The Path by Rebecca Neason Page A

the room and pulled the bell rope to summon a priest. He stood tapping his foot impatiently while
     he waited. It took only a few moments for the priest to arrive but to Nasiradeen it felt much, much longer.
    “A pen and paper,” the Gurkha Immortal ordered before the priest had entered the room. “Bring them quickly.”
    The priest bowed and left as silently as he had arrived. Nasiradeenpaced around the small chamber. His long robes swirled around his ankles, and the sandals he wore made slapping noises upon
     the mosaic floor, reminding him with each step these were court clothes, good for nothing but idleness.
    His hand went to the hilt of his sword, the long, curved saber not even court life could strip from his side.
Soon
, he thought,
I’ll be back in proper clothes, a warrior’s clothes
.
    That day could not come swiftly enough for Nasiradeen. The only impediment was the King’s regents; they had not yet agreed
     either to support the invasion of Tibet or release Nasiradeen from court service so he could lead the army on his own.
    But the Gurkha leader had almost convinced the young King of the need for the venture. Nasiradeen played to the boy’s vanity—it
     was such an easy thing to do—filling his head with tales of glory, making him think he could be the great leader his father
     had been.
    Soon
, Nasiradeen thought again.
A few weeks at most, and I’ll take my army to the north
.
    The Hindu priest returned with paper and pen. Nasiradeen snatched them from his hand.
    “Wait,” he ordered as he quickly scribbled a return message to his spy.
Watch carefully
, it said.
Report often. Invasion soon
.
    Folding the paper, he turned and handed it to the priest. “This must go out at once,” he said.
    The priest sighed and bowed, then turned away. Nasiradeen could tell he was not happy with his charge—but he would obey. The
     Gurkha paid this temple enough gold to make certain of their obedience.
    After the priest was gone, Nasiradeen left the small antechamber and went into the main temple. On the raised dais at the
     far end, the statue of the god Shiva sat behind a cloud of incense. The white stone from which it had been carved was changed
     to ash-colored from the years of smoke encircling it and the blue on its throat faded now to an indistinct gray.
    Nasiradeen hardly noticed as he took his place among the worshipers. His eyes went instead to the bone held in one of the
     god’s many hands, to the necklace of skulls around its neck and finally to the three eyes in the statue’s face.
    It was the third eye on which Nasiradeen fixed his attention. It bestowed inward vision, yet when turned outward broughtburning destruction on those toward whom it was focused. Shiva was the great god, the Auspicious One, but he was also the
     Destroyer. It was to this aspect Nasiradeen prayed.
    He bowed and touched his forehead to the floor, seeking the words that would win the god’s power to his side.
    I will build you a great temple in the hert of Lhasa itself
, he told the god.
The holy city will become your city. I will destroy all who will not worship you, and you will drink the blood of their sacrifice.
     Be my aid and my strength, great Shiva, and nothing will stand before us
.
    Duncan MacLeod left the Potala early, when the sun had barely risen. He left before the monk Gaikho could summon him to his
     usual morning meal with the Dalai Lama.
    MacLeod meant no disrespect to the spiritual leader and hoped his absence would not be taken as such. But for the last two
     days they had spent most of their time together, student and teacher, while Duncan learned of the four Noble Truths that made
     up the basis of Tibetan Buddhism.
    Although Duncan was grateful for the many hours the Dalai Lama was giving up from his other duties, today he needed to get
     away. He needed time to think, to absorb what he had already heard, to let his mind
breathe
.
    His first thought was to go to the mountains, to the beauty and the