Peculiar Soul

I’m not sure who I’m writing to anymore, if not you. There was a peace to knowing that you would be waiting at the end, and a balance. The man who started this odd new chapter of my life would be the one to bring it to its close.

I wanted it to be you - but I’m not sure I ever knew you. I saw what I wanted to see, what I ALWAYS tried to see, but there are no perfect men. A harsh standard, I know, but what else can withstand the power of a soul?

Our minds are the weak link, even as they are our strength. The drive to improve is central to our being. Yet there is no direction there, nor is there a limit; the same impulse that drove us to build a grand factory that can feed or clothe thousands will tell us to staff that factory with children because they may be paid a quarter-wage. And I, who should not have had a soul, now have power without direction - without limit.

The world is malleable, and my every breath is a hammerblow. My will, formless as it is, exerts itself upon my surrounds. Every day it grows worse, yet if I set the power aside it will simply pass to you - and through you wreak more destruction still. There are none of us prepared for this burden.

I understand the doctor better now. When faced with a machine so obviously broken and insufficient for its task, there is nothing to do but fall back to that most basic of drives - and improve upon it.

- Annals of the Seventeenth Star, 693.

Gharon streamed by unseen as Michael fled the city. Luc’s trail was easy to follow; the speed of his passage overwhelmed the crumbling buildings, toppling walls and columns in his wake. The dust hung thick in the air as a visible marker of the destruction. Michael sped through it, tasting the ruins on his tongue.

Once again, the power Luc displayed was alarming. Michael’s own potens soul - souls, now - were formidable, but Luc’s effortless speed was well beyond him. For the second time that day, he found himself comparing Luc’s power to one of the Eight. If his speed or agility were somewhat less than Amira’s, that gulf was far slimmer than the one between Luc and Michael.

He felt every bit of that lack as he continued north, imagining that destruction coming into inevitable contact with his men there, with Zabala and Sobriquet. He passed into the outskirts, where brush and stunted winter trees had grown to cover most of the ruins. The only evidence that people had once lived here was a certain unnatural regularity to the terrain, a few weathered bricks peeking out from the soil.

That was not where Michael’s sight fell, though. It was high up, straining to see a glimpse of his quarry. He trusted in Stanza to guide his feet; in truth, he barely thought about the placement of his feet, the motion of his legs. The path he sought was the fastest possible route north, and in forcing himself into the aperture of that possibility the mundane movements of his body proceeded naturally, inevitably, as part of the world he shaped to his will.

His focus was shattered when the first flash of light appeared in the distance, behind a low ridge. Another quickly followed - but Michael felt no rush of souls, low or otherwise, to accompany it. That was his sole source of hope as the attacks continued, still too far distant for him to see any real detail.

Cresting the low ridge that hid Luc from view did not clarify matters; the valley ahead of him was completely full of Safid soldiers. The sight was so bizarre that Michael’s stride faltered for a half-step. Every spot of bare ground held men pressed shoulder to shoulder, clad in Safid uniforms and standing idly by as Luc threw beam after beam of white-hot light among them from the slope. Yet when the steam and smoke had passed, the men remained as if nothing had happened.

Michael let his breath out in relieved realization. “Sera, I love you,” he said. “Is everyone all right?”

“For now,” she replied, terse and strained. “I can’t keep this up forever, there are voices-”

The sunlight flashed across bare ground, where no men stood, but scorched bodies fell away from the air. Michael felt a sudden burst of warmth in his chest, his heart pounding double as he bent his course towards where Luc stood upon the rise.

The other man’s soul still clung in malformed shadow around him, the chorus of screaming rising to its peak every time light flashed out from his hands. Clouds had begun to swirl ominously overhead. Smoke rose from the fires his attacks had lit, plucked away by rising gusts of wind into the sky. Michael jumped into the air; he dove towards the center where Stanza’s glowing lines converged.

Before the next line of radiance could spear out towards Sobriquet and the others, Michael struck the ground. He saw it in the air already, the intent and weight of it written in Stanza’s lattice. That intent vanished as Luc’s eyes widened to focus on Michael.

Luc jumped back and to the side; all around them, the phantom soldiers had begun to fade away. The men that they had masked were concealed in a small hollow, packed together where the land gave them cover. Michael could see where Luc’s last attack had traced a blackened line upon the ground, intersecting the near edge of their group. Several blackened corpses were splayed out near that scar, and more men nearby were staggering dazedly or clutching burnt appendages.

Some officers had begun yelling for the rest to scatter; Michael saw Zabala among their number. But the men were slow to respond. Many had dropped to their knees, clutching at their heads. Some had fallen to the side, staring blankly, others ran with the uncoordinated frenzy of fear. Luc’s proximity was becoming more than they could bear.

Michael took a breath and reached out with Spark, trying to push away the fear. As with the woman back in Gharon, he felt it work - but there was strain, also. Tension. The men rose shakily to their feet and resumed running, their minds still focused on the fearsome aberration behind them.

The man at its center was recovering as well, keeping his distance from Michael as heat gathered to him once more. Light flared at his fingertips, and the intent of his attack reformed in the air. Michael dashed forward. He knew instantly that he was too far distant. Sobriquet was blurring the forms of those running; Luc’s hand wavered between mirages before sending another ray outward. A scattering of bodies dropped smoldering to the ground.

Only two low souls found him, but each one stung like a needle. He lashed out with Sever and found only empty air; Luc was already jumping away. He was too fast, reorienting before Michael could react. His attacks found the fleeing soldiers once more. Men died. Michael’s chest burnt, both with surging light and the painful clarity of realization.

Luc had seen their fight, with Carolus’s eyes. He had seen himself lose - so he would not allow that fight to happen. Michael might be able to press it on him even so, were he to exert all his effort to that end. The effort of buoying the men with Spark, allowing them to flee, was a constant distraction in the corner of his mind. He could stop, focusing his all on Luc, and leave them to fend for themselves.

But even as he thought it, he knew it was impossible. More than just being against his inclinations, he felt the notion run up against the light in his chest - the remnants of those he could not leave behind. It was a covenant, and a commitment. Michael could not set it aside.

As he felt the binds on him, he laughed; part of him had expected to feel hopeless, or defeated. Instead he felt a terrible clarity settle into his bones as paths were discarded. One way remained. He stopped chasing Luc, and instead leapt to stand in front of his men.

Luc met his eyes, a small half-smile on his face - then raised his hand to send another beam of light streaking towards Michael’s soldiers. Michael seized it with Vincent’s soul, trying to catch the waterfall in cupped hands. His low souls flared to steady him against overwhelming power. Barely, with the taste of blood in his mouth, he managed to divert the energy from the beam - but he had no means to contain it. The stolen heat snapped and exploded outward. Light burst in front of him; Michael found himself sailing backwards through the air.

He struck the dirt, tumbling, and came to rest on his back. The sky above was almost totally clouded, now; it spun. Michael spat out a mouthful of grit and shakily stood upright; Luc was walking past him, his eyes locked on Sobriquet and the others. His hand came up once more, the ground crisping with frost; Michael felt the chill of it on his skin. Light blossomed from Luc’s hand-

The world went dark. Panic surged for an instant before Michael found Stanza’s steadying lattice still intact, showing Luc turning resignedly to the north; there were brief, smothered flickers of luminance that snapped around him before falling into shadow.

“They are not yours, heart-eater!” a voice called out, deep and resonant. “They are the faithful, the strong, the guardians of the divine. They are their own men, with their own paths. You shall not have them. I stand before you, and I say: you shall not have them!”

Michael looked to the north and in Stanza’s light saw Saleh standing there, breathing hard, his arms stretched wide; the torrid air in the dark whipped at his robe. Even obscured, Michael could see the exultant expression on his face, the forge gleam of his soul as it smothered everything near. Amira stood at his side, seething with barely-restrained motion. Luc shook his head.

“Seeing the way is different from walking it,” he muttered, turning to Michael. “Too many pieces moving on their own. It shifts. It’s closer. But not here - not yet.” His eyes came up, looking to Michael for a bare instant before his feet flickered against the soil; he disappeared with a whip-crack of sound.

Neither Saleh nor Amira moved, although Michael saw Amira’s eyes hungrily tracking Luc as he fled. He laughed and let himself fall backwards into the dirt; the darkness lifted. “I thought you were still out west,” Michael rasped.

Saleh began to walk unhurriedly to where he lay. “Indeed, I was,” he said. “But when I discovered that there were no great souls among the Ardan forces attacking there, I left capable subordinates in charge and made my way east.” He looked down at Michael, his round face splitting into a smile. “Where I was sorely needed, it would seem.”

Michael snorted. “Can’t say I’m not glad to see you,” he said, lacing his hands behind his head; he was far too tired to think about standing, at least for the next few moments. “We have a problem on our hands.”

“An understatement, if ever there was one.” Saleh ran a hand across the top of his head, which had begun to steam as the cold air reasserted itself; he craned his head to look up at the turbulent sky. “We should discuss it under cover.”

The storm came quickly, drawn by the conflict between Luc and Saleh; the tormented air let loose with a freezing deluge of rain. The men scrambled to make their camp in time, shaken from the assault as they were, but they mostly managed.

Michael found himself in one of the command tents, somewhat cramped now that it held him, Sobriquet, Amira and Saleh, along with a few Safid staff and Zabala for good measure. There was no table, nor any furniture but a few cots. Michael lay sprawled on one of them, still feeling lightheaded from his earlier fight; everyone else was either sitting or, in Amira’s case, pacing rapidly back and forth.

“We believe he’s back in Gharon,” one of the Safid men said. “Our scouts haven’t seen him in person, but the sense of - dread is there.” He licked his lips nervously. “Candidly, holy ones, we may still be too close to the city. Some of the men cannot sleep.”

Michael sighed and extended Spark outward, lightly pushing against the miasma of fear that seeped from the camp; he had taken it as a natural consequence of Luc’s attack, and in all likelihood it was no more than that. The source mattered less than the effect, though, so he worked to gently counteract it as best he could without offering undue strain to the men. The answering pulse of relief and exhaustion more than justified his efforts.

The officer who had spoken felt it too, inclining his head to Michael. “My thanks, Great Holy One,” he murmured.

Saleh smiled at the officers. “Thank you,” he said. “I believe we’ve heard enough. We will deliberate.” It was a dismissal, and the officers heard it as such; they filed towards the exit of the tent, leaving only the great souls - and Zabala, who sat near Sobriquet with his eyes closed.

“It seems I owe you more thanks than I’ve given,” Saleh said, looking to Michael. “To hear my men tell it, you’ve taken up the role of a commander with no small flair.”

With a grunt of effort, Michael sat up. “I hope you’re not about to tell me that by commandeering your men I’ve broken Safid law or something,” he said.

Saleh chuckled. “No, no - far from it, actually. As one of the Eight - or three - you represent a codified exception in several of our laws. Men who feel called to follow you may do so freely, so long as their service does not harm Saf.” He stepped closer, peering down at Michael where he sat. “And that service resulted in the Seer being driven from our lands, and the Sword killed outright, so I’d wager that they’re secure in their choice.”

Michael had to resist shrinking back from Saleh as the other man stood near; whether it was a trick of perception or real heat, it felt like looking into an open oven. “She did run, then? Sofia, I mean.”

“On a ship down the coast, it seems,” Saleh confirmed, his eyes fixed on Michael. “Alone save for her cousin. Very curious behavior. If you had any thoughts on her motives, I would be delighted to hear them.”

“She took her obruors to the city,” Michael said, hesitating only a moment; there was little benefit in hiding anything from Saleh - or anyone, now. Secrecy was a hard habit to break, though, and the words resisted being said at first. “I’m not sure if she originally intended to gather soldiers from Gharon, or if she had her plan laid out before Friedrich and I met - whatever the case, she gave her obruors to Luc and left. Luc’s opinion was that she did it to spite me.”

“Interesting.” Saleh smiled faintly, tracing his fingers over his bare scalp. “What does it say when the one who can see farthest cuts her losses and runs away? Nothing good.” He shook his head. “Nothing good at all. Yet there is hope there. That she thought to tip the scales means that the scales are close to tipping. That she escaped means that we need not face her soul alongside the others. We are tested to our limit, but always given a path forward.”

Sobriquet made a face, and Saleh laughed. “I’m sorry,” he said, holding his hands up. “I deliver enough sermons that I find it hard to say anything else, at times.” He nodded to both of them in turn. “But it is difficult not to feel the path under our feet. You could have come west without pausing to handle the Ardan remnants.”

“As Amira said, once - Friedrich was my test,” Michael said, nodding to her. “Mine to handle. Every time I’ve ignored that, the result has been needless death. It was time for me to listen.”

Saleh chuckled. “She’s a wise woman,” he said, his eyes drifting to the stump of her hand. “When she wants to be.”

To Michael’s surprise, Amira flushed and looked away, cradling her arm against her chest. He looked away as well, feeling like an uninvited intruder into an intimate moment; Saleh’s smile had turned into something more sincere.

“In the end, the Sword passes to you,” he said. “I had suspected it might. It was obvious to anyone with eyes that you and Kolbe weren’t finished yet. It gave me cause to ponder how I felt about the idea before it happened.” His eyes settled on Michael. “Did you know that the Sword had a Safid bearer, before Kolbe?”

Michael nodded cautiously. “I seem to recall hearing that,” he said.

“Zahra Alsaif,” Saleh said. “My friend and mentor, and an example I strive towards with every new day. She found independence from the Cults in secular, military power and wielded it expertly. I’d venture to say that much of our current success in military affairs has its roots in her reforms. True to her soul, she brought - disruption. Change. A revision to the established order, and not a popular one at the time. But change is a mandate; the choice comes in how the broken pieces are forged anew.”

Michael felt an odd chill as Saleh spoke. The sense of heat from the man had not diminished, but his words wormed their way in icy rivulets down his back. It was more than the man’s obvious intent; his observations on Sever’s nature cleaved fairly close to some of Michael’s own. The feeling of walking in anyone’s footsteps was unnerving; to feel it from Saleh was downright uncomfortable.

“She sounds like a very different person from Kolbe,” Michael said, managing to keep his voice even. “I would have liked to meet her.”

“In a way, you have,” Saleh said. “We become our souls, to an extent, and though you have more than most it is impossible to bear a great soul without feeling its weight.” He paused. “I wonder if you might show me what the Sword looks like in your hands?”

Michael blinked, trying to count the ways this could be a trap; in the next moment he decided that it was probably safe. He cast about the narrow confines of the tent until he spied a tiny stone in one of its corners, under Zabala’s cot. He motioned for the Mendiko officer to stand; Zabala did so with a sigh and stepped a few wide paces towards the center of the tent.

Keeping his sight fixed on the stone, Michael drew forth his soul and cut it in two. There was no noise, not even a puff of dust to mark the strike; where there had been one stone there were now two, cut to a mirror polish on one face.

For the first time, Michael saw genuine surprise on Saleh’s face, followed by an outburst of delighted laughter. He clapped his hands together once, then twice, slowly. Michael noticed that Amira had gone very still behind him - not the stillness of fear, but a catlike observation of his handiwork.

“Wonderful!” Saleh said, still chuckling. “Oh, she would have loved you. Not a blade at all, but a parting - and without the fanfare of your predecessor. Yet I do detect some of his influence there.” Saleh’s forehead furrowed. “As detestable was he was, I can’t deny that he found some - wisdom, if that’s the proper term. A powerful, dangerous man. I feel as though those with power of their own could use the occasional reminder to fear such men.” He did not look at Amira, though Sobriquet did; Amira noticed the glance and gave an entirely mirthless smile in return.

Michael met Saleh’s eyes, which had not strayed from him. In fact, they bored into him now with more than their usual intensity. He met them. “Fear is natural when faced with power,” he said. “I know that more than most. But as men we may choose to ignore our base impulses.”

“Instinct is a potent teacher,” Saleh murmured. “One whose instruction is hard to ignore, and often wise to follow.”

Michael inclined his head. “As you say. But when instinct tells you to rethink your opinions, that is only - what were your words? Mandating a change?”

Saleh smiled - he had never really stopped smiling; never did, even if it was just a twinkle in his eye. But this time it was slow, deliberate. Michael could feel the weight of the other man’s attention settle on him.

“As I say,” Saleh replied. “And then I have a choice to make, of how to remake that image in my mind. What do you think would be prudent?”

“I tend to choose trust.” Michael raised an eyebrow. “Unless there’s a compelling reason to choose otherwise.”

Saleh hummed, tapping his fingers against his chin. “You’re a different young man from the one I met a few months ago,” he said. “A change, I think, that is entirely independent from that soul you bear; independent from the soul you snatched away from such a - powerful, dangerous man.” He let his hand drop. “It does make one wonder what sort of man you will be in the next few months, should we succeed here.”

Michael felt the air stiffen between them. Amira had stepped closer to Saleh, her hands relaxed at her sides; her posture was once again loosely predatory, brimming with action. He licked his lips, considering his next words carefully-

“Stop it,” Sobriquet said, glaring at Saleh, then at Michael. “I’ve never understood the joy you people get in talking circles around each other; if that’s what you want then we can put both of you in a room with Lekubarri and sell tickets to the show. But for right now - we have a common enemy. We’ve collaborated before, and we’re going to damn well do it again because it matters this time.”

She jabbed a finger at Saleh. “We’re going to trust you because it doesn’t benefit you to betray us before Luc is dead. And you - you’re not going to trust us with anything. You’re going to trust him.” She turned her arm to point at Michael.

“Which brings us back to our circles,” Saleh said mildly.

“No.” Sobriquet stepped forward, standing closer to him; Amira did not move, but her attention slid quietly towards Sobriquet. “There are no more circles. Just a choice.” She jerked her head towards the general direction of Gharon. “You need to decide if you’re going to be part of the world that exists alongside Michael. There is no other path forward.”

The smile crept back onto Saleh’s face, and he spread his hands. “If you were aiming to reassure me-”

“Not likely,” Sobriquet said, cutting him off. “I couldn’t even if I wanted to, because you don’t care what I think. You don’t let any of it reach you, because you know you’re smarter than me, more powerful than me, more righteous in your faith. I doubt there’s been a person you seriously listened to since this Zahra lady got herself killed.”

Saleh’s face went affably blank. Michael felt the first note of something besides forge-heat from the man, though, an ugly resonance that pushed through the overwhelming glare of his soul.

“I certainly don’t feel as obstinate as you say,” Saleh murmured. “And I do value other perspectives. I wonder, Seeker, if your sight is as clear as you think. I wonder what it would see if it turned inward.”

Sobriquet laughed. “Are you expecting me to claim some sort of high ground? We’re both monsters, you and I. The only difference between us is that I don’t pretend to bear power with any grace.” She took one more step closer, standing within arm’s reach of Saleh. “You are intelligent, Taskin, so you have to know how fucking lucky we are to be having this conversation about Michael, and not anyone else. I know who I would have been with his soul. What I would have done to you and yours. I think you know who you would be, too.”

Saleh looked down at her impassively. Michael forced himself to keep his eyes trained forward, feeling the forge-glow build within Saleh. Amira was a sculpture of steel wire, poised and tense, moments from jumping forward. Michael made to rise from his cot-

“I do appreciate your candor,” Saleh said. The heat died away fractionally; Amira hesitated. “And the ty of such rhetoric turning towards alliance, for a change, rather than war. At the end of the day, though, it matters very little how I feel about matters - because you are right.” He inclined his head towards Sobriquet. “It benefits both of us to work together, for the moment. If nothing else, I can trust in that.”

Sobriquet looked at him for a long moment, then nodded slowly. “Then we’re settled,” she said.

“I do look forward to it,” Saleh said. “However brief our association may be, and I believe it shall regrettably be brief indeed.” His expression sobered. “The threat is as serious as you say. It is customary to bend the language of faith to worldly ends here and there, but I hope you see that I am in earnest when I say that Luc Flament is the heart-eater. To pretend otherwise would be willful blindness, and it means that he must be stopped - at any cost.”

His eyes settled back on Sobriquet. “And to that end, we must all be prepared to sacrifice, to strive - and, in the direst case, even to listen.” His eyes twinkled. “I shall see what I can do about this weather so that we can depart. I think it best not to give our quarry time to catch his breath. Caller, Seeker - be ready to move.”

Saleh’s eyes flitted to each of them in turn, then he ducked out of the tent. Amira followed soundlessly, still oddly-subdued. Michael sagged back into his cot, letting his breath out in a long rush. “Ghar’s blood,” he muttered. “I thought I was going to have to pick you out of Amira’s teeth.”

Sobriquet snorted. “She’s at least honest,” she said. “We don’t have time for Taskin’s games, not now. You shouldn’t indulge him.”

“So very sorry,” Michael said dryly. “We all know how easy he is to lead around in a conversation-”

She rounded on him. “I’m serious,” she warned. “Don’t let him play the rival to your power. It’s what he wants. It’s the only way he gets to stay important in this new world where the Eight don’t matter as much as one idiot Ardan.” Sobriquet held her eyes on him for a long moment, then punched him lightly in the shoulder. She sat down beside him on the cot.

“I’ll try,” Michael sighed. “It’d be simpler if we could focus on one madman at at time.”

“We at least have some time to rest, even if it isn’t likely to be long,” she said, squinting up at the tent roof. “I think the rain is slackening already. Try to rest. I know how hard it is for you to get new souls.”

Michael grimaced. “Just a few low souls this time,” he said. “A few too many, but it could have been worse. I thought for sure he’d have killed more ensouled.”

Sobriquet turned to look at him with an odd expression on her face. “He did,” she said. “A whole squad of potentes, a few scalptors and some assorted others - more, probably, but I don’t know the total tally yet. Strange that none of them came to you.”

“It’s not so strange,” Michael said. “Affinity isn’t that easy to build - thankfully, or I’d be in a worse state than Luc right now.” He frowned. “I didn’t know so many had died.”

“There wasn’t anything to do against him. It was - terrifying, I’ll admit. Worse than Sever. Luc doesn’t question if what he’s doing is right, or if it’s best for the future. There’s no human left there. Just a faceless legion of dead.” She shook her head, shivering. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Michael nodded, letting his head sink back as much as the uncomfortable cot permitted. “And hopefully never will again,” he muttered. “If we can hold things together just a bit longer.”

She had nothing to offer in response; Sobriquet laid down on the cot beside him and listened to the fading rain on the canvas above.