Peculiar Soul

Talk of reclaiming the continent dances in wide and delicate circles around the subject of Mendian, which is strange considering the extent to which it pervades the fabric of the War. Troops conduct themselves according to the Code of Goitxea, strategies contort to accommodate a whispered word from the Mendiko ambassador. This great War of ours is between the Safid and the Gharics, yet neither of us are the most important figure in it.

How did this come to pass? Simply because the Mendiko wished it so. Not out of concern for the civilians their code protects, nor for the welfare of the nations they puppet. No, the driving force behind Mendian has ever been fear - fear of the masses that choke the bountiful hills and plains south of their refuge.

From the first day that their scattered tribes united to repulse Gharic incursions across the strait they have steeped in it. When they bid the last Emperor of Ghar to cut his own throat in return for protection of Gharon and its surrounds, it was not justice they sought - it was deterrence to soothe that ravenous fear.

More than one thousand years of paranoia, steeping in their cold mountains, using metal and burning light to ward away the torments of the world. They have built for themselves a paradise, a spun-candy world of comfort and leisure. Yet fear is all they feel, because they know it will never be enough. Their fortresses, airships, their vaunted technology are ashes; everything in this world fails save for faith, and Mendian has none.

- Saleh Taskin, On Reclamation, 687

“In here?” Michael asked, pointing towards a nearby door.

The slender aide who had taken him from the holding cell nodded his head once, gesturing for Michael to go on ahead. The door slid open easily to reveal Sobriquet and Vernon already rising from their seats to greet him.

They looked rested, their clothes either laundered or replaced - Sobriquet had adopted a fresh blouse and trousers to replace her bloodstained garments from the road, and Luc had traded his castoff rags for a smart outfit with long sleeves. On his hands he wore thin leather gloves, the backs of which bore the stylized image of a tree.

“I was worried for a moment,” Sobriquet said, smiling at him before casting a chillier look at the aide, who had tailed Michael inside the room. “Unai here was telling us that your meeting with Leire was a mere formality, and that you were in no danger. You can imagine my surprise when she threatened your life.”

Unai smiled blandly at Sobriquet. Michael didn’t think he’d be able to retain that degree of poise if he was on the receiving end of that glare. The aide raised one hand in a placating motion; Michael saw that he wore the same tree-embossed gloves that he had noticed on Luc.

“I apologize if I inadvertently misrepresented the situation to the young mistress,” he said. “It is true that Her Radiance would have acted to address any danger she perceived from the young master. That I did not see the potential for such danger reflects poorly on my own perception, and for this you have my deepest apologies.”

He nodded his head to Michael in acknowledgment; their eyes met for a bare moment. Unai was either a remarkably-placid individual or he had a soul that was making him hard to read. In either case, Michael got little more than a glimmer from him, a wispy and indistinct feeling that might have been satisfaction or determination. It was hard to focus on with Sobriquet’s strident irritation so near.

“Of course,” Unai continued, “the young mistress had represented that the young master was the bearer of Stanza, which was perhaps a less-than-comprehensive summary of the situation. Had I but known, ah.” He inclined his head towards Sobriquet. “Of course, such disclosures are left to the young mistress’s judgment.”

Sobriquet’s glare sharpened on him, then dissolved with a sigh. “Yes, yes,” she said. “Thank you for bringing him by. I imagine he could use some food.”

Unai inclined his head once more. “An astute observation,” he said. “I shall make some inquiries with the kitchens.” He nodded to Michael, then turned gracefully and strode out the door.

Sobriquet watched the thin man leave with an exasperated expression; as the door clicked shut she looked back up at Michael. “I swear, that man is trying to provoke me to violence,” she muttered.

“You’re just not used to the type,” Michael laughed, exchanging his greetings with the others before walking over to where they had been seated. It was a spacious, well-appointed suite, brightly-lit with electric fixtures and clearly designed to hold larger parties than theirs in comfort. Michael spotted at least two of the odd Mendiko viewscreens on the walls, as well as one larger one situated at the head of the dining table.

Art was scattered throughout the space, mostly landscapes of rugged, mountainous terrain - views of Mendian, Michael assumed. A line of doors on the far wall looked to be individual sleeping quarters, and adjacent to the dining area was a curious alcove that he tentatively classified as a kitchen - although the normal fixtures were missing, replaced by several boxy, metallic appliances that he could not identify.

He raised an eyebrow at the others. “You know,” he said. “This is a lot nicer than where they were keeping me. I take it everything has gone well with the stolen papers?”

Sobriquet shrugged. “They’re ‘under review’ for the moment,” she said. “Though I haven’t sensed much change in the scope of those secrets. Either they haven’t read through, or-” She shook her head, looking troubled for a moment.

“I think Leire wanted to wait until you were awake before delving into the matter.” She leaned back in her chair, then frowned. “I had thought she wanted your insight into your father, but now I’m realizing she wanted to make up her mind about killing you before she got tied up with the rest.”

“I’m glad I could make the talks, then,” Michael said dryly. “So I suppose we’ll be having that discussion soon?”

“I’d imagine,” Sobriquet confirmed. “Although you’ve seen what it’s like trying to get information out of the valet. If you want to try to bludgeon it out of him when he comes back, feel free.”

Michael stretched and rose from his seat. “I think I’d rather wash up,” he said. “I take it there’s a bath?”

A brief pulse of satisfaction rippled out from all present; Michael paused, nonplussed.

“Lordling,” Charles said, a smile creeping across his face. “I think the facilities here will meet even your fine standards.”

Vernon nodded. “There is a bath, and I’m sure it’s lovely, but there’s also this marvelous device that directs the water down from overhead-”

“Oh, they have a shower?” Michael asked, surprised. “I’ve heard of them, but Father thought they were frivolous - although I expect he actually did want one, he just couldn’t afford it after the money for my sessions at the Institute-”

He broke off, looking at the expressions on the others’ faces; evidently, such things were less common in Daressa. “I suppose I’ll just go see for myself,” he muttered.

“Towels are in the cabinet on the left,” Charles yelled after him, “but you’ll have to dry your own ass, milord!”

Michael ignored him and entered the washroom. After some educated guesswork with the various plumbing fixtures he stood in front of a steaming cascade of water that fell ceaselessly from overhead. He disrobed and stepped in.

He had wondered at the odd pulse of contentment the others had shown; now he understood.

Some time later Michael returned to the common area, his face still red from the heat. Unai had returned in the interim and was conversing with Sobriquet; both paused to look at him when he entered.

“Ah, excellent,” Unai said. “If the young master is ready, we may proceed to luncheon.”

Michael’s stomach forestalled any questions that might have occurred to him. They followed Unai in a loose line out of the suite, walking down long, straight hallways until they arrived at a pair of closed doors.

“Oh, Ghar’s ashes,” Charles muttered. “Not this again.”

“I can reassure the gentleman that the elevator is perfectly safe,” Unai said primly. “Please bear with its use, we will only be riding it for a few floors.”

Michael hid a smile as the doors opened and he stepped on; this was another ty he was familiar with only from books and newspapers. Ardalt had its share of elevators, but mostly limited to industry and a few buildings in the capital’s financial district. He felt the low unease from the others as Unai slid the doors shut and moved a lever.

The car shifted upwards with a slight lurch and stopped moments later with the same. Charles darted out of the elevator directly after Unai opened the doors; the rest of their group followed at a more leisurely pace as the valet directed them to a large, ornate entryway.

Michael examined it as he approached. It had two enormous doors; a large, radiant sun was emblazoned across both, picked out in gold over a dark, dull metal that he thought might be lead. Various smaller features were detailed below, images of men and women crowding around a tree or brandishing spears towards a coastline. In the water beyond, the lead was worked with designs of sinking ships and drowning men; on the other door’s far edge there were mountains and pastoral scenes.

It was an unsubtle statement, Michael reflected, waiting as Unai opened one door for them; despite its surprising thickness, the valet pushed it open soundlessly and with no apparent exertion. There was a short, dark archway beyond, and as Michael passed through it he was surprised to note that the interior also appeared to be wrought from lead.

The room beyond put all thoughts of the doorway from his mind, however. It was an elaborate glass enclosure filled with all manner of plant life, flowers and vines bursting in chaotic splendor from benches along the side walls. A long table ran down the center of the room, with high-backed chairs set around it.

It was an odd table in two respects: first, that it split in the middle to accommodate a large and gnarled oak tree that reached up to the highest parts of the room - and second, that a thick wall of glass isolated part of the table on the room’s far end.

Beyond the wall, distorted by the massive panes of glass, the table had only a single massive seat at its head. The golden sunburst wrought upon the chair’s back left little doubt as to who would be filling it. Unai bade them sit at the table, then excused himself from the room.

Silence filled the grand space. For a moment nobody spoke, only taking in the sight. More than anywhere he had ever been, Michael felt a profound sense of age from this room. The tarnished metal, the dark and weathered wood of the table, the twisted bark of the oak - they spoke of centuries.

He had known Ardalt was a relatively young country, compared to some on the continent. Oh, there had been tribes of painted clansmen in the hills for thousands of years, and the fractious Gharic provinces of Grand Ard for centuries after that - but the current Ardan state could really only trace itself back to the foundation of Calmharbor some three hundred years prior.

Mendian, by contrast, had been a stable and prosperous state for nearly twelve hundred years. It was something he had learned from more than one tutor, grudgingly memorized along with a slew of other names and numbers. He had remembered, but he had not felt the truth of it until now.

He was not alone in being affected by the room; the others were restless and nervous - save, strangely enough, for Luc. Michael frowned and turned to him, feeling an almost giddy energy from the other man. He leaned closer to Luc.

“Are you all right?” Michael whispered. He was loath to violate the silence of the arboretum, although apparently Luc did not share his reluctance.

The other man turned and nodded eagerly. “It’s wonderful, yes?” he said. “We’re to meet Stellar!”

Michael barely suppressed a laugh as the excitement in Luc’s voice jarred his memory; there had only been a few times since Spark’s death when he had seen Luc this animated, and they had all been when he was recounting Leire’s actions at Leik. I had no idea a soul could be so grand.

“It does seem that way,” Michael replied, grinning. The enthusiasm was infectious, even though he had already spoken with the woman.

“Why the glass, do you think?” Luc asked. “I’ve never seen such a thick pane of it, the cost must have been immense.”

Michael shook his head, moving his sight closer to the wall that divided the table. “Immense may be understating it,” he said. “That looks more like lead crystal than glass, to me. You could melt together all of my father’s wineglasses and not have enough for one pane.” He shrugged. “It’s probably just a nice way to keep Stellar safe if she has to meet with untrustworthy sorts.”

He paused at a motion in the corner of his eye; a door on the other side of the barrier had opened. A moment later, Leire walked out. Michael pushed his sight closer, drinking in detail he had missed over the fuzzy viewscreen.

Her face was ancient, seamed with wrinkles and fine lines across every inch of her skin. Thick white hair was knotted tightly into a bun atop her head, held by a single golden hairpin. She was short and thin, but walked briskly to her chair with her head high and shoulders squared. In one knobbly hand she held a folio.

Michael found his breath catching in his throat as she approached. Her soul shone from her in cold, harsh light, scouring and scraping all that it touched. He had often wondered why winter, not sun, was Stellar’s defining trait in Ardalt; now he knew. Hers was no life-giving sun, no warm glow that nurtured trees and crops to their full.

Her light was the other sun, the one that loomed over men dying of thirst and blinded unwary eyes in the snow. She was bleached bones and blistered skin, colors burned to ghostly white.

Her light was death.

She sat without preamble, then leaned towards a small metal tube that snaked up the side of her chair. “Partially correct,” she said, her voice emanating from a small grate inset into the table. “It is a protective barrier - but not for my benefit.”

Leire opened the folio, withdrawing a paper and placing it slowly on the table. She glanced at it for a moment, then brought her eyes up to look at each of them in turn. Her eyes were blue, bright and piercing. “I will be direct,” she said. “You all had your own reasons for bringing these documents here, but despite your ulterior motives you were likewise attempting to render aid to Mendian. In my capacity as the Sixteenth Star, Protector of the Northern Mountains, you have my thanks.”

She rapped her knuckles sharply on the table, striking the paper. “That said, there is nothing in these documents we did not already know.”

There was a pause; Sobriquet was the first to speak, her voice rough. Michael felt a slow horror beginning to build in her, the pain of dark suspicions confirmed. “How long?” she asked. “How long have you known?”

Leire folded her hands in front of her, and Michael felt the first trace of emotion leach through the radiance of her soul. It was an odd contrast to feel sympathy amid that deadly blaze.

“The arbitration court made its decision with full knowledge of the Ardan plot,” Leire said, her voice softer than before. “I knew when I destroyed the Safid fleet that they were unjustly accused. We were given a rare choice-”

Michael felt Sobriquet decide to stand moments before he heard the scrape of her chair against the floor, her anger flaring bright. “We lost so much,” she rasped, her voice quavering with rage. “Tens of thousands dead. My sister-”

“Sit down,” Leire snapped, her voice a whip-crack even through the distortion of the grate; Stellar’s soul blazed so brightly around her that Michael winced. She waited until Sobriquet lowered herself into her chair once more, then leaned forward.

“We were given a rare choice,” Leire said quietly. “We could punish the Ardans for their transgressions, or we could accept the farce and strike a blow against the Safid. I imagine you know the situation in Daressa rather well. If we had destroyed an Ardan force, as they so justly deserved, what would have been the result?”

Nobody replied, but Michael felt the grim realization bloom within each of them. “Ardalt would have been forced off the continent within months,” he said, giving voice to it.

“As you say.” Leire leaned back in her chair. “With the Daressan front quieted, the Safid would turn their attention elsewhere. It is a matter of some debate whether Esrou or Dey would be targeted first, but they would both fall within a matter of years. After that there are only two places left to go - Ardalt, or Mendian.”

There was a shift around the table as her words sunk in, a restless creaking of the ancient chairs.

“I imagine you hate me very much, right now,” Leire said. “It’s not unwarranted. I rather hate us sometimes too, for listening to those voices earlier in the War that deemed the Safid a Gharic problem, a species of justice for their arrogance and warmongering during the Empire.” She laughed darkly, shaking her head. “It’s the hazard of being old, as man or country. You remember things that have long since ceased to be, not seeing that the world has started to wither around you.”

Her gaze turned to Michael. “We had a chance to avoid this, with Jeorg. Esrou had given up, Dey is spineless, and you all, Daressa, you were overrun. Ardalt, though - they had the men and means to contest Safid rule, if given the proper push.” Her lips pressed together, and for a moment the radiance of her soul died away to leave her looking small and frail in the opulent throne.

“Jeorg was a good man,” she said. “Perhaps too good. He saw the problems in Ardalt as a manifestation of ignorance, of dated ideas and a dash of old Ardan stubbornness. I don’t think he ever stopped believing that if he could just find the right words, he could make them see the proper path forward.”

She shook her head. “But he trusted too much, believed too much in the fundamental good of people who had long since abandoned theirs. He built a machine that didn’t account for selfish, cruel men, and those same men drove him into exile. That was when I knew that my gamble on Ardalt had failed.”

Sobriquet lifted her eyes, speaking evenly despite the anger still thrumming through every inch of her. “Why the games?” she asked. “Why make others fight this war for you? If Mendian wanted Saf off the continent you could make it happen. You took out an entire fleet by yourself.”

“Because Mendian does not get involved in affairs south of the strait,” Leire sighed. “We are neutral, and always have been.”

“You seem to have a favorite in the War even so,” Michael pointed out.

Leire raised a finger. “I do,” she said. “But I am not Mendian. I am only the Star, and the Star does as the Prime Minister and the members of the Batzar command. I work to steer events within the bounds of their dictates, as I did with Jeorg.”

“And if they won’t act?” Sobriquet asked, her hand gripping the table’s edge, white-knuckled. “Will you sit quietly and watch your country die?”

“Hah!” Leire barked, her eyes crinkling with mirth. “That’s the one cruelty that life will spare me - I won’t have to watch.” Her expression sobered, and she leaned closer once more. “I don’t have much more than a few years left in me, despite Unai’s diligent efforts to keep my old carcass propped upright. When I die, what do you think will happen to my soul?”

Sobriquet did not answer right away, settling back in her chair restlessly. “Your soul will go to another,” she said.

“Obviously,” Leire snorted. “But who shall that be, hm? This is the question that cleaves to the meat of the matter, the pivot point of the age. We have our little games we play with affinity and bindings to try and keep the stubborn thing within Mendian’s borders, but it’s far from a perfect solution. In the past several centuries, only half of the Stars have passed their soul to another Mendiko when they died. The rest, we had to go out into the world and find.”

She glared around the table, brandishing two closed fists at them. “So how about it?” she asked. “In one hand, we have a future where the Star of Mendian passes to one of my carefully-cultivated attendants, someone raised from their youth to be a proper vessel for the soul. In the other, it goes to a random person elsewhere in the world. By sheer dint of odds, probably a person in Saf.”

Her hands hovered in the air for a moment, then slammed down against the table. “Which is which?” she asked. “You don’t know, you can only choose. And, oh-” she said, letting one hand flutter open. “There it is. The coin flipped to one side and not the other, and my soul has gone to some poor brat in Khem. We will demand that they turn the wretch over to us, of course, but - I think you can see the problem inherent in that solution.”

Michael licked his lips. “The Safid won’t do it,” he said. “Saleh won’t.”

“Quite right,” Leire said grimly. “There hasn’t been a Safid-born Star since before the Great Northward March. It’s a different band of fanatics now, stronger and cannier. They’ll raise him up to lead the Cult of the Sun, and rebuff us with everything they have. Even killing him just rolls the dice again, and the odds are firmly in their favor.”

She paused and let silence fill the room again, giving them a moment to wallow in the magnitude of the problem. “The future of a country, predicated on the flip of a coin,” she said. “I shall stop blathering here, and instead ask all of you very dangerous young people for your opinions. How would you solve this problem?”

Leire leaned back in her chair, lacing her bony fingers together with an expression of profound amusement. Michael and Sobriquet exchanged a glance, but it was Emil that spoke up first.

“Diversify,” the merchant said. “You rely too much on a factor that’s outside of your control. Build up your conventional military, you already have an advantage there.”

“Ah,” Leire said, giving Michael and Sobriquet an admonishing glance. “First lesson. Not every problem requires a soul to solve, and if you’re not necessary then you should probably yield the floor to someone smarter than you. If there isn’t anyone smarter than you in your meetings you should invite different people.”

Her gaze slid back to Emil. “Correct, Mendian cannot continue to rely on the Star as its sole deterrent. Our lead in technology is substantial, and that gives us a decisive military advantage - however!” She held up her hand, an excited glimmer twinkling in her eyes. “This brings us to the other problem we must overcome. Why does Mendian have a substantial lead in technology? What is the factor that distinguishes us from all other nations?”

Michael frowned. “You’re not at war,” he said, mentally paging through half-remembered tomes on economic theory. “But that shouldn’t be an advantage, quite the opposite. Wartime leads to improvements in military technology at an increased rate.” He looked out of the glass enclosure, at the mountain peaks that loomed in the distance.

“Is it resources?” he asked. “Plentiful metals in the mountains?”

Leire smirked at him. “We do have those,” she said. “And it is a non-trivial benefit, but I speak of one asset in particular that is both unique and irreplaceable.” She leaned back in her chair and slowly spread her arms.

“A lucigens may manipulate light to varying degrees,” she said. “But they are limited in what they can create, how they can focus it, and the overall power they can bring to bear. My soul has very few limits, by contrast. I can call light in all of its variety, in whatever intensity I wish - and there is more to discover in the realm of light than anyone has ever imagined.”

Her speech had been animated, but her expression grew weary as she spoke, her words labored. “There is the bounding, low light that the wireless uses, of course, and the mundane light that we see. But beyond that? The sharp jitters that scorch your flesh in the sun are only the beginning. There is light that will heat you from within until the steam bursts your flesh, light that shines through all but your bones - and light that passes through those as well, leaving only slow death in its wake.”

There was a lull in her speech, her eyes drooping for a moment; she shook herself and snapped them back open again. “The engine of science,” she said, “is driven by energy. Not all of my predecessors realized this; it has only been in recent years that our knowledge has been sufficient to make full use of my abilities. In the past fifty years we have done things that beggar the imagination, created devices that give any man capabilities that most ensouled would envy.”

“But fifty years,” she said, “was not enough. We haven’t yet reached the point where we can sustain our research without my assistance. We need twenty, maybe thirty more years before our science begins to meet my capacity. A handful of decades before common men may stand shoulder-to-shoulder with the greatest of ensouled, and finally be free of such tyrannical scarcity. That means one last Star of Mendian, a good one, long-lived and dedicated to the expansion of knowledge.”

She sat up in her chair to fix Michael with her eyes; even to his spector’s sight he found it hard to meet that gaze. It shifted from him to Sobriquet, then back. A slow smile bloomed on the old woman’s face, wrinkles cascading like ice on the shoreline.

“We are all up against unfavorable odds,” she said, “with horrendous consequences should we fail. In this scenario we must consider all of our options, however outlandish they may be. Daressa may yet be saved. The continent may yet be free.” Sobriquet raised her head, eyes widening. Michael felt hope and disbelief stirring around the table - and grim satisfaction from Leire.

She touched a control on the arm of her chair; a moment later the doors to the room opened to admit attendants bearing trays of food. “We can discuss what might benefit us both,” she said. “How we may rig the odds in our favor, and ensure the coin falls in the proper way.”

Michael saw nothing of the food as it arrived, his mind consumed with horrid realization.

Leire leaned back in her chair, lacing her fingers together. “So in that vein,” she said, “let’s have some lunch - and discuss the finer points of cheating fate.”