Peculiar Soul

It is tempting to frame history as a narrative about the clashes between souls, but this is almost never the case - one may as well contend that swords were the salient factor rather than their wielders. The might of souls is directed only by the base human impulses of their vessels, and the flow of events follows.

Therefore do not trust in souls. Trust, as always, in people.

- Leire Gabarain, Annals of the Sixteenth Star, 688.

Michael followed Vera out of the house, emerging once more into the candlelit twilight at the rear of the estate. The gardens wrapped around, here, and a small table was laid on a patio. Three were there: one man stretched out jauntily in his seat and two women that were in deep conversation while ignoring him entirely.

The man noticed their approach first, straightening up from his sprawl and standing in an oddly graceful series of movements. “The prophesied guest,” the man said, tipping a hat he was not wearing. His jacket lingered on the back of his chair, and his shirt lay rumpled and half-unbuttoned over a wide, angular frame. “I was only half-sure we’d be seeing you this evening, our hostess was playing coy on your plans.”

Vera laughed carelessly, giving the man a light shove as she swept around the table to take her place. “Telling spoils the fun,” she said. “Michael, this is Vincent Waldeck, he’s the cornerstone that holds up Ardalt.”

Vincent extended his hand, which Michael shook. “She exaggerates, of course,” he said. “I merely engage in a bit of applied analysis to keep things moving smoothly.”

One of the women shifted in her seat, and as he looked Michael realized that it was Sofia - far from the severe appearance she had held over the conference table, here she seemed relaxed and calm in a simple, comfortable dress.

“You know Sofia, of course,” Vera said. “And Isolde certainly knows you, though you were quite unconscious the last time you met.”

Michael felt his eyes dragged from Sofia and onto the woman beside her. The anatomens who had saved his life resembled Sofia strongly, with the same dark hair and sharp features, but where Sofia had a solid physicality to her presence Isolde was ethereal, almost frail beside her cousin. She wore a slim gown and high gloves nearly to the elbow.

Her eyes flickered over his body - he had the odd certainty that it was his body rather than his clothes she was inspecting, and that said clothes impeded her inspection rather a lot less than he would have preferred.

“Michael, good to meet you properly,” she said, extending her own hand. He half-expected something untoward to happen when he took it, but her gloved hand only squeezed lightly and withdrew. She sat again, her eyes still evaluating.

“Isolde,” Vera said warningly. “No work in the garden.”

Isolde laughed. “He’s not work anymore,” she said. “Only a look to be sure he’s as healthy as he seems. While I did a surpassingly good job, he seems to have followed-through nicely on his own.”

“Good,” Sofia said. Michael had not yet heard her speak, but when she did her voice was clear and resonant. “He’ll need to be in peak condition by Bladesday.”

Vera shot her a pained look. “Such dire talk will unsettle our meal, not to mention our guest. Sofia, I forbid it. A full stomach will hardly worsen matters.”

Sofia frowned for a moment, then slouched back in her chair to look reluctantly at the spread on the table. Michael looked too. The kaleidoscope of an evening had prevented him from focusing on small detail, but now the little features of the dinner made their impression on his mind.

It was no massive feast such as Helene liked to lay out. There were a few hearty copper-bottomed pots on the table and a stack of some flatbread lurking in the bottom of a cane basket. A healthy carafe of wine stood half-empty, although Vincent’s glass was the only one which had been used.

There were no servants in evidence. Vincent simply lifted the lid from the larger of the two pots and filled small bowls with a steaming mound of rice redolent of lemon and saffron, then from the smaller pot a rich, thick stew that he ladled on top until each bowl brimmed with the fragrant mix.

Michael sat at the table and, seeing the others eat, took a tentative bite of his own. Spice and heat flooded his mouth, with tender morsels of some game bird and a garden’s worth of root vegetables carrying the flavor remarkably. He had never had anything quite like it, certainly not from Helene - her cooking was wholly Ardan.

“How do you like the curry?” Vera asked knowingly. “It’s Safid, you know. Sofia picked up the recipe over on the continent a couple of years back, and I believe she’s made it at least once a week since.”

He looked at Sofia, who was eating without regard for their conversation. “You cooked this?” he asked incredulously. “I thought you must have some master cook hidden away in the kitchen, to make food this good. It’s wonderful.”

“Sofia,” Vincent said conspiratorially, “is the best cook in the world.”

Sofia looked up briefly from her dinner. “That’s subjective,” she noted.

“See how she’s not denying it, though,” Vincent murmured. Sofia had already resumed eating.

Michael followed her example, thoroughly enjoying the meal as its warmth spread out from his core. Isolde and Sofia had finished their portions some minutes before and were stretching their legs with a walk, while Vera had leaned back with her blank eyes open to the stars.

Vincent was the last to finish, eating a nearly-grotesque amount of the curry before relaxing back in his chair with his hands laced over his stomach. Two empty carafes stood beside a flagging third, and Michael’s head was feeling pleasantly light in the cooling air.

“So,” Vera said, still looking up at the sky. “I wanted to give you an hour free of your troubles, but now there are some things that must be said.” Sofia and Isolde returned to the table, and Vincent levered himself up with a groan before neatly stacking the remaining dishes and tottering off with them towards the house.

Her tone sobered Michael quickly. “What things?” he asked.

Vera did not answer, but Sofia raised her head. “Spark’s trip to Calmharbor is not incidental,” she said. “He did not plan it until the day after your ensoulment, at which point he applied for and received an emergency authorization for travel from Braun Island to the city.” She shifted her eyes, looking at Michael in an oddly-disconcerting way. “He is coming for you.”

A pit formed in Michael’s overfull stomach. “For me in particular?” he asked. “Why?” The anxieties stirred by his father’s warnings flared back doubly strong for having been suppressed and forgotten over the course of the day. “Why me? And - why do you care for that matter? Nobody even knows what kind of soul I have!”

Isolde nodded solemnly. “I’m afraid that’s the problem,” she said. “I read the reports from the animetry teams. They told your father that you destroyed three sets of equipment before one would read properly, but that was a lie - none of them worked. They could get no data from you outside of an ill-defined impression of power. Your soul has no alignment that they could determine.”

“It’s Life,” Michael said, looking at Vera for support. “She said it was, in our meeting.”

“I said nothing of the sort,” she replied. “Only that you were not Form, Light or Truth. Assumptions are a filthy habit.”

“Not everyone enjoys such an immunity to them,” Vincent said drily, rejoining the table and leaning forward to look at Michael. “It’s like this: Spark is burning favors to come get you. He is applying a frankly shocking amount of political pressure to make this trip happen outside of his permitted allotment, and that means nothing good for you, my friend.”

Isolde leaned forward, rapping her knuckles lightly on the table. “He likely saw the reports and came to the conclusion - correct conclusion, I might add - that you would benefit his research, as he has been trying to isolate the stuff of a soul independent from its aspect for some time now. A naturally-untainted specimen would be invaluable to him.”

Michael could not blame all of his disorientation on the wine, his mind was reeling from the sudden shift in atmosphere - or perhaps the utter lack of such a change. The subject matter aside, they were still sitting around a pleasant table in the garden after a full meal, and everyone but him appeared completely at ease.

“Why?” he asked again. “I can’t even do anything.”

“I don’t know,” Vera said, pronouncing the words with relish. “Spark shields his notes from prying eyes, and there are few that approach his knowledge of animetry. In this, we are on his favored territory.”

“There must be something you can do,” Michael said, hoping he didn’t sound too desperate.

“We can get you the fuck out of Calmharbor, for one,” Vincent grunted.

Isolde cast him a disapproving look and flicked her eyes towards Vera. “Language, Vin,” she admonished him. “But yes, if you stay in Calmharbor you will most certainly be abducted by the mad doctor and spend the rest of your life wishing it were shorter. We have a few places we can tuck you away until we find something more tenable.”

“A few places, posh,” Vera said. “We’re sending him to the arbor.”

Sofia looked up again. “We never decided that formally,” she said.

Vera gave her a long-suffering look, then looked at the others.

“Arbor,” Isolde said. Vincent nodded when Vera looked to him, and finally her eyes slid to Michael.

“How about you?” Vera asked.

“Are you asking if I agree?” Michael asked. “I don’t even know what I’m agreeing to! Leave Calmharbor? I can’t, it’s impossible. Father would never-”

“Your father must not be informed,” Sofia said, cutting him off. “He is too obvious a point of coordination, and there are too many people who could get the truth out of him even if he were inclined to shield us - which he would not be.”

Michael shook his head. “I can’t leave without telling him,” he said. “He would be furious, he’d never allow me within a thousand paces of him or his grave were I to do such a thing.” He looked around at the others - Sofia and Vincent, grim-faced, Isolde expressionless and Vera watching him with a stricken look. “He would help, if it’s to save me. I’m his son.”

Vincent snorted. “Old Karl looks out for himself and no-one else,” he said. “You should know that as well as any of us.”

“Vincent,” Vera said, her tone crisp. “Do not make this harder than it must be.” She stared at him until he shrugged and looked to the side, then turned a softer glance towards Michael.

“Can you tell me that your father would die for you?” she asked. “Can you say even that he would give up his position and title before surrendering you?” Her eyes lingered on Michael’s, watching. There was a sudden weary cast to her face. “There are no half-truths in these woods, even if they would sometimes be pleasant.”

“I’m his son,” Michael repeated, feeling a brief flash of anger. “He said he would keep Spark from me if he had the power. He wouldn’t give me up to him needlessly.”

“But at need?” Vera asked. “To save himself? You qualify your words - if he had the power, if there were a need. Tell me that he would throw aside his ambition for your life. Speak the words plainly so that I know you believe it.”

Michael glared at her. “You’ve known me for two days,” he snarled. “Who are you to judge my family? Why do you care so much?”

The air at the table seemed to chill noticeably, and Vera looked away. “I do not judge-”

“I do,” Isolde said, leaning forward. She whipped her hand across the table and grabbed Michael’s wrist. His arm went numb as she twisted it palm-down and pushed his sleeve roughly back, exposing his forearm to the light. On the outside lay a net of fine, white-fleshed scars, stitched over the skin like a rough spiderweb.

“Soldiers get scars like these, sometimes,” she said, her hand seeming to sap the strength from Michael’s body as he glared over the table at her. “Perhaps one or two per campaign, as defensive wounds. Have the Safid invaded your house, Lord Baumgart? The great Bulu horde, perhaps?”

“Isolde,” Vera said, her voice a whip-crack that jarred the other woman’s hand from Michael’s arm. Feeling and strength rushed back to him when she broke contact, and he hurriedly pulled back.

“I don’t know you,” he spat, his head still spinning as he struggled to rise from the table. “Don’t claim that you care for me more than my own family.”

Vera pinched her lips together and walked over to his chair, kneeling on the grass to take his hand. Tears made twinkling stars against her clouded eyes where they caught the candlelight, and her fingers were cool against his skin. “I’m sorry that this is how it turned out,” she said. “Please believe me when I say that we were truly trying to help you.”

Michael finally recovered from Isolde’s strange enervation enough to stand, and he pulled his hand - not harshly, but firmly, out of Vera’s grip. “Thank you for the dinner, Sibyl,” he said tightly. “It was a wonderful meal.”

“This is ridiculous,” Sofia said, rising from her own seat. “We’re letting him leave? He doesn’t even understand.”

“He has a choice,” Vera said.

Sofia looked at her for several seconds, her pupils shifting minutely as if reading a book - then Vera’s eyes widened. “Sofia, no-”

“Only an informed choice is a choice,” Sofia said quietly. Her outline shifted, and she was suddenly standing much closer to Michael. Vincent spat a curse and reached out for Sofia even as Michael tried to take a step back - but both men were too slow. Sofia’s arm snaked up to grab Michael’s face, her thumb and forefinger pressing tight against his brow-

The world exploded. The night around him turned bright as day, with every blade of grass screaming into his brain in grotesque detail. Motes of pollen drifted in a sea of turbulent gases that roiled in intricate spirals, jetting up from the candleflames where the oxygen greedily rushed in, jamming itself into the molecular waltz of combustion.

A shifting motion drew his attention to looming horrors gathered around him - each a dense phantasmagoria of tubules and fibers layered over each other, pulsing and vibrating with every moment. He tried to recoil from them, but the pressure holding him squeezed tighter still and a flood of images swept into his mind.

Michael was twelve, bouncing a ball through the hallway outside of his father’s study. It collided with a tall vase, and the world seemed to slow as the vase teetered - then fell, crashing to the ground.

His father’s soul rushed into the hall immediately, hard-edged and angry. Michael’s shirt fell to tatters in an instant as he dropped to the floor. His hands stayed protectively clasped over his face, beginning to bleed freely. Lines of blood rose from his arms, his back, his shins - then the door opened, and the assault stopped.

Karl Baumgart looked down at his son, curled into a ball as stray fibers from his clothing slowly drifted down to soak up the blood. He stared for a moment, then knelt down beside the ravaged boy.

“Got away from me for a moment,” he muttered, his eyes searching up and down the corridor. “If your mother were here - why do you keep causing trouble, boy? Can’t you see how angry I get, when you act up?”

There were only sobs from the boy on the ground as Karl straightened up with an exasperated look, and then the scene blurred into incoherence. Color shifted wildly until he was looking down at a crying girl nestled into an opulent bed, curled around a pillow as if it were the most precious thing in the world. Her dark hair was disheveled and wild, her knuckles white with the force of her grip.

The door to the room opened and a woman walked in who looked very much like Isolde. She stood for a moment, watching the girl cry, then sighed and sat on the bed beside her. “I’m sure you’ll see Peter again before long,” she said.

“Liar,” the girl said in a muffled voice.

The older woman gave her a sharp look. “Sofia,” she said, “just because your friend is far-away doesn’t mean he won’t come back. You’ve been in here screaming at the walls for days now, and it’s time to come back out.”

“They beat him, after they took him,” Sofia replied, raising her reddened eyes from the pillow. They were wide, wild, darting everywhere but the other woman’s face. “He cried, and they beat him for that too.”

“Don’t be morbid,” the other woman scolded her. “I’m sure they-”

“They put him on a boat and took him far away,” Sofia said. “Far enough away that I can’t really see, but I can feel him hurting. Can’t hear him cry anymore, but I know he is.” She narrowed her eyes and scowled at the woman, who had risen from the bed and backed away, her face pale. “I can hear you, though. Telling your friends I’m a silly girl. Saying I’m upset for nothing.”

“Sofia,” the woman said, stammering. “What-”

Sofia rose from the bed, unsteadily. “All I wanted was to see him again,” she said. Her voice was dull, hollow. “Maybe you should see too.”

The woman raised her hands in protest, but Sofia’s hand darted out to slap across her temple. Her face went slack, her eyes bulged - and then she began to scream.

Another jolt, blurring colors sliding into the pale walls of the Institute and a sullen Michael sitting bloodied on a gurney as a nurse fussed at his lacerated back. The scene floated to the side to show his father in a room, red-faced and yelling at a bewildered Institute functionary.

“-the rates you charge!” he bellowed. “And for what? Clearly your methods don’t work on the boy.”

“My Lord,” the man said nervously, “our methods are rigorously established, vetted for effectiveness, for safety-”

“I don’t give a damn about safety,” Karl growled, stalking close to the functionary. Behind the man, several thin gouges peeled their way through the paint on the wall. “You do what works to get him a soul.”

“He could die,” the functionary gasped. “It’s impossible to subject your son-”

“I don’t have a son,” Karl growled. “Not yet.”

Blur, twist. Michael’s mind was beginning to find itself in the miasma of excruciating detail and noise, the swirling colors and impressions battering at his consciousness. He remembered the shattered vase, remembered sulking on the gurney while his father yelled - but he had never heard the words clearly. He didn’t remember his father speaking at all, the first time. And Sofia-

Another sickening shift, and he was standing on a silent quay at night. Sofia, looking not much younger than the present, stood beside Isolde, Vera and a lightly-bearded Vincent.

“He’s late,” Isolde said, rubbing at her gloved arms in the chill.

Vincent shot her an irritated look and opened his mouth, but Sofia held her hand up. “He’s coming,” she murmured, her eyes filling with tears. “Oh, no, no.” Vera swept over and put her arm around Sofia’s shoulders, guiding her gently to a crate where they both sat. Sofia did not look at her, only staring at a fixed point in the distance with tears streaming down her face.

They sat for several minutes before a small black patch appeared against the starry horizon - a sail, shortly resolving into a low sloop that drifted to a halt some distance away and began to lower a dinghy from its side. Sofia let out a low, rasping noise of utter misery and seemed to fold in on herself.

Vera bent over her to whisper softly, stroking her hair and huddling close against the cool ocean breeze. The dinghy slid close, and a man hopped out to land lightly on the dock. Vincent walked up to him, hefting a coinpurse.

The newcomer looked at Sofia crying and raised his hands, as if expecting Vincent to strike him. “We didn’t hurt him none,” the man said. “He were like this when we got him, the whole way-”

“Your contract is concluded successfully,” Vincent said, thrusting the purse into the man’s open palm. “There’s a bonus for your discretion inside. If you do not earn it, we will know.”

After a moment where it looked like he might protest, the other man nodded and made a quick motion with one arm. The other men in the dinghy stepped onto the quay, carrying a limp, huddled scarecrow of a man who was wrapped in thick blankets stinking of fish and rancid oil.

The boat took to the waves, and Sofia rose unsteadily to her feet. Vera gripped her hand, letting herself be dragged forward towards the man they had purchased. Sofia knelt down on the damp planks beside him.

“Peter”, she said, her voice breaking. “Peter, it’s Sofie. I found you. I brought you back, you’re safe now. They won’t hurt you anymore.”

Slowly, the man raised his eyes. They were fever-bright and wholly empty, staring straight through Sofia’s tear-streaked face.

“Can I go back to the doctor now?” he rasped. “Please let me go back.”

Sofia’s eyes widened. “You don’t know what you’re saying,” she breathed. “They hurt you, they hurt you so much.”

Peter hummed, his eyes sliding off to the side. “I’d like to see the doctor soon,” he said. “He said I was helpful. He said I was the best. He won’t be able to finish his research without me.” His eyes widened, and he lurched forward to grab a fistful of Sofia’s coat. Vincent stepped forward with a growl, forestalled by Vera gripping his arm.

“I need to help the doctor,” Peter whined, tugging insistently at her coat. “Please take me back to him. Please.”

Sofia uncurled his fingers from her coat and stumbled to her feet. Her face was blank, pale. “There’s no one inside,” she said.

“Maybe with time,” Vera said soothingly. “He’s been on that foul island for years-”

“No,” Sofia said, and her voice had acquired a steady finality to it. “Peter died on that island.” She looked at the huddled mass of blankets, then up at Vincent. “He should rest peacefully.”

Vincent frowned. “Are you sure?” he asked. “At least let Isolde-”

“No, Vin,” Isolde said, her own face looking drawn and profoundly disturbed. “She’s right. He has scars - everywhere. On the inside. His brain-” She turned away, looking nauseous, then clenched her jaw and took slow steps toward the man as if struggling against a foul wind.

She drew off one of her long gloves and knelt beside him, as Sofia had. “Hey, Peter,” she said. “It’s Izzy. Remember me?”

His head popped up again. “Can you take me to the doctor?” he asked. “I really need to go back.”

Isolde struggled to draw breath for a moment, then smiled. “Sure,” she said. “Give me your hand, and we’ll go right now.”

Peter smiled wide, showing a patchwork of rotten and missing teeth. “Oh, thank you,” he said. His hand thrust out from the blanket pile, three twisted and nail-less fingers gripping Isolde’s bare hand with exuberant force.

She squeezed it once, he laughed - then his eyes rolled up into his head, and he slumped nervelessly to the deck. A thin trickle of blood ran from his nose.

Isolde stood up and turned away from the body, shaking quietly in the dark until Vincent put his arm around her shoulders and led her away. Vera likewise took Sofia’s hand, but she refused to move, staring some distant point far across the ocean.

Twist, blur. The colors shattered back into dull normalcy, the chill of the night air and the smell of the candles almost muted after the avalanche of sensation Michael had just endured. He was sitting on the grass by the table with Sofia standing over him, her face beaded with sweat. She smoothed her dress and looked down at Michael. Sibyl’s soul burst from her, the aura of watching eyes scouring through his body before receding back to cling about Sofia’s body like a sunburst.

“Now he can choose,” she said.