out, flung his beads in his face, and damned him for an abomination. Since that day, Ilya had avoided holy ground, and now here he was, seeking it out. Then the need for the drug—its sweetness, the only warmth he had come to rely upon—snatched at him. Ilya leaned, gasping, against the trunk of an oak. What time would the bars open here in Almaty? He was a fool. He should have waited around the railway station. Such places attracted dealers like flies drawn to fresh blood. Ilya swallowed and turned back to the church.
The cathedral floated above the trees, light as a dream. Its walls were painted a rosy pink, the color of a dawn sky. Golden cupolas shone against the clouds. Ilya took a shuddering breath and walked forward. Nothing happened. He was neither beset by priests nor struck by lightning. Moving jerkily, like a puppet, he climbed up the steps and put his hand to the wooden door. It swung open. He stepped across the threshold into a soaring room, and looked up to see gilded stars. They glittered in the candlelight, as though revealed by racing clouds, and the air was heady with incense. Ilya stumbled as if struck, and collapsed into a nearby pew. He was alone in the cathedral. He dragged his gaze upward, to meet the calm golden face of Christ.
The Lord was looking past Ilya toward the door. Ilya had dreaded the thought of meeting Christ’s eyes, and that God seemed prepared to ignore him made things easier. He did not think he could cope with being forgiven, not just yet. Holding tightly to the wooden rail, he pulled himself to his feet and fumbled with the sword. If the priest came in—well, Ilya would just have to start praying, that was all. He carried the sword to the altar and knelt before it. He could not look up, in case he caught Christ in a frown. Instead, he stared grimly ahead to where the golden cross sparkled on the altar.
He placed the sword in front of him, held upright by the hilt. This was an old practice, and perhaps unfitting for a Christian place of worship, but it seemed right. Ilya gritted his teeth and clasped the raw blade with his right hand.
Pain seared through him. He gasped, and his grip involuntarily tightened. A trickle of blood ran down the blade of the sword, and through the haze of pain Ilya whispered, “Lord, let this be a vow, sacred to you, that I will not touch the drug until my journey is over. Let me have a single clean death, not many small ones.” He thought of renouncing vodka, as well, but that was further than he was prepared to go. He needed
something,
he thought. If God were really Russian, then God would surely understand. He added under his breath, “Bring me to my destiny. Show me what it is.” His own words startled him. Years ago, it had been a preoccupation, but it had been a long time since he had considered the question of destiny.
He let go of the blade. It hurt, more than anything had done for years, even the knife in his chest. The whole cathedral swam red, as though the air had turned to blood. But the vow was made. Ilya bound up his hand in the sleeve of his coat and slid the bloodied blade back into its sheath. He would have to clean it later; there was nothing that could be done here. Then he fell back onto a bench and closed his eyes.
His hand throbbed. He tried to focus on the pain, diminish it, but it was overwhelming. Then, through the pain, he heard something. It was not a voice, and yet it spoke to him.
I am here,
it said.
I have found you. I am coming.
Who are you?
Ilya asked, puzzled.
But suddenly there was a hand shaking his shoulder, and a very human voice saying, “Friend? Is everything all right?”
The reflex was too strong. Ilya’s eyes flew open and his good hand reached for the man’s throat. The man stepped back with an exclamation and Ilya saw that it was the priest: a long equine face underneath the tall hat. He did not look old enough to be a priest. His beard was wispy, like coils of black fleece.
“Sorry,” Ilya
The cathedral floated above the trees, light as a dream. Its walls were painted a rosy pink, the color of a dawn sky. Golden cupolas shone against the clouds. Ilya took a shuddering breath and walked forward. Nothing happened. He was neither beset by priests nor struck by lightning. Moving jerkily, like a puppet, he climbed up the steps and put his hand to the wooden door. It swung open. He stepped across the threshold into a soaring room, and looked up to see gilded stars. They glittered in the candlelight, as though revealed by racing clouds, and the air was heady with incense. Ilya stumbled as if struck, and collapsed into a nearby pew. He was alone in the cathedral. He dragged his gaze upward, to meet the calm golden face of Christ.
The Lord was looking past Ilya toward the door. Ilya had dreaded the thought of meeting Christ’s eyes, and that God seemed prepared to ignore him made things easier. He did not think he could cope with being forgiven, not just yet. Holding tightly to the wooden rail, he pulled himself to his feet and fumbled with the sword. If the priest came in—well, Ilya would just have to start praying, that was all. He carried the sword to the altar and knelt before it. He could not look up, in case he caught Christ in a frown. Instead, he stared grimly ahead to where the golden cross sparkled on the altar.
He placed the sword in front of him, held upright by the hilt. This was an old practice, and perhaps unfitting for a Christian place of worship, but it seemed right. Ilya gritted his teeth and clasped the raw blade with his right hand.
Pain seared through him. He gasped, and his grip involuntarily tightened. A trickle of blood ran down the blade of the sword, and through the haze of pain Ilya whispered, “Lord, let this be a vow, sacred to you, that I will not touch the drug until my journey is over. Let me have a single clean death, not many small ones.” He thought of renouncing vodka, as well, but that was further than he was prepared to go. He needed
something,
he thought. If God were really Russian, then God would surely understand. He added under his breath, “Bring me to my destiny. Show me what it is.” His own words startled him. Years ago, it had been a preoccupation, but it had been a long time since he had considered the question of destiny.
He let go of the blade. It hurt, more than anything had done for years, even the knife in his chest. The whole cathedral swam red, as though the air had turned to blood. But the vow was made. Ilya bound up his hand in the sleeve of his coat and slid the bloodied blade back into its sheath. He would have to clean it later; there was nothing that could be done here. Then he fell back onto a bench and closed his eyes.
His hand throbbed. He tried to focus on the pain, diminish it, but it was overwhelming. Then, through the pain, he heard something. It was not a voice, and yet it spoke to him.
I am here,
it said.
I have found you. I am coming.
Who are you?
Ilya asked, puzzled.
But suddenly there was a hand shaking his shoulder, and a very human voice saying, “Friend? Is everything all right?”
The reflex was too strong. Ilya’s eyes flew open and his good hand reached for the man’s throat. The man stepped back with an exclamation and Ilya saw that it was the priest: a long equine face underneath the tall hat. He did not look old enough to be a priest. His beard was wispy, like coils of black fleece.
“Sorry,” Ilya
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