Lhasa in 1700 is no romantic setting from the poems of Tsangyang Gyatso. It is a battleground of schemes under Desi Sangye Gyatso. Behind the red walls of the Potala Palace lies the shocking secret of a death concealed for fifteen years. The cavalry of the Khoshut Khanate eyes the Golden Throne, while Qing imperial spies lurk in the shadows of Barkhor Street.
“In that life, I crossed ten thousand mountains, not to cultivate a better next life, but to meet you along the way.” “How can there be a perfect way to honor both the Buddha and the one I love?” The world sees these as love poems. Only I know they are secret signals exchanged by two desperate souls caught in the currents of history.
