chapter 1

On

t h e

great mountaintops,

the air braved only by geese, how could

anyone expect the enemy to come? Ajatashatru had

warded the gates, set guardians both mystical and

technological on the winding paths, prepared the single bridge, designed the temple to repel invaders, laid

traps, and scattered the winking red eyes of wireless

cameras across courtyards and down cramped hallways. When the enemy came, they came from the starscattered sky.

They weren't ghosts or daemons — no matter how

frightened the children were — but men, creatures of

flesh and blood and the world. They dropped out of

the darkness above the high mortarless walls, passing

the prayer flags — and their mystical wards — without leaving a trace or setting off alarms. So,

Ajatashatru might suspect vampires, or

magicians. When they hit the ground

it was with Kalashnikovs

and tear gas ; the weapons of flesh and blood. A dozen attackers,

Ajatashatru thought, with charms and wards, bullets

and high-tech oxygen tanks to allow them a stealthy

drop through the thin atmosphere of highland Tibet.

He'd spent decades building the defenses of Anga Laishan

Temple and it had taken six hours to tear them down.

But most of the children still lived.

"Ajat," Bija whined. "I'm cold." Behind her the other

children's voices rose in echo, as if all they'd needed

was a spark to set off complaints about the cold and

tired and when could they go to sleep.

"I know," Ajatashatru said patiently, wind whipping

away his cloudy breath, "But we have to go on," he

stopped to pick Bija up; she was one of the youngest. She wrapped her arms around him, cold hands

tucking against his neck. Ajatashatru only sighed

and slogged on.

"We have to

keep moving," he

repeated and turned

to look over the ragged

little line of children and two surviving nuns, "there's no going back."

Behind them, as the sun rose, smoke drifted into the

sky like a prayer for the abandoned dead and ahead

of them was the bitter snowfield of Gwanwi Mountain.

There was no road, nor path, nor any sign of safety in

sight, but Ajatashatru knew the way, like he knew the

shape of his own face. He sought an abandoned nunnery,

last mentioned two-hundred years ago. He knew this for

he had been the one to bury the last nuns there, to lock

those old wooden gates and extinguish the last prayer

candles while the mountain mourned around them. It

rema i ned

only in his memory

for those two centuries, in

the back of his mind, in case he needed it. It was near

the border of his world, where the bones of the

mountain fell away into lowlands and Ajatashatru's

territory ended.

He had not thought to take a dozen young children and two injured women there; and all of them

mortal. Ajatashatru looked back again, seeing the

way Sister Gua listed to one side, while young Laum

tugged her carefully along. The other children

struggled through the deep snow, older carrying

younger and all trudging along, and heads down

to protect their eyes from the rising brilliance of

the snowfield. One of those weary, frightened children, Ajatashatru knew — hoped — was the

Chosen; the Blue Bodhisattva reborn.

If only he knew which one with him, and not one of the five children stolen by

their attackers, or one of the half dozen lying dead

in the temple. It was Ajatashatru's destiny, his duty, to

protect the child — to hold the temple, to await the

return, to guard the Book. He had failed in one, the

Book lay in ashes behind them, but he would not fail in

his greater duty. The child, the Bodhisattva of Compassion; without the child, his life would have no purpose

and all the empty centuries without the warmth and

company of lovers, of friends, the bonds that held him

to this lonely corner of the world would be pointless.

Against his shoulder Bija whined and Ajatashatru jogged

her higher on his hip, looking out on the world instead

of his own self-pity. The loss of the Blue Bodhisattva

meant more than his small sorrow; without the sprit of

compassion, what would

happen to the

world?

It was a long day before they crested the sharp

spine of the mountain, Ajatashatru's steps sure on the rocky slope, and the

buried rooftops of the nunnery were recognizable

only as slightly too regular shapes under deep snowdrifts. Ajatashatru left the children and the nuns

to huddle together while he dug his way down to the

remembered back door. It was closed, as he had left

it, and he struggled the door open to let out the

stale air and creep inside.

Gold glinted in the dimness of his narrow halogen, and

peeling red paint. The air was cold but without the painful

pull of the wind, and there was wood and stoves ready, once

he dug

out the chimneys.

The smoke could

betray them but without warmth the children would die,

and soon. Night was coming on and Ajatashatru wanted

them all under cover before the sun fell below the

edge of the world and left them to the dark.

By full dark everyone was undercover, Sister Gua

had found eatable grain, and Bija was lost.

Ajatashatru was out of the habit of cursing, and

the language he would have used was five-hundred

years dead but he was tempted. Instead, he gritted

his teeth and crawled along a half-collapsed hallway, flashlight throwing blue halogen shadows on

a world that had remained hidden since before the

discovery of electricity. He was following scuffs

and wallows of disturbed dust, nose running

and thinking that he might just forget

the last few hundred years of his

civilized nature and give Bija

a good walloping . "Of all the times to wander," he groaned.

Duty tore him between the child — alone in a ruined building — and the children defenseless behind

him. Ajatashatru stopped, crouching back on his heels

and peering into the darkness. The hallways of the

old nunnery were dangerous, the floors weak, the

walls ready to fall at a breath. Behind him, the surviving children where huddled around a paltry fire

while enemies prowled about, searching with all the

resources of ancient magic and modern technology.

Ajatashatru was their defender, sworn to live —

forever — and die in the service of these temples and

monasteries, every moment he left them alone was

one where they were more vulnerable to attack.

Was one worth risking all?

Ahead, he heard scraping and he crawled on, head bowed

against the too close ceiling.

Bija was in

one of the tiny study

rooms, where rotting prayer

flags littered the floor and

the painted faces of guardian daemons were defaced by age and wear. A tallow lamp flickered, turning the whole room into a

fire hazard as well as one imminently close to collapse. Struggling, still bundled in her quilted jacket,

the flaps of her yellow hat jingling with bells, Bija

was dragging a rickety stepstool across the warped

floor to pile on top of a precarious collection of

scroll cases.

"Bija," Ajatashatru called sharply and she glanced

around all bright dark eyes and scraggly hair.

She gave him a shy wave but didn't halt her work. Come

b a c k

here, child. What

are you thinking?"

"Have to finish," she piped insistently and waved her

hand up towards the sagging ceiling. "I forgot something."

Forgot something? You've never been here, Bija," Ajatashatru said, regretting it immediately as Bija rolled her eyes

at him and turned away. She hadn't forgotten, Ajatashatru realized with awe, she'd remembered. "Let me help,

Reverend," he breathed and moved into the room.

The floor groaned and bucked like a ship at sea.

Ajatashatru froze while Bija wailed like any frightened child, clutching her pile of boxes and scrambling

up them as if that would save her from a collapsing

building. The floor was riddled with dry rot, it was

impossible for someone as heavy as Ajatashatru to

cross. He clenched his fists, forced to do nothing

but watch as he felt sweat beading on his

forehead. The floor groaned again

and he watched the little oil

lamp slide across it.