Off-Grid
I
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!”
II
The questing had been exhilarating, but futile. The ambient—had not been helpful. That was worrisome, and even more worrisome when Banedra called the questers back to themselves, to dance off the accumulated energies; afterward to sit, eat, and compare their results.
Tekelia’s questions had been specific, not to say pointed, a method that had produced success in previous inquiries. This time, however, the ambient had been unforthcoming—even bored. Perhaps, Tekelia thought, the questions had been too pointed.
Except Yferen, who specialized in questions so broad as to be meaningless, reported the same lack of interest, not to say success.
In fact, each of the six questers reported the ambient . . . distant, as if they and their concerns were of secondary importance, behind some other, more highly anticipated event.
That was worrisome.
Were more Reavers on the way? If so, the Haosa had to alert Civilization. The last visitation had taught them that Civilization had some worth in the discovery and containment of enemies, and a valuable lesson it had been.
However, the quest had left them uncertain on the point of more Reavers, and their discussions grew heated. It was at last agreed among the twelve that to go to Civilization with vague uneasiness and maybes would not only cause unproductive worry, it would put Civilization’s eye firmly onto the Haosa, which the Haosa very much did not prefer.
No, the twelve decided—there was but one course open to them. They must quest again, and ask more boldly. They needed answers, and evidence in hand, before they disturbed Civilization’s peace. Indeed, they needed a particular class of evidence—but that was a discussion for later, after they had reaped answers.
In the meantime, there was the village meeting upcoming, and while the Haosa had no compunctions about hiding certain matters from Civilization, their own cousins were served the truth.
Eventually, the talk had run down, and the food had run out. The twelve left the hilltop together. At the base of the hill, they parted, most following the path to the village; others following the stream; and Tekelia, following no path at all, or so it seemed.
III
Tekelia reached the house at the edge of the Wild and ascended the ramp, thinking with a certain amount of wistfulness of a nap. It had been a long night, and while a dance with the ambient was energizing, eventually even Haosa must sleep.
A chime sounded, sweet and pure, when Tekelia reached the door—the particular chime set to alert one to the presence of Cousin Bentamin. And, indeed, there he was at the desk, papers and comp to hand, head bent in concentration.
“What are you doing here?”
Not the most gracious greeting for one’s cousin-by-blood, who had a genius for knowing when he was most unwanted.
Cousin Bentamin looked up from his work, blue eyes wide and guileless.
“Tekelia, good-day to you as well.”
Ah; a second chance to be courteous. Tekelia inclined from the waist.
“Good-day, Bentamin. Why are you here?”
“The Warden has some serious matters to discuss with the Speaker for the Haosa.”
The Speaker for the Haosa being, according to Civilization and the Warden, Tekelia vesterGranz.
The notion that Civilization ought to work with the Haosa, the barbarian outcasts who lived Off-Grid, had been the particular brainstorm of Bentamin’s mother in her later years. Having thought the thought, she had immediately set forth to locate an appropriate elder who was willing to act as her contact, hear her concerns and ideas, and take them to the rest of the Haosa. The Speaker was not—had never been—the leader of the Haosa. The Haosa had no leader; rather, there were those who were more attuned to the ambient. The former Speaker and the present had both been Children of Chaos, as the Haosa had it. It was precisely the sort of Haosa joke that terrified the Civilized, but the fact was that Chaos’s Children were especially favored by the ambient.
It had taken some amount of time, patience, and white-knuckled effort to shape the relationship between Warden and Speaker, but both had seen benefit; they had persevered, and matters between Haosa and Civilization had, in fact, improved. Somewhat.
During this time of relationship-building between Warden and the very first Speaker for the Haosa, Tekelia had been born to a Civilized family, found wanting, and banished Off-Grid.
The Speaker died when Tekelia had been a dozen years among the Haosa. Soon after, Bentamin’s mother had done the same.
Bentamin became Warden, and it was the most natural thing possible that he would contact his cousin Tekelia, inquiring after an appropriate Child of Chaos.
When the question was put, the larger community of Haosa as one stepped back from the honor—even the minority who thought that there ought to be open lines of communication between Off-Grid and Civilization. The Warden’s cousin by that time was known to be close to the ambient. There was no need to look further.
Tekelia, one of that minority, had, without enthusiasm, accepted the duty.
“What serious matters have you to discuss, O Great Warden of the Civilized?” Tekelia asked sourly. A nap was becoming an imperative, followed by a period of meditation. However, neither was going to happen until Cousin Bentamin had his say and went away.
Which meant that an offer, at least, of hospitality was in order.
“Would you like some tea?” Tekelia asked.
“Tea would be very welcome, thank you. I’ll contribute some of Entilly’s cookies that you favor.”
“Thank you,” said Tekelia, and went into the kitchen to fill and start the kettle.
* * *
Bentamin’s papers and comp were gone by the time Tekelia carried the tea tray out. The desk was orderly, and the table had been set on the back porch, chairs placed so that they could both look out over the trees. Bentamin had already claimed the right-side chair. A tin of Entilly’s cookies was open among the cups and saucers, leaving enough room in the center of the table for the tea things.
Tekelia disposed those, poured, and settled into the left-side chair with a sigh.
“Long night?” Bentamin asked.
Tekelia sipped strong morning tea and flung him a baleful look.
“Did you come to talk about my night?”
“Merely a pleasantry, though we may need to speak about your night,” Bentamin answered, offering the tin. “Have a cookie; you’ll be better for it.”
That was nothing but pure truth, Entilly’s way with cookies being what it was. Tekelia reached to the tin and took up a wafer iced in lavender blue. It was delicious, of course, and devoured in three bites. Bentamin ate his pink-iced treat in two. They both sipped tea, and Tekelia sighed.
“Let’s have them then, Cousin. These serious matters of yours.”
Bentamin took up the pot and poured for both. Then he settled back, cup cradled in his hands, looking out over the Wild.
“I’ve been to see the Oracle,” he said, which was surely no news. It was the Warden’s job to see the Oracle, and to keep her safe—or, as the Haosa saw it, to keep her a prisoner, locked away from the vaunted benefits of Civilization, kept apart from her kin, the Haosa; her household comprised entirely of the Deaf, and her only real society the daily visit from the Warden.
“And how fares our Aunt Asta?” Tekelia asked when another of Entilly’s cookies had been devoured, and Bentamin had spoken no further.
“She is, perhaps, beginning to grow weary,” Bentamin said, his eyes still on the forest, “though very pleased to accept a bouquet of Jasy’s flowers—” A conscious look from deep blue eyes. “You’ll not have met Jasy. Sarrell’s youngest. Quite talented, in a botanical way.”
Tekelia waited.
“Yes, well,” Bentamin said, reaching to the tin for another cookie. “You may be interested to know that the darkness has grown to such an extent that it is now an active threat to the universe entire. In fact, the universe has entered the arena, and the testing is at hand.”
“Well, that’s alarming,” Tekelia said, half flippant before the entire sense of this statement unfolded. “Wait. She has Seen this? Has she Seen the outcome?”
“As I understand it, she has not. She has perhaps Seen that the universe will be saved by the rising of a hero who is prepared to do the needful. Mind you, it is equally possible that she has not Seen these things at all.”
Tekelia took a careful breath, understanding him, but intent upon another line of questioning. “Has she Seen the hero?”
“She has Seen something that may be the hero, or perhaps only the possibility of a hero.”
Tekelia reached for a cookie while Bentamin refreshed the cups.
“This is not a solid Seeing,” Tekelia said eventually. “Though I admit to you, Cousin, that this shadow of a hero almost persuades me.”
“And I. We were known as a wayward Line even on the old world.”
“True.”
Bentamin drank tea.
“I think,” he said at last, “that this business of the universe’s testing—even should it be a true Seeing, which . . . I am obliged, you understand, Cousin, to doubt . . . ”
He paused, apparently wishing an answer.
“I understand,” Tekelia assured him.
“Yes. Even if this is a true Seeing—it is beyond us. Civilized, Haosa, and the Dust together cannot prevent the destruction of the universe, though it be our most earnest desire to do so. If it is a true Seeing, then we have no choice but to put our coin on this hero, pray for them strength, success, and an honorable death.”
“I agree.”
“Excellent. That clears the path, and we may now discuss our more pressing problem.”
Tekelia eyed him.
“And that is?”
“The Oracle reports—and this I believe to be a True Seeing—that we may expect the arrival of Great Ones, who will require from us—a service.”
Tekelia stared.
“Great Ones?”
“Greater, so I am given to know, than dramliz.” He inclined his head courteously. “I fear it is here that we may need to address your late night. You may of course speak freely, as I know that your actions, whatever they may have been, were in the service of Civilization as well as the Haosa.”
Tekelia took a hard breath and put the cup down. Great Ones, greater even than dramliz?
Could this be the answer the ambient had not given?
“Last night,” Tekelia said slowly, “twelve danced with the ambient, and asked of it our questions. We were most concerned with the puppetmaster—the one who controlled the Reavers and sent them to us. The ambient was—not helpful, and we resolved to dance again, soon. Now, we have heard the Oracle. I fear that these Great Ones must be the puppetmaster—coming to find what has happened to their toys.”
Bentamin looked as if he had bitten into something sour. He glanced at the cookie tin—and looked away.
“A moment,” he murmured, placing his teacup carefully on the table. He closed his eyes, and took a deep breath.
Tekelia nodded as the flow and texture of the energies in the room altered. Bentamin was Recalling his conversation with Aunt Asta. Prudent. Bentamin was always prudent.
Tekelia refreshed the cups, and put the pot down, empty.
With a blink of blue eyes, Bentamin returned. He nodded thanks for the warmed cup, lifted it, and drank off half in a single swallow.
“I believe that this morning’s Great Ones are distinct from the Reavers,” he said. “These Great Ones are said to be coming to ask of us a service. I pressed for more information, but I was found inept, and mocked.” He paused, and added, “The Reavers, as I know you recall, had come to enslave us.”
“However,” Tekelia said, “it is nothing more nor less than a service, to ask that lost puppets be returned. The Reavers sent to us were not insignificant talents; most had the ability to attach a weaker and bind them.”
Bentamin sighed.
“You are not a comfortable person,” he observed.
“Nor do Oracles speak straightly. Admit that it is likely.”
“I admit,” Bentamin said. “It is all too likely.”
“My regrets, for tearing up your peace,” Tekelia said, which was proper, and even true. The Warden had peace in small enough measure, after all.
“The ambient was unhelpful, you said.”
“Yes. We had already determined to dance again. Now we have these Great Ones and their service to task the ambient with, in addition to the Reavers. It may produce results.”
“Let us hope so. A timeline would be . . . useful,” Bentamin said wryly, and moved one shoulder. “Truthfully, anything concrete would be useful. Keep me informed?”
“I will. Let me know if Aunt Asta speaks more—or more to the point.”
“Of course. Well.” He sighed. “I am wanted in the city,” he said. “I thank you for a pleasant tea, and an interesting exchange of ideas. Shall I leave the cookies?”
“Take them,” Tekelia answered, reaching to cover the tin, and offering it across the table. “How is it that Entilly is allowed by Civilization to produce these?”
“For family use only,” Bentamin said promptly. “Most of her baking is quite . . . unexceptionable.”
Tin in hand, Bentamin produced a stern stare. Tekelia met his eyes calmly. Bentamin might be Warden, but Tekelia was Haosa—Wild Talent, barbarian, bright Child of Chaos. Tekelia cooperated with Civilization from free choice—and the conviction that Civilization would founder without the Haosa. Much as the Haosa would become Lost, indeed, without Civilization to give stability to their lives.
“Be careful,” Bentamin said now. “Tekelia. Swear that you will not risk yourself.”
Tekelia laughed.
“Cousin, I risk myself every day. I am Haosa; there is no shield or wall between me and the ambient.”
Bentamin sighed, and rose abruptly from the table, which was nothing more than his way. He was, after all, wanted in the city; he was an important person, and it had been quite a long visit, out here, Off-Grid.
“Keep me apprised,” he said again.
And he was gone, teleporting back to the Wardian, the center of Civilization, the wash of energies filling Tekelia’s senses for a moment, then draining tidily away into the ambient field.