I laughed with relief. “It is.”

“Good.” Dorje looked as relieved as I felt. “Shared journeys forge connections. You became as an older sister to the boy Dash, and you have become as a younger sister to me. I could not let you do such a thing.”

I felt an obscure need to defend the notion. “It is a sacred calling among my father’s people, you know.”

Dorje raised his brows. “Are you called to it now?”

I paused, then shook my head. “No,” I admitted. “I have been called to serve Naamah in different ways before. Not this way.”

He nodded, satisfied. “Then it is decided.”

I gave him an impulsive hug. “Thank you, Dorje.”

He extricated himself and patted my head in a tentative manner. “You are welcome, Moirin. I hope it will help you to remember that there are more good people than bad in the world.”

I did, too.

FIFTY-TWO

Days later, we arrived at Rasa.

It had been a harsh, grueling journey and it ended in a city atop a wind-swept plateau, an arid, dizzying place of dun-colored rock and cutting winds, ringed about with snow-capped mountain peaks.

Even so, it was not without beauty.

I had come to love the thin air and the heights, the hardy cedar and poplar that grew beneath the treeline of the mountains, with their stubborn, insistent thoughts. I had come to admire the tough yaks and sheep that found pastures in the valleys where village folk tilled the rocky soil and planted barley.

I had grown fond, very fond, of Dorje and his fellow Tufani traders.

Even so, it was difficult to place my unstinting trust in them. And yet I did, praying silently to the Maghuin Dhonn Herself that it was not misguided.

While they concluded their bargaining, I stayed with Dorje’s family-his wife and two bright-eyed daughters, and also his elderly father. The houses in Rasa were two-story affairs, built that animals might shelter below, while humans lived on the second floor. The buildings were white with brightly colored trim, defiantly cheerful against the bleak landscape.

It was a holy place, I learned, and many followers of the Path of Dharma came here on pilgrimages. In Rasa, commerce and sanctity lived cheek by jowl, and it was strange to walk the streets and see shops selling all manner of goods, while colorful prayer flags fluttered overhead and pilgrims completed a circuit around the city, prostrating themselves every few steps.

Dorje’s wife, Nyima, was a generous hostess, a sweet woman who was reduced to infectious giggles by my efforts to communicate with her. I let her daughters braid my hair in the Tufani style, weaving beads of coral and turquoise into the strands.

It took a day for Dorje’s company to sort out their own business, and another day for him to see about arrangements for my journey.

And as it transpired, my trust wasn’t misplaced, but it could only carry me so far. Dorje wasn’t pleased with my options, and refused to finalize the arrangements before discussing it with me.

“There is only one caravan travelling to Bhodistan yet,” he said unhappily. “And I do not like the look of the caravan-master.”

“Has he a bad reputation?” I asked.

Dorje shook his head. “He has the name of an honest trader. But he does not follow the Path of Dharma, and he has hard eyes.”

“There are a great many folk in the world who do not follow the Path of Dharma,” I said philosophically. “Myself included. It does not make us bad people, Dorje.”

He sighed. “I know this, Moirin. Still… why not wait and pass the winter here? You will be my guest. Come spring, I will put together an expedition myself.”

My diadh-anam flared in a protest so violent, I winced. “I don’t dare,” I said softly. “As many lessons in patience as fate has taught me, I don’t think this is one of them. Why don’t you let me meet the fellow and decide for myself?”

With reluctance, Dorje agreed.

I had to own, I didn’t exactly like the look of the man myself, either. His name was Manil Datar, and he had the preening, satisfied look of a man who thought very well of himself. To be fair, he was a handsome enough fellow with a quick, flattering smile, but Dorje was right, it was a smile that did not reach his eyes. Also, he had doused himself with a heavy, musky scent I did not care for.

Still, he spoke courteously and seemed professional enough, assuring me through Dorje that it would be his pleasure to see me conducted to Bhaktipur, that he would take personal responsibility for my safety, and vouch for the good character of all his men. And he came to Tufan to trade for glands of a musk-deer that was used in the making of perfume, so I supposed perhaps the scent he wore was an advertisement for his trade. It wasn’t his fault I didn’t care for it.

And, too, I had touched on the thoughts of his animals, the horses and yaks penned at the inn where Manil Datar’s company was lodged, and found them to be glad and contented, well fed and well cared for. As much as anything, that decided me. A man who was good to his animals could not be so bad after all.

“I wish to do this, Dorje,” I said firmly to him.

He sighed, and translated my agreement. Manil Datar smiled and placed his palms together in a Bhodistani salute, inclining his head and speaking.

“He says it will be his pleasure to escort such a beautiful young woman through the most beautiful mountains in the world,” Dorje said in a glum tone. “And if you are interested, it will also be his pleasure to teach you to speak the Bhodistani tongue. No extra charge,” he added. “Only for the pleasure of your company.”

I pushed away any misgivings and returned the man’s smile. “That’s very kind. I would appreciate it.”

Dorje translated my words and Manil’s reply. “Come the day after tomorrow at sunrise and we will depart.”

So it was decided.

I was glad to have it done. With Dorje’s assistance, I acquired warmer attire, bartering Arigh’s Tatar bow for a long coat and trousers of densely woven wool and a heavy sheepskin blanket.

Already, I felt better; and considerably warmer.

“Look at you, Moirin.” Dorje smiled a little and brushed my braided hair with his fingertips. “A green-eyed Tufani girl. Who would ever have thought of such a thing?”

Unexpectedly, I sneezed. The coral and turquoise beads woven into my hair shook and rattled against one another. “Blame your daughters,” I said. “And remind me to return all their pretty trinkets before I go.”

“No, no!” He shook his head in refusal. “Those were a gift.” He touched his chest, where the Imperial jade medallion lay hidden beneath his own woolen coat. “I am their father. I will buy them more beads.” He paused, his expression earnest. “There is one thing I would ask of you.”

“Oh?”

Dorje nodded. “Come to the temple with me,” he said. “And ask for Sakyamuni’s blessing. I know it is not your path, but I will feel better for it.”

“It would be my honor,” I said truthfully.

The temple of Sakyamuni the Enlightened One in Rasa was like and unlike temples I had seen in Ch’in. It was a pagoda, but built on a sturdier scale, built to endure against the harsh elements. In the courtyard outside, there were great, gilded bronze urns that rotated on tall spindles. Dorje told me that there were prayers written inside them, that with each turn of the urn, it sent a prayer up to Heaven. I had seen pilgrims carrying smaller versions, spinning them as they prayed.

“Turn them, Moirin. All of them.”

I did.

They were surprisingly heavy, although they turned smoothly. One by one, I spun each urn, placing my hands on their etched surfaces and pushing.

“Maghuin Dhonn, forgive me,” I murmured. “Naamah, too. But I am alone in a strange place. I will accept the aid of any god willing to offer it.”