorrow. “No, I am like you now, flesh and nothing but flesh. I see no more than you do.”

  “And your brethren? What of them? What became of the malakim?”

  Euler picked the cards up and tapped them into a deck again. “I do not know. The change Mademoiselle Montchevreuil caused was not one any of us anticipated. But nothing created by God is ever truly destroyed.”

  “Is there a God?” Ben asked earnestly. “Have you seen Him? Your foe, it is said, pretended to be God, but is there, in reality, a supreme being?”

  Euler shook his head. “I speak metaphorically. My brethren and I played the game of being the gods and angels your people desired and feared. Our own beliefs were always quite … different, and very difficult to explain. But most of us did believe that there was one beyond the world we knew, just as we were beyond the world you knew.” He looked frankly at Ben. “We were the templates for your souls. About that we did not lie—we are too much alike, the links too strong and demonstrable. And there was a time before when the world changed, and that changed the nature of our existence, limited us. But whether that was due to our own experiments, or blind fate, or a true god, we will perhaps never know. We have been telling ourselves your stories for so long, we have forgotten, ourselves, what is true—if we ever knew.”

  “The beauty of truth,” Voltaire offered, “is that it must be found, that we must exercise our highest, most noble mind to discover it. I suggest that it is only in reason—real reason— that we approach the true God.”

  Ben smiled. “That is a philosophythat suits me for the moment. It is, at least, a philosophy which promotes useful things. And speaking of philosophy—and not to detain more serious card playing—but we soon have a convocation to attend.”

  “And I think I am ready for it,” Voltaire said. “Most especially because I want you to read what I have written.”

  “Nonsense. You are the author—”

  “I was the pen. You are the true author of this thing.”

  “You only wish me to get the blame if it's taken awry.”

  “Ah, you prick me with yet another dart. I feel another apology coming my way, in a few hours.”

  “Voltaire, if this succeeds, I shall give you more than an apology—I shall bend my knee and kiss your ring.”

  Voltaire raised an eyebrow. “I look forward to it, sir. I truly do. I shall make certain my ring is scrubbed clean and scented, to make it as pleasant as possible.”

  The weather could have been better. It was hot, so hot that the cracked mud of the plaza had barefoot boys hopping from one foot to another, searching for a shadow to stand in. The sun blazed from a nearly white sky, save at the horizon, where gloom gathered, a thunderstorm forming. Already its heralds had arrived, blustering winds like the breath of an iron foundry.

  And yet, as Benjamin Franklin stepped out into the center of the crowd and surveyed it, he knew it was a good day.

  Not one of the hundreds gathered in that sweltering plaza in New Paris had not been punished cruelly for the simple crime of being alive. Not one had not lost loved ones. Some had lost much more. In the front were rank upon rank of soldiers—French, English, German, Indian, Negro, Maroon, Swedish—missing arms, legs, ears, noses. Behind them were those injured only in the soul, who had watched their comrades fall and who nestled the most terrible fears a man can fear as near as their own hearts. Beyond them were the children, wives, mothers, and invalids who had waited and wondered whether their loved ones would return. Many—no, most—had been disappointed.

  And here they were, come to listen to him.

  No, not to him, but to the words Voltaire had written, that the leaders of the new Commonwealth Nations had looked upon just that morning and unanimously put their names to.

  As he took his place, the sound of the crowd faded until the rasping of the wind through trees in the distance, the squealing of gulls, and cawing of crows were his only competitors.

  He cleared his throat and began.

  “My friends, we are free. We were created free by God. By natural right, we deserve freedom. By civil government we preserve it. By neglect we lose it. By struggle we win it back.

  “A child is born to freedom but not in it. He comes to liberty as he comes to reason, for one without the other is mere anarchy. Before reason, the child is subject to his parents, who have grown into their estate, and that is as it should be. But a tyrant is not a father, a despot is not a mother, and their subjects are not children, but are reasoning, free, and equal persons, rightly subject to no arbitrary power. We hereby declare that we are not children, that the only just government is one which derives its power from the immediate consent of the governed, which exists solely to secure for its peoples the rights, privileges, and property to which nature and nature's God entitles them.

  “And so, though God has declared it, let us declare it again in a single voice, the voice of the Commonwealth Nations of America, a voice that will make every tyrant on Earth tremble. We are free. No man owns another, no nation owns any man, no nation owns another nation. Our law derives from trust, duty, and above all consent. We stand resolved in this, a fortress wall, mortared with the blood of those who fought and died, guarded by those who fought and lived, and by their children, and theirs. So say we all. We are free.”

  He began to read the names signed below, but before the first syllable left his mouth the crowd roared, in that single voice of which Voltaire wrote—“We are free.”

  They were still shouting it when the storm came, and Franklin could no longer tell his tears from the raindrops or his laughter from the thunder. They sang it to the dark skies, and when it cleared they were still there, every one of them, and the celebrations really began.

  As night fell, and Maroon drank with ranger, and Indian with dragoon, Franklin wondered how long it could last, this unity, this peace. But in a brilliant, exquisite moment, he knew it did not matter. What could be once, could be again and again, as long as there were people of the heart and will to speak and act.

  This was the first invention of a new age. It most likely would be the best, and it would not be forgotten.

  Excerpt from

  THE BRIAR KING

  by Greg Keyes

  Coming in January 2003

  THE BRIAR KING is the first book in the four-volume epic fantasy saga of The Kingdoms of Thorn and Bone. Set in a rich, medieval world where strange and deadly creatures roam the land, and destinies become entangled in a drama of power and seduction, this exciting new novel boasts a wonderful cast: the king's woodsman, a rebellious young girl, a naïve priest, a rogue adventurer, a daring knight, to name but a few. These and more face malevolent forces that shake the foundations of their kingdom. And at the heart of THE BRIAR KING stands Anne Dare, youngest daughter of the royal family, upon whom the fate of her world may depend.

  “THE BRIAR KING was a danged good read, and definitely left me turning the pages late.… I look forward to more.” —KATHERINE KURTZ, New York Times bestselling author of the Deryni Chronicles

  “The characters in THE BRIAR KING absolutely brim with life. It's been awhile since I've been this taken with a traditional fantasy novel, but Keyes hooked me from the first page.” —CHARLES DE LINT, award-winning author of Forests of the Heart and The Onion Girl

  “THE BRIAR KING starts off with a bang, spinning a snare of terse imagery and compelling characters that grips tightly and never lets up, beautifully infused with all the wonder of the fantasy genre. A graceful, artful tale from a master storyteller.” —ELIZABETH HAYDON, bestselling author of Prophecy: Child of Earth

  “Well conceived and intricately plotted, [THE BRIAR KING] crackles with suspense and excitement from start to finish. It is a wonderful tale; don'
t fail to read it.” —TERRY BROOKS, New York Times bestselling author of the Shannara novels

  By the time they had reached the festival grounds, Fastia had filled Neil's head with the names of so many lords, ladies, retainers, grefts, archgrefts, margrefts, marascalhs, sinescalhs, earls, counts, landfroas, andvats, barons, and knights he feared it would burst. He spent most of his time nodding and making noises to let her know he was listening. Meanwhile, Sir Fail, still speaking with the king, drew farther and farther away. The rest of the royal party outpaced them until only he and Fastia and a few of the deviceless knights were left.

  When they reached the hilltop, with its gaudy and bewildering collection of tents, plant growth, and costumed servants, Fastia, too, excused herself. “I need to speak to my mother,” she explained. “Details about the celebration. Do try to enjoy yourself.”

  “I will, Archgreffess. My deepest thanks for your conversation.”

  “It is little enough,” Fastia said stiffly. “It's rare we get a breath of fresh air in this court, and well worth breathing it when it comes along.” She began to ride away, then paused, turned her horse back, and brought her head quite near his, so that he could smell the cinnamon perfume she wore. “There are others in the court you haven't met. I pointed out my uncle, Robert? My father's brother? My father has two sisters, as well. Lesbeth, the duchess of Andemeur, and Elyoner, the duchess of Loiyes. You'll find the first sweet-tempered and pleasant in conversation. Elyoner I advise you to avoid, at least until you are wiser. She can be dangerous for young men like you.”

  Neil bowed in the saddle. “Thank you again, Princess Fastia, for your company and your advice.”

  “Again you are welcome.” This time she rode off without looking back.

  That left him alone, which gave him time to let it all sink in, to try to understand the seeming chaos around him.

  And to struggle with the fact that he had actually met a king. No, not just a king, but the king, the Amrath, the Ardrey —the emperor of Crotheny and the kingdoms that served it, the greatest nation in the world.

  He looked for the queen and found her near the edge of the hill, talking to two ladies. There, too, vigilant Craftsmen kept both their range and their guard.

  It was said these men renounced all lands and property upon entering the royal bodyguard. It was also said that they felt neither pain nor desire, that none could stand against them, that their weapons had been forged by giants.

  Perhaps that's why he hadn't recognized them right away. To Neil, they seemed like any other men.

  Alone, Neil had the leisure to reflect on just how out of place he felt. In Liery, he had known who he was. He was Neil, son of Fren, and since the destruction of his clan, the fosterling of Fail de Liery. More than that, he had been a warrior, and a good one. Even the knights of Liery had recognized that, and complimented him on it. He had been one of them in all but title. None had successfully stood against him in single combat since he was fourteen. No enemy of the de Lierys had ever stood against him at all, not since that day on the beach.

  But what use was he here, in this place of frilly tents and costumes? Where even the most civil of the royal bodyguard spoke to him with such condescension? What could he do here?

  Better that he serve the empire as he always had, as a warrior of the marches, where it mattered little whether or not one wore a knight's rose, and mattered much how one wielded a sword.

  He would find Fail de Liery and ask him not to recommend him. It was the only sensible course of action.

  He looked about and saw Sir Fail break away from the king.

  “Come, Hurricane,” he told his mount, “let's tell him, and hope it's not too late.”

  But as he turned, he caught a glimpse of the queen. The sight of her held him momentarily.

  She was still mounted, silhouetted against the blue sky. Beyond her, the land dropped away to a distant green, still misty with morning. A breeze ruffled her hair.

  He realized he had stared too long, and began to turn, when a motion caught his eye. It was one of the Craftsmen, his mount at full gallop, careening across the green toward her, a long silver flash of steel in his hand.

  Neil didn't think but kicked Hurricane into motion. Clearly the knight was rushing to meet some threat. Frantically, Neil searched with his eyes as he galloped forward, but saw nothing the warrior might be responding to.

  And then he understood. He drew Crow, flourishing her and uttering the piercing war cry of the MeqVrens.

  Her gown was of a red so dark it seemed nearly black, and it was hemmed with strange scrolling needlework that glinted ruby. Over it she wore a black robe, embroidered in pale gold with stars, dragons, salamanders, and greffyns. Amber hair fell in a hundred braids to her waist. She wore a mask of red gold, delicately wrought; one eyebrow was lifted, as if in amusement, and the lips carried a quirk that was almost a sneer.

  “Who are you?” Anne asked. Her voice sounded ridiculous to her ears, quivering like a baby bird.

  “You walked widdershins,” the woman said softly. “You have to be careful when you do that. It puts your shadow behind you, where you can't look after it. Someone can snatch it—like that.” She snapped her fingers.

  “Where are my friends? The court?”

  “Where they always were. It's we who are elsewhere. We shadows.”

  “Put me back. Put me back right now. Or …”

  “Or what? Do you think you are a princess here?”

  “Put me back. Please?”

  “I will. But you must listen to me first. It is my one condition. We have only a short time.”

  This is a dream, Anne thought. Just like the other night.

  She drew a deep breath. “Very well.”

  “Crotheny must not fall,” the woman said.

  “Of course it shan't. What do you mean?”

  “Crotheny must not fall. And there must be a queen in Crotheny when he comes.”

  “When who comes?”

  “I cannot name him. Not here, not now. Nor would his name help you.”

  “There is a queen in Crotheny. My mother is queen.”

  “And so it must remain.”

  “Is something going to happen to Mother?”

  “I don't see the future, Anne. I see need. And your kingdom will need you. That is blazed on earth and stone. I cannot say when, or why, but it has to do with the queen. Your mother, or one of your sisters—or you.”

  “But that's stupid. If something happens to my mother, there will be no queen, unless father remarries. And he cannot marry one of his daughters. And if something happens to Father, my brother Charles will be king, and whoever he chooses for wife will be queen.”

  “Neverthelesss. If there is no queen in Crotheny when he comes, all is lost. And I mean all. I charge you with this.”

  “Why me? Why not Fastia? She's the one—”

  “You are the youngest. There is power in that. It is your trust. Your responsibility. If you fail, it means the ruin of your kingdom, and of all other kingdoms. Do you understand?”

  “All other kingdoms?”

  “Do you understand?”

  “No.”

  “Then remember. Remembering will do, for now.”

  “But I—”

  “If you want to know more, seek with your ancestors. They might help you when I cannot. Now go.”

  “No, wait. You—” Something startled her, and she blinked. When her eyes fluttered open again, Austra was standing in front of her, shaking her.

  “—nne! What's wrong?”Austra sounded hysterical.

  “Stop that!” Anne demanded. “Where did she go? Where is she?”

  “Anne! You were just standing there. Staring no matter how hard I've been shaking you!”

  “Where did she go? The woman in the gold mask?”

  But the masked woman was gone. Looking down, Anne saw that she had a shadow again.

  A Del Rey® Book

  Published by The Ballantine Publishing Group
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  Copyright © 2001 by J. Gregory Keyes

  Introduction “What Has Gone Before” copyright © 2002 by J. Gregory Keyes

  Excerpt from The Briar King by Greg Keyes copyright © 2002 by J. Gregory Keyes

  Del Rey is a registered trademark and the Del Rey colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.

  www.delreydigital.com

  eISBN: 978-0-307-55960-9

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