Path of the Eclipse

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  With fingers gentle as the wind, but more lingering and warmer, he traced the curve of the shadows on her face, her throat, her breast. Drifting petals or fresh snow was no softer than the passage of his hands over her. Had Ch’uan-T’ing been made of the rarest, most fragile porcelain, he could not have been more delicate. His caresses skimmed over her shoulder, along the curve of her arm where her scented flesh was most tender. He did nothing in haste, nothing abruptly, nothing forcefully, yet he kindled a desire in her that she would never have dared acknowledge when awake. Seeing the alteration in her features, he smiled enigmatically in the shadows.

  Ch’uan-T’ing turned toward Saint-Germain, sleep lending this movement a strange grace, as if she were under water. Half her face was obscured now, though the line of her cheek shone like the petal of the most pale blossom. Her head was back at an angle, and she drew in her breath quickly as a tremor passed over her.

  Though he was tempted, Saint-Germain did not press her response. He had made that mistake once, bringing her out of her sleep. He recalled that night, three years before, with chagrin. Ch’uan-T’ing, schooled to place her lord’s needs foremost, had been appalled at her own arousal, and was overcome with shame. Saint-Germain had tried in vain to assure her that it was only through her fulfillment that he could achieve his own: she was repelled by her passion. Now he approached her only when she slept, rousing her as a dream might.

  She began to breathe more deeply, languor spreading through her with her emerging need. Saint-Germain kissed her, barely touching her skin with his mouth, yet evoking new pleasures in the sleeping woman. His hands moved under the coverlet, seeking the source of her ecstasy. She trembled, sighed, still sleeping. Surely, sadly, he found the source of her unacknowledged desire. How much he wished that she would waken and accept her joy with pride, reveling in the shared gratification. He could not bring himself to test her again, recalling what desolation he had felt at her reaction, and how carefully she had avoided him for some time afterward.

  She moaned as her first spasm shook her, and lay back, rapturously vulnerable. His touch, still maddeningly light, continued to enhance her response, drawing out her release to add to his own contentment. She whispered a few incoherent words as Saint-Germain’s lips drew away from her and his hands at last were still.

  The sky was edged with light in the east as Ch’uan-T’ing sank back in slumber and Saint-Germain at last rose swiftly and silently from her side. He slipped the coverlet up over her shoulder, then went to the open doorway to close it, for the morning was chill.

  The chamber adjoining the one where Ch’uan-T’ing lay was startling in its simplicity, given the grandeur of the rest of the extensive house and grounds. There was only a narrow hard bed atop a large chest, a chair and writing table, and a small chest of antique Roman design. Paper screens blocked the light from two tall, narrow windows, giving the room a perpetual dusk. Saint-Germain went to the chest and stood before it, alone. The new day was bleak to him. He chided himself inwardly for his loneliness, but could not banish it.

  He untied the sash of his sheng lei, dropped it, then shrugged himself out of the loose silken robe, letting it fall around his feet. For a few moments he stood naked; then he turned away from the chest, crossed the room and drew back a panel, revealing three drawers of carefully folded garments.

  Imperial decree forbade all foreigners to dress in completely Chinese clothing. Ostensibly this was an aesthetic regulation, so that the full diversity of the Chinese world would be more easily appreciated; in fact, the regulation allowed the officers of the various tribunals to identify aliens on sight and simplified their occasional mass arrests of foreigners. Saint-Germain was not deceived by the Imperial decree, but had no desire to oppose it. Over the years he had been in Lo-Yang, he had evolved his own style, an amalgam of Occidental and Oriental fashions that was all his own.

  When he emerged from his private quarters, not long after sunrise, he wore a black brocade Byzantine dalmatica over a kneelength red sheng go. His black trousers were of Persian cut, but tucked into high, ornate Chinese boots. A belt of chased-silver links was around his waist and the silver pectoral was ornamented with his device—a black disk with wide, raised wings, the symbol of the eclipse. He was comfortable in this hodgepodge of styles and cultures; he was also aware that it was complimentary to him in a way that a more homogeneous fashion would not be.

  His servants were busy already, the day’s tasks beginning before dawn and continuing until well after sunset. He addressed them when he came upon them, giving a word of praise to one, inquiring after the health of the father of another, as he made his way to his extensive library on the north side of the compound.

  His mind was not truly on his reading, and it was some time before he selected a volume in Greek and pulled it from the shelves. It was an effort to concentrate on Aristotle’s meticulously dry phrases, but eventually he let himself get caught up in the words.

  Rogerio found him at his reading an hour later. “Pardon, my master,” he said in Latin, “but you have a visitor.”

  Saint-Germain looked up from the pages spread before him and answered in the same language. “A visitor, you say? Remarkable. I would not have thought…” He did not continue. Decisively he shut the old leather-bound parchment book. “A visitor. Who is it? Do you know?”

  “Master Kuan Sun-Sze has called,” Rogerio told him, picking up the book and returning it to its place on the shelves.

  “Master Kuan?” The somberness that had marked Saint-Germain’s features now faded. “Why didn’t you say so at once?” He rose from the table.

  “He is in the larger reception room,” Rogerio informed his master as he stood aside to let Saint-Germain pass into the hall.

  “How long have you kept him waiting?” There was no criticism implied in the question, for he knew he was often hard to locate.

  “Not very long. When I discovered you weren’t in your chambers, I tried the library.” The manservant had switched from Latin to awkward Chinese.

  “We’ll talk in the withdrawing room upstairs by the terrace. See that tea and cakes are brought to the room, if you please.” He felt the despondency that had gripped him give way to curiosity and gratitude. As he approached the door to the larger reception room, he motioned Rogerio away, saying, “Never mind, my friend. I can announce myself,” as he reached to open the door.

  Rogerio bowed slightly and said, “I will see that the tea and cakes are delivered. I’ll bring them personally.

  “Thank you,” Saint-Germain said quietly, then stepped into the reception room.

  The chamber was designed to be impressive, though it was not as formidable as many such rooms in Lo-Yang. Rich hangings covered the walls, there were silken carpets on the floor, and the chairs were of rose and cherry wood, carved by master artisans and cushioned with brocaded pillows. A moon door opened onto the garden and the sound of the brook was faintly audible. Brass and porcelain vases were filled with fresh flowers, as they were every day from early spring through the end of autumn. Amid these Oriental things there were occasional foreign touches: on one wall a tempera portrait of a Roman lady hung beside a Tang Dynasty scroll. Near the door there was a tall iron candlestick made by the craftsmen of Toledo. Beside the moon door was a tall chest of intricately inlaid wood from Luxor.

  Kuan Sun-Sze looked up as Saint-Germain closed the door behind himself, and a smile stole over his severe features. “Shih Ghieh-Man,” he said, nodding a casual greeting.

  “Master Kuan,” Saint-German responded, coming toward the distinguished scholar. “You do me great honor.”

  “What’s this?” Kuan Sun-Sze marveled, too dignified to express surprise. “Master Kuan? Honor?”

  Saint-Germain took a seat opposite his guest. “My friend,” he said in less formal accents, “you are the first master who has deigned to come to my house since the Tribunal excused me from teaching at the university. I was afraid that perhaps the rest of you feared contamination.
” His sarcasm was startling even to himself. “I’m sorry,” he went on in a more chastened tone. “I had thought I was not truly bitter, but I discover that I am.”

  “With good reason,” Kuan Sun-Sze allowed. “It was an arbitrary decision the Tribunal made. I have sent them a formal complaint, telling them that your studies in the West have been of great aid to us, for they show us new approaches and methods we can use.”

  “Did you?” Saint-Germain smiled faintly. “That was kind, considering how much you have taught me.” He regarded Master Kuan Sun-Sze evenly. “And my students?”

  “All but two of them are well. The two, I regret having to tell you, are Feng Kuo-Ma and Li Djieh-Wo.” Kuan Sun-Sze laced his soft fingers together.

  “Feng and Li argued in my favor to the Magistrates, didn’t they?” Saint-Germain asked without needing the answer. “What will become of them?”

  Kuan Sun-Sze did not speak at once. His eyes traveled about the appointments of the room, and he sat back in his chair. Saint-Germain remained silent while the great scholar considered. “The Li family,” he said at last, as if giving a lecture, “is an old and meritorious house and has given many excellent officials to the service of he who wields the Vermilion Brush. Doubtless there are Masters of Literature who would welcome a member of the house of Li as a student, particularly one of so quick a mind as Li Djieh-Wo. Feng, sadly, is another matter. The District Magistrate Feng was implicated in a great scandal not nine years ago, and for that reason there are few who are willing to extend themselves to those belonging to the family. Feng Kuo-Ma has been offered a post by an uncle, I have heard, that will take him away from this city, and though his career may be less brilliant than what had been hoped, still, he will find himself in an excellent position to be of service to the Empire and his family, and in times such as these, it is possible that unsettled events may yet bring him to the awareness of those in high places who may avail themselves of his skills.”

  “I see,” Saint-Germain said heavily. “The boy is banished because he spoke out on my behalf.” He stared blindly toward the moon door, but saw nothing of it or the garden beyond. “If I had known this might occur, I would have tried to dissuade him.”

  “No, no,” Kuan Sun-Sze said at once. “You must not feel so. It is proper to one of his nature to behave as he has, and I believe that it will go well for him, when his pride has recovered. He himself has been aware that his family is not in a favorable position at court, so trying his wings in the provinces may be what is required for him to advance to the limit of his abilities rather than the limits of his cousin’s folly.” He leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. “All things happen as they should, Shih Ghieh-Man.”

  “Do they?” Saint-Germain’s smile was wintry. “That’s curiously Taoist of one so much a part of the traditions of Kung Fu-Tzu.”

  Kuan Sun-Sze gave a tilt to his head. This was an old game between them. “We all know that the Taoists are misled men who are so blind that they will devote their studies to anything and do not care if it has to do with the proper conduct of human society or not.”

  “Lamentable,” Saint-Germain agreed, and only the corners of his mouth twitched.

  “Oh, very,” Kuan Sun-Sze said with perfect gravity. “Though it is not always easy to discern how the behavior of wild crickets, which I have been known to study, will be mirrored in human society.”

  Saint-Germain got to his feet. “My good and treasured friend, I would be delighted if you would accompany me to the with-drawing room on the floor above. My kitchen will provide some trifling refreshment for you, and we may continue our conversation in more congenial surroundings.”

  “It is always a pleasure to spend an hour in the company of well-spoken men,” Kuan Sun-Sze said as he followed Saint-Germain to the door. “And since I rose unusually early, I broke my fast some time ago and light refreshment would be welcome.” He walked at Saint-Germain’s side down the wide hall to the beautiful staircase leading to the next floor. A large brass lantern hung from the ceiling, two stories above, and shone in the pinkish light that filtered through the tall, narrow windows that flanked the door. “There is no other house like this in Lo-Yang,” he remarked to his host.

  “I’m not surprised,” Saint-Germain said as he started up the stairs.

  “What possessed you to design your windows thus?” the scholar asked, gesturing over his shoulder toward the main door.

  Saint-Germain shrugged. “I have seen such windows before, in lands far to the west, and I learned to like them. It seemed foolish to ignore them here, when they provide precisely the light and privacy I require.”

  “And your lantern?” Kuan Sun-Sze was aware that his manners were atrocious this morning, but was enjoying himself too much to apologize for his impertinent questions.

  “My own design from various influences: a little Greek, a little Frankish, a little Moorish and a touch of Khemic.” He said it lightly enough, wanting to dismiss the matter, but his memories flooded in on him. There had been that long debate one afternoon in Athens; how many years ago? It was about the time Alcabiades had been banished for breaking the phalluses off the Herms. There had been an evening when he stood in a small, drafty castle in Aix-la-Chapelle, listening to monks chant while an illiterate man in threadbare purple upbraided a motly crew of unwashed and cynical knights. That was more recent, but the years between distressed him in a way they had not done before. The Moorish influences had come from Spain not so long ago. He recalled an uneasy morning with a Mohammedan prince. What had been the trouble? The prince had been angry—after a moment it came to him: they had begun with a discussion of mathematics and astronomy and ended with an argument about the relationship of learning to religion. The Khemic was the most distant of all, remote, though he could still see in his mind the long-vanished majesty of the temple of Thoth in the first blue moments of dusk standing above the bend of the Nile. The sacred poems of the priests of Imhotep resounded within him …

  “Shih Ghieh-Man?” Kuan Sun-Sze said as his host continued to wait on the stair, gazing at the large brass lantern.

  “Ah?” He turned quickly to look at the scholar beside him. “Forgive me. When one is far from home, reminiscences are overwhelming at times. Your question, I fear, brought back much I had not thought of recently.”

  Sun-Sze nodded sympathetically and quoted one of Li Po’s most famous poems as he climbed the rest of the stairs beside Saint-Germain.

  The withdrawing room was small, cozy without being cramped or too cluttered. The door panels were drawn back and the terrace over the garden stood ready for them, the sound of the brook rising softly through the whisper of the leaves. Lacquered tables and deeply upholstered chairs were attractively arranged for easy conversation and a lack of formality. On the walls were three large mosaics Saint-Germain had commissioned some years before in Constantinople. They were out of place in the room, but neither man minded.

  Saint-Germain chose a chair away from the light so that his guest would have the easier and more inviting view. He propped his heels on the central table and leaned back against the cushions, inviting Kuan Sun-Sze with a gesture to do the same.

  “A very pleasant room,” the scholar said, giving this familiar courtesy real feeling. “Being in your house is like traveling the length of the Old Silk Road without going one li from the city.” He, too, sank back against the cushions. “It was folly to move the government to K’ai-Feng. In time the ministries will regret it. Lo-Yang has been the center of the Empire for several hundred years. It is absurd to think that K’ai-Feng is as suitable.” His sentiments were common ones in Lo-Yang, for though the government had moved more than a generation before, much of the literary and artistic traditions were in this Tang Dynasty city and the resentment was still strong.

  Saint-Germain realized that Kuan Sun-Sze would not discuss what was really on his mind until after cakes and tea had been served, so he remarked, “But capitals have often moved, my friend. Rome moved with
Constantine, though, I think, Rome will have revenge for that one day.”

  “These are Western cities, are they not?” the scholar inquired politely.

  “They are. Rome is still there and flourishing after her fashion. I have a … an old friend there who sends me letters periodically. A second seat of government—or third or fourth or fifth, depending on how you count—has risen there. It could go the same way here, if the battles with the Mongols do not disrupt your world too much.” He said it honestly, having seen it before.

  “Mongols!” Kuan Sun-Sze scoffed. “Oh, they’ve had their victories against militia and farmers, but the army has accounted for them quite handily.” He paused again. “It is treasonous for Generals to take independent command of their troops, but it has happened of late. Shi Pai-Kung took his archers and cavalry without orders. He said he could not bear to stand by while his countrymen were cut to pieces by those northern barbarians. They had to execute him for it, but his intervention saved the day.”

  There was a discreet scratching at the door, then Rogerio came into the room with refreshments. He set them down and said, “Tea, cakes, a paste of almond and honey, fruit wedges.” He bowed respectfully to Saint-Germain’s guest.

  Kuan Sun-Sze was clearly pleased. “Wonderful, wonderful.” He waved Rogerio away, but the man lingered until Saint-Germain signaled him to depart. “Will you join me?”

  Saint-Germain shook his head. “I’ve taken nourishment not long ago. Thank you.” He reached to pour the tea for Sun-Sze, then settled back again. “What is on your mind then, my scholarly friend?”

  “A great many things,” Sun-Sze said, refusing to be rushed. He was willing to make limited concessions to Saint-Germain’s foreign ways, but his sense of good manners forbade him to plunge into his discussion. “You have an excellent kitchen staff.”