Matter Arising

Sir Wolff lies abed, exhausted from his labours in the name of the Order. He feels more worn from the ministrations of the Magistratum than anything else though. As he had once told the Grand Inquisitor, he would do his duties for free; for meetings and all the other claptrap, he would take thirty pieces of silver a year.

And in his bed, toiling against invisible restraints and the daemonic influences out of Kadath the ancient, Sir Wolff finds himself talking into the darkness.

Sir Wolff, are you threatening us with your consecrated blade?

No, I am not, your Eminences. I am but a landless knight, and my blade is old.

The truth is that the blade you wield was consecrated by the Order and belongs to us, does it not?

It is true, your Eminences, that my blade was consecrated by the Order. Bishop William himself sealed it to holy service. But the blade does not belong to you. It is my inheritance.

How shocking. Do you say that a consecrated blade of the Order does not belong to the Order's Magistratum?

No, your Eminences; I say that a blade consecrated by the Founder may not be bought by the Magistratum.

Muttering. The Grand Inquisitor's lips curl.

Sir Wolff, it may not be bought because it is the property of the Magistratum. We are the true heirs of the Founder, in law, and in spirit, and in truth.

My lords magistral, this is a claim of truth. We can test such claims. Will you face the Sword? It has two edges.

You will not hold a bare weapon in this room.

No, I will not, your Eminences. But the Word is the Sword; the Sword is the Word, and it is naked at all times. It is a fire, and I cannot hold it and live. You have called it, and it comes eagerly forth. Will you not speak to Truth, and let Truth speak to power?

You are dismissed! Sir Wolff, take that thing out of the room. Now!

Wolff smiles. For a moment, the silver in his teeth seems to glimmer. He is unarmed, as always, but suddenly, he seems like an army, a host in the moment before the bloodletting begins.

Are you dismissing me from the Order, my lords? For I can no more take Truth out of the room than you can take the room out of Truth.

No, of course not! You are a loyal servant of the Order, we all know this. But your behaviour is inexcusable and your manner is insolent!

I look to the hills, your Eminences. If there can be excuse or explanation for my behaviour, it can only come from the Maker himself. When the matter of His Truth arises, nothing will stop it. It makes me free, my lords, free indeed.

Sir Wolff stalks off, and suddenly, he is in his bed again. It is morning, and he has slept through the night. He smiles, and in the corner of his tiny cell, the naked blade of his forefathers laughs.