The lantern-bearer's wife had a face like cracked porcelain, and Arthur had spent three months crossing fever-ridden jungles and snow-blind mountain passes to reach a place where such faces could be mended.
He arrived at the easternmost fort on a day that was neither morning nor evening, for in this corner of the Himalayas the sun lingered on the horizon like a guest who knows it is not welcome but refuses to leave. The fort itself was a ruin — stone walls blackened by centuries of wind, flagstones cracked by frost, the skeletal remains of a chapel whose God had abandoned the place long before the...
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