It was about the same size, surrounded by similar walls, and gates that looked approximately as heavy. The gates were open, and no one stood guard, also like home. The openness told Amit a few things that he didn’t particularly like to think about. At least in concept, this was a place of peace. Yes, it trained assassins, and made its living by making death. But the gardens were open and gorgeous. Monks in blue robes with saffron sashes still strolled or sat in them, meditating. Open gates welcomed people, as if the compound had nothing to hide. Amit didn’t know what he’d expected, but it wasn’t this. The faces were different and some of the conventions seemed to have diverged (several of these peaceful-looking men had hair, for instance, and some of the women wore it long), but otherwise he felt like he could walk up to the old abbot, into the old dormitories, and find his old bed. He could walk to similar rising hills and look out over similar valleys. The enemy was supposed to wear different uniforms, have odd features and unusual ways of speaking.
