The Sanctuary was semi-dark, lit by a single, large oil lamp that set blurred shadows trembling and jumping. Seven men, robed in silk, sat in a circle on straw mats, legs folded beneath them. Another sat in the center. Their shaven heads were upright. Lamplight flickered on calm faces, glinting on eyes otherwise black, giving off an aroma too mild to conceal the fragrance of Korean pine from panels, timbers and floor. As dark as the room, was the sound that came from their throats—a deep and droning “OM,” protracted and near the limit of audibility, like the dying hum of some great bell.
They were questing. Vague images flicked behind unfocused eyes. Now and then something vaguely recognizable came to them, to be gone before it stopped shimmering. They didn’t try to hold them. When—if—they found something significant, it would stay to be examined.
After a bit, they got one clearly, of conical tents—a campground—with a village of log huts not far behind it. Behind the image was a sense of context; this was some tribal gathering. The picture, still wavering, shifted, then focused on a very large, physically powerful man. A man without eyes, they somehow knew, who nonetheless carried a sword. A man without eyes who walked briskly, meaningfully. Suddenly he stopped. And turned as if to look at the men who spied on him from their Circle of Power.
He did have eyes, strange eyes without pupils, that somehow seemed to lock with their collective gaze. Then the vision wavered and was gone, and they knew without discussion that they would not get it back.
The emperor, Songtsan Gampo, sat in his study before open, glass-paned doors. A light cool wind blew from the northwest across the Yan Mountains, played with the silver wind chimes on his balcony, and touched his face. Above his left shoulder an oil lamp, its flame shielded by a glass chimney, cast faintly yellow light on the manuscript he read. Remotely he heard a small gong—heard and registered, and ignored. A minute later there was stirring at his corridor door, and an exchange of muted words. Then his doorguard entered, a giant humanoid with short, rich-brown fur. It cleared its throat softly.
“Your Magnificence,” it murmured.
Songtsan Gampo lowered the manuscript and turned without speaking.
“His Reverence, Tenzin Geshe, wishes to speak with Your Magnificence.”
Dark eyes regarded the doorman. “Send him in.”
The geshe could have communicated with him telepathically; given the Circle of Power, the distance from the gomba, the monastery, was no problem. But the emperor didn’t allow mental intrusions except when he’d ordered them, or in true emergencies. One sent or carried messages, on paper or orally. Tenzin Geshe entered the room and bowed low. He would not speak until invited to.
“Yes?” the emperor asked.
“Your Magnificence,” said the geshe, “your Circle of Power has been questing. And we have seen a man . . . ”
He opened his mind to his emperor then, rerunning the experience.
When the geshe had completed his brief report, he was dismissed. The emperor sat with the manuscript ignored on his lap. The Circle had learned nothing explicit, except that the man existed and what he looked like. And that he’d been aware of them observing him, and had broken the connection. A man of unusual power then, obviously, but where he was, and of what people, there’d been no clue.
There had been a limited knowingness with the vision, however: the man was far away, and was important to him. There’d been no sign of what the importance might be. Logic suggested that the man would lead an army against his, when the time of conquest came, but that was only logic, not knowledge.
Songtsan Gampo sat with his mind clear of thoughts, waiting quietly for more, but no more came.