The cosmos continued to spin around them. All was silent for several long, ponderous moments. Then a woman’s clipped voice replied.
“Well met, Windgrace. Stand where you are. I will come to you.”
The shadow raider who had been Dinne il-Vec watched silently as the strange people vanished from sight. Despite his mute ways and his shattered psyche, Dinne was extremely lucid. He understood everything they said and held it in his thoughts for the Weaver King to access later on.
He didn’t understand their appeal to his master, however. None of them but the panther had shown the slightest sign of battlefield skills or magical power. Dinne believed he could kill all four of them before they realized they were under attack. If not for Windgrace—no, if not for the Weaver King’s dictates to avoid Windgrace—Dinne would have tested his theory and gotten a few of his spikes wet.
Instead he simply observed as they quibbled and argued and made wry asides. Clearheaded as he was, Dinne did not waste his thoughts on unraveling their strange ways or following their labyrinthine exchanges. He did note with some interest when they disappeared, especially as he could still see their afterimages lingering among the needles suspended in the fog.
As he watched and waited, Dinne spotted a familiar figure moving through the swamp. The dark-skinned man had a mouthful of serrated teeth and carried an Urborg war club. His face paint told Dinne the man was a chief, but he knew that already, having seen the man lead others into battle and lay low his opponents with his terrible weapon.
He glanced back at the flickering ghosts of Windgrace and the others. They had gone some place he could not follow. There was nothing to do but wait, so his skills were wasted here. For all the good he was doing the Weaver King, Dinne might as well be killing the Urborg chief.
Absent as a sleepwalker tossing back the bedclothes, Dinne drew one of his round throwing spikes. He didn’t understand the true nature of his shadow state, had never even considered it very deeply, but he knew that these weapons were as solid to him as they were to his victims. He had been wearing the spikes when he was cast into the void between planes, and every one he threw always found its way back to him. He didn’t know or care if they drew their substance from his own or if they sought him out like love-starved pets. It was enough that he’d never run out, that there would always be something heavy and sharp to curl his hand around when the killing time came.
It was coming now. He could feel it. The Urborg chief drew Dinne’s eye, pulling it as surely as if tethered to it by wire. The chief was a warrior too. He didn’t spend his time bickering. Such a man deserved a warrior’s death.
He moved over the swamp toward his target, his legs taking steps though his feet never touched the ground. He could move like lightning once his blades were drawn, flickering behind and in front of his quarry, stabbing them at will. This kill would be face-to-face, however, as he planned to indulge himself.
He slid in front of the chief and willed himself solid. The target saw him, something the Weaver King always encouraged. Dinne did nothing as the chief snarled and bared his sharp teeth. The Urborg brute brandished his war club.
Dinne drew a spike. He held it out carelessly, rolling it back and forth between his fingers for the chief to see.
“Come on then,” the dark-skinned warrior said. “Come at me.”
Dinne made no offensive or defensive motion but simply continued to roll the spike. The chief lunged forward, his club raised high with the metal blade’s tip facing Dinne. The Vec raider held his ground as the tip hurtled down toward his face and at the last moment shifted to his phantom state.
The club passed through him without resistance. Off balance and overextended, the chief also stumbled through Dinne’s ghostly body, almost sprawling face-first into the frosty grass.
The chief struck again from this awkward position, exhibiting inhuman agility that almost impressed Dinne. Almost. The club passed through him again, and this time the chief maintained his footing.
“Coward,” he spat. He planted his feet and lowered his weapon. “Urborg is full of ghosts. I can tilt at them any day of the week if I choose to.” He brought the curved club-blade close to his own face and ran his red tongue over the edge. “You don’t even taste like anything,” he said. “Come out and fight or let me be on my way.”
Dinne could see the chief plotting as he spoke. The man had more magic in him than his speed and his sharp teeth. Dinne was curious to see what it was.
He didn’t have to wait for long. The Urborg chief extended his club in both hands, holding it horizontally across his chest. Brackish, purple smoke drifted from the blade and circled around the handle until the entire weapon was coated in bruise-colored fog. Was the smoke venomous, Dinne wondered, perhaps caustic?
Dinne faded from sight as the chief brought the club up for another swing. The warrior paused, momentarily stymied by the loss of his target, then swung anyway, correctly guessing that Dinne had simply turned invisible and stayed in the same spot.
The fog-shrouded blade stung and burned Dinne as it sliced through his shadow body. He paused to relish the sensation, one of the few he was still able to feel. After a lifetime of the Weaver King’s choking off most of his mind and body, Dinne savored any physical experience, even painful ones. The club had injured him, yes, but at least he felt the injury as real.
The chief was swinging wildly now, filling the frigid air with vile curses. Dinne endured a few more swipes of the tainted blade before stepping around behind the raving warrior. He stood inches away from the back of the chief’s head as he waited for the man to grow tired. When that happened and the chief stopped swinging entirely, Dinne turned his back and paced off thirty steps.
There, Dinne turned and planted his feet. He became solid once more, a spike ready in each hand. Long ago, he might have called out, taunted his enemy before striking. Now, he only brought the two spikes together and tapped their ends to produce a metallic clang.
The chief whirled in place. Dinne waited until that half rotation was complete, then drew back both spikes and let them fly.
His aim was perfect. The chief screamed and dropped his club. His hands shot to his eyes but were baffled by the presence of a Vec throwing spike embedded in each socket. Howling, the chief fell to his knees, clawing at the shadow weapons and doing even more damage to his punctured eyes.
Dinne smiled under his helm. He had not thrown the spikes to kill but to blind. The weapons vanished from the chief’s skull, and Dinne stood waiting until they reappeared in his belt. The raider drew four more spikes and hurled them in quick succession, driving them deep into the Urborg man’s knees and shoulders. The chief staggered back as each sharp weapon landed. His arms and legs useless, the man fell heavily to the ground, melting the half-frozen mud with his own warm blood.
The Urborg chief was blind and crippled, but his tongue was still strong. In all his years as a soldier and the Weaver King’s cutthroat, Dinne had never heard such invective. Once more he was almost impressed by the chief.
Dinne glanced back at the place where Windgrace and the others had vanished. The memory of them still lingered there, transparent statues in a perpetual argument. He still had no idea where they were, how they had gone, or when they would return.
He made himself solid again. The Weaver King never punished him if he did as he was told. He was always praised, even rewarded, as long as he was loyal and obedient and saw his missions through.
Dinne drew a single spike and rolled it between his fingers. His current mission was to watch, and he was doing that to the best of his ability. Anything else that happened, well, that was entirely up to him.
He moved forward toward the screaming, blood-soaked chief. Dinne nodded. He had plenty of time for this diversion, even if he did have to keep one eye on the Weaver King’s prospective playthings.
* * *
—
Jhoira had been to the Blind Eternities many times before but never under Lord Windgrace’s
care. When Teferi had brought her here in the past they had moved with the flow of the great void, in concert with its arcane rhythms. They were always careful not to disrupt the powerful currents of energy and magic, as they helped comprise the foundation of the entire multiverse.
Windgrace was not so restrained nor so concerned with leaving things as they were. He created semisolid platform of mana, an immovable rock amid the gently swirling chaos, and set them down on it. Jhoira heard the substance of the Blind Eternities object, howling in impotent frustration at this outrage. The others heard it too, but only Windgrace seemed unconcerned. He had planted his feet here, and here he would stay until he got what he came for.
Jodah looked especially forlorn over their volatile position—or perhaps he was thinking forward to his reunion with Freyalise—but Venser and Teferi seemed genuinely pained. Despite the circumstances and the fact that none of them had the slightest bit of control over their immediate fates, Jhoira was consumed by curiosity. What did Venser and Teferi share that made their reaction so much more severe? Why did so many powerful entities keep zeroing in on Venser as if he were a novelty to be dissected?
She felt she knew the answer, or a small piece of it. Venser was a planeswalker. They always recognized one of their own kind, recognized that special spark that made them unique. Between the attentions Venser garnered from Teferi and Nicol Bolas and now Windgrace, there was no other explanation.
The only detail that didn’t fit was the fact that he wasn’t a planeswalker. He was not as Freyalise or Windgrace, not godlike or possessed of infinite mana or able to traverse the planes. He in fact had no magic of his own to speak of, save that he had teleported a few yards, once, and under duress.
But he had done it. When confronted by a Shivan basilisk, Venser moved without his machine, without any spell training. Somehow he had accomplished a feat that only one in ten thousand could manage.
She wondered if Venser realized he was still wearing the ambulator’s control rig. Under different circumstances, she might poke a little fun at his earlier hesitation, point out to him that she had been right about its weight being bearable. Right now, all she could think about was the special functions she had built into the rig without Venser’s knowledge. They would never get a better chance to employ it, not unless Teferi’s planeswalking power returned. Or Venser’s developed. Or they found the ambulator.
A surge of heat tinged with the scent of pine rushed past them. Jhoira prepared herself for Freyalise’s arrival, wondering if the presence of a second planeswalker (or third if she counted Venser, or fourth if she also counted Teferi) on Windgrace’s platform would split it asunder or stretch the Blind Eternities beyond the breaking point.
But Freyalise arrived as delicately as a butterfly, appearing whole and proud before them as the last of the hot, forest wind went past. The patron of Skyshroud was slight and severe, almost comically small compared to Lord Windgrace. One look into Freyalise’s sharp features and penetrating eyes left no doubt as to her power, however. She was as feared as she was mysterious, a self-styled goddess who had twice taken great efforts to preserve Dominaria as a whole simply to protect the parts she actually cared about.
She was dressed in her preferred garb of an elf woman. Her fine green and white gown left her shoulders bare and her arms exposed to the elbow, where long leather gloves extended down to her fingertips. Her bushy hair stood out from her head, cropped to neck length, and she wore the traditional Llanowar eye patch of brass-colored metal and a single glittering gemstone. Her skin was soft and fair, but its color changed with her mood, evolving from milk white to sunset red as her anger mounted.
“Windgrace,” she said. The panther-man nodded respectfully.
Freyalise saw Teferi. She sneered at him and said to Windgrace, “You travel in strange company, my lord.”
“Only as dictated by circumstance. You recall I once traveled with you.”
“If I had forgotten, I wouldn’t be here now,” Freyalise said. “But I am here. I have answered your call. Now, before you tell me what you want, tell me why he is here.”
“The time rifts,” Teferi said. “They’re getting worse. Just as I said they would.”
Freyalise silenced him with a withering glare. “My question was to you, Lord Windgrace.”
“Teferi speaks true. Phyrexians have come again to Urborg. They are not as we fought them long ago. They are cold-weather machines, designed to kill in arctic conditions. They spew from the fissure the Stronghold made when it cracked the sky. I—We have come to see if Skyshroud has experienced something similar.”
Jodah stepped forward with his hands folded firmly into his sleeves. “Hello, Freyalise,” he said. “I just want to confirm that you are ignoring me rather than overlooking me.” He met Jhoira’s puzzled eyes and said to her, “I don’t want to surprise her. She lashes out.”
“You are no longer capable of surprising me,” Freyalise said. “You wore out that option fifteen hundred years ago.”
Venser had crept up beside Jhoira. He whispered, “Am I the only one here who isn’t ancient or ageless?”
Jhoira turned and held his eyes. “Yes,” she said.
“The cold,” Jodah said. He turned to face Windgrace. “Tell her about the cold.”
Freyalise did not look at Jodah, but she said, “Keld has been cold since before I planted there.”
“It will soon get colder.” Windgrace folded his arms. “Urborg is in the grip of a magical winter that is also tied to the rift. Or so say the Tolarians.”
Freyalise hesitated. She said, “How severe is it?”
“Very,” Windgrace said. “And getting worse with every passing day.”
“It’s not as cold as the Ice Age you and I ended,” Jodah said. “Not yet.”
Venser whispered, “Why is he antagonizing her?”
“An excellent question.” Jhoira motioned for him to be quiet. “Let’s listen and we’ll all find out together.”
Freyalise swiveled her head around the platform, magically shoving everyone but Windgrace to the edges. When the two planeswalkers were alone at its center, she said, “Keld is also suffering through an unnatural cold,” she said. “I had thought it a symptom of the mana-draining effect the rift has. I thank you for this new information.”
Windgrace nodded. “And the Phyrexians?”
The small woman shifted uncomfortably. “They have come,” she said, “but only recently and not in great numbers.”
“Not yet,” Jodah called.
“If you speak to me again”—Freyalise’s tone was savage, and she left an ominous pause between her thoughts—“I will extract your tongue and hang you with it.”
Jodah nodded, truculent as a mischievous child, but he kept silent.
Windgrace spoke. “Is this happening anywhere else?”
Freyalise shrugged. “I don’t look past Skyshroud’s borders any more than you look beyond Urborg’s.”
“Then this is our problem for now,” Windgrace said. He nodded. “Perhaps it’s time we worked in concert once more.”
“Reform Urza’s team of planeswalkers?” Freyalise tossed her head dismissively. “No thank you. With seven dead in our last outing, we’d have too much work to do filling out the roster.” She turned and gave Teferi and Venser a critical look. “And I’m not interested in running down new recruits.”
“No teams, Freyalise. No nine. Just you and I. We are the ones who accomplished our mission during the Invasion. I still trust you and your abilities.”
“As I do you and yours. But I am older now, Windgrace. I am less inclined to hitch my fortunes so closely to another’s.”
Windgrace nodded. “So you will not help.”
“Oh, I’ll help. Just not as you suggest.”
The panther’s ears swiveled. “What do you propose?”
“We both know our own homes. We know our own minds and inclinations. We know what we are capable of. Let’s not fool ourselves. We both work best alone, but
I propose that we work in unison.”
Windgrace’s keen eyes blazed. “Together,” he said, “but separate.”
“Yes. If the time rifts are connected, our efforts will complement each other. Pursue your strategy in Urborg while I pursue mine in Skyshroud. If either one of us has any success, we can share and mutually profit from it.”
“Agreed. But Freyalise…have you a strategy to pursue?”
“I would never presume to advise you, sir, not in the art of war or in magic. I expect the same courtesy.”
“And so you have it.” Windgrace smiled. “It is good to rely on you again, Freyalise, even in this fashion. Good hunting, Patron of Skyshroud.”
“Yes, good hunting.” Freyalise turned and nodded toward Venser at the far end of the platform. “I must presume upon you, my lord. There is a member of your party I would have to assist me.”
“Take any but the artificer. He is from Urborg, so he is mine.”
“Of course. My plans are for another. With your permission…”
“By all means.”
Freyalise smiled coldly. She glanced at Teferi and Jodah. To Jhoira’s surprise, Freyalise turned fully around to face her. “Come with me, Ghitu elder.”
“Me?”
Teferi, Jodah, and Venser all reacted at once. Jhoira could not distinguish who said what, but the overall mood was concern bordering on panic.
“Silence,” Freyalise said. Each of her friends was pressed back again, the air squeezed from their lungs as they teetered dangerously on the edge of Windgrace’s platform.
Jhoira found she could move, so she stepped forward. “I cannot refuse you, Freyalise.”
“No.”
“But I can ask you why.”
“Indeed. And do you also delude yourself that I must answer?”
Jhoira thought for a moment. “No.”
“Smart girl.” Freyalise faced Windgrace and bowed deeply. “Thank you, my lord. Call me when your battle is won.”
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