Peculiar Soul

Chapter 43: A Problem of Identity

Chapter 43: A Problem of Identity

I have been asked before what I believe my legacy will be, which I maintain is a nonsensical question. Every man should live as humbly as the least important beggar, and as nobly as the hero whose path it is to save the world.

Who could tell me which I am? Even if I think myself one, in the moment of my death I may find myself the other. Do not live for legacy, nor for purpose. Master being the beggar in moments of privation. Master being the hero in moments of need. Live each moment as perfectly as you are able, for no one knows what the next may bring.

- Saleh Taskin, On Reclamation, 687

The people crowded around the Caller, pleading for his help - but he only shook his head. It was not his help that was required, he told them. Greater eyes than his were required to see the path forward through the darkness.

So in tempest and drought, heat and snow, the people followed him as he bent a track through the wild country. Not all had the will to follow. Many hundreds dropped to the wayside and passed from memory, as is the fate of all who abandon their path.

But some few remained, struggling through hardship to stand with the Caller as he approached the far dwelling of the Seer. The door opened before they had come within reach, with the Seer beckoning them within. A feast had been laid before the travelers, bursting with bread and beer and every kind of meat.

Michael looked with discontent at the last of his ration pack, tearing off another flavorless mouthful and chasing it with a swig of water. He brushed the crumbs from his fingers and turned to the next page of the book.

When the people exclaimed at the feast, the Seer smiled and said that their coming had been etched into his soul since the first day of the world. No matter which path they walked, in time they all found themselves at this moment.

The Seers gaze turned sorrowful, then, as he looked at the grand table. The people saw that there were far more places laid than they could fill. When they asked the Seer who else might come, he shook his head and told them that many who would have come were lost amid the tangle of their path, diverted from it by weakness or malice.

At this last, the Caller drew himself up with indignation, asking who would bring malice against a righteous man who sought only to walk his fated path. The Seer cast his arm out towards the darkening sky, proclaiming that-

You going to stay up all night reading? Sobriquet asked, sitting down on the floor beside him and leaning against the wooden wall of the shed. It was neither their most or least comfortable shelter on this trip; it did, however, have walls and a roof. Amira had led them on a grueling, tortuous course from Siad, avoiding their planned stop for that night out of an overabundance of caution.

Michael wasnt sure if this shed was an official Safid safehouse or if he was an unwitting squatter on some poor farmers land; most of their party was too tired to care by the time they arrived. He had thought himself the only one awake, and raised an eyebrow at Sobriquet.

Didnt feel like I could get to sleep, Michael said, his voice low despite Sobriquets veil; it felt somehow profane to speak at a normal volume among so many sleeping bodies. Whats your excuse?

I had this troubling feeling, she said, this premonition that someone was going to lie to me. She gave him a reproachful look. Which appears to have been entirely correct, since you just did. You dont want to go to sleep because youre afraid of what might happen.

Michael bit back on the impulse to deny the accusation. If you mean I dont want to roll over in my sleep and burn down the wooden building that were all sleeping in - yes, you have me figured out.

You do realize that Amiras soul doesnt work on sleep? Sobriquet asked. That it in fact requires your assistance with sleep and proper nutrition so that your heart doesnt explode in your chest?

Im aware, Michael sighed. It doesnt stop me from worrying. Ill go outside and sleep some distance away from the shed - in a bit. He let Salehs book drop to his side and ran his fingers agitatedly through his hair, looking out over the others as they slept. Eventually, he turned back to Sobriquet. He wasnt a bad man.

Waldeck? she asked. Michael, good men die all the time. Better men than he ever was, men who never said an unkind word or raised a hand in anger. If being good could keep you from death, more people would try it. She settled back against the wall, giving him an appraising glance. This isnt about how he lived. Its about you gaining his soul.

Michael grimaced. Not just that, he said. He held out his hand towards Sobriquet, palm open.

She looked at it askance, then sighed and twisted to bring her good hand to bear. As her fingers touched Michaels, Sobriquets eyes widened. Vincents flame did not rise as readily as Clairs, whether for lack of familiarity or the mans residual stubborn nature; what Michael could manage was evidently still enough for her to feel it.

Ghars blood, she murmured, her hand tensing for a moment before she lifted it and settled back against the wall. Her face turned thoughtful. Sobriquets emotions were whispers to Michael, inflections of wonder and concern amid the grief that still haunted her every breath.

Eventually she turned to look at him once more. You think its going to keep happening, she said.

Why wouldnt it? Michael said ruefully. I asked for it. Every step of the way, I asked. To try to save Jeorg, when he was dying, then Clair. He laughed, letting his head drop down into his hands. Damn me, I even asked for the soul in the first place.

Sobriquet looked at him with an odd expression, her interest sharpening at his last words. Asked?

He raised his head to look at Sobriquet, feeling her sudden focus. In the Institute, he said. My father would bring me there to try for a soul when there was a battle on the continent, have them whip me, crush me in a box, hold me over coals. Ten visits over a span of a few years, and on the last one my father stepped in to whip me himself. Hes a scalptor, a strong one. Michaels gaze wandered out into the darker corners of the shed, and Sobriquet pursed her lips.

That doesnt sound pleasant, she said quietly.

Michael laughed, sharp and humorless. I died, he said. I saw the void for the first time, the oblivion thats waiting for us all. There was just me, the void and a - river of souls, all the ones waiting for a new bearer. Just before the dark claimed me, a soul offered itself up. Form soul, I think, something mid-range. Im not sure what it was, I didnt take it.

He shook his head. It seemed pointless, to just go back to my father - the man who had just killed me. So I said no. I asked for oblivion instead, if life had nothing better to offer.

Sobriquet had gone very still. Asked who?

Nobody. Anybody. Michael shrugged. But there was something. It heard me, it - Ghars bones, I could swear it was laughing at me. I woke up and I was back in that damn room. Me and my new soul. He let his head drop back down for a moment, then looked up with a silent question on his lips.

The look on Sobriquets face was answer enough. That was the rest of it, she murmured. The secret.

I was afraid you would say that, Michael sighed. The secret you called vast, one that has never been known before in this world. That touches everyone. He clenched his fists - then, with an effort, relaxed them. You asked me if I thought it would keep happening, but I think you know the answer already.

She pressed her lips together. Michael-

How many? he asked. Theres a gap between where I stand today and the scope of that secret you saw. How many dead to fill that gap?

Sobriquet shook her head. My sight isnt that precise, and it doesnt predict the future, she said. Besides that, you underestimate the reach you have now. You bear two of the Eight and have crossed paths with the rest. One could argue that youve already risen to the level I saw.

One could argue, Michael agreed. But would you?

There was a long moment of quiet while Sobriquets thoughts ran in small, clockwork motions. She sighed and shook her head. No, she said. No, I doubt that Vincent will be the last death that marks you.

Michael sighed and let his head thud back against the wall. I figured.

Silence returned to the room, broken only by the noise of Sobriquet rising from the floor and stepping away. Michael turned his sight outward, to the night - then frowned as he heard the rustle of cloth on his other side.

When the door had shut behind them, Michael turned to her. What was that for? he asked. He just wanted us to pretend we didnt see him.

Probably, Sobriquet said. But you heard Salehs note. Next time we meet well probably be trying to kill each other. She smiled back at the closed door; raised voices came from within. And I make a point of irritating my enemies where I can. Come on, lets not waste time - I doubt a town this size has many trains to choose from.

Michael followed her, bemused, and found himself emerging from an alley into a broad, dusty street. Aside from a cart and a few men loading it, there was nobody around. The train tracks lay past the buildings opposite them.

It looked like any of the small towns Michael had seen on the continent thus far, somewhat anticlimactically, although none of those had boasted a train. The difference mainly seemed to manifest in a proliferation of wagons hauling goods to and from the station, and in the number of bars and brothels he could spot openly plying their trade on the main street.

The station itself was modest, a low building with a clay-tile roof that huddled near the tracks. Sobriquet nudged Charles, whispering a few words in his ear; he nodded and took the bag of coin from her hand.

He walked up to the station office with a disconcertingly-pleasant smile. Good day, he offered cheerfully. Six, north to Arenga.

A man leaned forward to peer at him from behind the window, then grunted. Theres one heading out shortly, he said. Seventy-two liards in total.

Charles nodded and upended the bag in his hands, then affected a worried expression and rooted around in his pockets for a few more coins. Michael had to applaud the theatrics; he was sure there had been at least twice the coin in the bag as Charles now held, but the station agent would now remember him as nearly penniless.

On the platform, with his ticket in hand, Michael exchanged a glance with Vernon; the auditor shrugged and smiled, sitting on a bench with his hands laced behind his head. Emil, too, took his ease.

Michael looked around. There were few people in sight; some blackened workmen were shoveling coal at the far side of the tracks while a small knot of soldiers sat on their bags further down the platform.

He looked at the soldiers, though he did not turn his head - they were Esroun, clad in drab grey with gold piping on their collars. After a moments observation he realized that they were slightly drunk, and likely younger than he was.

It was strangely odd to watch them - soldiers, like so many others he had seen, but not from a country embroiled in war. He had always thought the Esroun armistice foolish; Ricard had grumbled his condemnations of it whenever the topic arose. Now that he was actually in Esrou he saw what it had bought them.

The soldiers were happy, relaxed, free of the dread and stress that hung over Ardan soldiers like a cloud. Some of their cheer derived from a flask of spirits they were passing around, admittedly, but the difference was stark.

He looked over and saw Luc watching them too, his eyes darting sideways in furtive movements when he thought they werent looking.

How does it feel? Michael asked. To be back in Esrou, I mean.

Luc blinked, seeming mildly startled to be addressed; a moment later he shook his head. Its just another country, he said. This place, here - its nothing like what I knew. Even if we went to Tenouf, I dont imagine wed see the parts of the city I remember. He looked out toward the tracks, his eyes tracking them into the distance. Some people are born into a bubble, yes? Nobody outside sees in, and nobody inside sees out. They live and die in it.

Michael nodded, pursing his lips. Maybe you could go back someday. Learn how to use your soul to heal, help some of the people there.

Why? Luc asked.

The two men exchanged an incredulous look.

Why? Michael asked. Id have thought you would want to help them.

Lucs eyebrows drew together; after a moment he shook his head. You dont understand, he said. Nobody can help them. Those people, theyll never leave the slum they were born into. He plucked agitatedly at the wrappings over his hands.

I thought the same thing, once. That the doctor had helped us, lifted us up from our misery. Luc shook his head. That he was raising us well to balance injustices from his own youth, or some similar notion. That wasnt it at all, though. It wasnt until he died and the Ardans came that I realized.

He smiled at Michael. They put us on a boat, sent us to the front. Three of us died the first day in the camp, and do you know what the others said? Not that we should find a way out, or that we should take care of each other to make it through. No - they talked of finding someone to save them. And I knew then why the doctor took boys from the orphanage.

Luc spread his hands, palms opened to show the dirty, ragged cloth within. Because that is where you find empty people. We werent the control group because we had no souls, we were the control group because we were never going to get a soul. Each boy in that group had endured suffering past anything the white-shirts had seen, but its not suffering that draws souls. Its hope. Hope that you could overcome the moment, if you but had the strength.

Michael blinked, taken aback at Lucs melancholy tirade; he could feel the conviction and sorrow rolling off of him in waves as he spoke - and always, always the fear running underneath. You have a soul, he said. Do you think youre so worthless?

I have a soul, Luc agreed, holding up his hands, fingers splayed. But I didnt earn it. I thought at first that it had passed to me because Claude had cared for me, but I couldnt - I cant believe that. Watching you, I began to think that the doctor had changed me. I thought he had changed both of us.

He gestured to Michael, smiling despite a pain that nearly blurred Michaels vision. But the other day, when you took that mans soul - I realized that I was wrong. The doctor didnt give you anything. You didnt need him to be - what you are.

Nobody needed him, Michael said darkly. Not me, and not you. Whatever brought that soul to you was yours alone.

Luc laughed and shook his head. Youre wrong, he said. But wrong in the best way. I dont have anything this soul would have wanted. It came to me because of you. A trains whistle sounded from far down the track, and Luc turned to look at it. If the change comes from you, and not the doctor - maybe theres some hope for both of us after all.

He turned the rest of the way to watch the train as it pulled in, leaving Michael feeling somewhat lost. The feeling persisted as he followed the others up the step and found a seat; the cramped car held only benches, however, and the proximity of the other passengers made him reluctant to pursue the topic further.

With a sigh, he pulled Salehs book from his pocket and flipped through it for the page he had last read.

At this last, the Caller drew himself up with indignation, asking who would bring malice against a righteous man who sought only to walk his fated path. The Seer cast his arm out towards the darkening sky, proclaiming that his visions had been plagued of late by one such.

This man, the Seer said, felt nothing but envy when he thought on the perfection of the One. He burned with covetous greed at the sight of the divine in others, and that greed begat madness in his breast. With lies and base treachery he drew travelers from the path, ripping out their living hearts to swallow whole.

In this way the man grew powerful, glutted on the stolen fragments of the divine. Heart-eater, the Seer named him, shouting it under the sky for all to hear. Heart-eater, he who sought to supplant the divine.

This last passage was underlined in a heavy pen. In the margin there was text in Salehs hand, reading: the Ardan Speaker aspires to his path.

Michael closed the book once more and slid it back into his pocket, letting his eyes stray to the window. The train had not yet begun to move, and all he could see was the empty expanse of the platform.

Problem? Sobriquet asked, leaning forward to crane her head over his shoulder. You just - learned something, I can tell.

Wordlessly, Michael withdrew the book from his pocket once more. He opened it to the flyleaf, letting Sobriquet see Salehs message exhorting him to find himself in its pages - then turned to the page he had read. Heart-eater, the Seer named him

Sobriquet looked up from the page, her eyes meeting Michaels.

Ah, she said. Somehow, I dont think thats what he had in mind.