by Doug Beyer
Jace was trying not to descend into petulance, but he was failing, and he didn’t much care. He felt detached, as if he had unbuckled himself from this conversation and was now floating free.
“Are you hurt?” Calomir asked.
“I’m fine,” said Emmara brightly. “I wish everyone would stop asking me that.”
“The Rakdos didn’t count on her, did they, my friend?” Calomir elbowed Jace’s arm. The gesture felt unusually familiar for an elvish captain.
“It wasn’t the Rakdos,” Jace said. “They were set up by the Dimir. Isn’t that right, Emmara?”
Emmara nodded carefully. “We were intercepted by a Dimir agent. A vampire, sent to abduct us. He seemed particularly interested in Jace.”
“What possible value could he serve to the Dimir?” asked Calomir. “No offense meant, of course.”
“Jace was researching something of deep importance, something connected to the history of the guilds,” said Emmara.
“Oh? What is so important?”
“I don’t remember,” Jace said miserably.
Calomir didn’t even have the decency to laugh and get the humiliation over with.
“Jace has purged the research from his mind,” said Emmara.
“Ah, an empty vault,” Calomir said, and clucked with polite disappointment.
Jace felt another twinge of mistrust. He had heard “empty vault” somewhere before.
“A pity you don’t recall,” Calomir went on. “Is that common, for a mind mage to forget something so easily? No matter. In a world without a Guildpact, speculation is worth nothing. This is a time of war, and we must focus on defending ourselves from the other guilds.”
Emmara’s eyebrows rose. “It’s a time to prevent war. Our cause is to avert a guild conflict.”
“You underestimate the esteem this guild has for you, Emmara,” said Calomir. “Your abduction has been felt deeply in the Conclave. Many feel that this incident cannot go unpunished. And if the Dimir may be involved as well, on top of the actions of the Izzet, we would be fools not to be vigilant. But we can talk about that with Trostani. The guildmaster will be anxious to see you.”
The dryads of Trostani towered over Jace. They were unity incarnate, a being melded from three individuals. Their graceful woven shape reminded him of the delicate wooden leaf the Selesnya woman had given to him at the gates, organic patterns interlaced into a single whole. He wondered whether the woodshaping magic that had fashioned the leaf artifact was also responsible for Trostani’s composite form.
“Emmara,” said Trostani. “We are relieved you are safe.”
“Trostani,” said Emmara, “may I present Jace Beleren.”
Jace gave an awkward bow.
The three dryads smiled down at him. “We are glad you’ve delivered our friend Emmara back to us, Jace.” They alternated speaking one after another, rotating between them to complete their sentences. “We believe in the good of the whole over the needs of the individual—no single person is more special than any other. But as you know, Emmara is unique, and very important to us.”
“I do know that,” Jace said.
“Thank you, Trostani,” said Emmara.
“Which is why we trusted her unreservedly when she left on her mission to seek you out,” said Trostani. “I trust endangering her was ultimately worth it?”
“He’d tell you all about it, but he forgot it all,” chuckled Calomir.
“Jace has lost some memories that might have been useful to us,” said Emmara.
“What was it all for, then?” Trostani asked.
“Indeed,” said Calomir. “Is that common, for a mind mage to forget so easily?”
Jace’s embarrassment was a paper-thin distance from physical pain. He didn’t look Calomir in the eyes, for fear that he would be moved to put his knuckles in them.
“Jace’s talents can still be of value,” said Emmara quietly.
“I’m sure they can,” said Calomir. “I’m sure his talents can tell us that the Izzet are undertaking a secret project, and that the Rakdos are openly hostile, and that the Azorius fear unrest as tempers flare among the guilds. But then, we already knew all of that, didn’t we, my friends?”
“There was more,” said Emmara. “But he had his research destroyed.”
“Well, it couldn’t have been that important, then.” Calomir smirked. He squeezed Emmara’s hand. “But if you’ll excuse me, some of us are men of action, not thoughts. The Rakdos are on the move, and my talents are needed. Guildmaster Trostani.” He bowed.
The Trostani triad bowed their heads slightly. “Make our enemies pay,” they said.
Calomir turned to Jace and shook his hand again. “Sir. It was a pleasure to meet you. I hope you recover your memory. I truly do.”
Jace couldn’t help it. As Calomir shook his hand, Jace conjured a quick spell to skim the elf’s mind. He wanted to find something wrong with the man, something to validate Jace’s suspicious gut feelings.
To his surprise, Jace’s spell failed. It was like an arrow bouncing off the walls of an impregnable fortress. His mind magic didn’t even penetrate into the elf’s surface thoughts.
Jace squeezed the man’s hand and pulled him close, chest to chest, looking straight into his eyes. He tried the mind magic again. But there was nothing. The elf’s mind was unreadable, invisible to Jace’s inner senses, a dark space. Jace could not even perceive a stray thought.
Calomir’s lips were a slender line, curving up slightly at the edges.
Only a few beings had ever been able to keep Jace out this completely, and they were beings of immense power. An unreadable mind didn’t happen by accident—it was magic sought out by those who had secrets to hide.
“What are you?” asked Jace.
“Jace,” said Emmara.
Calomir arched an amused eyebrow.
“I can’t read him,” Jace said. “I’m getting nothing from his mind. Why can’t I read him?”
Emmara was incredulous. “Jace, you are a guest here. Stop this at once. I’ve known Calomir for decades, and you’re making an ass of yourself.”
Jace released his grip with Calomir, but didn’t take his eyes off of him. “He is not who he says he is.”
“Jace,” snapped Emmara. “You are as wrong as you’ve ever been.”
“Come, my friend,” Calomir said to him. “You’ve outstayed your welcome. I’ll escort you to the guildgate.”
A thought occurred to Jace like a lightning bolt. “Don’t attack the Rakdos,” he said to Trostani. “Don’t. That’s what they want.”
Trostani’s voices alternated as they condemned Jace. “If you were part of the Selesnya, I might take your advice to guide our policy. As it is, Captain Calomir has been a loyal warrior and advisor to me for years.”
That was it. They were going to attack the Rakdos, at Calomir’s recommendation. This man with the impenetrable mind had the ear of the Selesnya guildmaster, and a relationship with Emmara. Jace could feel something click, but couldn’t see the whole picture—if only he still had those memories. He only knew that Emmara was in the center of a mass of tentacles, and they were tightening their grasp on her.
“I think you’re in danger here,” Jace said. “Come with me.”
“No, Jace,” said Emmara. “My guild needs me. Of course I’m staying here.”
Calomir smiled and shook his head, looking more amused than indignant.
Trostani’s treelike body straightened, and all three of the dryads crossed their arms. “Captain Calomir’s service to the Conclave began long before you were born, human. We will not abide this insult to our guild, nor tolerate your presence in our grove. You may leave the way you came.”
Jace looked to Emmara, but her face was sharp as a blade, severing the threads between them. He reached into his cloak. “Take this,” he said, pressing the carved Selesnya leaf into her hands. “Just in case. In case you need me.”
He didn’t even know if the trinket would do anyt
hing. Emmara just looked at him, the leaf in her hands, speechless.
“Let’s go, human,” said Calomir, taking Jace’s arm.
The site was torched to the ground. Ral Zarek pushed over a charred piece of retaining wall with his foot, and it crumbled to dust. The brick corners of the building still stood, like a strange quartet of parentheses around the site, but everything else had burned or collapsed.
If the Great Firemind wanted more information on this mystery man, he was going to be disappointed.
The Izzet goblin Skreeg scratched his head, leaving streaks of ash on his cheek. “Maybe this is the wrong place?” he asked hopefully.
“The neighbors seemed convinced,” said Ral. “This is where our man spent his time.”
“The fire might not have destroyed everything,” said Skreeg. “We could check under the ash, see if anything survived.”
“The Azorius and the Boros have already been over this site looking for clues, too. There’ll be nothing left.”
“Maybe there’s something they missed,” said Skreeg.
Skreeg’s optimism chafed him. But the only alternative Ral could think of was to end his search and return to Niv-Mizzet empty-handed. “I guess we try. We’re looking for written materials: research papers, maps, notes.”
Skreeg shook his fist excitedly. He activated his mizzium gauntlet and dived into a nearby pile of ash to root around for treasures. Ral strolled among the ash piles and broken, charred beams. The floorboards had burned in places, revealing a shallow cellar space under the main floor. Ral leaned down and thrust his hand into the dark gap, letting arcs of lightning play between his fingers to light the space. But there was still nothing. Whoever had destroyed this place had been brutally thorough.
Skreeg came up for air, coughing puffs of ash out of his nose and mouth, squinting through watery eyes. “I’ve cast a battery of detection spells. There is no writing, carving, or runic pattern of any known idiom within the boundaries of this sanctum. It’s all burned away.”
Ral couldn’t face Niv-Mizzet with no leads. Even more than that, he couldn’t admit that this mage Beleren had outwitted him. He touched the tips of his fingers together thoughtfully, creating a web of electric sparks. “It’s all burned away,” he said. He watched the tiny curls of lightning scatter around his hands. “Burned away, yes. It’s burned. But it’s all still here.” He clapped his hands together, dissipating the lightning. “Skreeg. Levitate the ash.”
Skreeg’s head cocked to the side. His eyes scanned around the wreckage. “Levitate it, sir?”
“Yes. Hurry up. Levitate it. All of it.” Ral knew the goblin’s hesitation wouldn’t last.
“Normally that kind of venture would require more than just one goblin, sir—”
“Just do it!”
“Yes, sir!”
Skreeg took a deep breath, summoned up power, and cast his gravity-altering spell. Ash and charred wood hovered into the air, only in thin wisps at first, then in thick clouds. The goblin’s gauntlet lit up with power, and his small hands shook with effort. A sheen of sweat appeared on his brow. Debris floated up all around the goblin, forming a storm of confused wreckage that hovered above the crater that had been the sanctum. Finally, Skreeg floated up into the debris cloud himself, cartwheeling in the air while sustaining the spell. Ral stood at the edge of the cavity that held the ruins, beholding the cloud of debris before him.
“Now, drop out everything that is stone or brick,” said Ral.
“Sir?”
“You heard me. We won’t need anything that was originally stone or brick. Leave the ashes.”
As Skreeg swam through the cloud, quivering with strain, he made alterations to his gauntlet. The mass of debris wobbled, and then some of the wreckage floated down into the pit, separating from the finer particles of ash.
“Aha!” squealed the goblin. “Sir, I think I did it!”
“Now get rid of glass or thicker pieces of wood,” said Ral, stroking his chin.
Skreeg whimpered briefly. “Of course, sir.” He altered his spell once again, and other fragments of the cloud filtered out. All that remained were fine flakes of ash, swimming and rolling on air currents.
Ral wove a matrix of tiny strands of electricity between his palms, stretching and expanding them into ever-finer threads, forming a gauzy mesh of lightning. “Now bring the ash close together. And get out of the way.”
Skreeg was moaning with the complexity of the spell. The ash cloud condensed into a flat sheet, several feet on a side, and Skreeg’s floating body rolled to one side. Ral lashed out at the sheet of ash with strands of electricity. Electricity zigzagged throughout the cloud, bounding from particle to particle like a dense thunderstorm.
“I’m exploring the natural resonances of the materials,” said Ral. “Keep floating.”
Ral sent another web of delicate lightning through the ashes. He studied how the tiny bolts leaped from fragment to fragment, connecting similar substances.
“Ow!” yelped Skreeg as one arc of electricity crackled through him. The floating ashes shuddered as the goblin shook and gritted his teeth with the effort of his spell.
Ral altered a control on his mizzium gauntlet, gathered a strong swell of mana, and electrocuted the floating debris once more. This time his lightning not only danced between the specks of burned materials, but drew a selected collection of them together into a stable, fused lattice. It lingered there, hovering before him, a crackling pattern of electric threads.
“All right, Skreeg. Now drop everything but this.”
Skreeg exhaled in relief, and crashed through the burned floorboards and into the cellar. The ash floated down after him. The goblin and various pieces of debris clunked and clattered in the pit below Ral’s feet.
Ral had what he needed. “Routes,” he said, scrutinizing the puzzle still assembling itself in the air before him. The connected fragments of ash reunited in his electric field, forming readable passages of notes. “Beleren had discovered a series of routes through the maze. They were encoded, but viable. He had almost solved it. Skreeg, where are you?”
A pair of small hands appeared at the edge of the pit. The goblin pulled himself up, and flopped onto the ground by Ral’s feet, huffing and coughing. “Can we find Beleren now, sir?”
Ral grinned. “You know, Skreeg, I don’t think we need Beleren anymore.”
We don’t even need Niv-Mizzet anymore, he thought.
AID FROM AN ENEMY
Jace left the Selesnya grove feeling like a puzzle with its pieces scattered. He pulled his hood up over his head and his cloak around his arms, and stalked off into the metropolis, letting the endless buildings and crowds of pedestrian traffic swallow him.
He was a planeswalker who was once involved in a planar plot—but now that he assessed his circumstances, he had successfully cut himself off from everything about this place. Knowledge of Ravnica’s woes had been excised from his mind. His mage sanctum was ruined. His compatriot Kavin had run off, presumably never wanting to see him again. And Emmara was back with her guild, back in the arms of someone important to her. The exit was open to him, hanging wide like the gates of an abandoned estate. This plane didn’t need him. He was not required here. He could simply step through the veil of reality separating this world from the next, and leave Ravnica behind.
But of course, he couldn’t be sure of that. Certainty was one of the many things that had fallen into the dark hole in his mind. Whatever the guilds were plotting—whatever the Izzet had discovered—whatever the Dimir wanted with Emmara and the knowledge inside his head—it was all gone. And his sense that Emmara was in danger remained. He had thrown open the gate out of Ravnica himself, and had practically put down a fine carpet to ensure total comfort for his departure, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to take the final step and go.
Something was missing. Something wasn’t quite as tidy as it seemed, and it nagged at his mind like an itch inside his skull. It didn’t sit right with him tha
t everything had played out this way.
I need those memories back, he thought.
A patrol of Boros legionnaires turned the corner toward him, even-shouldered and marching in smart precision. By reflex he hid around the other side of a cart of market goods, eyeing the soldiers through the gaps in the rigging, letting them pass by. If he was their target, they didn’t seem to notice him. He wasn’t even sure who was looking for him now, but his impulse was to hide from guild authority figures, and he trusted his impulses.
Jace paused at the edge of a huge thoroughfare, the so-called Transguild Promenade, a pedestrian walkway that passed between many of the guild-held territories. As beings of all races and shapes and guilds passed by him—a Simic biomancer holding the leash of a ten-legged crablike monstrosity, a Golgari trader with a handcart of treasures found in the undercity, an Orzhov aristocrat with an entourage of dutiful thrull servants—he strained to devise some way to recover what he had lost. The hole in his memory was real, to the degree that any absence could be real, and thanks to the fissure he had no way of remembering what he had actually done with his memories during the excision spell.
The promenade branched into multiple directions, some of the roads winding their way toward various guild territories, and others leading out of the Tenth District entirely. He found himself stopping in the middle of the street, letting the pedestrian traffic flow around him.
Jace had created a knotted riddle for himself. The question consisted of the excruciating sense that he had given away the answer. He wracked his brain, trying to think of who might have a shred of a clue about that night at the Cobblestand Inn, and trying to stifle the feeling that if he failed, Emmara would die.
Exava swung her swords in figure eights, slicing through the air with unbridled glee as the towers of the district streamed past her. The Rakdos witch stood atop a war platform, held aloft by four muscular, masked minions, who in turn were surrounded by a massive horde of Rakdos cultists that filled the street from shop front to shop front. A wave of Rakdos flowed through the thoroughfare from Rakdos territory, sending up a chaotic clamor that could be heard for miles. Screams and impish laughter mingled with the clatter of the bone drummers and the hissing of riot demons.
