Grandmaster (56 page)

His own blood was everywhere. The tall man was withdrawing his dagger from Justin's chest.

"He's still alive!" one of the men cried.

"Surely this is no mortal."

"Try again. You have missed his heart."

The tall man lunged.

If you do not fear death, then you cannot fear life.

Uncoiling, Justin sprang upward, knocking the knife out of the man's hand. He saw his own blood spatter on the faces of his astonished attackers and sizzle on the hot stone floor. With a slap, he sent the tall man sprawling to the ground. He kicked out instinctively behind him. One of the men fell, doubled over. Justin made his way through the mob like a spirit, unfeeling, mindless of the airless heat, smashing whatever was in his way.

One of the men ran toward him, crouching. Justin leaped, spinning, to land on the man's back. From there, he catapulted himself onto the stone wall, now dry from the tongues of flame that licked up its sides, and clung to it. The stone was blisteringly hot, and there was no air to breathe except the sooty black film that rose from the licking flames, but Justin felt nothing anymore. He had chosen life, with its pain and suffering and defeat. He was not afraid.

Those who were still conscious watched with amazement as the dying man inched his way upward over the rough, hot stone. He was surrounded by flames, and the trail of his blood flowed beneath him, drying from the heat before it reached the floor.

"He, too, is a god," someone whispered.

He was answered by a deafening roar as the flames burst in an explosion of fire. The screams of the burning, suffocating men filled the pit with a horrible din as they scratched at the stone walls. The body of the monk had been consumed by flames, and the smell of burning flesh was acrid and nauseating. Justin felt his own legs burning, but he continued to climb, one hand, one foot after the other.

He reached the top. Swinging his legs to the ledge at the base of the iron door, he pulled himself erect, and with his blistered, skinless hands, opened the door.

The rush of incoming air gave new life to the fire below. The bodies of the men were completely engulfed in fire. Only their dying moans could be heard now, and the sight was a vision of the disembodied spirits of a Christian hell.

For a moment, he wondered if his own afterlife would resemble the scene in the fire pit. It was no less than he deserved. It was the way of the Black Hats, consuming, complete. Varja and her kind could never see the magic of water that melts rock, or of running sap in spring, or of the sweet sky at morning. The magic of the Blue Hat was small compared with hers. Would his soul, with its broken karma, be made to burn also?

He walked back into the corridor. Although the flames were already licking at the opening, it felt cool to him. He walked toward the dim, flickering light in the room at the end of the hallway. As he approached, he could hear the faint tinkling of a bell. It seemed to call to him, beckoning him with its shrill, mocking beauty.

He was tired, so tired. The effort in the fire pit had exhausted him. His wounds hurt. His head slumped with weakness. Inside the room, he knew, Varja would be waiting for him, and he had nothing left to fight her with. Varja's weapon was the ancient magic of the Black Hats. Justin had no weapon but the peace Tagore had finally placed in his heart.

The effort of a lifetime, he thought sadly, had been for nothing. But he was not afraid.

This is where it will end.

The thought did not anger him. There was no more hatred in his heart. Tagore and the others had died, just as he himself would soon die. Zharkov, too, would be ashes in a blink of Brahma's eye and, in time, even Varja herself would fade into oblivion.

      Justin remembered a prayer he had recited as a boy at Rashimpur:

All winds, all seas,

all the heavens and earth will grow

and die and pass away to nothing.

I give myself up to the eternal sands.

 

He walked into the high, vaulted room. The sound of the bell solidified into a pinpoint of black in the center of the room. Around the darkness grew the cold, unearthly light Justin had seen before. Out of the light grew the magnificent image of Varja the goddess, triumphant in her victory. And beside her stood Zharkov, the Prince of Death, his hooded eyes gleaming with malicious strength, his body clothed in silver.

Justin was not surprised. The two belonged together.

"Where is your magic, Wearer of the Blue Hat?" Varja teased.

"I have no magic," Justin answered.

The goddess smiled. "You are dying. You cannot even heal yourself."

"If it is my destiny to die, then I will die."

Varja laughed. "Very well. My prince will help your destiny."

She looked at Zharkov, and the Prince of Death raised his right hand high. In it, out of the darkness, appeared a gleaming silver sword.

"Now," Varja commanded. "The world is yours. The Wearer of the Blue Hat can fight you no more."

Zharkov brought the blade singing downward. Justin did not resist. The sword struck him on his right wrist, severing his hand. Justin looked at the bloody stump of his arm. The pain was excruciating, but he did not cry out. If he was not afraid to die, he would not be afraid to live the moments before his death.

The goddess's eyes were furious. "His hand?" she shrieked. "Why did you not strike his head, his chest...?"

"I tried," Zharkov said, bewildered. "The blade moved itself."

"But his
hand ..
." She stared at the severed appendage, her body trembling with loathing. Then, as the hand on the floor began to glow, she whispered frantic incantations, backing away until she was pressed against the wall. The words spewed out of her mouth in a torrent.

No power came from her. The light that had surrounded her and Zharkov dimmed and vanished.

But the hand, invisible beneath its golden light, began to hiss.

"Patanjali," Varja sobbed. "Hail to thee ... Hail to thee, Wearer of the Blue Hat..."

The hand had been replaced by a coiled golden snake.

"Spare me," she whispered.

"As you spared Tagore?" Justin asked. "As you spared Duma and the monks of Rashimpur? As your prince spared everyone who had ever shown me kindness?"

"Then take him," Varja pleaded. "He is your enemy. The man you call Zharkov was born in the same hour of the same day of the same year as you. As you live, he shall live as your opposite. Take him now to end the suffering of your own life. I beg you...."

But Justin no longer heard her. Another voice was speaking to him now, the same voice he had heard a lifetime before, when a strange man had cornered a child in an alley in Paris. It was Tagore's voice, asking the same question it had then.

Is it your will?

Justin looked at the coiled snake, understanding nothing and everything. There was magic, but it was not his. It belonged to the Wearer of the Blue Hat.

"It is my will," he said.

The snake uncoiled. Darting swiftly as a lightning bolt, it wrapped itself once around Varja's neck and struck in the black center of her third eye.

Varja shuddered. A drop of bright blood appeared in the middle of her forehead. She closed her eyes and seemed to shrink before him. The smooth skin of her face began to wrinkle and crack. Knotted veins stood out on the backs of her hands. Her black hair turned white and fell out in matted clumps. Her cheeks hollowed; her red-painted lips opened, and she spat out the brown stubs of her teeth. Then she sank slowly, her brittle bones unable to support her, as her flesh dried on her skull and the skull itself rolled onto the folds of the sumptuous gown that lay rumpled on the floor, covered by the ashes of a hundred thousand years.

And resting on her garment was a small snake the color of pure gold.

When there was nothing left of her, the snake uncoiled itself and slithered up Justin's body to his wrist, where it wound itself tightly around the bleeding stump. It glowed for a moment, then was gone. In its place was Justin's restored hand.

Horrified, Zharkov turned panic-filled eyes toward Justin. He brought the sword up high overhead and slashed downward with all his strength. Justin reached up and shattered the blade. Silver shards sprayed around the chamber, tinkling like a thousand bells.

Zharkov ran frantically from one end of the room to the other. The fire had reached the main floor of the palace, and the doorway of the vaulted chamber was filled with flames licking at the inner walls. There was no escape except through the wall of flame.

Screaming, Zharkov rushed headlong into the fire.

Justin followed him, feeling the flames burning him, but indifferent to the pain. Zharkov was straining at the door to the white Sacred Chamber, but it had been sealed closed by the fire. When he saw Justin, he did not run. Instead, with a look of bitter resignation, he squared his shoulders and brought himself to full height to face him.

His lips were dry and cracked. Sweat poured over his face in a sheet. But the hooded reptilian eyes were cold; he was again in control of himself. He swallowed to compose his voice.

He is in great pain, Justin thought. But his dignity is greater.

"Will you die now?" Zharkov asked.

Justin nodded slowly. "I will die when you do. We are the same, you and I. We always were."

Zharkov granted him a curt bow. It was a gesture one might use at the end of a game of chess, a civilized acknowledgment of his opponent's superiority.

Their eyes met for one last time. Then, without hesitation, Zharkov walked to the open metal doorway leading to the flesh-stinking pit and stepped through it.

Justin saw a rush of flame and sparks, as Zharkov's body struck the stone floor, but he heard nothing. The Prince of Death had resigned honorably.

Justin pulled at the door to the Sacred Chamber. It slid open effortlessly. So there is still time to see Rashimpur again, he thought. Thank you, spirits of the dead. I will be with you soon.

Outside, staggering numbly through the snow, Justin looked back to see Varja's palace engulfed in flames. It was finished now; his work was complete. He turned toward Rashimpur. It was a long journey, but he would make it. He would will himself to live that long.

 

T
he lake at the base of Amne Xachim
was frozen solid. He was glad. He could not have swum it now, even with Tagore's help. His body was burned beyond healing. He had lost too much blood, and the wounds in his side and chest were beginning to fester.

He began the steep climb up the mountain on all fours. By the time he reached the first plateau, he was crawling, but he continued. He was too close to Rashimpur; he could not die now. He would not permit even death to touch him until he found his home.

His vision was blurry, and he shivered with the cold. So easy... so easy to die.... He forced himself to cling to the rocks and scrub grass that jutted out of the snow. The cold on his belly numbed the pain of his wounds. All the pain was ebbing at last. He knew he would see Rashimpur only for a moment before he died, but a moment would be enough.

When he saw the second lake and, beyond it, the stone face of the ruined monastery, he staggered to his feet. Stumbling blindly along the rocky cliff, he fell, pulled himself up again, fell once more, then lurched forward on the strength of his arms alone, to go home.

He crawled to the massive stone doors and, shaking violently with the last of his strength, pulled himself upright.

"Tagore, I have come home," he whispered. With an effort greater than any he had ever made, he opened the door.

His face drained of color. The trembling in his limbs stilled to numb shock. For in the center of the Great Hall, among the charred ruins and the dusty skeletons of the dead, stood the Tree of the Thousand Wisdoms, whole and in full leaf, as it had stood since the beginning of time.

He did not realize for several minutes that tears were streaming down his face. It was as Tagore had said:
Nothing can destroy the Tree
. It was life itself, and no army on earth could kill it.

Haltingly, he walked forward and knelt beside the tree. The bark was hard and dark with winter. Justin remembered learning of the change of seasons from the tree, and the beauty of color, and the patience to grow, as the tree had, without notice or admiration. The tree
was,
is, will be, and so life would endure forever.

Tagore knew. He had always known. But Justin had never been able to understand until now, at the moment of his death, that some magic cannot die. Somewhere birds were singing the songs of the universe. Somewhere in winter's cold, a seed was waiting to be born, its magic coiled deep inside it, ready to burst forth when its time came. The world was full of magic, and it was vastly more powerful than any wizard's.

"I understand, Tagore," Justin said, weeping. "I have not been cast out. I belong, too."

A leaf fell from the tree. Justin caught it, clutching it in his shaking hands. A warmth spread through him, soothing him, calming his fears. When he opened his hand, he saw that the leaf was withered. The blisters on his fingers were gone. The wounds on his body were healed.

With a sob, he prostrated himself on the floor. "Tagore!" he shouted. "I will rebuild this place. There is no death, no end. I will make a beginning. For you. For the others. I will live, and there will be another Patanjali after me, and Rashimpur will never die, and there will be magic, always, forever, as long as there is life."

He opened his eyes. And then he saw it, standing small and dark at the base of the tree: a chess piece, carved from a scrap of wood found behind a shack outside a Polish village.

Justin felt a cold rush of air fill his lungs. How could it be? Zharkov had died. Twice. Once on the cliffs in Cuba, again in the fire pit of Varja's palace.

We are the same, you and I. We always were.

The realization struck Justin like a physical blow. If he was alive, then so was his opposite. The Prince of Death was still waiting, still searching, still living out his destiny with the Grandmaster. For good to exist, so must evil.