Peculiar Soul

One of the most-researched aspects of the soul is its perceived strength. There have been many proposals for systems of classification, standardized units of measurement, exhaustive rubrics for defining the capabilities and nature of souls. I have no doubt that such a thing would advance our understanding of souls well past our current state; nevertheless I have opposed efforts at standard classification in Mendian each time they have arisen.

There is often a sense of betrayal from my academic colleagues when I speak my opposition - after all, I am usually a friend to those in pursuit of new knowledge. They approach, red-faced and voices raised, to tell me that when all have been taught their methods of classification we will never again see a soul we cannot define, never again be left wondering at the capabilities or powers a particular person has been endowed with.

They are entirely correct, albeit for the wrong reasons.

- Leire Gabarain, Annals of the Sixteenth Star, 689.

Charles walked forward ahead of the cart, his hand extended at waist-level. Strands of wire quivered and snapped as his fingers touched them, the metal bangles falling noiselessly to the ground.

Michael looked and said nothing; Sobriquet had requested that they keep quiet while she worked to suppress the sound of their passage. This was easier for some than others, Emil seemed perpetually on the verge of commenting on the speed of their passage. Charles could only clear one wire at a time, and sometimes had to pause and scrape off the thick coating of rust over a wire before he could touch the metal underneath.

It was a boon for Vernon, at least - the injured auditor was enjoying the silence from the cart, frowning occasionally at the grumble of thunder from overhead. Michael stepped up to the rear door and ducked inside, sitting down next to him.

“How are your ears?” he murmured, quietly enough that even he couldn’t properly hear his voice.

Vernon cracked his eyes open and sighed. “Better,” he replied. His voice was louder in deference to Michael’s paltry hearing, although still quiet enough to earn little more than a glance from Clair. Sobriquet sat as if asleep beside her, while Luc was asleep in truth, tucked into a ball in the far corner.

“Not actually better,” Vernon amended. “My ears are still shot. If I concentrate I can hear kind of a blankness-” His brow furrowed for a moment, then he shook his head. “It’s an odd feeling. I’m getting used to the difference already, though. In some ways it’s almost - well, better.”

It was Michael’s turn to frown. “How do you mean?” he asked.

“Hard to explain,” Vernon shrugged. “I heard with my ears and my soul. My ears were injured and no longer hear, but my soul - it persists. It doesn’t shy away from loud noise, nor adjust to the volume. Every sound is like a thunderclap in a silent room, the full impact every time. It’s jarring, but it doesn’t - doesn’t hurt me. I think it should, but it doesn’t.”

He rubbed at his ear, sending a few crusts of dried blood flaking down from within. “And so now I think it shouldn’t hurt me, and it still doesn’t. The sound comes loud and unrestrained, directly into my mind with a clarity that I’ve never heard before. It was only overwhelming for a while, and now-” He looked troubled for a moment, then turned to Michael and smiled faintly. “Do you know, I’ve been wanting to hear a cello? I feel like I could hear every minor vibration, every resonance of the wood and strings.”

“Maybe we can find you one in Mendian,” Michael murmured, his mind churning over what Vernon had said. “It’s an interesting idea. The mind shows the soul how to exist. How to hear, how to see.”

He sent his sight upward and, after a moment of hesitation, looked directly at the sun. Michael winced and spat a muffled curse, rubbing at his eyes. “Damn,” he hissed. “How is it that my eyes hurt? I looked at the sun, but the light never touched them.”

Vernon laughed quietly, reaching over to clap Michael on the shoulder. “There’s no injury,” he said. “But it’s hard to outpace the pain. We have a - narrow range, a window we’re meant to exist in. I don’t think our minds are made to peer far outside of it, not for long.” He reclined against the stiff boards of the carriage wall, looking up at the ceiling.

“I’m no philosopher,” he said. “But I think they limit themselves for us. Our souls.” He blinked owlishly at Michael. “They play at keeping to human limits so that they’re good companions for us.”

Michael frowned, thinking. There had been a moment on the boat, watching Jeorg fall to the deck, where he had - not talked with his soul, since there had been no words, but certainly communicated. Answered a question. He had not had time to pause and consider the implications of that moment in the days that followed, but now he let his thoughts settle on it.

“You believe souls are thinking beings?” Michael asked.

Vernon snorted. “That’s far beyond what I could say. You’d be better equipped than I to answer that, if anyone could. All I can tell you is that I’ve never sat down for a conversation with mine.” He crossed his arms, drawing his knees up to his chest. “Absent my hearing, though, my soul does seem to be a bit confused. It’s trying to let me hear, but it only has my ears as a reference. Without my ears, it’s - drifting. Working from the memory of sound rather than sound itself.”

He paused, seeming as though he was contemplating other words. After another moment, he smiled. “I suppose we’ll just have to figure it out together.”

“That’s all we really can do,” Michael muttered, letting his sight drift upward again. The sun hung above, bright through the shroud of mist clinging to the ground. He raised his sight to it and fought against the stabbing pain of the light, felt himself wince through sudden tears. His head turned to the side by reflex, his sight shifting with it.

“Don’t injure yourself,” Sobriquet murmured, opening her eyes fractionally. “Given that you recently found yourself bested by a rock, confronting the sun seems a bit ambitious.”

“I thought you were concentrating?” Michael said. “Nice to know we’re not taxing your abilities that much.”

She smiled, stretching her arm up until it hit the low roof of the carriage. “I’m being careful, of course, but there’s not many people around this area. This is an older battleground. The fighting seems to have moved onward. Ahead. We’re still a ways behind the new Ardan lines.” She frowned, closing her eyes again. “Hard to see much since nobody is actually doing anything.”

“A lull in the fighting won’t last for long,” Michael muttered, looking up as the thunder sounded once more - closer overhead. The pall of clouds had slid back over the sun, returning their misty surroundings to shadow.

Sobriquet raised an eyebrow. “If you think you can help Charles out, by all means do so,” she said. “Otherwise we’re limited; for all that I can mask the noise I can’t make it any easier for the horses to march through barbed wire.”

Michael frowned and let his sight drift outward towards where Charles was methodically pruning the wires from their path. The skein of rusted wire was laid haphazardly across their trail, attached to the posts and ropes at the side of the path as well as free stakes driven into the ground seemingly at random.

He had rusted metal before, but it was another thing entirely to be sure that the entire assembly fell soundlessly. Charles was wrapping each loose bit of metal in tendrils split from the wire, and as Michael watched he saw the reason behind it - not to immobilize it, as he’d thought, but to ensure that there was unbroken contact of metal-to-metal. Charles only severed the wire when he had total control of every piece, drawing them to his hand before they could fall to the ground.

It spoke of long years of practice, years that Michael could not boast. He sighed and opened his eyes. “I could perhaps help,” he said. “But I doubt it would be quiet.”

“Of course not,” Clair said dryly. “Let’s keep you in reserve for now and let Charles work. If the fighting starts up again it may provide us with enough cover that we don’t need to be quite so stealthy.”

Michael nodded and leaned back against the wall, resting his eyes and letting his sight drift to a dark spot amid their gear. He resisted the temptation to look at the sun again; he had the suspicion that pushing too hard on that matter would only reinforce the pain he felt rather than unlocking some heretofore-unknown aspect of his spector sight. Instead, he let Vernon’s words percolate through his mind.

He was not seriously contemplating putting out his eyes to gain better sight, but the thought did lead along interesting paths. What was the equivalent for Stanza, or for Spark? Or, for that matter, his original, nameless soul? What fundamental truth of his existence had they tied themselves to, and how would they change if that truth were to bend - or break?

What other suns was he shying away from without questioning why they caused him pain?

The thought troubled him enough that he did not hope for sleep, instead turning his sight to watch Charles slowly working his way through the forest of wire. His fingers were stained with rust, and in the humid air he was red-faced and sweating. Still, he bent to touch each wire in turn, gathering the metal into a neat ball that rolled to join its brothers on the side of the road.

Michael reflected that he had a long way to go where control and finesse were concerned.

His thoughts were interrupted by a low, muted sound. It began slowly, then built with an overlapping chorus of drumbeats. He was peripherally aware of Vernon sitting up straight beside him; he pulled his sight back. “That doesn’t sound like thunder,” he said.

“Wasn’t,” Vernon replied. “Artillery. Safid lines, considering the distance. I can-” He winced as a nearer, sharper noise interrupted him. Michael raised his sight and saw the shells bursting some ways distant, the flashes of light followed a few moments later by crackling reports that shivered the mist and sent the horses stepping wildly to the side.

Sobriquet shot to her feet, her lips curling into a snarl. “Wonderful,” she said, fixing Michael with an intent look. “Did you mean it when you said you could clear these wires?”

“Well, I’ve never-” Michael demurred, pausing when he saw the darkening look on Sobriquet’s face. “Ah. Yes. Probably.”

“Stop hedging and do it,” Clair said, waiving him outside. “Don’t worry about noise anymore. I think the Ardans will be fairly well-distracted in a few moments.”

Michael nodded and jumped down from the cart, taking a deep breath of the air around him, tasting the mist. He turned to see Charles stalking back toward the cart, looking cross.

“Think you can do better?” Charles grunted.

“Not better,” Michael said, walking past him towards the wires. “Just faster.”

His vision stretched out ahead of him, showing the wires taut across the road. Rust already speckled them, and the mist clung in little droplets to the cold metal. All of the pieces were there, but the size of it weighed upon him. Hundreds of wires, a groaning weight of metal latticed over the road.

It was the rock all over again, a problem of human scale running up against the immensity of the world. His mind’s eye flinched back from it as surely as it did from the disc of the sun. He was one person, alone against the vast intricacy of the universe.

Michael pulled on Stanza, lighting the world in possibility. He could already feel the strain of it, his lack of leverage. He had no doubt that his soul could reduce these wires to so much dust; he had seen Jeorg work on a larger scale than this. He was the limit. His skill, his mind.

Of all the elements in this tableau, he was the one that had to change.

“Air and water,” he said. “Wind and spray.” He focused on the swirling mist, the humid air around him. He saw the rusted metal with his sight, pressed his vision close to the water slicking its surface.

“Rot the metal.” He watched the water stain dull red, the wires near him corroding rapidly. One snapped, then another, sending bits of metal clattering to the ground. He looked out over the road and tried to fix the rest of the wires in his mind, scrabbling to keep his view of them distinct and detailed.

He clenched his hand into a fist. “Clear the way.”

Florets of rust sprang up from a hundred wires, tension snapping some into flaking curls and letting others collapse to the ground in a clamor of iron. He winced at the noise, but it was soon swallowed up by another rippling barrage from the Safid guns; the second line of shells hit much closer than the last. Michael swallowed against a suddenly-dry mouth and began to walk forward.

“Come on,” he said, motioning to Emil. “It should-”

A muffled curse from within the cart interrupted him, and Sobriquet materialized outside. “Someone definitely noticed that,” she said. “There are people riding toward our position. They don’t have our precise location but I can’t mask everything you just did.”

Emil paled. “So we-”

“Move,” Sobriquet said. “We need to go as fast as Michael can clear the road. They’ll be here in minutes.”

The carter’s lips pressed into a line and he snapped the reins; Michael moved to jog alongside the cart. It was a twisted parody of their earlier transit through the mountain forests, with roots and vines of metal rusting out of their path. The strain of it was immense, however - the metal did not jump pliantly aside as the underbrush had, and there was no lodestar image of Jeorg doing the same that Michael could use to guide his steps. He had only his initial success and guesswork to steer him true.

The wires began to blur together in his sight as he tried to pick them out against the road. He was late to address one wire, then two; though they were weakened enough to snap when the horses tested them, their legs were scratched by the barbs, their gait staggered by the resistance.

Emil shot him a furious look, but Michael could not spare him any attention. His soul felt strained to the breaking point. There were too many wires, too many individual strands for his eyes to take them all in quickly enough.

He nearly stumbled. There were too many for his eyes to take in, but - his eyes were not how he saw. “Hold a moment,” he gasped. “I need to-” He held up his hand, trailing off. His eyelids slid down, and he tried to remember the feeling of that moment in Sibyl’s garden. He had seen everything, seen it in such detail that it nearly knocked him senseless.

He had seen, but not with his eyes. The memory struck him and caught, and for a moment his vision blurred into a tilted kaleidescope of color - then it solidified, and Michael saw the world with his soul. The path behind him, the sky above, each wire that crossed their path lay at the center of his vision.

It was not Sibyl’s sight, and for that he was somewhat grateful - he did not need that paralyzing degree of detail here. It was only the recognition that his soul and eyes were separate, and that the former need not obey the physical limitations of the latter.

A smile twisted at his lips, and he stepped forward to focus on the next wires. His foot struck the ground unexpectedly soon; the world twisted, tilted. He let his eyes slide open in momentary shock, which was a mistake. Nausea gripped him as he lost his breakfast onto the road.

“Ghar’s fucking corpse,” Sobriquet muttered. “Charles, we need you back out here. Clair, get Michael into the carriage-”

“No,” Michael croaked, staggering upright with his eyes squeezed tightly shut. “Help me - up on the bench. I can do this, I just - I don’t think I can walk at the same time.”

Sobriquet’s head tilted skeptically, but Clair shoved him toward the front of the cart even so, ignoring Emil’s squawking objections. “Drive,” she said. “And don’t let him fall off.”

Emil grumbled something indistinct and snapped the reins again, forcing Michael to claw blindly at the seat to keep his place. He tried to control his breathing, to not let the whirling impressions of his soul overwhelm him. The wires were approaching, fast; he saw each one with perfect clarity. The mirror-light followed as Stanza leapt to resume its work.

It was still challenging. If anything, Michael felt even less capable of directing Stanza than he had been prior, with so much of the world jumping into his focus. He had not appreciated how limited his eyes had been, the degree to which they only clearly saw a small patch directly ahead.

Pain clawed at him, the same pain he had felt when looking at the sun. He understood Vernon now, his complaints that everything felt harsh and jagged. His mind was not meant for the assault it now endured - but, his choice was to endure it or endure whatever torment the Ardans would inflict.

He had no doubt as to which would be less pleasant. Wires snapped ahead of them, well clear of the horses’ hooves; Emil spurred them faster. Michael kept pace. It was difficult to keep his attention on the wires even so, for things that otherwise would have slid to the periphery of his vision clamored for his focus. Light flickered in the clouds overhead, dancing from billow to billow before surly thunder followed. Flashes of artillery detonated in the mist, not far off from their path. And behind them-

“Horses,” Michael croaked. “Behind us.”

Sobriquet’s form blurred into existence next to him; Michael nearly vomited once more, being unable to look away from the apparition was not pleasant.

“Shit,” she muttered. “I have us veiled, how are they-” Her shape fuzzed, then disappeared. Michael heard her voice resume from inside the cart, bristling with anger.

“It’s fucking Sibyl,” she spat. “The aeroplane we saw, that was her flying in. Probably her little group of hangers-on as well. She’s going to lead them right to us.”

“Well,” Clair said. “If she’s right here-” The cock of a rifle sounded, and Michael heard the hinge of the door swing open in the rear. His heart beat fast as he saw the riders behind them react, swinging to the side in the moments before Clair shot into their midst.

A horse screamed and fell, a man falling from its back. There were no sounds for moment save for the drum of hoofbeats and Vernon’s anguished moan - then a fusillade of gunfire erupted from the mist. Michael and Emil ducked behind the front wall of the carriage, and he heard Clair slam the door shut.

One of the horses was bleeding, a graze along its front shoulder; for a moment Emil struggled to control the carriage. Michael tried to let it all fall away from him, focusing instead on the next wire and the next - but then the wires ended. A dark line emerged from the mist instead, and even with his enhanced vision it took Michael a moment to see it for what it was.

“Emil, trench!” he shouted, though the carter had already taken the horses in hand. The trenches had cut along the path of the old road, and the path narrowed to a crude log-and-board bridge laid over the top to allow horses passage, barely big enough for two to cross abreast.

Michael heard wood splintering as the cart slammed over the bridge at speed, though he didn’t know whether it was the bridge or their wheels that broke. Heads popped up along the trench line to peer at them in shock and confusion, shouts beginning to spread at the clamor. Michael watched a young man stare dumbly upward at him - then grab his rifle by nearly-mechanical reflex.

Sobriquet’s form appeared and disappeared in an eyeblink, a ripple of twisting light spreading out in a wave around them. The nearby soldiers collapsed, clutching at their eyes and ears. Others fainted outright. The alarm continued to spread, however. Michael saw more men emerge from the trenches still ahead of them, leveling their weapons-

A flicker of mirror-light was all the warning he had before an invisible edge sliced the wheels and the horses’ legs in two. For a moment he was weightless as the cart pitched forward, his vision taking in every detail - the wide-eyed horses screaming as they fell, Emil’s arms flailing as he was thrown from the bench.

Michael hit the mud hard on one shoulder, tumbling forward into the cold, foul muck. He tried to get his feet under him and fell again. His head was spinning; he opened his eyes and tried to force his vision back into its familiar form.

It refused, the world stubbornly pressing in on him from all sides. Panic thrilled in his chest as he tried again, clamping down on his spector’s soul with every ounce of will he could muster. Pain stabbed at his temples, followed a moment later by his vision blurrily condensing back to a more normal range. He staggered to his feet and raised his head.

Friedrich was walking calmly across the bridge towards them, followed by a cadre of riders. Their mounts drew near only reluctantly, nervous at the maimed horses still screaming in the mud. At the rear of the column Michael saw Sofia. Her face was cold, impassive but for the burning anger in her eyes.

“Lord Baumgart,” Friedrich said. “I-”

Emil popped up from the mud with his sidearm drawn just as Clair kicked out the door to the carriage; both began firing at Friedrich. Michael saw Sever’s soul condense around him, though not fast enough to stop the first bullet from digging into the outside of his thigh. The remainder splashed over him in a shower of lead dust as he swore and turned away.

The horsemen raised their rifles, and not a few of the trench soldiers besides. Emil’s eyes widened, and he dived for cover behind the ruined cart.

“Wait!” Sofia barked. “Don’t kill Baumgart or-”

A shot rang out from one of the infantry surrounding them; Clair collapsed back into the cart.

Sofia raised her fist, pulling on her horse’s reins with the other hand. “Hold!” she bellowed. “We need the ensouled alive!”

Michael scarcely heard her. He scrambled toward the carriage door on his hands and knees. The ache was in his chest again. It burned like acid as he thrust himself through the opening. Sobriquet reached Clair a second before Michael did, her hand sliding under her sister’s head to raise it up. The shot had taken her in the neck. Blood flowed freely from the wound, and every attempt at breath provoked a gurgling spray of it.

“No,” Sobriquet rasped. “No - Luc! Luc, damn you, get over here.”

He stared back at her from the crumpled corner of the cart, half-hidden behind Vernon and Charles. “I - I can’t,” he said. “I-”

“She’s dying, you fucking coward!” Sobriquet screamed, her voice echoing with the buzzing tones of her avatar. She turned to Michael, panic in her eyes. “Michael, please.”

Clair’s breath sputtered on a throatful of blood. Michael extended his hand, the mud falling in droplets from his fingers. The world faded away. The soldiers, Friedrich and Sofia watching from behind him, Sobriquet’s panicked expression - he pushed it to the side and touched Clair on the cheek.

Stanza’s soul washed over her, and instantly he saw the places where her body had been maimed, broken. Blood spilled, breath stopped. He found the breaks in her form and tried to push them forward, to guide them along their natural path.

For a moment, flesh stretched outward from the torn edges - then it twisted and scabbed, sealing across the ruptured artery and windpipe. Clair’s eyes widened; her back arched in sudden pain. Michael felt panic clawing at him as he watched the ugly pink flesh twist within her neck, blocking the flow of blood and air.

Time was slipping away - Clair was slipping away. He could feel it happening, see the void clutching at the ineffable fabric of her failing body. It was going to take from him again.

“No,” he snarled. “Come on!” He threw Stanza against her flesh once more. The growths that had marred her wounds sloughed away in a spill of gore. Blood flowed freely once more, covering Michael’s hands; Clair’s eyes rolled back into her head.

He pushed, and the flesh grew once again into haphazard chaos. Clair didn’t struggle to breathe against the blockage in her throat. The blood stopped pulsing over his fingers. He felt tears burning in his eyes as he watched her slip through his grasp, trailing away towards the void.

Ceasing to be Clair.

His sight was fixed on the void, burning, hating. All of this power and he still had to watch it take his friends from him. He reached out with Stanza, with Spark, with every scrap of himself that his will could shift to clutch at Clair as she leached out of the world.

He caught hold. There was a pause, a slow cessation of movement until everything hung in brilliant suspension around him. It shifted, twisted, then rang with a question he had heard only once before.

Why?

Again, he had no words to answer. He responded as he had with Jeorg, desperately showing images of his time with Clair. Her scowling face flickering into a smile, her laughter as Luc railed against him. Her joy at seeing her sister once more. Her concern for Michael when he had been injured days ago, shining through a stern mask.

There was a ripple and a shiver that shook through the world. It was not the understanding he had felt when Jeorg died. It was confusion. Uncertainty. A response coalesced around him, speaking of a lack, an emptiness, a missing element.

Clair had no soul.

Michael’s desperation and panic burned away; in their place only anger was left. He wrenched Stanza from the frozen tableau around him, plunging it back into Clair’s mind. Retreading the canvas of her life that he had walked when saving her from Vera. The images flickered like fading firelight, drifting away with the essence of her being.

He thrust the dimming tapestry in front of his faceless soul. This. This was what he was trying to save. More than souls, more than anything, the void would not have this.

No response came. For a time that might have been instants or years, Michael hung amid the frozen chaos. Slowly, almost reluctantly, impressions came from around him. Impressions of ty, uncertainty. Of untrod paths and unbroken snow.

Michael sent back the image of the sun, fixed unflinchingly in the center of his vision.

Slowly, the world ground back into motion. Blood flowed over his hands, tears fell from his eyes. In Michael’s chest the ache built to a desperate crescendo - and then broke. There was the glimpse of a candle-flame, tiny and warm and bright amid endless darkness. It swelled within him where the ache once dwelled, filling him entirely. It felt warm, harsh, stubborn, determined and passionate.

It felt like Clair.

Thunder stirred the clouds overhead. Rain began to beat a tentative rhythm on the cart’s wreckage as its occupants stared in silence at Clair’s body. Sobriquet held her sister, disbelieving. Charles’s eyes glistened with tears.

Michael ducked through the carriage door and stood. The cart was half-ringed by Sibyl’s riders, with Friedrich standing impassively as an orderly dressed the wound on his hip. Emil was kneeling in the mud with a rifle to his head, pale-faced and shaking.

The raindrops tracked down his arms, mixing with the blood that coated his hands to the wrist. The soldiers around him looked at the bloody-handed man in their midst; Michael felt the stirrings of fear in them. Of uncertainty.

Within Michael, though, there was nothing. Empty, numb. He had strained with every ounce of his being to save Clair, and he sensed that in some way he had - but not how he wanted. Not in the way that would let her speak to him again, that would scrub the tears from Sobriquet’s eyes.

And it would happen again, and again. There was nothing he could do to stop the void.

Well.

Almost nothing.

Michael raised his head, and felt the fear around him grow.