The Path

by Rebecca Neason

  She said no word about where they were going, and he was content to follow her lead. But as they neared a house with a wooden cross nailed above the door, his steps faltered.

  “You said you had not met the Brothers who live in the city,” she said to him. “It is time you did. Kindness and compassion can only be shown in person, Duncan MacLeod.”

  Duncan recognized in her voice the same tone her mother had used to Mingxia. Like the young girl, he knew that an argument was useless. He could only say what he had told her once before.

  “Lead the way, Xiao-nan,” he said, “and I will surely follow.”

  Her smile was all he needed to know she recognized the words and all of his heart that was in them. She went and knocked on the door.

  Duncan and Xiao-nan spent over an hour with the Capuchin Brothers, and Duncan had to admit he liked them. They were quiet, gentle men who radiated the spirit of kindness and of devotion. He understood why Xiao-nan had brought him here.

  Of the three of them—Brother Thomas, Brother Peter, and Brother Michael—MacLeod felt he had the most in common with the latter. He was older than the other two, perhaps in his late fifties, Duncan thought, and he had seen much of life before becoming a monastic. It showed in the tolerance he had toward human foibles and in his wry sense of humor.

  All three Brothers saw them off at the door with an invitation to return soon. After the door had closed, MacLeod slipped an arm around Xiao-nan’s waist and hugged her.

  “Thank you,” he said, “for your patience with my anger—and for how gently you remind me of the good people in the world.”

  She looked up at him and smiled. “You are welcome, Duncan,” she said.

  He kissed the top of her head, smiling into her hair. Honesty was one of the things he loved about her. No demurrings or prevarications; she knew what she had done and why, and she acknowledged it.

  “Xiao-nan,” Duncan said on sudden impulse. “Have you ever been to the Potala—inside, I mean?”

  She shook her head. “I’ve been to the steps of course, with the rest of my people to greet the Dalai Lama, and twice I have delivered a gift at the great doors. But I have never entered.”

  “Then come with me now,” Duncan said. “There is a beautiful garden with a lake where we can sit and watch the afternoon pass. Will you come, Xiao-nan?”

  She laughed, delighted by the eagerness in his voice. “Yes, Duncan MacLeod,” she said. “This time you will lead, and I will follow.”

  Duncan’s usual wont when he walked down the streets of Lhasa was to go slowly, savoring the happy sights and sounds of the city. But now his stride was purposeful as he and Xiao-nan headed for the Potala. It was, at least for the present, his home—and he wanted to share with her the beauty of the monastic palace. He wanted to share all things he found beautiful with her.

  He was beginning to realize he wanted to share the rest of her life with her.

  When they entered the Potala, Xiao-nan became very quiet, but the look of joy on her face was eloquent. MacLeod did not hurry her, and she stared with awe at the huge gold-washed Buddhas and beautiful tapestries that lined the long front hall.

  He led the way through the maze of corridors. Xiao-nan spun each prayer wheel that they passed, her long fingers often pausing to trace the delicate etchings or brightly colored designs before they turned.

  Duncan stopped briefly at his room to get a blanket to spread on the grass so Xiao-nan could sit at ease. As with everything else, she was delighted to see where he slept.

  “It is a place of wondrous beauty, Duncan,” she said to him, her arms held out wide as if she wanted to embrace the entire building. “It surely must be easy to fill one’s mind with compassionate thoughts in such a place.”

  “Compassionate thoughts come from a compassionate heart,” he told her. “A heart such as yours.”

  She came to him and hugged him then, resting her head in the hollow of his shoulder. “I am glad you live in such a place,” she said.

  Duncan took her into the Potala garden. He expected to see the various monks who tended to the care of the trees and flowers, but he was surprised to find the Dalai Lama still sitting where they had spent the morning. The young man sat in an attitude of meditation. His head was slightly bent and his eyes were closed, but the fingers of his right hand were busily counting through the long strand of prayer beads he so often wore wrapped around his wrist.

  He looked up when Duncan approached. “Ah, Duncan MacLeod, my friend,” he said, his eyes twinkling merrily, “you have returned quickly today—and you are not alone, I see.” His glance shifted to Xiao-nan.

  “This, Your Holiness, is Xiao-nan Choi,” Duncan said.

  Xiao-nan stepped forward and bowed very low. She was about to kneel and prostrate her bow in a sign of ultimate respect, but the Dalai Lama stopped her with a gesture.

  “Xiao-nan Choi,” he repeated her name as if searching for its place in his memory. “Have you not been here twice before with a gift of incense for the temple?”

  “Yes, Your Holiness,” Xiao-nan answered softly, obviously surprised that the Dalai Lama should personally know of her actions. For a moment Duncan was surprised, too. Then, grinning slightly, he realized that nothing should surprise him about this young man.

  The Dalai Lama held out his hand to Xiao-nan. “Come sit beside me and tell me about yourself,” he said to her. “A few minutes only, then I will go inside and leave you two to each other’s company.”

  “Oh, please, Your Holiness,” Duncan said quickly. “We did not mean to disturb your thoughts. We can go to another part of the garden.”

  “No, Duncan MacLeod,” he said. “I have been too long here already. In the pleasure of the sunshine I have neglected other duties. And, I think,” he added, patting Xiao-nan’s hand, “there are times when people are best left alone. Is this not so, Duncan MacLeod?”

  Duncan smiled openly at the look of merriment on the young man’s face. “Aye, Your Holiness,” he said. “Perhaps it is.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Father Jacques spent a happy hour playing with the children, but finally he knew he had to return to the mission house and the unfortunate duty that awaited him. He found Father Edward sitting in the garden staring at his birdcages. The older man knew that though he was loath to do it, there were words that must pass between them. He hated to enforce discipline; it should, he had always thought, be a matter of personal conscience. But they were far from home, far from an ordered life and the Community of their Brothers, and it seemed someone needed to remind Father Edward of his vows.

  Temptation can be very strong, Father Jacques thought with a sigh, remembering his own youth. There had been one young woman—Annabelle, Father Jacques thought, smiling gently at her memory—toward whom he had felt a very unpriestly attraction. Well, nothing unseemly had happened then, and he was going to make certain nothing happened here, now.

  He took a deep breath and stepped out into the garden. The younger man did not bother to look at him as he approached.

  “Edward,” Father Jacques said, “we need to talk.”

  “No, we don’t,” Father Edward replied, still staring at his birds.

  “I’m afraid we do.”

  Father Edward started to rise from the garden bench on which he was sitting, but Father Jacques went and stood before him, blocking his departure. The older priest put on a stern expression that was usually foreign to his features.

  “I know I am not the Vicar General,” he said, “but I am senior priest here and in charge of this mission. You will listen to me.”

  The Nepalese man sat back down and resumed staring straight ahead. Father Jacques sat next to him. He sighed again as he looked at the stony profile. Then he gentled his voice and continued.

  “Edward,” he said more softly, “please believe me when I say I do understand what you’re feeling. You are a young man, and Mingxia is very charming. I know you are fairly new to the Church and that you did not grow
up in a country where the life of other priests was an example you saw every day. For that reason your discipline will not be as harsh as it might be. You are not to talk to anyone from the Choi household, especially Mingxia, for the next month, and you will make a retreat here in the mission house. Your fast during this retreat need only be moderate—sunrise to sundown—and I think you do not need to make the full forty-day penance. The short retreat will be enough while you contemplate again the meaning of your vows.”

  Father Edward’s head slowly turned and Father Jacques found himself staring into eyes as cold and angry as any he had ever seen. Then, without a word, the younger man rose and walked toward the house. Father Jacques had no choice but to follow him.

  “Edward,” he called, hurrying to catch up. “I must insist on your obedience in this matter. Otherwise, I will have no recourse but to write to the Vicar General to have you replaced and sent home. The discipline there will not be so simple.”

  Father Edward stopped and turned toward him. Again, Father Jacques was shocked by the coldness in his eyes.

  “I’ll make a retreat, if that’s what you want,” he said, “and I’ll not speak again to anyone of the Choi house—but you understand nothing.”

  “Come now, Edward,” Father Jacques said, once more speaking gently, conciliatorially. “I, too, am a man, and, like all men, I have known temptation. Even Our Lord knew temptation. Think on that during your retreat. It may bring you comfort, as it did me many years ago.”

  The Nepalese man stared at him a moment longer. A little grin twisted one corner of his mouth and a cruel light flashed in his eyes.

  “You know nothing,” he said again. Then he turned and walked out of the house, letting the door slam behind him and leaving Father Jacques uncertain of what he had just witnessed.

  * * *

  Despite his words to Father Jacques, the Gurkha spy known to Lhasa as Father Edward could not bear to remain in the mission house—not at that moment. Soon he would go back to the game he was playing. He would lock himself away like the good little priest he was supposed to be and pretend to think the pitiful thoughts these men had—if you could call them men. But right now, he strode down the city streets trying to walk off his anger and the frustration he felt. Oh, how he hated this place and hated the life he was living here.

  The message he received today had only fed his frustration. Leaving in one week, it had said. Do nothing to jeopardize your position in city. You must open the gates. While we attack, you must strike.

  That meant the army was even now preparing. It was gathering arms and provisions, choosing the best horses, sharpening the swords—and he was stuck in this role, pretending to be a man with no blood in his veins.

  But his blood ran hot and full, he thought as he reached the city gates still open to the day, and looked down the road on which the army would arrive. He’d almost had her. Mingxia had been ready, eager for his kiss. He had seen it in her eyes. Another few minutes and he would have known the feel of her young body pressed against him.

  Then he came—MacLeod, the Nepalese man thought, no longer even trying to keep the anger from his face. He ruined it—but not for long. I swear by mighty Shiva, I’ll kill MacLeod for his interference.

  That thought made him smile, the same cruel smile Father Jacques had seen in the garden, as he pictured MacLeod on his knees, beaten, begging for his life. After I have killed the Dalai Lama, I will kill MacLeod—and then the priest, he thought with anticipation. Nasiradeen can have the rest of Lhasa, the rest of Tibet, but these two are mine. They think I’m as weak as they are. They think they can control me—but they’ll soon learn.

  The priest says he understands. His thoughts simpered with contempt on the word. Well, before he dies I’ll show him how little he understands of anything. I’ll have Mingxia right in front of him. I’ll take her as I would any warrior’s prize, and I’ll send him to his God with her screams still in his ears.

  He laughed out loud; a cruel, bitter sound. Then he turned back into the city. For a few more weeks—three, maybe four—he still had a part to play. He was ready now to resume it, but it would be these thoughts he carried with him, these thoughts that filled the hours of retreat the old man was demanding.

  When Nasiradeen and the army arrived, he would be ready to act.

  Nasiradeen stretched lazily on his cushioned bed. Beside him, Anuja Kumar, wife of the King’s third regent, had fallen into a contented doze, worn out by their afternoon of pleasure. He smiled, remembered how enticingly she had protested when he told her he would no longer have time for such activities. He was glad that at least for today, he had relented. Tomorrow he would have to be firm with her. Then he laughed under his breath; being firm was exactly what she wanted from him.

  Still, tomorrow he needed to be with his men as the final stages of preparations began. It gave them confidence to know that Nasiradeen was personally overseeing everything—and the loyalty of his men was of first importance to him, certainly more important than any woman, however pleasurable she might be.

  And pleasurable she had been, once he had taught her a few things—which was more than old Kumar had ever done. Well, Nasiradeen thought as he ran a hand across Anuja’s well-rounded hip, I return her to him a better wife. I hope he appreciates it.

  Anuja stirred under his touch. She opened her eyes and smiled at him, moving her body into a tempting pose. He leaned over and kissed her, his hands lingering along the rich curves of her body. She made a throaty sound of pleasure.

  “It is time to be gone now, my little peach,” he said a moment later. “Time to return to your husband’s household before you are missed too much.”

  “Sandep is with the King,” she replied lazily, making no move to rise. “He will not be home for many hours yet.”

  “Still, I have work to do.”

  “Off to your soldiers?” she asked, knowing the answer. “Is this really the last time I will see you for so long?”

  Nasiradeen’s face grew stern, his voice hard. “Would you have me call off the invasion, stay at home like some woman? Would you have me be less of a man?”

  “Oh, no,” she said, moving her body provocatively. “But would you have me be less of a woman not to crave a lover’s touch?”

  Her answer surprised him. She did not pout or cry or carry on as he expected, as other women would have done. Her answer showed an intelligence he had not assumed she possessed.

  Never in his three centuries of life had Nasiradeen taken a wife. Mortal women had never seemed to him worthy of anything more than passing pleasure and Immortal women were few. In his experience, they did not last long in the Game. But this one—he looked at her with new appreciation.

  She stretched languidly upon the bed, not flinching under his stare. The thin gauze sheet that covered her did nothing to hide the richness of her body: the breasts, large and firm as melons with nipples as round and red as pomegranates, the full curves of her waist, hips, thighs, the dark triangle between her legs where he knew the sweet nectar of pleasure awaited him. His eyes traveled down her body slowly while she lay there, inviting his stare.

  Yes, he thought, perhaps this one is worthy after all. Perhaps, after I have taken Tibet I will return to Nepal and claim her.

  Of course, he would have to kill her husband and, perhaps, the King as well, Nasiradeen’s thoughts continued. But that, too, would be a pleasure. And to gain such a reward for it…

  He lay back down beside her. “Tell my, my little peach,” he said, “when I am victorious, would you be willing to leave all this and come to Tibet?”

  Her smile broadened. “Yes,” she said, eyes shining, lips lingering on the word.

  “It would mean leaving your household behind. I’ll not be encumbered by cartloads of women’s trinkets.”

  She gave a shrug that caused her breasts to move enticingly beneath the sheet. “The servants are loyal to my husband, not to me,” she said, “and besides a few clothes, what can Tibet not provid
e once I am there? When you are victorious, you will be ruler, and all her wealth will be for your taking. I have no fear you will be miserly with me.”

  So far, she had said nothing to change his mind. She was, in fact, showing herself possessed of a spirit wasted in a woman, Nasiradeen thought.

  “What of your husband?” he asked. “Are you willing to leave him, to accept the scandal? Your family will disown you. You will never be able to return. Think well, Anuja.”

  “Pah,” she said with disgust. “This marriage was arranged with my father. It has never been my desire. I did not know what desire was until you taught me. You showed me how it could fill every hour.”

  She turned on her side and looked him full in the face. Her eyes were calm and serious. She knew the full meaning of her next words.

  “Sandep will not let me go without a fight,” she said. “I am his possession, and he is very… greedy. He does not love me, but that will not matter.”

  “And if I kill him?” Nasiradeen asked.

  “Then I won’t be leaving him,” Anuja replied evenly. “I will be a widow and free in my choices. I do not choose suttee. I will not throw myself on my husband’s funeral pyre.”

  Yes, Nasiradeen thought, she will do. A woman who can understand a warrior’s heart is a rare thing. One who thinks with a warrior’s heart is rarer still. This one has the body of a goddess and the mind worthy of a man. Yes, she will do.

  Nasiradeen reached out and pulled her on top of him. Immediately she began to move her body in a way that she knew gave him pleasure. Nasiradeen closed his eyes and smiled at the sensations mounting in his body.

  Yes, he thought again, this woman will do.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The week passed swiftly for Duncan MacLeod, swiftly and pleasantly. More than pleasantly; he could not remember when he had last been so happy.