Off-Grid
Twelve of them assembled atop Ribbon Dance Hill, six to quest and six to guard. That was the ancient formula, the Balance, and like so many other ancient things, it had no virtue beyond a pleasing symmetry. Those who quested were easier, Tekelia thought, knowing that each had a cousin at their back, ready to shield and to strike.
This attempt—this was no part of the agreement they had made with the Warden. They might, in fact, be understood to be placing the whole of Civilization at peril by making these inquiries of the ambient. Civilization would, Tekelia knew from experience, take that stand. After all, Civilization depended on rules, and on order, and on pretending, politely, that dead predators had no living sisters.
They, the gathered Haosa, understood their undertaking not as a foolish risk, but as a basic act of prudence. The Reavers had come out of the dancing Dust on purpose to harvest the small talents—Dreamers, Lucks, Back-Seers, Hearth-Makers, Finders—not for their talents, but because they had talent. It had been the purpose of the Reavers to attach those weaker and to subsume their wills, chaining their energies, so that they became no more than human batteries, augmenting another’s power.
That was clearly terrible, but what made the intent of the Reavers yet more terrifying was the fact that—
They had not themselves been free. Every one of them, so far as the Haosa had been able to determine—every one of them had been enslaved as they had intended to enslave others.
It was the opinion of the Warden, and also of the Haosa, that the puppetmaster had not, themselves, come to Civilization on this mission of subjugation. That comforted Civilization, though not, thought Tekelia, who knew him well, the Warden.
Certainly, the notion that the puppetmaster was alive somewhere, and beginning to miss their puppets could not be anything but distressing. Surely, they had not sent all they had in the way of slavers. Yet, they had lost agents, and it was not inconceivable that they might be moved to come themselves, to see what the Dust-bound Redlands bred that were the equals of those they had deployed.
There also remained the puzzle.
Something had killed the Reavers, and it had not been the Haosa. No, it had been the part of the Haosa to collect the bodies, after the Reavers had died in their numbers, falling where they stood; passing from sleep into death with no waking between.
The Warden had held out the theory that it was the puppetmaster who had been struck down, taking their puppets into oblivion with them.
That was, to Tekelia’s mind, a possibility—a strong possibility, given that other anomaly that had recently impressed Haosa senses.
Near to the time that the Reavers had died, there had been…an event. An explosion of bright noise, such as had not been seen before. There had been reports of some of the less-well-shielded in Civilization falling into a faint; among the Haosa the most common effect had been a headache, and a momentary Deafness.
That event could well have been the cause of the Reavers’ fall, only—why had the Reavers died when all the rest who had been struck recovered handily, with no lasting ill effect?
Clearly, these were questions for the ambient.
So it was that twelve Haosa were gathered this night on Ribbon Dance Hill, just past the center of dark, when The Ribbons were the brightest, and the night mist swirling ’round their knees—six to search; six to guard. In theory, the ambient would itself hide them from their enemies, should there be any enemies present with eyes to See.
It was upon that theory that Tekelia’s own faith foundered. For Tekelia, as with any other of the Haosa, to question the ambient was akin to questioning the air.
Exactly akin to questioning the air.
Yet the Reavers had come through the Dust, through the ambient, Haosa and the Civilized all unaware until the attempt was made to attach a Dreamer named Sylk ezinGaril, who had screamed her defiance into the ambient for all and everyone to hear.
Which was why Tekelia, on this bright and brilliant night, stood atop Ribbon Dance Hill, one among six of the inner circle—a quester.
Tekelia had questions—several questions, and serious—to ask the ambient.
“Cousins,” called Banedra, who had a flawless sense of timing. “Now is our moment!”