The Path by Rebecca Neason

many lifetimes in the making—and many more in answering. But to those who seek, Enlightenment
     does come.”
    Duncan opened his mouth, then closed it again without speaking. How was it that this man who was barely more than a boy, should
     call MacLeod
young
with such authority? And how long is a lifetime? Duncan almost asked. Is it twenty years, fifty, one hundred?
    How would you answer if you knew
my
truth?

Chapter Eleven

    The black homing pigeon flew fast and true, not caring about the message it carried or the lives it might change. It only
     knew that at the end of the flight was the safety of a cage, was food, water, and rest. It flew through the mountain passes,
     riding the wind currents that added speed to its wings, avoiding the talons of the hawk and eagle, on into the heart of Nepal.
     It flew to Kathmandu.
    On the roof of the sacred temple of Pashupatinatha, home of the servants of Shiva, its cage waited. When it set its feet upon
     the perch, a bell rang within the temple, alerting the Hindu priest who served there of the bird’s return. The priest had
     neither concern nor curiosity about the message the bird carried; their dutiful care was for the bird itself. A sacred duty.
    Nasiradeen Satish, leader of the Gurkha army, did not care about the bird; it was only a tool. He wanted the words on the
     paper banded to its leg. He wanted the power the words would bring him. He wanted Tibet.
    It was he who had chosen the temple for the bird’s cage, and he came every day to see if it had arrived. No one questioned
     his daily attendance at the temple. It was assumed he was as devout in his service to the gods as to the King. In truth, he
     was neither, but it served his purpose that the people—and the court—thought it so.
    He had no love for the boy-King who occupied the throne or for the council of regents who actually ruled. The late King, Pathvi
     Narayan Shah, had been of another kind. He had been a warrior who let nothing stand in the way of what he wanted. He had conquered
     the other two principalities and created a united kingdom of Nepal, then moved his capital to the fertile valley of Kathmandu.
     Nasiradeen had been proud to serve him; theyhad understood each other, recognized their kindred spirits despite the separation of mortality.
    But he had died, as even the best mortals do, and for the last six years Nasiradeen Satish had found no one else worthy of
     his respect. He had returned to the practice that had brought him out of the filth of his childhood, that had given him power
     and kept him alive. Nasiradeen supported no one but himself.
    Oh, he did it carefully, mouthing phrases of flattery to the young King, who cared about nothing but his own amusement. All
     the while the leader of the Gurkhas made certain his men stayed loyal to him first and all else, including the throne, second.
    And he made his plans, here on Holy Ground where no one could touch him. In this small antechamber built for the meditation
     of priests, he kept his maps, his lists and tallies of men and supplies, and here he received the messages from his spy. While
     he was here, mortals would respect his solitude and other Immortals that chanced to come to Kathmandu would honor the rules
     of the Game.
    In the 312 years Nasiradeen had been alive he had learned to play all the games well.
    He received the latest message, still tightly folded, from the hands of the priest, who then turned away, glad to leave Nasiradeen
     to the solitude he demanded. The Gurkha Immortal quickly unfolded the paper and scanned the words. As he read, a scowl darkened
     his visage and suspicions began to crowd his mind.
    A Westerner in Lhasa
, the message said.
Not a missionary. Befriended by Dalai Lama. Scout or mercenary?
    Or maybe something more
, Nasiradeen’s thoughts finished what the message could not say.
Whoever you are, you’re too late. Lhasa is mine—Tibet is mine, and I’ll soon be there to take it
.
    Nasiradeen strode across