The Comfort Of The Knife

My ego’s plummet saw me hurtle through darkness. I forced myself to look down and witnessed a bright square ripping its way through the void. The speed of its expansion informed me of how fast I was falling, and when its searing white shattered back into distinct colors I wrapped my head with my arms to brace for landing—I didn’t expect to bounce.

The bounce righted me, and—for the evanescent moment of any jump where you can believe you’re floating—I beheld the space. It was a four walled room. Wide enough to be some moderately sized cafe if it wasn’t for all the pillows you’d be afraid of staining with a spilled drink. As pillows coated the floor like a carpet of creeping kudzu that Dad had shown me pictures of.

I fell back down into one the size of a giant’s palm—well, maybe a small giant. It was plush, arrested my fall, and refused to let me bounce any longer. Through the impossible nature of my visit, I’d broken no bones despite my speedy descent and my landing didn’t even jostle the steaming hot chocolate set on the table in front of me.

Following the twining steam as it climbed into the air, I noted that I was before a stage about half the size one might expect. Equidistant to each other were four folding screens depicting, in jewel tone color, scenes expressing some Sorcerous secret of Revelation. Behind them were silhouettes too indistinct to make out beneath the detail of their screen’s painting.

“I already said I’d take the trial later,” I protested. “You can’t force me to take it.”

A puckish chortle flowed forth from behind the fourth screen—farthest to my right and depicting a faceless girl on fire while eating a bowl of noodles beneath a crescent moon reflected in water.

“Puppy, we can’t push you through the door, but that doesn’t mean we can’t ‘force you,’” said the childish voice behind the fourth screen.

“I hate to agree, but she’s right,” said the voice whose screen was adjacent and depicted a girl—still faceless—as she struggled against vines just barely keeping her from walking off a cliff. “We can bribe you, trick you, or threaten—somehow—something you care about. Free will is retained in all situations even if it’s not under the most fun circumstances.”

I said, “Neither of you two are doing a good job of convincing me to pick you when I graduate.”

“It’s a good thing we aren’t here for that then, huh, puppy?”

“Then what are you here for?” I asked.

The silhouette behind the second screen raised a hand. Theirs was adjacent to the furthest left and depicted a tree from which five burning bodies swayed from its branches like fruit, their blood watering the field of swords that littered a hill like so many flowers.

Beautifully somber, they said, “That’s the wrong question, I’m sorry. Please don’t be mad.”

“I’m not mad. Just confused, and I wish you could give me a clear answer.” I exhaled, “But you can’t because that’s not Revelation. So, if not about you then it’s me. Why am I here?”

From behind the screen to the farthest left which detailed a solitary figure pushing snow from the steps of a temple beneath a bright star, came a cold voice.

“Enlightenment, Nadia, you heard a question that stirred something in your mind about the trial you still delay to take. As such, you fell into a moment of Revelatory contemplation. Tipping ajar the door—to use the fourth’s metaphor—just enough for us to arrive and assist you.”

I leaned back against the pillows until I could see all four screens at once. The Nightlord had asked me to demonstrate a spell that was the cornerstone of my relationship to Revelation. It shouldn’t be hard because I only had four—and then I understood.

“You’re here to help me pick my spell,” I stated.

None of them spoke as we were all in agreement on that.

I leaned forward staring into my hot chocolate as a single large marshmallow melted out in a smooth pebble of white. It smelled exactly how Melissa’s mother would make it for me. The last time I had it, I couldn’t taste its flavor beneath the blood that ran from my mouth. I wanted to bring the drink to my lips, but the Baron’s words about how they could still trick me ran about my mind like a maypole. New anxieties about everything in the room coloring my experience.

I asked, “Is the hot chocolate a trap?”

“Last I checked, chocolate kills dogs,” the fourth Baron said.

With a tired sigh, I pushed the drink away from myself as if distance would weaken the temptation the cup offered. Then I glanced up toward the Barons, silent and waiting, and down at my hands which had formed the seals of my spells so many times now. Yet here my fingers felt stiff and easy to shatter.

“Why is this so hard?” I asked.

The first Baron answered, “You want a solution that doesn’t feel wrong more than you’re trying to pick one that is right.”

“And that’s wrong?”

“If you let it,” the second Baron said. “You humans have a tendency to logic yourself away from understanding. If it helps, nothing about your choice will affect the trial.”

“Then why all of this?”

“Because it’ll affect you,” the third voice said. “Your way leads to us no matter what, but success or failure is hardly the design of the test. Rather, it’s the dominion of the test taker.”

“Come on puppy, you’ve already passed the first test of the Lodge exam,” the fourth Baron said. “You know what it takes to pass, and what way leads to failure.”

Was it really that simple? That some test designed by one of my parents’ killers could hold the secret to the graduation trial, really? I remembered when Sphinx ran through my chart as I taught her the Principles, and how elegantly her paw print stamped the location of the Court. Revelation could be found in the smallest things, so why not look back to a success if I wanted to succeed going forward.

“I used all my spells,” I said. “It wasn’t one singular spell that carried me to victory.”

My voice warbled at the end of my statement as my body felt so cold in my denial. The first Baron stood behind their screen and pointed at me.

“If so, then pick or cease lying,” they said.

The second Baron said, “Hey, stop bullying Nadia. I’m so sorry, she gets like this—”

“All the time,” the fourth Baron said. “Though I agree with her. Be a good dog and only speak the truth. You know what you want to pick, so pick it.”

“But it’s not just about the spell is it?” I asked. “Ferilala Nu-zo said it had to be the cornerstone of my relationship to Revelation. And, I don’t know what that is.”

The second Baron crooned, “But you do, Nadia. You struck an oath to slay the enemies of our Sovereign and yourself. There’s a reason Atomic Glory is your first spell. To tear down and unmake them from the world. Our world.”

“Biasing the summoner,” the third Baron said. “She’d find nothing without the Omensight. Revelation is a way to discovery. About her foes, her mom, her dad, and were she to take the right step it could help her discover herself. All necessary to her quest.”

The fourth Baron scoffed, “The ‘right step’ which just so happens to be the next step. Obviously both spells are good, but what really gets her is the Godtime. It gives her a chance to stay ahead of the knife and delay it. Through Revelation she’ll get to live.”

As they spoke I noticed the way some of their words caused the hot chocolate to ripple. My fall hadn’t spilled a drop, but their words made waves in the mug. I pulled it back toward myself as I ignored the Barons squabbling.

“Unmake, quest, live?” I asked, my statement lilting up into a question. The drink didn’t stir.

“It won’t work like that,” the first Baron said. “Speak with your spirit not your mouth.”

So I tried incanting, “Unmake. Quest. Live.”

Then I watched and felt the room flow away from me and back toward me. Tides of my spirit around which I was the center. For each word its Baron squeaked, groaned, and laughed as I pronounced their cardinal aspect.

“T-technically they should be pronounced in the present progressive if you want them to be truly strong,” the second Baron said.

“Gah, don’t help the puppy slip her collar,” said the fourth.

“Why’d you help her?” the third asked the first.

“She had no need of my help, but simply required an enabling of her own prowess, Revelation Questing.”

“So that’s how you say them. Can I make you leave?” I asked.

And the first answered, “We’re in your spirit. You’ve always been in charge.”

I rose to my knees with the mug held in my hands. Held it forth in an ironic oblation.

“Revelation Unmaking. Revelation Questing. Revelation Living,” I incanted, “Begone.”

The three Barons’ silhouettes bowed as their screens and themselves sunk into the stage. Familiar with my spirit now, I gestured forward at the first—and only—Baron still present. I flexed and space contracted. Gone was the stage as now opposite me at my table was their screen.

“That felt good,” I said. “Especially to not be called ‘puppy’ anymore.”

“Forgive them,” the first Baron said, “but we only speak as we are and say what’s present. If Revelation Living calls you a puppy then ask yourself whose collar you wear.”

“You say that like you don’t want to collar me.”

“I don’t,” the first Baron said. “It’d go against my cardinal aspect.”

“Which is?” I asked.

“A surprise.”

“It can’t be much of one,” I said. “If the second is Atomic Glory, the third is Omensight, and the fourth is Godtime. Then you have to be my Inviolate Star.”

“Am I?” she asked.

“Yes. Show me,” I ordered.

“I love that side of you,” the first Baron said. “No respect for anyone above you.”

“If five people can kill a god, why have respect for power at all.”

“When it’s the right power,” the first Baron said. “It’ll let you kill a god. It’ll let you cross time to feel the touch of the lost. It’ll let you disregard fate, and delay death.”

“You’re not defeating my theory,” I said.

The first Baron laughed. It was the airy laugh of someone used to looking down on those below them with an icy regard only thawed by the burning rebel that sat before her. Then, the folding screen was slid aside by the Baron.

“It’s hardly a theory if you already know.”

In the frame composed by the closed screen, was me. A reflection of me that stood with shoulders rolled back and a head held high. Only her eyes were pointed at me—and they glowed in the bounce light of a blazing halo composed of Inviolate Stars. The first Baron tilted her head—my head—and followed me as I rose to face her.

She held out a hand. I took it. Her eyes bore into me as she waited for me to answer.

“My way is to supersede all others. I need to come out on top every time, or else I’m done.” I added, “And the Inviolate Star lets me do just that and more. It’s my way.”

* * *

“It’s very pretty,” Ferilala Nu-zo said.

My eyes properly seeing, I stared at the Inviolate Star that hovered above my palm. It was the spell I didn’t want to use, and the one that was always necessary. Despite everything feeling so wrong, it was the only thing that felt right.

“Sphinx, did you place the hot chocolate?” I asked.

She shook her head, but before I could press said, “We can speak of Court matters tomorrow. You have too many choices tonight to let far off things blind you in their brilliance.”

I nodded and shook the spell from my hand. “So, how long until my outfit’s done?”

The Nightlord giggled, “I’m already done, silly. You’ve been standing like that for a while.”

That was when I felt my body’s ache that wormed through my muscles. I squatted and stretched to work them out. A process which encouraged cheering from the gaggle of tipsy secretaries.

I whirled around to find them already wrapped in comfortable gowns and suits. They’d splayed across a long chaise couch conjured in the shimmering glow of moonlight that only teased at the couch’s curves and dips. Across from them were two chairs, one of which Ferilala Nu-zo had already curled up within.

She used a hoof to spin the chair my way. I dropped down into it and spun back toward them all. Accepted the glass of sangria #375 offered me. It was refreshing and more alcoholic than fruity, as I could feel its burn hit my gut and unleash a heat wave through me. The drink couldn’t match the Inviolate Star, but I finished the glass and had the secretary pour me another so I could dull my ache to feel flame in my veins again.

#225 asked, “Where’d #404 find you?”

“Would you believe me if I said it was at a train station?”

“That’s like saying they found you on the side of the road in a box.”

“It’s the truth,” I said. “Take it or leave it.”

“It’s the report,” #375 countered. “Give us the story. What was the moment you first saw each other?”

#225 asked, “Did you know they were going to pick you?”

I let my thoughts rise as I filled my stomach on sangria. They were asking as if I was telling the story of how I fell in love with #404. Which reminded me of how I first saw them, bleeding and broken on my floor. Utterly beautiful.

“I saw them from my balcony, first. Blood pooling beneath them, and somehow they seemed soft. In need of someone to save them,” I said. “But that was just a…”

“Honeypot,” #375 offered.

“Yeah, a honeypot. I mean, #404 doesn’t have a soft bone in them, and once Amber called their bluff the disguise was off. After that came everything else. Like their promise to use me.”

And their assertion that I lacked a conscience. A claim that at first had struck me, but from that chair on the other side of so many bodies I’d made—in such a short time too—there was an aspect of myself that creeped up behind my shoulder to rest its head saying, “Yes. You don’t.”

The voice fragmented in my mind as Sphinx brushed against my leg. Shared a glance with me that was firm as a stake used to set a hunter’s tent. I looked back up to find the patient aura of the secretaries waiting for me, and downed my second glass.

#225 said, “#404 loves misdirection, so I’m not surprised there. I am surprised they’d say they were using you without saying what for.”

“I mean, the first time was obvious, to help them finish their mission.”

#375 shook their head laughing. “There was no mission then. Secretaries of their rank and lower get free time to be taken as they search for any potential assets for the Lodge. That’s what they were doing.”

“And it just happened to align with a missing team and a cult that attacked a research base?”

“Eh, it’s convenient sure, but #404 is meticulous. They probably searched for a problem from recent reports—or lack thereof in that case—and referenced them next to specific travel points.”

“So their mission wasn’t in fact a mission, but just a test to determine if I deserved a prelim exemption?”

“Oh, no,” #375 said, “we can give out tons of those. #404 was looking for a Lodge asset, special people capable of unique or impossible things.”

#225 said, “If you noticed, we lack names but we have ranks. The only way to move up when you’re a newbie secretary is to complete assignments. Complete enough of them and you enter the next tier and get a designation.”

“Like information protection and retrieval?” I asked.

“Exactly,” they said. “Now, this method can only get you so high up because assignments are reactive. A good secretary reacts impeccably, but a great secretary? They anticipate problems and have the solutions already lined up. Recruiting assets for the Lodge to deploy is a critical part of the process.”

#375 sighed, “And the only way to bring in an asset is to have them pass the exam.”

A third secretary said, “A thing #404 basically swore they’d never—”

#225 hissed, “Shut it, #322.”

“No, explain what they swore,” I said.

“It’s not our file to open,” #225 said. “They’re your handler, and they’ll tell you if you need to know…or if they’re ready.”

Their face—sharp even at rest—was softened by the unspoken request in their reply, Give them time. I shrugged it off and the implications of what #322 had let slip out.

“Where’s #404 anyways?” I asked as I stood.

“Right here, little brute,” #404 said.

An arm slipped around my own as #404 clung to me in a gentle drama. Their mouth unbalanced as one side tugged their face in the opposite direction of their eyes. While mine ran down their body in appreciation of Ferilala Nu-zo’s work.

With every inch my gaze traveled #404’s garment changed. It was a hanbok, a kimono, a cocktail dress, or something indulgent with heaps of fabric flowing in great arcs. The only commonality was the way it shimmered through each one like the colors in a lenticular painting. As well as the stars which winked in and out of existence—visible only when their garment was in transition.

“Little brute?” they asked.

I’d been staring. The Nightlord’s work was that magnificent as it accentuated all the curves and planes of Secretary’s body. It was my second time falling into aesthetic appreciation that Ferilala Nu-zo laughed and surged from their chair to be beside #404 in under a second.

“Come on, Nadia, how does #404 look?” she asked.

“Like nothing I’ve seen before.”

#404 preened, “What an astute observation, little brute. But our lovely Nightlord never makes the same clothes twice.”

#322 said, “Okay, so go show the little brute’s how it’s done, #404. How does she look?”

#404 glared at their fellow secretary before stepping back to take me in. Their face forcibly placid as they assessed me. Then I noticed a blush work across their face.

“Naked,” they said.

“What?”

Sphinx grinned and slid along our telepathic connection, the image of myself as seen through their eyes. I wasn’t quite naked as #404 put it, but it was more than well enough implied. No fabric hung from my body. Rather an expanse of the star filled heavens clung to me coating my chest, stomach, legs, all the way to my fingers tipped in opalescent claws. As revealing—if not more so—than Lupe’s conweave skinsuit. The only defense of my modesty was the small mantle of black iridescent feathers that fluttered along my collar bone and teasing up my neck like some corvidian gorget. It was those same feathers that fluttered up from the edge of my stomach down to the floor in a grand ballroom skirt.

My face was where I stopped and marveled. Around my eyes was a smoky shadow that implied cosmic depths of mystery whose answers could only be found within the intensity of my eclipse-gold eyes. Above which the cool light of the starlight horn Ferilala Nu-zo had placed upon my brow did lighten and soften the imperious majesty I projected.

I blinked away the image Sphinx had sent me, and gave a slight bow to the Nightlord in thanks. She gasped in mock surprise, but was quick to stop me when I pulled out the tokens Amber had given me.

“Let me pay you,” I said.

“You’ve paid me in fun,” she said. “I see the same faces again and again and again. It was fun to see someone new. Something new.”

“And what something is that?” I asked.

She shook her head, “That’d be spoiling. Now, I’ve already called you an alley-racer to get across the city back to the Lodge district. You’d be underestimating if you tried to imagine how packed the cable cars get on nights like tonight.”

I slipped the tokens back into the pocket of the pants I wore on the way here. Folded up my close and slipped beside #404, and—after asking so politely—had them send my clothes back to my room through that spell of theirs. From there the lot of us piled into the elevator to catch our waiting ride to the party.

Until visiting Brightgate, I wasn’t too familiar with alley-racers. No one back home bonded to the Court of Alleys, or if they did they didn’t stay in town for too long. Home was a place of direct people who met things head on, and for whom travel was a matter of distance rather than speed. Two aspects which likely selected us away from the Court to instead see folks favor the Court of Wanderlust instead. At most, I knew the basic details of an alley-racer, it was a vehicle whose engine—however it was constructed—connected into a shrine whose size scaled to the transport. That shrine was what let the whole thing punch in and out of Alleys without stressing the driver. There was where any of my expectations ended.

Yet still I was surprised, as there on the curb was this nautiloid carriage of clear glass no doubt treated to withstand whatever weather was common in the Alleys. The side of the carriage was open and we all slid in. Three secretaries on one bench, and #404 and myself on the other facing theirs—Sphinx had returned to my spirit. Above their heads and back through the glass I saw the driver mount their seat, slot in a few tokens to kickstart and recharge the whole thing, and then he settled his feet against the base of the saddle. Gripped the handlebars and twisted.

We hurtled forward into a rectangular cutaway that seemed to descend from the sky. Once through our driver whipped the handlebars to the side sending the whole carriage drifting along an invisible road. While all around us were the explosive pops of fireworks that sparked off within drifting clouds in place of lightning. Their color seeped into the glass shell that I’d pressed my hands against to get a better look of things.

In the faint reflection of the glass, I could see #404’s face soften at the—in retrospective—blatant display of my own innocence. That something so mundane to them could still be…well, magic to me. Our eyes met in the glass, and they fluttered their fingers at me. Then it was over as soon as it began as we drifted through another rectangular cutout that led from this realm back to Realspace.

The alley-racer slid to a stop in front of a cafe down the street from the ball’s venue. At an outdoor table sat Amber who, upon sighting us through the glass of our carriage, drained the rest of their cup. Dropped two tokens inside, and descended down from the cafe’s porch dining to the sidewalk where we’d assembled.

“Temple, now where’d you get this number?” Amber asked alongside an appreciatory whistle.

Before I could answer, #404 leaned against my arm smirking up at Amber.

“Sorry, it’s a Lodge secret,” they said.

“If Temple can know why not me? We’re both probationary members.”

#322 muttered, “In this episode, drama in the princess’s harem.”

Before Amber and #404 could turn to obliterate #322, I hurriedly wrapped both arms around one of theirs leading them onward toward the growing mass of Lodgemembers. Who had all taken the Lodgemaster’s theme as a mandate; justifying their choice of fashion or lack thereof if the number of near nude summoners was anything to go off of. The sight of which stoked flames of excitement within myself that became a stellar burst as the crowd took notice of us—of me—and parted into a clear path to the door. Through which I could make out, clear as Amber whispering in my ear, the sonic assault of bass heavy music that lured your heart to beat faster, pump harder, so you might lose yourself in the orgiastic mass revel that only those who live so close to death might ever appreciate.

“Welcome to your new favorite holiday, little brute,” #404 said, as they led us inside.