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language of the practice yards.
Another demon, perhaps, this one in human form? He reached up and caught the
wrist of the person slapping him, twisted it, and heard loud protests. In
Greek. Would the demons of the hills know Greek?
He didn't disif right-brace ,"
@lcaret * -
Susan Shwartz think so. He opened his eyes and saw, twisting in his grasp, the
princess whom he thought he had lost in the snowslide. His princess. He
grinned helplessly at her. Beside her stood the little Persian priest who
advised her, several other men wearing shabby robes, and two people he
recognized as villagers. They stared at him as he might have looked at the
Thunderer himself.
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"Let me go, you great bear," Her Highness commanded again, and he complied. He
fell back onto the pallet, dizzy after even so little time awake.
"Whatever demon was sent to kill us, you slew it.
Rest now. It almost bled you white."
"My axe," he mumbled. His chapped lips hurt from grinning.
"We have it safe." She turned to the priest.
"Wouldn't j you know that he'd ask for it first."
Tears rolled down her face, and she brushed them away fiercely, then wiped his
face with her sleeve
too. He barely stopped himself from catching her hand when it "j brushed his
mouth. He could not meet her eyes any-be more. She had been with him, traveled
into nightmare with him, and had not feared his pain.
"The horn . . . horn of Shambhala . . ."
"We have that too," Princess Alexandra told him. "And when you're rested, you
can tell us what you know of Shambhala."
The Imperial family was wise, that went without saying, though all Miklagard
was supposed to say so. And the princess was truly wise. Thus, it did not
really surprise Haraldr that
Alexandra or this thin little abbot knew of
Shambhala. It seemed natural that if the same seithr comevil magic-afflicted
all of them, whatever might be good would affect them all too. If Hela could
be a she-demon in these mountains, then why could
Valhalla not be named Shambhala?
He remembered the day he had had that revelation.
He had waked from a doze-since the princess had brought him out of his
nightmares, he seemed to spend his time either eating or sleeping-to hear her
protest, "But I'm
Christian!
Why do I need this Rudra Cakrin? And I'm not going through these sacraments
with bell, crown, sword, scepter, and all the rest of that baggage ... I
can't even pronounce most of it."
"The initiations of Vajrayogini, goddess of the
Diamond Path," said the abbot. His tone indicated that he had said it over and
over. "I understand that you are unwilling to set foot on the Way. But it has
claimed you. From Shambhala itself, your teacher has reached out to mark you
for himself, and will, in his own time, initiate you. Otherwise you have no
defense against the darker powers your aunt unleashed against you and your
City. Though no flowers grow in these mountains, I can at least give you one
of the objects you will require."
He had said other things that Haraldr only understood dimly: that this Way he
insisted the princess must follow did not mean the abolition of all passions,
but mastery over them. Rage, she had experienced, and terror as the snow
buried her. (that much Haraldr understood.) But when the abbot said that she
would have to endure all such emotions before she could use their strength . .
. The princess shook her head, rejecting the priest's words.
With the air of a roan laying aside an argument in order to take it up more
profitably later on, he beckoned forward one of the younger priests, who
knelt, sword and sheath laid across his upraised palms.
Though the sword was sharp, both it and its sheath looked very old. The abbot
clicked a long fingernail against the blade, and it rang keenly, piercingly in
that thin air. Haraldr snapped into battle alertness.
Old swords were things of power. 'This is a treasure of this house. Would you
truly refuse it?"
The princess laughed. "You have me trapped, don't
you? Seeing as how you saved my life, I can refuse you nothing. And besides
that, my own weapon lies buried in
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Susan Shwartz the snow." She accepted the blade, half saluted the abbot with
it, then sheathed it, and sat studying the patterns on the scabbard.
To Haraldr's astonishment, the abbot turned to him.
Father Basil moved to his side, ready to interpret. "You," the priest said.
"This is yours."
He held out the horn of Shambhala, strung on a fresh cord. Only a few
scratches showed where the demon's teeth had closed upon it.
The abbot's thin, dark fingers, hardly more than bones themselves, traced out
the pattern on the horn. "A
city between two rings of snow mountains . . .
Shambhala, where the king and his warriors wait for the world's need . . ."
Haraldr jerked upright. "My people too have that tale,"
he said hoarsely. "I blew the horn, and no one answered." No one answered
because the need was not great enough, he realized the instant after he spoke,
and flushed with shame. In that moment, he felt himself the barbarian that
some Greeks were unwise enough to call him to his face.
The abbot nodded. "If you have need . . ."
Silently the Varangian vowed never to become that needy. Against all hope, he
had slain a demon. He had found help. He would have the use of both hands. He
had been reunited with the
Imperial princess he was sworn to serve. The abbot would help them outfit
themselves and reach Kashgar.
It was more than enough.
Bryennius choked on snow, spat out a mouthful of reddish water and ice, and
flailed about until he had made a small cave in which he could rest, at least
for the moment. That was good: Both arms worked.
Groaning, he tested his legs and thanked God and
His gentle Mother that they were not broken. Once, during a game of polo, he
had fallen from his horse and been dragged halfway around the Imperial grounds
before he could cut himself free of his stirrup. That time, he had felt as if
an executioner had taken a hammer to each bone and sinew, yet it was nothing
to the aches he felt now.
So cold ... his thoughts were muzzy, the way they were after he had drunk too
much. A priest had been chanting, that much he recalled. They had been lost,
Alexandra had been even more upset than usual-and, as usual, she was right.
Bryennius remembered now.
The altitude and the chant made the horses uneasy il
Susan
Shwartz terrified Alexandra's companion, Thea. Bry"
had divided his time between them until... his head rolled back and forth in
the snow. Oh, God, the chant had sunk into his body, and then he had heard
the rumbling of half a mountainside's snow pouring down upon them . . .
"Alexandra!" he called, though it came out a whimper. "Thea?" No, there was no
Thea, not anymore. Practically his last sight before snow had blinded him was
of his cousin's waiting-woman cartwheeling through the air, down into the
clouds. Leo, his friend, the Varangians, that mad priest Alexandra prized
so-they must all be dead. And Alexandra herself. He lived, though how much
longer he could live without fire or supplies was not certain. Still, he had
to look for her. He muttered a brief prayer, for whatever good it might do
anyone, then flailed about upslope. He could feel strength draining out of him
into the thin, cold air. Then the sky whirled before his eyes, and darkness
closed in. He was falling backward, and his last thought was that this time he
would never wake.
When awareness returned, it brought sanity with it. It was twilight. Instead
of lashing out until he exhausted himself, he looked at the place where he had
fallen, then moved arms and legs to make sure that he could. His hand touched
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