It’s a small convoy this time, with an unusual mix of rough traders, vague officials, packed horses, and armed men we’re joining to head home. The shaded morning mist weights down the weisang that’s lit, white shreds swirl low around our horses’ trampling hoofs. Two red robed men chant their prayers, but their devout voices are lost in the restless roars of our company. We’re leaving Lhasa, and we’re leaving now.
“No mules or pilgrims this time, sister.” Dendup steers his horse beside me.
I don’t mind; I understand. Dendup and Sonam want to get to their families as soon as possible. They’ve got some explaining to do.
We ride out in a single line, and soon find our own pace again. With Sonam in front, me as a second, and Dendup closing our row. It doesn’t take long and my stallion’s at
