To the High Redoubt (11 page)

“I know.” He was irked that she should question him as if he knew nothing of foraging and living in the field. He had been a soldier and knew how it was done. His jaw set as he urged the horse to a trot.

Their shadows reached far before them when they finally came upon the collection of huts, barns and pens where the farmer lived. The buildings were less than a league from the road, huddled together like enormous tortoises basking in the sun. Low stone fences marked the boundaries of the fields where grain and vegetables grew, and most distant from the buildings was a small vineyard.

“It will be soon now, Surata,” Arkady told her as he tugged at the reins. “I can see men near the…I think they're barns. If we approach slowly, they should not be alarmed.”

His prediction proved to be correct. As they drew near the huts, three old women, all wrapped in shapeless garments, came bustling out to meet them, waving, their smiles showing the gaps in the yellowish teeth. They indicated by mime that Arkady and Surata were welcome and that they could purchase food and a place to sleep and, for more coins, a bath.

“They have a bathhouse,” Arkady told Surata, sighing at the thought of this luxury. All of his skin felt crusted and gritty, and he was sure she must feel the same.

“How much do they want for that?” Surata asked, her words eager.

“Two pieces of silver, apparently,” he said as he watched the old women. “It troubles me that I see no men with them, just those coming in from the fields.” He stared around the farmyard. “We must be careful tonight, I believe.”

“If you think it's necessary,” Surata said, not questioning his reservations. “Pay them the money for the bath, though. I feel as if all this dust is alive.”

“It might be,” Arkady told her, recalling all the times he had found lice in his hair. “It will be good to be clean, even for one night. We can wash our clothes, too.”

Surata laid a warning hand on his arm. “Wet clothes can be a risk. The Bundhi likes to surprise his foes when they are naked.”

Arkady nodded. “Very well. We will beat the clothes well before we bathe.” He unfastened his wallet and handed down three silver and four copper coins to the old women and watched while they tasted them. When they beamed at him and motioned him to follow them, he dismounted. “I'll help you down once I find out where they're taking us,” Arkady said softly.

“Good,” Surata agreed. Her head was slightly cocked to the side, as if she were listening to more than his words. “There are many men here, Arkady.”

“That's what I'm afraid of,” he muttered as he led his horse through the gathering of buildings, following the three old women.

“We will be safe enough. The farmers will not harm us, but if other travellers come here, we must be on guard.” She sagged against the cantel, revealing her fatigue for the first time that day. “It is good to rest.”

“If we can rest, yes, it is.” He stopped the horse as the three old women pointed to a building that was clearly a stable. Four large cart horses were stalled there, and half a dozen squat-bodied asses. The most wrinkled of the old women pointed to two empty stalls, side by side, and nodded her encouragement.

“We get a stall,” Arkady told Surata. “It could be worse.” He bowed his acceptance to the three women and nodded until he was afraid he might get dizzy.

One of the women pointed to the building next to the stable and indicated the three chimneys rising from it, then mimed scrubbing with outrageous swoops of her hands over her massive bosom.

“The bathhouse is next door,” Arkady informed Surata.

The most wrinkled old woman indicated that a bell would be rung when the evening meal was ready, and Arkady relayed this to Surata as he went through the ritual of nodding once more.

Then they were left alone, and Arkady led the bay into the stable before helping Surata down.

“It smells of horses,” she said.

“Small wonder.” His hands lingered on her body, and he wanted to curse himself for giving her offense. His face grew red, as much from desire as from shame, and he stepped back from her.

Surata stood while Arkady led the bay into one of the stalls and began to unfasten the girth. “Arkady-immai,” she said tentatively, “you will be with me in the bath?”

“Uh…” He wanted to say no, but he could not leave her by herself in an unfamiliar place. “I suppose I'll have to,” he told her at last as he tugged the saddle off the gelding's back. He lifted it onto the low wall separating the two stalls they had been allotted.

“Good.” She folded her hands in front of her and lowered her head, the stillness that perturbed Arkady coming over her once more. She did not move again until he had finished with the bay and had come to her side. “Arkady-immai.”

“I think the bathhouse is hot,” he said. “Before it gets much later, let's get this over with.” He took her hand and all but dragged her out of the stable. He walked quickly, his thoughts disordered.

The bathhouse was warm and dark, smelling of wet wood and the harsh soap made by the farmers. There was also a faint scent of sweat, sharp in the gloom.

Arkady found the benches near the wall and pulled Surata after him. “You undress here”—how could he stand to see her undressed?—“and then I'll take you to the sweat room.”

“You will undress too?” she asked as she began to pull her robes off.

“I'll have to,” he said reluctantly, staring at her in spite of his resolution not to. “Surata…I…”

She did not turn toward him. “I do not mind, Arkady-immai. There is no shame.” She continued to take off her clothes. She made no attempt to be provocative or to affect a modesty she obviously did not feel.

With an oath, Arkady unfastened his belt and flung it onto the bench, then seized his brigandine and acton and worked them over his head. He looked at the acton and sniffed in disgust at the grime he saw on the padded cotton garment. If he were still in camp with the men of the Margrave Fadey, he would have given the acton to Hedeon with orders to clean it or burn it. He untied his breeches and, after a moment's hesitation, stepped out of them, reminding himself that Surata could not see him, so his nudity did not matter. He took the little sack of gold, slung the thongs around his wrist and cleared his throat. “The sweat room is that way,” he said, pointing.

“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.