Path of the Eclipse

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  Rogerio accepted this unhappily. “I will wait for the answer. Is there anything else?”

  Saint-Germain’s smile widened though there was no glint of humor in it. “I have appended to this letter a request for earth from Transylvania, among other items. If the Muslims are determined to use me, I will return the compliment.” He read over the message, frowning a little at his phrases, then rolled it carefully and wound a length of cotton ribbon around it. “Where is my seal?”

  “In the silver box, in the Roman chest,” Rogerio said, and went to fetch it and sealing wax. While Saint-Germain set about fixing his device on the wax, he added, “What if I am denied access to the Muslims?”

  “Go at once to the palace of Dantinusha and tell him that I have need of supplies from the Sultanate and have been informed that I must deal with the emissaries of Delhi. The Rajah is not a stupid man. He will be willing to get you admitted to Ab-she-lam Eidan or one of his men. From there it will be a simple matter to speak to Jalal-im-al Zakatim. Unless I am badly mistaken, you will not be unexpected.” This last was said sardonically: Saint-Germain held out the sealed message to his servant.

  Rogerio took it reluctantly. “I will do as you wish,” he muttered.

  Before he could turn to leave the room, Saint-Germain touched his arm. “Old friend,” he said gently, “I understand your fear. I share it. But we must either cower in the corner and hope that we are not discovered, or we must act with audacity. I truly believe that our only protection is in surprise.”

  “You are not the only one who thinks so,” Rogerio said with a nod toward the beaker and the scorpion.

  At once Saint-Germain’s expression became grim. “Yes.” He turned away and walked to the shuttered windows. “And next time, what will it be, and where? Oh, it’s senseless to flee from shadows and branches tapping on the walls, but…” He recalled the horrible sound he had heard in the garden of Rajah Dantinusha’s country estate.

  “I will see that this is delivered,” Rogerio said quietly. “And I will wait for his answer.” He saw Saint-Germain incline his head before he left the room.

  The next afternoon was well-advanced when Rogerio returned to Padmiri’s house. The horse he had been provided was somewhat winded and had made poor time on the road. By the time Rogerio left the stables he was grouchy from fatigue and frustration. He hurried to the wing of the house which had been turned over to Saint-Germain and entered by the side door. His boots and leggings were smirched with dirt and his linen garments were grimed with dust.

  Saint-Germain was in his laboratory stoking the athanor. As the door was flung open, he looked up. “Difficulties?”

  Rogerio dropped onto one of the stools. “At first. Then it was quite simple.” He spat and dragged his sleeve across his face. “I feel as if I’ve dined on earth. The roads are unspeakable.”

  “Tell me.” Saint-Germain closed the front of the athanor and gave his full attention to Rogerio. “You were away longer than I thought you might be.”

  For a comment, Rogerio nodded. “There were wild rumors of Thuggi again, and I waited until I found a vendor going to the nearest village to travel with. The poor man spent the entire journey stopping at every shrine and reciting sacred verses in a loud voice. If there were Thuggi about, he did everything he could have to bring us to their artention.” His faded blue eyes grew icy with anger. “There was one village, about half a morning’s ride from the capital, where they are now stoning travelers because the elders have said that there are demons invading the land.”

  “Were you hurt?” Saint-Germain asked at once.

  “No, but the poor vendor received a cut on his arm. I wrapped it in part of my sash.” He stopped and regarded his master more calmly. “I did get to speak to Jalal-im-al Zakatim. You were right: he’s accepted your terms. He was quite eager.”

  “Did he say so?” Saint-Germain drew up a stool.

  “Yes, at length.” He was silent a moment. “He said also that he will come here in five days’ time.”

  “Five days?” That was the barest minimum time for courtesy. “Did he say why?”

  “No. He only asked that I tell you he would be pleased to talk with you then. He remarked,” Rogerio added with disgust, “that he could not understand how it was that you had not been getting the supplies you require for your work, and assured me that any request made through him would be sent with the official messengers of the Sultan.”

  Saint-Germain gave a cold chuckle. “How obliging of him.” He looked at his servant, seeing the exhaustion in his face. “Come. I will have the slaves prepare a bath for you.” Before Rogerio could protest that this would cause a great deal of scandal among the members of the household, Saint-Germain added, “Being foreign, I am allowed my idiosyncrasies. Let them gossip about your bath rather than your errand. Tell them tales of the arrogant Muslims and let them know that they will be able to see one of the invaders for themselves. That way it might be possible for me to discover who it is in this place who is our enemy.”

  “Enemy?” Rogerio had caught the steel in Saint-Germain’s tone.

  “Last night there was another scorpion in this room. I destroyed it, sadly. This morning I asked the slaves how they dealt with the creatures and I was told that scorpions are rarely found here. When I showed the crushed carapace to the slaves, they were very frightened, more than I thought they would be.” He paused, then went on in another voice, “Bhatin heard about it, of course, and told me that since this wing of the house had not been occupied for some time, it was to be expected that scorpions would be encountered.”

  Rogerio got to his feet. “Is it possible?”

  “It is,” Saint-Germain said softly. “And, as I have not been eager to find another, I took the precaution of examining this part of the building. Don’t fret,” he interrupted himself as Rogerio began to protest. “I wore my leather armor. And I found no evidence of scorpions, though there were quite a number of bats and spiders. As additional precaution, I prepared a fumigative vapor. The slaves were convinced that I would bring the entire house down with the odor.”

  “Are the scorpions dead, then?” He began to unknot his sash.

  “If there were any, they are dead,” Saint-Germain answered at his most urbane. “Come. You must bathe.”

  Rogerio knew that Saint-Germain would say no more on the matter, for the present. “A bath would be most welcome,” he told his master as he followed Saint-Germain into the hall. There was a chill in his spine now, and an unadmitted dread. Had his heart been like those of other men, it would have leaped with terror.

  Saint-Germain sensed the fright in Rogerio but dared not acknowledge it. Instead, he remarked, “It’s a great temptation to falter, but that is the first way to ruin.” Then he clapped his hands, and as slaves ran toward him to answer the summons, he gave brisk instructions regarding Rogerio’s bath.

  A proclamation by the Rajah Dantinusha.

  To the court and country of Natha Suryarathas, by my hand as Rajah and by the mouth of Rialkot, my herald, I, Kare Dantinusha, decree and proclaim that there will be a new structure in this land.

  All who have been here have admired the beauty and luxury of the gardens and vistas of this most gloriously favored country, so it is appropriate that we who live in this most favored place adorn it so that its loveliness may be better revealed.

  Therefore, I have given orders that a dam shall be built on the Kudri, at the last cataract before it joins the Chenab. Where now there is a rocky marsh, there will be a beautiful lake, and it will be surrounded by gardens and elegant houses where those of rank and understanding may retire to be inspired by the splendor they find around them.

  Conscriptions of labor from the appropriate castes have begun and it will be a great honor to aid in this work. Only those most strong and fit will be selected and the recording of this activity will be meritorious. Let no one ask to be part of the building who is not young and strong, of good name and suitable caste. This is not for the ha
nds of slaves, except the most basic quarrying and digging. The rest must be done by those who have true knowledge of the worthiness of beautiful things and the suitability of constructing such a place.

  We are fortunate indeed that the Sultan Shams-ud-din Iletmish has offered us fine stone to face the dam so that it will stand for ages and ages, showing the entire world the magnificence of this country.

  In the lake there will be a number of islands, constructed so that kiosks may be built upon them, and with the aid of shallow boats, worthy men may retire there for meditation, religious exercises and the enjoyment of their wives.

  Work is to begin at once on this lake. By the dark of the year, the first parts of the dam will rise, so that when the spring thaw and the summer rains bring water cascading along the Kudri, there will be firm walls to withstand its might. Offerings to the gods will be given for the protection of the walls and there will be sacrifices as the construction continues. When the dam is complete, it will be an honor to the gods as well as a monument to the builders.

  Let everyone lend his aid to this. Money, grain, sacrifices to the gods, supplies for the builders, spells to ward off demons and humiliate them in their efforts even as Lord Vishnu did; all things are needed and mill do much to progress the soul as well as benefit this excellent work.

  This is my will—let it be done.

  Rajah Kare Dantinusha

  Natha Suryarathas

  6

  Earlier it had been still, but now there was a wind off the mountains carrying the breath of the first snows. At the edge of the garden the trees shivered as the light turned brazen in preparation for sunset. On the terrace slaves played a sarangi and two tuned drums, the tabla and bhaya. Their music was wandering, repetitious and drowzy, the beat lazily pulselike.

  Padmiri had donned warmer clothes late that afternoon, a heavy woolen tunic over her deep-pleated skirt, and now, as she sat on a low bench at the far end of the terrace, her face was framed by an elaborate shawl. She smiled at her black-clad companion, allowing him his silence as the day deepened toward night.

  A gaudily plumaged bird flew overhead, its cry sounding above the gentle music of the slaves. It dipped once above the garden and then was lost to sight over the trees.

  Saint-Germain watched the bird, then let his eyes rest on the musicians, though he did not truly see them. “Padmiri,” he said after a time as if her name alone would tell her all his thoughts. They were complicated, and he had not found a way to express them well. He let out his breath heavily. “You have said nothing of the other night.” It had been more than ten days since he had lain beside her in that sandalwood-perfumed room. His desire had not diminished, though it was once again becoming acute. Yet he had not reconciled himself to his own need.

  “What should I say?” She was not taunting him, and there was no coyness in her.

  “That you were pleased, that you—”

  “I was more than pleaed,” she interjected.

  “—were horrified.”

  “How should I be horrified?” She wanted to touch him but held off, realizing that he was troubled.

  He turned away from her, looking through slitted eyes toward the setting sun. For him, the glare was as bright as it was for others at the full brightness of noon. “Many have been,” he said quietly, remotely, waiting for her to respond. When she did not, he went on. “No. That’s not it.”

  “What is it, then?” Padmiri was not yet alarmed, though his suffering touched her.

  As he turned back toward her, the musicians fell silent. Now he was between her and the sun, impossibly dark, his face unreadable. “I will not lie to you about … what I require. It would be useless, wouldn’t it?” he added with wry sorrow.

  “Yes, it would be useless,” she answered, her eyes never leaving the shadow of his face.

  “But I have not … I was not … Padmiri, you have been solace for me, and I have needed solace.” This was more difficult to say than he had thought possible. Now he was glad that she did not question him, that she was apparently content to hear him out. “When I loved you, it should have been entirely for yourself. And it wasn’t.” He touched her with one finger, tracing the curve of her upper lip. “I did not want to say this.”

  “And why did you?” She was hurt a bit, she thought, but only a bit.

  “Because I want to make love to you again, only for yourself.” He was peripherally aware that the slaves had gathered up their instruments and gone into the house, leaving him alone with Padmiri on the terrace over the garden.

  Now she caught his hand in hers. “Who else were you thinking of, before?”

  Saint-Germain hesitated. “She’s dead. Does it matter who she was?” His grief was too old to be despair, but there was more than sorrow in his voice.

  “It matters,” Padmiri said, though she did not entirely believe it: she wanted to know what haunted Saint-Germain.

  His small, long fingers tightened on hers. “It was more than a year ago, in China. There was a woman there. I was her lover. The Mongols killed her.” He held out his other hand to Padmiri and was oddly grateful when she took it. “When I loved you, I was using you, not substituting you, but … escaping from her memory.”

  “Have you accepted her death?” She said it evenly enough, hiding the dread she felt.

  “Accepted her death,” Saint-Germain echoed. “What has that to do with it? My acceptance won’t change it. Chih-Yü is dead. It’s not a matter for debate.”

  “Even for you?” she asked before she could stop herself.

  “For me?” He was startled, and there was an intensity in his unseen eyes.

  “You are one of Shiva’s creatures, who have been touched by death and refused its hold, aren’t you?” Had she dared to say this ten years ago, the words alone would have terrified her, but now, feeling the reality of age with her bones, she could not be afraid.

  Saint-Germain’s voice was enigmatic. “It was not argument that made me what I am but a far more compelling force.” He turned slightly, and the fading light of the sun painted a brilliant line down his brow, along the edge of his eye, the rise of his cheekbone and the arch of his nostril, the line of his mouth, the edge of his jaw, the strong bend of his neck. When he spoke, his small, even teeth shone. “She was not like me.”

  “And I?” Padmiri was not sure what she wanted his answer to be.

  “No,” Saint-Germain said in a low tone. “And you need not be, if that is your wish.”

  Padmiri did not react to this, but instead asked, “You said that you wanted to escape her memory with me. Did you?”

  He came one step nearer. “Yes. I will not forget her, but … her loss is no longer an open wound in me.” He released her hands, but only to turn her face up toward him. “Do you forgive me?”

  “For what?” She rose from the bench and walked away from him down the darkened terrace. “For thinking I had enough worth that you would be able to end your sorrow with me? For loving me through your grief? Where is the offense, that you ask forgiveness?”

  Saint-Germain had not followed her, listening intently as she spoke, watching her as she moved. “And for yourself?”

  She faced him, needing the distance between them, her thoughts crowding in on one another. “With me it is different. I’ve learned to look beyond the things I was taught, but the lesson was not easily acquired.”

  “No,” Saint-Germain said. “It never is.”

  “When my brothers and cousins rose against Dantinusha, I was certain that my studying would show me wisdom, and when the rebellion ended and much of my family was put to death, I searched for comfort that was not to be had. I, too, have bandaged my grief with the pleasures of the flesh, but blindly, blindly.” There were tears in her eyes and she dashed them away. “I have read some of the teachings of the West, so when you speak of forgiveness, I remember reading of expiation. Is that more reasonable than karma, where forgiveness and expiation are part of the turning of the Wheel?” She had reached the
terrace balustrade and now she leaned on it, gazing toward the irregular darkness of distant trees. “Why should I forgive you, when I wanted you? Why does it matter that you were mourning a dead woman? Who of us reaches the middle and the end of life without a few ghosts?”

  Saint-Germain felt his memories stir, and faces, bodies, touches, blood, came back to him like the flickering light of torches. He had forgot none of them, could not forget them. Some were filled with amusement and delight, some with tremors of fear or desire, some with passion, a few with poignancy intense and aching. So few were left to him, so few! Even those who had changed and wakened into his life were vulnerable, and he had lost many of them. He tried to speak, but could not express the desire and the anguish in him.

  “It doesn’t matter what you are. At one time it might have. If I had known before you came here, I would have refused to have you stay. I admit that.” She looked at him with the last vestiges of defiance in her eyes. “And perhaps, had I discovered the truth about you some … other way, I would have asked that you go elsewhere. I couldn’t do that now.” Padmiri felt the cold of night on her, and tugged her shawl tighter. “So you see, you are not the only one who has sacrificed to Maya. She is a most persuasive goddess. You, who ask for forgiveness, will you forgive me?”

  In seven quick strides Saint-Germain closed the distance between them. He felt her arms tighten around him as he embraced her, and the worst of his hurt faded a little. “Padmiri,” he whispered, making a litany of her name.

  Padmiri had never expected to find such palliation in a lover. For her, his kisses were anodyne, healing her of wounds that others could not see. She was startled that she still wept, and sought to explain this, without understanding it herself. Saint-Germain stilled her jumbled protests and held her securely until she had cried herself out.

  “Don’t force yourself to stop,” he said as she pulled back from him. “I have no tears—I often envy those who do.”