Greg Keyes - Age of Unreason 4 - The Shadows of God

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THE SHADOWS OF GOD

[Back Cover]

BOOK FOUR: THE SHADOWS OF GOD

As the armies of the Malakim advance, led by a child of bright and burning

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THE SHADOWS OF GOD

power, Benjamin Franklin must summon all his ingenuity for the desperate

attempt to preserve not just the freedom of his country, but its very existence.

For behind the wars of humanity there are other wars, fought by aetheric

beings of immense strength and conviction.

The Malakim may be angels…or demons. All that’s certain is that when the

war in heaven is over, there won’t be much—if anything left of Earth.

As the ruthless forces of Russia lay waste to the New; World, English troops

make landfall in the east, determined to reconquer the colonies. Trapped in

between lies a motley collection of Native Americans, ex-slaves, and refugees

of the European catastrophe, led by Franklin and the Choctaw shaman Red

Shoes. In that struggle, Red Shoes may prove his most potent ally…and his

most dangerous threat.

In this stunning conclusion to The Age of Unreason series, the balance of

power lies with Adrienne de Montchevreuil, whose grasp of science is the

equal of Franklin’s, and whose magic may be stronger even than that of the

Choctaw. Only with her help can they hope to defeat the Sun Boy and his

Malakir masters. But Adrienne has a shocking secret of her own, calling into

question where her true allegiances may lie…

THE SHADOWS OF GOD

Book Four of

The Age of Unreason

J. GREGORY KEYES

The Ballantine Publishing Group • New York

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THE SHADOWS OF GOD

A Del Rey Book

Published by The Ballantine Publishing Group

Conventions. Published in the United States by The Ballantine Publishing

Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in

Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.

Del Rey is a registered trademark and the Del Rey colophon is a trademark of

Random House, Inc.

www.randomhouse.com/delrey/

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA .

Keyes, J. Gregory, 1963-

The Shadows of God / J. Gregory Keyes. — 1st American ed.

p. cm. —(The age of unreason ; bk. 4)

“A Del Rev book”

1. Franklin, Benjamin, 1706-1790-Fiction. I. Title.

PS3561.E79S48 2001

813’0 21; aaO5 01-22—dcOl 2001016145

ISBN 0-345-43904-X

Cover design by Mm Choi Cover art by Terese Nielsen

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THE SHADOWS OF GOD

Manufactured in the United States of America First Edition: July 2001

For

Steve Saffel, Del Rey Books

Thanks to the editing team—Veronica Chapman, Martha Schwartz, Betty

Harris, Melanie Gold, and Alix Krijgsman, who managed things. As usual,

Terese Nielsen provided a wonderful painting, which Min Choi and art

director Dave Stevenson transformed into a terrific cover. Thanks to Nell

Keyes, Kris Boldis, and Ken Carleton for giving me their impressions of the

manuscript.

CONTENTS

Prologue

PART ONE

THE DESIGNE OF THE APOCALYPSE

1. New Paris

2. Faith

3. Return of the Margrave

4. Big Mile

5. King Philippe’s Reception

6. Geneaologies

7. Guns on the Altamaha

8. In the Navel of the World

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THE SHADOWS OF GOD
Old Acquaintance 
Hercule 
Downstream 
To Slay the Sun 
Demonstrations Quaint and Curious
PART TWO
ON THE SHOULDERS OF GIANTS
Abomination 
An Interesting Outcome 
The Sound 
Defeat 
Another Old Acquaintance 
A New Matter 
Ghosts and God 
Brawls and Battles 
An Unlikely Welcome 
Things Broken 
Three Kings 
No Retreat 
Hard Wind 
The Roof of the World 
The Duel 
Castle, Tree, and Cord 
Epiphanies 
Cognac and Consequences 
Epilogue: Declaration 
 
Prologue
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THE SHADOWS OF GOD

Dimitry Golitsyn watched the eye of hell slowly shut.

“Why? Why send it back?” he asked, though the sight of the thing, even as it

diminished, made him tremble. It was now half the size it had been, a great

black cyclone with a heart of crackling white fire. His airship, the Elisha, was

poised high above that terrible eye. Around and beyond, the plains of America

stretched away, rolling and bare as the steppes of his native Russia.

“Because it is not yet time,” Swedenborg’s detached voice answered.

“No. That makes no sense,” Golitsyn snapped, fingering his mustache

nervously, watching the storm shrink further. “The dark engines work. You’ve

proved it. We should send them ahead of us, lay waste our enemies from a

distance.”

“It is not yet time,” Swedenborg repeated, turning his face toward Golitsyn.

The prince shivered again. The sorcerer’s face was framed by wild, unbound

hair; and he wore a pair of oculars that made him look like some sort of a blind

insect.

“Professor Swedenborg, with all due respect, I am the commander of this

expedition in matters military. I need a better explanation than that. Why

should I waste the lives of my men or trust our untested Indian and Mongol

troops when we have that?”

The eye was nearly closed. Where it had passed nothing remained but white

ash. Tens of miles of ash. No tree, no living thing, not even bones were left to

tell that once there had been life where Swedenborg’s dark engine had

churned.

For answer, the sorcerer merely turned away, lost in whatever he saw behind

those thick lenses.

Golitsyn leveled a frustrated gaze on the third person clutching the bow rail,

the metropolitan of Saint Petersburg.

“Your Grace, speak to him. Get some sense from him.”

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THE SHADOWS OF GOD

The priest pursed his lips and stroked his long gray beard. “What is there to

say?” he asked. “Swedenborg has the angels. The blessed saints speak to him,

not to me. It is as God wills it. But he has shown me glimpses — ” The

metropolitan shook his head. “It is too much for mortal man, even for the

patriarch. That is why Swedenborg is mad. But it is a holy madness.”

“Everyone is mad,” Golitsyn exclaimed. “I am mad. I’ve betrayed my tsar and

led an army into the wilds of America, for what? It’s all lunacy.”

The metropolitan raised an eyebrow. “Neither I nor Professor Swedenborg had

anything to do with that. You did what you did from lust for power, not from

any desire to serve God. Swedenborg’s motives are pure. My motives are pure.

Yours have never been, and so it is not your place to question us.”

“But how can you be sure? How can you be sure this —this boy we bow to is

really the child of God and not the devil? What is our purpose in this limitless

desert? What care we for the American colonies, when we could have the

empire of the Turk at our feet, the riches of China?

“How can —” He broke off, for Swedenborg was looking at him again. The

professor was a soft-spoken, polite, gentle man, and yet the words that now

issued from his mouth were clipped and grim, almost another voice altogether.

“Prince Golitsyn, you do not, cannot, comprehend what lies ahead. I can. The

American colonies are the last refuge of the godless science. It is where the

devil has dug his cave and built his watch-tower. It is where he crafts his

hideous strength into knives and guns. We are the chosen, the servants of the

prophet, the champions of godly science. What more do you need to know?”

“And yet we consort with the ungodly,” Golitsyn argued. “What is godly in the

gibbering idolatry of the Mongols or the pagan superstitions of the Indians?”

He turned to appeal to the metropolitan. “Surely, Your Eminence — ”

“All will come to God,” the metropolitan said. “Though they be pagan, still they

have eyes to see. They recognize the prophet for what he is. Indeed, it seems

that everyone but you sees that truth.”

“I — ” Golitsyn’s mouth went dry. Behind Swedenborg, something had

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THE SHADOWS OF GOD

appeared. It was the shape of a nude man, a silvery, translucent cloud. It had

no face as such, but it had eyes everywhere. They winked and blinked on its

palms, arms, belly, thighs. Pale blue and green eyes, all watching him, all

seeing the darkness in his heart.

The thing leveled an accusing finger at him, but it was Swedenborg who spoke.

“Stay on the path, Prince Golitysn. The apocalypse is done, and the world is

ended. Now is only the sorting of things. All souls that do not follow me are

damned. The prophet is my servant. Swedenborg is my mouth. The

metropolitan is my text. I thought you were my sword. If you are not, I must

forge another.”

Golitsyn dropped to his knees. “No. No! I am yours. I just don’t understand

why we can’t use our best weapons, why we must keep them in reserve.”

“Because something remains,” Swedenborg replied huskily. “Something needs

to be found. When we have it, there will be no need of the engines at all.”

“Then why—why—”

“You are a sword, Prince Golitsyn. Be content with that.”

It was a command, not a suggestion.

“Yes, my lord,” Golitsyn replied, and bowed again.

Tsar Peter the Great dipped his paddle in the water and gave an exclamation of

pleasure as the canoe slid into the stream.

“It’s good to be on the water again,” he said. “I’ve always loved ships, great and

small.”

Behind him, the broken-nosed giant named Tug grunted vague disapproval.

“You don’t share my love, sir?” Peter asked. “I thought you had been a sailor.”

“Damn sure I was, Peter.” He grunted. “It may be a fine life if y’r lord o' the

ship ‘n“ all, but f ’r a common sailor’s more ”n half misery. An‘ rickets, and

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THE SHADOWS OF GOD

scurvy, and the black bellyache. An“ when you finally come ashore, they sell

you watered rum and poxy whores. No, sir tsar, it’s no life.”

“To each his own. I love the swell of the sea, the feel of a boat. When I was

building my navy, I myself went in disguise to the shipyards in Holland and

learned the shipwright’s art, working as a common laborer.”

“Well, we clean fergot’t” christen this’n when we stole ‘er from the Tonicas. Y“

got a name f’r our lady?”

Peter thought for a moment. “The Catherine,” he said softly, “for my late wife.”

The third man in the boat, an Indian named Flint Shouting, said nothing but

sullenly dipped his paddle in the water, propelling them along.

They camped that night on a sandy natural levee, and Peter and Flint Shouting

built a fire with the sticks at hand while Tug searched for more wood. The

Indian went about his task with quiet efficiency. He was a changed man. When

first the tsar had met him, he had been a boisterous, talkative fellow, always

quick with a laugh and a joke. Now, he might go days without speaking.

“Why are you still with us?” Peter asked him, poking at the fire. “I know you

care little for us.”

Flint Shouting didn’t answer at first, and after a time Peter didn’t think he

would.

“I did not always like the people of my village,” he finally said in a surprisingly

weary voice. Peter thought there ought to be anger there, or hatred, but it

seemed to be mostly just exhaustion. “But they were my people. They did not

deserve to be rooted up and burned like weeds. And I brought their killer to

them. I smiled, and I told them Red Shoes was a fine fellow, and they let him

into the village. And he killed them all.”

“I understand that,” Peter said. “I understand the need for revenge. I thirst for

it myself. I have many debts of my own to settle.”

Flint Shouting nodded. “I will kill Red Shoes,” he said softly. “To kill him I

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THE SHADOWS OF GOD

must find him. Red Shoes is a Dream Walking, and I am not a magician. I

cannot see him. He leaves no tracks, breaks no branches, bends no grass. I

cannot find him.” He looked up at the tsar and met his eyes squarely. “But one

day Red Shoes will find you. And Tug. And then I will kill him.”

Peter didn’t flinch at the icy promise. After all, he, Peter Alexeyevich, had sent

the heads of his rebellious Strelitzi guard rolling in the snow. He had ordered

his own son knouted to death. However many men Flint Shouting promised to

kill and then made good on, it was unlikely he could match Peter’s own record.

He clasped his hands together. “I already knew you wanted to kill him. I

already knew why. I just wanted to know why you hadn’t left Tug and me to do

so. So tell me—you say Red Shoes is a Dream Walking. What does that mean?

What happened to him? He was once our friend, I would swear it. He saved

my life. But your village…”

What had happened at Wichita village was no worse than other things Peter

had seen. But he had never seen a whole town murdered by a single man.

Peter was no stranger to the scientific beasts that fools called angels, devils,

and spirits—many had pretended to serve him, and his philosophers often

showed him their experiments with them. But none had ever made him feel as

he had when he saw Red Shoes stride through the huts, leaving flame and

death behind him, twisting the necks of children and dogs. Something had

prickled at Peter, beyond sight, sound, and smell, some sense that knew a kind

of fear that the tsar himself did not.

“I don’t know what happened to him,” Flint Shouting said. “I said I am no

magician. Maybe a spirit ate him and walks in his skin. Maybe he was always a

monster in human disguise, and fooled us for a time. I don’t care.”

“But you saw what he did. If you are no magician, how will you kill him?”

For a moment, Flint Shouting’s devilish old smile raced across his face again,

and years fell from his features. “Carefully, Tsar. Carefully.” Then the frown

returned, and he poked at the fire.

That seems to be the end of that, thought Peter. “How much longer before we

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THESHADOWSOFGOD[BackCover]BOOKFOUR:THESHADOWSOFGODAsthearmiesoftheMalakimadvance,ledbyachildofbrightandburni gfile:///K|/eMule/Incoming/Keyes,_J_Gregory_-_[Age_of_Unreason_04]_-_The_Shadows_of_God_(V1)_[html].html(1of364)22-12-200616:07:44THESHADOWSOFGODpower,BenjaminFranklinmustsummonallhisingenu...

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Greg Keyes - Age of Unreason 4 - The Shadows of God

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