Peculiar Soul - Chapter 32: Way Leads On To Way

Chapter 32: Way Leads On To Way

We phrase national identity as a form of altruism, in most respects; it is a conferred set of values that stands as an equal alongside natural bonds of family and friendship. Just as a man might defer or subvert his individual wants to aid a member of his family, so too do we ask that he act contrary to his base nature in the name of his countrymen.

It is a relatively recent invention, for all that we prize it. Those in the past identified first with their family, their family with their village, that village’s headman with the regional lord, and so on upward to the ultimate ruler of a nation. There was no call to cultivate such a personal relationship with the state, a demand that each individual consider themselves first and foremost Gharic or Mendiko. Indeed, such tendencies were largely discouraged by local lords who preferred that their residents privilege their regional identities more highly than that of some far-distant central government.

We see this too in our past wars, where individual lords added or withdrew their armies based on their preference. In the War, however, each man is called to fight as a personal pledge, a commitment of one alone to stand alongside his countrymen. Where a lord might have dissented, what is one man to do if he questions the direction of his country? Where is one man to turn if the demands of this fresh bond become too much to bear?

It is not an inherent evil to afford individuals direct links to the state, but nations lack the humanity that defined prior bonds of lordship and kin. They are instead a species of petty god with priests that play as statesmen. Some feel I am too harsh to term them such; for my proof I need only point to their treatment of apostates.

– Leire Gabarain, Annals of the Sixteenth Star, 693.

The path meandered north into a low rolling scrubland, the sun coming low and golden over the crest of distant hills. Dust from their mounts flew swiftly away on a breeze rushing down from the highlands. Michael felt suspended between two extremes – chill on his left, glowing warmth on his right. He closed his eyes to luxuriate in the feeling of the sunlight, sighing frustratedly as he saw the path ahead even so; sometimes his spector’s sight was an annoyance.

Warmth vanished as Sofia’s horse dropped back to ride at his side, blocking the light. “You seem anxious,” she said.

“Is it strange if I am?” Michael asked. “Sobriquet may be dying – may be dead.”

Sofia gave him a mild smile. “Not dead,” she said. “Though I can see little else, so some anxiety is perhaps normal. I’m not the one to ask if a thing is strange – but you do seem different to my eyes.” She frowned. “I suppose that’s to be expected. You’ve had – these past months must have been hard for you.” Hoofbeats sounded low and regular between them for a span as the quiet stretched out. “I’m sorry, for what it’s worth.”

“Sorry?” Michael asked, looking at her. She hadn’t spoken at length, when he had met her before; it was oddly disconcerting to hear her do so now.

She did not answer right away. Sofia’s emotions came only dimly to Michael, but he caught murmurs from her – regret, guilt, pain. “I started a chain of events in motion,” she said. “Jeorg is dead, now, and you-” She turned her head towards him. “I sometimes act thoughtlessly, despite my sight. My failing laid a burden upon you. To bear Stanza, to suffer and kill Spark – I’m sorry, Michael, for my part in it.”

Michael shook his head, finding a smile creeping on to his face. “I’m not,” he said. “Where would I be, if not for you? Spark would have had me either way. You sending me to Jeorg is the only reason he doesn’t have me still.”

“And the reason Jeorg is gone,” she murmured.

“I don’t think he would blame you,” Michael said. “Neither of us could have forced him to do something against his will. And beside that – I think he was ready to leave that valley. He was so excited to be traveling, to be moving forward once more-” His words caught in his throat. “I don’t know what would have happened if we had made it to Mendian together, in honesty. I’m not sure that we would have found what he sought.”

“And what was that?” Sofia asked.

“I’m not sure,” Michael said. “But I’ve found that events continue to defy my expectations. I’m not sure why Mendian should have been any different.”

There was another whisper of emotion from Sofia, gone before Michael could place it. “For years I despaired of ever being surprised again,” she said. “Recently I’ve had more than my fill of events going against expectations, as you say. Life has become – too massive, its moving parts too fluid to clearly see ahead. So much turns on the whims of a few men, and the rest is obscured in darkness.” She looked ahead, down the road. “Your friend has not helped matters. Even now there are so many things left unknowable from Sobriquet’s meddling, and I cannot see what the path ahead might hold.”

“Welcome to the ranks of the blind,” Michael said, giving her a rueful smile. “If it’s any consolation, Sobriquet is just as infuriating an ally as a nemesis.”

“An ally,” Sofia murmured. “Do you think that’s possible?”

Now it was Michael’s turn to look ahead down the road. “Truthfully, no,” he said. “I don’t understand it, Sofia. I-” He turned to fix her with his eyes. “Do you know what they say about you? The partisans live in fear that Sibyl will draw up lists of their friends and family, that you will send soldiers to drag them from their beds. That darkness you hate, that meddling – it was all in the name of protecting people from you.”

“Everyone is justified in their own mind,” Sofia said quietly. “The partisans are justified in killing Ardans, and the Ardans are justified in killing Daressans. I’ve seen men come home, wash blood off their hands and kiss their children. I see the good and evil all around me, all of it. Everyone draws that divide between those they care about and the rest of the world. Even the worst of men may love and be loved, in their way. If I stayed my hand for that, I would do nothing at all.”

Michael shook his head. “But where is the line?” he asked. “Vera used her soul on Clair. I won’t ask if you knew, I know you did. How do you justify that? Even in defense of the ones you love, how?”

Sofia did not answer, instead leaning forward to idly brush her fingers over her horse’s mane. Nothing filtered through to Michael’s soul, though there was a persistent unsettled feeling that he could not shake. Finally, she straightened up. “Do you know what I see, every day that I’m here?” she asked. “Men dying, screaming, calling for their mothers in pools of blood and piss. I see their muscles seize, their eyes flare wide, their hearts quiver to a stop. I see it at night when I sleep. I see it right now. Do you want to talk about evil?”

She leaned towards Michael, her mount obliging to bring her close. “The War is evil. Nothing I might do comes close. Not even Spark compared. The War must end, Michael, and there are only so many ways it may end. I choose an Ardan victory.” She glared for a moment, then leaned back. “The partisans foul our way forward. They claim to want the War gone from Daressa; but for their sabotage, the War would be out of Daressa already.”

She shivered, rubbing her arms despite the lingering warmth of the day. “I know you think poorly of Vera for what she did. Of all of us. I see the hypocrisy in it. I just – I can’t care about it. Not when I see what is happening every moment of every day, all around us. I’m sorry that the best way forward is horrible – but it is the best way forward. Maybe with you by our side we might find a better path, but we cannot compromise the end in order to make the journey more pleasant.”

“Those who act to defend an ideal do not always have the luxury of following it,” Michael murmured.

A pulse of relief flickered from Sofia. “You understand,” she said.

“No,” Michael sighed. “Those were Sobriquet’s words. I don’t understand either of you. I’ve seen the end, and I know what’s waiting there. The end is what doesn’t matter. This meaningless journey in the middle is all that we have. I don’t know how you expect to see anything other than horror if you join the rest in inflicting it upon others.”

Sofia looked ahead, although Michael could see the all-encompassing eyes of her soul crowding around him even so. “You remind me of Jeorg,” she said. “Perhaps Stanza influences its bearers in some way, gives them the fire of their ideals. You’re not wrong, nor was he.” She did not move, but her soul grew thick around them, choking. “The world broke Jeorg. It took his hope and threw it back in his face, left him to waste half his life hiding on a farm.”

Michael pursed his lips. “He found his ways to help.”

“He helped dozens, not the millions he could have helped. He was one of the Eight, Michael. Now you are too.” Sofia let out a breath, and the tension in the air bled away. “There is a limit to how much change you can effect in the world while keeping your hands clean.”

“I’m here with you, aren’t I?” Michael asked.

Sofia’s arch look was at odds with the flare of pain that his barb provoked; Michael denied the temptation to soften the remark.

She turned her horse off the road abruptly. Michael found himself following despite his surprise; his mount was rather more sanguine in its reaction and moved to walk behind her. His questions froze unasked when he saw a small hut hiding in the shade of the trees. They had arrived.

He spurred his horse faster, hearing rapid hoofbeats behind him as the others sped to follow. A thrill kindled in Michael’s chest; he was no practiced rider, but some of his horse’s raw excitement at the pace bled into him as it took up its speed across the field. It was mere seconds before they reached the hut, and he reined the horse to a reluctant halt before hopping off.

The building was in poor shape, neglected if not abandoned. Its walls were splintered and bleached wood, with gaps in the slats and protruding nails. Half the roof was caved in. Michael walked through the empty doorframe and found a small, clear area under the roofed portion of the structure, with vegetation pared back and the floor swept clean.

There were the ashes of a banked fire, a small pack, and a bedroll with a young woman collapsed onto it. Michael bent down next to her and hesitated a moment, letting his soul surge within him before laying his fingers against her neck – but no foreign soul lashed out at his mind when he made contact.

Michael felt a pulse, weak under skin that was warm and slick with sweat. He let himself exhale, turning to look as Vincent and Isolde walked through the door after him.

“She’s alive,” he said, beckoning Isolde over. “Unconscious.”

Isolde walked with slow steps to look down at Sobriquet. “Roll her to her back,” she said, tugging off one glove.

He reached out to grab Sobriquet’s shoulder, pulling her gently onto her back. There was no doubt that she was Clair’s sister, the two women shared their features strongly – though Sobriquet bore a twisted scar that snaked over her cheekbone and along the left side of her face. The old wound had claimed her ear, and her left arm ended just shy of the elbow.

Isolde frowned and knelt to touch her fingers to Sobriquet’s forehead. “There’s nothing wrong with her – nothing recent, at any rate. Whatever injury Kolbe gave her, it left no mark.”

Michael hesitated before reaching out with his own hand once more. Isolde hurriedly withdrew her fingers, shifting back as he touched Sobriquet gently on her brow and pushed his soul forth. He frowned. There was a sense of discontinuity, of half-complete sentences and interrupted thoughts.

He shifted, pursing his lips. Friedrich had struck at Sobriquet’s apparition, the manifestation of her self. Whatever purchase Sever’s soul could find on such a thing had wrought havoc within her. Michael had no idea where to begin mending the wound, it was not like correcting Vera or Spark’s meddling by returning the paths of the mind to their former state. Sobriquet had been sundered, cut – severed, for her attempt to save Michael.

It felt irrevocable. It felt fatal. Her breath came in short gasps, her pulse weak and thready.

The muscles in Michael’s jaw clenched. It wasn’t right. It couldn’t be. The fundamental injustice of it clawed at him, the notion that the world would repay such an act with torment and death. He could not believe that the world would only reward ruthlessness, would only privilege the mercenary and feral impulses of humanity – just as Sobriquet had told him, before he had apparently convinced her otherwise.

I can’t care about it, Sofia’s voice whispered.

That is all they are meant to be, Spark purred.

Without power, his father said, you are a waste.

Once again Michael was staring into the void. It beckoned, unknowable and deep, promising him serenity. He had walked toward it before, yearned for it, and now it seemed doubly tempting. The world was unkind, unjust, and no matter how he struggled it would lash him against the post until he submitted once more. All that lay ahead of him was misery and oblivion.

He heard a laugh, once more, but it was not the mocking laughter he had heard that day at the Institute. It was Vera’s voice, self-amused and coy. Don’t focus too much on what’s in front of you. Michael straightened up and looked at the void. There was something else there, between him and the darkness – a radiance, lighting everything in a dull glow that seemed to build the more he focused on it. He took a step, puzzled. Don’t focus-

“Ah,” Michael said.

He turned around.

Hanging in the void was the blinding lamp of his soul, a gargantuan sphere of light that reduced all others to insignificant motes. It was Stanza and it was Spark; it was the tiny glow given to him by Stefan and Beni. More than that, though, burning bright at its core – it was the soul of a man who had stared into the void and asked for something better.

The soul had been his answer.

Slowly, he curled his fingers into a fist. He turned from his soul back to the broken shards of what was once Sobriquet, floating indistinct in the darkness. With his other hand he reached out to them. Better would not happen on its own; if he wanted it, he would have to make it. He had the means. He had the will. The only thing left was to choose the words that would shape it into something real.

“Wending, winding, neverending,” he whispered, taking a sliver of Sobriquet’s shattered self between his fingers. “Broken paths desire mending.”

The fragments had forgotten what they were, but he remembered. He had seen, through his eyes and through Clair’s battered memories – he had seen her. “Ever seeking, searching, finding.” The shards began to drift closer, moving with uncertain purpose towards where Michael stood beckoning. “To their destinations binding.”

He felt the links take hold at his words, his soul writing his intent onto the world. Remaking it into something more than it had been. There was a momentum to it now, and the words came tumbling forward like water breaching a dam, the ties between them hard-edged and clear.

“Growing back as once it was to bear a mind and soul within,” he called. His voice echoed through the dark, and he heard the keening as lines redrew themselves into order. Michael felt a smile touch his lips, a vindictive triumph. “A selfless act in common cause, repaid in kind-”

The paths turned, twisted, knit. “Be whole again.”

Isolde jumped to her feet as Sobriquet gasped and sat upright, looking around in blind panic. Michael coughed. His vision swam, but he scarcely noticed; the adrenaline pumped through him in a chill rush. The world had tried to take from him yet again. This time, it had failed.

“Ghar’s ashes,” Vincent spat, jumping forward to pull Isolde toward the door. “Warn us before-”

Sobriquet’s eyes narrowed, and a shimmer of light darted out from her to take Vincent and Isolde across the midsection; they both collapsed to the ground. Her skin paled, and she sagged back against the bedroll. Her eyes focused blearily on Michael, widening in recognition – and then fluttering shut as she slipped into unconsciousness.

“Isolde!” Sofia called from outside, panic in her voice. “Vincent!”

“They’re fine,” Michael said, bending down to lift Sobriquet up. She was frighteningly light. He ducked through the doorway and stepped outside, looking towards Sofia as she ran towards them; Vera followed behind at a more leisurely pace. “They won’t be happy when they wake up, but they’re fine.”

Sofia stopped to glare at him, then at Sobriquet in his arms. “I want her bound,” she said. “And sedated, before we go. This can’t happen again.”

“It won’t,” Michael said. “We’re leaving.”

She froze. “You said you’d come back with us.”

“I changed my mind,” Michael said. “I’m sorry, Sofia, but your world isn’t the one I want to live in. I don’t like what you’ve made your peace with – and frankly, I don’t trust you.”

The pang of hurt that burst off her was palpable; Michael forced himself not to react. “Yet you trust her?” she asked.

Michael looked down. “She’s trusting me,” he said. “For today. It’s a work in progress.”

“Don’t do this,” Sofia hissed. “This won’t break the stalemate. It changes nothing. It fixes nothing. They’ll all die the same, and I’ll have to watch them bleed.”

Michael drew himself up, letting a whisper of his soul leak into his voice. “Not this one,” he said. “I wanted to save her. I did. I’m past compromise, Sofia. I won’t be dragged back into Ardalt, to pretend at meaningless games of power. There’s nothing for me there.”

“And so you’d stay here alone?” Sofia asked. “On the run? The world will breakyou before it changes, Michael. Just like Jeorg.”

He looked at Vera; she smiled at him. “It hasn’t met me yet,” he murmured. “Not really.” He straightened up and looked toward the treeline, then back at Sofia. “I’m going to leave you here,” he said. “Don’t try to follow. You can’t catch me in a forest.”

“Don’t,” Sofia warned. “Vera-”

Vera laughed. “I can’t,” she said, smiling at Sofia’s shocked expression. She inclined her head to Michael. “And, more than that: I won’t.”

“You – what did you do?” Sofia breathed, staring at Michael with murder in her eyes. “What did you do to her?”

“I will go,” Michael said, backing toward the forest. “And you will stay. The wood behind me bars the way.” He turned and began to run into the trees, his soul pounding out of him with each footstep to part the undergrowth ahead and swell an impenetrable thicket in his wake. “Goodbye, Sofia.”

He heard her scream, hoarse and furious as Vera laughed – and then the trees closed in, and there was only silence.

It was past midnight when Sobriquet opened her eyes again, an indrawn hiss of breath causing Michael to slow his tireless run and kneel. “Hey,” he said, letting her down to the ground. “Please don’t knock me out. It would be very inconvenient right now.”

Her eyes glinted in the starlight as she struggled to focus on his face. “No, no,” she groaned. “You can’t be here. I’m-” She turned her head to the side, her body flopping awkwardly over as she failed to rise to her feet. She rolled face-first into the dirt; Michael grinned as he propped her back upright against a tree.

“Take a moment before you try to move,” he said. “You did something brave and stupid, and you nearly died for it.”

“You must be contagious,” she coughed, spitting bits of leaf from her mouth. “I look forward to a quick convalescence.” There was a pause, and she looked off to the side. “I remember Sibyl’s retainers-”

“I needed her to find you.” Michael sat on a nearby outcrop, stretching out his legs. “They shouldn’t be able to follow us here easily, even if Sibyl can see us now.” He looked upward and waved. “Sorry again, Sofia. I never meant for it to end this way.”

“She can’t see anything near here,” Sobriquet said, scowling – and then looking up at Michael with a curious expression. “If she traveled with you she thought you were an ally. Did you join with her and betray her? Didn’t you counsel me that she was a fearsome foe that would pursue me far past reason’s dictates, and that crossing her was unwise to the point of insanity?”

“I doubt I was quite that theatrical,” Michael said. “But yes, she’s likely none too happy with me right now.”

Sobriquet’s eyes glinted in the dark. “You could have just let her have me.”

“And you could have let Sever have me,” Michael said. “It seems we’re both having an irrational sort of day.” He stood up from his perch, stretching his shoulder and wincing as it made a faint noise. “Ghar’s bones, I’m not meant for this. How are you feeling?”

“Well enough.” Sobriquet shifted, and in the dim starlight Michael could not make out the contour of her eyes. “Considering. I shouldn’t be.” Her hand came up to trace along her face absently, her fingers brushing her hair back.

“I remember breaking,” she said, her voice quavering and hoarse. “I shattered. There was only black and pain and – then there was a voice.” She cleared her throat and looked up at Michael. “A voice reciting idiotic poetry.”

Michael coughed. “Ah. It helps to link the concepts together. When you say the first word with the rhyme in mind, you’re already thinking of the second-” He paused. “I’m not sure why I have to explain this to you, it saved your life.”

“Thanks for that,” she said, rising unsteadily to her feet. Her hand gripped onto the tree, and a shimmer of dizzying energy hung about her for a moment; it clung and shifted like a film of oil before separating into Sobriquet’s familiar avatar.

“Ah,” she said, working her neck from side to side before letting the apparition fade away into the darkness. “That’s better. Hard to get my bearings without-” She frowned. “Why did you take us so far north?”

“I didn’t precisely have a direction in mind,” Michael said. “I didn’t even know I was heading north.”

Sobriquet snorted. “You stand informed,” she said. “And as a result, Clair and the others are south of us. A bit east.” There was a long pause; Michael could barely make out the soundless movement of her lips. He presumed she was speaking to Clair. After a while Sobriquet shook her head and looked into the distance.

“All right,” she said. “We’ve got a location to rendezvous with the others. The better news is that Clair managed to link back up with Emil, so we’ll have use of his cart for the journey north so long as we can get it past the front in one piece.”

“How likely do you think that is?” Michael asked. “I don’t have a good grasp of the situation up north.”

“As opposed to your thorough grasp of the west,” Sobriquet deadpanned. “It’s quieter. There hasn’t been much active fighting along that front recently, although I suspect things are about to get volatile in the wake of Sever’s push towards Imes.”

“Great.” Michael looked around the darkened woods, then sent his sight upward to gain a better vantage. “So which way to the rendezvous?”

She gestured into the forest. “East by south. There’s a tavern we’ve used before, with sympathetic owners.”

“Tavern sounds nice,” Michael grunted, looking down the path she had indicated. He turned to raise an eyebrow. “You’re coming with? You’ve been walking parallel until now, keeping your distance.”

“And look where that got me,” Sobriquet said. “No, I’ve lost my grip on that secret already, and it’ll be hard enough getting across the front without splitting our group.” She made a face. “It was mostly for appearances, anyway. Mysterious leader without a face draws a lot more men to the cause than some tiny crippled girl.”

Michael laughed, walking ahead of her into the woods. An effort of his will set the branches bending aside, clearing an easy path through the darkness. “It’s nice to put a face to the headache, personally,” he said, kneeling down. “All right, hop on. If I run we should make fairly good time.”

“You’re joking,” Sobriquet scoffed. “Absolutely not, we’ll walk.”

He turned and raised an eyebrow. “I literally ran for hours carrying you, and in a much less comfortable position. I’m a durens, as you took no small pleasure in pointing out. I don’t get tired.”

“And I am Sobriquet,” she said. “I’m used to making my own way to where I’m needed. We’re not so pressed for time that I have to leave basic dignity behind in the woods.” She pushed past him and began to walk down the trail he had made. “Besides, I’m terribly sore from lying around all day. You just keep doing whatever this is and we’ll have a lovely walk.”

Michael shrugged and stood, following after her. “As you will,” he said. “Let me know if you need to rest.”

“I’ve rested enough. I could eat, if you have any food.” She cast a hopeful look over her shoulder.

“Sorry,” he said. “My gear was on my horse, and I didn’t think to grab any of yours.”

She laughed and turned back forward. “Useless,” she said. “I suppose we’ll have to step lively to the tavern. They do a rather good stew.” She set off through the woods with a practiced stride. Michael matched her course, his soul running ahead to draw their path through the midnight wood.