The white wolf came upon the black hound. It spoke and boasted that it was man’s constant friend, running ahead of him morning until evening every day. The black hound could not hope to compare to the white wolf’s natural majesty, its shining coat and eyes of ice.
The black hound replied that this was so. The white wolf asked him - why, then, does man let you sleep by his bedside?
The black hound shook his midnight coat and looked at the white wolf with his eyes of fire. He replied, saying that man preferred a friend who would come when called.
- Pre-Gharic Ardan manuscript, vellum, c. 500 PE
The Safid lines were surprisingly close; it was only a couple of minutes before they found themselves at the opposing trenches. Michael stopped several paces shy of the wire barrier, noting the restless Safid soldiers peering out into the dark. Only a few men poked their faces out to look, and it seemed that none of those had the ability to see past Sobriquet’s obfuscation.
“Hold here a moment,” Sobriquet said, raising a hand in caution and turning to face them. “From this point on we’re going to be among the Safid. I had hoped to avoid this if we could, but since we have no other choice - just follow my lead and keep your mouth shut.” She stared at them a moment more before turning and closing her eyes.
The luminous outline around her pulsed. After a moment her avatar materialized in the trench ahead.
The soldiers jumped back, cursing; in the all-encompassing dark, Sobriquet’s form was not distinguishable as humanoid. It looked like a vague discontinuity in the darkness, a patch of uncomfortable void amid the black. Judging by the Safid soldiers’ reaction, Michael was not alone in finding it highly disconcerting.
To their credit, the Safid recovered from their panic quickly; only one man tried to slash his bayonet through the apparition, the rest dropped back and aimed their rifles. Shouts spread along the line. In moments there were soldiers on both sides of the trench staring warily at Sobriquet for as long as they could bear.
“Gentlemen,” Sobriquet said, spreading her arms wide; one of the soldiers in front turned and retched at the motion. “I believe you were told to expect us?”
There was a murmur from the men as they heard the unnerving tones of her voice; a few of them touched their fingers lightly to their lips before passing their hand over their eyes, leaving their gaze lowered to the ground.
A man stepped forward. Though Michael could not see much of him but his outline, he wore a different cap than the others; an officer, perhaps, or someone else of note. He touched his cap and inclined his head toward the avatar before speaking.
“Welcome, from one bearer to another,” he said, his speech thickly-accented, yet precise and measured. “We were told to admit travelers from the south, but not who you were. If we had known of your bestowal, your reception would have been more - appropriate.”
The man who had slashed at Sobriquet flinched at the man’s last words, shrinking back and bowing his head.
“I am Yuzbashi Ahmed Ouahmed,” the officer said, touching his fingers lightly to his lips as he spoke. “It is my honor to bear a soul of the holy Flame. May I ask your name and soul, so that we may greet you properly?”
Michael saw the men around him react to his words, shifting their grip on their weapons. The officer was friendly, but a distinct undercurrent of wariness radiated from him; these men were hoping that Sobriquet was an ally, but far from convinced.
For her part, Sobriquet drew herself up taller and gave a flourish of one arm - the one matching the arm she retained, Michael noticed. He felt the hard, sharp gemstone of grief within her condense further, fading against sudden, determined bravado. “Who am I?” she asked. “The name of my soul? One answer will do for all: I am Sobriquet.”
There was a pause; one man dropped his rifle and kneeled, pressing his forehead to the muddy floorboards. In moments the rest had followed suit, save for Ahmed. He hastily took one knee, ripping his cap from his head and mashing his fingers against his lips. This time, his hand went up to lay across his eyes.
“My apologies, Great Seeker,” he rasped. “I did not know you.”
Michael could only stare as the entirety of the trench crouched, motionless. With an effort he tore his eyes away to look at Sobriquet’s real form; she was smiling, although only her face showed it.
“Quite all right,” she said. “Think nothing of it. Now that we’re acquainted, my companions and I would like to pass your trenches.”
Ahmed jerked his neck downward. “Of course, Seeker. We were given instructions that your party should be brought before the Great Flame when you arrived.” He paused, a moment of panic radiating from his mind. “If I might know how many we will be conveying…?”
The gemstone fractured. Sobriquet did not speak for a long moment, during which Michael tried not to cry out. “Six,” she finally said. “Six, including me.”
Michael let out a long, shuddering breath and, hearing a low whimper from beside him, relaxed his grip on Luc’s hand. His murmured apology drew no answer, however, and in moments Ahmed had taken a picked group upwards from the trench to clear a path through the wire.
He could tell when Sobriquet let her veil drop. Most the Safid soldiers had no means of compensating for Smoke’s darkness, remaining on their knees in the trench. Those who had followed Ahmed were evidently ensouled who had some means of extra perception, as each one turned to look at their group with uncomfortable intensity.
They were afraid, but not the sharp, shrill fear that was becoming all too familiar to Michael. It was a dull fear, a warm fear, the men creaking and groaning with it like a heating stove. It reminded him of the tension that had thrummed within Emil that day on the mountain, his eyes darting to the sky again and again as he watched for signs that it would strike them down.
But Emil had never looked at the sky with anything but trepidation. The Safid were not immune from dread, not by far, but it was leavened with other things that gave Michael pause. It was not that they felt strange and unfamiliar emotions, but rather that they hummed with the same awe and humility that he had felt such a short time before, when he tried to measure himself against the world.
It was only a small comfort that he knew their awe was directed at Sobriquet; he resolved immediately that he would not discuss his soul while among the Safid save out of necessity.
Mercifully, the men did not speak as they beckoned Sobriquet forward. The soldiers in the trench disappeared from their path as they approached; Michael realized after a moment that Ahmed’s footsteps fell differently than those of the enlisted men, some metal piece embedded in his boots knocking against the wood with enough force to herald his coming. The men who fled aside did so with the aid of ropes and rails set into the trench’s side.
Just as the Ardans had adapted to fight the darkness, it seemed that the Safid had grown used to living within it. Ahmed led them on a weaving path that took them back past the front lines and to a reserve trench, and from there to a low tunnel that receded away from the front.
Michael ducked to enter, pausing as Luc did the same. Somehow the dark felt less oppressive in the narrow passageway - this was a space that was supposed to be dark. He smiled at the thought and kept walking for a surprisingly long way. The ground began to shake around them as they walked, low thunder vibrating dust from the wooden posts; to Michael’s sight it looked like puffs of glowing steam trickling downward.
Ahmed bent to open a door; the noise intensified sharply. Artillery fired around them, its flash and smoke lost in the dark. They continued walking until they reached a berm that had been raised some distance from the firing line, earth heaped over a truly massive mound of spent shell casings. It extended for as far as Michael’s sight could see, though there were breaks at regular intervals. Behind one of these, a carriage was waiting.
“If you please,” Ahmed said, opening the carriage door and dropping to one knee. “The driver will take you directly to the Great Flame.”
Sobriquet did not respond except to nod and step up into the carriage; the others followed her example. Ahmed closed the door; the driver spurred the horses forward.
Charles leaned forward from his seat. “What was that?” he asked, his tone not quite accusatory. “It was almost like they knew you.”
Sobriquet sighed and flicked her fingers idly; Michael felt her veil settling around the interior of the carriage. “In their eyes, they do know me,” she said. “Have you ever read the Book of Eight Verses?”
Michael saw Charles’s lip curl at the question. “No,” he grunted. “Heard a few snippets here and there, it’s drivel.”
She leaned forward. “Keep that opinion private,” she said. “The Safid consider it an honor to die defending that book, and I’d consider it a favor if you didn’t give them reason to do so.” She sighed and leaned back, running her fingers through her hair. “It’s enough to know that the book is the foundation of their faith, and that they view it as truth.”
Michael raised an eyebrow. “But you have read it?”
“Just the once,” Sobriquet admitted. “I found it fairly dull and predictable, with a few artful passages - but I didn’t read it for the philosophy. I read it because I’m in the damn book.” She grimaced. “Or, rather, the Great Seeker pops up here and there to reveal the secrets of the wicked and confound the senses of the unjust, that sort of thing.”
A wary look spread on Michael’s face; he wasn’t sure he liked where this conversation was headed. “But that’s a character,” he said. “A legend, from stories and myths. You want the Safid out of Daressa along with the Ardans, they have to know that.”
“Oh, they know,” Sobriquet said. “They haven’t been winning the War for most of the last century by confusing their enemies for allies. If I came here with a thousand partisans and announced my intention to drive them from Daressan lands, they would compete for the honor of killing me - of being tested against me.”
She held out her hand, palm up. “For them, that is how souls work. They test the faithful until struggle purifies them and they earn a soul of their own. If we do not fit their pattern, and try to disrupt it,” she said, turning her palm over, “then we are testers. No less necessary in their eyes, nor even less holy. Only ignorant of our purpose.”
Charles gave a disgusted snort. “A bunch of insane-”
He cut off as Sobriquet’s hand darted out to grab his collar, pulling him forward; he blinked in surprise. “Charles,” Sobriquet said. “Last warning. There are two ways to deal with the Safid. The first: you can learn the steps of their dance and act in the role they expect to see. They will show you deference and respect, and deal with you honorably. Or, the second: you call them idiots, and show them that your role in their framework is to test the faithful. Killing you becomes a holy task.”
She released her grip on his collar, sliding back into her seat. “You may hate them all you wish,” she said. “But do it quietly. For all the bowing and scraping you just saw, we are in very real danger. The Safid will help us on our way if I step into the role of the Great Seeker. Otherwise, they will find another role for us to fill. We will not enjoy their choice.”
“Just like that,” Charles said skeptically. “They’ll forget that we’ve been killing them for years? There was that half an escort squad not even a year back-”
“You’re Gharic,” Sobriquet said. “They’re not. You’re making the same mistake we made at the start of the War, the same one the Ardans make every day - you want to fight them but you don’t want to understand them.”
Charles bristled at that, but had no reply. Emil leaned forward and shook his head. “She’s right,” he said. “I’ve dealt with Safid, moving by Imes. You walk up, stare them in the eyes, try to plough over them - they’re some of the most cutthroat cheats I’ve ever seen. You make a few gestures and bow your head, though? You walk away with more of their money that way.”
“Just don’t speak,” she said. “Any of you. If-”
The darkness lifted from around them in an instant, and even in the dim carriage interior the sudden light was enough to make them flinch and swear. Michael’s sight recovered quickly, though, the flame in his chest pulsing once as he blinked away tears.
It reminded him that he had yet to tell Sobriquet the truth about Clair, and what he had gained from her. He frowned and steeled himself to speak - then looked at her. Her eyes were no longer reddened, but they were still swollen with heavy dark circles underneath. She looked pale, drawn, exhausted.
“What if they ask about our souls?” Michael said instead.
She gave him an evaluating look for a brief moment before shaking her head. “Talk to them like they’re a verifex, because they’ll probably have one listening. No lies, no truths. They’ll expect companions of the Seeker to be secretive, and with luck they won’t press too hard.” She managed a slight smile. “Anyone reasonable would assume that none of you are more interesting than me.”
Michael snorted. “It’s a good thing everyone’s been so reasonable thus far,” he muttered. “They’ve got you figured out already anyway, Great Seeker. What about Smoke? What’s his role in their pattern?”
“The Great Flame?” Sobriquet said, arching an eyebrow. “For the Safid he’s a figure of home, safety and warmth. The ‘flame’ they talk about is a hearth-fire. He’s normally the one that comes in at the end of the story to drive evil away with holy fire…”
Michael leaned back as she talked, her motions becoming more animated as her grief slipped to the back of her mind. He would tell her. When her heart wasn’t at the brink of despair, when their lives didn’t depend on her poise. It was reassurance, but not enough to stave off the guilt that coiled in his heart - right next to Clair.
You are reading story Peculiar Soul at novel35.com
The carriage rattled to a stop before too much time had passed. Sobriquet made a warning gesture as the veil slipped from around them, and moments later the door opened to reveal a stone-faced soldier who stepped neatly out of their path, holding the door wide. He wore a small cloth veil below the rim of his hat, hiding his eyes from view.
Sobriquet jumped down from the cart, Michael and the others followed wordlessly. They had arrived at a proper military camp, with rows of tents receding interminably into the fog. Like Sever’s camp, this one was based around a repurposed structure - a humble farmhouse. It had no more than a few rooms topped by a single crooked chimney.
Another pair of soldiers stood veiled and ramrod-straight outside of the door to the farmhouse. Sobriquet walked toward them, not acknowledging when one bent to open the door for her. The door was low; Michael and Charles had to duck their heads to enter. When they were inside, however, the space was warm and cozy, with rushes laid over the floor and a few lanterns arrayed to push the darkness from the corners of the room.
There were three men talking in low tones; two in the garb of Safid officers while the other was bald and wearing a robe of an oddly-stiff white cloth. At their entry the robed man glanced up, then murmured a quick command to the others; they nodded once and moved to exit the room.
The robed man smiled and spread his hands wide; Michael noticed that the skin on his palms was scarred and mottled. “Great Seeker,” he said, his voice hoarse but deep, each word delivered with firm diction. “I’m glad to finally meet you in person.”
Sobriquet inclined her head, just a bit. “Great Flame,” she said. “Thank you humbly for your assistance in evading our shared foe.”
He laughed and clapped his hands together once, beaming. “Impeccable,” he said. “But there’s no need to stand on ceremony - I read so much about your exploits these days that I feel like we’re old friends. Please, call me Saleh - and I hope that I might call you Serafina?”
Sobriquet stiffened, but kept most of the tumult from spreading to her face. “Most call me Sobriquet,” she replied evenly.
“Then I shall follow their example,” Saleh said. “Sobriquet. And then we have - Emil, Charles, Vernon.” He pointed to each of the men in turn, his eyes crinkling at the shocked expression on their faces. “All old friends of my brothers near Azim Alsu. And two new faces!”
He turned to Luc. “I’m afraid that I don’t know your name, young man,” he said. “May I have it?”
Luc looked up, then over at Sobriquet. She nodded. “Luc,” he said quietly. “Luc Flament.”
“A pleasure, Luc,” Saleh said, extending his hand. Luc tugged at the wrappings over his hands in a near panic for a few moments, then shook the proffered hand in a quick, panicked motion.
If Saleh found it strange he made no mention of it, only turning to look at Michael. “And you,” he said. “You must be Michael Baumgart.”
Michael blinked. Standing this close to the man it was hard to get a read on his emotions; his soul hung about him like the folds of his robe, furnace-bright. His focus was intense, joyous, radiant.
“I am,” Michael said, shaking the offered hand. His skin was smooth, shiny in patches. He seemed to have no hair anywhere that Michael could see, not even eyelashes. “You seem to be well-informed.”
Sobriquet shot him a warning glance, but Saleh’s eyes twinkled. “I try to keep abreast of significant events,” he said. “And how else to describe your exploits but to call them significant? After Leik, I waited to see what would emerge from the trial we had been given. Imagine my surprise when it was you - an Ardan, the son of Karl Baumgart, and the Great Caller besides.”
Michael blinked again, unsure of how to respond amid the smothering exuberance rolling from Saleh in waves. Sobriquet’s burgeoning panic made a poor liferaft to seize amid the storm, but it did help to lend him focus. “Um,” he said. “Great Caller?”
“Stanza, in the Gharic classification,” Saleh replied. “Although my sources say that even the Institute isn’t quite sure about you.” He chuckled and clapped Michael on the shoulder, then turned to smile at Sobriquet. “Oh, relax, secret-keeper - I haven’t told the various Orders about your presence here, and I don’t intend to. The respect you pay to our faith does you credit; I don’t mistake that for a desire to associate with it.”
He turned to walk a bit farther away, settling onto a cushion laid against the wall; he gestured toward other cushions around the perimeter of the room. Sobriquet walked woodenly toward one and sat. The others followed her example, although Charles seemed as if every moment of it pained him.
Saleh peered at them, folding his hands in his lap. “I believe that the Seeker acts within you to form the other half of a balance, the world correcting the wrong that was done to us at Leik. I know you have your own reasons for what you’re doing, and that we may find ourselves at cross purposes when this is over.” He spread his hands. “But let us not fight tomorrow’s quarrel today! You want to deliver the documents you’ve stolen to Mendian. I would very much like to see this happen as well.”
Sobriquet stared at him for a long moment, then exhaled. “Good,” she said. “What are you proposing?”
“That we help you on your way,” Saleh said. “Nothing more, nothing less. I would put you on a boat out of Siad and see you in Goitxea before the week is out, but I fear that too much help from Saf will cast suspicion on your motives, at least in Mendian’s eyes. I gather that your original plan was to move through Esrou, and from there to the crossing at the locks?”
“It was,” Sobriquet confirmed. “And we would also prefer to maintain our independence in this matter.”
Saleh’s eyes held a glimmer of amusement; he had not missed her choice of words. “Splendid,” he said. “That will be more palatable to the Mendiko, certainly. I can arrange passage by rail to the Esroun border, and I believe we have some capability to see you across it. From there, I’m sure you can arrange to find your way to the crossing - I assume you’ve given some thought to the matter of convincing the Mendiko to speak to you?”
He paused for barely long enough to see Sobriquet’s nod in response. “Perfect,” he said. “You can always tell when you’re in step with the world’s desires. Everything has a way of falling into place.” He flashed a smile at them.
“It seems to, at that,” Sobriquet said.
Saleh laughed. “It is a point of philosophical difference that has always left me wondering. You Gharics are always so suspicious of good fortune, as if the world will punish you for daring to be happy. I find it is the opposite; that in rare moments of sorrow life bends all the more back towards joy.”
“How lucky for you that your moments of sorrow have been rare,” Charles rasped. Sobriquet’s eyes sharpened on him, but he said nothing else.
Saleh shrugged, then grimaced as a cough took him. He turned to the side until the coughing fit had passed, holding up a hand in appeasement.
“It is true,” he wheezed. “I apologize. I know very well that the testing can push one past their limits.” He looked at Sobriquet; Michael’s teeth were on edge from the pain rolling off her. “I received the report on your conflict with Sibyl and Sever just a short while before you arrived. I’m so sorry. By all accounts your sister was a remarkable woman, and I was very much looking forward-”
Sobriquet’s fist clenched hard enough that her nails drew blood; her pain forced a shudder from Michael, his eyes fluttering closed. Saleh looked between the two of them for a moment, his eyes opaque, then touched his fingers to his lips. Michael felt genuine sympathy from him, but also a measure of something else that came and left before he could properly glimpse it.
Saleh shook his head. “Again, I apologize. It is too soon. I will have someone show you to quarters where you can rest while I arrange for transport. Please, rest. You have my word that no harm shall come to you while we walk together.”
He made a small gesture; a soldier entered the room and beckoned them onward. They were led out of the farmhouse and into the omnipresent fog, past rows of tents until they arrived at a building of rough wood and salvaged brick, hastily thrown together from what materials were available. It was deceptively sturdy, however, and when they were led inside there was no hint of water or draft to be found.
The soldiers left as quickly as they had arrived, leaving them in a small central dining area ringed by private rooms - an officers’ quarters, or similar. Luc immediately retreated to one of the rooms, and Sobriquet turned to stand in front of another. She paused, her hand on the door, and turned to look back at the others.
“What I said before still applies,” she said. “Watch your words. Especially you, Michael.” She paused, wavering. “If someone comes-”
“Rest,” Michael reassured her. “We’ll wake you.”
She nodded, then stepped into the room. The door shut behind her, and almost immediately Michael felt the dagger of her grief twist in his belly. Charles sat at the low table, and in a moment the rest joined him. They did not speak; after meeting with Saleh the rest of the world seemed cold and empty by contrast. After a few minutes a woman came by with a basket of bread and a jug of water, a small black veil laying over her eyes.
She bowed to the four men, placed the food on the table, bowed once more and left.
Charles looked askance at it, then ripped off a chunk and began to eat. “I don’t think they’d feel the need to poison us,” he muttered.
“That would be rather roundabout of them,” Michael sighed, taking his own chunk and chewing slowly. The four men ate sparingly, wrapping a cloth around the remainder for Luc and Sobriquet before excusing themselves to their own rooms.
Michael sat on the cot and found it unyielding, but clean. He laid back without removing his boots and closed his eyes.
After a while, he opened them again. It was as if he sat inside a large hall, the ceiling tall and broad - and filled with screaming. Sobriquet’s anguish echoed and built until it filled every recess of his mind. He sighed and swung his feet down to the ground, then walked to knock lightly on Sobriquet’s door.
The grief stuttered, and a moment later the door swung open.
“What?” she rasped.
“I need to tell you something,” Michael said. “About Clair.”
Her eyes narrowed. Michael felt the shiver of her veil settling around them. She stepped back inside the room and sat on the bed, glaring at him. “You’re going to tell me what you did?” she asked.
Michael’s thoughts tumbled into a heap. “What?”
“When Clair died,” Sobriquet grated, “you walked away with a secret. One that makes all the rest look like nothing in comparison.”
“Oh,” Michael said. He was at a momentary loss for words, his mind spinning at the implications of her statement. “I - yes. When I knew Clair was dying, when I knew I couldn’t save her-”
He clenched his fist, feeling the panic from those frantic seconds in the cart surging back, choking and tight. “When Jeorg died,” he said, “I asked my soul to save him. It gave me his soul instead. I don’t think it knew that there was more to him besides the soul.”
Michael paused, meeting Sobriquet’s eyes. They were red again, bloodshot and haunted. “I asked my soul to save Clair. It - tried. I have something of hers, something that feels like Clair. Something that saved me, when I was fighting Sever. Gave me the strength to do what I did, bend his blades away and bring the storm down.”
Sobriquet’s eyes hardened. “My sister didn’t have a soul for you to take,” she said. “What is it that you did to her?”
“I - don’t know,” Michael admitted. “I don’t know anything. I wanted to heal her, I tried. I just - I turned to the only soul I had left. It gave me this.” He sat on the bed beside her and held out his hand.
She looked at it for a moment, then took it. Michael guided her hand to rest over the center of his chest, where the fire burned - then stoked it, bent his will to grasping the world around him. Its light burgeoned within him, radiating outward from his core.
Sobriquet’s face went slack, her eyes widening, brimming with tears. “How?” she whispered. “I can feel her near me. Smell her hair. How is this possible?”
Michael shook his head. “I don’t know anything,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
The gemstone that had been compressing down smaller and smaller within her sloughed away to sand, fracturing in a storm of grief and pain that would have toppled Michael had he not already been sitting. Sobriquet’s fingers curled, grabbing his shirt; the grief bent her double until she was sobbing into his chest, pressed against her sister’s flame.
Pain hammered at him, almost too much to bear but for Clair’s light shining within him. More than strength, more than the leverage to stand against the monstrous scale of the world unflinchingly - it was the knowledge that he did not do so alone. He pulled Sobriquet close and let it flare brightly.