Grandmaster (A Suspense and Espionage Thriller) Page 8

  "The other Black Hats stood, rooted, fearful for their own lives. But when Patanjali rose, he carried only the leaf that the Shaman had plucked for him in derision, and placed it on the forehead of the dead sorcerer. It healed the wound without a mark. The snake disappeared, and Patanjali's hand was restored.

  "The Shaman, again whole, left Amne Xachim with the other Black Hats in shame. But the others bowed to Patanjali and praised him, saying 'Hail to thee, O Wearer of the Blue Hat.'"

  Justin was transfixed. "Is that true?" he whispered.

  "No one knows," Tagore said, smiling. "It is true that Patanjali lived, some two hundred years before the beginning of your calendar, and was believed, as we of Rashimpur believe now, to be the incarnate spirit of Brahma. It is true that he adopted the symbol of the coiled snake as his talisman, and the amulet that he wore has come down to us through the centuries. It is a powerful medallion, suffused with the spirit of the highest god, and may be worn with safety only by the true reincarnation of Brahma himself."

  Justin blinked. "How do you know who that is?"

  "Toward the end of his life, Patanjali invited a small core of his followers who were trained in the discipline of yoga to join him in Amne Xachim. They did, forsaking their worldly lives, and they transformed the cave into the monastery of Rashimpur. Before he died, he spoke of his spirit entering the body of a newborn infant. When that child was found, he was shown a number of objects, among them precious stones, toys, and ordinary rocks, covered in cloth. The amulet of the coiled snake was so covered. Yet the child grasped it immediately. Like you, he remembered small things of Patanjali's life. He grew to become the most holy of men and named his own successor on his death. The practice has continued to this day."

  "But how does he know?"

  The fire lay smoldering in its ashes. "My son, that is something only the Wearer of the Blue Hat can know."

  They lay down in the cave. Outside, the wind from Amne Xachim howled. "Tagore?" Justin asked from the darkness.

  "Yes."

  "Did someone pick me?"

  "Yes," Tagore said. "Ten years ago, on the date of your birth. His name was Sadika. With his last words, he dispatched us to find you. 'A small boy with eyes the color of blue ice,' he told us, for he knew we would not find you for many years. He instructed us to look for a boy from the West, one who learns of death from the game of shah mat."

  "Shah mat?"

  "Persian words. They mean 'the king is dead.' You call the game chess."

  They slept that night and awoke the next day. Tagore wrapped himself and the boy in heavy cloaks and bound their heads and feet with the strips of cloth from the bottom of the silver casket.

  "For the cold," he said. Then he replaced the casket in the wall and lifted the heavy stone back into place.

  At the foot of Amne Xachim he knelt and said a simple prayer.

  The climb to Rashimpur took four days. They traveled on a narrow footpath winding up the northern slope of Amne Xachim. They walked night and day, resting only when the boy could walk no farther.

  Justin had grown thin and pale. The hunger in his belly gnawed at him like a living thing. When he slept, he dreamed only of death.

  It was the same dream, recurring on each of the three nights of the journey. In it, he lay deep in a pit on foreign ground, straining to hear the songs of birds overhead for the last time as shovelfuls of earth crashed around his face. There was no pain in the dream, but a deep terror permeated every fiber of his body. For above him in the dream stood a man whose face he could see clearly, a man he had never met, yet whose features were oddly familiar. This man, he knew, would bring death, and in the dream that death was all around him, coming closer, curling around the corners of his spirit like gray smoke. Softly death came, as the earth slowly swallowed Justin up, and as it approached, the familiar stranger above him watched and stood guard, protecting death while it wrapped Justin in its soft gray arms.

  He awoke screaming.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Justin tried to focus his eyes. A light drizzle was falling, and the rain felt cool against his fever-blistered skin. The sickness had crept up during the night, after his dream. He had not been able to sleep again.

  An hour before, the starless sky had been pitch black. Now, streams of gray light were filtering through the ropey clouds to the east. With the light came the sounds of birds and insects. With some surprise, Justin saw the sky's reflection not more than a hundred yards from him, shimmering on the surface of a perfectly still lake surrounded by purple blossoms. Above him, the sacred mountain of Amne Xachim flattened abruptly into a shelflike plateau.

  He squinted, hearing his breath hiss hotly out of him. The steep incline leading to the plateau continued farther up the peak, its brown earth and rock graduating to snow and, above the snow, clouds. But on the plateau itself the mountain seemed to form a solid wall of rock. And on the rock was etched what seemed to be the outline of a door.

  "Tagore," he whispered.

  The old teacher rose, staring at Justin's haggard face, stretched taut with fatigue and hunger and fever. He followed the boy's eyes upward to the cliffside.

  "Rashimpur," he said.

  The monastery was barely distinguishable from the mountain cliff. Built into the side of the mountain, Rashimpur sported no pillars, no statues or colored facades. Only the doorway, whose outline Justin had viewed from below, interrupted the smooth wall of rock on the northern face of Amne Xachim.

  "Why is it hidden?" Justin asked, blinking and taking deep breaths to steady himself as they made their way up the nearly vertical slope of the mountain.

  Tagore followed behind closely. "It is hidden because there have always been men for whom faith has been inconvenient or dangerous. Patanjali knew this. Perhaps Brahma himself understood, and so formed the secret cave in which Rashimpur now stands."

  "Do you mean the Black Hats?" Justin asked.

  "It began with the Black Hats. Since the time of Patanjali's duel of magic with the Shamans, the Black Hats gave way to the Red Hats, who claimed to have 'reformed' the rituals of the Black Hats. The Red Hats themselves have been taken over by the Yellow Hats, who were influenced by Christianity. In many areas, Buddhists have adopted our ways, but they do not revere Brahma. In some, as among the Kalmuks and the Buriats of Siberia and in the lamaseries of Mongolia, the czars and Chinese chieftains have sought to destroy the power of the yogis by placing their own men as heads of the monasteries there. And in other places, the old beliefs have been scorned by official decree. We of all the mystical faiths have been driven to live in secrecy by those who would destroy us."

  "Who would do that?" Justin asked.

  "Those who do not understand," Tagore said. "Those who fear any power other than that wielded by government decree. Those who believe that an army of soldiers with guns can erase the teachings of thousands of years."

  "You shouldn't be afraid of stupid people like that."

  Tagore stopped to look down at the boy. "At Rashimpur, many holy persons will come to see you. They will brave the greatest dangers to do so, traveling over harsh ground and bad weather. Still, it is nothing compared with the dangers they face each day, for many of them live in hostile lands where their very lives depend on secrecy. The Kirghiz of Sinkiang, now under the rule of the Chinese, were destroyed completely. So, too, were the lamaseries of Manchuria, because they failed to keep their existence secret. Most of those remaining may do so only in exchange for political favors— the use of roads built for religious purposes, now used as conduits for the military, the use of monks as spies to other lands. Many of our number have faced death rather than succumb to the corrupt demands of these others, preferring to see their monasteries obliterated and their ancient faith buried. It is only by the grace of Brahma that Rashimpur lies protected and hidden by Amne Xachim. No one but those in holy service know of the existence of Rashimpur. It must remain that way until we can live in safety and freedom."

  Justin stumbled ne
ar the top, but Tagore pushed him forward.

  "You must enter Rashimpur on your own strength," he said.

  Justin nodded, trying to steady the trembling in his hands. With a tremendous effort he pulled himself up to the plateau. There, he stood facing the rock face of Rashimpur.

  The air was thin. Justin's head was spinning. His legs buckled, and he dropped to his knees. Tagore knelt beside him.

  "Don't help me," Justin said sharply. "I will walk."

  They entered the stone doorway.

  Justin was dazzled by what lay inside. The walls of the Great Hall, illuminated by the flames from huge torches, were made of pure beaten gold. Its ceiling dome was of intricately wrought silver and encrusted with gemstones, so that the hall seemed to be ablaze with colored lights. The fragrance of almonds permeated the air.

  There was no furniture in the vast hall. Yellow-robed men with shaved heads walked soundlessly on the mirror-smooth stone floor to where Justin and Tagore waited, bowing to both of them. At last a small man, seemingly identical to the others, came over and led them down the long hall to its far wall, which terminated in the massive trunk of a tree.

  "The Tree of the Thousand Wisdoms," Tagore said.

  As they drew nearer, Justin saw that in front of the tree stood a glass casket in which lay the body of an old man, the carefully preserved skin like parchment. The man's hands were folded across his chest, palms up. In his left hand was a diamond the size of a robin's egg. In his right, wound around the corpse's fingers, was the gold chain holding the amulet of the coiled snake.

  "This is Sadika," Tagore said. "We have not buried him for these many years while we have searched for you. If you are the new incarnation of Patanjali and Brahma the Creator, then Sadika will be laid to rest."

  Justin was stunned. "If?" He had come with Tagore for thousands of miles. "If I'm the one? But you said I was."

  "I believe it is so," Tagore said. "But only Sadika himself can know for certain."

  "But he's dead," Justin argued, feeling faint.

  "Our death is not as yours."

  He stared at the dead man, so restful, so at peace. He closed his eyes and again saw the gray smoke of his dream, now curling around the edges of the mans casket, enveloping the body. He opened his eyes and looked up, frightened. The casket was untouched. Tagore was looking only at him.

  "What is it, my son?" he asked, his voice heavy with worry.

  Justin felt heat. His eyes traveled up from the dead man to the tree, the strange dark tree he had seen in the water. Again he closed his eyes, and now he saw the tree burst into bright flame, the stench of burning flesh filling the Great Hall. And above it all loomed the specter of the man in his dream, the face strange yet familiar, watching the proceedings, unleashing the death he had brought with him. He reached out for the face in front of him, but his small hands clutched only at the air. And then he fell forward.

  "Justin!" Tagore called to him, lifting the boy's unconscious body into his arms.

  But Justin couldn't answer. Tagore's voice had come from far away, from another time, long past. For now, there was only fire and death filling the Great Hall, with the stranger, the Prince of Death, presiding over the devastation, guiding Justin toward his real destiny.

  He awoke in a dark stone cell lit only by the flame of a small candle. Over him, Tagore bent, placing cold cloths on Justin's forehead. The old man's features relaxed when he saw Justin's eyes open. "My son," he said gently.

  "How long?" Justin croaked.

  "You have slept for three days."

  He had trouble swallowing. The burning fever had subsided, but the sickness had left him limp and weak. His robes were soaked with sweat and lay twisted around him. Suddenly he sat bolt upright, his eyes wide and glassy. "Rashimpur!" he cried. "The fire—the tree was on fire!"

  "Hush," Tagore whispered, stroking the boy's face. "There has been no fire."

  "There was! I saw it. It was all around. The Great Hall burned."

  "The fire was in your body, burning from the fever." Tagore said. "Rashimpur is in no danger. There was no fire. You have been screaming about fire for these three days, but there is no fire."

  "But the tree—"

  "Silence," Tagore said, daubing the cool cloth over the boy's cheeks. "Those who have come to see you have begun to gather. You must save your strength. In two days' time you must go forth into the Great Hall, prepared to assume the duties left for you by Sadika."

  Justin frowned, trying to pull the blurred image of Tagore into focus. "What duties?"

  "They are to remain unknown to all but you. If you are fit to rule."

  "But... how will you know if I'm fit?" Justin asked.

  "I told you before that Sadika himself will tell us."

  He cautioned the boy to silence and kept vigil over him for the rest of that night and the next day. Justin slept intermittently, accepting small bowls of rice and tea and fighting off the recurrent dreams of the familiar stranger who watched at the moment of his death.

  On the third day, just as the first strings of dawn were seeping through the narrow slitted window of his cell, four monks bearing bowls of water and jeweled caskets entered and knelt before him. They were the same four who had left him with Tagore at the lake below Amne Xachim.

  Wordlessly, they helped him off the stone pallet where he had lain since his first day in Rashimpur. They washed him with scented herbs in water and dressed him in another of the yellow robes, then led him into the corridor where Tagore stood waiting.

  "Where are we going?" Justin asked.

  "To the Tree of the Thousand Wisdoms," he said.

  The torches in the splendid hall were all ablaze, giving the vast room a shimmering, underwater appearance. Visitors to the Hall lined both walls four deep, leaving only a path on the marble floor leading directly to the tree and the open casket beneath it.

  The visitors were magnificently dressed in strange garb. As they waited at the rear of the hall, Tagore pointed out some of the visiting eminences. "The Dalai Lama of Tibet has come to pay Sadika his last tribute," Tagore said. "And beside him is Manjusri, the Saskya Lama." He nodded toward a small, round-headed man swathed in green silk robes, his feet shod in jeweled slippers. "Long before the establishment of the Dalai Lama, who rules Tibet today, Manjusri's predecessors were supreme in that holy land. Even the Mongol emperor Kublai Khan bowed before the ancestors of Manjusri, who are said to be the incarnations of the Bodhisat of Knowledge. He is reputed to be the wisest of men."

  Tagore pointed out another, on the other side of the hall, a man in rags, his feet bare, who stood quietly in the shadows of the great torches. "That is the Ralpahi Dorje," Tagore whispered. "He is head of the Can-skya lamasery in Peking."

  "Why is he so poor?" Justin asked.

  "It is only in the eyes of the unseeing that the Dorje is poor," Tagore said. "He is also descended from an ancient line of holy men. He is considered in Buddhism to be a true saint. His miracles in healing have been seen by all. He chooses to live in poverty because true power comes from humility. He is the greatest of all healers."

  "But I don't understand," Justin said. "Wouldn't people respect him more if he didn't look so dirty?"

  "Only those whose faith is not strong enough to see beyond his rags," Tagore said.

  There was a great clamor in the hall as four red-robed monks entered, bearing a sedan chair. It was jeweled from top to bottom, its bamboo poles lacquered a deep red. As the four monks set the chair down and drew open its curtains, a tall woman emerged. She wore a long garment made of many layers of crimson gauze, but as she moved, the fabric clung tightly to the curves of her body and showed the flesh beneath. Gems dotted the fabric. Her black hair glinted with jeweled pins, and on her fingernails, she wore long jewel-encrusted sheaths. She fixed her eyes on young Justin, and, involuntarily, he sipped in his breath. Her eyes were of the darkest green, but they were dotted with flecks of a lighter color, almost gold, and they seemed to reflect all the lights
in the great hall. Her features were exquisite, with high, sculpted cheekbones and full, dark red lips, and Justin thought her the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. He could not pull his eyes away from hers.

  "That is the Dorje Pagma," Tagore said.

  Justin was stunned, then forced himself to look up to Tagore. "Is she a monk?"

  "An abbess. She rules over the Samding monastery at the Lake of Yamdrok in Tibet. Both monks and nuns follow her, and believe her to be the incarnation of the Indian goddess Varja. She is the most powerful personage here. Her magic is very strong."

  "As strong as the Shamans’?" Justin asked, remembering Tagore's story of the Black Hats.

  "Stronger. Much stronger. It is said that she can control time itself. The goddess Varja is old, thousands of years. The Dorje's followers claim that she is not an incarnation, but the original goddess herself, living without time, without death."

  "That's impossible," Justin said, noticing several of the visitors to the hall moving silently away from the jeweled chair of the Dorje Pagma.

  "Nothing is impossible in our world," Tagore said. He smiled at the exodus of people to the other side of the hall. "They are leaving because they fear the power of Varja," he said.

  "Why? Is she evil?"

  "A goddess is a goddess," Tagore said. "She does as she wills. But many think the destruction of the monasteries at Labrang and Pemiongchi— formerly great centers—was brought about because of the wrath of Varja."

  "How were they destroyed?"

  "By—" Tagore's face changed. "The political governments of the countries where the monasteries had existed for thousands of years eliminated them," he said.

  "They were burned," Justin said. "Just like in my dream. Burned." He had started to tremble.

  "Be still, my son," Tagore said. "For if it is God's will, we will be destroyed. Not even Varja has power over the great Brahma. And if it is God's will, we will return. Do you understand?"