Peculiar Soul

The white wolf and the black hound were speaking one day, when the raven came to greet them. He wished them a good morning, and asked what they spoke of.

The hound replied that they spoke of hunting, which was dear to them both.

The raven said that he did not see the sport in such a thing, for it was trivial to track prey from his perch in the sky. There were none, he said, that could hide from him.

The hound and the wolf smiled and laughed, and told the raven that he had missed the point. Tracking prey was not hunting, they said. Sight was not pursuit. To hunt was to inhabit the mind of the prey, to know its turnings before fear provoked them. In turn, the prey must know the mind of the hunter to have any hope of escape.

The raven agreed that this sounded more interesting than a simple chase, but still did not see the purpose of such a contest.

The two hunters licked their lips and offered to show him.

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

The road was almost deserted as they pressed further west towards the border, the flow of emigrants dwindling to the occasional knot of weary travelers on the side of the road. In this stretch of the highlands there were few turnoffs and fewer things worth stopping for; this land was more to be endured than inhabited.

Still, Sobriquet was not idle. She sat quietly in her seat, her attention far from the truck in whatever hardscrabble pockets of humanity existed between the hills. Little resulted from her investigations, though she did twice tell Zabala to beware of hazards ahead on the path - once, a herd of sheep roaming free, the smoldering ruins of a shepherd’s hut beyond a rise. They were unafraid of the truck, even after Zabala laid on its horn; they only consented to move when Michael gently urged them back towards their pasture.

He imagined that it must have looked rather odd to the men. Michael had stood quietly in front of the grazing beasts, listening to the dull echoes of feeling that rippled out from them like raindrops on a pond. They were oddly-resistant to his influence, every attempt to sway them muted by the comforting presence of the greater herd. It was only after a few failed pushes that he hit upon the strategy of drawing the group away by its edges, using the movement of the first few sheep to incite those beside it to follow.

Before long the road was clear. That marked the most eventful pause of the morning - the second obstacle was a mere fallen tree, which Michael simply tossed aside like so much cordwood.

The soldiers regained some of their hesitancy afterwards - oddly, more from the demonstration of his potens strength than his subtle use of Spark. The latter should have been more alarming, but Michael supposed there was a special sort of anxiety reserved for demonstrations of great physical strength; it was visceral, kinetic, and especially ominous when pressed into close quarters.

These small flares of fear and doubt faded quickly, however. Lars and Charles proved excellent distractions, trading jibes and repartee with obnoxious enthusiasm. Michael largely ignored them, preferring to leave his sight floating high above the hills or tracing along hidden streams parallel to their course. Daressa was a beautiful country, scenic and vast; the recent reminder that Michael would not travel so freely in the future had given him a melancholy sort of mania for the grandeur around them, like a dying man savoring every bite of his dinner with deliberate joy.

“Would you notice if we threw you out of the truck, I wonder?” Sobriquet’s voice came to him, buzzing with amusement; Michael chuckled.

“I’m not so lost in the scenery that I’d miss that,” he murmured. She had been masking their conversations, when they happened, but Michael still felt somewhat self-conscious talking in such close proximity to the others; he kept his voice low, the movements of his lips subdued. “Did you find something new, or are you merely bored?”

“I’m not quite sure what I’m looking at,” she said. “I was hoping you could take a look. It’s near enough, and your sight should afford more detail than mine. Down the road, to the south - a small cottage hidden behind a rise, amid a stand of tall pines.”

Michael let his sight drift ahead, scanning the terrain. At the limit of his vision he saw the cottage, only a rude hut of bare timber and thatch crouched between trees. It was unassuming, and no trail of smoke came from its chimney; without Sobriquet’s guidance, Michael might not have noticed anything there. He looked closer, guiding his vision inside the thin walls.

There was a man sitting in a chair, reading a book. The remainder of the cabin was spare and clean, with a sleeping mat on the floor and a single table. There was a wireless set up on the table, hooked to a large block Michael recognized as a battery. Under the table was a large stack of packaged food - Mendiko field rations.

Michael sat up straight, leaning forward; it did nothing to impact his vision, but it felt proper - and perhaps lent a bit of focus that it was harder to summon while slouched back. “A Mendiko,” he said. “One man, alone, listening to a wireless.”

There was a rustle of movement; Michael pulled his vision back and saw the men in the truck looking at him; Sobriquet had evidently let her veil drop. Unai’s gaze was piercing, his expression intent.

“A listening post, perhaps,” he said. “The Zuzendaritza should have some scattered around the border region, dating back to well before the current conflict. We should divert to speak with him.”

Michael frowned. “Isn’t he likely to be one of Lekubarri’s men? I don’t imagine they’d be keen on helping us.”

The older man gave a thin smile. “We’ll gain some information regardless,” he said. “Let me speak with him first, and we’ll see what he’s about.”

It took some time before they reached the nearest point on the road to the cottage, which was still far removed from the hidden building. They parked the truck and gave the men their ease while Michael, Unai, Sobriquet and Zabala prepared to climb the long and sloping hill that led upward to the listening post.

At Unai’s insistence, Sobriquet had been keeping them well-hidden. There was a change in the old man’s manner as they drew closer; his eyes roved ceaselessly across the ground, his footsteps smooth and soundless. Michael felt no tension from him, though. There was only a quiet, excited pulse of feeling.

“Hold,” he murmured, pausing some distance away from the cottage’s stand of pines. His hand came up to point at a patch of ground strewn with dried, dead leaves. “Walk carefully,” he said. “Step only where you see grass growing. Zabala, egon prest.”

Zabala’s eyes narrowed, and Michael felt the fortimens extend his soul out to Unai and Sobriquet. “Prest nago. Mines?”

“It’s what I would do,” Unai murmured. “Has our man noticed us yet?”

Michael briefly shifted his sight up to the cabin; the man inside was still reading his book. “Doesn’t look that way,” he said. “Still reading.”

Unai smiled. “Sloppy,” he said. “Okay. In my footsteps, and if we trip any sort of alarm or trap-” He turned to Sobriquet. “Knock him out gently, young mistress; he’s one of ours.”

He turned and began to advance up the slope. If there had been a change before, now it was glaring; Unai reminded Michael of a cat that had sighted prey, low and slinking in his movements. Despite his warning, or perhaps because of it, they made it to the cabin without incident.

Michael checked to find the man still in his chair, absorbed in the book. At Unai’s direction, he moved to stand square with the door - and then kicked it in.

The man was already standing as the door crashed to the ground. There was a pistol in his hand, somehow; Michael had not seen any trace of it before. It fired, and Michael felt two light taps in the center of his chest. A third caromed off the side of his forehead, burying itself in the doorframe.

The pistol disappeared as quickly as it had arrived, its wielder turning towards the cabin’s sole window on the far wall. Michael shook off his surprise and strode forward, grabbing the man’s shoulder. He felt the tension as muscles worked, the Mendiko ducking in a way that left Michael holding a fistful of his shirt, his bulk colliding with Michael’s legs-

“Nahikoa da, nahikoa,” Unai said, grinning as he walked into the room. He stood smiling at the other Mendiko, who had frozen in apparent shock.

Michael released the man, though only half in reaction to Unai’s entry; whatever trick the man had used was effective enough to unbalance him, and he had been tottering at the edge of stumbling when Unai spoke. He stepped back, watching as the other man slowly straightened up.

“Jaun Goikoetxea,” the man said.

“Jaun Bidarte,” Unai replied. “Egun on. My friends and I happened to be passing through, I thought I’d drop by and say hello.”

The man, apparently named Bidarte, gave Michael and Sobriquet a quick glance; his eyes lingered for a moment longer on Zabala before snapping back to Unai. “I see,” he said, matching Unai’s Gharic. “An odd place to be passing through.”

“Not so odd,” Unai said. He looked over at the wireless, which was still hissing softly on the table. “Pick up anything interesting lately?”

Bidarte gave Unai a flat look. “You know better than to ask me that,” he said.

Unai smiled at him; he turned and walked slowly over to the wireless. “You’ve been briefed, I assume,” he said. “You recognize my companions.”

“Don’t do this,” Bidarte said. “You know I can’t tell you anything.”

The wireless hissed in the space between words. Unai drummed his fingers on it twice, then turned to Bidarte. “She chose him,” he said. “The succession is certain, despite the current - uncertainty.”

The Mendiko agent made a disgusted noise. “Tch. And? I serve at the pleasure of the Batzar, not the Star. You know that. Even with the soul-”

“Consequence over all,” Unai chided him. “The Zuzendaritza is delivering the soul to Michael, in the end. I assume the briefing covered his extant souls. The nature of his abilities.”

Bidarte pressed his lips together. “It did.”

“Then you know what he could do,” Unai said, stepping closer. “And you see that he’s not doing it.”

A moment of ominous silence stretched out; Bidarte smiled. “Weren’t you the one who taught me not to make threats?” he asked.

“Facts aren’t threats.” Unai did not return the smile. “If you don’t tell us what you know, we will leave and search elsewhere. Perhaps in the wrong place.” He raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps too slowly. Lekubarri retrieves the soul first. Michael becomes the most powerful Star in our history; Lekubarri becomes the most powerful batzarkidea.”

Annoyance flitted over Bidarte’s face. “That’s the plan,” he said.

The smile came to Unai’s face at last. He stood there quietly, expectantly, watching as the other man’s scowl deepened.

After a few moments more, Bidarte grunted and shook his head. “Factions don’t necessarily mean division-”

“They are a precondition for it,” Unai noted. “Add to that our loss of neutrality, an impending large-scale conflict with the Safid, a new Star-”

“Yes, yes,” Bidarte muttered, waving irritably at Unai. “You’ve made your point, let me think.” His eyes strayed to Michael, then back. “You do realize they’re going to put me to a verifex when I return.”

“Who do you think suggested that practice?” Unai chuckled. “I’m sorry, Txiki. It’s a bad spot to put you in, but it could be the advantage we need.”

“They’d probably transfer me to a desk just for talking to you.” Bidarte sighed, then shook his head. “Fine. As far as I’m aware, nobody has picked him up. I certainly haven’t.”

Unai frowned. “Are you certain? Surely you’re not in contact with the other observers.”

“Central has been demanding updates too frequently. They’re as desperate as you are to catch him, and they’ve got no idea. Two days ago they expanded the range of target frequencies, still nothing. Estimates said we should be expecting at least one radio burst per day from a neophyte Star.”

Michael squinted, half-following; the two men were omitting detail from their speech, confident in their shared context. “You’re counting on Luc to lose control of his soul?” he asked. “And that would - ah, like on the docks.” It seemed like years rather than months from when he had walked into the freighter cabin with Jeorg to see its grizzled captain glaring at the wireless. Always goes to shit with the fish come in-

The two men looked at him. “It’s how we’ve always found the Star in the past,” Unai said. “Tracking sickness and death, unexplained fires, strange variances in the weather - traditionally, of course. Radio bursts are much easier to monitor.”

“If he loses control with any frequency,” Michael pointed out. “But he’s not newly-ensouled. He’s had practice restraining his anatomens soul, it’s all he focused on during the trip north. More souls makes it easier, not harder - in my experience, at least.”

Unai winced, turning to Bidarte. “Ah. I believe he may be correct. I can’t speak to the latter comment, but the remainder - it fits with my own observations of Luc. He was extremely reluctant to use his soul at first, and kept another soul entirely hidden from us. At minimum, we can assume that it will reduce the rate of involuntary expression. Perhaps the intensity as well.”

Bidarte grumbled a few low profanities in Mendiko. “You always used to say that plans and wishes were made alike.”

“I would prefer to be less correct in this case,” Unai sighed. “But here we are.” He walked over to the cottage’s sole window, looking out at the trees that crowded close around them. “You’re close to the border with Saf, have you heard anything to indicate that he might have crossed?”

“No,” Bidarte replied. “Although I’m hardly a definitive source. I know we’ve got people watching for the old signs as well, so if the Safid begin to drop of - what’s the Gharic word, fishrot?” He snorted and shook his head. “We’d know. But I received a request for confirm-negative last night, and I doubt they’d have troubled with the communication if they had a positive lead.”

Unai nodded. “All right. Let’s assume our detection methods are useless. Luc might be idling shy of the border, or already across into Qalo.”

“Or neither,” Bidarte pointed out. “Always plan for the least-convenient development first, remember?”

“You derive entirely too much enjoyment from confronting me with my own maxims,” Unai noted. “But you’re not wrong.” He tapped a finger on his chin, considering. “The destination with the most variability would be the port of Rouns - but I imagine that most ships departing for Saf would have done so already.”

“What about back to Esrou?” Bidarte asked. “The briefing noted that he was Esroun.”

Michael shook his head. “He has no ties to Esrou,” he said. “His home was Braun Island, and there’s nothing left for him there either. They cleared the island-” He paused, a horrible thought taking root in his mind. Luc’s hand outstretched, naming Saleh a murderer; his mournful face on a day far before that, reaching within his shirt to reveal a handful of bloodstained wooden tokens. These were my friends-

“Saleh isn’t the only one who killed those dear to Luc,” Michael said. “Only the most recent. Luc has plenty of reasons to hate Ardalt, and Sever in particular.” His mouth twisted. “The Institute. Me, for that matter.”

Unai’s eyes narrowed. “Do you think that’s likely?”

“I think it’s possible,” Michael said. “If we’re listing possibilities.”

There was a long moment of silence as the four of them considered.

Michael clenched his fists as an overwhelming tension began to make itself felt, speeding his heart, tightening his muscles. There had been the hope of finding Luc if he was right ahead of them, traveling overland through Saf. Now, though, the winter seemed far shorter, the looming deadline of spring rushing forward with unseemly haste. And if he had truly decided to cross the ocean-

Sobriquet walked up to lay a hand on his shoulder. “I don’t know how much I’ll be able to see, considering the way that Luc twists my sight,” she offered, “but if he did pass through Rouns I imagine there will be some traces left. Illness, death, someone who spoke to him.”

“And if he didn’t?” Michael asked.

She shrugged. “Then there won’t be. We can always turn aside to Saf from there, if we choose.” She let her fingers trace down to Michael’s hand. “We’ll find him.”

“It would be stranger if we had followed unerringly in his path,” Unai sighed. He turned back to Bidarte. “You should break your silence and report our suspicions to Central.”

Bidarte blinked. “I was going to anyway,” he said. “But I must admit I’m surprised at the request, considering you just outlined the importance of your man finding the Star first.”

“Lekubarri is ultimately our ally, despite my misgivings,” Unai said. He gave Bidarte a thin smile. “And I am notionally the liaison to the Zuzendaritza. Let’s phrase this as me cooperating in good faith; I imagine that will keep him up late wondering at our motivations.”

“You haven’t changed much,” Bidarte snorted, extending a hand. He grinned as Unai shook it. “It’s good to see you again, old man.”

“And you, Txiki,” Unai said. “I hope this doesn’t cause you too much trouble down the line - but if you find yourself without a situation, let me know.” He returned the smile. “I can put in a kind word with the next Star.”

Both men looked at Michael, who gave a helpless shrug. “I seem to need all the help I can get,” he sighed. “Off to Rouns, then?”

“Apparently,” Unai agreed. “Let’s let the others know.”

Despite the change in plans, they did not reverse course; there was a more-direct road south to Rouns if they continued onward, and none of them much felt like passing near Rouissat again. Michael did not want to stay in any towns, if they could help it. Whether through agreement or happenstance, they found themselves pulling aside for the night in an isolated clearing amid craggy ridges of rock, the evening air quickly growing chill.

A damp mist had swept in as the light dwindled, masking the sunset and swathing the landscape in bruised murk. Michael thought it rather appropriate, a match for his current feelings on their course. He took his food in the evening and ate mechanically, barely noting the taste.

“You’re alarming the men,” Sobriquet noted. “Hunched over here, eating like you expect the sky to fall on us at any moment. It’s only a setback. We don’t even know if it’s a major one yet; we could find Luc on the way to Rouns for all you know.”

Michael looked up at her, letting his spoon rest in the half-full bowl of stew. “I’m sorry,” he sighed. “I don’t mean to sulk. It’s - well.” He ran his fingers through his hair, looking off into the mist. “I suppose it’s many things. I had hoped to find Luc quickly, before he went to Saf; now I’m considering that he may not go there at all. I’m not sure what I’ll do if he turns up in Ardalt.”

She sat beside him, inching close against the chill. “Is it that you don’t want to return?” she asked.

“More that I had planned not to,” Michael sighed. “The last time I considered it was in a rowboat, right after I escaped from Spark’s island. I turned the other way because there was nothing for me there, only reopening old wounds - and death at the Institute’s hands, obviously. Now that I could probably handle the Institute-”

He broke off, a bitter chuckle slipping out as he realized what he had said. “I suppose that’s part of it. The Institute was always powerful, present everywhere. They found me even when I was hiding with Jeorg, even when we had escaped Ardalt itself. Now they’re - more men. Everything that used to tower over me is just an inconvenience, one that you or I could address easily.”

“It may be that we won’t have to,” Sobriquet said. “We don’t know that Luc will travel to Ardalt. I doubt even he knows what he’s doing next.” She shook her head. “You know him. He’s as scared as ever, running from one place to the next.”

Michael pursed his lips. “I’m not so sure,” he admitted. “He attacked Saleh, and that felt like vengeance - but that’s not what he spoke of the last time I saw him. He only talked about what he could offer the world.” Michael looked at Sobriquet. “To save it from me.”

“That only reinforces my point,” Sobriquet retorted. “Spouting lofty ideals and justifications at you one moment, but as soon as he’s out on his own he lacks any better idea than lashing out at those who hurt him? And even though he managed to shake Saleh’s confidence, it was scarcely a successful attempt.”

“I know,” Michael said. “It just makes me nervous. I hadn’t thought him capable of murder, or of violence at all. I wouldn’t have said he would dare confront Saf, nor Ardalt. Why should I discount anything that he might do, wrong as I’ve been in the past?”

Sobriquet gave him an annoyed look. “You have a habit of overthinking things,” she said. “Luc only acts from fear. He hid his souls from fear, took Leire’s soul because of some invented calamity that he feared you would cause - the same reason he attacked Saleh, to prevent confrontation with you and the Mendiko. If he’s run to Ardalt, my guess is that it’s because the thing he fears most is you - and Ardalt is a place he knows you won’t follow.”

“Perhaps,” Michael frowned, considering. Remembering the look in Luc’s eyes as he named Saleh a murderer. “I think there’s more to it than base fear, but - I can’t say that you’re wrong, either.”

“Nor should you.” Her eyes glittered as she kissed him lightly on the cheek. “Whether he is in Saf, Ardalt or some far-flung southern land, it doesn’t matter. We’ll find him, and finally put an end to it.”

Michael mustered a smile, despite the automatic correction that his mind supplied. To kill him. “I know,” he said. He gave her hand another squeeze before standing to return his bowl. The cook - Richter, his mind supplied after a moment’s fumbling - jumped up to take it from him.

“Good stew,” Michael said, nodding his thanks. He felt the attention of the men on him, questions circulating unsaid. They weren’t idiots, despite Zabala’s opinion on the subject; the rendezvous with Bidarte and subsequent change of course had sparked some uncertainty among them.

He turned away before any of them could muster the courage to ask their questions. They could wait until he had found his answers.