> Of these four, Life stood apart. Truth is eternal once stated, while Form and Light do not endure. Only Life falls between them, as befits its nature. Yet there is no mooring in the space between. Life guides itself to an end.
>
> Some paths would see Life guide itself in the path of Form and Light, its eldest brothers. Ephemeral, as the substance of the world, Life shall appear and vanish.
>
> Some paths would see Life guide itself in the path of the middle brother, Truth. Ascending to perfection, Life would abandon change and become eternal.
>
> And Life may yet create a new path, that of the youngest brother. A path of change, neither ephemeral nor eternal.
>
> The world is unwritten. There is Truth in anything that may yet be. Man belongs to Life, but may yet attain the virtues he was not born to. Man may discover new virtues where none lay before. Such is the power of the divine within us, that we may winnow the paths before us unto the perfection sought by the first soul.
The Book of Eight Verses, the Verse of Division. (New Kheman Edition, 542 PD)
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Concussions rent the air, whip-cracks of noise accompanied by fountaining dirt and chips of rock. Bodies flew, or flew apart. And somewhere amid the fracas, the whirlwind of blood and dust, Amira Ghabbas was having an absolutely excellent day.
For his part, Michael stood watching in bemused silence as catastrophe befell the Ardans. He could hardly complain; he had asked, after all. The gruesome consequences of that request still turned his stomach. He caught a glimpse of her face, all gore and manic grin, before she blurred through a column of Swordsmen.
“Ghar’s blood, she’s a terror,” Sobriquet said, shaking her head. “Saleh must have worked with her for years to instill that self-restraint you’ve casually shattered. I hope we can stopper her back up once she’s done, or we’ll have a larger problem than this mob.”
Michael felt a chill. “I hadn’t thought about that,” he murmured. “She’s crazy, but I never got the sense that she was erratic. Until now she’s been a rather deliberate sort of mad. This is - this is different.” He shook his head. “Perhaps once she lets off steam-”
“Oh, please,” Sobriquet scoffed. “Look at her, it’s like someone loosed a wolf in a nursery. The only reason any of them are still alive is because she’s taking the time to savor it. You need to start thinking about what we’re going to do when she runs out of Ardans to kill.”
“Even at the rate she’s going through them, that’s going to be a bit,” Michael said, peering out at the battle lines. Amira was devastating the section nearest them, to be sure, and emboldening the men on the Safid lines with her example and protection. But the fight stretched far down from where she was, and there were sections where the Ardans were making headway.
“Yeah,” Michael sighed. “A bit early to be worrying about what comes after the fighting. We should pick our spot and join in.”
Sobriquet nodded towards a near spot on the line. “Perhaps we should just follow Lars.”
Michael turned to look and saw the Ardan captain red-faced, showering his former squadmates with invective and precisely-delivered strikes. Others in the Safid defense picked targets of opportunity; Lars was here to kill Swordsmen.
Zabala shook his head and gestured to the other Ardan soldiers. “I’ll back him up,” he said. “You two go shore up somewhere else on the line, nobody is breaking through close to here.”
“I’ll find a comfortable pillbox and be a nuisance,” Sobriquet said. “Call out if you need me.”
They each jogged away, leaving Michael alone. He set his shoulders and began to run, building up to his full speed in short order. The nearest Ardan salient to their position was a column of men advancing behind a low rise. The terrain let them establish a solid position with elevation on the Safid, and they were using it to full effect; a lucigens of some ability was up there throwing blazing spears of light down at the first Safid line.
Michael veered right and jumped. It didn’t appear to be Luc, but a powerful lucigens merited investigation just in case. At the apex of his arc the Ardans spotted him and shifted their fire; a few scalptor blades found him mid-jump, but stung no more than a rap on the knuckles. The last thing Michael saw before he landed was the wide-eyed faces of the soldiers below him. He came down on top of the lucigens, hard, his knee crushing the unfortunate woman’s collarbone into her chest. Not Luc, after all.
In the next instant he was on his feet, throwing an arm aside into two black-clad Swordsmen. Their limp bodies arced down the ridge, tumbling in the grass; Michael noted it peripherally as his sight fell into the gold-clad world of Stanza. Half of the men on the ridgeline backpedaled frantically, trying to gain distance; a portion of those with physical souls charged in.
The nearest potens was a middling soul, and crumpled like any man when Michael delivered a solid blow through his sternum. The next was more gifted, however, and his fellows crowded Michael to begin raining blows on him. He pulled on the light around him, plunging the ridge into darkness. The men stumbled into each other. He spun away from the disoriented mob and plunged his stolen heat into the nearest man.
Potens or no, that man died with a gurgling cry. As the body fell steaming to the ground Michael repeated the process with the next man, then reeled away as yet another potens delivered a hammerblow to the side of his head. The man’s soul was strong, nearly equal to Galen’s. Michael stood despite the ringing in his ears and grabbed a discarded rifle from the ground, swinging it at his opponent’s face.
The Ardan didn’t bother to dodge the blow, moving in to counterpunch, but jerked back in surprise as Michael turned the metal fluid and sent it streaming into his airway. The potens fell to the ground clutching at his throat; Michael came away with a handful of spare gunmetal and a temporary reprieve. He took stock of the Ardans around him. Most had wisely gained distance, though not enough to stop Michael from moving against them. He hesitated, though; against ensouled, and a larger quantity of men, he had to pace himself. He settled for picking out a few men of rank, mostly Swordsmen, and grounding the last of his heat in them.
The darkness fell away as those men died, but Michael was already arcing through the air towards the next Ardan redoubt, one arm sheathed in borrowed metal. He landed and tore another swathe through their position, then repeated the process again. If one man alone could turn the battle, Amira would have sent the Ardans running already. He needed to disrupt the Ardans instead, to expose them to Safid fire and kill the most dangerous ensouled in their ranks. The rest would fall to the Safid, who were keeping up their defense with rare enthusiasm now that two of the Eight were visibly sowing havoc in the enemy lines.
Indeed, the Ardans were pulling back their advances and consolidating into more cautious positions, which preserved them from Safid attention - but did absolutely nothing against Amira, Michael, and the other advance groups which had streamed forward from the lines to harass them. Michael saw a group of Safid potentes barreling forward, one Ember in their midst; a pocket of darkness bloomed where they made contact. The Safid were practiced at fighting in the dark.
Others were less showy, though no less effective. Scalptors plied their trade up and down the line. Michael saw Lars and Zabala with their men, holding an advanced position while scores of Ardans dropped around them with coin-slot marks on their heads or necks. The Safid lucigentes were still holding out strongly, their braziers and kilns providing them with deep reserves that the Ardans lacked.
Midway through rushing a forward command tent, Michael felt a tremor in the air. The hairs on his neck stood up, the deep flood of battlefield emotion hitching in sudden fear and tension. He jumped straight up, leaving the wreckage of the tent behind and casting his sight around.
To the west, where Amira fought, the ground was dark with spilled blood. Yet men still charged forward, too many of them for her to intercept. Advance groups of Safid met them midway, emboldened by Amira’s example, but as Michael watched one of those groups faltered in their charge - and fell, sliced cleanly across the midsection. Gore stained the ground; they died without even a chance to scream.
Michael fell back to the ground and propelled himself westward, feeling a chill in his spine. He knew that blade. Two jumps later, Michael landed bloody and dust-covered, his torn clothing flapping in his wake.
He straightened up and turned to face Friedrich. Sever’s bearer looked ragged, tired, with dark circles under his eyes and an unhealthy pallor to his skin. His beard was wild, his hair greyer and patchy. Yet his expression was rapt, focused, a hungry void behind his eyes.
“Baumgart,” he murmured, taking a step forward.
“Friedrich,” Michael replied. “You look terrible.”
The other man laughed, a raspy, humorless noise. “I’ve never been better,” he replied. “My soul sings, Baumgart. I hear it more clearly each day, as the world’s grasp on me slips.” He took another step towards him, spreading arms that were thinner than Michael remembered, discolored with angry purple bruises. “Would you like to hear?”
“If I said no, would it matter?” Michael muttered, tensing his legs and letting Stanza breathe light into his vision. “Come on, then.”
Friedrich bared his teeth, spreading his arms; a section of the air parted at chest-height. Michael was elsewhere, already settling back into the comfortable safety of Stanza. The next attack came slowly, almost lazily. The grass between them turned to dust. Where there was rocky soil, now only damp powder remained. Michael’s footing wavered as he adjusted.
“Everything ends, Baumgart,” Friedrich called out. “How long will you-”
Michael didn’t wait for him to finish; the light vanished from around them as he threw heat towards his opponent. Friedrich jerked back, his eyebrows going up as he moved to sever the flow of energy, but Michael was already advancing. As Friedrich’s feet stepped back onto the intact soil, the brush there twined itself around his legs.
Friedrich scowled and banished the offending plants to dust; Michael threw another blast of heat towards him, then dispelled the darkness with a burst of light from his hand. Friedrich staggered back, dazzled, and Michael drove a spike of gunmetal at his face.
The metal gouged into Friedrich’s cheek before flaking away into powder; the other man retaliated with a wave of annihilation that forced Michael to retreat backwards into Stanza’s safety. Friedrich touched his fingers to the blood flowing freely from his cheek, inspecting it in the morning sunlight.
“That’s it,” he said, grinning red. “That’s what was missing before. Today, you want me dead.” He held up his bloody hand, beckoning Michael forward.
Michael accepted the invitation, lunging across the ruined hillside - only to dance backwards as a flurry of scalptors’ blades crossed his path from the right. A squad of black-clad Swordsmen was running towards them from the flank, throwing their best at Michael. He dodged one, then two volleys within Stanza’s embrace before Friedrich gave an irritated grunt and lifted his chin.
The entire squad of Swordsmen disintegrated into pulp, an undifferentiated crimson mass slouching into the ground where they had stood.
Once again, Friedrich beckoned Michael forward. This time he moved with more caution, noting the casual ease with which Friedrich had killed his own men. He exchanged a few probing attacks, shifting heat and light around to strike at his target from odd angles - then froze the other man’s boots to the ground and lunged forward.
Friedrich stepped out of his boots, the leather dissolving around his feet, and sidestepped Michael’s charge. Michael spun away into Stanza’s embrace a moment too late; he felt a stab of pain in his right shoulder. Warm blood gushed down his arm, spurting in red arterial bursts. He jumped back further, clapping his hand over the wound.
Michael hid in several places and none, trying to focus Stanza on his arm. He couldn’t move it well, it had been cut nearly through the bone. Already feeling the numb buzz of shock setting in, he called desperately on his soul to knit the flesh together. It wasn’t the first time he wished he’d worked harder under Unai’s tutelage. The wound drew slowly closed, too slowly. He could sense Friedrich’s impatience building; the other man cast about with wild strikes that pulverized broad sections of the slope they fought on. A nearby cadre of obruor-touched men was half-destroyed. The rest of the Ardan troops in the area hastily drew back, and soon there was a conspicuous gap in the battle line.
“What’s the matter, Baumgart?” Friedrich bellowed. “One scratch and you run?”
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The scratch in question was still seeping entirely too much blood for Michael’s comfort, but he no longer felt as though his arm would fly off if he moved too suddenly. He grit his teeth as the pain settled in, becoming real; even that was better than the portions of his arm that had gone numb. He could not move the two outer fingers on his right hand. Through the adrenaline, Michael saw the looming reality that this could be a permanent injury. Fear spiked through him, the sharp and mindless variety that had been his close companion for so long.
He focused more of his intent on Stanza, still dodging Friedrich’s frustrated blows through tides of shifting possibility, pulling on his stubborn flesh to heal-
There was a shift, a slip. He stood in an indeterminate half-state to be where Friedrich’s attacks weren’t, but possibility twisted strangely around his wounded arm at the force of his pull. Michael watched in horror as the wound grew, deepened, twisted closed with horrid pulsating flesh, healed entirely, gaped wide once more, became a jagged stump. He pulled back from Stanza, clawing his way back to the stable ground of the real.
He emerged where he had been standing, relieved to find his arm still attached - though his wound had reopened, worse than before, and was once again pulsing blood. Hastily, he stopped the bleeding again - and strove no further than that, wary of exceeding what he could safely heal.
His relief was short-lived, though. Friedrich gave a sharp bark of satisfied laughter and launched a fresh attack in his direction. His strikes were no longer languid and playful; Michael could feel the grinding beneath his feet as destruction penetrated into the bedrock. A steep section of hillside behind him groaned and slid down atop an unfortunate advance group of Safid. The Ardans they were fighting fared no better; the rocks bounced over them an instant later.
Michael rallied and lunged towards Friedrich, blood dripping from his arm. He whipped one of Charles’s bracers out in a wire-thin blade, using the distraction to draw closer. Calling on Spark, he did not speak - he summoned the lingering echo of what he had felt the moment before. The pain and fear of maiming, the horrible knowledge that part of you had been broken. With no small amount of spite, he threw it towards Friedrich.
To his surprise, Friedrich’s iron composure wavered. The other man took an involuntary step back. Michael drew off his remaining bracer, forming it into a gleaming spike, but before he could attack Friedrich’s eyes focused in startled realization on something behind Michael.
He drew back just in time to avoid being flattened by Amira charging forward across the field. She was a spectre wrought from blood and mud, keening a wordless cry of abandon. The impact of her landing drove her foot deep into the disintegrated soil, and her next step choked the air in fine grit.
It quickly coated her bloody form; a dull brown horror advanced towards Friedrich, only recognizable as human through her gleaming eyes and bared teeth.
Friedrich spared enough time for an unimpressed glance down, sidestepping her charge. He turned the soil to dust once more, and Amira’s feet slid through it without finding purchase; she went sprawling and came up on all fours, her head whipping up to stare at her opponent.
Glad of another distraction, Michael slammed his last spike of metal into Friedrich’s calf. He withdrew quickly, this time, not even pausing to salvage the bracer - though his caution pained him as he watched Friedrich scowl and turn the last of Charles’s metal to dust.
Amira saw her moment. She lunged forward, her legs slamming against the dust so hard that it compacted rather than flowing away. Her arm stretched out towards Friedrich’s chest. Fingers speared into his flesh.
There was an explosion of red. Michael jumped backwards instinctively; Amira hurtled past him while Friedrich staggered back, his hand coming up to the five fingertip holes punched into his chest.
Amira slid along the dirt, leaving a red streak in her wake; she did not rise. Michael’s heart beat faster still, the tension in him only slightly less when he saw her draw a shuddering breath.
“So that was Sustain,” Friedrich murmured, looking at the fallen woman. Blood flowed freely from his chest, though it was hard to pick out amid the coating of gore on his front. “Pity. Her truth should be more. She should be - continuity, not solidity. Inevitability rather than strength. But she was still a shield, and could not fathom that there was no sword left in me. Now she never will.”
His hand raised towards her; before Michael could properly think about it he lashed out with Spark. “Stop,” he commanded. “Leave her-”
Friedrich growled, his soul exploding out around him. Spark’s grip on him slackened; when the shimmer in the air cleared Michael saw that Friedrich had deafened himself again, fresh blood flowing from his ears.
“You’d defend this thing?” Friedrich barked, overloud. “No, Baumgart. Neither of you have earned that.” He sneered down at Michael, parting the air once, then twice; Michael dodged away and Friedrich turned his attention back to Amira.
Michael’s head swam; exertion and blood loss were taking their toll. Nevertheless, adrenaline flooded him with clarity as he saw Amira about to die once more. There was no calculus of cost and benefit in his head, only an old fear once more making itself felt: Amira had traveled with him, and thought on him often. If he allowed Friedrich to kill her here, then her soul would come to him.
He knew immediately that there was little chance of him remaining conscious through that event, and this was not the place to fall senseless. Michael pulled himself forward, shifting his way closer through Stanza until the effort became more than he could bear. With a yell of effort, he emerged from the haze of possibility and threw himself at Amira. The two rolled together in the dirt, barely wide of Friedrich’s attack as it disintegrated the patch of rocks where she had fallen. Blood puffed into metal-smelling steam, staining the dust brown.
Friedrich gave an indistinct, grasping groan, staring at Michael where he lay slumped over Amira’s body. “You were here. I felt that focus from you, the intent, and now I see that it was paper-thin. It’s disappointing.” He glared down at Michael, taking a step forward. “I had thought you were the one to keep pace with me, as I ascend, but you can’t surpass me. You don’t want to.”
He stood over the two of them, stretching his hand out. “So you will join the rest.”
Michael closed his eyes, wrapping his good arm around Amira, and drew them both into Stanza’s embrace.
It was difficult; he could barely move, much less drag Amira with him, so the paths where he dodged and ran lay at the periphery of what he could see. A thousand lucky moments strung together in a single golden chain. He followed it as best as he could. Friedrich dogged his heels, though, intent on making this the last of their encounters; there was a rare anger pulsing from him, lending strength to his attacks.
He managed to gain a scant distance from his pursuer after entirely too much scrambling around in the dirt, but now the path free narrowed considerably. The void they had made in the battle line meant that there was an expanse of empty land around them, and Michael now had to cross it without getting cut down - with one working arm and a woman slung over his shoulder.
The path was so narrow that he was no longer hiding in possibility anymore; there was only a route free, and he ran it. Imperfectly. He lost a patch of skin from one leg, and at least once he felt Amira twitch with pain. Her soul did not come, though, and Michael continued to run until he felt the paths spread freely again. Sobriquet’s veil had descended, hiding them from view. His heart leapt with relief; he veered to the side, then back again to foil any guesswork of Friedrich’s. The danger waned down to only the hazards of the ongoing battle, which thundered around them with enthusiasm.
He ignored it, murmuring a quiet thanks to Sobriquet and dashing over the ridge sheltering the Safid camp’s larger buildings. The field hospital was busy, choked with dead and dying men. Michael felt a burn in his chest to accompany the other hurts he’d accumulated, but he slowed and shouldered his way in.
“Anatomens!” he called. “The Shield is injured!”
The chaos around him paused as eyes turned his way, some of them averting out of fear and instinct in the next moment. An unveiled man nearby looked at them with sharp, weary eyes, striding over and pointing to the left.
“On the cot, there,” he barked. “Lay her out - yes, good.” The medic bent over Amira’s form, inspecting her; Michael blinked in surprise as he did the same.
Amira was still covered in dust and bloody mud, but that did nothing to obscure the ruin that remained of her right arm. The hand was simply gone, her forearm splintered bone at the wrist. There was a deep gash in her side, and another in her cheek; Michael could see the white and red glint of teeth where her skin pulled away. She did not open her eyes, taking shallow breaths.
The medic finished his inspection and glared up at Michael. “She needs a more powerful anatomens than me,” he said. “You’re the Caller, no? You won’t heal her?”
Michael blinked. “Her injuries are beyond my skill,” he said. “I can only do the simplest-”
“And did you?” the medic retorted. “I can’t touch her, the resistance of her soul is too much for all but the most talented. She needs these two wounds cleaned and sealed - here, and here.” He reached behind, grabbing a small bottle of water and roughly dashing it across her two major cuts, leaving the arm alone. When they were clean to his satisfaction, he gestured impatiently to Michael. “Close those two cuts, as simply as you need to do it.”
The rush of energy from his mad run was wearing off, and Michael felt fatigue nibbling at him; nevertheless, he called to Stanza and pushed his soul into Amira’s flesh. It was dense, impenetrable, like scooping granite with a spoon - but slowly, he was able to assert his grip over the wounds. The bleeding slowed as the gash drew together.
After what felt like a year of concentration, Michael pulled his hand away. The scar on her side would be ugly; the expression on the medic’s face was dark with disapproval. “I’ve seen better work done on pigs,” he muttered. “Now her cheek. Try to make the edges meet evenly, at least.”
Michael bit back his reply and sealed the smaller cut while the medic began wrapping Amira’s arm in bandages, tying them tightly. He finished, then looked up at Michael. “Fine, she’ll keep until we can find someone competent enough to fix what you did. Now you, sit.”
“I’m fine,” Michael protested, holding his hands up; the statement was somewhat undercut by the tremor in his right arm. “I’ll seal it up on my own-”
“You tried once already, by the look of it,” the other man snorted. “See how that worked.” He pushed Michael back onto an empty cot, then leaned in to inspect the wound to his shoulder. “Severed tendon, nerve damage. Still a lot of bleeding.”
He flushed the cut twice with his water bottle, then clapped his hand over it. The medic frowned. “This feels like working on a potens.” he muttered.
“It’s complicated.” Michael grimaced. “If you walk me through it-”
The medic snorted. “Watch, and don’t interfere. If you can, follow my lead.”
Michael sat quietly as the man put his hand on Michael’s shoulder. The anatomens soul pushed its way into him; it felt pale and sluggish compared to Michael’s own, but it moved with a deft skill towards the injured portion of his shoulder. Fascinated, he watched the medic push the paths of his being back into alignment.
It was agonizingly slow work. Michael stared at the shifting skein around his wound, trying to make sense of it - eventually, he was able to pick out the direction of the medic’s efforts. He pushed his soul tentatively along in the same direction-
The medic spat a low oath and jumped back, glaring at Michael. “You have all the grace of a drunken sailor,” he muttered, placing his hand back where it had been. “But that did the trick. Next time push half as hard.”
“You don’t happen to have a cousin in Stahm, do you?” Michael muttered. The scathing look the man gave was answer enough; Michael sighed and let him continue his work. The slapshod work of his earlier healing was slowly wound backwards. It was painful, but not so much that it damaged Michael’s focus.
That changed when he began to work on the nerves in his arm, electric jolts of pain running through him with every minute touch of the man’s soul. Michael withheld his efforts and did not help, during that process, for fear of what he might do in a moment of startled agony.
Finally, exhausted, Michael slumped back onto the cot. The medic was also red-faced and breathing hard, though he looked mildly satisfied with his own work.
“There,” he said. “You’ll rest while I go find the man who can do work on her.”
Michael shook his head. “I’m fine, I don’t need to-”
“Great Caller,” the medic said, pushing a finger into Michael’s sternum. “You may be who you are, and have all these men bowing in your wake, but I’ve cut on enough holy men to know you’re all full of the same blood and bullshit.” He pushed harder, forcing Michael back onto the cot. “Your soul could do enough good here for a hundred of me; instead you’re about as useful as one half-blind orderly with a rusty needle and catgut. So you’re going to do the next best thing and watch her, and make sure she doesn’t wake up feeling like she wants to tear a hole through my ward. We clear?”
There was a pause. “Perfectly,” Michael replied.
The man gave him one last glare, then departed, leaving him alone with Amira’s bloody, motionless form.
Michael took the time to breathe, and let the shuddering wake of what he had done crash into him. He flexed the fingers on his right hand in relief, then again just because he could.
A shimmer marked the air to his right. “You okay?” Sobriquet asked. “I was watching, but Sever was heading off any intrusion into his space very - violently. Had to wait until you gained some distance.”
“I’m fine,” Michael said wearily. “You came in at the right time.”
“Good. If it’s any consolation, I think you two managed to turn the battle around. Friedrich retreated for healing, and the damage you both did was enough to give the Safid their edge. No sign of Luc. I think he really must be going after Saleh’s position, and best of luck to the bald bastard.” She chuckled. “The Ardans aren’t retreating yet, but it’s just a matter of time.” Her voice faded away. “I’m going to keep trying to shorten it.”
Michael nodded, giving her a wave of acknowledgment; he let himself slump back onto the cot. His eyes closed - and shot back open a moment later when he heard a creaking, wet laugh. He jerked back, then glared at Amira, who was watching him through half-opened eyes, baring bloody teeth.
“You saved me,” she croaked.
“Most of you,” Michael winced, gesturing to her stump. “Not sure what they’re going to be able to do about that.”
She looked down at the bandages where her hand used to be. “Probably nothing,” she said. “I’m a hard one to heal. The - cost.” She coughed. “Cost of souls like ours. Even for an unsouled woman, a hand would be too much.” She let her head thunk back against the cot. “But this is the shape of the woman I am. The one who strayed from what she knew to be right into what she wanted. The Sword was never my test. It was - pride. Desire. I wanted him for myself, and now I have a lesson to carry with me.”
“I wouldn’t have minded letting you have him,” Michael muttered. “He’s more terrifying every time we meet. I’m wondering if I’ll survive the next ‘lesson’ I get from him.”
Amira gave another quiet laugh. “He grows to match you,” she said. “You grow to match him. It’s important that we have something to terrify us. For you it is a soul shaped like a blade.” She cracked her eyes and gave him an evaluating look. “Has been for a while, I think. So you become what the blade fears, and he replies in turn.”
Michael’s eyebrows went up. “I doubt he fears me much.”
Her smile was lopsided, stretching the scar on her cheek. “Men are men,” she said. “None are beyond fear. He fears what many of us do - that we are not the apex we thought we were. Our paths do not lead to the greatest height. And no matter how we strive-”
She closed her eyes once more, taking a rattling breath. “We cannot overcome a test that is not ours. The Book shows the Sword and Shield fighting, as does history, but he isn’t the Sword anymore, because he’s not setting himself against the Shield. The destruction that stands against preservation is different than the one that stands against creation. Against growth. I forgot that.” She waved her missing hand weakly. “And now it will be harder for me to forget.”
“So what is he now, if not the Sword?” Michael asked.
She shrugged. “Yours,” she replied. “So the answer is likewise yours to say.”
“Wonderful.” Michael closed his own eyes, for as much good as that did him. “That makes me feel so much better.”
Her laugh was quieter still; when he turned his sight to check on Amira she had slipped out of consciousness. The air shimmered once more to Michael’s side.
“You know,” Sobriquet murmured. “If you wanted to kill her, this is probably the best chance you’re going to get.”
Michael snorted out a laugh. “Tempting, but I think I’m done picking fights for today. And I’m not sure I’d survive when that anatomens came back.”
“Don’t say I didn’t point out the opportunity.” Her voice faded away, and Michael was left alone in the quiet corner of the ward. He took another deep, steadying breath, then settled down and waited for the medic to return.