‘What the hell…’ Luca said in surprise, staring down at the beefy monk. He was nearly a foot taller than Drang but only half his build, with barely the strength to stand. As Luca reached up to force his hand away, Shara stepped forward, speaking urgently in Tibetan.
A moment later, Drang’s fist slowly unclenched, releasing the front of Luca’s jacket and he stepped back a pace.
‘I’m sorry, Luca. Drang just meant for you to stay out of the way,’ Shara explained. ‘Time is running out for Bill. We should not disturb them.’
Luca shook his head slowly, his mind fogged by tiredness.
‘Is he going to be all right?’
‘We’ll do everything we can, I promise.’ Then, taking Luca by the arm, she led him to the far side of the courtyard with Drang following silently in their wake.
‘I know you’re worried and have a thousand questions, but we’re all exhausted. Drang will lead you to some quarters where you can wash and sleep. I’m going to do the same, but I’ll be waiting for you when you wake. I promise I’ll answer all your questions then.’
Luca stared at her, the weight of fatigue overwhelming his suspicion. He could feel himself swaying. That final climb, carrying Bill across the valley and up those stairs, had drained every last vestige of strength from him.
‘As soon as you hear any more about Bill…’
‘I promise to let you know,’ Shara said, with a faint smile. ‘Bill’s a strong man. He’ll make it through this.’
They walked up to a thick, wooden door set under one of the courtyard’s arches. With a stabbing movement of his hand, Drang motioned for Luca to continue into the shadowed interior of the monastery.
With a final glance at Shara, Luca ducked his head and stepped inside.
As the door closed behind him Shara leaned against one of the vaulted pillars, resting her forehead on the hard stone. Her legs trembled from sheer exhaustion and she felt a wave of nausea pass over her. She stood like this for a moment, trying to muster the strength to move, when suddenly she heard a voice directly behind her.
‘What have you done?’
Spinning around, she saw a figure advancing out of the shadows. The silhouette of a man moved towards her like an apparition. Then, as it was illuminated by the full light of day, she saw that the figure was thin and angular, with a body bent from age and robes hanging loose around it. The face was deathly pale except for some patches of brown, sun-damaged skin visible beneath his balding white hair.
‘I said, what have you done?’
The eyes… there was something wrong with his eyes. Shara found herself staring into milky-white irises. The sockets too were damaged by some long-ago injury. And yet those eyes seemed to stare directly at her, blank but somehow accusing.
‘I… I… don’t know what you mean,’ she stammered back in Tibetan, feeling herself recoil as the figure moved closer.
‘You may have shown courage by taking your brother’s place, but you have now disgraced him. And us,’ the man hissed, a vein sticking out on the side of his neck as if a worm had been caught under its skin. ‘You have brought outsiders to our monastery. You risk everything that we have spent centuries trying to protect!’
‘But I had no choice… he was going to die.’
‘You of all people should know the value of what we have here. If they ever discover…’ The figure lapsed into silence.
‘Gather your strength.’ He signalled impatiently for Shara to follow him along one wall of the courtyard, towards another entrance. ‘You are going to tell me everything you know.’
Chapter 34
Cloud lay thick across the valley. It covered everything, wrapping around the crooked sides of mountains and smoothing flat the twisted valleys in between. Beyond its reach, Geltang Monastery perched high on its rock-face like a giant eyrie, its sheer walls basking in the warmth of the morning sun.
Behind one of the endless lines of open windows a monk stared out, his hands clasped behind his back and his eyes half-closed as they squinted against the glare of the sun. His normally placid expression had sharpened. A deep vertical worry line creased the centre of his forehead. He breathed in deeply, nostrils flaring as they drew in cool air from outside, and tried to steady his nerves.
His eyes followed the same line of jagged peaks he had witnessed each morning for the last thirty-six years. But today he looked upon the mountains afresh, each knife-edged ridge and towering summit so magnificent and perfect that he could scarcely believe the beauty of them all. It was only now that he felt such awe. Only now that he knew they were threatened.
The monk slowly shook his head. Thirty-six years since he had first arrived at Geltang, and in all that time he had never felt as uncertain as he did right now. Despite all their preparations, despite their every precaution, the impossible had happened: foreigners had finally discovered the monastery.
Swivelling round, the monk set off down the corridor with unaccustomed haste. Passing the nearest flight of steps, he turned left at the end of the corridor, then right, coming to a halt in front of a heavy gilded door. He raised his hand to knock, then stopped, his head slumping forward until his forehead was resting against the wooden doorframe.
He had to get Rega to agree with him.
Rega and he were equals in the monastery, second only to His Holiness the Abbot. They had ruled every facet of the order for over a decade while the Abbot gradually withdrew into himself, as custom dictated. As his enlightenment became such that he reached the highest levels of the Wheel of Life, so his introspection grew. Now the Abbot was almost never seen outside his quarters, becoming a hermit within his own monastery.
Their once-great leader, the monk who had first begun the long and dangerous process of bringing the treasure to Geltang, was now so detached from life at the monastery that he had become almost a myth within his own lifetime. As each year passed and the Abbot’s concerns grew ever-more esoteric, the daily responsibilities of running the monastery had increasingly been delegated to them.
In the present crisis, it was vital that the frayed network of alliances throughout their order be pulled together rather than allowed to splinter apart. A schism would threaten the very heart of all they held secret.
Lifting his chin up and smoothing his robe, Dorje knocked firmly on the door and entered.
The room was badly lit, and it took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dark. The only source of light was a narrow window in the far corner and the huge, vaulted room seemed to swim in a grey half-light.
Rega sat on a massive wooden chair, raised on a dais in the centre. His angular body slumped back against it, dwarfed by the chair’s giant frame. Standing to one side was a second figure, its identity lost in the shadows. It turned at the sound of Dorjeapproach and the monk immediately recognised the muscular form of Rega’s chief aide, Drang.
Rega looked up, his blind eyes fixing unerringly on the new arrival.
‘Dorje,’ he said, the word more a fact that a form of greeting.
Dorje gave a brief nod before striding purposefully forward, coming to a halt a few paces away from the chair. He glanced at Drang, standing to one side.
‘Leave us,’ he said with a wave of dismissal.
For the briefest of moments Drang’s eyes fixed on Rega. Then he bowed low, keeping his eyes locked on Dorje, before retreating silently from the room.
‘I have come to decide with you what must be done,’ Dorje said, standing with his hands folded in front of him. ‘We need to make our recommendation to His Holiness.’