by Andy Havens
She took her cue from him and travelled as far as she could, bringing the great myths and poems of one tribe to those on distant shores. She was always welcome, always celebrated, always loved for her joy in the telling and singing.
When Aasher gave his life to end the Reckoner Wars, she fled the company of others. Without his voice as a guide, she had no desire to tell her own tales. When she tried, all she saw in the eyes of her audience was the loss she felt.
Finally, after nearly five-hundred years of self-imposed exile, and after nearly freezing to death by herself one winter, she’d come to a small town to gather supplies. There she’d learned of the two new Houses, Increase and Release, that had been born from the breaking of Flux. The sense of that… the perfect balance of the dream and final gift of her mentor had healed her.
He wrote his story in the deaths, and lives, of thousands, she thought. This world, our world, our years… these are the next chapters of his tale.
She could do no better than help record and remember what came next.
No need to search, she simply stayed in that Mundane village. There were no written words here. But she began to think about language. About meaning and sounds and new Ways of Sight.
When Sayem found her, he knew that she had already joined his quest. He sat down in the yard of her pottery shed, among the jars that earned her keep, and told her of his ideas. Of a place where they would store what they saw and heard. Of Ways that would preserve the legacy of Sight beyond the lives of those with personal memories.
He showed her the scrolls on which Aasher himself had begun experimenting with signs and pictographs.
He is dead and gone, she’d thought. But I can hear him. I can still hear him…
She listened patiently as Sayem talked through his plans. He had the vision of something splendid, and the drive to create it.
She had her own powers and her own Ways, and she knew that his dream would require someone who was more willing to go out and be among the stories as they happened. He would need a scout, an explorer, a diviner whose role was to seek the far off tales and bring them home from other lands, other peoples, other Houses.
I don’t think Monday has ever actually been to a Blood Dance, she thought, recalling their early days together. Though he’d reviewed the Ways she’d used to record them hundreds more times than she had.
His ability to move from information to insight to foresight was astounding. But somebody still has to go out and collect the data, she thought.
As she descended the steep hill, she began to hear the drums and strings. The music in the valley was much more restrained and refined than at the other Dances she’d experienced. It reminder her more of jazz or experimental orchestral music. She had expected something more passionate. This was exciting in a more stately way.
There was no light. There was never any light. No torches or fires or lamps. When you entered the Way of the Dance, you didn’t need any. You saw/sensed/felt all the other Dancers more fully without the distraction of appearance. While it was possible to get a sense of what people might look like in their daily lives, that wasn’t really the point. Blood is felt. Blood is held. Blood pumps and flows and beats. You don’t need to see it to feel its power.
She remembered her first time at a Blood Dance and how hard it had been to relinquish her eyesight. While the Ways of Sight encompassed all kinds of senses, measurements and phenomenon, vision was still chief among them. Stepping into the crowded darkness at the base of a volcano had been one of the hardest things she’d ever had to do.
Now?
It’s good to take a break from all that seeing.
The closer she got to the lake in the valley, the darker it became until all that remained were shadows. The music flowed over her and tugged on her soul in ways that only music ever seemed able to do. She had observed Mundanes in the throes of religious ecstasy, battle madness, pure terror and profound relief. But at no time did they seem more like Reckoners then when they made music, sang and danced.
The Blood Dance gripped her more fully with every step and she abandoned herself to it, swaying in patterns that matched the intricate beats. She’d shed her leather coat, scarf, gloves, socks and boots on the hillside and was wearing only a white, sleeveless t-shirt and old, worn jeans. The ground was cold and hard under her bare feet but she knew that the heat of the waiting water and the power of the Dance would soon counter any discomfort she felt.
Unlike Ways of the other Domains, Blood Rites could affect almost any Reckoner. They were the oldest Ways ever created by conscious effort. The Blood Dance was, itself, an ancient Way. But not one of the first. The earliest had involved running, fighting and tracking, survival and mating. These were the Ways of the Hunter. Next came the Ways of the Tribe: rites that bound members of small groups together around a leader or a common purpose. The Blood Dance was one of the third set of Ways, the Ways of the Clan. A set of rituals and powers that helped define relationships between tribes, the core units of the House. The first Blood Dances were held to allow members of different tribes to meet and mate and share secrets and ideas without betraying the confidence of local chiefs.
It was rumored that over the last generation, Sekhemib Senbi, the current Bloodlord, had commanded his magicians, the Weyyrd, to begin crafting Ways of the People; a set of sacraments that would apply to every member of his Domain.
Hieretha thought about the Ways of the People as she entered fully into the Dance. No one knows if Senbi has been successful, she thought. Or if it’s just a rumor, and he’s not really attempting it. Though Sight had tried to pry loose details of the Weyyrd’s activities, they’d only found stories and suspicions.
Why even try? There was a reason, of course, and one that Monday himself had explained to her a century before.
The closer to the family, the more powerful the Ways of Blood, he’d told her. If there is a conflict between Tribe and Clan, Tribe takes precedence. The Hunt, which protects and feeds your immediate family, will trump both Tribe and Clan. My suspicion is that there isn’t enough unity within Senbi’s Domain to allow a Way that ascribes to all his Reckoners. Blood thins as it flows out.
It made sense. Ways drew strength from the perception and attention of their creators. If they were all at odds… there would be no power, and no Way.
She felt the bodies around her. Not just with her fingers and shoulders and hips. But with her Reckoning. She felt their breath and the stretching of their tendons and the thumping of their feet in her own body. She began to dance in time with a dozen or so others whose movements seemed most natural and attractive to her. After a time, they spread out and formed a loose ring that passed around and through other different groups who moved in related yet separate patterns.
They felt the Dance and became it.
Within the group movements there was room for individual flourishes and personal expression. Without being too obvious, Hieretha began to craft her moments to resemble something a bit more open and inviting. Some people and groups moved toward “the center” of the Dance—not in terms of physical space, but with movements that would be picked up and repeated more often than others’.
They are like percussion, she thought. Always there, and every other instrument must follow.
Then the next layer. The brass. The melody. The main, most obvious movements that would still draw attention and admiration. This was the Dance for those who were strong and fast and who wanted to impress. Hieretha was impressed. There was no ego here. Just a sharing. Look what I can do, can be, can create! I share it with you! And, in joy, it was shared and echoed back.
Further out, the ones who wanted to be more individualistic. More swagger and detail. Movements that were more complicated and that repeated less often. These were the soloists. They took turns improvising for a time before falling back into the chorus as others stepped up.
It has been too long, she thought, falling into the patterns, reflecting some and adding flourishes to others.
Sure enough, she was walking in shallow, warm water and it had seeped up to the knees of her jeans. She could see steam coming off the water, off the dancers, off the hills. But her eyes were closed. So it wasn’t seeing so much as being, knowing, embracing.
So good to leave the tools of Sight behind for a time. She loved her work and her House. But everyone needs a break. Needs to let down their hair… Just hang out and…
She almost forgot why she was there. But something in her exact, precise mind rang a tiny little bell at the back of her consciousness to remind her: You’re not here to relax. You have a purpose.
Ah… Weel. Paid a chodi pais wedi pisio…
She shifted her movements to match those of the final group of Dancers. These were the dervishes and mystics, those of Chaos and sometimes Flux. Dancers who didn’t or couldn’t match the intricate movements of the others’ patterns. In a way, they were like the audience at a concert and they added as much as any other group. They were the applause and the sound of the wind and the heat of the fire. As much a part of the Dance as those at the center, but more free and unconstrained. Also often the first to collapse into sleep or sex or complete, individualistic anarchy.
But Hieretha wasn’t being random. It would seem like that to almost all the other Dancers. Her movements didn’t match any of the other’s circles or weaves. It wasn’t a drum beat or the pulse of a horn or even the light, pure note of a small bell. Because of her training in Sight and her ability to remain somewhat above the fray, she could pick elements from each group. For a moment feeling like a great, bass drum. And then switching to a high flute. The lick of fire, then the solidity of rock. All hands one moment, swaying hair the next.
It only seemed random. It was actually a deeper pattern than any of the other sections, picking and choosing elements that added texture and depth to each. And while her steps and movements added something delicious that all the Dancers could feel… only a few even knew what was happening.
Only one would know who was doing it.
Slowly he came to her. It wasn’t as if he was matching her movements, oh no. That would be too crass. Too direct. Too… Mundane. No, he somehow both mirrored what she was doing and anticipated it. She’d think about being in a certain place, next to a certain set of Dancers and he’d be there already. Sometimes opening a hole for her, sometimes filling it and causing her to move on. But it would move her to a place that advanced her own steps further than she could have on her own.
Nobody knows but us, she thought. Among hundreds of Blood Reckoners and dozens of visitors from the other Houses, they two created a private choreography within and through and on top of the greater Dance.
It was exciting and a little dangerous. While not forbidden, if their play became obvious it could cause hurt feelings and even, perhaps, a nasty grudge. The Dance was meant for all. To take such private pleasure was more than a little selfish.
But these two were too good at this kind of intricate play. So they moved and others felt it and moved the Dance around them and were lifted higher. Their movements becoming stronger and faster. The Dancers touching more often and crying out. The ground a slippery ring of mud and steam.
By the time of the final cycle, when everyone fell deeply into a kind of trance-state, Hieretha was back to simply being glad she’d come. She forgot about her mission, about the Library, about Wallace. She forgot about Kendra and seeing and recording and became her body and his body and all their bodies and she fell into them and they into her and…
Sleep. Wonderful, quiet, black, perfect sleep. Where she could just… forget.
He didn’t. Which, of course, she’d counted on before succumbing to the Blood.
Which he knew, of course. Because he wasn’t stupid.
I know that she knows that I know that she knows… he thought, watching her wake up. The moment before she realized where she was: cuddled in a pile of clothes and blankets on the side of a hill as the sun came up in glorious, chilly shades of blue and pink.
“I’ve missed you,” he said.
She made a sound something like a cat blowing a raspberry.
“You know, officially, coming here and looking for me like this is, well… Bad manners.”
“No,” she mumbled, cuddling deeper into the blankets and under his arm. “Part of the Dance.”
He laughed at that and said, “You’re the smartest woman I know. And also the most irritating.”
“I’m charming,” she grumbled into his side. “And delightful.”
He laughed again. “Yes. Yes you are.”
She went back to sleep for just a couple minutes, trying to delay wakefulness. Trying to hold onto this feeling of warmth and slumber. Knowing that the things she’d ask and his answers, whether helpful or not, would put her back on her chosen path. Back to work. Back to Sight.
He let her sleep. His arm had gone tingly and numb hours before but he hadn’t moved. It was part of the Dance, for him. Like a reminder of how different she was. This strange woman from Sight who seemed to understand him better than any of his Clan or Tribe.
He knew she’d wake up when the sense of duty at the center of what made her “her” said that it was time to wake up. Until then, he’d wait with a numb arm and watch her tattoos twist and flow around her arms, neck and chest in their own warm, personal dance.
Chapter 7. Consideration
Kendra was tangled up in feathers, broken glass, the stuffing from a pillow and something that felt like packing bubbles. There was a smell similar to burned popcorn. Sound? Not yet. She could barely hear, her ears ringing from the sharp blasts.
Crikey, she thought. Whatever those were, I’m glad they missed me.
Somewhere in the pile she heard a phone ring. For the first two tones, she thought it was a variation on the ringing from the weapons. Nope. Cell phone. Not hers. Four rings, five… She shook her head, trying to clear the murk a bit.
Kendra felt something (Vannia?) shift above her and she began to push herself up and shake off the glass and other stuff. Then as she tried to look around…
///she felt her entire universe collapse into a single point of attention///
Deer in the headlights, was the only thing she could think of. But not just for light. She couldn’t move her arms or legs, fingers or mouth. Because she absolutely had to pay her entire attention to something that was about to happen. It was like the moment before a curtain went up, when everyone was staring at the stage… but about a million times more important and riveting.
///what? what is happening? what is about to happen? I need to know! I have to know! ///
Finally, after what seemed like at least a minute, the focus of her attention was rewarded with a voice:
“That was… Unwise.”
Now she understood who and what was holding her rapt.
///Ezer.///
His Way was so powerful and so elegant that she hadn’t even recognized it as such. But now she sensed that it was an essential part of the Warden himself. Not something he cast out like Vannia did with her dice and coins or when Wallace used a lens.
//it’s him… he’s… he’s his own Way?///
That didn’t make sense to her. Someone couldn’t be a Way. They weren’t aspects of a person. They were, like maybe… accessories. Tools or weapons, maps or transportation. They might amplify a strength or mask an activity. But they weren’t people.
Except this was.
//he is//
Kendra had no idea how to get a handle on it. She hung, suspended, above an ocean of her own attention that was entirely subject to his intent. Whatever he wanted, whatever he asked, whatever he demanded or decided or judged… yeah… that’s what she’d do. Because he was a condition unto himself. Like gravity. You didn’t argue with it. You could try… on the way down. But it wouldn’t be an argument so much as a final, ridiculous monologue.
Her sight was filled with him now, too. Somehow they were standing. Well, he and she were. Vannia was somewhere behind her,
she thought. Maybe. Kendra could only really see Ezer in front of her and a little on each side. The shattered front window. The fluff from the couch cushions stuck to drapes. Long, yellow light angling in from the setting sun.
He reminded her in that moment of Solomon Monday, the Librarian. She was pretty sure that the Way he’d used to test her hadn’t been anything like his strongest. It had nearly ended her life, sure, but it had seemed as if he’d cast it around her with relative ease.
Still, the power behind what he’d done and his casual manner had been startling and impressive.
/// this is impressive, too ///
She tried to find other Ways to latch on to. She sensed they were there – some of his team’s, others in the area, some still sticking to Vannia – but she couldn’t tear her awareness from him long enough to begin to think about…
// what was I thinking about? oh, right. him. I need to pay really, really close attention to what he’s saying and what he wants me to do. because he’s very, very important. ///
His hair was a bit mussed. His shirt had come untucked a little in front. There was a slight blush on his left cheek as if he’d been slapped and she realized/remembered that he’d hit his face on the coffee table as he’d fallen.
A phone rang again. Maybe it was in his pocket or nearby. Four or five times. But he paid it no attention, continuing to hold her in his gaze and power.
Ezer smoothed back his hair, fixing it completely with one gesture. Then he tucked in his shirt and buttoned his jacket. One of his men (she assumed it was one of his men) burst in the front door, the barrel of some arcane device leveled in her direction.
The Warden held up a hand to halt the man, eyes still on Kendra who was now both fascinated and worried. He stepped forward and stood directly in front of her, less than a foot away, eyes locked on hers.
/// yes, that was unwise. ///
She tried to speak, but was barely able to even form the words in her own mind: