To Branka's surprise when she was led to the tent complex that Moshtok lived in, she was told and discovered that he lived alone. Though he was twenty-two years old, there were two events over the the previous year that left him in this solitary state. The recent death of his mother—his father had been killed years before while on a raiding party in the West, and his sister--two years younger than he, who had become the recent mate of a man in the Pazyryk community. This sister Tahime, was there at his side when Branka entered with one of the women attendants assigned to watch over her movements outside the palace.
"How are you, dear teacher," Branka said upon greeting him at the entryway of the tent.
Moshtok looked up at her with the morning light streaming through. He did not look well. He had been sleeping deeply and was very pale. It was obvious he still suffered greatly from the pain brought on by the deadly arrow, possibly poisoned, and removed so deftly by Zaria, the day before.
"Are you the slave who will attend to my brother?" Tahime, asked. The young woman had piercing dark eyes and a thicker body than Branka's. She was also less fair complexioned than the Slavic girl, with smooth, olive tinted skin.
For the moment Branka remained speechless, hoping her attendant or Moshtok would enter into the dialogue.
"Yes." Branka finally answered. His sister Tahime seemed dour in her mood, but Branka could see she shared the same gentle facial features which made her brother so endearing.
"I have permission from the king to see him," she added ". . . each day until he recovers."
"Yes. So I have heard," Tahime replied in an irritated voice. She now looked critically over Branka's supple and youthful body. "And just how do you intend to help him? I see you have brought nothing with you here."
Moshtok spoke up with great effort from the bed. "Tahime . . . step back. Branka has already helped me greatly. She was there to assist when the arrow was taken out. And now she is very kind to take on this burden."
"I will bring with me tomorrow herbs and ointments," Branka said. "The princess Zaria will give them to me for Moshtok. He will be much improved in several days."
"I have washed his wound already for this day,' Tahime said emphatically. "And fed my brother warm soup and dried meat. I can not see why he shall need more attention."
"Tahime, you need to be with the man who chose you now . . . I have told you not to care for me more. Go back to his home. I will be fine here. Your life has changed. It has for all of us."
His sister slowly stepped aside and allowed Branka to approach the bed.
"Time will heal my body and drink away my pain, Tahime. Branka will help that time pass."
Moshtok managed to smile again as Branka stood before him.
"Please go, sister. Branka, and the other two slaves were my students. This has been the orders of Sharvur. I assure you, Branka means us no harm. . . . for she is as gentle and sweet as a flower. It pleases me that she will give me company here each day until I am stronger."
Suddenly a tall man about the age of Moshtok pushed his head and shoulders into to the tent. When Tahime saw him she quickly went to his side and appeared ready to leave.
"I will see just how sweet this flower is," she commented back toward the bed, intending it for Branka's sake. "And make sure you bring those cures tomorrow, slave . . . if you expect to be allowed in!"
Branka turned to answer her, but the tent was already closed.
The older woman who attended Branka said she would wait outside, much to her surprise, and after a moment, she found herself standing alone at the bedside of her ailing mentor.
"I am sorry about my sister," Moshtok said with some difficulty speaking. He sounded as if sleep would again take him over.
"I understand how she feels, Moshtok. I am a threat to her and to you, she believes. We women are mysterious animals," she added. This brought a smile and a pained chuckle to her teacher as he tried to sit up in his bed.
"No no! Do not move, Moshtok! Your shoulder and back needs to heal."
Branka could see that he had sweat on his forehead from enduring so many hours of pain unattended before his sister had arrived. She went over to the corner of the room and found a large ceramic container of water. She also located one of his clean shirts and dipped half of it into the cool water to get it soaked. She returned to see in the candlelight that his neck and chest as well were covered with sweat as he appeared to be feverish.
Carefully Branka removed Moshtok's top, cautious not to disturb the area where his wound was still fresh and open. With the cool, soaked shirt she gently sponged off his hot skin, removing the sweat. By repeating this many times she meticulously brought his fever down.
Mostok was in and out of consciousness while she worked over him. At times she looked onto his sweet face and felt some distant feeling of attraction trying to define itself. Helping him as she did the day before, and now in the solitude of his tent, Branka experienced an affection for this young man who was neither lover, father, nor brother. Her emotions over the recent event put him closer to her now than merely a teacher. While he slept and she sponged off his chest, neck and stomach, she began to imagine laying with him in that bed. She invisioned this if he were healed and back to the lively, entertaining Moshtok one again.
Feeling that his skin was much cooler, and no more beads of sweat had formed on his brow, she watched him in the stillness. She was looking now with admiration and a heartfelt affection upon his lovely features. Slowly, Branka felt compelled to move her face down, closer to his. There was a wild and terrible impulse to kiss his cheek there in the semidarkness. She looked nervously back at the tent doorway and was certain no one would know of it if she were to make this small connection with him. For several moments she fought this desire to carry the forbidden act out, when suddenly his hand gently moved and reached for hers. He seemed to be coming back out of his temporarily delirium. Branka took his hand in hers, refraining from that kiss, and feeling guilty that she had even considered it.
"Branka? Are you still here?"
"Yes, mentor. I am," she said, squeezing his hand in affirmation.
She reached down where a vessel of drinking water had been placed for him on the floor.
"You slept well," she said cheerfully, helping him drink profusely from the bronze container.
"I did, I felt it. And I feel my body no longer burns . . ."
"You had a great fever . . . but it has left you now."
She set the vessel back on the floor and carefully put his dry shirt back on him.
"I will come back tomorrow morning . . . and I will have the cures that Tsudros gives us all to heal our tattos. It is like magic, Moshtok, and I know you will recover quickly."
"You are very sweet, Branka. Pay no mind to my sister. And don't worry. She will be back to feed me again soon."
"Shhhhh," she told him, and touched his soft lips with her two fingers. "I must go now before she returns. Get as much rest as you can. Sleep deeply and long . . . so when you awake . . . you will see me again."
Branka quietly left Moshtok there the candlelight, alone. She already could not wait until the next morning, when she would attend to him again.
* * *
That evening Branka was happy to learn that she would not have to accompany Sharvur in his bed that night. For she would be spared to play the painful and humiliating games which brought him so much pleasure. Alone in her humble palace chamber she felt the warmth of the fireplaces wafting down the hallways. She also sensed the anticipation of what she would be doing in the morning hours for Moshtok, this man who now, due to dire circumstances, represented something more to her than just her mentor. As she drifted off into a well-earned sleep, Branka began a dream like no other she had ever had:
She and Moshtok had gone riding out into the woods alone. They both wore royal clothing and were carried by the finest horses. He took her to his own small palace at the top of a rock-encrusted mountain. And inside they dined on the finest roasted fowl and drank the combined juices of the summer fruits. As evening set in, Moshtok lit a roaring fire in the stone fireplace of his bedchamber and took her over to a bronze mirror before it. Standing in the undulating light, he held her in his arms and kissed her softly and slowly on the lips.
"Do you see them?" he asked, pointing at the two of them in the amber reflection. "You see, they are the true king and queen of this world."
Branka felt his hands wrap around her body fully and firmly. It was a touch she had never felt from Sharvur. Moshtok's hands were warm and soft to her skin, strong, but careful while undressing her. He disrobed himself, as well, and kept her there momentarily, naked in his arms, and still before the mirror.
He reached around and caressed her breasts and hips while she watched his caring hands. They brought to her a pleasure she had not felt from Sharvur's vulgar commands nor the sting of his whip.
"What do you want from me most?" Moshtok asked her. "How can I thank you for healing me? . . . Saving me from a poisoned fever?
He then carrying her in his arms to the bed.
"How do you want me to please you, Branka?" he asked in a breathless voice.
As Moshtok lay her down on the mattress, her answer came capriciously and seemingly from a voice outside of her own. For it was a response which had been forged unnaturally from the only pleasures she had ever felt. And those words and the image of her saying them, woke her up suddenly and shockingly in a warm and sensual sweat . . .
"I want you to tie me up . . . and whip me as you love me . . ." she told him.
Outside the palace a cold wind had come up from the mountainside. It battled fiercely against the warm and ephemeral currents inside Branka's room.
* * *