It was freaky enough that the lights were on. Looking past the scents of salted shrimp and chilled sake that lingered in the air, Suisei could see out through the windows… the same windows that, from the outside, were pitch black.
But it was the partygoers that really unnerved him.
Servants drifted effortlessly across the dark, polished stone floor, moving between the semicircular bar at the wall to the right and the islands of chatting guests. The waiters bore serving dishes laden with alcohol and richly seasoned hors d'oeuvres.
And everyone wore masks.
It was a masquerade.
Suisei had heard rumors of the wild extravagances of Zaina's mask-only parties. But he'd never dreamed he'd attend one—certainly, not like this.
The masks were in the traditional Munine style. The servants wore animals' faces, all of them creatures that consorted with the spirit world: the pearl-scaled fish and the fox; the dog and the crane.
The guests, meanwhile, were demons. Their masks were faces of stark color and graphic expression: horns and fangs, curling beards, scowls and smiles deep and wide. Inky black accents covered the faces of fallen spirits, disgraced warriors, and corrupted barashai, forever denied a new reincarnation.
A fountain stood at the center of the foyer; a broad rectangular trough, water spilling down from one end after having meandered through a bonsai swampland's gnarled roots and evergreen pines.
Of all the possibilities Suisei had been considering, this wasn't one of them. For a rare moment, he was unsure of himself. Even the weight of his body atop his own two feet wasn't sitting right with him.
Laughs bubbled out from a trio of women not far up ahead. One of them turned toward Suisei, having noticed him. Her mask was a deep, pulsing red, and studded with horns, much like the angular dress adorning her slim figure.
"Have I lost my mind?" Suisei said.
Then he felt pain and dizziness, and the next thing he knew, he was in darkness. Everything had broken; the lighting's golden gleam, the appetizing smells, the constant chatter; it was all gone.
Suisei inhaled sharply. His chest tightened, pulse racing, adrenaline pumping. Danger was one of his best friends; he knew it when he saw it.
"Shit…" he hissed.
His breath came out in steam. He shivered, chilled to the bone.
The first thing that popped out to Suisei as his eyes adjusted to the sudden darkness were the gleams of the minute gemstones woven into the woman's red dress, sparkling in the city light.
Like its wearer, the dress had been torn in half, lying on the floor drenched in a pool of curdling blood.
The cold prickled Suisei's fingers and nose. The hairs at the back of his neck stood on end.
The fountain's water had frozen over.
Suisei made the Bond-sign. Even with all his experience, the death that filled the room caught Suisei off-guard. It took a moment for him to recognize that the shreds of gore strewn along the walls and the polished stone floor had once been people.
He fought the urge to gag. Spilled sake from porcelain jugs dropped or shattered pooled on the floor in moonlit puddles.
The way these accidental libations for the dead mixed with the blood and viscera gave a whole new meaning to high blood-alcohol level.
Suisei unsheathed a bladeless hilt from the holster at his waist, a particularly useful shape for a patabattery. Though Suisei prided himself for his personal stamina, he had no interest in taking chances. The days of coming out on top by the skin of his teeth were long behind him, even if the tricks he'd picked up along the way weren't.
An instant of focusing on the hilt jolted its field awake. The wave twined and grew, shining like a web of liquid fireflies, and then ignited, forming a blade of glowing nothing. The negative pressure generated a negative vacuum that sent little breezes rippling out, brushing Suisei's arms and clothes. Ordinarily, he'd tweak the weave to turn off the stealth-killing glow, but there was nothing ordinary about any of this.
Besides, the light helped.
Suisei darted over to the window-wall on the opposite side of the room, his soft, swift steps leaving bloody footprints in his wake. He wove a protective ward and affixed it to his hands where he kept it, inactive, but ready to use. Further down the room, the foyer let out into another, much larger chamber.
At this point, Suisei wouldn't have been surprised if a video game boss stomped out of it.
Merely looking in that room's direction made his face feel like a scab, and whatever was in there was pulling and picking at it, as if to rip off his skin. Not forgetting the stink of the spilled alcohol, Suisei spent a moment focusing on the invisible ward between his hands. To his eyes, it briefly glowed a faint violet as he twisted it with his thoughts, adding a dash of a pataphysical spell for an electric spark.
If the need arose, all that alcohol on the floor would make for excellent fuel.
Suisei counted to three before charging into the adjacent room. Suddenly, the momentum got ripped out from beneath his legs, and he found himself standing still in an unfamiliar, brightly lit corner.
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He squinted his eyes.
Turning around, he realized he'd somehow teleported. He was in the adjacent room, yes, but cater-corner from where he'd entered.
Also, the party was back.
Suisei's heart raced. The breeze coming off his conjured sword dried the sweat on his clammy arms.
Moonlit Queen, what the hell is going on?!
He shivered.
Bodies he'd just seen lying in the foyer, headless—or worse—were back in full health. They stood in a circle in the middle of the penthouse's expansive living room. One man, however, stood apart from the rest, next to a tall shape hidden beneath a brilliant green tablecloth—likely a box or a case.
Despite the bright-red fox-mask covering his face, Suisei had a good guess as to who the man was, and was proven right when the man pushed his mask up onto his head.
Zaina.
For a man in his sixties, he looked like he had only just turned forty. Considering the cutting-edge life-extension techniques he had at his disposal, that was hardly surprising. Zaina might very well live two centuries or more.
He wore a plush maroon robe, made from a velvety material that glistened as he moved. The beige wood of his traditional sandals were almost as white as his socks. A luminous jade button stuck out from his lapis-blue silk necktie.
He began to speak: "Dearest friends… the time has come."
"Yes, yes, Zaina," someone said. "Let's see your newest toy already. Get on with it."
Another attendee chuckled. "Yes, what has Grand Old Gacha managed to pull this time?"
Zaina looked over the masked crowd.
"Laugh while you can; this one's for the ages!" He turned to the green covering with glittering eyes. "How I've long waited to hold it in my hands…"
Clasping the green cloth with both hands, he flung the cover off in a single, deft motion.
Suisei's heart skipped a beat. He was no stranger to wonders. But this?
This outclassed them all. He'd seen it rendered in the fire-glow hues of the stained-glass windows that had looked down upon him and his brother and parents year after year at weekly mass. It was part of the symbol that, even now, dangled from his neck.
The lost monument of his faith.
The crowd gasped in unison, and more than a handful, in disbelief, or horrified indignation.
They all knew what it was. There'd never been anything else like it. Nor could it be faked.
Zaina briefly glanced at his awestruck audience. "Ladies and gentlemen," he said, "behold: the Sword of the Angel."
I willed the playback to pause. "Hold the phone!"
The footage froze on-screen.
I stood up from my seat in the movie theater. The chocolate-drizzled caramel popcorn in my hand tumbled to the floor.
Rather than witness Suisei's memories as a passive observer, floating along for the ride, I'd opted to view them from the comfort of a movie theater I'd conjured in my mind. It was small and sparsely furnished, with just two adjustable leather lean-back chairs, one for each of us. The rest was standard movie theater décor: darkly patterned wall-to-wall carpeting only a couple of millimeters high, with strips of emergency lights running along the corners and at either side of the walkway that led to the doors.
Suisei's memories played out on the silver screen, interpolated into a third-person view. It actually made the whole process much more natural for both of us. We could pause the memories to discuss them at our leisure, as I'd just done.
Not that we were saying that much at the moment.
Trembling, I made the Bond-sign several times over. My breath caught in my throat.
I took several steps toward the screen, with my arms resting at my sides, though they didn't stay there for long.
It was impossible to resist the temptation to reach toward the screen.
There's something to be said about going into a story—or a movie—already knowing one or more of the major developments set to happen inside it. Spoilers don't destroy our enjoyment, so much as they change it. All superhero stories, for example, have the same basic beats, and audiences know that, but it doesn't stop them from loving them, all the same. New stories bring us feelings of refreshment and release, pulling us away from the reality of our lives. Old stories, though, they're like grandma's cookies. They're a point of connection, and reference, one we choose because of what we already know those tales will make us feel.
For me, the reference point was my search for god. Going into Suisei's memory, I'd thought it would feel like a homecoming, knowing that the Sword would appear at some point before the end. And yet, now that I finally saw it, I realized there was nothing that could have prepared me to see it, not even as a figment of another person's life.
Here was the holy armament of the God I'd denied.
Tears trickled down my face. I was overcome with emotion: awe, reverence, anger, regret… shame.
I shook my head, but kept my gaze on the Sword. "I don't know what's more difficult," I said, "believing in a God you can't see, or seeing the God you can't believe in. Or, well, at least a piece of Him."
In the paused memory, Suisei was nearly as fraught as I was. Prayers and hymns flew across his mind.
"Genneth?" Suisei's spirit asked, from his seat, next to mine.
They were the only two seats in the house.
I lowered my head and muttered a quiet prayer.
"You know what?" I said. "I don't care if He is just one Angel among many."
I'd been too blinded by my own pain to realize what should have been obvious to me.
I turned to Suisei. "I should have realized it sooner."
"Yes?" he asked.
I gulped. "God needs our faith, in order to fight against the forces of evil. Look at Andalon, she's living proof of that." I sighed a heavy sigh. "I just wish it had taken so long for me to realize it."
I stepped back from the screen and turned around to face it.
"Look at it, Suisei. There it is." I gestured with my hand. "This is the light that we're fighting for."
The Sword was more beautiful than I could have dreamed. It had a shape like a treble clef on an adagio's score, and seemed more woven than forged. Its maker had unfurled glistening silveriness into thin strips and then joined them together in a long, tapered frame. The Sword's components constantly twined around its central axis. They passed through one another, splitting and merging with a watery indifference to the laws of matter.
I plopped back into my plush, enveloping seat.
We spent a minute or two just staring at the Sword.
Suisei gave a solemn nod. "In spite of everything that's happened to me, the time I spent in the Sword's presence was a blessing of the highest order."
"Thank you," I said, with a bow of my head. I conjured some tissues to wipe my face. I looked up at the Sword once more. "This means more to me than words can say."
It was proof that Andalon's cause was the right one.
After another minute, Suisei spoke up once more. "Are you ready?"
I was about to nod, when a thought occurred to me.
"Is this my world's Sword?"
Suisei closed his eyes and shook his head. "Though I don't know for certain, I suspect the answer is no."
"Any reason why?"
"We already know that there is a multiplicity of worlds. One Sword per universe is more parsimonious than a single Sword that passes from world to world."
"So, it isn't my God's blade," I said.
"Not necessarily," he replied.
"What? How?"
"As great as the Sword is, the Angel was even greater still. It might be that He existed as one being across many universes. In fact, by the same token, it might be that the different Swords are similarly connected. So far, though, I just don't know. It's the sort of thing a man of faith calls a mystery." He nodded. "Anyways… let's continue."
I let the memory play.
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