Planar Chaos

by Timothy Sanders

  The Weaver King gleefully skated across the skein he had stretched across Urborg, exhilarated and giddy. What a rare treasure Venser was, a rare opportunity. So much potential to develop, so many urges to nurture.

  He quickly forgave Venser for overlooking the Weaver King’s aid in quieting the willow sentry. To be fair, it was very unlikely Venser could have spotted the Weaver King’s subtle hand at work. Since Windgrace had marked the artificer’s mind off limits, the Weaver King had been forced to weave his most subtle webs, to forge connections so delicate and refined they were like whispers on the wind. Windgrace himself had overlooked the Weaver King’s continued presence in Venser’s mind, and he consoled himself that Venser was far less keen than the panther-god.

  However keen his mind, Venser had other strong points that stirred the Weaver King’s interest. In his panicked state, the artificer had somehow moved himself out of the willow’s clutches, vanishing then reappearing as effectively as any shadow creature—yet Venser was wholly flesh and blood. Venser was not ephemeral like the Weaver King or Dinne, but neither did he have the unassailable presence of a Windgrace. If Venser wasn’t insubstantial or omnipotent, how did he do what he had done?

  The Weaver King slowed his flight and focused on those strands that connected him to Venser and Jodah. The archmage was also partially protected by Windgrace’s lingering presence but just as vulnerable to the Weaver King’s finer efforts. He made a mental note to look more deeply into Jodah when the chance occurred. The crafty four-thousand-year-old archwizard had kept many secrets hidden when the Weaver King first met him, but now, like Venser, his true value was becoming clear.

  Venser and Jodah, Jodah and Venser. The Weaver King slid back and forth on the silver threads he had spun between his two new favorites. Joy and desire burned brightly in the Weaver King’s jagged mind. There was so much to play with here. So many things they could do, so many things he could make them do if they’d only take the time to listen.

  He knew he didn’t dare speak much louder for fear of rousing the panther. It was a kind of exquisite torture, this self-denial. The Weaver King had rarely even contemplated restraint before, but for once he took his pleasure in the waiting, in the consideration of what he wanted versus the price he’d pay for getting it. He felt wise and virtuous simply for searching for alternatives to his usual fervid rush toward his amusements.

  He was soon rewarded for his patience. As he hung back and simply observed the two, he noted how deeply Venser focused on his beloved machine. When he was like this there was almost nothing the Weaver King could say or suggest that would appeal to the artificer. Venser’s will and desire were united when he worked, the machine creating and filling needs to consume Venser’s mind completely.

  Then Jodah spoke. “Will it work?”

  The Weaver King struggled to contain himself. There, he thought. That’s all I need.

  The thing about Jodah and Venser, Venser and Jodah, was that they had so much in common. Beyond their hidden talents and their bookish tendencies, both had a healthy interest in the same compelling woman.

  Just now Jodah had broken Venser’s communion with his machine. Venser came out of that communion reluctantly, almost angrily, and his anger took on a sharp new flavor when it saw the archmage emeritus. Jodah, who like Jhoira had been alive for millennia. Jodah, who like Jhoira was a powerful wizard and confident adventurer. Jodah, who had so much in common with Jhoira, who could stand as peer and equal to Jhoira, who was clearly smitten with Jhoira. Jodah, with whom Jhoira was in turn clearly smitten.

  The Weaver King let go, surging across random sections of his extended web as laughter hissed from his mind like steam. Venser respected Jodah. Venser was coming to trust Jodah, even admire him. But on a deep, primal, instinctive level, Venser resented Jodah. He rankled at the archmage’s ease with the Ghitu woman and how she responded to it.

  On that level, Venser hated Jodah. Just a little. It was all the Weaver King needed.

  He sent his multifaceted mind out across the length and breadth of his web, giving almost all of his subjects a simultaneous moment of pure dread that started in their brains and sent crippling shudders down through their spines.

  * * *

  —

  Venser had been staring at the machine’s inner workings for too long without speaking. “Will it work?” Jodah said.

  The artificer scowled briefly as he turned. “It’s ready,” Venser said, and Jodah noticed the strain in his voice.

  “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine.” Venser stood. He inspected the seat of the ambulator’s chair. His shoulders sagged momentarily before he turned. “Take this.” He held out the beacon to Jodah. “I can take you back to your tunnel any time.”

  “Now is good,” Jodah said. He pocketed the beacon in his robe and cast his eyes back to the mound of imprisoned sentries. He glanced at the machine over Venser’s shoulder and said, “How does it work?”

  “It’s complicated,” Venser said. “I’ll handle the controls, but, if you must know, it creates a magical field that—”

  “Easy, friend,” Jodah said. “I just want to know where I should stand.”

  Venser flashed him a weary smile. “Sorry,” he said. “Once I’m in the chair, you can stand anywhere on the dais.”

  Jodah nodded thoughtfully. “And you’re sure it won’t crash like last time?”

  “I’m almost certain.” The artificer’s humor seemed to improve at Jodah’s anxious expression. “I was careless last time, distracted. I was worried about Jhoira.”

  “Well, don’t worry this time. We’ll get her back together.”

  Venser nodded. “We should go.”

  Jodah wondered if Venser had always been so distracted by his own device. As soon as he laid hands on the ambulator, the artificer all but disappeared into it. It drew his eye and his attention to the exclusion of almost everything else.

  The archmage shrugged. Perhaps Venser was more worried about the device functioning properly than he let on. If it took them to Jodah’s tunnel and on to Skyshroud, it would be well worth all the gloom that had spread across Venser’s face and slowed his quick mind’s inner workings.

  Venser adjusted the metal rig on his shoulders. He breathed deep and seated himself in the chair. Jodah stepped onto the solid, metal platform as Venser’s fingers flew over the internal controls.

  The ambulator hummed and disappeared, taking Jodah and Venser away.

  Teferi strolled into the Urborg encampment like a visiting dignitary. He held his spine straight and his head high, employing his metal staff as a walking stick.

  “Hail,” he called to the sentries. “Teferi of Zhalfir to see Lord Windgrace.”

  A half dozen gladehunters stood before him, two humans and a small collection of marsh monsters. All wore Windgrace’s mark. None of them responded to his greeting.

  “May I pass?” he asked.

  “We were told you might come.” The gladehunter who spoke was a six-foot-tall mantis with a triangular purple hood concealing its face. Its words came through a series of harsh clicks and whistles.

  Teferi smiled. “And am I welcome?”

  You are not. Windgrace’s powerful growl came out of the air itself. You were warned to stay out of this affair.

  “I cannot, my lord. You have the power, but only I have the knowledge. You may break my body and burn my mind, but before you do…at least take what I have for you. Use it. I know things you do not, and what I know can help you.”

  We shall see.

  Teferi felt the air churn around him, and a tingling sensation settled over his entire body. His vision dimmed for a moment, and he found himself standing in the bottom of a huge, hollow chamber. He sensed the crackling disk overhead, the confluence of energies arcane and temporal, and he knew where Windgrace had taken him even before the panther-god spoke.

  Welcome to the Stronghold, Windgrace said. Then the planeswalker appeared, towering over Teferi, his muscles ri
ppling and his tail slashing the air. With Windgrace came light, and Teferi now saw the inside of the mountain fortress clearly.

  Despite the presence of Windgrace, Teferi was almost consumed by the view. It was not as he expected, not at all. There were supposed to be entire cities within the mountain’s hollow center and vast expanses of machinery. What he saw was merely a cavern, an empty hole with thick, stone walls.

  “Do you feel it?” Windgrace said.

  “The rift? Yes, I do.”

  “I was referring to the taint of madness. This is the lair of the Weaver King, though I have never found him at home.”

  Teferi bowed. “It must frustrate you, my lord, to be aware of this malign presence yet unable to root it out.”

  “It does,” Windgrace said. “It does indeed.” He floated down so that he was directly in front of Teferi. “Can you hear the echoes of his mania?”

  Teferi concentrated, half-closing his eyes. He only heard water dripping from the rocks and the creaking of the cavern walls as they shifted and settled. There was something else, a faint, merry, wild sound that could have been laughter. “I hear something, my lord. Again, I sympathize with your inability to find its origin.”

  “Very well.” Windgrace crossed his massive arms and puffed through his nostrils. “But I have not brought you here to commiserate. You are here to be tested.”

  “Tested? How so?” Teferi spoke gently, playfully. “How shall I prepare?’

  “You have already passed,” Windgrace said. “I half-suspected you were in the Weaver King’s thrall. I see now that is not the case.”

  “Good news,” Teferi said. “Though I confess I am not familiar with the name.”

  “Be glad of that ignorance,” Windgrace said. “Be glad that without your power you are of no interest to him.”

  “I am glad, my lord. Glad to have one less distraction from my purpose. The Weaver King is your quarry,” Teferi said. “The time rifts are mine.”

  Windgrace scowled. “Then it is your contention that there is no connection between the two?”

  “I could not say. I am increasingly sure there is a link between the rift and your cold-weather Phyrexians.”

  Green fire flared from Windgrace’s eyes. “You vex me, Tolarian. I do not believe you are as weak as you pretend, so I cannot simply ignore you. I do believe you know more and intend to do more than you are willing to say, so I cannot simply kill you. Yet neither will I simply let you run loose to continue your intrusive tampering and your ham-handed attempts to influence events. So I put it to you: What other course is open to me?”

  “Examine my thoughts,” Teferi said. “See for yourself what I know and intend.”

  The panther’s ears flattened. “Your thoughts are…closed to me for some reason. Either because you conceal them—”

  “Or because they are likewise closed to me,” Teferi said. “I have lost a great part of myself, Windgrace. Almost everything I had and was is gone. You have called me a coward, accused me of running and hiding when the Phyrexians invaded. I will not argue that point. But, it is also true that I risked everything to correct my mistakes. I did spend every last drop of my power in Shiv, and Shiv is now saved. Having done so, I cannot save Urborg, or Skyshroud. I don’t have the ability…but you do. Together, you and Freyalise can push the boundaries of chaos back much farther than I did alone. And if you let me I will tell you how.”

  Windgrace simply stared. “You vex me, Tolarian.”

  Teferi bowed. “I seek only to make things better. To make Urborg and Skyshroud safe.”

  “In aid of some larger goal.”

  “I make no secret of that. There is still dolorous and difficult work ahead that may well consume those who do it.”

  “And having been consumed, you would see us act as your agents. Freyalise and me.”

  “Not agents. Fellows. This is not a threat to one place or one entity. If we—you, Freyalise, Jhoira, Venser, and anyone else we can gather to our cause—if we do not stop the time rifts and reverse the damage they have done, nothing will survive. No one. Not the most powerful planeswalker on the most distant plane.”

  “So you still claim some special understanding of these cracks in the sky.”

  “I do.”

  “And you wish to share this understanding.”

  “Absolutely.”

  Windgrace shook his head. “I will not hear it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I don’t have the luxury of an academic. Long-term thinking will not remedy Urborg. It may already be too late. There are Phyrexians on my doorstep. There is a mind-vampire marauding unchecked. There is a new kind of planeswalker who does not have the transcendent spark.” Windgrace’s dark fur bristled, and he lowered his heavy head down into Teferi’s face. “And there is a Tolarian meddler trying to push me into repeating his own ill-considered act even as he pretends to know less than he does and to be less powerful than he is.”

  “My power is spent,” Teferi said. “I have no more mana, no stronger spells than a half-talented hedge wizard. But if you listen to what I have to say—”

  “No.” Windgrace stood tall. “Behold, student of Tolaria. Here is your new classroom, your new laboratory. If you would set your keen mind and perceptions against the foundation of all our problems, this is the place. The rift is here. The Weaver King is here. The Phyrexians will soon be here again.” The panther-god bared his sharp fangs in a predator’s smile. “Observe and take copious notes. If you survive to learn more that will be ‘of use,’ you will have earned the right to share it with me.”

  Teferi paused, trying to maintain his calm demeanor as well a modicum of control over the conversation. “You mean to strand me here?”

  “If you can be stranded. I half-expect you to teleport out as soon as I turn my back.”

  “I cannot. I cannot leave this place.”

  “Of course you can. If you start climbing now, you should be outside in less than a week.”

  Teferi tightened his grip on his staff, struggling for words.

  “Alternately,” Windgrace said. “You could rest and recover your strength. If you were more like your old self, you would be of extreme interest to the Weaver King. And what you two would do to each other is of passing interest to me.”

  “My lord, I must protest,” Teferi said tightly. “Abandon me if you must, but do not stake me out like a goat for the tiger.” He tilted his head back and spoke proudly, defiantly. “I deserve better.”

  “Then make it better.” Windgrace stretched out his arms and rose into the air. “Be worthy of it. While you are here, focus on the rift above. Study the tangle of psychic energy that covers this place like a net. If you are not as weak or addled as you pretend, the Weaver King will be hard-pressed to treat you as roughly as he treats my citizens. Be strong and sure so that the rift will reveal more of its secrets to your keen mind and probing eye. Who can say? You may yet learn something that will stop the rift apart from feeding me to it.”

  Teferi sadly lowered his head. “And if I am that weak? If I am that addled?”

  Windgrace rose higher. “Then you will die here as ingloriously as you deserve.”

  The panther-god soared higher and vanished through the upper reaches of the hollow mountain. Teferi watched the ceiling for several long minutes, then lowered his head. Muttering a curse, he threw his staff down with an angry clatter.

  Teferi gracefully lowered himself into a cross-legged position. He saw something flicker near the corner of his eye, a ghostly afterimage that put him in mind of a gaunt, armored figure. The half-seen apparition made Teferi’s spine go cold, and he concentrated, bringing up fond memories of the Zhalfirin tide surging in to cover the broad, flat rocks of his private beach, the one that had been gifted to him by royal decree.

  Teferi eyed his staff. The brass stick twitched. Teferi focused harder, willing the stick to rise, and it slowly floated up from the rocks and drifted over to his waiting hand.

  The bal
d man smiled, savoring this small step forward. He laid the staff across his lap and took deep, measured breaths. There was still hope. As long as he was alive and aware, he could still make something good of the disasters that seemed to follow him like carrion birds.

  Pushing aside the phantasmal image and the faint echoes of strange laughter, Teferi steepled his fingers in front of his face, closed his eyes, and began to chant.

  * * *

  —

  The ambulator worked perfectly. Venser and Jodah completed their short hop across Urborg as smoothly and quickly as if Windgrace himself were ferrying them.

  They arrived a few yards from Jodah’s transport tunnel. As the machine powered down, its soft, high-pitched hum slowly faded. Steam rose from the ambulator’s metal skin and from the rig on Venser’s shoulders, but the equipment was only slightly warm to the touch.

  Jodah blinked. “Impressive,” he said.

  “Thank you.” Venser quickly checked the machine for signs of wear or loss of function. Once he was satisfied there was no damage, he nodded to Jodah, and the archmage leaped down to the flattened patch of marsh grass near the shimmering pool.

  “To review,” Jodah said, “I’m going through the tunnel. When I emerge in Skyshroud, I click this gem on top of the beacon.” He held up the blinking box, displaying its top face to Venser. “Then I wait for you to materialize in the ambulator.”

  Venser nodded. “It should take no more than a minute for the chair to find the signal. I’ll plot a course and come to you directly.”

  “One minute,” Jodah said. “Maybe two. I’ll be waiting.” The archmage waved a jovial farewell, but his eyes were firm and serious. “Thank you for your help.”

  Venser said, “Farewell, Archmage,” as he busied himself with the control rig. He glanced up and saw Jodah waiting. Venser simply nodded.

  Jodah nodded back. He clutched the beacon box in both hands and stepped into the tunnel entrance.

  Venser watched Jodah fade away on the other side of the liquid screen. He exhaled and slumped back into the ambulator’s chair, letting his head fall into his hand. He massaged the bridge of his nose between two long, callused fingers as he tried to organize his thoughts.