chapter 2

Bija!" Ajatashatru yelled, reborn Bodhisattva or

not, she had to mind him. "Get back here before you

get hurt."

"Have to—" she insisted, straining up, plump hands fumbling at one of the demon faces, hooking fingers into

the fanged mouth. "Have to get my pictures! I forgot

my pictures!"

"Reverend—"

What had seemed a warped crack in the demonic face

split apart to reveal a hidden space. Bija fumbled out a

tightly bound armful of ancient fan books, bound in red

thread, edges gilded to protect against rot. They were

nearly as tall as Bija and Ajatashatru watched, fists

clenched, as she tottered down the pile of boxes and

carefully across the floor. When she was near enough,

he snatched her up, books and child both, hugging her

hard and panting as if

he'd run across

the breadth of the

Gwanwi in midsummer.

"Do not go wandering, Reverend," he begged, "please, do not do

that to me. I don't want any more gray

hairs." He had none, of course, and never would.

Bija patted his cheek gently and gave him a childish

kiss. "I'm sorry Ajat, I had to get my pictures."

Sighing wearily, Ajatashatru put Bija on her feet and

patted her rump to get her moving back to the others.

Reborn Bodhisattva of compassion or not, she was still

a little girl and he imagined the years ahead, struggling to guide the child while respecting the ancient

soul within. He sighed, last time the Blue Bodhisattva

had come to them, he'd been nearly adult, old enough t o

take

his place as

master of the temple and

relieve Ajatashatru of one small part of his duty.

Bija was terribly young. Ajatashatru bowed his head,

accepting the burden he'd carry for years yet.

When they were nearly back at the prayer room

in which they'd chosen to take refuge, Bija paused.

"Something's wrong," she said softly. Ajatashatru

flicked off his flashlight and peered past her. There

was too much light ahead, steady and bright, not the

flicker of butter lanterns. A mouse scrabbled across

his hands and Ajatashatru flinched, hissing under his

breath at the touch of the filthy creature. He hated

mice, hated vermin of all kinds, and no compassionate

enlightenment was going to change that. The mouse

— actually several mice — paused quite openly,

standing on their hind legs to sniff the air,

their tiny eyes black and expressionless. Ajatashatru ignored them

as they scurried

aw a y , but Bija watched them with wide eyes.

"Stay here," he whispered, drawing his warded gun.

Gold wire gleamed on it; the barrel sprang from the

mouth of a guardian daemon and the bullets within

could harm anything from a ghost of the dead to

one of the fey creatures from beyond the world to

simple flesh and blood. Whispering protective charms

under his breath, Ajatashatru slipped past Bija, moving

as silently as the falling snow outside and prayed

for the lives of the children he'd left behind.

The prayers Ajatashatru murmured had been taught

him in an ancient era, when the gods were close to

men and the spirit of the mountain range granted

him strength, power, speed and endurance. This time,

he sought the favor of the shadows, the demons of

silence and darkness that he might pass unseen like

a ghost.

When he

crept to the edge

of the room, he met the ugly

pale gaze of a foreigner. Despite the

shadows Ajatashatru had drawn across himself and the silence he'd called down, the woman

saw him as clearly as if it were mid-day. She twisted

her hand and the child kneeling at her feet made a

gagging sound, clawing wildly at his neck. Luam, one eye

swelling shut and his knuckles scraped, was battered

from a battle he should never have had to fight.

The others were huddled against one wall, under

the hard gaze of men in black military parkas carrying

machine guns. Everyone except Sister Gua, who lay in a

pool of her own blood, dark eyes staring sightlessly u p

to the

s a c r e d

paintings on the listing

ceiling. The children were silent as mice and pale

with terror. Ajatashatru was painfully satisfied to

see they remembered their lessons; none of them

cried, and none of them revealed any hint of weapons or defenses they still might carry.

"Come in," she said, her harsh accent ruining the

graceful language of the gods. "Ancient one."

Ajatashatru stood, sighing, and let his prayers fall

away, revealing himself as nothing more than a short,

middle-aged man with centuries lurking behind his eyes.

"What do you want, enemy?"

The woman bared her teeth at him, twisting the garrote again, and there was something in her — some foulness hidden beneath a too thin veneer of civilization — that made Ajatashatru shift uneasily.

Mice, startled by the lights and noise

after so long left alone in

the old nunnery, were

s c r a m b l i n g across

the floor

and along the walls,

their small squeaks making the hair rise on the

nape of Ajatashatru's neck. "What do you think, you

moron. The child. Give us the child and the Book, and

we'll leave you to starve in peace."

The Reverend is not here," Ajatashatru said plainly,

pleased that he could speak the truth, especially when

the woman's gaze grabbed his, twisting like a knife in his

mind, striving to reduce him to her helpless thrall. He

stood stiffly, battling the nasty creep of the woman's

mind, gathering his own defenses, turning to the colors

of the prayer painting a wise sage had given him 70

years before. Laid out on the surface of his mind, blue,

gold and crimson swam across his inner eye, the path

of strength in compassion under his feet and rising

up like lions behind him. The scrabble of sharp

attention, slid within him like mice in

a cupboard, chasing him past his

first line of defense.

Ajatashatru fled deeper, where he summoned necessary suffering and turned to battle his invader.

Crawling within the privacy of his memories, within

the dignity of his mind were vermin. The horrible, violating sickness of it nearly left Ajatashatru defeated

and he barely took up his sacred weapons with a disgusted cry, striking out at the woman's mind with his

own. Yet, she scrabbled and clawed and crawled and

bit and ...

"No!" Ajatashatru cried out, jolted back to consciousness to find himself writing on the floor and weeping

in revulsion. "Stop! Gods, stop, stop... please!"

The woman laughed at him, high pitched and sharp,

like the squeal of a rat. "Poor little man, are you

afraid of me?"

"What use is the child to you?" He snarled.

"One of you—"

Scavenger,

he thought in

disgust, one who

crawled in the filth, tearing

away the lives and souls of others

to stave off their own natural death.

She only laughed again, "Fifty-million dollars is

what that precious Reborn of yours is worth. I have

expensive tastes," she bared sharpened teeth at him,

"so I'd suggest you hand both the child and the Book

over before you and I... get better acquainted."

Ajatashatru recoiled at the sick suggestiveness in her

voice but remained stubbornly silent. Spiritual defilement, no matter how terrible, was a price he'd willingly

pay and there was nothing in his face, his mind or his voice to

betray the Reborn he was eternally dedicated to protect. Yet,

Bija had

ideas of her own.

"You burned the Book," she said, walking into the room,

a wide-eyed little girl dressed in a worn quilted coat

and a cat-eared yellow hat. She crouched down beside

Ajatashatru and patted his shoulder with mittened

hands. "It's alright, Ajat."

"No," he groaned in despair. "It's not."

Bija straightened up. "I am the Reborn Blue Bodhisattva," she said firmly. Satisfaction gleamed in the woman's

pale eyes.

But—

"No," Gutja stood, blood from a cut on his temple

turning his face into a demon's mask. "I am the Reborn."

Vashra stood beside him and shook his head. "No —"

The children stood, each of them, and claimed

the Reverend title and nothing but truth

shone in their eyes, even as their enemy

snarled, brutally searching

their minds for deception. For each of the children spoke the truth; all the

children of Anga Lashan were chosen to be Reborn,

raised to take that mantle. That none of them knew,

ultimately, who would take the Reborn title, was a

small detail in a greater truth. Ajatashatru closed

his eyes against the swelling grief and pride. He could

hide behind mystic defenses, and defy their enemies with

curses and prayer, but there would always be someone stronger in violence, someone who could eventually defeat him. Nothing could defeat the simplest and

greatest truth of Anga Lashan; all children were

the children of compassion.