Peculiar Soul

There is an odd contradiction in our mythology of leadership - that our best leaders should be praised as human, while our best leadership is praised as impartial. It is an odd juxtaposition, and counterexamples of inhuman or biased leaders receive more attention than those who manage to straddle that divide.

Why should our best leaders be made better by setting themselves aside? If they are, as we claim, noble and decent human beings, then surely their decisions would all be best-guided by that same nobility and decency. Yet it is not so; frequently these men are asked to set aside those traits we laud them for and make harsh decisions for which they are praised all the more.

I believe the answer lies in sacrifice. No man sets himself aside entirely, and where his wants and desires coincide with the demands of leadership he may exert himself fully to the good of whatever cause he has chosen. But when the needs of the man diverge from the needs of his station, one must be sacrificed.

We see, therefore, our best leaders turning aside from their own ambition where temperance must serve, relinquishing love when decisions must be impartial. Greed dies to generosity, and these men are praised for what is ultimately a suppression of their natural, human drives.

Better leaders result, but perhaps not better humans. The silent prison of state removes one from the reality of life, and must be abandoned on occasion so that men may walk on grass, exult under the sky and remember why they are alive to begin with.

- Leire Gabarain, Annals of the Sixteenth Star, 685.

A few men turned back towards the cluster of houses they were bunking in, but still more stood watching Thomas sob incoherently into the innkeep’s shirt. Michael felt their turmoil, too chaotic for him to resolve any one clear emotion from the cacophony.

Sobriquet sat quietly, her eyes not straying from Thomas.

Zabala’s eyes narrowed, then swiveled to Michael. They must be made to understand that authority flows from you. Michael gave a small nod and cleared his throat.

“So you do have something to say.” He let his eyes drift along the row of soldiers; it took a dozen men before one of them met his gaze. Michael turned to face him and gestured for the man to step forward. “Go ahead.”

The soldier shifted, clearly uncomfortable now that the group’s focus was on him. It was too late to shrink away, though; Michael looked on expectantly until the man found resolve enough to speak.

“What you did to him looked like obruor work,” he said.

A murmur shuddered through the soldiers, backed by a wave of silent fear. Michael was momentarily taken aback by it; he had not considered what the men would think - had not considered much about his use of Spark on Thomas at all, actually.

Faced with their fear, the enormity of what he had done crashed in. He had used Spark to strip away what he disliked from a man, leaving him a shuddering wreck. Luc’s voice echoed wryly in his head: It made a wide, easy path to the goal he wanted, and he took it-

Michael clamped down on the thought before it could spiral into distress. Some reflection was merited, but not in front of a half-mob of skittish soldiers and townspeople that needed him to be something more. He took another moment to ensure his voice would be calm as he replied.

“Similar, though I’m not an obruor,” he said. The words came out cool and measured, though he felt his heart speed as he realized what he must say next. An unpleasant truth, but if Michael danced around it he’d only be lying to himself.

“I am Spark,” he said. “Among other things. Is that a problem?”

The collective flinch backwards would have been comical had the situation been less-serious; two of the townspeople actually turned and ran from the gathering. A fair portion of the remainder looked like they wanted to, but were afraid to draw Michael’s attention by moving.

Michael let the spike of actinic fear wash over him, taking a breath while he performed the increasingly-familiar exercise of separating himself from the tide of emotion. None of the soldiers dared look at him now, pale-faced and staring anywhere else.

“I know you’re afraid,” he sighed. “I can feel it from every one of you.” Another flinch; Michael pressed on before their nerve could degrade further. “The obruors that controlled you before, the men you killed - they sought to rob you of your fear. What you feel now is proof that I’m not like them.”

The soldier who had spoken before shifted, his eyes flicking up to Michael for the briefest moment. “You used your soul on him,” he said.

Michael followed the soldier’s gaze to Thomas, still curled on the ground. “I did,” he said. “Because that man is a murderer.”

The headman whimpered on the ground; the innkeep looked up with fresh anger. “The Safid killed-”

Michael’s mind stuck on the fragment of memory he had been too slow to avoid, a baby’s cry cut suddenly short. Fire surged within him; the world quieting as it bent under the slow advance of his soul. The dust at his feet spiraled away in dizzying fractals, the grass flowing in time with his thundering heart.

The innkeep’s voice failed him. He fell back into the dust beside Thomas, trembling; Michael took a step forward. The ground beat once under his foot, a giant’s drum sounding deep underground.

With an effort, Michael breathed out slowly. The tension in his shoulders bled away, his iron grip on his surroundings easing until the mundane wind blew once more between the quiet houses of the village. When he spoke again, his voice carried through the renewed quiet.

“I’m not here to debate justice with you,” he said. “There’s no justice to be had while the War continues, and you refuse to let it end. You think this is how we get peace? Killing every Safid you can lay your hands on?”

There was a snort and a mutter from another of the soldiers. “Worked well enough so far.” Quiet laughter murmured through the crowd, relief blooming in waves from those who had been waiting for another like voice to speak. The meager doubt Michael had sown fell away.

Michael clenched his fists, concentrating on keeping his breathing steady, his mind clear. It was hard to remember what limited, human sight felt like after feeling the soaring eyes of a spector for so long; it was equally difficult to remember that none of the others had seen the lives he had seen. There was no human counterpoint in their concept of Safid invaders.

Understanding that made their obdurate hatred no less infuriating. A part of Michael whispered that they could be made to understand; he rejected the voice even as it spoke. It was as unthinkable as it was true. He would simply have to leave the soldiers here-

“You absolute imbeciles,” Lars said, an uncharacteristic acidity in his tone. “Really, lads, there’s thick and then there’s disappointing.”

The man who had joked looked up, shock on his face fading quickly into slit-eyed anger; he squared his shoulders and took a step towards Lars. The Ardan captain raised his chin and gave a contemptuous flick of his hand. Quiet, sharp ripples sped out like minnows in a pond, so fast that Michael barely registered them before they struck. The soldier’s jacket sagged, sliding apart into ribbons of neatly-sliced fabric. His pants slid down around his ankles. The stubble on one cheek fell away.

Lars took a step forward and backhanded the soldier on his newly-shaven cheek. The sound of it echoed through the village as the man recoiled backwards, tripping of the rags of his clothing and falling to the ground in a heap.

The Ardan captain looked down at the fallen soldier with the air of a man who had stepped in something unpleasant. He pulled a kerchief from his pocket to wipe his hand clean, folding it precisely and tucking it back into his jacket. Only then did he raise his head to glare at the assembled troops.

“It’s my fault, really,” he said. “For assuming you had more intelligence than pond slime. Lord Baumgart has been gracious enough to treat you like men, and I nearly forgot that I knew better. You want to mock him for his mercy?” Lars took a step forward; the closest men took a step back. “Ingrates. That mercy spared your lives first.”

Some of the men had the grace to look abashed; the rest stared uncomprehendingly. Michael found himself among the latter group, though he at least managed to avoid the slack-jawed bemusement in evidence among some of the soldiers.

Lars raised an eyebrow; despite his outward chill, Michael felt an edge of real anger from the captain as he spoke. “Our old masters kept us dull and docile because they thought us incapable of comporting ourselves like soldiers otherwise. Lord Baumgart believes you’re better than that. Decide who you agree with.” He glowered at them a moment more before nodding and turning to Michael with a faint smile.

“Dreadfully sorry to interrupt, milord,” he said, walking back to where he had stood before. “You were saying?”

Michael scrambled to pick up his scattered thoughts, his rusty social niceties latching on to Lars’s offered segue. “Thank you, Mr. Webel,” he said. “We are here to put an end to the War. The first place we end it is within ourselves. The man I brought you here to find wants to kill the Safid. By finding him, and stopping him, we will be saving the lives of our former adversaries.”

He jabbed a finger at them before any objection could come back. “But we will still do this, because it will secure a dangerous soul. It will rob the Safid of both the means and the motive to make future war against us - and if they do so anyway, it will ensure their defeat.”

The soldier on the ground picked himself up, red-faced; he turned towards Michael with an impressive amount of dignity for a half-naked man. “Fuck that,” he spat. “I signed on because you were marching to Saf. I thought we’d be fighting Savvies, not doing them favors. That’s next to treason.”

“Then leave,” Michael shrugged. “I did say that any man who wanted to leave could do so at the next town, and here we are. You can take a pack, some food and water - and a new set of clothing wouldn’t go amiss.”

There was some muffled laughter in the crowd; Michael felt them shifting back towards him - but only some. “That goes for all of you,” he said, raising his voice. “We’re here to bury the War. You have no more enemies. You’re not Ardan, and you’re not Daressan until we’re through. Any man who stays is mine alone.”

Futures shifted, paths withering and flourishing as men asked questions of their heart. The soldier Lars had stripped turned away first, stalking back towards the camp; others followed in his wake. Some of those on the edge spilled after them, swayed by the momentum of shuffling feet.

There was quiet as the footsteps and discontent muttering faded, leaving behind a thin scattering of men - only about a third of those who had arrived with them. It was a pittance, but Michael felt unburdened rather than abandoned. He turned to Zabala, finding himself in a sudden good mood.

“I think we’ve reduced our problems substantially,” Michael said, grinning. “Let’s give them two of the trucks and a reasonable amount of supplies, since our needs have lessened. We’ll consolidate fuel and equipment into one truck and proceed from there.”

Zabala made a sour face, then sighed. “I told the motor pool we’d return those,” he muttered. “But it’s probably the best solution. I’ll go make sure they depart in an - orderly fashion.” He turned and began to jog forlornly towards the mob of soldiers.

Michael watched him go, then turned back to the men still present. Some were nervous, spilling over with uncertainty and regret; others stood with quiet surety. He watched them for a moment, then inclined his head.

“Thanks,” he said, his voice at a more normal volume. “I won’t say it’ll be easy, but it should be worthwhile. We’ll be going - well, whenever Zabala finishes up with the others. Grab your things and be ready.”

There were a few nods and mutters of acknowledgement; Michael tried to meet the eyes of any man that sought it. He had the sense that some of those who had stayed had done so for their own reasons, rather than the ones he gave.

He could accept that.

“I’ve never seen a man half so happy to have most of his unit desert,” Lars remarked, chuckling. He strode up to stand beside Michael, watching the departing men.

Michael raised an eyebrow. “Your unit deserted, mine is the one that stayed. Besides, I don’t think we wanted the other ones. I didn’t consider - a lot of things, really.” He made a face, then shook his head. “Thanks for stepping in.”

Lars waved his hand dismissively. “Only proper to impress some decorum among the troops.” He paused; a bit of his bluster drained away. “And it needed to be said. Some of them forgot why we broke away, or perhaps took the wrong lesson. Or no lesson whatsoever; they are still infantrymen.” He snorted at his own joke, then sighed. “The ones that are left, they’re good lads.”

“You said that about the rest of them too,” Michael noted.

“Did I?” Lars asked. “I’m sure they’re good at something.”

Michael gave the Ardan captain a flat look. “Should we be worried about them?” he asked. “They’re spoiling for some violence, and this isn’t the most stable place to leave unruly soldiers.”

Sobriquet touched his arm lightly. “I’ll have a word with them as we’re leaving,” she said. “Impress upon them that while Daressa may be a new nation, it’s still a nation of laws - and penalties for breaking them.”

“Are there any?” Michael asked. “Laws, I mean. I don’t imagine they’ve organized much beyond trying to staff the transitional committee. Whatever legal code was in place prior to the War-”

“An Emil problem.” Sobriquet made a face, then shook her head. “At the very least I feel confident that theft and murder are still prohibited, so we can start there. We’re going to have enough trouble with Ardan holdouts turning to banditry, with the way they left their army scattered all over half the country.” She sighed. “And more stories like what happened here. We’ll have to - Ghar’s bones, I don’t know what we’re going to do about that.”

There was a pause; Michael stepped back to look at Sobriquet. “It bothered you,” he said. “What I did.”

She pressed her lips together, then nodded. “It did, and not me alone. I saw the look on your face.” She met his eyes. “You’re not sure it was right either.”

“That’s the problem,” Michael said. “I was. I am. When I had him in my grip, when I saw him for what he was-” He broke off, his mouth twisting. “Antolin had me kill a man, at the start of all this. He wanted to show me - I’m not even sure how to say it. That sometimes men can’t be turned away from violence, that the core of who they are exists in opposition to other men. I believed him, then.”

Sobriquet was quiet for a moment. “But not now?”

“I’m not sure he was wrong. Limited, perhaps.” Michael shook his head. “When I looked at Thomas I recognized my father. I knew that he would never change, that he would never admit any fault or wrongdoing. Such men twist the world to cast themselves as a victim, even as they prey on others. His future was to bring misery to everyone around him.”

Michael paused, his mouth suddenly dry. Wordlessly, he grabbed the canteen at his belt, twisting the cap off and taking a swig of tepid, stale water. “The responsibility lies with the man who can prevent the harm,” he rasped. “I could have killed him. Maybe I should have.”

“You’ve tried to spare lives where you could.” Sobriquet looked up at him. “It’s not wrong to avoid death.”

He shook his head. “That’s not what this was about. I didn’t want-” He pressed his lips together, sorting through words that all failed to capture what he felt. “I didn’t want him to be right, in the end. Finally the victim he believed himself to be. He would have died vindicated, swaddled in the righteousness of his actions. It was worse for him to be wrong, and - that’s what I wanted.”

Sobriquet’s expression was unreadable. “For him to be wrong?” she asked. “Or for him to admit it?”

“Admitting it would require him to know what he was, at some level,” Michael said. “You can’t admit what you don’t know to be true, and he would never - never even consider it. He’d blame everyone else first. His friends, his mother, his victims, me. The world would burn and die before anything was his fault.”

“We are still talking about Thomas, here,” Sobriquet said. “Right?”

Michael grimaced, and he inclined his head. “Somewhat.”

Sobriquet threaded her fingers through Michael’s own and squeezed once. “You could seek him out, you know. When we’re done here. I could mask you, we could go to Ardalt-”

“No.” Michael frowned. “No, we couldn’t. I’ll have Stellar. I’ll live in Mendian, in Goitxea, and that’s where I’ll have to stay.” He sighed. “It’s for the best. Now more than ever, I realize that there’d be no reason to go back. My father has nothing that I want.” He forced a smile. “Well, maybe you can go rescue Ricard and Helene for me, so I’ll have some company in Leire’s old house.”

“Some company?” She punched him in the shoulder. “You ass. If you think you’re getting rid of me that easily, you’re mistaken.”

“I’m the only one that has to live in that glass cage,” Michael said. “Even if you were there, we could never-”

Sobriquet’s eyes flashed, her soul rippling around her. “Don’t underestimate me, Ardan,” she said gravely. “I am Sobriquet. There is no cage that could keep me in, or out.”

Michael’s first instinct was to protest further, but the look in her eyes brooked no debate. “I suppose I shall be incorrect,” he said.

“Perpetually so,” Sobriquet agreed, leaning forward to kiss him on the cheek. “But you’ll always have me to set you right.” She squeezed his hand again, then spun to walk back towards their impromptu lodging. “I’ll pack. You deal with your mob of idiots.”

Michael nodded, watching her walk away - back towards a dead family’s house in a broken man’s village. The weight of it settled around him for a moment, crushingly heavy in a way no potens soul could bear. He breathed, slowly, and felt it settle into the back of his mind.

“And now we go once more,” he muttered.

Mercifully, the departing soldiers left without serious incident. They piled into the two trucks Zabala had set aside for them and trundled away, though from the quality of their driving Michael guessed that they would arrive at their eventual destination on foot.

The one truck they intended to take was fueled and loaded in short order, though a bit more care was necessary to fit all of their gear while still leaving space for the men. Michael moved to jump into the cab with Zabala, only to have Sobriquet step in front of him.

“I’m navigating,” she said. “You go sit in the back.”

Michael frowned. “But you can navigate from anywhere,” he said. “You don’t need to be in front for that.”

“You’d make me ride in a truck full of strange men?” she asked. “You go sit with them, I’ll keep Zabala awake.”

After a bemused moment, Michael shrugged and turned back towards the rear. The men were mostly loaded in, save for Lars and a few stragglers; Michael found himself sitting near the rear of the right bench. The low murmur of conversation had died away when he entered the truck.

There was an unavoidable sense of focus pressing down on him. Save for Unai, every man in the truck had their eye on Michael. Even Charles and Lars watched him, though the former seemed mostly amused at Michael’s discomfort.

“A bit less room back here, lordling,” Charles said. “And less padding on the seats. Maybe we can find you a pillow at the next town.”

Michael gave him a look. “Always touching to see one ass concerned for another,” he said. “I think I’ll survive even so.”

Charles grinned back at him, leaning against the truck’s sideboard. “Oh, you’ll be fine,” he said. “I’m a bit less sure about these Ardans, though. The way they clenched up when you boarded, I’m not sure they’re going to make it through a full day of driving.”

The truck’s engine rumbled to life, gear and men shifting as Zabala guided the heavy vehicle back onto the road. Lars leaned forward, raising his voice. “I’d wager we’ll make it through in good order,” he said. “Don’t worry about these men, by this point we’ve been dragged through the worst the War had to offer. We’re scarcely going to fall out now that it’s over.”

Unai raised an eyebrow. “Peace is often more trying than war,” he noted. “At least in war things are clearly-defined. Problems tend to fall into two classifications - those you can resolve by shooting someone, and those which you can put off until after the war.”

“You just have to be quieter in peacetime. Stab them, don’t shoot them.” He crossed his arms, turning to look at Lars. “Or slice them up from a distance. That was a neat trick you pulled, most Swordsmen strive for raw power over detail work.”

Lars shrugged. “Yes, well - when one is denied access to raw power, one makes do. My soul was never the most potent of the scalptors, but I like to think that I make up for it in finesse.” He leaned forward to peer down the row of men who were studiously avoiding involvement in the conversation. “I’m not sure I could put a scratch on Leo, much less Lord Baumgart here.”

Michael followed Lars’s gaze; a man with recruiting-poster looks shifted uncomfortably. “He’s a potens?” he asked.

Lars waved his hand. “Mild potens,” he said. “But still better than some. We’ve got Leo here, then Stenger is a durens. Ulf is - wait, no, Ulf left. He was a conterens anyway, not much use.” Lars frowned. “I feel like I’m missing someone.”

“Richter’s a Dex!” one of the men said. “He can make cow shit taste good in the cookpot!”

“Am not, that’s all skill,” another man, presumably Richter, shot back. “Voss is our other soul.”

“Voss, my good man,” Lars said. “You never mentioned!”

A bleary-looking man raised his head. “Just a Freezer,” he mumbled. “Not much use, especially not going into winter.”

“Freezers are good in combat,” Charles noted. “The light can dazzle someone, and frozen balls will take most men out of the fight.” He grinned. “Ever made a set of snowballs, Ardan?”

“Never even fired my rifle,” Voss retorted. “They stuck all of us with the kitchens, making ice. I’ve been on tour two years. If I never see another icebox my whole life, I’ll be happy.”

A chorus of groans answered the complaint. “Shut up, Voss,” one man replied. “At least nobody’s shooting at you in the kitchen.”

“And no mud!” called another.

“Clearly you had a different mess, mud was all they served in ours.”

Michael felt their focus slide away from him amid the bickering, settling into something more comfortable. There was still a sense of wariness, of course; the men were always conscious of outsiders in their midst. But for the time being they were not fearful of Michael, and that was enough.

He closed his eyes and leaned back against the sideboard, letting his sight drift up, up, until all he could see was the far curve of hills pressing against the sky.