Peculiar Soul

Seer, Seeker, Caller, Speaker, Ember, Sunlight, Sword and Stone

She who sees what lingers hidden, She who sees all else that’s shown

He who speaks the names of things and He who knows the hearts of men

He who wraps the world in darkness, She who brings the light again

He who parts what once was one and She who stands as one unriven

See the glory of the One in every fragment that was given.

- Variant of a Safid rhyme, c. 690.

There were some glances exchanged between Amira and the rest of the group. Sobriquet cleared her throat and smiled.

“I had thought you were with the forces near Imes,” she said conversationally. “It seems like they’ll miss you, with the city shortly to come under attack.”

Amira shook her head. “The shelling started the other day, actually.” She shrugged, unconcerned with the reactions her statement had provoked in the others; Charles and Emil stiffened, while Vernon wore a worried look on his face. “They’ll be fine without my support. I was barely involved in the defense of the city, I only came because I had hoped to find my fated test there.” She smiled and looked at Michael. “But from what I hear, it was not meant for me at all.”

Something in her eyes had changed, amid those last words. Michael felt smooth, implacable rock from her, his sense of her feelings growing muddled with his vision of her soul. He repressed a shudder and held her gaze until she looked away, the fleeting change lost once more.

“Give me a moment to arrange for our departure, now that you’re here,” she said, turning to walk away. Michael found her gait hypnotic; she walked normally, in every sense of the word, but he felt the vertigo of watching a rockslide, a massive wave in the harbor.

Amira looked back, smiling. “I’m sure we’ll have plenty of time for conversation on our way to Esrou.”

Sobriquet nodded and watched Amira walk away; when she had rounded a nearby building Charles gave a grunt.

“So we’re not out of the old monster’s games quite yet,” he said.

Sobriquet smiled wearily up at him. “Be nice,” she said. “At least until we get a better feel for this one. You’ve heard the stories, you know what she can do. I expect she’ll take Saleh’s word of safety seriously - let's not seek out the boundaries of it, though.”

“I haven’t heard the stories,” Michael said. “I didn’t know she was - well.” He paused, feeling awkward. “All the times they depict her in Ardalt, she’s shown as a man in armor.”

Charles and Emil laughed, while Sobriquet patted him lightly on the shoulder. “We’ll help you past your Ardan schooling one of these days,” she said. “She has no need of armor. She could run into a pitched battle in nothing more than a hairpin, if she so chose.”

“So might we all,” Charles noted. “The trick is to run back out again, hairpin and all.”

“Please spare my imagination any further details, thank you,” Sobriquet sighed. “The good news is that she’s probably our sole escort. That will at least make veiling easier.”

“Do you think she’s telling the truth?” Vernon asked. “About Imes. That they’ve already begun their attack.”

Sobriquet paused, then nodded. “She is - complex to read, but I didn’t feel any lie in her words,” she sighed. “And unfortunately, there’s nothing we can do but forge onward and strive to avoid delay. Sparing Imes any violence was a pleasant thought, but I don’t think there was ever much chance that we would outpace the Ardans to that extent.”

Charles balled his fist and slammed it into the side of the traincar. “We can never just win,” he muttered. “They always have to poison it.”

“We’ll serve it back to them in the end,” Sobriquet said, walking over to lay a hand gently on his arm. “The only direction left is forth.”

He wiped at a droplet of blood on his knuckles, then shook his head wearily. “Forth,” he agreed. “Until the end.”

They were underway from the trainyard within the hour, smoke and steam billowing overhead from the engine. It leapt down the track with only their car in tow. Michael opened the window to let the air in; the fresh, cool breeze was welcome after spending so long in the artificially-tropical morass of Saleh’s encampment.

The car was an oddity, bearing neither passenger compartments nor rows of seats. It was expansive and open, with tall windows and a cluster of seats arranged opposite each other in its rear. The fore portion of the car held a small kitchen and table crowding for space with a few stacked bunks.

Amira saw his study of the furnishings and smiled. “It’s Saleh’s personal car,” she said, her tone that of a woman disclosing secrets. “He hates the luxury of it, but can’t deny the utility of being able to take his command staff on the move.” She opened one of the kitchen cupboards and, smiling, withdrew an apple to take a bite; her teeth passed through the fruit effortlessly, as if she were miming the motion. “Or for other unexpected purposes. I rather enjoy it.”

“It’s nice,” Michael agreed. “Although I’m surprised that either of you travel much. I’d imagined that you would be on the front more days than not.”

“Why?” Amira asked. “So that we might tear through the ranks of the enemy daily, crush their men, shatter their lines?”

Michael blinked, somewhat disoriented at her casual tone. “Well, yes,” he said. “It’s the War, after all.”

She laughed, low and soft. “It is the struggle that’s important,” she said, taking another bite of the apple. “If I were to spend my days killing Ardans, it would be to nobody’s advantage. Our men gain nothing, I gain nothing, and the Ardans’ deaths are wasted. For me, killing a man is…”

She took another bite of the apple, her teeth cleaving through the core. Her lips bent in a smile as she chewed. “Not particularly challenging. Nor rewarding. There were only a scattering of men at the Azim Alsu front worth staying for. Wahl, perhaps. Kolbe. The former is too prudent to be caught in an honest fight, though, and the latter - as I said, was not mine to face.” She walked closer to Michael and draped her arm casually over the back of his seat, leaning against it. The wood creaked ominously.

“Tell me,” she said. “How was it? How did the Blade's soul feel, when you stood against it?”

There was a disconcerting attentiveness in her gaze; Michael quickly abandoned any thought of dissembling. She expected a serious answer. After a few moments to consider, he met her eyes. “The world in two halves,” he said. “And me along with it, nearly.”

Her grin widened, her eyes wandering unfocused to the blur of scenery passing by. “Ah!” she said. “Ah, I would have loved to see it. A pity.”

“You may yet,” Sobriquet said wryly, walking up from the rear seats. She brushed past Amira and moved to sit opposite Michael. “Sever remains with Kolbe.”

It was Amira’s turn to blink in surprise, looking at Michael. “You left him alive?” she asked.

“He had certain debts to discharge.” Sobriquet leaned back in her seat. “Hard to do when dead.”

A shadow crossed Amira’s face, and her emotions clouded. “I’m concerned for you,” she said. “For both of you. That was ill-done. Kolbe should have died, cleanly, so that the Great Blade might have passed to another. Now it lingers, dulled and chipped. It was your task to finish.”

Her words bit into Michael unpleasantly, lighting his eyes with images of Friedrich gasping and clutching at the ground, his soul churning the soil in chaotic spasms. “I had no need to kill him,” he said. “He was defeated, and my goal was to escape. Killing him would have been-”

A mercy. Michael suppressed a grimace. “-a delay.”

“Perhaps.” Amira straightened up. “But when you see him again, finish it cleanly. The unfinished test will be an open wound until you do, a tether that draws him toward you. Neither of you will be at peace until it is done.”

An incongruous ripple of anger stirred within Michael; he was too distracted to separate his own feelings from Sobriquet’s. “I considered it,” Michael said. “I decided against it, for reasons that are my own. If we meet again, I will decide again.” The world shimmered with the glare of mirror-light, and he took a breath. Amira’s face had not changed, but the set of her eyes told him that his own had, in that moment.

He took a breath, then leaned back in his seat and offered her a polite smile. “Thank you for the advice, Great Shield,” he said. “I will consider your words.”

Amira nodded once, slowly. “And I will consider yours,” she said. “Caller. Seeker.” She touched her fingers once to her lips; where she had been languid and graceful, her arms now moved with sharp precision. Michael and Sobriquet watched as she moved to one of the rear benches, prompting Luc to slide nervously away.

The ripple of Sobriquet’s veil fell around them. Michael looked at her and raised an eyebrow.

“She’s not entirely wrong,” he said. “Leaving Friedrich the way we did was - somewhat cruel.”

Sobriquet’s own brow arched. “And?” she asked. “There is a man who has seldom felt the sting of cruelty, as there are few who would or could visit it on him. Perhaps the experience will grant him some much-needed humility, or even something as novel as empathy.” Her face stilled back into neutrality. “It was within your means to kill him, if you felt that strongly about it. As you said, you decided.”

“I did,” Michael said. “But not for the reasons you think. It was not mercy that made me spare him. It was-” He pressed his lips together, trying to fit his tongue to the awkward shape of a truth left unspoken. “It was fear. I feared the consequences if he were to die.”

Sobriquet’s eyes sharpened, her interest coming to a point. “This touches on one of your larger secrets,” she murmured. “Your soul?”

Michael nodded, his mouth dry. “Are you familiar with the concept of animetric affinity?”

Her eyes widened, her face barely betraying the kaleidoscope of emotions that passed underneath. Confusion, realization, shock. Michael expected pity to come next, but never felt its cloying touch. It was outrage that flared, dimming to concerned curiosity - and determination.

“It’s involuntary?” she whispered. “You said you asked for Stanza - and for Clair.”

“For those two,” Michael agreed, forcing a wry tone. “Do you think I asked for Spark? I didn’t realize until after I had killed him that the bond could grow between a hunter and hunted. He spent months searching for me, his thoughts dwelling on me day and night. He knew much better than I what his death would mean.”

Sobriquet shook her head, her mouth falling slightly open. “I had thought you found it necessary, at the time,” she said. “Was it the same with your durens and spector soul?”

“Killed in front of me, so that Spark might confirm his theories,” Michael said. “They had been used as hostages to ensure my behavior, along with Luc. I dwelled on their lives too much, and they on mine.”

“And you fear that Amira is right,” Sobriquet murmured. “That the conflict between you and Kolbe created a bond. That Sever would come to you.”

Michael pressed his lips together, then shrugged. “I can’t be sure,” he said. “But I wasn’t about to risk it. I’ve seen the consequences when a soul like that is borne without proper control. I - don’t have much left to give, to keep my soul contained.” He felt Sobriquet’s renewed concern at his words and forced a smile. “Clair helped. Is helping. I don’t feel so outnumbered anymore.”

She looked out the window for a moment, and Michael was glad; the grief she hid was mirrored on his own face. “Good,” she whispered. “That’s good.” She turned back to him with damp eyes and a smile. “Whatever soul you have - it chose well. I would have killed Sever, in your place. Probably not just him. Sibyl and her friends. I would have - Ghar’s ashes, I would have been a monster.” She laughed, but there was no joy in it. “An absolute monster.”

“It can feel that way sometimes,” Michael said quietly.

Sobriquet’s smile faded, and she shook her head. “I don’t worry about you,” she said. “Since you do more than enough of that on your own. Don’t listen to Amira, or to me. You can listen to Clair, though, if you can find a way to hear her. She never shied away from hard truths, no matter who needed to hear them.” She reached over and squeezed his hand once, an echo of her smile flickering into being as she rose from her seat.

Michael watched as she walked over to rummage through Saleh’s pantry distractedly, then turned to look out the window once more. The scenery sped by in a blur, each tree and patch of grass losing distinction in a river of mottled greenery. He watched, and thought it rather appropriate.

The train’s breakneck speed lessened noticeably before long, with the sun still high in the sky. Michael frowned, peering out the window; Charles preempted the question he was about to ask.

“Why are we stopping so soon?” the artifex asked. “Surely we’re not at Siad already?”

“Saleh’s direction,” Amira said. “We’re to disembark at the road to Taebar and proceed the rest of the way on foot.”

“That will add days to our trip,” Sobriquet said. “Days the people in Imes can ill-afford.”

“We are passing fond of the city ourselves,” Amira noted. “The Ardans will not find their advance easy - but what they will find is you, if you charge directly towards Goitxea by the shortest possible route. Saleh is running conspicuous trains up and down both coasts. Ours will continue to Siad as if we are aboard, so that they mark the Esonne crossing as a feint.”

Sobriquet nodded. “And turn their resources to stopping a transit by ship, or at least by a longer land route. Meanwhile we walk on the direct path, nice and slow.” She scratched at her cheek, then shook her head. “I mislike the delay - but I can’t find any particular fault with the plan, save to wonder what might happen if they’re not fooled.”

A sly smile crept over Amira’s face. “You give the Ardans too much credit, friend Seeker,” she said. “Even if they see through Saleh’s plots and your cloak, even if they bring to bear a force that the Caller cannot turn away - then that force must contend with me.” She idly cracked her knuckles, the report was loud enough to make Vernon flinch. “At this, they will fail.”

“I appreciate your confidence,” Sobriquet muttered. “And as much as I hate to admit it, you’re probably right. But you will have to leave us at some point, or risk tainting Mendian’s image of us with the flavor of a Safid plot.”

Amira shrugged. “We will receive the tests as we are meant to receive them,” she said.

“Emperor’s wailing ghost, save us from bloody fatalists.” Sobriquet sighed and rubbed her neck, then shook her head. “All right,” she said. “At least tell me we have a carriage for our journey north?”

“There will be carriages,” Amira said agreeably. “None of them will carry us, however. They will draw the eyes of any pursuers away from a band of humble travelers on foot.”

“Walking that distance will take ages,” Charles protested. “We’ll be traveling for weeks, not days.”

There was a flex of Amira’s soul; Michael took a wary step back as he felt it push out to sweep over their group. A heat swelled within him, a hundred times brighter than Stefan’s soul had ever burned. He felt, rested, invigorated, strong.

Amira grinned. “Walking would be far too slow,” she said, raising her voice as the train’s brakes engaged in a squeal of grinding metal. “Grab your gear, and strap it tightly.”

“Ghar’s blood,” Charles murmured, flexing his fingers. “I’ve worked with fortimentes before, but this…” His brow furrowed, and he looked up at Amira. “How long can you keep this up, and how hard are we going to come down?”

She reached into one of the larger cupboards and withdrew a pack, stuffed nearly to bursting. “Eat when I say, and keep eating,” she said. “Drink water before and after each meal. We’ll rest and resupply in Taebor, to let your bodies acclimate to my blessing. Most people don’t suffer more than mild sickness.”

“Last time I went on a forced march under a fortimens I couldn’t move my legs for a week after,” Emil said doubtfully, though he couldn’t keep from smiling as he bounced on the balls of his feet.

Amira picked up a knife from the counter and threw it at him, so fast that Michael had no time to do more than blink in response. Emil looked down in shock; the knife had impacted him in the chest - and broken, the fragments skittering away to rest in the corner of the car.

“Fuck!” Charles spat, scrambling away. “What-”

“I am the Great Shield,” Amira said, a twist of her voice drawing all eyes inexorably toward where she stood. Michael could see the ripple in her soul spreading outward as she spoke, wrapping around each of them in turn. “My blessing is no simple workman’s goad. Run without fear or reservation, and trust to faith - whatever tomorrow may bring, you have been made equal to today’s tests.” She slipped her arms through the pack’s straps, then grinned once more.

“Relax,” she laughed. “This is the most fun you’re going to have all week.”

Michael had run before. After Stefan’s soul he had actually begun to enjoy it, even. Nothing had prepared him for running under the protection of Amira’s soul, however.

They moved.

There was no hint of fatigue, no whisper of caution from aching legs or joints. Panic had raced through Michael’s mind the first time he failed to stop ahead of a ravine; his feet were suddenly windmilling through open air.

He fell and hit the bottom, then stood once more - completely unscathed. He looked down at the shallow chip his knee had taken from the rock, then flexed the joint in question. There was no pain, no blood, not even a scuff on his trousers. His heart pumped fast and hot in his ears as he looked up to see the concerned faces of the others - and Amira, smiling coyly down.

“I told you not to fear,” she said. “Now come on - we have ground to cover.”

They raced through narrow tracks in the woods, exhilaration and joy from the others shining bright in Michael’s mind. Not even Amira was immune, although her delight was tempered with impatience - likely she would have run faster still, were she not made to contend with their company. If her stride had been fascinating, watching her run was a revelation. She moved through the forest like hot oil on glass, brimming with the inexorable joy of momentum.

She was no longer a rockslide; Michael ran behind her and watched a mountain dance.

He had no notion of how much ground they covered in the remaining hours of daylight, but as the sun’s last glow faded behind them they saw the twinkling lights of a village in the valley’s shadow ahead. Amira slowed to a stop, bouncing on the balls of her feet. “Seeker,” she called out. “We’ll want to move cautiously.”

“I’ve had us veiled this whole time,” Sobriquet said. “Just try not to run through any more trees.”

“Sometimes that is the path.” Amira shrugged. “But, as you wish. One more run before we rest.”

All too soon they were slipping into a darkened barn on the edge of town, the squared confines of walls and doors squeezing around Michael like a fist after a day spent running free through the forest. Despite the rough exterior, the inside was neatly arranged in much the same manner as Sobriquet’s safehouses - bunks, supplies, stacked barrels of water. Michael had only a moment to appreciate it before Amira shut the door behind them - and withdrew her soul.

Weakness sluiced through him, his legs quivering and shoulders drooping downward. He saw Emil and Vernon collapsed on the ground, the rest managing to slump over nearby beds or crates. Michael moved shakily over to lean on a table, taking deep, steadying breaths as he felt Stefan’s soul work within him.

“Fucking warn us,” Charles spat, flopping around to a seated position and glaring at Amira.

She took a deep breath, eyes closed, then smiled. “It’s good to feel both parts,” she said. “The strength and the weakness.” She opened her eyes, her gaze lingering where Michael stood for a long moment before sweeping across the rest where they lay. “Part of the acclimation. It will be easier when we run tomorrow.”

Vernon groaned and turned onto his back, stretching his legs. “A mild sickness indeed,” he muttered. “I feel as though I’ve been worked over a forge.” Luc made a small noise that might have been a whimper, laid out prone atop several lumpen sacks.

Michael stumbled towards one of the table’s low chairs. He dropped his pack and sat, heaving a sigh of relief as the weight came off of his legs. After a few more breaths, he reached down to pull out Saleh’s book once more. He flipped idly through the pages, as had been his custom for the past day, but before he settled on a passage to read his attention was drawn by the gentle scrape of wood over the dirt floor. He looked up to see Amira smiling at him across the table.

“I know that book,” Amira said. “It’s Saleh’s. He never had an answer when I asked him who he was writing to, all those nights. He said that he would know them when he saw them.” There was a twist of her soul, a flutter of emotion that disappeared behind implacable stone. “How curious that it should be you.”

Michael swallowed, his mouth feeling suddenly dry. “I’ve found his writings to be - insightful,” he answered. “But he never shared his reasons for giving me the book.”

“I can begin to guess,” Amira murmured, leaning forward against the table’s creaking protests. “You exceed your role, friend Caller. Something more works within you.”

A hot flush of blood burned in his ears; Michael did not know what Amira suspected, but he did not think it would be positive if she learned of his soul’s true nature. “In my defense,” he said, “your book seems to have a rather poor opinion of the Caller. He’s often depicted as a victim of his own best intentions, or at least fairly shortsighted.”

She laughed, a high and manic giggle that echoed oddly in the confines of the barn. “There is a reason for that, although not a particularly holy one,” she said. “The New Kheman edition of the Book was compiled by the Speaker at the time, who felt a kinship to Ghazali the Speaker. She sought to… reinforce her role in its pages, at the expense of certain others.”

Michael blinked. “That seems rather sacrilegious, if you don’t mind me saying so. I would have thought your holy book would be held in a higher regard than a mere political tool.”

“It is all part of the path,” Amira shrugged. “That the Speaker should exert an undue influence over the mind of the reader is proper. A scholar will learn to look past it, to see the imprint of centuries of souls upon the living Book. Yes, the Caller is depicted as naïve - foolish, even. But look past that, and what do you see? What is the root of the Caller’s soul?”

“I - don’t know that I’ve read enough to answer that question,” Michael said, setting the book down and flipping through to where he thought one of the relevant parables might be located. Idly, he wondered where his old bonifex tutor might be-

Amira’s hand flashed out to grip his own, stilling his fingers and hiding the pages from view. Michael knew better than to think he could pull away; her grip was like being bound in rock, though her fingers were warm, dry and surprisingly soft. He cast his sight to Sobriquet in a panic. She was still laying across a crate, breathing hard. Her eyes watched him, though, with interest and no small amount of concern. Danger - but not so much that she was moved to intervene.

He returned his sight to Amira lest she notice the telltale lack of focus in his eyes; even so, her smile took on an inscrutable edge. “This is important,” she said. “You should know your own soul, more than what the pages of the Book can tell. They hold truth, yes, but so do you.” She leaned in, pulling his arm farther forward until his face was uncomfortably close to her own.

“Who are you, Caller?” she asked.

Michael paused, caught by the look in her eyes. This was not Amira’s way of making idle conversation; past her stone facade Michael felt the dim echo of the same fire that burned within Saleh, the same ecstasy of faith. He took a deep breath and tried to organize his thoughts, to give his answer consideration. Stanza keened softly within him, warning him - he felt a moment of divergence, where much hinged on the words he chose.

He met her gaze. “My soul,” he said, “is for helping the good in the world to grow, and for cutting away what would stand against it.”

“Who decides what is good?” Amira pressed.

Michael did not have to ponder this answer much; Jeorg had stirred those thoughts in him long ago. “I must,” he said. “My soul relies on me to tell it how to exist. It is my will that moves it, and so it has to be my judgment that guides it.”

Her face loomed in his vision, eyes glinting with focus. “And your judgment is correct?” she asked.

“No,” Michael admitted. “No, not always. But I’ve learned it is better to try and fall short than to stand back and watch.”

A smile blossomed on Amira’s face, sudden and radiant happiness pulsing out from her. “And there he is,” she said. “The Caller. Novitiates read the book and see him fail, again and again, and think him a fool. Yet he always tries. Always stands first. Another may bring an end to the peril, but they build on his foundation.” She let his hand drop to the table, then pulled back. “But then there is the matter of the Blade that struck out at you only to chip his edge. The Seer that hunted you and could not find her quarry. The Caller’s role is to try and fail, Michael. What name do we give you?”

He pressed his lips together, feeling the flickering warmth in his chest. “There has been failure,” he said quietly.

“Not all failure is made from the same stock,” Amira replied, folding her hands in front of her. “Sometimes it is only a tempering.” She leaned forward once more and laid her fingers lightly on his. “When our travels are done, and our purposes once more cross against each other - I wonder if you shall be my test, and I yours, so that we both may find our answers.”

Michael paused, then gently slid his hand back. “I hope not,” he said. “I have no wish for conflict with you or Saleh.”

Her eyes glinted. “We will receive the tests as we are meant to receive them.” There was a small moment where her eddies of stone-masked feeling flickered once more, then she leaned back in her chair. “But not today. And not tomorrow. Rest, and see to your companions who are not as - uncommonly resilient as you.” She stood and smiled over at Sobriquet, who glared back wordlessly. “We will set out under the morning twilight. Eat at least two rations tonight, or when the blessing departs again you will suffer much worse than this.”

There were a few muffled grunts of acknowledgement from those sprawled over crates and bushels; Michael stood to help the others stumble their way towards actual cots. He approached Sobriquet first; she limped towards the beds with her good arm thrown over his shoulders for support. Her eyes darted to where Amira had settled down to eat her ration, then up at Michael.

“Careful,” she murmured. “She’s beginning to suspect something. It would be bad if the Safid found out about your - condition. They will eventually, since Saleh seems to have more mice in the Institute than I thought possible, but it would be best if that revelation happened after we’re safely away in Mendian.”

Michael gave her a look. “I had worked that out, thank you,” he replied, kneeling down so she could lower herself to the cot; she winced as her legs protested the motion.

“Don’t be an ass,” she said. “What you did just now, talking with her about matters of your soul - it was dangerous. If you say the wrong thing, if your phrasing happens to coincide with the wrong verse in their book, she could react unpredictably. If she thinks she knows something that Saleh missed, she may decide that his word of safety was a mistake. You haven’t heard the stories about her, Michael, she’s a fanatic. She thinks nothing of killing if she believes it’s justified.”

“I’ll be careful,” Michael promised. “I just - I don’t want to discount what they’re saying. Their faith may lead them to fanaticism, but it’s more than empty words. There’s truth buried in there.”

“We’ll be buried right along with it if you slip up,” Sobriquet said. “You can study the Safid faith at a safe remove from any actual Safid, at your leisure. I’m sure Mendian will have ample resources on the subject.”

“And how will they react?” Michael asked. “When they learn about my condition, that is.”

Sobriquet snorted. “Whatever their reaction, I can guarantee that Amira’s would be more - immediate, at least in a kinetic sense.” She shook her head. “I don’t know. That’s a problem for when we’ve made it there, and we have a long road before that happens.”

Michael sighed and stood up. “That we do,” he muttered. He turned his sight toward Amira and was immediately glad he had not moved his head; she was staring fixedly at him. He turned his gaze back forward, taking another steadying breath, and went to help Vernon towards his cot.