Winslow put his hand on the report and Tenzin released it to the American. Shan stared at the papers. "Old monks destroyed the army's most advanced listening post. This is the secret that the colonel couldn't bear the world to know," Winslow said, looking with wonder at the pages. "Take the report, colonel," he said after a moment, in a plaintive tone, "and give us the lama."

It didn't seem that Lin had heard. His eyes drifted back toward Anya. For a moment it seemed he wanted to ask the girl's advice.

"The report for the lama," Winslow pressed.

When Lin did not reply, Tenzin stood. "Not just the report," he said to the colonel. "You can have the abbot of Sangchi, as well, if you wish. Just release Jokar."

Winslow cursed under his breath, and put a hand on Tenzin's arm as though to pull him away. Nyma moaned and reached out to hold Tenzin's leg.

Lin's eyes slowly shifted back to Tenzin. He seemed about to speak when Anya called out. She was waving at him with something in her hand. Lin leaned forward anxiously. Anya was climbing on the old chorten, as if maybe to better see the machines that were coming.

Beyond the chorten, perhaps half a mile from where they sat, Shan saw soldiers moving up the slope in a tight line. Suddenly there was a whoosh of air, a whining sound, and the slope above them, a hundred yards away, exploded. Shan turned in alarm. Had Somo been there, watching? Surely she would have gone over the ridge by now. Perhaps the tank was sending a warning shot for any Tibetans lingering in the hills, clearing the approach to the valley for the arriving officials. Or had the soldiers heard about the gathering in the high meadow, those waiting for the old lama to lead them in resistance?

Anya was standing now, facing the smoldering patch of earth in confusion.

"Damned fool," Lin muttered, and slowly rose as another shell screeched through the air.

But this one was not aimed up the ridge. It connected with the chorten. There was a thunderous explosion, and the chorten was no more.

Nyma screamed and ran toward the ruins.

"Noo- ooo!" Lin moaned, and clenched his chest as if he had been shot. "No- ooo!" he repeated in an agonized voice. He rose, took a step forward and fell to his knees.

Shan, staring in horror at the smoking ruins, found himself helping Lin to his feet. The colonel, his face drained of color, lashed out at Shan with his fist, then stumbled down the slope. "Anya!" he called. "Anya come here! Xiao Anya, did they hurt you?"

Shan followed him, his feet leaden, his heart a lump of ice.

Nyma was first to reach the small, limp body lying on the spring blossoms. She seemed not to even notice when Lin pushed her away and knelt beside Anya. She was not bleeding much, Shan told himself, but then he saw the splinter of rock embedded in the base of her neck. The girl's eyes were opened in surprise, but there was no light in them. She had died instantly.

"Xiao Anya," Lin said in a feeble voice, stroking the girl's cheek. "Little Anya," he repeated, again and again. In her hand, clenched almost shut, was a piece of green stone, a tonde for Uncle Lin.

Soldiers approached, then halted a hundred feet away as they saw their colonel. One of them called out excitedly, and began running back toward the tank, which was now visible below. Lin seemed not to notice the soldiers. He lifted Anya's shoulders, pressing her lifeless check against his for a moment, blood oozing out of her wound now. His eyes fixed on the green stone in her hand, and he wrapped his own hand around her limp fingers and the stone. He seemed to have trouble breathing for a moment, and he collapsed, his head buried in her shoulder, his back arching in a long, wrenching sob.

No one moved. No one spoke. Slowly Lin rose to his full height, stiff, his face sagging, and carried the dead girl cradled in his arms, down to his troops.

Chapter Eighteen

Who will sing for me when the songbird dies? Who will sing? The words of the oracle echoed in Shan's mind until, numbed with pain, he realized Nyma was speaking them.

"Did she know?" Nyma asked again and again, then grabbed Shan's arm and burst into tears. "Blessed Buddha, she knew. Our little Anya knew this would happen," Nyma sobbed.

She would not leave the ruined chorten. Nyma planted herself in the patch of flowers where Anya had been thrown, scrubbing away her tears, reciting a mantra, not seeming to notice when the soldiers milled about, only staring at the spot among the flowers where the girl's blood had mottled the blooms.

Shan watched, still paralyzed with grief, while the commandos searched the rubble as though looking for more bodies. Several seemed hesitant, looking at the anguished woman, or down the slope at their colonel who had refused to let go of the dead girl, whose blood now ran down his arms and legs. One soldier seemed to recognize Shan, and hung by him, as though waiting for orders to drag him down to the trucks.

Who will sing for me when the songbird dies, Shan heard again.

Then came the shrill call of a whistle, and the soldiers seemed to melt away, jogging down the slope as first the tank and then the trucks retreated in a cloud of dust.

"It may not be safe here," Shan pleaded with Nyma. "I can take you to one of the caves at least." But she gave no sign of hearing. Tears streamed down her cheeks again, and her invocation of the Compassionate Buddha grew louder.

"It doesn't matter," Nyma said in a brittle voice. "Don't you see? Tibetans have no reason to hope. This is what happens to those who hope. We've been abandoned," she said in a haunting tone.

"I have to go to Yapchi," Shan said. He repeated the words, and when she did not respond he turned away and began walking toward the valley, feeling painfully alone, suddenly deeply regretful that he had left Lokesh. Tenzin and Winslow had fled. Perhaps they would reach Lokesh and keep him safe. He kept telling himself that as he climbed, until he stopped, his legs wobbling strangely, and collapsed onto a rock. No one was safe. The army was in the mountains and it was shooting at Tibetans. Gentle Anya, who spoke with lambs, lay dead, because she had wanted to find a charm to attract a deity to the leader of the soldiers who had killed her.

He emerged at the top of the ridge, at a high point between the oil derrick and the village, then found a game trail and began to descend into the valley. Five minutes later he heard someone conversing loudly and crouched behind a rock.

It was Gyalo, speaking with Jampa, briskly walking down into the valley on an adjacent trail, several steps ahead of a long single-file line of grim-faced Tibetans. It looked like a column of soldiers, Shan thought with a start, but then he saw that the implements they carried on their shoulders were shovels and axes and picks. There were at least forty men and women, some of whom he recognized as the refugees he had seen in the cave the night before. Some of them sang songs. Scattered among them were helmets of green, as though Gyalo had found defectors from the venture. Except that they were heading back toward the valley.

Maybe, Shan realized with a sinking feeling, they were soldiers of a sort. He stepped out of his hiding place and the monk greeted him with a warm grin. "The army is still down there," Shan warned.

The monk smiled, and gestured the other Tibetans to pass around him as he stood with Shan and Jampa.

"Please," Shan said, "there's been enough suffering." He explained what had happened to Anya.

The outlawed monk shut his eyes a moment, then looked at Shan and nodded gravely. "That oracle spoke of it." The big yak, who had been studying Shan, gave a massive sigh and looked off into the distance. Gyalo fingered one of the braids twined with bright beads which Anya had tied at Norbu.