Time Spiral

by Scott McGough

  Teferi is running out. Out of friends, out of hope …

  Teferi pounced. I’m not asking you to go to war. I’m merely asking you to talk to me, to educate me by sharing your success with Skyshroud.

  Oh, no, Freyalise’s tone became sharper, colder, and more cutting. Teferi would never ask me to fight as Urza did. Teferi does not fight, not when he can run away and hide for three centuries. Not when he can see his own nation and his own tribes to safety. Not when he can skulk away and leave the rest of the world to defend itself.

  Teferi started as if struck. He was not wounded by Freyalise’s slanted view of his actions but from one simple detail nigh-lost among her cruel invective.

  Three centuries? Teferi said.

  … out of time.

  Scott McGough returns to Magic: The Gathering’s home plane of Dominaria to tell a compelling story of passion, insight, and sacrifice.

  Time Spiral Cycle, Book I

  TIME SPIRAL

  ©2006 Wizards of the Coast LLC

  All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or unauthorized use of the material or artwork contained herein is prohibited without the express written permission of Wizards of the Coast LLC.

  Published by Wizards of the Coast LLC. MAGIC: THE GATHERING, WIZARDS OF THE COAST, and their respective logos are trademarks of Wizards of the Coast LLC, in the U.S.A. and other countries.

  All Wizards of the Coast characters and the distinctive likenesses thereof are property of Wizards of the Coast LLC.

  eISBN: 978-0-7869-5714-9

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  v3.0_r1

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to everyone who thinks

  I should have dedicated a book to them by now.

  This one’s for you … now let it go, y’all.

  Acknowledgments

  This book would not have been possible without contributions from the following exceptional individuals:

  Elena K., for the daily inspiration

  Susan Morris, for making an editorial/organizational ordeal seem so effortless and making the book itself fun to write

  John and Tim, for the lively email brainstorming sessions and their encyclopedic knowledge of Magic history

  Daneen McDermott and Jess Lebow, who both helped forge so much of the backstory that led to this novel and these characters

  Jesper Myrfors, Mark Tedin, Daniel Gelon, and Anthony Waters, for their invaluable input way back during a crucial Urza’s Destiny brainstorm meeting

  Kath, Kim, Sharon, Brett, Kel, and Cujo, for knowing when it’s time to crack open the Tia Maria and put on the footy franks

  Contents

  Cover

  Other Books by This Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  About the Author

  Her name was Jhoira and she was over one thousand years old. This fact tended to impress people, though Jhoira herself never let it go to her head. She had seen too much of the world, of many worlds, to pride herself on a simple longer-than-usual lifespan. She had witnessed firsthand the creation and destruction of worlds, vicious planet-wide warfare, and the cataclysmic sundering of time itself. Where there is magic and madness literally anything is possible, and a thousand-year-old woman simply doesn’t stand out.

  Jhoira’s humility was also rooted in the hard fact that she was not a true immortal and did not consider herself so. She had known several of the real variety throughout the centuries and had met, dined, and made war with beings who had either embraced infinity or been consumed by it: vampiric lich-lords, elemental avatars, and otherworldly spellcasters with godlike power. Jhoira shared some of the same long-lived perspectives with these supremely powerful beings, but ultimately she was not like them.

  If she needed proof or a reminder of that truth, all she had to do was look around. The elegant polished stone of her workshop walls hadn’t been quarried or chiseled by mason’s tools. They had been conjured out of the aether, created as walls from the first moment of their existence. The entity that shaped these walls into an efficient and aesthetically pleasing structure had done so by taking its design directly from Jhoira’s mind.

  She was an artificer, a designer, and a builder of machines. She was not an architect and had no actual plan for or notion toward building her perfect workshop. What she did have was the raw idea of it, and that was all it took for a truly infinite immortal to make it real. This was the very real difference between her and a genuinely remarkable being—turning her thoughts into reality required significant research, a fair amount of trial and error, and a great deal of hard work.

  She was perhaps their peer by sheer virtue of her longevity—an uninterrupted millennium of existence commands a certain amount of respect in any company—but there was always something grudging and unfriendly about some of the titans she met. To the true gods and demigods of the universe, she was simply an ordinary person with an extraordinary amount of time. Long life was not something Jhoira had achieved or sought after but something that happened to her, no more an achievement than being hit by a falling rock or bitten by a rare snake. Her presence among the mighty sometimes struck Jhoira as decidedly unwelcome, that of a solitary and precocious child in a room full of adults who wished her to be seen and not heard.

  Jhoira did not resent this subtle exclusion but prided herself on it. She was not one of them—the undying, infinitely powerful, or impervious to harm. She could be injured or killed the same as any shorter-lived person, as the arcane forces that extended her span did nothing to protect her from violence, disease, or deprivation.

  Jhoira also aged, albeit very slowly. She seemed to have only gained a few years in the past thousand, but she had definitely grown older. Even at this glacial rate her body would eventually progress through maturity and on into decline and eventually death. It seemed a cheerless thought when she considered it objectively, but the harsh reality was definitely softened by its extreme distance. Like every other finite, mortal being, Jhoira would live until she died or something killed her.

  The outwardly young woman pushed her three-legged stool back from the workbench. The table top was a massive block of granite polished as smooth as glass, and it lay half-covered in hand tools, a tall oil lamp in its top corner. The lamp’s bone-white flame cast a soft glow across the room.

  Jhoira’s coarse, chestnut brown hair was gathered into a thick braid at the base of her neck. Her face was wide and open, almost heart-shaped, and her sharp, proud features marked her as a Ghitu, the nomadic, desert-dwelling tribe tha
t thrived where most humans never dared go. She had left the desert young enough to escape the long-term effects of wind-driven sand and searing daytime heat, so her skin was still as soft and unlined as a nineteen-year-old girl’s. Her complexion was light brown, almost golden like strong, milky tea, but she knew her tone grew far darker and richer under just a few hours of sunlight. Jhoira privately thought this browning made her seem even younger, as if the face in the mirror belonged to a carefree child with time to lounge and play in the sunshine.

  The only parts of Jhoira that hinted at her true age were her eyes. Dark brown and endlessly deep, Jhoira’s eyes brimmed both with curiosity and the wisdom that comes from pursuing curious things. For her, time had slowed to a crawl and the years barely touched her body as they washed over it, but Jhoira’s eyes displayed a full thousand years of experience.

  She whistled, a short, sharp note, and a clicking answered. A large metallic insect whirred to life on the far end of the table top. It stood on six sharp legs as small yellow gems in its eyes glowed ever brighter. The beetlelike creature was the size of a large house cat and it moved stiffly, though it made steady progress across the workbench. As it approached the line of gleaming implements, the green metal shell on its back split and opened to reveal gold-trimmed glass wings. The wings also retracted, exposing a velvet-lined cavity within.

  Clicking softly, the beetle balanced on his hindmost legs and its folded-back shell. The mechanical bug took the nearest tool into its mandibles, a polished jeweler’s pick. The front pair of legs seized the pick and handed it back to the second pair. These legs tucked the pick neatly into its velvet-lined body, positioning it into a form-fitting niche. The bug continued to select and pack each tool as Jhoira stood and turned away.

  “Thank you,” she said absently.

  She had tried different designs for her ambulatory toolbox over the centuries, but its final form always came back to her original model. Its function was to bring her the items she needed, collect them when she was done, and store them until she needed it again. The metallic beetle’s efficiency and familiarity were a comfortable part of her routine. No matter how often she was obliged to move her workshop or how suddenly she had to go, she could always rely on having her tool kit handy.

  Jhoira, my dear. Are you already packing up? It’s true, then, we can’t put it off any longer. It’s time to have that talk we keep starting and never finishing.

  The voice in Jhoira’s head was smooth and thoughtful, mostly because the speaker so loved the sound of his own voice that he strived to capture all of its subtle nuances and timbres even when he communicated mind to mind. The evident pleasure in Teferi’s voiceless words told her he had gotten everything just right. Furthermore, since he sounded perfect he was probably already viewing this conversation as a compete success.

  She could fairly hear the playful smirk on his face … assuming he was currently embodied and had a face. Can one smirk without actual lips? If not, Teferi would have surely invented a way by now.

  The succulent, rolling voice came again. It’s not like you to hesitate, milady. Are you waiting for a sign or stalling for time? Perhaps I should come back later? Though in truth it would be far better if—

  “You’re nattering, Teferi,” Jhoira sighed, “and I’m not stalling, you are. You’ve got something to say and I’m standing here waiting for you to say it.”

  Teferi laughed lightly. He materialized before her, fading into view in a cascade of twinkling blue light. “I never get tired of this room,” Teferi said. He scanned the workshop with an appreciative arch to his eyebrows.

  He appeared as always, clad in his own body at the age of twenty-five. Tall, dark-skinned, and handsome, he wore the colors of his native Zhalfir, blue-white robes trimmed in green and yellow. Teferi’s head and face were clean shaven under his elaborate tribal headgear, as they had been since he was a small boy. He was smiling, as usual, with a twinkle of mischievous glee in his eyes.

  Jhoira noted that her friend had come outfitted as the court mage complete with an official guild insignia. He even carried the gracefully curved staff that looked impressive but always struck her as the former spine of some hapless creature. Court mages were traditionally minor wizards with big mouths, political ambitions, and a flair for flashy theatrics. They were usually tolerated at court as amusements and distractions, but they were not widely respected.

  Seeing Teferi now forced Jhoira to pause and mentally correct what she had said to him earlier: if he were coming to her as a court mage, she was not ready for what he had to say and might never be. For Teferi was no mere mage, no mere wizard, but a planeswalker. He was functionally omnipotent, a being of incalculable power with the ability to go almost anywhere, do almost anything, and appear however he liked. Jhoira had never cared for the relish Teferi took from playing this role, that of the loquacious-yet-mysterious advisor. The manners and wit that delighted kings were tiresome to her, and she was starting to believe lately that they concealed something troubling, even ominous.

  Jhoira dismissed her concerns for now, at least until they could be justified by something more dire than Teferi’s choice of robes. He was perfectly entitled to the court mage’s regalia, as long ago he had held the position for many years. During what Zhalfirin history still called the Golden Age, Teferi famously provided the king with the best magical advice and the most spectacular sorcerous entertainments, and all without ever revealing the true extent of his vast magical power.

  History did not record that Teferi’s tenure as court mage ended unhappily. He did not like to discuss the circumstances that led to his falling-out with the king and the end of his career as a court mage. Instead, Teferi would brush the matter aside with a laugh, content to repeat the version he had planted in Zhalfir’s libraries and history texts: that the king’s miracle-worker grew tired of public life and quietly retreated to his own private island to live out his declining years. Jhoira had visited Teferi shortly after this retirement began, and he had already stopped wearing the court mage’s regalia. She was almost certain he had not worn it at all since then … not until recently.

  Jhoira fought back another wave of unease. In Zhalfir, Teferi employed the court mage’s hallmarks of distraction and slight-of-hand on a national scale. The humble entertainer and folksy sage inspired wonder in the king at first then awe. With the monarch’s complete attention and undiluted admiration, Teferi’s witty, quietly offered counsel was always welcome. When it was followed to the letter, it somehow always resulted in stronger peace and deeper prosperity for the king and his nation alike. The more the monarch trusted Teferi, the grander and more successful his reign became.

  Teferi the court mage helped shape Zhalfir into a country that achieved unrivaled levels of military dominance and social enlightenment, but he did so secretly and largely through deceit. He concealed his true nature and his true aims from those he was pledged to serve and charmed or manipulated them into adopting his plans as their own. In this way he set the agenda for an entire nation, an entire region, directing that region’s initiative and resources toward his own goals and ends. It was all for the best, of course, and on almost every level it worked, perfectly, to the mutual gain of all.

  This was Teferi at his most beneficent and productive, but it was also him at his most devious and patronizing. Jhoira knew too well the danger of a planeswalker with hidden agendas, the damage such a powerful being could do inadvertently as they manipulated people and nations on a global scale. She would never blame Teferi for the disasters that plagued Zhalfir after he retired, but the peace and prosperity he so carefully crafted was quickly destroyed by a war fought primarily to claim his secrets. Jhoira had seen the consequences of a planeswalker’s folly firsthand, repeatedly throughout her life, and she was not about to sit by and let it happen again.

  With that immediate goal firmly in mind, Jhoira tried to relax. Long ago she had stared down perhaps the most powerful planeswalker ever born and shamed him into protectin
g those who relied on him, but Teferi was not the sort who responded to direct confrontation. He’d been too much of a class clown in his youth and too fond of baiting stern authority figures, so to scold him was to invite greater mischief.

  Besides, Teferi’s garb may well be the planeswalker equivalent of a false grin, but he was still her friend and still a profoundly logical thinker. He would listen to reason. A strong argument would compel him to examine closely the course he had settled on before he set out upon it.

  Teferi cocked his bald head, jovial but puzzled. “If I didn’t know you so well,” he said, “I’d say you don’t look wholly happy to see me.”

  Jhoira smiled thinly. “It’s not that. I just think I know what you’re about to say.”

  “Do you, now?” The planeswalker raised one eyebrow. “Tell me then, and save me the trouble.”

  Jhoira hesitated. She probed Teferi’s face for a familiar flicker of his unguarded personality, but the greater part of his transcendent mind was clearly engaged elsewhere. This breezy aspect of her friend was little more than jovial manners and energetic charm.

  “You’re ready to go back home,” she said. “You’ve been distracted ever since I said that careless thing I said.”

  Teferi’s face was wide-eyed study in innocent calm. “What careless thing?”

  “You know what I mean. When I said that it might have been better if we hadn’t done what we did, that I might be happier if we had left things alone.”

  “Oh,” Teferi said. “That.”

  “Yes, that. I freely admit I could have phrased it more tactfully.”

  “As I recall, you said it wasn’t too far gone from what Urza might have done, and to make the point you called me ‘Teferi Planeswalker,’ which you know I hate.”

  “Yes, well. Anyway, I think you took that to heart, and I believe you think I was right. We shouldn’t have waited this long to set it right. Maybe we shouldn’t have done it in the first place, so you want to fix it, and you want me to help.”