> The raven and the mockingbird sat on a branch, watching the boar root through the underbrush below them. The raven boasted that he could see all the boar was looking for from his lofty vantage, and expressed his pity for the other’s limited sight.
>
> The mockingbird replied that the boar’s sight enjoyed a lower perspective, but was not limited. It was a different view, and saw things the raven could not. This irritated the raven, who demanded to know what else the boar could see.
>
> Only the boar would know, the mockingbird replied.
>
> In his frustration, the raven flew down to land in front of the boar, asking what morsels the boar could see that he could not. The boar answered this question by eating the raven.
- Pre-Gharic Ardan manuscript, vellum, c. 500 PE
[https://i.imgur.com/tQIo7Rk.png]
The guns started before they had completed their evacuation. They were shepherding a long line of wounded and civilians when the building to Michael’s right exploded, collapsing atop three Safid soldiers unfortunate enough to be standing against it. The other shells went wide at Michael’s frantic urging, Stanza conspiring with the air to see them explode a block to either side of their column.
It did not mean that none died from the attack; fewer did, though. Michael grit his teeth and tried to focus on the living, pushing the next volley of shells aside. They exploded, and his face came up - towards Sofia’s unblinking gaze, staring out from Stanza’s lattice. This time, it was fixed entirely on Michael.
“You’re going to kill children?” he rasped, baring his teeth at it. “The elderly? Cripples? Hate doesn’t suit you, Sofia. You used to at least pretend at morality.”
There was a shuddering twist; the eye stayed fixed on him. Another volley of shells came in, arriving all at the same time. Michael’s eyes widened, then shut. He discarded his brief moment of panic and settled on a new image to guide Stanza’s work, one that would affect the volley as a whole. It wasn’t easy, as the shells were spread over quite a distance in the sky; his mind struggled to contort itself into the proper shape.
His success was limited. The quartet of shells thudded into a neighboring building in quick succession, flashing brightly in the smoky gloom. A cloud of dust and rubble swept outward to choke the air and pepper their column with shards of hot stone. Children were crying and coughing in the dust, tears streaking wet and dark through the thick white coat of it on their faces.
Michael spat grit from his mouth and glared upward, real anger bleeding into his voice. “They’ll say Sibyl like you said Spark,” he said. “The name of a murderer. I wonder if one of them will gain their soul and come for you.” He straightened up, wiping a hand across his mouth. “Or I might. I’ll remember these deaths, and if our paths cross again-”
The eye winked out. Michael straightened up, bemused, as Sobriquet’s voice sounded from beside him.
“As promising as your diatribe was, I thought you’d prefer being veiled,” she said dryly. “Veiling this many people is tenuous at best, but I can confuse your position enough to foul her aim.”
“Much appreciated,” Michael said, not taking his eyes off the sky; the guns certainly had not stopped, but true to Sobriquet’s word they required less of a nudge to fall clear of their position. They began to head out of the besieged village in earnest, moving faster now that they could light their path freely, and soon the thunder of shellbursts was behind them - then gone entirely.
Michael let out a breath of relief and ran his hand through his hair, shaking loose a cloud of stone dust. Amid the stunned mass of refugees he found an unveiled face; Michael walked over to the officer, trying to tell if it was the one he had spoken to before. The dust made it hard to discern. After a moment he decided that it didn’t much matter.
The man nodded wearily as Michael approached, making the standard genuflection. “My thanks, Great Caller,” he said. “Without your help, many more would have died.”
“Without my help, I doubt she’d have been as insistent on killing them,” Michael muttered, casting one last angry look back towards the Ardans. “But I’m glad I could do something. Do you anticipate any trouble when we get back to the lines?”
The officer blinked. “Trouble? No.” He looked up. “Are we being hidden at the moment?”
“By - the Great Seeker, as it happens,” Michael said, hearing Sobriquet’s faint snort of amusement as the man went pale under his coat of dust. There was another reflexive movement of his hand to his mouth, then his brow.
“We’re fortunate,” the officer murmured. “I wouldn’t presume to impose upon the path of one of the great souls, but it occurs to me that the men at the main trenches may mistake her grace for hostility, and strike in their ignorance. If the Great Seeker wishes to impose a test upon us-”
“Nope,” Michael sighed. “Sera, no testing - please.” He looked to the officer as the sensation of the veil faded away. “They’ll be able to see us now. You don’t anticipate any trouble when they see me in particular?”
The officer looked, if anything, even more befuddled than before. “Do you plan on attacking the men?” he asked.
It was Michael’s turn to look confused. “No?” he said. “I only want to talk with Amira. Ah - the Shield.”
“Then they’ll be overjoyed to learn you’re here,” the officer said. “Many of them never thought to see a foreign great soul in the flesh, much less two.”
Michael hummed, and said nothing; the officer took it in stride and fell silent beside him. It was disconcerting to have the Safid accept him so immediately. He found it welcome, but he didn’t understand it, so he could not trust it.
He murmured as much to Sobriquet, who laughed quietly in his ear. “You saved their lives, that goes a long way,” she said. “Even with zealots. They also might think that your intentions don’t matter, since Amira will be able to paint a wall with you at need.”
“Thank you for that image,” he murmured. “I feel so much better now.”
True to the officer’s word, there was no great commotion when they arrived at the lines; they had been spotted some distance away, and riders came to speak with them before they were within sight of the trenches. The officer exchanged a few hushed words with the scout, who darted his eyes at Michael - then nodded at the officer and rode away.
“We’ll keep our distance for now,” Sobriquet said. “If they decide they’d rather kill us than talk, you’ll have the easiest time fighting clear.”
Michael nodded, humming his agreement; he did not say more, for they were at the fourth line.
The Safid fortifications proved to be much more solid than their advance lines, with a robust trench system and several artificed pillboxes. Behind those there was an earthen berm; Michael sent his sight up higher to peer behind it. The camp was well-established, with more artificed stone buildings set up for its barracks and mess, along with a few scattered outbuildings. One of these stood larger and more centrally than the rest, and the officer led Michael there promptly.
“These are the Shield’s quarters,” he said, bowing his head.
Michael returned the gesture. “Thank you,” he said. “You’ve made - my path a great deal easier than it would have been, otherwise.”
The officer smiled, nodding again, and excused himself elsewhere. Michael was - not alone, since he felt several sets of staring eyes upon him, both physical and ethereal. But he was unaccompanied, so the initiative fell to him. He turned to knock on the door, finding it pleasantly solid in construction.
Moments passed. In one smooth motion, the door opened to reveal Amira standing within. She looked much-improved from when he had seen her last, with no remaining trace of the wounds Leire had given her. Her lips curved into one of her well-practiced smiles, and her eyes burned brightly as they took in Michael’s form.
“Welcome to my camp,” she murmured, “Great Holy One.”
Michael made a face; he had nearly forgotten that Saleh had branded him with that particular epithet. “Just ‘Michael’ will be fine,” he said. “For brevity, if nothing else.”
She laughed lightly. “I suppose we’ve earned a degree of familiarity. Michael. And I shall be Amira.” She stepped aside with languid grace and gestured for him to come in.
He did, taking a few tentative steps indoors; it was surprisingly well-lit inside for an artificed structure, with lanterns hanging on the wall and a light breeze blowing through the windows. It was cold, though he supposed that Amira cared even less than he did about the temperature. The only furniture was a wooden table with a few chairs, as well as a cot buried under a pile of thick blankets. He wondered briefly at those before turning to face his host.
She shut the door behind her and smiled. “The months since I saw you last have been eventful,” she said. “More so since we had a chance to speak. In Rul I saw a boy who knew more of himself than he would admit. In Daressa I glimpsed a man striving forward along his path. And now your path meets mine once more. Who are you this time, I wonder?”
Michael was keenly aware that she stood between him and the only exit to her quarters. “Still a man striving forward,” he said. “Or at least onward. Whether I’m making any progress is a matter of some debate.”
“Not all paths are measured in progress,” she said. Her eyes lingered on him, intent. “I see the mark of it on you. You’re harder. Stronger, too, which is more difficult. You master your fear of me well.”
He raised an eyebrow at that. “You’re presuming a lot.”
“Everyone is afraid of me,” she chuckled. “As they are of you. And yes, you do inspire a great - fear, in me.” Her smile widened, looking anything but afraid; she stepped closer. It was like witnessing the inexorable advance of a glacier. “Yet we keep finding ourselves with shared interests. Our paths conspire to keep you from challenging me as I know you could.”
She took another step closer. Her eyes glittered, her lips parted slightly; in the next moment she let her breath out in a long, steady exhale. “Yet you’re not meant for me,” she said. “The Ardans are in Saf, but they’re not here for Saf. The world turns upon you, as it has done for some time.”
Michael blinked, feeling unbalanced; the tone of their conversation was shifting too rapidly, and Amira remained an empty void to Spark. His first impulse was to deny her statement, but he paused before speaking - and frowned.
“I suppose you’re right, to some extent,” he admitted. “They’re here to attack you, though, regardless of my presence. Luc wants to kill Ardans and Safid alike, so you are both means and end for him - and a prize, since I’m sure he’d take your soul if he had the chance. Saleh’s, too.” Michael darted a glance towards the door. “Where is Saleh? I was expecting to hear that he was in command of the defense.”
“Most of a day’s travel from here, on the western coastal road,” Amira said. “The Ardans have two main routes into Saf, so we’re each guarding one.”
“Is he coming here, now that they’ve attacked?” Michael asked. “You’ll be hard-pressed to stand against Luc without him.”
Amira giggled, shaking her head. “And where is the wayward Star?” she asked. “I was watching last night and saw no sign of him. Perhaps he will rise with the dawn - but on which road, I wonder?” She arched her eyebrow. “We both know this fodder they send us isn’t their real force.”
“Friedrich is with this side of things, at least,” Michael cautioned her. “I met him a few days back, before they moved north. We fought. He is - extremely dangerous. More so than he was in Ardalt. I would not wager on anyone to win against him in a serious fight, myself included.”
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“An interesting assessment,” she said. “I recall telling you that it was a mistake to let him live.”
Michael managed a rueful smile. “Believe me, I remember. I’ve had cause to reflect on how correct you were more than once.”
“I’m not sure I was,” Amira murmured, wandering a few steps to the side. “Correct. The greatest threats to you are men of your own making. When Saleh crafts events to his desire, men call him a genius. You do the same and call it misfortune.”
“When he does it, I assume it’s intentional,” Michael said dryly. “I certainly didn’t desire this outcome.”
Amira laughed, reaching into a small nook in the wall, pulling out a carafe of water; from another she pulled a cloth. She set both on the table. “For the dust,” she explained, stepping out of Michael’s way. “And is it not a benefit? Without your so-called mistakes you would be stagnant, trapped; the tree in the Batzar may only grow so high, and the Mendiko do love to keep their most treasured possessions under glass.”
Michael frowned as he wet the cloth and wiped it over his face. “Absent the context of a fresh war that has already claimed thousands of lives, perhaps,” he said. “But nothing is worth this misery. These are your people dying now, Amira. Not just soldiers. Children. There’s no sense to it, and no possible justification.”
“Yet their deaths had some purpose, it seems.” Amira plucked the cloth from his hand and held out a clean one, waving it lazily back and forth. “I doubt it was the deaths of our soldiers that moved you to intervene.”
Scowling, Michael reached out to snatch the fresh cloth; she stepped back with a grin. “If you’re implying that you kept those people in harm’s way to entice me out-”
“Such an opinion you have of us,” Amira chuckled. “Or of me, perhaps. No, they chose to stay, as Safid have done in many battles over many years. That it led to this conversation was no more intentional than your creation of Friedrich or Luc - but it did lead here.” She reached out and pulled the cloth out of his hand; her movement was so fast that Michael could barely register it. Her free hand caught his wrist. “As did you, simply by acting as you saw fit.”
Michael looked down, squashing his urge to panic. He had once heard an Ardan lord telling of a hunt where he had been knocked down by a bear, and had to play dead until the beast lost interest. He had thought the tale an exaggeration until he saw the glint of real fear that had echoed forth from memory when he spoke. The lord had grown pale and quiet, eyes dwelling on remembered horrors, on the feeling of one’s life at the mercy of inhuman whim.
It felt eminently relatable in the moment. Even with his enhanced strength he could tell it would be futile to pull away. Yet her grip did not harm him; she raised his arm up and began to slowly wipe the dust from his hand.
“You Gharics misunderstand us,” she said quietly, tracing the cloth across the back of his hand. “We speak of a path, and you envision a chain of action and consequence through time. And a path is that, certainly, but it does not need to be. A pattern of behavior is a path, as is an ideology. A religion. The determination to act in ways you know to be correct.” Her hands blurred, and she was holding his other wrist; she began cleaning that hand.
“Saleh explained it best. He said that a path is the true expression of a person upon the world. The imprint made when they live fully, freely, in obedience to nothing but their convictions.” She let the cloth drop and traced over the back of his hand with her fingers, lightly. “To walk it is sacred. To turn from it denies the expression of your divinity, and robs the world of what only you may give.”
Michael’s heart was pounding. He tasted bile. Amira was far too close. But more than fear sped his pulse; the lessons from Charles’s death still resonated strongly in him. He could not help but hear their echo in Amira’s words. Treetops stretched overhead, spreading, nearly touching. Once more, his mind glimpsed the edges of something larger, the boundaries of a greater self that stretched back and forward to infinity-
Light glinted, and Michael winced at a sudden pain behind his eyes. When his vision cleared, he saw that Amira was watching him with rapt attention, both of his hands in hers.
“You do understand,” she breathed; her cheeks flushed. “I know that look. The pain and the wonder of seeing clearly.” She released one of his hands, laying her fingers gently against his cheek; they trembled. “Truth’s blade cannot be blunted. For souls like ours, it can be a shock to once again feel something in its fullness. Undiluted, raw.” She leaned close, her hand sliding down to his chest, her lips against his cheek. “It’s been too long since I felt that way.”
Michael froze at her advance, considering his next words very carefully; his mind stuck on images of Galen punching a soldier, his fist crushing through ribs like rotten wood. Amira was warm against him, pressing closer. He took a steadying breath.
“I appreciate your insight,” he said. “Truly. But-”
“Don’t deny yourself,” she growled; her teeth brushed lightly across his throat in a way that made Michael remember all the men he’d seen bleeding out from neck wounds. “This moment is holy. Be your desire.”
A very long moment passed while Michael chose his next words, his pulse thundering in a rapid staccato. “I am,” he rasped. “My path leads elsewhere.”
Amira let her breath out against his skin in a long, hot exhale, then pulled back to smile her empty smile at him. She did not let go of his wrist, however, and her eyes stayed locked to his. “Such conviction,” she said. “What if I were to test it?” Her grip tightened slightly.
Michael forced himself not to blink, staring back. “Then we would have a disagreement.”
“And wouldn’t that be interesting?” Amira’s smile grew; she released his hand. “But not today, I think. We have other matters that demand our focus, none of which will tolerate delayed gratification with as much grace.”
Michael managed not to collapse in relief; he sat at the table and folded his hands so they would not shake. “I’m willing to talk about cooperation,” he said, seizing upon the change in topic. “My goal is to see Luc dead with minimal loss of life. I’d rather not fight Friedrich and Sofia, but I think they’ll insist upon it. The remainder should sort themselves out once those three are dealt with.”
She laughed. “Merely ‘deal with’ three of the Eight, including two that you’re doubtful you could defeat in a fight. You’ve taken to the Safid custom of growth through challenge better than most Gharics.” Her smile faded. “And what happens once you’re victorious? What happens when Saleh and I are the only two of the Eight standing apart from you?”
“Peace,” he said. “If you offer peace. War if you offer war. I don’t bear a grudge against your people. If you can quiet the belligerents on your side, I will do the same for mine.”
Amira hummed, the smile returning to her face. “Saleh would agree to those terms, therefore so shall I. As much as my inclinations are otherwise, the test rises beyond one person’s ability.” Her expression sobered, and Michael caught a whisper of emotion from her. “My people know what Luc is. You wonder why they all stayed; that is why. The Heart-Eater tests the world.”
She drummed her fingers on the table, each impact denting the wood. “Fight with me here, as we await word of his whereabouts. If he stands against Saleh, then Saleh can hold him until we arrive. If he stands against us, then we will hold instead.”
“If I go up against Luc, can you defend against Friedrich?” Michael asked. “He understands his soul better than any man I’ve met.”
Amira smiled sweetly. Michael saw the gaping void behind her eyes. “I am the Shield,” she said. “The land beneath me will fail first.”
Michael suppressed a shiver. “Then I’ll trust you with him, if it comes to that.”
“As I will trust you with the Heart-Eater,” Amira said. “And trust you after, with the burden of your divinity. The greater part of that trust would seem to be ours.”
Michael nodded. “I’ll see that it isn’t misplaced. I do want peace, Amira. Bring me in front of a verifex and I’ll say the same.”
She snorted out a laugh, looking almost offended at the suggestion. “You have no deception in you,” she said. “Saleh and I saw that from the start. It’s one of the reasons we never truly marked you as the Heart-Eater.”
“Saleh’s letter to the Batzar certainly did,” Michael retorted.
“In fairness, there are similarities.” Amira walked back to the table and sat in a chair. “And we say what we must to our rivals. Still, based on what we knew at the time it was reasonable - but we both found it hard to believe. When the other made himself known, it made more sense.” She shrugged. “Names are dangerous things. Make one, and you will find a person who fits it.”
Michael licked his lips, his tongue still feeling dry. “And what name would you give me now?”
“Why - that’s your task, Caller,” she said, leaning back in her chair. “Your name is not mine to give. I wouldn’t dare. There are few enough unclaimed titles in our book, and none of them of a sort to be given out lightly.” Her voice had lost its levity entirely. “I only hope to know it before everything is done, so I might taste the truth of you on my tongue.”
He found himself edging towards the door. “Then we’ll have to see what tomorrow holds, I suppose.”
“One way or another.” Her eyes found him, boring into him with bright intent - then crinkled in a smile. “Until we defend Saf together, Michael. I’ll let my men know that you’re to have your liberty in the camp. Your compatriots, too, wherever they might be hiding. I expect that the Seeker is among them?”
Michael nodded slowly. “She is.”
“Mmm.” Amira said nothing else, only staring at him fixedly.
He took the lack of response as a dismissal, whether it was intended as such or not. It was an effort to keep from running out of her quarters. He forced his gait into something slow and unhurried. Only after he had walked some distance away in the cool night air, around the corner of a large mess hall, did he slump down to the ground, his hands trembling.
“We’ll figure it out,” Sobriquet’s voice came from beside him. “The Safid can be reasoned with! Oh, they’re so reasonable! Don’t be silly, Sera, they’re just perfectly normal psychopaths-”
“Point made,” Michael rasped. “In my defense, I was thinking of Saleh when I said that.” He let his head thunk back against the cool stone of the mess.
“Like he’s much better,” she snorted. “He’s even more twisted than she is, he’s just less direct about it.”
Michael glared at the approximate direction of her voice. “Less direct would have been ideal,” he muttered. “I think fighting Friedrich was safer. And where were you? I could have used some support in there.”
“Doing what, being a chaperone?” Her avatar shimmered into being. “She’d have gone after you even harder. At least this way she accepts that it was your will rather than my presence that foiled her. Now she’s going to try to resolve the problem of the former rather than the latter.”
“Won’t that be fun,” Michael groaned. A moment later, he blinked. “Wait, you knew she was going to come after me like that?”
Sobriquet cocked her head to the side. “Michael,” she said. “She as much as announced her intent the last time you two met. Please don’t tell me that you missed that.”
“She’s very hard to read,” Michael protested.
A long moment of quiet passed. “You went in there expecting nothing more than a friendly conversation?” she asked.
“No, I expected her to be alarmingly strange,” Michael said. “Just - not like that. It caught me unprepared. I knew she would grant me some leeway on matters of her faith, but I wasn’t at all sure how far that extended to her personal - requests.” He peered at her. “I would have appreciated some warning.”
“Next time, I will tailor my advice to reflect your perception,” she deadpanned. “Be sure to talk with me first if Saleh requests a private meeting.”
Michael snorted out a laugh, despite everything. “Stop it,” he coughed. “That’s not even-” He paused, squinting at her. “You’re serious?”
“No, I am Sobriquet,” she said, flourishing her arms. Her avatar bent down to laugh gently in his ear, phantom lips buzzing softly. “And you’re too gullible by far.”
She straightened up, peering at him; he had laughed again in response, but it had been decidedly halfhearted. Michael’s heart still raced, and he was sweating despite the cool night air.
“She really unsettled you,” she murmured. “Didn’t she?”
Michael pressed his lips together, then nodded.
Sobriquet drifted down to rest beside him. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t make light of it. I’ve never had to seriously worry about such things, given my soul and situation - and my appearance.” She grimaced. “But it’s always unpleasant, even if there was never much of a threat.”
“It’s not - well. It is that.” Michael ran his hand through his hair. “I’ll admit that her threats got to me more than Friedrich’s. But there’s another part to it that I can’t clear from my head.” He paused, ordering his words. The wind gusted lightly through the camp, ruffling the fabric of some nearby tents.
“Before she went after me,” Michael said, “she spoke about the Safid concept of a path. It was a teaching from her faith - from Saleh, actually - but her words described something I came to naturally, something I had to contend with after Charles died. They’re right about so many things, Sera. Saleh and Amira understand their souls better than I do, just like Friedrich. Yet each one of them is twisted by it. I’m beginning to wonder if knowledge of the soul really does lead men to evil.”
He looked over at her. “Because that would mean that Luc understands better than I do, as well. He’s been trying to convince me of that from the start, and I never wanted to hear it.”
Sobriquet gave a low hum. “Perhaps,” she said. “But what about Jeorg? From what you said, he had a deep understanding of his soul.”
“Jeorg would be the first to tell you that he’d done more evil than good,” Michael said wryly. “If that evil hadn’t killed him. His solution was to choose neither. That’s one of the things that frustrated Sofia about him. He was so afraid of doing harm that he withdrew to his garden, only intervening when some wayward ensouled fell into his lap.”
“I think you’re wrong,” Sobriquet said. Her avatar circled around to look at him from the front. “He may have made his mistakes in the past, as we all have. But he did well with you.” She leaned back. “Did you ever ask him about this sort of thing? If a soul could drive someone to evil?”
Michael thought, then frowned. “Yes, actually.”
She motioned for him to speak.
“He said that evil is a thing that man makes,” Michael sighed. “That the soul reveals and amplifies what you are.”
“Well, there you have it,” Sobriquet said. “Men aren’t evil because they know their souls.”
“Yet consistently, those who know theirs most are among the worst people I’ve met,” Michael retorted.
She cocked her head to the side; Michael could almost see the exasperated expression on her face. “Michael, that’s what power does, not a soul. You see the same thing when you elect the wrong man as mayor, or raise him to command a company of men. Power avoids consequence, and without consequence people may do whatever enters into their evil little heads.”
“So then Luc was right,” Michael muttered. “With a soul comes power, and power leads men to evil.”
“Seems that way,” Sobriquet agreed cheerfully. “Unless you could find a man who doesn’t have a single evil impulse within him, and somehow arrange for him to gain that power.”
Michael laughed bitterly. “We should be so lucky,” he said. “But the Eight don’t seem to have much interest in men who spend their time freeing kittens from trees and feeding the poor.”
“Or helping the helpless,” Sobriquet said. “Or inspiring the downtrodden, standing up to the powerful, showing mercy to his enemies, trying to negotiate in good faith with them against all sense and reason-”
He groaned, letting his head sink down into his hands. “That all doesn’t count,” he muttered. “I just keep finding myself without any better options.”
“None that occur to you, at least,” she said, bending close enough by him that he could feel the numb tingle of her apparition close to his cheek. “Never change, Michael. You are the best part of my world.”
She straightened up. “We’ll let ourselves into the camp. I’ll see you soon.”
Her form faded. Michael stared at the air where it had been, then let his head rest back against the wall. The stars wheeled overhead, and under them he sat, and breathed, and tried to find a calmer beat for his heart.