To the High Redoubt (19 page)

“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 might 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?”

This time she did not answer him at once. “Yes.”

“Am I guarding an angel, unaware, as the priest told us in the parable?” He expected no answer and got none. “Not now, and not here, but before sunset, you have to tell me the rest of it, Surata. I can't fight well for you unless I know what I'm defending.”

She shuddered. “Arkady-champion, I—”

“Arkady,” he corrected her. “We're not fighting now. I am Arkady Todor Sól, and you are Surata. I am not your champion and you are not my slave.” He held her more tightly.

“Tonight I'll tell you,” she said with difficulty.

“Good.” He bent and kissed the tip of her nose. “Come. It's time we were on our way. If we can cross the big river ahead tomorrow, we will be making good time toward Sarai.”

“And if you do not like what I tell you tonight, what then?” she asked tenuously. “What will become of us?”

“We will not know that until tonight,” he reminded her as he released her. “Until then, I'm going to concentrate on going as many leagues as we can.”

Surata nodded. “Very well,” she said, taking his hand and permitting him to lead her back to the gelding and the ass.

The day passed quickly, and largely in silence. Twice they met traders on the road. One was a small party of Tartars carrying brasses. They were a jovial group, in no particular hurry, confident that they would have a good sale when they finally reached the country of Moldavia. The second band of travellers was smaller and less friendly. They carried bales of silk in two wagons and explained in a language that Surata barely understood that there had been fighting to the east.

“There is also fighting to the west,” she warned them.

One of the merchants exclaimed, making loud protests to the sky, while the others conferred.

“They might turn north, to Poland and Lithuania, if they are looking to sell carpets and textiles,” Arkady suggested, recalling how prized such items were.

“I'll try to tell them,” Surata said and did her best to make this understood. She was met with a great outburst, and when there was a chance, she remarked to Arkady, “Two of them are very devout and afraid of the Christians. They think they will be made to suffer for their religion.”

“And you, I suspect,” Arkady said lightly, “are wording their objections more kindly than they did. By the way they carried on, they did more than simply say they were apprehensive.”

“They weren't very moderate,” was as far as she would go, but her wry smile told him he had guessed right.

“Find out if there is still a way to cross the river,” he requested before the merchants moved on.

Surata did as he asked, then said, “There is a village on this side that has a ferry. They charge to carry passengers and goods over, but according to the merchants the charges are not unreasonable, and for travellers like us, it would not be much.”

Arkady tapped the leather sack containing their gold. “I doubt we have to concern ourselves with cost.”

“Don't let it be known you have so much. We are not the only travellers on this road, and some of the others are more desperate than we are.” She gestured toward the merchants, saying a few words and making respectful gestures toward them. “They do not like speaking to women, but since you do not know their tongue, they will condescend to address me. However, they have made it clear that they want only your comments and none of mine.”

“Then tell them that is what you've done,” he said with a shrug. “Why won't they listen to you?”

“Their religion is very strict about women,” she said carefully. “It is considered dangerous to speak to women.” This clearly annoyed her. “Among my people, we do not have such prejudices.”

Arkady thought back to the afternoon before, lying in their tent of blankets, adventuring in the other place. He bit back a jest he was afraid would offend her but could not keep himself from saying, “Not all religions are like yours, Surata.”

“Nor are they like yours,” she responded, then lowered her head, saying, “I did not mean to say you are wrong, Arkady-champion. You have brought me a long way, and you have accepted much and asked little. It isn't good behavior on my part to speak to you this way.”

Arkady wanted to talk to her, but could not say what was on his mind while the merchants were still around them. “Tell them that we must be on our way and wish them good fortune, will you?”

“Of course.” She spoke to the leader of the merchants using words that were spiky to Arkady's ears. Then she inclined her head as far as she could in the saddle and said to Arkady, “I've done as you asked, and they have told me to warn you once again of the fighting that we may encounter. I said that you are a soldier and prepared to do battle if you must. I hope that was what you'd want.”

“What is this submissive attitude, Surata?” he teased as he nudged his bay and pulled at the lead rein of the ass. “It isn't like you.”

“I am troubled,” she said and would say little else until they stopped at sundown near a ruined stone building.

“This must have been a monastery,” Arkady decided after he had looked around the rubble and discovered a broken Russian crucifix and two smashed censers. “It's been a while since any Brothers worshipped here.” He pulled his gelding into the center of the broken stone walls. “So we can spend the night in a chapel.”

“Is it safe?” Surata asked. “We can't be the only ones who have seen this place.”

“Most of the Orthodox Christians believe that buildings of this sort are haunted by demons, and avoid them,” Arkady observed. “If there are others, we will deal with them when and if they come upon us.” He was kicking the rubble aside. “We can make a fire with the broken benches. There's plenty of wood. We can stay warm all night. You'd like that, wouldn't you?”

Surata did not answer him at once. “Do you think there might be a well? We're low on water.”

“If there is one, it's probably poisoned. That's what the monks do when they're forced to leave a place.” He reached to lift her down but hesitated. “Are you displeased with this place, Surata?”

“No,” she said, sliding down into his arms. “I'm worried that you will not like what I tell you tonight. It isn't the place that makes me nervous. Any place would make me uneasy this night.”

He smoothed a few loose strands of hair back off her face. “I don't mean to make this an ordeal, Surata. If you cannot tell me, then I'll do my best to—”

“No. You have the right to know. In the other place I couldn't conceal it from you, if you were to look for it. I should not deceive you here, either.” She pushed away from him. “But do not be too quick to assume terrible things of me.” She tried to move away from Arkady but tripped on a broken stone and went down with a little whimper of dismay.

Arkady secured his horse and the ass, then went to her. She had managed to get to her feet, but her hands were cut and there was a scrape on her elbow that showed through the rent in her clothes. “You're hurt,” Arkady said.

“Not badly,” she responded. “I'd like to wash my hands.”

There was not much water left, but both the horse and ass had drunk deeply at a stream not more than an hour before. “We can spare a little,” Arkady told her, holding up her hands to study them in the fading light. “There's not much blood.”

“Good,” she said, pulling her hands away from him.

“After I get the pack and saddle off the animals, then…”

“That's fine,” she said, making no attempt to be more forth-coming. “When you're ready, tell me.” She turned her head slowly. “Where did they worship?”

“This was the chapel,” Arkady said.

“What direction did they face? Where was their altar? They had an altar, I suppose?” She turned slowly, then pointed north. “Was it there?”

He took hold of her wrist and pulled it slightly toward him, so that she was in line with the walls of the ruin. “That way, Surata. There was an altar with a crucifix—God on the Cross—and icons of the saints and martyrs. That's the way I've seen most Orthodox churches. This chapel was probably no different. They could not take the crucifix, but doubtless the icons went with them.” He released her.

“Where did they go?” She did not expect an answer and did not get one; Arkady began to set up their camp for the night, taking care to have his weapons where he could reach them.

By the time he had gotten a small fire kindled, it was dusk, and the broken walls appeared taller and more ominous than they had while the sun was up. He started a supper of cheese and a thick soup before he spoke to Surata again. “Are you hungry?”

There was no answer.

“Surata?” He looked around, expecting to find her still sitting on one of the tumbled stones, but there was no sign of her there, nor at any place the firelight reached. Arkady stood up. “Surata!”

Again his call was met with nothing but a few faint echos.

He turned back to the fire and pulled out the end of one of the burning lengths of wood, holding it up to serve as a torch.

The gelding brought his head around and whickered, his nosebag muffling the sound.

It was annoying to be unable to ask the bay what he had seen, if anything. Holding his torch high, Arkady began to search the ruins of the monastery, growing more concerned for Surata with every step he took. What could have happened to her, he asked himself as he went from the chapel toward the far side of the old courtyard. Had she gone away, feeling her way away from the monastery into the fields beyond? And why had she gone?

“
Su-ra-ta!
” he shouted, not entirely surprised at the anxiety he heard in his own voice. “Where are you?”

This time he heard a sound in answer. He was not sure it was her voice, and so he made sure he could reach his cinquedea before going toward the noise that had attracted his attention. For all his certainty that the deserted monastery would be empty, he could not believe it now. He went very cautiously, making as little sound as possible.

Surata was where the kitchen garden had once been, sitting in the shadow of the old bake-and-wash house, her face set in that strange and still way that made Arkady think that she was not actually there. Her hands were folded in her lap, and she was breathing so slowly that Arkady thought she might be deeply asleep.

“Surata?” He held the torch near as he dropped onto his knee beside her. “Surata?” He was tempted to shake her but could not bring himself to disturb her. “Surata.”

At this third repetition of her name, a change came over her. Her composed features moved and her eyelids fluttered. She sighed, then drew in a deep breath. “Arkady?”

“I'm here, Surata.” He wanted to know where she had been yet said nothing more.

“I think we'll be safe for tonight. I found no trace of the men of the Bundhi, or any others, for that matter. I was afraid that they might have left staves along the way, to watch for them.” She reached out, almost striking his hand that held the torch. “There are only a few peasants nearby, and they do not venture out of doors once it is dark, no matter what may happen.”