The Thran

by J. Robert King

  “Don’t worry, Yawgmoth,” Rebbec said, gripping his sleeve. “None of us believe these lies.”

  Without responding, he pulled free of her. He approached one of the minotaurs and stared him straight in the eye.

  “Let me pass,” Yawgmoth said. “I would speak to these charges.”

  Taking the man’s measure—and noting the furious throng behind him, the minotaur dipped his head ever so slightly and motioned Yawgmoth onward. He ascended to the podium, his figure gigantic behind the diminutive prince. Only his appearance calmed the mob. With a single raised hand, he silenced them.

  “Halcytes, Thran, ambassadors, all, you know my deeds. You know that I have defended every last one of you and helped you rebuild a city ravaged by the damned. You know that I have devised a treatment for the phthisis and am near to discovering a cure. You know that I, with Rebbec, seek to lead our people into a future free of war and disease and even death. Judge me by my works.”

  A broad ovation filled the chamber, and shouts of “Aye! Aye!”

  “Now let us conclude this unhappy business and adjourn to the celebration long awaited, long needed. I call for a vote. Does anyone second?”

  “I second,” Rebbec shouted.

  “Then, let the vote be taken on this proposal—shall Healer Yawgmoth remain in his position, unaffected by the call for extradition? All in favor, vote aye.”

  The council hall roared with the response. “Aye.”

  “All opposed, vote nay.”

  The reply was just as loud. “Nay.”

  Yawgmoth stared out at the room, astonishment and fury in his eyes.

  “I call for a count of elders,” the moderator said. “Eldests, tally, record, and report the votes of your cities.”

  While the eldests struggled to reassemble their contingents, Yawgmoth continued only to stare in blind incredulity at the masses.

  The voice of the dwarf prince came from below. “They know you, Yawgmoth. Even after you purged your enemies from among them, the rest of them know you. Even after you flooded the city with your loyal servants, they know you, as do I.”

  Without looking down, Yawgmoth replied coldly. “You do not know me, or you would not have come here to do this.”

  “We have a count,” announced the moderator. “Eldests, report your vote. Indicate extradition or non-extradition.”

  The eldest of the first city-state called out, “Chignon votes for extradition.”

  The next eldest shouted, “Losanon votes for extradition.”

  “Wington votes for extradition.”

  “Nyoron votes for non-extradition.”

  “Seaton votes for non-extradition.”

  “Phoenon votes for non-extradition.”

  “Orleason votes for non-extradition.”

  Yawgmoth breathed, clutching the edge of the lectern. Three for extradition and four opposed, with only Eldest Jameth of Halcyon left to cast her vote.

  It seemed an effort for the regal woman to speak. “Halcyon votes…for extradition.”

  A jubilant sound came from the dwarf beside Yawgmoth. The yip was strange against the groan that moved through the chamber.

  The moderator called for silence. “Four cities for and four against. The motion passes to the leader’s council. As I call your name, give your response. Those in favor of extradition, vote aye. Those opposed vote nay….”

  Yawgmoth hawkishly watched each leader there—priests and healers, heroes and nobles—as the call came for their votes. For every nay, there came an aye, so that the vote was equal at thirteen when it came to him. He was so startled to hear his own name, it took him a moment to realize what was asked of him.

  “Having doubts, yourself?” taunted the dwarf prince.

  “Nay,” Yawgmoth said. “I vote nay.”

  “And, last, Rebbec of Halcyon,” the moderator called. “What is your vote?”

  Rebbec stared up at Yawgmoth, a strange look in her eyes. She seemed to be seeing him for the first time, though whether that look brought joy or terror, he could not have told.

  “I vote,” she began, her voice a mere whisper. Clearing her throat, she said, “I vote nay.”

  “Fifteen opposed, thirteen in favor. Extradition is denied.”

  The answering shout was half cheer, half shriek.

  Yawgmoth’s gaze pinned those who had opposed him, one by one.

  * * *

  —

  Rebbec had been too shaken by the council meeting to deliver her address at the dedication of the temple. Yawgmoth volunteered to go first. Amid the cheers of a vast throng, he stepped to the center of the temple. His image was cast in myriad miniature across the city below. It shone within all the uplifted eyes there. It gleamed, massive and godlike on the clouds. Through a stole of powerstones, his voice boomed like thunder.

  “I am sorry to cloud this joyous day with evil tidings, but I must. Just this morning, a task force of foreign nations appeared in the Council Hall and declared war on the Thran Empire. Dwarf, elf, lizard man, minotaur, cat person—they have pledged to attack us. They have brought barbarian humans among them and have even turned Losanon, Wington, and Chignon against us.”

  He did not wait for the furor in the crowd below to die down. His voice could over-top all the shouts.

  “In this time of crisis, when the world has declared war on us, and three of our own city-states have initiated civil war, I have no choice but to dissolve the council and assume control of the nation.”

  He utterly ignored the screams.

  “I have ordered the healing corps and Halcyte guard to escort you to your homes, to keep the city free of panic and riot. The same order is being carried out even now in Orleason, Seaton, Nyoron, and Phoenon. Meanwhile, the Halcyte guard and health corps in the rebel city-states have been ordered to retreat before being captured and slaughtered by this evil coalition.”

  A hushed terror answered those words.

  His voice changed from military ruler to gentle father. “Do not fear, people of Halcyon, people of the empire. I have saved you before. I will save you again. It was out of barbarism and war that we ascended to this lofty place. Out of them, we will ascend again. Do not abandon your dreams for the glorious future, people of Halcyon. These are but the birth pangs of the heaven I have promised.”

  “Tell her he is a monster,” Glacian sputtered miserably amid the glowing apparatus that supported his life.

  “She knows your opinion already,” Rebbec whispered through an edge of her robe. She glanced over her shoulder, where Dyfed waited impatiently.

  The planeswalker did not deign to cover her lovely features, sour with irritation. She stood, hips cocked, arms crossed, and lips dubious. To be summoned by the blue-gemstone amulet when there was no immediate crisis was galling enough. To be summoned by two folk who had snatched the amulet from its rightful owner—from Yawgmoth—that was almost beyond her ability to bear. The constant scuttling of goblins about her, poking and picking, only frayed her already tattered patience.

  “Tell her he has killed the delegates,” gabbled Glacian.

  “He hasn’t,” Rebbec hissed. “He’s keeping them hostage somewhere—you’re not helping!” She turned stiffly toward the planeswalker and dropped the robe away. “Forgive our whispers. Glacian wants to thank you for answering our summons.”

  Dyfed nodded shallowly.

  “Tell her he has imprisoned the elders,” he slurred.

  “It is a time of crisis for our city-state and our empire. We are under threat of attack. Yawgmoth has used his control of the armies to take command of the empire. He has dissolved the council, has imprisoned the elders of the rebel city-states. If the rebel states attack, he might be forced to execute them.”

  “What does this have to do with me?”

  Glacian mumbled, “Tell her she must do away with Yawg
moth—”

  Rebbec shook her head violently. “We want you to take the elders to safety. There are nearly a hundred of them.”

  Dyfed’s brow creased, and she tilted her head. “You want me to do what?”

  Turning entirely away from her husband, Rebbec pleaded, “I know your power. I’ve stepped through the Blind Eternities with you. I know you can simply appear in the internment cave and sweep those hundred elders up in your power and carry them somewhere where they will be safe.”

  Incredulous, the planeswalker said, “I thought you were Yawgmoth’s friends. You want me to deliver the captured leaders of the rebellion back to their armies?”

  Rebbec frowned in consternation. “No. Take them to another world. Take them to one of your paradise planes, a place where they can live safely until the danger is past.”

  “They would be miserable. Not a one of them could build a lean-to, could start a fire. It would be placing babies in a wolf den.”

  “Goblins,” interposed Glacian. “Tell her to take some of my goblins from the mana rig. They could be servants. They could build shelters and snare coneys. Yawgmoth will only kill them eventually anyway.”

  Rebbec blinked amazedly at her husband. “Glacian asks that you also take goblins to this paradise world, his goblins, who could serve the elders.”

  Dyfed hung her head and laughed. “You want me to carry a hundred elders and a hundred goblins to a paradise somewhere?”

  Eyes pleading, Rebbec said, “You could do it with a mere thought. It is a small boon to grant the genius of Halcyon, the very man who first drew you here.” Her eyes grew hard, and her voice dropped to a whisper. “Yawgmoth is my ruler, my friend—perhaps more. This is no betrayal, only an act of mercy—only the simple request of an infirm genius, who may himself be dying but wants others to live.”

  The irate edge was gone from Dyfed’s gaze. Pushing past Rebbec, she approached the wheeled chair where Glacian sat. One slender hand descended to touch him, to spread flat across his phthisis-ravaged chest.

  “Yes. I will do this for you, Glacian. I had forgotten who you were—who you are. It is a small favor, and I will do it for you.”

  Then, without moving a muscle, she was gone from the room. Goblins recoiled from the space where she had been.

  Rebbec moved toward the wheeled chair, reflexively drawing up the robe to cover her mouth and nose.

  “You’ve done a good thing today, husband. You’ve saved many lives.”

  He turned his face away from her, as though her words had been a slap.

  “What is it?”

  “That damned cloak over your mouth. Dyfed did not cover her mouth. She touched me.”

  “She’s a planeswalker,” Rebbec said.

  “And you’re immune.” He still did not look at her.

  “What if I’m not?”

  “Daily you touch the temple powerstones. You could catch the disease from them as easily as from me.”

  Slowly lowering the edge of the cloak, Rebbec approached the chair.

  “You think I am repulsive.”

  A look of dread flashed across her face. “No. I find the disease repulsive—”

  “I am the disease. That’s all I am anymore.”

  Rebbec reached her bare hand out just as Dyfed had. She set it, trembling, on the scabrous skin of Glacian’s chest. Closing her eyes and swallowing, she left her hand there. Only then would he turn to look at her.

  “You’re in love with him. He’s fooled even you. You’re only waiting for me to die so that you can be with him.”

  “No,” Rebbec said, withdrawing her hand. She stared, revulsion and love warring in her. With a swift motion, she bent and wrapped him in a strong embrace. “No, husband. We are soul mates. It’s just the illness, and the war, and the upheaval. No. He hasn’t fooled me. He will cure you. That’s why I believe in him. Because he will cure you. He will cure all of us. And you and I will dance together in the Thran Temple when this bloody business is done.”

  “What’s this!” came an imperious shout at the door. Yawgmoth strode across the floor toward Glacian and Rebbec.

  She did not let go of her husband. She clung to him as though knowing this would be their final embrace.

  Yawgmoth wrapped a powerful arm around her and yanked back. He couldn’t budge her. He growled and pulled harder. His free hand peeled her fingers away from Glacian’s back. Torn skin bled through the gown he wore.

  “Let go! You’re infecting yourself. You’re killing yourself!” Yawgmoth shouted.

  “No! Leave me alone!”

  He tore her other hand loose, and black pus oozed beneath her fingernails.

  “Look what you’ve done to yourself!”

  Glacian riled, groaning in despair and agony.

  “Look what you’ve done to your husband!”

  “Let go of me!” Rebbec shouted, thrashing against his grip.

  Yawgmoth ignored her struggles. He dragged her from Glacian’s room even as her husband shouted slurred epithets behind them.

  Though his arms were steel bands, Yawgmoth’s voice was silken. “It’s all been too much. I know. You’ve been brave these many years. You’ve watched as every method has failed to heal him. You love him still, even ravaged as he is—”

  “Let me go—”

  “—but think of Glacian. He doesn’t want to jeopardize you. He doesn’t want you to suffer as he is suffering.” Yawgmoth violently kicked back the door to his laboratory and dragged Rebbec within. He hauled her past tables and implement racks to a cabinet where the serums were stocked. He flung back the doors of the cabinet, fetched up a bottle of alcohol, and pulled the cork with his teeth. “Glacian doesn’t want anything to happen to you, and neither do I.” He poured the stinging stuff liberally over her hands, arms, and chest. “This will kill any of the contagion that might have gotten onto you.”

  “Damn you! Damn you, Yawgmoth!”

  “Shhh, shhh, shhh,” he urged.

  She was drenched, from fingertip to fingertip. Yawgmoth snatched up a jar of serum and a jar of something else. Onehanded, he drew the mixtures into a needle bladder, wrestled his unhappy captive around to face him, and injected the solution into her arm. She clawed his chest for a moment before slumping into his arms.

  “Shhh, shhh, shhh. That will help your body fight off any infection that might have gotten into you blood. It’s all right. You’ll be safe now. You won’t get sick. I won’t let you get sick.”

  Voice raw from screaming, Rebbec said, “Why don’t you cure him? Why doesn’t your serum work for my husband?”

  In a desolated tone, Yawgmoth said, “I don’t know. I honestly do not know. From the beginning, his case has been different.”

  “You’ve made it different. You don’t want him to recover.”

  “Oh, I do, Rebbec,” Yawgmoth soothed. “I do. I need him to be well. I need him to be able to fight me for your hand. I will not steal the wife of an invalid.”

  Rebbec pushed away from him and stared bleakly into his eyes. “Don’t do this. Don’t toy with me. I’ve been through too much.”

  “I know. You’ve been through too much. You’ve kept a vigil for seven years. I thought I was doing you a kindness to let him remain here, but he is always just out of reach. That is no kindness. The health corps will see to him now. They will take him to the quarantine caves. They have new, aggressive treatments—far better than these goblins and contraptions. They will care for him. They will heal him. I promise you that, Rebbec. And I have never broken my promises.”

  “You will heal him?” A fragile light lit her eyes. “Tell me you will heal him.”

  “I will heal him, Rebbec. I promise.”

  * * *

  —

  The elders were none too happy. They had been carried into paradise, but it was not their paradise. Salvation
is a relative thing.

  One would have thought that anywhere would have been better than where they had been—entombed alive in a dark cavern for three weeks. A trickling spring that ran along its base provided water for drinking, washing, and waste removal—such as it was. Clumps of faintly glowing mushrooms—and the blind cave crickets that sometimes appeared silhouetted on the mushrooms—were the main source of sustenance. Worse than all that was the knowledge that Yawgmoth had sealed them in there. The weight of his disapproval was as vast and inescapable as the mile of rock between them and the air of the upper world.

  Compared to that place, this green and verdant land should have been paradise. Tall forests, broad planes, lush rivers—the land was bountiful and virgin. It was a whole world for them to explore, a pleasant place to wait out the war. Paradise, except for one fact: wilderness. The most important figures in the Thran Empire were reduced to squalid pioneers. They huddled together in filthy robes, worn to tatters in the last weeks. They were worse dressed, thinner, and more craven than the mana rig goblins that circulated among them.

  “—could have conveyed us to anywhere on Dominaria,” railed Eldest Jameth, “but you choose to bring us here.”

  “I could have left you to rot in that cave,” Dyfed pointed out flatly. “And this is only temporary—only until the war is done and there is no more threat to you—and you are no more threat to the empire.”

  “We demand that you return us to our nation,” the eldest said.

  “You demand nothing,” snapped Dyfed. “For the time being, this is your nation. You can’t tell from here, but we’re on top of an inverted mountain. Just like your extrusion. It’ll keep you safe from the natives and they from you. These goblins will help you. Treat them well. They will have a much better sense than you of which plants are poisonous and which carnivores are dangerous. They will build shelters for you, gather food, serve as your personal servants, and all of it because Glacian asked them to. Make yourselves at home. I will fetch you when the war is done.” She turned from them, preparing to depart.