The Darksteel Eye

CHAPTER 6

Glissa stood alone outside a large building on the edge of a rushing river. The sky was black. None of Mirrodin’s four moons shone overhead, a rarity. Glissa had seen times when more than one of the moons seemed to occupy the same place in the sky. One would cover the other, bathing the Tangle in an inescapable blinding light. Strange things occurred at these times, and it was always one of these convergences that marked the time before a festival or ritual.

Now times of darkness were fewer and far between. If one side of the plane was in darkness, it meant all the moons were on the other side-at the same time. Glissa knew what it meant when two of the moons were in alignment. It was time for the rebuking ceremony, time for all elves to give up their memories. It had been this ceremony that had caused her the most trouble while she had been in the Tangle. Giving up on all the things she’d experienced in this lifetime seemed like such a waste. It had been her decision to forego the Rebuking that had touched off the strange series of events that led her to her present situation.

This darkness was deeper than others she’d seen. This was no simple Convergence. Numerous Rebuking ceremonies had come and gone since she was a child. This time, however, all the moons were lining up-something that had never happened in her lifetime. If the runes on the Tree of Tales could be trusted, it was something that had only happened four times in the history of the world.

That was why she’d come to see Bruenna.

Glissa knocked on the door of the wizard’s tin home, but there was no answer. Pushing aside the chromelike curtain, the elf slipped inside the square building. The entryway was dark, but she could see a faint blue glow coming from a room deeper in the house. Following the light, she made her way to the place where she had first seen Bruenna looking over a series of maps spread out over a large table.

The room was still quite dark, lit by a magically glowing stone that hovered in the air. It cast a perfect circle of light on the floor, throwing the rest of the room into long, deep shadows. Below the glowing stone, Bruenna sat cross-legged, her hands pressed together as if in prayer, and her eyes closed.

Glissa stepped quietly inside the room.

“Hello, Glissa,” said Bruenna, not opening her eyes. “Please, come join me.”

Glissa crossed to the female wizard, circling around the long table still covered in rolled maps. She sat down facing Bruenna.

“I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

Bruenna smiled but still didn’t open her eyes. “You’re not disturbing me. I’m doing a meditative exercise my people call mulla bunda. It’s a practice to still the mind and heal the body.”

Glissa was a little uncomfortable. She’d never seen anybody sit that still. It seemed like a luxury-and boring.

“I’ll try to be quiet,” she said.

Bruenna’s smile widened. “There is no need. Part of the exercise is to focus while confronted with distraction. Please, talk to me. Tell me what you need.”

Glissa shrugged. “Okay.” She paused. “Bruenna, the moons are aligning.”

“Yes, I noticed. It’s very dark, darker than I’ve seen in my lifetime. This Convergence is different.”

“In the Tangle, when the moons align, it marks the coming of a new phase, a time of cleansing and renewal.”

“I’ve heard of the elf rituals.”

“Well, I’ve never been much of a believer in these things,” admitted the elf, “but until I’d seen it with my own eyes, I didn’t believe that Mirrodin was hollow.”

“And now you’re beginning to question yourself.”

Glissa took a deep breath. “Well, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes, I would,” Bruenna opened her eyes, her smile gone. “I am.”

Glissa felt a sudden rush of relief. “I’m frightened, Bruenna.”

“As am I.” Bruenna lowered her hands to her lap and nodded. “But that fear is comforting.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I would be more concerned-about myself as a human-if I felt nothing during a troubling time. It is natural for elves as well to fear things they don’t understand. The question we must ask ourselves is not whether or not that fear is something we should be feeling but how are we going to react to it?”

“You mean, we should be trying to figure out how to stop the moons from aligning?”

Bruenna smiled. “No. There is nothing we can do about the forces of nature.”

Glissa wrinkled her brow. “I don’t understand.”

“We have surprisingly little control over our destinies, yet we still manage to accomplish many things in a lifetime. Changing the course of the moons isn’t within our power to control, but how we react to such an event-personally, emotionally, spiritually-we do have some ability to steer. The question we must ask ourselves now is not what we must do, but are we afraid of our own shadows?” Bruenna leaned forward. “Are you going to let the convergence of the moons stop you in your task? Or will you face your challenges-fearful but unstoppable?”

Glissa did not hesitate. “I must go find the trolls again. They’re the ones who started me down this path. They’ll be able to answer my questions, maybe even tell me more about my role in all of this.”

Bruenna nodded. “I have heard that the trolls are very old. They may know a great many things.”

“Will you come with me? I could use the help.”

The wizard shook her head. “I cannot. My leg needs more healing, and my people need my guidance. There will be much to deal with when the vedalken come.”

It was Glissa’s turn to nod.

“I will promise you this, though-when the time comes, we will fight with you. We will help you free this world and fulfill your destiny.”

“Thank you.”

“No, Glissa, it is I who should thank you.”

* * * * *

After several long rotations of travel, the trees of the Tangle rose up tall before Glissa, Bosh, and Slobad.

“It’s good to be home,” said Glissa. “It’s been a long time.”

Bosh lifted the pair off his shoulders and set them gently on the ground. “Where will we find the trolls?”

“In the Tree of Tales,” explained Glissa, “deeper inside the Tangle.”

Elf, goblin, and golem made their way through the metallic forest. As they went, Glissa ran her eyes over familiar ground, bringing back a flood of memories.

She saw clearly her mother, father, and sister, their faces calm and comforting. They drifted away, replaced in her memory by the horror of the leveler attack that had killed them all. She would never forget the terrible sound their scythe blades made. And the blood. Everything was slick with blood.

* * * * *

Her memories faded, replaced by visions of trees-trees with leaves-and of a world with soft things and a sky of deep blue. A wind slipped lazily through the trees, and Glissa looked to the ground. Patches of green wavered in the breeze. She reached down, and her fingers ran over the edges. She pulled her hand away, expecting to see blood where the leaves had cut her flesh to ribbons-but there was nothing, just smooth, soft skin. No cuts. No blood.

She examined her hand more closely. There was no metal. The blades that extended from her knuckles were gone. She checked her shins. They too had no metal. Her whole body had transformed. Everything was flesh: soft, warm, and forgiving.

She was filled with panic. She reached for her sword, but it too was gone. She was defenseless, with no weapons and no claws. A crash made her look up. Two huge trees cracked in half, each falling away from the other, tumbling into the other trees, smashing away limbs and scattering branches as they hurled toward the ground. Between them towered a gigantic construct. Its gleaming metal chest stood out in stark contrast to the forest and soft plants all around. Its head, arms, and legs were a glowing blue, as if they were formed completely from magic.

The creature stared down at Glissa. She felt very small and tried to turn away. She wanted to run, but her legs wouldn’t move. The creature took a step toward her, and the ground trembled.

Glissa tried to scream, but no sound came from her mouth. She drew a breath and tried again-still, nothing. The construct took another step then bent down, reaching out. Its huge, glowing fingers wrapped around Glissa’s body, and she was lifted from the ground.

* * * * *

Glissa came to on the ground, Slobad’s face right above hers.

“You okay, huh?”

Glissa nodded. She had these visions from time to time. They were called flares, and she dreaded them. They were flashes really, pictures that ran in her head. All elves had them, but Glissa’s were stronger, more vibrant, than most. No one knew for certain what they were. Glissa thought of them as waking dreams-the possibilities of her mind showing themselves in brilliant colors.

The elders in her tribe had claimed the flares were visions of the future. Most elves did not believe that. Who could really see into the future?

Sometimes the visions blinked in and out, as if she were opening and closing her eyes while she spun in a circle. Each time her eyes focused again, a different scene filled her vision. It was only for a split second, then it was as if her eyes closed again, and she moved on, looking moments later upon something entirely different.

“No golem,” Glissa said.

“No golems?” Bosh seemed concerned. “Are there no golems allowed in the Tree of Tales?”

The elf shook her head, dazed. “Uh … no. That’s not what I was talking about. I’m sure they’ll allow you in.” She stood up. “They’d had better let you in.”

“What you talking about then, crazy elf?” asked Slobad.

“I had another flare.”

Slobad stood upright and looked at her with wide eyes.

“No, it’s okay. I’m fine.”

“What did you see?” asked the big golem.

“I saw a different world again. A world without metal.”

“A world without golems?”

“No. There was a golem, or at least what I thought was a golem.” Glissa shook her head, trying to clear it.

“It mean something, huh?”

“I don’t know, but it seemed like a nice place.” She looked at Bosh. “All except the part about the golem. I’m not sure it was a nice golem-” she touched Bosh’s arm-“like you.” She shrugged. “There were soft things there, like the blankets and beds we stayed in at Bruenna’s village. Even the grasses and bushes were soft.”

The goblin gasped. “Soft razor grass?”

“It wasn’t really razor grass. It just looked like it.” She straightened and headed deeper into the Tangle. “It was nothing. Get going.”

The trio walked on in silence for some time. The closer they got to the Tree of Tales, the more memories crept into Glissa’s mind. She thought of Kane, wearing the armor of the Tel-Jilad Chosen. A deep sadness filled her chest. It felt heavy, as if a vorac were standing on her chest. A knot in the bottom of her stomach moved and fluttered as if she’d swallowed a live bird.

A voice brought her from her reverie. “Glissa.”

Glissa looked up from the ground. The figure before her wore the red ceremonial armor of the Tel-Jilad. For a moment, Glissa saw a different face.

“Kane?”

The elf looked at her sideways. “No.”

Glissa looked around. While she had been thinking of her best friend, she had walked right up to the front of the Tree of Tales.

The guard stepped to one side, indicating the side of the tree with a sweep of his hand.

Glissa stared at him, confused. “What’s this? You’re just going to let me inside the Tree.”

The Tel-Jilad nodded.

Slobad sidled up to her. “You sure ’bout this, crazy elf? Last time we here, they think you kill old troll, huh?”

Glissa nodded. “They haven’t attacked us yet,” she said. “Besides-” she looked up at Bosh-“we’ve got a golem.”

Slobad threw up his hands and the three of them headed toward the tree.

Glissa stepped between the roots, pushing through the rounded vines that hung down, obscuring the entrance to the Tree of Tales.

Inside the tree, the trio were greeted by a large, imposing troll. His face was round and covered in warts, and his shoulders were slouched forward, as if his head were too heavy to be held up by his thick neck.

“Young Glissa,” said the troll in a deep rumble, “we were expecting you.”

“Do I know you?”

“No,” said the troll, “but Master Drooge knows you. He is awaiting you upstairs.”

The elf eyed the troll. His manner was controlled and introspective, the exact opposite of threatening, and he appeared harmless-harmless for a troll. He carried no visible weapons and moved with a swiftness that belied his great size.

“Who is Master Drooge?”

“He is the eldest,” said the troll. “The newest leader of the trolls.” With that, he bowed his head and stepped aside, indicating with a flourish of his hand the stairway leading deeper into the tree.

Glissa looked at the other two. Slobad sighed but nodded, and they headed up.

The steps were cut from from the tree itself. Circular scoring, covering every inch of the tarnished steps, formed a pleasing pattern. It almost seemed as if someone had polished the shape of the stairs into the metal, leaving a series of tiny circles. None of the circles was complete, each having a vague beginning and ending that seemed to flow into the one beside it. At the top of each step, the linked swirls bent at the edge and continued up, wrapping from the side of one step onto the top of the next. The interconnected circles formed a collection of chains that led up and around the spiral staircase.

The surface of each step was rough, not magically honed like the scythe blades of the levelers or the wings of the hover guard. These had been made by hand. It made Glissa’s back hurt just thinking of the amount of work it would take to scratch out such a feature in a solid metal tree. Judging by the obvious wear and tear and large patches of heavy tarnishing, this had been done a long, long time ago.

The group moved on in silence, finally reaching the top where the stairs opened into a large room. A set of rising bleachers edged the chamber, and sitting on them, three rows deep, were perhaps a hundred or more trolls. All of them resembled other trolls Glissa had seen. Their skin was green and loose, their hands and shoulders covered in warts and scars, and each was dressed in tattered woven-metal fabrics. Even to the elf, who had grown up in the Tangle living near such creatures, she couldn’t tell them apart. Now, seated here, they looked like the fungus or verdigris that grew on the base of fallen trees.

Opposite the stairs, in the center of the curved bleacher seats, a single troll perched on a stool. All the others had their bodies turned toward him and their eyes focused on his large frame. This one, unlike the others, wore newer clothing. He held himself more erect and seemed to have more energy than the others. His eyes darted around the room. This was not a contemplative examination or the sluggish struggle by a slow mind to understand. This was the intelligent look of a decisive creature.

The troll at the head of the room held a bone staff in one hand. With the other he waved the trio forward.

“Come in. Come in.”

Glissa and Slobad did as they were told, stopping amid the throng of trolls just before the bone-wielding chief. Bosh, though, had a difficult time getting inside the room. At his full height, his head was much taller than the ceiling. The golem tried to bend at the waist, but ducking didn’t provide enough room for him to bring his massive frame into the carved-out chamber.

After several attempts to fold himself in various different ways, each of which proved more ridiculous and less useful than the last, Bosh finally collapsed his legs and head half-way, telescoping them inside his body. The truncated golem waddled as he walked, but he managed to fit, if tightly, inside the room.

The troll looked them over. “We have been awaiting your arrival.”

“So we’ve been told,” said Glissa. “That disturbs me.”

“Why would that disturb you, young Glissa?”

“Well, to begin with, the last time I was here, Elder Chunth died in my arms.”

Drooge nodded, his eyes to the ground. “A tragic blow for us.” He took a deep breath. “You should know that we do not blame you.”

“You don’t?”

The troll chief shook his head. “No. The elder council has found you innocent, and the traitors among us have been purged.”

Glissa looked around at the trolls on the bleachers. They all hung their heads. “Traitors? You mean there was more than one?”

Drooge nodded. “I am afraid so.”

Glissa stood in silence. She was relieved that the trolls didn’t think she had killed their chief, but she was saddened as well. All of this treachery and infighting was due to her. If she had been at home that night, if she had been killed along with the rest of her family, none of this would have happened to the trolls.

The troll chief tapped his staff on the floor. “You have other reasons for being disturbed by our welcoming you back?”

Glissa swallowed then nodded. “Well, yes. Everyone seems to know where I’m going and what I’ll do before I even do it.”

“Yes,” replied the troll. “I see your point.”

“And since they know where I am at all times, I seem to be everyone’s favorite target for ambush.”

“A role none wish to play,” said the troll, “but one that falls upon the shoulders of a hero.”

“A hero?” Glissa stopped to think about that word. “Why would you call me that?”

The troll cocked his head, looking at the young elf. “Because your efforts are not just focused on yourself.”

“Wait a minute.” Glissa shook her head. “How do you know what it is I want or even that I was coming here?”

“A simple deduction,” replied the troll. “The last time you were here, you wanted to know about the Guardian. You did not believe us then. You have returned. Thus, I suspect that you have seen proof, that now you are beginning to believe that which Chunth believed, and you wish for answers.”

“What did Chunth believe?”

“That you have a destiny beyond the borders of the Tangle. That your path is far longer than you know.” The troll smiled, his stained, ground-flat teeth poking from his wart-covered lips, looking menacing yet warm at the same time.

Slobad pulled on Glissa’s arm. “Who this guy, huh?”

“That’s a good question,” said Glissa. She looked up from the goblin. “Who are you?”

The troll bowed. “Forgive my lack of hospitality. I am Drooge, chief teller of tales. These-” he waved his arm to indicated the collected trolls-“these are all that’s left of my kind.”

Glissa scanned the room. There were a lot of trolls here, more than she’d ever seen in one place at one time. Still, the thought saddened her. This was all of them. Every last one.

The group no longer seemed so large.

She laid her gaze again upon Drooge. “So you figured out that I would come back, but that still doesn’t answer my question about why you called me a ‘hero.’ What makes you think I’m not just looking out for myself?”

The troll placed his hand on his jaw, rubbing his bumpy chin. “Sometimes, a hero is not a hero by choice. Sometimes, a hero is just a hero because her actions make her one. Whether you know it or not, your quest is one that will benefit many people. Perhaps everyone on Mirrodin.” Drooge lowered his head. “Although the trolls have known about Memnarch, have known not only that he existed but also that he controlled the levelers and devices that plague the land, we …” His voice trailed off. The rumpled troll stared at the floor for a long while.

Glissa looked at him, bending her knees and trying to get down close enough to the floor to get his attention. “Yes?” she said, trying to coax it from him.

“We … We have been … afraid,” he said finally.

“But when last I was here, Chunth was very reluctant to talk with me. He told me very little and seemed quite … guarded, almost as if he would be punished for telling me what I wanted to know.” Glissa paused, watching Drooge stare at the floor. “Now you rush me inside and greet me as if I were one of you. Why such a drastic change?”

Drooge raised his eyes. “Chunth was the oldest among us and the wisest. Now he is gone, and a new fear has entered the troll tribe: the fear that we will all be gone, taken from this place as Chunth was. As you can see, there are only a very few of us left. We cannot face Memnarch and his armies of devices alone. We are too few.” Drooge paused, taking a deep breath. “We are too afraid.”

“What does that have to do with me?”

“Your destiny has been set in motion. There is no longer time to debate ‘if’ or ‘when.’ It has come. The time is now, and events will continue forward whether you are ready or not.”

“I still don’t understand.”

Drooge raised his bone staff. “We all have kin who have fallen to the Guardian’s armies. We want to see you succeed.”

“Are you saying you’re going to help me confront the Guardian?”

Drooge once again scratched his chin. “When the time is right. Yes.”

Slobad pulled on Glissa’s arm. “When that be, huh? We come back then.”

The troll laughed in the back of his throat. “I’m afraid I cannot tell you the future, only that the trolls will participate when all has been prepared.”

“Prepared?” Glissa shook her head. “What are you talking about. You make it sound as if there is some sort of predetermined course that we’re all destined to follow-that I’m the one leading. Am I missing something here?”

Drooge rose from his chair and ambled forward. The quickness of his words and the sharp intelligence in his eyes had distracted Glissa from noticing one important detail about the troll chieftain.

He had only one leg.

The bone staff he had been holding was a crutch, and he leaned on it as he moved forward. His steps were awkward and metered, very much as Glissa expected from a troll.

When he came close enough to touch the trio, he stopped and smiled. “I am sorry, I do not mean to confuse you. I forget that all this information is new to you. For the trolls, it has been a way of life, a belief.” He leaned down, lowering his face so that he looked into Glissa’s eyes. “We do not belong on Mirrodin. The trolls-” he waved his hand around, indicating all the creatures seated in the bleacher seats-“we are not from this world. We do not wish to stay here any longer than we must.”

“Wait.” Glissa sank down on the metal floor. “You’re from some other world?”

“Yes.”

“How is it that I can help you? It’s not as if I can lift you to some other plane.”

“You can help us escape from the tyranny of the Guardian,” explained the troll. “That is the path you will travel. That is the destiny that has been chosen for you.”

“You speak as if I don’t have any choice in the matter.”

“You do not.”

The elf snorted.

“If all of you-” Glissa ran her gaze around the room, taking in the entire troll tribe-“with your big muscles and strong fists, can’t stand up to Memnarch and his devices, what makes you think I can?”

“Because you are not afraid.”

“Of course I’m afraid!” Glissa shouted. “In fact, I can’t remember more than a brief instant of my entire life when I wasn’t afraid of something.”

The troll nodded, apparently unperturbed by her outburst. “Yes, it is something that transcends the racial boundaries. Fear binds us together and makes us all the same.” Drooge placed his huge hand on the petite elf’s shoulder. “What makes us different, you and I, is that despite that fear you go on.”

Slowly Glissa nodded. Now she understood.

Drooge turned and limped past his seat. “As I said, when the time is right, the trolls will come to your aid.” When he reached the far wall of the chamber, he placed his crutch aside. Flattening his palms against the metal, he spoke a single word, and a cabinet appeared.

It was a square box, about the size of a small goblin, the same color and texture as the surrounding wall. If Glissa hadn’t been watching, she might have thought it had been there the whole time. It blended with the rest of the chamber as if it had been carved from the tree, just like the steps. Drooge reached into this cabinet and pulled out a small casket.

“Do not think that I would send you away empty handed.”

The troll waved the trio forward.

They approached, and Glissa put her finger out to touch the casket. It was of exquisite workmanship, carved in patterns she did not recognize. She didn’t want to stop touching it.

“You like that?” asked the troll.

“Yes,” said Glissa. “What is it?”

“It is from the wood of a tree not of this world. Many thousands of years ago, it is said that my people, the trolls, lived in these trees.”

Glissa’s eye’s nearly bulged from her head. She couldn’t even imagine another world. Just running her fingers over the wood calmed her nerves and made her feel … feel … happy.

“You’re giving this to me?”

The troll laughed. “No,” he said. “I am giving you what is inside.”

Glissa was disappointed. “Oh.”

“It is nice,” said Drooge, his eyes lit up with amusement, “but I doubt this casket will help you along your path. No, I am giving you this.” The troll lifted the lid and drew forth a helm. Inset along its rim in a brilliant circle were five gemstones, each one a different color. At the top, carved deep into the metal surface, was a sigil or rune. It was a circle, broken into five wedge-shaped pieces by five different lines-like a wheel with five spokes.

Drooge handed the helm to Glissa.

“It’s beautiful.” The elf ran her finger over the stones-a diamond, an emerald, a ruby, an onyx, and a sapphire. Each of them sparkled.

Bosh waddled over, and Slobad lifted himself up on his tip toes to get a better look.

“What does it do?”

* * * * *

Pontifex paced outside the door leading to the Grand Assembly Chamber. Inside, the other members of the Synod waited. The lord of the vedalken knew what to expect when he entered. He knew what they had planned. The whole scheme had unfolded in less than a cycle.

Despite the very real power he now wielded over the vedalken people, and for that matter the Synod itself, he had been powerless to stop this. Sometimes the game of politics is simply more powerful than the politicians who play.

Pontifex steeled himself and stepped forward. The doors before him slipped silently aside, and he entered the chamber. No one spoke, but the room was filled with the shuffling sound of bodies trying to get comfortable. The assembled vedalken went still upon seeing him, and the room fell completely silent.

The Grand Hall, as it was often referred to, was nothing more than a giant spiraling pit dug deep into the ground. Wider at the top than it was at the bottom, the room itself had been designed by a vedalken architect who had taken his inspiration from the swirling storms and whirlpools of the Quicksilver Sea. A narrow platform, just wide enough to fit two vedalken guardsmen in full uniform side by side, wound down the edge of the pit, running in a spiral from the very ceiling to an open floor far below. To Pontifex, it looked like a corkscrew, winding its way down into the bowls of Mirrodin. That image amused him, and he smirked.

A railing skirted the edge of the spiraling platform. The original designer had wanted the room to feel-and be-dangerous. One false step and a vedalken could find himself on the floor in a big hurry. Down lower, that wasn’t much of a problem, but from this height, a body falling that far would be smashed into jelly.

This room is dangerous, thought Pontifex as he looked down at the collected vedalken, even with the safety precautions.

Gathered on the spiral, the assembled citizens of the vedalken empire stood against the outer wall or leaned up on the railing. Where Pontifex stood at the top of the winding platform he could see down on everyone, including the other two members of the synod who awaited him at the bottom. Beside them stood a third figure. Pontifex did not know this man, but he knew what his presence here represented.

“Lord Pontifex,” said a voice from far below, “so nice of you to join us.”

The round, lifting design of the chamber allowed every word spoken to be heard by all. It mattered not if the speaker were on the floor or along the railing near the ceiling, all had a voice here. However, any citizen who spoke out of turn or without being recognized was removed by force and thrown into hard labor for two full moon cycles. Many who had been punished in such a fashion didn’t live long enough to be released back into society. Consequently, while inside the assembly chamber, very few spoke at all.

Pontifex recognized the voice. “Hello, Tyrell,” he said, looking down to the floor at the vedalken. “It’s always a pleasure to be in the esteemed company of my fellow Synod councilors-” he circled his finger in the air, indicating the collected vedalken in the assembly hall-“and the elected citizen representatives.” He descended the long spiral platform toward the floor. “Welcome.”

Quiet clapping filled the room, and the vedalken representatives bowed their heads as their lord moved past.

Pontifex loved this. He loved that these people loved him. He had experienced nothing quite like it, and he relished every moment.

“Now that you have arrived-”

The vedalken’s clapping stopped.

“-may we proceed with the inauguration ceremony?”

These were the impatient words of Sodador. The younger, more hot-headed of the other two councilors, Sodador walked with the aid of a cane.

Yes, thought Pontifex, looking at him with narrowed eyes. You are anxious to lead the Synod.

But the councilor’s overzealous demeanor hadn’t won him the political power to challenge the previous leader, Janus. The latter had had too many allies.

Ascending to the head of the Synod was a nasty business. Assassinating one’s predecessor didn’t cast one in the most politically flattering light. It would be some time before Pontifex could overcome the negative image his rise to power on the body of Janus had gained him.

Pontifex smiled to himself. They might win this battle, but he’d make them pay.

“Oh, my, this is embarrassing, Councilor Sodador,” said the vedalken lord. “Don’t you think you’re forgetting something?”

Pontifex was nearly half way to the floor at this point. Sodador’s features cleared.

“I am most certainly not. We have followed every parliamentary procedure in calling this special assembly of the elected representatives.”

Pontifex stopped his descent, stepping to the railing between two representatives. He raised his finger. “Forgive me, Councilor Sodador, but isn’t a vote of the council required before we can bring a fourth member into the Synod? Certainly before we have an inauguration, we must have a vote. I don’t know about you, but I don’t remember voting on the inclusion of this person into our council.” Pontifex pointed down at the third figure on the floor. “In fact, I’ve never even been introduced to this man.”

There was a slight gasp from several of the collected representatives, and both Sodador and Tyrell seemed to squirm. Pontifex smiled. Their scheme hadn’t been covert, but now their motives for arranging the special assembly were called into question.

“Well,” he said, resuming his downward spiral, “am I wrong?”

“As you will recall, Lord Pontifex,” replied Tyrell, “this meeting was called in accordance with the law, which very specifically states there must be four members seated on the Synod at the start of each new moon cycle.” Tyrell ran his hand over his bald scalp. “It is dark outside, my friend. The moon cycle has begun, and we have an empty seat to fill.”

“Fill it we will.” Pontifex smiled wide. “However, I think you’ll agree just because we’re slightly behind schedule doesn’t mean we should abandon our long standing traditions and procedures. Our laws, Tyrell, were written to protect us from hasty decisions. Let us interview your candidate and bring him before a vote of the representative-as is the mandate for the Synod-before we swear him in.”

A light clapping followed.

“Our laws,” shot back Sodador, “were written to protect us from a council chair who abuses his power.”

Pontifex looked hurt. “Are you accusing me of something, Sodador?”

Sodador opened his mouth, but Tyrell raised his hand to stop him. “Our young councilor accuses you of nothing, Lord Pontifex. He merely speaks of the conventions of balance.” The elder statesmen turned to the assembled vedalken standing above him on the spiral. “As you all know, good citizens, the Synod is a council of four members. Though there is rarely a conflict of opinion, from time to time it becomes necessary to break ties when the council members do not agree. It is at these times that the council chair casts a second vote.” Tyrell spun as he spoke, making eye contact with each and every one of the elected representatives as he did. “Currently, there are only three members on the Synod. That is why you have been called here for this most unusual meeting. Many of you have never before set foot in this assembly hall. Many of you will never again be compelled to do so, but today is different. Today you must fill the fourth seat by wielding a single collective vote that will be cast in the event of a tie.”

Pontifex spoke in turn. “Because of the unusual circumstance which has brought you all here today, you have been given a rare glimpse into the workings of the Synod, and how we-” Pontifex indicated the other members and himself-“take into account the concerns and needs of the entire vedalken empire.” He nodded his head, smiling up at the representatives. “I, for one, am most excited. It is not every day that you get to witness the governing council at work, much less participate in the ruling of your own sovereign body. I’m sure you all are as excited by the prospect as I am, but I must take this opportunity to speak to you of the grave importance of the decision we are all about to make.”

Lord Pontifex stood up straight, his smile fading into a look of stern seriousness. “Weigh your vote very carefully, for whomever you chose to fill that empty seat will rule on the Synod for life.”

* * * * *

Memnarch ambled from his laboratory. The work he did outside Panopticon was easy enough, but the journey to the soul trap fields and back would take him considerable time-time he would have to spend away from his infusion device.

With serum storage tanks attached to his frame, it would take him even longer. The contraption kept him fully lubricated, but its bulk and weight slowed him down. No matter. He enjoyed his trips to the soul traps. Better to enjoy the work than to try to finish it in the least amount of time.

Besides, the metal tanks made Memnarch feel as he had before, when his body had been all metal. Perfect, the way it had been created.

“Do you think Memnarch has forgotten?” The Guardian shook his head. “Of course you do not.”

The lift stopped and the doors slipped open. Memnarch was greeted with silence as he looked across the empty staging area at the base of Panopticon. Before, there had been a hundred levelers arrayed here.

“Malil has taken them all,” he said. “He takes his duty seriously.”

The bulbous, crablike Guardian of Mirrodin scuttled from the lift then from his tower. The dimly lit interior was replaced by the blinding blue-white light of the mana core. High above the floor of the interior, the power core of the entire plane hissed and crackled with energy.

“Sometimes Memnarch misses the darkness. Yes. Yes. It is much easier to work with a constant source of light. Still, the convergence of the moons was a spectacular event, a spectacular event.” He stopped for a moment, putting one of his fingers to his lips. “There is a minor convergence happening now,” he said. “Do you remember when the first moon shot from the core of the plane?”

Memnarch moved on, shaking his head. “No, I suspected you would not. You were not here for that. Or for the next one.” The Guardian scowled. “Or for the next one. Or for the next one after that. Come to think of it, Mirrodin was always dark when you were here. Oh, how things have changed.”

Memnarch could see the tall chrome spires of mycosynth up ahead, touched at their bases with tarnish. They reached high into the sky, climbing from the ground up toward the mana core. Forests of these pointy towers dotted the interior of Mirrodin from one side to the other. From Panopticon, Memnarch could actually see how they curved with the slope of the round plane.

The Guardian wasn’t interested in these structures. They represented all that was wrong with Mirrodin now.

“True,” he said as he approached the nearest of the columns, “they are not the problem, but they are a symptom. Memnarch does not like the symptoms.”

Inside the forest of mycosynth, Memnarch stopped and knelt. Below him, dozens of little furry creatures scurried around, stopping when they encountered the large, diamond-shaped boxes, covered in mossy verdigris, spaced several meters apart.

“You would be proud of these, Master Karn,” he said, reaching down to examine one of the boxes. “These devices are Memnarch’s own creation. His own creation. We call them soul traps, and they keep Mirrodin populated.” Gently brushing aside several of the furry little creatures, the Guardian probed the sides of the diamond. It was soft, fleshy to his touch.

“This too,” he said poking the soft sides of the contraption. “This is a symptom. If only Memnarch knew what caused the symptoms, we could study it. Understand it. Cure it.”

Memnarch looked down at his own arm. The flesh there was soft and supple, just like the sides of the trap and the furry beasts running around on the floor of Mirrodin.

“It infects us all. It corrupts perfection.” Memnarch gritted his teeth, squeezing his fists together until this arms turned bright red. “It makes a mockery of all that the Creator built.”

Memnarch’s body began to shake. “This is not how Memnarch is supposed to be. You created Memnarch in your image, and now Memnarch is … is.” He held his arms up, opening his whole body to the rays of the mana core.

“This!”

The bright blue-white light seared into Memnarch’s eyes, and tears ran down his face. Except for the electrical hiss the mana core gave off, the rest of the interior of Mirrodin was silent.

Finally the Guardian let his hands fall to his sides. A floating patch of orange filled his vision. For a moment Memnarch lost his connection to the solid world. Vertigo filled his head, and the Guardian lost his balance. He stepped back to catch himself, and his foot landed on something soft. He heard a popping noise and slipped.

Memnarch fell. All four of his legs folded underneath him, and his serum tank made a tremendous clang as it hit the ground.

“Why is Memnarch being punished so?” he moaned.

The Guardian rested on his side, not moving. The burning orange sphere obscuring his sight slowly drifted away, and Memnarch looked out at a puddle of red fluid covering the ground around him.

“Blood? Do we see blood?”

Lifting himself to his feet, he examined his body. His entire side was slick with blood, but he felt no pain. Poking and prodding his partially fleshy limbs, Memnarch searched for wounds, but found none.

On the ground, near his feet, the furry little creatures scuttled around, avoiding the bloody mess as best they could.

“Our grendles? Have our grendles turned completely to flesh?”

Memnarch bent down and picked up one of the crushed, furry creatures. A feeling of overwhelming sadness crept over him, and he shook his head as he looked down at the dead creature in his hands.

“Is this what will happen to Memnarch?”

* * * * *

Drooge held up a finger. “By itself, the helm will aid you in battle. Your blows will strike harder. Your moves will be faster. In concert with the Sword of Kaldra and the Shield of Kaldra, it will do much more.”

“The Sword of Kaldra? What’s that?”

Drooge lifted his massive hand and pointed to Glissa’s hip. “The blade you took from Chunth.”

Glissa pulled her hand back. “You mean it’s part of a set?”

“Yes. More appropriately, it is part of a key.”

Slobad’s ears perked up. “What does this key open?”

“It is not so much a key to open something as a key to activate a powerful being.”

Slobad’s ears picked up. “Artifact, huh? Where we find this powerful artifact?”

“Not an artifact.”

Slobad slumped, disappointed.

“You must travel to the swamps of the Mephidross,” Drooge continued. “There you will find the Shield of Kaldra.” The troll held out his hand. “May I see your sword?”

Glissa looked hesitantly at Slobad then at Bosh. The golem stood silently behind her, as he had during the entire interview, ready for anything. The sight of her hulking friend calmed Glissa’s nerves, and she pulled her sword from its sheath, handing it to the troll.

Drooge ran his fingers over the blade’s hilt, examining the etchings and runes inscribed there. “You see this,” he said after a moment, turning the handle toward the trio and indicating a circular groove. At the center of the groove, the same circular rune broken into five parts had been inscribed. “This is where the sword’s hilt will attach to the shield when you find the last part of the Kaldra Guardian.”

“The Kaldra Guardian?” asked Slobad.

“Yes,” replied the troll. “The guardian is an avatar, a very powerful one. Once you have all three pieces, you must assemble them, and the guardian will come to life.”

“Wait,” said Glissa. “If the trolls knew about this being before, why didn’t Chunth just tell me about it?”

Drooge pawed his crutch. “You were not ready.”

“Not ready?”

“You did not believe Master Chunth. Now that you know your destiny, you are ready.”

“I still don’t understand what it is I’m destined to do.”

The troll smiled. “One step at a time,” he said. “Your journey will be long. Do not try to do it all in one day.”

A loud boom echoed through the Tree of Tales, and for the first time since they’d arrived, the trolls in the bleacher seats stirred. Lumbering up from where they were seated, the entire troll clan separated into four groups, filing from the room in an orderly fashion.

“What is that? What’s happening?” asked Glissa.

Drooge placed the casket back inside the cabinet and shut the door. “The Tree of Tales is under attack.”

* * * * *

Malil stood atop his personal leveler. The power of the serum still held him tightly in its grasp. The world had coalesced, and he had come back to Mirrodin just as Memnarch had told him he would. But the world to which he returned was different now. He understood better the way things worked, but that wasn’t what had changed.

Before him, arrayed and ready for battle, were nearly a hundred other levelers, each of them under his command. He looked out on them with a measure of pride. It was odd, this sensation. Many times before Malil had stood in just this place, but never once had he felt … anything.

Now his mind raced. They had tracked the elf to the Tangle, to this very tree. The leveler army had surrounded it. Malil had had the foresight to bring along two crushers-mammoths with curved horns on their heads and a single huge cylindrical wheel in front, capable of rolling over nearly anything and squashing it completely flat. In the past, he’d used these creations mostly to level human villages or flatten patches of razor grass. Now these behemoths were both assaulting the tree. Each of the artifact creatures took turns backing up and rolling forward, smashing headlong into the base of the tree. The pounding noise they made sounded musical to Malil.

The first crusher clanged into the tree again as the other pulled back for another run. The vibrating note of the last attack had almost fallen to silence when a flood of green oozed from the tree.

At first Malil thought it might be some sort of organic fluid. He had seen Memnarch bleed before, had even seen the humans and elves bleed when they were caught between the scythe blades of a leveler. Maybe this tree was bleeding.

The green fluid began to strike the levelers and the crushers, and Malil knew this was no fluid after all.

“Trolls.”

Levelers were hurled away from the advancing green tide. The crushers stopped their attack, covered by a host of trolls.

“Kill them,” shouted Malil, and the rest of the leveler army moved in, tightening the noose around the tree and the trolls.

“What we do?” shouted Slobad. “Levelers have us trapped, huh?”

“We’re going to fight,” said Glissa. She gripped the hilt of the Sword of Kaldra and took a step forward, but Drooge’s crutch bared her way.

“Your path does not lead out this door,” said the troll chieftain, indicating the arched front entrance to the tree. “It leads to the center of Mirrodin.”

“Wherever I’m supposed to go, I can’t get there if I don’t get out of this damned tree. We have to fight. We have no choice. Besides, your trolls could use the help.”

The elf pointed out to the battle raging just a few yards from them. The forest beasts had torn many of the artifact creatures to bits. Piles of metal parts littered the ground, but among them were the fallen forms of several trolls.

“My trolls can take care of themselves,” replied Drooge. “Now you must take care that you do not too easily play into Memnarch’s hands.”

“You think this army is here to find me?”

“I do not think,” replied Drooge, “I know. Now, follow me.” Despite his missing leg, Drooge moved faster than she’d ever seen a troll go, and Glissa struggled to keep up.

Glissa looked down at her sword. “Wait! Where do I find the last piece of the Kaldra Guardian?”

The troll did not turn, continuing to lead Glissa, Slobad, and Bosh from the Tree. “You must find Geth. He has what you are looking for.”

Glissa looked to Slobad. “Geth again.”

“Crazy troll can’t find ’nother shield?”

Glissa shook her head. “You’re the one who was so excited about a new artifact to tinker with.” She shrugged. “Guess we head back to the Vault of Whispers. If we’d only known last time, we could have saved ourselves a trip.”

Drooge, standing taller than any except Bosh, looked each of them in the eye then returned his stare to Glissa. “You must get to the Mephidross quickly. Do not stay here and fight, or the sacrifice of these many trolls will be in vain.”

* * * * *

Pontifex lowered his wide-headed halberd and lunged at Marek. “These are trying times, my friend.”

The vedalken elite guard commander parried the blow then countered, pushing Pontifex back a step.

“Well done,” complimented the vedalken lord. He steadied himself then began weaving his blade in a series of practiced patterns.

Marek watched the tip of the halberd as it moved through the air.

“I knew the probable outcome, but I hadn’t expected such a unanimous vote.” Pontifex continued moving his weapon, attempting to lull his opponent with its gentle motion.

“Does that really matter, my lord? If the representatives vote with one voice, there is no difference between approval from most and from all. The outcome is the same.” Marek kept his guard up.

“True, true,” replied Pontifex. He watched Marek follow the hypnotic pattern of the blade. “Still, this sort of thing could lead to very dangerous changes inside the empire.” The vedalken lord struck. His blade moved forward, but instead of moving back, following the pattern, he lunging farther, catching Marek off guard. The blade spanked off of the warrior’s shoulder pad, and Pontifex pulled back. Marek went down, trying to dodge too late.

“Well done, my lord,” said Marek, looking up at Pontifex from the ground.

Pontifex placed the butt of his weapon on the ground and extended three hands to Marek. “Thank you,” he said, and he helped the warrior back to his feet.

The two placed their halberds in a rack against the wall, and Pontifex grabbed a towel to wipe the sweat from his gleaming, bald head.

Marek scratched his chin. “Forgive my ignorance, my lord, but what sort of dangerous changes?”

Pontifex took a deep breath. “If the representatives get a real taste of power, they may try to be part of the Synod on a more regular basis. If that happens, the council will lose some if not most of its power, and that we cannot have.” The vedalken lord stood up. “Perhaps more disturbing would be the possible erosion of my authority. If the representatives think they can challenge everything I do with a vote, I will be forced to take more drastic measures. And if they are successful …” Pontifex let out a laugh. “Can you imagine the chaos that would ensue if every decision I made had to be voted upon before it could be enacted. Really! The damage caused to the empire by such a process would be an irrevocable disaster.”

A knock came at the door, interrupting the vedalken lord.

“I won’t have it,” he said to Marek in a whisper. He straightened his robes and turned to the door. “Enter.”

The door slid open. Sodador and Tyrell stepped through, followed by a third vedalken-the newest member of the Synod.

“Orland,” said Lord Pontifex, “what an unexpected surprise.”

The third member nodded then stepped forward.

Pontifex looked him over.

The vedalken had a slight build, even for his relatively frail race. His four arms were long and skinny and seemed out of proportion to his short body. Pontifex drew himself up to his full height, noting that he overtopped the man by nearly an entire head.

“Lord Pontifex,” said Orland, “it is my honor and privilege to stand before you as your equal and colleague. Thank you for allowing us an audience.”

“The pleasure is all mine,” replied Pontifex. “Please, come, sit down.” He guided the other three councilors to form-fitting, high-backed chairs surrounding a sturdy table.

When all of the men were seated, Pontifex cleared his throat. “To what do I owe the honor of your visit?”

Orland opened his mouth to speak, but Sodador cut him off. “Forgive us, Lord Pontifex, but this is official Synod business.” He looked at Marek. “Would you be so kind as to excuse the commander?”

Pontifex scowled. “Might I remind you, Sodador, that you are inside my personal chambers. Marek is an honorable man, and my trusted servant. While there are guests, I require a bodyguard.”

“Oh, please!” spat Sodador. “We are no threat to you.”

“This is official business,” interjected Tyrell. “How can we be expected to speak freely if we have an audience?”

Orland looked at Marek then turned to both Sodador and Tyrell. “Gentlemen, please. Lord Pontifex has been gracious enough to allow us into his chamber. We should respect his wishes.”

Pontifex looked at the new councilor. Perhaps this one could be of some use after all. “Thank you, Councilor Orland.” He smiled. “As you were saying?”

“Yes. We have come to you at my urging. I realize the circumstances surrounding my appointment to the Synod were unorthodox. I want to make sure that my presence in the decision-making process is not seen as an invasion.”

“My dear Orland,” Pontifex said, “whatever would make you think such preposterous things? The representatives voted in a legal assembly. The outcome is indisputable.”

Orland nodded. “Precisely, but if I were in your position, I might feel as if I’d been fooled.”

Sodador and Tyrell squirmed in their seats.

“I’ve come to you on a mission of diplomacy,” continued Orland, “to make available to you my services-as a token of my respect and dedication to the greater good of the vedalken people.”

Pontifex was puzzled. “What do you have in mind?”

Orland smiled. “Helping you catch the elf girl, of course.”