Grandmaster (16 page)

The dreams weighed more heavily on Justin than did the rocks he carried as a boy. At first, the Prince of Death had visited him rarely. Each time, it had taken Justin days to recover. But now the dreams recurred every night. Every night the man whose features he knew by heart appeared, bringing with him the soft, gray curling smoke of endless pain. Before, he had come alone; but recently the man in Justin's dreams was led by a woman. She was beautiful and ageless, robed in crimson, with jewels in her black hair. She, too, was someone Justin had seen before. The Dorje Pagma, abbess of the Yamdrok Lake monastery in Tibet, the one called Varja, the goddess. In the dreams Varja pointed the way to Rashimpur, for the Prince of Death to walk forth.

He stopped sleeping. The nights came and went, each spent looking out the narrow slotted window of his cell. After a week, he wrapped himself in a woolen cloak and spent the cold nights outdoors, keeping vigil on the rock face of Amne Xachim.

Tagore went to him.

"He is coming," Justin said. "You do not believe me, but I know this. The abbess, the one you call Varja, has shown him the way."

Tagore did not answer for a long moment. "I believe you," he said at last. "I have always believed you."

Justin turned his blue-circled eyes from the darkness of the mountains to the old man.

"Sadika, your predecessor, prophesied it himself," Tagore said quietly. "You are to be the last Wearer of the Blue Hat. The ages of Rashimpur are to end with you. I could not tell you earlier, because it would have frightened you. Forgive me, Patanjali."

Justin stared, stupefied. "That can't be true," he said.

"Long before your birth, Sadika told of the trials we would all face after his death." He wrapped his cloak around him tighter. "He, too, saw the flames of destruction that were to engulf Rashimpur." Tagore sighed. "And he, too, saw the figure of Varja leading the way."

"Then why did you invite her here?" Justin asked, the despair in him welling. "Why didn't you kill her before she started?"

"My son, Varja already knew of Rashimpur. And we do not kill out of fear. That is for the weak. Such an act would have destroyed us far more completely than it would have hurt her. No, Justin. Varja has her destiny, just as you have yours."

"And the man? The Prince of Death?"

"He, too, must live out his life according to Brahma's great plan."

Justin spoke bitterly. "The great plan to kill us all."

There was silence. "Not all," Tagore said softly. Then he asked the drawn young man next to him, "What is karma?"

Justin thought. Karma, he knew, was everything. Good and evil, incarnation after incarnation. It was a man's spirit, created by his actions. The obstacles and joys he experiences in a present lifetime, carved inexorably from the previous one. Karma was destiny, at once fixed and changeable, understandable yet beyond reach. The beginning and the end. Past and future, together in the present.

Justin struggled with the answer. At last he said, "Karma is the circle."

Tagore nodded slowly. "You must allow the circle to complete itself."

"I don't understand," Justin said.

"The man, the one you call the Prince of Death, is as much a part of your life as I am. As necessary to you as the air you breathe. You can no more deny yourself the pain he brings than you can the peace brought by Amne Xachim. I told you once that your life would be the most difficult of mortal lives. I have tried to train you here to prepare you for that life, for it has not yet begun. It is your karma to meet this man. As it is your karma to vanquish him or be vanquished by him."

"I will kill him the moment I see him."

"You are forbidden by ancient law to kill except in defense of a life in immediate danger. If you kill this man now, you will break the circle of your karma. And the snake within your circle, whose power rests in the amulet you carry, will remain forever coiled. It is not time yet."

"Should I let him destroy us first?" Justin said with a cruel edge to his voice.

"You will not decide the matter," Tagore said.

Justin looked deeply into the old teacher's eyes. "Tagore," he said, "you have been more than a father to me. I respect you above all men, and I love you. But this time you are wrong. I rule over Rashimpur, and I will decide. The man will die."

"When it is time."

"And when will it be time?" Justin asked angrily.

"You will know. Until then you are forbidden."

Justin turned away from him and sat once again facing the black night mountains.

"It is not I who forbid you," Tagore said, rising. "It is the karma of Patanjali, and the will of Brahma."

Justin did not answer.

"Farewell, my son." Tagore said, and left.

*~*~*

 

T
he next morning, just after dawn
, a procession of soldiers appeared on the narrow footpath at the base of Amne Xachim. Justin watched them in silence for a moment. Then, checking to make sure that he wasn't seen by the other monks at Rashimpur, he stole away, alone, scaling down the cliffside to wait for them among the rocks.

Too far away for the untrained eyes of the marching men to see him, Justin stole toward the group, watching as they made their slow progress up the mountain. They climbed along the narrow mountain route as Justin had as a boy—wearily, with painstaking effort. The first time Justin walked to Rashimpur, the journey had taken four days. Now he could run it easily in less than six hours.

The men were more than a day's journey from Rashimpur when Justin reached them, careful to conceal his movements and stay out of their sight. There were twelve of them, dressed in some sort of military uniform, their long overcoats crusted with dirt from what had obviously been a long overland journey through the mountain passes on foot. Justin studied them carefully, searching for the face he had seen so often in his dreams. But none resembled the familiar stranger who had come to him night after tortured night since childhood.

The soldiers stopped for food and rest at high noon, laying down the heavy backpacks and weapons they carried. They spoke in Russian, but what they said puzzled Justin.

One of them complained about the endless journey, and others joined in, calling their group the losers in a wager. Even when the leader of the group demanded silence, he did so in a halfhearted way, his disgust at his position clear.

Justin watched the men for some time. A couple of the soldiers dozed. Without a sound, Justin made his move, bursting into the small encampment and removing their weapons in one swift, continuous motion. A young soldier scrambled for his rifle. Effortlessly, Justin kicked it out of his hands as he reached for the leader of the troop and pinned him to the ground.

"Where is he?" Justin shouted, sickened at his own actions. His karma, he knew, was already lost. By attacking first, he had violated the most basic laws of his people. But Rashimpur would not be destroyed. He vowed it, and if that vow meant the loss of his soul, then so be it. "Where is the one who leads you?"

No one answered. Two of the soldiers looked at each other, apparently surprised that the young monk with his shaved head and flowing yellow robes could speak Russian. The officer in Justin's arms struggled to free himself. He yanked the man's arm harder, and the officer yelped.

"Where?" he demanded. "I swear before you that I will kill every one of you if you keep your silence."

The soldiers stood in awed bewilderment. Most of them were young, Justin noticed, still young enough to be called boys. They shivered as they watched him, their eyes round and frightened. One of them, the youngest-looking member of the group, glanced upward, behind Justin toward the plateau where Rashimpur stood. He swallowed hard and blinked.

Justin didn't move. Something was wrong, he knew it. Very wrong.

"You will not decide," Tagore had said of the destruction of their home. And then the machine-gun fire came from overhead, punctuating the still air from the cliff face of Rashimpur. The guns, mixed with the screams and wails of the dying, the terrible noise, sending down fumes of acrid smoke. The boy whose eyes Justin had followed were downcast in shame.

Justin whirled, the soldier still locked in his grip, and he saw it. Thick gray curls of smoke were pouring out of the doorway leading to the Great Hall. The vision had come to pass, after all. Rashimpur was burning.

"No!" he shouted, tossing the soldier away like a rag and darting at full speed up the stony mountainside. Shots were fired behind him, but he paid no attention to the soldiers below now. The only thought in his mind was to reach the monastery before it was too late. To reach Rashimpur and to find the Prince of Death.

The hours of running up the colossal steepness of Amne Xachim seemed like days. His heart pounding, he forced his legs harder, willing himself upward.

The Prince of Death would not escape him. He would be there, waiting, and Justin would see that he died for daring to invade the monastery. He hoped that the other monks had not already killed him. For he would be there, Justin knew. He felt the presence of the man as surely as if he were standing in front of him.

He approached by the small lake to the east of the cliff face and dived into the water. He scaled the final cliff of the ascent in bounds, thrusting his hands into the rock and pulling himself up, choking on the heat and smoke that poured out of the rock face above, his ears ringing with the cries that faded into a silence that was even more pernicious than the sounds of death.

At last he stood on the plateau. His teeth clenched, tasting the bitterness in his throat, he made his way silently through the rank smoke to the doorway. His face collapsed as he took in the most horrifying spectacle of his life.

The walls were lined with soldiers, their weapons in firing position. On the floor of the Great Hall were strewn the bodies of the dead monks, their yellow robes stained dark with blood. The air was filled with the acrid stench of spent gunfire. The hall was utterly silent.

He took in the sight, unbelieving, his eyes wandering from one end of the desecrated hall to the other. And then he saw the Tree of the Thousand Wisdoms. Burning. Smoke billowed out of the ancient tree, its leaves blackened and fallen in clumps of ash. The shock took Justin like a wave. He groaned and felt something in his chest turn to water.

Tied to the tree was the charred and mutilated body of Tagore.

He walked toward it hesitantly, as if in a dream. It
was
the dream, come hideously to life. Flames licked around the massive tree's trunk, lapping onto the frail legs of the old man. He had been stripped naked, and his chest had been punctured. His skin was blistered and blackened. Dried blood was splashed around his shattered knees.

"Tagore," he said softly, approaching the body. The old man was tied to the tree with steel wire, which had sawn his wrists to the bone. With a snap, Justin broke the wires and held the limp form of his teacher in his arms.

The features of the old face were composed. There was no torture in it. It had taken all his strength, Justin understood, just to die at peace.

Slowly Justin's sadness solidified into something hard and alien within him.

Hate.

He stood in front of the smoldering tree with Tagore in his arms, turning to face each of the dozens of soldiers flanking him, their bayonets fixed on him. "Where is he who leads you?" he screamed, anguished. "Show your face to me!"

One man moved. He stepped from the shadows at the far end of the hall, near the doorway. His steps were measured, careful. He walked with perfect authority. As he drew near, Justin saw his face. With sickening gratification, he recognized the man.

The Prince of Death had come at last.

The two men stared at each other for a long moment. The man's impassive face betrayed nothing. He wore his blond hair short, like a brush, and although he was young, it had already begun to gray. He was not a big man, but the set of his shoulders beneath his uniform showed a power of will rare even among the disciplined monks of Rashimpur. His weathered face held the beginnings of furrows from his nose to his chin, lines that would deepen with age.

But it was his eyes that most held Justin's attention. They were a colorless green-gray, shallow-set and heavy-lidded, burning with deep intelligence. They were reptile's eyes, spilling out of the expressionless face to take in everything around him at a glance, eyes that judged instantly and without emotion. Cold eyes, unburdened by arrogance, unfettered by passion, as if they saw all things before them as equal, and equally disposable. The eyes suited the Prince of Death. They were exactly as Justin remembered them from his dream.

The Russian spoke first, in a quiet, cultivated voice. "I am Lieutenant Alexander Zharkov of the Army of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics," he said. "I require the use of this building." There was no challenge in his words, no unspoken threat. It occurred to Justin that the mass murder of every living being at Rashimpur meant nothing to this man. The monks had been destroyed because they had been in the way.

"This is not your land," Justin answered, trembling. "Your government does not rule this area, and no one rules Rashimpur."

Zharkov hesitated for the briefest moment. "The building is mine," he said softly.

Slowly Justin lowered the body of his dead teacher to the floor, his eyes never leaving those of the quiet, intense man who stood before him. "It is not yours." The menace between them was palpable.

Zharkov made a swift, jutting motion with his chin, and the soldiers moved instantly out of their formation. But before they could reach him, Justin was in the air, the power of his legs striking out with every muscle in his body focused. With awkward slowness, Zharkov whirled away, a flash in the lizard eyes betraying sudden fear. Justin's foot struck the man's shoulder, snapping it with a loud crack. Zharkov fell to the ground with a rush of breath.

Justin prepared for a new attack, but it was already too late. He felt the bayonet tip enter his back, below his last rib. As he acknowledged the pain, he saw the blood-smeared shaft emerge from the front of his body and recede again.