Pearse laughed. “I’m not sure the Holy Mother would agree.”

“Why? Even she wouldn’t be allowed out there.”

Arriving at the shore, they headed out along a narrow jetty, its wood and spikes groaning under the weight. A small cabin stood at the end of the pier, a single light inside. Andrakos stepped toward it. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

The door smacked shut, followed by the din of conversation. It quickly faded as Pearse moved to the edge of the landing. For the first time in days, he stood alone.

It would have been enough to close his eyes, trace the lapping of the waves, once again less frantic than those he had known on the Cape; or to breathe in, the taste of tangerines mixed with hewn grass on his tongue; or to shut them all out and simply gaze at a sun already dipping to the Aegean, clouds streaked a beet red against the thickening blue of a summer sky. Instead, he had them all, a barrage of pure radiance, somehow releasing him from all thought. His eyes fixed on a point perhaps a hundred yards out, a patch of perfect stillness. Weightless. And for a few moments, he was there, freed from everything around him, floating, adrift. He could feel the water rise about him, cup his head and arms, effortless.

“Now you know why the monks come.” Andrakos was by his side, silently staring out. “And why the mountain is theirs.”

Pearse continued to hold it in his grasp, unwilling to let go until Andrakos had moved off. He then turned, the image almost too perfect-a small fishing boat tied up some ten yards back, squat captain, tangled gray beard.

Greece was making good on all its promises.

Andrakos remained by the wheel, chatting with the captain for the length of the trip, leaving Pearse alone to take in the full measure of Athos from the sea. He stood at the prow, hands clasped to the rusted metal rail, an ever-increasing sense of insignificance as the mountain opened up in front of him.

What began as a rise of grass and trees soon gave way to the surge of ragged stone, slopes crumbling toward the sea, rock clusters strafing the ground, green-and-white embers shimmering against a dusking sky. And wherever the blanketing of oak and brush tried to assert its will, wide scarps of serrated wall rose up to thwart all but the most vigorous attempts. Even the scattered tufts of misted cloud that floated above offered little more than false hope against the unforgiving and relentless terrain.

The God of Athos was a vengeful God, testing his faithful, unwilling to grant them an easy piety.

And yet, the mountain’s beauty was undeniable, not simply for its fierce grandeur but for the totality of the place, a finite depiction of the rift between sea and sky. Unpeopled, it held a kind of primal wonder.

Pearse stood breathless, awed by its majesty, more by its carnality, a living, breathing earth. The mountain was holy, less for the men who chose it as their refuge as for the touch of the divine in its every aspect. A sanctity conferred by the brutality of nature.

That truth gained even-greater clarity as the first of the monasteries emerged, perfect linear form rising from the rugged chaos of the mountain face. Neat rows of balconies and roofs hovered above the slopes, a bell tower with fattened Byzantine dome peeking out from the tidy angularity. The sun lay too low to permit any real detail, lights from within shimmering a constellation’s outline of the tiny city above. The pattern ducked and turned at odd moments, projecting wild limbs from the main body. Too soon, though, it slipped from sight, another configuration appearing in the distance, the mountain’s zodiac taking shape against the now-darkened sky. Some of the monasteries had dared to climb high, blurring the distinction between earth and stars; others had pitched low in tapered valleys, their shape like the flow of untamed water. Each a pocket of perfect order, a thousand years of strict devotion.

And one, he knew, the guardian of a parchment whose truth transcended even the splendor of the mountain itself. Staring up into the sky, Pearse understood-perhaps for the first time-what it was that had brought him here. And what it was to be so close.

As the boat bobbed along the shore, his gaze fixed on the tip of the mountain, its peak lost in a crown of cloud. Even at night, though, one could make it out, the glow from the single monastery at its base bathing the nimbus in a golden hue.

St. Photinus stood alone at the edge of the peninsula, the most sacred of sites reserved for the holiest of the monasteries.

The captain slowed the engine and let the boat drift toward the piers of Daphne, the village-halfway down the peninsula-as far as he could take them. From here, they would go by mule or truck, depending on the severity of Photinus’s approach.

Grinding the engine into reverse, he angled the boat in between the others moored at the dock, the sound jarring against the quiet of the place. Pearse saw Andrakos slip the man a few bills before grabbing his pack and joining him on the pier.

The place lay deserted, a few muffled sounds from the town above, nothing to compete with the boat as it pulled away. Andrakos headed up the stairs, surprisingly silent, Pearse behind. When they reached the road, they found it empty, as well. Andrakos dropped his bag and sat; Pearse did the same. Still, not a word. Obviously, there were new rules on the mountain. The only sound was the clink of glasses from some unseen tavern, a few drinks before the last of the boats headed back to Ouranopolis.

They didn’t have long to wait before the sight of two bouncing lights appeared off to the right, Andrakos quickly getting to his feet. As the truck pulled up, he swung the pack onto his shoulder and placed his hands at his back. The sham supplicant from his brother’s office now transformed into the real thing. Pearse followed his lead, a pose of quiet respect as the monk stepped out to greet them.

“Who are you fooling, Dominic?” Brother Gennadios laughed as he approached, rapping the younger man on the arm as he drew up. He wore the classic black robe of Greek Orthodoxy, the bonnet on his head tilted at a somewhat daring angle. His forearms, now around Andrakos’s back, were thick and muscular, a rug of hair extending as far as his knuckles. Pearse noticed the impish smile on the younger man’s face as Andrakos looked up.

“I had him going,” he answered, nodding to Pearse, the familiar twinkle back in his eyes.

Gennadios turned to Pearse, eyes wider still as he grabbed both of his shoulders and pulled him in close, a kiss on each cheek. His grip was exceedingly powerful, the two men roughly the same height, the monk a good hundred pounds heavier. The softness of his beard surprised Pearse.

“Professor Seldon. What a pleasure. I’m Gennadios. I apologize for the time you’ve had to spend with this one, but life is filled with tests, none more trying than young Andrakos here.”

“He’s not so bad if you’ve had a few drinks.”

Gennadios erupted in laughter, then cupped Andrakos’s neck in his hand. “Like an open book, Dominic. Like an open book.” He turned again to Pearse. “You didn’t let him drive, did you?”

Before Pearse could answer, the monk was shuttling them into the truck, packs tossed in the back, the front seat a patchwork quilt of vinyl and duct tape. Squeezed inside the cab, Pearse guessed that the white Ford had been around longer than Gennadios himself, the crunch from the gearbox confirmation as they set off.

The drive at night was far less compelling than the view from the water, intermittent shots of the mountain quickly obscured under a tangle of leaves and thickets. What few openings they came to offered only momentary bursts of stars. Without someone familiar at the wheel, Pearse realized, the road would have been impossible to traverse, hardly a light to warn of the sudden twists and turns, at one point the monk forced to take the truck down to a virtual stop so as to manage one of the hairpins. Even at ten miles an hour, the constant bouncing from the combination of rutted road and shockless wheels made communication all but impossible. It was something of a lifesaver. Gennadios was pouring forth with what seemed to be everything he knew about Ambrose. Pearse smiled and nodded, happily unable to catch more than a word or two here and there.