To the High Redoubt

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “I will go where you guide me,” she said, her voice so even and uninflected that it stung Arkady more than a reprimand would have.

  Gingerly he took her arm, afraid that his touch would burn her skin. “This way,” he growled.

  The sweat room was smaller than he would have liked, and the close, steamy air enveloped them as soon as they were inside, wrapping them in its cocoon.

  “You sit here,” Arkady said brusquely, thrusting Surata down on the bench. “We must stay here a little time, then go into the next room and wash off. It’s cooler in the next room.”

  Surata shook her head to loosen her hair. Now it fell over her shoulders and halfway down her back, shining black with the minute drops of moisture in the air. Arkady could not look away from her, so awed was he by her beauty. She stretched her legs out in front of her, flexing her toes. Then she rose, and to Arkady’s amazement, placed one foot against her knee, pressed her palms together in front of her navel, and proceeded to stand in that position, humming to herself while the sweat ran off her body, leaving little trails down her bronze-gold flesh.

  Arkady leaned back on the bench, glad it was rough wood, hard against his back. The scar on his arm where his wound had healed turned a raspberry color as the heat took him. His muscles protested this unfamiliar relaxation and he swore at them inwardly by every saint in the calendar. It relieved him to have something more on his mind than the presence of Surata. He decided that he stank, and that was good, too. He caught one of his hands in his thick, ill-cut hair, wrenching it through his fingers as if to uproot it. Sweat ran into his eyes and he blinked rapidly.

  Surata took up the same position on her other foot.

  He had intended to pay her no notice, but curiousity got the better of him. “What are you doing?” he asked when she had been still for some little time.

  “It is…work.” She faced his voice. “Your hand.”

  Very reluctantly, he took her hand in his, holding tightly because they were both so slippery.

  “This is better. It is a part of my training, as prayer is a part of yours. It is for the body and the senses, so that they can work well, not in conflict with one another. There are other postures, but this one will help restore me for…” Her words trailed off.

  “For?” he prompted when she did not go on.

  “For later,” she answered remotely. “There is so much we must do before we encounter the Bundhi.”

  “In the mountains beyond Samarkand,” he said, turning on his side so that he could not see her.

  “Yes,” she replied vaguely, “that is one place.”

  “You mean he might be somewhere else?” Arkady asked, trying to sit up, to no avail.

  “It is…possible,” she answered after a brief silence. “You must learn to find it.” Now she was standing on both feet, her arms extended above her head, crossed at the wrists, with the palms pressed against each other.

  “What are you doing?” Arkady demanded, his attention distracted by her movements.

  “This is…growing work,” she said, not finding the correct word. “It is what I am trained to do.”

  “This is alchemy?” He wanted to laugh but managed to control the impulse.

  “Most certainly,” Surata said to him. “It is…knowing the letters in order to read.” She lowered her arms. “Does it trouble you, Arkady-immai?”

  “It puzzles me,” was all he was willing to say.

  “Soon I will explain it,” she said, wiping the sweat from her body. “The bath is good.”

  “The bath is wonderful,” he corrected her, then turned away as he heard the breathless sound of his voice. He was disgracing himself, and he knew it. He ought to leave the sweat room at once and ask her pardon later. His genitals felt heavier than the pouch of gold tied to his wrist.

  “Arkady-immai, let me rub you,” Surata offered.

  Arkady yelped as her hand fell on his chest. “No…no,” he stammered, trying to break away from her and ramming his elbow against the wall. Pain fizzed up his arm and he clutched at it, welcoming it for the diversion he provided.

  “It will be better soon,” Surata told him, her hands on his shoulders, pressing him back against the bench. “There is nothing to be afraid of.”

  “You don’t know,” he growled, twisting away from her.

  “You mean this?” Surata’s hand moved down his body and found his swollen flesh. “But Arkady-champion, this is good.”

  “Surata…” he protested, knowing it was too late and that he had disgraced himself.

  “But this, Arkady-champion, this is the Four Petaled Center of the Subtle Body. It is the wellspring for what we will do.” She moved her hand to the center of his chest. “You remembered so much, when we were lying side by side on the mountain, and the strength ran through you like a river, though you could not release all your fears.”

  “You do not know how I want to…use you,” he said with disgust.

  “As I wish to use you, I trust.” Her voice dropped. “Arkady-immai, you have known nothing but urgency and longing. You do not know what it is to ride on the crest of the wave, and you must learn it if we are to find the Bundhi where he hides.”

  Thoroughly confused, Arkady lifted one hand to wipe the sweat off his face and gain a little time to try to make sense of what she said. “What does…using you have to do with finding the Bundhi?”

  “He hides many places.” She pressed her hands over his heart. “This is the Eight Petaled Center.” Next, the base of his throat. “This Center has Sixteen Petals, and this”—her palm touched the center of his forehead—“Thirty-Two Petaled and the Center of the Moon.”

  “Surata, for God’s sake—” He took one hand in his, wishing he could will her to stop.

  “This center in the abdomen is also a Thirty-Two Petaled Center. And at the navel is Sixty-Four Petaled Center, the focus of the Sun and the seat of transformation.” She smiled down at him. “Now you have begun.”

  “Begun what?” His throat felt unexpectedly tight. “Surata, a lady should not…it is proper that you should preserve your chastity.” He repeated the words by rote, as his priest had said them to him when he was a child.

  “Of all the qualities and virtues to treasure, chastity is the most senseless. Treasure wisdom or courage or kindness or integrity, but chastity—!” She shook herself with exasperation. “I prefer fidelity to chastity; I trust fidelity.” Very deliberately she leaned down and kissed him, her mouth slightly open.

  Arkady moaned as he locked his arms around her. How much he had wanted to do this! How he had longed to be near to her, to plunder her body with his own! His head ached with his need.

  It was Surata who drew back first. “There,” she whispered. “This is a first step.”

  He clung to her. “Don’t deny me now, Surata.”

  She kissed his brow where the scar was. “I won’t. But first we must be clean and fed, so that there will be enough time. It’s a mistake to hurry the Opening of the Lotus.”

  He would not release her. “No. Now.”

  “So you may feel humiliation in lying with me?” Surata asked sadly. “So you can say to yourself that you and I are worthy of nothing but a hurried coupling? How can you think yourself of so little merit?”

  “I…need.” The shame he felt as he admitted this almost destroyed his desire.

  “Arkady-champion, you’re not a starving infant at the breast of his mother, you are a valiant man, with great courage and goodness of heart.” She kissed him again, very softly. “You heard my call to you, because you called to me as well. Come.” She stood up, holding out her hand to him.

  “Now what?” He resented her for all she had done to him. It was bad enough that she knew of his desire, but that she would now refuse what she had seemed to offer was intolerable. “I can get up on my own.” As he got to his feet, she gave him a companionable embrace. “Stop that.”

  She stepped back a little way. “Arkady-champion, listen to me.” She waited
until he faced her. “I will refuse you nothing but your haste. I promise you that tonight you will have what you want, with the time to enjoy your desires.”

  He regarded her skeptically. “And there will be another reason to hold off then. I’ll take you to fight the Bundhi without this, Surata. You don’t have to…buy me.” It was the cruelest thing he could think to say to her and he was rewarded when he saw her flinch.

  “You may say that to me in the morning, Arkady-champion, if you believe then that I deserve it.” She brought her chin up, but not in defiance. “Let’s wash away all the dirt.”

  “Purify ourselves, is that it?” Even as he strove to hurt her, he wanted to give her comfort for his own harshness.

  “Yes. So that you may be fulfilled.” She hesitated. “Your desires are not…sullied, Arkady-champion. They are your strength.” As she shook her head, she moved a little away from him. “We will wash.”

  He shrugged, annoyed that she was unable to see this. “Follow me.” He did not to touch her again, not yet. “This way. There are two steps down.” The door was heavy and he held it for her.

  She stopped in the doorway, her milky eyes on his. “I am still your slave, Arkady-immai. You bought me.”

  “And the Devil alone knows why,” he complained, pulling the door closed behind them. “Stay there. The tubs are just in front of you.” With a sigh he put his hands on her shoulders and directed her toward one of the large barrels. “I’ll help you step in.”

  “Let me wash you, since I am your slave,” she said.

  “Stop teasing me,” he ordered her.

  “I am not teasing.” She sank into the water, smiling. “There is great force in water, if you have the skill to know it.” As she took his hand, she added in her most practical tone, “Give me the soap and the brush, and I will tend to you as a slave should.”

  He was about to object but could find no reason to refuse. “Here’s the soap, and here’s the brush. See that you scrub hard.”

  “As you wish,” she said, sniffing the soap suspiciously. “It is unfortunate that they do not use perfumes here.”

  By the time she was through with him, his body was rosy from the vigor of her ministrations, and his mood had lightened. He still viewed her with apprehension but was convinced her foreign teaching had confused her. He sat in the stable with her, eating a dinner of millet bread stuffed with spiced vegetables and a lentil stew. The three old women had provided a skin of wine and made it plain that if Arkady or Surata wanted pork, it would cost more.

  “Do not eat it,” Surata said to Arkady. “It is not good to eat pork now.”

  “There’s money enough,” he reminded her.

  “I did not say this because of money.” She wiped her fingers on the rough square of cloth the three old women had provided. “Arkady-immai,” she said, smiling tentatively, “you are not to be afraid. You have no reason to fear me or anything about me.”

  “I’m not afraid,” he said, taking another of the stuffed millet breads. “This is good.”

  She would not be distracted. “Arkady-immai, you are…” She reached over and put her hand on his arm, just above the scar, letting her fingers rest there. “You heard me call to you once; answer me again.”

  Though his skin was tanned and roughened by weather, he knew it darkened as he blushed. “I’ve got enough control now.”

  “But I don’t want your denial. I want you.” She said it gently. “Who knows when we will have so much time again, and it is necessary that we learn to…go to the other places where the Bundhi hides.”

  He brushed her hand away. “Don’t start again, Surata.”

  “You no longer desire me?” Her question was calm, without a trace of accusation in it, but he reacted as if he had been rebuked and challenged.

  “Listen, Surata, I won’t add to my dishonor by making you a whore as well as a slave. I’ve lost too much as it is.” He turned away from her and rolled far enough from her to be out of reach. The soft, new hay tickled his neck as he lay back. “I’m tired.”

  “Then I will rub your feet for you.” She set two wooden bowls that had contained their food aside and found her way to him. “You would not mind that, would you?”

  “Um,” he grunted, letting her make of it what she would, smiling to himself as she began to pull off his leggings. He had to give her full credit for her talent for massage. The stiffness in his ankles and calves gave way under her capable hands. “That’s wonderful,” he said when she gave her attention to his knees.

  “Good,” she whispered, continuing her work.

  Arkady was drifting into that luxurious half-sleep when he felt her pull his tunic off. He almost protested, then decided to let her continue. The sensations were too pleasant to stop them, and he would soon doze. It was too much bother to tell her to stop. His languor lulled him, the smell of horses and hay was friendly and familiar. When the first, soft drops of rain began to fall, its whisper on the roof was more soothing than a lullaby.

  Precisely when it was that his contentment flickered into desire, Arkady did not know. One moment he was hovering on the edge of sleep; in the next, there was a stirring in his flesh that roused him only enough to remind him of his need. “Surata…”

  “Hush, Arkady-champion.” There was such serenity in her words that Arkady sighed deeply. She went on, kneading first his back, then his buttocks. When she was done, she rolled him from prone to supine. There she began with his face and neck, then moved down to his chest.

  “It’s raining harder,” Arkady murmured.

  “Yes,” she replied, moving lower.

  “Oh, God,” he breathed, no longer wanting to object to how she touched him, or where. Her hands, the curve of her breast and waist and thigh were ineffably sweet, more gratifying than the swing of a perfectly balanced sword. When her lips opened to his, he forgot all his questions and doubts. He pulled her into his arms.

  “Slowly, Arkady-champion,” she whispered. “There is no hurry, Arkady-champion.”

  “Please,” he moaned.

  “It will be better this way, I promise you.” She lay next to him from shoulder to toe. “The Lotus opens slowly.”

  “Now, Surata,” he urged her.

  “You will ride the wave with me,” she said so softly that the gentle fall of the rain seemed louder.

  He had never experienced such excitement before. There were sensations in his body that were new, thrilling and disturbing at once. As she pressed against him, even his breathing changed, growing slower and deeper. His senses were flooded with her nearness, and the only thing he felt was the magic of her flesh. Then she embraced his legs with her own and he rose into her.

  Chapter 7

  There was light around him, constantly shifting, more brilliant than stars and rainbows. Arkady stared in disbelief and awe at the splendor of it, gasping as the colors fluctuated and pulsed with every motion of his body. His body was without weight, suspended in the radiance as if he himself were a star. He longed for Surata to see what he saw, and heard her voice, so near that they might have been touching. “I see, Arkady, my champion.”

  As he watched, the colors became shapes, taking on the form of flowers and jewels, answering his whim. The most marvellous fragrances surrounded him, bringing him memories of everything pleasant he had known from his earliest youth. He wanted to laugh or to sing for the utter joy of it.

  Like a butterfly, a cloud, a bird, he soared over the beauty, admiring it and feeling it stretch far beyond him. His arms stretched out to become enormous, brilliant wings, more glorious than any he had ever seen, even on the glass angels in the cathedral in Warsaw. He spiraled on vast rivers of light, high in the effulgent clouds, with flower petals falling all around him. His wings glistened.

  Mountains rose up into the shining sky, magnificent as bishops in purple and white. They were as luminous as they were solid, alive with majesty. Arkady spiraled toward them, glorying in his freedom as much as he admired their great tenacity. How fi
ne a part of the earth they were, how well they ornamented the world! He wished he had the means to tell Surata how it appeared to him, being free in the sky where he could romp with the sagacious mountains.

  “I know this, Arkady, my champion. I am with you.”

  And to his amazement, she was, as close to him as his skin, or closer. He saw her face more clearly than he ever had, and saw who it was she was. He had never before noticed how black her hair was, or how young she must be. And her eyes! They were not the strange, frosted blankness he had known from the first, but a clear, deep, lustrous and glowing brown, warm and subtle. He stared into her eyes, aware that he had never seen anyone with eyes like hers.

  “Surata,” he said, without speaking, or if he spoke, it was in words and with a tongue he had not used before. “Surata.”

  Her answer was more stirring that any he had heard. It was like music, or the stillness before waking. He let those sounds go through him, kindling his soul.

  Far below the mountains rolled the sea, vaster and more alive than water had ever been. Patterns of light played over its surface, shifting and changing with more variety than rainbows or the lights of the winter sky. Where the ocean met the mountains, spray and sand kissed.

  How very far it was to the ocean, to the crags of the mountains! Arkady was caught up in fascination, thrilled and aghast at how far he had come. He turned to where he expected Surata to be, and could not see her. His vision was disoriented, for the mountains seemed to lose their shapes, growing fluid, melting, sinking toward the enormity of the sea. Around him, the light was obscured by roiling clouds, dark and sulphurous, threatening to lose him forever in the black clouds.