Path of the Eclipse (33 page)

On the matter of the travelers he was guiding, the man Tzoa Lem was strangely adamant. He maintained to the last that there was something very wrong and dangerous about the foreigners. We of the Tribunal feel that if it is so—though we have good reason to doubt it—we should consider ourselves lucky in being rid of two potentially harmful men.

The transcript of the confession of the man Tzoa Lem is enclosed, along with the map to show where his gang operates. His body will be buried as soon as the ground can be worked.

For the Tribunal, the lieutenants and the Magistrate Jen Jo-Wei, under his chop.

6

Winter had sheathed the Bya-grub Me-long ye-shys lamasery in brittle snow, sculpted by relentless winds into forms suggesting ships and beasts and castles. Each storm added to the fantasy landscape until all the world was lost to this enthralling white kingdom.

A portion of the top floor had been set aside for Saint-Germain’s use as a laboratory and it was here he spent most of his days. The lamas left him alone because the Master had ordered it so. As the snows deepened and the days shortened, Saint-Germain accustomed himself to the limited life of the lamasery, refusing to admit he was bored.

Occasionally SGyi Zhel-ri would climb up the steep, ladderlike stairs to the room and watch Saint-Germain work with his improvised equipment. He rarely volunteered to assist his guest, but he asked a great many questions. After the first month, Saint-Germain began to look forward to these infrequent visits.

He was mixing eggs with sand one afternoon toward the end of winter when he heard the light tread of the boy, and he set the large wooden bowl aside, turning toward the door as it opened. “Good day to you, Master SGyi,” Saint-Germain said with the proper ritualistic bow that had no trace of subservience in it.

“And to you, Saint-Germain.” He had been using the European version of his name since Saint-Germain told it to him. It came strangely off his tongue, but he would not say any other name.

“Why do you honor me with this visit? And I trust you will forgive me if I keep at my work.” He had already picked up the bowl once more and was stirring the mixture.

“Of course you must work. I won’t interrupt you. What are you making there?” He came and peered into the bowl.

“I hope that this will hold the bricks so that I may build a bigger athanor that can be heated to higher temperatures. The little one I have now is useless for many procedures. The problem is that this cold makes it almost impossible for the cement to dry properly, and if it does not dry properly, it cracks and is useless.” He drew out the wooden paddle he was stirring with. “The Romans used eggs in their cement to prevent just such difficulties.”

“Romans?” SGyi Zhel-ri asked.

“I’ve told you about them before. They lived far to the west and for a time had an enormous empire. They were great builders and they loved spectacle.” He was dressed warmly in a black quilted woolen bliaut with his sable cote over it. Though his clothes were decidedly plain they were of excellent quality. He seemed unconcerned about the damage the mixture he held might do to his garments.

“Ah, yes, I remember the Romans. They are the ones who called the sight of men being torn to shreds by beasts ‘games.’” He drew up a stool and climbed onto it. “Do you miss it still?”

“Rome?” Saint-Germain stared down into the mixture. “Not precisely.”

“But you do miss Europe,” SGyi Zhel-ri said.

“Among other things.” It was difficult to speak of such matters to this too-knowing child.

“I don’t mean to distress you, Saint-Germain,” the boy said kindly. “But I am aware that you are not … content.” He looked around the room. “That chart is new. What is it?”

Grateful for this change of subject, Saint-Germain set his bowl down once again and went to the wall where a newly painted silken scroll hung. “This represents most of the alchemical processes. I know them well enough myself, but there are times, as you’re aware, when I require assistance, and this will serve as a guide for those who help me.” He pointed out a drawing of a bell-shaped flask in which a silver-skinned woman and a green-skinned man were lying together in a yellowish substance. “When this—that is, silver—and this—that is, a specific acid which is in that jar marked with the sign of the green man—are combined and heated, this yellowish material is the result. If you do it right,” he added dryly.

“Why are they shown copulating?” SGyi Zhel-ri asked.

“To imply union, that the silver and the acid must be united. When there are diverse elements, this metaphor is the most easily understood.” He came back across the room. “Do you want to learn alchemy, after all?”

“It would be enjoyable,” the boy admitted as he looked at the apparatus in the high, cold room. “But I fear that it is not for me, this life. My Path is chosen and my feet are upon it.” He smiled with that quiet serenity that had astounded Saint-Germain at first, and which he was not entirely used to yet.

“And you could not deviate?” Saint Germain inquired rather distantly.

“Certainly, if I had any desire to,” SGyi Zhel-ri said, adding, “You could deviate from your Path, too, but you do not.”

Saint-Germain gave a noncommittal shrug. He selected one of the jars he had set out on his worktable and poured some of the granules it contained into the eggs and sand. When he had stirred this a bit more, he scooped a little of it out of the bowl and smeared it on a clay brick set out on the table. He watched it critically for some little time, then sighed. “It’s too cold still.”

“You will not be able to use it?”

He looked up at the boy. “Not until it’s warmer.”

“Then your work will be wasted.” SGyi Zhel-ri sounded disappointed. “I wanted to see how you will build a larger athanor.”

“Oh, it won’t be wasted at all. I will place it in a sealed container with oil around it to keep out the touch of air, and it should be ready for use in the spring.” He frowned. “I doubt I will be here then. You may have it, if I’m gone.”

“You plan to leave?” The boy studied him without apprehension.

“Yes.” He glanced at SGyi Zhel-ri and smiled slightly. “It is nothing against you, Master SGyi. It is simply that your ways are not my ways, and there are things I must do.” He was not certain what he meant by that, but he knew that remaining at the Bya-grub Me-long ye-shyn lamasery would be intolerable.

“You will not find what you are seeking here,” he agreed somewhat wistfully. “I have spoken to BDeb-ypa at length.”

This reference to the woman who had been sent to his quarters on his first night at the monastery, and who had visited him regularly since then, made Saint-Germain uncomfortable. “Have you.”

“She is aware that she has not been able to meet your needs as completely as you have met hers. It grieves her.” He had tucked his legs under him, balancing precariously with ease.

“It shouldn’t. It is not her fault.” He had selected a large metal jar and was pouring oil into it. He hoped that this activity would provide him with an excuse to remain silent about the woman BDeb-ypa. “She has done all that she can, and that is … adequate.”

SGyi Zhel-ri said nothing for a time, and apparently was content to watch Saint-Germain transfer the cement he had made from the bowl to the metal jar. Just as Saint-Germain was preparing a wax seal for the jar, he said, “You were a priest when you were a child, weren’t you?”

Saint-Germain looked up, almost dropping the hot wax stick. It was a moment before he could compose his thoughts, and he glanced away on the pretense of attending to the seal as he tried to sort out the emotions that warred in him. He knew that the boy was watching him, and that this was one question he could not defer answering. “I was a child a very long time ago,” he said in a tone he hardly recognized.

“But you were a priest then,” the boy persisted.

He was silent, then said, “Yes.” It was plain that SGyi Zhel-ri wanted him to continue, that his admission was not sufficient. When he was finished with the metal jar, he spoke again. “It was the custom among my people to make priests of the sons of the Kings who were born at the dark of the year, as I was. We were dedicated to the service of our protector god, who was very powerful.” He was able to laugh once. “The protector was not, in fact, a god, but a vampire, as I am. Those who served him provided him with … sustenance, and in time, if we were selected for this duty often enough, we acquired his power and his life. Most of the priests, when they died, were cremated, but those whom the protector designated his heirs were ritually buried so that they could waken to his life. There were never more than two protectors, and there were occasions when one of them would be beheaded with great ceremony so that his strength would pass into the fields or the walls of the city.” He looked down at his small hands, stretching out the long, well-shaped fingers, watching the play of tendons under the skin.

“But that did not happen to you,” the child-Master said, his eyes bright with fascination.

“No, it didn’t. I died a slave in the land of my enemies.” He got up and walked away across the cold room. “And that was a long, long time ago, SGyi Zhel-ri. Those enemies are dust and their city lies deep in the earth. It is, I suppose, vengeance of a sort.”

“What had you done?” The boy’s voice was calm, and for that reason, if no other, Saint-Germain answered him.

“I won a battle.” There was a rough bench beside the alchemical scroll and he sat on it, glad for the distance that let him be isolated with his memories. “Those of us who had been captured when our land was invaded were made soldiers. We were far more expendable than the troops of our captors. In battle the leaders of my company fell and we slaves were left exposed to the full might of chariot attack. I called the other slaves to me, and we were able to defeat the enemies of our captors. When the local ruler heard of this, he had me executed. He was very much afraid of any slave who could command men in battle.” He paused as he recalled that hot day in a town of mud-and-stone houses where a stooped man in frayed red robes who was old at thirty-two had shouted out his sentence for his victorious slave, and had then watched in terror as his executioners readied their knives and hooks for their work. Saint-Germain could hardly recall why the man was so frightened of him. “They did not know what they were dealing with,” Saint-Germain said dreamily, “and they didn’t know how to kill me.” He put his hand to his waist, knowing the scars began there, then let his fingers move aside.

“But the old man who condemned you feared you,” SGyi Zhel-ri pointed out, as if aware of Saint-Germain’s thoughts.

“With good reason, I imagine,” Saint-Germain agreed, steel in his tone now. “His title, as I remember, was Ruler of the Earth and Sea. The Sky might also have been included, I’m not certain. His kingdom was a day’s journey on horseback in all directions. My father had ruled a land four times that size.” He sighed. “It’s long past and done.”

“But you have not forgotten.”

“No.”

From the sanctuary far below them the sound of chanting rose to fill the quiet of the laboratory. It was so ubiquitous that neither truly heard it.

“Is it the worship you miss when you lie with BDeb-ypa?” SGyi Zhel-ri asked a bit later.

With some difficulty Saint-Germain shook himself out of the reverie he had fallen into. There were so many things he had put behind him, so many faces and cities and lands. It was foolish, this dreadful glamour that transformed those arduous years into great adventure. His memories played tricks on him, he knew it, so that he could bear himself. SGyi Zhel-ri’s question was remote and it was several moments before he answered. “Worship? I’ve ceased to believe in that.”

“But there is something that comes of it,” the boy said with his uncanny perceptivity.

“Yes,” Saint-Germain admitted, finding a hurt renewed within him. “There is a kind of passion that is not of the body—or not entirely of the body,” he amended with an attempt at cynicism he could not truly feel. “When it is present, then I am whole again.”

“And the blood?” He braced his elbows on his knees and gave Saint-Germain a steady look.

“Oh, that is part of it. It is the essence of life, for those such as I.” He got to his feet and abruptly began to pace. “Why should this concern you? You’re a child, SGyi Zhel-ri. I haven’t been a child since before the walls of Babylon rose. What can I tell you that you would understand?”

The boy’s smile was still serene. “But I do understand, Saint-Germain, for I can feel what you feel.” He paused, then said, “When you were a boy and a priest to the protector god who was not a god, how did you serve him?”

Saint-Germain stopped pacing. “How do you think: we gave him our blood and he conferred his strength and his life upon us. It is our nature.” Saying it, he felt an echo of the awe that had touched him the first time he was taken to the holy place and earned his name—Saint-Germain—sacred liberation.

“But that was not the embrace of lovers, was it?” SGyi Zhel-ri persisted.

“No. That came later. To be honest, a great deal later. For … many years”—he could not say that those years were measured in centuries—“the fear was all I desired. I knew I could inspire the fear easily. Why not use it, when everyone shrank from me? Eventually, that changed.” So that he would not have to think of the degradation that led to the change, Saint-Germain resumed pacing, though somewhat more slowly than he had moved before. He stopped to stare down at the gravel-filled basin where he had placed his very small athanor. The little stones dissipated the heat so that the alchemical oven could get quite hot without being a danger to the wooden interior of the lamasery.

“How did you give him blood?” Plainly, SGyi Zhel-ri was not going to abandon the matter.

“All right.” Saint-Germain looked down at his hands once more, this time at the palms, where he told himself he could still see a few of the fine scars from that time. “We would go to the holy place of our liberation and would be seated on a special chair—it was little more than a stool with a plank for a back, but it was beautifully painted. The oldest priest then came with a certain knife, used only for this, and nicked the palms of my hands.” If he noticed he had ceased to speak impersonally, he did not indicate it in any way. “I would hold my hands together to form a kind of cup as the other priests withdrew. The place would be dark, for these ceremonies took place only at night, and only the oldest priest was entitled to carry a torch. Once he left, there was only starlight. There would be silence as my hands filled, and then there would be motion, and I would feel lips touch my fingers to drink. What happened then…” He gazed at the wall, not seeing it. In his mind he was once again a boy not quite alone in that holy place, and a being he could not see clearly knelt before him. “I felt … exalted.” His voice was soft and his eyes were enigmatic, his face sad.