Chapter 14

“It’s anonymous.” She seems to have noticed your gaze. She rests the plate lightly against her shoulder and says thoughtfully, “But us, we revere our equipment. Only natural, isn’t it? If you can pick up just any old thing and be strong…” Now the sword slices silently through the air, driving directly at you. There was distance between you, separation, yet the blade ends up at your throat as though space has constricted. “Then how much stronger will you be if you put a little thought into it?” Her smile is like a tiger bearing its fangs. Your master is capable, without twitching an eyebrow, of eating you alive or of backing off entirely. It’s no longer clear to you how you answered back then. But as for now, the present you, you form syllables of protest with your mouth. “Mm?” your master says, urging you on. You tell her a master with a great weapon against an amateur with the same will win out every time. That much is clear. In other words, it’s the skill and not the sword that tells. “Izzat right?” your master remarks when she hears your answer and slides her sword back into its scabbard. The instant she appears to do this, though, poof: The sword is resting across your knees. Startled, you pick it up, and your master spreads her arms as if to say, Look. She tilts her head slightly. “But there’s fortune in battle, too. A master with a crappy sword versus an amateur with a masterpiece? Can’t be sure how it will turn out. Why, you might be able to kill me right now.” She exposes her pale, unsunned throat and chest, giving you the innocent, inviting smile of a girl, and laughs. Her body seems so slight you can see the bones through her skin. It feels as if even with only the strength you had back then, you could break them easily. If you tore open those thin blue lines, would they gush with startling red blood? In the distance, you hear the cicadas crying their protests against the heat. But then you feel the sweat forming on your brow, and even the cicadas stop. Too tired to go on or eaten by birds? You swallow heavily. The sound of it seems so great. This must be what it feels like to face a real tiger. It’s not the fact that your opponent could devour you in the next instant—but that you might be able to cut her down. The possibility. That the very idea enters your heart is what’s so terrifying. Finally, you grip the hilt of the sword, hands slick with sweat, and gently set it beside you on the floor, on the side of your dominant hand. It’s only proper etiquette. There’s fortune in battle. One can’t know how fortune will go, meaning there is no guarantee of success in any challenge. “Mmm. So that’s it, eh?” Your master straightens up; her murmur might indicate a loss of interest or an increase. Either is possible. “You talked about skill earlier. And luck. Said gear didn’t have much to do with it. That’s an answer…and not an answer.” As she speaks, your master stretches out with one bare foot, reaching for a tray sitting at the edge of the floor of the hut; she grabs it with her toes—unladylike thing to do—and pulls it over to her. She takes a packet of medicine from the top of it, a full sake bottle and a bowl with no lip, and pours the bowl full of the drink. “All right then, another question.” She takes a satisfied sip of the sake, swallowing noisily. Her red tongue licks away droplets on her lips; her cheeks, more colored than before, relax into a smile. “You’re a master.” Her finger extends suddenly, pointing at you, then at the air beside you. “And so is your opponent. However!” She takes another mouthful, then two mouthfuls, watching you with languid eyes. “Your opponent holds the masterpiece weapon, you the piece of junk. Now, what do you do?” You can’t answer. Couldn’t then, can’t now. Even in such a situation, you would probably throw yourself into the fight. But that—that’s both an answer and not an answer. When your master sees you, lost for words, she chuckles good-naturedly, deep in her throat. “Heh, that’s about right. No one can say and do the right thing all the time, every time.” Then she lets out a warm, easy breath, all four limbs spontaneously relaxing. There’s no tension in any part of her, and at the same time she loosens her collar, looking up and letting the wind fill her gi. It’s utterly mannerless, this way of relaxing, and it has none of the intimidation of moments ago. She looks just like a cat stretching out in the sun. Red-faced, you drop your eyes to the floor. “You can have that sword,” she says. She rises quickly, kicking away the empty bottle and starting off at a slow walk. Going to go “play” again, you suppose. Even as she walks right by you, you don’t hear a footstep. “We can have another little riddle game sometime. Maybe you’ll know the answers; maybe you won’t.” The door clatters open, then rolls shut again with a clack. You look up slowly, then gradually draw out the sword lying by your side. It gleams dangerously. But not blindingly; this is the gleam the sword will one day possess. The blade comes out of the scabbard without a sound, and without a sound it returns. It’s not just a sword. There’s a faint smell left in the room, a mildly fetid odor of sweat mixed with your master’s medicine. Not wanting to relax your posture, you take a slow breath, looking studiously at the sword in your hands. From beyond the paper that covers the sliding door, the cicadas begin crying again. So they survived, after all. It’s unbearably hot. “Ah. Eyes open now, are they?” No, no, that can’t be right. You tell yourself this despite the chilly whisper that reaches you through the dark. You’re so far yet from being enlightened, from being someone whose eyes are open. Nowhere near true understanding. “I meant something a bit more utilitarian.” You hear a small, dismissive snort, and finally you physically open your eyes. Even before you register what you see in front of you, you pick up the cold chill of the stone bed—no, the altar—that you’re lying on. Then the wavering light of the candle reveals what’s around you, and you catch your breath. “Something wrong…?” You’re in a great hall filled with the susurrating echoes of prayer; who wouldn’t be surprised to see the young lady before them, so totally devoted to her god? Especially when they registered that her skin, pale and translucent as glass, wasn’t covered by a single scrap of clothing? It’s the nun you so frequently meet at the temple—but it takes you a second to realize that. Her average-sized chest looks as if it were carved from marble, the lines of her body smooth and neat and beautiful. Her composed, porcelain face has the faintest flush of pink in the firelight. You finally manage to look away when you realize she’s staring daggers at you. “…I’m apt to charge you for the look, you know.” Does that mean you can look if you pay? You chase the naughty thought out of your mind. You bow your head in embarrassment—realizing in the process that you’re buck naked, too—and she mutters, “Gods…” Then she goes on: “It’s all right; I’m not angry. Frankly, your reaction was substantially less lewd than most adventurers I’ve encountered.” You look up at a rustling of cloth to find she’s pulled her habit back on. You glance around, locating your own clothing folded neatly nearby, and promptly get dressed. The two of you sit back-to-back on the altar as you silently dress, finishing by tying your belt. “I must admit, I’m impressed you made it back here.” As she pulls her hair up from under her collar, her aroma seems to come with it. Maybe it’s the incense. It’s the first time you think incense-like could be a compliment. “Even the Resurrection miracle isn’t a guarantee, after all.” Resurrection. Now it makes sense, you think, as you realize what ritual she was performing for you. Life can be restored by sleeping beside a virgin, the soul called back from the edges of eternity—truly a work of the gods. It isn’t quite the same as raising the dead, but considering the state you were in, it remains an admirable achievement.