It is seductively pleasant to deride Saf as a nation of fools, rife with raving demagogues and mad priests - but rember that they had been winning their war on the continent until we intervened. Only a tily Ardan effort and ndians watchful eye have kept the entire region from falling under their rule.
And yes, they do behave as fools. The quicksilvered gibberings of their leaders reveal the disrepair of their state, and only their propaganda claims otherwise. But do not judge Saf solely by the rhetoric flowing from Khem. Let us instead contemplate their armies.
Gentlen, those armies are not in Saf. They are not at ho where the softheaded ramblings of their elders might dull their minds. They are abroad, conquering, and both of the Eight that march with them are canny zealots. They speak not of revenge upon the descendants of Ghar, but instead of economics and trade, of inequity and justice.
The n who started this war were fools, and so perhaps were their children. But we now fight their grandchildren, conceived in war and birthed into its crucible. They know very well that war does not suffer fools.
- Uwe Schnzin, address to the Assembly, 41 Fracture 691.
Vincent asked Michael to care for Annabel while he and Jeorg talked quietly under the eaves of the house. Michael had given his dubious assent and now stood tentatively rubbing down the horses coat where the traces had lain. He strained to pick up traces of the conversation, at least until his inattention earned him a reproachful snort from Annabel.
With a sigh, he redoubled his efforts to tend to her, finishing just before Vincent walked over to stand in front of him. The other man gave him an odd look, almost appraising, then smiled and extended his hand. Michael took it.
This is it, at least for a while, Vincent said. Youre in good hands here. He darted a glance back at Jeorg, who was wholly absorbed in contemplation of a vine bearing violently-purple flowers. Just - trust him, as best you can. Whatever he does, its ant to help you.
He flashed another grin at a mildly-unsettled Michael, and motioned for him to help with getting Annabel hitched back up for his departure. Minutes later, he had gingerly climbed to the drivers seat and taken the reins.
The cart rolled forward, Vincent twisted with a wince for one last wave farewell - and then he was gone.
Stupid boy, Jeorg said, his voice coming from just beside Michael - who managed to turn calmly rather than jumping, even as the sudden presence set his heart pounding. The old man was incredibly hard to keep track of, moving soundlessly and evading whatever peripheral senses usually kept Michael aware of others presence near him. He looked and saw Jeorg staring after the cart, an odd expression on his face.
Michael cleared his throat. Did Vincent stay here too? he asked. You two seem to know each other well.
Well enough, Jeorg said, turning to look in the other direction, toward a path winding through the orchards. Walk with .
Protesting the half-answer did not seem as though it would be productive, so Michael fell into step beside Jeorg as the older man walked forward at a surprisingly brisk clip. His strides were long and sure, his feet never falling on the roots that occasionally protruded into the path.
They walked. Jeorg led them down one row and up another without speaking, occasionally stopping to look at a bit of bark or a spray of flowers hanging low over the path. Sotis he would touch them, murmuring sothing that did not carry far past his lips. They had worked their way through bright and shadowed paths nearly to the other side of the clearing before Jeorg stopped and turned to Michael.
Why are you here? he asked.
The question had the flavor of a test, so Michael paused before answering. Because Spark wants my soul, he replied.
Hngh, Jeorg grunted. Thats why youre not at ho. Why are you here?
I dont know, Michael said, failing to keep so of the bitter exasperation he felt from creeping into his voice. At once, Jeorgs eyes ca up to fix on him. Michael froze. He was suddenly very aware that he was alone in the middle of the woods with this man, this stranger that Vincent shied away from - and that he knew next to nothing about him. The air seed to thicken around them.
Then Jeorgs eyes narrowed, and he turned away to resu their walk. You dont know, he said. Then why are you here?
Exasperation turned into frustration, although the thrill of fear still running amok in Michaels belly kept it from rearing its head. You have an answer youre looking for, he said, but I dont know it. Im just - here. Sibyl sent . Vincent brought . He took a few more steps, hurrying to keep pace with Jeorg. I dont have anywhere else thats safe.
Hm, Jeorg grunted. If safe is what you want, there are farms. Mines, docks. Hide under the work, be just another dirty face. Finally, he stopped and turned to look at Michael. But youre not there.
I have a soul, Michael protested.
Jeorg raised an eyebrow. Farms and mines not good enough, then?
Michaels fists clenched for a mont before he could force them to relax - he was sure that Jeorg was baiting him, trying to provoke a reaction. His father had done the sa, and he knew how that ga ended. The sudden thought of his father brought an answer, though, and did not quite keep the irony of the situation from coloring his reply.
I have potential, he said, his tone twisting the word into near-profanity. And the power to go with it, or so everyone keeps telling . I dont want to waste it.
Jeorg looked at him for a long, quiet mont. No you dont, he said. His voice was low and lodic, an odd change from his previous gruff and fragntary speech. You dont have anything. You have no potential, you have no power. He leaned close, his eyes boring into Michaels. The will and effort of others brought you here, not your own. You have been a child, Michael Baumgart.
Anger and fear clashed in Michaels chest. I dont know what you want to say, he snapped. Sibyl offered to help, Vincent shot my father-
Jeorgs eyes glinted, and Michael realized that he had been shouting. He forced himself to loosen his clenched fists. Sorry, he muttered. Maybe youre right. Maybe I dont have anything, and maybe I never did. But I do have a soul, now. He paused, considering his words.
I didnt even get to choose that, he said, morose. I an, I did - I tried for years to get a soul. But when the mont ca and it was there in front of , I just - it felt pointless.
Jeorgs face was impassive as he listened, but he took a step closer to Michael. You saw the river, he said. You saw the souls.
Michael nodded. Is that normal? I never asked.
A wry grin split Jeorgs face. No normal, with souls, he said. But not unheard of. I saw it. His expression turned serious once more, and he rubbed his chin. You didnt choose yours?
There was one that ca to , Michael said. It felt like it might have been Form, sort of a dium-bright soul. I almost took it, but it felt like it wouldnt change anything. His face flushed red, rembering, and he wavered on the edge of speech for a long mont; Jeorg waited without comnt or expression until he spoke.
It felt like I would just take a bit longer to die if I accepted. Just - pointless. So I said no. Told it to let go if there wasnt anything better. He shrugged. And then I woke up, and I had a soul anyway.
For a mont it seed like Jeorg wouldnt say anything in response, but then the corners of his mouth twitched - and he laughed, a deep belly laugh that crinkled the corners of his eyes and sent a tear down his craggy cheek.
Ah, he said, wiping at his eyes. Michael Baumgart. I was wrong. Not a child - a fool.
Michael scowled. I dont know why I bothered saying anything, he grumbled. Youve obviously made up your mind about .
Ah, Jeorg chuckled, his voice taking on its lodic tone once more, No insult. The fool speaks truth to kings and emperors, teaches humility to the powerful. The fool stands outside, and laughs within. The fool is free, more than most.
Annoyingly, Michael felt his ire slipping away at the dubious complint. I dont feel particularly free, he muttered.
Jeorg gave him a sly look. Thats because you arent, he said, quirking one shaggy eyebrow and pointing a finger at him. Not yet, anyway. Roots clutch and hold a fledgling ensouled. You must break free.
What? Michael replied, confused. I dont-
He tried to take a step back, but found that he couldnt move his legs. The tree roots that twined over the path had joined together, writhing like snakes to wrap around his legs in a loose but utterly-inflexible grip.
Youre an augns, he said, realizing, craning his head to look around the clearing. You made all of this?
Of course not, Jeorg said, tapping a low-hanging blossom with his finger and watching as it opened wide. Was going to happen without . I provide timing, and direction.
He looked at Michael, and his eyes twinkled. For all the little seeds.
Michael looked around with the benefit of context, seeing all of the oddities about the forest and the orchard in a new light. He had heard of n like Jeorg before, but only in the midst of his father grumbling about the cost of their services.
Its very impressive, he said. Youve done a- He broke off as he looked back towards Jeorg, who had vanished.
Michael blinked and looked around. Jeorg? he called out. No reply ca from the trees, except that they continued to hold their roots fast around his leg.
Wonderful, he muttered, bending to get a closer look at the rough wood that held him. It was not over-tight, but the fit was rigid enough that his foot was hopelessly trapped. Pulling at it only hurt his knee and ankle, and Michael quickly decided that he would not be able to break loose through simple force.
Groaning, he tilted his head back towards the sky, feeling the shifting warmth as sunlight dappled down through the trees onto his face. He closed his eyes for a mont and simply stood there, listening to the wind and the distant birdsong.
After a few minutes, he exhaled and opened his eyes. Well, Sofia, he said. Not sure if youre listening to , but this is working out just fine. Day one of my new life with Jeorg. Youve given to an augns and he has planted . Spark will never see through my cunning disguise as a-
He squinted. -as whatever sort of trees these are. He sighed and fell silent, looking around. It was obviously so manner of test, one that he was currently failing. Sches ran through his mind - to wedge a stick into the gap, perhaps, or to bash a rock against the outside.
Those plans failed against the utter (and likely purposeful) lack of any such implents within reach. He tried to slowly pull his foot out, to slip it from his shoe - but for all that the roots did not squeeze him, they were too tight for such maneuvers.
Eventually he tired of his struggles and simply stood. The sunlight had shifted in the hours of his confinent, now coming low and golden from the west. It lit the trees in shades of bronze and brandy, the petals flaring bright around him.
The air cooled, and he breathed it in. Its not so bad, being a tree, he said, feeling a bit delirious. His leg hurt. Annoying, but not so horrible that he couldnt push it from his mind. He had felt worse pain before, after all. There was no real danger here, no looming figure of Karl Baumgart about to flay him alive.
Jeorg might leave him to die, of course. The thought did occur to him, as he had read one or two travelogues talking about Bulu boys stranded in the desert and left to fend for themselves. Only those who proved their manhood against the desert lived to return.
But this didnt strike Michael as that sort of test. Besides, Vincent had as good as warned him that Jeorgs instruction would be odd but harmless. This was either a test of creativity, which would do him no good to obsess over, or a test of desperation - and he was not quite ready to gnaw his leg off at the knee.
So he stood and watched the sun slip behind the towering forest that grew up around them. The fire faded from the treetops, replaced by glimpses of a sky that shaded itself in enticing berry and plum. Lights sprang up in the darker parts of the orchard - not candlelight, but fireflies that danced their crude impression of the river of souls.
He had surrendered, there. Given himself up only to be rejected back into painful mortality once more. Was that what Jeorg ant to evoke, with this imprisonnt? Should he simply surrender?
There were no obvious answers, and hours of effort had yielded neither solution nor lesson. Either sothing new would occur to him, or he would still be thinking when Jeorg returned. All that was left was to stand and enjoy the fireflies and the night, and the sll of the flowers on the breeze.
Was it really surrender? Surrender implied a conflict, an adversary, and there was no sense of that here. The longer he stood, the more he ca to think of his immobility as an invitation - to think, to pause, to be still. In fact, Michael found that there was little more he would rather do. For once in his life he had nowhere in particular to be.
So he chose to be where he was.
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