The Dal woman lasted a week in the oubliette before she succumbed to lack of food and water. During that week, Oleg il-Dal died at last, and the Weaver King was born.
For the next several months Volrath fed him a steady diet of increasingly strong minds and bodies. At the end of that time the Weaver King had spun himself a thick, comfortable web of puppet strings on which to take his entertainment.
But Volrath fell in the end, replaced by a far more bloodthirsty evincar who had no interest in his predecessor’s breeding pits. Abandoned and forgotten, the Weaver King stayed where he was, obliviously capering his days away below the City of Traitors until the Invasion began and the Stronghold shifted from Rath to Urborg.
Changes begun by Volrath were completed by that planar overlay. As Oleg, he had heard the dire rumors of living things that fell through the cracks in reality. “Shadow creatures,” they were called, trapped in a hellish limbo between existence and nonexistence, barely present in the physical world, unable to truly die. As the Weaver King, he experienced it for himself.
When the planeshift happened and the Stronghold broke through to Dominaria, not all of the beings inside completed the journey. Oh, the evincar’s soldiers made it, and the legions of Phyrexian machines, and the endless swarms of slivers. But the Weaver King stayed behind, forgotten in his dungeon. He became a shadow thing, a phantom, an ageless, insubstantial wraith with nothing to do but look out onto a world that he would never again touch.
At least, that is what he thought at first. He had nothing to do but think when he first became insubstantial. Eventually his thoughts dried up and he drifted. He had no sense of how long he stayed like that, a blank man in a blank world, but he recalled everything once he saw the light.
He heard a disembodied voice whispering in his ear as a distant, glowing purple circle slowly took shape among the haze. Its light was dim but powerful, and with the half-heard voice urging him on, the light soon penetrated the fog that surrounded him. Focusing on the light brought him back to himself. Moving toward it awakened his hunger. The voice vanished as he drew close, its satisfaction evident.
The voice and the light led him here, back into the world of flesh, bone, and blood. He found that his abilities were not hampered at all by his shadow state. It was also invigoratingly easy to find new subjects among the people of Urborg, to follow the scent of their hidden urges and suggest things they’d never allow themselves to think on their own. He never failed to relish the sensation they felt when they realized his words were no longer suggestions but dictates. He wasn’t just a voice in their heads or some private bogeyman; he was lord and master. He was their king.
For years the Weaver King’s snare lines and probes wormed their way into dreams and whispers all across Urborg. Every mind he touched opened up a new book of delicious memories and delightful experiences and, most importantly, a host of new acquaintances to visit. He traveled along the thoughts of mother for son, daughter for father, lover for lover, always leaving a trail of silver mind-silk so he could come and go as he pleased. He leaped from mind to mind this way for decades, his skein stretching far and doubling back on itself, forking left and right until he could skate across the surface of his web for weeks without ever taking the same strand twice. Volrath was dead. The Stronghold was dead. Long live the Weaver King.
He came out of himself and inspected the network of silver filaments. Dinne the Dart had very nearly put a damper on his master’s fun with the artificer. He couldn’t visit Venser again if Venser had a spike in his head. Perhaps it was time for the Weaver King to admonish his strong right hand.
Dinne, he called, attend me. His singsong voice sparkled in his own ears, and the joy it raised sent excited tremors along the tightly stretched silver web.
Dinne faded into view immediately. He was a good and loyal subject, faithful to his king at all times—except when his bloodlust got the better of him. Dinne had been a warrior of the Vec tribe back in Rath, but he had burned out after one too many campaigns in the Rootwater Forest. The Weaver King knew Dinne had been first injured by a poison-toothed merman and further abused by a self-righteous Kor shaman. When he stumbled back to his garrison in the Stronghold, Dinne il-Vec was no longer fit for military duty. Surviving his ordeal made him faster and deadlier than ever with his throwing spikes, but it also left him near-catatonic and unable to follow orders.
Volrath gave Dinne to the Weaver King partially to see what would happen but also because the evincar had a sadistic streak of frugality in him. Dinne had no other use than as fodder, so Volrath tossed the broken man into the oubliette knowing that Dinne would either be redeemed or consumed. Either result would be to Volrath’s gain, but the evincar never saw the result of this particular trial. Volrath fell, and the Weaver King played with Dinne until they were both swept into the shadow realm.
Welcome home, dart tosser, the Weaver King said, his tone affectionate and playful. I’ve been watching you. Dinne’s mind had long ago betrayed the fact that in life, he had detested anyone calling weaponry “darts.” During their time together, the Weaver King had seen to it that the Vec warrior maintained that strong feeling but was unable to act on it.
Now the raider stood silent as he awaited his master’s voice. His taciturn ways were an aspect of Dinne’s personality that even the Weaver King couldn’t break. Dinne rarely spoke, not by voice or thought, not even to his king. Not that such a thing ever stopped the Weaver King from interacting with Dinne. In fact, all it really meant was the he got to indulge in his favorite form of conversation, the monologue.
As gratifying as it was to make Dinne interact, the hard, brittle things in his mind were almost too sharp to play with and required plenty of softening before the Weaver King could freely scuttle across them. Unless he planned to make a day of it, it was better to keep Dinne focused elsewhere, their connection superficial.
Don’t kill the special ones, the Weaver King reminded him. The silent Vec nodded, his white eyes smoldering within his helmet.
I’d like you to stay close to my new friend. Venser, the artificer. Keep an eye on him especially, but also look at his friends. I’d like to see if they can be my friends too. Some of them are just as interesting as he is. Wouldn’t you agree?
Dinne’s helm nodded again, but the warrior was otherwise completely still.
Though not as useful. The Weaver King giggled. Be ready to bite when I whistle for you. It’ll be glorious. It’s ever so much easier to meet people when they’re fighting you and not putting up walls or barriers to new acquaintances.
The helm tilted once more.
But do keep clear of the panther. That one is special too, in a way that I haven’t sussed out yet.
Dinne stood unmoving, neither defiant nor compliant.
Right, then. Off you go.
Dinne flickered away into the aether. It took a serious frame of mind and a vicious disposition for a shadow creature to injure someone in the real world. Under the Weaver King’s tutelage, Dinne could do it at will, shifting between physical and ephemeral in rapid succession. The Weaver King prided himself on helping his subjects achieve their full potential. He had started small, forcing frogs to jump so high that their leg muscles burst and their bones shattered when they left the ground. Where Dinne had been a competent warrior in life, as the Weaver King’s creature he had slaughtered a castle full of well-armed men in a single evening.
Ah, the Weaver King thought, his mind turning, a distraction. One of his subjects to the south, a narcotic-addled mercenary, had just drawn his sword while robbing an Urborg merchant family in their home. The rookie bandit had not originally intended to harm anyone. But now that the father, mother, and two children were abject and weeping at his feet, he was thrilled to be weighing the value of death over life. He was rampant with joy at the power of making the judgment himself and yet hesitant to make his joy manifest.
Do it, the Weaver King told him. Because you can.
Distant screams soon reached t
he Weaver King’s ears, vibrating along his silver threads. Laughing, he let himself go and soared across the surface of his web once more, delighting in the simple pleasures his fascinating life afforded him.
* * *
—
“He’s a devil,” Jodah said. “A psychic vampire. He’s mad, he’s playful, and he’s hungry.”
Jhoira nodded. “And he’s after you.” They had come up against an impassable toxic bog that wasn’t quite frozen enough to support them. They had agreed that falling into the sulfur-smelling waste was not worth the risk and were walking the edge of the bog until they found another, more solid path to Venser’s crash site.
Jodah had been talking about the Weaver King while they walked. He had been thrilled with Jhoira’s extensive knowledge about Rath and its shadow creatures in general, but he was visibly troubled by this one in particular.
“He’s after us,” Jodah said. “Both of us and everyone like us. Our minds are more interesting to him simply by virtue of how much is in there. We’ve been alive for a long time, Jhoira. We have more memories, more thoughts than most people.”
“Hm. And he told you this?”
“No. Not exactly.” Jodah sighed. “I know a great deal about mind control and manipulation. My best friend was possessed by my worst enemy once, and I didn’t notice. Since then I’ve made sure to protect myself, to educate myself on that sort of thing. The Weaver King got to me but not without revealing himself in the process.”
“So you backed down a psychic vampire?”
“No.” Jodah was sounding more exasperated with each new exchange. “I just didn’t give him what he wanted.” The archmage seemed to argue with himself silently as he walked. “All right, I shammed senility until he got bored. Happy now? I threw out a few spells on the sly to fool him. Mostly on myself. Eventually he moved on but not before I got a good sense of what he was like and what he was after.”
“And what’s that?” Jhoira stopped and waited for Jodah to face her. “And you don’t have to be ashamed of tricking your way out of danger.”
Jodah nodded gratefully. “I wasn’t ashamed until I had to tell you. You seem like more of a dealing-with-things-head-on sort of person.”
“Perhaps. But the important thing is that your strategy worked. You learned something about our enemy.”
“Thank you,” Jodah said.
“So what did you learn? What is he like and what is he after?”
“He’s a devil,” Jodah said again. “He’s like a cruel, spiteful child. And he’s after as much painful fun as he can inflict.”
“I see. And how does this threaten me?”
Jodah slipped his hands into his pockets. He looked miserable and cold. “I made him aware of you.”
Jhoira stood and drank this in. She jerked her head to one side and strode past Jodah. “Keep walking,” she said. “And talking.”
Jodah stepped up beside her and kept pace. “He was in my dreams. He kept flattering me with how special I was, how much he wanted to get to know me better. He…he showed me Jaya, that friend I was telling you about earlier. Just as I remembered her.”
“You were fooled,” Jhoira said gently.
Jodah’s dry laugh echoed off the trees. “Not a banner day for the archmage emeritus.” He wiped his brow, took a few steps without speaking, and said, “The dream-Jaya got me thinking about other long-lived creatures. Lich lords and nature spirits, primal avatars, the lucid undead. People who have seen and done enough spectacular things to hold the Weaver King’s interest. I believe he was trying to get some value out of all his hard work in binding me, as I had proved so disappointing.” Jodah lowered his eyes. “Forgive me, Jhoira. Your name came up.”
Jhoira paused as she fought to pull her foot free from a grasping nettle vine. “I’m mostly surprised that you’ve even heard of me.”
“Your name comes up a lot, actually. I have access to a wonderful library, one that Commodore Guff himself considered an annex to his own. You’ve been party to some of the most important things that ever happened.”
“Guff is dead,” Jhoira said flatly. “He died with a book in his hands. And like you, Jodah, I vastly prefer not to be mentioned in history texts at all.”
Jodah’s face tilted down once more. “I am sorry.” The archmage straightened up and said, “Would it help if I mentioned how that attitude is one of the many things we have in common?”
Jhoira kept walking, but she smiled slightly. “You don’t need to help the situation. Just let it go.”
“For example,” Jodah said. “I dived into the Fountain of Youth four thousand years ago. It’s why I’m still here.”
Jhoira continued to smile, though she did not show her face to Jodah. “The Fountain of Youth,” she said. “Or a fountain of youth?”
“It’s the Fountain of Youth to me,” Jodah said. “I never needed another. And you, you drank the slow-time water of Tolaria.”
“Twelve hundred years ago,” Jhoira said. Now she did turn and smile at Jodah. “Drank it by the gallon. And now that you mention it, this the first time in a long time that I’ve met someone far older than me who wasn’t trying to kill me or change the world.”
Jodah beamed back at her. “Fountain of Youth.” He tapped his own chest. “Slow-time water.” He gestured at Jhoira. “It’s good to be us, isn’t it?”
Jhoira surprised herself by laughing out loud. “Yes,” she said. “Sometimes, yes. I suppose it is.”
“Then we agree. I do prefer being agreeable.”
“Here’s more good news we can agree on,” Jhoira said. “We’ve arrived.” She pointed to the frozen trench that had been carved into the marsh ahead.
“So we have,” Jodah said. “But there’s no machine.”
“And no Venser.”
“Ah, but neither is there a body. Or wreckage. Maybe he got back in and took it somewhere else. Wait….” Jodah’s voice trailed off as he peered into the mist surrounding the marsh.
A pale man emerged from the woods. Jhoira didn’t recognize Venser at first—he seemed thinner but somehow stronger than he had before. He also bore a small green symbol on his left cheekbone, just below his eye.
“Hello,” Venser said. His voice was stiff, and it rustled against the freezing air.
“Venser,” Jhoira said. She presented Jodah and said, “This is Jodah. He’s a friend.”
Venser nodded. He stepped closer and nervously cleared his throat. “Lord Windgrace requests the pleasure of your company.”
“Well met, Venser,” Jodah said. “But I understood you to be an artificer. Is that a gladehunter mark on your face?”
Venser’s eyes darted back and forth between the new arrivals. “It is. Please come with me now.”
“But how did—” Jhoira’s question was interrupted by a loud, rumbling roar that echoed in from every direction.
“Too late,” Venser said.
Jodah let out a pained cry beside Jhoira. The archmage shot into the air, stiff as a stone, floating there. The predawn sky over Jodah shimmered, coalescing into a huge panther’s head. The image lunged forward with its jaws open wide. It distorted itself as it streamed into Jodah’s eyes, nose, and mouth.
The archmage screamed. Jhoira shot a look at Venser, but the artificer’s expression was as miserable and helpless as her own.
“He’ll be fine,” Venser said, though he didn’t feel or sound hopeful.
“What’s going on?” Jhoira said. Over their heads, Jodah was still hanging rigid in the air.
“Windgrace,” Venser said. “It’s what he did to me when he sounded me out. There’s a…mind spy at work here. Windgrace needs to know if your friend can be trusted. If so, he’ll be fine. If not…Windgrace will fix him.” Privately, Venser added, “Like he did me.”
He didn’t know Jodah, but he knew Windgrace would not tolerate anyone’s agents but his own. All Venser and Jhoira could do now was trust in the panther-god to save Jodah without killing him.
Jhoi
ra stepped in close to Venser. “Are you all right?” she said. “Are you yourself?”
“I’m intact,” Venser said. “And a little overwhelmed.” He reached out and touched her shoulder to make sure she was real. “I’m glad you’re alive. I’m glad you’re here.”
She glanced up at Jodah before asking, “What happened to the ambulator?”
“Windgrace has it. Something went wrong when Teferi—when I panicked during the launch. I lost sight of you in transit. I got distracted from the controls.” He sighed. “I just wanted you to be safe. Not to drag you down with me.”
Jhoira’s face hardened. “What about Teferi?”
“He—Look out!”
Jodah was straining against his paralysis and had succeeded in moving his arms. Venser knew this was a sign Lord Windgrace was almost through, and he pulled Jhoira aside. The archmage fell several feet to the ground, but he landed solidly and kept his footing.
“Ouch,” Jodah said. He shook his head clear. “That wasn’t a good thing, was it?”
“We don’t know yet,” Venser said. Jhoira shot him another look, a pained one.
Then Windgrace appeared, thick-muscled and feral, his eyes wild. “You have been touched by the Weaver King,” Windgrace said. “But he left almost no marks on you.”
Jodah stood to his full height and dusted off his robes. “That information was there for the asking,” he said. “You didn’t have to sit on my head.”
“Mind your tone, Archmage.”
Jodah’s shoulders sagged. “You know me too?”
“I do now. Your enemy is mine, and hers, and his. I will put you to work on it.”
Jhoira stepped between Jodah and the planeswalker. “No, Lord Windgrace. You will not. We have even more important work to do here.”
The panther-man’s eyes flickered like green candles. “You are one of Urza’s protégées,” he growled. “Teferi’s consort. The ageless Ghitu.”
Planar Chaos Page 9
