Naamah's Curse (52 page)

“It would be my honor,” I said truthfully.

The temple of Sakyamuni the Enlightened One in Rasa was like and unlike temples I had seen in Ch’in. It was a pagoda, but built on a sturdier scale, built to endure against the harsh elements. In the courtyard outside, there were great, gilded bronze urns that rotated on tall spindles. Dorje told me that there were prayers written inside them, that with each turn of the urn, it sent a prayer up to Heaven. I had seen pilgrims carrying smaller versions, spinning them as they prayed.

“Turn them, Moirin. All of them.”

I did.

They were surprisingly heavy, although they turned smoothly. One by one, I spun each urn, placing my hands on their etched surfaces and pushing.

“Maghuin Dhonn, forgive me,” I murmured. “Naamah, too. But I am alone in a strange place. I will accept the aid of any god willing to offer it.”

The urns turned, rattling.

Prayers arose, fluttering.

It felt so very real—the prayers arising, the prayer-flags fluttering here in the Abode of the Gods. I gazed upward into the blue sky, my spirit soaring. Dorje’s hands tugged at me.

“Inside,” he said. “Come.”

Inside the temple, it was smoky and dense, the air thick with incense. I stifled a cough, breathing shallowly. At Dorje’s insistence, I put money in a coin-box to purchase a bundle of incense, lighting it and thrusting it into the ornate offering tray before the altar. The altar held an effigy of Sakyamuni, and a smaller effigy of a woman, both with expressions of profound peace on their faces.

“Guanyin?” I asked, indicating the female effigy. In Ch’in, she was known as She Who Hears Our Prayers. Dorje shook his head.

“Tara,” said a new voice, high and youthful. I glanced over to see a young monk—a boy, really, scarce older than Dash, his head shaved, his slender figure draped in the crimson and saffron robes of his order.

Dorje bowed to him, and I followed suit. The boy bowed in response, addressing Dorje in his clear voice.

“This is Tashi Rinpoche.” Dorje sounded awed and nervous. “He is one of the
tulkus
, Moirin. A great teacher who has been reborn.”

“He’s just a boy,” I whispered.

“Yes.” He licked his lips as though they had gone dry. “But he has lived many lives. He says he has a message for you.”

“Oh?”

The boy monk smiled and approached me. Despite his youthful features, his wide-set eyes had an extraordinary depth. There was a gentle wisdom in them that reminded me of Master Lo, and too, a purity of faith and trust that reminded me of Aleksei, although they followed very different paths. He spoke at length, never removing his gaze from mine.

“Tashi Rinpoche says you are not wrong,” Dorje murmured. “Tara and Guanyin are different names for the same soul, an Enlightened One who has been born many times since, always returning to help others. In her last incarnation, it was his privilege to serve as one of her earliest teachers, before the pupil surpassed the master. He says—” He broke off to question the boy.

I heard the word “Laysa” repeated several times. It tugged at a thread of memory, but I couldn’t place it.

“Laysa,” the young monk agreed, smiling like the sun.

Dorje licked his lips again. “Tashi Rinpoche says that when you find her incarnation and free her, be sure to tell her that he is here in Rasa waiting for her. He did not mean to be born younger than her this time, but now it all makes sense. She has lost ten years of her life. Although he is still a student himself in this lifetime, he is eager to be reunited with her and resume the studies of their past lifetime.”

“Laysa.” I repeated the name, bewildered. “But I don’t—”

“Remember, Moirin?” Dorje interrupted me. “I told you about her when you first asked about the Falconer.”

I remembered. “The yak-herder’s daughter, the one who was taken.”

“Yes!” He gave me a happy smile. “Tashi Rinpoche says you are the one who must rescue her. Isn’t that wonderful?”

It didn’t feel it.

It felt like a new burden of expectations settling onto my shoulders, heavy enough that I sank to my knees beneath the weight of it, burying my face in my hands. I hadn’t given any thought to the other victims of the bedamned Falconer and his mysterious Spider Queen. All I wanted to do was find my stubborn peasant-boy, free him, and go home, wherever that was. It was more than enough responsibility to carry.

I didn’t want any more.

Tashi Rinpoche was patting my arms and shoulders, trying to comfort me, speaking in a voice as clear as a mountain stream. I gazed up at him. He touched my cheeks, wiping away tears with slender fingers, smiling encouragingly at me.

“He says not to be afraid,” Dorje said softly. “He says that although you are very young in this world, you have a great heart.”

I sighed.

They say the gods use their chosen hard. Apparently, the gods are part of a vast conspiracy to share their chosen, too.

“I will try,” I said to the boy-monk. “If I can find a way, I will do it. But I beg you, do not depend on me.”

He smiled again, replying without waiting for a translation.

I glanced at Dorje. “What did he say?”

Dorje looked grave. “Tashi Rinpoche says he is depending on you. That before your journey is done, many, many people will depend on you. And that it is still only beginning, Moirin. You have a long way yet to go, and many oceans to cross.”

I closed my eyes briefly. “Lucky me.”

I
had a day of grace.

One day before I was scheduled to depart with Manil Datar’s caravan, one day to spend as I wished.

Contrary to what one might expect, I spent it indoors. As much as I loved the wild places of the world, I’d had a surfeit of them—and there was more to come. I passed the day playing with Dorje and Nyima’s daughters, indulging in the kind of revels I’d never known as a young child.

I taught them the Tatar counting word-game I’d learned from my young friend Sarangerel, and they taught me Tufani words in turn.

I let them unbraid and rebraid my hair, winding even more beads into the plaits.

We played at being animals—placid, long-horned yaks, prancing ponies, stalking snow leopards, and even slow-pacing bears.

Nyima watched over us with an indulgent gaze.

Dorje shook his head. “Is this the way great heroines are supposed to behave, Moirin?” he asked me.

“No.” I caught his youngest daughter around the waist, settling her on my lap. She nestled against me, content to toy with my braids. “Not in the slightest. But I did not ask for this. And I cannot be otherwise.”

“I wish you would stay the winter,” he said quietly.

I hugged his daughter, mindful of the insistent call of my
diadh-anam
. “I wish I could, my friend.”

Come the following day, dawn came bright and clear. I’d said my good-byes the night before. The girls had wailed, but they would forget me quickly enough. At such an age, children do. Nyima rose sleepily to brew salty yak-butter tea in the predawn light. I drank it down deep, grateful for its warmth.

Dorje escorted me to join the caravan, fussing over me all the while. “You have the purse I gave you?” he asked for the third time.

“Yes, Dorje.” I patted the folds of my long coat. “Safely hidden.”

“I hope it is enough,” he said in a worried tone. As he had promised, in addition to paying the fare Manil Datar had demanded, Dorje had given me coin he deemed sufficient for a lengthy stay in Bhaktipur. “None of us were certain what value to place on the Imperial medallion. I do not want to think we cheated you, Moirin.”

“I’m sure you didn’t,” I said. “And I am just grateful to know it will not be used in a way that betrays the Emperor’s trust.”

He shook his head vigorously. “No, I will not allow it!”

We found the caravan assembling for departure, an array of men, horses, and heavily laden yaks, breath rising in frosty plumes in the clear dawn air. Manil Datar strode around briskly, making sure all was in readiness. He greeted me with a courteous smile and a Bhodistani salute, which I returned. The porters eyed me with open curiosity, which earned one of them a casual cuff from Datar.

“I do not like the way they look at you, Moirin,” Dorje fretted.

I shrugged. “Men do, Dorje. It looks as though Manil Datar runs his caravan with a firm hand.”

He ignored me. “Look at
that
fellow!” With a subtle jerk of his chin, he indicated a hulking, broad-shouldered man with terrible scars disfiguring his face. “Surely, he means no good.”

The scarred fellow was tending carefully to a yak’s pack-harness. “Why?” I asked. “Because the poor man was injured once?”

Dorje sighed, exhaling a frosty cloud. “I am being foolish, I know. If Tashi Rinpoche is not afraid for you, I should not be. But a monk is not a man with daughters. A man with daughters knows what it is to be afraid. And after seeing you playing with mine, I am afraid for you.”

“I’m afraid for me, too,” I said. “But I still have to go.”

“I know.” He handed me a soft, cloth-wrapped bundle. “
Tsampa
,” he said, referring to a roasted barley-grain mixed with lumps of butter that was a Tufani staple. “Nyima packed it for you in case Manil Datar does not feed you well enough. It is enough to last a few days.” He smiled ruefully. “For a trader’s wife, she does not understand the distances between places very well.”

I tucked it in my pack. “Thank her for me.”

“I will.”

And then Manil Datar gave a sharp whistle and a gesture, indicating that we were ready to depart. He beckoned to me with a pleasant smile, indicating that I should ride beside him. Before I mounted, I gave Dorje a warm hug. “Thank you, my friend. Whenever I need to remember there are good people in the world, you and your family are among those I will surely recall.”

He returned my embrace. “Be safe, Moirin. I hope you find your young man, and if fate wills it, our Laysa, too.”

And with that, I was off once more.

Although the journey would grow more arduous in the days to come, the road leading southward out of Rasa was easily wide enough for two to ride abreast. True to his word, Manil Datar set about teaching me to speak Bhodistani, pointing at objects and naming them in his native tongue, making me repeat the words until I got them right. Horse, yak, saddle. Eyes, ears, nose, mouth. Sky, mountain, path. I had learned a bit of Tufani, which he spoke fluently, and it made the process easier.

I was grateful for his kindness, and he seemed pleased to offer it, although truth be told, given my preferences, I would rather have ridden alone, left to my own thoughts. The encounter with the boy monk Tashi Rinpoche had unsettled me.

When I had set out from Shuntian a year ago, my quest had seemed a simple one. All I wanted to do was cross the steppe and find Bao. And although I’d vastly underestimated the rigors of a Tatar winter, in a way, it
had
been that simple.

Now…

Now I felt like a pair of dice, swept up and shaken in a cup, cast on the gaming table over and over, the stakes growing higher each time.

It seemed like it never ended.

The quest I had undertaken in Ch’in to free the princess and the dragon should have been enough for anyone’s lifetime. But oh, no! Not for Moirin. The Great Khan had betrayed me, the gods had scooped me up and tossed me back onto the gaming table, sending me to Vralia, where the Patriarch of Riva dreamed of destiny, dreamed of a Yeshuite empire built on bloodshed and loathing.

I had put an end to his dream.

I had armed my sweet boy Aleksei with the courage of his convictions that he might continue the fight against his uncle’s vile legacy, raising a voice in favor of love, compassion, and understanding, altering the course of his world.

And yet it wasn’t enough.

No, now I must be shaken and rattled and tossed once more, hurled back into the fray, pitted against this legendary Falconer and his bedamned Spider Queen with her unknown charms that held grown men in thrall. And it was not enough that I find the missing half of my soul, no. A boy-monk with kind, gentle, ancient eyes was depending on me to rescue the reincarnation of one of the Enlightened Ones.