The Colors of Magic Anthology
( Magic: The Gathering )
Richard Lee Byers
Tom Leupold
Paul B. Thompson
Loren L. Coleman
Vance Moore
J. Robert King
Jonathan Tweet
Kevin T. Stein
Richard Lee Byers,Tom Leupold,Paul B. Thompson,Loren L. Coleman,Vance Moore,J. Robert King,Jonathan Tweet,Kevin T. Stein
The Colors of Magic Anthology
White
White is the color of temptation and innocence, purity and civility. People characterized by this color love life and longevity but do so without excess or grandeur. Some see white as childish-a return to youth-but others know it to be filled with focus and a desire to live an uncluttered life. White is for the honest, the righteous and eager, the decent and civic-minded who will stand up to protect justice and honor. It is the color of the plains and temples, the color of the scholar and the virtuous knight alike. White is for those who believe in a cause and believe in themselves, for those unafraid to stand up in the face of adversity.
Angel of Vengeance
Richard Lee Byers
Shining like a star, Kotara was soaring among the constellations when she felt the summons. The call came as suddenly and forcefully as a hook lodged in the mouth of a fish. Yet it didn't hurt, because she didn't resist. Long ago, in the morning of the world, a benevolent order of wizards had aided she and her sisters in the first great war against the legions of the Pit. In gratitude the angels had sworn to serve the mages and their heirs whenever they called, and a daughter of the Divine Will didn't chafe at her obligations.
She furled her wings and hurtled toward the planet far below. The summons led her over an island-dotted expanse of ocean and on to the kingdom of Zhalfir.
Flying above the rolling dunes of the Desert of Bones, where a caravan with its grunting, tethered camels and scaly, hunchbacked Viashino guides huddled around its nighttime campfires, she surmised that the call was drawing her to the capital. That was no surprise. In her experience, wizards mighty enough to command an angel often dwelled in the seats of mortal power.
The royal city with its miles of stupendous walls and deep-water harbor, its minarets, bazaars, labyrinthine streets, and communal wells, was larger than when she'd last seen it seventy years ago. Yet the palace itself was no different. At one time the great marble pile had existed in an almost perpetual state of construction, as one proud monarch after another enlarged and improved it, but evidently those days were over.
Now Kotara could actually hear the baritone voice of the sorcerer who called her. Though measured and precise as a mage's diction must be, it nevertheless throbbed with grief, and her heart ached in sympathy. She followed the sound to the apex of the tallest tower of one of the mansions in the Nobles' Quarter.
Her summoner had left the shuttered window open for her entry. Inside was a candlelit chamber equipped with shelves bearing jars, bottles, scrolls, and grimoires, racks of ceremonial staves, wands, swords, and daggers, a silver chalice, a mortar and pestle, a scrying mirror, an orrery, and other appurtenances of the occult arts. The bitter scent of myrrh hung in the air.
The mage himself was young and slight of frame with the beginnings of a scholar's stoop. He wore the elaborate pearl- and ivory-colored vestments of the Civic Guild, the fraternity of wizards who served Zhalfir as jurists and lawmakers. A marble diamond amulet, a source of great power for sorcerers of his guild, hung around his neck. Gray ash streaked his haggard features. Evidently he'd attended a funeral that morning and had neglected to wash afterwards.
He gasped when the angel appeared to him, momentarily overwhelmed, perhaps, as many humans were on first meeting, by the unearthly splendor of her iridescent feathers, the fluid grace of her slender alabaster form, or the radiance of her crystal eyes.
"I am Kotara, " she said gently, "come in obedience to your summons. "
"I feared it wouldn't work, " the mage replied. "It's been a long time since I attempted such a spell. In recent years I've devoted myself to the law and politics, not-" he grimaced. "Forgive me, I'm babbling. "
"There is nothing to forgive, " Kotara said. "May I know your name?"
"Sabul. Sabul Hajeen. "
"How may I serve you, Sabul Hajeen?"
"By bringing justice, " the Guildmage said, a certain hardness returning to his expression. "Five days ago, one of the Ilmieras murdered my young brother Axdan in an alley. "
Upon hearing the name, Kotara immediately knew, as was the way of angels, that the house of Ilmiera was another of the aristocratic families residing in the capital.
"Do you need my help to apprehend the culprit?" she asked. "Has he fled the city or gone into hiding?"
Sabul laughed bitterly. "By no means. The Ilmieras swagger about the streets as they always have, and why not? My idiot colleagues of the Civic Guild have already held an inquest and decided there's no evidence to link the wretches to their crime."
Kotara frowned. "If that's so, then how do you know they're guilty?"
"Because they've been bitter rivals of the Hajeen for years," the wizard said. "They hate us like Mishra hated Urza and have always striven to injure us by every underhanded means at their disposal. Multam Ilmiera, the vilest of the lot, actually had the insolence to attend Axdan's obsequies! When he approached me, ostensibly to offer his condolences, I saw the mockery in his eyes and knew that his was the hand that thrust the dagger into Axdan's throat.
"My uncle Tartesk, the head of our family, knows it too," Sabul continued, "but he will do nothing about it. He says ours is an honorable house. We don't stoop to blood feuds or flout the law to strike at our foes.
"Well, perhaps he doesn't, but I will. I'd challenge Multam to meet me blade to blade, except I'm no swordsman. Even if my uncle and the city guard permitted the duel, I couldn't avenge Axdan. But I can send you to do it for me."
Sympathetic to his anguish and obliged to obey him in any case, Kotara nonetheless hesitated. At length she said, "Sabul-master-no wizard has ever summoned me for quite such a mission as this."
His eyes, red and puffy from lack of sleep, narrowed. "What does that matter?"
She hesitated once more. "I suppose it doesn't."
"Then stand over here." He gestured toward a spot in the center of the floor. "I intend to equip you for your task, to make absolutely certain you succeed."
An hour later, Kotara soared above the city once more. A helm, breastplate, vambraces, and greaves, light as mist, strong as steel, and lustrous as mother-of-pearl, sheathed her willowy form, while an augmented strength sang within her limbs. Both the armor and her newfound might were enchantments, manifestations of the magic of law and sanctity no less than she herself. Yet for some reason they felt strange and indeed almost noisome to her. Had it not been Sabul's will that she bear them, she would have dissolved them away.
She studied the twisting streets below her like an owl searching for its dinner. Though it was late enough that most mortals had long ago sought their beds, a city as huge as this still offered carnal diversions for a privileged and licentious few. Such a man was Multam Ilmiera, whose appetite for wine, dice, and harlots had made him almost as notorious as his prowess with a sword.
For all that she rarely needed them, the Divine Will in its inscrutable wisdom had given Kotara the instincts of a huntress, and they led her to Multam quickly enough. He and four companions were stro
lling away from a tavern, bawling a ribald song and waving earthen jugs in time to the beat. Even from the air, Kotara could smell the miasma of raw spirit that hung on their breath and oozed from their pores.
Should anyone learn that an angel had slain Multam, the Hajeen-three of whom belonged to the Civic Guild-might well come under suspicion. Thus Sabul had bade her do the deed unseen. She could kill her victim from above, by surprise, then instantly vanish into the darkness, but it wasn't in her nature to strike such a cowardly blow.
She swooped, caught Multam under the arms, and, with a resounding crack of her wings, carried him aloft. He yelped, and his friends spun around. But they didn't think to look up, not quickly enough, anyway. In a second the angel left them far behind. She soared until she sighted a deserted courtyard two streets over, then deposited her captive on the dry, hard-packed earth.
Multam was a lean man with a saturnine cast of countenance, clad in a gorgeously patterned scarlet caftan. Perhaps paralyzed with fear, perhaps calm and canny enough to realize that if he broke his abductor's grip he'd only fall to his death, he hadn't struggled during the flight. But as soon as his feet touched the ground, his hand leaped to the ruby-pommeled hilt of his scimitar. The weapon was halfway out of the scabbard when Kotara alit before him and he had his first real look at her. His dark eyes widening, he froze, but only for an instant. Then he finished drawing and came on guard. From the facility of his movements it was clear that, the alcoholic stink notwithstanding, he wasn't drunk. Kotara was grateful for that at least.
"So," Multam said dryly, "the milksop Hajeen have a bit more sand than I imagined-at least enough to conjure up an assassin, if not to fight their own battles.
Which one of them sent you, spirit?" His voice assumed a mock lugubrious tone. "Was it poor, bereft older brother?"
"Justice sent me," Kotara replied, repulsed by the pleasure he took in Sabul's grief. "That's all that matters."
"Liar," Multam said, "justice set me free in open court only yesterday. But it's all right. I've never killed a creature like you before. I wonder, if I cut you will your master feel the pain, like in all those old tales?" Quick as a panther, he sprang at her.
Kotara only barely managed to block the cut. The edge of his scimitar rang on her vambrace, and then he surged past her. They pivoted to face one another, and he lashed out with a second slash, which she avoided by stepping back. Now she sensed the magic flaring down his nerves, the enchantments that granted him inhuman speed.
She was thankful for that too. It meant he had some chance, however slim. She allowed him to advance into range and attempt another head cut. This time she avoided the blow with a sidestep, then smote him with her wing.
The impact flung him backward onto the ground. He tried to scramble up, but she launched herself at him- half leaping, half flying-and kicked him in the chest. Ribs snapped, and he sprawled on his back again.
Surely he was all but helpless now. She paused, steeling herself to deliver the coup de grace, and his hand darted inside his silken shirt.
She felt magic, the foul power of necromancy this time, surge as he activated some hidden charm. Dizziness and weakness assailed her, and she crumpled to her knees. The world went dark as her vision failed her.
Croaking words of warding, drawing on her own innate power, she struggled to break the curse. Finally the strength stopped leaking from her twitching, tremulous limbs, and the darkness in her eyes thinned sufficiently to permit a murky view of nearby shapes. A shadow loomed over her, raising its curved sword for a killing stroke.
Kotara jerked up her hand and caught Multam's wrist, arresting the scimitar in its descent. Squeezing, she crushed bone, then wrenched the mortal to the ground, where a strike to the throat put an end to him. She felt the scream of terror and denial locked inside his ruined flesh, and then the yawning vacancy when his life force withered away.
As she knelt beside him, shuddering and waiting for the rest of her strength to return, she reminded herself that Multam hadn't denied murdering Sabul's brother. He'd struck the first blow in his battle with her. He'd ultimately assailed her with that sorcery that, drawing its power from darkness and the grave, was forbidden to all but members of the Shadow Guild. This fact suggested he might well have been a secret worshiper of the fiends from the Abyss.
Yet none of these reflections helped her very much. She was still profoundly sick at heart. In the end, only one thought offered consolation. At least her task was over.
Staring, Sabul listened intently to Kotara's story. When she finished, he sat silently for several moments, during which she studied his thin, weary face, seeking in vain for some sign of joy or contrition.
At last he said, "It sounds as if you dispatched Multam quickly. He didn't suffer very much."
"Suffer?" the angel exclaimed. "He died. I ripped his life away."
"Forgive me," Sabul said quickly. "I wasn't criticizing. You did exactly what I asked. Next time I'll make the instructions more specific."
Kotara stared at him in consternation. "How can there be a next time? You've already punished Axdan's murderer. You've meted out your justice."
"Not true," the magician said, rising restlessly from his stool, his snowy vestments swirling about him. "We've only made a start. It was clear from an examination of the ground that several of the Ilmieras waylaid Axdan in that alley. The others held my brother while Multam tortured and slew him. Obviously, they too must pay."
"Do you know who they are?"
Sabul shrugged. "More or less. Multam had certain boon companions who helped him when he got up to deviltry. From what you told me, I'd guess that you saw four of them tonight."
Four of them? By the Divine, how many were there altogether? "Magician," she stammered, "my sisters and I owe your predecessors a debt, and I am happy to serve you. But I beg you to recall that your fraternity is consecrated to the Divine Will as much as any priesthood. Your art was not created for this purpose, and neither was I."
He scowled. "What are you prattling about?"
"The magic of your guild is holy magic," she replied, "meant to nurture, heal, and protect. I, a child of that same power, defend. In times of war, when an aggressor is at the gate, wizards summon me to stand against him. It's not in my nature to initiate violence."
"It's in your nature to obey me," he snapped, "is it not?"
She sighed. "Yes."
"Then I'll hear no further objections." His face softening, he reached out hesitantly and patted her on the shoulder. "It will be all right. You'll see for yourself that all the Ilmieras are wicked men. It truly is just that they be punished, and surely justice is holy work no less than ministering to the sick or driving back an invading army."
"Perhaps," the angel said.
He smiled. "Then we're in agreement, and all's well. Now, no one should see you here, so perhaps you'd better leave. Return tomorrow night an hour after dusk, and I'll tell you whom to punish next."
Like his cousin Multam, Yirtag possessed the signature lanky frame and long, narrow face of the Ilmieras. They gave him the look of a famished wolf, which Kotara supposed was appropriate. According to Sabul, Yirtag, a poor relation, had followed his kinsman around like a faithful hound, eager to assist in any escapade or crime in exchange for the purses of silver that Multam occasionally tossed him.
At present Yirtag and a friend sat drinking arrack in the former's ramshackle cottage on Leather Street. Judging from Yirtag's silence and sullen expression, he and the other toper were holding a wake of sons, though whether they were lamenting the loss of Multam or his money was an open question.
Kotara skulked behind the house in a cramped, malodorous alley, peeking through a barred window. She needed Yirtag's companion to leave him alone, yet dreaded the moment when he would.
Eventually the fellow rose and exited the room to answer a call of nature. At once the angel gripped the wrought-iron grille and tore it away from the window so she'd be able to carry out her captive.
Yirtag's head snapped around at the squeal of tortured metal, but by that time Kotara was already swarming into the room. As he drew breath to cry out, she clapped her hand over his mouth, snatched him off his grimy pillows, and bore him out into the open air.
Kotara flew him to the apex of the domed, tiled roof of a nearby temple. When she let him go, he teetered precariously on the smooth, curved surface. Spreading her wings, she balanced without effort.
"What?" he whimpered. "What are you?"
"What do they say slew Multam?" she replied.
"Some creature," Yirtag said, crouching to lower his center of gravity. "Some roc or efreet that swooped down from the sky."
"I am that creature," she said, "sent to avenge Axdan Hajeen's murder."
"Please," begged Yirtag, "don't kill me. It was all Multam's idea. When we grabbed the boy, I didn't know he meant to knife him. I thought he was just going to knock him around a little."
"It doesn't matter," said Kotara, wishing that she didn't pity the wretch in his dread and desperation. "You still must answer." He had a dagger tucked in his sash. A paltry thing, but she wanted it in his hand. "Draw your weapon."
He shook his head. "Please-"
"Draw it!" she rapped. "Let's not protract this any longer than necessary."
His face gray and his hand shaking, he fumbled out the dagger and pointed it in her direction. With a beat of her wings, she darted toward him.
The blade flashed at her. She brushed it aside with her armored forearm and struck Yirtag a backhand blow across the face. The impact sent him tumbling helplessly down the side of the roof. The dagger slipped from his grasp and bounced clanking along beside him.
He screamed as he shot off the edge of the dome, where the curve met the sheer wall beneath. Kotara swooped, caught him, and bore him up. Twisting his head, Yirtag goggled at her in bewilderment.
The Colors of Magic Anthology (magic: the gathering) Page 1
