Beyond the camps extended a vast field. In other nadams, Malik said in a sad tone, there had always been a communal corral, with two or three hundred horses. But the Brigade had let them keep only their personal mounts. Hundreds of others had been collected by the Brigade in Yoktian, where they were being readied for shipment.

Riders were in the field, ten or twelve youths, galloping hard toward the north end of the valley. Khez khuwar, the boys explained, an ancient game of the clans. The girls would start twenty or thirty feet ahead of the boys, and they would race to the mark at the end of the field. If a boy caught up with a girl, she must let him kiss her, still riding, but once the girls reached the end of the field they were allowed to chase the boys to the other starting point, using riding whips to hit any boy who they passed.

They were interrupted by hoots and whistles from behind them, greetings for a rider approaching up the rough dirt road that led up the valley. Malik stood on a log and after a moment his face lit with excitement. "Jakli!" he exclaimed. Shan climbed up beside him and saw her reach the front of the camps on a lathered, exhausted horse.

As they turned back to sit on the log and watch the riders on the field, someone dangled a loop of fried dough in front of them. The boys laughed and began pulling away pieces of dough even before their benefactor could greet them. It was Jacob Deacon. He had come to record the events of the nadam, he said, and had brought more of the wooden tablets for the clansmen to keep with them when they were dispersed by the Brigade. But also, Shan knew, because he had hoped Micah might have come down out of his hiding place.

"They got a note," he said brightly, as if reading Shan's thoughts. "Just three more days."

The American was about to sit beside him when another round of jubilant shouts broke through the camps. Deacon laughed and pointed to the north. Marco was coming down from the trail by the lake, already so close they could see he was wearing an outlandish hat of felt stuffed with tall flowers and feathers. He led a heavily laden camel. "Presents from the groom's family," Deacon explained. "An old Kazakh custom."

People cheered louder as Marco approached, and then a minute later another excited murmur swept through the camps as two more riders came out of the trees. Not cheers this time, but a hushed call of important news, in a reverent tone. Two old men, one in a maroon robe, had emerged from the trees, following Marco.

Almost no words were spoken. Shan walked up the trail to meet the Tibetans, and silently took the reins of Gendun's horse to lead him into the Red Stone camp. He had found them at the Well of Tears, Marco confirmed, where they were fastening tiny red prayer flags into the rocks. Shan looked at Gendun's robe. The hem had been ripped open and the fabric torn away. The lama himself looked like something had been torn away from him. His eyes, glazed with fatigue and sadness, briefly acknowledged Shan, then settled back into his hundred-mile stare.

"Helicopters began looking in the desert," Lokesh said in a weary voice. "Marco said wandering souls would flee from the noise of helicopters, because they sound like demons." The old Tibetan sighed. "And his camel leapt pushing us with her nose. Gendon said this Russian and his camel are wise about spirits, so we agreed to go with them." He looked over the mountains, toward the desert. "It felt as though we were close to the Yakde Lama for a while. We will go back soon. There're so many lost ones out there," he said forlornly, and he let Shan lead him into one of the yurts, where Jowa was already arranging a sleeping pallet for Gendun.

Shan sat by the two old men until they were lost in slumber. When he looked up, Marco was there too, quietly watching the Tibetans. He looked as if about to speak, but seemed unable to find words. The Eluosi knelt and pulled the blanket over Gendun's shoulders. "I thought they were just old fools when I first met them," Marco confessed. "Now," he shook his head and looked into Shan's eyes and shrugged. "Sophie walked around them again and again when we found them, like she didn't recognize what type of creatures they might be. They wouldn't leave at first, and I wasn't sure what to do. I made as if to go, but Sophie went and sat with them. She wouldn't budge. She was ready for me to leave but she was going to stay with them." Marco scratched his head and creased his bushy eyebrows, as if still wondering about what his camel had done. "Then she heard a helicopter in the far distance and began pushing them toward me." He gazed at the two old men. "It's important they're here, isn't it?" he asked in a self-conscious tone. "I don't mean here, I mean… I don't know."

"Important that they are in the world," Shan suggested. As he spoke he saw a movement in the shadows at the back of the tent. The wild-eyed woman was there, the one who had thrown stones at him. She was rocking back and forth, a rolled blanket in her arms, giving no sign of having seen them.

As Marco rose, Shan saw Jowa standing at the tent flap. What was it Jowa had said that night so long ago? If the lamas didn't survive, what was the point of continuing? The thought brought a pang of pain, as it reminded him that there was another lama still out there, unprotected, with the knobs now at Glory Camp.

It was a day of celebration, a day of joy. The clans flowed in a steady stream into Red Stone camp to see the gifts brought for the bride's family and to present gifts of their own. They drank toasts to Nikki, the jokester who could be counted on to be late, just for effect. Horses were raced, in pairs and in fours, and even as many as twenty at a time, and skins of kumiss were passed about the jubilant onlookers.

After the races Batu pulled Deacon out onto the field. Another of the zheli threw a ball to the American, a baseball. Macro appeared with a bat, one he had brought from Nikki's room, and the youths of the camp began playing the American game. Jakli appeared and, making an exaggerated bow of greeting to Shan, ran to join the game, chiding everyone about how Nikki would hit balls into the mountains when he arrived. Deacon and Marco had declared themselves coaches, and the air was filled with laughter and shouts of "First base! Second base! She's out!" as Shan leaned back on the log, drowsy in the sunlight studying the game. Half the camp wandered to the field to watch, until suddenly there was a shout from the back, then a hushed silence. The crowd parted as a magnificent white horse pranced onto the field, led by Wangtu, the Kazakh driver Shan had talked with at Glory Camp.

Jakli was pushed forward by Marco, and with a shy smile Wangtu handed her the lead rope of the white horse. "I know when Nikki comes," he said loudly, so the crowd could hear, "he will bring five more like this. But," he said with a shrug, "at least I'm first."

The horse, Shan was certain, was the one they had seen at the rice camp. The fiery creature looked at Jakli and its eyes softened, then it stepped forward and she extended a hand. As it pushed its muzzle into her palm, the Kazakhs cheered. Malik shot away and a moment later returned with the silver bridle.

For the next hour many from the camps watched as Jakli raced up and down the field on her white horse, while others mounted and rode alongside her. At last she consented to a game of khez khuwar, and though many youths galloped forward for a kiss, none could catch her.

Shan found Malik under a tree at the north end of the field, sitting with one of the dogs resting its head on his legs. He sat without speaking, and they watched the riders in silence.