Naamah's Curse - Jacqueline Carey [149]
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.”
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