by Jess Lebow
“Well,” said Glissa, “let’s hear it.”
“The black lacuna is somewhere inside Mephidross. It leads into the interior as well.”
“Golem know where it is, huh?” asked the goblin.
“No,” replied the golem, “but he does.” Bosh pointed toward the far end of the room.
There, pinned under a smashed, smoking leveler, was Geth.
“Grab him,” shouted Glissa.
The pale man squealed and struggled harder to free himself, but the Kaldra Champion lifted him from under the broken construct and off the ground by the back of his robes.
“Where is the entrance to the black lacuna?” demanded the elf. With the walls to Geth’s personal chamber gone and the fog blown away, her voice echoed in the large chamber.
Geth hung silently, dangling from the fingertips of the Kaldra Champion.
Glissa walked over to stand just beneath him. She crossed her arms over her chest and looked up at the gaunt ruler of the Vault. “You can tell us, or I’ll have my friend here squeeze your head until it pops.” She shrugged. “The choice is yours.”
The Kaldra Champion grabbed the sides of Geth’s head with two fingers.
Geth batted at the Champion’s fingers with his balled up fists. “All right. All right,” he shouted. The leader of the Vault began sobbing. “I’ll tell you anything, just put me down and leave me my head.” Geth whimpered. “I’m fond of my head.”
* * * * *
Unseen by any inside the Vault of Whispers, Memnarch’s myr waited patiently in the shadows. In Panopticon, deep inside the plane, the Guardian stood inside the Eye. One of his six scrying mirrors tuned to the eyes of the myr.
“Yes, Glissa Sunseeker,” he said as he watched. “Come find Memnarch, you and your Champion.” He laughed. “Come find Memnarch.”
* * * * *
The journey down the black lacuna was much like the journey down the blue one, only this time there wasn’t an army on Glissa’s tail. Like the blue lacuna, it followed the slight curvature of the plane on its way from the surface to the interior. The first few thousand feet of their decent, the walls of the tunnel looked like burned steel. Bits of shiny silver metal shone through a patina of black charring. Down farther, the surface was covered in the same, glowing mossy substance, which lit the way toward the end of the tube.
Down and down they went, resting for a time along the way. As they got closer to the end, Glissa could feel her power growing. Mana became easier to tap the closer they came to the interior, and her healing spells became more potent. She hoped her battle magic would be more powerful as well.
The lacuna ended, and Glissa stepped into the interior of Mirrodin. It was only the second time she had been here, but now it didn’t seem so mysterious. It was familiar to her now, and somehow, it almost felt like home.
Above, the mana core cast blinding blue-white light on everything. Nothing was shaded, nothing was safe from the penetrating gaze of the hovering internal sun. But though it had been only a full moon cycle since she’d been here, the mana core looked different.
Glissa hadn’t really taken the opportunity to examine it the last time she was here. There hadn’t been time for that. Now she could see arcs of green energy leaping off the mana core’s surface. They appeared as if from nowhere, circled the core once, then dived back into its surface as if they were fish in the Quicksilver Sea. She didn’t remember seeing any such thing last time, and even as distracted as she was, she felt certain she would have remembered a jagged bolt of green mana circling the sphere.
The rest of the interior looked different too. There were the same spindly towers that Bosh had called mycosynth, and the same mossy substance on the ground, but the landscape was more jagged, less open, and the tower in the distance was nowhere to be seen.
Everyone else piled out of the tunnel behind Glissa, shielding their eyes from the bright light.
Slobad put his hand up on his forehead and peered around as if he were a sea captain. “Where are we, huh? Look different.”
“It’s a different lacuna,” reasoned Glissa. “We’re in a different place.” She turned to Bosh. “Where do we find Memnarch?”
Bosh raised his still-bandaged hand and pointed through the mycosynth forest of chrome structures. “Through there. A long walk from here.”
Glissa started walking toward the microsyth. “Then we’d better get moving.”
* * * * *
Marek rested on the plains outside the swamps of the Dross. Fewer than half the warriors who had come on this mission had survived, and most of those who had were badly wounded.
Malil’s force of levelers fared just as poorly. The head of the vedalken elite guards had heard the metal man say he had left the interior with over a hundred of the killing devices. Now there were barely more than two dozen.
Despite the fact that Malil had lost more soldiers, he had a decided advantage over the beaten vedalken. The devices didn’t feel the emotional impact of defeat. The remaining levelers stood ready, prepared to fight to the death, even in the face of such tremendous losses.
Marek’s troops, however, were dispirited and broken. They had lost, and now they were tired, frustrated, and ready to go home. Sitting here on the plain, Marek hoped that they didn’t spot the elf girl and her retinue leaving the swamp. He and his men couldn’t take another battle right now.
* * * * *
Pontifex paced beside a field of razor grass, watching the edge of the swamp for any sign of Glissa.
Whatever that thing was that had come from the floor and wiped out half of his elite guard was going to pose a problem.
For that matter, Malil too was going to be a handful, but the metal man would be easy enough to manipulate.
Pontifex chuckled. That was the best part about constructs. They didn’t understand the subtleties of a simple lie. Somehow, while they could perform multiple complex tasks, often times more efficiently and effectively than an organic creature, they still maintained a childlike innocence. Malil would believe anything Pontifex told him. It was in his nature to do so, and the vedalken lord intended to use that to his advantage.
He’d keep the fool thinking that they were trying to capture the elf girl. Once he had his opportunity, he’d simply slip his dagger into her gut, and that would be the end of his problem.
Malil stepped up beside him, interrupting his reverie.
“She’s not coming out,” said the metal man.
“No? How do you know this?”
Malil tapped the side of his skull. “Memnarch has seen them enter the black lacuna.”
“The black lacuna? She’s going to the interior?”
The metal man nodded.
Why would she go that way? Pontifex wondered. Certainly the swamp and his own force weren’t a factor, after seeing what their protector did. Had he overestimated the power of that swirling blue monstrosity? Was it just a temporary spell?
Pontifex shook his head. “Well, if she’s going through the center of the plane to try to escape, she’s taken the long way out.”
Malil nodded his agreement.
Pontifex turned away from the razor grass field. “The question is where she’s headed.”
“It does not matter,” said Malil. “If we chase her down the black lacuna we will be perpetually in pursuit. We must travel North to the Knowledge Pool. We can move much faster on the surface than she can on the interior, and we’ll cut her off.”
Pontifex nodded. “Yes, but what if she heads South to the red lacuna? We’ll lose her in the mountains of the Oxidda Chain.”
Malil once again tapped his head. “If she does, Memnarch will tell me so, and we will be waiting for her when she surfaces.”
Pontifex smiled. “Then we’re off to Lumengrid.”
* * * * *
Orland stood on the floor of the People’s Grand Assembly Chamber. He looked up at the expectant faces of over a hundred representatives of the soon-to-be Republic of Vedalken.
&n
bsp; “My fellow vedalken,” he said just above a whisper. His words were lifted up to even the highest perched citizen in the hall. “Until today, the name of this chamber has been a farce.” He paced the room, exhilarated by each and every set of eyes that silently followed his movements. “The People’s Assembly Chamber, indeed. With notably few exceptions, only the members of the elite—the lifetime appointed councilors who sat on the Synod—were allowed to debate within its walls.” Orland stopped and spun on his heels. “It wasn’t always like this. There was a time in our republic’s history when decisions were made by the people. When we were not ruled but ruled ourselves.” The vedalken councilor nodded, smiling. “A pleasant notion, don’t you think?”
The assembled representatives nodded silently.
“It is time that we took back that which rightfully belongs to us.” His voice rose. “It is time that we once again ruled ourselves.” Now he was nearly shouting. “It is time that we decide once and for all that no vedalken has the right to go on making poor decisions in the public’s interest, while the elected representatives sit powerlessly on the sidelines—” he paused, quieting himself—“no avenue of recourse available to them.”
There was a rustle of robes as the representatives nodded their approval.
Sodador and Tyrell sat on a bench on the floor of the chamber. They nodded their approval as well, even lightly clapping—a gesture which had all but been outlawed in the People’s Assembly Hall.
Orland continued. “My friends, those days are soon to be over.” He pulled a rolled up red scroll from a pocket in his robe, lifting it high in the air for all to see. “The measure before us today, good representatives, will create a free society for all vedalken residing in the fortress of Lumengrid. I trust you have all received a copy of this document.”
The rustling of robes again filled the chamber as each of the vedalken in attendance pulled from his or her garments a scroll, the exact shape, size, and color of the one Orland held.
Councilor Orland smiled. “Excellent.” He looked to the other two representatives who urged him on with a wave of their hands. “As you may know, age old vedalken bylaws require that in order to change the voting structure of our government, a unanimous vote by all the members of the Synod is required. In the absence of Lord Pontifex, you have been summoned here to vote in his stead—” he turned slowly around the room, taking in each and every face—“much as you voted to accept me into the Synod only a moon cycle ago.” He stopped and looked down at the parchment in his hand. “This time, there is no tie that needs to be broken. It matters not the weight of each vote, for any vote against this measure will be the end of it.”
Orland took a deep breath. This was the moment he had been waiting for since the day he had become a councilor. “So, I ask you now, good representatives—” he looked at Sodador and Tyrell—“and councilors, how do you vote? Up or down?”
Orland held two of his four arms out before him, his thumbs pointing toward the ceiling.
Sodador and Tyrell stood up from their bench. They too held their hands out, their thumbs stretched to the sky.
Orland smiled. His insides jittered in anticipation. Scanning his eyes up the long spiral, he took note of each representative’s vote.
Every thumb in the chamber pointed up.
“Congratulations, my friends,” he said, lifting all four of his arms in the air in celebration. “Welcome to the new Free Republic of Vedalken.”
* * * * *
The trip to the Quicksilver Sea had taken no time at all. Pontifex and his soldiers had climbed aboard Malil’s levelers. The vedalken’s four hands made it easy for them to hold onto the killing devices’ steering tails and hides. The remains of the elite guard had ridden the whole way atop the swift metallic beasts.
Crossing over the rippling ocean with the aid of Pontifex’s magic, they entered Lumengrid. Inside, the halls were quiet, save for a handful of low-level functionaries carrying on mundane business. When the vedalken citizens saw Pontifex and his retinue, they disappeared into doors or around corners.
“What’s going on here?” demanded Pontifex.
“The people are afraid of the levelers,” replied Marek.
Pontifex was irritated. “I am their lord. They should not cower from me.”
Just then another vedalken stepped out of an alley, his attention focused on a memo in his hands. When he looked up and saw the group, his eyes opened wide, and he tried to dart away, but Pontifex grabbed him by the front of his robes.
“Why do you run, citizen?”
“I … I …”
“Where has everyone gone?” shouted the vedalken lord.
The vedalken swallowed hard. “They’re in the People’s Assembly Hall.”
Pontifex released him, and the vedalken citizen stumbled backward, dashing away as fast as he could.
“The Assembly Hall,” said Pontifex. A cold chill ran over his skin. “Orland.” He took off, dashing down the corridors, running straight for the inverted cone-shaped hall near his own chambers. There could be only one reason—
Turning the corner, Pontifex burst through the doors of the People’s Assembly Hall.
“Pontifex? What a surprise.” Orland stood on the floor at the bottom of the chamber. Sodador and Tyrell near him, a look of contentment on their faces.
“Don’t you mean ‘Lord Pontifex,’ Councilor Orland?”
Around the outside of the room, arrayed on the viewing platform, all of the vedalken elected representatives were in attendance. They stared at him, their expressions ranging from shock to amused silence.
“No, Pontifex,” said Orland. “There are no more lords among the vedalken.”
“What are you talking about, Councilor?”
“We have taken a vote.” Orland waved his hands in the air, indicating all the vedalken in the room. “The Vedalken Empire is no more.”
Pontifex laughed. “That’s preposterous. If there is no more empire, then why are you all still here? The people and the empire are one and the same.”
Orland nodded. “How right you are, Pontifex. Only, we prefer to call it a republic.”
“Oh, please,” spat the former vedalken lord. “Who will lead the people? Who will make the laws and instill order in the masses? Surely you don’t think the representatives can rule?”
A loud rustling sound filled the chamber as the assembled citizens shifted and scowled, reacting to Pontifex’s words.
“Actually,” replied Orland, “that’s exactly what we think.”
Pontifex beat his hands against the railing. “This cannot happen. I will not allow it. I am still the leader of the Synod. Nothing happens in Lumengrid without my approval!”
“No, Pontifex,” said Sodador, “the Synod no longer exists. We’ve formed a parliament. The elected representatives now have all the power.” He took a step, leaning heavily on his cane and limping. “In fact, you’re the only one here without a vote.”
Pontifex looked around the room. How could they do this to him? After all he had done for the empire, this was how he was rewarded. He had dedicated his life to the service of all vedalken, and now he was cast out.
Tyrell stood up from the bench where he sat on the floor of the chamber. “Now, for the next piece of business,” he said. “I bring before you a resolution of imprisonment.” The older statesman held out a piece of metal parchment, holding it at arm’s length and leaning his head back to view what was written on its surface. “Wherein: The Free Republic of Vedalken has found citizen Pontifex to be within the jurisdiction of this governing body and its limits of prosecution and retributive justice. And Wherein: This parliament has found the former lord of the empire to have committed numerous crimes against the people. Let it be resolved that free citizen Pontifex be immediately apprehended and imprisoned, to await trial and punishment for his repeat offenses against the republic and its denizens.”
“You’re imprisoning me?” shouted Pontifex.
Orland nodded. �
�Yes.”
The door behind him opened, and a pair of armed guards burst in. One leveled his halberd at him. The other produced a set of four manacles.
Pontifex narrowed his eyes, glaring down on the three former councilors standing on the floor. “You will not get away with this,” he said. “Mark my words, I will make you all pay for this treachery.”
Turning around, he lowered his eyes to the ground and stuck his arms out straight, presenting his wrists for shackles. As the guard moved to take him custody, Pontifex lifted his head. He finished mouthing the last word of a spell, and a jet of brilliant blue energy shot from each of his hands.
His spell struck both guards. Pontifex lifted his arms over his head, and the guards shot into the air, their arms flailing, their legs moving as if to run, but both were held fast by powerful magics.
A gasp escaped the lips of the collected representatives, filling the Assembly Hall with the booming noise of a million whispers.
Spinning around, Pontifex lifted the two suspended guards over his head and looked back down at Orland. Their eyes met. The former vedalken lord hurled his fists toward the floor. Both guards shrieked. Magnified by the chamber, it bounced off the walls, overtopping the collective gasp. Both vedalken fell.
Orland jumped away, but the older Tyrell and the lame Sodador were not so quick. The falling guards landed atop the two councilors, and the crunching sound of bones breaking replaced all other noise in the hall—amplified a hundred fold.
Pontifex smiled as he looked over the rail. Only Orland remained moving. The other four lay on the ground in a broken pile, their blue blood mixing as it seeped out onto the floor in a large puddle.
Pontifex pointed at Orland. “You’re next, councilor,” he said. “If it’s the last thing I do, you will be next.” He turned and darted from the People’s Assembly Hall.
* * * * *
Glissa and the others marched through a forest of mycosynth. The going was slow, as the mossy ground grabbed at their feet. The tall spires made travel difficult as well. It was like navigating through the dense Tangle, only here the growths were less predictable. Several times the entire group marched through the mazelike mycosynth, only to find a dead-end and be forced to retrace their steps.
