the way the captain went on talking nervously in Tibetan. He had known Freya. ‘She came out of the snow one day. Said she had to visit the monastery. She was kind, very kind indeed.’
‘How often did she come?’
‘Recently? Once a month, maybe twice. We never saw how she arrived, nor how she left. All she’d say was that she was trying to track down a long-lost cousin.’ He laughed. ‘That’s like telling a child to keep his nose out of things he can’t understand.
‘Her visits started about six months ago. She already knew someone at the monastery.’
We always do. If you know where or how to look there’s someone we know in every street of every village of every country.
The captain added, ‘How do you know her?’
‘I’m a long-lost relative too,’ Sam replied mildly. ‘Well, half-brother. Same father, different mothers.’
The streets were narrow and bumpy, not designed even for the rough tracks of the jeep. As they went people turned to stare, huddling in doorways from the snow but nonetheless following with wary eyes.
‘Forgive them,’ the captain said, as though embarrassed by his people’s lack of European manners. ‘Apart from the lady they have never seen another of your kind.’
Our kind? I suppose we are another species.
‘Was she alone?’
‘There was a man with her the first time. She left him at the monastery. As far as I know he’s never left.’
Sam was bursting with questions, but the captain was there first. ‘May I ask – where did you learn Tibetan?’
‘I’ve spent time in a lot of places.’
‘Forgive me,’ the captain said again – apparently he felt obliged to apologise for everything – ‘but how many languages do you speak?’
‘Lots, many of them defunct.’ It was the only answer Sam would give.
The monastery appeared out of the snow. At the gates a couple of monks, in orange robes, were ready to usher him inside. Hastened down freezing candlelit corridors, he glimpsed tapestries and golden Buddhas and heard the distant low chanting and rumbling horns of other monks at prayer. Without a word from his escorts he was barrelled into a small stone room in which a fire glowed. A man, in a robe dashed with the streak of red that marked him as abbot, turned, bowed slightly and said, ‘You came.’
‘Were you expecting me?’ Sam asked, taking the seat offered him. It was the only one in the room, and it embarrassed him that the abbot had to stand. But the abbot insisted, and it was near the warmth of the fire.
‘Before I tell you more, I require proof that you are Sebastian Teufel.’
‘Ah.’ Sam stood up, took off his outer clothing and unslung the package on his back. He drew out the long silver sword.
With a sigh of satisfaction and a dip of his head as though in the presence of a holy object, the abbot lowered his hand over the blade and let his eyes drift shut. ‘Yes,’ he whispered. ‘I hear it. She said I would. I do not know much of your world, and believe less of what I hear, but it was the same with her. I could hear it around her belongings too; everything she touched seemed to hum.’ He looked up sharply. ‘You have more?’
Sam also produced the dagger and the circlet. This he held before him by the tips of his fingers as if his touch might profane it, even though it was his own.
It was on this that the abbot focused most of his attention. ‘So. You were crowned too. As well as your brothers. Tell me, is it true that if anyone other than its real owner wears this, he will go mad?’
‘I believe it is the case. Do you?’
The abbot smiled thinly. ‘I believe that superstition has a lot of power, whether its claims are true or not. And I also believe that, somewhere, every myth is grounded in reality. If the lady was so afraid of wearing it, then it seems likely that her brother would be afraid too. Either you have no fear, or it is a lie that the crown is your own. I do not believe it to be a lie,
‘How often did she come?’
‘Recently? Once a month, maybe twice. We never saw how she arrived, nor how she left. All she’d say was that she was trying to track down a long-lost cousin.’ He laughed. ‘That’s like telling a child to keep his nose out of things he can’t understand.
‘Her visits started about six months ago. She already knew someone at the monastery.’
We always do. If you know where or how to look there’s someone we know in every street of every village of every country.
The captain added, ‘How do you know her?’
‘I’m a long-lost relative too,’ Sam replied mildly. ‘Well, half-brother. Same father, different mothers.’
The streets were narrow and bumpy, not designed even for the rough tracks of the jeep. As they went people turned to stare, huddling in doorways from the snow but nonetheless following with wary eyes.
‘Forgive them,’ the captain said, as though embarrassed by his people’s lack of European manners. ‘Apart from the lady they have never seen another of your kind.’
Our kind? I suppose we are another species.
‘Was she alone?’
‘There was a man with her the first time. She left him at the monastery. As far as I know he’s never left.’
Sam was bursting with questions, but the captain was there first. ‘May I ask – where did you learn Tibetan?’
‘I’ve spent time in a lot of places.’
‘Forgive me,’ the captain said again – apparently he felt obliged to apologise for everything – ‘but how many languages do you speak?’
‘Lots, many of them defunct.’ It was the only answer Sam would give.
The monastery appeared out of the snow. At the gates a couple of monks, in orange robes, were ready to usher him inside. Hastened down freezing candlelit corridors, he glimpsed tapestries and golden Buddhas and heard the distant low chanting and rumbling horns of other monks at prayer. Without a word from his escorts he was barrelled into a small stone room in which a fire glowed. A man, in a robe dashed with the streak of red that marked him as abbot, turned, bowed slightly and said, ‘You came.’
‘Were you expecting me?’ Sam asked, taking the seat offered him. It was the only one in the room, and it embarrassed him that the abbot had to stand. But the abbot insisted, and it was near the warmth of the fire.
‘Before I tell you more, I require proof that you are Sebastian Teufel.’
‘Ah.’ Sam stood up, took off his outer clothing and unslung the package on his back. He drew out the long silver sword.
With a sigh of satisfaction and a dip of his head as though in the presence of a holy object, the abbot lowered his hand over the blade and let his eyes drift shut. ‘Yes,’ he whispered. ‘I hear it. She said I would. I do not know much of your world, and believe less of what I hear, but it was the same with her. I could hear it around her belongings too; everything she touched seemed to hum.’ He looked up sharply. ‘You have more?’
Sam also produced the dagger and the circlet. This he held before him by the tips of his fingers as if his touch might profane it, even though it was his own.
It was on this that the abbot focused most of his attention. ‘So. You were crowned too. As well as your brothers. Tell me, is it true that if anyone other than its real owner wears this, he will go mad?’
‘I believe it is the case. Do you?’
The abbot smiled thinly. ‘I believe that superstition has a lot of power, whether its claims are true or not. And I also believe that, somewhere, every myth is grounded in reality. If the lady was so afraid of wearing it, then it seems likely that her brother would be afraid too. Either you have no fear, or it is a lie that the crown is your own. I do not believe it to be a lie,
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