The Path (28 page)

They stayed in the hills for most of the day, talking and touching, loving each other in that enchanted place where the blue
orchid grew. Duncan could think of no more beautiful spot for their lovemaking to have begun than here, with the sweet scent
of the flowers surrounding them and the warmth of the sun playing its golden fingers across their bodies.

They made love again in the afternoon with quieter passion, each enjoying the discovery of the other. Then, as the sun passed
behind the tallest of peaks to the west, ending the heat of the day, they knew it was time to return to the city.

Duncan had agreed to Xiao-nan’s date for the wedding; it could not come soon enough for him. Tonight they would speak to her
parents, and tomorrow the arrangements would begin in earnest.

When they reached the city, Duncan thought he felt a subtle change to the atmosphere. There was a tenseness that reached him
even through the euphoria of the afternoon. It was like an itch between his shoulder blades that made him want to reach for
his sword. But his sword was in his room at the Potala and its absence at his side, for the first time in many weeks, filled
him with disquiet.

Xiao-nan’s father came out to meet them as they neared the house. “Good, my daughter, you are home,” he said, “and you, Duncan
MacLeod. We feared you would not be in time.”

“In time for what, Yao-hui,” Duncan asked sharply, the uneasy feeling within him focused into a flood of dread. “What has
happened?”

“One of the monks who attended the Kalachakra ceremony has returned with his robes bloody and torn. Now there is talk of closing
the city gates.”

“What happened to the monk? Do you know?”

Yao-hui shook his head. “I know nothing for certain. He is at the Potala now, speaking with His Holiness the Dalai Lama. But
there are whispers of an army on its way toward Lhasa.”

Duncan knew he must return to the Potala at once. He pulled Xiao-nan into his arms for one quick embrace.

“You stay here, in the house where it is safe,” he told her. “I’ll return as soon as I can.”

Xiao-nan nodded. Duncan did not like to see the fear that suddenly filled her eyes. He ran a fingertip down her cheek.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” he said softly. Then he turned and began to run toward the Dalai Lama’s palace.

He met two monks from the Potala on their way to close and bar the city gates. From them he learned the rest of the news.
There was indeed an army marching toward Lhasa; its arrival could come at any time. The injured monk and his companions had
been set upon as they walked toward their home monastery. Though they were unarmed, they were attacked mercilessly. Only this
one monk escaped. He had hurried back to warn the city as fast as his wounds would allow. A messenger had been dispatched
for help from the Chinese Emperor, in accordance with an agreement that had been signed many years ago. It was the Dalai Lama’s
hope that by barring the gates, Lhasa could withstand the army until such help arrived.

Duncan’s frown deepened as he heard this last part. He doubted the inhabitants of Lhasa had any idea what it took to withstand
a siege or how to fortify their city against the coming attack. But, Duncan thought as he headed once more toward the Potala,
he did—and he knew where he would go for help. If he was any judge of men, Brother Michael had been a soldier before taking
the cloth. There MacLeod hoped to find the aid he needed.

He raced up the Potala steps, taking them two at a time. Once inside the great building, he hardly slowed his pace down the
long corridors to his room. His only thought was to retrieve his
katana
and return to the city.

He found the monk, Gaikho, waiting at his door. “His Holiness has sent me to find you,” the young monk said. “He requires
your immediate attendance.”

Duncan shook his head. “Not now,” he said, “but I’ll return soon.”

He stopped, wondering how to make Gaikho realize the urgency. But no, there was nothing in the monk’s experience to make him
understand—nor, probably, in the Dalai Lama’s, for all his incarnations. Duncan knew he must act now and explain it to them
later, when there was time.

“Tell His Holiness I’ll return as soon as I can,” he told Gaikho. “Shortly after sunset I hope. Right now there are too many
things I must do.”

The monk opened his mouth to protest, but Duncan pushed past him and into his room. Gaikho was still there when he emerged
a moment later carrying his
katana
. The monk backed away at the sight of the sword. Duncan saw the shocked and fearful look on his face, but took no time to
stop and reassure him.

MacLeod ran back down the corridors and out the great doors, his mind already turning over various options he had seen work
in battle. He would go first to Xiao-nan’s house to make certain the family was safe, then he would find Brother Michael.
Duncan was certain that between them, he and the monk would find a workable plan.

When he reached Xiao-nan’s house, he found her mother and father waiting for him. “Xiao-nan has gone to find her sister,”
they told him. “Mingxia went to help old Huilan earlier today, but when we sent for her to come home, she was no longer there.
Xiao-nan said we must wait here and tell you where she has gone. She said she would start looking for Mingxia at the city
well.”

Damn the girl—why couldn’t she have been where she was supposed to be just once?
Duncan thought as he rushed off. He had to find Xiao-nan—and now Mingxia—or he would not be able to keep his mind on anything
else.

The area around the well was deserted when Duncan arrived, unnaturally quiet without the bustle of women chatting and children
playing. It was like the silence that came upon you at sea just before a storm.

And the storm was not long coming. Duncan felt the sound before he heard it, rising up through the ground and into his bones—the
tramping feet of a marching army, the heavy thud of horses and men coming to attack.

More terrible still was the woman’s scream that pierced the
city’s silence. Duncan’s heart seemed to freeze at the sound, but not his feet. He was running even before the thought could
form.

He ran toward the city gates that had been closed and barred against invasion. But no—one side stood open to the road. And
in its frame played a scene from the mouth of Hell.

The bodies of two monks, the servants of the Dalai Lama Duncan had passed such a short time ago, lay limp and lifeless on
the ground. The maroon and saffron of their robes was stained with the wet crimson of fresh blood. Duncan’s eyes slid across
them almost without seeing, their deaths paled by the other horror, the moving horror, that he saw.

Xiao-nan, creature of love and tenderness, sweet, gentle Xiao-nan, struggled with a man. His upraised hand gripped an odd-shaped
sword; even from the distance Duncan could see the blood upon the blade. With all the strength of her slender body, Xiao-nan
was holding against him. She fought him for her city, her home, for the people she loved.

She fought against—

Father Edward.

Icy fingers gripped the base of MacLeod’s spine. They reached into his soul as all his half-formed suspicions coalesced.

Duncan knew the man for what he was.

He screamed Xiao-nan’s name, to warn her away—
Oh God, she should not be here. She should be home where she was safe, where he could keep her safe
—just as the spy’s free hand whipped out hard across her face. Xiao-nan stumbled back, but she did not let go. She struggled
to keep her feet as she pulled her enemy with her.

Away from the gate…

Outside, off of Holy Ground….

Again, Edward raised his hand and struck at Xiao-nan. Even from a distance, Duncan could see the blood on her face, pouring
from the cuts to her lips—lips Duncan knew to be so gentle, so soft. Anger, hot and primitive, erupted in him. He pushed his
body to its limit and beyond, but they were still so far away—too far away.

The man who was no priest looked straight at Duncan. An
odd smile twisted his face. Suddenly Duncan knew what was to come.

The cry began down in the pit of his stomach. Two hundred years of civilization fell away to the sound. The war cry of his
clan, a sound as untamed as the hills that gave it birth, poured from Duncan’s throat. He screamed; he roared as Father Edward
raised his makeshift sword an inch higher, turned it, brought it down.

The pitch of Duncan’s cry heightened; the false priest’s hand hesitated, but only for a second. Not long enough. He stabbed,
piercing Xiao-nan’s body. Duncan felt it in his own as he lunged, throwing himself onto his enemy. But too late.

Too late.

Xiao-nan crumpled to the ground as Duncan hit, taking Father Edward with him. The Nepalese man scrambled frantically to gain
his feet, but for all his fantasies he was never a match for Duncan’s size and power.

Duncan could not draw his sword. He did not need, did not even want a weapon for this first blow. He needed to strike, to
rend, to wound with his bare hands. Eyes nearly blinded by the red haze of rage and pain, Duncan’s arm shot forward. He felt
his fist connect. Facial bones smashed beneath his fingers; blood spurted across his flesh and his opponent went limp. Duncan
tossed him away like a rag doll and crawled quickly to Xiao-nan’s side.

She lay with one hand covering the wound of her stomach. Blood stained her long, delicate fingers. Once more, Duncan felt
the pain of it in his own body, though it was his soul that bore the cut. He gently brushed the hair away from her face; her
skin was growing ashen, the blush of life draining so quickly away.

Her eyelids fluttered open with his touch. Her eyes were still so serene, so full of love.

“My Duncan,” she whispered through her swollen lips, now so pale—lips that only hours before had been so warm and sweet with
passion.

“Xiao-nan, don’t move,” he said urgently. “I’ll get you home. I’ll get—”

She raised her other hand to his lips. He ached to feel the cold already seeping through her skin.

“Shh,” she said. “I am glad of today, my Duncan. We are one now. And forever.”

Her voice was growing weaker. But Duncan heard her clearly. With his heart.

“And for all the lives to come,” he answered her.

A little smile moved her lips as her hand caressed his cheek. Gently, a bare flutter of a touch. Then her eyelids closed again
and the hand dropped. She lay still.

A single sob filled him, rose, caught in his throat. It cut off his air; he could not breath around the pain. He felt as if
his soul had shattered.

“Duncan,”
came a scream behind him. Instinct moved him now as he whipped around. He looked up and saw Mingxia crouching, half-kneeling,
in the opening of the gate. Her arms were clasped around her middle; her face was bruised, yet white with the shock of what
she saw.

Duncan had not time to go to her. Father Edward was up, rushing at him with sword raised. Blood streamed from the man’s broken
nose, and his face twisted into a mask of hate.

Duncan should have been vulnerable kneeling beside Xiao-nan’s body, no time to come to his feet. But for this he had trained,
to kill by any means, and by his training he survived. Gathering his power into his legs, he waited for the moment to strike.

Two more steps; Father Edward was almost upon him. Duncan took his weight on his arms, muscles rippling as he put all his
force into the kick. His legs snapped out, turning Edward’s own momentum against him.

The Nepalese man flew backward. He hit the ground and rolled. Duncan stood and followed him, sword in hand.

Edward leapt to his feet, holding his homemade weapon out before him. They circled each other, measuring movement and strength.
Duncan saw what weapon his opponent carried and knew it was no match for the perfection of his Japanese steel. Another man
he might have let escape certain death, but not this one.

Xiao-nan
, his heart cried in anguish. Duncan pushed his grief away. Not yet. He could not feel yet. He covered his pain with anger.

“Why?” he asked through gritted teeth. “Why did you kill her? She couldn’t have hurt you.”

“She tried to stop me. It doesn’t matter—my master will soon be here, and you will all be dead.”

“And so will you,” Duncan growled.

Duncan attacked, his steps quick and sure. The false priest parried, but his weapon had no balance and threw his weight to
the wrong side. He could not bring it back before Duncan’s
katana
slashed deep into his arm. He screamed as the blood gushed, but he did not stop.

The spy lunged—Duncan spun away and brought his blade in a straight cut behind him. He felt it connect, slicing across his
opponent’s middle, biting deeply into flesh and viscera.

Father Edward dropped his sword. He fell to his knees, his hands clutching at the long wound of his stomach. Blood flowed
out through his fingers, turning the black of his cassock crimson. He looked up at MacLeod with a surprised expression.

“You were not supposed to win,” he said in wonder as the light began to fade from his eyes.

“Xiao-nan was not supposed to die,” MacLeod answered, unmoved as the body fell forward, lifeless.

Xiao-nan
.

Duncan was vaguely aware that the sound of the army’s approach had ceased. He turned to find a single rider nearing. With
him came the one feeling Duncan did not want to feel: the searing presence of another Immortal.

The rider stopped a few feet from where Duncan waited. “You have killed my tool,” he said, “and he was useful to me.”

“He deserved death,” Duncan answered, quickly assessing the Immortal’s size, his dress, his speech, the way he sat his horse.
Here would be no easy victory like the one just past.

“He no doubt did,” the Immortal replied somewhat dryly. “But I do not like my tools ill used by anyone but myself. I am Nasiradeen
Satish, leader of the Gurkhas, and we have business together, you and I.”

“I am Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, and you’ve only to dismount for our—business—to begin.” Duncan raised his sword
to the ready.