Peculiar Soul - Chapter 31: Process and Possibility

Chapter 31: Process and Possibility

I am often accused of fomenting hatred. I will not deny that such a hatred exists; the long and painful subjugation of Saf by Ghar has left wounds upon my people that do not easily heal. But these are people within the whole, carrying their individual burdens.

We already know from our long experience under Ghar’s boot that a man’s individual good, evil or indifference is of little import when he serves hateful masters. However kind a slavemonger may be, a constable, a taxman – his own acts of tolerance and charity mean little when committed within a framework of oppression.

Is it so strange, then, to see acts of individual hatred within the good as well? The Book teaches that we are all of one soul, split and split until we have forgotten the face of our brother; our laws punish injustice as a crime against kin. Yet there is no law that enjoins a man to act with charity, kindness and compassion.

The lack of such qualities is a crime against the self, which we do not forbid lest all men find themselves wanting. I cannot demand that a man be perfect. My recourse is to strive that the inevitable hatred be confined to the coals of our forge, and does not stain the work we hand down to posterity.

– Saleh Taskin, On Reclamation, 687

Friedrich walked slowly into the room. His soul hung tight and focused around him, a gentle promise of oblivion. He turned his head to take in Vera and Isolde, the trace fractal patterns marring the stone floor and the bloodspots from Isolde’s arm. Vera was still breathing hard, eyes wide with animal panic.

“What’s your name, boy?” Friedrich asked. “You scored a blow on me, even if it was an underhanded one. That merits more than a nameless death.”

Michael didn’t respond, looking past Friedrich to the doorway. The daylight silhouetted a crowd of figures outside, men in Ardan uniforms. The dim rumble of anticipation, fear and excitement from the soldiers surrounded Michael entirely; a counterpoint to the shrill fear still rolling from Isolde and Vera in waves.

Friedrich, however, was a beacon of calm amid the tumult. He stood quietly while Michael sent his sight above the building’s low roof, confirming what he suspected: the soldiers had the building completely encircled. It was good that Sobriquet had hurried the others out rather than waiting. Michael returned his sight to its natural vantage, meeting Friedrich’s eyes.

“Michael,” he said. “Lord Baumgart.”

“Baumgart,” Friedrich murmured, lifting an eyebrow. “Karl’s son? I do see a bit of him in your face. Tell me, Michael – do you think your father’s name will stay my hand?”

His eyes were inhumanly still, focused on Michael. It was not a predator’s intent gaze, nor the eager anticipation of a killer. The eyes belonged to a bookkeeper, one determined to identify the source of an error before he corrected it and returned the ledger to balance once more. As soon as there were no more questions to ask, Michael would die.

There was more than just Vera and Isolde’s fear humming in Michael’s soul. He licked his lips and resisted the urge to look away. There was nothing to look at, only the bare stone of the room and its meager furniture. Nothing for Stanza to work with. Spark sat in his mind, tempting him, but Michael hesitated; he had never consciously tried to direct that part of his soul in such a manner, and Friedrich would not give him a second chance if he failed.

Michael sensed the stirrings of impatience from Friedrich and pulled his thoughts back to reality. “No,” he said, still watching for an opening. “I don’t believe anyone here accords much merit to his opinion.”

Friedrich gave an amused grunt. “Good,” he said. “Dignity is rare.” There was a beat of silence. Sever’s soul rippled once. Michael saw the edge form in the bright traces of mirror-light before it parted the air between them, a vertical division in the world. He let Stanza guide his feet, his thoughts of an attack falling away in a burst of blind panic; Michael stepped to the side and felt a chill against his arm.

A ribbon of cloth drifted down from his sleeve, shorn neatly free. Dust trailed from a paper-thin score in the wall behind him; outside, a soldier began to wail in pain. He heard the tromp of boots as the men surrounding them backed hurriedly away from their building.

Friedrich’s eyes flicked to the cloth as it fell, his eyes narrowing – and another ethereal blade ripped the air behind him to intercept Sobriquet’s form as it materialized, hand outstretched. There was a scream, shrill and buzzing; Sobriquet vanished.

Michael felt a sudden spike of adrenaline, his heart pounding faster still. He stared disbelieving at the empty air where Sobriquet had disappeared. The room loomed frozen around him, his thoughts coming scattered, fragmented.

Friedrich snorted. “Surprise is a tactic that spoils quickly,” he said. “Unimaginative.” His eyes remained on Michael, unblinking, his soul flexing once more.

The traces of mirror-light highlighted the path of his attack in the instant before it hit; once again, Michael spun barely out of the way. Pain lanced through his shoulder. Cloth fell to the ground once more, a sliver of bloody skin coming with it. He made a strangled noise and gripped the sliced flesh.

A look of disappointment came over Friedrich’s face, and Michael saw his soul gather for a killing strike, the path horizontal across his stomach. The cat had tired of its mouse. Desperate, Michael tried to still his turbulent thoughts and call to Stanza, Spark, any scrap of his soul that could forestall the blade. The pain struck at his focus with electric frenzy. Michael felt himself a child once more, cowering before his father and cradling his wounds.

The image lanced into his mind with sudden clarity. He had watched his father’s soul for as long as he could remember, watched it for the eddies and currents that heralded whisper-quiet blades lashing out to rake over his skin. He knew it, he understood the destructive force that had ruled over his childhood.

The mirror-light tracing the path of Friedrich’s oncoming attack glimmered, flexed-

Everything went dark. The air turned hot and stifling, a furnace-blast that washed over Michael’s face. “Stop!” Vincent’s voice called from outside. “Kolbe, stand down!”

Luminous edges faded away as the attack failed to materialize; when light returned to the room Sofia and Vincent were there. Vincent glared up at Friedrich; he looked back disinterestedly.

“I do not take orders from you,” he said mildly. “But I will consider a request, out of courtesy. Tell me why I should not kill the man who attacked me.”

“We have questions for him,” Vincent said, turning his eyes at last to look at Michael. His face was harder than it had been when they had last met, with none of its easygoing humor. “Questions it would be difficult to ask a dead man.”

Friedrich nodded towards Isolde and Vera, still sitting on the bloody floor. “Sibyl seems to have encountered difficulties even so,” he noted. “And his soul-”

“A misunderstanding,” Vera said, shakily rising to her feet. Sofia moved to support her, taking her arm gently. Vera smiled at her, an expression that did not survive as her face turned toward Friedrich. “One that we’ve resolved. He is not our enemy – isn’t that right, Michael?”

Michael shook his head, taking Vera’s cue – though when he spoke, he spoke directly to Sofia. “I’m not,” he said.

Sofia stared back at him inscrutably, her eyes for once boring directly into his own. For all that verifices were inconvenient when he was attempting subterfuge, Sofia’s ability to see his sincerity was a massive boon; she squeezed Vera’s hand.

“You see?” Vera said. “There’s no need for violence.”

Friedrich’s face remained still. “And if I disagree?”

“Then we’re going to have a disagreement,” Vincent said. “This is Sibyl’s camp, not Sever’s. You can do as you please under your own roof. This man is under ours.”

Friedrich stared down at Vincent for a long moment, and Michael watched the minute shifts in his soul with dread; if he decided to ignore Vincent there would be little anyone in the room could do to stop him.

Michael quashed his hesitation and drew up Spark’s soul within him, trying to duplicate what he had felt when it had lashed out of its own accord. If he could break Friedrich’s concentration, at least-

“Then I will leave,” Friedrich said. He kept his gaze on Vincent a moment, then slowly turned his head to look at Michael. His eyes were cold, impassive. “Until we meet again.”

He turned and left. The light in the room dimmed as he filled the doorway – and brightened as he left. Vincent was the first to move, turning to walk to Isolde. She grabbed his hand and rose to her feet, embracing him – and then he pulled away, tracing his fingers over the blood smeared on her arm.

Vincent’s eyes narrowed, and he turned to glower at Michael. “You did this?” he asked, his voice dangerously flat.

“Vin,” Vera said soothingly. “We’re all okay. What happened was my fault, not Michael’s.”

“I’m still not clear on what did happen,” Isolde said. She walked over to Michael and brought her hand close to the wound on his arm. For a moment Isolde hesitated, then she laid her fingertips gently against his skin. Michael grunted in pain as his flesh knit together, and at his exclamation he felt an echo of fear coil within her once more. She jerked her hand back quickly and took a step away.

“What was that, before?” she asked. “What did you do?”

Michael did not answer, instead looking toward the door. He ached to leave, to run, to find Clair and the others – to look for Sobriquet. Its scream still echoed in his head; he did not know what Friedrich had done, or how grievous an injury he had inflicted. Sobriquet might be dying in whatever hiding place it preferred. It might be dead already.

But he was still in the center of an Ardan camp, and bereft of Sobriquet’s veil he did not think leaving would be a simple task. Reluctantly, he turned back to look at Sofia and the others.

“I suppose,” Michael said, “that I should start at the beginning.”

“…and the documents confirmed everything we had suspected,” Michael said grimly. “My father helped to kill tens of thousands of Daressans.”

“Ghar’s bones,” Vincent spat. “I should have shot twice.”

Vera lifted an eyebrow. “Let’s not pretend that Karl Baumgart is the only member of the assembly capable of such things,” she said. “Certainly, Mendian will not bother with such fine distinctions if they learn of this.”

“When,” Michael said. “When they learn.” He lifted his head to look at each of the others in turn. “I mean it when I said that I’m not your enemy. I owe you all a debt for helping me.” He paused, considering his words. “That said, I am determined that this crime shall not be tucked away in some sealed box of Assembly records. People will know what happened in Leik, and the consequences will fall as they have been earned.”

“You realize that Mendian isn’t going to attack the Assembly,” Isolde pointed out. “They’ll attack Ardan soldiers. The responsible parties will live on, little more than frustrated by your rebuke.”

“And so you’d once again ask that we address it within Ardan systems of justice?” Michael asked. “Even if they censured my father, which is far from certain – there would be no material consequences. In a year or so his ambitions would have returned to their former heights.”

Isolde lifted an eyebrow. “And so your recourse is to condemn innocents to die?”

“Innocents,” Michael said, drawing out the word. “I’m not sure that’s the proper term. They didn’t kill those specific Daressans on that specific day, true. But innocent?”

He looked at Sofia. “Tell me that Ardan soldiers don’t steal from Daressans on a whim,” he said. “Tell me that they don’t belittle them, beat them, destroy their livelihoods, rape and murder and laugh about it after.”

Sofia turned to the side and did not answer for a long moment. “Some do,” she said quietly. “Some don’t. I don’t – focus on the worst that I see. I used to obsess over it.” She met Michael’s eyes. “I am not responsible for everything. I can’t be.”

“Every army has its share of villains,” Vincent said. “You can’t organize men for the purpose of killing and expect them all to be paragons.”

“And when the men in charge are also villains?” Michael asked, still focused on Sofia. “They planned this in the Assembly. My father wrote those documents in Calmharbor. Right on your doorstep, under your sight.” He leaned forward. “Did you know what they were planning to do?”

“I don’t-” Sofia looked to the side, and Vera took her hand gently. Vincent seemed about to say something, but a minute shake of Isolde’s head stilled him; he contented himself with glowering at Michael.

“The Assembly plans many things,” Sofia eventually said. “Some of the things they plan are horrific, others are mundane. But – they are for scenarios that may never develop, contingencies. A proportionate response for the most terrible of circumstances. Almost none of the plans are carried out.” She plucked at the collar of her shirt distractedly. “Almost none.”

Michael sat back in his chair. “Maybe I’m naïve,” he said. “You see more than I ever will. And you’re right – you don’t have the power to right every wrong you see. I have only the one evil squarely in my vision, though, and I have what I need to address it.”

Vincent leaned forward. “And what is it that you have, exactly?,” he asked. “You told us how you came to be here, but you never got around to mentioning anything about your soul. What did you learn that makes you so confident you can stand up against your mother shores and win?”

Michael hesitated, looking aside. His eyes settled on Vera; she gave a small shake of her head.

He turned to face Sofia. “I have Jeorg’s soul,” Michael said. “I am Stanza.” He saw the words impact Sofia as he spoke, the old man’s name crumpling a part of her that was already broken and keening. The silent pang of grief from the four others ripped through Michael in a moment of lightheadedness, leaving in its wake a chaotic blend of sorrow and disbelief.

“That’s impossible,” Isolde protested. “You had a soul already.”

“I did,” Michael said, gesturing to the floor warped by Stanza’s power. “I won’t pretend I fully understand it, but you’ve seen the proof. Your attack would have killed anyone else.”

Sofia looked sharply at Isolde, who flushed. “He was killing Vera,” she spat. “He nearly did.”

“I’ve already said that was my fault,” Vera reminded her, putting her fingers gently on Isolde’s arm. “Michael is being more than generous with what he knows. We should not be the first here to offer hostility.”

“He’s already determined to kill a few thousand Ardan soldiers,” Vincent said. “I would point out that we very well may be caught up in it. No matter what tone he takes, that’s a hostile action.”

Vera lifted an eyebrow. “So then – what do you propose? Shall we all attack him now, or would you like to have supper first?”

Vincent looked at Michael for a moment, then to Sofia. “I admit, I’m not sure what the best course of action would be,” he said. “But it sits ill with me to do nothing.”

“And yet that is what I’ve done,” Sofia said. “Michael isn’t wrong; the Assembly drew their plan together within my sight and I looked away. It seems – fitting, now, that I should look away once more. We are here for one purpose; I propose that we fulfill it and leave. Let this be one more thing that passes beneath my sight. It is not my task to clean up the Assembly’s mess.”

There was a murmur of acknowledgment from the group – grudging acceptance from Vincent, although Vera looked pleased with herself.

Isolde, however, leaned forward with a frown. “What purpose is left to fulfill? Kolbe struck down Sobriquet, just now,” she said. “Though I admit that nothing is certain when dealing with occultors.”

“Sobriquet is alive,” Sofia said. “Either unconscious or too weak to ward off my sight; in either case I know where to find our quarry.”

Michael’s heart drummed hard in his chest. Sobriquet was alive, though perhaps not for long. “What are your intentions?” he asked. “Were you told to kill or capture?”

“To remove,” Sofia said. “I’ll overlook your involvement, but do not ask us to abandon our mission and throw in with the outlaws.”

“Let me come with you,” Michael said. “We can resolve this without further death. Sobriquet has been a friend to me – one that acceded to my request when I asked that the partisans not target your lives.” He left out that its motivations had not been entirely pure. It did not appear to matter; Sofia heard the truth in his words once more. She rocked back in her seat.

For a long moment Sofia thought. Her emotions had calmed, and Michael found himself wondering what she saw. Was she inspecting the present or delving down the uncertain and branching paths of what might be? She yielded few clues, but after the silence had stretched on long enough that Vincent began to shift in his seat, she leaned forward once more.

“You don’t have the proof you spoke of on your person,” she said. “The partisans will take it to Mendian or Saf as they choose without your aid, so what I’ll propose is this – come with us. Help us take your friend peacefully back to Ardalt, and reveal yourself there as Stanza.”

Michael clenched his jaw, reflexively opposed to the idea. “The Institute-”

“The Institute isn’t what it was,” Isolde said. “We know Spark is dead. They still haven’t admitted it publicly, but we took a boat close to look for you some days after Sofia felt Jeorg die. Based on what Sofia saw we had assumed that his pet anatomens killed him and then was carved up by the prisoners – but knowing that you’re Stanza…”

Michael bit his lip, then nodded. “I killed him,” he said. “He didn’t leave me much of a choice.”

There was another flash of emotion from the group, sharp and vengeful; Michael closed his eyes until it passed. When he opened his eyes again more than a few of theirs bore tears.

“Did he hurt?” Vincent rasped. “Tell me he hurt, at the end.”

“It wasn’t – clean,” Michael said, trying not to let his thoughts dwell on that cramped room, Spark’s smiling face masked with blood. “I used Stanza. I’ve never trained as an anatomens, so-”

Isolde shuddered, and Michael stopped talking.

“What matters is that he’s gone,” Sofia said. “The Institute might rally given time, but we can deny them that.”

“If you come back and declare as Stanza they’ll crumble,” Vincent said. “Nobody’s forgotten what happened to Jeorg, even if they don’t talk about it in company. If a new Stanza speaks against the Institute they would have to answer, but without Spark they have no means to do so.”

Michael said nothing for a moment, his thoughts swirling. It would be wrong to say he’d given up hope of ever returning to Ardalt; his distance from his homeland had not weighed on him much. Ardalt was his father’s domain, where he had power and authority. To come back and stand against him as an equal, though – it had an appeal. He had come this far on defiance of his father’s aims, and that line appeared ready to naturally curve back to Ardalt.

He found that he did not particularly care about the power struggle in Ardalt, however. Last year he would have found the concept of sparring with the Institute for control of the Assembly implausibly thrilling; after his time in Daressa the notion was merely abstract, too removed from the reality of the War to merit attention.

What did he want? There was nobody left to ask it of him. Whatever he chose, there was only one place his next steps could lead him. Clair and the others would be unable to find Sobriquet’s true location without its guidance. Given its propensity for stealth, he doubted anyone but Sibyl could.

There really was no choice at all.

“I’ll go,” Michael said. “But Sobriquet isn’t to be treated as an enemy.” He let his gaze linger on Isolde until she flushed again and looked away. Vincent stepped between them, scowling.

“What, then, if not an enemy?” he asked. “I appreciate your idealism, Michael, I really do – but we’re in the War. The partisans have been a thorn in our side for years now, and if Sobriquet has been a friend to you then you’re quite the exception from their standard.”

“Sobriquet is a friend with which you have significant disagreements,” Michael said firmly. “It’s the same category I’m in, if you’re looking for a precedent. That’s my condition if you want my help here or in Ardalt.”

Vera smiled and squeezed Sofia’s hand. Michael blinked; Sofia used Vera to help read tone and expression in others. He wondered what she saw of him, filtered through Vera’s newly-changed eyes, her perspective of Michael not merely as a wayward acquaintance who had stumbled into terrible power, but as the man who she believed had remade her to spare her life. It occurred to him in a terrible flash of insight that the impact of Spark’s soul might stretch far beyond what he had intended.

“Don’t worry,” Sofia said. “We’ll keep you both safe.”

He nodded slowly, her words not as comforting as he had expected them to be. Michael hesitated once more, then pushed his disquiet to the side. “Then let’s go find our friend,” he said.

They set out on horses, which revealed Michael as a competent but somewhat rusty rider; he had been tutored in it years ago and spent the subsequent time traveling exclusively by carriage. It was yet another skill that was expected of an Assemblyman’s son, and so Michael had learned.

He found it a more enjoyable experience than he remembered, not least because he found that he could sense the dim emotions of the horse beneath him. It was unlike what he felt from humans, but the animal’s displeasure at being mounted was unmistakable.

“Don’t worry,” he murmured. “I’m a friend, albeit one with whom you have significant disagreements. It seems to be my lot in life.”

The horse whickered and kept trotting forward, its attitude unchanged.

Vincent spurred his horse forward to ride beside Michael, a happy grin on his face now that they were out of the camp’s confines. “So what did you do to poor old Kolbe?” he asked. “Unusual for him to sight in on someone like he did with you.”

“I hit him with a stack of lumber, more or less,” Michael said, drawing a surprised bark of laughter from Vincent. “It only worked because I caught him by surprise.”

“Oh, you poor man,” Vincent chuckled. “Keep an eye out for that one. He’s infamous for his grudges, and probably only let you go willingly because he thinks you’ll be better sport when he comes back to kill you later. It wasn’t my request that stayed his hand, I’ll tell you that much.”

Michael smiled back at him. “You did keep him from chopping me in two, so thanks for that.” He sighed and leaned forward to scratch his horse behind the ears. “I hope for my own sake that I’m better sport in the future. If he was actually trying to kill me I wouldn’t have stood a chance.”

“I believe you’ll surprise him,” Vera said, riding up on Michael’s other side with a sunny smile. He looked at her in mild surprise; her demeanor towards him had not been what he had expected in the wake of their confrontation. It wasn’t as though Vera had been anything but lovely to him before, save for that one unfortunate moment in the camp – but there was a knowing aspect to her smile now, an extra intensity to her eyes. He would have ascribed it to hatred were it so obviously not – he would feel it, in her position.

He could intuit why it was a bad idea to disclose Spark to the others, but not why she had warned him of it. Not why she still came to his defense when Vincent and Isolde grew quarrelsome. Not why she was almost certainly skewing Sofia’s perception of Michael when they spoke – and he could not ask her about any of it without Sofia hearing. She and Isolde rode far ahead, talking in low voices, but this distance was no barrier to her sight.

Vera could feel his disquiet, though. He met her eyes. “Why?” he asked, burying a dozen questions in the word.

She smiled. “He’s never met you,” she said. “Not really.”

Michael blinked; there were no answers to be had in Vera’s response. “I’ve met me,” he grumbled. “I’d be surprised if I won.”

“Have you really?” Vera asked, spurring her horse forward. “I wonder. Don’t focus too much on what’s in front of you.”

Michael stared after her, feeling much less confident in his mastery of Spark than he had seconds before. Was this his doing? He managed to avoid startling too much as Vincent leaned in from the side with a knowing grin.

“Vera, eh?” he murmured. “Word of warning, she snores.”

“I don’t – um,” Michael said. “I don’t think it’s like that. I nearly killed her today.”

“How do you think I met Isolde?” Vincent asked. “Took me a week to recover from what she did to me, and only some of that was the blood loss.” He laughed and punched Michael in the shoulder. “I’m glad you’re back around. Keeps things interesting.”

Michael nodded absently, rubbing at his shoulder. He felt tired, as if it had been weeks since he awoke that morning. All of it was too distant – Friedrich, Ardalt, his father, they were all unreal, specters hovering in the middle distance of his mind. Even Sofia and her friends were an oddity, meshing poorly with his remembrance from that dinner so long ago.

He sighed and leaned back in his saddle, every jarring step of the horse bringing them one step closer to Sobriquet.