Peace Talks (The Dresden Files 16)

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.

It wasn’t a castle like you see at Disney World or anything. This one had been built for business, a no-nonsense block of stone that featured narrow, barred windows starting only on the second floor. It squatted on the lot like a fat frog taking up all of the lily pad, its walls starting not six inches from the sidewalk, and consequently managed to loom menacingly over pedestrians, despite being only three stories tall.