Hmmm, Rudi thought. That it has. Sort of an equal and opposite thing.
"And I have my friends," Rudi said; which was a comfort. "It's a lonely thing, having so much depend on you."
Dorje's chuckle was dry. "My son, when you have come to a decision between right and wrong, then act, not waiting on approval. If you do right it will add no virtue to the right that friends gave their assent beforehand. Be your own judge. But commit no trespass, remembering that where another's liberty begins your own inevitably meets its boundary."
"Can't we help each other, then?" Rudi said.
"Oh, most certainly! But though you strive in friendship, be that friendship as ennobling as the gods' good will, I tell you that each must enter one by one. But of the three, faith, hope and friendship, the last is not least. To him who truly seeks the Middle Way, the Middle Way will open. One step forward is enough."
"Then I'd like to ask your help," Rudi said. "For my comrade Ingolf. He was a prisoner of the Cutters for a long while, and I think they… did things to him. To his mind. Things that leave him vulnerable."
"Ah," Dorje said, leaning forward slightly. "Tell me more. With this, we may be of assistance."
"Father…"
"Yes, my child?" Ignatius said, controlling his breathing and suppressing a stab of irritation.
He bowed to the monk with whom he'd been sparring and returned the practice sword to the wall. Edain was trying another fall with the instructor in unarmed combat-who was extremely good-and Odard, Ingolf, the twins and Fred Thurston were taking turns at sword-and-buckler. He judged his own condition clinically; he was fully recovered in strength and flexibility from their time in the mountains, but still a little behind in endurance. It would be hard to build that again while the snow kept them inside.
And I am still disturbed in spirit by the things which we saw with the Cutters, he knew. I must think and pray and meditate. But a soul in need is always a priest's task.
He sat on a bench, and Mathilda joined him. "I've been reading in their library here," she said. "And… it's a bit odd."
"What is?"
"It's odd how much of it seems, well, similar to what the Church teaches. Not the devas and whatevers and layers of being and Western Paradises and everything, but the stuff you're supposed to do, and what's good and bad."
"No, it's not odd at all," Ignatius said. "It's only to be expected. Why do you think our pagan friends"-he nodded towards them-"speak of their god as dying and reborn, and renewing the land with his blood?"
"Well, that's just a pagan myth!"
"Exactly. But the Passion and Resurrection of Our Lord are also myths."
At her shocked look, he went on: "But they are true myths. Myths that have become history; not in some timeless land of legends, but in a particular place and a specific time."
"Then why should people like the Mackenzies or the Buddhists get the… the same answers as we do from something that was real?"
"Because those events are so real that they cast their shadow forward and backwards through all time, whenever men think of these matters at all. Even if they are mired in ignorance, they will see.. . fragments of the Truth, as men imprisoned in a cave see shadows cast by the sun. Likewise, all men derive their moral intuitions from God; how not? There is no other source, just as there is no other way to make a wheel than to make it round. In Scripture, He tells us directly what He wishes of us… but simply by being, by being His children in His world, we hear a whisper of the logos, the divine Word."
He saw her frown thoughtfully. "That makes sense," she said, then smiled; it made her strong-boned face beautiful for a second. "Thank you, Father."
"I can't take the credit for the thought, but if the words reach you, my child, then I'm doing my job."
He sighed. "I find this place both strange and familiar. It is interesting, and it makes me long for Mt. Angel. Marvelous are the works of God-"
"-but none so marvelous as humankind," Mathilda finished. "Thanks, Father. I'd better get back to Rudi now. He overdoes it if he's not watched."
"Thanks for the help, Fred. It's mad I'd go, gibbering and running into the woods waving my arms and crowing like a rooster, if I didn't get away from the women for a while. Well-meaning darlings that they are, my sisters and Mathilda both, the blessings of the Mother upon them."
Frederick Thurston nodded and took a sip of the chicory. He'd grown up calling it coffee, just like everyone else in the interior, though traders from the coast reached Boise a bit more often than they did this far into the Rockies, and the real bean wasn't to be had at Ford's Khyentse Cowboy Bar and Grill for any price.
Right now it was crowded here; Ranchers in from the long valley round about, farmers from the foothills, militiamen in from patrolling on skis, enough to combine with the big fieldstone fireplace to make it comfortably warm. The air was thick with the scents of frying potatoes and grilling meat, of rawhide boots drying by the fire and sheepskin coats steaming on their pegs by the door and beer and fruit-brandy, and someone had put a cup of it in front of an image in a niche he supposed must be Khyentse.
The owner paused by their table: "Everything OK?" he said.
"Mr. Ford, it's like a breath of home, so it is," Rudi said with that easy charm Fred envied. "The monastery is a splendid place, sure, but-"
The innkeeper grinned. "And I make my living off the 'but,' " he said, and passed on.
He was a lean gray man who must have been striking once, and the staff in stables and kitchen were mostly his children and grandchildren; Fred remembered someone saying the owner had built the place with his own hands.
It sort of reminds me of the time I managed to get away and do that bar crawl with that guard corporal, Jerry, he thought reminiscently-it had been just after his sixteenth birthday.
God, I thought Mom was going to have a cow! Particularly when she heard about the girls. I'm glad Dad didn't ream the guy out too badly.
His father had looked like he was halfway between being angry and laughing, fighting to keep the grin off his face as the course of the evening's dissipation was revealed, right down to the women's underwear found in their possession.
Not that his father had been one to coddle the children He squeezed his eyes shut for an instant, almost gasping as he saw that final glimpse again, Martin bending over Dad and No! he thought. I can't go on reliving that! I'm headed the other way and Martin can keep.
Instead he reached for his cup. Something clinked, and he saw Rudi Mackenzie pouring from a silver flask into it; he upended the oblong shape and shook the last drops free.
"There, that's the last of the Dun Juniper brandy. My friend Terry Martins Mackenzie makes it, and well he learned the art from his father, who was a brewmaster and distiller of note."
"Hey, I can't take the last of it!" Fred said.
"It's Yule, or nearly, the which is close to my birthday. The season for gifts-and you look as if you need it more than I."
The brown-skinned young man sipped. It did mellow the harsh taste of the toasted chicory root, even more than the cream he'd laced it with.
"Yeah, you don't look like you're going to fold up and blow away anymore," he said.
Though you still look like shit, frankly, he added to himself. Or like a ghost of yourself.
He had trouble connecting the figure before him with the blood-spattered warrior who'd gone striding through the Cutter camp to rescue his friends like a God of War with men dead and crippled in his wake. Rudi Mackenzie was still far too thin, the flesh tight on his strong bones, and there were lines of strain around his blue-green eyes that hadn't been there before. Only the thick red-gold hair that fell to his shoulders was as it had been before. That and his smile.