Can't affect mortals

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 shoulder. 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.”


Peace Talks Chapter 18, Page 174-179