The Path (14 page)

Xiao-nan was glad when the priest left. She did not like him. She tried to see him with the eyes of compassion, to think of
him with kind thoughts, but she knew that often she failed. She did not trust him. She did not like the look that came into
his eyes whenever they rested on her sister.

Xiao-nan carried the tea things back into the kitchen for her mother, then she returned to the garden, back to the place where
she and MacLeod had sat together a short time ago. It
made him seem closer—and it was a nearness Xiao-nan wanted.

She was glad she had not needed to lie to her father’s question earlier; she truly did not know what reason had brought MacLeod
to Tibet.
It was his karma to come here
, she thought.
That is enough
. But she would have lied if she needed—not to her father, but to Father Edward.

He is like a cat who waits at the mouse hole
, she thought, sitting on the little stone bench where MacLeod had sat,
and we are the mice. Someday soon he will bare his teeth and show us his fangs
.

Xiao-nan bent forward and trailed her fingers in the water, softly stirring up the fountain’s pool. The white lilies bobbed
on the gentle waves, serene and untroubled, riding on top of the disturbance. Xiao-nan told herself that she should likewise
rise above the turbulent thoughts Father Edward caused her.

Father Jacques, the other priest, created no such misgivings. He was a kind, soft-spoken man with eyes as gentle as a doe’s.
Father Jacques did not walk the Path of Enlightenment as her people did, and that made Xiao-nan sad for his sake. But his
wit was sharp and Xiao-nan often enjoyed stopping to talk with him—if Father Edward was not nearby.

It seems he is always somewhere near
, Xiao-nan thought with irritation.
Like today. What right did he have to come here and question my father, question me, about Duncan?

She smiled as she thought his name. “Duncan,” she said it aloud, enjoying the sound of it, the feel of it. “Dark Chieftain.”

She had been right when she said it suited him. It did not matter that another led his tribe, he was the type of man people
always followed. He would create his own tribe wherever he went.

She knew that she would follow him; already her heart was won. But why? she wondered. Why did he touch her heart in a way
all others had failed to do? She was not given to quick passions, like Mingxia. At fourteen, her sister had already imagined
herself in love three times. Young boys danced around her like otters in a waterfall.

Xiao-nan was different. Through the years young men had
come into her life and gone again, disappointed that she could feel for them nothing more than a distant compassion. She had
even entertained the thought of leaving the world and withdrawing into the life of seclusion, of
samgha
, and to seek Enlightenment as a Buddhist nun.

But now there was MacLeod and her heart was alive, truly alive for the first time. She felt as if all of her years she had
been holding her breath and now, suddenly, the air flowed through her, sweet and fragrant and free.

“Duncan MacLeod,” she said his name again, enjoying the slight tremble of joy that shot through her. “Duncan MacLeod.”

For her, it was the name of love.

Nasiradeen Satish stood amid the opulence of the royal court of Nepal, but he held himself distant, watching the people around
him through slightly narrowed eyes. He looked with disdain at the soft bodies swathed in fine linens, silks, and brocades,
and at the jewels worn by men and women alike.

Two hundred years ago, when he was but a century old, he would have looked at these people with envy. He would have seen their
wealth, their status, and the power he assumed it brought to them. But in those years, the memory of his beginnings was still
fresh.

Now, as he stood among the court, he felt only contempt. There was not a warrior here; the men were as soft and spoiled as
the women. From the boy-King and his regents through the lowest courtesan, Nasiradeen had no use for any of them.

Nasiradeen saw the men eyeing him warily from time to time, as they might a caged beast. He knew he was the object of their
speculation—and their fear. He did not care; he reveled in it. Love, loyalty; these could be won or lost. They could, for
the right price, be bought and sold like commodities. But fear—that fed upon itself. It was a seed that once planted grew
like an incipient weed, sending out its tendrils into every thought, every feeling. To win someone’s fear was to win true
power, true control.

He drew his lips back in the barest of smiles. His teeth showed in startling whiteness against the tawny darkness of his skin.
Those nearest him turned quickly away, sidling cautiously farther out of reach. Though he was dressed as sumptuously as any
of them, they knew he was not tamed.

The women, too, watched him carefully, but it was not fear he saw in their eyes. They looked at his lean, muscular body, his
height, his obvious wealth, and they whispered to one another
behind their hands.
Trading stories, perhaps
, he thought wryly, knowing his skills in the bedroom were almost as legendary as his prowess on the battlefield.

And why not?
he thought, pleased with himself.
I’m no eunuch—and I’ve had a long time to learn the ways of pleasure
.

He had no trouble finding companions for his bed, either. Oh, he took care never to deflower a virgin unless he was going
to add her to his household, but that did not mean other women were not available—and not temple whores or women of the streets.
He preferred other men’s wives. As an Immortal, Nasiradeen knew he would father no children, and if a man could not keep his
wife content enough to stay at home…

He was a hunter and they the prey, and their conquest was as sweet as a blood-kill.

A slow smile crept across his face as he thought of the night just passed. Last night the wife of Sandep Kumar, the King’s
third regent, had warmed his bed. That had been especially pleasant; Nasiradeen hated Kumar.

The old fool’s no doubt too fat to please any woman
, the Gurkha leader thought. But Nasiradeen knew he had pleased Kumar’s wife—her squeals of delight had told him so, as had
her increasingly eager participation. She had pleased him as well. She was young, but not a child, and well fleshed. Yes,
she was a pleasant diversion while he waited to invade Tibet.

“You smile like a wolf who has found a lamb,” the King’s immature voice sliced through his thoughts. Amused by the image,
the King laughed. The sound was high and fluting as a girl’s. Nasiradeen silently ground his teeth together.

The King beckoned to him with a plump, bejeweled hand. “Come over here and tell Us what has made you smile such a smile,”
he called out.

Nasiradeen left the wall against which he had been leaning and strode across the room, pleased by the way the people of the
court scampered to clear a path before him. Their eyes betrayed their nervousness as he walked past them, hand on the hilt
of his ever-present sword.
Little sheep
, he thought to them.
Yes, I am a wolf in your fold
.

When he reached the King, he bowed with an elegant flourish, then went down on one knee before the throne.

“I smiled to be in your presence, my King,” he flattered the
young man, “and to see you in a state of such obvious health and happiness. Indeed, what else could bring a smile to a face
such as mine? Warriors do not smile easily, my King.”

“Then what a dreary life warriors must have,” the King replied somewhat dryly.

“Not so, my King,” Nasiradeen said.

The others have been at him again
, the Gurkha thought quickly,
trying to undo all my work. I almost had him convinced of the glory and wanting to be a warrior
. Nasiradeen knew he had to find a way to recapture the young King’s imagination.

“A warrior’s life is far from dreary, Sire,” he said. “It is just that our pleasures differ from those of ordinary men. Like
your father, Your Majesty is far from ordinary. Surely, you of all men know what it is to be bored.”

“Yes, that is so,” the young King said with a sigh.

Nasiradeen dared to lean closer, as if inviting the King into a personal conspiracy. “There is no boredom on the battlefield,
my King,” he said softly, pulling the King’s attention in with his eyes. “On the battlefield the heart pounds, the blood races
with life, all the senses are sharp. And
victory
—ah, nothing is more sweet than to see the enemy kneeling at your feet, to taste their fear in the air and to know that their
fate hangs by your word.

“This is a warrior’s pleasure, and I can give it to you, my King,” he continued. “It is a pleasure more intoxicating than
honeyed wine.”

The young King licked his lips, as if tasting the words. There was a slight flush high on his down-covered cheeks.

I have him
, Nasiradeen thought.
He’s mine
.

“The esteemed Nasiradeen, your general, speaks well of a warrior’s
pleasures,”
Sandep Kumar, the King’s regent, said as he stepped forward from where he had stood listening behind the throne. “But he
does not mention a warrior’s
life
. He does not tell you of the long hours in the saddle or days of wearing filthy, uncomfortable clothes. He does not mention
the discomfort of camp life, of inclement weather, cold nights, and poor food.”

Nasiradeen shot a look of loathing at the regent. “There speaks an
ordinary
man, my King,” he said, “concerned only
with ordinary comfort and ordinary pleasure. What can
he
know of glory?

“But you, my King,” once more Nasiradeen lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “you are not an ordinary man. In you
the blood of Pathvi Narayan Shah runs true. Like your father, you are called to greater things than
ordinary
men.”

But Kumar’s words had done their work. Although the boy still listened to Nasiradeen, his attention wandered, and his eyes
scanned the room as if looking for the next diversion.

Nasiradeen was furious with Kumar, though a part of him acknowledged a strategy well played. The Immortal let his voice trail
off, then bowed himself out of the King’s presence. The boy looked slightly relieved to see him go.

I will not wait on your whims much longer
, Nasiradeen thought as he returned to his place by the wall where he could watch the court without having to participate.
Soon I will invade Tibet whether or not I have your support—and the army will follow
me.
If you refuse to be my ally in this, then when I have conquered Tibet you will learn what it means to have Nasiradeen as an
enemy
.

As for Kumar
… The Immortal’s gaze shifted to the corpulent regent still standing by the King’s side, gloating at his victory over the
Gurkha.
I will enjoy exacting my revenge. I already have his young wife in my bed. After I win Tibet, I will find a way to claim his
fortune as well
.

With that thought, Nasiradeen smiled again—and those nearest him backed farther away at the sight.

The Dalai Lama and Duncan MacLeod were at that moment sitting in the Potala gardens discussing that day’s lesson. The sun
was shining through the trees, and they sat in a pool of dappled light. The Dalai Lama watched Duncan fondly as he pulled
bits of the grass on which he sat, twirling them between his fingers as he concentrated on what he was hearing. The Dalai
Lama knew he felt a deepening affection for this man and marveled that this feeling had developed so quickly.

“No, Duncan MacLeod,” he was saying in answer to MacLeod’s last question. “Nirvana is not like the heaven of which the missionaries
speak. It is not a
place
one enters upon death, although for the Enlightened there is the final liberation
from
samsara
. But Nirvana is a
state—of
the soul, yes; but also of the mind. And it is not only for certain people. Anyone can achieve Nirvana.”

“If it is a
state
, as you say, then can it be attained here on Earth, by those still living?”

The young man smiled; rarely, in all of his incarnations, had he been blessed with a student so astute or so challenging.

“The answer to your question is both yes and no,” he said. “Nirvana is both an emptying and a filling, where nothing exists
and all exists. It is for the present, and it is for the eternal.”

“Your Holiness, you talk in riddles,” Duncan said, throwing down the blades of grass between his fingers. “How can an ordinary
man ever hope to understand such things?”

“By laying aside old thoughts and teaching the mind a new way. It takes training, yes. It is not easy, the Path to Enlightenment.
But you have trained your body in the use of your sword, have you not?”

The young man laughed at the look on Duncan’s face. “Oh yes, Duncan MacLeod,” he said. “I know of the sword you keep among
your belongings. I know also about the movements you do each morning and evening. You do these to keep your body strong and
supple, do you not?”