This was the largest monastery in the capital. His aunt had been a Buddhist when he was a child, and Li Yao was no stranger to the place. Or rather, at twenty-two this year, he had had Buddhist monasteries in his life for longer than not.
Li Yao had liked it here very much as a child, because the walls were thick, the curtains were thick, and people kept their distance from one another. They seldom spoke to each other; instead, everyone spoke to the Buddha.
And so it seemed peaceful and serene.
Or perhaps it was simply that his aunt became peaceful and serene when she came here.
Li Yao could not tell where those childhood feelings had come from. But amid the blood and heaps of corpses on the Northern Frontier, he would sometimes think of this place, of the indescribable scent of his aunt's skirts, of that aged monk with his bald head and white beard.
He could not tell whether more people or fewer passed through the monastery gates now. Li Yao walked inside and was persuaded by the guest-receiving monk to leave his sword behind. He could not remember-or perhaps had never known-the name of the monk in his childhood memories, and did not know how to ask after him now. He gave a rough description, but seeing that the guest-receiving monk was equally bewildered, he smiled, waved a hand, and went farther inside by himself.
Revisiting scenes from childhood after growing up always brought a sense of estrangement. Li Yao passed through the unfamiliar crowd. Once, all he had seen were waists and legs coming and going, some slender, some broad; now all he saw were shoulders and faces, likewise some slender, some broad.
As he walked, he slowly recognized things, until he realized