Path of the Eclipse Read Online Free PDF Page A

and simplified their occasional mass arrests of foreigners. Saint-Germain was not deceived by the Imperial decree, but had no desire to oppose it. Over the years he had been in Lo-Yang, he had evolved his own style, an amalgam of Occidental and Oriental fashions that was all his own.
    When he emerged from his private quarters, not long after sunrise, he wore a black brocade Byzantine dalmatica over a kneelength red sheng go. His black trousers were of Persian cut, but tucked into high, ornate Chinese boots. A belt of chased-silver links was around his waist and the silver pectoral was ornamented with his device—a black disk with wide, raised wings, the symbol of the eclipse. He was comfortable in this hodgepodge of styles and cultures; he was also aware that it was complimentary to him in a way that a more homogeneous fashion would not be.
    His servants were busy already, the day’s tasks beginning before dawn and continuing until well after sunset. He addressed them when he came upon them, giving a word of praise to one, inquiring after the health of the father of another, as he made his way to his extensive library on the north side of the compound.
    His mind was not truly on his reading, and it was some time before he selected a volume in Greek and pulled it from the shelves. It was an effort to concentrate on Aristotle’s meticulously dry phrases, but eventually he let himself get caught up in the words.
    Rogerio found him at his reading an hour later. “Pardon, my master,” he said in Latin, “but you have a visitor.”
    Saint-Germain looked up from the pages spread before him and answered in the same language. “A visitor, you say? Remarkable. I would not have thought…” He did not continue. Decisively he shut the old leather-bound parchment book. “A visitor. Who is it? Do you know?”
    “Master Kuan Sun-Sze has called,” Rogerio told him, picking up the book and returning it to its place on the shelves.
    “Master Kuan?” The somberness that had marked Saint-Germain’s features now faded. “Why didn’t you say so at once?” He rose from the table.
    “He is in the larger reception room,” Rogerio informed his master as he stood aside to let Saint-Germain pass into the hall.
    “How long have you kept him waiting?” There was no criticism implied in the question, for he knew he was often hard to locate.
    “Not very long. When I discovered you weren’t in your chambers, I tried the library.” The manservant had switched from Latin to awkward Chinese.
    “We’ll talk in the withdrawing room upstairs by the terrace. See that tea and cakes are brought to the room, if you please.” He felt the despondency that had gripped him give way to curiosity and gratitude. As he approached the door to the larger reception room, he motioned Rogerio away, saying, “Never mind, my friend. I can announce myself,” as he reached to open the door.
    Rogerio bowed slightly and said, “I will see that the tea and cakes are delivered. I’ll bring them personally.
    “Thank you,” Saint-Germain said quietly, then stepped into the reception room.
    The chamber was designed to be impressive, though it was not as formidable as many such rooms in Lo-Yang. Rich hangings covered the walls, there were silken carpets on the floor, and the chairs were of rose and cherry wood, carved by master artisans and cushioned with brocaded pillows. A moon door opened onto the garden and the sound of the brook was faintly audible. Brass and porcelain vases were filled with fresh flowers, as they were every day from early spring through the end of autumn. Amid these Oriental things there were occasional foreign touches: on one wall a tempera portrait of a Roman lady hung beside a Tang Dynasty scroll. Near the door there was a tall iron candlestick made by the craftsmen of Toledo. Beside the moon door was a tall chest of intricately inlaid wood from Luxor.
    Kuan Sun-Sze looked up as Saint-Germain closed the door behind himself, and a smile