“Why?”
“To attack Keld’s ancestral enemy. Her devotion to her grandfather’s people is complete, as is her will to eclipse every Keldon warlord that ever lived. She reasoned—wrongly—that if she could defeat the frost giants and ice monsters in Parma, it would end this killing cold.”
“So she has abandoned Keld as well as Skyshroud.”
The crimson tint faded from Freyalise’s cheeks. “Not entirely. Behold.” The planeswalker waved her hand dismissively. A surge of scintillating vapor curled out from her fingers and lit up the nearby trees as it spread.
Freyalise’s magic and the rising sun revealed something that Jhoira had not seen in the inky darkness, not even when the slivers were alight. The Ghitu’s stomach churned. Each tree that bordered the forest from where Jhoira stood to the far end of the horizon had a sallow-skinned Gathan raider nailed to it.
The barbarians were all dead, scores of lifeless bodies pinned to the trunks by thick wooden spikes driven deep into their hands and feet. Many were burned. Most bore lethal slashes and stab wounds on their torsos and throats. All had rough Keldon symbols carved into their faces.
“Radha returned here once more before she headed north. Her greatest enemy was dead, but many of his underlings still sought to level Skyshroud to build their long ships. So Radha and her ’host spent a few hours decorating my forest before she struck out for Parma.”
Jhoira nodded. Her voice was grim. “At least she still gives some thought to her first home.”
“Nonsense.” Freyalise darkened once more. “Yes, the lumber raids ceased. But this obscenity was not a warning intended to protect the forest. Radha did this for her own amusement and to strengthen the powerful dread her name evokes among her enemies. She is a true Keldon now. Killing is not enough, victory is not enough. She yearns for total dominance, so she wrought this desecration of both the Gathan brutes and my forest.”
“Surely she wouldn’t—”
“Insult me? Spit on the forest that raised and sustained her? Of course she would, and did. She would rather have her name spoken in fearful whispers than hear it praised. She scoured as much of Keld as she could before the cold called her to Parma, she and the reptile and the eight-fingered demoness from your tribe.”
Jhoira choked back a wave of guilt and horror. Skive and Dassene had been members of Jhoira’s honor guard, but they had joined Radha of their own free will. Now they were Radha’s, and if Freyalise spoke true they were like Radha, bloodthirsty and cruel.
“They say she travels with the ghost of a blind boy she killed. He bears a wound that spells ‘target’ across his face in High Keld. He never speaks. He kills without warning, without a sound, without hesitation. He bears those thrice-damned knives that Radha herself cuts from the blades of her fallen foes.” Freyalise spat, and the ground sizzled. “This is my champion, Jhoira. This is Skyshroud’s ablest daughter.”
“Freyalise,” Jhoira said gently, “did you take me to bring Radha back to you?”
The planeswalker’s eyes were wet, but her voice was clear. “There is no one else. I am almost spent. If Radha does not take control of the sliver swarm it will turn and prey on Skyshroud once more. The Phyrexians will overwhelm us, and the slivers will eat the remains. And I will have failed utterly as patron and protector of my children.”
Jhoira weighed her next words carefully. “I would take up the mantle you wanted for Radha, Freyalise. But I do not have the power.”
The planeswalker shook her head. “I never intended you to. I only want you to find Radha and tell her when I am dead. She has to fight for Skyshroud or the forest will surely die.”
Jhoira held her tongue, unable to speak the truth. She had no more sway over Radha than Freyalise did, especially not since the barbarian elf had bonded with the cold, hard landscape of Keld.
“Jhoira,” Freyalise said, “will you do this for me? For Skyshroud?”
The Ghitu held Freyalise’s desperate eyes for a moment. She said, “I will do what I can, Freyalise.”
“Do more. Bring my people the help they need.” Freyalise’s eyes flashed fire. “Swear it.”
Jhoira straightened. “I swear,” she said, “that I will bring help.”
Freyalise swayed. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. “Thank you.”
Jhoira stood waiting for Freyalise to speak again, to open her eyes. As she waited, she wondered how she would ever live up to the promise she had just made.
The Weaver King moved across Urborg like a malignant cloud. He was frustrated and angry. Far too many of his subjects had been ignoring him of late. He had made a comfortable home here in this dark country of swamps and monsters, but the very aspects that made this place and these people so suitable were also the cause of his current irritation. Urborg was Urborg, after all, and when Windgrace spoke, Urborg listened.
The panther-god had taken almost all of the sentient beings away from their natural cycle of hunting and killing. Now they convened in large groups, docile and obedient to their furry master, heedless of the fact that they would normally be at each other’s throats. The Weaver King was almost beside himself. This simply would not do.
At least Dinne was still his to command. The Vec raider had no connection to Urborg, had no life of his own beyond the Weaver King’s wishes. There was only so much Dinne could do on his own, however, only so many throats he could cut. Each loss closed not only the doorway to one mind but to all the minds that victim knew. Each subject Windgrace took diminished his pool of playthings. The more blood Dinne spilled, the less robust the Weaver King’s kingdom.
He still had tethers attached to his two favorites, the artificer and the archmage. Jodah had been a disappointment on his own, but he had led the Weaver King to a host of other fascinating alternatives. Venser was currently unavailable, as Windgrace himself had staked claim to the artificer’s mind, but that didn’t mean he was permanently out of reach. As soon as the Weaver King devised a way to get around the panther-god—better still, a method of killing or claiming a planeswalker—he could resume his full-fledged indulgence. With the situation deteriorating as it was, the Weaver King decided to concentrate on a solution to this Windgrace problem.
The Weaver King skated along the silver thread that led to Jodah. He was pleased to find the archmage hard at work, his mind focused elsewhere. Industriousness had its own special flavor, one that the Weaver King savored. Staying with Jodah, the Weaver King felt along the connection between himself and Venser. Oddly enough, Venser was preoccupied as well, also toiling away at some task or another that the artificer found completely absorbing. A panther’s growl drifted into the Weaver King’s consciousness, and he quickly withdrew.
Soon, he told himself, careful to keep his thoughts from vibrating along the thread to Venser’s mind. Soon I will split the panther’s psyche into pieces and grind them to pulp between my teeth.
He was so consumed with ire that he almost missed Jodah’s disappearance. If he hadn’t been right on top of the archmage, the Weaver King might not have noticed at all. But he was, and he did. Jodah vanished right out from under him for a split second, then reappeared far, far away.
Now this was truly interesting, the Weaver King told himself, and not just because there was nothing else of interest afoot. Jodah had somehow instantly traveled halfway around the world in the blink of an eye. Even better, the archmage relaxed upon completing the journey, allowing the Weaver King to sift through more of his deepest thoughts and most closely guarded secrets.
Skyshroud, the Weaver King thought, savoring the unfamiliar word. It was a dying place, slowly inching its way toward oblivion, but it was still packed with hundreds of potential subjects. Jodah’s further thoughts on his new locale almost brought the Weaver King to tears of delight.
Jhoira. Jodah was thinking about the Ghitu immortal, the one he had offered up in his own stead, the one who had also journeyed to this strange new place. She was there when Jodah arrived, and the Weaver King now h
ad both motive and opportunity to follow. He hesitated only because of his fondness for Urborg and his appreciation of the residents of his adopted home.
The Weaver King maintained his surreptitious watch on Jodah as he reached out and twanged the thread that led to Dinne. If he were clever and sly, the Weaver King might be able to influence two places at once. If Dinne’s shadow existence could follow the same paths that the Weaver King did, Jodah and Jhoira might have a new playmate to hunt them through the stunted trees of Skyshroud.
The Weaver King concentrated, calming his wild thoughts and bringing all his psychic vigor to bear on his still-forming plan.
Let Windgrace close the Weaver King’s every route in Urborg. He would blaze a new trail to Skyshroud, where the fruit was less numerous but far more succulent.
* * *
—
Jodah stepped out of his tunnel’s egress onto the frozen rocks of Keld. He emerged from under the exposed roots of a massive tree that had been burned and broken off halfway up its length.
Upon seeing Skyshroud the archmage felt wistful and forlorn. He had suspected Freyalise was out of sorts when he saw her in the Blind Eternities. Now that he was here and he saw the state of the place, he knew the planeswalker was even worse off than she looked. It was unimaginable that the elf goddess would allow her people to scratch out an existence in this meager, exhausted place. He wondered how well-off it would be without Freyalise’s blessings and quickly concluded that it would not be at all.
Jodah moved into the woods, grimly noting the crucified warriors overhead. Now that he was here the clock was ticking against him, each second a chance for Freyalise to notice and come for him. He was further disadvantaged by the fact that he had to build the transport tunnel toward Freyalise in the first place, when he’d vastly prefer to be as far from her as possible for as long as possible. He needed to find Jhoira, or at least her current location, before he could return to Urborg.
He picked his way past a broad, burned-out circle, unwilling to cross it and expose himself to plain view. Freyalise must be nearby. This still-smoking battlefield had her fingerprints all over it. He had no love for Phyrexia, but he half-hoped some of the mechanical soldiers were still active in the area to keep the planeswalker’s attention off him.
“Jodah.” Jhoira’s voice came softly from the deep woods to his right, but Jodah did not reply until he saw the Ghitu herself. It was too easy for magic to mimic the sound he most wanted to hear.
But it was Jhoira. She approached him openly, without fear or suspicion. She seemed both glad to see him and worried that he had come.
“Hello again,” he said. “I’ve come to help.”
Jhoira shook her head. “It’s not safe here.”
“Not for any of us. Venser is standing by with his ambulator. Teferi said you might need it, but he’s too slippery for me to trust. I thought I should ask you myself.”
Jhoira’s face soured at the name. “Teferi is following his own path. I am no longer sure mine aligns with his.”
“Fair enough. But we need to hurry. Freyalise will be coming any second now.”
“She knows you are here,” Jhoira said, “and she does not care. She is conserving her strength for the coming trials.” She shrugged. “She sent me to shoo you away.”
Jodah felt a twinge of despair at Jhoira’s concern for the elf goddess. Freyalise could inspire as well as intimidate, but the end result was usually the same for her mortal allies. “Can you use Venser’s machine?”
“I can.” Jodah saw that it did not please her to agree with Teferi.
“How?”
Thunder rumbled from the far side of the forest. A column of orange fire speared up into the sky.
“It’s starting again,” Jhoira said. “If you can leave, do so now.”
“Not until you agree to meet us here. Venser and I.”
“I agree. If I’m able, I will return here in a few hours’ time.”
Jodah smiled. “Why wait? Stay here for the next ten minutes. If I’m not back by then, we’ll come looking for you.” Before she could argue or gainsay, Jodah turned and sprinted back toward his transport tunnel. He ran straight across the circle of scorched earth and burst through the decaying remnants of a thick hedgerow. He paused to get his bearings in the bright morning haze, then dashed for the hole under the large, broken tree that housed his gateway.
Without pausing, Jodah took a running leap and plunged into the thin layer of liquid stretched over his tunnel. He floated momentarily, his momentum seemingly lost, then burst through another liquid cap and rolled onto his feet in the icy swamps of Urborg.
Teferi was there, casually leaning on his staff. He waved a hand at Jodah and said, “I can take you to Venser.”
“Where is he?”
“In his workshop. I followed him there so that I could act as your guide. You have to let me help you, Jodah. Please.”
Jodah silently prepared another spell in case he needed it. Then, to Teferi, he said, “All right. Lead on.”
The bald planeswalker moved quickly for one so seemingly distracted. Jodah hustled after him, weaving between patches of quicksand and vast pools of tarry oil. Faster, Jodah thought. I’ve only got ten minutes.
Soon they came to a patch of rockier ground. Beyond that was a small hillside with a metal door built into its side.
“He’s in there,” Teferi said.
Jodah calculated how much time it had taken them to get here. He doubled the time to allow for the return trip and realized he was not going to make it.
“Stay here.” Jodah pushed past Teferi and navigated the rocky field, bounding from stone to broken stone until he was at Venser’s door.
“Hoy,” Jodah called, his voice low and tight. “I’ve found her. Do you have the device?”
Footsteps approached the door. The heavy metal slab creaked on its hinges, revealing Venser with dark half-circles under his eyes.
“Do you have it?” Jodah asked.
Venser held out a fist-sized metal box with a blinking dot on each of its faces.
Jodah accepted the box and turned it over in his hands. “This is all you need to follow me?”
“That will do it.”
Jodah looked up. “And you’ve found the machine? You can get it past Windgrace’s guards?”
Venser hesitated, giving Jodah his answer. “Come on,” the archmage said. “We might as well do this together so I’m not stranded in Skyshroud waiting for something that never comes.”
The artificer relaxed a little. “Thank you,” he said. “I’m at something of a loss when it comes to Lord Windgrace.”
“I have the same trouble with Freyalise,” Jodah said. “It’s maddening to anticipate the whims of a god. We either work for them, fall to them, or we stand aside.”
Venser nodded gratefully. “It’s this mark,” he said, pointing to the inch-high symbol on his cheek. “I don’t know if it really has any power or if I’m just too frightened of what it represents. I feel like Windgrace is with me always, spying on my thoughts.”
Alarmed, Jodah said, “Do you hear his voice?”
“No.”
“Do you hear any voices?”
Venser smiled, producing a ghastly effect on his drawn-out face. “You mean, do I hear a giddy, demented voice that tells me to rest and let things happen? No. I haven’t heard the Weaver King since Windgrace chased him off.”
Jodah sighed. “That’s good. Nor I. Now. Where is this machine of yours?”
Venser shook his head. “I don’t know.”
“But you have some idea.”
“Yes, actually. There are only a few places he could have hauled it to if he planned to keep an eye on it.”
“Let’s start at the closest one,” Jodah said. “And we’ll work through them all until we find it.”
Venser took several tools off a table by the door and stuffed them into his belt. Jodah spotted two yellow stones in Venser’s belt-pouch, but the artificer was quick
to turn away.
“Your machine’s power source?” He gestured to the pouch.
Venser’s face flushed. “Yes,” he said. “I try to keep them out of sight because they’re so valuable.”
“If they help us reach Jhoira, I’ll personally get you a full set of twelve.” He stepped back and held open the door. “Teferi’s out here, by the way. Don’t let him distract you.”
Venser grimaced. “I wish he’d just go away. I don’t trust him.”
“That’s because you’re smart. Now let’s go,” he said. “I don’t like to keep a lady waiting.”
* * *
—
Teferi stood quietly as Jodah and Venser conversed. Not surprisingly, they paired up and headed for the center of Windgrace’s territory. Both men nodded at him, but neither hailed him or invited him to come along.
Teferi didn’t mind. In the short term, nothing Venser or Jodah did would change what needed to be done, what only Windgrace and Freyalise could do. After the planeswalkers had decided their own fates, it would be up to Teferi and Jhoira to decide the multiverse’s. With Venser’s help, of course.
He glanced over to Venser’s workshop door, which the artificer had made sure to bar before he left. There was nothing worth stealing inside, not to an ordinary thief or Teferi. Besides, he had more important things to do.
Teferi started out after Venser and Jodah, but he turned away from their path within fifty yards. They were trying not to be seen by Lord Windgrace, whereas he was hoping to speak with the panther-god in person.
He was slowly coming to accept the truth: almost if not all of his transcendent magic had deserted him when he closed the Shivan rift. He experienced brief flashes of his former glorified state, bits and pieces of a half-remembered waking dream—but these were fleeting and only served to deepen his confusion.
The last clear thoughts he could remember were of vying with the rift phenomenon. Though it was not a living thing he recalled struggling against it and feeling it struggle against him. It had wanted to consume him, as a bucket of ice water wants to draw the heat out of a hand dipped in it.
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