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Chapter 2 - A Peculiar Soul
🕑 Added 2021-04-14 19:55:01 +0000 UTCIt is theorized that there is a rough limit on the number of people one can hold a relationship with, be it friend, neighbor, lover or enemy. It is perhaps one-hundred-fifty on average, two-hundred-fifty at the utmost. Past this, the faces blur into the crowd and become an indistinct and aggregate other; we simply are not built to consider so many people individually.
Some time ago mankind counted its billionth member. By the tyranny of simple mathematics, this means that for the first time in history it has become impossible for every man to count an ensouled among his acquaintances; even if all were to seek such a bond, the ratio makes it impossible that each might be so counted in return.
It is not so distinct a milestone that historians of tomorrow will draw a line across the page and say that it was here, right here, that everything changed. However, each generation has grown into a world controlled by people that are less and less akin to anyone they know. The line will mark the day one of them asks why.
- Leire Gabarain, Annals of the Sixteenth Star, 689.
—
Michael woke slowly, his mind clinging to dreams and half-remembered terrors. His arms felt sluggish and heavy. It was only when he tried to sit up that he realized his upper body had been bound in layers of tightly-wrapped bandages. He struggled against them for a moment, only to let out a groan as hot pain skittered across his back.
Sounds of movement came from his left. He turned his head to see Ricard standing over him, smiling past red-rimmed eyes. Michael opened his mouth to speak but managed only a dry rasp. Ricard helped him sit painfully upright and take a swallow of water that he managed to avoid choking on - fortunate, as he felt that trying to cough might have actually killed him. Again.
Michael licked his lips and looked up at Ricard once more. “You look terrible,” he croaked.
“I believe we’ve both had better days, milord.” Ricard smiled down at him, relief evident in his face. There was sadness there too, however, married with fatigue and a few subtle emotions that showed only in the glint of his eyes.
Enough to tell Michael a few things, at least. After a few seconds he let his head drop back to the pillow. “It was that bad?” he asked.
Ricard’s smile grew brittle. “It’s been two days since they brought you back from the Institute,” he said. “You were there for two more before they felt it was safe to move you.”
“Four days,” Michael muttered, wincing as he flexed his shoulder experimentally. “I have to say, I’m not in great shape - but I’m better than I should be, considering. I-”
His words trailed off for a moment, and his mind brought him back to the lightless void and the river of souls, the crushing emptiness as he faced the end of his existence. He closed his eyes. “I died, Ricard. I know I did. How am I still here?”
When he opened his eyes once more Ricard was back at his side, wearing a pained expression. “It was a near thing, milord,” he said quietly. “By the time the lamp lit you had stopped breathing.”
“The lamp,” Michael said, his eyes widening. The last of the sleepy fog lifted from his mind as he remembered the burgeoning light under the glass. The laughter, ringing in his ears. “Ghar’s bones, I had nearly forgotten. I have…”
He paused, surprised by the surge of feeling that welled up within him. Betrayal, that his hard-fought choice had been taken from him. Anger at whatever force had mocked him. And yet he was here too, with Ricard in his sunlit bedroom. Alive and some sort of well, distant enough from that hungry void that it seemed to diminish for a moment.
He looked up at the older man’s face and gave him a smile that was only half-forced. “I have a soul.”
“That you do, milord,” Ricard laughed. “And if I may say so, not a moment too soon.”
“I suppose that explains it,” Michael said, flexing his fingers. He could feel no difference, and wasn’t sure if he was meant to. “I was thinking I was actually doing rather well for only four days of rest, but if I have my soul to thank…” He trailed off. Ricard was shaking his head.
“It’s not that, milord,” Ricard said. “Your soul - it’s not Form. They’re not sure quite what it is, not yet, but something about it had the Institute fellows quite curious about your condition. When they saw that you weren’t restoring yourself, they called for their Fix.”
Michael stared, wide-eyed, and Ricard coughed. “Sorry, milord,” he said. “Slip of the tongue. They have a talented anatomens on staff, a Lady Altenbach-”
“I know what you meant, Ricard,” Michael sputtered. “But whatever you may call her, there’s no way we could afford Institute rates. Father has money, yes - not enough for that.” His face darkened. “And even if he did I doubt I’m worth that much to him.”
Ricard pursed his lips, rocking back on his heels while he ordered his words. “The Institute,” he said, “saw fit to waive their fee.”
“Did they.” Michael blinked, letting his head fall back on the pillow. He regretted the sudden motion almost immediately, wincing against the pain. “Ugh. That’s - unprecedented. And I mean that, it may be literally without precedent.”
“I believe you’re correct, milord,” Ricard said. “Nevertheless, they provided their services. The only thing they asked in exchange was that you come back for an examination or two once you’ve recovered.”
Michael’s eyes narrowed. “Ricard,” he said warily, “what aren’t you telling me? Why would the Institute take such an interest in my welfare?”
“I’ve no notion of why, milord,” Ricard said. “I’m only thankful that they have.” He smiled again, small but warm. “But that’s not a concern for today. You should eat before anything else, I imagine you’ll find your appetite soon.”
“I believe you’re correct,” Michael said. He wasn’t precisely hungry, but he did have an empty sort of feeling under his ribs that struck him as worrisome. “Maybe something bland at first, I don’t want to send myself back to bed again.”
Ricard nodded, his eyes twinkling. “I’ll attempt to restrain Helene,” he said, “but I can’t promise anything. She’ll be so relieved to hear you’re up.” His face sobered, and he looked down at Michael. “We were all quite worried, for a span.”
Michael reached out to grab Ricard’s hand, giving it a squeeze. “Thank you, Ricard,” he said. “For being here when I woke.” He forced a smile. “It’s nice to know that someone was hoping I’d pull through.”
The elderly manservant squeezed his hand in return, turning to leave for the kitchen - quickly, but not quite fast enough that Michael missed the tear on his cheek. He paused just ahead of the doorway, seeming to weigh something in his head. Finally, he spoke.
“He offered to pay,” Ricard said. “Word gets around, among we servants, and I know a few sets of open ears at the Institute. When he saw you weren’t recovering, he told them he’d find the money, borrow it if he had to. It didn’t come to that, thankfully - but he did offer.”
Ricard paused, then left before Michael could muster a response - which was just as well, given that he didn’t know quite what he could say to that.
In the end, after a bowl of light porridge and some diced figs that Helene had added past Ricard’s objections, he folded his hands and looked out the window. The sun shone down, bright and clear, and he could see a wisp of cloud scudding by in the distance.
“…huh,” Michael said.
—
After a few contemplative moments Michael freed himself from his bed and washed, feeling almost awake by the time he finished. Ricard returned in time to help him dress. He set to scolding Michael for even thinking of walking so quickly after his injuries - but given the threat of his charge tottering through the house in nothing but nightclothes the manservant had been forced to relent.
Michael was actually feeling much better than a dead man had any right to feel, despite the nagging pains across his back and shoulders. None of them seemed more than superficial, no doubt thanks to the Institute’s anatomens. The thought gave him a shiver. His imagination lingered on the idea of a woman’s fingers, bloodstained, tracing through the ruin of his back while flesh knit together in their wake.
He felt suddenly glad that he had fallen senseless; by all accounts the process was excruciating beyond belief.
After enduring a bit more fuss from Ricard he managed to walk out of his chambers looking plausibly human, albeit a rather ungainly specimen due to the bandages he wore like a tortuous undershirt. Michael made it twelve steps down the hall before he heard the rustling of cloth and the scrape of a chair from the study.
His ears barely registered the sound. The razor-edged focus of his father’s soul had flooded out into the hallway the instant before, throwing him back into the horrid white-walled room with his hands locked to a post, the lash slowly flaying his back. He smelled blood and acid on his breath, the cool disinfectant tang of the Institute and the leather of their whips.
He saw the void, stretched out in front of him. It wiped all thought from his mind, left him frozen like a flushed animal before the hunt. Footsteps sounded, walking across the study towards the door. Michael tried to clear his mind, slow his breathing, to at least affect a veneer of calm.
Nothing he did drew his mind away from the flensing edge of his father’s soul. It had abraded him down to nothing in that room, broken him. His mind’s eye could not tear itself from the insubstantial blades - and yet as the footsteps drew closer the implicit threat filling the air seemed to fade away.
Michael frowned as his mind recovered its footing, trying to figure out what precisely had changed in his father’s usually-stifling presence - and quickly slid his face back into pleasant neutrality as the door burst open. His father stood practically crackling with energy, his eyes snapping up and down to take in Michael’s clean and dressed state.
After a moment, Karl let out a breath. “So, you’re up,” he said. “The anatomens said she’d be surprised if you were out of bed within a week.” He took a step to the side, tilting his head to look at Michael from another angle. Finally, he grunted and shook his head. “Whatever you’ve got, it’s damn subtle. Worked it out yet?”
“I don’t feel any different,” Michael said, speaking with deliberate slowness so that the tone of his voice didn’t stray from his control. A horrible thought occurred to him, worming its way to his tongue before he could clamp down on it. “Are they sure it-” He bit back the remaining words, too late.
His father looked down at him with a cool expression for half a moment - then gave a strange little smile, self-amused and fleeting. “They ran the normal tests,” Karl said. “Three times, as a matter of fact. You blew out two of their animetry kits before they found one that could take a proper reading.”
Michael’s mouth felt unaccountably dry. “I’m not sure I understand,” he said. “Why don’t I feel any different, then? Is it something that happens over time?”
Karl snorted. “Hardly. Control comes with time, but power never changes.” He gave Michael another evaluating look. “It just means that you’ve got something less obvious. Not Form, and probably not Light. Those are never subtle, especially with a strong bestowal.”
His face went oddly blank for a moment. The blades around them stirred, and Michael froze. He didn’t have to ask what was wrong. Unbidden, his mind dusted off old memories of screams in the night, blood dripping from bed-linens and collecting in pools on the floor.
Karl took a deep breath, and the pressure disappeared. The hallway air lost its sharp edge, and Michael dared to breathe in once more. Tentatively, he looked up at his father, whose hard-edged face was still blank.
“I’ve done wrong by you,” he said quietly. Michael’s eyes widened. Karl met his gaze. “Took me until now to see it. I had a duty, as your father, and I’ve been too lost in my own head to give you what you needed.” He shook his head, then placed his hand gently on Michael’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, son.”
Son. Save for a few rare instances when he was very young, Michael’s father had treated him more as a guest in his house, and more often than not one whose welcome was wearing thin. The word seemed to resonate in his chest, choking his breath until he didn’t trust himself to do more than look up at his father and smile.
Karl squeezed his shoulder once, leaning in close. “You were a child when we went to the Institute for the first time, now you’re what - nearly twenty-two? Five years that we’ve been letting those Institute men tickle you. If I’d been doing my job as a father I would have seen that you were too strong for their tripe. I’d have walked in and whipped a soul into you on the first day.” The warm feeling in Michael’s chest stuttered to a halt, and he felt a blade gently brush against his throat once more.
His father withdrew his hand and turned back towards his study, shaking his head. “That would have saved us both some trouble,” he said ruefully. “But now that we know your measure - I’ll inform the Institute that you’re well again, and we’ll return tomorrow for your testing.”
He gave Michael one final look, then walked back into his study. As the heavy door eased shut, the air in the hallway seemed chill, stale. After a moment, Michael turned to walk back the way he came. The sunshine lancing through the windows had not faded, but suddenly he wanted nothing more than to lay back down and sleep.
—
He would have slept poorly, had his condition been better - as it was, he woke to Ricard gently touching his shoulder, peering down with a concerned expression. The manservant looked relieved for a moment when Michael’s eyes fluttered open, then his mouth curved into a pensive frown.
“I’d let you rest, milord, but the coach is due to leave before the next bell.” He pursed his lips, looking off towards the window. “Come on, get washed up and I’ll lay out something for your visit.”
“Right,” Michael muttered, stumbling towards the washroom. “Breakfast?”
There was a silvery ping as Ricard tapped a cloche on the nightstand. “Helene made you more than you’ll have time to eat, I’m afraid,” he said. “I fear if she can’t feed you a proper meal sometime soon she’s liable to take matters into her own hands.”
Michael snorted, shaking stray droplets of water from his hands. “I’ll make sure to drop by the kitchens once we’re back,” he said. “It wouldn’t do to have me wake up half past midnight to find her at my bedside brandishing half a chicken.”
“Best to nip these problems in the bud, milord.” Ricard’s eyes twinkled as Michael emerged yawning from the washroom, although worry still haunted the corners of his eyes. “Are you sure you’re feeling up to the exertion? If you said something-”
“Best to nip these problems in the bud,” Michael replied wryly. “He’s not a patient man, Ricard, and he very much wants to know what manner of soul he’s inflicted on me. I suspect he’s worried it will be something womanly - or worse, something dull.”
Ricard’s brows drew together, then he let out a sigh. “You’re right, of course. Just promise me you won’t strain yourself so soon after your convalescence.”
“It can hardly be worse than my previous visit,” Michael muttered, a touch more darkly than he had intended. He regretted it almost immediately when he saw the look on Ricard’s face, but then the sound of hooves came from outside and there was no more time for conversation. He dressed quickly enough to avoid inquiries from his father and hurried downstairs, Ricard brushing at lint on his shoulders until he was over the threshold and walking towards the coach.
His father was already waiting inside, of course, and had the driver start away before the door had fully shut. In contrast to the stormy mood he had cultivated on their last visit, Karl simply felt nervous - which meant that he was irritable, sullen and silent for the duration of the ride.
Michael contented himself with looking out the windows once more as they rode. The lines of workmen were the same, as were the throngs of merchants and their clientele conducting their business. Nothing had changed from the other day, but as he watched the bustle felt…
Empty.
He watched an older woman frowning at a box of fruit, her withered fingers lightly tracing over the produce while the merchant scowled. A drunkard slouched against a wall, one shoe missing and blood trailing from his bare foot. A cadre of four soldiers spotted him and walked close, their leader making some jeering remark that sent the others into humorless laughter.
Then they were past, and those people disappeared from Michael’s life. Did they fear the dark that he had seen, or even know that it existed? He knew that there were those among the masses that believed each man had a low soul of their own, and that living a meritorious life would bring rebirth with the promise of a higher soul to come.
There were others still that taught that the valorous were the source of souls, and that each soul was the shade of some past hero seeking to right the wrongs visited upon them in life. Only a few damp corners of the highlands still clung to beliefs like that, as any schoolchild could tell you that the number of souls in the world remained precisely fixed regardless of how much valor humanity wrung out of itself - a bit over three-and-a-half million, it was estimated, even as the world’s population crept to hundreds of times that.
Michael didn’t need statistics to know that the old beliefs were wrong, though. He had stood face-to-face with his End. He was mere meat and bone, or had been. Now he was…
Well, with any luck he would find out shortly. The gates of the Institute pulled him out of his maudlin thoughts and set him up with a mild case of nerves, which only increased as he walked through the antiseptic grounds of the facility and into the main hall.
The same assistant was there to greet them, or a man so alike that Michael had no hope of telling the difference. His voice carried the same flavorless tone as he bowed to Karl - and then again to Michael.
He blinked, giving an automatic nod in response to the gesture, then followed along behind his father once more as the man led them off into the trackless warrens of the building’s north wing. He was going to have to get used to being the second Lord Baumgart in more than name, now. It was an odd thought, having status that didn’t derive solely from his father’s.
The walk was short, this time, ending in a roomy conference suite with a wooden table and high-backed chairs. The floor was a rich hardwood layered over with a colorful Mendiko rug that likely cost more than their carriage.
It was a language that people of means used with one another, and this room screamed at Michael that he was insignificant, he was weak, and that he should be grateful that his betters were allowing him to luxuriate in their finery. It was enough like home to bring a faint smile to his lips, one he banished when he heard more footsteps entering behind them.
Michael was at least well-mannered enough to stand by his chair and let the others find their own seats before he indulged his curiosity. There were three who had entered - a short, rotund man in an unobtrusive yet painfully well-made suit, as well as two women a bit older than Michael wearing businesslike dresses. One was gracile and tow-headed, while the other wore short dark hair and moved with a noticeable athleticism.
The women took their seats first, and as the three men followed suit Michael saw that the blonde woman’s eyes were clouded and milky. Only the faintest suggestion of sky-blue irises showed under the cornea - although for all of her apparent blindness, she returned his gaze and offered an amused-seeming smile.
He looked away, suddenly uncomfortable, and focused instead on the man in the suit. He wore a short, bristly mustache and was bald save for a few tufts of grey huddled around his ears. He smiled at Michael and his father in turn, then spread his hands wide.
“My Lords Baumgart,” he said cheerily. “Welcome back - and, congratulations.” His eyes slid to Michael, who suddenly felt quite exposed. “It isn’t often that we’re caught flat-footed, here, but you’ve had us in quite a stir.” He smiled, but did not wait for a response.
“For the young lord’s benefit, let us have some introductions,” he said. “I am Marcus Essen, director of the Institute’s research into applied animetry.” Michael managed to avoid reacting to the title, although it was much loftier than he had expected. His heart began to beat more quickly - what had he landed himself in, that a director of the Institute was taking time out of his day?
He wrestled his thoughts back on track in time to offer a polite nod and look expectantly to the two women as Marcus continued speaking. “This is Vera Reuss and her assistant, Sofia Altenbach. Vera has been gracious enough to lend us some of her time today so that we might delve into your circumstances more thoroughly.”
Michael inclined his head to the two women, but noticed that his father had gone somewhat stiff beside him. He looked up and saw that the color had gone from his face, the skin beginning to bead with sweat.
“Director, I’m honored,” he said, his voice betraying none of his evident discomfort as he turned to face the blond woman. “Lady Reuss. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you in person.”
She smiled again, her eyes settling uncannily on him before flicking back to Michael once more. “Likewise,” she said. “I must admit, I was eager to make your acquaintance. There are things you can only see face-to-face.”
Michael’s confusion at hearing that statement from a blind woman must have shown, because her smile grew wider still. “Oh, Marcus, he’s delightful,” she said. “I can’t even bear to be coy.” She leaned across the table and extended her hand to Michael, who took it on reflex.
“Pleasure to meet you, Michael Baumgart,” she said. “Glad to see you’re on the mend. I had the chance to talk to the anatomens who saw to you the other day - Sofia’s cousin Isolde, actually. She said you were in quite a state when they brought her down.”
Michael looked at Sofia, whose expression clearly indicated that she was not to be an active part of this conversation. “I’m very grateful,” he said carefully. “Are you two also…?”
Vera actually laughed, while everyone else in the room looked strangely discomfited. “You may be the highlight of my week,” she said. “No, we’re not. Sofia is an ordinator, she’s got quite a gift.”
He nodded slowly, some things slotting into place. Souls on the Truth axis were rare compared to Form and Light, but highly sought-after in nearly every field. Having an assistant like Sofia meant never worrying about notes or sums, never forgetting vital information or fretting over disconnected ideas.
Michael took Sofia’s hint, though, and turned his attention back to Vera. “And you, my Lady?”
Her face took on a mischievous aspect. “Why - I’m Sibyl.”
Michael’s heart took a brief rest, then resumed beating with a vengeance. She was one of the Eight. One of the Eight was here for him. His brain fuzzed even as his mouth soldiered onward, mindful that the next word in the conversation was his.
“Oh,” he said weakly.
Vera let out another delighted peal of laughter, while Marcus joined in with a wheezing chuckle of his own. “Sometimes that’s the only good response when the Eight are involved,” he said. “But yes, occasionally Sofia is kind enough to make time on Sibyl’s schedule for us. In this case we barely even had to beg.”
“It’s hardly difficult to get my attention,” Vera said. “And I always make time for novelty. Besides, it’s not as though it’s a burden on my time - I can tell you already he’s not one of mine.”
Marcus furrowed his brow. “Degree of certainty?” he asked.
“Extreme,” Vera replied, giving him a reproachful look. “His brain activity is normal, considering his baseline and recent injuries. Responses to sensory stimuli are normal, reaction time is normal, and he didn’t spot when I lied to him.”
There was a moment of quiet while the men in the room frowned - Michael wondered if they were pondering her analysis or, like him, simply rerunning the conversation in their heads after her last statement.
“So not Truth - and not Form or Light, I expect,” Marcus mused, receiving a nod of confirmation from Vera. “Well, that’s that. If he’s Life then I suppose we’ll have to wait for Josef. He already had a trip planned that would see him here from Bladesday next, fortunately. It shouldn’t be too hard to cadge some of his time, especially if he takes an interest.”
The words skated by Michael’s ears unheard after the first sentence. Souls on the Life axis were vanishingly rare, with few of the clear-cut rules that defined the other alignments. The anatomens that had healed him was one such, but others dealt with aspects of the mind or things pertaining to farming and husbandry.
Amid his thoughts, his father had gone very still once more. “Spark is coming here?” Karl asked, an unusual waver creeping into his voice. “The Assembly restricted his trips to the mainland for a reason. There were - incidents, the last time he was in Calmharbor.”
Vera shrugged. “There are arrangements to be made, as ever. In this case you don’t have to worry.” She flashed Michael a slight smile. “I’ll be keeping a particularly close eye on your son for the near future, and if anything untoward were to happen to him I would know.”
For a moment, as she spoke her last word, an ineffable bond was loosed and Michael was awash in Vera’s soul. If his father’s soul was a swarm of sharp edges, Vera’s was simply the profound knowledge that you were seen. Michael had felt the sensation of eyes on his back before, but now they came from every conceivable angle. Every twitch of a muscle, every breath, every heartbeat was known, observed, and eternally remembered. It was all-seeing, all-knowing, inescapable-
And then it stopped, leaving Vera smiling pleasantly across the table at his father without an ounce of warmth in her clouded eyes.
Karl recovered quickly, sketching a quick bow. “I - appreciate your vigilance, Sibyl,” he said, although Michael did not miss the tightness of his jaw when he spoke. “I feel confident none would test it.”
“You’d think,” Vera said, looking amused, her eyes sliding to Michael. “But, a spot of good news - although I’m rather useless at divining the particulars of souls on the Life axis, I can at least confirm the data from the animetry tests - whatever you’ve got, it’s potent.”
Her smile faded. “Very potent,” she muttered. “Actually, Marcus, it’s enough that I want to confirm something.” She crooked a finger, and Sofia stood to grab a carafe of iced water and a glass from a side table. The attendant poured and handed the glass to Vera, who took a sip and smiled.
“Mmm, so,” she said, still looking at Michael. Her eyes sharpened, the echo of her bared soul seeming to linger in the air. “There is water, and there is ice. What is the ice doing?”
Michael blinked. “Melting?” he said.
“Indeed. Slowly melting away.” She stirred the ice with a finger and pushed the glass towards Michael. “Think about the ice, about it becoming water. The slow inevitability of it. Envision the path from now to then.”
Her words had taken on a droning quality, and Michael found himself unaccountably drawn to the glass, still spinning gently from Vera’s stir. The ice caught the light in gentle sparkles, and he let his mind linger on it like she had commanded.
“Keep that image in your head,” Vera said, “and tell it to melt.”
He heard his father startle beside him, sucking in a quick breath - evidently he had fathomed the purpose of the test. Michael had not, and so felt vaguely ridiculous when he stared at the ice and spoke: “Melt.”
It did, albeit not any faster than it had before.
Vera made a small, satisfied noise and pulled the glass back, exchanging a significant look with Marcus. “Ah, well,” she sighed. “Had to check.”
She got up from her chair, looking faintly amused as the three men in the room followed suit. Sofia rose in a more leisurely fashion, collecting a few small things from the table. Vera turned to Michael one last time and inclined her head.
“I expect we’ll be hearing much about you in the coming years,” she said. “Enjoy your final days of relative anonymity while they last. Or…” Her smile slowly crept back, and she glanced at Sofia. “If you’d rather get a head start on your ensouled life, I host a small dinner on Arbordays. Short notice, but my usual guests would be glad of an unusual one.”
Sofia jotted a quick line of text down on the sheet and handed it to Vera, who extended it to Michael in turn. He took it - an address, and a time.
“No need to give me your answer now - or at all, for that matter.” The brief flutter of her soul brushed over the room, prickling the hair on Michael’s neck. “I’m rarely surprised. Gentlemen - good day.”
The two women walked out, followed after some parting pleasantries by Marcus. There was a pause while Karl stared silently out the window. His face was inscrutable, which was normally sign enough that he was worried. After another moment, he beckoned Michael and began walking towards their coach.
Comments
TMarkos
Shhhh, you'll ruin the surprise before we can get to the creamy filling.
I can see it now. His soul alignment is becoming clear. He is channeling Hostess™ he is the famed and rare Wonder Bread: Blandest of them all
