The near-random distribution of souls among the populace has been a problem throughout history, one that we have historically resolved with incentives. The hill clans made bannern of their ensouled, the Gharic solution was to grant citizenship; in both cases rewards were given for coming forward and serving your people.
But as our cities swell with their multitudes and the newly-ensouled have the novel option of simply disappearing against the crowd, this Assembly - in its inestimable wisdom - has decided to introduce the first disincentive to promote reporting.
I refer, of course, to the mandate handed down by the Institute - ah, my apologies. It was the War Office, wasnt it? How strange that I should confuse the two. The War Offices mandate that all souls must be reported and registered, that they may be used for the greater glory of Ardalt.
Fail to report, and you are a criminal. A criminal, gentlen! And for nothing more than existing peaceably in your natural state. I would advise this esteed peerage to consider the implications of this mandate very carefully. Calling a man a criminal when he has done no wrong does not make him question his own actions.
It makes him question the law. It makes him question the governnt. It makes him question the worth of this very body. Which should lead you to question, gentlen, if encouraging such a practice is in your best interest.
- Stanzas Complaint to the Assembly (excerpt), 671.
There was no further conversation on the way to the butchers shop, although Michaels mind was anything but quiet. Jeorgs revelations about the Institutes grasp on society were troubling - for their broader implications, certainly, but also for how blind they made him feel.
Souls were a fundantal point of reality. That his awareness of them had been mistaken or incomplete would be one thing, but that it had been shaped purposefully, even maliciously - that was quite another. He had been practicing for months now to be mindful of the gap between perception and truth, but he realized now that he had misapprehended the scope of the old mans teachings.
Jeorg didnt an to reshape his views on souls. He ant to reshape him, if only as a proof of his malleability. The ultimate form was up to Michael, and his soul - if he could ever learn to see it.
That opportunity was fast approaching, as Jeorg knocked lightly on Leons door. The ruddy-faced butcher opened the door after a mont, nodding to Jeorg and giving Michael an unreadable look; Michael had the distinct impression that the butcher didnt like him.
There was no preamble this ti. Leon had the lamb tied in the back and the bucket ready. The familiar ache in his chest started as soon as he t the lambs frightened eyes, and this ti Michael tried to embrace it, to let it fill him as he held the lamb steady.
But then the knife flashed, the blood dripped; his mind saw torn bedsheets and cut wood sared in red, the lacerated flesh of a womans hand lying open before him-
The lamb died. Again, he had the sense of so ineffable loss as it stilled, sothing he could feel but not define. The mont passed, and he stood. Leon did not et his eyes. The butcher took his paynt from Jeorg, and they were once again on the road ho.
Jeorg did not speak, and Michael had the sense that he would not until spoken to - so he tried silence for a while, replaying the experience in his head. It had been disturbing. Michael was not the sort to watch creatures die dispassionately, and would not choose to beco so.
But the disquiet had stemd from more than the lambs death. When they had walked down the common road and made the turn into Jeorgs path, Michael raised his head and looked at the old man.
How do I avoid - distractions? he asked. This ti I felt like I was closer, sohow, but when Leon killed the lamb-
He balled his hands into fists; Jeorg remained silent, waiting.
By now Michael had no reservations sharing his feelings with Jeorg, but habit was not easily brushed aside. He had known from a young age that certain words were forbidden in the Baumgart household, certain things were never discussed. He never crossed that line, and after a ti even his thoughts kept well clear of it. His tongue rebelled against the words by reflex.
When I was eight I heard noises at night, he said. I woke and went to my parents room to see, opened the door. My father had - a bad dream, maybe, he never spoke of it. He forced his hands to relax - delaying, for a mont, before he spoke again.
His soul tore through the bed, he said. And everything on it. I thought he had hurt himself at first. He was covered in blood, standing at the foot of the bed just - staring. Then I saw my mothers hand, she had rings she wore-
Michael trailed off, gesturing vaguely. I cant help but think of it. The blood, the sll. He searched for any more words to add, to explain, but found nothing.
I rember hearing about it, Jeorg said. There was speculation that Karl had a hand in her death, but nothing concrete. His temper was no secret. He paused, then shook his head. I didnt know the details.
Michael shifted his weight and scuffed at the roads surface. Father had it taken care of quietly. I dont know how many other people knew, but it wasnt many.
Hm, Jeorg said. He stopped and turned to look at Michael. Want to stop visiting Leon? He isnt our only option.
There was a beat of silence, then Michael shook his head. I dont know. Perhaps. I dont think a different context will make hate it any less.
A physician, Jeorg said, smiling at Michaels alard look. Not what youre thinking. He will know the older villagers, the sick. Bedridden and waiting for death. A young man could sit with them, talk. Just be near at the right ti, so they arent alone.
Michael nodded. That - sounds a lot better, actually, he said.
Could be months, Jeorg cautioned him. Not without risk. Leon is one thing, spending your days in the village is another. Youve been safe here, but - they havent stopped looking.
The thought did nothing to lessen Michaels unease. Ill trust your judgnt, he said. If you think its worth the risk. Maybe I can try one more ti with Leon - I feel like Im close to sothing, but I just dont know how to grasp it.
You dont have to continue with him, Jeorg said. Sa as before - one week. Think, and decide. Choose slowly. He turned and began to walk down the path once more, tilting his head back to look up at the trees. One more thing.
Michael fell into step beside him.
Jeorg looked at him. Did your father keep hounds? he asked.
Hounds? No, Michael said, confused. He was never inclined to sport.
Probably for the best. Jeorg let his gaze drift from Michael, back onto the trees around them. Can a hound be evil?
Michael arched an eyebrow at the question, but he was long-used to Jeorgs cryptic asides. Like the path, they all led back ho eventually. Evil seems like the wrong word. There are dogs that are violent, but theyre trained as such. Otherwise they act according to their nature.
And if it bites an innocent? Jeorg asked.
Then it is dangerous, perhaps, but not evil. If anyone bears responsibility for its actions, it is the man who trains it - or fails to train it. Michael scowled. Or fails to protect the innocent, I suppose. He is the only one whose will could have prevented it.
Jeorg nodded. Well-reasoned. So - when you were speaking, just now. You said that your fathers soul killed your mother.
A sliver of acid tension made itself felt in Michaels throat. He was asleep, he said. He is - not a good man, but I believe he never intended to hurt her. His face, when I saw him that night - he never intended it.
Your father raised a hound, Jeorg grunted. Dangerous. He could have trained it. Mastered it. But he did not. He let it nip and bite as it pleased, because he does not care if others are hurt. Not unless there is a consequence to him.
And if his soul was too powerful, which it is not - he could have admitted it. Changed his behavior to protect others. I have a friend with such a soul. Too strong to risk, too deadly. His eyes narrowed. She lives alone. Sleeps alone. Your father did not, because he did not want to. Because he feared seeming weak. Because he did not care.
Why do you care about him? Michael retorted. It all happened so long ago, and he has suffered the most for it.
Has he? Jeorg asked. The old mans face was hard, now, an adamant that bled through to his voice. There is always a choice. The responsibility lies with the will, the will that could have prevented the harm. Souls do not have a will. n do. You do. Until you believe it, you will always fear your soul.
He paused, and so of the stone bled from his face. I spoke because of that fear, he said. n are not made evil by circumstance. Not by errors, and not by souls. It is always a choice. He looked Michael in the eye. Your choices havent shown an evil man. Only a young one.
Jeorg held his gaze a mont more, then resud walking. Michael followed after - and thought.
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