Gold—yes, he wanted gold—and wine and fine foods to make up for the life he was now being forced to live, and he wanted silks to wear instead of this black cassock. Mostly he wanted women, starting with Mingxia.
I’ll take Xiao-nan, too, he thought. They’ll both be my concubines, fire and ice for my pleasure. And if they please me, I’ll let their parents live—as my servants.
The threat to her parents’ lives was, he knew, the only way he would bring Xiao-nan to his bed. Not that he cared about her willingness, only her obedience. That he would have, that and her fear.
Mingxia he would woo more carefully, but not so much as to quench her fire. The thought of her excited him anew. The only thought sweeter was of the battle that would come and the part he would play in it.
He would kill Father Jacques himself; he would kill all missionaries if he could, but Father Jacques would do. If he was lucky and Shiva favored him, he would take MacLeod’s life as well. Then, with the smell of blood around him and the song of battle filling his heart, he would have the women on whom to satiate his desire.
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.
Chapter Fourteen
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?”
“Yes, Your Holiness,” Duncan answered.
“So it is that we train our minds to follow the Eightfold Path. The lessons take only a short time to say, perhaps a few hours, but the training, the mastery—ah, that can take many lifetimes.”
“Your Holiness,” Duncan said, “the other day Xiao-nan said something I did not understand. She said that you are—how did she put it?—‘perfected in wisdom.’ Does this mean you no longer know the suffering of human life, or dukkah, to use your word?”
The young man sighed. “Again, Duncan MacLeod, the answer to your question is both yes and no. Let us consider the three types of suffering. First there is the suffering called misery, which is the physical or mental pain such as illness or injury. None of us while living can escape such burdens. But they are passing, insubstantial.”
The Dalai Lama stopped, and a look of tender sadness crossed his face. “There are some,” he said, “who choose to remain in this state of suffering. They will not free their thoughts or remember the truth of impermanence. Instead they see only this moment, this pain, until even when the pain is gone the weight of it continues to rule their minds with fear of its return. For these, Enlightenment is still many lifetimes away. But such is not my Path, nor do I think, Duncan MacLeod, that it is yours.”
As the Dalai Lama watched, a look of weary acceptance came into Duncan’s eyes, as if the passage of physical illness and pain was a thing he knew beyond knowing. As was so often the case, it left the young man wondering about the secrets in MacLeod’s life.
“The second branch of dukkah,” the Dalai Lama continued, “is the suffering of change. Those who were young grow old or die; that which was new wears out, becomes worn, tattered, withers away. What began as happiness gives way to loneliness, disappointment, loss, grief. This, too, is life, and in this do some also become trapped. But the knowledge of impermanence frees the mind from this as well. Change comes and goes. It is insubstantial.”
Again, a look came into MacLeod’s eyes that made the Dalai Lama pause in what he was saying. So, this, too, then, is a suffering you have known very well, the young man thought as he saw the shadows of memories crowd Duncan’s face. You have, I think, known all the faces of change until now impermanence has become your reality. But has it freed you, Duncan MacLeod, or trapped you?
“The third suffering,” the Dalai Lama said before Duncan could go on too long in the silence of his memories, “is the suffering, the dislocation from peace and compassion, that comes thro
ugh afflicted emotions. Negative thoughts and actions create this suffering—anger, greed, ignorance, aversion, pride, lust, envy; the list continues. These emotions afflict all who are still traveling samsara, the cycles of birth, death and rebirth.”
“Xiao-nan said you are freed from this cycle, but choose to be reborn,” Duncan said.
The Dalai Lama nodded. “Eight times have I chosen not to enter the final liberation. I return to teach my people for their own Enlightenment. For myself, I no longer suffer with anger or pride or greed. No longer does change cause me unhappiness or the weakness of my body rob me of peace. But for my people,” he stopped and shook his head. “My people come to me, and their pain is great. Then I must share their suffering, take their suffering and ease it. For my people, I suffer—and not my people only, but any who comes to me in need.”
The young man looked up at the sky. “Remember, Duncan MacLeod, that as suffering can be identified, so can it be overcome. But that is for another day. Let us talk now of pleasant things, like the warmth of the sun and the beauty of this garden. They, too, are passing, but they are pleasures for now.”
Chapter Fifteen
Father Jacques Beauchamps was kneeling in the dirt, tending the little garden he had planted behind the house. He had left off the cape and biretta so distinctive to his order, preferring the simplicity of a plain cassock for his work.
He often went about dressed as simply as possible, much to the disgust of Father Edward. He was always fully attired and immaculate—and he would never consider kneeling in the dirt.
But Father Jacques knew he was happiest here, planting seeds or pulling weeds, and watching as the neat little rows he had turned went from bare soil to thick growths of vegetables and flowers. The study of botany had been his work, and his joy, in France, and he was delighted to continue his labors here, where there were so many new varieties to catalog.
The only thing that made him as happy was playing with the children of the city. They called him Bo-Bo, derived he supposed form the word “boo,” with which he would surprise them from behind a tree or bush when they were playing games together. Whatever the origin of the name, he was pleased with it.
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