Chapter 95: Dulled and Chipped

I did not choose this path out of desire. I would have done anything else before I took a life, but the doctor robbed me of that choice when he affixed your hand on my arm. It binds me inescapably to your flames, which burn hotter with every passing day.

It is the same fire the world will taste in your passing. I know you do not seek destruction, or death, but what you are is contrary to the idea of self. There is no will that can contest you. Choice withers for lack of space. Life becomes a single question of where one stands with regard to Michael Baumgart, and death even more so.

It isn’t such a horrible thing. I don’t mind it, as I suffered under the delusion of choice for only a short while. But you come into a world that had no expectation of you, and some of its denizens aren’t like me. They have aims of their own, a spirit that will not suffer subordination.

And they are not fools, these men. They see what you are. Imes was not an accident, nor an overreaction; setting gas upon the city was Saleh Taskin discovering that he was smaller than he thought, and taking his first steps towards greater power to remedy that lack. I tried to kill him before he could take further strides, but I was also smaller than I had assumed.

- Annals of the Seventeenth Star, 693.

The gateman stepped ahead of Michael to draw open the heavy door to the house. The wood was rough and dark; Michael found himself wondering how long ago that tree had grown. Unlike the gate, this looked as though it was of an age with the weathered stonework. The ancient door slid open without a sound, though, the wrought iron turning smoothly against the gloss of oil.

“The sitting room is just ahead,” Friedrich’s gateman said. “Please make yourself comfortable.”

Michael noted the man’s deliberate position; not even a finger had crossed the threshold to the house. “You’re staying outside?” he asked.

“Lord Kolbe pays me to ensure that he is undisturbed in his home,” the man said, smiling thinly. “I earn my keep. You are permitted to enter, or you may depart.”

Michael sighed and stepped over the threshold; a whisper of air told him that Sobriquet had already done so. The light dimmed as the door closed behind him, then dwindled to what the room’s few candles cast over the space. It was surprisingly tasteful, he thought - rich old tapestries adorned the walls, and the candlelight glowed from burnished wood laid along the floors.

He was reminded of walking into Leire’s meeting room, when they had first met her in the flesh. The glass and metal enclosure had spoken of centuries; this room did the same, though in a different tongue. The stone and wood had been taken from another Ardalt, one still wild and - per the Gharic notion - uncivilized. Michael took a few steps into the room, looking around. There was only one open door, and it led to a brighter space beyond. Michael saw the dancing light of a hearth as it played over old, heavy armchairs.

“I gave very strict instructions to my gatekeeper,” Friedrich’s voice said, echoing from the high, dark ceilings.

Michael had an immediate, visceral reaction, smelling sawdust and blood. He managed not to flinch. “Hello, Friedrich,” he said instead. “I think you’ll find that he’s obeyed them to the letter.”

There was a deep, solid silence.

“Michael Baumgart,” Friedrich said. There was the creak of a wooden chair, and quiet footsteps on the floorboards. A moment later he appeared in the sitting room door. He was barefoot; he wore a thick cloth robe that was open at the chest. His face was buried under a ragged beard that was more grey than dark, and his hair had grown longer than the close-cropped military cut he had sported when they last met.

Friedrich stood staring at Michael with the firelight flickering behind him. Eventually, he stepped to the side. With a sweep of his hand he beckoned Michael forward.

Michael’s feet started moving immediately, almost before he had decided to accept the invitation; an ancient piece of his brain remembered moonless nights and the smell of carrion breath, and knew that in front of some animals one did not show hesitation. Michael walked through the door into the sitting room at a measured pace, then sat in a nearby armchair. It was huge, enveloping him in leather; Friedrich silently padded around to take the chair opposite from him.

Their eyes met. “I hadn’t expected to see you again,” Friedrich said. “But I likewise knew that it was inevitable. Does that strike you as odd?”

Now it lingers, dulled and chipped. Neither of you will be at peace until it is done. Michael pushed Amira’s voice from his head, keeping his eyes on Friedrich. “There’s a sense to it,” he said. “I had expected to meet under different circumstances.”

Friedrich snorted softly. “You had expected us to fight.”

“For consistency’s sake, if nothing else,” Michael replied.

Friedrich’s posture shifted subtly, a tension that crept into his arms; Michael set his weight forward in the chair. Slowly, a smile spread onto Friedrich’s face, teeth glinting in the dim light.

“I don’t particularly feel like fighting you,” Friedrich said. He turned fractionally to the side, his eyes on a dark corner of the room. “Either of you.”

There was a quiet noise, and Sobriquet was standing in the shadows. “I’d like to know how you did that,” she said.

“Sever is a brute’s soul,” Friedrich said, leaning back in his chair. “For a brute to bear. It has one use, and one form.” He steepled his fingers. “I knew as much before I gained the soul, and from that date I saw nothing to disabuse me of the notion.” Slowly, he lifted one hand and pointed at a different spot in the dark.

Sobriquet’s image disappeared; she materialized in line with Friedrich’s finger, scowling. “And now you’re what - Sibyl?”

“I am Sever,” he said. “And until recently I was certain I knew what that meant.”

She rolled her eyes, giving up on the darkness; she walked to the armchair beside Michael's and sank down into it. “So you’re deranged too,” she said. “More so than when we last met. Michael really is taking me to see the most interesting members of the Assembly.”

Friedrich laughed again, though his eyes did not change. “If I am deranged, then I should think you bear some of the responsibility for that.” He looked at her; Michael saw the barest whisper of his soul in the dark. Michael’s heart thudded with adrenaline. Stanza flared into golden wirework across the black.

The air was utterly still. Slowly, Friedrich turned to look at Michael.

“I said I’d rather not fight you,” he said mildly. “Whatever else I may be, I don’t believe you can justly name me dishonest.”

Slowly, Michael let his breath out. The crackling of the fire reasserted itself. “It wouldn’t be strange for you to seek revenge,” he said.

“Perhaps not.” Friedrich looked back at Sobriquet. “Did she ever tell you what she showed me?”

Michael nodded. “What it felt like to be torn apart.”

“That is - yes.” The other man’s eyes glittered. “Torn apart. Dismembered. Shredded. Dissolved in body, mind and soul through timeless time, only screaming until that too disappeared - to form once more, and begin anew.” He leaned forward in his chair, his face growing animated. “I would say it felt like a thousand years, but that implies duration. It was an eternity; it was an instant.”

The chair creaked again as Friedrich stood, his feet padding softly across the floor towards the fire. “There was only one constant,” he said. “At the nadir of my self, when I had ceased to exist, I perceived the river of stars. Souls against the void, without even a mind to mar that perfect view.” He spun to fix Michael with wide eyes. “I know you’ve seen it.”

Michael swallowed against a dry mouth, then nodded. “A few times.”

“Then you know,” he said. “Or perhaps you don’t. Perhaps I don’t; truth does not fit well into a human shape. But against that void I reformed my mind. The soul followed, and with it came understanding.” He closed his eyes, though Michael could see them moving jerkily behind their lids. “Discontinuity.”

“Discontinuity,” Michael repeated.

“My soul is not a sword,” Friedrich murmured, his voice rapt. “There is continuity and discontinuity, and to me has been given the endings - and the beginnings, for they look much the same when time has departed. The interruptions. The first and last steps upon the path, and the broken gaps between.”

Sobriquet stared at him for a long, quiet moment, then moved her eyes to Michael. Her voice sounded by his ear. “We should find a way to leave as quickly as possible,” she said. “He’s delusional, and given his soul-”

Michael gave a minute nod, but made no move to stand yet. They had come here with a purpose. “Friedrich,” he said. “Are you aware of the Institute’s war against the Assembly, and subsequent overture for peace?”

Friedrich’s expression firmed, his lip curling slightly. “What significance is it?” he asked. “They will squabble over ash and pebbles as they always have.”

“This is different,” Michael said, keeping his tone even. “A man - similar to me opposes them, and he holds Stellar’s soul.”

The other man’s head came up instantly, his eyes tight. Again, Michael felt the ethereal brush of Sever against the air. “She is dead?” he rasped.

Michael’s thoughts took a moment to reorient themselves, unable to focus anywhere but on that vanishing wisp of soul. “Ah, yes - Leire Gabarain died some time ago. This man I referenced, he killed her.”

Another pulse of Sever’s soul rippled outward; the fire crackled as a light rain of stone dust fell into it. “She is dead,” Friedrich repeated, his eyes defocused and glassy. His lips continued to move soundlessly.

Michael looked over at Sobriquet and saw only an empty chair. Friedrich had not noticed her slip out, and paid no mind to Michael. For a moment he considered leaving as well; past that decision, though, there was little to do but find his father.

Michael stood from his chair. “The new Stellar is a very dangerous man,” he said. “I believe he means great harm to the Assembly with this peace offer, through deceptive means.”

“The Assembly cannot be harmed,” Sever murmured, “any more than dust is harmed under a boot. There is nothing of value in it. They may live or die; it changes little.”

“If they fall it may bring war to Ardalt once more,” Michael said. “This time on our own shores.”

Friedrich snorted, still looking into the fire. “Do you know when this house was raised?” he asked.

“It seems old,” Michael said honestly, deciding to indulge the apparent non sequitur.

“We do not have a precise date,” Friedrich replied. “Timekeeping was a Gharic disease, and this house was here to greet them. Kolbe men always stood here while they ruled. Ghar left. We remained.” He turned away from the fire, his eyes finding Michael once more. “And since then this house has stood in a stagnant, dying land, save for our dalliance with the War.”

A slow smile lit Friedrich’s face, growing in the fire’s shadow. “I was its son,” he murmured. “Just as convinced that I had achieved something worthy of pride.” His eyes flicked to Michael. “Our country is sick. We are sick. I was not a worthy scion of this house, luxuriating in my power and simple pleasure. I had never risked. Rarely challenged, and when she showed me my weakness-”

The shadows obscured his expression; a moment later he turned back to stare at the fire. Michael could see Friedrich’s profile, dark against the light.

“We didn’t think Mendian would come for us, even as we flouted their rules. None of us had ever seen Mendiko on the battlefield. What could they do? We killed Safid even as they surrendered, had our Shine twist them to scream blasphemies against their faith, cut through their women and children.” Friedrich recited the litany with a calm, even voice. “After the first week we weren’t even cautious about it, so sure that Mendian was toothless.”

Michael sat back in his chair, not sure what to say after the calm admission of atrocities. “But they did come,” he said, choosing a neutral path. “I remember reading about the Judgment of the Star against our troops.”

Friedrich nodded. “I almost died in the first attack,” he said. “Should have died. Gabarain targeted the command tents first, but I had stepped away; we were out of drink.” He laughed, quiet and manic. “Out of drink. And I watched as my men burned, too awed to muster a counter. I could have. I could have taken that boastful airship of theirs out of the sky, but I was - weak. Afraid. I spent the years afterward honing my soul, making its cuts keen, its power irresistible. But the soul was never the problem. The soul is never the problem.”

He spun back towards Michael, his eyes suddenly intense once more; before Michael could rise, Friedrich had closed the distance to stand bent over his chair, his hands gripping the armrests with white-knuckled force. Michael could smell the unwashed odor of him, the stink of his breath.

“The soul is perfect,” Friedrich hissed, spittle flecking from his lips. “I saw it when I was scoured to nothing else. We stain it, we distort it with our blood and bile and filth. We insulate ourselves from it because we fear being nothing, but nothing is what we must be. I see it in you. I see it in you.” The chair creaked under his grasp. “You have embraced it once.”

Michael stayed completely still. “I did die once,” he said. “And I did accept it.”

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A wild grin split Friedrich’s face. “I knew it,” he said. “Yet you concern yourself with the Assembly? Why?”

“Because I can prevent a great deal of suffering by intervening here,” Michael replied. “So can you.”

Friedrich scowled, pushing back upright. “Suffering will exist,” he said. “Better that they should experience it honestly, and not labor under delusion.”

Carefully, Michael stood from his chair while the way was clear, taking a step to the left. “You’d prefer that the country should be destroyed,” he said.

“A culling,” the other man responded. “That the sick might leave the strong to thrive. This house will stand when the land is empty around it, and still there will be a Kolbe here.” His eyes glittered, a quiet giggle slipping from his lips. “Continuity from discontinuity. Join the two ends of a line, and it is endless.”

“You’re mad,” Michael said. He shifted his weight, eying Friedrich warily.

“A name for those who see farther than comfort permits,” Friedrich replied, one hand over his smiling mouth. Eventually he let it drop, turning to face Michael with wide, bright eyes. “Mad, but no longer deluded. You are deluded, yet not mad. Which of us has the right of it, I wonder?” He smiled broader still. “Shall we see?”

There was only the barest flash of warning, and even then Michael saw no danger in it. How could there be danger, when the world parted as it was meant to; this thin, vertical line had always existed inside the dark stone confines of the house. It always would.

It was not until the air began to shimmer with its parting that Michael’s waking mind saw the attack. Stanza wrapped the world in gold, but that only let him see Sever’s work in all of its terrible power. Before, his attacks had been a physical thing; this was a Division, a fundamental separation of all in its path - including Michael.

He did not even attempt to divert its course with Stanza, as he had before. In the instant he saw that dreadful rent in the world, he knew that such an effort would be futile. He instead pulsed his sight out to take in the chair, the burnished floor, his own feet still gliding over the wood. Flame burned bright in his chest, thrumming out along the web of gold as he traced his motions back-

Michael stood from his chair and took a step to the right. Friedrich’s smile faded; he swiped a hand across his eyes quickly. When it came away his eyes were still defocused, flicking dazedly between where Michael now stood and the hairline cut in the flooring that ran slightly to his left. A frown marred his face.

“That was not-” he muttered, breaking off suddenly. His eyes widened.

“There are more,” Friedrich rasped, his hand coming up to stretch towards Michael, dawning horror on his face. “You have stolen endings, and carried them-”

“What?” Michael muttered, taking a hasty step back. He kept on the balls of his feet, ready to move again.

Friedrich’s eyes refocused on him, sharp and glinting. “You would deny their ending. Endings are beginnings. There will be no beginning, and no end in dissolution. But an end must come first.” He raised an accusatory hand. “You said you had accepted your death.”

“I was overruled,” Michael shot back. “And I’ve had time to reconsider.”

A pulse of rage flashed from Friedrich, the first real emotion Michael had felt from him yet - but it withered quickly, replaced by a weary sorrow. Friedrich’s shoulders slumped, and he turned back towards the fire. “Overruled,” he murmured. “And now you overrule death in turn. People fear death, and rightly so, but they do not spend enough fear on existence.”

He shook his head, then slowly plodded back to his chair, settling into it with a great creak of wood and leather. “Oblivion was a gift, Michael,” he said. “I was perfect in nonexistence, and now I am - less. These endings you have denied, and condemned to continuity within you - you have done them a great disservice.”

Michael took a step closer to him, brow furrowed. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said. “There is nothing in the void worth seeking, and what I save from that end is given to me freely.”

“Liar,” Friedrich spat. “I am not deaf and blind in my seclusion; I know that Galen Wahl died.” His eyes narrowed on Michael; the sharp breath of his soul sprang forth to dance around him. “I know who has his soul. He would never agree to be your trophy.”

Michael quickly held up his hand. “His soul,” he agreed. “But nothing more. Galen would not have me, and I gave him the oblivion he wished.”

Surprise danced across Friedrich’s face, chased away a moment later by dull fatigue. His eyes lost their focus once more, and he settled back in his chair listlessly. “Ah,” he said. “Ah. So he is merely dead.” There was a long pause; Michael remained standing.

Eventually, Friedrich closed his eyes. “The insight was given unawares, the disaster tempered, the insult mistaken. I find that I have no business with you at all, Michael Baumgart. I would ask that you leave me.”

Michael looked down at him, disbelieving. “You are determined to stay here?” he asked. “And let your country crumble around you? For a man who derides stagnation so, you’re awfully comfortable with your own.”

Friedrich chuffed out a soft laugh. “You think me stagnant?” he asked. “No. I have spent my life striving for a glimpse of meaning, and I have found it even as my limited form fails to grasp the tiniest portion of what I saw. I had hoped that meeting you would expand my understanding-” He shook his head, his eyes sliding open to fix on Michael. “-but you understand even less than I.”

His eyes stayed open a moment longer, then closed once more. “So go. Push mud heaps around with the fools in the Assembly. Tell your father that he may continue to borrow my name as long as I am left in peace. And if you find your way to insight-”

There was a tremor in the space around them. Michael’s head swam; he grasped instinctively at Stanza’s myriad paths, but even as they shone golden once more in his sight there was a twist of Sever’s soul.

The golden lines went dark. Not the obscuring darkness of a veil, or of some sudden blindness - Michael felt the paths of possibility stutter and end as something blotted out the coming moment. In the next eyeblink the threat had passed; they shone golden once more.

Michael’s heart thudded wildly against his ribs, his skin suddenly damp with sweat. He stared at Friedrich, but the man had not moved, nor opened his eyes.

“-then I will be here, in my home,” Friedrich said. “Learning to be a worthy son.”

There was no attempt at a response; Michael could not think of anything to say to that, and did not trust his tongue in the aftermath of that vast shadow he had witnessed. Adrenaline still raced through him, twisting his gut and leaving his skin clammy; he managed a polite nod before he turned and walked - walked, with a carefully measured pace - out the doors of Friedrich’s home, past the gatehouse and back into the street.

Sobriquet was waiting for him there, her palm pressed to the side of her head. “What happened?” she groaned. “I have the worst headache.”

Michael looked back towards the house, still feeling his heartbeat come strong and fast. “We got very lucky,” he said. “Coming here was a mistake.”

“I seem to recall saying that in no uncertain terms,” she said, scowling up at him - and pausing when she saw the look on his face. “What is it?”

“He could have killed both of us at any moment,” Michael said. “And I doubt very much that I could have done anything to stop him.” He looked down at Sobriquet. “But for now he is content to remain here, in his house, and I will be telling Carolus and anyone who inquires to stay far distant. He-”

Michael broke off, swallowing against a dry mouth. “Amira was right,” he muttered. “I should have killed him then.” He shook his head, then turned to walk down the street. Sobriquet hurried to follow, still rubbing her temples.

“Never too late to fix a mistake,” she muttered.

Michael frowned. “It’s not what we need,” he said. “Even if I thought I could - it would destabilize the Assembly, they’d clamor all the more for peace. Carolus said as much; violence at this juncture is counterproductive. Whoever strikes first will drive the country into their opponent’s arms.”

“So we’re left with your father?” Sobriquet asked.

“We should have gone to him first. If I was thinking clearly, I’d have met him straightaway. He’s-” Michael gave a strangled laugh. “He’s the safe, reasonable option. For all that he’s horrid, he’s not a madman.”

Sobriquet walked closer to him, threading her arm through his. “Will you be all right?” she asked.

“I must be.” Michael slouched against her. “This needs to happen, and I am the best choice for an envoy. Against Sever, my father is nothing. He can’t-” He paused, holding up his free hand; the scars peeked out from under his sleeve. “I’m a different person than the boy he knew.”

“Let me know where you want me,” Sobriquet said, fishing the agenda Carolus had provided from her jacket. “He’s at his office now, or should be, and there are notes on how to access the building - none on how to actually find the office, though.”

Michael nodded. “I know the way.”

The interior of the Assembly was dark and boiling hot. Many of its members were older men, frail against the cold; the building’s boilers worked constantly during the colder months to drive away the chill.

Michael remembered visiting when he was a young boy, laughing as the Assemblymen stumbled in with fogged-up spectacles. His father had let him sit in a corner of his office and scrawl on papers with an old pen, the last time he had visited. That afternoon, his mother had come by to fetch them both. They had bought roast chestnuts from a cart, with Michael squirreling some away in his pockets for Ricard-

They turned a corner, and the memory faded. He had not thought of that day for many years, the idyll of his younger years seeming foreign against what had followed. That was not his father, nor was it Michael in his memories. They were pale shadows of people, waiting to become what they were after his mother’s death.

“This way,” he murmured, sweeping around a corner. He walked quickly, with purpose; men sprang out of his way. There were enough Assemblymen and assorted heirs that it wasn’t odd to see new faces, and Michael traded on their desire to avoid entanglements with an unknown quantity of status and arrogance.

To some his face was more familiar. There were pulses of shocked recognition, widening eyes as he brushed past. None followed, though there were more than a few hushed conversations left in his wake.

Finally, they reached the building’s south wing - one of the oldest in the government complex, and a coveted spot to have an office. Michael’s grandfather had secured the spot long ago, through a deal that nobody remembered. They walked briskly down the corridor under frescoes that depicted mountains and oceans, men brandishing swords and shields that glowed with unreal light.

The door loomed in Michael’s vision, little different than others they had passed save for the weight lent to it by his memory. He walked up to it and paused. There was the sound of voices from within. It would have been trivial to send his sight in ahead, to see what lay beyond, but some part of him rebelled against taking that step before the last possible moment.

Sobriquet gave his hand a squeeze. “I’ll be with you,” she murmured. Her fingers slipped out of his, and a moment later she had disappeared.

Michael took a deep breath, then raised his hand to knock three times on the door. He waited for a beat, then pushed the door open and walked inside.

There were two men at his father’s desk, turning bemusedly to see who had come inside; Michael looked past them at Karl Baumgart. His father’s face had gone lean, thinner than the posters made him look, with dark circles under his eyes. His hair was lighter than Michael remembered, his skin pale and papery.

He was struck by the sudden realization that his father was an old man. Not truly old, like Jeorg or Leire, but frail and waning as the years pulled against him. Karl’s eyes glittered in deep shadow as he met Michael’s gaze and held it for a long moment.

“Niko, Uwe,” Karl said. “We’ll finish this discussion another time.” His voice had changed little, and Michael felt the sound of it like a file drawn against his bones. He did not move, nor even blink, but his formal clothes felt warm for the first time since they had entered the sweltering offices.

The two men at the desk got up, nodding respectfully to Karl, and walked from the office. Michael felt their annoyance, their burning curiosity, but he could not bear a scrap of attention for it.

The door closed behind him.

Karl leaned forward onto his desk, steepling his fingers. His eyes traced over Michael’s body, quickly, then returned to his face. “I had heard reports you were in the country,” he said. “But the reports about you grow more outlandish every day. You came to my offices, and not my house.” His eyes narrowed. “Why?”

Michael kept his gaze steady, taking a measured breath before he responded. “Because we have business to discuss,” he said. “Father.”

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