Peculiar Soul

I received a curious report today; it details a request from Ardalt to submit one of their ensouled for tutelage here in Mendian. Curious for two reasons - the first, that they would ask such a thing; the second, that we should entertain it for even an instant. Yet the third curiosity makes the rest fall into place.

Ardalt has found the Gardener. They seem to have grasped the edges of it, from the tone of their request, but they do not name him as such, nor as Stanza. I am not too surprised - their history reveres Ghar, and the notable example of the early Gharic poet-general Leo Artabasdos as its wielder has done much to cement the image of the Gardener as a soul of grand conflict in the Ardan mind. Saf cannot provide contrast; they are further-constrained by their parables of the Caller, to the extent that most Safid bearers merit little more than a historical footnote.

The bearer of this soul has not been known with any certainty since Ibn the Caller died in 562. Whether it has been with one or many bearers since his death is unknown and largely unimportant. That the soul is here, now, means that Mendian has the chance to shape it in its infancy.

Perhaps it is arrogance on my part to think that I might alter the future of the continent and its ongoing war. I am still so new to this soul, this gift and curse that has upended my life. I do not know how much impact I might have against the tides of history and culture this man has been steeped in, nor what that impact might translate to in terms of the broader conflict.

But I do know that if I do nothing, Saf will control the continent. This is one of very few opportunities we have to intervene without casting away the increasingly-rusty shield of our neutrality. I will accept their request to teach Jeorg Dreschner what the Gardener could be, given the proper will. I hope he is the man we need him to be.

- Leire Gabarain, Annals of the Sixteenth Star, 649.

Sobriquet’s thoughts stilled, her grief shrinking into the dull confines of sleep. Michael kept Clair’s fire burning until he was sure she would not wake, then let it diminish back to a candle. Sobriquet grumbled, but did not wake; he rose and walked quietly out of her room.

When he turned from easing the door shut, Vernon was looking curiously at him from over the dining table. Michael blinked and looked back, then sighed and sat at the table with the auditor.

Vernon poured him some water, then toasted him with his own half-full cup. “To insomnia,” he said ruefully. “And thin walls.”

Michael’s cup halted halfway to his mouth. “How much of that did you hear?” he asked.

“Enough,” Vernon said. “She only let the veil slip a little. It probably wouldn’t have woken me before - this.” He tapped his ear, now scrubbed free of blood. “I doubt anyone outside this building heard what you said, if that’s what you’re worried about. The Safid auditors are one building over, and they didn’t react - oh, but there they go.” He laughed softly. “They didn’t think I had noticed them, but now they know. Have a good night, gentlemen.”

He waved lazily at the wall, then shrugged. “No harm done. Just be mindful of what you say. Probably spectors too, and auspices. She seems to foul up those pretty well even when she’s asleep, though, so who knows. I wouldn’t count on it.”

“No need to talk overmuch,” Michael agreed. “How is - that?” He gestured vaguely at Vernon’s head.

The auditor waggled his hand. “Strange,” he said. “But it’s growing on me. How’s yours?”

“Strange,” Michael sighed. “Just strange. I don’t know what’s at the end of this road. I - crossed some lines today. Did one thing I had promised myself I wouldn’t do, and did another that I didn’t think was possible.”

Vernon nodded. “You’ll have to narrow that down for me sometime later, because I counted more than one impossible feat.”

“Oh,” Michael said, blinking dully. He took another sip of water. “Right, there was the-” He traced his finger idly downwards, then mimed an explosion with his hand.

“Yes, that other little thing,” Vernon deadpanned. “Barely worth mentioning.” He set his cup down and looked at it for a moment, then up at Michael. “I suppose I can’t really blame you for letting it slip to the background, in the face of the other impossibility.”

“I’m not really sure what to think about that one,” Michael said, shivering at a sudden chill. “Based on what she said, I may have underestimated its scale.”

Vernon hummed softly. “Never a good feeling,” he said. “To get an estimate like that wrong.” He drummed his fingers on the table once, then leaned closer. His voice dropped to a low murmur.

“Tell me,” he said. “Would the same thing happen to me? To all of us?”

Michael blanched, then shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said. After a moment he looked back up at Vernon’s eyes. “Would you want it to?”

“I don’t know,” Vernon replied, the corners of his mouth curving upward a bit. “And I hope to leave the question happily unanswered. But - here’s the larger question: if I said no, would it matter?” He drained the rest of his water, then stood from the table.

“I’m going to go back to my room and stare at the ceiling until it’s time to get up,” Vernon said. “I suggest you do the same.”

Michael nodded distractedly, then followed his advice to the letter.

He did not have to wait long; Saleh came alone to their quarters just after dawn. For Michael it was as if the sun had risen twice. He had managed only scant sleep. Swiping a hand over his eyes, he walked out into the central room a second behind Vernon - and Luc, to his mild surprise.

“Good morning,” Saleh said cheerfully, gesturing to a fresh basket of bread, another of fruit and a small carafe of something wafting fragrant steam. He smoothed his heavy white robes and sat, taking a small portion from each and laying a hand upon the carafe; light blurred for a moment and brought with it a renewed waft of steam from the beverage.

Michael sat and helped himself. “Good morning,” he replied. “I hope dealing with our transport didn’t keep you up too late?”

Saleh stifled a cough, sipping at the steaming drink; some sort of tea, by the taste. “There is no late or early where matters of purpose are concerned,” he said. “But to answer your question like a sane man - no, it was not difficult. We do not lack for carts or horses here, and I have my most trusted friend arranging for your rail transport. She will guide you across the Esroun border, and see that you arrive safely.”

“Do you anticipate our safety being an issue?” Michael asked.

“We are in the War, young Caller,” Saleh chuckled. “Considering the situation I would be concerned even if I did not have my sources within the Institute. Since I do, I will tell you that they have not abandoned hope of stopping you; they have in fact redoubled their efforts in the wake of their failure yesterday.”

“Predictably unfortunate,” Vernon murmured.

Saleh smiled. “Any misfortune one may predict is no longer fortune at all,” he said. “Only the turns in our path. As it stands, I have arranged for some pleasant distractions to keep our Ardan friends occupied. By the time you reach the border with Esrou it is my hope that they will be well and thoroughly confounded.”

Michael nodded, looking over as another door opened; Sobriquet emerged from her room to stare inscrutably at Saleh. The robed man smiled back, waving a fruit at her.

After a moment she shook her head and sat, reaching immediately for the tea. “I find myself wondering,” she said, “if the Great Flame is often accustomed to breaking his fast with a mixed lot of Ardans and Daressans.”

“As a matter of fact, I am not,” Saleh replied. “Which makes it all the more essential that I do so while I have the opportunity.” He took a bite of his fruit and grinned. “It may surprise you to learn that many of the faithful are somewhat less than glib when talking to a revered personage such as you or I.”

Sobriquet raised her eyebrow. “Whyever should that be?” she asked. “You haven’t done anything to earn yourself a fearsome reputation, have you?”

“You have me.” Saleh raised his hands in surrender. “But reputations are easily skewed one way or the other. Your own reputation is rather grim, by all accounts. If I were to believe a word of it, then I should be praising you for refraining from patriotic homicide during your visit.”

“I would likewise praise your restraint in pausing your own patriotic genocide,” Sobriquet replied, taking a bite of fruit. “Had you done so.”

Michael felt a flicker from Saleh at her barb, though the man’s smile did not waver.

“Ah,” Saleh said. “The quarrels of yesterday and tomorrow always try to press themselves upon today. I regret your choice of words, of course. We do not force our faith upon others, nor do we deny the people under our rule the freedom to practice their culture as they see fit.” He spread his hands, scarred palms upwards. “My people know that pain all too well. We are, after all, both speaking Gharic.”

Sobriquet leaned back. “I would suggest that you visit your people across Daressa, then,” she said. “From my experiences, many of them would find your tolerant attitude to be .” She took another bite of the fruit, then finished it, chewing slowly. “Perhaps soon. As you say, such opportunities may be unexpectedly fleeting.”

There was an extended silence; Michael realized that he had been sitting with a piece of bread halfway to his mouth for some time. He forced his hand back into motion and took a bite.

Saleh finished the last of his tea and stood, smiling down at the table. “I must say, Seeker - the reports do not do you justice. I can only hope our next meeting will yield the same quality of discourse.” He smiled and touched his fingers to his lips. “And that I am equal to the test.”

He turned toward the door, then paused. “Oh, I nearly forgot,” he said. “Great Caller, I had something I wanted to give you for your journey.” Saleh reached within the folds of his robe and withdrew a small leather-bound book, worn on the edges and soft with years of gentle use. One or two blackened scorchmarks marred the leather, shaped as fingerprints. “The Book of Eight Verses. I’ve carried this copy for a few years now, and have put down some thoughts of my own in its pages - hopefully they do not prove to be a distraction from its text.”

Michael reached out and took the book from Saleh’s hands. It was warm, as if it had been sitting in the summer sun. “Thank you,” he said. “I haven’t had much time for reading lately. My travels have been - less than relaxing.”

“Then I shall work all the harder to ensure that this trip affords you ample opportunity to read,” Saleh replied, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Truly, it has been a delight to meet you all. Your transport should be here before the tea cools; I wish you swift success on your journey. Caller, Seeker - until we all next meet as better men.”

He flashed his teeth at them once more and walked out of the room. Again, there was the cool sensation of having turned away from a fire. Michael looked back at Sobriquet and raised his eyebrow. She met his eyes; he felt a complex twist of feeling knife through her. More than ever before, he had the sense that there were things he could say that would leave lasting marks.

“I thought we were meant to tread lightly around him?” Michael said instead, reaching to refill his cup. “You did everything but toss your tea in his face.”

She shrugged. “I hadn’t met him,” she said. “Every account I heard said that he was ruthless, so I approached him with an overabundance of caution.”

“You don’t think he’s ruthless?” Michael asked.

Sobriquet snorted a laugh, shaking her head. “Oh, he’s worse than I thought,” she said. “But he’s also bored out of his shiny bald skull. He’s out here, stuck between mountains and relegated to dimming the lamps every so often so his men can go die gloriously. He could have asked literally anyone in camp to bring us breakfast, but instead he came himself. He was looking to spar a bit.”

“If you say so,” Michael murmured. “He doesn’t seem like the sort to forget a slight.”

“Oh, I’m counting on it.” Sobriquet said, smiling around a mouthful of bread. “Makes him less likely to kill me outright in the future, since he’ll be looking to engage in a little high-stakes banter first. Always easier to take people by surprise when they’re looking for a witty rejoinder.”

Michael frowned; he opened his mouth to reply as the remainder of Sobriquet’s bread hit him in the forehead.

“See?” she said. “I do take him at his word, though, the cart will be here soon. I’ll go wake Charles - Vernon, can you rouse Emil?”

The auditor nodded and stood; they both walked away from the table. Michael was left alone with Luc, who continued to nurse his tea.

“How are you holding up?” Michael asked.

Luc looked up from his drink. “Can’t you tell?” he asked.

Michael refrained from wincing at the pointed question. “It’s less obvious than you might think,” he said. “Especially when I’m not making an effort to listen in. Which I’m not.” He sighed and leaned forward, resting his face in his hands. “I’m not him, Luc. I used the soul out of need, and not to harm.”

“I know,” Luc said. “I know we’d all be dead otherwise, or worse.” He stared morosely down into his cup. “It’s the ‘or worse’ that worries me. To have a soul twist you bit by bit, grafting on little pieces that weren’t there before. I’ve felt it, and I don’t-” He paused, then looked up at Michael. “Even if you don’t do it to others, can you really say that it’s not doing the same to you? That the soul isn’t changing you every moment that you use it?”

A silence followed his question, followed by Michael shifting uncomfortably. “It’s possible,” he admitted. “But not all changes are bad. Jeorg used to tell me that change was inevitable, and that it was only bad if I let it happen thoughtlessly. That the soul has no will of its own, and that by being mindful of our actions we can control the person we become day by day.”

Luc hummed softly and looked down at his tea, considering. “Was that guidance or a warning?” he asked.

“How do you mean?” Michael lifted an eyebrow.

“You said before that Jeorg was the one who taught the doctor,” Luc replied. “And that he hid in the woods after a time. Stayed there for years. Was the advice he gave you what he did, or what he wished he would have done?”

Michael took a sip of his tea - then paused, and took another. “I’m not sure,” he admitted. “Jeorg was happy with many things about his life, and unhappy about others. He had a while to consider it, though.”

“Only because he ran away from the doctor.” Luc finished his tea and pushed the mug to the center of the table. “If you follow his footsteps, let that soul express its evil as he did - you won’t be able to run from it.”

Michael watched as Luc turned and went back to his room. It was just as well that he had left, for Michael could not think of a response.

The cart came punctually, although the tea was much too good to be left to cool. The cart was roomier than the one they had taken from the front, a boxy conveyance that could have held a dozen soldiers and their gear. For half that, it was palatial. The driver was another veiled soldier wearing enlisted garb. He refused to speak to any of them voluntarily, and when addressed he would drop to one knee and respond in terrified monosyllables.

Michael had no wish to torment the poor man, and had little opportunity; they were underway in short order. Sobriquet had estimated that it would take them at least a day to reach the rail junction Saleh had mentioned, but the driver seemed determined to disprove her. He whipped the horses forward with a ferocity that had Emil frowning and the carriage jostling uncomfortably along the road.

At one particularly-bad jolt, Luc and Vernon were toppled from their seats. They righted themselves in short order, but not before Charles spied a small bag that had fallen from Luc’s pockets. It was a simple thing, a pouch of rough cloth with a drawstring at the top. He bent down to pick it up, face darkening.

“This was Gerard’s,” he said, opening it to reveal several dozen tiny figurines formed from roadside stones. “Why do you have it?”

Luc paled; Michael could feel the fear spiking through him as he shrank from the irate artifex. “I found it in the old cart,” he said. “I just - it gives me something to hold, to occupy my hands. Calm my nerves.”

Charles stared down at the bag for a long moment, then tossed it back to Luc with a grunt. “I suppose he’s got no need for it anymore,” he muttered.

The bag landed poorly in Luc’s hands, a few figurines jostling out to scatter over the floor. One cracked. Michael saw Charles freeze, felt the spike of despair that lanced through him as he saw the broken stone. He turned away and sat, however, looking out the window with determined nonchalance.

Michael bent to help Luc collect the few that had fallen, gathering the fragments of the broken statuette - a crude sketch of a mountain pine, with wide, shallow roots. “Here,” he said, tipping the pieces into the bag as Luc held it open. “I’d offer to fix it, but we’ve already established that I shouldn’t try my hand at rocks.”

“It’s all right,” Luc said quickly, drawing the bag closed. “There are others.”

Michael nodded and returned to his seat, tugging at the shutter to gain a glimpse of the outside. The driver was making very good time, speeding them through a long western valley that spurred off from the contested highlands. Trees blurred by at the roadside, and the sky slowly cleared from the hazy morass that Saleh had made.

He sighed and let the shutter slide closed - then, on a whim, took Saleh’s book from his pocket. He did not doubt Saleh’s claim that he had carried it for years; the thin paper of the pages was dogeared and marked with neat, cramped handwriting in the margins, some of the ink was faded and dull while other notes appeared as if they had been freshly-written.

On the flyleaf sat the freshest ink yet. May you find yourself within these pages, it read. Saleh had not signed it, nor had he addressed it; nevertheless Michael heard the man’s voice speaking to him as clearly as if he were sitting across the carriage. He pondered it for a moment, then turned the page.

The print was dense, and though he made an honest effort to read through the beginning he soon found himself flipping through pages looking for mentions of the Great Caller. He found one before too long, his eyes catching it in a blur of ink; he hastily rifled back through the leaves of the book to find the passage.

The Great Caller stepped forward from the crowd, raising his head. “I am he-who-knows-the-names-of-things,” he declared. “If your enemy seeks to attack you through the forest, I shall speak to the forest and harden it against them, so that they may not cross into your lands.”

At this the crowd rejoiced, and bade the Caller walk among the trees.

Michael smiled; the Caller as depicted in the text seemed very reminiscent of a fantastical Jeorg. As he continued reading, however, his smile faded.

The Great Caller hardened the forest against the enemy, and for a time they did not dare trespass into the village’s land. But one morning the sun rose behind a pall of smoke; the villagers were dismayed to see the forest aflame. From the smoke strode their enemy, spears in hand.

“Why have you burned down the forest?” they cried. “Where shall you hunt for meat, or harvest wood? Now we shall both starve.”

“We could not hunt for meat or harvest wood thanks to you,” their enemy replied. “You hardened the forest against us, and it no longer holds a place in our hearts. Now we will take what food remains in your village for our own, as payment for your treachery.”

The villagers despaired at these words and made ready for battle, but before arrows flew and spears slashed another voice cut through the air.

“Stop!” a stranger said, emerging from the winding path. “I am he-who-knows-the-hearts-of-men! While your children starve, you burn and kill - it will not fill their bellies for more than a day, and it will not dispel the evil from your hearts.”

At this, the villagers knew that the stranger was the Great Speaker, and threw themselves on their knees. “O Speaker!” they cried. “Then how may we live without this evil in our hearts?”

The Speaker stepped between two warriors that had moments before brandished spears at each other. “Without the forest, each of you must work to feed not only your own family, but the families of those you strove to kill; they must do the same for yours. If you do not, all will perish, but - be honest in your labor, and on the day you welcome your first grandchild, the evil will be gone from your hearts.”

The two men laid down their spears and took up their plows, and strained at the earth for long years until their children were grown. The first man’s daughter married the second man’s son, and as the Speaker had foretold a child was born. When they heard the child’s cries, they knew that the evil had left their hearts and were glad.

Saleh had underlined several parts of the passage, and by its final words he had written in a neat hand: We are always given an appropriate tool, but only sometimes shown which it is.

Michael closed the book pointedly and stuffed it back in his pocket, looking out the window. The trees blurred by as they had before. “Shit,” he sighed. He let the shutter drop closed once more, turned, and began to read.

Even with the driver’s breakneck speed they did not reach the railroad by the time night fell. The horses were worked into a lather, and Emil nearly threw the driver by the roadside as he attended to the animals. Michael could feel the grief pulsing off of him as he did so, the echoing memory of his own lost cart.

Sleep evaded him once again. As before he barely slept before waking in the small hours of the morning. He took the book from his pocket once more and flipped it open, wrestling with his spector’s sight for a few moments; the flame within him burned, and the dim glow of starlight that fell on the pages lit the words enough that he could read.

He did, until morning came. Sobriquet rose early and looked at him askance, her eyes lingering on the small booklet.

“We’re not going to lose you as a convert, are we?” she asked.

Michael snorted, then looked around to ensure their escort wasn’t in earshot. “Not likely. It’s just - interesting, to see another perspective on what the Eight should be. There are aspects of each soul that I hadn’t considered. That, and Saleh wasn’t exaggerating when he said he’d written his thoughts - at least a tithe of the words in the book are his.”

“May I see?” Sobriquet asked.

Michael nodded and handed the book to her; as she took it her fingers brushed his. She stiffened. At first Michael was afraid he had harmed her, but the accompanying pang of sorrow reminded him that he was still burning Clair’s fire to augment his eyesight. He winced and let it fade, watching the world dim around him.

“Sorry,” he said.

She shook her head. “Don’t be. Use it, learn about whatever happened. Keep her close. I think we’d both prefer it that way.” Her lips bent in a wan smile before she turned to examine the book, paging through it silently for a few moments.

Eventually, she looked up. “You know, the Assembly would kill you to get their hands on this book,” she said. “Personal musings from the strategic mind behind the Safid war effort. There’s a lot of him in these pages, assuming the notes are genuine. They feel genuine, to me.”

“To me as well,” Michael agreed. “It makes me wonder why he’d give it to me.”

“He said it himself,” she replied. “So that we are all better, when next we meet. Whether that’s as one of the faithful or as a test for the faithful - well. I think that’s what makes it entertaining for him. To his mind, he wins either way.”

Michael shivered; he found the logic to be oddly sinister. Inescapable. It weighed on him as they set off once more, and he nearly refrained from reading the book. In the end, however, he was finding it an insightful read, both for the text and the notes. He was not so petulant that he’d deny himself that just to spite Saleh, wary as the man made him.

Unhappily for his plans to read further, however, their travels that morning were short. They arrived at Cora by mid-morning, finding it a sleepy little mountain town that appeared to revolve mostly around the preparation and transport of lumber. Huge stacks of trimmed trees sat ready to be loaded onto railcars, while men strained at a hoist to stack yet more of them. The distant whine of saws sounded from beside a river that flowed beside the town. Wood smoke rose from a few places around the perimeter in thick, pleasant-smelling clouds.

“Did they bother to give us instructions for the meet?” Charles asked. “How will we know our contact?”

Sobriquet hummed, her eyes flickering shut for a moment. “There’s a single passenger car on a siding, among all the lumber trains. I’m assuming that’s meant for us. I doubt this town makes much of its coin on sightseeing.”

They picked their way through the broad streets and rough buildings of the town, drawing wary glances from workers as they passed. None commented, although a few made hasty genuflections and averted their eyes - out of caution more than anything, Michael thought, as their faces should not be well-known. As they approached the lone car Michael saw a single person near it, a diminutive woman with short, dark hair. She tilted her face up as they approached.

“You look just like I thought you’d look,” she mused, rising slowly to her feet. There was an odd grace about her movements, a finality to each step she took that resonated in Michael’s mind.

Sobriquet stopped and gave a slight nod of her head. “I think you have the advantage of us,” she said. “I assume you’re Saleh’s friend?”

“He has lots of friends,” the woman replied. “But I’m one of them.” She held out her hand lazily, offering it to Sobriquet. “Amira.”

Sobriquet paused right before touching the woman’s hand, then gingerly clasped it for a handshake. “Amira Ghabbas, I presume,” she muttered. “This makes a lot more sense now.”

“That’s my name,” the woman agreed, giving Sobriquet a slight smile. “And the rest?”

“Ah,” Sobriquet said, still looking a bit off-balance. “Charles, Michael, Luc, Vernon and Emil. I’m Sobriquet, but I think you knew that.” She paused, then gestured to the woman. “For those of you that don’t recognize the name - Saleh has apparently been generous enough to lend us a prestigious guide. Everyone, this is Amira Ghabbas. She’s better known, however, as the Great Shield, she-who-endures - Sustain.”

Amira waved to the group, smiling. “Hello,” she said. “Just Amira is fine.”