To the High Redoubt

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  This time Arkady did not stop himself. He drew her close against him, his arms holding her securely as he wept for her. “Surata, I…you didn’t have to relive that. I don’t want to cause you more torment.”

  “There is one more thing, Arkady-champion,” she insisted. Her voice was tired, and he could see dark circles under her blighted eyes. “Just one more, and then we will rest, if that’s what you want. Is there enough wood on the fire?”

  Such an ordinary request threw him. He glanced over his shoulder, trying to make sense of what he saw. “It needs a little more wood,” he said at last, when he had puzzled it out. “I’ll tend to it.” He eased her back as if she were a wounded comrade, then built up the fire. He was slightly dazed from all he had witnessed, and his thoughts were disordered. What more could she reveal to him? There had been so much already that he could hardly make sense of any of it. To have more could only add to his bafflement.

  “The center of the forehead, Arkady-champion,” she instructed when he touched her again. “This is the last, I promise you.”

  He could not agree or protest. He stared down into her face, which was less than an arm’s length from his own, and marvelled at the serenity he saw there. “If it is painful, you need not do it,” he said once more. “Surata, you don’t have to hurt yourself anymore.”

  “But I’m not hurt, Arkady-champion. I have only remembered, and a memory may sting, but it cannot hurt me.” She attempted a reassuring smile, which only served to make him more apprehensive. “This will make it…clearer.”

  He could think of no argument to use against that, and so, with hands that shook a bit, he touched her forehead, in the Center of the Moon.

  In the doubt and the darkness, which had been filled with movement and travel, there was suddenly something else, a presence that responded to her, that shone like a torch in her mind. Surata reached out for that light, using everything she had learned as a child to call the presence to her. She heard a voice in a language she did not know—Arkady nearly broke his contact with her when he recognized, with some difficulty, Polish, and his own voice, saying, “Be quiet, you. How much?”—address the slaver, and that voice began to give the presence form. A man, a foreigner, young, but not too young. She sensed that the warning of long ago was accurate, and that she had found what had been promised for her, not where she expected him, and not at all what she had thought he might be, but now she knew beyond any doubt that he was everything she needed. She went with him willingly and turned her attention to finding out about him.

  Arkady was fascinated and repelled to perceive himself through Surata’s eyes. He knew he was not as courageous as she assumed he was, and he resented her ill-concealed disgust with his religion. He discovered her understanding of his language, almost laughing at some of her early mistakes. Slowly he caught bits of himself, first his voice, his sex, his origin, then his general size and build. Then, even more slowly, details of his appearance—the scar over his eye, the shape of his hands, the color of his hair and eyes—and last, her desire for him. “Surata…”

  “Hush,” she whispered.

  They were in the bathhouse, and her longing for him was so intense that she thought the air was thickened with it. He was so reticent, so sure that she could not want him, and that his own desire was unacceptable. Her flesh tingled when she was near him, and when she touched him, she felt she had been wounded, so tender was her skin where it met his. She could not bear to believe that he might be able to defend her without any greater intimacy than they had known already. It would not be possible to fight the Bundhi with such limitations. And even if it had been, she admitted to herself, her yearning for him was almost unbearable. She refused to have less than all his passion and decided that it was time to try to convince him that he had nothing to dread in her. All through the meal they ate in the stall, she strove to contain her erotic eagerness, so that it would be at full force when they lay together. It took all her discipline to calm him once again, and to focus her ardor on waking him from the numbing stupor of shame that had possessed him. All the men she had known before had been lifetime students of the pleasures and uses of the body, and now she had before her a man no more experienced than a little child.

  “Surata,” Arkady said, his mouth dry.

  Apparently she did not hear him, but one hand moved, keeping his hands on her forehead. “There is nothing…to be afraid of.” Her voice was so soft that Arkady was not entirely sure she spoke at all.

  “Surata, I don’t think I…”

  When at last they came together, she opened every center of the Subtle Body to him, seeking transcendence as well as the gratification of her desires. The links, which were more than simply the meeting of bodies, began to be forged as the currents of the Subtle Body moved from one to the other as their souls reveled in astral pleasures.

  Without intending to, he fell on her, seeking her with body and soul. His hands still on her forehead, he went into her. How strange it was, and how wonderful, to feel his body through hers, to know what she knew, to sense his own body with her hands, to press close to her and have the experience of his weight.

  He braced himself. “I didn’t know I’m so heavy,” he murmured in apology.

  She turned her head and kissed him, her tongue touching his. A gentle push and they were both comfortable, much closer and more intensely united in the shifting light and the endless variety of the other place.

  “What can we do?” Arkady asked.

  “Anything we like,” Surata answered. “But now we cannot forget that the Bundhi knows we are here, and that we are capable of seeking him out.” She was a long, broad-bladed glavus, larger and more formidable than any that had been forged, with a glint on her steel that was deadly in its promise.

  “And you a sword?” He touched the blade with an affection that bordered on reverence.

  “It is what you need and trust. Here there are dangers that no sword could fend off, but that doesn’t matter. Whatever comes to you, I will resist it. You might falter, through fear or through shame, but I never will.” The metal hummed, and in his hand the hilt grew warmer. “No one could pick me up and turn me against you. No foe could hide me far enough away that I would not find you and return to you. It could not be possible.”

  Arkady said nothing, knowing now without doubt that there was no reason or need to speak. He lifted the sword and watched the light glint along its steel. “You are the other side of me,” he said to the weapon.

  “And you of me, Arkady my champion,” came the answer.

  “Well, what will it be this time? More dragons?” He chuckled as the light around them began to take on a rocky look, more friendly than what he had conjured the time before.

  “You’re learning to like dragons,” Surata said. “You would enjoy another such battle, wouldn’t you?”

  “Of course,” he admitted, feeling pleased that she knew so much of his inner thoughts. That in itself was surprising, for he had always resisted permitting others to know him too closely. Soldiers were cautious of close friendships, for so many of them ended in battle. Yet the bond, he thought, the bond was there.

  “Be certain, Arkady my champion, that you choose wisely, for we may be watched, and what you bring forth may not be entirely in your control.” The concern was genuine, and he accepted her words without hesitation.

  “What could he do?”

  “Almost anything. He could take your monster and make it his own. He could change where you are so that the battle would be on water instead of land. You must recall that here the distances are not what they are in the daily world.” She shifted in his hand. “If you want a battle, then let me suggest that this time you choose something that flies. Your dragon had wings but did not use them.”

  “Very well,” he said, considering what she said. “I think that you’re probably right. I’ve never fought anything in the air. No matter what the Turks think, they cannot fly through the air, though they fight as if they could.�
��

  “What do you want it to be?” she asked.

  He hesitated, then said, “A gryphon. They guard treasures. I have seen them in heraldry and once in a tapestry. That would mean that I can conjure it up, wouldn’t it?”

  “That, or anything you can imagine,” she said. “It’s easier if you are familiar with the form and nature of the thing.” She shifted again, growing a bit longer and developing heavier quillons to compensate for the added weight of the blade. “This might be tough to fight without a shield.”

  “Can you do that?” He had not considered this before.

  “As long as what I am touches you, I can be anything you need to fight with or to protect you: any weapon, shield, armor or other guard to keep you from harm.” She shimmered and he felt himself clad in fine scale armor. “This will make it more difficult for your gryphon to hurt you.”

  They were now standing on a ridge above a vast copse of trees. The ground underfoot was rocky, and behind them rose huge mountains; they were in a place that showed them beauty without demanding all of their strength to sustain themselves.

  “Where is your gryphon?” Surata asked, her voice caressing him through the armor.

  “I…I don’t know yet. They were supposed to guard treasures,” he said, trying to think where such a beast might hide. “They were part eagle and part lion. It might wait on the crags, but it could just as easily have a cave in the woods. You never know about such things. They are not the same as game in the forest, living always in the manner of their kind.”

  “Then decide, Arkady my champion, and begin your battle,” she urged him. “The longer you debate, the more easily the Bundhi can search you out and do damage to you.”

  “And you?” he asked, not needing the answer. “Very well. It is in a tower on”—he turned and pointed—“that mountain, and once I have my destrier again, we can start out to hunt it,” he said.

  The red sorrel came up behind him and nudged Arkady’s arm in friendly greeting, and pranced forward so that Arkady could mount him easily.

  “I wish my bay were this cooperative,” Arkady said as he got into the saddle, noticing that while he mounted, his armor felt much lighter, and did not impede his movements.

  At the most gentle of kicks, the red sorrel started off at a smooth, effortless and untiring canter, a gait that was a pleasure for the rider and that covered ground at a speed that Arkady knew was flatly impossible for any horse he had ever ridden. The stallion snorted, as if disdaining to be compared to any horse from the daily world. Arkady laughed out loud for the utter pleasure of his adventure.

  A shadow passed over him, a shadow of tremendously wide wings and a long body ending in a tail not of a bird but a lion.

  Arkady drew in and looked up.

  There overhead the gryphon hovered, watching him with its keen eyes, dropping lower for a better look.

  “It’s a beauty!” Arkady shouted, raising his sword and grinning.

  It was enormous, the gryphon. Its head and wings and front talons were like the eagle on the royal arms of Poland. The lion’s hindquarters were tawny and massive, the fur as plush as velvet. Lazily, it came lower, letting out a loud cry in recognition or challenge.

  “Watch it!” Surata warned. “Things that fly are often full of tricks.”

  “You’re worried,” Arkady said, giving his words a light, teasing rebuke. “There’s no reason to worry.”

  “I hope you’re right,” she said, lifting in his hand.

  “It’s almost a pity to fight something so splendid,” he said, watching the gryphon with a little regret. “If it doesn’t attack, I’ll let it go free.”

  “Whether it attacks or not should be up to you,” Surata said, with a faint emphasis on ‘should.’

  “Then eventually, I suppose it must. But I don’t have to kill it, do I?” He was entranced by the mythical animal. It was so incredible and glorious. Arkady studied the size of its wings and the curve of its beak and decided that it was larger than any animal he had ever seen before, and that included the rhinoceros that had been displayed in Hungary that he had seen when he was younger and going to visit one of his mother’s relatives. “See how well he flies, in spite of how large he is?”

  “He’s a fine beast,” Surata agreed.

  Arkady lowered his sword and sat still, watching the gryphon. He wanted to sing to it, or declaim great poetry. “Gryphon!” he shouted, waving his left hand, showing it was empty.

  Majestically the gryphon descended and came to rest not very far from Arkady. It sat like a cat, talons together, wings folded back along its body, the lion’s tail tucked neatly around his glistening front claws. It regarded Arkady without fear, its large eye turned slightly toward him in order to watch what he would do.

  Arkady dismounted and walked slowly toward the gryphon, taking care to keep his sword sheathed. Since the gryphon was considerably larger than his horse, Arkady stopped a little distance from the animal and bowed to show his respect. “You are the most awe-inspiring creature I have ever seen…” he said to the gryphon, adding in an undervoice to his sword, “can he hear me? Can he answer?”

  “That’s up to you,” Surata said with amusement. “He’s your gryphon. Do you want him to answer?”

  The gryphon had a voice that was harsh, like an eagle’s voice, but not unkind. “You do me great honor,” it said, its huge head dipping courteously.

  “You are…most generous to talk with me like this.” It was a foolish thing to say, but it was true enough. Arkady wished now that he had conjured up a gift for the gryphon. “What can I give him?” he whispered to Surata.

  “Whatever you wish to give him,” she replied, a smile in her voice.

  A golden chain with a dazzling badge of the Knightly Order of Saint Michael appeared in Arkady’s hands. He was pleased that the chain seemed long enough to go around the gryphon’s neck. “This isn’t much in tribute. You should have more than this,” he apologized to the gryphon.

  “It is a great honor,” the gryphon said and once again lowered its head so that Arkady could approach it and place the chain around its neck. It nodded twice in acknowledgment of the act, then spread its huge wings in a leisurely fashion and without the least effort, rose into the air.

  As the wind from its ascent buffeted at him, Arkady shaded his eyes to watch the gryphon. A peace and satisfaction that he had never felt before came over him, a sense of humility that was almost more consuming than pride.

  “You did that well,” Surata said. “Not all battles are fought with weapons, are they?”