Dagger Magic

"Sadly, that did not prove to be the case. When it became clear that nothing could save our German patron, Bermiag did his best to place the Texts beyond the reach of our enemies by sending them out of Germany by submarine."

"And in so doing, he placed them beyond my reach as well!" Dorje retorted. "The messenger who brought the news of the sub's launch should likewise have been entrusted with the vessel's intended destination."

The old monk shrugged again. "There was always a danger that the messenger might have been captured. Bermiag Rinpoche had more than once encountered interference from Adepts at work in the Allied camp. Those most senior amongst them would have had sufficient power to force a full accounting of the facts from almost any prisoner under interrogation."

"Perhaps that is true," the abbot conceded. "As it stands, Bermiag's caution has cost us valuable time. The search might have gone on indefinitely if Sidkeong had not undertaken to locate the submarine by dowsing. And the effort cost him his life."

"I have not forgotten, Rinpoche," Lutzen said. "The lives of the Irishmen were justly forfeit by way of recompense."

"Recompense is not yet complete, and finding the submarine only continues the quest," Dorje stated, his lean features like a carving in marble. "The cargo still must be retrieved - and for that, we shall need outside assistance. You know what is required, Lutzen. Have you made adequate preparation to perform the necessary exercise with the kyilkhor"

The elderly monk gave an inclination of his hairless head. "I am quite prepared, Rinpoche. I am confident that the oracle will yield us the guidance we are seeking."

"Excellent." Dorje's tone was one of dispassionate approval. "In that case, let us proceed."

"As you command, Rinpoche."

So saying, the aged monk turned his attention to the lacquerwork box in his lap, swiftly shifting a succession of trick panels embedded in the box's lid and sides. The box opened to reveal two compartments within, the first containing a sheaf of rice papers, a bamboo brush pen, a small ink flask of pale green jade, and a piece of rock crystal in the shape of a pyramid. The second, larger compartment held several closely packed stacks of square lacquered tiles.

Taking out the brush and the ink flask, the monk proffered them to his superior, along with a square piece of rice paper the size of his palm. Accepting these three articles, the abbot lapsed briefly into silence, his expression intense and abstracted, as if he were attempting to identify some curious object glimpsed at a distance. After a long moment, he roused himself to unstopper the ink bottle and dip the pen, after which he swiftly wrote out an inscription in Tibetan. Seen by the amber light of the butter lamps, the writing fluid showed up not black but a dull shade of dark red. The abbot paused briefly to contemplate his work before handing it over to his subordinate.

"As the diviner, it is for you to read what has been written," he told the old monk.

Lutzen took the page and held it up to the light. Signalling his comprehension with a curt nod, he carefully placed the paper on the carpet in front of him, then removed the crystal pyramid from the lacquerwork box and set it on top of the paper with a finely judged precision that indicated the importance of its placement. This done, he returned to the box and began lifting out the layers of lacquerwork tiles.

There were sixty-four in all, each tile having one side blank and the other inscribed with a symbolic pictograph. Lutzen turned all the tiles blank side up on the carpet before giving them a randomizing shuffle. Satisfied with his preparations, he folded his palms together and touched his joined fingertips to his forehead, throat, and breast. Then, raising his eyes to the vault above his head, he spoke.

"Hail, Shinjed, Lord of the Dead and Devourer of the Living. We who are initiates sworn to your service do pray that you will look with favor on our present enterprise. We ask that, being secured of your guidance, we may recover the treasures our forebears hid, receiving like them earthly power in exchange for feasts of slaughter."

Lowering his gaze, he turned to Dorje. "The pattern lies within your grasp, Rinpoche" he said, indicating the strewn array of tiles. "May Shinjed guide your hand."