Aware

by Andy Havens

  The Weyyrd all nodded, solemn and concerned. More than any other guild, they grasped how the Ways shaped the various powers and restrictions of the Blood. They knew that in some arenas, they would always be more powerful. In others? Mo match for Reckoners from the other Houses. This was not new. The Domains had been balanced by Law and custom for thousands of years.

  Their Bloodlord, though, had shown them how much, over the past several centuries, the Ways of Sight and Chaos, Increase and Release had gained in comparison to those of Blood. The machines of Mundanes, the spread of learning and entertainment networks, the growth of the great urban metropolises—all these things had increased the power of their rivals, but had done little for the Blood.

  He paused and stared each of the Weyyrd in the eyes one at a time. They all met his gaze and nodded, each silently acknowledging the righteousness of his cause and his authority over them.

  There was no need for words. They were Blood. They knew what to do in the same part of their souls that sent hunters after prey.

  Sekhemib Senbi stamped his feet and turned in a series of tight arcs. They arranged themselves in their traditional order and moved around him in a slow circle. As he increased the speed and complexity of his dance, they did as well, the markings on their skin shifting and sliding in harmony.

  The Bloodlord had been practicing this dance for years. He wasn’t even sure how the pattern had first come to him. What had ignited the first spark of his plan and of this new Way.

  Maybe in my madness, I saw the path to sanity and strength. Maybe the Blood of my ancestors gave it to me as a gift. Maybe I just picked up a lot more shit over the centuries than any of my predecessors.

  It hadn’t all come at once. It had started as vague notions. A stray thought here, a new step there. After a time, though, the pattern had come clear and he’d begun to refine and practice it. The only one who had ever seen him do so was Cole, from whom he had taken a few good suggestions. Remembering their sessions as he moved about the cave, Senbi thought, the boy has a rare gift.

  The forging of a new Way was never a task to be taken lightly. The Weyyrd were more concerned with existing Ways and their upkeep, use and proper form. But they would know and feel what needed to be done.

  Senbi’s steps changed. He moved from the center of the circle to place hands on the shoulders of two of the Waymasters. They understood and allowed him to step between them, making him their equal in the ring. As he touched the two on either side, the mark he’d placed beneath their tongues within the Wraidd grew out and around their mouths, lining their lips in new, dark tattoos. The whorls continued down and around behind their necks, finally ending in a point between their shoulder blades.

  With a sigh of pleasure and pain, the two Weyyrd on either side of him squeezed his shoulders in a gesture of fealty, love and acceptance. After a moment, he separated from them and crossed the circle, stepping through the fire and inserting himself between another two dancers. Seven times he did this, binding two of the Reckoners to his Way with each pass.

  Finally, all of them now branded with the new markings, he moved to the center of the circle, stepping back through the flames a final time. He felt the heat, but it did not scald him. The eyes of his children, though, they burned. He felt the oaths circling their throats and mouths binding him as well. He felt the power and responsibility of all his people. The combined needs and sins and beautiful dreams of thousands… millions of the Blood.

  Looking down, he saw that his own skin was rippling with new lines. One for each of the totems. They were all subtly different but, together, made a beautiful, harmonious symmetry around his shoulders and heart. And as they moved and snaked around his skin he felt a burden lift from his soul. He felt lighter and faster than he had in years. All the doubt and tension fled from him and he knew that this was his purpose, his legacy, his triumph.

  The dance went on, seemingly for hours. He wept and laughed with his children as they came to understand the power of what they were bringing to life. Even his personal guards—trained from youth to stoicism and duty—spilled tears of delight to see their kin in the embrace of such powerful ties, such a promise of glory.

  This was the Blood at the heart of the world. This was the Blood of legend. This was the Blood of war.

  They danced for the joy of it all.

  * * * * *

  In one of the guest rooms of the Great Library, Bastiaan slept a very sound and relatively dreamless sleep. For the first time in a long time he did not dream about the cliff. There was no confusion, no terror. He dreamed, instead, that he was in a study of some kind. Like a gentleman’s den or a small bedroom converted to a reading lounge. Something like that. It was very pleasant.

  He sat, in his dream, on a comfortable couch. There was a desk and a desk chair. There were many books and a rug and an old, brick fireplace. There was no fire, but he could smell that it was real, not a gas insert.

  It wasn’t a particularly active dream. He kind of swam in and out of complete unconsciousness. But when he did return to his dream-self, he was pleased to be in such a fine, safe, comfy place.

  At one point, he seemed to hear rain on the roof or thunder coming down the chimney. But it was only a light tapping. A throaty, almost cat-like growl in the distance. Nothing to be afraid of. Nothing to worry about. Nothing.

  He even smiled a bit as he slept. Which hadn’t happened in many, many years.

  * * * * *

  Back at the Farm, Ken was having the same dream he’d had for months and years. Though, like Bastiaan, he never remembered it the next day.

  His dream was similar. Not a cliff, but the top rise of a terrifying roller coaster. He was gripping the bar in front of him and could look down the incredibly steep track in front of him, to either side where the ride fell off into depths where light did not reach. Or, by turning in his seat, he could look over his shoulder at the track behind him. Which was the same insane drop that was waiting for him in front.

  As he turned, the car began to rock a bit, back and forth.

  So he sat completely still.

  Up until this point, the dream had always been the same. He’d teeter back-and-forth atop the coaster, never really able to scream out his fear—because the screaming might push the car down the slope.

  Tonight, though—things changed.

  Like before, he twisted and turned and the car tipped back and forth. But each time, it seemed to nudge a bit more in each direction.

  And finally finally finally

  (almost a relief, but no no please not not not NOT NOT NOT!!!)

  the car tipped past the balance point and began to slowly

  so slowly so very slowly

  inch over the rise and down the track.

  At first he thought it was maybe just a longer rock. That it would pull back again. That he would still be there, balanced, at the apex of the ride he’d come to hate and fear so much.

  But no no no no no no

  it was rolling forward now. A bit faster. A bit.

  The speed wasn’t the problem. It was the drop. Now that the car had tipped past the point of no return

  [“Point of no return!”]

  he was leaning almost out of the car. The angle was so steep. The pressure on his back and hands so heavy. There was no belt, of course. Just his hands and forearms burning as he tried to keep from tipping bodily forward and into the abyss that was now jogging now running now flying up to meet him.

  There was no bottom. The car raced faster, wind blurring and burning his ears. He could barely hold on. If he let go, he’d fall in front of the car and be both crushed and then tumble down and off and over forever.

  The car lurched and he tumbled forward and whatever had always been waiting for him at the bottom of the tracks reached up and he was finally able to open his mouth and scream.

  * * * * *

  In all the other beds, at all sixteen Farms, all the residents were screaming. Both in their dreams and in their wards. Ov
er and over with every breath, screaming until they were hoarse and then more and more, on and on.

  Dr. Daniels and the other Directors had warned their staffs. They’d locked all the heavy, sound-proofed doors to all the sound-proofed rooms. They’d turned off all the cameras.

  As the memo said, “This is a known and relatively harmless side-effect of some hopeful new treatments for sufferers of Stuart-Warden’s Syndrome.”

  The screaming stopped at dawn when the residents awoke. They did not remember the dreams, but their throats were sore and so the staff provided more ice-cream. They all liked ice-cream.

  * * * * *

  In her comfortable bed, Lane White moaned in her sleep. She never dreamed. Or never remembered them. Her doctor told her that everyone dreamed. So she must. But she never remembered them.

  Tonight, though, for just a moment… something. A breeze in her hair. A sensation of height. A loss of balance as if on a rolling ship.

  Then nothing. More nothing. Back to her deep, dreamless sleep in a comfortable bed.

  * * * * *

  Asleep in the pocket of a very low, very comfortable chair, Kendra dreamed she had Vannia’s wings and was flying over miles and miles of forest. It was a pleasant dream and she awoke refreshed.

  * * * * *

  By ones and twos over the course of several hours, the Blood Mages of the Weyyrd left the cave above the mountain lake. They were energized and excited and, to be honest, in awe of their Lord. They had never seen a new Way made. Had certainly never been part of a ceremony like that. They wore their new markings with pride, although they knew that when asked, they would not reveal—could not reveal—their purpose. That was not entirely unusual. Clan and Tribe markings sometimes had secret, special meanings for families or even couples. Unless they were seen together, no one would find them terribly strange. They had been told to split up and head back to their Tribes as soon as they got out of the valley.

  Sekhemib Senbi left the cave last, attended by his Bloodguard. Like many Bloodlords before him, he’d been known to attend various ceremonies and Dances in disguise. It was a perk of the job. A way to assay the true feelings and thoughts of his people. So if someone should see him… it wouldn’t be thought too strange.

  In truth, he almost wanted to be seen. The new markings on his skin were extraordinary. As an ancient and powerful Blood, he, of course, had possessed a wide variety of highly prized and beautiful tattoos.

  These new ones, though, were a work of art. They rippled in the morning sun and he could almost feel them curling around his ribs and over his spine.

  I do, in fact, want to be seen, he thought, staring down into the shallow valley. And I want to test the new Way of the People. The one that I myself created!

  He strode down the hill and took in the frost, the sun and the light bouncing off the water. There were still small groups of Dancers camped around the lake. Some on the bare, cold grass and dirt. Some on blankets or sleeping bags, a few on more luxurious outdoor contrivances.

  The largest of these groups, about fifteen or so revelers, was set up in a circle around the still glowing embers of a fire. Some were asleep in pairs and threes. But several were sitting on camp chairs around the coals, drinking coffee and eating some kind of fried meat from a cast-iron pan.

  Senbi gestured for his guard to remain a few yards back and headed into the camp. When the revelers saw who was in their midst, they stood in respect and invited him to share their breakfast. Most were Bloods, but two of the sleeping females were, judging from their attire, from Chaos.

  He nodded and sat, taking a steaming mug of coffee from one of the Bloods. Looking around the circle he saw a variety of Tribes represented; Bone, Wolf and Iron. One of the women of Wolf handed him a kind of blanket-shawl thing for around his shoulders and he tipped his head in thanks. He didn’t really need it against the cold, but it was soft and comfortable and he appreciated the gesture.

  Drinking the coffee and taking a slab of fried ham from one of the Bloods, he considered calling up the Way and directing these, his people, to begin the great…

  What the hell should I call it? he wondered. Not a war. Not yet. The great gathering? No… That’s not right. Great movement? Screw it. I’ll figure it out later.

  Also, he realized, he didn’t want to waste the first use on this gang of somewhat motley, bedraggled party-goers. They were fine, friendly kin. He was enjoying their coffee, food and banter. But this was not an auspicious moment for the birth of a grand…

  Son-of-a-bitch… I never really thought I’d get here. Now I don’t know what to call it.

  One by one, the campers in his circle paid their respects and headed off. Some by themselves, some in small groups. Until he was left alone except for one last figure rolled tight in a sleeping bag next to the dregs of the fire.

  Senbi was about to get up and head home himself. He was enervated, yes, but in need of a shower and some real food. As he rose from the chair, though, the figure across from him stirred and pushed himself out of his bag.

  The Bloodlord was startled to see that it was Avar’eket, the artist. They’d crossed paths a couple of times at various functions, but the younger Blood ran in much more urban and urbane circles. There was a coterie of Blood artists, writers and performers who had, essentially, abandoned the Tribe and Clan structure for one much more…

  Bohemian, I believe the chronics would call it, he thought.

  Wiping his eyes sleepily and looking around, Avar’eket saw who was sharing his fire and sat up quickly, actually trying to stand within his sleeping bag, and stammering out, “My Lord. You honor… us. Me. Our camp. Have you been offered… Yes. I see. You have coffee and… I’m sorry. I was quite fast asleep.”

  Senbi nodded and gestured for the man to sit. The artist bowed his thanks and extracted his legs from the bag. He was wearing old, faded jeans and nothing else but his ink.

  Good looking fellow, Senbi thought. Just like his old man. Now there had been an artist.

  Mer’eket had thrilled audiences with visual arts, music and choreography. Senbi’s courtiers told him that the man’s son was quite good, but still a long way off from matching his father’s work.

  Either way, a pleasant enough companion to wind up this extraordinary moment. Perhaps he will one day write a song or craft a sculpture honoring it.

  Avar’eket got himself a cup of coffee and a donut from a box in his tent, offering one to Senbi who declined. “Sugar in the morning,” the Bloodlord explained, “Will give me the shakes.”

  “But caffeine doesn’t?” Avar’eket asked.

  “No. I’m not sure why. Some oddity of… what’s the Mundane word?”

  “Metabolism.”

  “Yes. That. I’m sure there’s a Shamas somewhere who could explain it.”

  The young artist spread his hands wide. “Is there a need for an explanation? If you know a thing, live it.”

  Senbi clapped his hands. “I like that, son! That’s a good one. Mind if I steal it?”

  Avar’eket made a short bow while remaining seated and said, around a mouthful of donut, “It is yours, my Lord.”

  The Bloodlord regarded the detritus of the Dance. Unlike Earth, his people didn’t always clean up their sites very well. Various wrappers and bottles, articles of clothing and sundry other crap littered the hillsides. He shook his head a made a note to talk to the master of the revels. Or whomever. He’d delegate it. Maybe one of his guard could start…

  No. That’s beneath them, he thought.

  “I’ve always wanted to be clever,” he said to Avar’eket. “To say clever things that people would remember and quote. But I don’t have that skill.”

  “You are a man of action, my Lord. You command with your words. No need for subtle, flowery prose when your every syllable is a matter of life and death.”

  Senbi stared at the man over his cup of coffee, absolutely deadpan, until both of them broke out laughing.

  “That was thick enough, son, we
could cook it up in the pan and have it for lunch.”

  “I’m sorry, Lord. I have heard you have a sense of humor. I hoped you’d find it amusing.”

  Senbi nodded and shrugged off the shawl, standing up and stretching.

  “It was amusing,” he said to the artist. “A ruler with no senses of humor is a…”

  He halted mid-phrase because of the look on the young man’s face. It was a look of confusion and, maybe, a bit of awe.

  “My Lord,” Avar’eket said, standing up and coming a step or two closer. “Your new marks. They are, well… Incredible.”

  That they are, Senbi thought. Now I’m glad I lingered here. Maybe this young artist can truly appreciate their beauty.

  “May I approach?” the young man asked. It wasn’t strictly necessary, but tradition demanded that a Blood ask before coming within arm’s reach of the Bloodlord. Senbi gestured his assent, waving the boy forward, pleased that even one of these young, fashionable Reckoners remembered basic politeness.

  Avar’eket walked around his ruler, stopping to stare at a particular marking. Pointing with a finger to trace its loops and whorls in the air. He murmured his appreciation several times and made three full circuits around Senbi before stopping in front of the Bloodlord to stare at his chest, shaking his head in mute appreciation.

  “Your thoughts?” Senbi asked, clearly hungry for more praise.

  “My thoughts? I’m not sure I’m worthy to have any,” the artist said, clearly and honestly fascinated.

  “Oh come now,” Senbi said. “You must have some observations?”

  The other man nodded. As Senbi had noted several times, he was a handsome youth. Dark of skin like so many of the Fire Tribe from which he and his father hailed.

  My own Tribe, he realized with a start. From so many, many years ago.