Bloodlines

by Loren L. Coleman

  “Thirty generations,” the mage whispered, shaking his head and pacing off to one side.

  Rayne sensed her husband’s weariness and wanted to console him, but she also needed to concentrate on the work at hand. She hadn’t seen Barrin so despondent since the day Karn’s memory had been capped.

  She certainly understood his concerns. Newly promoted to chancellor herself, one of the administrative leaders of the academy now as well as a head scholar of artifice, she had reviewed the final results from Timein’s research. It would take approximately thirty generations to approach the empathic mixture Urza required of the heir to his Legacy. Better than six hundred years and it all had to be in real time. No more shortcuts could be taken, not in the actual rearing of bloodlines subjects, and all needed to be raised off of Tolaria in virtually uncontrolled experiments. In the end, who could be sure that the empathic mixture would produce an heir with the exact qualities Urza desired? The person he wanted was strong and willful with as much empathy for the enemy as for the world of Dominaria itself—the ability to understand and so defeat the Phyrexians, without turning to their dark purposes.

  Rayne set the large tome on a nearby table and allowed it to fall closed with a quick, dry ruffle of pages and a heavy slap from the binding. She breathed a heavy sigh, rubbing at her temples as if trying to massage into place within her mind all the information she’d just absorbed.

  Barrin was back at her side in three quick strides. “Can it be done?” he asked.

  She smiled wearily at his impatience. “Never bet against Thran artifice,” she said. “There wasn’t much they apparently couldn’t accomplish.” She placed one hand on the tome. “I even found some references to the idea of binding artifice with flesh on the most basic cellular level. I wonder if that remained theory?”

  Her husband shook at that thought. “Having seen the monstrosities of artifice bonded to flesh, I can only imagine the horror of artifice blended with flesh.”

  Frightening shadows stirred at the back of Rayne’s mind. Still, the thought would not let go. There was potential there.

  “We only want to be able to make subtle alterations to a living being,” Barrin said, as if reminding his wife of their current goal, “but they will have to be applied throughout the entire biological system to prevent genetic rejection from causing rapid breakdown.”

  This was a vague way of saying that a change must seem to be naturally present from birth to prevent what could be a terrible death. Rayne nodded, her eyes dark with the strain of reading into the late hours. She glanced around, suddenly uncomfortable to be in one of Urza’s workshops.

  “I think we can do this,” she said, “and with greater effect than Gatha’s crude experiments since we’ll rely more on the precision of artifice over his unpredictable magics.” She looked to Barrin with a frank openness. “The question is, should we?”

  “A question I ask myself every day, my love,” Barrin answered after a moment’s pause, “but after learning from Multani and others about Yavimaya’s forced evolution, Urza believes more firmly than ever that we are on the right track, as if our work here reflects nature’s own course. Urza will proceed with or without the academy’s assistance.”

  Rayne glanced over at the Thran Matrix, the ancient artifact so compact and precise and utterly devoid of malice or empathy. That would come from its user. “I believe it would be better with,” she said.

  To that Barrin simply nodded.

  Book II

  The Spark of Life

  (3655-3863 A.R.)

  There is a point—some might say a moment—in scientific experimentation known as the complexity cusp. Whether artifice or magical in nature, this is a dangerous area where the procedure or process reaches such a complex stage that it can no longer be controlled by scientific method. We, the progenitors, begin to react to the experiment rather than the reverse. The larger or wider the scope of the experiment, the easier for the cusp to be reached and surpassed without immediate notice.

  —Barrin, Master Mage of Tolaria

  The sun rode low in the west. Lyanii doffed her helm as she approached the caravan’s merchant leader, holding the visored headgear in her right hand in a display of neutrality—not quite peace. A few long strands of her chestnut-brown hair drifted next to the high cheekbones of her face, the majority of her long tresses caught up in the tie she used to keep it out of the way while in armor. Merchant swordsmen took ready positions at the sides of the caravan wagons. She carried no weapons herself, but the phalanx of archers backing her by one hundred paces argued her strength. The merchants would only be able to guess at what forces remained behind the gates of the newly-built village of Devas. It left her in the superior position, where she would remain. As a former marshal of Serra’s Realm, the artificial plane fallen in the war between Phyrexians and Urza Planeswalker, it was what she knew best.

  Still several paces out, she began to gauge the merchant’s measure. He looked to be sharp of mind but soft of body, commanding through his purse. The merchant displayed the tan of a traveler. His clothes were fine silks threaded with spun silver. He had an earring in each ear, large rubies both, and a gold tooth, which flashed in the sun when he smiled. He returned her interest, finding no help in her unsmiling face but obviously impressed with the quality of her armor. The opalescent finish to the light steel promised well-guarded wealth. The Serrans’ ability to blend in was one of the reasons Lyanii had chosen Benalia for her people, second only to its affinity for the ambient white mana of sun and plains and open sky.

  Lyanii spared barely a second for the merchant’s personal guard of four pikemen, unconcerned with their presence. “I am Marshal of this village,” she said in greeting, neither challenging nor welcoming.

  The merchant would have to make the first effort. The Serran people were too new to make assumptions. Assumptions had hurt them before as well.

  “Trader Russo,” he said, smiling wide. His Benalish accent rode his voice in softened vowels, though the heavy-scented oil he wore spoke of trade with foreign lands. “I travel through here once a year, usually stopping at the river bend where your village is being built. It is beautiful work and erected with impressive speed.”

  White stone was favored in Benalia. Their village used it in abundance, polishing each wall until it shone like alabaster. Fluted columns rose to impressive heights to either side of the gates, ending in platforms far above like those which might carry statues but currently remained empty—the lookouts having winged back down into cover. Inside the gates, rising over the few finished clay-tiled roofs, were the beginning walls of what would be their cathedral fortress.

  “This is our land now,” Lyanii said, speaking for her followers as well as herself, “but Devas welcomes trade. You may camp nearby.”

  The trader allowed the touch of a frown. “Capashen or Ortovi?” He spread his hands in a gesture of ignorance. “You sit between their ancestral lands, but I can’t place you by the architecture.”

  Lyanii had hoped to brush over the heritage of her people and the method of their arrival, but clearly some explanation would be warranted. “We are refugees,” she said, and that was true. “We hold no allegiance to the Benalish clans.” His frown deepened. “Surely they would not object to the presence of a new village?”

  “One that raises solid walls and employs its own guard in the same custom and fashion as a proper clan manor?” The merchant ran fingers back through his curly black locks. “They just might.” He glanced back to the line of archers, and again at her crest, as if trying to place them. “Refugees from where?”

  “A land devoted to Serra,” Lyanii said, measuring out truth with a careful hand. This trader was obviously well-traveled, so he might have heard of those Dominarian sects that knew of Serra and worshiped her as a goddess. “On the continent of Jamuraa,” she said, pretending to relent. “We were attacked. The invaders drove us away, despoiling our lands…” Her explanation didn’t even begin to touch upon the wh
ole story. The destruction of their homeland and how the Phyrexians had found the Serrans was left out. Now the surviving refugees from Serra’s Realm were scattered in small groups, hiding. “Armies of the dark lord with no name.”

  Russo tried a tight grin. “Ah. Another Lord of the Wastes,” he said with false solemnly, trying to recapture a lighter mood. When Lyanii did not respond he flushed in embarrassment and explained. “I hear a lot of old tales in my travels. There is one about a dark figure and his armies of evil minions who will one day sweep whole nations from Dominaria. I’ve heard everything from the Ice Age to the small wars in Efuan Pincar blamed on him.” He laughed, hollowly. “Of course, who actually believes that?”

  Lyanii found no humor in the idea. “Who indeed,” she said simply, voice tight with her loss and upset with herself for the momentary loss of control.

  The merchant stumbled through an apology for his bad humor.

  “No matter,” she said finally. “I will have to contact the local clans then to make them aware of our presence and our preference for solitude.”

  “Yes,” Russo agreed, “but do you know which to approach? Such procedures can make all the difference in Benalia.”

  She didn’t see why, but then ignorance was not to be ashamed of—only corrected if possible. Russo might have suggestions, but then he could not appreciate the Serran refugees’ position. As marshal she must choose. “Where are you bound for next?” she asked.

  “I’ve just come from Ortovi and am on my way to Capashen Manor and the Capashen villages west of there. That doesn’t matter. You need Clan Blaylock. They’re the ones overseeing foreign diplomacy, until the next moon of course.”

  Lyanii nodded her agreement, but frowned at that last. “Next moon?”

  “You did fall from the sky,” he said, trying to recapture some of the mood lost earlier. “How did you travel so deep into Benalia and not hear of the Clans’ lunar rotation?” Lyanii only shrugged. “On the glimmer moon’s lunar year, two months from now, the ruling clans all rotate their duties. After that it’ll be Clan Capashen’s turn at diplomacy for a year, while Blaylock moves to the ruling clan.” He grew thoughtful. “You could, I suppose, hold on until the moon’s change. Then you are dealing with a local Clan. The Blaylocks would want to enforce the caste system on you sure enough. The Capashens are more tolerant of outside ways.” A glance to the ranks of archers. “Your warriors will be a sticky point, regardless. It might be better if you formally adopted their system to begin with.”

  “That will not happen,” Lyanii said, head swimming with all the new information.

  She was marshal because Serra had decided it so, just as others were archers or guards. They were suited for their positions because they had been created as such. Why should they let an outside force determine their roles? Still, the trader had been more helpful than she’d at first thought.

  “Thank you for the advice, Trader Russo.”

  Russo shrugged, neatly separating himself from the matter. “Advice is free. Here’s hoping you do well, Marshal Lyanii. In the meantime, shall we see what my caravan can offer you and yours?”

  Lyanii nodded for him to lead then turned and signaled for administrators from Devas. They would better know what was needed and what could be traded away. She would accompany the administrators and later perhaps invite Russo into the village for a discussion on Benalish customs. This land was their home now, and Lyanii would need to know everything possible if they were to survive.

  * * *

  The formal reception took place in Capashen Manor’s ballroom. Gold flake had been mixed into a sealant and brushed over the white stone walls, leaving a smooth golden-glitter finish. Stained glass windows along two walls offered multi-colored views onto the impressive grounds in the back of the estate. A cathedral ceiling arced majestically overhead, rising up to the stained glass dome heavily trimmed in gold. The open space muted the soft music that rained down from an overhead musician’s balcony, the perfect volume to enjoy while also engaged in discussion.

  Karn walked into the room at the side of Nathan Capashen, leader of his Benalish Clan. Around them the Capashen nobles mingled cautiously with those of Clan Ortovi—their guests. Karn noticed that a strained cordiality had settled over the assembly as everyone carefully skirted the purpose of the state visit. By custom, it wasn’t until the second day of a visit that business could be discussed. Of course, everyone already knew from the guests in residence what that business would be. Now they merely awaited the final member of the convocation—the third party that tradition demanded put the question forward, though certainly it would be rejected—again.

  “This race of lizardmen, the Viashino, they actually live over a live volcano? Amazing, Karn.” Nathan Capashen looked sideways at the silver man. “Almost incredulous.”

  He shook his head, obviously trying to compare such a life with the open plains of Benalia. Nathan was an avid audience for news of the larger world.

  It was Karn’s turn for a question about Benalia, trading his knowledge of Dominaria for more intimate information on this land. He found it interesting, as his journals were mostly filled with memories of Tolaria until only thirty years back. He began to accompany Urza in frequent travels about Dominaria. The golem knew some pain for those he saw so little of these days—Barrin, Rayne, and Timein. Delving into the details of new lands helped to ease that sense of loss. His question was interrupted by the sudden heightened pitch of conversation in the room as people passed along a single name and then fell into an expectant hush. Malzra.

  Urza Planeswalker strolled with intent across the large floor, bearing down on Karn and Leader Nathan Capashen. He wore a closed-collared garment of royal purple and a blue leather vest. Urza stopped, glanced about as if just now noticing the silence and smiled at the surrounding people. Conversations picked back up but at a much more subdued level, and many crowds edged in closer to Nathan and Karn’s location. Three others broke from their own groups and moved in for the official matter, one taking up position behind Nathan and two joining Urza.

  Nathan nodded a friendly greeting. “Master Malzra, you honor us with your presence here. Am I to understand you wish to put forth a formal proposal?”

  “I do,” Urza said. The ‘walker’s blue eyes were sharp and bright, and Karn followed his gaze past Nathan to the clan leader’s young cousin Jaffry.

  The young clansman was nervous, acutely aware of the attention focused on him. He was also just as obviously smitten with the woman who trailed Leader Trevar Ortovi, his eyes always coming back to her.

  Urza nodded to the young noble lady, Myrr Ortovi. “I am honored to invite both clan leaders present today to consider accepting Myrr Ortovi as wife to Jaffry Capashen.”

  Benalish law stipulated that leaders of each clan had to consent publicly and in the same forum before a marriage could take place between clans. In this match, Clan Ortovi gained most of the advantages. Though she would live among the Capashen, Myrr would forever be Ortovi—clan affiliation was determined by birthdate and nothing else. Her loyalty to Clan Capashen would always be secondary. So on those years when the Capashen ranked higher than the Ortovi in Benalish government, she might hope to use her influence in favor of her clan.

  Nathan Capashen didn’t even look to his cousin. The feelings of the couple came second. “This match was denied last year, Master Malzra. Why should I reconsider now? Your sterling recommendation notwithstanding, of course.”

  “Leader Trevar offers as dowry control of the lands and both villages bordering the river Larus. Also, in his position as head of taxation this year, a reduction to only one part in ten of all crops.” Urza turned to look at the young girl.

  Myrr nodded, showing that she was a willing participant in this ritual and stepped forward, offering Urza her hand.

  Nathan shook his head sadly. “I cannot agree.” Several gasps of disbelief erupted across the room. “In two months the Capashens take over foreign policy while the Ortovis h
andle trade. After that, the Capashens shall rule Benalia, and the Ortovis will be in place for diplomacy. I would be a fool to ignore the serious advantage given Clan Ortovi by placing Myrr within our manor.” He paused. “I might consider such a marriage in the year after, of course.”

  Of course, then the Capashens would be back at the lowest position while Ortovi ruled. Karn looked to Urza, as did all others, knowing that the matchmaker would not have brought forth the invitation without something new to offer. Urza did not disappoint.

  The ‘walker had not released Myrr’s hand, pulling her forward gently to stand next to him. “It saddens me to see two people kept apart over a trivial matter of dowry. I’m certain Trevar Ortovi would offer more to see Myrr’s happiness if it would not be a detriment to his own clan. So in his place, I would like to add to Myrr’s dowry.”

  An allowable custom, though Karn doubted anyone could remember the last time a neutral third party had done such.

  Urza nodded to his golem. “I offer Karn as part of Myrr’s dowry, his services devoted to their family in specific and Clan Capashen in general for no less than fifty years.”

  All eyes speared the silver golem. Karn dwarfed all present, but at the moment he felt very small under those piercing gazes. Fifty years! Better than twice his memory span. Forgotten would be Tolaria and his friends there. He was shocked that Urza would simply make such a decision without first warning the golem, but then something also spoke up inside of him that warned that this was not the first time.

  Urza’s offer had struck the right target in Nathan. The clan leader couldn’t help the smile that followed his initial surprise, but then he sobered, looking at the silver man carefully.

  “Karn, is this what you want as well?” he asked his friend.

  Did it matter what the golem might want or decide? If Urza was to be believed, nothing else mattered but the threat of Phyrexian invasion. The golem had seen one battle already, a negator catching the ‘walker and golem as the two traveled to inspect the mana rig under the Viashino’s care. He could only imagine the horror of an army of such creatures. If Urza believed Karn’s service to the Capashen was warranted, could he gainsay the planeswalker?