Peculiar Soul

One day the white wolf came to the black hound with a question. He said that among wolves it was easy to know who your enemies were, and who were friends. Among men it seemed less clear. Men would smile to their enemies and rage at their friends, only showing the true color of their relationship in the direst moment.

The hound agreed that it was very confusing, but that there was a purpose to their madness. Men, the hound explained, used an enemy’s strength in their favor. A smile could bring power, binding an enemy’s hands while lending strength to their own.

The wolf said that he found it very confusing despite the hound’s explanation, for in his experience a contest with an enemy could only end in blood.

The hound smiled and said that with men it was the same - the only difference was their choice of blade.

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

Michael moved to stand in a corner of the doctor’s cramped office, edging sideways past tottering piles of documents and yellowed books. The sweet smell of aged paper jostled uncomfortably with antiseptic and alcohol, though either was preferable to the faint whiff of things less-pleasant that emanated from the ward.

The doctor noisily pulled his chair around to face them, then sat in it; he leaned back with his arms crossed. “All right,” he said. His eyes flicked between Michael, Sobriquet and Unai, settling on the latter. “You look competent, go heal my patients. You two-” He looked at Michael and Sobriquet. “You ask your questions.”

Unai nodded and walked soundlessly from the office, drawing off one of his gloves. Michael cleared his throat.

“As you’ve guessed, we’re looking for a lucigens,” Michael said. “A powerful one. We suspect he came here by ship within the past week.” He leaned against the wall, or tried to; a stack of documents wobbled as he brushed against it, and he hastily reached out to steady it. “You, ah - you know what sorts of signs we’re looking for.”

“I already told you I haven’t heard anything about a lucigens coming through here,” the doctor scowled.

Michael frowned. “Any unusual events at all?” he asked.

“Unusual, feh!” the old man snorted. “Hasn’t been a thing usual about life for the past month. That buffoon-” He broke off, squinting at Sobriquet. “You’re hiding what we say, girl?”

She gave him a smile that leaned toothier than normal. “Every word, old man.”

He chuckled. “Can’t be too careful. It’s not as bad as Calmharbor, from what I hear, but there’s been arrests - that idiot in the Assembly has been cracking down on ‘agitators’ lately, but you’d be surprised how little it takes to agitate them. Two patients of mine were picked up for asking after their son, and the other doctor off the west side of the docks hasn’t been at his office in weeks - half the reason I’m so crowded.”

“Do you know where they’re being taken?” Michael asked.

The doctor gave a noncommittal wave of his hand. “Prison, work camps, tossed into the sea. Who knows? None of them have come back, and neither has anyone who’s gone looking. Not that anyone’s been looking too hard before recently, most of the first arrests were Institute men. Even had some support, then, until they started coming for everyone else.”

“Institute men?” Michael asked. “I should think the Institute is more likely to be conducting the arrests than subject to them.”

“Idiot boy,” the doctor scoffed. “The Assembly has had it out for the Institute for years now. I’m surprised it took them this long to do it. All their leadership is arrested or fled, their offices under military control.”

Michael leaned forward. “But you said they had just come by here recently,” he pointed out.

“I know very well what I said.” The doctor turned grumpily to his desk, shoving a pile of papers aside to reveal a metal flask; he grabbed it and took a deep pull from its contents. “Institute’s not gone. They’re just quiet. They came by here asking after doctors, said they had a need and they’d pay handsomely. I told them to fuck right off, but the bastards have been persistent.”

“Did they say why they needed doctors?” Sobriquet asked.

“Yes, they sat there and talked all about it, it was lovely,” the doctor said, holding a simpering smile on his face - and then shooting Sobriquet a disgusted look. “Of course they didn’t! They’re a bunch of smug close-lipped dunderheads that can’t string two words straight without a lie in the middle. Either the Assembly arrested all their fancy anatomentes, or they’ve got more hurt and sick than they can deal with.”

Michael and Sobriquet exchanged a glance. “Mass injuries fit the profile,” Michael noted. “And he’d have reason to hate the Institute.”

“I had a feeling you were going to say that,” Sobriquet sighed. “This could be a problem. In my experience, Institute teams are significantly more competent than standard Ardan forces.”

“Not a high bar,” the doctor muttered, scooting out of his seat to rummage through one of the drawers in his desk. After a few moments he emerged with a messily-folded square of paper, which he unfurled and inspected. With a grunt, he extended it to Sobriquet. “This is a map of the area. One of the men in my ward was shot on the north coast road, here-”

He tapped the map, then settled back in his chair. “He said there were military men there, and others without uniforms. Can’t say if they were Institute or not.”

“You’re being very forthcoming all of a sudden,” Michael noted.

The doctor scowled up at him. “What? What? Do you want me to stop?” He held his glare for another heartbeat, then sniffed and turned away. “I’m just old enough to know a few things. One of those is that when you find Mendiko chasing their Star, it’s best to speed them on their way.”

Michael pursed his lips. “We never said - ah.” He caught himself before the doctor could retort. “I suppose the inference was there to be drawn. Thank you, in any case.”

“Thank me by keeping your mouth shut,” the doctor said. “I’d just as soon not get picked up by Baumgart’s thugs.”

The sound of his name introduced a discordant stutter to Michael’s thoughts, but he recovered quickly enough to smile and nod. “Understandable,” he said. “I’d rather avoid that myself.”

The doctor’s directions led them down the coastal road north of Stahm, a muddy track overlooking bitter, windswept cliffs. A modest exertion from Zabala kept the worst of the chill from the men, however, and Michael barely felt the sea breeze. He kept his sight high, roving methodically across the lands ahead.

Nothing emerged from the grasses. Michael sighed and let his sight drift back inward, shaking his head. “I’m sure he said it was close by the town,” he muttered.

“Men move,” Sobriquet replied, her own eyes bearing a telltale lack of focus. “Especially men who don’t want to be found. I can’t see much either, but I take that as a promising sign. Things are disturbed, unsettled.” Focus returned, and she looked at Michael. “He was here, or close by. We were right to come to Ardalt.”

Michael nodded. “Now we just have to figure out how to find him. If he’s already in conflict with the Institute I can’t imagine he’ll be able to lay low for long.” He twisted, turning back towards Stahm. “This new terror that the Assembly has made, it can’t coexist with Luc sowing chaos wherever he goes. They’ll have to stop him, or risk that fear they’ve created boiling over.”

“Should make him easy to find, at least,” Sobriquet said. “We just have to keep-” She paused, stopping in her tracks; Zabala noticed a few footsteps after and called a halt.

“Something?” Michael asked.

She made a face. “Not sure. I only had it for a moment. Maybe-” She turned and pointed. “That way, behind that stand of trees. Not men, but - a discontinuity of some sort.”

Michael looked, but could see nothing but the trees she had indicated, their leaves half-stolen by the chill autumn wind. It was beyond the range of his sight, though, and he could only traverse about half the distance from where he stood.

“I’ll check it out,” he said. “Wait here.”

Without waiting for a reply, Michael began to run. It was less than what he had felt under Amira’s aegis during their trip north, but for this distance his own power was more than enough to send him racing across the field in great, bounding strides. Grass whipped at his shins, dirt flying up in his wake; he crossed the field almost before he had truly come up to his speed.

He slowed as he approached the trees Sobriquet had indicated, shifting his dash into a great, arcing approach that circled around behind the stand. His sight flew out ahead as he jogged to a halt, still some distance away; it combed across the sodden leaves and grass , brown on brown flitting through his vision until it was interrupted by white, cold skin.

Michael paused and drew his sight back, looking at the body of a soldier. He had been young, younger than Michael, with a scraggly beard and a thin fringe of blond hair peeking out from under his cap. His eyes were empty sockets, long since pecked out by birds, his shirt marred by old bloodstains around a single bullet wound in his upper chest.

He pressed his lips together, taking in the young man’s face; after a short time he withdrew his sight and began walking towards the corpse. There was no smell as he drew close, the autumn chill keeping flesh from turning too far to rot. Smaller details emerged - the soldier’s gun, lying a handspan away at his side. Footprints churning the dirt. Another body, further under the trees, and another slouched against the trunk.

“There’s more over that way,” Zabala said, jogging up behind him. “Four, maybe five. You handle the speed pretty well for someone so new to their soul.”

“I learned from the best,” Michael said absently, stepping around to the other side of the soldier. He bent down to inspect the man’s hand, curled against his chest; the fingernails were long, ragged and torn.

“Problem?” Zabala asked.

Michael shook his head, peering at the man’s open mouth; a quick glance with his sight showed teeth that were rotten and missing, far worse than a few days of decay would inflict. He stood to look down at the body, then turned his gaze to Zabala.

“This man was under obruor control,” Michael said. “For a long time. Look at his hair, his nails, his teeth - he’s filthy, ungroomed. Reminds me of the men on Spark’s island.” He wiped his hand on his trousers, then walked over to look at the corpses under the tree. They, too, showed signs of long neglect.

Zabala trudged over to look at the other bodies he had seen, prodding them with the toe of his boot. “This one’s missing fingers,” he grunted. “Rot. He’d have been dead within a couple of weeks anyway. And this one…” He trailed off, frowning. “Come look at this one.”

Michael turned and strode over to where Zabala was standing; he found another corpse lying in the grass. It was an older man, clean-shaven with a wicked scar across one cheek. His hair was short-cropped, his appearance generally tidy.

“The obruor, do you think?” Michael asked.

“Or one of the men they were fighting.” Zabala nodded at the man’s shoulder. “Different regimental patches, and he’s a Gefreiter - as far as I know, Ardan obruors aren’t given a military rank, they’re Institute-led.”

“But he’s an Ardan,” Michael protested.

Zabala gave him a look. “We’re in Ardalt, who else are they going to fight?” he asked, bending down to rifle through the man’s pockets. After a moment, he straightened up with a pocketbook. He looked through it for a few moments with a somber expression.

“Some money,” he said, thumbing past it to withdraw some folded scraps of paper. He inspected them, one by one. “A drawing of a woman. A few letters back and forth, this one - is dated within the week.” He unfolded it and read briefly, then shook his head. “Nothing much of note, but it doesn’t look like he was ever on the continent. He’s from a local garrison.”

He pointed to the other soldiers on the ground. “Those men, though - if they were under obruor control, they’re almost certainly from continental units. We should ask - ah, here they are.” He turned to watch as Lars came running up with three men in tow.

The Ardan captain was winded, breathing heavily; he gave Michael a jaunty wave as he approached. “I’m afraid you gentlemen - ah.” He doubled half over, sucking in a breath. He straightened up with a rueful smile, mopping at his brow. “I’m afraid you’ve got the advantage of me in contests of sport.”

“Yes, just there,” Zabala deadpanned. “Good timing, though. What do you make of these unit patches?”

Lars nodded and staggered over to look. “That’s the - Fourteenth Infantry, I believe they were deployed south of Imes as a garrison. Arn, weren’t you with the Fourteenth?”

“Transferred,” the soldier said, stepping up to look at the body; he was much better off from the run than his captain. “I don’t know this one, but he’s wearing a Fourteenth jacket, at least.”

“And this one?” Michael asked, pointing to the older man.

Lars drew closer for a look, then shook his head. “Hm, no,” he said. “See that flag-and-anchor pin on his collar? Means he’s from one of the divisions tasked with port security, probably the port of Stahm. They were one of the larger mainland garrisons, as I recall.” He frowned. “So what was he doing out here, I wonder?”

“Fighting Ardan troops, no less,” Michael muttered. “Sera?”

She materialized beside him, her ethereal form hovering just above the grass. “I’ve been listening,” she said. “If they came from a nearby camp, I don’t see it; we’re obviously within a day’s walk of Stahm, though, and it’s hardly the only place they could have come from.”

“Hm.” Michael tilted his head, then let Stanza bleed into his vision. The contours of the grasses became a riot of waving gold, obscuring anything that lay beneath. He pondered their motion for a second before letting his soul flood outward between their stalks.

“All around,” he murmured, “is barren ground.”

The words caught; Lars and Zabala took a hasty step backwards as the grass around them began to crumble. The dessicated remnants flew away on the wind, leaving only a circular patch of bare dirt. The bodies were exposed now, easy to spot against the denuded terrain - as were the footprints around them.

It was a simple matter to rule out the ones from Michael and the others, leaving a loose collection of tracks that streamed away from the bodies towards the distant trees.

“Handy, that,” Lars observed, walking towards the departing prints. He bent down to inspect them, then straightened up with a satisfied nod. “Ardan boots, for sure.”

“I think that was a given, considering the combatants,” Zabala said dryly. “But at least it’s a direction.” He craned his head back, considering the dim sunlight filtering through the clouds. “Still early yet, though we’ll have to reconsider our plans if the trail extends too far into the forest. You think this is our lead?”

“Unless you have a better option,” Michael sighed, beginning to walk towards the trees at a leisurely pace. “Sera, get the rest moving behind us, and let us know if you see anything odd. We’ll take point.”

She nodded and vanished, leaving Michael’s group to advance. They did not move at speed, in deference to Lars and the rest - nor could they have, as Michael was obliged to stop periodically and scour the ground in search of more tracks.

“Not a large group,” Zabala said, squinting at another clustering of footprints closer to the trees. “Eight, ten at most, and they’re not trying to move stealthily.”

“Who do you think we’re dealing with?” Michael asked.

Zabala grunted. “Not sure, could be either group. My bet is on the obruor-controlled men, though. Obruors would mean Institute involvement, and per our source in town the remnant elements of the Institute are in hiding from the government. Heading into the forest is something one does when in hiding.”

“That does seem to be the place to go.” Michael paused as they reached the edge of the woods, stretching his soul forward into the trees; a moment later there was a clear path ahead.

“You know,” Lars said, following Michael onto the path, “it occurs to me that if we pursue these men into the forest, we should have a plan for the eventuality of finding them.”

“I’d say that depends on how many there are,” Michael replied, “and whether they’re obruor-controlled or not. If they aren’t, then we should take advantage of Sera’s stealth to learn what we can about them before approaching.”

“And if they have obruors among them?” Lars asked, his casual tone belying the emotion Michael felt pulsing beneath the words. It was a confusing mix, but anger flared bright at its center.

It was a sentiment Michael could sympathize with. “We may still listen,” he said. “But we know everything we need to know about Institute obruors already.”

Lars nodded, sharp and satisfied; they kept walking without further discussion.

The forest stretched out across a shallow valley, and as they ascended through it Michael kept his sight roving for any sign of an encampment. It was slow going, and more than once they were forced to pause so that Michael could cast about the forest for sign of their quarry. Unai, Sobriquet and the rest of the men caught up during one of these pauses, and they proceeded forward as a group.

“You’re smiling,” Sobriquet noted, stepping up to walk beside him; Michael nudged the path slightly wider so that they could stand abreast of each other.

“So I am,” he agreed. She gave him a questioning look, and he shook his head. “It’s nothing important, just - I spent most of the summer hiding from the Institute in the middle of a forest like this one. Now the shoe is on the other foot.”

She snorted. “It seems to be a flexible sort of year where the balance of power is concerned,” she said. “Though the Institute is something of a bystander in all this.”

“It is, and it isn’t,” Michael replied. “All of this started from Institute meddling. Without them, Luc would be in Esrou, and I would be in Calmharbor.”

“I’ll have to offer them my thanks, then.” She flashed a bright grin at him, then let her smile drop. “Before you turn Lars and his lot loose on them, that is. They’ve earned a bit of comeuppance.”

Michael frowned. “I’m not in this to punish the Institute,” he said. “They’re - awful, yes, but they were mostly acting at Spark’s behest, and he’s dead. I can hardly go around thrashing every horrible group of people I come across.”

Sobriquet gave him an innocent look. “Why not?” she asked.

“Because I’m not sure that’s what I want to spend my life doing,” Michael sighed. “I’m not some magistrate charged with punishing the wicked - and, besides, if I’m to have Stellar within my soul, I’ll hardly have the opportunity.”

“Leire wanted you to use that position as a weapon against Saf,” she pointed out.

Michael nodded. “Yes, but not quite so literally. She meant for me to help keep Mendian safe until it could protect itself from Saf, or Ardalt - or from souls in general, I suppose. The arbitrary tyranny of one man’s strength.” He fell silent for a few moments, frowning at a particularly stubborn tree as he wrangled its roots away from their path.

“Because that’s what I have,” he said. “Or could have. It’s right there if I wanted to take it. I would do good things, in my view, but in the end I would still be a tyrant. And then I’d die.” He paused again. “And things would go back to the way they were.”

Sobriquet did not respond immediately; she walked beside him with a pensive look. “I’d like to say that’s why I didn’t join the Daressan government,” she said quietly. “But I’m not sure that’s it. It’s not as though I have the strength to do much more than influence things from the shadows, that’s all my soul is. There were things I might have done, though, to help.”

“You are helping,” Michael said. “You raised Emil to the head of the transitional government, which strikes me as about the best thing you could have done. Leire was wrong about a lot of things, but she knew that government by the ensouled was not meant to last. There’s too much weight on one person, and when they go it all comes down with them. You need an army of Emils to build that change; the ensouled are only there to ensure they have time to do it.”

She gave him an odd glance. “You really do sound like her sometimes,” she said.

“Do I?” Michael frowned. “I don’t think I actually agree with much of her philosophy, whether it’s on government, souls or people in general. But she was in the same position as I am now; she could use her soul to do nearly anything she wanted - and she helped to build Mendian into something that did not crumble when she passed. Whatever else you may think of her, that much is admirable.”

“I suppose,” Sobriquet allowed. She ducked away from a low branch, then returned her attention to Michael. “I don’t believe I’ve ever heard you admit it before.”

“Admit what?” Michael asked. “That I admire Leire somewhat?”

She did not smile. “That you can do whatever you want.”

“Ah,” Michael said. “That.” He looked away, down the trail. “It’s something you hear people say, but there’s always an implied limit. It’s freedom within the bounds of certain rules or laws, or maybe society’s expectations. But I’m realizing that it’s not really the same for me, not anymore. I haven’t said it before because it’s - well.” He scratched at his head, looking sheepish. “It’s kind of terrifying, if I’m being honest. I know why people are scared of me. I do. I understand it a little better with every new soul.”

“The arbitrary tyranny of strength,” Sobriquet said. “Except it’s not really arbitrary, is it? You’re not a storm or an avalanche, destroying everything in your path.” She paused. “You’re not Luc. That matters more than you’re admitting.”

Michael sighed. “I know. And I-” He broke off as Sobriquet stopped, her arm blocking his path. “You see something?”

“Our men, I think. Around a dozen of them, ahead and to the right. Should be within your range.”

His sight stretched forward, blurring through wood and leaf until he found a small clearing strewn with fallen leaves and deadwood. There were men there; all but two were standing eerily still. There were nine of the silent men arrayed in a sloppy double-rank.

Behind them were two more men, clad in Institute greys rather than military drab. They were arguing in low voices, though Michael’s sight did not permit him to hear about what.

“I see them,” he said. “Nine soldiers, two - obruors, I’d guess. Having a disagreement about something.” He shifted the course of his path through the forest, roots spidering out of the way with a fluid grace until the bare track led to a point just shy of the clearing he had seen. “Let’s go while they’re still talking, we might learn something.”

He set off at a quick pace down the newly-laid path, the rest of the company falling in behind. “I miss Vernon,” he muttered, sparing a glance for Sobriquet; she grinned in response.

“I’ll be sure to let him know the next time we’re back,” she replied. “For now we’ll just have to eavesdrop the old-fashioned way.”

It was not long before the obruors’ voices were audible through the underbrush, though they had to approach the clearing’s edge before they heard anything more than indistinct tones.

“-don’t have time to get the rest,” one man said. “The other bodies will have to stay, protocol be damned. If the last report was right, it’s not going to matter anyway.”

“Fine,” the other groused. “But I still say it’s a risk.”

The first man snorted derisively. “Risk, he says. Overthrowing an autocrat is not a risk-free enterprise, Gert. At some point in between the Chairman’s seat and the gallows Baumgart is going to notice what we’re doing; it doesn’t matter as long as it’s too late for him to change things. From what they’re saying, we’re already past that point.”

Michael felt a chill at hearing his own name, though he knew they weren’t referring to him. It was still odd to hear two strangers talk so nonchalantly of killing his father. Most surprising of all was the anger it spurred in him. It swelled quickly enough that it took Michael a few seconds to realize that it was not his anger at all; he turned to find the Ardan soldiers staring at the obruors with naked loathing.

He quickly pushed their anger aside in his mind, feeling the calm reassert itself - just as one of the two obruors raised his head.

“There’s someone here,” he said. “You feel that?”

The other obruor nodded, closing his eyes; Michael felt the dim tendrils of the man’s soul spreading through the forest like tentacles of felt and feathers, deadening as they went. Michael felt their touch, seeking to rob him of his anger, his fear, his will, beckoning him to stand and come forward into the clearing beside the other men-

His head snapped back to look at the others, who were slowly straightening up from where they had crouched. Zabala was shaking his head irritably, as if stunned; Unai and Sobriquet were motionless with pained looks.

The anger returned, though this time it was wholly Michael’s own. He felt the muted fear from within Lars and the others as they straightened up, dead-eyed, unable to resist the pull of the obruor’s command.

Michael stood and walked into the clearing. The obruors turned to look at him, pleased looks on their faces. “That’s one,” the first one said, satisfied. “I think there’s a few more-”

He choked, his words trailing off into an incoherent whine. The man froze, joined moments later by his companion; the two men struggled to move, to speak, to blink - to do anything but look into Michael’s eyes as he walked toward them, Spark’s light pulsing in deadly rhythm from his glare.

“I don’t know why I worry about questions of power so much,” Michael said softly, his voice a peal of distant thunder that echoed from every angle of the clearing. “When men like you make the answers so easy. Kneel.”

The two men dropped to their knees, their eyes still fixed on Michael’s. He walked close to crouch beside the man who had spoken before.

“I hate compulsion,” he said quietly. “So I will be brief. If you use your soul on my men again, I will kill you immediately. Nod if you understand.”

The two men nodded. Michael stood and turned away; the two men dropped to the ground bonelessly, gasping against wet leaves and dirt. Slowly, the rest of Michael’s men filed into the clearing; Zabala’s face had gone deadly neutral, while the Ardans among them radiated anger enough to banish the chill from the air.

He turned to Sobriquet first with a wordless question. She gave him a sharp nod; she was fine. His eyes found Unai next. “Take the rifles from the soldiers,” he said, indicating the nine motionless men. “Heal any wounds they have, I’ll try to help with the rest when I’m done.”

Unai did not bother to indicate his acknowledgment before stepping away towards the soldiers; Zabala was close behind him with a few of the men to begin collecting weapons.

Michael returned his attention to the two limp obruors, who had caught their breath and were now still upon the ground, looking up at him with barely-restrained terror.

“I have questions,” Michael said, lowering himself to a sit on the ground in front of the two men. “And while I could use my soul to compel an answer from you, I don’t particularly want to. I will know if you lie to me, or withhold information. Do you want to walk out of this clearing alive?”

Once again, the two men nodded.

Michael smiled. “Good,” he said. “Let’s talk.”