by Jim Butcher
The Russian shook his head. “If there is a sword that mine cannot stand against, I must know.”
“What happened to having faith?” Butters asked.
Sanya gave Butters a nonplussed look before the smile resurged. “I suppose I have no objection to faith, in absence of knowledge,” he said. “But knowledge good, too, da?”
“Da,” I said, firmly.
Both men looked up at me, unsurprised at my presence. They’d just been busy. Butters bounced the hilt of Fidelacchius in his hand a couple of times, frowning. “You sure?”
“Worth knowing, isn’t it?” I asked. “There’s plenty of enchanted swords running around out there. They were the number one piece of military hardware for a very long time. The way I heard it, figuring out how to lay Power into that general mass of steel had been pretty much optimized. If what happened to the Sword of Faith represents a major escalation, a game-changer, that would be a good thing to know.”
“Well, I don’t want God yelling at me if I break His stuff.” Butters sighed.
“Assuming there is one,” Sanya said.
Butters gave Sanya a blank look and then said, “You are a very weird man.”
“Da,” Sanya agreed cheerfully. Then he lifted the Sword, all business again, and said, “En garde.”
Butters grimaced. But his feet settled into a fighting stance and he lifted Fidelacchius. He glanced around carefully at the neighboring houses to make sure no one was just out in their yard goggling and said, “But not for long. Okay?”
“Da, da,” Sanya said.
Butters nodded once, grimly, and there was a hum of power and a flicker of extra sunlight as the Sword of Faith’s shining blade sprang from its shattered hilt. The soft, wavering chord of ghostly choral music followed each motion of the blade as Butters raised it to an overhead guard position again.
“Always with the high guard,” Sanya commented.
“Everyone’s taller than me,” Butters pointed out.
Then he swept the Sword of Faith at Sanya’s arm.
Sanya moved smoothly, in a direct parry, pitting the strength of his Sword’s steel and his arm directly against that of his opponent.
There was a flash of light, like when the mirror of a passing car briefly shows you the image of the sun, and the ghostly choral music swelled in volume and intensified for a moment. Sparks flew up from the contact of the weapons, and at the point where they met there was a light so white and so pure that I felt as if perhaps its like had not been seen for several billion years, at least. Maybe not since Someone said, “Let there be light.”
Then the two men disengaged. Sanya held his blade out to one side and studied it, but its steel was shining, bright, and unchanged.
Butters frowned. Then he turned to an old stump in the yard that bore the remains of an old anvil fastened to it. About half of the anvil was gone, as if sliced away at an angle. Butters peered at the anvil for a second, took half a breath, and then swept the Sword of Faith at it. There was a howl from the sword, a cascade of sparks, and then a slice of the anvil about the thickness of a dinner plate fell away from it and onto the yard, where the sizzling-hot metal promptly started a small fire in the drying summer grass.
Butters yelped, seized a nearby water bottle, and put the fire out with a great deal of hissing, some stomping, and a small cloud of steam.
Sanya’s expression, meanwhile, lit up into an even brighter version of his usual smile, and when he turned his eyes back to Butters, they shone brightly.
Butters regarded the other man’s expression warily and then slowly smiled. “Yeah,” he said. “Okay.”
And without a word, the two Knights charged each other, Swords held high.
Once again, the swords clashed, only things were different now. Instead of Sanya dominating the fight, Butters had the edge. Esperacchius darted and whirled, liquid smooth, but as fast as Sanya was with his blade, the steel sword wasn’t weightless.
Fidelacchius, the Sword of Faith, was.
Butters pressed the attack with absolute ruthlessness, never giving the Russian a break once he had the big man back on his heels. Sanya began retreating in earnest, parrying and returning attacks wherever he could—which was seldom, in the face of Butters’s onslaught.
The big Russian tripped on a five-gallon bucket set neatly near an outdoor water spigot, fell back into a roll, and came back to his feet barely in time to catch the Sword of Faith on Esperacchius’s blade. He burst out into laughter as Butters drove him back relentlessly, and his flickering saber shifted to almost total defense. “Is not even fair! This is wonderful!”
Butters gasped out an answering laugh, and when he did, Sanya cheated. The taller Knight kicked some of Michael’s lawn up at Butters’s face, and the smaller man flinched back. Sanya took a risk and bulled in, and his timing was good. He got in close, his blade holding Butters’s back, and swiped at Butters’s head with his off hand.
He’d underestimated the little guy’s reaction speed. Butters moved on pure instinct, shining blade of his sword sweeping to the side.
And directly through Sanya’s wrist.
The big man screamed and fell to his knees, doubled up around his wrist.
“Sanya!” Butters cried. He stared at the shining sword for a moment, his eyes terrified—and then he dropped it. The blade flickered out and vanished as the hilt bounced off the lawn. Then he ran to the big man’s side.
I turned to the house and bellowed, “Medic!” Then I joined Butters beside Sanya.
The big man rocked back and forth, shaking hard, the muscles on his back and shoulders standing out sharply.
“Oh, wow, we were warned and we did not listen,” I muttered. “How many hands did we see go flying off?”
“I know,” Butters said, his voice horrified. “Sanya, come on, man. Let me see it.”
“Is all right,” Sanya said through clenched teeth. “Only need one hand for saber. Can still be Knight.”
“God, I am such an idiot,” Butters said. “I shouldn’t ever take that thing out unless evil’s, like, right here. Let me see, man.”
“Do not blame self, Waldo,” Sanya said gravely. “Cannot see myself as Christian, but they have good ideas about forgiveness. I will forgive you, brother.”
I stood up abruptly and folded my arms, arching an eyebrow.
“God, Sanya,” Butters said. “It was an accident. I am so sorry. I …” He suddenly frowned. “Hey.”
Sanya’s deep voice rolled out in a bubbling laugh that came up from somewhere around his toes and rolled up through his belly and chest before finally spilling out his mouth. He held up the fingers of his “maimed” hand and wiggled them, still laughing.
“Oh,” Butters stammered. “Oh, oh, oh. You jerk.”
Sanya rose, still laughing, and swiped a hand over his shaven head. He went over to the discarded scabbard. He took a cloth from a small case on the scabbard’s belt, wiped down the saber, and slid it neatly away. “Did not think so.”
“Think what?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Was instinct. Did not feel like I was in danger from that sword.”
“Instinct?” Butters demanded. He raked a hand back through his haystack of a hairdo. “For God’s sake, man. If you’d been wrong …”
“Wasn’t,” Sanya pointed out with a smile.
Butters made an exasperated sound and snatched up Fidelacchius’s hilt, but his expression was puzzled. “What just happened?”
“Obviously, it failed to cut him,” I said. “Question is why.” I looked around the backyard. Honestly, there was very little danger of anyone seeing much of what was going on. Between the rosebushes planted along the fences, a few shrubs, an enormous tree, and some actual privacy fencing along the back of the yard, there weren’t many places to see in. Michael had planned ahead.
As if the thought had summoned him, he came out the back door of the house, hurrying along in a heavy limp with his cane, the strap of a large medical kit slung over one shoulde
r. He slowed as he took in everyone’s body language and gave me a questioning glance.
“Sanya was playing with us,” I said.
“Cannot help it.” Sanya chortled. “You are such simple provincial folk.”
I knuckled him in the arm at the same time Butters kicked his shins. It only made him laugh again.
“What happened?” Michael asked calmly.
Butters told him.
“Huh,” Michael said, lifting his eyebrows. “Have you ever touched the blade of the sword?”
“God no,” Butters said. “I mean … come on, no. Just no.”
“But it’s cut people before,” I said. “Right?”
“Yeah,” Butters began. Then his voice trailed off. “No. It hasn’t cut people. It’s cut monsters.”
The four of us considered that for a moment.
“Well,” I said. “Light it up. Let’s try it.”
“I guess we have to.” Butters sighed. He lifted the sword, simply holding it blade up, and it sprang to life with a choral hum.
Without hesitating an instant, Sanya held out his hand and put it squarely into the blade.
Absolutely nothing happened. It just passed into his flesh and then continued on the other side as if there’d been no interruption at all.
“Weird,” Butters breathed. He reached up and tested it with a pinky finger—then put his whole hand into the beam as well. “Huh,” he said. “It just feels a little warm.”
Michael took his turn next, calmly passing his whole right hand into it on the first try. “Interesting.”
“My turn,” I said, and poked the burn-scarred forefinger of my left hand at the blade. There was heat there, uncomfortably warm but bearable, like washing dishes with the hot water turned up. I was sensing the raw energy of the sword, which absolutely seethed with stored potential, as if the power of a star could be bound into a physical form.
“But it still cuts things,” I said. I gestured back toward the sliced anvil. “He did that not five minutes ago.”
Michael pursed his lips for a moment. Then he looked at me and said, “Conservation of energy.”
I frowned and then got what he was saying. “Oh. Yeah, I bet you’re right. That makes sense.”
Butters shook his head. “What makes sense?”
“Laws of the universe,” I said. “Matter and energy cannot be created or destroyed. All you can do is change them around.”
“Sure,” Butters said. “What’s that got to do with the Sword?”
I frowned, trying to figure out how to explain. “All the Swords have … a kind of supernatural mass, eh? Representative of their power in the world and their role in it. Okay?”
“Sure,” Butters said slowly.
“When the Sword was vulnerable and Nicodemus broke Fidelacchius, he didn’t destroy it,” I said. “Maybe he couldn’t destroy it. Maybe all he could do was change it. Now, ideally, for him, he’d have changed it to something nonfunctional. But the Swords are some of the most powerful artifacts I’ve ever seen. Things with that kind of power tend to resist being changed around, just like things with a lot of mass are hard to move.”
“You’re saying the Sword fought back,” Butters said.
“He’s saying,” Michael said firmly, “that the operative word in Sword of Faith has never been Sword.”
I gave Michael a reproving look. “I’m saying that even broken, the supernatural power of the Sword of Faith still had the same purpose—to support faith and defend the helpless against evil. While it was … in a state of flux, vulnerable to being damaged, it was still trying to find a way to fulfill its purpose. I think that when you touched it, Butters, it looked into your nerdy, nerdy heart and saw a way it could continue to do that.”
“What?” Butters said in a tone of awe, looking at the shining blade.
“Sword looked at you,” Sanya mused, “and saw Jedi. Saw way to keep fighting. So it became lightsaber.”
“More powerful than a simple steel sword,” Michael said. “But also less.”
I nodded. “Because the scales have to stay balanced. It couldn’t be more powerful than it was. But it also couldn’t be less.”
“It’s further into the spiritual world than it was before it was broken,” Michael said. “It’s going to have less effect on the physical world.”
I shook my head. “Not the physical world. The mortal world. It chops steel just fine. It’s people it doesn’t interact with anymore.”
“How does it know the difference between people and monsters?” Butters asked.
“It could be something like a resonance with certain kinds of energy. Evil beings tend to put off negative energy—black magic. It’s possible that the sword reacts to that. I mean, I can’t think of any way to make that work, but someone smarter and better than me might not have that problem.” I leaned back, thinking. Then I said slowly, “Or Occam’s razor. Maybe because it knows the difference.”
Michael frowned at me. “Harry?”
“The Knights of the Blackened Denarius each bear one of Judas’s silver coins with a fallen angel trapped inside,” I said. “You guys are their … their opposites. You each bear a sword worked with a nail from the Crucifixion …” I rolled one hand encouragingly.
“With an angel inside,” breathed Butters.
There was a stunned silence around the little circle.
“Balance,” I said. “I think it knows because it knows, Butters.”
“Oh God,” Butters breathed in a whisper. “I accidentally ran it through the laundry once.”
Sanya let out a belly laugh.
Michael touched the blade of Fidelacchius again, more reverently. “Angels aren’t allowed to interfere with mortals or their free will,” he said. “If you’re right, Harry … this blade of light is a direct expression of the will of an angel. It can’t impinge upon the free will of a mortal. It can only fight evil beings who attempt the same.”
“People can be evil,” Butters said. “Would it have chopped up Chuck Manson?”
“People can be evil,” Michael said. “They can be good. They can choose. That’s … part of what makes us people.” He shook his head. “I came to recognize the presence of evil over the years. True darkness is very different than mere rage or terror or greed, or desire for vengeance. I’ve met only a handful of mortals who were truly evil. Nicodemus and his like.”
I nodded. “Angels are creatures of absolutes. You’d have to be pretty darned absolute to qualify as evil—or good—by their standards. It’s why they like Michael so much.”
Michael shrugged and nodded.
“ So …” Butters said. “What’s the takeaway here?”
“Your Sword isn’t going to be of any use against mortals,” I said quietly. “It’s better than ever at handling monsters, but if one of them hires a bruiser from the outfit, that guy is going to bounce you off the ceiling.”
Sanya clapped Butters on the shoulder, knocking him six inches, and suggested, “Time to get Kalashnikov.”
“Fantastic,” Butters muttered. He put the sword away and sighed. “Should we … like, talk to it or something? I feel like I’ve been super rude this whole time.”
“Never hurts to be polite,” I said.
“Did you read that in book somewhere, wizard?” Sanya asked innocently. “Perhaps a very long time ago?”
“If there are angels in the blades, they’ve been doing this for a while now,” Michael said reassuringly to Butters. “I’m sure they understand our limits.”
“But they would have told us, right?” Butters asked. “I mean, if that was true, it seems kind of important. They would have told us. Right?”
Michael shrugged. “Uriel is not generally free with information. He’s fighting a war. The War. That means operational security.”
“But why?” Sanya asked. “What difference if we knew?”
I shrugged. “Hey, I’m just trying to figure out why Butters has a safety sword.”
Butters brightened
. “I kind of do, don’t I?”
“I will stick with steel,” Sanya said. “And lead, of course.”
I glanced up at the sun. “Hell’s bells. I need to get moving. Little party tonight to get the peace talks started.”
“What do you want us to do, Harry?” Butters asked.
I thought about it for a second and then put a hand on Butters’s shoulder. “I’m still working in the dark. But you’re the Knights of the Cross. If I work it out, I’ll call you with details. But until then, do what you do, and we’ll hope it comes out right in the wash.”
Butters looked at me uncertainly.
“Da, is good plan,” Sanya said. He clapped me on the shoulder hard enough to make me consider a chiropractor. “Dresden has been along on more Knight work than you so far. Is good plan. Wizard knows what he is talking about.”
“No, I really don’t,” I said. “That’s the problem.”
“But you know that you do not know,” Michael said. “Which is wise.”
I snorted. “If knowing how clueless I am is the measure of wisdom, I am freaking Solomon, Walter Cronkite, and Judge Judy all rolled into one.”
Sanya held up his hands with his fingers in a square, framing my face like a photographer. “Always thought you look more like a Judy.”
I traded a round of goodbyes with the Knights, current and former, patted Mouse, hugged Maggie and told her I loved her and to be good, and headed out.
It was time to party.
19
We had a boring all-business meeting at six, the fete began at precisely seven thirty, no one showed up until at least eight, and the poor svartalf delegation must have spent half an hour wondering if they had come to the wrong address.
I hadn’t needed directions. The fete was being hosted at the Brighter Future Society’s headquarters, a small but genuine freaking castle that Gentleman Johnnie Marcone had flown over from somewhere in Scotland, stone by stone, and rebuilt on the lot of a burned-down boardinghouse.
My old house.
Gone now.
In fire.
I wanted to go home.
I pulled through all the familiar streets that led to my old home and my chest hurt as I did. Then I saw the castle and had it pointed out to my stupid heart, again, that home wasn’t there anymore.
