Chapter 396: The Power of the Blade
"Faith," the artificer snorted. "Faith is nothing more than a window dressing that disguises the strength of will. Give me that," he said curtly, snatching the slate and chalk from Ignatious’s hands and wiping the diagram of the summer sky away so he could begin to sketch.
As he did so, Virve stiffened behind Heila’s chair, her amber eyes narrowing dangerously. Heila’s hand twitched, momentarily wishing that she had something to throw at the artificer the same way she’d found small seeds to pelt Jacques with when he said something both oblivious and uncouth. Only Ashlynn’s raised hand, moving in a quick, subtle gesture that nevertheless drew everyone’s attention, prevented an immediate response to the artificer’s rudeness.
"The hilt is the center of a trap, just like you believe," he explained, his gaze fixed too firmly on the slate to see the dirty looks his action drew not only from Ignatious but from Virve and Heila who bristled visibly at the sight of someone disrespecting one of Lady Nyrielle’s progeny. Next to him, Aspakos raised his hands in a gesture of helplessness while giving the enthusiastic artificer a look that Erkembalt had always been this way.
"When a person grasps the blade and attempts to use it, the blade will attack them," Erkembalt said, oblivious to the dark stares his actions had attracted. "But the attack is actually very weak at the beginning. It’s like arm wrestling," he explained, looking around for a volunteer.
"I think I understand," Aspakos said, placing his elbow on the table and holding up his taloned hand for Erkembalt to grasp. Ever since delving into the mysteries of the founder’s art, his taloned hands had become increasingly bound, unable to touch any tool or weapon. When it came to examining the blade, anything he attempted was certain to cause a backlash, but this much, at least, he could still do to help his old friend. "Tell me how you want me to resist."
"Like this," the artificer said eagerly taking a seat and grasping his friend’s hand. "When the sword reaches out to the wielder, it pushes, just a little," he said, demonstrating by applying light pressure to his friend’s arm. "If my friend is weak and offers little resistance, the blade will press him gently to the table," he said, demonstrating with slow, even pressure.
"What happens when the sword wins the ’arm wrestling’ contest?" Heila asked. "Is that when it burns someone?"
"Not if it’s a proper test," Ignatious said before Erkembalt could speak. "If the Church went around burning the most promising Templars every time one of them faced the trial of a blade, they would be doing the next best thing to severing their own arms."
"Remember," he explained, speaking as though he were teaching a young class of acolytes, repeating something he had said many times. "The Church teaches that life is a struggle and a person must rise to meet their struggle, in this life or the next. Those who fail when struggling against the blade are only exhausted and unable to use any sacred arts, what you call sorcery, for a period of several days."