Peculiar Soul - Chapter 122: Tests

The Seer spoke of his dream, telling the people that he had seen a mighty forest grow up from the land. It was strong and bountiful, and its trees grew tall. But the largest among these trees continued to grow without end, and their branches spread to cover the sun. The forest withered and died in their shade. In the end there was only one tree remaining, and nothing but death beneath it.

As he finished speaking, the Seeker stepped forward to share her dream. In hers the men foresaw the danger and cut away all of the trees before they could rise to too great a height. After they had done this, though, the rains came through and washed the soil away. The forest became bare rock, and nothing more grew there.

Upon hearing these two visions, the people despaired. “What hope does the future hold?” they cried. “Is there no other end but desolation?”

The Seeker and the Seer conferred, and after a time they spoke to the people once more. “What we have seen are the two failures of man,” the Seer said. “If none challenge the world, then the world shall overcome us.”

“If all seek to smother opposition in its cradle, then we shall destroy the world,” the Seeker said. “There must be a balance, and it rests upon the courage of man. We must allow ourselves to be tested, sacrificing our peace and comfort so that the world may rise to meet us. In return we shall reap its bounty, and ascend to greater heights.”

The people were uneasy, and asked what would happen if they failed in their task.

“Then the world shall destroy us, and perish in union,” the Seer replied. “Keep this end always in your mind, and do not seek to forbid it. Failure and glory enter through the same door. The sweat and blood of men keep the balance; none can say how much of each must fall.”

The Book of Eight Verses, the Verse of Union. (New Kheman Edition, 542 PD)

The wind bit into Michael’s skin, tearing at his clothing; Amira grunted in pain as the gust drove grit into her exposed wounds. She had screamed, at first, while she could still walk on her own. Now Michael carried her awkwardly on his shoulders while her head lolled to the side, her arm dangling behind them as he ran.

It was barely enough. The storm was expanding rapidly, scouring Ghar clean of everything that dared rise above the ground. Michael saw trees flying through the air behind them, uprooted by the gale and reduced to splintered remnants. A few times he felt in danger of flying away himself, Amira’s body catching the wind like a sail; he held her close to him after that.

She was the only reason they had escaped that first rapid expansion of the storm, as Luc’s souls continued to pulse in the heart of Gharon’s ruins. Light, then dark, then light once more. The heat from those spasms blasted outward, upward, whipping the wind into a frenzy; almost immediately they had lost sight of Luc’s distant light amid the maelstrom wall.

Amira’s soul had carried them through the worst of it, lending them the speed and endurance to break free from the core of the storm before her injuries had proved too much – but that wall of dust and lightning was pushing outward at a terrifying pace, nearly as fast as Michael could run. It dogged his footsteps, forcing him to give his utmost.

All around him was featureless dust and shadow. It had been evening, but he could not tell if the sun had set or was obscured. Sobriquet whispered quietly into his ear, guiding his course, but for the most part left him to run. Long stretches of time fell away to the rhythm of wind and pounding feet. The former lessened gradually as he pulled ahead, falling from its rending height to something merely intense.

Halfway to the Safid encampment, Michael was still running in dust clouds. He could tell that it was night, at this point, but held little hope of seeing the sky itself. “Sera,” he rasped. “You may need to move farther out.”

“We’re waiting for you,” she protested. “You two aren’t in any shape to run farther.”

Michael shook his head. “The storm is expanding. Fast. It’s slowing as it grows, but it’s – feeding on Luc, on his soul. You saw what happened in Ardalt when he used Stellar too much, too quickly; this is a hundred times worse. The men need to be back across the mountain pass as quickly as possible.”

“That’s still more than a day’s march to the north,” she protested. “You think it’ll go that far?”

“You tell me,” he asked. He ran for several paces in silence, his feet crunching over the dry soil.

Her voice came back quiet, concerned. “We’ll march,” she said. “But you’d better make it to the pass.”

Michael managed a dry chuckle, spiced with entirely too much dust. “Doing my best,” he muttered.

Sobriquet didn’t speak for a while after that; Michael had found his way to the main northern road and now followed that up the coast towards the Safid border, making steady progress against the storm. He could see somewhat, now, picking out the occasional structure on the roadside. Farmhouses lurked as half-seen silhouettes, a rare light or two burning in their windows.

They vanished as Michael ran on, lost forever to the murk.

The pace of his flight north faded into the back of his mind, the steady drum of his feet dwindling to the same unnoticed rhythm as his breath, his heartbeat. There was only Michael, pushing forward.

A hoarse voice interrupted his reverie, speaking next to his ear. “You’re carrying me,” Amira murmured.

Michael turned his sight to look at her, adjusting his grip; his impulse was to stop, to put her down, but they could not stop without losing ground to the hungry storm. “Well,” he said. “You fell over. How are you feeling?”

“Mmm, terrible.” She laughed, or tried to. A rasping cough was all that came out. “The pain is incredible. Incredible. I feel the wind scouring to the core of me. I think you shall have my soul.”

Michael grimaced. “Not anytime today, thank you,” he said. “I’ve had quite enough of death.”

Another rasping laugh. “Since you asked politely.” She let her head loll back to the side. Michael felt a rare flash of emotion from within her, a bone-deep sorrow that flickered once in her yawning void. “I think I’ve had enough too. I want to – to-”

She paused before speaking again. “I would talk with Saleh, when I had something that needed talking about. We talked, and he listened. I thought he listened. I don’t know anymore.” Her voice caught. “He understood. I know he did. He understood.”

Michael pressed his lips together. “Maybe he did,” he said. “But Saleh was always going to act in whatever way he pleased. You know that.”

“Maybe you saw him more clearly than I did,” she said. Another pang of misery rang out from her, echoing. “There is a parable, in the book. About a – farmer, a farmer who dreamed of being anything else.”

“I think I remember that one,” Michael said. “I got through most of the parables on the train in Esrou, but that one stood out for being particularly depressing. He tried being a smith, and a carpenter, and a soldier-”

“And after being burnt, sawed and stabbed he realized a farmer’s life was what he was meant for, only to find he had lost the strength to move his plow.” Her lips bent into a pained smile. “Saleh read that passage to me once, called it important. Said that prestige and glory were – poison, he said, if they could only be found, found by stepping off the path, and yet he – stepped, he stepped, and he didn’t look back even though he told me, and I was waiting-”

Michael turned his sight back as Amira slipped into slurred mumbling. “Stick with me,” he muttered. “I’m not sure I can handle facing what you think I am right now.”

Amira managed only a wordless groan in response, slumping against him. Her head hung near his arm, her breath tickling the burnt flesh. “Always here,” she murmured. “Always here. I told you I’d always be – here, because it is my soul, the soul of the mountain, and yours is the soul of the hearth because it makes a home, a home.” Her hand gripped Michael’s arm, squeezing hard enough that he felt a thread of fear invade his weariness.

“It’s going to be fine,” he said, aiming for a reassuring tone. “We’ll get you back to the anatomentes, so try and relax.”

“I dreamed you weren’t there,” she said, her eyes fluttering half-closed. Her grip did not relent. “The hearth was cold, everything was so cold, and you didn’t – listen to me-” Her hand squeezed tighter around Michael’s arm. He felt a flash of pain; he was tired enough that he couldn’t tell if the creaking noise he heard from his bones was real or imagined, but it felt real enough in the moment. He stumbled.

“Amira!” he gasped. “Let go!”

Her eyes were half-lidded, sightless. “I don’t want you to go,” she protested. “Promise you’ll read to me.”

Michael winced and pushed Stanza into her, trying to boost her out of the stupor – cautiously, for he knew she was fully capable of ripping his arm off if she grew too agitated. Amira drew in a gasping breath, and her grip slackened. Focus returned to her eyes, which opened to land on him as he hurriedly stepped away, massaging his arm.

For the barest instant her gaze settled on his face, scorched free of hair and eyebrows, and Michael felt a rare burst of happiness wash out across the dreary landscape. In the next moment, though, she came fully awake; her smile died before it could properly form. She gave a small, whimpering cry and collapsed onto the ground.

He stood breathing heavily, not moving any closer until he had had a chance to look over the injury to his arm. She hadn’t quite broken any bones, but he would have a horrible bruise before long. Michael patched up all that he could and took a few tentative steps towards her, urged on by a fresh gust of wind that reminded him of how much ground he was losing with every moment not spent running.

The storm had advanced appreciably just in the short time they had been stopped. He looked at it, then down at Amira – then sighed and shook his head, picking her up once more. She didn’t react to his touch, nor did she stir when he turned back to the north and ran.

Amira did not wake again. Sobriquet had contacted him once, seeking an update before she turned in for the night; after that, there was nothing to disrupt the silent dark. Michael had no real gauge of time, as one stretch of coast looked little different from another, but after a long span of running in the stormy dark he saw the first stars breaking through the haze overhead, joined soon by countless fellows.

He turned to look behind them. The storm still hid the land from view as far as he could see to the south. It would have been utterly black save for the flashes of lightning, dull, orange flickers that spidered their way through the clouds. They gave the brief impression of billowing dust, of sheets of rain, but it was never anything more than a transient impression. Michael felt as though the land itself was being eaten behind him, replaced with something hostile and alien.

The storm had slowed in its expansion, though it had not weakened – far from it. The distant dynamo of power in Gharon’s core pulsed away, and though Michael could not see it he felt every ripple of its action as if the earth was heaving underfoot.

Michael lofted his sight up as high as it would go, trying to improve his vantage. Absent any fixed points in the dark it didn’t make much of a difference; the storm was still a featureless, starless mass. It rippled with lightning again, showing the curvature of the storm wall, the slow sweep of it grinding across the land, and against the scale of it Michael’s sight wavered. He staggered under Amira’s weight as his view widened to show the full breadth of the storm. For a moment it looked tiny, insignificant, as though he had grown to a thousand times his height and was striding across the land-

Then his sight snapped back to normal. He shivered, swaying precariously on his feet, but found his balance soon enough. Michael kept going, leaving his sight lower to the ground.

Soon the road bent away from the coast, rising rapidly towards the pass where Sobriquet and the others were encamped. After the interminable run he had just completed, the last ascent sped by; he found himself slowing for the camp’s sentries in short order. Someone took Amira from him, speeding her to a medical tent, someone else led him to his own tent.

From there things devolved into a blur of shifting conversations; Michael felt that it would be very nice to sleep, right now, but his inability meant that he was forced to repeat the bare summary of what had transpired to an increasing succession of bleary officers until Sobriquet finally put her foot down and evicted them all with a series of increasingly-dire threats.

Michael sagged back into the cot, closing his eyes. “Thank you,” he muttered.

“Some things are the same no matter which country you’re in,” she replied, sitting down next to him. Her hand came up to caress his cheek, tracing over the burnt skin. He could feel the tremor in her fingers. “You should see the anatomentes when they’re done with Amira. This looks even worse in person. Your eyes…”

She broke off as Michael opened them. From his vantage he saw what she saw – clouded white sclera obscuring a barely-visible suggestion of iris, crusted with drying blood around the corners. It was odd – such a maiming should have spurred the same panic he felt when Friedrich had cut into his arm, but looking at his ruined face he felt nothing but a mild curiosity.

“I suppose it’s lucky I don’t need them,” Michael said. “Haven’t for a while, just like Vernon with his ears.”

Sobriquet snorted, though her face was pale; she could not tear her eyes from Michael’s face. “He went a bit odd after that,” she said. “I’m struggling to conceive of a way for you to become stranger, though.” She paused. “You’re really fine?”

Michael sighed and shook his head. “It doesn’t hurt,” he said. “I don’t know about fine. Luc-” He paused. “The storm isn’t normal, Sera. It’s giant, intense; everything near Gharon is gone. Not damaged, not destroyed – annihilated. While we were in the middle of it, in the beginning, I felt the grit scouring my skin, scraping the land down to stone. It’s only grown since then.”

“You think it’s going to get worse.” Sobriquet said.

“I know it is.” Michael sighed and sat up, hunching forward; Sobriquet slid back onto the cot to sit next to him. “The storm is still growing. I don’t know how big storms can get, but I suspect we’re about to find out.”

She frowned. “Unless we go back in there and finish the job.”

“The thing is, I’m not sure we can,” Michael said. “We had him beaten, before, but we wouldn’t have been able to get to that point without all three of our souls working in concert. Now he’s got Smoke, and Amira won’t be going anywhere quickly. Even getting to him through the storm would be a challenge without her, to say nothing of surviving his – whatever he’s got going on at its center. Luc didn’t want to kill me, before, but I’m not sure it’s still Luc in there. What we made of him before the end-”

His mind supplied an image of a bloody figure slumped on the sand, vivid in his recollection. Michael shuddered. “I don’t think we can assume anything about him right now.”

Sobriquet gave him an evaluating look. “So what’s the plan, then? We can wait for Amira to be up, but that’s not going to be tonight – and I’m skeptical that the mountains will do much to delay the storm, if it really is pushing up this way.” She paused, rolling her own words over in her head. “I think we need to move. Fall back somewhere else and watch for a bit. Luc won’t be able to feed the storm indefinitely, and he’ll probably be exhausted after that much effort.”

She looked at Michael, who had twisted his mouth while she was talking. Her brows furrowed. “Right?” she asked. “What part of that is wrong? You’re making a face like you disagree.”

“Not with the plan,” Michael sighed. “We do need to move away, if only to gain some space to think; if we wait too long then the soldiers will be at risk for no real gain. They need to go back to the nearest towns, tell them to get clear-” He shook his head. “No, that’s a good idea. I don’t know that it’s the right move to wait for Luc to get tired, though. I don’t think it will be hours, or days.”

“Weeks?” Sobriquet asked, nettled. “Months? He’s got to eat and drink sometime, and I can’t imagine there’s much food on offer in Gharon these days.”

Michael spread his hands helplessly, then shrugged. “I think we should assume that he’ll keep doing what he’s doing unless someone goes in and stops him, and I don’t think there’s anyone but me who can – if I can. And I’m not sure.” He let his hands drop down. “I know I can’t do it alone, but anyone I take in risks just – feeding him, like Saleh did.”

“You could take the soul and not the bearer,” Sobriquet noted. “That’s an option, considering Amira’s state.”

“Absolutely not,” Michael retorted, his head coming up to glare at her. “I already said I wouldn’t do that.”

“And nothing has changed since then?” Sobriquet said, raising her voice; she moved to stand over him. “We’re out of options, unless you mean to hang your head and concede that Luc can do whatever enters into his addled little mind-”

“No,” Michael replied. “But she was the one that did her part in the fight, and it was her that saved my life near the end.” He tapped his hand against his chest, where a dull heat still lingered. “This all started because I wanted to savepeople. I wouldn’t let them slip away into the void without a chance to leave – something, anything behind. Well, they did.”

Michael stood from his bunk, his hand still pressed to his chest. “They left behind a better version of me, one that they knew could win this fight for them. I’m trying to prove them right, and they can’t be right if I’m not that person.” He clenched his fist and let it drop. “You think the hundreds of Safid within me would watch silently if I murdered Amira and took her soul? Not to mention the thousands more still walking around the camp. I’d be forced to kill more than just her, and I’d gain more souls – and then I’d have to destroy them, because they wouldn’t stand to be mine.”

He looked at Sobriquet. “Or I could force them to accept it, steal the parts that are left over, and then I’d have what Luc has. Parts, a big ugly mass of them, with Clair and Charles and all the others among the toll. Killing Amira won’t work, Sera. I can’t justify it or clothe it in necessity, I can’t lie to myself like that anymore because I can’t lie to them, and their truth is what gives me any hope of defeating Luc in the first place!” He stepped closer to her, his voice rising. “Their image of me, their belief in me! None of that is mine!”

She looked quietly back at Michael in the silence that followed his words. He let his breath out and stalked to a corner of the tent, exasperated. “I have to be Michael Baumgart,” he said, “because I said I would be, and they believed me. And I don’t – know. I don’t know if they’re right to trust me. Does that make sense?”

He turned to look at her, his eyes blank and bloody.

Sobriquet looked back for a long moment, then walked over to put her arm around him. “I forget sometimes,” she said, “about a young man I met a few months back. He was nervous and timid, and unsure about everything. Not like you in the least.”

Michael managed a smile at that, returning the embrace. “I barely remember him. Honestly, it’s amazing he didn’t die in a ditch somewhere along the way.”

“Maybe,” she said. “But even then, there was something that clung in the air around him. Some people have a weight to their lives, and not only from the things they’ve done. It’s the things they might do, that hover at the edge of possibility, that press against all the rest of us and make us think – ‘there is a man who will be great, someday.’”

She looked up at him, then stretched up to kiss him lightly on the lips. It was slow, lingering, and Michael let it go on until she pulled back once more. “I’m talking about Luc, of course,” she said.

Michael’s face split into a grin, and he looked to the side. “Of course.”

She laughed, then sighed, her smile fading. “All right,” she said. “Amira’s off limits, and also out of action. Sibyl is wherever she’s at, and likely about as useful as I would be against a giant angry fucking storm. All the rest of the Eight are either with you or Luc, now, and you don’t think it’s going to be enough.”

He shook his head, and Sobriquet paced away with a thoughtful look. After a moment, she turned back to him. “We go back to Daressa.”

Michael shook his head. “I’m not sure that will be enough,” he said. “You saw how far the storms spread in Ardalt.”

The look she gave him was withering enough to provoke a twinge from his burns. “We go to Rouns,” she said, speaking very slowly, “because that’s where Antolin is, along with the entire Mendiko force still on the continent.”

“I had thought about that; I’m less than optimistic about Mendian’s willingness to intercede,” Michael said, sitting up. “But Antolin may be able to do something about that if we can convince him of the threat. And it’d be good to speak with him about Luc, he’s probably got more firsthand knowledge of Stellar than anyone who wasn’t its bearer.” He paused. “He’s likely put a lot of effort into reviewing Smoke’s capabilities as well, now that I think about it. Saleh was his main strategic rival for most of his career.”

“Yes, you’re right,” Sobriquet deadpanned. “He’d really be an asset. What a wonderful suggestion.”

Michael’s lips cracked into a smile. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I haven’t been thinking clearly, today was – difficult.”

She gave a dark chuckle, then turned towards the tent flap. “You have a gift for understatement. So we’re decided, then? To Rouns to regroup?”

“That seems to be our best option,” he agreed, wincing as he rose up off the bunk. “I figure we can fall back to whatever the nearest Safid town is, then find transport to the Daressan border.”

“What are you going to tell the men?” Sobriquet asked. “I’m not sure if you’ve noticed the mood around camp-”

Michael nodded, grimacing. News of what had happened was no secret, and he could feel a quiet dread seeping down the rows of tents. “I’ll talk to them,” he said. “Find some of the officers, have them gather everyone in the mustering field.”

The assembly was dark and chaotic, but the men filed into their ranks even so; they clung to the order amid the night’s chaos. Before long the field was full, and waiting for Michael to speak. He climbed up upon a low platform and raised his hand for quiet.

“The Great Flame is dead,” he said. “His soul has gone to the Heart-Eater.” A pulse of despair rang back from his words; a few men cried out. “The Shield lies wounded. I have been wounded, myself. Our enemy is greater than ever.” He paused, considering his words; he did not want to crush their hope, but neither would he lie to them.

“I’m not Safid,” he said. “You know this, and I won’t pretend otherwise. I wasn’t raised to think of tests and trials. I don’t think souls are particularly holy – nor am I, no matter what name you give me.” He held his hand up again to quiet the murmurs of discontent spreading among the men. He felt their unrest threatening to overwhelm the fragile structure of their ranks.

“But I do think we are being tested,” he said. “Not as part of some story or greater purpose, but because the man at the center of that storm has lost hope.” He pointed south, towards Gharon. “He thinks we can’t be trusted to determine our own fate, that we’ll fall to self-destructive squabbles over power and influence. He’s not wrong – unless we prove him wrong.”

Michael turned back to the crowd of soldiers; their murmurs had stopped. Now they waited for him to speak.

“That storm is not a test for any of us,” he said. “It’s a test for all of us. Your task is to fall back to the north and evacuate the towns there from its path. Spread the word, and get people ready in case it moves further. Keep them from the Heart-Eater’s path.”

The murmurs started up once more; not all of them liked what Michael had said, but more than a few were nodding along with it.

“I’m going to go east, to seek allies there,” Michael said. That was less popular, provoking a ripple of angry muttering among the men; he held his hands up for quiet. “I said all of us. I didn’t mean all of Saf. This isn’t part of the War. This is about if humanity deserves to live.” He pointed to the south once more, beyond the mountains. “This is about if he’s right. Is he?”

Michael swept his gaze over the crowd. “Is he?” he asked again. “Is the only test you can pass one of bloodshed? Or do you have the courage to run from this new enemy? The strength to forgive an old one? The Heart-Eater is here to fight men like Saleh Taskin, and he gets stronger every time we let him do it.” He dropped his arm, suddenly feeling very tired. “So keep away from him. Evacuate from the storm’s path, and wait for my return.”

The mood of the crowd was mixed; there was anger at his dismissal, fear at the lack of direction. Michael could feel things skewing towards disorder. They needed more than he had given them. He closed his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath; he felt a profound weariness take hold of him.

“I will defeat the Heart-Eater,” he said quietly, feeling paths slip away as he spoke the words. In the distance, a light still glinted unbearably bright; now it shone upon him brighter still. “It is my task. Yours is to deny him strength. We both have our parts to play. Can I count on you to do yours?”

The change in phrasing tipped the balance; a ragged cheer went up from a few of the men. Michael spread his arms. “Men of Saf, can I count on you?” The cheer came back, stronger this time; the ones who were still unconvinced remained quiet.

Michael hoped that it would be enough. He stayed there for a moment longer, giving them time to exult in their role, their piece of the struggle – then turned, and went to see to his own.