And then, dream or vision, it faded. She forgot much on waking, and forgot more each moment thereafter. But when she woke, she had two hands again.

Epilogue.

The Angel of Kings

Peter Alexeevich, emperor of all the Russias, Livonia, Karelia, and Sweden, paced through the rooms of his modest Summer Palace like a caged tiger. At forty-eight, his tall frame trembled with the pent-up energies of a younger man, a man used to action and presently denied it.

How could he act when he knew nothing? Oh, he had a few reports, but most aetherschreibers seemed to have stopped working. He knew, at least, that the spectacular sights in the western and southern heavens of two nights ago, the subsequent darkening of the sun, and now the unseasonable storms rolling in from the west were small things compared to the cataclysms in the rest of Europe. Of two score amba.s.sadors, merchants, and spies in the Netherlands, only one had so far contacted him, a short, panicked note that raved of fire from the heavens and the waves flowing over the dikes. Amsterdam, that most incomparable of cities, had been reclaimed by the sea. In France, the Sun King was dead, and all was chaos. There was no word from London. It was as if every agent in England had vanished.

Whatever horror had been visited upon his western neighbors had thus far spared Russia. Thus far.

He stalked into his turning room. He glanced at the yard-wide dials on the wall, which registered the time and-through clever devices upon the roof-the direction of the wind and its force. Today, the dials told him the wind blew from the west, and it blew with great strength.

After a time, he found himself outside, gazing at the weird sky and the defiant, proud thrust of Saint Petersburg against the uncanny yellow clouds. Thus far, no damage had come to his beautiful city: The water had risen slightly in the mouth of the Neva, but not so much as to drown anything. He felt, as he often did, a great swell of pride at his city-his city-which less than two decades ago had been a marsh without even a village to mark it. Now it was his capital, a bustling metropolis with more than forty thousand buildings designed by the greatest architects of Italy, France, and the Netherlands. A bright, shining, new city for the new age of the Russian Empire and of the world.

What threatened it? What should he be doing? His eyes searched the skies for an answer and found none. With a low growl he stalked off to see his philosophers again, but they had no clear answers. Finally, he went to Trinity Square, paused long enough to bestow one twitchy smile on the three-room cabin he had built and dwelt in so long ago, now dwarfed by great stone facades. Many thought it odd that Peter"s subordinates had grander palaces than the tsar himself, but to Peter his palaces were Russia and Saint Petersburg. He preferred the airy Summer Palace with its fourteen rooms or Mon Plaisir, which was hardly bigger, where he could sit with his telescope and watch the ships, where he could enjoy his few precious moments alone with Catherine.

He entered the Four Frigates Tavern and was welcomed by the crowd with cheers. His searching gaze quickly found the French and Dutch amba.s.sadors sitting with their staffs at opposite ends of the room. They greeted him wanly; they were well into their cups, and most had streaks of tears on their cheeks.

"Bring vodka and brandy!" Peter shouted. A profound silence settled on the usually noisy crowd as Peter positioned himself near the center of the room, downed his first gla.s.s, refilled, and then raised his voice again. "My friends, something terrible has happened, and we do not yet know the nature or the extent of it. G.o.d willing, we will soon. We have heard awful reports that our neighbors and brethren in the west have suffered terrible catastrophes. I wish to raise a gla.s.s in their honor, and in prayer for those who have died. We have heard Amsterdam has been inundated, but I give you the Dutch, gentlemen, and I tell you that in Holland, the sea never wins! If waves lie on that great city, it will be a short-lived victory for the sea!" He raised his gla.s.s in salute, and there was a ragged cheer. The Dutchmen"s eyes told him that he had touched them to the core.

His blood liked the feel of brandy in it, and he raised a fresh gla.s.s for a second toast. "And to my French friends, please know that my sympathies are with you as well. Russia stands ready to give her aid if it is needed." He looked around. "And have my English friends any news?" he asked, but the Englishmen, grim faced, had no answer.

They all huddled there in the Four Frigates as the sky grew darker and colder, holding their grief and worry at bay with strong drink and brave words. And at last, beneath a lightless sky, Peter made his way back home and sought his bed.

And there he had a dream.

He was ten years old, shivering in a dark place. His mother, Natalya, crouched nearby. He could make out little of her face, but he remembered it as he had last seen it: stoic, brave, determined. Hours ago-when they had faced the mob of Strelitzi soldiers with their muskets, pikes, and axes-her grip on his hand had been tight, but her voice had been strong.

The Strelitzi, it seemed, had gone mad. The Strelitzi, who had been the personal guard of the tsar and his family since the time of Ivan the Terrible, now ran riot in the narrow, dark maze of the Kremlin itself, hunting the royal family, killing and looting, as Peter and his mother and his brother, Ivan, hid in a darkened banquet hall.

If I live, Peter thought, the Strelitzi shall pay for this. One day they shall know the judgment of a tsar.

The Kremlin, the palace of his father, had become a nightmare, a dark warren full of rats.

Late in the night, when she thought he was asleep, his mother rose to leave.

"Mother?" he whispered.

"I must know what is happening," she told him, stroking his head. "Stay here and watch Ivan. Be very quiet."

"They might kill you, too," Peter moaned.

"That would be going too far," she said. "Even the Strelitzi would not dare go that far.

They will not kill me, Peter. Now be a good boy and stay here. Ivan needs you."

Peter glanced at the sleeping form of his older half brother Ivan and nodded. Ivan was

weak of body and spirit, nearly blind, and scarcely capable of comprehensible speech.

"I will watch him," he promised.

Some time later, Peter heard men singing in the halls and saw a yellow light approaching. Peter felt as if he could not breathe, and began to shake as his courage failed him. He saw, in the light of a flickering torch, the bearded face of one of the Strelitzi, spattered with blood, grinning like a wolf.

The torch was thrust into the banquet hall.

"Might be some silver in there," someone said.

"Might be," said another.

"Isn"t that where the tsaritsa was holed up, a while back? G.o.dd.a.m.n Naryshkins! Do

you hear me in there? G.o.dd.a.m.n Naryshkins!"

Peter felt as if he were underwater, with no place to get air. What could he do?

Then something soft and dark wrapped around him, something comforting. He

couldn"t see the Strelitzi anymore, but he didn"t fear them, either.

"Nyet, see," one said. "n.o.body here. It"s empty now."

After a time they went away.

"Who are you?" Peter whispered, for he understood someone was there. He had been having this dream for many years. But this time in his dreams there was something, something dark and strong, a protector he had never really had.

"I am here to help you, Peter Alexeevich," the darkness whispered. "For there are angels who protect kings, and I am such a one."

Bom in Meridian, Mississippi, in 1963, J. GREGORY KEYES spent his early years roaming the forests of his native state and the red rock cliffs of the Navajo Indian reservation in Arizona. He earned a B.A. in anthropology from Mississippi State University and a master"s degree from the University of Georgia, where he did course work for a Ph.D. He and his wife, Nell, live in Seattle, where, in addition to full-time writing, he practices ethnic cooking-particularly Central American, Szechuan, Malaysian, and Turkish cuisine. Since moving to the Northwest, he can no longer partic.i.p.ate in his favorite sport-Kapucha Toli, a Choctaw game involving heavy sticks and few rules-so he has taken up fencing. Greg is the author of The Waterborn, The BlackG.o.d, Newton"s Cannon, and A Calculus of Angels.