Peculiar Soul

An emergency session will convene tomorrow morning in Kaupf Hall to deliberate on the latest reports from Sibyl, Sever and other sources along the Daressan fronts. Of primary importance are the disposition of partisan-controlled strategic assets. We now know that in addition to Sobriquet (ref. Anomaly 3022), the Daressan partisans have secured the assistance of Michael, Lord Baumgart (ref. Anomaly 4851).

The defection of an Assemblyman’s son represents unique intelligence risks. The reports indicate that he has already utilized his familiarity with restricted information to benefit the partisans in their targeted exfiltration of documents related to Initiative Sunburn. Procedural adjustments to mitigate ongoing risks shall be a topic of discussion at the session.

Aside from this, Baumgart appears to bear a life-aligned soul of uncommon potency. Sibyl strongly believes that he is Stanza, per his claim that he inherited the soul directly via affinity from Jeorg Dreschner. This largely matches with our field observations and other reporting, but does not reconcile with Baumgart’s earlier tests following his initial ensoulment; Dreschner was confirmed to be alive after he received his soul, and Baumgart repeatedly tested as high-potential but without alignment.

Additional research will be required to assess the nature and extent of his capabilities, but in the short-term it is vital that he and the intelligence he has stolen be contained within Daressan borders. The majority of tomorrow’s session will focus on countermeasures for a presumptive Stanza/Sobriquet alignment, with the understanding that Baumgart may represent a variant manifestation of Stanza and/or an undocumented soul of similar scope.

Attendance of this session is mandatory.

- Institute Circular #3422, 23 Bounty 693.

“Relax,” Sobriquet said, beckoning Luc and Michael over. “I’d be quite the hypocrite to reprimand you for keeping the truth of your soul from me, considering my habits.”

Michael put a hand on Luc’s shoulder and steered him closer; the other man did not resist inasmuch as slouch in place. His fear had not abated, though it was joined with the uncomfortable flush of embarrassment at the attention he was receiving.

“I certainly couldn’t criticize him for it,” Michael said. “I had some rather alarming impressions of you myself, when we first met.” He winced as another pulse of discomfort rippled out from Luc. “I think it’s obvious there was no ill intent here.”

“Quite.” Sobriquet exchanged an amused look with Clair. “He’s right that we could use an anatomens, though. Perhaps the notion of kidnapping him has some merit.”

Clair punched her in the shoulder. “You’re horrible,” she said. “Stop tormenting the man, he’s frightened enough. He’ll never stay at this rate.”

“I already regret coming in person,” Sobriquet said, looking down at her shoulder. “I haven’t missed the casual violence.”

Charles stepped forward; the relief from Luc as he drew Sobriquet’s attention was palpable. “This is all very heartwarming,” he said, giving the two women an exaggerated wave. “Hello, boss, nice to see you’ve got a face like the rest of us - but aren’t you and the lordling running?” He swept an arm across the tavern. “Shouldn’t we all be?”

“I’m watching the roads,” Sobriquet said mildly. “Even if Sibyl guesses our position, it’ll take her some time to route around that patch of forest. This is not a pursuit that will hinge on matters of minutes. Still…” She sighed and leaned back against the bar, listlessly waving her hand through the air. There was a shimmer; Annette blinked confusedly. Michael took this to mean that they were now hidden from casual view, and their conversation kept private. A mercy for Annette, really, as she could truthfully say she had no notion of their plans if questioned.

“…you have a point,” Sobriquet said. “We should be on our way before too long. Emil, how are you set for supplies?”

Emil shook his head. “Not well. I hadn’t planned for Luc, much less the rest of you. We’ll need to stop more than once along our route, especially if we’re staying off the main roads. It could take us two, perhaps three weeks to reach the front from here.”

“We can do it in one,” Sobriquet said, nodding to Michael. “He can help us cut between roads if we pick our paths well.”

“One!” Emil spat. “Impossible. And even if we could, we’d be risking the horses-”

“Emil,” Sobriquet murmured. “Charles is right. We are being chased by Sibyl. I can keep her from knowing our precise location, but she will always be able to guess our general position by marking where she cannot see.” She leaned forward. “The first thing she will do is involve Ardan troops. Only the ones near her, at first, but then there will be runners.”

She stood and walked slowly towards him. “Those runners will spread, ahorse or afoot, and where they go Ardans will be searching for us. Sibyl’s power extends as far as they do - so it is crucial that we keep ahead of them.”

“They’ll have telegraph wires all through the northern front,” Vernon pointed out. “They run them everywhere they dig permanent trenchworks. There’s no way we’ll make it there before they’ve been warned.”

Sobriquet nodded, acknowledging the point. “As you say. But crossing the front was always going to be a challenge, and it will be one much-reduced if we arrive sooner than they expect, fast enough that they have only a general forewarning. I’d rather not dance with the Ardans all the way through the mountains, if we can help it.”

Emil made a sour face, but jerked his head in agreement. “I make no promises about the cart,” he said. “Or the horses. But if your man here can help lay a path, I could see - ten days. Any faster and you’re taking more of a risk with the trail than you’ll ever see with the Ardans.”

“I should hope to never see a stretch of trail pointing a rifle at me,” Sobriquet said, seeming amused. “We will make the best time we can. Please let me know if you feel as though it’s an unacceptable risk to press forward, but until then - forth.” She reached back for her mug and raised it to him, then drank.

“Forth,” Emil said, nodding. He turned to look outside, then scratched his head. “If this is any sort of tavern they should be able to supply us for a few days worth of rations, though we may not like them very well.”

Sobriquet smiled and flicked her fingers lazily; the distortion around them dropped. She turned and looked to Annette, who was staring back with a startled expression. “I have every confidence in our friend here,” she said, smiling as the other woman’s expression took on a touch of alarm. “Annette, my dear - how would you like to help secure the future of Daressa?”

They struck out from the inn while the sun was still high overhead, Emil’s wagon groaning with supplies. Annette had been generous with her offerings; there was little enough space in the cart that Michael had chosen to walk alongside it rather than squeeze into the interior.

It was easy enough to match the horses’ pace, burdened as the cart was. Michael found himself wondering how he had ever lived without a durens soul. When he was still desperately striving for one he would have considered it a disappointing outcome - a durens could not do anything beyond the capabilities of ordinary men save that he could do it without pause.

He snorted, shaking his head. Hindsight was painfully clear. Stefan’s soul was the only one he had gained that had taken nothing in return. Even his spector’s sight proved an annoyingly disjointed experience unless he concentrated, despite his increasing practice with it. The durens soul merely gave Michael more use of what was already his, free and limitless as long as he had adequate food.

There was a lesson there, and a warning; Michael could almost hear the wry tones of Jeorg’s voice in his thoughts. The old man had made his peace with Stanza’s soul, terrifying as it was, but it had taken everything from him in the process.

What more would be left, once Stanza and Spark had both taken their due from Michael? He did not think there was much to draw from. It was difficult for him to think that he had only been gone from Calmharbor for half a year; already the days he had spent living under his father’s rule seemed a washed-out and grey existence in his memory compared to the vivid glare of recent months.

He turned his sight upon himself and grimaced. Certainly, the Michael of old would not recognize the wiry man walking beside the cart, with his scruff of beard and features sharpened by weeks of hard travel. He looked lean, dangerous.

The thought made him smile, which softened the stranger’s face enough that he could see himself in it once more. Dangerous indeed. He sighed and stretched his arms, looking around at the rolling terrain; the path north had kept them on well-traveled roads for the most part but it was obvious that they were quickly running out of civilization as they headed towards Daressa’s mountainous interior. There was a quiet reminiscent of Jeorg’s forest, a peaceful stillness to the countryside that set Michael at ease.

“You’re chipper,” Emil noted, looking down from the driver’s bench. “If you were any better rested I’d say well-done, but knowing the sort of day you’ve had I’m inclined to think you’re delirious instead.”

“I’m inclined to agree with you,” Michael chuckled. “My time on the continent begins to seem more sensible if I assume I’ve gone mad. Perhaps I fell into the sea on my way ashore and spent too long without air.”

Emil smiled and shook his head. “Unfortunately, it seems we are real.” He paused and frowned. “Well, no. Unfortunate that you are real. I should be quite happy traveling around alone, just the horses and I on the open road.”

Michael nodded, the man’s fervent exasperation drawing a smile to his lips. “We’ve imposed a bit on your company, it’s true,” he said. “What was your plan before we showed up, just keep overcharging the Ardans while listening for intelligence?”

“Ghar’s blood, yes,” Emil sighed. “It’s been so long since the fronts moved appreciably that they’ve forgotten all about how to build out their supply train. They needed food, weapons, drink, everything. I made more money in the past month than I did in the year before that, and nearly all of it was blatant profiteering.” He smiled beatifically. “It was beautiful. Probably for the best that I left with you, though. There’s only so much money I can beat out of violent men before they start to beat back. Besides, if they actually lay siege to Imes…”

He shuddered and shook his head. “It’ll be a bloodbath, and that’s the Emperor’s truth. The Safid may have yielded the middle ground easily enough, but the only way Ardans are walking into Imes is over the corpses of everyone there - Safid and Daressan both.”

Michael frowned, looking back to the south. “Is there any chance we’ll make it to Mendian in time to stop what’s coming?”

“To stop the Ardans attacking Imes?” Emil raised an eyebrow. “If you can make good on Sobriquet’s promises, maybe. They won’t wait much longer to move, though - every day they delay, the Safid are able to reinforce the city. They’ve only delayed this long because moving their artillery to the new front is slow work. I doubt we’ll make it in time to stop them from shelling the outskirts into so much rubble.”

Images of the shattered houses and broken bodies in Leik flitted through Michael’s mind. He shuddered. “Then we should be quick about it,” he said.

“We should be sure,” Emil corrected him, frowning. “Make no mistake - people will die if we delay, but people will die horribly if we allow the Ardans to sack Imes.” He looked over at Michael, a shadow crossing his eyes. “You Ardans are from Gharic stock, but you refer to Imes by its Safid name of Azim Alsu. Did you ever wonder why that was?”

Michael shook his head; he had not. “I assumed it was just because the city had been in Safid hands for so long, to be honest. It’s been decades.”

“That’s a good and proper reason, sure enough,” Emil said. “One nobody will question when the papers start talking of Ardans marching on the city, slaughtering its defenders. Shelling its buildings to dust and reducing the population to scavenging for scraps.”

His eyes narrowed. “They’ve always known that Imes was their first challenge if they wished to take back the continent, the first battle if they had a chance to reverse the Safid momentum and push them back south. A brutal, unrestrained fight for the soul of old Ghar. It will be a crucial turning point in the War if they win, but at a great cost - hundreds of thousands dead, and not all of them soldiers.”

“And wouldn’t that be tragic?” Emil asked. “That their greatest victory should spring forth from the blood of their Gharic brothers, the very people they claim to be fighting for? Much better if it happened in the Safid city of Azim Alsu, rather than the storied Daressan capital of Imes.”

Michael blinked. “But it’s a Daressan city, everyone knows that. It’s occupied, yes, but nobody really thinks it’s Safid.”

“Don’t they?” Emil snorted. “Names have power. When you call it Azim Alsu, you say that the city of Imes no longer exists. That it has been changed somehow by its occupation, rendered into something other than the city people remember.” He sighed, leaning back against the cart. “What’s worse is that they might be right. The occupation is damn near as old I am, over thirty years now. Thirty years of children growing up, kneeling before icons of the Eight and saying prayers. Thirty years of being taught that we are the descendants of evil men, and that punishment is our birthright.”

Emil looked at Michael again, and there was an unsettling glint in his eyes. “I wonder if I would be Daressan, if I had been born further west. I wonder if our country will be there when we look for it. It would be - ironic, to put it mildly, if we were to arrive in our own capital as occupiers rather than liberators.”

Michael looked ahead, his thoughts straying to Jeorg’s garden. The idyllic paradise that was almost certainly changed from how he remembered. If he saw it again, would he recognize it? He thought of the blasted landscape Spark had shown him, of regrowth healing its scars - but never quite the same as it had been.

“You’ll get something back,” he said. “All you can do is accept it and move forward. Try to make something better.”

Emil made a dismissive noise, glaring down at him, and Michael winced at the intense snap of anger his words had provoked. “I don’t need to hear it from you,” he said. “You’re not the one who will have to bear that burden, Ardan.” He seemed on the verge of adding more; instead he snapped his eyes forward and radiated stony disapproval from his perch on the cart.

There was the temptation to speak further, to try and smooth over the abrasive silence, but Michael was at least canny enough to realize that there was nothing he could say in the moment that would not worsen Emil’s mood. He walked beside the cart quietly for some time before a noise from behind drew his attention - Luc had jumped down from the carriage to stretch his legs.

He grinned as Michael dropped back to walk beside him, his pace awkward as he worked out the stiffness from sitting in the cart. “Managed to annoy Emil already, yes?” he said. “He was nearly ready to toss me to the roadside on our way up, and I barely spoke. Suspicious of foreigners, that one.”

“We do make trouble,” Michael said, frowning slightly. Despite his easy manner, Luc still radiated a sharp note of fear. “Or at least it seems to favor us. I can hardly blame him for not wanting to be swept up in it.”

Luc scowled. “As if we wanted it either.” He clenched his rag-wrapped fists, then let his arms fall to his side.

“I don’t mind,” Michael said. “He’s just afraid. Of what’s coming, of what he doesn’t know. Easy for him to focus on us, in the absence of anything else.” He looked distractedly over at Luc; the other man’s fear was strong enough that it was making it hard to concentrate on the conversation. “I have to ask, are you okay?”

Luc grinned sheepishly. “Fine, now. Embarrassed, though. I’m used to the way the doctor did things. Sobriquet has a more - relaxed style, yes?” He scratched at his unruly hair. “I worry about this soul in me, but hopefully there will be someone in Mendian that can help. Can help both of us.” He looked up at Michael, and for a moment his fear sharpened to a point.

Michael blinked in sudden realization: Luc was afraid of him. Of the souls he held, and likely of Spark in particular. He was the only one of their group that truly appreciated the danger of that soul, aside from Michael, and it gnawed at his insides with every heartbeat. Yet he smiled and laughed, and pushed his fear aside as Sobriquet had. Because he knew Michael wouldn’t hurt him - or, a darker voice whispered, because he feared that Michael would if Luc did not put on a friendly face.

“That’s - where I was going initially,” Michael said, trying not to let the byplay of Luc’s emotions bleed into his voice. “With my friend, before Spark captured me. He knew Leire Gabarain - Stellar, the woman you saw on the airship that day. He was confident that she would have some insight into my soul, just as she had helped him in the past.”

Luc’s eyes lit up, and for a moment the fear waned into something more manageable. “Truly?” he asked. “She was incredible. Everything I thought having a soul should be, like in the stories Claude-” He trailed off, and the fear came thumping back. A frown crept onto his face. “I would have liked a soul of that sort, grand and glorious, rather than this foul thing infesting me.”

“It may be that she has her own challenges,” Michael said. “It seems to me that the more power a soul grants, the more it asks from the wielder in return.” He suppressed a shiver, then shook his head. “Don’t dwell on the darkness you see in your soul. From what I’ve heard of Mendian, they should be able to guide you in its use. Maybe one day you can redeem it, use it to make some good in the world. I have the same hope for my own soul, although I admit I don’t know what that would look like.”

He looked at Luc with what he hoped was an encouraging smile, but the look on the other man’s face was dark. “I would be content learning to bind it within me so it can do no harm,” he said. “To be able to touch without fear of death or pain. I don’t know how you do it, bearing the souls you bear. Aren’t you afraid?”

Michael raised a hand and looked at it. “Yes,” he admitted. “Yes, quite a lot.” He looked up toward the cart where Sobriquet and the others sat. “Someone wise once told me that there is no choice but to feel fear.”

He felt a quick pulse of amusement from within the cart and restrained himself from smiling; Sobriquet was listening in after all. “It’s not something you can think your way out of, but you don’t have to dwell on it. You shouldn’t, actually, or it makes it hard to think of anything else. The mind makes the path for the soul. It shows it how to exist. I’m - no expert, but I think that means you have to focus on your best hopes for the soul, and not dread what it might do.”

Luc smiled bitterly. “I don’t have to tell you that some souls are beyond hope,” he said. “It’s a beautiful thought, but we both know who bore our souls before and what they did. They can’t be used. Even in acts of good intent, they would find ways to draw out evil.” He let his breath out, long and slow. “I have no hope beyond learning to live a life where I harm none. It will be easier for me than for you, I think - but I will hope for both of us that Mendian holds the answer to locking such a soul away.”

The tone of his voice was firm, underscored by the note of conviction radiating from him like a struck bell; Michael would not change his mind on this. Perhaps he shouldn’t try - after all, who was he to tell Luc that he must learn to use his soul? Michael had wanted the same peaceful obscurity not too long ago. And if in such a conversation he admitted that he had used Spark on Vera…

Then that sharp note of fear would never diminish.

So he nodded and smiled, and said nothing more.

Days passed, and their small group wound its way further north. They slept rough the first night, pressing on into the evening until the encroaching dark made it too dangerous for the horses to continue. The mood was sour, and on the second day Sobriquet did not argue when Charles suggested an earlier stop at an abandoned farmstead.

The road had tapered into a path that morning, and by the evening Michael was forced to widen the trail once or twice where enthusiastic roots had made the way impassable for the wagon. There were rocks as well, for which he could do nothing; Gerard’s absence was keenly felt as they worked the wagon around those obstacles.

Their difficulties made the problems that Michael could solve all the more rewarding, although using his soul amid company was more problematic than he had anticipated. The first time he touched on Stanza’s power to shift a root out of the way he felt a profound unease from the others, save for Sobriquet.

All of them but Emil and Luc had seen him lose control at Sibyl’s camp, and he could almost hear the scene replaying in their heads as they watched him work. Several times Michael found himself walking along beside the wagon, hating Spark’s soul for letting him feel their minds. He would not have known their discomfort from their actions - even Luc, who practically caught flame with fear every time Michael was called to action, even he displayed no outward sign of the terror that gripped him.

Yet time and again he was set apart by his soul. His durens soul let him walk outside the wagon, but at times he heard drifts of conversation from within and wished he were inside if only for the companionship. He could step inside if he chose, and none complained - but he could feel their discomfort at the lack of space, feel Luc’s terror at being so close to others. Michael did not have the heart to sit there and watch him surreptitiously check and recheck that his wrappings were covering all of the skin on his arms; he walked, and was alone in terse silence with Emil.

Sobriquet seemed to sense this nascent estrangement, and by the evening of the third day she had taken to projecting her avatar alongside the carriage. They did not often speak, save for the necessity of directions, but the simple presence of the blurred form floating along did much to lift Michael’s spirits as they pressed further into the mountains.

So too did the increased work of forging a path. They had reached the truly deserted stretches of the Daressan highlands now, and Sobriquet directed them along trackless, sprawling valleys rather than the winding paths that had led them there. The air grew chill, made worse by the afternoon storms that swept through the high mountains with brief but violent fury.

Amid this Michael was finding his task unexpectedly difficult; the cart demanded a wider, clearer path than he and Sobriquet had needed on their journey. The forest itself seemed to resist his will, demanding more of an effort to spread aside. It drove him nearly to frustration before he realized the problem: this was not the same sort of forest he was used to.

Jeorg’s garden had been in an old, gnarled forest of deciduous trees and rampant undergrowth, and for the most part he had seen similar terrain in the forests of the continent. Here, though, was a rocky and barren pine forest. The undergrowth was scraggly bushes laden with their fall berries, the roots of the pine trees denser and more shallow than the serpentine tendrils he was used to. The forest was different, yet the forest in his mind had not changed to suit.

His rueful laugh drew a sidelong look from Emil; Michael had made the same mistake once again, thinking only of the forest’s importance to him. He began to stretch out his sight as he walked, taking in the details of the terrain, the texture of the bark and needles. A fallen tree exposed the tangle of roots that the long, thin pines in the area favored; he studied it as they passed.

“You’re getting better at this,” Sobriquet observed early on the seventh day, her blurred form watching with interest as Michael directed roots to grasp and drag a heavy stone away from the path. It split under the force of their grip, the tree worming happily inside as if it had grown there for years. Michael grinned - he had seen the same effect on the trees dotting rock outcrops upslope, though it had taken him a few tries to fully understand the slow infiltration of roots into rock.

“It’d be strange if I wasn’t,” he pointed out. “Been doing nothing else for days.”

He heard her snort of laughter from inside the cart. “Well, you don’t have too much more of it,” the apparition said. “We should reach an actual path not far from here. It’s not a road yet, but it’ll get us to one.”

“I’m glad I didn’t bet money on our pace,” Emil said. “I’d have lost. It’s a pity you’re closing the trail behind us, if you’d left it clear it’d be the best road I’ve ever seen through these mountains.”

“And wouldn’t our Ardan pursuers be grateful?” Sobriquet chuckled. “Maybe when this is all over you can hire him on.” She floated to the side, amusement in her voice. “If you can afford his rates. Not many merchants can boast-” She cut off, and her apparition disappeared.

Michael and Emil exchanged a glance. “What’s wrong?” Michael called out. “Trouble?”

Sobriquet swept aside the cart’s door flap and jumped to the ground, looking thoughtfully to the north. “Some, but nothing we can’t handle. It seems my path was a road after all, for it has a roadblock upon it.”

“Soldiers?” Emil asked. “Damn, I thought we’d make it farther before they could deploy on us, with the pace we’ve been making.”

“I’m not sure they’re here for us,” Sobriquet mused. “The Ardans didn’t invent checkpoints yesterday, you know - they’re all over the south. But we will have to move more carefully now.”

“So no road after all,” Michael sighed.

Sobriquet grinned and hopped up into the cart. “Good thing you’ve been practicing,” she said. “Let’s keep moving.”