Free The White Mirror by Elsa Hart Page A

on the monk’s back, and Li Du saw the crimson-robed shoulders tense.
    Li Du coughed. The man looked up, startled. As he took in Li Du’s small stature, patched clothes, and tentative demeanor, he relaxed. Li Du walked toward him and introduced himself in quiet, perfunctory Latin.
    The other’s eyes widened in astonishment. He raised his hands as if in supplication to some presence in the shadowy rafters above them.
    â€œThe language of the Church,” he said, “in this, of all places, and from a native.” He took a step toward Li Du. “I am Paolo Campo.”
    â€œPerhaps,” Li Du said, in a whisper, “we might speak together outside?”
    The man shook his head. He did not lower his voice to match Li Du’s. “I cannot in my conscience allow him to continue. He condemns his own soul, and the soul of the deceased.”
    Li Du spoke firmly. “He will not stop his prayers.”
    Seeing the foreigner hesitate, Li Du pressed his case. “I see that your translator is not here. I speak the language of these roads. If he pauses in his prayer, then I will translate your words to him.”
    Campo relented, and after a final glance at the monk, turned toward the door. As Li Du prepared to follow him, a flash of reflected candlelight caught his eye. It drew his attention to a small collection of objects arranged near the shrouded corpse. Moving closer, Li Du recognized the ornate handle, now clean, that he had seen clutched between bloody fingers the day before. But it was the silver blade, exposed for the first time to Li Du’s gaze, that had gleamed.
    *   *   *
    Outside the building, Li Du had the opportunity to observe Paolo Campo in the light. He gave the impression of a man who had once been round, and was now deflated. There was a mottled, slightly bruised look to his face, as if he had not slept. His hair, interspersed with gray, was pulled back and tied at the nape of his neck. His robe-like coat, Li Du now saw, was not black, as it had appeared in the temple, but brown.
    Campo spoke first. “You address me in Latin,” he said. “How is it possible? Can it be that we are in proximity to one of the lost Christian kingdoms?”
    Li Du pulled the door of the temple closed and descended the stairs. “The lost kingdoms?”
    Like a deer stretching its nose toward food, Campo followed him down. “You are, perhaps, descended from the realm of Prester John?”
    Li Du shook his head. “I was not born in these mountains, nor am I of the Christian faith. I learned your language from the Jesuit scholars in the court of the Chinese Emperor.”
    â€œAh,” said Campo. He looked so crestfallen that Li Du, to his own surprise, was tempted to change his answer, and to assure the man that he was a Christian in order to comfort him.
    Campo went on. “So you were taught by the Jesuits,” he said. “That explains how you can speak the language of the Church and yet not follow its teachings. For more than a hundred years there have been Jesuits in the Chinese court, but they spend their time building clocks and astronomical observatories instead of saving souls. The ignorant cry out for salvation while the Jesuits enjoy the luxuries of palace life.”
    Li Du knew something about the strife between Christian orders competing for influence in China. “Are you, then, a Dominican?”
    The question seemed to please Campo. “So you know something of our orders,” he said. “But to answer you, I am not a Dominican. I am a Capuchin, an adherent to the teachings of Saint Francis. I have come to these mountains to promote true belief in the—”
    A gust of wind bore down from the encircling cliffs and carried away the rest of Campo’s sentence. Li Du felt the chill through the seams and patches of his old coat. He shielded his eyes against the particles of snow that whirled up, filling the air and