Modern anitry has given us the notion of the Eight as if there is so fundantal division that defines them, but that is not the case. Certain souls have been tracked throughout history, and not all of them have rited inclusion in this august party.
Perhaps the most famous is the Star of ndian, whom we term Stellar, as politics and the nature of the soul itself have conspired to ensure that it never passes long without notice when it changes bearers. History stretching back to myth has described the dueling pair of Sever and Sustain, or Sibyls watchful eye.
But Sobriquet? Spark? My own soul, for that matter, is suspect. None of us appear with regularity in histories or legendaria. Several souls attuned to Form and Light appear more frequently, in fact, despite their lowly status in the remainder. Why am I a mber of the Eight, but the fearso Khatun Beyiji does not pass muster?
I prattle on so, distinguished mbers of the Assembly, because every paper in Calmharbor has recently been trumpeting that we now have Three Of The Eight, with young master Kolbe claiming Sever. They speak as though this presages so golden era of history and a turn in the War.
Is this a triumph for Ardan science? Perhaps, but so was the phonograph. I submit that the pomp attached to our allocation from this invented species is instilling in us a false sense of surety, of superiority. It seems strange to that we are so adroit in selecting exalted figures from our history, yet such poor students when the page turns to talk of hubris.
- Stanzas Complaint to the Assembly (excerpt), 671.
They shared one final drink before Michael departed - small glasses of a bracing, fiery Mukaran whiskey that reignited the smoldering warmth left from the curry and the wine. That last toast was a solemn one, and he felt their attention linger on him as the bite of the liquor faded.
Then it was ti to go. The mundane familiarity of the coach felt like awakening from a bizarre, intoxicating dream into the clutches of his bed. He found himself nearly laughing at the audacity of imagining such an evening - but in his minds eye, there was Peters face.
Michael shuddered, pulling the nights events into the fore of his mind and focusing intently on each recollection - Veras greeting, the food, Sofias revelation. The trip back ho passed rapidly against the drumbeat of mory in his head, fixing what had happened in his mind so that he might never forget the danger that stalked him, even against the blandishnts of hos comforts and comfortable perils.
The ride seed foreshortened, either by his focus or the coachmans impatience at being kept so late. Whatever the cause, Michael felt oddly rushed as he walked from the coach and bade the coachman good evening.
Darkness claid the house. Another novel sight - he was not often up after hours, as his father was punctual about his slumber and tolerated interruption poorly. One point of light lingered in the foyer, the barest stub of a candle guttering beside Ricards sleeping form. The manservant lay hunched forward in a chair, a thin book almost falling from his grip.
A hot rush of emotion gripped Michaels chest, and he walked quietly over to kneel by Ricards side. In sleep, in the dim candlelight, his face seed to bear more lines than normal - frail, with the papery skin of the aged.
Once again he fixed the mont in his mory, attempting to burn the image of Ricards peaceful face indelibly into his mind. After a few seconds he reached out to touch him on the shoulder.
Ricard woke instantly, eyes locking on Michaels face, then taking in the darkened foyer. Finally, they slid to the nearly-spent candle beside him.
Youre quite delayed, milord, he said quietly, in deference to Karls slumber elsewhere in the house. It seems that Sibyls festive spirit far outstrips my stamina. He peered at Michael again, his eyes thodically checking him over and narrowing when they spotted a light smudge of dirt high on his cheek, left over from when Vincent had dropped him like a sack of cabbage.
Was everything all right? he asked.
Michael nodded, giving him a genuine smile even as the gesture tore sothing vital in his spirit. Sibyl and her friends are lovely, he reassured Ricard. I had a wonderful evening.
Ricard looked less than wholly-convinced, but did not press the matter. As long as youre content, he said, stifling a yawn. Begging your pardon, milord, but these old bones just dont tolerate late hours like they used to.
Its all right, Ricard, Michael said. I think we both deserve so rest.
The days seed to pass in a blur, at once hurried and devoid of any substance. Michael avoided his father where he could - knives will cut, newfound perspective or not. Instead he found small excuses to spend ti with Ricard. It was a paltry comfort, given what he knew he must do, but he could think of no better use for the inevitable delay before Sparks arrival.
And, as expected, in the mid-morning of Bladesday they received a letter from a sharply-dressed courier informing them that their presence was required at the Institute - a request, ostensibly, but Sparks na at the bottom of the invitation rendered it more of a summons. It was precisely what Michael had expected, and all was ready for their departure even before the ssage arrived. Although
Michael turned to look at his bedroom before leaving it. The bed was neatly-made, never to be slept in again. He thought of anything he might take, but - there was nothing. He had no real possessions. The estate was his fathers, inside and out, right down to Michael himself. The bedroom was never his to begin with.
He could not be so sanguine when he ca face to face with Ricard, however. The old man bore a smile, despite that his manner was fraught with worry. Michaels eting with Spark had him on-edge, and it was not lost on Michael how very well-placed Ricards trepidation had been from the beginning.
Relax, Michael said, forcing a smile. Im sure everything will be fine. I-
He paused, unable to speak for a mont. Ricard looked at him curiously, and Michael shook his head.
The eting with Spark is dangerous, Michael said. But no matter what may happen, I have a feeling that things will turn out right in the end. He longed to add on a few more words, to spare Ricard any worry he might feel later, but dared not - Sofias caution had been well-considered, simple silence could not stop a man like Spark from unburying secrets once they had been shared.
Instead, he placed his hand on Ricards shoulder. Thank you, he said. I do not know that I would have gotten through any of this without your help. It ca out with a touch more finality than Michael had intended, and Ricard gave him a queer look - but then his father bellowed up from downstairs and there was nothing but for the both of them to make their way down to the foyer.
Ricards eyes followed him, even so, and when he stood ready to depart Michael could see the lingering suspicion in the manservants expression.
Best of luck, milord, Ricard said. Keep your eyes open.
Karl snorted. He knows that much, he said, and the small hint of derision in his voice as he spoke started a hateful blaze in Michaels chest.
He wrestled it down, though, and looked only at Ricard. Thank you, he said again. He thought he saw a mote of realization in Ricards eyes before his fathers impatient glare forced him to turn and enter the coach.
The door latched shut, and with it closed the path back to Michaels life. The coachman spent a few achingly-long seconds preparing to depart before they finally trundled forward, the sound of the wheels on the cobbles signaling that they had left the grounds of the estate and turned towards the city.
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