“Yes.” She took the sword out of my hands and handed it to one of the other Ideals. “That was beautiful ritual poetry. Did it just come to you?” She guided me over to a stone bench and helped me sit down.
“No, it’s from a holy book back home, the Bhagavad Gita. I just happened to remember it.” I leaned my head onto her shoulder and practiced breathing. After a few seconds I looked up. “Is Altia all right? Did I hurt her?”
“She’s fine. Quite thankful to you, in fact. You demonstrated a flaw in her technique.”
I nodded. “Good. I didn’t want to hurt her.”
Maraz raised an eyebrow at me. “You know you can’t hurt her. Not seriously, and not permanently. In fact, from the way you charged in, I’d say you intended to hurt her. That is what we’re teaching you.”
“Hurting people before they can hurt me or someone else, yes.” I shook my head. “Not to hurt people who aren’t a threat.”
Maraz smiled. “You know how to do that already. Now that you have attained battle-joy, we will begin learning to achieve it at will.”
And that became the pattern for the next month.
The battle-joy wasn’t a light bulb I could turn on and off, but there were triggers capable of bringing it out. While we sparred, Maraz kept poking at the triggers we knew about, looking for ways to inspire me. It wasn’t rage or bloodlust she was after, but supreme, radiant confidence.
Up until now, sparring had been tempered to some degree by a reluctance to seriously hurt one another. Now, Maraz was fighting me full out, and bringing in other Ideals to change things up and keep me on my toes.
The monastery blacksmith took the time to craft a duplicate of Kindness in ghost steel for me, a gift I hadn’t asked for. Even though the replica would have to remain at the monastery, the gesture touched me far more than I expected. I bought him a barrel of imported ale as a way of saying thank you. We didn’t see him again for the next three days.
I fought Altia a few dozen more times, both armed and barehanded, and three times got my ass handed to me when she found her battle-joy. Elves are far faster than I’d ever imagined, and once she got her razor chains going, getting near her was about like sticking your face into an airplane propeller spinning at full throttle. I managed a lethal blow once, and all it cost was both eyes, both legs, and any chance at children. Fair trade.
I was better against her barehanded, even though her nails could cut core samples out of a glacier. She had a spell that transformed her nails into something stronger and sharper than the Dwarven steel Kindness was forged of. She stripped my left forearm down to the bone once and tore my throat open twice with them.
The downside was the spell took time to turn on and off. If I could dodge her initial attacks, I had a good chance of being able to grapple and carve her up with her own nails. It wasn’t pretty or gentlemanly, but it worked. Find a weakness and exploit it—the Stonewall mantra.
The last few days of my stay raced by in a blur of blood and thunder, until I woke on the last day and found Maraz sitting on the floor staring at me.
“Morning,” I said. “What’s up?”
“Your time with us,” she said. “After breakfast, once you’ve gathered your things, I was hoping you would come down to the village with me. I want to get a tattoo.”
“You still have room for another one?” I waved my hand at her. “I’m sorry, stupid question. What are you going to have done?”
“An unclosed circle. It’s a symbol of…absent friends.”
I smiled. “Sure. I’d be delighted.”
I got a chance to say my farewells during breakfast. Dwarves aren’t a terribly sentimental bunch, so in many cases good-bye amounted to little more than a grunt and a nod. Altia gave me a small rock covered with purple lichen. It was partially hollow, and a tiny, gold-leafed tree had managed to take root inside the stone.
I hardly dared breathe on it. “Thank you,” I said. “I’ll take very good care of it.”
“This tree is
isuul
. Humans call it graniteheart. It may grow the width of your smallest fingernail in a year.” She stroked the leaves with the tip of her finger. “These are the trees we make into our dwellings. No home is complete without one.”
I looked down at the tree again. “This is the kind of tree the city of Tianisa was built on?”
She nodded. “The same.”
“Amazing.” I poured a little water onto a linen hand towel and wrapped it around the stone. “Does it take full sun or shade?”
“Full sun with good water. Plant it in earth when the roots begin to split the stone.” She gathered up her gear and gave me a smile. “Don’t worry. It takes a lot to kill one once they’re established.”
“I’ll take that as a vote of confidence.” I secured the bundle in my bag and followed Maraz out of the building. A farmer had just finished delivering a scurrier full of produce to the kitchen, and he was delighted to get a few coins to carry us down on his return trip. I got several pictures of the giant rats for posting on the Internet and creeping people out.
The tattooist in Caifa was a living monument to his craft, showing more ink than skin to the world. His forehead and the sides of his face had lines and whorls picked out in bumps and ridges, produced by packing cuts with small pearls and letting the wound heal around them.
His tools were essentially the same as what you’d find used in a prison, except they were clean and made of exquisite steel. The needles were narrow and sharper than any nail, almost at the level of Earth tattoo guns. He used a leather strap to hold Maraz’ arm down on his work table. He took a bit finding exactly the right spot to start, marking it, and tracing a few light guide marks. Then the hammering started.
Dingdingdingding. Dingdingdingding
.
Dingdingdingding
.
The tattooist kept the needle moving around Maraz’ arm, leaving ant trails of ink. Each pass he made around her arm defined the image a little more. The serpentine ant trail became an interlinked pattern of knots. I waited and watched, holding Maraz’ hand, entranced by the interplay of ink and blood. When the tattooist stopped to refill his ink, I stood up and stretched. Rose was sitting on a wooden stool, smiling at me.
I pulled her into my arms, lifting her off the ground to make kissing her easier. I buried my face in her hair, inhaling the sweet scent of her. I felt our bodies slip back into synch, coming together like oiled gears. For the first time in three months, I felt complete.
When I stepped back, Rose looked past me and said, “Was David a good student, Ideal?”
“Of course. I would not have allowed it to be otherwise. He had a few bad habits he needed to unlearn, but he was very attentive. His growth was quite a surprise to a few of the other Ideals. Thank you for choosing me to work with him.”
“You seemed to be most likely to bring out the best in him.” Rose looked at the new tattoo on Maraz’ arm and cocked her head to the side. “I guess he made an impression.”
Maraz smiled and half-shrugged. “He did. I enjoyed being his instructor.”
Rose nudged me and inclined her head toward the tattooist. “Are you getting one as well?”
I hadn’t thought about it, but I liked the idea. “I think I’d like to. You don’t mind, do you?”
“You’d know if I did.” Rose waved at one of the nearby kids and paid him to bring us a skin of chilled fruit wine. I had a few swallows and let Rose strap my arm down.
The tattooist made a few marks on my arm and then nudged me. “Hold hands,” he said. “Focus on your memories. The ink will bind them to your flesh.” While he talked, he changed to a new needle and poured out a new supply of ink.
Maraz took my hand. I looked at her and thought about dancing on the edge of the cliff in the middle of the night. Her smile changed and I knew she was thinking of the same night. The tattooist nodded to himself and went to work.
It hurt, of course, but after a few minutes the pain receded. I thought about our sparring matches, feeling an odd mixture of humility and pride at the progress I’d made. I thought about the first time I saw her walking toward me, moving like a great cat approaching its prey. I remembered her smile as I felt the rush of battle-joy, and the suns shining on her as she reclined in the fisherman’s nets.
My focus snapped back to the present when the tattooist washed the blood off my new ink. Even though my wrist was thicker than hers, our tattoos were identical except for scale. He’d kept them in perfect proportion with nothing but a few faint guide marks to work from.
Rose snagged my phone and took a picture of Maraz and I holding our wrists together. I started to pull Maraz into a hug, but a wave of acute social awkwardness left me fumbling and tongue-tied. She smiled and pulled me to her.
“Remember your lessons,” she said. “Anger and hatred are weaknesses. Face your enemy with joy in your heart, and you will be a god of war.”
I nodded. “I will remember. Thank you, Ideal.” I hugged her back. When I met her gaze, I froze, caught between desire and uncertainty.
Rose snorted, rolling her eyes. “David, just kiss her already.”
Maraz turned her head to the side and tapped her fingers over my heart. “That’s against my vow as well. But, yes, I like you too.” She stepped back and handed me my duffle bag. “Goodbye, David.”
I shouldered the duffle. “Goodbye, Ideal Maraz.” I followed Rose out into the street, and she transported us home.
No Fate But What We Make
We appeared inside the travel circle inscribed on the workout room floor. I looked around, reacquainting myself with my surroundings. It seemed wrong that nothing had changed, but I had to remind myself I’d only been gone three days.
Upstairs, Thirteen was sprawled on the recliner, soaking up the sun while watching a documentary on the history of Las Vegas and the nearby nuclear testing range. I waved at him and said, “Hey there, big fellow. Miss me?”
The cat flicked his tail. I guess he didn’t.
Frakking cat.
Rose ran her fingernails down my back. “Is that really the first thing you want to do? Say hello to the cat?”
“No.” I scooped her up and started up the stairs to the bedroom. “The cat can wait.”
Sometime later, I stretched across the bed to grab the phone. Mom’s psychic abilities were firing on all cylinders, as usual. “Hi mom. What’s up?” Trying to sound casual was making me tense up.
“I hadn’t heard from you for a few days. I thought I’d call to see if retired life was agreeing with you.”
I couldn’t answer her. The sound of her voice made words catch in my throat. I covered the mouthpiece and took a deep breath. “Trying to get used to it. Getting some sun and working out.” I stopped for another deep breath and to keep my emotions from choking me up. “I got a tattoo.”
“I hope it’s one you can show your mother in public.”
I laughed. “Yes. It’s a tribal design. For remembering absent friends.”
“Since I’m not absent, it better not be for me.” Mom was chuckling, but her voice had a slight edge to it.
“No, it’s not for you. I still haven’t decided what I’ll do for you. Whatever I do, it’ll be tasteful and elegant. And no, you don’t get design approval. I decide what goes on my body for the rest of my life, no one else.”
“Oh, I see,” she said. “So, do I get to see this masterpiece any time soon? I’m free for lunch tomorrow. Say, twelve thirty at the Dushanbe Teahouse?”
Check and mate.
“We’ll see you there.” I hung up and filled Rose in on our new plans.
“Lovely idea,” Rose said. “Every time we go past it I want to jump out and add the entire building to my hoard.”
I didn’t blame her. The teahouse was a gift from Boulder’s sister-city Dushanbe, a masterpiece of hand-carved, hand-painted art and architecture imported from Tajikistan and assembled by hand next to Boulder Creek. The place was a Boulder landmark. If all that weren’t enough, they make a damn good duck bulgogi.
When Rose and I arrived, mother was sitting on the patio next to a basketball player-sized rose bush. As I collected my hug, she latched on to my wrist and said, “Well, let’s see the artwork, Michelangelo.”
I loosened the tape and peeled back the gauze bandage. I’d covered the tattoo with antibiotic ointment and a layer of plastic wrap, so it looked crisp and clean for inspection. “It was done freehand, with traditional tools.”
“Well, at least it’s not some random goofball thing you picked off the wall.” Mom leaned back and frowned. “You need a haircut. How did you get the FBI to take you seriously looking like that? They probably think you live in a one-bedroom wooden cabin in Montana.”
“I’ve had long hair since I was sixteen,” I said.
“I know. The eighties called and they want that look back.” She sighed and said, “When it’s time for my service, I don’t want my friends to look at you and think you’re about to hold up a lighter and shout ‘Freebird’.”
I put down my menu. “You’d be laughing your ass off if I did that. Why don’t you tell me what’s really going on?”
Mom looked away. “I don’t want to die, David. I want to be here to see you and Audrey get married. I want to meet my grandkids. I can feel my time slipping away. And I don’t want it to.” She inhaled some extra oxygen until her breathing was easier. “I’m sorry. I’m just having an attack of the
verklempts
. Pay no attention to the emotional turmoil.”
“I think you’re entitled.” The waitress came over to get our orders and I tried to change the subject. “How are Audrey and that Steve guy doing?”
“A little on the cool side. Steve doesn’t approve of you.”
“Oh? This I have to hear.”
Mom grimaced. “Steve wanted to know why he’s never seen you at church. Audrey told him you were a Pagan. He didn’t like that very much, and told Audrey she should shun you until you came back to the church. He thinks you’re a dangerous, corrupting influence. Why are you smiling like that?”
I didn’t need a mirror to know what my smile looked like. “Oh, just thinking of having a conversation with Steve about hurting my sister’s feelings.”
“Don’t you dare. Besides, she took care of it. She told him their relationship wasn’t going to go far if he started telling her who she could have in her life. She loves him, but she loves you, too.”