The Comfort Of The Knife

I let the wind tug at my uniform, and imagined it would lift me from the roof so I might take flight in pursuit of my father’s killers. The rapid tap-tap-tap of Melissa’s shoes pulled me back from my fantasy. I turned to face the door, back pressed against the chain-link fence that lined the roof’s perimeter. Melissa swung the door wide and joined me. Her face was red from exertion. Her normally wide eyes shut tight as she gathered herself.

“How’ve you been?” I asked.

Her head whipped up in astonishment. “You don’t get to ask that?”

“Why not? It’s been a week since we saw each other,” I said.

“And whose fault is that,” she grumbled.

I couldn’t help the fact that a smirk formed on my face. Melissa looked even more heated because of it. She looked so cute pissed off.

“What are you smirking for?” Melissa asked. The heat in her voice already cooling.

“Just surprised you could actually get mad at me there for a minute.”

Her shoulders slumped. “I don’t want to be mad at you. You just ran off into the night a week ago, and I hadn’t heard anything from you.”

I shrugged, “Didn’t you hear, the temple went down. No Newnet until a SIRD researcher can come out to design a replacement.”

“You could’ve left a note.”

“Perhaps the absence of a note is a message in itself.”

The wind tugged at our uniforms. Silence was usually short-lived between the two of us. Since Dad’s death, it seemed to have found the perfect conditions.

Melissa tossed a package at me. It was wrapped in brown parchment and tied off with twine.

“What’s this?” I asked.

“Your clothes. Mom repaired them. Had them laundered too.”

“Why?”

Something broke in Melissa again. I noticed it more this time. She seemed sadder by my lack of understanding. Her eyes were wet, but she pushed aside any nascent tears.

“Cause we care about you you fucking idiot. My mom remembered making these clothes. Your mom designed them just for you. My mom couldn’t let you just lose these.”

I tugged the package close. Tilted my gaze up toward the sky with its fat springtime clouds. They were a shade away from rain.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” she said. “I care about you too. When you took off I. . .”

“Worried I’d do something stupid?” I offered.

She shook her head. “I worried about where you’d sleep. Then when you didn’t show up to class for days, that’s when I worried you did something stupid.”

“Most of the house is fine, surprisingly. Still livable. Just empty,” I said. “As to not coming back to school. . .I was busy sorting through the shadows of my dad’s life. Most of it was paperwork. Left me little time to plot.”

I made my way to the door, but Melissa hooked my sleeve with a finger.

“Why are you here then?”

I glanced over my shoulder to her, “I needed information.”

My attempt at playing coy didn’t last long. The answer found her as she trailed me down the stairwell and into the first year hallway. Where the crowd of students parted around me, Melissa had to dance between them to keep up. Hardly benefitted by so many being taller than herself. When we neared the next stairwell she finally broke free from the crowd and raced ahead to cut me off.

“It’s the spiritual?” Melissa said.

The ends of my lips quirked upward. She really was a little problem solver.

“Is that a question, or your answer?” I asked.

She re-stated, “It’s the spiritual.” I nodded in affirmation. Melissa continued, “You need to know what your mass and density are so you can see what you can safely summon and bind.”

“You’re making assumptions,” I said. Then I lowered one of the arms she held up to block me, and slipped by. In my passing I whispered, “Safe isn’t in my criteria.”

Her hand fled to her ear. Behind her the crowd of first years let out little “ooo’s,” and “aaaaah’s,” unaware of any of what we were saying. Freshmen were simple like that. Melissa, to her credit, kept herself as composed as she could. I flashed her a puckish smile.

“Promise me you won’t do anything reckless?” Melissa asked.

“Meet me on the roof afterwards. We can share our results,” I replied. Then disappeared beneath another turn of the stairwell.

***

I was in my seat by the time the bell rang. Similar to Melissa, the majority of the class held questions for me. They perched on the edge of propriety; oh how they yearned to know. I raised my head from my hand and locked eyes with each of them. Assumed the kind of wilted and pleading smile they no doubt expected of me. I nearly chuckled when I saw how shame settled upon their shoulders. Some of them didn’t even notice that they were standing until they found themselves touching the cool wood of the chair.

When the teacher walked in she nearly jumped at the sight of me. As if I was some entity here to remind her of her undoubtedly imminent demise. That was the weird thing I had learned over the past week. People do feel bad that you suffered a death, but they feel bad because they’re a little bit happy. Death could’ve found someone they loved or even themselves. By that same measure, I realized I had become marked by death’s grace as a result. My presence was as good as the real thing. Meant that children, like my “peers,” were intrigued and sought questions of that which was still alien to them. While adults responded like my teacher. With great unease.

She settled behind the lectern. Gathered herself before she said anything.

“It’s a pleasure to have you back, Ms. Temple,” Mrs. Fizeri stated.

“Can her last name still be temple if it burned down?” one of the boys muttered.

“What the fuck, Beau?” one of the girls asked.

“Settle down,” Mrs. Fizeri said. Her voice wobbled as if underwater. A sign that she had exerted an edict over the room. One of the sorceries she possessed due to her entity being from the Court of Tyrants. My eyes leaned toward it, a child-sized stele with a relief of a six-eyed bull’s face carved into its lapis surface. One of its eyes opened and held all us all in its gaze. Ready to spot—and punish—any who refused to settle and thus denied the edict she set.

“Now, I know that what has happened to our town is shocking and appalling. No doubt you all have questions, but your desire to make sense of this will not come at the loss of the peace in this classroom. Nor will you deny Ms. Temple’s own peace,” she then turned to me, “I do apologize for my rudeness when I walked in. Are you well?”

I shrugged, “Who can say? All I know is I just want to finish out the year. Not much time left.”

“That there is not. Speaking of time, while access to the NewNet is down all papers must be handwritten.”

More eyes had flitted over to me after that point. They needed someone to blame now that they couldn’t psionically transcribe their paper anymore. I rolled my eyes, granting them grace from my judgment. I hadn’t much to spare at the time, as so much of myself had become committed to my cause.

That includes my memory. I don’t remember what that last class was on anyways. Don’t even remember what it was on. All I do recall is how she saw us out when our class block was called. She had said, “You’re about to get a lot of information, and you’ll be expected in some way to build a future for yourselves on it. Just remember that you build your futures, not whatever you learn in this one spiritual.”

The lot of us sat there in a final brush with contemplation. We didn’t quite get what she meant. I think I only get it now by way of irony. Mrs. Fizeri, you see, built a future as a teacher using Tyrant sorcery. Decidedly unconventional. Maybe I shouldn’t have remembered her saying that. Things might have been different.

But I did remember, and I was already on the same page as her. If I was to avenge my dad I needed a power that no one would expect. Unfortunately, there are hundred-and-twenty-one Courts that an entity could hail from. Considering that I’ll most likely prove only capable of summoning one of the Soldiery—the lowest in the Chain of Vassalage—I would be faced with a near infinite number of options. If I was fair though, this wasn’t just true for me wanting to murder five people. All of us seniors, no matter our goals, had to decide what singular entity we would summon and bond with. A bond we’d likely be stuck with for the rest of our lives as we teeter upon the knife’s edge of control needed to stay sane and free. It was why the spirituals were invented to help us narrow down this infinity of choice to something more manageable. No more farmer sons going insane because they lacked the spiritual density to control an entity from the Court of Cultivation.

We traveled as a pack down to the practicum building. It was basically a massive veranda that stretched out behind the school. Whole thing was built atop long pools over the marshland back during the thirtieth year of the Changeover. The founder believed that peace would be in sight. Poor guy was off by ten years, and died during the tenth. His son became the principal. He had said he knew what I was going through, but standing there in the practicum I knew he didn’t. His whole purpose still stood here, a sign his father existed, and something that became beloved by an ideal it stood for. My dad’s sign was ashes now. No one would remember he built that thing after moving to town and hearing the story of the school. That he wanted to help safeguard the New World by helping educate those of us born into it.

Tears rolled down my eyes as I settled on one of the measurement mats the nurses had laid out. I looked up to the researcher in front of me. He was a mousy one with round glasses. Like all of the researchers that came to administer our spiritual, he was fulfilling part of his exam to upgrade his license. Meant that he was still pretty young and affected by feminine tears.

He stuttered through his statement, “Ma’am, I’m here today to administer your spiritual musculature examination. Do note that I hold a Level two license with the Association of Sorcerous Advancement which you might know as AoSA. If you wish to be examined by a researcher of a higher level you may request it. If you understand this information, do you wish to proceed with the exam?”

“I do,” I said. Tears rolled down my face.

He got his voice under himself. “You know if this is too hard to do right now, you can postpone your exam. Some studies have shown that being in a non-ideal condition can impact examination results.”

A muscle in my face twitched tugging up the side of my mouth. Humored that anyone—that I—would delay this moment simply because I was crying. That I was grieving. I replaced my face with a confident one. Tossed my curly little pixie cut.

“I’ve read the studies. Let’s proceed.”

He answered with a nod. Tapped the shrine standing next to him with his foot.

“In a moment I’ll activate this shrine and you will find yourself in conditions similar to being in the Underside. This means you’ll be subjected to a temporary dosing of Conceptual Space. Are you ready?” he asked.

I nodded. We began. He arched and tented his fingers with both hands shaping the hand-spell needed to activate the shrine. It looked like a jenga tower where some mad man removed bricks from every single level. No method or consistency. When the shrine was activated a cloudy light shone from within. It revealed that each brick was made from what looked like thousands of smaller micro bricks. The wood grain was the pattern of their arrangement. While at a shrine scale, it was indeed temple-sorcery at work.

The examiner leaned forward in surprise. I hadn’t closed my eyes when the Conceptual Space fell over me. Most people did to avoid any accidental sanity degradation from the experience. Me, I looked at my arms as if I’d never seen them before. My body and clothing had fallen away under my sight. Gone was the tenderness of flesh, and in its place was a red metal with a complex rain-drop damask pattern that crossed my body in binding stripes.

“I’m a Metallic,” I said.

“You sound disappointed,” he said.

I shook my head and my hair followed as if underwater.

He chuckled, “It’s okay if you are. Studies have shown children all want to find out they have a Radiant musculature.”

“I’ve read the studies,” I muttered in tacit admission.

“Then you also know there’s no proof that your musculature controls any aspect of who you are or what you’ll go on to do.”

I did know. We all do, but it doesn’t stop the little traits we can’t help but notice. Phantasmals are flighty. Fluids noncommittal. Plasmics—short for Ectoplasmic—were clingy. Metallics, like it seemed I was, are obsessive. Crystalline are self-righteous. While Radiants, no one ever had a bad thing to say about them. Why they’re said to have a Hero’s Musculature. Who wouldn’t want to have that.

“If you’re ready, I’ll be placing the weights here,” he pointed to the trio of circles in front of me. “We’ll be starting at fifty undergrams.”

He grabbed a fist-sized sphere and placed it into the fifty undergram circle. The weight immediately shot up into the air. Was at least an extra foot above. He removed the sphere from the air.

“Let’s try a hundred,” he said.

Then replaced the fifty undergram one with a sphere about the size of a head. When he let go I slowly levitated into the air. A breath of excitement escaped me. The examiner nodded in approval because we—the weight and myself—weren’t yet level. He added the fifty undergram weight back in. He rolled past his fingers, and I rose a few inches more. He tilted his head and then shook it in disbelief. We still weren’t level. From there he grabbed two ten undergram weights and rolled one in. Not level. Then the other. Level.

“Fuck,” I spat.

“Hey, a hundred-and-seventy undergrams is nothing to be unhappy with,” he said.

I waved off the admonishment. “I wanted to hit two hundred.”

“You kids always do. Even if you did hit two hundred you’d be advised to not summon anything with a coefficient beyond one point three. There’s too much risk trying to take a Baron when you haven’t tussled with one of the Soldiery.”

He was right and we both knew it. Back in the Changeover people focused too much on the first spiritual. Granted, it was likely their only spiritual, and so they fixated on skipping the first link in the Chain. It rarely went well. My fists clenched, but when it did. I let out a breath as he slowly removed the weights. My body lowered back to the mat.

“Density is next,” I said.

He formed a new hand-spell and I levitated back into the air. His hands twitched and tweaked the spell. Sometimes I rose and other times I lowered. As he worked he said, “To measure your spiritual density I’ll be adjusting the conditions of the Conceptual Space. Once we have you settled against the ground we’ll know. So please be patient.”

Unlike the mass test I had no way of knowing the numbers he was working with. All I could do was sit and hope it was a good number. I had no intention of skipping a link in the Chain, but that didn’t mean I wanted to stay there for that long. While my entity would determine what coefficients I needed to challenge the Baron it never hurt to have yours be above two. When I finally settled onto the ground he unwound his fingers. Scrawled a number down onto a slip of paper.

“You have a coefficient of one point twelve,” he said.

I wanted to scream. The sheer gulf between my mass and density was horrible. Besides being out of proportion it meant that while I could attract a potent entity the odds I could retain control would be horrible. My teeth ground together. I looked up and saw the researcher stare at me. He pitied me.

“My measurements please?” I asked, hand thrust out.

The man tore off the slip and handed it over. From there it was a quick hand-spell to deactivate the shrine. I left the practicum post-haste. Most of my peers milled around to discuss their numbers. Gossip over their futures with one another. I just wanted to hurry up and finish the damn thing.

When I left the room I joined the newly sprouted line leading to the guidance counselor’s office. It moved quickly. I soon found myself sitting across from a woman only a few years older than me. Her eyes were bright and her face squirrely. The office was a mess as four filing boxes corralled her behind the desk.

“Name please?” she asked.

“Nadia Temple,” I said.

“Oh, you’re here?”

“Just trying to finish out the year.”

“That’s very good of you,” she said. I think she even brushed aside a tear. So touched. Then she bent over and began rooting through one of the boxes. Another convenience made a casualty by my dad’s demise. I mourned him by appreciating the guidance counselor’s choice in fashionable shirts. A hard thing to find with her size.

“Found it!” she declared before she settled back in her seat. She flipped it open and scanned a snapshot of who I no longer was. Then she slid between us her chart model of the Courts. Most folks referred to it as the “Isles of the Underside,” seeing as so much of the chart was empty. A map to the limited information kept on the Public Record. I stared at the map trying to divine at what intersection of Principles I would find my murder weapon.

“Are you still interested in temple-sorcery? Your last career survey said you intended to take over for your dad. I know this must hurt, but—”

I cut her off. “No, I don’t. There’s nothing left to take over from him.”

She said, “Nadia, this doesn’t have to destroy your life. Your scores are very good, and between you and me there have been many collectives hounding us in awaitance of your graduation.”

“That’s on them for hoping,” I said. “I want to become a summoner with full combat capabilities.”

“Nadia, you had a Court picked out. This meeting is for finding an entity.”

My voice rose. “I wish to become a summoner with full combat capabilities. Now please, what Court will let me do that?”

She shuttered her eyes to keep the worry in. I handed over the slip with my measurements. A moment later she examined them. Then flicked her gaze back toward me.

“You’re a metallic,” she said.

“Forgive me my stubbornness.”

Her hand cut through my polite attempt at an apology. “Just be careful about what you get stubborn over. I’m a Metallic too, when we get stubborn on something we get hot. Our musculature turns molten as we reshape ourselves. The pattern of our spirit made anew in honor of our fixation. Be careful about what shape you hammer yourself into.”

I didn’t have anything to say to that. Any words would’ve given away my fixation. Better they not know. Better they deny me like they did Dad. Our eyes lock, her and I, and I can’t help but see how wet her eyes are. She breaks first, and picks up a marker to notate atop her chart.

“The most well known combat capable Court on Public Record belongs to the Court of Glory,” she said.

The Court of Glory was one of the seasonal courts. Named as such for how dominant it’d be in the Underside that time of year. Made it easy to find an entity for those whose family couldn’t afford a hunter crew to catch one nor inherited any old summoning circles. Just had to wait until the right time and any generic circle could bring one your way.

“Too common,” I said. “I don’t need a well known Court.”

She let out a heavy sigh. “It’d be helpful if I knew what kind of combat this would be,” she said.

“I can’t say,” and I couldn’t as I didn’t know. “Let’s just go for something adaptable and strong.”

She circled the Court of Tyrants, the Court of Sacrifice, and the Court of Upheaval.

“Tyrants is known to be exceedingly strong,” she said.

“They aren’t adaptable,” I countered.

“Tyrant sorcery makes the world adapt to you. Get good enough and you don’t have to adapt.”

I relented to her point. She continued, “If you go Sacrifice you’ll be able to hit high up the Chain.”

“I just can’t miss,” I said.

“Yeah. Upheaval is one I shouldn’t even bring up as an option,” she said.

She was probably right. The Court of Upheaval’s reputation depended on who you asked. Some would say they were gallant revolutionaries first to imagine a New World. Those that lived through hotzones said all their summoners were butchers gleeful at the slaughter of the Old. Either way, we live in the shadow of their swords.

“Why not?” I asked.

“A Tyrant can still teach. A Sacrifice can become a doctor. A summoner of Glory can do anything. Upheaval. . .” she let her implication float between us.

“What if I want something more exotic?” I asked. She rolled her eyes and withdrew a politely staid book from the shelf behind her. It was a compendium like the Chief Summoner had clutched in her hands when she visited. The book had the official ERO seal in the corner approving of its information. The guidance counselor handed it over to me.

“While the NewNet’s down borrow this. You might find a Court in here to use, or at least cross reference the ruling and advising Principle to find a Court that might work,” she explained.

I reached for the book and she pulled it back. “Don’t seek out an uncharted Court. Your father wouldn’t want that.”

I snagged the book this time. We both held an end. “I never knew you were a friend of my father’s,” I said. She gasped and let the book go. I smiled at her in thanks and left.

***

The Fourth-years had the rest of the day to themselves. Some people studied. Some left for home in a hurry to catch up on sleep that precious currency of high-schoolers. I leaned against the school’s gate mid-read of the compendium the counselor gifted me. I had gained some ideas about Courts in the process. The Court of Rot intrigued me for its offensive and defensive benefits. The Court of Virtue appealed to the part of me that saw my commitment as a righteous one. It wasn’t a big part of me though. I was always pragmatic with these things. Even here the math was simple. Five people killed Dad, and now I’ll kill five people. Perfectly balanced with little room for righteousness to intrude.

“Nadia,” Melissa called out. I bookmarked my page.

“Yes?” I asked.

Her eyes were puffy and nose red. They made me feel worse than any tears could.

“You said to meet up on the roof. I waited for you.”

I looked away from her. Craned my neck to stare down the road.

“I must’ve forgotten,” I lied.

“Sure. And you’re just reading here because the light is good?”

I shook my head and threw her a bone. “I’m waiting. The reading is just to pass the waiting,” I said.

Melissa asked, “Can we still share our results?”

I offered her a smile. “Of course. I’m a Metallic with a Mass coefficient of one-point-seven. Density was one-point-twelve.”

Melissa had the good nature to not wince. She didn’t have the good nature to not smile. She probably saw this as a good sign that’d make me give up.

“That’s totally alright,” she said, “do you still want to hear mine?”

“Sure.”

“Crystalline musculature. Coefficient of one-point-nine for both.”

I whistled and tousled her hair gently.

“Impressive,” I said. Her smile blossomed alongside the rose dusting her cheeks.

She joined me against the gatewall. Her bag swinging in her hands.

“What happens now?” I asked.

“I don’t know. We could talk the future,” she said.

“You first,” I responded. Checked the road again—there was a van down the hill but steadily climbing.

“I got offer letters from a few collectives contingent on based on my success bonding an entity by the end of summer. Though I’m also considering attending the university. Learn a little bit more before I take over my portion of the business.”

“Sounds like a good plan,” I said.

“What about you?” she asked.

“I’m going to join the Summoner’s Lodge.”

She looked hurt by the statement. “Why? With those coefficients—,”

“I can still find a good entity. Just means I won’t have absolute control,” I said. “More so, getting licensed by the Lodge has plenty of benefits and amenities. A comfort on my road to vengeance.”

She shuddered at the word. “You’re really going to do this? Toss away all your options?”

I could hear the van now, so could she. Melissa wracked her brain to imagine who I was waiting for. Her tongue blep’d a bit when she thought too hard.

“Melissa,” she met my eyes, “stop it. It might hurt you to hear me say it, but I’m committed to this. I swore an oath, remember?”

She blushed as the memory came over her. I wrapped her in my arms. The van pulled up in front of the school. Door slid open. One of the crew leaned out, an older woman with raspberry red locs that matched her eyes.

“Hey Temple, we’re headed off,” she called out.

I ignored her for the moment. Instead I squeezed Melissa to keep her from speaking.

“Now, you can either be a tailwind that supports me, or you can be a headwind and impede me. If you’re the latter then I want—I need you—to understand that you’ll be my enemy. I don’t want you to be my enemy.”

“I don’t want to be either,” she muttered.

I tousled her hair. “Good girl,” I said, misunderstanding her. Then pushed her away from me and entered the van.

“You said you didn’t have much time to plot,” she said.

“I didn’t. This step was simple,” I responded. “I’ll bring you a present when I’m back.”

I closed the van door and took my seat. The woman shared with me a look meant for an asshole. She took one glance out the door window to the sullen air that lay heavy around Melissa’s shoulders..

“Does she know what you’re doing?” she asked.

“It’s none of her business,” I answered.

She chuckled, “Okay, coward.”

Then took her seat next to me. The driver put the van in gear and soon the school receded into memory behind us. If I knew it was the last time I’d see the place maybe I’d have looked back. Though, maybe not. I had to focus after all.

The driver announced, “Hunters, next stop is the Underside!”