Path of the Eclipse (36 page)

Four days later when the party once again set out to the southeast, it consisted of fifteen men, twenty-eight ponies and six yaks. They went slowly, rarely covering more than thirty li a day, and on days when the wind sliced off the snow at them, less than twenty.

At night the party made camp and mounted guards against robbers, though few such bands were so intrepid as to haunt these ice-bound crags. Saint-Germain won himself a degree of acceptance from the rest by volunteering to stand guard in the latter half of the night.

Near the crest of the range they were surprised by a storm and spent four days huddled in a pilgrims’ house attached to a small lamasery of the Red Robes Order. When the worst had passed they dug themselves out and continued on over the shoulder of the mountains whose crests were lost in the mist and clouds.

It was more than a month after their journey began that the party at last started to descend. The slopes now, while formidable and clad in permanent snow, were less imposing than the peaks behind them. Now the way turned, winding westward. Rock and ice now grudgingly yielded patches of sheltered footing to scrubby trees. Finally, fifty-three days from Lhasa, they came across their first roadside shrine. The guides exclaimed over this, telling the members of the party that it was dedicated to the spirits of the snows, and admonished them to come no farther down the mountain.

A day later they passed a goat boy with his flock, who waved and called out in a strange language which baffled the guides as well as the rest of the party. Gradually flowers appeared on the slopes, a few sparse buds at first, then larger, more luxuriant blossoms. The way was marked by low-growing shrubs, and in the protective crannies and clefts of the stone face of the mountains, trees grew. Now the fur cloaks were necessary only at night, for the days were cool but mild and the wind that blew from the valleys below them was warm, green-smelling, promising a fertile, drowsy summer.

When they reached the second village, the yaks left the train to return with strange-garbed traders to the Land of Snows; these great beasts did not thrive in lower altitudes and heat. The foreigners were glad for the animals, for they had a great deal of goods to carry to Lhasa before the onset of autumn. The guides haggled a reasonable price, and in the morning when the train pushed on, the great long-haired oxen were left behind.

Six days later, nine of the lamas left the train for a Buddhist monastery set back in a deep gorge. The lamas were eager to expand their studies and had promised to peruse the texts kept at that fabled monastery so that they could carry the teachings back to the Yellow Hats four or five years in the future, when the texts had been read and understood. With them went thirteen of the ponies and one of the guides.

Now there were taverns and inns to welcome the travelers and provide them with food and drink as well as the shelter of a roof. Villages mushroomed on the hillsides, squalid, dusty and noisy, a pleasure to see after the frozen majesty of the mountains. Here there were many more men on the road in a wonderful diversity of garments. Often the guides would stop to talk with those coming from the west, and exchanged news with them. More and more were seen the shoulder-slung triple strands that marked members of the Brahmin caste, as well as the distressing wretches known as Untouchables.

“Tomorrow,” the chief guide told Saint-Germain a few days later as they stopped for the night at a good-sized inn near a famous market town, “we must leave you, for our commission now takes us to the south, which is not the way you have elected to go. You will not continue with us, since you have said you desire to press westward back toward your homeland.” He could not entirely conceal the relief he felt at this. “If you require another guide, I will do what I can to be certain you have an honest one.”

Saint-Germain, recalling Tzoa Lem, shook his head. “If my servant and I travel the much-used roads, we should have no trouble going north and west.”

“Let it be as you wish,” the chief guide said, acknowledging this with a graceful gesture.

“I am in your debt for your service,” Saint-Germain went on smoothly. “I realize that you were not entirely pleased to have me travel with you.”

“You are…” The chief guide glanced off toward the spires of the mountains. “You are not like us. We were told by the Yellow Hats that you have great magical powers.”

“And you dislike magicians?” Saint-Germain suggested, unable to keep the sadness out of his voice.

“It is not that, precisely,” the chief guide said, still unable to meet the foreigner’s eyes. “You did not eat with us.”

“That is the way of my kind,” was the gentle reminder.

“And you brought no food,” the chief guide added, making it almost an accusation.

“True enough, but my servant hunted. Once or twice he brought fresh meat to you.” He permitted himself to give the man a thin smile, enough to make it seem that the guide was acting foolishly.

Apparently the strategy succeeded, for the chief guide rose and gave Saint-Germain a formal bow. “It is unfortunate that our paths diverge here,” he said with dignity.

Saint-Germain returned the bow. “You did well. In gratitude I have left a token for you.” The token, he thought, would more than satisfy the guide, as it was a topaz, the size of his thumb. “Do me the honor of accepting it for the service you have rendered me.”

The chief guide nodded once, then started away from the table. Then he paused and turned back. “Revered One,” he said somewhat shamefacedly, “you are not familiar with this place, and there are those on the roads who profess themselves to be willing companions upon the road, but who are there to make sacrifice.”

“Indeed?” Saint-Germain raised his brows, recalling such an encounter many, many years before. “You wish to warn me of the Thuggi?”

“You know of them?” the chief guide asked with a curious mixture of relief and disquiet in his voice.

“Something of them, yes.” He folded his hands on the rough table. “Do you seek to warn me that they are active again?”

“Yes.” The chief guide moved a little closer to the table. “The trader I spoke with yesterday on the road told me that to the west there have been many incidents of travelers garroted. It is because of the invaders from the West, they say, those who are part of the Delhi Califate. The ones who worship the true gods wish to avenge the insults done to their holy ones, and so the sacrifices increase.”

“And the nearer to the Delhi Califate one comes, I suppose the greater the danger?” Saint-Germain gave an enigmatic smile. “Well, I thank you for your concern and the warning. My servant and I will take great care, I assure you. Again, I have you to thank for guiding me to safety.”

The chief guide still hesitated. “You will go where, Revered One?”

“Eventually, I will go to Shiraz in Persia, and from there I will make my way to Damascus, and from there I will go into my homeland.” His expression for one instant was remote.

“There are rumors that Persia is at war,” the chief guide warned him.

“I will be on my guard.” He rose, indicating that he no longer wished to discuss the various dangers of travel. “I fear, chief guide, that you are seeking to persuade me that traveling with you would be the safer course.”

There was a kind of horror in the man’s eyes. “No. No, that is not my object.” He recovered quickly and made a self-deprecatory gesture. “It is simply that one who is a teacher of the Yellow Hats and a great magician cannot simply be abandoned in an unknown country.”

“Not quite unknown,” Saint-Germain promised him. “I have been in these lands before.” It had been a long time, though, and Saint-Germain could not entirely free himself from apprehension.

“You will know to be on guard then.” The flicker of relief was in the chief guide’s eyes again, and he stepped back, eager to be gone now that he had discharged his obligation to the foreigner. “There will be four ponies to carry you, and the innkeeper will provide you with … whatever supplies you might need.” He turned quickly then, glad to be gone from the perplexing stranger who had earned the respect of the Yellow Hats.

When the chief guide was gone, Rogerio came out of the inn to the table where Saint-Germain sat. “We continue west?”

“Yes.” Saint-Germain gestured to the bench the chief guide had vacated. “Sit down. This may be the last chair you see for some time.” He was slightly amused, but there was a more somber set to his face than there had been when he had talked with the chief guide.

Obediently Rogerio sank onto the bench. “I’ve arranged for grain for the ponies and three waterskins. Though neither you nor I have much need of them,” he added in Greek.

“Better to have them,” Saint-Germain responded in the same language. “It raises less suspicion. The ponies might use them. Be certain that we have proper bedrolls, as well. I don’t know what manner of housing we will find to the west.” He gazed along the rising slope of the mountains, into the haze that turned the distance an oddly yellow-tinged blue. “In Shiraz we can rest. Next year, or the year after, we will go to my homeland.”

Rogerio nodded, his eyes turned toward the west with his master’s.

“Do you miss it?” Saint-Germain asked some little time later.

“Yes,” Rogerio admitted. “And you?”

“Yes.”

When they returned to the earthen-walled inn, the shadows were long and the breeze had become chilly. In the largest room the travelers who had stopped here for the night were gathered around a central fire pit where chunks of mutton fat sizzled on spits. The landlord greeted them with inviting smiles.

“You come,” he said, pointing toward the company gathered to eat. “Very good. Food.” He patted his belly, grinning and gesturing to indicate how much the fare would please them.

Though Saint-Germain spoke few words of the local dialect, he was able to decline politely, indicating that it was not his custom to dine in the presence of others. He acknowledged the others around the fire pit with a gracious half-bow, then passed on to his rooms.

“How long has it been since you have … dined?” Rogerio asked once they were in their rooms.

“You know the answer as well as I do.” He leaned back on two of his few remaining bags of earth. “I fear what might happen when these are gone,” he said, frowning. “Without them to sustain me … I think perhaps it will be best if we travel at night, my friend.”

Rogerio turned and regarded Saint-Germain. “At night?”

“It will help conserve my strength,” he said, with a look of distaste. “There is no one to take me as a lover, and no one I desire, not here. The blood of animals, well, you understand the limitations. So we will travel at night.” He started to sit up, then dropped back on the bags. “I have nine of these only. It has been more than a thousand years since I’ve been quite this vulnerable.” His mind went back to a squalid cell under the stands of the Circus Maximus. He had been imprisoned there, and could recall being grateful for the dark.

“And the ponies?” Rogerio was arranging their few spare garments in the red Roman chest. “Will you wish to use them?”

“For the time being. We still have high country to cross, and they manage well in this terrain. Later, we’ll replace them with other animals. Horses perhaps, or mules.” He stared up at the low ceiling. “I think it will be best if we settle with the innkeeper tonight. I will handle that. He might ask questions of you, but he won’t of me.” There was a suggestion of a smile on his wry mouth.

“When do you wish to leave?” The chest was almost in order and Rogerio set out two woolen cloaks. “There are rents in the lining, but I haven’t the materials to repair them.”

“No matter,” Saint-Germain said. He closed his eyes and endeavored to make himself comfortable on the bags of earth. “Wake me at moonrise and I will deal with the innkeeper.”

When he rose, some hours later, the inn was quiet but for occasional snores, and the muffled cries and tussle of lovers from a room down the hall. Saint-Germain dressed simply in his accustomed black, and at the last moment, belted on the katana Saito Masashige had given him. Even as he chided himself for being overcautious, he tested the blade in its scabbard to be sure he could draw it swiftly.

The innkeeper was shocked to see his foreign guests preparing to depart. Distress contorted his features, and he did his best to try to explain to Saint-Germain why it was unwise to leave. “Night demons,” he insisted, spreading out his arms and hooking his fingers like talons. “Attack travelers. Steal money. Drink blood.”

Saint-Germain’s sad laughter horrified the innkeeper. “I am not afraid,” he said gently, and gave the man a silver coin.

“The Revered One will be…” He did not know the words, but he made a bludgeoning motion with his joined hands.

In answer, Saint-Germain put his hand to the hilt of the katana. “I do not fear demons. And this will take care of robbers.”

With a lifting of his arms that was clearly intended to let the gods know that he had done all that he could, the innkeeper went to the door, assuming his usual servile eagerness. “If the Revered One so wishes.”

“Distressing though it may be, I do wish it,” Saint-Germain said in a very high-caste dialect. He motioned to Rogerio. “My servant has a number of things to load upon our animals, and then we will be gone and will not trouble you again.” He motioned to Rogerio to follow him as he stepped outside.

It was chilly, but not unpleasantly so. A few night birds were singing, and aside from one crashing sound in the woods, nothing disturbed the hour. Saint-Germain stood looking up at the sky, marking out the constellations, thinking back to all the various names he had heard them called over the years. He traced out the way north, looking for the Pole Star, but the rising bulk of the mountains cut him off. On the high, frozen plateau of the Land of Snows, he had spent one or two nights watching the slow wheeling of the stars overhead, and had marveled at the clarity and brightness of them. Here the stars seemed less distinct. He smiled slightly, enjoying the darkness.

“My master…” Rogerio said at his elbow.

“Are we ready?” Saint-Germain asked without turning.