Текст книги "The Wheel of Darkness"

Автор книги: Lincoln Child

Соавторы: Douglas Preston
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Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 22 страниц)

“I do. The only one.”

“And the vault was locked?”

“Yes. Let me assure you, Mr. Pendergast, that it is quite impossible for one of our monks to have committed this crime.”

“Forgive me if I am skeptical of that assertion.”

“Skepticism is good.” He spoke with peculiar force and Pendergast did not reply. “The Agozyen is no longer at the monastery. If it was, we should know.”

“How?”

“That is not to be spoken of. Please believe me, Mr. Pendergast—we

would

know. None of the monks here have taken the item into their possession.”

“May I take a look?”

The monk nodded.

Pendergast rose and, taking a small flashlight from his pocket, went over to the vault and peered at the round keyhole of the lock. After a moment he examined it with a magnifying glass.

“The lock’s been picked,” he said, straightening up.

“I am sorry. Picked?”

“Coaxed open without the use of a key.” He glanced at the monk. “Forced, actually, by the looks of it. You say none of the monks could have stolen it. Have there been other visitors to the monastery?”

“Yes,” said the monk with a ghost of a smile. “In fact, we know who stole it.”

“Ah,” said Pendergast. “That makes things much simpler. Tell me about it.”

“A young man came to us in early May—a mountaineer. His was a strange arrival. He came from the east—from the mountains on the Nepalese border. He was half dead, a man in mental and physical collapse. He was a professional mountaineer, the lone survivor of an expedition up the unclimbed west face of Dhaulagiri. An avalanche swept all to their deaths save him. He’d been forced to cross and descend the north face, and from there make his way over the Tibetan frontier illegally, through no fault of his own. It took him three weeks of walking and finally crawling down glaciers and valleys to reach us. He survived by eating berry rats, which are quite nourishing if you catch one with a stomach full of berries. He was on the verge of death. We nursed him back to health. He is an American—his name is Jordan Ambrose.”

“Did he study with you?”

“He took little interest in Chongg Ran. It was strange—he certainly had the power of will and activity of mind to succeed, perhaps as much as any westerner we have seen . . . besides the woman, that is. Constance.”

Pendergast nodded. “How do you know it was him?”

The monk did not answer directly. “We would like you to trace him, find the Agozyen, and bring it back to the monastery.”

Pendergast nodded. “This Jordan Ambrose—what did he look like?”

The monk reached into his robes and pulled out a tiny, scrolled parchment. He untied the strings binding it and unrolled it. “Our thangka painter made a likeness of him at my request.”

Pendergast took the scroll and examined it. It showed a young, fit, and handsome man, in his late twenties, with long blond hair and blue eyes, and a look on his face of physical determination, moral casualness, and high intelligence. It was a remarkable likeness that seemed to capture both the outer and inner person.

“This will be very useful,” said Pendergast, tying it up and slipping it into his pocket.

“Do you need any more information to find the Agozyen?” the monk asked.

“Yes. Tell me exactly what the Agozyen is.”

The change that came over the monk was startling. His face grew guarded, almost frightened. “I cannot,” he said in a quavering voice pitched so low it was barely audible.

“It’s unavoidable. If I’m to recover it, I must know what it is.”

“You misunderstand me. I cannot tell you what it is because

we don’t know what it is.

”

Pendergast frowned. “How can that be?”

“The Agozyen has been sealed within a wooden box ever since it was received for safekeeping by our monastery a thousand years ago. We never opened it—it was strictly forbidden. It has been passed down, from Rinpoche to Rinpoche, always sealed.”

“What kind of box?”

The monk indicated with his hands the dimensions, about five inches by five inches by four feet.

“That’s an unusual shape. What do you think might have been stored in a box that shape?”

“It could be anything long and thin. A wand or sword. A scroll or rolled-up painting. A set of seals, perhaps, or ropes with sacred knots.”

“What does the name

Agozyen

mean?”

The monk hesitated. “Darkness.”

“Why was opening it forbidden?” “The founder of the monastery, the first Ralang Rinpoche, received it from a holy man in the east, from India. The holy man had carved a text on the side of the box which contained the warning. I have a copy of the text here, which I will translate.” He took out a tiny scroll, written with Tibetan characters, held it at arm’s length in his slightly trembling hands, and recited:

Lest into the dharma you unchain

An uncleanness of evil and pain,

And darkness about darkness wheel,

The Agozyen you must not unseal.

“The ‘dharma’ refers,” said Pendergast, “to the teachings of the Buddha?”

“In this context it implies something even larger—the entire world.”

“Obscure and alarming.”

“It is just as enigmatic in Tibetan. But the words used are very powerful. The warning is a strong one, Mr. Pendergast—very strong.”

Pendergast considered this for a moment. “How could an outsider know enough about this box to steal it? I spent a year here some time ago and never heard of it.”

“That is a great enigma. Surely none of our monks ever spoke of it. We are in the greatest dread of the object and never talk of it, even amongst ourselves.”

“This fellow, Ambrose, could have scooped up a million dollars’ worth of gemstones in one hand. Any ordinary thief would have taken the gold and jewels first.”

“Perhaps,” said the monk after a moment, “he is not an ordinary thief. Gold, gemstones . . . you speak of earthly treasures.

Passing

treasures. The Agozyen . . .”

“Yes?” Pendergast prompted.

But the old monk simply spread his hands, and returned Pendergast’s gaze with haunted eyes.

3

THE BLACK SHROUD OF NIGHT HAD JUST BEGUN TO LIFT WHEN Pendergast made his way through the ironbound doors of the monastery’s inner gate. Ahead, beyond the outer wall, the bulk of Annapurna reared up, adamant, a purple outline emerging from the receding darkness. He paused in the cobblestone courtyard while a monk silently brought his horse. The chill predawn air was heavy with dew and the scent of wild roses. Throwing his saddlebags over the animal’s withers, he checked the saddle, adjusted the stirrups.

Constance Greene watched wordlessly as the FBI agent went through his final preparations. She was dressed in a monastic robe of faded saffron, and, were it not for her fine features and her spill of brown hair, could almost have been mistaken for a monk herself.

“I’m sorry to leave you early, Constance. I have to get on our man’s trail before it gets cold.”

“They really have no idea what it is?”

Pendergast shook his head. “Beyond its shape and its name, none.”

“Darkness . . . ,” she murmured. She glanced at him, her eyes troubled. “How long will you be gone?”

“The difficult part is already done. I know the thief’s name and what he looks like. It’s simply a matter of catching up to him. Retrieving the artifact should be the work of a week, perhaps two at the most. A simple assignment. In two weeks, your studies will be completed and you can rejoin me to finish up our European tour.”

“Be careful, Aloysius.”

Pendergast smiled thinly. “The man may be of questionable moral character, but he does not strike me as a killer. The risk should be minimal. It’s a simple crime, but with one puzzling aspect: why did he take the Agozyen and leave all that treasure? He seems to have no previous interest in things Tibetan. It suggests the Agozyen is something remarkably precious and valuable—or that it is in some way truly extraordinary.”

Constance nodded. “Do you have any instructions for me?”

“Rest. Meditate. Complete your initial course of study.” He paused. “I’m skeptical that no one here knows what the Agozyen is—somebody must have peeked. It’s human nature—even here, among these monks. It would help me greatly to know what it was.”

“I’ll look into it.”

“Excellent. I know I can count on your discretion.” He hesitated, then turned toward her. “Constance, there’s something I need to ask you.”

Seeing his expression, her eyes widened, but when she spoke her voice remained calm. “Yes?”

“You’ve never spoken of your journey to Feversham. At some point you may need to talk about it. When you rejoin me . . . if you’re ready . . .” Again, his voice fell into atypical confusion and indecision.

Constance looked away.

“For weeks now,” he went on, “we haven’t spoken of what happened. But sooner or later—”

She turned on him abruptly.

“No!”

she said fiercely. “No.” She paused a moment, mastering herself. “I want you to promise me something: never mention him or . . . Feversham . . . in my presence again.”

Pendergast remained motionless, looking at her carefully. It appeared that his brother Diogenes’s seduction had affected her even more deeply than he realized. At last, he nodded again, faintly. “I promise.”

Then, withdrawing his hands from hers, he kissed her on both cheeks. Taking hold of the reins, he swung up in the saddle, kicked his horse, passed through the outer gate, and set off down the winding trail.

4

IN A BARREN CELL DEEP IN THE GSALRIG CHONGG MONASTERY, Constance Greene sat in the lotus position, her eyes closed, visualizing the exceedingly complex knotted silk cord that lay on a cushion in front of her. Tsering sat behind her in the dim light, her only awareness of him the low sound of his voice, murmuring in Tibetan. She had been studying the language intensively for nearly eight weeks and had developed a halting fluency, acquiring a modest vocabulary along with some phrases and idioms.

“See the knot in your mind,” came the low, mesmerizing voice of her teacher.

At will, the knot began to materialize, about four feet before her closed eyes, radiating light. That she was sitting on the bare, cold floor of a nitre-encrusted cell receded from her consciousness.

“Make it clear. Make it steady.”

The knot came into focus, sharply, wavering a little or going fuzzy when her attention wavered, but always returning to focus.

“Your mind is a lake in twilight,” the teacher said. “Still, calm, and clear.”

A strange sense of being there and yet not being there enveloped Constance. The knot she had chosen to visualize remained in front of her. It was one of medium complexity, tied over three hundred years ago by a great teacher. It was known by the name of the Double Rose.

“Increase the image of the knot in your mind.”

It was a difficult balance of effort and letting go. If she concentrated too hard on clarity and stability, the image began to break up and other thoughts intruded; if she let go too much, the image faded into the mists of her mind. There was a perfect balancing point; and gradually—very gradually—she found it.

“Now gaze upon the image of the knot you have created in your mind. Observe it from all angles: from above, from the sides.”

The softly glistening coils of silk remained steady in her mind’s eye, bringing her a quiet joy, a mindfulness, that she had never before experienced. And then the voice of her teacher disappeared entirely, and all that was left was the knot itself. Time vanished. Space vanished. Only the knot remained.

“Untie the knot.”

This was the most difficult part, requiring immense concentration—being able to trace the coils of the knot, and then mentally untie it.

Time passed; it could have been ten seconds, or ten hours.

A gentle hand touched her shoulder and her eyes opened. Tsering was standing before her, robe tucked around an arm.

“How long?” she asked in English.

“Five hours.”

She rose, and found her legs so wobbly she could barely walk. He grasped her arm and helped her steady herself.

“You learn well,” he said. “Be sure no take pride in it.”

She nodded. “Thank you.”

They walked slowly down an ancient passageway, turned a corner. She could hear, up ahead, the faint sound of the prayer wheels echoing down the stone passageway.

Another corner. She felt refreshed, clear, alert. “What drives those prayer wheels?” she asked. “They never cease turning.”

“There is a spring of water under monastery—source of Tsangpo River. It pass over wheel, turn gears.”

“Ingenious.”

They passed by the wall of creaking, rattling brass wheels, like some Rube Goldberg confection. Constance could see, behind the wheels, a forest of moving brass rods and wooden gears.

They left the wheels behind and came into one of the outer corridors. Ahead loomed one of the far pavilions of the monastery, the square pillars framing the three great mountains. They entered the pavilion and Constance drank in the pure high-altitude air. Tsering indicated a seat and she took it. He sat down next to her. For a few minutes they gazed over the darkening mountains in silence.

“The meditation you are learning is very powerful. Someday, you may come out of meditation and find the knot . . . untied.”

Constance said nothing.

“Some can influence the physical world with pure thought, create things out of thought. There is story of monk who meditate so long on rose that when he open his eyes, there is rose on the floor. This is very dangerous. With enough skill and meditation, there are those who can create things . . . other than roses. It is not something to desire, and it is a grave deviancy from Buddhist teaching.”

She nodded her understanding, not believing a word of it.

Tsering’s lips stretched into a smile. “You skeptical person. That very good. Whether you believe or not, choose with care image you meditate on.”

“I will,” said Constance.

“Remember: Though we have many ‘demons,’ most not evil. They are attachments you must conquer to reach enlightenment.”

Another long silence.

“Have question?”

She was quiet for a moment, recalling Pendergast’s parting request. “Tell me. Why is there an inner monastery?”

Tsering was silent for a moment. “Inner monastery is oldest in Tibet, built here in remote mountains by group of wandering monks from India.”

“Was it built to protect the Agozyen?”

Tsering looked at her sharply. “That is not to be spoken of.”

“My guardian has left here to find it. At this monastery’s request. Perhaps I can be of some help, too.”

The old man looked away, and the distance in his eyes had nothing to do with the landscape beyond the pavilion. “Agozyen carried here from India. Taken far away, into mountains, where it not threaten. They build inner monastery to protect and keep Agozyen. Then, later, outer monastery built around inner one.”

“There’s something I don’t understand. If the Agozyen was so very dangerous, why not just destroy it?”

The monk was silent for a very long time. Then he said, quietly, “Because it has important future purpose.”

“What purpose?”

But her teacher remained silent.

5

THE JEEP CAME CAREENING AROUND THE CORNER OF THE HILL, bumped and splashed though a series of enormous, mud-filled potholes, and descended onto a broad dirt road toward the town of Qiang, in a damp valley not far from the Tibet-Chinese border. A gray drizzle fell from the sky into a pall of brown smoke, which hung over the town from a cluster of smokestacks across a greasy river. Trash lined both shoulders.

The driver of the jeep passed an overloaded truck, honking furiously. He swerved past another truck on a blind curve, slewing within a few feet of a cliff edge, and began descending into town.

“To the railroad station,” Pendergast told the driver in Mandarin.

“Wei wei, xian sheng!”

The jeep dodged pedestrians, bicycles, a man driving a pair of oxen. The driver screeched to a halt in a crush of traffic at a rotary, then inched forward, leaning continuously on the horn. Exhaust fumes and a veritable symphony of claxons filled the air. The windshield wipers slapped back and forth, streaking the mud that covered the jeep, the anemic rainfall sufficient only to spread it around.

Beyond the rotary, the broad avenue ended at a low gray cement structure. The driver stopped abruptly before it. “We are here,” he said.

Pendergast stepped out and opened his umbrella. The air smelled of sulfur and petroleum fumes. He entered the station and made his way through hordes of people, pushing, yelling, lugging huge sacks and wheeling baskets. Some carried live, trussed-up chickens or ducks, and one even wheeled along a piteously squalling pig tied up in an old wire shopping cart.

Toward the back of the station, the throngs thinned and Pendergast found what he was looking for: a dim passageway leading to the officials’ offices. He passed by a half-sleeping guard, walked swiftly down the long corridor, glancing at the names on the doors as he passed. At last he stopped before a particularly shabby door. He tried the handle, found it unlocked, and walked in without knocking.

A Chinese official, small and rotund, sat behind a desk heaped with papers. A battered tea set stood to one side, the cups chipped and dirty. The office smelled of fried food and hoisin sauce.

The official leapt up, furious at the unannounced entry. “Who you?” he roared out in bad English.

Pendergast stood there, arms folded, a supercilious smile on his face.

“What you want? I call guard.” He reached to pick up the phone, but Pendergast quickly leaned over and pressed the receiver back into its cradle.

“Ba,”

said Pendergast in a low voice, in Mandarin. “Stop.”

The man’s face reddened at this further outrage.

“I have some questions I would like answered,” said Pendergast, still speaking in coldly formal Mandarin.

The effect on the official was pronounced, his face reflecting outrage, confusion, and apprehension. “You insult me,” he finally shouted back in Mandarin. “Barging into my office, touching my telephone, making demands! Who are you, that you can come in here like this, behaving like a barbarian?”

“You will please sit down, kind sir, remain quiet, and listen. Or”—Pendergast switched to the insulting informal—“you will find yourself on the next train out of here, reassigned to a guardpost high in the Kunlun Mountains.”

The man’s face edged toward purple, but he did not speak. After a moment he sat stiffly down, folded his hands on the desk, and waited.

Pendergast also seated himself. He took out the scroll Thubten had given him and held it out to the official. After a moment, the man took it grudgingly.

“This man came through here two months ago. His name is Jordan Ambrose. He was carrying a wooden box, very old. He bribed you, and in return you gave him an export permit for the box. I would like to see a copy of the export permit.”

There was a long silence. Then the official laid the painting on the table. “I do not know what you are speaking about,” he said truculently. “I do not take bribes. And in any case a lot of people come through this station. I wouldn’t remember.”

Pendergast removed a flat bamboo box from his pocket, opened it, and tipped it upside down, depositing a neat stack of fresh hundred-yuan renminbi notes on the table. The man stared at them, swallowed.

“You would remember this man,” Pendergast said. “The box was large—a meter and a half long. It was obviously old. It would have been impossible for Mr. Ambrose to have taken the box through here or gotten it out of the country without a permit. Now, kind sir, you have a choice: bend your principles and take the bribe, or stick to your principles and end up in the Kunlun Mountains. As you may have guessed from my accent and fluency in the language, although I am a foreigner, I have very important connections in China.”

The official wiped his hands with a handkerchief. Then he extended a hand, covering the money. He pulled it back toward him and it quickly disappeared into a drawer. Then he rose. Pendergast rose likewise, and they shook hands and exchanged polite, formal greetings, as if meeting for the first time.

The man sat down. “Would the gentleman like some tea?” he asked.

Pendergast glanced at the filthy, stained tea set, then smiled. “I would be greatly honored, kind sir.”

The man shouted roughly into a back room. An underling came trotting out and removed the tea set. Five minutes later he brought it back, steaming. The bureaucrat poured out the cups.

“I remember the man you speak of,” he said. “He had no visa to be in China. He had a long box. He wanted both an entry visa—which he would need to leave—as well as an export permit. I gave him both. It was . . . very expensive for him.”

The tea was a long gin green and Pendergast was surprised at its quality.

“He spoke no Chinese, of course. He told me a quite incredible story of having crossed from Nepal into Tibet.”

“And the box? Did he say anything about it?”

“He said it was an antiquity he had bought in Tibet—you know, these dirty Tibetans, they’d sell their own children for a few yuan. The Tibet Autonomous Region is awash in old things.”

“Did you ask what was in it?”

“He said it was a phur-bu ritual dagger.” He rummaged in a drawer, rifled through some papers, and brought out the permit. He pushed it to Pendergast, who glanced at it.

“But the box was locked and he refused to open it,” the official continued. “That cost him quite a bit more, avoiding an inspection of the contents.” The bureaucrat smiled, exposing a row of tea-stained teeth.

“What do you think was in there?”

“I have no idea. Heroin, currency, gemstones?” He spread his hands.

Pendergast pointed at the permit. “It states here he would be taking a train to Chengdu, then a China Air flight to Beijing, transferring on to a flight to Rome. Is this true?”

“Yes. He was required to show me his ticket. If he followed any other route leaving China, he would be in danger of being stopped. The permit is only for Qiang–Chengdu–Beijing–Rome. So I am sure that is how he went. Of course, once in Rome . . .” Again he spread his hands.

Pendergast copied down the travel information. “What was his demeanor? Was he nervous?”

The bureaucrat thought for a moment. “No. It was very strange. He seemed . . . euphoric. Expansive. Almost radiant.”

Pendergast stood. “I thank you most kindly for the tea

, xian sheng

.”

“And I thank you, kindest sir,” said the official.

An hour later, Pendergast had boarded a first-class car of the Glorious Trans-China Express, headed to Chengdu.

6

CONSTANCE GREENE KNEW THAT THE MONKS OF THE GSALRIG Chongg monastery lived according to a fixed schedule of meditation, study, and sleep, with two breaks for meals and tea. The sleeping period was set: from eight in the evening to one o’clock in the morning. This routine never varied, and it had probably remained the same for a thousand years. She thus felt certain that at midnight she would be unlikely to encounter anyone moving about the vast monastery.

And so at twelve o’clock sharp, just as she had done the last three nights in a row, she folded back the coarse yak skin that served as her blanket and sat up in bed. The only sound was the distant moaning of the wind through the outer pavilions of the monastery. She rose and slipped into her robes. The cell was bitter cold. She went to the tiny window and opened the wooden shutter. There was no glass, and a chill flow of air came in. The window looked out into the darkness of night, upon a single star shivering high in the velvety blackness.

She shut the window and went to the door, where she paused, listening. All was quiet. After a moment she opened the door, slipped into the hall, and walked down the long outer corridor. She passed the prayer wheels, endlessly creaking their blessings to heaven, then passed through a corridor that plunged deep into the riddle of rooms, searching for the immured anchorite who guarded the inner monastery. Although Pendergast had described its proximate location, the complex was so vast, and the corridors so labyrinthine, that it was proving nearly impossible to locate.

But this evening, after many turns, she came at last to the polished stone wall indicating the outside of his cell. The loose brick was in place, its edges abraded and chipped from being moved countless times. She tapped on it a few times and waited. Minutes went by, and then the brick moved just a little; there was a small scraping noise and it began to turn. A pair of bony fingers appeared like long white worms in the darkness, grasped the brick’s edge, and moved it around so that a small opening appeared in the darkness.

Constance had carefully worked out beforehand what she wanted to say in Tibetan. Now she leaned toward the hole and whispered.

“Let me into the inner monastery.”

She turned and placed her ear against the hole. A faint, whispery, insectlike voice answered. She strained to hear and understand.

“You know it is forbidden?”

“Yes, but—”

Before she could even finish, she heard a scraping noise and a piece of the wall beyond the cell began to move, opening along an old stone seam to reveal a dark corridor. She was taken aback—the anchorite hadn’t even waited to hear her carefully crafted explanation.

She knelt, lit a dragon joss stick, and proceeded inside. The wall closed. A dim corridor stretched ahead, exhaling the smell of damp air, wet stone, and a cloying, resinous scent. The air was hazy with incense.

She took a step forward, holding up the joss stick. The flame flickered, as if in protest. She moved down the long passageway, its dark walls dimly frescoed with disturbing images of strange deities and dancing demons.

The inner monastery, she realized, must have once held far more monks than it did now. It was vast, cold, and empty. Not knowing where she was going, and without even a clear idea of what she was doing—beyond finding the monk Pendergast had spoken to and questioning him further—she turned several corners, passing through large, vacant rooms, the walls painted with half-glimpsed thangkas and mandalas, almost obliterated by time. In one room, a lone, forgotten candle guttered in front of an ancient bronze statue of the Buddha eaten away by verdigris. The joss stick she was using for light began to fizzle and she pulled another from her pocket and lit it, the scent of sandalwood smoke filling the passageway.

She turned another corner, then halted. A monk stood there, tall, gaunt, in a ragged robe, his eyes hollow and staring with a strange, almost fierce intensity. She faced him. He said nothing. Neither moved.

And then Constance reached up to her hood, drew it back, and let her brown hair fall across her shoulders.

The monk’s eyes widened, but only slightly. Still he said nothing.

“Greetings,” Constance said in Tibetan.

The monk faintly inclined his head. His large eyes continued staring at her.

“Agozyen,” she said.

Again, no reaction.

“I have come to ask: what is Agozyen?” She spoke haltingly, continuing in her poor Tibetan.

“Why are you here, little monk?” he asked quietly.

Constance took a step toward him. “What is Agozyen?” she repeated more fiercely. He closed his eyes. “Your mind is in a turmoil of excitement, young one.”

“I must know.”

“Must,” he repeated.

“What does Agozyen do?”

His eyes opened. He turned and began walking away. After a moment, she followed.

The monk wound his way through many narrow passages and convoluted turnings, down and up staircases, through rough-cut tunnels and long, frescoed halls. Finally he paused before a stone doorway curtained in frayed orange silk. He drew it aside and Constance was surprised to see three monks seated on stone benches, as if in council, with candles arrayed in front of a gilded statue of the seated Buddha.

One of the monks rose. “Please come in,” he said in surprisingly fluent English.

Constance bowed. Had they been expecting her? It seemed impossible. And yet there was no other logical explanation.

“I’m studying with Lama Tsering,” she said, grateful to switch to English.

The man nodded.

“I want to know about the Agozyen,” she said.

He turned to the others and began speaking in Tibetan. Constance strained to catch the thread of what he was saying, but the voices were too low. At last the monk turned back to her.

“Lama Thubten told the detective all we knew,” he said.

“Forgive me, but I don’t believe you.”

The monk seemed taken aback by her directness, but he recovered quickly. “Why do you speak this way, child?”

The room was freezing and Constance began to shiver. She pulled her robe tightly about her. “You may not know exactly what the Agozyen is, but you know its purpose. Its

future

purpose.”

“It is not time to reveal it yet. The Agozyen was taken from us.”

“Taken prematurely, you mean?”

The monk shook his head. “We were its guardians. It is imperative that it be returned to us, before . . .” He stopped.

“Before what?”

The monk merely shook his head, the anxious lines of his face gaunt and stark in the dim light. “You musttell me. It will help Pendergast, help us, in locating the object. I won’t reveal it to anyone but him.”

“Let us close our eyes and meditate,” said the monk. “Let us meditate, and offer prayers for its speedy and safe return.”

She swallowed, tried to calm her mind. It was true, she was acting impulsively. Her behavior was no doubt shocking to the monks. But she had made a promise to Aloysius and she was going to keep it.

The monk began chanting, and the others took it up. The strange, humming, repetitive sounds filled her mind, and her anger, her desperate desire to know more, seemed to flow from her like water from a pierced vessel. The strong need to fulfill Pendergast’s request faded somewhat. Her mind became wakeful, almost calm.

The chanting stopped. She slowly opened her eyes.

“Are you still passionately seeking the answer to your question?”

A long silence passed. Constance remembered one of her lessons—a teaching on desire. She bowed her head. “No,” she lied. She wanted the information more than ever.

The monk smiled. “You have much to learn, little monk. We know quite well that you need this information, that you desire this information, and that it will be useful to you. It is not good for you personally that you seek it. The information is extremely dangerous. It has the potential of destroying not just your life, but your very soul. It may bar you from enlightenment for all of time.”