Peculiar Soul

The mockingbird alit upon a branch beside the raven and bade him good morning. The raven replied that it was evening already, and bade the mockingbird good evening.

The mockingbird laughed at this, saying that the sun rose and fell in turn. He said that there was little difference between either end of a day, and that he did not care for the distinction.

The raven scoffed at this, and warned the mockingbird that he would be thought of as a fool if he insisted that dawn and dusk were the same.

Not the same, the mockingbird said. He told the raven that he knew very well which was which. A good morning and a good evening are both good, and that is the greater share. All else is a meaningless distinction.

The raven was still vexed, and asked the mockingbird why he insisted on being troublesome if he knew one from the other.

The mockingbird replied that some creatures do not think much at all unless they are troubled to do so.

- Pre-Gharic Ardan manuscript, vellum, c. 500 PE

Michael felt a thread of ice coil around his spine. “What do you mean by that?” he asked. “Are you saying the Ardans are prepared to move within the week?”

“I’m saying no such thing,” Marcus demurred. “Because if they question me with a verifex, I must be able to give them an answer that keeps our childrens’ bellies full. But - you are free to draw your own inferences, and make your own plans. Perhaps you will show up with something more than a promise in hand, and we will see what sort of conversation ensues.”

“I understand,” Michael said, feeling a profound disquiet. “I suppose I’ll have to see what I can do.”

Marcus arched an eyebrow. “You accepted that rather easily,” he said. “Usually men try to negotiate when handed bad news.”

“I’ve been getting the bulk rate lately,” Michael snorted, shaking his head. “No. You’ve been reasonable.” He gave Marcus a flat look. “That said, you really shouldn’t trust the Ardans. There’s no future with them.”

“Hence our conversation,” Marcus said wryly. “I’m aware that the Ardans didn’t wake up one day with a powerful nostalgia for their Gharic roots. They want something from us, and I’d like to be in a position to refuse that request if need be. That means cultivating other options. You’ve very kindly offered us one.” He raised an eyebrow at Michael. “But like the Ardans, I worry about what you hope to gain from this. I’ll accept any aid you want to offer, to be clear. Pride is not a luxury I can afford. But I would be more comfortable if I knew why you’d offer anything at all.” He narrowed his eyes. “What do you want from Ghar, Michael?”

“I’ve been asked a similar question before,” Michael muttered. “Honestly, nothing. I want this conflict to pass you by, and Sobriquet would prefer that no harm comes to you.”

There was a murmur from the others at Sobriquet’s name; Marcus’s eyebrows came up. “She is here as well?” he asked.

Michael’s response was preempted by a patch of air that grew suddenly dizzying and uncomfortable to the eye; the Gharic contingent took an alarmed step back as Sobriquet’s apparition formed in the darkness of the granary.

“That’s better,” she said, her buzzing tones cutting harshly through the air. “Gets easier to hear like this.” Her featureless head turned to settle on Marcus, who laughed nervously and ran a hand through his hair.

“Oh, my,” he said. “And I thought my speech would be the high point of my day. So glad to meet you in - well, in presence, at least. You could say that I’m something of a professional admirer. We’ve drawn no small amount of inspiration from your exploits over the years.”

The apparition turned to regard him; to his credit, he only looked a little nauseous. “Michael is telling the truth about the Ardans,” she said. “I fought against them for years; even before they were swept up in Luc’s madness they couldn’t be trusted. They’ll use you, and they’ll discard you when it’s convenient for them.”

Marcus smiled gamely at her. “Do you know,” he said, “many of us were saying similar things when we heard that the inimitable Sobriquet had decided to throw her lot in with the Mendiko. I’ve fought against them for years as well, albeit in a quieter fashion than you’re accustomed to. Yet you seem to have weathered their friendship rather well.”

She made a discontented noise; there was a long pause. Finally, she spoke. “I won’t try to change your mind,” she said, “because I know what it is, to stand where you’re standing. Keep your eyes open, though. If there’s an opportunity to gain space from the Ardans, you should take it.”

“Your warning is heard, and appreciated,” Marcus said, inclining his head. “If we should find ourselves with an opportunity, I hope to enjoy another conversation of this sort.” He looked back to Michael. “Perhaps there will be a better path forward at that time.”

Michael nodded. “Until then,” he said. He turned, beginning to walk towards the granary’s arched doorway, but Marcus spoke once more in airy tones.

“It’s a pity you had to visit Gharon during Frost,” he said. “The dreariest month, in my opinion. This time of year, the only good weather is down near Litora on the south coast.”

Michael did not reply, but found a small smile as he walked out into the city.

The door to the barracks room slammed open, shuddering alarmingly on its hinges; Zabala looked up with an unimpressed expression. “I told you they wouldn’t listen,” he said.

“Next time I’ll show up with written letters of intent from the Ardans,” Michael muttered, turning somewhat sheepishly to straighten the door. “A few talkative prisoners. Written statements. Bills of lading from their damn ships.”

“Just the prisoners would probably be enough,” Sobriquet said. “I’m not sure what you expected, Michael. It’s little more than implication and rumor from someone they’d be happy to arrest if they could. Even if Bidarte liked you, he’d be an idiot to move on that alone. And he doesn’t like you.”

“He made that abundantly clear,” Michael said disgustedly, turning from the door and pacing to the small pile of supplies they had managed to scrounge up; he eyed it for a moment, then turned to Zabala. “This will last what, a week?”

Zabala coughed. “If you hate us,” he said. “Half that if we’re to actually eat.”

“Then we need more,” Michael said. “Field gear, some weapons for the men, more food - and a boat.” He looked up. “There has to be one somewhere around here we could steal.”

“Oh, wonderful, it’s been nearly a month since I did anything that could see me court-martialed,” Zabala sighed, rising from his seat. “The supplies can probably be obtained legitimately, on the excuse that we intend to set out on foot. Bidarte has undoubtedly been told to keep an eye on us. I doubt he’ll actually stop us from leaving, though, even if we take one of the smaller patrol boats. I’ll walk down by the pier on my way back from the quartermaster’s office and pick a likely target.”

Michael gave him a grateful nod. “Thanks,” he said, still feeling restlessly indignant. “It should be simple enough to navigate down the coast to Litora, at which point I’m assuming the Ardans will be easy to spot. Ghar doesn’t have enough going on within its borders to mask a significant military buildup.”

“You’d think,” Sobriquet muttered. “And yet Mendian seems utterly oblivious to the unfolding disaster.”

Zabala shook his head, grimacing. “Inertia,” he said. “We’ve spent centuries not caring about Ghar’s inner workings. It’s an irrelevant vestige of a country, kept only as a reminder to those that would cross us. That anything arising from Ghar could be significant to greater Mendian is inconceivable.”

“Idiots.” Michael looked around the room; Michael and Sobriquet had commandeered the largest of the available rooms, meaning it had become the de facto command center for their operations on base. The other men were there, half-listening to the conversation amid card games or repacking gear. “I want to set out tonight. Marcus didn’t give me a concrete timeline, for all we know the Ardans are already marching.”

“The patrol boats are Ember steamers,” Zabala pointed out. “It’s why they’re so small and fast.”

Michael looked at him. “So? I’m an Ember.”

“Ember steamers,” Zabala said, deadpan, “are not typically very functional at night.”

Michael muttered some half-articulated profanity, then paused. “But I’m a lucigens.”

Sobriquet gave him an odd look, blinking a few times. “Embers need light to - wait.” She frowned. “That can’t possibly work.”

“Why not?” Michael asked, a smile spreading over his face. “It’s not like anyone’s ever had the opportunity to try.”

The wind swept over the cold metal deck of the patrol boat; Sobriquet and the others huddled near the engine house at the back of the deck. It bore the arrangement typical for an Ember steamer, with a raised platform in the aft to afford its Ember a good vantage on the day’s sunlight. A small boiler rose below the platform, within easy reach of its occupant. The ship as a whole was cramped for this many people, with barely enough room belowdecks for them to squeeze in with their supplies.

“Any time now,” Charles rasped, his teeth chattering. “Before we freeze fast to the deck.”

Michael frowned. “Give me a moment,” he said, pressing his hand against the icy metal of the boiler. “This is tricky.”

He stretched out with his lucigens soul, feeling the sparse heat of the air around them. It was odd thinking of something so cold as having heat, but it was there - dim and stubborn, resisting his efforts to pull on it. Heat lurked in the metal of the ship, caught in its vast metal beams, all the way down to where the vast reservoir of ocean water seethed beneath them.

Michael concentrated until he saw its dim light clearly, every piece of the world around him shining in warm tones behind the blinding beacons of his companions on deck. Carefully, he grasped at all of the heat that wasn’t theirs - and pulled.

Light burst around him, shining from his hand; Lars stumbled back, while a few of the others shielded their eyes. Towards the shore, a man began to shout in Mendiko.

“Michael!” Sobriquet hissed. “We need to be moving, not announcing our presence to every-”

“Yes, yes,” Michael said, gritting his teeth; he tried to bring his calorigens soul to bear, grasping at the light radiating from his hand. For a moment he almost had it. Vincent’s soul grabbed the light, greedily drinking it in and flooding the metal of the boiler with heat. Wisps of steam rose up from around it, but as quickly as it began the flow of energy guttered out. Michael lost his grasp on the tenuous heat from the world around him.

He scowled and focused again, trying to hold both flows in his mind at once. It proved more difficult than he expected; the shouts from the dock intensified. He saw lights coming on in the darkened port office, silhouetting men with weapons that streamed out into the night’s chill. He saw Charles nervously shift his bracers to his hands, an amorphous blob of metal turning sharp-edged, ready for a fight.

The sight stuck with him. Artifices drew from both ends of the axis of Form. They destroyed and recreated structure, changing a substance from one form to another. Yet - there was no point at which the material was truly destroyed. It simply flowed between states at their command.

Michael turned his attention back to the problem of heat. It lurked all around him, everywhere but where he needed it to be. It abhorred the idea of concentrating in one point, seeking to disperse itself through water, metal and air evenly. Yet - that was just another flow. Another process.

He turned to Stanza and watched the icy seascape redraw itself in golden wire. Heat bloomed beneath the latticework, shining through; Michael stretched his free hand out across the shifting lines. “The winter sea grows colder still,” he murmured, feeling the churning water around them drop precipitously in temperature. His chest flooded with a burst of raw heat, clawing, raking across his ribs. Michael struggled to maintain his focus, envisioning the heat flowing through him, emerging within the boiler.

It resisted him. He knew what he had to do, what he wanted to say next, but the world around him refused to comply. A spike of panic lanced into him, his confident words from earlier ringing mockingly in his ears. Why not? And yet the world still demanded a reason why.

Michael grit his teeth and gave it one. His low souls flared in incandescent glory, wrenching the flow of heat from the abstract corners of his mind into reality. For a single brilliant moment, the world that had towered over him shrank to a manageable size. He grinned, barking out a coarse laugh. The words came easily now.

“Let the boiler drink its fill,” he rasped. The metal screamed in protest as heat slammed into it, melting its icy contents and sending a surge of steam racing down pipes to the ship’s propellers. Everyone aboard staggered as the deck gave a great lurch forward. The groan of straining metal cut under the sudden wind. A moment later things stabilized; Michael stood, sweating despite the chill darkness as heat poured through him from their surroundings. Zabala cursed and ran to take the helm.

The boiler was steaming vigorously in the night, beginning to glow red-hot with its exertions; Michael carefully choked the flow of heat down until the pressure dropped to something more reasonable, the steady churn of the propellers pushing them forward through the water.

Sobriquet was wincing, holding her hand to her head and glaring at Michael. “Close call,” she said, peering back towards the docks where a growing mass of soldiers was watching them pull away, milling uncertainly against the waterline. “But I suppose they’ll be hard-pressed to chase us, since their steamers are bound at port until the morning. An excellent theft, Unai would be proud.” She peered at him. “Are you all right?”

“Fine,” Michael said, breathing hard. The heat still pulsed through him in a burning river, settling into a channel. “It’s just - new. It’s easier now that I’ve learned the trick of it.” He shook his head, letting his shoulders relax. “It’ll be easier still when the sun is out, though.”

“You going to be fine until then?” Sobriquet gave him a suspicious look. “Did you sleep at all before we left?”

He grimaced. “I haven’t slept since Emberday,” he confessed. “But I feel fine.”

She hummed, but did not respond. Michael felt her concern in a steady, low beat. She gave a slow sigh, and it ebbed into silence. “Then I’m going to go belowdecks,” she said, “and hope that Marcus wasn’t lying about the weather down south being better.”

Michael nodded and watched her go, then let his attention settle back on the flow of heat still pumping through him, lifeblood for the metal beast surging under his feet. It felt natural now, despite the effort it had taken to begin the process - or to think of the proper solution in the first place.

He found himself smiling as Jeorg’s voice echoed within him. What you had as a base was the idea that the problem was difficult. And by rights it should have been; Michael had never heard of heat-artifices before - calorifices, perhaps. Yet there had never been someone like him to try before.

His mind studied the thought. It gave him satisfaction at first, but as he pondered the implications of what he had done satisfaction gave way to a slow, gnawing terror until the vast sweep of the night sea seemed to shudder and twist in sympathy. There was little in this world more fundamental than the domain of souls, which allowed for unspeakable power even within its limits.

But limits were not for Michael. Not anymore.

He felt his breath speeding, the heat within him beginning to buck and twist wildly; with an effort, he calmed himself, guiding his mind away from the fear. Fear wears ruts in the mind. He stepped away from it, letting the specter of limitless power shrink into something more clinical, removed from his base fears.

Perhaps there was nothing left that was strong enough to steady him, should he stumble. Perhaps the world was too fragile to bear him. But he could be strength as easily as peril, and the world had plenty of the latter in Luc.

If I mis-step, I will kill someone, he had said to Sobriquet.

“So don’t,” he murmured, remembering her reply.

The bracing wind made a nice contrast for the heat within him, in that moment; he smiled into it. For a time there was only the wind, the stars, and the rhythmic noises of the boat as he drove it forward across the water. Before long, though, Michael’s attention turned back inward, to the flow of heat within him.

To the single soul that directed its flow.

He could still feel the presence of the souls he had gained from Vincent and Voss, but they now felt like two ends of the same piece. The terror that sat restlessly aside in his mind raised its voice at this, but Michael focused firmly on the reality of what he saw. On the implications.

When he saw Luc’s runaway growth in Ardalt, he had despaired of ever matching his strength again. Indeed, when he had failed to kill Luc after Carolus died, it had felt like the last opportunity to check Luc’s ascent had slipped away.

But Luc had no low souls, insofar as Michael knew. He had never spoken of them to Luc, nor had he talked of his experiments in forcibly changing his spector soul. What he had just done, forging some sort of bond between the two ends of an axis, was likely beyond Luc.

It was an advantage. Yet not one he was equipped to exploit, since he lacked souls to oppose a potens, durens or spector. There was only one other matched pair available to him; it was so foolish a notion that he discarded the idea immediately.

Inevitably, though, his thoughts slowly worked around to the subject of Stanza and Spark. He touched both souls, feeling out their boundaries; either one of them beggared his lesser souls combined in terms of raw power, to say nothing of the confusing, abstract notion of their function. Michael still wasn’t entirely sure he knew how Spark worked; he was absolutely sure he didn’t understand Stanza.

His attention wandered as he focused more on the two brilliant souls within him; the flow of heat to the engine sputtered and twisted. Michael fumbled with it for a moment before reestablishing the steady flow, a smile twisting at his lips despite the near-failure.

Michael had no idea what he was doing. But here, charging through icy water under a starlit sky, it was enough that there were directions he could explore, questions he could ask, paths aside from the bloody path that Luc had set for himself.

He grinned at the stars and urged the boat onward.

Morning came before long, and with it enough sunlight to heat the boat’s boiler on its own. Michael let the flow of heat drop and grasped the warm morning rays, seeing them briefly scintillate in jeweled splendor before the world around him dropped into blackness. He sent his sight higher to peer outside the inkblot.

They had worked their way around to the true south coast of Ghar overnight, although they had some distance yet before the southern extremity of the peninsula. It was likely that they could have made better time cutting farther from the coast, but the seething winter sea made that an unappealing prospect - so they hugged the shoreline, snaking their way gradually south-west.

The seas grew worse as they continued, though, rocking the boat side-to-side with perilous force. Zabala woke from a too-brief sleep to wrap his soul around the ship, reinforcing the metal against the relentless assault from the waves.

It was the only reason the ship did not sink immediately when it rammed into a rocky outcrop lurking beneath the water’s surface; Michael saw the ocean draw back between waves to expose the glistening black rock a bare moment before the boat hit it. There was a screech of metal; Michael was thrown forward from the boiler and sent skidding across the deck.

Cursing, he grabbed at the rail to steady himself as the ship caromed sideways, its aft towards the shore. “Is everyone all right?” he shouted.

“Fine,” Sobriquet’s voice said, sourly. “Not the most pleasant way to wake up, but fine.”

Charles emerged from the deck hatch, soaking wet, a foul expression twisting his face. “Lars!” he yelled, stomping towards the helm. “You’re damn lucky we had Zabala-”

Lars emerged from the ship’s helm, bleeding freely from a cut over one eye; his face was already beginning to bruise. “Sorry!” he gasped. “Never tried to take a ship this big through seas like this before.”

“I nearly didn’t get that patched,” Charles growled. “As it stands we’ve got water up to my knees down there, and the pump isn’t working. We’ll have to bail out somehow.”

Michael caught himself as the ship pitched again; the wind had caught the drifting stern and was pushing them closer to the shore, helped along by the relentless waves. He shook his head. “This is going to happen again if we keep on,” he said. “We can’t risk the shoreline or the open ocean anymore, not when the sea is like this. Lars, can you steer her into shore?”

“Not well,” Lars said dubiously. “It’ll be a beaching, and we won’t get her back out again.”

Michael nodded. “That’s fine. The boat served its purpose; we’re probably within a day or two’s walk of Litora, and we’ll be less conspicuous arriving on foot. It will give us some options besides immediately fighting any Ardans we see, at least.”

Charles grumbled at that, but soon enough they were bracing themselves as the boat ground against the rocky beach. The artifex hopped down to draw spikes from the hull, anchoring the boat firmly into the rock; a moment later he simply tore away a section of front hull. Water gushed out across the newly-formed ramp, but when it had cleared they had easy access to offload their supplies.

That part went quickly, and before the sun had risen to its height they had set off towards a distant, battered road that Michael saw some distance from the coast. It was not a promising track, when they reached it - it bore the appearance of a well-built road, artificed stone bonded tightly to itself and sunk deep into the sandy soil. From the overgrowth, though, it was obvious that it had suffered little traffic in recent years. Sections of it had succumbed to time, cracking and washing towards the coast; other parts were buried under thick mats of soil and vegetation.

“Has to lead somewhere,” Lars said optimistically.

Charles snorted and kicked at a stray tuft of grass. “But not someone, from the looks of it. If there were any villages using this road, they’ve long ago gone elsewhere.”

“Good thing we’re not looking for a village, then,” Michael said, shifting his pack. “Zabala, can you help us out?”

The fortimens gave a groggy nod. “For a bit,” he said. His soul stretched out, and the others stood straighter under the burden of their supplies. “I’d appreciate this being an early night, though.”

Michael grinned. “I think we deserve it. Come on.” He began to jog along the road, followed by the others. They made decent time considering the state of the path, speeding along vast stretches of deserted coastline. The road continued on along the coastline, disappearing for long stretches into forests or beach dunes that had subsumed its stone surface. A few times, Michael was sure that they had lost the path for good, only for it to reemerge later under their feet.

It was good that it did, for it was their sole companionship on the long, lonely journey. They did pass a few villages, or what might have been villages in centuries past. All that remained now were stone foundations and a few lonely chimneys huddling under vine cloaks.

At the third of these, Michael called a halt. The sun was beginning to dip lower, and though they had plenty of daylight left it was unlikely they’d find a better spot to rest before night came, driving off what little warmth the sun had managed. This particular village sported a white stone building that was almost intact, its three remaining walls sheltering a small grove of trees that had grown up inside. There was just enough space between them to make a comfortable campsite.

Zabala fell asleep almost before they had stopped walking; Richter and Leo nudged him to the side and draped a blanket over him. They began the business of clearing out their campsite, with Richter starting a small fire to cook some dinner. Michael found himself wandering through the desolate town, walking past squarish stone outlines that marked where a house once stood.

There were signs of the old buildings, if he looked closely enough. One had the remnants of an old earthen stove still standing in a corner; another had a partial wall with a space for a window. He paused at these, wondering who lived there - who their children became, and where they went when this village died.

“You’re brooding,” Sobriquet said, walking up behind him. Her hand found his, squeezing. “Nervous?”

Michael shook his head. “Just thinking,” he said, looking back to the ancient house. “People lived here for a long time - hundreds of years, maybe. Yet one day, someone was the last person to live in this house. Whether it was war, famine, or something else entirely - they did away with what they knew, what their family had always known, and struck off elsewhere.” He paused. “I was wondering what they thought, in that moment when they abandoned their - foundation, their solidity, and decided to risk it all on the world.”

Sobriquet gave him a flat look, pulling away. “You should stop thinking,” she advised. “Or at least pick less maudlin subjects. The people who lived here left because they had to, most likely. Land has a draw to it, but ultimately it’s because it gives you what you need - shelter, food, water. If it stops providing, you do what you have to do in order to survive. You adapt.”

“So they adapted,” Michael murmured. “Changed to fit the circumstance.”

She shrugged. “Or they didn’t. Plenty of people cling to ideas that are killing them. Either way, the structure didn’t have value, nor did the land. People left and didn’t return.” She paused, peering at his face. “Why do I get the impression that you’re thinking about something foolish?”

“I’d say it’s because you know me,” Michael said, leaning over to kiss her on the forehead, then straightening up with a sigh. “You’re probably right. I should enjoy tonight; it’s likely to be the last quiet, peaceful night we see in some time.”

Sobriquet nodded. “Just like old times, right? Sleeping rough, walking across country. Hard to believe we’ve come this far from where we started.”

“Quite a ways left to go,” Michael said wryly. He turned back to the camp, but paused to glance at the old building once more. “I have a feeling we’ll find our way through it, though.”

“And now you’re strangely cheerful,” Sobriquet noted.

Michael laughed, pulling her back towards the warm light of the fire. “Why not?” he asked.