Dr. Mikal Ryzaard repeats the words in his mind, but that doesn’t make it any easier. Killing a thief or a psychopath or a coward for the Stone would be easy. But not someone like Varanasi. A good man, a holy man.

And yet killing him is the only way.

He looks down at the vintage Boker knife cradled in the palm of his hand and inhales the smell of oil and leather that rises up as he slides the blade from its sheath. His own eyes, gray and dead, stare back at him, reflected in the warm steel.

Take the Stone.

Another set of eyes, nearly identical, flashes through his mind. They belong to the Nazi soldier he killed and stripped the dagger off that night in the death camp so many years ago.

A single bead of sweat runs down his forehead, jumps off his nose and splashes onto the reflection.

He thinks about the holy man. Varanasi.

Ryzaard likes the ancient Indian guru, his melancholy eyes contrasting with a generous smile. Only hours before, Varanasi announced plans to leave at dawn on another walking tour of the Punjab to visit poor villages to bless and heal the sick.

Worst of all, the Stone will go with him.

Time is running out.

Ryzaard wipes the blade on his shirt sleeve and slides it back into the sheath. A line of moisture runs between his shoulder blades and down his spine as he stands up. Clipping the sheath to his belt, he walks from the tent through a silent grove of Kadamba trees. Their trunks rise around him like the ruined columns of an ancient Sikh temple. The smell of honey mixed with wood hangs in the air. Straight ahead through the trees, the last arc of the evening sun is just vanishing below the horizon, leaving the sky crimson.

At the edge of the grove, a dirt trail leads through a jute field to the village, and the chemical stench of fertilizer replaces the sweet aroma of the trees. The trail narrows, hemmed in on both sides by arrow-straight stalks and green leaves rising a foot over his head.

Get the Stone.

Without warning, his chest seizes up with tightness. He struggles to breathe. His skin goes clammy and cold beneath the khaki shirt. A panicked hand drops to his side and gropes for the dagger. His fingers find the black wood handle and grip it tightly. He stops, closes his eyes, inhales slowly until equilibrium is restored. And then he hurries down the path.

Emerging from the jute field, he sees Varanasi’s hut on the edge of the village. Ryzaard’s pulse quickens, blood pounding in his ears. Distant voices float up from the river where the villagers gather each evening to wash their clothes and bathe.

He and Varanasi will be alone.

A few meters from the hut’s entrance, he spies the holy man sitting in a lotus position on the dirt floor, his back to the open door. One palm opens toward heaven and the other closes, the fingers gently wrapping around a luminous white Stone in the shape of a claw.

It will soon be Ryzaard’s.

He stops a few feet from the hut and studies the motionless back of Varanasi. The Indian holy man has the power to see the future, to heal, to perform miracles of wonder. Perhaps, some say, even to stop time. The rarest of gifts, his power entitles him to unlimited riches and control over multitudes. Yet, like Ghandi, he lives in poverty and dresses only in the simple khadi cloth worn by poor villagers all over India.

Kill for the Stone.

Ryzaard waits for Varanasi to invite him in as he always does, but no words come from his mouth this time. Swallowing hard, Ryzaard steps carefully through the open door. A hand drops to his belt and silently draws the blade from its sheath. Griping the handle until his knuckles turn white, he raises the blade level with his chest. The pounding in his ears drowns out the singing of birds.

Varanasi remains motionless.

Drawing in a silent breath, Ryzaard holds the knife in both hands and stares at the side of Varanasi’s neck where he will bury it to the handle and sever the carotid artery. The blade lunges down. Just before its tip breaks skin, Ryzaard closes his eyes.

The next instant, he lurches forward, tumbling onto the dirt floor of the hut, the dagger still in both hands.

Varanasi has vanished.

CHAPTER 2

C
losed. Avalanche Danger.

Matt skis past the big, red sign and taps it with his pole. Ducking and crossing under the rope, he surrenders himself to gravity as it draws him down the steep ravine on the back of Skull Pass into a hundred meters of virgin powder. Enough for a couple dozen epic turns. At the bottom, he can hike through the trees, get back in-bounds and melt into the crowd before ski patrol finds his tracks and closes in.

A simple, yet elegant, plan.

The first five turns are pure ecstasy.

And then the entire face of the slope breaks free beneath his skis, engulfing him in a churning maelstrom.

For a few seconds, he points his body downhill and manages to keep his tips up and his head above the flowing mass. Twenty meters from the bottom, he’s dragged under into darkness.

When the movement finally stops, there’s a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach from knowing that his skis are probably lost.

And the pain is excruciating.

His left elbow is pulled back behind his head. The right shoulder feels like an open wound soaking in gasoline. The heel of a ski boot jabs the small of his back. A searing pain rips through his thigh. But more than the pain, one thought dominates his mind.

Dad’s going to kill me when he hears I was skiing out of bounds.

After a futile struggle, he realizes he’s packed in the snow like a fly in amber. He might be a few inches or several meters below the surface. Maybe he’s upside down. There might be broken bones, torn ligaments. One thing is certain. He has no excuse but his own stupidity. The mountain has swallowed him up, and its cold blackness holds him in its grip like a great fist. Heat drains out of his body, sucked by the infinite icy darkness. His fingers and toes lose all feeling. The numbness snakes up his arms and legs until it takes control. He holds off the hunger for sleep until the last remnants of oxygen vanish.

The world has become silence and cold and blackness. A new realization dawns on him. His life is about to end at the tender age of sixteen.

I’m so sorry dad. You were right. Right about everything.

Sadness washes over him. Three words form in his mind, repeating over and over in an endless loop, bleeding out into the darkness.

Please help me.

Time passes, but whether it’s long or short, Matt can’t tell.

A point of light appears far above in the darkness of his closed eyes, like Venus on a clear September night.