Peculiar Soul

I have had to endure yet another endless paean from the Batzar lauding my contributions to the security of Mendian, despite this having been a particularly sedate year; perhaps their effusive praise is meant to remind people that I am terrifying in lieu of any real opportunities to demonstrate such.

It was not an entirely useless speech, however, because it gave me cause to contemplate what exactly I am meant to protect. The obvious retort would be Mendian, yet there is considerable nuance in that definition. The Batzar, for example, vacillate between asset and outright threat; one moment I am securing their position - and in the next, I must contemplate undermining it.

The Batzar, therefore, is not what I protect. I suspect that there is no one part of this country that I would not cut away from it if need be, for the reality of Mendian ever falls short of the country I truly serve. That country has never yet been realized, and may never be. Yet it is ever-present in my thoughts.

My guess is that patriotism is this way for most men. It is ultimately a loyalty to myself, to my own vision of what might be that strives ceaselessly to escape the close confines of my mind and make itself felt upon the world. It could be called arrogance; I say it is the affirmation that my mind, my thoughts, and my life are worth marking upon the world.

- Leire Gabarain, Annals of the Sixteenth Star, 689.

The cutter was as fast as it looked. Their course took them rapidly up the coast, past Leik’s harbor. They were distant from it, not drawing close to the broad shallows and breakwaters that gated the port from the open ocean, but that was no barrier for Michael. His sight ranged wide to take in the city as they passed. The abandoned stretch of the Ardan camps had been more or less cleaned up, scavenged for supplies - but the grid of it was still clearly visible in frozen, denuded soil, and scraps of wood and canvas littered the ground.

Starker still was the vista below the ship as it passed, a dark landscape of wreckage leftover from when Leire had attacked the Safid fleet. Battleships sat rusting against the sea floor, their upper decks marred by deformed, globular metal that had been liquid-hot when it struck the water. Skeletal remains still crewed most of them. Michael hadn’t realized how many Safid had died that day, burnt by the light or trapped within their molten hulls as the ships sank inexorably downward.

But the Mendiko ship was already far distant from those wrecks, speeding on obliviously across the waves. Michael grimaced and pulled his sight back to the moment. He was not alone on deck, as the ship’s lower cabin was crowded beyond its capacity. Even the wind and chill of the winter sea could not keep everyone bound up in those smelly, stifling quarters, so a few men huddled here and there where they would not interfere with the crew.

None of them talked with Michael. Most had no clue who he was, for even if they would have recognized Michael Baumgart, they had seen pictures of a young man with dark hair and an unblemished face. This burnt, bald stranger just beginning to sport patchy dark bristles across his scalp, who stared at nothing with his blank eyes - he was best avoided.

There were others who knew who he was, of course, but they avoided him for other reasons.

Michael smiled and turned back to the sea. The land was barely a dark line in the mist, seen from the boat, but his sight had found a familiar beach pocked with debris and driftwood - though the rowboat that had been there was nowhere to be seen.

Time had not moved the corpse of Elias Keller, though. It was hidden from view, barely noticeable even through the skeletal brush of winter, but the bones and ragged clothes stood out plainly to Sibyl. Michael wondered if the man’s mother was still alive - if the military had told her that her son was a traitor and a deserter, or if their institutional obliviousness ran so deep that they had paid her a grieving mother’s sum despite Michael’s actions. Some things were beyond his sight, even now; he found that fact mildly amusing, that such a mundane question should remain unanswered despite everything.

Further still was the town where he had met Sobriquet, with its small tavern and garrison. Roland, the barkeep, was still polishing glasses with his meaty hands. The garrison was deserted, the prison wall still gaping wide where Charles and Gerard had opened it for Michael’s escape. It took slightly longer to find the hideaway where Sobriquet had lived, tucked away between basements; it was difficult to distinguish it from the surrounding structures even with Sibyl’s sight - which, Michael realized, may have been entirely the point.

It was empty as well, its beds disused and its stores of food and gear mostly pilfered. There was no need for a resistance in Daressa, for the enemy that menaced them now was not one that could be defeated with force of arms. Michael stood looking at the dark and dusty hideout for a long time, trying to remember which of the beds had been his - until the gentle feeling of someone standing by him drew him back.

Antolin had walked up to stand by Michael, leaning out with his arms on the gunwale rail. He did not speak, but when he saw Michael’s attention shift to him he smiled and nodded out to sea. “Difficult to believe it’s all under threat,” he said.

“Yes and no.” Michael licked his lips. “There’s no cloud here, but there will be. I’ve never had this soul when the world wasn’t under threat, but already I can tell that what it can see is - shortened, cut away from the fullness it should have. It’s a bit terrifying, honestly; I can barely tolerate it even so.”

Antolin hummed his agreement, returning his eyes to the waves. The sun had begun to set, and the sky over the distant shoreline was gaining brilliant hues of gold. “I suppose that for you the world must look very different. Not as small as it used to look, nor as dangerous.”

“It’s big and dangerous enough, thank you,” Michael muttered. “My souls don’t change that. They just make me part of the terror.” He drummed his fingers on the rail, then turned to Antolin. “That’s not going to get any better when I defeat Luc.”

Antolin’s eyebrow quirked up. “You were rarely this confident before,” he noted.

“It’s not that I think I’m infallible.” Michael managed a small smile. “But in the alternate case, it doesn’t really matter how I feel. If I lose, the world ends for everyone. If I win, it only ends for me.”

A frown gripped Antolin’s face, and he straightened up. “We were hardly planning to abandon you, after. You’ll have to be cautious with the Star’s soul, but it’s a far cry from being dead.”

“Far from this, too.” He splayed his fingers out, letting the wind rush between them. “But that doesn’t matter much. It’s a problem for me to deal with afterwards. What I have to do, and what I’m going to do - that can’t change.” He let his hand drop back down. “All of the ways ahead vanish into the dark, even the ones where I think I win. There’s nothing to see there but scattered images, things that I can’t draw any sense from. I see Luc, as though nothing happened to him. I see Sera, Zabala - you and Lekubarri too, actually.”

“Gratifying to know that I persist,” Antolin chuckled. “Lekubarri, less so. Is it wise to ask what you saw?”

Michael shrugged. “If I had gained wisdom, this might be easier. All I have is sight.” He laughed at his own joke, finding it perhaps a bit too funny for the moment. “I don’t know, all I can see is fragments. I see you standing - on the airship, actually, I hadn’t put that together until Lekubarri proposed using it earlier. It looks like we’ve been roughly-handled, there’s blood on Zabala’s face - but you’re all determined, and focused.”

Antolin nodded slowly, straightening up from the rail. “That does sound like a likely place for us to be,” he agreed. “But you can’t see how we get there, or what happens after?”

“All of the clear paths end when we enter the storm.” Michael grimaced. “That sounds dire, but it fits with what Sofia said about Luc and I, that we blot out Sibyl’s sight. It doesn’t mean that we fail.”

“But it does limit the utility of your foresight.” Antolin grimaced. “I suppose that would have been too easy.” He said nothing more, and for a time the two men stood at the rail and watched the sun set. The coast was far away now, and only open ocean surrounded them - save for a small blot of rock in the distance. Michael frowned at it for a moment before his memory yielded the answer.

“The Rock of the Strait,” he muttered. “It’s been a while since I came by here.”

Antolin’s head came up, and he smiled at the insignificant nubbin of an island. “We’ll be in Mendian soon, or at least her waters. The guarantee of safety means less than it used to, but it still makes me glad to see it.”

“It’ll be my first time actually sailing past it.” Michael lofted his sight up, trying to get a sense of where they were, but realized an instant later that he only had his own hazy recollections to compare with; the memories of Jeorg stilling the water, of the black Ember steamer rushing closer as blood spilled out across the deck-

He shook his head, using Antolin’s steady calm to draw himself into a different moment. Sunset, rather than sunrise, and they were already closer to the rock than they had ever been on Otto’s boat. “I wonder what would have become of me if I had reached Mendian,” Michael said. “Arrived with my soul still unknown, with Jeorg at my side. I expect Leire would have figured it out before too long.”

“I’d never bet against her,” Antolin agreed. “Likely you’d have ended up working with Leire, building affinity to ensure that the Star stayed with us. You’d have taken her role as our protector, advancing our science and defense to guard against the day when Saf finally challenged us.” His smile slipped away. “And we would have waited for that day, in all likelihood, rather than rebuking Saf as we did. Built up our arsenals. And when Saf came at us with whatever souls they could muster, our answer wouldn’t have been you alone, or perhaps even at all. It would have been with a hundred of Lekubarri’s bombs on the land that used to be Esrou, Daressa and Rul.”

Michael hummed, seeing a hundred points of blinding light in his mind’s eye. “In the end, I don’t suppose I’d trade everything that’s happened for an easier road,” he said. “It’s not even about the price that would have been asked, or who would pay it. If events had unfolded any other way, I wouldn’t be the same person.”

“Something of a truism, since any man may say that at any point in his life.” Antolin’s smile crept back. “The salient concern is whether the man you are is worth sacrificing for, worth defending. If he’s a better end than any of the countless others who might have been.”

“I don’t know if I’m the best version of myself that could have been,” Michael laughed. “I’ve made plenty of mistakes along the way.”

Antolin raised his eyebrow. “And why do you assume that the best version of yourself is the one who made no mistakes? In my experience, men who have never experienced a significant error are either foolhardy with mistaken confidence or so timid that they never do anything of much account.”

Michael watched as the rock drew closer to the ship. “The monks in Tsekh, too afraid to place their feet.”

“Precisely. Having instead decided to do something with our lives, we’re better-served looking at our destination than our footsteps.” He nodded at the island as it drew even with the ship, sliding quietly past. “And speaking of destinations, I expect we’ll be able to radio Estu soon. I need to make a few arrangements to ensure that the groundwork is laid for our visit to Goitxea. If we are going to do this without the Batzar’s involvement, I’d rather they never lay eyes on us until it’s too late to intervene.”

“Really?” Michael grinned. “You were so scandalized at the thought before.”

Antolin let out a weary sigh, chuckling ruefully. “I’m afraid my long association with Leire has left me somewhat more flexible than I seem where rules are concerned. I object, of course, because it is my duty. But in the end my duty is to Mendian above all. If I’m willing to die serving her, then certainly I can sacrifice my career and freedom instead.”

“You really expect to be dismissed and jailed? I should hope that they’ll extend some credit for saving the world, should we succeed,” Michael muttered.

“Which is why it’s so crucial that we avoid stepping on the Batzar’s toes unnecessarily before the deed is done.” Antolin winked at him, turning towards the bridge. “Try to rest, if you can. I have a feeling that once we reach Goitxea, things are going to move very quickly indeed.”

Despite Antolin’s prediction, their approach to Goitxea was anything but rapid. First, they were obliged to spend most of the night traversing a series of locks that brought them to the strait’s central lake, and from there they were directed in a roundabout pattern that brought them to the naval port on the northern extent of Goitxea’s coastline just as the sun was rising. At this distance, the towering spires of the city’s downtown looked small and still in the morning haze, with no hint of the bustle that Michael knew surged around their base.

But as he directed his sight closer, crossing the immense distance in the span of a thought, he saw the daybreak flow of people moving on foot or in Mendian’s ubiquitous herd of vehicles. There was no desperation in this crowd, no hint yet of the panic that had gripped the continent to their south. It seemed wrong, somehow, though he could point to no reason why a city this far north should panic. If the storm did reach them, then there would be little point to rushing around; there was no comparable city north of here that could hold so many refugees.

He sighed and let his sight drift back towards the boat, which was nosing gently alongside the pier. Officers and sailors milled about on the quay, and some few waited for the ship to dock-

Michael straightened up, blinking, as he saw Ricard waiting there on the docks. The old man was in a thick Mendiko jacket, standing on his toes to peer up at the ship’s deck. A grin split Michael’s face, and he jogged up to the cutter’s railing, then vaulted lightly over it to land on the dock. That maneuver drew a few reproachful stares from the Mendiko sailors, but Michael’s focus was entirely on Ricard.

The old man’s face lit up as he saw Michael land, shuffling over as fast as his old legs would allow to wrap him in an embrace. Michael returned it with as much force as he dared. His life had been in flux for months, and in the past few days it had been troublesome even keeping himself moored to the present moment. With Ricard near, though, radiating a steady haze of love and pride, he felt as solidly present as he ever had.

“What are you doing out here?” Michael asked, pulling back to arm’s length and grinning. “This was hardly a planned visit, I only knew I was coming late yesterday.”

Ricard’s eyes twinkled. “Your friend the Grand Marshal was kind enough to send word over the wireless that you were arriving. A pair of sailors came around to pick me up not long ago; Helene will be along before you leave again, she insisted on making you some food for the trip.”

“Of course she did,” Michael laughed. “I’m glad I won’t miss you two as I dash in and out. We’re going to be-” He paused, the weighty context of his visit intruding on his moment of happiness. “We have to depart as quickly as we can, back to the south.”

“Mm, the message said that you had a task of grave importance,” Ricard said. “Which almost goes without saying, milord. It seems to me that everything you do these days touches on matters of consequence.” His eyes lingered on Michael’s scarred face, his blank eyes. There was no sense of surprise from him as he studied the injuries.

Michael smiled, touching his fingers to his face. “That’s not all the message said, I’d wager; you’re very kind to avoid mentioning how I look. I’m surprised you were able to recognize me.”

“It would take more than a haircut and some burns before I didn’t know you, milord,” Ricard sniffed. Still, the old man’s face drew tight as he looked more closely, seeing extent of the damage. “How are you holding up?” he asked.

Michael smiled at him. “Well enough. Honestly, I barely think about it anymore. My mind has been entirely on the storm growing in the south. I’m trying not to let it weigh on me.”

“That’s all we can do some days.” Ricard patted him gently on the shoulder. “We don’t always have control over what’s asked of us. We can only choose our answer.”

It was harder than Michael expected to muster a smile at the comment. Ricard’s eyes narrowed. “I know that look,” he said. “You wore it every time you came back from one of those dreadful treatments without a soul. I can’t for the life of me imagine what it’s still doing on your face.”

“I’m concerned, I’m allowed to be concerned,” Michael protested. “This isn’t like me not living up to some whim of father’s, Ricard. My failure here would mean the death of millions. I don’t plan to fail. That doesn’t mean that the consequence disappears. I promise you that I will do nothing but sit and relax once I’ve dealt with this, but until then - I shall maintain an appropriate level of concern.”

“Apologies for saying so, milord, but - balderdash.” Ricard glared up at him, softening the look with a fond smile. “You will do your best, and you are the best. If you should fail, and the world should fall down around our ears, then it was simply meant to fall. But I don’t think it shall. It’s a stubborn old world, and has endured more than one powerful idiot throwing a tantrum. There are always good men who rise to stop them, and that is what you are.” He reached out and squeezed Michael’s hand. “A good man. Your answer will be the right one, when the moment comes.”

Ricard’s words rang like a bell in Michael’s ears, suffused with a resonance that was more than mere sound. It was an overtone that harmonized with what he felt from Spark, with the love and warmth that blazed from Ricard with every word. It was his conviction - his truth, Michael realized, for in the swirl of sensation and tumult that had followed Sofia’s death, he had nearly forgotten that among Sibyl’s gifts was that of the verifex, the ability to see - not merely truth, Michael realized. Sibyl saw that Ricard’s words were an extension of himself into the world, offering a glimpse of what shone within.

He felt a tightness in his throat, and stepped forward to fold Ricard into another hug. “Thank you,” he murmured. The two men stood in an embrace for a lingering moment, until the gentle thump of ropes on the dock announced the cutter’s arrival. Men began to swarm around where they stood, and Michael once again pulled back with a smile.

“I suppose it’s time for you to get on with business,” Ricard said.

Michael looked back at the cutter as its gangplank dropped, then turned back to Ricard. “No need to rush,” he said. “I can catch you up on where I’ve been-” He paused, the image of his father’s frozen face staring at him from memory. “Ah. I went to Ardalt, Ricard.”

“And?” The old man’s smile had slipped away with Michael’s. “Did you make it to Calmharbor?”

“I did, as a matter of fact.” Michael paused. “Father is dead.”

“Is he.” Ricard looked thoughtful for a moment, then shook his head. “Ah, well. I can’t say I’m surprised.”

Michael blinked. “You’re remarkably sanguine about it.”

“I knew what I was doing when I left him,” Ricard said, looking up at Michael; his voice was calm. “He needed help, and despised needing it. I doubted that he would find it in himself to ask. It appears that I was right.” He raised an eyebrow. “Are you sad that he’s gone?”

“No - yes.” Michael shook his head. “I’m not sure. Anyone dying should be sad. I’ve looked at dead strangers - dead enemies, even, and felt some species of pity for them. It strikes me as wrong that I should have felt so little seeing him there on the floor.”

Ricard smiled, shaking his head. “That’s only natural, milord. A stranger could be anyone, but you knew your father - I knew him even better, most likely.” His smile faded. “What sort of person he was. Am I wrong to guess that he died alone, in desperation, having driven away anyone who would have offered aid?”

Michael swallowed dryly, licking his lips. “You’re not wrong.”

“Because it’s not surprising. He was always going to die like that. That it is today and not next year, or the year after - that might have changed. But there were only three people who might have given him a different end than the one he found. He killed one of them, and the other two are right here.” Ricard sighed, and for a moment every year of his age sat clearly upon him - then his eyes found Michael’s once more. “And the fault is with him, not either of us.”

There was nothing more to say, after that, so Michael hugged Ricard again. When he pulled away, it was to make space for Sobriquet as she came down the pier, sweeping in with a smile to embrace the old man.

He returned it with enthusiasm, eyes twinkling, then straightened his bulky coat. “So glad to see the two of you again,” Ricard sighed happily. “Mendian is a lovely country, and they’ve treated us well, but we’re still Gharics in the end. A familiar face is very welcome, especially yours.”

“Maybe when this is all over we can see about arranging a visit to Esrou,” Michael said. “How long has it been since either of you were back?”

Ricard frowned. “Helene went back - fifteen years ago, was it? Her mother had passed, and your father took her absence with such ill grace that neither of us so much as raised the subject ever since.”

“I remember that, barely. Mother was still alive, she was furious with him.” Michael shook his head. “I haven’t thought about that in years.”

“Perhaps we can go together,” Ricard said, smiling. “That would be lovely.”

Michael’s heart twisted, and he felt Sobriquet’s silent pang of sympathy. It would be lovely, but there would be no room for that in his life - not with Stellar lurking inside him, confining him to Leire’s palatial prison.

But he let himself imagine it, so as not to spoil Ricard’s mood, and put his arm around the other man’s shoulders as the three of them began to walk slowly down the dock. Sobriquet came to his other side, and he took her hand. He felt their touch keenly, and did his best to commit the feeling to memory such that it would never fade.

“Yes,” Michael agreed. “That really would be lovely.”