Time Spiral

by Scott McGough

  There she was. Radha had already climbed a quarter of the way back up the side of the cavern, using the hollowed-out graves of her ancestors as hand-and footholds.

  Teferi sighed. He folded his arms and rose back into the air, arrow-straight to the spot where Radha was climbing. He floated alongside her, watching her ascend and listening to her breathy curses as she fought her way up.

  “I wasn’t through talking,” Teferi said.

  “You never are.” Radha continued to climb.

  “If you keep this up I’m going to assume you’re not interested in what I have to say.”

  “Good.”

  “This is important. Keld’s magic is inextricable from Keld’s history.”

  Radha caught hold of a wide, flat ledge with both hands. She hauled herself up until her waist was clear of the edge, then leaned forward and rolled into a sitting position. She turned and read the inscriptions carved into the wall beside her.

  “This is my history,” she said. She followed the inscription with her eyes, pacing slowly along as she read. Radha nodded to herself, checked the words carved into the opposite wall, then sprinted along the row of empty tombs.

  Teferi floated behind her, easily keeping pace. Radha continued to read the characters carved into the walls as she ran. They were an ornate and archaic runeform that he had rarely seen, an ancient language called High Keld. It was the language of Keld’s most powerful spells, the language of command on the battlefield. These inscriptions seemed to be a simple list of names, dates, and titles; Radha was most likely looking for someone in particular. From the way her speed kept increasing and her eyes grew wider and more intense, Teferi guessed they were getting close. Best to just let her find what she was looking for.

  At last she stopped before one of the tombs. It was an unremarkable niche, no larger or more ornate than any other on this row, yet Radha wore a look of wonder and awe even more profound than when she had first seen the entire Necropolis. Teferi glanced up at the name on the tomb.

  “Astor,” he read. “Doyen. Upstart. Bearer of Three Blades. Steward of the Northern Wastes. The Butcher of Bogardan.”

  “Shh,” Radha hissed angrily.

  Teferi was impressed. “This is your ancestor? Astor the Upstart?”

  “My grandfather,” Radha said. She turned sharply to Teferi. “His body was never interred here. My grandmother said that was because he never actually died.”

  Teferi bowed respectfully. “History says he sailed away in the Golden Argosy during the Phyrexian Invasion. There is no record of him after that, but he truly was a great warrior. He helped stop the Phyrexians here and in Urborg.” Teferi’s face brightened. “My grandfather’s name was Mabutho. He was the first in my family to own his own land.”

  “Don’t care,” Radha said.

  Teferi nodded. Should have seen that coming, he thought. “Now, your grandfather,” he said, warming to his subject like the academic he was. “He was blood brothers with Eladamri. You’ve heard of him, haven’t you? The messiah of Skyshroud?”

  “Not messiah,” Radha muttered. “Korvecdal. He was only a savior in the sense of being a vigorous protector.”

  “Indeed. Excuse my imprecision, but as I say, Skyshroud’s greatest warrior and Astor traded scars before they went into battle together.”

  Radha laughed harshly. “Astor is said to have done a lot in the short time between Skyshroud’s arrival and the Argosy’s departure. He bonded with Eladamri, saw the Necropolis opened, flooded out the machine invaders, sired my mother….”

  Teferi winced a little. “He would have had little reason to stay, what with the war and all. Besides, Keldons in that era put no stock at all in family bonds.”

  “My own mother never saw him,” Radha said, “but he gave us everything we needed.” She struck her chest with a closed fist. A dark, emerald flame licked up and surrounded her hand, burning brightly. “Almost.”

  Using her hand as a torch, Radha strode into the tomb of her grandfather. It was empty but for a small brass brazier and a simple wooden box. She reached down with her free hand and flicked the latch on the box. She paused to glance back at Teferi, who remained respectfully outside the niche, then flipped open the lid.

  Inside were two identical long, heavy daggers. The blades were angled near the tip so that their points jutted forward. They were thicker and heavier along their flat edges and the extra weight added chopping power to each blow.

  “What are those?” Teferi said.

  Radha was consumed by the contents of the box, her eyes fixed and her voice distant. “Icons,” she said. “Totems.”

  “I thought he was the ‘Bearer of Three Blades.’ Where’s the third?”

  Radha traced the outer edge of the open box with her finger. “Shut up.”

  Teferi shrugged. Fascinated, he watched as Radha extinguished her fist and drew one of her own blades. She hefted it in her left hand as she lifted one of the bent daggers in her right. She tested the weight and grip of each, comparing her ancestor’s weapon to her own.

  Radha nodded to herself, pleased. She sheathed her blade and reached back into the box. With one of Astor’s daggers in each hand, Radha turned to face Teferi and held her arms aloft.

  “Burn,” she said, and a yellow-orange bolt of flame jumped from one dagger to the next. The rope of fire continued to burn brightly over Radha’s upturned face, connecting the two daggers. The broad-stroke tattoos on her arms began to glow orange-red, like iron left too long in the blacksmith’s forge.

  Radha then lowered her arms, bringing the horizontal line of flames down to her face.

  “Wait,” Teferi said.

  Radha’s nose touched the fire. Her entire body seemed to ignite in an instant, fire covering her from head to toe in a flickering yellow curtain. Radha stood unharmed inside this burning shroud, her voice ecstatic.

  The flames suddenly burned out. Radha was left standing flushed, triumphant, and panting. She still held her grandfather’s blades up, and they gleamed in the fading light from her tattoos.

  “His blood is in my veins,” she said huskily, “and now his kukri blades are in my hands.”

  Radha’s strange intensity vanished and she dropped her arms to her sides. “I’m done here,” she said. “What else did you want me to see?”

  Teferi smiled to himself as the Keldon elf slipped Astor’s kukri blades into her belt. Freyalise had said Radha would be difficult, and she was, but he was getting more useful information from simply standing near her than he’d get from six months of studying Skyshroud itself. Radha was still drawing mana from nowhere, but she was also channeling it through the ancient daggers. She had no personal connection to Keld, but she was moving closer to one. The tinder spell had been a small step forward; using Astor’s daggers was another.

  Teferi bowed politely and said, “One thing more to see, but first … now that you have your grandfather’s blades, do you still seek his fire?”

  Radha’s eyes narrowed. “His fire and more. Much more.”

  “Then come.” Teferi extended his hand and enveloped Radha once more in blue light. She endured the flight to the cavern floor as she would a brief, unpleasant downpour—arms crossed, defiant, and slightly annoyed.

  Teferi decided to dispense with the full introduction this time. He took them directly to the vault he was looking for and bid Radha stand near the edge. Teferi traced a large circle in the center of the roof, inscribing a blue-white shape into the stone with his staff. The light seeped inward, toward the center of the circle until the shape became a solid disc of glittering light. Teferi thumped the end of his staff into the center and the entire section of roof faded away, leaving a clean-cut hole that was wide enough for two.

  The planeswalker gestured dramatically. A large box made of tough red wood rose out of the hole on a cloud of fog. Teferi guided it onto the adjacent roof and gently set it down. He pressed both palms together as if praying, then flung his arms apart. The box popped open in response,
the hinged door on its front face creaking as it moved.

  “Behold,” Teferi said, “the Book of Keld.”

  The volume inside the box was gigantic, half as tall as Teferi himself and as thick as a bale of hay. It was bound in the tough black hide of some unidentified animal and its pages were gilt in reddish gold. Oddly, there was a heavy iron chain attached to the binding that led to a cufflike manacle. The book’s cover was dominated by ornate characters written in High Keld. The runes had been carved into the cover, revealing a layer of dusty red underneath the hardened black hide.

  Radha looked at the book. “I’ve heard of it,” she said. “It looks heavy.”

  “It should. It contains the history of Keld from the very beginning, as told and recorded by Keldons. Being Keeper of the Book was one of the most respected offices a Keldon could hold. The first covenant between Kradak and the land is recorded there, taken from firsthand accounts. Each of the apocalyptic Twilights your nation has survived.” Teferi gestured again, and the Book of Keld floated out of its box, the iron chain clinking on the stone floor.

  Teferi steered the book to Radha and said, “Are you ready to take on this awesome responsibility?”

  “No.”

  “No?” Teferi’s smile faltered.

  “No.” Radha cocked her head. “Why would I?”

  The Book of Keld fluttered a bit but Teferi managed to keep it aloft. “Beg your pardon?”

  “I said, why would I want to lug a table-sized book around with me? Granted, it’s big enough to act like a shield, and I bet I could crush a Gathan or two if they got caught under it. Beyond that I really don’t see any practical use for it.”

  “It’s full of history,” Teferi said, “information you can put to use. Your past is in there, the foundations of Keld itself.”

  Radha whipped out one of Astor’s daggers and twirled it dexterously in her hand. “This is my past,” she said, “my foundation. I need no book.” She slid the dagger back into her belt. “Now. To the mountain.”

  Teferi hesitated. “Do you mind if I read it?”

  “Maybe.” Radha shrugged. “How long will it take you?”

  A blue film rolled across Teferi’s eyes like a second pair of eyelids. When the film receded, Teferi said, “About that long.”

  Radha huffed. “You just read the whole Book of Keld.”

  “Read it, memorized it, ready to recite it.” His eyes flashed. “For example, I can tick off the names of every warlord, every doyen, every Keeper of the Book. I know by heart all twelve stanzas of the Argivian epic ‘The Beasts of Keld.’ Want to hear it?”

  “No.”

  “Not even the censored bits?”

  “No.”

  “Come on! There are three stanzas that were deemed too crude and upsetting for the general populace. Never published in New Argive, and then lost until right now, this very second. Don’t you want to hear them?” He winked. “You’ll like the rhyme the author made for “esophagus,” I guarantee it.”

  Radha rolled her eyes, visibly indifferent. “Take me to the mountain.”

  “Of course. Just let me put things back in order.” He waved his staff again and the Book of Keld rose once more into the air. The fierce woman’s disinterest in the book was troubling, but Teferi counted the Necropolis visit as a success. He had obtained access to the entire history of Keld, as told by the Keldons. Beyond its sheer value as a historical record, the book’s information actually made it possible for him to give Radha what she wanted. She wanted to be a Keldon and to wield true Keldon fire. If that was the reward for assisting Teferi, even she might willingly join his cause.

  The fact that he had no special understanding of Keldon fire magic or of fire magic in general was not a real concern. He could acquire that expertise later. All he had to do now was get her attention and hold her interest. Once Shiv had been saved, Teferi had intended to rely on his knack for field research and his power as a planeswalker to provide the whole of Radha’s reward.

  So far, it seemed to be working, too: the Book of Keld had already filled in a number of crucial details that illuminated more of Radha’s strange relationship to the local mana supply. It had also helped Teferi better understand the ground where Skyshroud had been planted, information he could apply to Shiv’s return.

  Nearby, Radha seemed on the verge of climbing out on her own again, so Teferi quickly finished lowering the Book of Keld back into its vault. Once it was safely in place, he touched his staff to the hole he’d made. The clean-cut circle filled in with blue smoke, which then hardened back into seamless gray stone. When Teferi lifted his staff, there was no sign the vault roof had ever been opened.

  Radha glanced impatiently at him. Teferi spread his arms, surrounding them once more in the blue nimbus, and they rose quickly up through the Necropolis, past the threadbare settlement, and up into the clouds.

  Radha soared high over her homeland. Though its peaks were cracked and broken they still had some of the strange, stark beauty she remembered. Her grandmother had once taken her to the top of Skyshroud’s tallest tree, back when Skyshroud still had tall trees. From that perch, Radha had her first glimpse of the craggy peaks that defined Keld.

  That had also been her first view of the mountain. Then, as now, there were hundreds of towering peaks in Keld, but only one that never needed a name. It sat near the center of the nation’s southern half, separated from the rest of the ranges by a circle of rugged foothills. Even now, when every other Keldon peak was diminished and worn away, this mountain stood whole and proud with its fat, round acme visible from nearly any high ground in the entire country.

  The first ancient settlers came here after they fled the frigid northern wastelands and ice giants of Parma. The travelers were fierce warriors all, but winter cannot be killed with a sword. When they arrived at this spot they were more than half-dead, but the mountain sheltered them for the night. As the warriors huddled for warmth, the mountain spoke to their leader, Kradak, and he spoke back. When dawn broke, Kradak had bonded to the land and the settlers had bonded to him. Together they could draw on Keld’s primal energy and give it form and purpose. They were no longer wandering refugees: they had become Keldons.

  Since then every potential warlord went up the mountain as a grueling rite of passage. If he could survive the cold, the wolves, and the lack of food, he was fit to command troops and lead warriors into battle. More importantly, the candidate established his own personal connection to the mountain, as Kradak and the ancients did, and became a true Keldon warlord. Warlords were the living symbol of the great covenant between the land and its denizens, with the power to mix mana with the ferocity of his troops and combine it on the battlefield into something far more potent.

  Radha had not been to the mountain before; she had not even wandered this far from Skyshroud, but she knew the stories. Most came straight from her grandmother’s lips, but those same tales that inspired Radha also discouraged her from visiting the mountain herself. Even if Radha survived traveling to the mountain, and the mountain itself, and returned successful, Freyalise would still punish her for breaking the patron’s isolationist edicts.

  Also, and most frustrating to Radha, the warlord-making ritual was traditionally the sole province of men. No woman had ever been permitted to attempt it, and those who had tried anyway never returned. There was no way to be sure the ritual would work for Radha even if she completed it.

  Neither ancient Keldon bias nor Freyalise’s edicts had kept Radha from exploring other mountains closer to the forest, of course, but none of them was even a shadow of this one. She was furious with herself for not taking the risk and coming here sooner. Maybe the mountain’s power was only for men, but Radha could feel it too.

  She was not one for poetry, but some of the older elves sang (much to her annoyance). Inexplicably, Radha’s mind now turned over the words to an old elf song, a mournful tune about a young woman who impetuously casts a precious keepsake into a deep, still pond. She returns
to the pond every year throughout the rest of her life, through adulthood, old age, and beyond death, and no matter how many years pass, no matter how icy or still the water’s surface, she always feels the submerged pull of her personal treasure.

  Radha snorted, scornful of her own thoughts. Poems were for elves and minstrels, not warriors. She didn’t identify with the woman in the song and didn’t understand why she thought of her now. Radha hadn’t thrown away the power she felt from the mountain; she hadn’t even tasted it yet, so why should her brain conjure up that song with its images of ponds and longing? Poetry only seemed to make sense, but it really just encouraged self-indulgent flights of fancy. Plus, she hated the melody and the cloying way it was performed. She resolved to punch a poet when she returned to the forest.

  They began to descend and Teferi wisely took them toward the base of the mountain. He had probably guessed Radha would insist on scaling the sacred site herself. They came to light on the crest of a small ridge, the mountain looming large above them.

  Radha paced past Teferi, her eyes fixed and vacant. It felt different here; she felt different. It was invigorating, dangerous, and as exhilarating as balancing on one foot at the edge of a ravine. She began to walk faster, heedless of the planeswalker’s voice calling after her.

  “Behold, the mountain,” he said, but his words sounded tired and thin. Then, with energy, he said, “Radha! Please wait.”

  She kept on, increasing her pace. The crunch of her boots in the snow kept time with her heartbeat, both growing ever more rapid. Radha reached the edge of the mountain itself and jerked to a sudden stop. Her eyes glittered and her hair began to swirl as if moved by a strong wind. The snow around her feet turned to water, then the water turned to steam.

  “Hah!” she cried. Waving her arms, she turned back to Teferi and shouted, “Hoy, clean-head! This way! You follow me for awhile!” Without waiting for an answer, Radha bounded up the mountainside.

  She vaulted over a sharp rise into a vicious cross-wind that brought tears to her eyes. Radha pressed on, shielding her face with her hand. The power she felt here did nothing to protect her from the cold but rather spurred her on in spite of it, calling to her from the highest and most frigid parts of the mountain. The mountain’s strength, its fire, wasn’t hers yet, but she knew it existed and now she knew where it was.