Path of the Eclipse (41 page)

Rajah Dantinusha hesitated, watching Saint-Germain carefully. “If I make this demand of you, foreigner, will you agree that it is just?”

“I will accept your terms,” Saint-Germain said carefully.

“That is not quite the same thing,” the Rajah admonished him.

“No, it is not.” His eyes were on Dantinusha’s and he did not look away.

“Very well,” the Rajah said at last. “You will not agree that it is just, but you are willing to accept the terms.” He held out the scroll to the black-clad foreigner. “What do you wish to teach us?”

Saint-Germain glanced toward the window. “I will tell you a tale, Great Lord, and you will judge its wisdom.” He thought this whole interrogation was foolish, but could not afford to antagonize these men. He had no desire to have to travel westerward until he had made careful preparations.

“What will be the thrust of the tale?” the Rajah asked, beginning to enjoy the foreigner.

“I will not tell you that, Great Lord. If there is wisdom, you will not have to have it pointed out to you.” His expression was gently sardonic. “If there is some doubt, you may wish to confer when I have finished.”

“And if there is no agreement,” Guristar said haughtily, “then you can claim that we were incapable of understanding.”

“Be silent, Guristar,” Rajah Dantinusha ordered in a tone that tolerated no contradiction.

The Commander of the guard fell silent but from the set of his features, he did not intend to listen to anything Saint-Germain said.

“There was a boy,” Saint-Germain began after a moment, “who may have been a Prince, but did not lead a princely life. He was given to the leader of a caravan and taken into the mountains, to a place far from his home, and it was apparent that he was to remain in this distant and isolated place his life long. Though the men of the caravan were without malice toward the boy, they did what they had been paid to do, for otherwise they could not continue to trade with the boy’s homeland.”

“Traders will tolerate anything if there is profit in it,” the Brahmin said to Rajah Dantinusha. “We have heard this often.”

“Let him continue,” the Rajah said, raising his hand for silence.

Guristar looked away from the throne and from Saint-Germain. There were scented oil lamps hanging about the room which had been recently lit, and these held the Commander of the guard’s attention with rapt and mendacious fascination while Saint-Germain went on.

“These traders were the only link the boy had with his home and his people, and because it was late in the season, the boy was able to persuade his hosts to let the traders remain through the long winter. The hosts were kindly men in their way, and did not too much resist the request made of them: the traders were secretly glad to have found shelter for the winter, as the mountains were treacherous. Now, these men in this mountain citadel had many animals, especially cats, and the boy often found himself the companion of a large soot-colored cat with topaz eyes, and having no other real confidant, he gave all his thoughts to this aninal. And the cat watched him with his topaz eyes, in the self-contained manner of his kind.”

“Buddha spoke against cats,” the poet Jaminya observed.

“He is not the only one to do so,” Saint-Germain responded urbanely. “Cats are curious beings.” He met the Rajah’s eyes and went on. “In the spring the traders prepared to move on, and the boy was filled with anger and fear, for now he would be truly alone. It seemed to him a great betrayal that these men would leave him and perhaps never return. He climbed to the parapet of the citadel and poured out his fury to the cat, saying that he could not endure the isolation. And in his wrath, he hurt himself. The cat fled swiftly and silently; far down the mountain the boy could see the caravan falter. His ire faded at once and he wept joyously, for though he knew that the caravan must have experienced some misfortune, he knew, also, that he would not be left quite alone.”

“Did this boy have a name?” the Brahmin Rachura inquired, not quite politely. He touched the threefold cord of his rank and waited.

A face rose in Saint-Germain’s mind, a face he had not seen for more than a thousand years, but the memory of loss was still sharp within him. “I will call him Kosrozd,” Saint-Germain said quietly. “It may or may not have been his name.”

“Persian?” the merchant Qanghozan asked, startled.

“Yes.” He was still for a moment as the recalled impressions of Rome faded. “As it turned out, within the hour the cat had returned, and not far behind him came the caravan. The guide had fallen and was quite seriously injured. The good men of the citadel took the party in and ministered to the guide. By the time his broken bones had knit and the guide was once again able to travel, winter was upon them, and the boy was able to enjoy the company of the traders through the dark of the year. He deceived himself willfully, pretending that the traders would stay at the citadel forever and he would not be entirely alone among strangers. He told this to the soot-colored cat during the long night, and the cat watched him with his topaz eyes.

“Of course, spring came, and the caravan once again made ready to depart. The boy, who now had the downy cheeks of approaching manhood, was thrown into the darkest despair, so that all his life stretched before him as desolate as the Arabian sands at night. He could take pleasure in nothing; learning, dance, the delights of the table and the flesh had no lure for him. He thought only of the terrible solace of final silence, and on the day the caravan was to depart he climbed to the watchtower of the citadel and held the black cat, telling it of his misery, saying that he wished he had the courage to jump and dash out his miserable brains on the stones far beneath his vantage place. At this the cat leaped up and sped away.”

“What consolation is there in his leaving?” the Brahmin asked.

“None,” Saint-Germain responded at once. “But almost at once there was a sound of thunder in the mountains, and a great avalanche rumbled and shattered down the slopes, destroying the road on which the caravan had to travel. And so, for a second time, the kindly men of this citadel took the traders in, and side by side they worked to rebuild the road that led out of the mountain fastness to the fertile plains. The youth worked with them most diligently, for he could not escape an inner chagrin; he blamed himself for the misfortunes that had kept the traders with him even as he took delight in their presence. He was so industrious that many looked to him for leadership, and praised him for his efforts, which filled him with shame. By the time the road was completely repaired, winter had come again, and the traders had to delay their departure until spring arrived. The youth was much in their company, savoring every hour, hoping to assuage the long years alone that were to come, for he knew that he would soon have to say farewell to them, no matter how much he wished them to stay. Though he could not harden his heart, he tried to persuade himself that the loss of his countrymen would not be intolerable. He poured out his confusion to the soot-colored cat, who watched with topaz eyes.

“In course of time it was spring and the caravan made ready to depart. The youth was filled with sorrow, for he knew without doubt that when the traders were gone, his last link with his own kind would be broken. He took the cat and climbed to the peak of the highest roof in the citadel and watched as the traders made their way down the new road. The soot-colored cat regarded him, ready to spring away at a word.”

Rajah Dantinusha leaned back against the pillows of his throne and allowed himself to smile. Wisdom or nonsense, he liked tales of this sort, and remembered fondly the ones he had been told as a child. He noticed that Saint-Germain had stopped, and motioned him to resume the tale.

Saint-Germain inclined his head to the Rajah. “At last the caravan passed from sight and the youth wrenched his tear-filled eyes away from the empty road. He reached out gratefully to the soot-colored cat, finding solace in the presence of the animal. The cat allowed the youth to stroke him for a few moments, blinking his eyes slowly in his contentment. Then he rose, stretched, and bounded away over the roofs of the citadel, and was never seen again.”

The room was quiet. The merchant Qanghozan shifted uneasily on his feet and tried to avoid notice. Jaminya smiled knowingly as the silence lengthened.

“Yes?” Rajah Dantinusha said impatiently when it was clear that Saint-Germain was not going to say more until prompted. “What happened then?”

“I don’t know, Great Lord,” Saint-Germain said rather apologetically. “That is all of the tale there is.”

Guristar gave a snort. “It was as I predicted. There is nothing in the story, and what you wish to make of it is the only wisdom it can offer.”

“It has been my experience,” Saint-Germain said diffidently, “that this is true of everything. Whatever meaning it has is what we give to it.”

Jaminya grinned. “So I have often thought,” he agreed, eyeing Guristar covertly. “If there is a meaning and a form, it is known only to the gods, who reign for millions upon millions of years.”

Rachura was clearly offended. “There is karma and the attainment of perfection. The Enlightened Ones perceive it.”

“It is possible,” Saint-Germain conceded. “Yet there are few who are enlightened: most of the world walks in darkness.”

Before Rachura could speak again, Rajah Dantinusha interrupted him, and the others in the throne room were still. “I have been considering what I have heard, and this is my decision: you, Shih Ghieh-Man, or Saint-Germain, whatever you call yourself, may remain here in my principality for the space of a year, at which time I will review your accomplishments. Guristar may be right, and you are clever with words that hint at much, but reveal nothing. It may be that you are one of those whose merit is not known until long after you teach. I will not decide that for some time. In that time you will live here, for I cannot allow you to be unobserved—”

Though it was unheard-of, Saint-Germain interjected a comment. “Great Lord, I know it is a most desirable honor to be close to you, and I am profoundly grateful that you should extend your hospitality to me. However, there are those who will not speak kindly of you for taking a foreigner into your house. They will fear that you are being influenced by those from beyond your borders. You know far better than I how perilous these times are. I would be loath to bring any misfortune to you because my presence here caused needless suspicion to fall on you.” He did not add that he had no desire to be closely watched. Household spies were inevitable, but he was determined to maintain as much privacy as possible.

Dantinusha’s face had hardened. “What you say is true, and it is, for you, quite convenient.”

“On the contrary,” Saint-Germain said at once. “You live in a splendid palace with more slaves and servants than any other person in your principality. My studies are arduous and nothing would suit me more than having access to the records and the assistance of those who serve you.” That, he told himself, was true enough. “However, it would benefit neither you nor me, Great Lord, to have rumors spreading that would override any advantages that my presence might have.”

“So you maintain,” Guristar snapped, his eyes kindled with anger. “And you wish to do your evil work where none may watch you. You think to conceal your intent with this pretty lie, but it will not work, foreigner.”

Saint-Germain turned to the Commander of the guard, hesitating in order to master his temper. “If you are offering me servants to spy on me,” he said in a dangerously even tone, “I will not refuse them. I have assumed that there will be reports made of my activities, no matter where I live, or with whom.” His small hands were tight at his sides, but there was nothing in his face now that would reveal how near he had come to giving way to his rage.

“Both of you: stop at once,” Dantinusha ordered, sounding more tired than incensed. “I have trouble enough without you bickering in this petty way.” He rubbed at his lower lip. “I have said that you, Saint-Germain, may stay here for a year. I will not rescind my offer. I have suggested that you live here at my palace, and the disadvantages you have mentioned are genuine—they are, Guristar, and you would be the first to warn me of these consequences of having a foreigner here if Saint-Germain had not mentioned it before you had the opportunity.” He looked up at the elaborately ornamented ceiling. He wished that the old jeweler Nandalas had never told him about the jewels or the foreigner who had brought them. It was not possible to ignore either of them, but he wished that instead of conducting this tedious interview, he was in the company of his new concubine, spending the evening not in debate but in the varied pleasures of the body. He had few of the luxuries his grandfathers had enjoyed, but he still had women and boys in abundance.

“You cannot allow him to live away from you!” Guristar exploded.

“I realize that,” Rajah Dantinusha said, his attention once again directed to the matter at hand. “Something must be done.”

“There is prison,” Guristar said nastily.

The idea had occurred to Dantinusha, but he had rejected it, for if this foreigner were a spy, his masters would learn soon enough what had become of him, and would send others in his place, others who would be less easily detected. “And if I order him to prison, or have him executed, what do I gain? There is no peace of mind to be had in this affair, no matter what I do.” He glowered at a space on the wall and set his teeth. “It is of no matter. Something must be done.” He directed his gaze at Saint-Germain and was both relieved and disappointed that the foreigner did not quail under the force of his eyes. “Suppose I made one of my country estates available to you? What then?”

This was becoming even more difficult, and Saint-Germain chose his words with care. “Whatever you, Great Lord, decide is the most appropriate solution, I, as a foreigner and guest in your country, will comply with your wishes with gratitude. The objections I raised previously might still pertain, for I would be, in effect, a guest in your house. You might prefer to send me to one of your brothers or cousins…”