Peculiar Soul

Many model the law as a set of rules, learning it by asking what the law is. Still others frame it by jurisdiction and pose the question of where, or as an item of executive authority while pondering who is, precisely, our law.

These are valid pursuits, and instructive, but they miss the fundamental question - why the law? Oh, men scoff, without the law there would be murder. Oh, they sneer, without the law there would be theft. And they are correct, these men, when they speak of men.

But I do not speak of men today. Before you sits one who is more than just a man, who could lay waste to divisions of Safid were his bonds cut. Every one of our soldiers that dies while he lingers in irons unbalances the scale yet more.

Kill him yet, you might cry, for Sibyl’s justice is blind. His soul will find its way to someone worthy. But will that worthy vessel still be Ardan? Or Safid, to seal our defeat? Would Mr. Stern want our wrath to break the framework that put a roof over his head, the great society that still shelters his wife and children?

Why the law, gentlemen? Does it ensure even self-destructive justice by animal reflex, or is it a greater instrument the state may use to preserve its continuity, its strength, and its people for all posterity?

I may only pose the question. The nation awaits your answer.

- Bernhard Lang, closing statement in Kolbe v. Assembly, 673.

The noise of the coach’s wheels on the cobbled street was the only sound that accompanied Michael and his father as they rode back from the Institute. Karl’s silence was fitful, however, riddled with agitated motion that was most unlike him.

Finally, he turned his eyes to his son. His gaze held steady for a few moments, then he let out a long, tired sigh.

“The idea of the Institute consulting the Eight in your evaluation was absurd,” he said. “It seems so still, so I will lay no blame with you. But in the future, do not give any of the Eight reason to take an interest in you.”

Michael stared. It was not what he had expected his father to say.

“I’m - sorry?” he ventured. “I didn’t know who she was when we began speaking.”

Karl gave him a cool look. “And ignorance will shield you, if it leads you to say the wrong things in front of the wrong people?” He shook his head. “The Institute has done you no favors by hastening your introduction to the world of the ensouled. Sibyl’s comment about your anonymity was not lightly-chosen - it is a potent shield against those who would use you for their own ends. Without it, you must count on your status as my son.”

A complicated little ripple of emotion passed over his face. “That status will count for much,” he said, “but there are those for whom it poses no barrier. That is why I will say again: do not cause the Eight to take an interest in you moreso than they already have.”

“I understand,” Michael said, hearing the serious edges in his father’s tone. He paused, looking around the coach. “Is it prudent to speak about such things?” he said.

His father narrowed his eyes for a moment, then spat out a rough bark of laughter. “Because Sibyl is watching?” He shook his head. “She’d tell you the same thing, if only because right now she has the advantage of the others where you’re concerned.”

Michael nodded, still finding her sudden involvement in his life too surreal to fully grasp. “I suppose we’re not going to that dinner, then.”

“We weren’t invited,” Karl snorted. “You were, and you are most certainly going to attend.”

“But you just said not to engage with the Eight any more than was necessary,” Michael protested. “Attending a dinner at Sibyl’s estate seems well-beyond what’s necessary. And alone? I’ve never - I’d have no idea what to do at an event like that.”

“She’s aware,” Karl said. “Dinners and parties are never about the event itself. They are about being seen and counted. If I invite someone into my home, I am announcing several things about them to the world. I recognize their status, I approve of their actions, I bind myself to them publicly.”

“And Sibyl wants to do this for me?” Michael asked. “Why?”

His father gave him a flat look. “To associate her name with yours. That way, any accomplishments you garner will gild her name as well.” His eyes narrowed. “Normally the debut of a freshly-earned soul is a matter for the family.”

Several things came together in Michael’s head, and he felt a creeping chill spread across his body. He had never really believed that he would get a soul, in his heart. The eventual formalities that followed had therefore drifted nebulously in his mind - but he had been aware that there was usually some sort of introductory event involved. A debut, of sorts. It had seemed like a matter for his father more than him, and in truth it had been - until now.

Now Sibyl had offered to assume the responsibility. Michael had not gleaned much vicarious experience with ensouled society from watching his father, but even he knew that lords guarded their responsibilities as fiercely as their privileges, for they were bound hand in hand. To let another fulfill his responsibility, and for something like his own son’s ensoulment…

Michael was suddenly very aware of how close to his father he was sitting. He became still, his expression sliding into neutrality. Carefully, he looked up at Karl’s face and saw the little signs he had missed before - the set of his eyes, the tension in the muscles of his neck.

Karl Baumgart was seething, under his calm mien. And yet the carriage was calm. No blades sought his skin or abraded the upholstered seats, no suffocating pressure drove down on him. Instead his father simply looked back and waited for his response.

Michael chose his next words carefully, although it wasn’t difficult to realize his father’s preferred focus. “What do we get from it?” he asked.

Karl nodded fractionally in acknowledgment. “Protection,” he said. “The Eight are above the law. They know their value to Ardalt. Sibyl is mostly content to play within the boundaries of polite society, and Sever has few ambitions outside of war - a fortunate thing for all involved.”

Karl drummed his fingers on an armrest, slow and steady. “But you are set to meet with Spark.” He looked at Michael, and again there was an unease in his expression. “He is not so restrained in his - appetites. There is a real risk that he would find you worthy of study, and there are few on the Assembly willing to gainsay his research, not when it is all that has allowed us to hold ground against the Safid. By her invitation Sibyl has offered you some assurance against Spark spiriting you away to Braun Island or some other lightless pit he’s kept secret even from the Assembly.”

Michael nodded, trying to quiet his racing mind into some semblance of order. The day continued to drop revelations in his lap that found him wanting. “In that case it’s good we met with her first,” he said.

“Do you think that was happenstance?” his father asked disapprovingly. “A threat appears, with her as the only possible aid? Make no mistake, Sibyl is no less dangerous for being pleasant to talk to.” He turned to look out the window. “More so, in fact. She’s the perfect opportunist.”

If either man felt a peculiar sensation of being watched at that moment, they did not feel it worth mentioning.

Several quiet moments passed before Karl fixed Michael with a glare. “You’ve landed us in quite the thicket, boy, but I’ll see us through. Just remember that she’s using you, her and everyone at her little dinner. I’m the only one looking out for your interests.”

A protest died on Michael’s lips - what could he say? That it wasn’t his fault, that he had done nothing wrong? That, in fact, he had only done what his father had suggested in the first place? But he saw the set of his father’s face and said none of those things.

“Thank you,” he said instead. “I’ll remember.”

They made it home without further incident, but any hope Michael had of further recuperation was shattered when Ricard greeted them at the door. Karl handed the manservant his coat before turning towards his study, only to pause and turn as if a thought had suddenly occurred to him.

“Ricard,” he said, “Michael has been invited to a dinner at Raven House Arborday evening, he has a slip of paper with the details. Make sure he’s presentable.”

With that, he vanished into the inviolable sanctuary of the study, leaving Ricard staring most indecorously in his wake.

“Milord,” he said. “Did I hear your father correctly? Raven House, on Arborday?”

Michael nodded and retrieved the note from his vest pocket, extending it to Ricard. “If that’s where this is,” he said.

Ricard took the paper as if it might explode in his hand. “This is - Ghar’s old bones, milord, and excuse my language. You’re having dinner with Sibyl? Tomorrow?”

“It doesn’t seem quite real to me either,” Michael confessed. “I thought we were just going to have one of the Institute white-coats poke at me.”

“Mercy, mercy,” Ricard muttered, wringing his hands. “Oh, I thought we’d have more time. We only just got the suit from the tailor’s, the cobbler will be days yet…”

Michael blinked. “Ricard,” he protested, “even if you had asked the tailor the second Sibyl handed me the invitation he wouldn’t have been ready by now.”

“Of course not,” Ricard sniffed. “I put the order in days ago, while you were still abed. The particulars are still quite a shock, I assure you, but you were bound to need proper attire before long. Still, Sibyl - had I but known!” He shook his head. “I would have chosen the pearl inlay for the buttons, and damn the price.”

That tore a sorely-needed laugh from Michael, and he clapped a hand gently on Ricard’s shoulder. “Thank you,” he said, feeling his throat constrict a bit. “We’ve done nothing half so good as to deserve you.”

The elderly manservant grumbled indistinctly, although he gained a pleased spot of color on his cheeks. “I would not dare to contradict you, milord,” he said diffidently, “so I will settle for saying you are half-wrong. Come, come! You have only four pairs of shoes in the right color, and I fear for the state of the old brogues.”

He steered Michael towards the landing, quietly bemoaning the contents of the wardrobe in eidetic detail. As they drew closer to his room, though, Ricard stopped and tilted his head to look at Michael.

“You know, milord,” he said, “your father left off the reason for the invitation. Just how did this come to pass? I knew you had the men at the Institute in a right fuss, but had heard no word of Sibyl’s involvement before now.”

“That’s intentional, or so father suspects,” Michael said, launching into an abbreviated run-down of the day’s events. When he mentioned Spark, however, Ricard’s eyes darkened.

“I don’t like the notion of you meeting that one,” he grumbled. “The Raven plays her games, but games are all they are. It’s good that you have her favor. That man is poison.”

Michael goggled at him, shocked at the vitriol coloring his voice. “Ricard, I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say such things before,” he said. “My father speaks of him like he’s some creeping night-ghast out of a storybook, come to spirit naughty children out the window. He’s one of the Eight, he’s an Institute director - I’ve never heard a terse word about him before today.”

Ricard paused in his slow walk down the hallway, then resumed with a gentle pat on Michael’s arm. “You have to be of an age to remember,” he said, finally. “Milord, you recall that I am from Esrou originally?”

“Of course,” Michael said, smiling. “There aren’t many Ricards born in Calmharbor.”

The manservant did not smile at the joke, looking back at Michael with an uncharacteristic solemnity. “I still have family back in Esrou - the Safid part, not free Esrou. I left for Ardalt with your lord grandfather after they signed that cursed armistice, but I kept in touch with my relatives as best I was able until my uncle died.”

“Long before you were born, when your father was a lad just a bit younger than you, one of my uncle’s letters talked about a curse plaguing the land. Thieves who nobody could remember, wives and daughters going missing for months only to return with a heavy belly and no memory of the time they’d been gone.”

Ricard made a face. “Then the curse lifted. The thefts stopped, the abductions stopped - the Safid pasha claimed credit, but offered no details about the perpetrator. Some weeks later, the Ardan papers began trumpeting that they had confirmed Spark’s soul in a young man outside of Korbel.”

“It sounds like the previous Spark was in Esrou, then was killed for his crimes,” Michael said, frowning. “His soul went to the current Spark in Korbel.”

“Perhaps,” Ricard said, pressing his lips into a line. “But my uncle believed that there was no death - merely a transfer of a young Esroun man to Ardalt. Either way, milord, be wary when you meet this man - especially should he prove to have an Esroun look about him. Spark is an evil soul, to turn men to such ends. No one should have such power over another’s mind.”

Michael paused, feeling Ricard’s words strike him squarely in the chest. “They’re bringing him to see me because my soul is aligned with Life, like his. A powerful alignment.” Ricard turned to look at him, and the next words came haltingly.

“What if my soul is evil?” Michael asked. “What if it makes me a dediscator or an obruor, to toy with others’ minds?”

Ricard’s face twitched for a moment, then he smiled and patted Michael’s hand reassuringly. “Such an evil thing would find no place with you, milord. It’s well-known that souls seek a home to suit their nature, and your horror at the thought shows how poorly such a ghastly soul would suit you.”

“No, I’d wager you’ll come out towards Stanza’s end of things - an augmens, to help the farmers, or maybe even an anatomens. Wouldn’t that be something - to be saved by one, then become one yourself!”

Michael found himself nodding, even though he didn’t find himself particularly reassured by Ricard’s logic. He and his soul had not, after all, chosen each other inasmuch as they had been forcibly grafted together. “I don’t know about Stanza, but being an anatomens would be - good. I’d prefer something like that to being an obruor. The only real use they see is in dulling soldiers’ fear before a battle, which sounds like it would be horrid.”

“Don’t you worry, milord,” Ricard said. “I’m sure your soul will prove to be something lovely in the end. Perhaps a bonifex.”

“Bonifices are a parlor trick,” Michael said, pulling a face. “I would be terribly disappointed if I’ve gone through all this just so I may cheat at dice.”

Ricard chuckled. “A shine, then.”

“Shines aren’t real,” Michael protested. “They don’t even have a proper Institute designation.”

“Neither do you, milord,” Ricard pointed out, his eyes twinkling. “Not as of yet, anyway. And besides, if you are a shine I can think of no better place to find out than at a lovely dinner. Did Sibyl mention if there would be any young, eligible ladies present?”

Michael gave him a flat look. “She did not, and she can quite likely hear you speculating about my chances of seducing her dinner guests with my as-yet-unproven animetrically-enhanced charm.”

“Nonsense,” Ricard said, waving his hand at the air - and bowing slightly to nothing, almost on reflex. “I would never suggest anything so uncouth, I simply note that you’re an eligible young man yourself-”

“Ricard.”

“-and you cannot remain homebound forever, not now that you’ve got your soul, so it’s only natural-”

“Ricard, I swear on my useless soul, if Sibyl brings this up at dinner tomorrow I may never forgive you.”

The evening and following morning were lost in large part to the preparations for introducing Michael to ensouled society, or at least for lessening the violence of their collision. Ricard fussed over his shoes and belt, his cuffs, his collar, and finally over his hair.

There was nothing to do but endure it, although the end result was admittedly quite good - in his mirror, Michael saw a young, well-appointed gentleman the likes of which he would have strenuously avoided a week prior. The only thing out of place was the expression of profound uncertainty the young man wore, which once again drew Ricard’s exasperation.

“Milord, please - do try to look happy, or at least self-possessed. Even if you don’t feel it, a man’s outward image is important. The face is how you present yourself to the world, so you must school it well.”

Michael sighed. “I can’t fake how I feel in front of Sibyl, Ricard. She can watch my heart beating.”

“But she’s polite enough not to mention it, I daresay,” Ricard shot back. “Or do you think she lectures Assemblymen about their choice of underclothes?”

“After having met her I would not discount the possibility.” Michael tugged at his collar once more, then let his hands fall to his sides. “It’s getting to be the hour, now. I suppose this will have to do.”

Ricard frowned and gripped him by the arms, holding him so he could get one last up-and-down look. “Apologies for saying so, milord, but - balderdash.” He took a step back and clapped his hands. “You are the specimen of Ardan youth. If they are not overjoyed at your attendance then they are simply mistaken.”

His enthusiasm drew a smile out past the knot of anxiety building in Michael’s throat. “Thank you, Ricard,” he said. “I have no idea what I’d do without you.”

“Whatever you please, just as usual,” Ricard said. “You just wouldn’t be dressed properly for it. Now hurry down, even if your father isn’t going with you I’d wager he’s waiting with the coachman. Best not to keep him there long.”

Ricard was correct, as usual - his father stalked impatiently in the coach’s shadow. He gave Michael an evaluating look as he walked up, then delivered a nod that might have charitably been termed approving.

“Passable,” he grunted. “Your attire won’t embarrass us, at least.” He stepped out of Michael’s path and jerked his head towards the coach. “Go on. Remember, only Sibyl matters. Nobody else at that party is of any consequence. Say nothing unless it is to her, and promise nothing on my behalf.”

Michael blinked, nodded, then slipped into the carriage. It began trundling forward and soon he was in the street - alone. Reddening sunlight slanted in through the window of the carriage, casting over the empty bench beside him. It was novel, as he seldom left the estate without the company of his father. Tutors and instructors could be brought in, and nobody had been in the practice of summoning poor, soul-less Michael Baumgart anywhere until recently.

He suddenly felt quite ridiculous, in his fine clothing and coach, riding off to an estate with some of the most important people in the nation. What was he meant to do there? Talk - to whom? It was as if he was attending a masquerade costumed as his father.

Sibyl’s estate was away towards the edge of the city, at what had been a fair remove from the multitudes some decades prior. Now the hills were comfortably dense with sturdy, well-built houses in brick and stone, its streets neatly-swept and lined with trees still more aspirational than stately.

Yet in the midst of this neat showcase of polished stone and an ever-increasing count of gas lamps lit over the road, there yawned an impenetrable dark hollow in the dip between two low hills. The neighboring estate terminated in an abrupt and implacable fence that, for all its iron height and heft, seemed barely able to restrain the riot of forest behind it.

The night had come early to that estate, as the twilight did not reach far into the tangle of branches. Only one avenue showed a lit path into the wood, under a thin wrought gate with a raven perched atop it. In the dark Michael wondered at the eerily-still bird until they drew close enough for the coach’s lamps to reveal that its dark and rough exterior was green patina rather than black feathers. The copper raven stared down at the coach as they passed beneath it to follow a line of faint lanterns into the dark.

It seemed to take hours before the blackness in front of them parted. In the center of the wood lay a broad clearing, the creek at the center of the hollow snaking into an artful pond surrounded by gardens and topiary. Candles flickered their warm light from a hundred twisting paths through the green.

Abutting the garden was the estate itself - surprisingly small, for one of the Eight, but a weighty old house nevertheless. Far from the austere stone fortresses that lined Michael’s street in Calmharbor, the outside was decorated here and there with flowers or twining ivy, fountains and statuary capering next to the path as the coachman brought the horse to a halt.

There was a man waiting there for him, slender and tall with pale skin and a mop of dark hair. He inclined his head as Michael disembarked, gesturing towards the house.

“My Lord Baumgart, welcome to Raven House,” he said. “You are awaited inside. May I attend to your coachman?”

“What?” Michael asked. His mind hummed idly for a moment, surprised and scrabbling for traction. “Yes.”

Sibyl’s servant had the grace to hold his expression neutral, but Michael felt slightly judged as he walked up the rough stone path to the door. As he stepped just close enough to touch the door, it swung open to reveal Vera in a bright cream-and-gold dress and a spray of tiny yellow flowers tucked into her hair. The colors were chosen to pair with her blank eyes, he realized - the pale white looked less sinister now, like a matched set of pearls.

She flashed him a dazzling smile and beckoned him forward. “Michael, welcome,” she said. “You don’t mind if we speak informally? I’m Vera, here, not Sibyl. I prefer having one place where I may retain my own name.”

“Of course,” Michael said. “Vera.” He felt oddly at-ease to see a familiar face for a brief second, which vanished as his father’s words came back to him. No less dangerous for being pleasant to talk to.

Vera gave him a sly smile as he walked over the threshold. The front hall was dimly lit and laced with some low, heady incense. A fountain burbled quietly in the dark that clung to the edge of the room, and Vera beckoned him forward. “Come along,” she said. “The others will be waiting.”

Michael had not seen much evidence of other guests when they came up, but then an army could be encamped in the woods around them and he would never know.

“Not many others,” she said airily, answering his unasked question while leading him through the darkened hall. “Just a few close friends. You thought this would be some grand affair?”

“I had very little idea what to expect,” Michael answered truthfully. “My life has not been within sight of my imagination for several days now.”

Vera laughed. “You may relax,” she said. “There will be no boorish lords or politicking tonight.” She looked back over her shoulder, fixing Michael with her bone-white eyes. “This evening is all about you.”

A splash of cool night air heralded their exit to the back of the house, and Michael, not reassured in the least, followed her out.