Quantum Shadows

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  Corvyn did, nodding to the startled functionary at the desk.

  The counselor stepped back into the study, leaving the door open.

  Corvyn followed him, closing the door behind himself and noting that another man rose from a chair at a small circular conference table.

  “I don’t believe you’ve met Tanner Oaks. He’s the most recent Apostle.”

  Most recent, Corvyn knew, was relative for Saints. The darker-skinned Oaks had been one of the Twelve for over a decade. Corvyn inclined his head politely. “It’s good to put a face to a name. In person, that is.”

  Oaks inclined his head in return, as little as possible.

  “I might have known you were the one who triggered the angel,” said the First Counselor. “Couldn’t you have just avoided it?”

  “I was preoccupied, Joe.”

  “You haven’t been in Nauvoo in years.”

  Decades. “It’s been a while.”

  “I’m curious,” said Oaks, his voice not quite pleasantly flat, and just short of grating. “Were you ever one-eyed?”

  “Any man is one-eyed who sees only what he wishes,” replied Corvyn, giving a truthful answer to a different question and knowing that the inquiry came from the Asgard of Oaks’s ancestors before they capitulated to the golden tablets and manna of Moroni.

  “Are thought and memory your ravens?”

  “Thought and memory come in all colors, from the gray sorrow of regret to the still-burnished crimson of past desire.” As did once the raven …

  “You won’t get any more answers than those on questions like that,” observed Cannon. “Why are you here, Corvyn? You never travel for leisure or pleasure.”

  “You might say that I’m pursuing a flaming trident that leaves its imprint in stone … or perhaps into the cover of the oldest Book of Mormon.” As he spoke his senses studied both men. There was enough reaction that he said, “So it’s also imprinted on a stone wall in the study of the Prophet.”

  Oaks didn’t bother to conceal his surprise.

  Cannon offered the same friendly and warm smile that he would have used in dispatching a Danite or blessing a baby. “You said also. Where else?”

  “Burned into the impenetrable cover of the One True Gospel, the one Brother Paul calls the original.”

  “The heretical Book of Marcion, you mean?” commented Oaks sardonically.

  “This particular trident seems to force itself on either books or stone.”

  “What is your interest in the trident?” asked Cannon.

  “Mere curiosity.” Corvyn smiled. “It’s more interesting than shiny things.”

  “You’ll pardon me if I express a certain skepticism,” replied Oaks. “Even if I’m not from Helios.”

  “The trident is a most interesting symbol. It’s three-pronged, and three has several meanings of import to Saints, the three kingdoms—”

  “You’re stretching, shadowed one.” Oaks’s voice was tart.

  “I don’t think so. Three and the trident have meanings to quite a few Houses of the Decalivre. Each bears upon their particular truth, not always easily.” Corvyn considered mentioning that an agent of the Auspicious One might also be seeking what Corvyn was, then decided against it. Cannon, like most Saints, gave lip service to virtues discarded all too often for expediency or gain, and, besides, Sunya was far less duplicitous.

  “There is only one truth,” said Oaks firmly and quietly.

  “Yes, you have your truth. So does each House of the Decalivre.”

  “You’re thinking that whoever placed these images was attempting to assert a theological primacy?” asked Cannon.

  “That … or possibly to cause a conflict over primacy … or even to raise questions over the basis of faith.”

  “The basis of faith is faith,” replied Oaks.

  “Exactly,” said Corvyn, standing. “Thank you both.”

  He withdrew into the shadows, but did not tarry, knowing that the First Counselor could detect his presence, linked as he was to some of the most sophisticated technology in Heaven. Besides, Corvyn would learn nothing from remaining, and Apostle Oaks had begun to wear on him. Then, the more recent Apostles usually did.

  Just because Cannon would expect it, if nothing more, Corvyn made his way to the study of the Prophet, Seer, and Revelator.

  The study was small, simple, and plain, with just a wide table desk of the whitest marble, a single spotless white leather armchair behind it, and three books on stands on the desk, each open to a particular passage and facing the armchair—the Book of Mormon, the Pearl of Great Price, and Doctrine and Covenants. The desk faced a wide window without blinds or shades that overlooked Temple Square.

  As Corvyn had suspected, the trident was etched in luminous black on the white stone of the wall behind the desk. The First Counselor had already taken the precaution of covering it with a thin veneer of white stone, indicating his reluctance to remove it immediately, and also, most likely, his understanding that the power required to do so could not be concealed. Even so, Corvyn could sense the residual power behind that new stone veneer, most necessary because, for the Saint faithful, the Prophet was always there, in his study, and a black trident would have been most inconsistent with the visions of the Prophet. But then, inconsistency had never bothered a faith that began among the blond and blue-eyed and steadily absorbed those with more melanin in their skin, and those whose spacefaring created the same effect.

  Corvyn smiled and once more withdrew.

  Throw your words against the wind, into light.

  Neither man nor god knows the raven’s flight.

  11

  Having no desire to spend the night in the lands of the Saints, still referred to by some as Deseret, and by others as Kolob, Corvyn reclaimed his electrobike, donned the black stedora, and proceeded another several milles north on the river road, past the seemingly endless wide streets of Nauvoo, until he reached Lee’s Ferry, located in the far northwest part of Nauvoo. Just before he reached the inclined gray-paved road leading down to the ferry slip, he passed a small brownish stone dwelling situated on a squat point overlooking the river. Although the structure bore no appellation, Corvyn knew its name—Lonely Dell—and that of the scapegoat who inhabited the original house of that name before the Fall.

  As he rode down to the slip, he saw that the top level of the waiting ferry shimmered like black glass under the white light and pink skies of Heaven. That blackness soaked in all the photons possible in order to power the ferry across the river and not to be carried downstream by the considerable current, a task that faced all ferries, since the Lances of Heaven enforced the prohibition on bridges, or for that matter, cables or other connections, crossing the ten major rivers of Heaven, the waters of which all eventually flowed into Lake Lethe.

  Once at the slip, Corvyn slowed the bike to a stop and handed his card to the ferryman standing by the gate.

  In return, the ferryman scanned it without really looking at it or Corvyn, returned the card, and said, “Stowage for electrobikes is forward on either side of the drop ramp.”

  “Thank you.”

  Corvyn eased the bike across the ramp and onto the gray metal of the deck, then forward to the front end of the vehicle deck, where he locked the bike in place, then walked back to the steps leading to the passenger deck and took them up one level. Perhaps a score of passengers stood on the open deck surrounding the windowed passenger cabin, seldom used except for the few times that it rained, usually, but not always, at night.

  While there were several groups of passengers, including two parties of men in white thobes, clearly Poetics, and most likely merchant traders, Corvyn next turned his attention to those in pairs, beginning with the two women in the green trousers and tunic-like blouses of the Maid, both black-haired, olive-skinned, and of indeterminate age. The Poetics avoided glancing at the pair in a fashion that was more studied than an inspection could have been.

  At that, Corvyn allowed himself a brief s
mile of amusement, continuing his quiet scrutiny of the others, passing over the two Judaics in black, and the two less-than-comfortable young Saints in their white shirts, black trousers, and cravats. His eyes finally turned to a man with a slightly weathered face the color of dark honey with black hair and well-trimmed beard. The man’s white thobe had a forest-green lining, suggesting certain possibilities to Corvyn. He held no aura of energy, or other indication of power or principality, which suited Corvyn quite nicely.

  As Corvyn approached, the man looked up and offered an amused smile. “The black hat doesn’t change anything, you know, veiled one?”

  Corvyn smiled in return, if slightly surprised that the man could sense auras or at least shadows that were not seen by most. “If I were Al-Muqanna, or Borkai, if you prefer, honored alim, I would most likely be in white, not gray, and riding not an electrobike, but a gray camel—not the one that stopped Abu Jahl.”

  “Your refutation is a proof of sorts.”

  “It likely proves that I know a small bit of history about the Poetics,” replied Corvyn. “Just enough to cause confusion and trouble.”

  “Has that not always been the profession of the gray man? There are unseen shadows around you, and those are of the veiled prophet.”

  “There are shadows, and there are shadows.”

  “Shadows under the light of the Pearls of Heaven are not so dark as those you cast.”

  “You’re speaking metaphorically, I trust,” replied Corvyn with a gentle laugh.

  “If I were speaking metaphorically, I might claim to be Abu Sufyan. I’m not. Jemal Quarysh, at your service.”

  “Perhaps Imam Alim Jemal Quarysh?”

  “A wise man never claims titles.”

  “You can call me Corvyn. It’s what I usually answer to, and it’s also my name.”

  “One of them, anyway,” returned Quarysh.

  “The green of your thobe lining might suggest an interest in or an affinity with nature.”

  “It could suggest that. Or not.”

  “Just as gray can suggest shadows, or not.”

  Quarysh inclined his head, politely, but asked, “Why are you on the road to Yerusalem? I presume that is your immediate destination.”

  “I’m undertaking a survey.” Since his words embodied both the literal and metaphoric truth, concealing as much as enlightening, Corvyn was happy to utter them.

  “What sort of survey?”

  “A cultural survey, one dealing with the manifestations of the triad in belief.”

  “The Triangle of Manifestation has long since been disproven.”

  “Only in the sense that space is an affect of energy, but in pragmatic terms space, time, and energy still form a triad that we see and experience even in these enlightened times.”

  “Those who have lived in most times, even before and after the Fall, believed that they were enlightened. This has not changed even under the Pearls of Heaven. I suspect you know this all too well.” Quarysh paused as the ferry’s whistle announced its departure, a departure so smooth that it was almost imperceptible, then continued conversationally, “The waters of the River Sanctus are a deeper blue than I’d thought. They say that each of the rivers of Heaven is a slightly different color.”

  “I’d never thought about that,” replied Corvyn, a statement truthful only in its words. “What color would you say the River Jordan might be?”

  “It’s more greenish, as I recall. I’ve never really looked at it the few times I’ve passed through Yerusalem. What about the River of the Sun at Helios?”

  “Bluer than the Sanctus, as I recall.”

  “Have you ever seen the citadel of the Dark One?”

  “DeNoir? Anyone in Helios can see his villa. It’s certainly not a citadel.”

  “You have not been inside it? With the shadows that surround you, I find that hard to believe.”

  “I’m not who you think.” With those words, Corvyn avoided an outright lie.

  “Perhaps not who, but most likely what,” replied Quarysh. “Why are you undertaking this … survey?”

  “Oh, it’s a very real survey. The purpose is almost exactly as I stated. What do you think about the forms of the triad in belief, in your particular faith?”

  “I cannot say that anything dealing with three has nearly the significance to those of the words of the Prophet and of Allah as it does to the Paulists or the followers of Jahweh. I would not wish to speculate on the views of those who follow the White One of Los Santos, since he is, shall we say, more focused on faith than upon the basis of that faith.”

  Corvyn would not have put it that way, but also would not have argued against the observation. “Your words are interesting,” he mused. “A great deal of Poetic art is based on geometry, and the triangle is an integral part of that art, both in mosaics and other forms.”

  “You mentioned belief, not architecture or art.”

  “Can you separate what is built and displayed by those of faith from the faith? What is built can give lie to words merely spoken.”

  Quarysh stiffened.

  Corvyn smiled pleasantly. “I won’t trouble you further, Imam Quarysh. I’ve enjoyed our brief conversation.” He nodded politely, turned, and walked to the forward railing, where he stood and looked toward the approaching shore, still a good third of a mille away.

  No one approached him for the remainder of the crossing, and shortly before the ferry entered the slip on the west side of the river, Corvyn descended to the vehicle deck, which also held five camels, and unlocked his electrobike, noting that no one had triggered the protections.

  He was the first to ride off the ferry and into the town of Rockwell, well suited as a complement to Lee’s Ferry. The causeway from the ferry led right into Center Street, which at some point near the middle of town intersected Main Street. As in so many Saint communities, nondescript grays, whites, and browns dominated the buildings and houses, each set discretely apart from every other structure, as if the very buildings required personal space.

  Although it was barely past midafternoon, Corvyn knew he would need to find lodging for the night, unless he wanted to spend it in a caravansary with less than optimal amenities, something he would have to do in any case on the following nights as he made his way to and through the land of milk and honey—and to Yerusalem.

  Rockwell was laid out in the same fashion as every other Saint town, although the land on which it stood did not technically belong to the Prophet, Seer, and Revelator, a distinction that allowed certain liberties to the inhabitants of the town. The wide tree-lined streets boasted sidewalks that seldom held many people, and more than a few electrovans filled with families of four, as in Nauvoo and every other Saint town, a compromise required by all Houses of the Decalivre in the aftermath of the pogrom of the missionaries, a massacre not just of missionaries, but one necessitated by Saint intransigence and carried out by the Lances of Heaven.

  Corvyn did not stay on Center Street long, but turned right on the first street that headed north paralleling the river, since the better neighborhoods were usually upstream rather than downstream. Although, given Saint neatness, that was likely to be less certain in Rockwell. After three long blocks—all the long blocks were long in Saint lands, as a result of eons of tradition dating back to Earth-Eden before it was destroyed—he could see that the size of the dwellings increased slightly, and before long he found himself nearing the Palmyra Inn, a structure graced by a round stone portico in the middle from which two wings of a single level extended.

  He left the electrobike in front, albeit with certain precautions, and made his way inside, where a tall woman with mahogany hair smiled brightly as she rose from behind a table desk. “Welcome to the Palmyra Inn.”

  “I’d like a room for the night, if one is available.” Corvyn extended his card.

  “We have several,” replied the clerk, accepting the card and scanning it. “Just one night, Mister … Poe, is it?”

  Corvyn had almost fo
rgotten that the Saints tended to use “mister” as a form of address, and he paused momentarily before replying, “Poe, that’s correct, and just the one night.”

  “Would you like a suite? Or a grand suite?”

  “A small suite would be fine.”

  “Your suite is on the north end overlooking the river, number three.” She returned the card, along with another. “There are bike lockers by the north door. You can access them with the room card. Can I help you with anything else?”

  “The name of a good place to eat.” Corvyn could have accessed the net to determine proximity, but not anything relating to opinion, a limiting parameter of which he approved and with which he had long since been all too familiar.

  “Near here, there’s the Beehive and Sundance. They’re both good.”

  Corvyn smiled. “Which serves the widest range of beverages?”

  “Both serve hot beverages. The Sundance also offers most spirits.”

  “Thank you.” Corvyn inclined his head, then left the entry.

  He quickly secured the bike and carried his cases into the small suite, which did in fact offer an excellent view of the River Sanctus—before he closed the shades and darkened the sitting room. After seating himself on the not-quite-uncomfortable chair turned away from the table desk, he called up the aether, gathering it into a flat oval this time, suspending it before him, first seeking the poetess.

  This time she sat in the shade, looking out over a balcony at a city that could be one of several, although it was certainly not Marcion or Nauvoo and highly unlikely to be Yerusalem. Her gray eyes were slitted against the white light that fell just short of her. On the table beside her were several sheets of paper, and Corvyn shifted the focus of the aether to read what he could.

  Sequestered sensibilities serve ages

  Of strident sycophantic sages,

  Ensconced too easily in ivory cages

  Their words all penned from puissant plundered pages.