Path of the Eclipse (30 page)

Saint-Germain nodded. “Yes. One of the front ponies has a nick in his girth. Those with the heaviest loads were harmed first.” He stared off toward the distant peaks. “Now, it seems we must be on guard against traps. Given the hour, I doubt that we’ll have any trouble tonight, but tomorrow, Tzoa Lem and those helpful farmers of his may well be back, full of good humor and readiness to aid us. Or they may not bother with the deception, and simply attack.” He let his mind drift a moment, then said, “Are you willing to ride through the night?”

“Of course,” Rogerio answered at once. “It won’t be the first time.”

“Indeed it won’t,” Saint-Germain agreed with the ghost of a laugh on his lips.

Again Rogerio hesitated. “What about the ponies, though? Do you think they’ll hold up?”

“They must,” Saint-Germain said simply. “We’ll rig nose bags and keep to a steady pace. I see well enough in the night that we should not encounter any serious trouble. We can rest after dawn if necessary, but I want to get out of this canyon before anything more can develop.” He gathered the lead pony’s reins into one hand and set his foot in the stirrup. “It will be best if we do not speak, I think. If you wish to signal me, use the whistle we used in Catalonia, when we were being sought by the Emir’s son. Do you remember?”

Rogerio pursed his lips and made an eerie sound, and the nearest pony whickered, ears turning. “Yes, I remember,” he assured his master.

“Good. I will use the same with you.” He swung into the saddle. “If you hear anything you can’t account for, give the signal, and we will stop at once.”

“Should we perhaps have a regular signal as well, so that each will know that the other is there?” He watched Saint-Germain.

“You’re right,” he said. “But it should not be too predictable. If we are followed, all that they need do is learn the signal and the interval for repetition, and we are no safer than we were without it.” He toyed with the reins. “The chorus of the hymn to Saint John. In Latin, I think, line by line. At the end of the ten lines, go back to the beginning. You do the first half of each line, I will do the second. If too much time passes, I will do the first half and wait for you to do the second. Once every two li should be enough.”

“The hymn to Saint John, in Latin,” Rogerio repeated, then started for the rear of the string of ponies.

Night engulfed them before they had gone two li, and the wind came down off the snow like a ravening animal. Any worry Saint-Germain had had of Tzoa Lem’s overhearing them was quickly forgotten as he strove to hear the sound of his pony’s hooves over the shriek of the wind. He barely heard Rogerio’s shouted Latin phrases, and had to turn in his saddle and answer them at the top of his voice.

Sometime later they called a short halt in the lee of a rock-face, and set to making the gruel for the ponies so that they could provide them with nose bags.

“Water, too,” Saint-Germain said. “It should be warmed a little or they’ll suffer for it.” He had succeeded in starting a low fire and was measuring barley into a large iron pot.

“I will attend to that,” Rogerio said, rubbing his face with his hands. “The fur gloves help, but the wind…”

“Terrible,” Saint-Germain agreed as he added water to the grain. He was determined not to dwell on the hazards of their situation, so he said, “Can you recall anything that the soldiers at the border post said about what lies ahead?”

“They mentioned a monastery, quite near, and said that there were others. From the sound of it, the country must be made up of monks. The officer did say that the capital is on the far side of the plateau, and the roads there are often impassable after the snows fall.” Rogerio had pulled a wide, deep pan from the pack of the next-to-last pony and was emptying the contents of a waterskin into it.

“I gathered as much,” Saint-Germain said. “While the officer was questioning me, he intimated that we were foreign initiates to one of the various orders. I assumed that there was some sort of rivalry developing between two of the largest orders. He seemed to think that the Yellow Hats were the ones to watch.”

“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 farmers. 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.