Peculiar Soul

Despite my best aims as a reformer, as a politician, as a champion of rights and the rule of law, the inescapable truth of my relevance is that people heed my words because I am capable of an immense amount of destruction. That said destruction is meant for Mendian’s enemies is little comfort, for there is still the implicit threat that I may withholdmy aid according to my wishes.

Therefore the rule of the ensouled must always approximate a captor with hostages, for there is no recourse available to the people if the bearer decides to turn their power towards petty and selfish ends. The sole instrument of redress is death for the bearer, but even that does not guarantee a return of the soul to serve the public good.

History has shown us the fragility of individual character where matters of great power are concerned. I am increasingly convinced that there is no place for ensouled in government. Nevertheless I shall not be proposing anything of the sort to the Batzar currently; while my power is unchecked I intend to make good use of it.

- Leire Gabarain, Annals of the Sixteenth Star, 671.

“You’re sure?” Sobriquet asked. “There are other lucigentes-”

Michael nodded towards the swirling clouds, lit from below by sharp, glaring light. The luminance flared, then died away, replaced by the dull orange flicker of fire. “It’s him,” he said. “I’m going to go. Wake the others, have them catch up with me.”

He did not wait for Sobriquet to respond, throwing the window open and leaping out. He fell through the restless night air until he met cobblestone with a sharp crack; shouts of alarm issued from nearby buildings. Michael ignored them and began to run.

The streets flowed past him in a blur. They were largely empty save for a few delivery carts and the curious faces of those who were peeking out to see what the commotion was. There were few of those, but they grew in numbers as he sprinted northward down Stahm’s main boulevard. Soon Michael was forced to slow his pace to navigate between curious onlookers streaming forth from their buildings, crowding close against the fences that set Stahm’s garrison apart from the town.

Michael gave up on shouldering his way through the press of people, coming to a reluctant halt as the crowd thickened. The north side of town was thick with onlookers. They buzzed with curiosity and breathless fear, enough to make his head swim; he closed his eyes and breathed deeply for a few moments before sending his sight aloft to look at the garrison.

Or rather, what was left of it. The low barracks and administrative buildings had collapsed into themselves, flames guttering amid the rubble. Dim shapes of men writhed within, afire themselves or pinned under the collapse. The acid taste of panic radiated from the camp, a sharp presence even amid the crowd.

His sense of it vanished in an instant as the light flared once more, provoking screams and a hasty backwards shuffle from the onlookers. Their fear slammed into Michael like a physical thing, staggering him nearly to his knees. Yet - the startlement was past in a moment, curiosity once again sending the crowd closer to the fence.

“What’s wrong with them?” Sobriquet’s voice buzzed, sounding close to his ear. “Ghar’s bones, are they trying to get killed?”

“Never been a war in Stahm,” Michael grunted, shaking his head to clear it; he used the momentary break in the crowd to press closer to the fence. “Why should they think it’s an attack?” The cloud of smoke and dust from the latest assault was billowing upward, showing a fresh scar along one of the garrison’s remaining barracks; the roof groaned before collapsing inward.

Lofting his sight higher still, Michael finally saw the silent, still ranks of troops standing on the far side of the garrison. They made no move, only standing still as a figure at their head walked slowly towards the inferno. It was too far, and too dark for Michael to make out a face from this vantage, but watching the man walk provoked icy certainty within him.

It was Luc.

Michael’s mind blurred. Those were Institute troops in the back, the same that they had seen in the mountain camp. Yet here was Luc, striding out as though allied-

His thoughts derailed as a voice thundered through the night, accompanied by the high whine of a loudspeaker. “People of Stahm!” a man said, his voice surprisingly nasal and unrefined; it was obvious that he intended a dramatic effect, from his intonation, but to Michael it sounded more like a child playing at importance. Nevertheless, the crowd quieted and turned towards the source.

“We are the Institute,” the speaker said. “And we have come to discharge our duty to Ardalt. You have lived under an oppressive government, under the threat of arbitrary arrest and assault, for far too long. Today that ends. Today the people take control of their own destiny.”

It was odd that the words provoked more fear in the people watching than Luc’s attacks, but Michael felt that fear rise as more of the spectators began to grasp the scale of what was happening. This was not some army exercise, nor was it mere lawlessness. Fear shaded into a myriad of constituent emotions; Michael felt anger among them, indignation, terror-

And then, as surely as an ebbing storm, the fear bled away. Michael looked around, confused, as the crowd began to relax. Someone to his left began to applaud; a few scattered cheers broke out.

“No more shall the Assembly rule unchecked!” the man continued, this time to a rousing cheer. “No more shall a soul provide the only measure of a man’s worth!”

He continued speaking, but Michael had stopped listening; he had spotted the ensouled among the crowd. Obruors, to dampen fear, and instigators to stoke some other choice emotions. The people around him echoed a heady mix of righteous anger, joy and relief, with any dissonant notes quickly snuffed out.

It was not a large push. Indeed, removing the fear might have been enough on its own; Michael had the sense that the majority of the crowd’s vigor rose from the speaker’s words, as unimpressive as his oration was. They were words that the crowd wanted to hear, resonating with easy power until they were reacting to every pronouncement with boisterous cheers.

“…their rotten decadence to an end!” the man continued, improving somewhat now that the crowd was responding well. “And if they bring the Assembly’s champions, Sibyl and Sever, then they will face the might of the Institute’s own. People of Ardalt, I give you - Stellar!”

Luc began to shine, his radiance casting a soft glow that banished the flickering firelight from the garrison with the clear white of day. There was no cheer from the crowd; they echoed the confusion that rampaged through Michael’s mind as he watched the spectacle.

“What-” he murmured, cutting short as Sobriquet’s voice buzzed in his ear.

“What the fuck?” she muttered. “Am I seeing this wrong? I thought Luc hated the Institute.”

“He does,” Michael replied absently, mind churning through possibilities. “I can’t believe he’d work with them, especially not for this - he doesn’t care one bit about Ardalt.” He turned his sight to look back at one of the obruors infiltrating the crowd, an unassuming young man in drab clothes. “They have ensouled all over. Obruors, instigators - Shines too, I’d wager. If they got to Luc…”

“Shit.” Sobriquet fell silent, then gave a rattling sigh. “But it doesn’t change what we have to do. Only makes it more urgent.”

Michael swallowed against a dry mouth. “Agreed,” he rasped. His attention turned back to Luc, whose glow had faded away; he was walking back towards the line of troops as the crowd murmured, their enforced fervor tarnished by the appearance of a soul they knew to be exclusively Mendiko.

“Do not fear Mendian’s bluster,” the man said, resuming his speech. “Their sun has set, and risen anew here in the east; this new dawn is for Ardalt!” There was a push from the instigators, and cheering resumed from the crowd; Michael irritably brushed their influence from his mind and focused on Luc.

He was far, but not too far; Michael pushed his sight as close as he could. Luc’s features resolved in his vision. He had grown thinner in the short time they were apart, his face sunken and pale. His eyes were underlined with dark circles - though as he turned to look at the man holding the microphone, they sparkled with sharp intent.

Michael summoned Stanza to him, readying himself to attack. Words shifted in his mind until he found a couplet that felt right, that held the shape of what he meant to do. He took a breath-

Luc reached over to pluck the microphone from the Institute man’s hands. “Ardalt!” he said, his voice rasping and harsh. “I am not Ardan born, but I am a child of Ardalt. My future was shaped by Ardan hands. So I am here, now, to repay what was given to me.”

The crowd responded enthusiastically, the ensouled in their midst continuing to goad them along despite the unexpected change in speaker. Michael found himself hesitating as Luc spoke, his curiosity getting the better of him.

“Where nations are steered to evil aims, the consequences fall on the blameless first,” Luc said. “Not this time. The Assembly’s days are numbered. The wealthy and powerful ensouled who shape your future will be laid low.” He paused, looking out at the cheering crowd with an expression Michael couldn’t make out. “They will all get what they deserve.”

He tossed the microphone back to the original speaker and strode off between the ranks of the deadened soldiers behind him; Michael jarred his focus free and readied his soul once more.

“Michael,” Sobriquet’s voice whispered urgently. “Wait. The crowd. Unai says-” She broke off; Michael had the impression that she was listening to someone near her. “He says unless you are absolutely confident that you can kill him before he can react, you should wait until he’s farther from the city. A fight between you two could kill thousands.”

“He’s right there,” Michael murmured, his intent narrowing to a point - then falling aside as he slouched, his breath coming out in a slow exhale. “But you’re right. There are too many unknowns here, I don’t even know why-” He shook his head. “I’m not sure what he’s up to, if he’s under their influence or not.”

Michael watched Luc’s distant form walk to the back of the assembled troops, towards a small convoy of vehicles. He hopped lightly over the garrison fence, breaking into a jog on the far side. “How close are you?” he asked.

“Still at the inn,” Sobriquet replied. “We could be at the garrison before long, though.”

“No, they look like they’re making ready to leave,” Michael said. The first of the automobiles was pulling away already, its headlamps a pale imitation of what had come before. “I’m going to follow them on foot. You, Unai and the rest, you find a ship out of here - take it by force if you have to. How far out can you keep me veiled?”

“If I’m moving on this end, not far,” she grumbled. “You’re already at the limit of what I can do without shifting my presence closer. I can stay here-”

“No, don’t bother,” Michael said, speeding to a full run as more of the Institute convoy departed. “Just keep me veiled until I’m clear of the troops here, then get that ship. Sofia will spot me, but I think any men still loyal to her will be preoccupied by the Institute’s soldiers. We’ll be gone before she can do anything productive, besides.”

Said soldiers were on the move as well, though not following the departing Institute leaders - the silent regiments moved towards the city, spreading out slowly into the streets. Michael watched them until the far fence interrupted his passage; he ran into and through it in a tangle of rusted wire, then headlong into the scrubby woodland beyond.

He ducked under a branch, scowled, then ran straight through the next stand of brush. Sticks snapped and burst against his charge like gunfire; he made a sharp gesture to clear himself another path through the woods, not bothering to return it to its prior state in his wake.

Michael sliced through the woods like a hot knife, running as fast as Galen’s soul would send him. Individual trees blurred away from his awareness. He could see little, and even less once he sent his sight up high to mark the position of the departing vehicles.

They were marginally faster than him, though they did not appear to be trying for speed; they took a twisting path back to the mountains, towards the secluded valley where they had made their camp. Michael let them run ahead, moderating his exertion to limit the strain on his souls. Already, hunger was beginning to burn in his belly.

It was unlikely to become an issue before he reached the camp, at least, but he kept a moderate pace even so. The vehicles arrived back at the camp’s small motor pool well ahead of him, and he crossed the last span of darkened wilderness with his eyes fixed on the camp. Before long he spotted Luc once more, walking unhurriedly down one of the main pathways.

A short, stocky man hurried after him. Luc turned at the man’s approach, then diverted to one side, walking towards the camp’s edge. Michael swerved to draw close, watching as he ran; the stocky man caught up with Luc close to the perimeter and began to yell something that Michael could not hear at this range.

Luc stopped and turned to listen, his posture disinterested. It wasn’t until Michael cleared the remaining distance and dropped to a fast walk that he could make out the other man’s words.

“…not to speak on behalf of the Institute!” the man insisted; Michael recognized his voice from the loudspeaker. “We have a careful messaging plan, one crafted to ensure the majority of Ardan citizens support us even without the influence of an ensouled. What you said tonight, it’s too - harsh, too violent.” The man paused to mop at his brow. “Please. When they’re in that state, they’re very suggestible, they’ll believe almost anything you tell them. It’s important to stick to prepared speeches to avoid any unfortunate misunderstandings.”

“I’m sorry, Director Kemper,” Luc said, his voice at a normal volume; Michael could barely make out his words.

Slowly, Michael inched closer; he trusted in Stanza to quiet his footsteps across the frozen, icy ground. Cracks spiderwebbed silently across the ice, the softest of groans coming where he laid his weight. At the edge of the clear area around the camp, he halted.

“…seemed like I should say something, after that introduction. I didn’t lie to them.” Luc shrugged and took a step towards Kemper, who took a step backwards. “I’m well-aware of how impressionable those influenced by a soul can be. We had no shortage on the island.”

The director gave a shrill, nervous laugh, shuffling a bit farther away from Luc. “I suppose you would be,” he said. “And we appreciate your help, but where speeches are concerned, please leave them to us. None of the plans account for you delivering the speeches, after all, and if we deviate too much-”

“-you’ll have to make new plans?” Luc said, smiling. He laughed, as did Kemper; Michael froze as Luc’s eyes traced directly over him for a bare moment.

It passed, and Luc gave no indication that he had seen Michael; instead, his gaze returned to the director. “I don’t mean to be disruptive,” Luc said. “But I think your plans could benefit from my input.”

Kemper smiled politely. “We would certainly appreciate your thoughts,” he said. “But please recognize that these plans have been refined over the course of many years. To make any substantial changes to them now-”

“But they need changes,” Luc said, frowning. “You plan to purge the Assembly from control, yes? Then strengthen control over the military. Once the remaining loyalists are dealt with, Ardalt will no longer be controlled by evil men, and free to pursue its own destiny.”

“Well, yes,” Kemper said, blinking. “That’s the essence of it, although there are of course many steps involved in seeing each of those goals brought-”

“But that’s not going to work,” Luc interjected.

Kemper’s smile struggled back onto his face, his hands laced securely behind his back. “Oh?” he asked. “And why might that be?”

“When the Assembly is ousted, the Institute will be placed in charge, yes?” Luc asked.

“Likely not the Institute as such,” Kemper said dismissively. “We’ll organize a council of picked men, with the appearance of democratic representation; they’ll do the governance.”

“But still ultimately loyal to you,” Luc said.

Kemper hesitated, then nodded. “Of course.”

“Then you will have failed in your mission,” Luc said quietly. “Ardalt will still be under the sway of evil men.”

It took a moment for Luc’s words to register with Kemper; the director’s smile melted away into a stony disapproval. “The Institute,” he said, “is the bulwark that keeps Ardalt safe from the terrors of the world. I was not lying in my speech either; we are discharging our duty, our founding duty to Ardalt in our actions tonight.”

“And duty,” Luc asked softly, “absolves evil?”

Kemper glowered. “Listen here, young man,” he said. “You came to us, not the other way around. You’re the one that offered to support us, to discharge your debt-”

“And I intend to,” Luc said, raising his hands placatingly. “Repaid in kind, yes? For all that the Institute gave to me.” Luc dropped his hands - then stepped quickly to stand in front of the director. Before Kemper could move, Luc grabbed the man’s throat, ungloved.

Kemper stiffened, his eyes widening as Luc lifted him bodily from the ground. He dangled, kicked - then dropped to the ground in a motionless heap, a trickle of blood issuing from his nose. Luc looked down at him for a long moment, then turned towards the forest.

His eyes settled directly on where Michael was hiding.

“Come out,” Luc said, tapping his ear lightly. “You were very quiet, but I can hear your heart thundering away.”

Slowly, Michael stood up and stepped forward into the clear perimeter. He stood facing Luc for an endless moment, the two men watching the other silently. Luc smiled.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Luc said. “Despite everything, I missed talking with you.”

“What are you doing?” Michael asked, his voice rising farther than he had intended. “Ghar’s ashes. The Institute, this revolution, your speech - I thought you wanted to end war, not stir it up.”

Luc’s smile remained fixed. “I do want to end war,” he said. “But it’s naïve to think that we can all simply stop fighting, yes? Especially with you around.” His face sobered. “I’ve been wrong about a lot, but not that.”

“You’ve gone mad,” Michael sighed, shaking his head and drawing Stanza close. “Killing Leire, attacking Saf, now this - whatever this is. It has to stop, Luc. That’s why I’m here.” He held his soul tight around him, the world fading behind a skein of golden edges; the lines of Luc’s face regained their smile.

“I’m not your enemy, Michael,” Luc said, spreading his hands. “I’m only trying to keep-”

Michael struck out with his soul before Luc could finish his thought, speaking old, familiar words. “Halt. Be bloodless. Wither-”

His voice caught as his soul failed to gain purchase upon Luc’s body, finding an unnatural resilience there; Michael’s eyes flew wide. “Potens?” he muttered.

Luc tottered backward, passing a hand across his face; his eyes were wide, shocked. They settled on Michael, full of hurt. “I - I didn’t think-” he mumbled, his face flushing. A moment later, though, a small, pained smile returned below tear-stained cheeks. “Somehow I thought it wouldn’t come to this. Another thing I’ve been wrong about.”

Michael took a breath, the light in his chest flaring bright. Clair, Leire, Vincent, more still that were nameless and faceless to him. The world shuddered; the wind stilled. The reflections in the ice bent and shivered, showing more than the silent tableau before him.

“HALT.”

The world complied. The air hung cold and rigid as iron. Stillness wrought its grip upon the mote of resistance that was Luc, his potens soul warm and defiant - and utterly outmatched. Michael felt his will slip into the lines of Luc’s form and opened his mouth to finish it.

Light burst from Luc’s eyes, desperate and wild. It slammed into Michael, setting light to his clothes and glaring from exposed skin; a moment later it twisted downward to rake across the ground near his feet. There was a dull thud, a burst of steam and loose soil that rattled through Michael’s chest like cannonfire. The bursting ground threw him backward into the woods, the tatters of his clothing flapping sadly until he arced back down into a tree.

Michael picked himself up, stripping off the remnants of his smoldering shirt. His sight came up to locate Luc again; the other man was fleeing back into the camp, shouting.

“It’s Baumgart’s son!” he cried, his voice echoing across the camp. “He’s killed the Director!”

“Ghar’s fucking-” Michael swore, crouching and jumping with all of his strength. He sailed upwards towards the camp and crashed down through a large tent. Something wet yielded under his feet; Michael looked down and saw red seeping through the thick canvas. Other shapes began to stir under the collapsed tent; he felt the influence of other souls around him, exhorting the quiet legions in the camp to stand and fight.

He jumped again towards where he had last sighted Luc, coming down in a clear area near the center of the camp. Here Michael paused a moment to cast around with his sight, finding no trace of his quarry. Luc had ducked inside somewhere; Michael sent his sight into the nearest tent, and the next.

A bullet caromed from the side of his head, breaking his focus. Another followed; Michael yanked his sight back to see ranks forming and men kneeling to fire their rifles with mechanical coordination. More bullets bounced ineffectively from his skin, a distracting storm of lead and billowing smoke.

A beam of light flashed out to strike him - but it shone harmlessly, flashing sweat to steam with a quick pop. The lesser lucigens responsible ducked away behind a tent; another attacked from behind. The blades of a scalptor came from somewhere to his left, lashing him more painfully than any of the rifles. Beyond the infantrymen, Michael saw the glitter of metal dancing from other soldiers’ hands; those would be the artifices.

Michael scowled and tensed to jump again, throwing himself clear of the crossfire that had formed. It gained him a brief respite, but every part of the camp was already thick with soldiers. They were back on him in moments, a nearby squad of men leaping towards him with bayonets fixed.

He pushed the first away; the next two grabbed his arms, seeking to immobilize him. Michael shook his head and jumped once more. The soldiers came with him, the shock of landing tearing their hands free and sending them unceremoniously into the frozen mud. Bones cracked. An agonizing moan came from one soldier; the other lay dead.

There were fewer men where he had landed, and in the brief time he had bought himself Michael cloaked himself in darkness, sending his sight upwards once more. Soldiers swarmed like ants, rushing through the night towards his lightless refuge with no thought of self-preservation. Most couldn’t harm him, though the artifices sent a little shiver of disgust through his gut; the image of Galen writhing against the metal invading his throat was not one he would part with anytime soon.

Michael could not afford to ignore the men in pursuit of Luc; he was not invincible. Yet - any delay afforded Luc the chance to disappear once more. It was likely too late already, as the Institute shook itself fully awake. He sized up the forces arrayed against him, imagining Stanza reducing the oncoming men to dust; he weighed subjecting what was left of their minds to Spark. Of wading through them with force alone, listening to the pop of bone and gristle for hours as blood turned to ice.

A dull weariness took hold. The injured soldier near him gave another piteous groan. He had summoned conviction enough to kill Luc, earlier, but now, stained with red-tinged mud-

How many men would you kill? With your soul pressed close against their dying flesh, listening to their hearts falter-

He shook Leire’s voice from his head and jumped again, sailing up and away from the swarming men; when he struck the ground again he began to run back towards Stahm.