The place Besson brought us to wasn't in Russia. At first, it was just the sense of being foreign to my surroundings. A minute later, my brain caught up and started cataloging the non-Russian-ness of it.

The walls were of rough limestone dotted by pores and miniature shells. Gauze curtains breathed over the arched windows, sometimes drawn outside, sometimes limply draping the opening. They blocked some of the dust, and none of the heat.

The gap between the curtains was wide enough to glimpse red roofs stepping down toward the expanse of murky-green water. White sails darted across the bay; not the majestic men-of-war, but fishing boats. The air smelled of rot, pitch and muck—basically, the Volga on steroids—plus loads and loads of salt.

When the curtains undulated again, I even spotted a minaret.

If it wasn't for the breeze that played with the curtains, the place would have suffocated. It was so preposterously hot that I wondered if a bodiless essence could evaporate like a puddle in a parking lot. Even the flies preferred to crawl along the ceiling and a desk rather than to fly.

Their presence was probably why the only bed in the room was more diligently canopied than the window. Through the half-transparent fabric the figure of a man in it was like a cut-out puppet in the shadow-theater, but he was grievously ill. I judged it by uneven, raspy breathing and a bout of cough that followed.

At the desk, sat our man with the Greek cross. In this vision, however, the cross in the collar opening of his loose kaftan was a typical silver cross of Russian make.

Besson cleared his throat. He looks younger.

I wanted to sulk because of our falling out over name-calling, Osip's witch and the sixteenth century bigotry, but I had nobody else to talk to. So, I met him half-way. Uh-huh.

If we were on speaking terms, I would have said something like, He's already muscled out, but he is softer. It wasn't just the absence of injuries and bruises. The man's eyes appeared baby-blue in the warm southern light, rather than steely gray, as they were in Novgorod. His mouth was undefined, forehead—not yet etched with grief. He was a millennia younger, no matter how many calendar years separated Besson's two visions.

The man's stubby fingers didn't handle quill with the same elegance as Besson did, but he dipped it into ink and scribbled on the blank page laying before him on the desk.

Besson and I stretched out to look over the man's square shoulder without an argument. The man's penmanship was serviceable and firm.

Year of Our Lord 1559. Upon reaching Constantinople, Archdeacon Gennadii had been taken ill from the unnatural humors of the foreign lands we had passed. Upon rest, he shows no signs of recovery, moreover he no longer takes food.

As the man watched the ink on the last sentence dry, his blue gaze veiled with sadness. Finally, he startled, dipped his quill into ink again and scribbled some more.

The delegation shall continue onto Egypt under command of one Vasilii Pozniakov, the merchant of Smolensk, a skilled adventurer.

While he didn't mention Gennadii there—the sick men in the bed, I guessed—it sounded like his obituary. The impression was all the stronger thanks to another long silence after the man finished writing. The noise of the city filtering in with the wind and the wheezing from the bed only underscored the solemnity of the moment. He was mourning a life slipping away.

"Andrei," called a reedy voice from the sickbed.

Besson and I gave each other a mental shove: we had a name for our blond suspect.

"Come and open the curtains. I need to see you."

Andrei sprung from his chair like an uncoiled spring. He seemed disappointed when it only took him two strides to reach the bedside. His hand, however, lingered on the post. "The physician said we must wards off ill humors."

"I have more important things to tell you than argue about humors," the querulous patient said. "Open the curtains, sit down and listen."

Andrei obeyed. He didn't pull up his chair, but sat on his heels, on the rug.

Even in the sturdy, vast bed, Gennadii seemed rather large. The dark pits of his sockets, shadows by his mouth and clumps of hair left on the pillow whenever his head moved, spoke of a disease that struck suddenly, snuffing a man's life out before wasting his body away.

"Your mentor told me you could mark people through the walls, my son?" Gennadii asked. "Do you still do it?"

Andrei's near-white brow lifted at a strange question from a dying man, but he replied with solicitous politeness. "No, Holy Father. It was a boy's mischief I'm no longer given to."

Gennadii sighed. "How uncharitable of you to lie to a dying man. And useless."

Is Andrei the same as us? Besson asked.

The same thought occurred to me. Perhaps, Andrei explained a tetrachromat's exceptional sight in this strange way. But I took stock of him, and...

I don't think so, Besson. Maybe he sees things the way we do or better—Infrared? Was it possible for a human to have it? A weird question for a guy with a goldfish's vision—but he's hardly like us.

Even in this blissful period of his life, young and untried, Andrei had a fighter's core and an aura of someone who cut through obstacles, made things happen rather than observed them and went with the flow. He was a doer, not a dreamer.

I wish I was like him.

Like him? A child-slayer? When I was a demon?

He didn't reply, but despite jealous pangs, I knew what he meant. Among my schoolmates, some had a similar forceful personality. I envied it, wondered what I would do if I was born that way, even though it saddled them with deeds I wouldn't have wanted to be on my conscience.

Andrei gave his head a small shake, and continued in the same insincere, kind vein. "I'll purge myself of this devil's quirk, I promise."

If he was a tetrachromat, he would forswear himself even if he wasn't just humoring the sick old man. We can't look away, Besson agreed.

"You'll do no such thing." Gennadii stirred on the embroidered pillows that propped him up, probably to make it easier for him to breathe. His glare was undiminished by his sickness. "We're out of time. I hoped to instruct you little by little, but it's not to be."

"Holy Father?" Andrei actually looked at Gennadii. "The... the physician said you must rest."

Gennadi jerked his chin in irritation to stop Andrei from talking, rummaged a wrinkled hand under his pillow, gripped a small object and pressed it into Andrei's hand. "Take this."

Andrei, Besson and I stared at a Greek cross with engraved, intertwined letters L and C.

"L and C, in Latin script." Andrei's brow furrowed. "What does it mean, Holy Father?"

"Laetentur Caeli," Gennadii said. "Let the Heavens Rejoice... Psalms 96:11."

"Да веселятся небеса..." Andrei repeated and flipped the cross. The other side had letters двн for the same verse but in Cyrillic. "Is there a hidden meaning to this?"

"Why is that our sight is clearest by the Peter's Gates?" Gennadii sighed. "I must avert terrible calamities and all I have is an ignorant novice!"

"Would you like me to bring someone else to your side?" Andrei snapped. His fingers clenched around the cross, as if he would not pass the puzzle to someone else. "If... if you wish."

Gennadii chuckled, observing the novice's obvious struggle to control his temper. His hands flipped on the quilted silk blanket. "No, you alone are fit for this task."

Andrei's head tilted to the side. His ears nearly swiveled forward, like an alerted cat's, even more precise comparison since he was sitting on his haunches.

"Your mentor pointed you out for your hidden abilities and from what I had observed on our journey, he chose well. When others mocked the customs of the Armenians or the Latins, you didn't repeat the libel, but looked upon the foreigners with curiosity."

"I..." Andrei wouldn't take his glance from the cross, rotating it to see the letters. Latin. Cyrillic. Latin.

Laetentur Caeli. Let the Heavens Rejoice.

"That's right. You'll have your turn to talk. Now is the time to listen.

"Many years ago... ah. My sins and intrigues are unimportant; what's pertinent is that I have an ear for languages, and so I was called upon to help with every foreign delegation that came to Moscow. Men from Constantinople, from England or Italy. Most concerned themselves with mundane business and treaties, but there were different folk among them.

"They carried this sign, and they spoke in secret."

Excitement glittered in Andrei's gaze as he tossed his head. "Treason?" He dipped his head immediately, recalling Gennadii's earlier admonition about speaking out of turn.

"Hmm..." Gennadii's sunk eyes studied him for a moment. "Treason is the favorite word of those who are too narrowminded."

Andrei's blue eyes tracked the movements of the archdeacon's hands. They looked guileless, his eyes, but I thought it was only because of their innocent color. The way he leaned forward, almost lifting to his knees from his crouch, stretching his neck... he craved the forbidden.

Besson also held his breath, locked in fascination and fear.

Tell me more, tell me more... I teased him. For a second, I wish I could see him imbibing on the dangerous mystery, but then decided nay, I didn't. Being incorporeal put us on even footing. Two energies, unrestricted by time and space. If he wasn't so absorbed into Andrei, he might even fight me less.

Andrei's aptitude didn't go unnoticed by Gennadii either. A smile flickered on crusted lips, not a fond one, but glad. He chose well, his heart was lightening as he was passing on his burden to Andrei.

"Those men spoke of an event long ago, a council that healed the great schism between the Latin faith and our church. There was a document signed, an agreement to full reunification... It started with this verse, Laetentur Caeli."

"But... the Church is not unified," Andrei said and hesitated. "Or is it? Forgive me, Holy Father, I'm not a bookish type."

"Of course it isn't. The accord broke once the godless Turks had conquered Constantinople. The chief reason, though, is that mortal men's hubris knows no bounds." Gennadii scoffed. "We broke it. The Orthodox side, too proud to recognize the Papal supremacy."

"Oh."

"When I first heard of it, my reaction was much like yours. It was too long ago, the world has changed, and it is the way it is by our Lord's design. Since I was a bookish man, the idea even incensed me. How arrogant, how presumptuous to put the Pope in Rome above our Holy Sees, our true faith, and hold it as minor!"

A long fit of cough interrupted Gennadii because in his agitation his voice climbed too high. Andrei was late in handing the man a cup and helping him drink, but Gennadii made no comment. He laid back on the pillows, gathering strength. Scarlet streaked his cheeks and sweat dotted his forehead.

"You don't think like this any longer?" Andrei mused after returning the cup to a chest by the bed and sitting back onto the carpet.

"Doubts came, lad. That's why I asked for this mission when the Patriarch of Alexandria wrote to Prince Ivan for help. To seek clarity." Gennadii looked solemnly at Andrei.

Prince Ivan? I turned to Besson.

I think... I think he wouldn't give Tsar Ivan the title he anointed himself with. Besson's fear grew to horror, but his fascination didn't diminish one whit. It is treason.

"Our Grand Prince's power grew well beyond what is fair. Already he styles himself the Tsar of All Russia. A tsar! A Tatar's title!" Gennadii confirmed Besson's accusations. "Worse, he harbors unbridled ambitions for our Holy See—so long as it serves his hubris. He has no right!"

Andrei stared, but not mindlessly, like I would have been while lectured on things beyond my grasp. He was absorbing every word.

"Brave you are, but too young to understand. But don't have to..." Gennadii mumbled, then lifted his chin and set his jaw, though it was hard to see with his matted beard. "Do as I instructed—and with time and learning you'll make up your own mind. It's a gift and a curse, but I think you are ready to bear it."

Andrei nodded along, excited.

"I fear that our journey to Alexandria is not to strengthen our ties with the rest of the Christendom, not even with the Greek Church, but to find reasons to elevate Moskovia above all other sees, as the last bastion of the true faith. This... this is not in God's name, only for a vain, corrupt man's sake."

"Would Pozniakov dare to alter the accounts of the talks in Alexandria? Should I watch him?" Andrei's hands clenched into fists. I didn't think he even noticed it.

Gennadii winced. "The man is a merchant. He merely sells what Moscow is buying. Don't waste your time on Pozniakov."

"Then what should I do?"

"Find those who carry this sign."

"Here, in Constantinople?"

"in Constantinople, Alexandria, Cairo or Sinai... wherever you go, seek them out. Listen, think and decide. Tell them what you can do and they will teach you more."

"Why... Why do I need to see through walls?"

"You said it yourself, lad—you're not a scholarly type. We all must serve our Lord to the full extent of our abilities, whatever His gifts might be."

Gennadii waved away further discussion impatiently. At the end of the wave, his hand dropped to the blanket and barely twitched. It silenced Andrei better than words.

"Go with Pozniakov and pretend to serve him, so he has no cause to complain or suspect you." Gennadii strained to keep his words clear. They were quieter and quieter, so Andrei leaned forward to catch every single one. "But keep a secret record, an honest one. When you return to Moscow, find a way to Metropolitan Philip. He's one of us, a man from Novgorod... he'll hear you out."

"Am I to give him my account?"

"Aye. Tell him the truth. Remind him that the Russian church should not separate from the Greeks and seek to lord over to suit the hubris of a mortal ruler... or his own. Serve him, if he chooses the righteous path over the lust for power and guides the prince away from madness and tyranny. If not... find your own way to make the Heavens rejoice."

Andrei's face scrunched as emotions battled over it: desire and duty; doubt and dare; sense of purpose and apprehension.

"I... Holy Father, I wish I could do as you bid, but my mentor bound me to your service. I vowed!" Despair crept into his voice. "I must stay with you until the end!"

Gennadii's chuckle was sad this time and so quiet, it didn't trigger wheezing. "You already did," the old man said.

Silence cloaked the room for a long time. Andrei dropped his head into his lap, either in grief for the man whose true nature he discovered too late and only briefly or crushed under the weight of responsibility.

In the back of my consciousness, Besson struggled to stay with Andrei. Unlike me, who seemed to have no compulsion to go anywhere in particular, his timeline exerted a powerful pull on his essence. Maybe it was harder, the farther we strayed from our departure point in space, as the spacetime folded and slipped off like too much cloth off a needle.

We must... must find Andrei! Besson cried to me as the vision of 1559 crumbled.

He was right. We had to find Andrei in 1591 and ask him of his whereabouts on May 15, 1591. And if he had another target in mind. However, I didn't think it was a detective's zeal that made Besson eager.

Oh, so you like him, and you call me a demon. I see how it is, I complained. If my sixteenth century pal heard me in the time transition's swirl, it didn't blip anywhere along his consciousness.