Chapter 52: Horizons

The asymmetry of time is its cruelest aspect. We may look back and see the ebb and flow of events, but not forward; we walk blindly through moments, never realizing that they are the most important of our lives. Only after long years do we recognize them for what they were - though we cannot see but the faintest glimpse of them now, through the dull haze of memory.

What would it be, to live the apex of one’s life with that knowledge? To experience love’s first kiss backed by the weight of all that follows, to see in a discovery the vast sweep of knowledge it unlocks?

It is a cold comfort that I should begin to pierce the veil now. I cannot help but see the authority with which each day unfolds, the weight of each leaden moment. The path curves ahead, stretching into the distance - but the ache builds in my feet, and I know the horizon is not meant for me.

- Leire Gabarain, Annals of the Sixteenth Star, 693.

Michael rounded a turn in the garden pathway, keeping his pace brisk. Tall walls of crystal surrounded its rooftop course, leaving it exposed to the sky above - a sanctuary for Leire, but she had yielded its use to her guests rather than constrain them inside for the past week. The air was thick with the smell of late summer flowers and the sweet rot of fallen fruit; flies buzzed here and there amid the greenery where the scattered trees had yielded berries and stonefruit, unharvested. It brought a frown to Michael’s lips, and his pace slowed. In his mind he saw the neat rows of Jeorg’s orchard, overgrown with brambles and swarming with insects as his perfect trees dropped their bounty to the ground - if they still stood. For all he knew, Spark’s agents had burned the whole valley out of spite. The ruined garden in his mind spun alight, and for a moment he wandered amid the torn fields just as he had on Braun Island, his mind a bleeding wound-

“Michael!” Antolin’s voice shouted from behind.

He shook himself and turned to look at Antolin; the marshal was in his customary jacket despite the sun overhead, though the heat did not seem to trouble him. “Antolin,” he said, returning the greeting. “What brings you up here?” He paused, listening to the dim hum of stress from the other man. “Seeing the Grand Marshal here to talk to me in person is worrying, I admit.”

Antolin snorted, drawing to a stop just shy of Michael. “Don’t talk to me of worry,” he muttered. “Every day I spend here brings me two days closer to death. But it’s unavoidable; I’m here to ask you for your help.”

“My help?” Michael said, incredulous. “What could I possibly do to help you?”

The marshal raised one thick brow, pursing his lips together. “I need you and your friends to leave Goitxea,” he said, holding up a hand to forestall Michael’s objection. “The Batzar convened again yesterday. Mendoza has been fed the rumor that you hold the Sculptor’s soul. He’s calling for inquiries, and I won’t be able to hold them at bay forever.” He jerked his head irritatedly at the stairs leading back down to the compound. “She doesn’t want to concede any ground to Mendoza, but the batzarkideak have scented blood. Leire is exposed.”

“How would leaving change any of that?” Michael asked. “She effectively lied to them, although it was a lie of omission. You told her this would happen.”

“Not in so many words.” Antolin sighed, running a hand through his hair. “But yes. She’s more stubborn than any of those old goats, and she can’t believe that they’d violate the sanctity of her home. Until recently I would have agreed with her. Now-” He shook his head, then met Michael’s eyes. “She thinks I mother her too much, that I exaggerate the danger. I won’t be able to convince her. You, though - you can demand it. Tell Leire you wish to relocate to Estu, south of the strait. It’s close to Daressa, and far from here. Once you’re both gone from the capital, Mendoza’s threats turn back to bluster; Estu is largely a military city. The governor of that province is my subordinate. You will be safe - all of you.”

Michael tilted his head, feeling the weight of the marshal’s words, the certainty. “For how long?” he asked.

Something changed in the other man’s eyes. “One year,” he said quietly. “Perhaps two.”

The unspoken rationale was written on Antolin’s face - one year, perhaps two, and Leire would be dead. Michael would gain Stellar; his return to Mendian would be inexorable law. “And until then?”

“Your time is yours,” Antolin sighed. “Support the Daressan partisans, learn the intricacies of your soul - take up knitting, if it pleases you.” His eyes narrowed, and he looked to the side. “Leire will have suggestions. I have a few of my own. Ultimately, however, the time you spend in Estu will build the foundation of your tenure here. You should spend at least some of it to that end.”

Michael frowned. “I don’t want you to mistake me,” he said. “I have no ambition for power in Mendian. I accepted Leire’s offer because it was the best of poor choices, and the only one I could see that benefited my friends.”

“Your power in Mendian is what will benefit them,” Antolin said. “Daressa will not be freed in a month, nor in a year. The Star that shines over a free country will not be Leire. But when we lose her, we lose her power, her legend. People fear her, and rightly so.” He looked down at Michael. “Forgive me for saying so, but you do not inspire much of anything at the moment. Your show of resurrecting the Goitxeako Arbola was impressive, but it was a parlor trick meant to distract; more is required for respect, and respect is required for your aims.”

“You said you have something in mind,” Michael said. “I’d like to hear it, because my grasp of the Mendiko political landscape is somewhat limited.”

Antolin sighed and began to walk; Michael fell in beside him, slowly pacing down the garden path. “I have never been a great believer in fate,” he said. “But there does seem to be a conjunction of events at work here. The timing of Mendoza’s objection is suspicious.” He reached into his breast pocket and withdrew a folded paper, holding it out to Michael. “We received this four days ago from the Safid consulate in Goitxea.”

Michael took the paper and unfolded it; it was a short missive in a neat and flowing hand - one that set his heart pounding. “This is Saleh’s writing,” he said. “I recognize it from his book.”

Antolin nodded. “That was our assessment as well. It’s not unheard of for him to write his own communiques, but this one-” He gestured. “You may be interested to read it.”

A dull cold bloomed in Michael’s chest as he turned his attention back to the page, holding it flat to let the light fall upon Saleh’s words.

My dear northern friends,

 

I bear no ill will towards your country; though we have disagreements of philosophy, I know they are not rooted in malice. We both share a history of conflict with the Gharic peoples that has shaped our present state, and it is in that spirit that I write to you today.

 

A young Ardan man came to me some time ago claiming that you had been misled by Ardalt, and that your unfortunate action against our naval forces was due to a terrible deception they had laid in the ruins of Leik. I still believe this to be true, and hold no grudge in my heart - for I, too, have fallen victim to Ardan lies.

 

The young man, whose name is Michael Baumgart, persuaded me to aid him in reaching your country so that he might help to redress this injustice wrought upon my people. Foolishly, I agreed - I sped him northward to Esrou, and must assume that he has passed your borders by the time this message finds you.

 

What I did not know is that he had hidden the nature of his soul. He claims the soul of the Caller, and does in fact bear that soul - but through my resources in Ardalt I have discovered a terrible truth. Michael Baumgart also bears the soul of the Speaker, and many more besides, ripped from the corpses of those bound to him by love or enmity. He is the son of Karl Baumgart, the architect of the deception at Leik, and I believe his purpose in Mendian is part of further Ardan depravity; having used you to cripple Saf’s forces, he now seeks to throw Mendian into chaos so that Ardalt may act unimpeded.

 

I know that you spurn the teachings of our Book, and do not ask that you heed them now - but the Safid have long feared the coming of one such as Michael Baumgart. Our oldest texts name his soul as the heart-eater, the breaker of paths, one who profanes the sacred by his very existence. It is in his nature to seek power and corrupt the righteous.

 

I fervently hope that this missive finds you before he works the soul of the Speaker upon you to secure himself in power. He is subtle - I did not notice the press of his will upon my mind, and he seemed as no more than an unassuming young man. Do not let yourselves be deceived, friends - he is a blight that will spread and grow beyond all reckoning if left to fester.

 

I am confident that the strength of the Mendiko will be sufficient to contain this evil and banish it from the world. Know, however: should this evil take root in Mendian and seek to spread its foul grasp from your shores - Saf will answer with every scrap of will we may muster, and lay Michael Baumgart’s victims to rest with the dignity and respect they deserve.

 

In faith,

Saleh Taskin

 

Michael stared at the paper for a long moment, then looked up at Antolin. The marshal’s face was grim.

“Well,” Michael said. “That’s unfortunate.”

Antolin snorted. “Saleh Taskin is an expert rhetorician. He fills his role to perfection in every performance, sincere or wrought from lies as they may be. I expect that this is not the only copy of this letter, and that at least one has made it into Mendoza’s hands.”

Michael folded the letter and handed it back to Antolin. “I take it from your suggestion to flee the city that we can’t just explain the truth,” he sighed.

“Taskin’s letter is the truth, save for your devious intentions,” Antolin pointed out. “And none will believe you if you contradict him, as he has implied that you used the soul of the Sculptor to secure your passage north. Leire cannot defend you because she has spent time alone in your presence; I cannot for the same reason. Submitting ourselves for public testing will only legitimize their claims.”

“He’s turned Leire’s plan against her,” Michael muttered. “We - shit. We really can’t stay here, can we? The closer we are to the Batzar, the more we’ll play into Saleh’s narrative.” He frowned. “Won’t they pursue this even if we leave, though? I’ll still be close to Leire - and you, presumably. Saleh could easily cast that as an attempt to co-opt your forces.”

Antolin shook his head. “His ability to manipulate us is thankfully limited; Mendoza cannot reveal the source of his suspicions without drawing his own motivations into doubt. The best course of action is to defang him by taking you away from the city. Leire and I will submit ourselves for testing once safely in Estu.”

“That will hardly allay his suspicions,” Michael noted.

“Quite right. More is needed. Taskin has implied that you work to corrupt Mendian, and Mendoza’s faction fear this will make us vulnerable. You must show that you are Mendian’s strength instead.” Antolin stopped and turned to face Michael. “Go forth with us against the Safid forces in Daressa. Use the resolution Leire bought us to push them from their positions and help your friends. Taskin’s letter will seem a self-serving attempt to sabotage your efforts once it becomes clear that its contents benefit him alone.”

Michael stood still for a moment, staring up at Antolin’s resolute expression. “That is - more or less what I had planned on doing,” he said. “Although I hadn’t articulated it that well in my head. Only - I was under the impression that it would be my task to convince you, not the other way around.”

There was a pause; Antolin’s lips curved up in a smile that showed white, even teeth. “I am Leire’s man,” he said. “She has done more for Mendian in sunlight and shadows both than any other Star. Saleh Taskin is anathema to her life’s work; now he seeks to twist her legacy into fear and infighting to make an opportunity of her death. He seeks to subvert Mendian for his own ends. He seeks to make me watch while he does this.”

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Michael felt Antolin’s emotions slide into a single, pure reverberating note of calm, his smile a death’s-head rictus. “I can think of no greater honor,” he said, “than to present his head to my dearest friend, so that she might know peace before her light fades.”

“Batten hatches!” the airman called, his boots tromping down the long metal gangway; Michael watched the ground crew pull the ramp away. A vibration shuddered through the ship, a low rumble that chattered his teeth together and evoked a droning sympathetic buzz from all around them.

Sobriquet’s hand gripped onto his forearm, tight as a shackle.

“Ow,” Michael said mildly. “We’re not even off the ground yet.”

“You can’t see what they’re doing,” she muttered. “So many Embers, and the envelope up top is so thin-” Michael felt her shudder. “One well-aimed shell, one loose rivet and we’ll topple from the sky.”

“Yet they take the ship into combat with some regularity,” Michael replied. “Leire seems to have survived.”

She shot him an annoyed glance. “I’m aware,” she said. “And I thought that this monstrosity must be quite durable for them to trust her to it, but no - from what I can see, it is a loosely-bound collection of fire, blades and scalding steam that is held together mostly by Mendiko optimism.”

“I will pass on your design critique to Antolin when I see him next,” Michael said. “Besides, we’re just going across the strait to Estu. We’ll be over water for most of the trip, so if we fall-”

“I would advise leaving that sentence unfinished,” Sobriquet said, closing her eyes. “Just - let me sit here quietly and ignore our inevitable demise.”

Michael opened his mouth to reply, then thought better of it and laid his free hand over Sobriquet’s. Her grip on him softened, and he slid his arm free.

“I’m going to go to the observation deck,” he said. She gave a quick jerk of her head in acknowledgement, her lips pressed firmly together and jaw set.

The vibrations intensified as he walked up towards the forward gallery; when he reached the vast semicircle of its windows he was surprised to note that they were already some distance from the ground. The shale-grey waters of the strait stretched out to the horizon, with the barest sliver of land visible amid the haze - Esrou, and the continent beyond.

“Fifteen years since we built this monstrosity,” Leire said from behind him. “I never get tired of watching it soar.”

Michael turned; she was sitting in an enclosed balcony near the rear of the room. Like her house, the airship had a parallel maze of shielded rooms and corridors specifically for her use. He walked to a chair near her platform and sat, watching the land drop away beneath them.

“I really am sorry,” he said.

Leire gave a derisive snort. “For what? For dragging me down to Estu?” She laughed; Michael heard the creak of her chair as she shifted. “You may have been the one to ask, but I know Antolin is using you to nursemaid me. It’s not the first time he’s done it, and it won’t be-”

She broke off, her emotions wavering within the white-hot glow of her soul. “Well,” she said. “It’s not the first time, at any rate.” She shifted in her chair once more. “I suppose it’s for the best. Your friends must be eager to make their way towards Daressa once more.”

Michael nodded. “They are,” he said. “With the possible exception of Luc. I think he’d stay in your villa forever if you let him.”

“In some ways,” Leire said, “it is more important that he depart the capital than you. He troubles me.”

“Luc?” Michael asked incredulously. “Troubles you?”

There was a long pause. “His theory about José’s motivations in exchanging your hands has the ring of truth to it. It’s not an experiment we would have considered, but - the principles behind it are sound, especially if the Sculptor were used to reinforce that connection.”

A shiver murmured down Michael’s back. “You think he, what - tried to imprint an affinity on us?”

Leire made a noncommittal noise. “It’s usually considered impossible to impose affinity externally; it’s easy enough to encourage via controlled circumstances that few have tried. José always had a more - fluid understanding of the relationship between mind, body and soul.”

She paused, seeming to intuit Michael’s unasked question. “Yes, we corresponded. I never met him; unlike you, he was never allowed to bear his soul into Mendian. Jeorg encouraged him to write to me, and pleaded with me to entertain his questions - and in truth, I found him to be surprisingly insightful. I kept my correspondence with him for several years.”

“What ended it?” Michael asked.

“A slip,” Leire said. “He included copies of his research notes in some letters, as context or to solicit my opinion. I began to notice - discontinuities. Leaps of logic that came suddenly, premises blithely stated that I found to be outlandish or misguided. It became clear that he was redacting something from his notes; given his past, his soul and the nature of his research I was concerned. I wrote to Jeorg with my suspicions. Only a month later, José drove him from his directorship.”

She cleared her throat. “Suffice to say that his research was never constrained by the boundaries of ethics or morality; I scarcely need to tell you that. I have no doubt that his understanding of souls advanced tremendously in the decades he spent on that island. The value he placed on your soul is clear, as is the monstrous skill he would have required to exchange your hand with Luc’s. We must assume that his intent was to place a lasting bond between you and a more-biddable host for your soul, and I would never wager against that man’s talent in achieving his aims.”

Michael nodded slowly, turning away from the window to look at Leire; her face was drawn and pale. “So you feel certain that Luc would gain my soul, should I die - and the others I carry within me?”

“There are no certainties on the frontiers of science,” Leire sighed. “But yes, I would assume that to be the case. His acquisition of your souls would be calamitous. He is too eager to please, too governed by fear. Had he been in your place, that first day within our borders, he would have been kept sedated for the rest of his natural lifespan in a quiet, dark room.”

The shiver in Michael’s spine spread into his gut. “That was the plan for me if I failed your test?”

“Ideally,” Leire said, her face calm and expressionless. “Or death.” A rueful smile tugged at her lips. “Don’t give me that look, boy. You know the stakes. Your soul is a gamble with catastrophe; you are alive because you’ve convinced me the benefit outweighs the risk.”

“So you mean to kill Luc?” Michael rasped. “Or to lock him in your dark room, never to awaken?”

She shrugged. “For now, he is not a threat. That test will be for you, and Antolin, and all of the others who continue when I am gone. Men change. Perhaps under the gentle wear of decades Luc will find his peace. We may stand to benefit from José’s atrocity, distasteful as it is.”

Michael turned to look out the window once more. “I wouldn’t wish this soul upon him even so,” he said. “He deserves that peace. His life has been hard, and my soul would only harm him.”

“It may be that he lives his full life and passes on before your time comes,” Leire conceded. “That’s probably simpler. But I would not let him stray far from your sight, over the years. If death finds you sooner than you expect, he will be the epicenter of a calamity. Your friends, your comrades and lieutenants - you will need to tell them everything, so that they can act to contain him should the worst occur.”

“Couldn’t we reverse it?” Michael asked. “Undo the bond? Even if it meant losing our hands, it’s a worthy sacrifice for a life.”

Another smile flitted across Leire’s face. “A noble thought,” she said. “But no. The paints are mixed; the brush knows only one color. Only death ends affinity. For the bond to break, the mote of human consciousness that anchors it must disappear.”

Her words struck a chord in Michael; his hand came up to rub against his breastbone. “What if that mote never disappears?” he asked.

She barked out a laugh. “A bit early to be aspiring to immortality,” she said. “You can’t hope to contain your soul forever. Inevitably-” She broke off at the look in his eyes, the lines in her face deepening. “You didn’t intend that as a hypothetical.”

Michael shook his head slowly; Leire leaned forward in her chair.

“Speak,” she said quietly. “Right now. Say it plainly.”

“My soul - changed, recently,” he said. “When Sera’s sister died. Clair. She had no soul, and I could feel her slipping away. There was nothing I could grasp to hold her here, and I asked - my soul. The same way I did when Jeorg died, I asked it to save her from the void beyond life.”

Leire’s eyes narrowed, but she said nothing. Michael licked his lips and took a breath.

“It saved something from her. A warm light inside me, something that feels like Clair. It was the same when Vincent died, his soul came along with - him.” Michael shook his head. “Just those two. I can feel them inside me, and others can feel their presence if I try.”

Slowly, Leire sat back in her chair. “Interesting,” she murmured, although Michael could feel the twist of her emotion behind that calm facade. “There have been theories about - gizakien arimak, is the term. Low souls. Consciousness has a very tenuous basis in biology, and we’ve long searched-” She shook her head, glaring at Michael. “I need my library! I have books, notes, letters-”

She sighed and slumped back into her chair. “I hate you, Michael Baumgart,” she murmured. “To give me everything I want but time; to taunt me with mysteries that only my death will answer. Your existence is the most infuriating salvation I could have imagined.”

Michael rose uncertainly from his seat. “I’m sorry?” he ventured. “I didn’t intend-”

“Sit,” she rasped. “You do not get to leave so conveniently after whetting my appetite. Speak in detail of the low souls you carry, begin with descriptions of how it felt to acquire them.” She reached down beside her chair for a sheaf of paper and a much-used pen, holding them poised over the broad armrest of her chair. Her eyes fixed on him, expectant.

“Um,” Michael said. “The first was Clair’s, as I said. She had been shot in the throat…”

He spoke, hesitantly at first, but the scratching of Leire’s pen melded with the drone of the airship’s engines; an odd peace came over him as he recounted the horrors of his journey northward. Outside and around, the clouds streamed by - and with every moment, the dark mass of the continent consumed more of the south horizon.

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