The Covenant of Knives was rigidly hierarchical. Every individual was assigned a place, a role and a function. All dwelt within the narrow confines of that role, did not dare slip outside its bounds or challenge its assumptions. Yet not all were content.
      Ramsay strapped the blade against the whetstone with easy, practiced gestures, applying just the right amount of pressure, turning the blade every seventh stroke, bending over it and whispering, urging it toward perfection. Perfection lay within the blade but it required patience and concentration and devotion to bring it into being. The clash of metal and scrape of stone resounded through the chamber, echoed up into the vaulted roof overhead. It was a chorus of praise and adoration, a unique paean to their god.
      To either side of Ramsay other acolytes worked with equal ardor, their faces intent and absorbed. So closely in manner did one resemble the other that they appeared cast from one mold, endowed with one spirit. Torchlight cast a warm yellow glow over their bent heads. It flashed and glittered upon the metal blades, embellished the fine, honed edges with a crescent of fire. At intervals one of the acolytes would give a cry of exultation, voice rising in a high-pitched ululation of triumph and vindication. God dwelt here amongst them, revealing himself in the din of stone and metal, in their passionate and unceasing pursuit of perfection.
      Ramsay held his blade up to the light. The edge sparkled and glittered, coruscated with blue fire. The metal seemed almost a living entity, endowed with consciousness and will.
      “Is it not a thing of beauty and wonder?” The acolyte seated next to Ramsay, a man named Corlis, gestured at the blade. Corlis had huge hands and shoulders, and a rough, pockmarked countenance yet his eyes were as gentle and lustrous as those of a doe. “It is a revelation of god, imbued with his presence.”
      Ramsay cast a sidelong glance at Corlis. The coarse features radiated warmth and sincerity, exuded a sense of pride that was stripped of any taint of self, was wholly an expression of his devotion to the Covenant and to its mission.
      “It is beautiful,” Ramsay allowed, his voice almost grudging. He turned the blade, watched the blue fire dance up and down along its edge. The knife seemed to convey strength and power to his arm, a sense of oneness with a force beyond himself. For an instant Ramsay felt almost content, replete with his faith. Then doubt and resentment bubbled up again, clouding his face. “Tell me, brother,” he addressed Corlis, “how long has it been since first you joined the Order?”
      “How long?” Corlis turned toward Ramsay and Ramsay could see his soul burning deep within his eyes. “It is eight years, just shy of eight years.”
      “And you are…” Ramsay hesitated, cast a covert look down the length of the chamber to where the Abbott sat, tallying silver coins upon an abacus, “content?”
      “Yes, of course. Why would I not be?”
      “Do you not feel a certain lack, a deficit?” Ramsay listened to the clash of metal upon stone, felt it resonate in his bones. “Do you not sometimes wish for more?”
      “I am content,” Corlis repeated simply. “If more is to be allotted to me I shall embrace it as god’s design. If not, that too I shall embrace. It is all one, so long as one serves god.”
      Ramsay passed his tongue over his lips. He lay the blade of the knife flat across his palm that he might feel its weight and solidity, its power. “I believe otherwise.” Ramsay’s voice was hoarse, laced with frustration. “To labor tirelessly in such a fashion, to perfect the instrument of god’s will—yet never to wield it?  Surely this is to ask too much.  It requires too great a sacrifice—however ardent a man’s faith and however deep his commitment.”
      “You are mistaken.” Corlis grasped the knife he was working on, held it aloft. The knotted veins and tendons of his fist seemed to pulse with blue fire, even as the blade did. The knife, the arm, the man himself were one unit, one instrument, forged from identical materials, animated by an identical will. “Knife and man are one, indistinguishable, bound in a union holy and indissoluble—consecrated for all eternity. All else is illusion, all else is sacrilege.”
      Ramsay vaulted to his feet, goaded to fury by the rigid orthodoxy, the precise articulation of doctrine laid down centuries ago and granted no license to grow and evolve. “This union is a sham, a hollow pose!  It is an aching void that feeds upon itself, consumes its own vitality.”
      The clash of metal faltered, died away. Silence rushed in to fill the chamber. “This relationship of which you speak,” Ramsay raised his eyes toward the vaulted roof overhead, “it is a fiction!  It is dry, desolate, barren, an empty womb. And how could it be otherwise?” Ramsay seized his knife, swung it through the air, inscribing an arc of blue fire. The metal seemed incomparably beautiful, infused with power and bright promise. “For the union has not been consummated!  It is held in prospect,” Ramsay’s whole body shook, his eyes blazed, “yet it is a promise always in the offing, never upon us. Well, no more!” 
      Ramsay flung aside the heavy leather guards each acolyte wore upon their arms. He rent the woolen cassock, mark of his Order, to his navel. His eyes glittered with a messianic light.
      “Witness!” Ramsay planted the point of the knife against his flesh, drew the blade across his belly. Agony exploded in his abdomen. Blood spilled forth in a torrent. Wave upon wave of blue flame washed over Ramsay’s consciousness, ascending in power and magnitude, carrying him higher, always higher. All that was rooted in the mundane earth fell away from him. The slow, stifling death of denial and submission was not to be his. He had seized the bright promise.
      He and the knife were One.