Peculiar Soul

I know that writing is a tradition, one in which she put great stock. Unai told me. In the evenings she would write for hours to put down her thoughts. But then he said that the Annals were kept secret, only for the Stars to read. Is the writing for themselves or their successors?

I have no thoughts for myself that are not already writ in my mind, and I have no need for the thoughts of men and women who lived in times long past. The past is no longer an instructive example for the current day. There are no more kings and emperors, no more struggles save for the blind thrashing of fish who cannot comprehend the net.

And none will listen, even if I were to speak. I must stand ALONE and APART, as the rod must stand if it wishes to draw the lightning.

So there is only one reason to continue the tradition, and per the rules of that tradition only one person who might read this. Therefore:

Hello, Michael. This is my letter to you.

- Annals of the Seventeenth Star, 693.

Michael found himself holding his breath, placing his feet with undue care. It was unnecessary; they were under Sobriquet’s veil. Yet he dared not make a sound as he arrived next to the tent where Luc lay quietly weeping.

He could hear him, now. Luc’s ragged, wet breathing carried outside the tent into the night air, layered over the misery that Michael felt emanating from the tent. It permeated the air, seeped into his skin; Michael’s travels had taken him to many wretched places over the past months, but none had reached the nadir of emotion quite so well as Luc.

He took a breath.

The tent was a makeshift room, so Michael did not try to reach his soul inside. Instead, he encompassed the entirety of it, inside and out, shifting his sight around to grasp every fold of its fabric, the still air inside, the metal cot - and its occupant. His low souls flared within him. There had been ample time to think about what he would say, how he would guide Stanza in its work.

“Still,” he murmured. “Silent. Deadened. Dull.” The air shimmered in his sight, the subtle motion of the wind against the tent falling away. Golden lines dimmed as he stripped the motion from the space, bit by bit. Luc still shone bright in his vision; Michael focused entirely on him.

There was resistance, but Michael had expected that. Here, Michael stopped any pretense of stealth, pouring himself into the effort. “Heartbeat ebb,” he rasped, “and breathing lull.” His words echoed in the silence, shattering Sobriquet’s veil, but it didn’t matter; Michael seized Luc from all directions, crushing away any mote of motion, of heat - of life.

He watched the light begin to fade. Luc’s eyes fluttered shut, his breathing hitching - but only just. Michael frowned as the golden lines of Luc’s form wavered, holding steady under his assault. It had not been this difficult to affect him before; something had changed. He felt a familiar ironclad resistance, as when he had tried to work his soul on Galen.

Michael felt a chill as he pushed harder and found Luc’s form unyielding. Before there had been a single potens soul, but now - Michael felt the edges of a horrid, many-faced thing, cold and hard, a diamond with a terrible toll of facets. He forced himself not to recoil from it, trying desperately to keep his will on task.

Luc drew in a shuddering gasp, his face contorting; Michael felt his blurry panic as he struggled free from unconsciousness.

Adrenaline lurched in Michael’s stomach, and he called on Spark. “Sleep,” he snarled, taking a step closer to the tent. He was long past the point of stealth; he drew back the canvas flap to enter, to lay his hands on Luc directly-

A flare of blinding light burst forth from the parted flap; Michael staggered with disorientation as his physical eyes lost their vision; his soul convulsed at the assault. His focus slipped as a nimbus of darkness came up around him, Vincent’s soul leaping to devour the light. Heat burst outward from him in an uncontrollable rush. There was a gasp from inside the tent, the clatter of a metal cot overturning, the smell of burnt canvas and hair.

Michael cursed and forcibly refocused his sight. The world snapped back into night and flame, the tents all around him burning as their occupants sat calmly inside. Luc was still stumbling out the back side of the tent, the fringe of his sleeve smoldering.

“How many?” Michael demanded, bounding through the flaming tent towards his quarry. Luc barely dodged his fist, spinning awkwardly away as Michael hammered the frozen ground hard enough to draw steam. “How many potentes did you kill?”

Luc danced a few steps further back as Michael stood again, his expression unreadable. “Enough.”

“Enough,” Michael repeated, stalking closer. “This from the man who talked of nothing but saving lives?”

“I am saving lives,” Luc said, backpedaling to maintain his distance. “But there is no perfect answer to the question you pose. Deaths are inevitable.”

“Stop.” Michael growled out the command and felt it take hold only briefly before Luc’s grotesque soul wrenched itself from his grasp. Michael lunged forward, hand outstretched, only for Luc to stumble away. Shouts of alarm echoed from elsewhere in the camp; people had noticed the flames. Gunshots rang out from around them as his men opened fire.

Luc scrabbled backwards hastily, drawing out of Michael’s reach. “It’ll be worse if you kill me,” he said. “It was already happening in Daressa. They were panicking, killing senselessly in their fear. Fear of you.” He came to his feet several paces distance, breathing heavily. “They’ll burn the world down before they see you rule it.”

“I’m not trying to rule the fucking world, Luc!” Michael shouted. He scooped a handful of tent stakes from a nearby pile, hurling them towards Luc with as much force as he could muster. Luc dodged nimbly to the side; Michael kept Stanza’s guiding hand on the stakes as they flew, his teeth bared in a snarl.

The world shivered; Luc’s breath came out in a surprised rush. Three tent stakes protruded from his chest, red stains spreading around them. He staggered back, ripping one out. The flesh was already beginning to knit back together. Michael jumped forward again, catching Luc in the stomach with his fist.

He came down with a knee on Luc’s chest, pressing him into the ground; his hand found the other man’s neck.

Light burst behind Luc and the ground exploded with steam, launching both men up and over the nearby tents. Michael caught glimpses of pitched fighting in the next row, and obruors in the distance marshaling their ranks; a moment later he had slammed back into the ground.

Michael caught his breath and sprang back to his feet, just in time to catch a glimpse of Luc dashing away across the camp. “Sera!” he shouted. “He’s running! Break off and follow me!”

He did not wait for a response, pushing his soul to the limit. The night was drawn in gold and stars, the fog of his breath torn away by his blistering pace.

It was quiet once more, though not calm. Michael’s mind thundered with opaque anger, each step a raging drumbeat. Stanza showed him Luc’s footprints, glowing brighter than the rest; he swerved between tent rows, hurdled over a pile of crates-

Then the trail stopped. Michael spun around, willing the golden wirework into greater clarity, but no more footprints showed the way.

“I’ve lost him,” he said tersely. “Where-”

“He’s in the trees,” Sobriquet said, cutting him off. “Sibyl says he’s heading towards Korbel - ahead of you, slightly right. Go, we’ll catch up.”

Michael turned and raced towards the treeline, slashing another gouge through the woods ahead of him. The path back towards Korbel ascended a low rise, the top windswept and bare. As he broke free of the treeline Michael saw Luc at its top, silhouetted against the stars.

“Let me go!” Luc called out, his voice contorted with frustration. “They’re only Ardans, Michael! They’d oppose you regardless! They’ll choose death, torment, anything but you.” He balled his fists. “Let them spend their war, let them-”

He paused, watching Michael ascend the hill undeterred, tearing across the rocky grass.

A dry, resigned sorrow pulsed out through the night air. Luc raised his hand towards Michael. The air turned colder, so chill that Michael could feel the bite of the wind as he ran, the world glittering with newly-formed frost.

“I’m sorry,” Luc said - and raised his hand further. Michael stumbled with sudden pain radiating from his chest; he lifted his head just in time to see a lance of pure white streak overhead - past him, carving a blackened line into the woods. Trees burst into flame, their trunks popping with boiled sap, and geysers of steam shone like sunrise.

For an instant, it was mid-day in the valley. Michael saw none of it, lost against a light that was brighter still.

Michael sat upright, breathing heavily; the trees in the orchard swayed above him in the gentle breeze, the scent of fruit and flowers heavy on the wind. For the barest moment it made him happy; in the next instant his mind came fully awake. Nausea flooded him. He scrambled to his feet in a blind panic, casting around the garden for the flicker of waiting souls.

“No,” he mumbled. “No, no no no-” He tripped, stumbling over his feet, and fell against a tree trunk. Coughing and spitting out bits of leaf, he struggled upright again. Part of him wanted to call out, to shout for what he knew was waiting; he did not. Names flitted through his mind, names he dared not speak aloud for fear that there might be an answer.

He stood amid the trees, head down, and said nothing.

The crunch of footsteps came from behind him. Michael lifted his head fractionally. “You’re usually here faster,” he murmured.

Jeorg snorted. “You usually want to see me. Now you don’t want to see anyone. Afraid of who might show if you look.”

“I’m being foolish, I know,” Michael said. Words circled in his mind for long, quiet moments; he let his head drop back down. “I failed them, Jeorg.”

“You don’t even know who you’re talking about.” Jeorg shook his head. “But all paths end at some point. That was the truth that drew your soul.” He stepped closer, laying a hand on Michael’s shoulder. “The one you rejected so harshly that it’s not quite a truth anymore. Winding, wending, neverending…”

Jeorg smiled, looking wistfully up at the leaves. “I liked the shape of what you did, when you spoke those words. Strong words, for strong ideas. You’re making beauty, Michael.” He looked back down at him. “Don’t be afraid to look it in the eye.”

There was a shudder that ran through the garden, a fitful gust of the wind that jarred the orchard and sent flower petals streaming away on the breeze. Michael felt his eyes focus differently on Jeorg, looking behind him, through him, golden light cascading inward across countless glittering panes-

It passed. Michael’s eyes slid back to Jeorg, smiling beatifically in the shade. He shook his head, staggering to the side. “What are you?” he asked. “Really?”

Jeorg moved to steady him, his arm looping around Michael’s shoulders; the old man’s hand was warm, firm against his arm. “Is it so hard to believe that I’m you?” he asked. “You saw what Luc built. What he is, now. You saw the scale of it.”

Michael grimaced, letting Jeorg guide him forward down the garden path. “If you’re about to tell me that my soul is more monstrous still, I may vomit.”

“Monstrous,” Jeorg hummed. “That’s Luc’s word. Evil. A channel carved in his mind before he felt the first touch of a soul. Not his word alone, either.” They emerged from the orchard, following the curve of the path. Ahead of them lay the small cottage, at once larger and smaller than Michael’s memories recalled.

His footsteps faltered as he saw it. He knew what lay inside. The bed, soaked in blood, a lifeless hand dangling from the side. The slow crimson drip onto the floor. It had not plagued his dreams for some time, but now it surged back all the stronger for its absence, so vivid he could almost smell the iron upon the wind.

“Evil is always a choice.” Jeorg nodded towards the cabin. “Failure is not evil. Neither is harm. Unfortunate, yes, but not evil. What is in the cabin?”

Michael licked his lips. “Those I’ve brought to harm,” he rasped.

“Bah,” Jeorg scoffed. “And they had no will? No choice? You forced them all to follow you across the sea, to romp around Ardalt after Luc?” He looked at Michael reproachfully. “You know better than that.”

“It was foolish to think that Luc wouldn’t harm them,” Michael protested. “Once I saw what he had done - I should have known.”

“They knew,” Jeorg observed dryly. “People notice things like that. Imminent danger, hostile souls. They didn’t need you to point out the risk.” He squeezed Michael’s shoulder, then stepped back.

Michael stood before the door of the cabin, his hand hovering just shy of the door. There was the impulse to turn away, to put it out of his mind, but a colder, more-rational part of him knew that it would not change anything.

Those who had died were dead, and the dead were waiting.

He pulled the door open, stepping inside the cabin. There was no hearth, no kitchen; he was in the small bedroom immediately. Upon the bed sparkled four lights - three tiny stars, and one massive orb. No blood marred the sheets. It was quiet in the room, though as he watched the lights he felt a hint of feeling rippling out from them.

It was not anything he could place immediately. It was subtle, gauzy, like a sound just below what he could hear that nevertheless made itself felt in his chest. He reached out to the first light and found it already in his hand.

Arn. The man’s face swam into his mind, images of his life flickering against his closed eyes. Enough to make him realize that he had barely paid attention to the man, was lucky to even know his name. The second, Herschel, he had known even less.

The third was unfamiliar - one of his soldiers, but not one he had talked to, nor was he able to put a name to the hazy face that flickered here and there amid the man’s memories. Michael felt a hot flush of shame at his unfamiliarity; these were men that had placed faith in him, followed him back to Ardalt on little more than a promise.

The shame gave way to dread, though, as the memories of the three men faded. One light remained, more brilliant than the rest. A soul. Michael stretched his hand out, trembling.

The damp streets of Stahm flitted through his mind, followed by the monotony of military life. Days spent in the kitchens, making ice. It was Voss, Michael realized. The recognition brought relief with it, that his error had not doomed Sera, Zabala, Unai - and then the shame redoubled, that he should be this glad that it was “just Voss” who had died.

Michael sat down on the bed, feeling the rush of light within him; a moment later Jeorg sat beside him. He said nothing, but his hand found Michael’s shoulder again. He shook it gently-

Michael’s eyes snapped open; Zabala was prodding him with a stick, shielding his eyes; a bright light shone directly upon him, uncomfortable to look at in the night. For a moment Michael’s heart sped; he turned his head, searching for a glimpse of Luc.

There was none. The light was all around, glinting from the frost coating his clothing, webbing across the grass. Snowflakes fell from the roiling clouds overhead, glinting brighter as they drew close to him.

Realization came to Michael a moment later; he closed his eyes and sought out the new soul within him. A moment later it had quieted, and night returned to the hillside.

There was relief in Zabala’s eyes as Michael’s light faded. “There you are,” he said. “Come on, up - they’re regrouping in the base, we’ve only got minutes before they reach the slope. We need to move.”

Slowly, Michael levered himself upright. The others were standing around him at a healthy distance, their faces somber. Some were marked with blood or soot; Lars looked as though he had laid out in the sun at high summer. Unai-

Michael’s eyes widened as he took in the anatomens, his blackened arm and peeling, hairless scalp. He scrambled to his feet, peripherally aware of the others moving back to give him space; the sole exception was Sobriquet, who stood near Unai, supporting him.

“Ghar’s blood,” Michael rasped, his hand hovering just shy of Unai’s burnt arm. “Unai-”

“I’m fine,” Unai croaked, his cracked, bleeding lips pulling into a smile. “A bit too much sun, is all.”

Sobriquet jostled him. “He means to say that he pushed me out of the way when Luc attacked,” she said. “Caught the edge of it as we fell.”

Unai laughed, a hoarse, crackling noise. “Healing burns like this requires time spent with an anatomens, several hours over several days. I’m already obligated to spend time with myself, so this was a more efficient option.”

Michael met his eyes and nodded wordless thanks; there was an answering twinkle in the old man’s eyes - followed by a wince as he doubled over, coughing.

Sobriquet patted him gently on the back. “We lost four,” she said.

“I know.” Michael tapped his fingers to his chest. “Voss, Arn, Herschel.” He hesitated, but Lars stepped forward.

“Beringer,” Lars said. “He didn’t talk much.”

Michael felt the eyes of the remaining men on him, a low swirl of fear and wonder tugging at him from where they stood. Many seemed to have a question in their eyes; Richter stepped forward and asked it.

“They came to you, then?” the cook asked. “All of the men, and not just Voss?”

“They did,” Michael said. There were mutters from the men, complex twists of feeling. Richter stepped back, averting his eyes.

Sobriquet cleared her throat. “That’s a discussion for later,” she said. “We’re veiled now, but Michael was lighting up the whole hillside a minute ago; we need to change locations or the Institute will find us no matter how veiled we are.”

Michael looked at her. “What about Luc?”

“Ran north,” Sobriquet grimaced. “Found some occultors, I think, since Sibyl stopped giving updates. Vera’s been trying to wring an answer from her ever since, she’s beside herself - but I think this particular instance of collaboration is over.”

A grim look settled on Michael’s face. “She saw him shrug off everything I tried,” he said. “He’s been taking potentes, Sera. I don’t even know how many, and some of them must have been powerful in their own right. It was like that damned rock all over again, I couldn’t make any headway.”

“That sounds like a tomorrow sort of problem,” Charles interjected. “You heard the boss. We’ve got to move.”

Michael sighed - then nodded. “All right,” he said. “Let’s get back down to Korbel.”

“Korbel?” Sobriquet asked. “You don’t mean to stay there? Sibyl’s probably still in the city, who knows what she’ll do if she thinks we’re vulnerable.”

“No, I figure we’ll head back to the lodge for the time being,” Michael said. “But we’ve got to get Vera first.”

She made a face. “Must we? I have the distinct impression that her usefulness to Sibyl is at an end.”

“All the more reason we should return for her.” Michael looked out towards the city, its lights barely visible as the snowfall met the smoke from the burning forest below. “It was her choice, after all.”

The snow had fallen ankle-deep by the time they left Korbel’s gates with Vera in tow. She looked out-of-place amid the dirty, tired men of the company in her white fur coat - until one looked at her face, and saw the grief etched there.

Each man in the company bore a different refraction of that look, though in some it was buried too deep to see readily. Michael felt it resonate between them, a tolling bell of loss that somehow complemented the deadened, muffled world of falling snow around them.

He walked at the head of the company, far in front. The night was bright, a dull red light from the burning hillside reflecting from flake to flake until the whole of the night burned in forge tones. There was not enough light for Vincent’s soul to melt the snow, however; Michael trudged through it, his eyes fixed ahead.

My soul to the One.

He had heard the men say it - first in jest, when they had met back in Imes, then again here and there as a refrain. Now, though, it was murmured almost too faint to hear, under their breath with eyes lowered and faces turned aside.

There was, as Charles had once said, a difference between knowing and seeing. Seeing Michael wielding Voss’s soul had been a shock for some of the men. He felt more fear than there had been before, but not as much as he had expected. Instead there was something broader, quieter that underlaid the fear, muting it into a soft counterpoint beside their grief. The two notes together transformed into something altogether different, something that Michael did not have an easy word for.

The snow crunched behind him; Michael turned his sight to see Sobriquet tromping forward from the column.

“You’re moping,” she said.

“Tonight was an abject failure,” Michael shot back. “In almost every respect. I’m entitled.”

She punched him in the arm - not hard, this time, which Michael took as a tacit agreement with his point. They walked quietly, side by side. Eventually, she raised her head.

“I’ve had men die under my command,” she said. “Some were like Gerard - they got themselves killed, through anger or stupidity. Others were my errors. They were all there because of me, though.” She took a few more steps in silence. “Clair used to scold me for sulking afterwards. Said they had made their own choices, taken their own risks.”

Michael smiled, despite himself. “That’s what Jeorg said,” he murmured. “More or less.”

“Jeorg,” Sobriquet said. “As in Jeorg, your friend who died months ago?”

Michael laughed and shook his head. “No, it’s - Ghar’s bones, this is going to sound mad.”

Sobriquet raised an eyebrow. “No, please don’t damage my lofty opinion of your mental state. I’m not sure I could handle it.”

“Shush.” Michael brushed snow from his head, sorting out how to begin explaining. “I see him, when I get a new soul - other times, as well. When I’m passed out I see his garden, or a version of it. I see him. It’s not him, not really, but I’m - fond of hearing him talk. Sometimes he says things I already know in new ways, ways I hadn’t considered. Other times-” Michael shook his head. “It does sound mad.”

“In fairness, you do have any number of people knocking around inside of you right now,” Sobriquet said. She paused, looking aside. “Do any of them ever speak to you?”

Michael shook his head. “I don’t know that they can,” he said. “I see - memories, images from them, but there’s never any speech. I don’t even know most of their names.” He grimaced. “Ghar’s blood. Beringer. I didn’t even remember his name. He followed me here, died in my company, had enough affinity to come to me - I didn’t remember his name, Sera.”

“You were focused on Luc,” she replied. “You think I know all the names of the men who died for me? It wasn’t in fashion to go by your proper name while conducting an illegal resistance, you know. The name doesn’t matter. It’s the actions you take that matter more.” She prodded him in the side. “You know the man chose to travel with you, fought for you, put up with trekking all over this horrid country. That means more than anything else, including his name.”

“You’re right, of course,” Michael sighed. “But it doesn’t sit well with me. I should have - I don’t know. I should have taken an interest, at least.”

Sobriquet gave a small snort of amusement. “Yes, well,” she said. “Lucky for you, you’re walking as far as you can possibly get from the men, exuding an aura of absolute depression that ensures nobody will dare attempt to talk to you. That’s sure to fix the problem.”

“You’re being snide,” Michael muttered. “That’s not an endearing trait.”

She stretched upward to kiss him on the cheek. “I can tell when you’re lying, remember.”

Michael gave her a halfhearted glare, feeling utterly outmaneuvered. She smiled back at him, snowflakes on her eyelashes glittering in the dull red light; he made his peace with this particular defeat and leaned over to kiss her.

“You’re infuriating,” he murmured. “Thanks.”

She grinned. “I learn from the best.”

Michael let his pace slow, walking closer to the column of men behind him. A few heads came up, eyes both curious and wary; Michael gave them a nod and a smile before focusing on one of the faces he knew better. “Richter,” he said. “The kitchen at the lodge, is it stocked well enough to do a proper meal?”

The cook blinked. “I should say so, milord. Mostly winter stores, but it is winter. Did you have something in mind?”

“Not particularly.” Michael shrugged. “What’s your favorite?”

Richter snorted. “My favorite meal from salt pork and pickled greens?” he scoffed. “We’ll see what I can do. I’ve certainly worked with worse, there was one time back in Daressa when the supply truck got blown to shit by some dirty-” He blanched, looking over at Sobriquet.

She smiled at him.

“-some lovely strangers,” Richter amended, to general derision from the men. “We were left with a rotten cabbage and a half cart of tinned beans. Needless to say, the options were limited. Voss was in the kitchens by then, we went by to shake him down…”

The other men chimed in with their own remembrances of that particular event, embellishing details or calling out Richter for the same.

Michael listened.