In his entire life, Gatha had always lived by what could be done now, not tomorrow or the day next. Leaving his knowledge for Urza’s recovery was in many ways an act of today, though it also prepared for the morrow when that knowledge might surface again. Seconds away from betrayal of Dominaria to Phyrexia, Gatha made the final commitment. Gauging his distance from the plateau’s drop to a deep valley, Gatha released that buried knot of magical energy within his mind, collapsing the wards that protected his labs and held the call for Urza in place. Far up the slope from the plateau, fire blossomed as the destructive force of the mountain’s stored mana welled up in a cataclysm of energy and raw power meant to destroy his labs completely. The roar of the explosion was matched with a magical shock wave which rode the recoil of such a heavy mana draw. The creature glanced away for a second.
That was all the time Gatha required.
* * *
Kreig had watched the Phyrexian advance on Gatha, his jaw clenched against the pain and refusing to give it justice through voice. His friend and advisor stood transfixed like a bird caught in the mesmerizing stare of a rock cobra. Kreig rolled to his stomach, ignoring the fire that burned within as he got his hands under him. His helm laying off to the side, Kreig’s face pressed into the ground. It smelled of fresh dirt—no oil or blood to taint the ground of Keld here, no scorched earth, not yet.
The sweat of exertion runneling from his brow, Kreig levered himself back to hands and knees. He still maintained his hold on the warhost, still felt their combined strength and rage coursing through his veins as it warred with the foreign substance invading his body. He focused on the back of the creature that had laid him low. He saw the sky over the invader’s shoulder deepening into purple as his bloodlust mixed with the normal blue. He rocked back to his feet as Gatha shrank to his knees—the two trading places. He stumbled for his greatsword, drawing it back from the dust where the Phyrexian had cast it. The Keldon nation was not finished. Neither was he.
The powers of a witch king were never without their limitations, even in him. He drew from his warrior nation that which he needed to make himself stronger and gifted back to them, in his exploits and energy, a lust for life and battle which would carry them through and home again with the spoils of war. Only here the spoils were Keld itself. He could feel the dark matter killing him. It certainly would have killed any mortal man already. Kreig had never known defeat before, but if it must happen, it would happen on his own terms.
The explosion of Gatha’s labs did not distract the witch king’s focus. He saw Gatha pitch himself backward, rolling for the cliff edge. The Phyrexian recovered quickly but not soon enough. Gatha was lost in the vast space that fell away from the plateau. Cheering his friend, defying death at the hands of Phyrexia, the witch king leapt forward sword reversed and poised overhead like a scorpion’s stinger, the battle cry on his lips his own.
“Kreig!”
The skeletal creature spun quickly, arms flashing in on the attack. Kreig drove forward into the deadly embrace. Talons ripped through armor like a sword through old leather, digging deeply into each side. Pain blossomed—an agony unlike any he had ever known or imagined. Kreig retained hold of his weapon with a determination honed over one hundred fifty years of battle, and he felt his steel bite at the joint where the creature’s thin neck met with armored bands covering its shoulder. Screaming his war cry, Kreig drove the blade down with his every ounce of strength and kicked forward.
The blade worked in and plunged deep, driven by the strength of every warrior who still survived and the raging will of one mortal who would never surrender easily to death. The Phyrexian screeched in pain and fury and then caught him fast, trying to hold Kreig in a final embrace. No physical barriers held a Keldon warlord, not even after death. Kreig drove forward, bloody spittle flying from his lips as he screamed his own name. His vision swam, and he stood at the entrance to his crypt facing out into the world, the drop before him leading down from the Necropolis. With his final call to battle, rousing those who woke behind him, Kreig leapt out into the space.
As he fell, he knew that somewhere, down below, Gatha waited for him again.
Book III
Natural Selection
(4013-4169 A.R.)
Life must endure. Urza said that to me once, and as usual there is just enough truth in it to suit the planeswalker’s purpose. What he failed to recognize is that life will endure, often despite the best or worst intentions of individuals, no matter how powerful.
—Barrin, Master Mage of Tolaria
Silence reigned in the Chancellor’s Hall, the administrative work of the academy brought to a halt for the night and most offices locked up and darkened. Light spilled through the open door of the last occupied workspace. Timein approached it slowly.
Though he only held the official academy rank of senior student, Timein had passed through security with little trouble. The sorcerer had free access to Barrin or any chancellor on the master mage’s own order. The island’s night watch had not challenged him. The final doorway, however, was daunting enough to stop him cold. It stood open, inviting, and Timein could see Barrin working at his desk within. That last step across the threshold was one of Timein’s most difficult accomplishments in all his time on Tolaria, precisely because it would signify the end of that time.
He stepped through into Barrin’s office. The mage glanced up from his work, from reviewing the material he and Urza would be discussing no doubt. The mage had put out the word that he would be meeting with Urza for all those who might have business that needed to be brought to the planeswalker’s attention.
“Timein,” Barrin said in surprised greeting. His expression hovered somewhere between curiosity and suspicion. “It’s been a long time since you’ve visited the academy.”
In Barrin’s presence, Timein removed his cap and shoved it into a pocket. “The academy is on my way to the docks,” he said, mouth dry. He knew Barrin didn’t need to be told that one of the academy’s security-cleared trader vessels had docked there this week—and was leaving on the tide tomorrow morning.
The mage settled back in his chair, hands flat in front of him on the marble-topped desk. He studied Timein with guarded green eyes. “I see,” he said. “You want papers for leaving Tolaria,” he said. It wasn’t a question. “What about your students? Your fellow exiles?”
“The colony refuge will sustain itself without me. But my own studies…” he trailed off. How much did Barrin know about the work he had done for Urza?
Most of it, apparently.
Barrin rose and offered the sorcerer his hand. “Your work these last years has been of extreme importance and help, Timein. Your refinements to the empathy magics couldn’t have been accomplished by anyone else.” Tolaria’s master mage nodded slowly. “Are you certain you cannot be persuaded to stay?” he asked, a note of resignation present.
“Yes, I’m certain,” Timein said.
The sorcerer had too much to work through on his own. While he’d begun to admit to a certain validation behind Tolaria’s purpose—behind Urza’s purpose—it was hard to balance that out against his lack of understanding for the lands and lives his work affected. Barrin might be able to make those hard decisions, balancing lives against the sometimes harsh necessities of the future. Timein did not yet possess such an outlook.
“I do hope to return, Master Barrin, someday, but I’ve gone as far as I can with the Legacy and Tolaria.” He smiled a sad smile. “As far as I can, for now.”
* * *
“It’s been better than a century since the deaths of Gatha and Kreig, Urza. Still the Keldons haven’t fully recovered.” The mage shook his head. “I don’t care for the idea that we may see that same kind of devastation in Benalia.”
Barrin paced the Weatherlight’s deck, trying to work off some of his nervous energy but feeling that in fact the reverse was true. Though the ship remained sea-bound, sailing emerald waters beneath a brilliant summer-blue sky, the mage s
ensed the large powerstone that was the vessel’s heart pulsing from its protected vault. The magic charged him, a reminder of his part in the ship’s design and construction, and of course, in its maiden voyage to Serra’s Realm. That felt so long ago, the battle now just one more footnote in his never-ending life. Barrin’s world seemed to shrink with each new year added to that span, lost among the incredible history.
Standing near the forward mast, pennants snapping in the rigging above him, Urza glanced upward for a long moment, possibly remembering the time he’d spent on ship climbing into the sails and mastering the ocean’s temperament.
“I trust that Keld will survive,” the ‘walker said with regard to Barrin’s first statement. “It has always been a strong nation. I doubt they will ever see another of Kreig’s status, though certainly the witch kings wish for it.”
The master mage conceded that point. Urza was right in that the Keldons had asked for Gatha and the rogue tutor’s experiments, had embraced them. Their current difficulties, now that Phyrexia had moved on, stemmed from the witch kings trying to hold onto the power Kreig had once brought them all. Yes, that struggle would work itself out, eventually, but this was not the issue at hand.
“The Phyrexians stumbling over Gatha’s work was unfortunate but not devastating,” continued Urza.
Barrin disagreed. “It pointed the Phyrexians in our general direction. We have reports of infestations in Femeref, Sardnia, and especially in Benalia. They know of the bloodlines, Urza.”
“Something of the bloodlines,” Urza corrected. “But they seem to be focusing on them as warriors only and not on their future potential.”
Barrin shook his head, then drew in a deep breath of the tangy sea air. “It doesn’t matter. They know, and that’s dangerous. It means they will keep looking, finding more of your bloodlines and placing the project in jeopardy.”
Urza shook his head. His voice turned hard. “I will keep ahead of them. We will keep ahead of them. Even should the Phyrexians try, they couldn’t find all of the bloodlines. Not near enough to make a difference, in fact.” His voice softened, even as his expression followed suit. “We’re getting so close, Barrin. There are so many promising lines, scattered all over Dominaria.” He nodded a brief concession. “Yes, I’m concerned that the Phyrexians are stepping up to such an obvious level of interference. The invasion may not be far off, but I still need at least six generations. The Legacy is complete but for an heir to wield it.” His eyes glinted hard against the overhead sun. “Barrin, I need that time. The infestations are being controlled. I expect that the Benalish can hold out a bit longer.”
“We both know that if the Phyrexians want to take down Benalia or any other nation they will. Right now they are toying with the bloodlines, trying to gauge their effectiveness. You owe whatever time you have to Phyrexia, Urza, and betting on them is not a pleasant gamble to make.” Barrin sighed in frustration. He knew he wasn’t getting through. “We’re lucky they have not discovered Tolaria,” he said with a sharp glance to the planeswalker. “What’s left of it,” he added. The island was no longer holding up well to the centuries of mining and farming and general use by so many people.
“Gatha kept that from them,” Urza said softly, ignoring the latter remark. “To the end, he was a loyal student.”
Barrin could not allow that to go by unchallenged. “Loyal? If he were loyal he never would have left Tolaria. His work was a beacon to Phyrexia. We never should have allowed it to continue.”
Urza slashed the air before him with a knife-edge hand, a human gesture of frustration, certainly chosen from the memory of his physical life and used now only to influence Barrin. “It had to continue. I needed the insight of his generation to accomplish sooner what might have taken me centuries of trial and error. I don’t always have the answers, Barrin, and we don’t have the time it would take me to find them myself.”
His ears warm with the rebuke, the world swam in Barrin’s vision as one particular turn of phrase stuck within his mind and set his hackles rising. The insight of Gatha’s “generation.” An eerie, prickling sensation crawled up Barrin’s spine and spread over his scalp, squeezing in at his brain, which throbbed in painful response against his temples.
“Not possible,” he finally said, voice hoarse with doubt. “You gave me the information on the bloodlines. Gatha was nowhere among them, and he’s too old.”
The mask frozen over Urza’s face admitted to Barrin that the planeswalker had indeed given something away he hadn’t meant to. His entire form an illusion of energy patterns, Urza could look as he wished. Gestures and expressions were entirely affectations he assumed for dealing with mortals. He simulated emotional responses as it suited him, most often preplanned to generate the effect he wanted. Caught unaware or in the grip of intense concentration, those were the first signs to slip away.
“I gave you the information on all continuing bloodlines, not every single bloodlines subject, and Gatha is not too old.” The human mannerisms returned, and Urza allowed himself a small sigh of concession. “I began my first experimentation outside Tolaria not long after we discovered the mana rig in Shiv, when I knew the Weatherlight would fly, several decades before bringing the Legacy and bloodlines to your attention.” There was an uneasy pause, and then Urza continued. “I told you then that I had taken matters as far as I could alone.”
The mage performed some quick math—thirty years! Just enough to raise one generation and breed the next, subjects that, if left unchecked, might have bred thousands, even millions, of descendents by now. Of course, theory never matched reality, but it was still staggering to contemplate.
“So you haven’t kept track?” he asked.
The ‘walker shook his head. “No need. These were prior to our official Bloodlines program, and the procedures were imperfect. I also relied on a heavier mix of Thran blood in the Matrix. Most of those early lines sickened, and I allowed them to simply breed my work back out. Only a few lines prospered, but they showed remarkable talents. Those I brought to Tolaria for their genius. I turned them over to you better than three hundred years ago.”
For their genius. Barrin wondered at all those students over the years. Not Jhoira and Teferi, they fell outside the proper time frame. Gatha for certain, and how many others? How many remained in his classrooms and labs? In his life?
Barrin looked at the planeswalker. He remembered Urza’s words spoken so long ago. “I certainly would not have chosen any other mate for you.” He locked gazes with the true immortal, but Urza simply looked on, curiously now, which meant either he had no idea as to the question so close to Barrin’s lips or was not about to volunteer the information. Barrin blinked, glanced away, and focused his gaze on the far horizon ahead. The wind cut sharply over the bow and welled tears in the corners of his eyes.
“Take me home, Urza.”
* * *
It was a waking dream—a nightmare, actually. It was a clockwork world—a series of them—one shell world nestled around the next one. The ticking and grinding of gears sounded always at the edge of one’s hearing, deep and pervasive as it threw the barest tremor into the ground. The air filled with the scent of hot metal and fresh oil, scents which Rayne knew well from her life as an artificer.
Rayne fought the vivid images, trying to clear her mind and concentrate on her work. A gyroscope belonging to a mechanical dervish rested in the clamps before her, held to a comfortable height such that she could inspect it while sitting on a workshop chair. She leaned in again, checking the wear and searching for tolerance deviations. Her gauge trembled in her slender fingers, and her wrist shook just enough to continuously spoil the focusing power of her wrist-mounted glass. Biting her lower lip in frustration, she tore the glass off her wrist and hurled it across the room. Hearing the glass shatter against the wall brought an instant of immediate gratification, followed quickly by a sense of loss and guilt for having taken her turmoil out on an inanimate tool.
“Rayne? Is every
thing all right?” Hurried footsteps came down the corridor and then the door of her workshop swung open.
Startled, Rayne stood quickly in the surprise of hearing Barrin’s voice. She expected her husband to be gone for several hours yet. Catching her stool before it overturned, she set it carefully against a table as he entered.
“You’re back early.” Watching him scan the shop with his quick, green eyes, she noticed their haunted look. Frowning, she clasped her hands together. A gesture of concern and meant also to hold them steady. “The meeting went as you suspected, I see.” Rayne knew her husband too well. There was no missing his look of fear, quickly smothered under doubting eyes.
“I had Urza ‘walk me back to Tolaria,” he said in answer to her first statement. Taking passage back to the island should have cost him several days time, though only hours subjective to Rayne.
She noted the despondency in his voice, the too-casual shrug. Barrin was her entire world, always more important than her artifice. After so many years she could read him as she could no other, and she remembered better than he. She could compare her husband’s moods and attitudes with previous years, and she noted the failing pattern. Something was wrong or going wrong. So far, though, Barrin had been unable or unwilling to share it.
Now he tried to change the subject. “What happened to your glass?” he asked, nodding toward the twisted frame and pile of glittering shards.
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