The urns turned, rattling.

Prayers arose, fluttering.

It felt so very real-the prayers arising, the prayer-flags fluttering here in the Abode of the Gods. I gazed upward into the blue sky, my spirit soaring. Dorje’s hands tugged at me.

“Inside,” he said. “Come.”

Inside the temple, it was smoky and dense, the air thick with incense. I stifled a cough, breathing shallowly. At Dorje’s insistence, I put money in a coin-box to purchase a bundle of incense, lighting it and thrusting it into the ornate offering tray before the altar. The altar held an effigy of Sakyamuni, and a smaller effigy of a woman, both with expressions of profound peace on their faces.

“Guanyin?” I asked, indicating the female effigy. In Ch’in, she was known as She Who Hears Our Prayers. Dorje shook his head.

“Tara,” said a new voice, high and youthful. I glanced over to see a young monk-a boy, really, scarce older than Dash, his head shaved, his slender figure draped in the crimson and saffron robes of his order.

Dorje bowed to him, and I followed suit. The boy bowed in response, addressing Dorje in his clear voice.

“This is Tashi Rinpoche.” Dorje sounded awed and nervous. “He is one of the tulkus, Moirin. A great teacher who has been reborn.”

“He’s just a boy,” I whispered.

“Yes.” He licked his lips as though they had gone dry. “But he has lived many lives. He says he has a message for you.”

“Oh?”

The boy monk smiled and approached me. Despite his youthful features, his wide-set eyes had an extraordinary depth. There was a gentle wisdom in them that reminded me of Master Lo, and too, a purity of faith and trust that reminded me of Aleksei, although they followed very different paths. He spoke at length, never removing his gaze from mine.

“Tashi Rinpoche says you are not wrong,” Dorje murmured. “Tara and Guanyin are different names for the same soul, an Enlightened One who has been born many times since, always returning to help others. In her last incarnation, it was his privilege to serve as one of her earliest teachers, before the pupil surpassed the master. He says-” He broke off to question the boy.

I heard the word “Laysa” repeated several times. It tugged at a thread of memory, but I couldn’t place it.

“Laysa,” the young monk agreed, smiling like the sun.

Dorje licked his lips again. “Tashi Rinpoche says that when you find her incarnation and free her, be sure to tell her that he is here in Rasa waiting for her. He did not mean to be born younger than her this time, but now it all makes sense. She has lost ten years of her life. Although he is still a student himself in this lifetime, he is eager to be reunited with her and resume the studies of their past lifetime.”

“Laysa.” I repeated the name, bewildered. “But I don’t-”

“Remember, Moirin?” Dorje interrupted me. “I told you about her when you first asked about the Falconer.”

I remembered. “The yak-herder’s daughter, the one who was taken.”

“Yes!” He gave me a happy smile. “Tashi Rinpoche says you are the one who must rescue her. Isn’t that wonderful?”

It didn’t feel it.

It felt like a new burden of expectations settling onto my shoulders, heavy enough that I sank to my knees beneath the weight of it, burying my face in my hands. I hadn’t given any thought to the other victims of the bedamned Falconer and his mysterious Spider Queen. All I wanted to do was find my stubborn peasant-boy, free him, and go home, wherever that was. It was more than enough responsibility to carry.

I didn’t want any more.

Tashi Rinpoche was patting my arms and shoulders, trying to comfort me, speaking in a voice as clear as a mountain stream. I gazed up at him. He touched my cheeks, wiping away tears with slender fingers, smiling encouragingly at me.

“He says not to be afraid,” Dorje said softly. “He says that although you are very young in this world, you have a great heart.”

I sighed.

They say the gods use their chosen hard. Apparently, the gods are part of a vast conspiracy to share their chosen, too.

“I will try,” I said to the boy-monk. “If I can find a way, I will do it. But I beg you, do not depend on me.”

He smiled again, replying without waiting for a translation.

I glanced at Dorje. “What did he say?”

Dorje looked grave. “Tashi Rinpoche says he is depending on you. That before your journey is done, many, many people will depend on you. And that it is still only beginning, Moirin. You have a long way yet to go, and many oceans to cross.”

I closed my eyes briefly. “Lucky me.”

I had a day of grace.

One day before I was scheduled to depart with Manil Datar’s caravan, one day to spend as I wished.

Contrary to what one might expect, I spent it indoors. As much as I loved the wild places of the world, I’d had a surfeit of them-and there was more to come. I passed the day playing with Dorje and Nyima’s daughters, indulging in the kind of revels I’d never known as a young child.

I taught them the Tatar counting word-game I’d learned from my young friend Sarangerel, and they taught me Tufani words in turn.

I let them unbraid and rebraid my hair, winding even more beads into the plaits.

We played at being animals-placid, long-horned yaks, prancing ponies, stalking snow leopards, and even slow-pacing bears.

Nyima watched over us with an indulgent gaze.

Dorje shook his head. “Is this the way great heroines are supposed to behave, Moirin?” he asked me.

“No.” I caught his youngest daughter around the waist, settling her on my lap. She nestled against me, content to toy with my braids. “Not in the slightest. But I did not ask for this. And I cannot be otherwise.”

“I wish you would stay the winter,” he said quietly.

I hugged his daughter, mindful of the insistent call of my diadh-anam. “I wish I could, my friend.”

Come the following day, dawn came bright and clear. I’d said my good-byes the night before. The girls had wailed, but they would forget me quickly enough. At such an age, children do. Nyima rose sleepily to brew salty yak-butter tea in the predawn light. I drank it down deep, grateful for its warmth.

Dorje escorted me to join the caravan, fussing over me all the while. “You have the purse I gave you?” he asked for the third time.

“Yes, Dorje.” I patted the folds of my long coat. “Safely hidden.”

“I hope it is enough,” he said in a worried tone. As he had promised, in addition to paying the fare Manil Datar had demanded, Dorje had given me coin he deemed sufficient for a lengthy stay in Bhaktipur. “None of us were certain what value to place on the Imperial medallion. I do not want to think we cheated you, Moirin.”

“I’m sure you didn’t,” I said. “And I am just grateful to know it will not be used in a way that betrays the Emperor’s trust.”

He shook his head vigorously. “No, I will not allow it!”

We found the caravan assembling for departure, an array of men, horses, and heavily laden yaks, breath rising in frosty plumes in the clear dawn air. Manil Datar strode around briskly, making sure all was in readiness. He greeted me with a courteous smile and a Bhodistani salute, which I returned. The porters eyed me with open curiosity, which earned one of them a casual cuff from Datar.

“I do not like the way they look at you, Moirin,” Dorje fretted.

I shrugged. “Men do, Dorje. It looks as though Manil Datar runs his caravan with a firm hand.”

He ignored me. “Look at that fellow!” With a subtle jerk of his chin, he indicated a hulking, broad-shouldered man with terrible scars disfiguring his face. “Surely, he means no good.”

The scarred fellow was tending carefully to a yak’s pack-harness. “Why?” I asked. “Because the poor man was injured once?”