“One of the guards mentioned them. They also told me the Red Robes had a great deal of influence.” He put the pan near the fire to warm it.
Saint-Germain sat beside the fire, shielding it with his body. “We’ll have to be cautious, Rogerio. More than usual. I’ve never been here, and I don’t trust anything I’ve heard.”
His servant made a gesture of resignation. “It will happen as it happens,” he said. “How’s the barley coming?”
“It won’t be ready for a while.” He patted the damp ground beside him. “Lie down. Get some rest. It’s going to be a while before we’ll have the chance again.”
Rogerio did not object. “When the barley is ready, wake me and we’ll see to the ponies and get under way again.” Neither man thought it strange that the servant should be giving orders to the master. Saint-Germain nodded his agreement and moved slightly to give Rogerio a little more room so that he could rest in a less-cramped space. And while Rogerio slept, Saint-Germain waited for the barley to come to a tepid boil.
They were moving again well before midnight, climbing steadily out of the canyon and onto the spur of one of the mountain crests. The road here was a little wider and showed signs of recent repairs. Saint-Germain kept his eyes on the most distant parts of the way that he could see, but there was no movement. Once he thought he saw a goat-hide tent pitched in a little gully on the far side of the canyon, but he could not be sure, and it was quickly lost to sight.
Dawn found them near the head of the canyon, approaching a precarious bridge that crossed the plunging river which had dug the gorge over thousands of years. The bridge, held by ropes as thick as a man’s calf, swung and creaked with every twitch of wind, and the planking seemed flimsy, but the ponies crossed it unerringly.
When he reached the center of the bridge, Saint-Germain stopped a moment and stared down at the falling water. Spray from the cascade made a freezing mist, and the rising sun struck it, turning the mist to a nimbus of preternatural brightness. As always, crossing water gave Saint-Germain a sensation of vertigo, and he was grateful for the layer of his native earth in the soles and heels of his boots. Then he nudged his pony’s sides and completed the crossing.
An old man in lama’s robes waited at the far end of the bridge, his begging bowl ready. But instead of holding it up to Saint-Germain, he bowed low, abasing himself, and remained silent as the little party passed.
“What did you make of that?” Saint-Germain called back to Rogerio in Greek as they rounded the first bend in the road.
“The monk? Who knows? Monks are strange. He may do that for the first travelers over the bridge every morning.” He had, in fact, found the lama’s behavior disquieting, but refused to say anything more about it.
“What color robe did he wear, did you notice?” Saint-Germain called back a little later.
“No color. Brownish-gray.”
“That’s what it seemed to me, too.” Saint-Germain glanced around once, but the mountains were empty. Yet he could not quiet his thoughts. He had been an object of awe and veneration before, as well as of fear and detestation. This was not quite the same, and he could not define for himself what disturbed him. He told himself that it was the strangeness of the country that awakened these feelings within him, not the lama at the bridge.
They came to a spring at midmorning, and halted for a moment.
“What are those?” Rogerio asked, pointing to three oddly shaped towers standing beside the spring.
“I don’t know,” Saint-Germain said, looking at the structures. They were more than twice as tall as he, narrow, with pointed tops and intricate shaping that looked as if it had been done on a gigantic lathe. He approached one and caught a subtle carrion scent. He stood still. “Rogerio, I think we had better not stay here.”
Rogerio, who was preparing to dismount, looked at his master, great curiosity in his face. “Why not? Because of those … things?”
Saint-Germain answered carefully. “Something is dead here. It’s been dead for a long time. These structures are probably a warning. The spring may not be potable.” He caught up the reins of his protesting pony. “We’ll have to go on. There are bound to be other springs.” As he got back into the saddle, he added, “A halt would be welcome. Keep alert for a likely place to camp.” He knew it might be dangerous to camp in the day and travel at night, but he had to admit that it was what he preferred. At night his powers were at their strongest and he felt most free.
Rogerio had to tug at the reins to get his pony to leave the spring, but at last they moved on, following the narrow path that cut darkly through the first thick fall of snow.
The sun was high overhead when they reached a fork in the road. Both branches seemed equally well-kept, and both showed some little signs of travel. The country here was less steep, and there was a low stand of trees off to the side of the road.
“Which way?” Rogerio asked as he drew in his pony at Saint-Germain’s signal.
“I don’t know,” Saint-Germain said. He dismounted and drew his pony off the road toward the trees. “We might as well rest here, and in the evening, we’ll choose one or the other if we haven’t seen anyone else on the road by then who can tell us where they lead.” He tugged the pony over to the nearest tree, a scrubby sort of pine from the look of it, and looped the rein around the lowest branch. The other ponies followed, most of them moving with heads low and dragging feet. Saint-Germain set about tethering them while Rogerio looked under the trees.
“There’s a bit of a clearing in the middle of the stand. Not much, but better than nothing. It’s protected and the ground is flat for a change,” Rogerio reported a little later.
“Can we still see the road?” Saint-Germain asked as he lifted the packsaddle from the third pony on the string.
“Yes, some of it.” He busied himself with the girths. “These ponies amaze me.”
Saint-Germain rubbed the neck of the next one down the line. “They’re very strong, but they need to be rested. That traveling last night was more than they’re used to.” He bent to loosen the girth and frowned. “We’ll have to find someone who can replace these. There are only two girths left in our supplies.” He lifted the saddle from the pony’s back and put it with the others. “You’d think,” he said as he straightened up, “that there would be taverns or inns or something else on this road, but I haven’t seen sign of one.”
“Or of the monasteries,” Rogerio agreed, starting to gather various bits of wood for their fire.
“Yes, that’s even more puzzling. From what Tzoa Lem said, there should be monks on every crag, and I’ve yet to see anything other than that one we passed yesterday.” He was working on the next pack pony.
Rogerio made no comment, putting his mind to the tasks to be done. The ponies would need extra rations of warm gruel, and he himself was growing hungry. He would have to find meat before too long. He did not want to consider what his master must feel, though nothing he did or said gave any indication of the need that must hourly be growing stronger in him.
“We’d better put up the shelter for the ponies,” Saint-Germain said somewhat later. “I don’t want to harm them, and after a long day, the cold might be bad for them.” He indicated two trees, saying, “If we string the mats between them, that will provide a windbreak and we can rig the cloth shields over the tether line.” As he felt his way through the packs, he laughed once. “There’s no getting away from it,” he said. “The world imposes, no matter what we do.”
“Too much so,” Rogerio said. He had just failed for the fourth time to get enough of a spark to start a fire in his mound of kindling.
Saint-Germain busied himself with the mats, then said, “It’s the oddest feeling, but I can’t get over it—we’re being watched. I’ve looked all day, and have seen no one.”
“Herdboys?” Rogerio suggested.
“What herds? I haven’t seen any.” He paused in his labors to scowl. “I’m probably still worried about Tzoa Lem and his farme
rs. It seems unlikely that we’d escape them without help.” He had had luckier escapes down the years, but few so convenient, and it bothered him. He said nothing more.
When the gruel for the ponies was boiling in its pot and the fire crackled like new jokes, Saint-Germain came into the shelter Rogerio had erected. “I think perhaps,” he said after a moment of silence, “that it would be best if we travel by day only.” He wished it were not necessary, but he was certain that by night they would meet no one who could guide them.
Rogerio nodded. “Probably for the best.”
Saint-Germain did not respond, but stood in the entrance to the shelter, keeping watch while Rogerio made the gruel for the ponies.
When the ponies had been fed and the fire banked, Saint-Germain went on impulse to the covered stacks of their baggage and pulled out the katana Saito Masashige had given him. He thrust the scabbard through his belt, checked the hilt of the sword to be sure it was properly in place, then made his way back to the shelter, saying only, “There will be snow tonight.”
Though Rogerio saw that Saint-Germain carried the katana, he made no mention of it.
Text of a report sent from the Rdo-rje DBang-bzhi monastery to the Bya-grub Me-long ye-shys lamasery.
On the morning of the Festival of the Path of True Wisdom in the Eighteenth Year of the King’s Reign.
The lama RNying Sbo brought word yesterday morning that while he kept his watch at the Rab-brtan Bridge, he saw two men and their pony train materialize out of the light just as the sun rose. The men came from the north, but were not of that race, but another. The first man was described as having dark eyes of penetrating power, and the man who followed him was quite calm. They traveled with seven ponies, and the significance of this number did not escape RNying Sbo.
Since then, they have been watched. At the Bon shrine by the SGom-thag Spring he dismounted, but neither the man nor his companion nor their ponies drank from the waters. They spoke at that time, and others, in a tongue unknown to us, though it has been described as foreign and flowing, like the wind or water.
They made no religious observances and took no measures to protect themselves against the malicious spirits that haunt the trails, looking for victims to lure to their deaths. The one with the powerful eyes has demonstrated unnatural strength, and though he goes armed, he has not struck one blow. It has been suggested by the oldest lamas at this lamasery that if the man is as advanced a being as we have reason to believe, his sword is merely a symbol, an Attribute granted him by All-Wise Heaven.
They have camped in the Long Shadow Grove, where no man camps for fear of the ghosts of the brigands who died there a century ago. These men were not afraid and went to the worst part of the grove without incident. They rose before first light and have, in the last few moments, according to the lamas who have watched them, got ready to journey southward.
We are sending the herdboy STam to them, to offer to act as guide. Most of the lamas agree that if these remarkable beings wished our help, they would have come to us and commanded it. As it is, because they have chosen to live in this unassuming guise, we have decided to do what we can to aid them without an unseemly intrusion. STam will act as guide, and if they are willing, will bring them to your lamasery so that they may meet with the Master of our Order.
We of the Rdo-rje DBang-bzhi lamasery send our assurances of devotion to the Master SGyi Zhel-ri and meditate upon his enlightened teachings in the course of every day. Surely the Eightfold Path and Consecrations are fulfilled in him, and we advance in spirituality through the merit of his lessons. May he have a long life, incur no debts and find release from the Wheel.
By the hand of the Abbot Bhota-bris Lung, by messenger, after morning prayers.
5
“There!” the herdboy STam shouted, pointing toward the crest of a nearby peak. “That is Bya-grub Me-long ye-shys lamasery.” He was far more excited than the two others with him: he bounced in the saddle of his Spiti pony and waved both his hands.
Snow was drifting quietly out of a steel-colored sky. There were almost no shadows to mark the passing of the day, though it had to be midafternoon. Saint-Germain drew up his pony and looked back at Rogerio, addressing him in Greek.
“What do you think, old friend? Shall we chance this monastery?” He was suffering from the curious indifference that deep hunger sometimes visited upon him. At such times, he could not convince himself that he must take action to change this or ravening need would suddenly seize him. He had not experienced that frenzy in more than a thousand years, but the memory of it still had the power to horrify him.
“It might be interesting,” Rogerio said cautiously. “We don’t know what they might expect of us, but it is probably better than spending another night in the snow.”
“True enough.” Saint-Germain called out to the herdboy in the few awkward phrases he had managed to learn in the last four days on the road. “We will go there. You lead us.”
STam’s smile was very broad as he turned off the main road onto a path flanked by low stone fences. “You see, even in the snow, you can find the road,” he enthused.
A little of his pleasure communicated itself to Saint-Germain. “You have been here before.”
“Once. Then I was only allowed as far as the outer gate. This time they will let me in because I am bringing you.” He was so delighted that he did not see the quick meeting of eyes between Saint-Germain and Rogerio.
“Why would that make a difference?” Saint-Germain inquired blandly, his small hands tightening on the reins.
“You are strangers, and the Master is always curious about strangers,” the youth answered, suddenly very circumspect.
Keeping his tone genial, Saint-Germain continued in Rogerio’s native Latin. “This would be a difficult place to escape from, as you can see. The walls are high and there are apparently two sets of them. If I know anything about monks, there will be someone up at every hour, and moving about in a strange place is always dangerous.” He gave a brief laugh and Rogerio dutifully echoed it. “Do not let the boy see your apprehension.”
“There may be no reason for concern,” Rogerio pointed out.
“You say that, after what the good Brothers did to Ranegonde’s lover?” he asked, not quite able to maintain his mendacious good humor. “Or the way the Frankish Benedictines encouraged the good people of Lyon to burn Herchambaut and Javotte and Yolande—have you forgotten that?”
“No, my master. I have not forgotten.” His voice was somber and he fell silent.
The outer gates of the monastery were high, massive and without adornment. From high above them a strange horn sounded, and the gates swung open.
“We may pass through,” STam announced importantly, and led the way, saying a few words Saint-Germain and Rogerio could not hear to the small party of robed men who met them inside the gates.
“Impressive,” Saint-Germain said dryly, still speaking Latin. “I think we may have trouble leaving, if all the doors and walls are like this.”
Ahead of them was another wall, not so high as the outer one, but much more elaborate. It was carved and painted in a variety of bright colors, and there were representations of the Buddha in every conceivable pose and shade. Each of the six doors leading into that building was guarded by huge statues of fierce monsters, most of them in warlike postures and carrying a gruesome array of weapons.
“You must not ride the ponies through the next door,” STam said earnestly as he dismounted. “Only men may pass through that door.”
“Indeed,” Saint-Germain murmured sardonically, dismounting. He glanced at the ponies, each carrying precious bags of his native earth. He looked at the herdboy, saying as simply as he could, “I must have what the ponies carry. If I am without it, bad things will happen to me.” He was not entirely certain he had said it properly, but STam smiled eagerly.
“I will tell them. They will place the bags in your quarters, do not fear it.” He swaggered a little as he walked to the
lamas so that he would not reveal too much of the awe that almost overwhelmed him. He spoke loudly so that Saint-Germain could hear him. “The distinguished foreigner requires that all the contents of the packsaddles, without exception, be taken to the quarters he is assigned. It is most important, and he has said that bad things will happen if it is not done.”
This pronouncement stirred the lamas to action, and one with a more elaborate headdress than the others turned to Saint-Germain and bowed very low.
“They will do it,” STam said merrily, coming back across the courtyard. He beamed up at Saint-Germain. “What bad thing would you do?”
Saint-Germain’s expression was wholly bleak with the desolation he had carried within him for all his long years. “Feed.” He had said it in his native language, which Rogerio knew imperfectly, but he recognized the pain in his master’s face, and put one hand on his arm.
“Don’t. Something will be arranged.”
Quickly Saint-Germain nodded, forcing his thoughts away from the need that grew in him.
The apparent leader of the lamas hurried up and abased himself. “I am the Guardian, Bsnyen-la Ras-gsal. I bid you welcome to the Bya-grub Me-long ye-shys lamasery on behalf of the Abbot and the Master.” He made three ritual gestures, and rose.
“A reassuring beginning,” Saint-Germain remarked to Rogerio in Latin, then summoned most of what he had learned from STam. “It is a great honor to be welcomed here. My companion and I are most grateful.” He knew that he had not pronounced the words very well, but the Guardian beamed at him and ushered him toward the ornately carved gate.
“Come, then, and accept what poor hospitality we can offer you.” He rapped a pattern on the gilded wood, and waited respectfully as the double doors swung inward. He bowed again and indicated that the visitors should enter. “I am not of sufficiently advanced rank to enter by this door,” he explained as he stood back.
“I hope that is the true reason,” Saint-Germain said softly to Rogerio as they went through the doors, STam trailing behind them with a frankly astonished expression on his face.
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