“Always my champion,” she reproved him kindly.
“A blind slave from a defeated family,” he scoffed.
She did not move away from him, but her voice became sharper. “Stop that. I will not say you deserve to be in a cage no matter what accusations to make, so do not waste time with them.” Her hands pressed under her chin, where his ribs joined. “I wish I were not so tired: we could rid you of the cages.”
“Just like that,” he jeered, snapping his fingers.
“No,” Surata told him seriously, still listening to his heart. “But it need not be as impossible as you fear it could be.” Her lips touched the place over his heart.
“Why bother?” He did not expect an answer and was about to shove her away from him when she answered him with an intensity that surprised him.
“Because the Bundhi will put you in such a cage, if he learns of it. In that other place, he will entrap you if you have such great fear in you. Understand that, Arkady-champion. The Bundhi will use all your fear to defeat you, as he will use mine to defeat me. There is fear enough in such a malefic man as he is, and battling with him will be hard in the best of circumstances. Fear like yours must be set aside. We cannot afford your fear.”
Arkady heard her out without protest. “Right,” he said when she finished. “You’re right. If that’s the risk, then…”
But Surata was not quite finished. “Every person has fear, Arkady-champion, but they are not being hunted by such a one as the Bundhi. Your fear, if we had to battle him now, would be…it would be the same as giving the Turks your swords and then riding against them with wooden sticks. He can take such things, and make them more binding than anything you imagine now. All the force of your fear and all his destructive intentions, wedded to bring you down.”
“You make him sound like the Devil,” Arkady said, not wanting to go on.
“The Left Hand Path is allied to destruction, to ruin, as the Right Hand Path seeks…transformation. We both wish a change, a revolution in the minds of men, but to what purpose and from what circumstances…there we cannot agree.” Suddenly she raised her head, her eyes turned in the general direction of his own. “Arkady-champion, is it wrong to want growth and transformation? You are a soldier and you know death better than I do. Have I misunderstood?”
Arkady wrapped his arms around Surata, hearing doubt and despair in her words for the first time since they had met. “If you are wrong, then I am wrong with you.” He kissed the top of her head. “Surata, there are so many dead men behind me that often I dare not look back. If anyone had told me that there was another way a year ago, I don’t know how I might have answered him. But you, now, I tell you that I’m tired of battle and death and if I must choose, then I will ask for growth and life.”
Surata drew a deep breath. “I am grateful, Arkady-champion. I cannot tell you how grateful.”
He tried to find soothing words for her, and sometime between his first murmurs and sunset, he fell asleep, waking only when the braying of the ass grew loud and constant enough to disturb him.
“He’s hungry, Arkady-champion,” Surata said, stretching as she came to herself.
“And thirsty,” Arkady said, reaching up to rub his eyes. “I don’t blame him. So am I.”
“You were very…active today,” Surata remarked, her words still sleep-softened.
“You can call it that.” He grinned suddenly.
She did not respond as he expected. “I’ve already told you that when we are in the other place, we are twice active. There is all we do here, that makes it possible for us to be there, and in addition, we are busy in the other place. In a sense, we work twice.” She stretched. “It’s going to be cold tonight, with that wind.”
“We should push on, search for an inn,” he said with a lack of interest that made her smile.
“It is more sensible to stay where we are; is it not, Arkady-immai?” She pulled the one blanket that was not sheltering them from the wind more closely around her. “When the storm has passed, then we will travel, but if we go now, with night near and the wind, what good is it to leave, when we would have to search out another place like this?”
Arkady had found his saddlebag and had pulled out his old woollen tunic, but he paused before donning it. “How do you know what time of day it is?”
Surata cocked her head as if listening to a secret in the wind. “I know. I can’t tell you how.”
“The way you knew that the cook was pregnant or that Yevgen was up to something?” He saw her respond to his challenge.
“When we leave, we will go by the grove of trees and you will see what became of the others.” She was somber now, unwilling to banter with him or make light of her knowledge. “I do not always like the things I know, Arkady-immai.”
He drew on his tunic. “I accept that what you think happens is not always pleasant.” Then he stopped. “My muscles are sore.”
“You have been in a battle—in two of them. And you have shaped the other place to your vision. All these things take strength and…you are not skilled.”
“But you are, and you feel nothing,” he suggested.
“I am very tired. My hands are sore and the river that flows through the Subtle Body is listless as a stream at the end of summer.” She had reached out for him, leaning against his raised knees. “You are tired that way, as well.”
“I’ve got to feed the animals. Do you want food?” He moved away from her, crawling toward the place where the blankets overlapped. One of the bags of food held this closed, and he lifted it with care, taking hold of the fabric as the wind caught it.
“When you’ve tended to the animals, yes.” She gestured toward him, saying, “You want to do…”
Arkady let himself out of the tent, into the battering wind. He bent against it, his eyes squinted almost closed, his arms crossed over his chest. He made his way unevenly to the gelding and the ass, approaching them slowly, talking to them. In such weather, they would be wild and unpredictable. It took him some little time to calm them and bring them back nearer his shelter, and while he did these things, his thoughts drifted back to the dead men in metal cages.
When the nosebags were in place, and he had opened one of their three precious skins of water for the horse and the ass, Arkady stood, his back to the wind, his eyes fixed on the distant, ruddy glow of sunset.
By morning the wind had dropped enough that it was little more than friendly bluster, frisking with leaves and branches, teasing the hems of Surata’s clothes and giving the day a vigor that was often missing so near sunup.
“We don’t have to go to the grove if you don’t want to,” Arkady said to Surata as he lifted her behind his saddle. “I’ll believe you.”
“Perhaps I was wrong,” she said, ducking as he swung onto the bay. “It would be better to see.”
“See?” he teased, and in the same breath said, “That was uncalled-for. I’m sorry, Surata. I don’t know why I say these things.”
“You say them because you are afraid that I may be right, and that worries you, as it worries me.” She slipped her arms around him. “Go to the grove, Arkady-champion. Then both of us can find out what happened.”
He could not stop himself. “If anything.”
“Yes.” She was not offended. “It could be that nothing happened, and we’ll have lost the company of men who know this route, which would be unfortunate, wouldn’t it?”
“We can go faster alone,” he said in a kind of compromise.
It did not take them long to reach the grove of trees, and even before they came within the shelter of the scraggly pines, marks on the ground told part of the story.
“Many men stopped here last night,” Arkady informed Surata as they approached the trees.
“More than were in Old Milo’s company?” she asked.
“Most of them on ponies, by the look of it,” Arkady went on, holding the bay firmly as the gelding tossed his head nervously. Behind them, the ass gave a long, honking
cry of distress.
“They are troubled,” Surata said. “Go very slowly, Arkady-champion.”
He did not need her warning to do this, but he took it to heart. “I’ll dismount when we’re in the trees.”
“Keep your sword and that little knife handy,” she recommended.
“The cinquedea?” It lay tucked horizontally in the back of his belt, where he always carried it.
“Yes. Keep it to hand.” She was frowning as she spoke, her face intent.
Only one pitiful donkey was still alive, and it could only lift its head feebly and moan. The others—men and animals both—were dead.
“They were gutted,” Arkady said with distaste. “Most were stripped. They hacked off Old Milo’s head.”
“And Yevgen?” Surata asked, holding tightly to the cantel.
“No. He’s not here, nor is Tibor. They didn’t do this alone, though. They were helped.” He swallowed hard to keep from being sick at what he saw. The sight was bad enough, but the stench was appalling. Lengths of intestines like shiny ropes stretched over the ground leading to bodies lashed to trees. “Whoever did this wanted more than robbery.”
“What more?” She shook her head several times. “It was more than fear, as well. They wanted to…put out everything.”
“Like an extinguished candle,” Arkady mused. It had been much worse than that, more deliberate and ruinous, but he wanted to spare Surata the useless pain of it.
“What makes you believe I do not know it?” Her question cut into his thoughts abruptly. “For one like me, there is no hiding, no deception.” She leaned forward, bending over the high cantel, sucking in air as if she might drown. “There is something else here, something that hides and waits, like a shadow at midday that is darker for the light.”
“If I had a shovel, I’d bury them,” Arkady said, as much to himself as to the corpses. He went to the donkey and stared down at it, tears in his eyes. Then he drew his short sword and struck hard at the top if its neck, ending its suffering. While he wiped the blade on the hem of his acton, he caught sight of a bamboo staff leaning against one of the trees. Curious, he went and picked it up.
“What is it?” Surata demanded, her voice high with apprehension. “What have you found?”
“A walking stick,” he said, glowering at it. It felt oddly warm in his hands, and a strange odor came from its surface.
“Describe it.” Her order was cutting. “Now.”
Puzzled, Arkady lifted the staff. “It’s wood,” he said as he examined it. “Smooth to the touch. Segmented.”
Surata’s head came up. “Let me feel it,” she said, extending her hand toward him.
“If you wish.” He held out the staff, expecting her to grasp it.
She shrieked. “Drop it! Drop it!”
Arkady had already released it and he stepped back as the bamboo staff clattered to the ground. “What?”
“The servants of the Bundhi!” Surata wailed. “They are searching for his enemies! They will know now. They will know!” Her sobs were deep and bitter.
“Surata!” Arkady cried, reaching up to her, wanting to offer her comfort without knowing why or how. “No, Surata. Don’t cry.” He was being foolish, he knew it. Whatever had distressed her needed more than a few words to relieve.
“He knows we are coming. He knows. He will be waiting for us, watching.” She slid off the gelding into Arkady’s arms. “We are not safe now. Nowhere are we safe!”
Chapter 10
Against Surata’s advice, Arkady burned the bamboo staff along with the bodies of the merchants and their donkeys.
“They will know,” she insisted in a low voice, as if she might be overheard.
“If the bodies are burned, the staff should be, as well. If I didn’t, it might be thought strange.” He spoke evenly, treating her like a young soldier before his first battle. “How could they know you would return? How can they know now?”
“The Bundhi will know,” she said.
“Might not this be another…sorcerer? Surely the Bundhi is not the only follower of the Left Hand Path.” He piled the last of the tack onto the fire. The acrid scent of burning leather mixed with the odor of charred cloth and flesh.
“The Bundhi has reason to watch, and to watch to the west. When he killed my father and my uncles, he swore that none of them would escape his wrath.” She wrapped her arms across her chest. “There were servants of the Bundhi who followed me to the slave market. I knew there were others, but…I was hoping that there would be more time.”
Arkady watched the flames, fascinated by the movement of the fire, the color of it, the way it changed constantly. “You can’t let that stop you from thinking. That’s not the way to win a battle, Surata. You can anticipate what you think your foe will probably do, and you then prepare to counteract the move.”
“I think the Bundhi will send his agents to kill us.” She said it harshly, her head coming up.
“Then we will have to be more careful and travel the rest of the way alone, as much as we can.” He wrenched his eyes away from the fire. “What is the worst the Bundhi can do to you?”
“He can destroy me, as he destroyed my father,” she said. “I don’t mean just this body, but the Subtle Body as well, and the manifestation in the other place. All that could be gone, or worse.” She shivered. “He’d prefer to subvert me, to make me his servant, but I won’t let that happen.”
“No, I don’t think you will,” Arkady said, coming closer to her and touching her shoulder with the tips of his fingers. “Don’t be so frightened, Surata. That robs you of your strength. Anything that lessens your strength increases the strength of your enemy. Remember that.”
“Your teachers would agree with mine on that,” she said after a silence. Her attitude was chastened but not defeated. “When I think of what became of my father and my uncles, I…”
“Yes,” Arkady said very gently. “I know how I feel about the loss of my father and my leaders. And I often disliked my father, yet it was a deep, abiding pain to lose him.” He reached down and took her by her shoulders, pulling her to her feet. “You say you don’t want revenge, but I think you do. And in your place, I would want it, too. If your vengeance restores order as well, that’s an added benefit, but not the reason for doing it.”
She nodded slowly. “I’ve been taught all my life that it is wrong to seek vengeance, because that is the way of the Left Hand Path.”
Arkady kissed her forehead. “Worry about that when you have your victory,” he told her. “Until then, you must fight against despair as much as the forces of your enemies.”
“Whatever their form?” she asked. “He may send them as men, but he may not. They could come in the form of marauding animals or…or storms.” She said this last very softly.
“Like yesterday’s storm?” Arkady said for her. “You’re assuming that the Bundhi has…God’s power over the weather.” He had intended to laugh at this, but the sound would not come. “Why do you think that, Surata?”
“The bamboo staff made me think it. All those who follow the Left Hand Path and have advanced in their studies carry such staves, and when there is work to be done, they…feed them.” Her blind eyes gazed into the distance. “The staves…eat. They must be fed in order for the alchemists to do their work.”
“Fed what?” Arkady asked.
“Meat,” Surata answered. “You saw what had been done to Old Milo and the others. The Bundhi’s servants would treat others the same way, so that the staves might have what…they wanted. You see, the center of the bamboo is rotten, and it is there that the power of the Bundhi and his servants lie, in what has been spoiled.” She turned away from Arkady and from the fire. “You don’t know what power the Bundhi can control. I have seen it. It was the last thing I saw with my eyes, the staves of his servants at their meals.”
Although Arkady was almost certain that Surata exaggerated the might of her opponent, he did not want to question her now. He feared she mig
ht relapse into the strange apathy she had shown as he built the fire, and that he knew was a greater peril than any legend she believed about the Bundhi. He let her walk a little way by herself, and spoke only when she was about to blunder into a tree.
She gave a loud cry of rage and frustration. “How can I fight him now?”
“That is what you want me to do,” Arkady reminded her, bowing to her as he said it.
Surata started to weep, more in anger than grief. “He has reduced me to this, and still he is not satisfied! He has taken everything from me—home, family, teaching, fortune, sight!—and yet he pursues me!”
“You must frighten him very much if he goes to such lengths,” Arkady said, coming up to her and putting his arms around her from the back. “For a great sorcerer to bend all his attention to finding one blind girl…there must be more to that blind girl.”
“I am one more thing to destroy,” she said between sobs.
“A very special thing, or he would not take such trouble,” Arkady pointed out, finding his observations troubling as he spoke them. He had meant to suggest that she had overestimated her importance, but now he began to wonder if her abilities might be greater than he already knew they were.
“It always enhances the power of the Left Hand Path when the number of those of the Right Hand Path are decreased,” she said, trying to bring herself under control.
“But to make such an effort…” He touched her hair with one hand. “Surata, you’d better tell me all of it.”
“All?” Her voice faded on the word.
“Yes.” He said it softly, but it was still an order and they both knew it. “Listen, Surata; you are from a people and a place that are not like mine, but what you do is more than the strangeness of your people. Those who live in your country, no doubt, find you almost as strange as I do. Don’t they?”
“Some of them,” she admitted before she turned around to him.
“It’s more than where you come from that makes you unlike me. It’s more than a difference of religion and language. It goes much deeper than that.” His hand on her hair pressed her head to his shoulder. “It’s even more than the other place, isn’t it?”
To the High Redoubt Page 14
