I know that writing is a tradition, one in which she put great stock. Unai told . In the evenings she would write for hours to put down her thoughts. But then he said that the Annals were kept secret, only for the Stars to read. Is the writing for themselves or their successors?
I have no thoughts for myself that are not already writ in my mind, and I have no need for the thoughts of n and won who lived in tis long past. The past is no longer an instructive example for the current day. There are no more kings and emperors, no more struggles save for the blind thrashing of fish who cannot comprehend the net.
And none will listen, even if I were to speak. I must stand ALONE and APART, as the rod must stand if it wishes to draw the lightning.
So there is only one reason to continue the tradition, and per the rules of that tradition only one person who might read this. Therefore:
Hello, Michael. This is my letter to you.
- Annals of the Seventeenth Star, 693.
Michael sat upright, breathing heavily; the trees in the orchard swayed above him in the gentle breeze, the scent of fruit and flowers heavy on the wind. For the barest mont it made him happy; in the next instant his mind ca fully awake. Nausea flooded him. He scrambled to his feet in a blind panic, casting around the garden for the flicker of waiting souls.
No, he mumbled. No, no no no- He tripped, stumbling over his feet, and fell against a tree trunk. Coughing and spitting out bits of leaf, he struggled upright again. Part of him wanted to call out, to shout for what he knew was waiting; he did not. Nas flitted through his mind, nas he dared not speak aloud for fear that there might be an answer.
He stood amid the trees, head down, and said nothing.
The crunch of footsteps ca from behind him. Michael lifted his head fractionally. Youre usually here faster, he murmured.
Jeorg snorted. You usually want to see . Now you dont want to see anyone. Afraid of who might show if you look.
Im being foolish, I know, Michael said. Words circled in his mind for long, quiet monts; he let his head drop back down. I failed them, Jeorg.
You dont even know who youre talking about. Jeorg shook his head. But all paths end at so point. That was the truth that drew your soul. He stepped closer, laying a hand on Michaels shoulder. The one you rejected so harshly that its not quite a truth anymore. Winding, wending, neverending
Jeorg smiled, looking wistfully up at the leaves. I liked the shape of what you did, when you spoke those words. Strong words, for strong ideas. Youre making beauty, Michael. He looked back down at him. Dont be afraid to look it in the eye.
There was a shudder that ran through the garden, a fitful gust of the wind that jarred the orchard and sent flower petals streaming away on the breeze. Michael felt his eyes focus differently on Jeorg, looking behind him, through him, golden light cascading inward across countless glittering panes-
It passed. Michaels eyes slid back to Jeorg, smiling beatifically in the shade. He shook his head, staggering to the side. What are you? he asked. Really?
Jeorg moved to steady him, his arm looping around Michaels shoulders; the old mans hand was warm, firm against his arm. Is it so hard to believe that Im you? he asked. You saw what Luc built. What he is, now. You saw the scale of it.
Michael grimaced, letting Jeorg guide him forward down the garden path. If youre about to tell that my soul is more monstrous still, I may vomit.
Monstrous, Jeorg humd. Thats Lucs word. Evil. A channel carved in his mind before he felt the first touch of a soul. Not his word alone, either. They erged from the orchard, following the curve of the path. Ahead of them lay the small cottage, at once larger and smaller than Michaels mories recalled.
His footsteps faltered as he saw it. He knew what lay inside. The bed, soaked in blood, a lifeless hand dangling from the side. The slow crimson drip onto the floor. It had not plagued his dreams for so ti, but now it surged back all the stronger for its absence, so vivid he could almost sll the iron upon the wind.
Evil is always a choice. Jeorg nodded towards the cabin. Failure is not evil. Neither is harm. Unfortunate, yes, but not evil. What is in the cabin?
Michael licked his lips. Those Ive brought to harm, he rasped.
Bah, Jeorg scoffed. And they had no will? No choice? You forced them all to follow you across the sea, to romp around Ardalt after Luc? He looked at Michael reproachfully. You know better than that.
It was foolish to think that Luc wouldnt harm them, Michael protested. Once I saw what he had done - I should have known.
They knew, Jeorg observed dryly. People notice things like that. Imminent danger, hostile souls. They didnt need you to point out the risk. He squeezed Michaels shoulder, then stepped back.
Michael stood before the door of the cabin, his hand hovering just shy of the door. There was the impulse to turn away, to put it out of his mind, but a colder, more-rational part of him knew that it would not change anything.
Those who had died were dead, and the dead were waiting.
He pulled the door open, stepping inside the cabin. There was no hearth, no kitchen; he was in the small bedroom imdiately. Upon the bed sparkled four lights - three tiny stars, and one massive orb. No blood marred the sheets. It was quiet in the room, though as he watched the lights he felt a hint of feeling rippling out from them.
It was not anything he could place imdiately. It was subtle, gauzy, like a sound just below what he could hear that nevertheless made itself felt in his chest. He reached out to the first light and found it already in his hand.
Arn. The mans face swam into his mind, images of his life flickering against his closed eyes. Enough to make him realize that he had barely paid attention to the man, was lucky to even know his na. The second, Herschel, he had known even less.
The third was unfamiliar - one of his soldiers, but not one he had talked to, nor was he able to put a na to the hazy face that flickered here and there amid the mans mories. Michael felt a hot flush of sha at his unfamiliarity; these were n that had placed faith in him, followed him back to Ardalt on little more than a promise.
The sha gave way to dread, though, as the mories of the three n faded. One light remained, more brilliant than the rest. A soul. Michael stretched his hand out, trembling.
The damp streets of Stahm flitted through his mind, followed by the monotony of military life. Days spent in the kitchens, making ice. It was Voss, Michael realized. The recognition brought relief with it, that his error had not dood Sera, Zabala, Unai - and then the sha redoubled, that he should be this glad that it was just Voss who had died.
Michael sat down on the bed, feeling the rush of light within him; a mont later Jeorg sat beside him. He said nothing, but his hand found Michaels shoulder again. He shook it gently-
The snow had fallen ankle-deep by the ti they left Korbels gates with Vera in tow. She looked out-of-place amid the dirty, tired n of the company in her white fur coat - until one looked at her face, and saw the grief etched there.
Each man in the company bore a different refraction of that look, though in so it was buried too deep to see readily. Michael felt it resonate between them, a tolling bell of loss that sohow complented the deadened, muffled world of falling snow around them.
He walked at the head of the company, far in front. The night was bright, a dull red light from the burning hillside reflecting from flake to flake until the whole of the night burned in forge tones. There was not enough light for Vincents soul to lt the snow, however; Michael trudged through it, his eyes fixed ahead.
My soul to the One.
He had heard the n say it - first in jest, when they had t back in Is, then again here and there as a refrain. Now, though, it was murmured almost too faint to hear, under their breath with eyes lowered and faces turned aside.
There was, as Charles had once said, a difference between knowing and seeing. Seeing Michael wielding Vosss soul had been a shock for so of the n. He felt more fear than there had been before, but not as much as he had expected. Instead there was sothing broader, quieter that underlaid the fear, muting it into a soft counterpoint beside their grief. The two notes together transford into sothing altogether different, sothing that Michael did not have an easy word for.
The snow crunched behind him; Michael turned his sight to see Sobriquet tromping forward from the column.
Youre moping, she said.
Tonight was an abject failure, Michael shot back. In almost every respect. Im entitled.
She punched him in the arm - not hard, this ti, which Michael took as a tacit agreent with his point. They walked quietly, side by side. Eventually, she raised her head.
Ive had n die under my command, she said. So were like Gerard - they got themselves killed, through anger or stupidity. Others were my errors. They were all there because of , though. She took a few more steps in silence. Clair used to scold for sulking afterwards. Said they had made their own choices, taken their own risks.
Michael smiled, despite himself. Thats what Jeorg said, he murmured. More or less.
Jeorg, Sobriquet said. As in Jeorg, your friend who died months ago?
Michael laughed and shook his head. No, its - Ghars bones, this is going to sound mad.
Sobriquet raised an eyebrow. No, please dont damage my lofty opinion of your ntal state. Im not sure I could handle it.
Shush. Michael brushed snow from his head, sorting out how to begin explaining. I see him, when I get a new soul - other tis, as well. When Im passed out I see his garden, or a version of it. I see him. Its not him, not really, but Im - fond of hearing him talk. Sotis he says things I already know in new ways, ways I hadnt considered. Other tis- Michael shook his head. It does sound mad.
In fairness, you do have any number of people knocking around inside of you right now, Sobriquet said. She paused, looking aside. Do any of them ever speak to you?
Michael shook his head. I dont know that they can, he said. I see - mories, images from them, but theres never any speech. I dont even know most of their nas. He grimaced. Ghars blood. Beringer. I didnt even rember his na. He followed here, died in my company, had enough affinity to co to - I didnt rember his na, Sera.
You were focused on Luc, she replied. You think I know all the nas of the n who died for ? It wasnt in fashion to go by your proper na while conducting an illegal resistance, you know. The na doesnt matter. Its the actions you take that matter more. She prodded him in the side. You know the man chose to travel with you, fought for you, put up with trekking all over this horrid country. That ans more than anything else, including his na.
Youre right, of course, Michael sighed. But it doesnt sit well with . I should have - I dont know. I should have taken an interest, at least.
Sobriquet gave a small snort of amusent. Yes, well, she said. Lucky for you, youre walking as far as you can possibly get from the n, exuding an aura of absolute depression that ensures nobody will dare attempt to talk to you. Thats sure to fix the problem.
Youre being snide, Michael muttered. Thats not an endearing trait.
She stretched upward to kiss him on the cheek. I can tell when youre lying, rember.
Michael gave her a halfhearted glare, feeling utterly outmaneuvered. She smiled back at him, snowflakes on her eyelashes glittering in the dull red light; he made his peace with this particular defeat and leaned over to kiss her.
Youre infuriating, he murmured. Thanks.
She grinned. I learn from the best.
Michael let his pace slow, walking closer to the column of n behind him. A few heads ca up, eyes both curious and wary; Michael gave them a nod and a smile before focusing on one of the faces he knew better. Richter, he said. The kitchen at the lodge, is it stocked well enough to do a proper al?
The cook blinked. I should say so, milord. Mostly winter stores, but it is winter. Did you have sothing in mind?
Not particularly. Michael shrugged. Whats your favorite?
Richter snorted. My favorite al from salt pork and pickled greens? he scoffed. Well see what I can do. Ive certainly worked with worse, there was one ti back in Daressa when the supply truck got blown to shit by so dirty- He blanched, looking over at Sobriquet.
She smiled at him.
-so lovely strangers, Richter anded, to general derision from the n. We were left with a rotten cabbage and a half cart of tinned beans. Needless to say, the options were limited. Voss was in the kitchens by then, we went by to shake him down
The other n chid in with their own rembrances of that particular event, embellishing details or calling out Richter for the sa.
Michael listened.
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