Dagger Magic

A diaphanous mist filled the gaps between the buildings, leaving a fine glaze of moisture on everything it touched. Deep in the heart of the compound, in the sheltered formal garden adjoining the abbot's private apartments, the mist had limned each individual leaf and twig with silver. Soft on the foggy air came the muted sound of a door opening and then closing as the man known to his flock as Dorje Rinpoche turned his back on his quarters and moved silently along the pebbled pathway, approaching a small domed structure at the center of the garden.

The edifice was a temple in miniature, its exterior densely ornamented with grotesque carvings of demons, demigods, and other denizens of the spirit world. As Dorje drew near, a small, stooped figure in orange robes detached itself from the shadows and hobbled forward to meet him, bowing over a box of black lacquerwork cradled to its chest. No word was spoken, but the abbot returned the old monk's bow and beckoned him forward, leading the way up into the shallow porch that fronted the entrance to the shrine, where both men shed their sandals.

A groined doorway admitted the pair to a square meditation chamber. The flickering yellow glare of four butter lamps quartered the room, picking out the tarnished sheen of metallic embroidery amongst the ancient-looking tapestries that overhung the walls. The floor was of black marble, its center covered by a darkly patterned carpet of silk brocade. A number of flat brocaded cushions had been scattered around the carpet to provide seating.

More glints of silver and gold showed up from the chamber's vaulted ceiling. Here, a mosaic had been executed in tiny, many-colored tiles, depicting a wrathful, multilimbed deity wreathed in sulphurous clouds of fire and smoke. Two crimson eyes like molten rubies glared down into the room out of a skull-like face. Any initiate of Tibetan mysticism would have recognized the figure as that of Shinjed, the dread Lord of Death.

In the northwest corner of the chamber stood a small dais covered with a pall of crimson brocade. Centered on the dais, its point supported in a triangular stand, stood a large triple-edged dagger as tall as a man, with a hilt made of carved faces. The dagger was flanked by a pair of bronze incense burners in the shape of two coiled serpents, whose smoke left the air inside the chamber heavy with the musky, aromatic tang of burnt spices.

Approaching the dais, Dorje and his companion abased themselves before the dagger, then withdrew to the center of the room. As they drew up cushions and sat down opposite one another, leaving an open space on the carpet between them, Dorje fixed his chilly, china-blue eyes on the age-withered face of his companion.

"I am troubled, Lutzen," he said, addressing the other man in fluent Tibetan. "Almost fifty years have passed since you and your brother brought me here from Germany. Tell me, how much do you recall of the days leading up to our flight?"

The old monk's expression showed faint surprise. "How should I not remember, Rinpoche] It was a time of great uncertainty. The war was going badly for our patron. Daily the talk grew of impending defeat. Eventually it was decided that you should be brought away to safety. And so it was done."

"Indeed." Dorje's tone conveyed no warmth. "How would you evaluate that decision by your predecessor?"

"He did as his wisdom dictated," Lutzen said. "Thanks to his foresight, you were safely out of Berlin when it was taken by the Allies."

"Do you think this was well done?"

The old monk shrugged. "You are here, Rinpoche. And now that the Treasure Texts have at last been located, there will be no further impediment to your fulfilling your destiny as Keeper of the Keys to Agarthi."

"That destiny might well have been fulfilled half a century sooner," Dorje said coldly. "As you rightly observe, I am the Keeper of the Keys. Had I been allowed to remain in Germany, I might have unlocked Agarthi's gates and summoned the hosts of chaos to defend the Fatherland. As it was, I was absent at the very time when I was most needed."

"You were only a child," Lutzen reminded him. "The signs of your true identity were undeniable, but you had not yet regained your full stature as the Man with Green Gloves."

Dorje gestured impatiently for silence.

"Bermiag Rinpoche should not have been so quick to underestimate me. Had he allowed the Treasure Texts to go with me, it is conceivable that I might have been able to do something, even from exile, to salvage the fortunes of the Reich."

"Bermiag Rinpoche did not agree." Lutzen's tone was without any audible shift in emotion. "When you were sent to safety, all of us believed the war could still be won - that though our beloved Green Gloves was not yet fully restored to us in function, some other worthy might be found to unlock at least a part of the Treasure Texts' secrets.