Jess Lebow - The Darksteel Eye

The Guardian’s observatory loomed up before Pontifex, and he eased off on his grip, bringing the hoverer coasting to a stop at the base of Panopticon. The gleaming fortress was a sight. Its polished chrome surface reflected the blue-white light of the mana core. The sharp corners where the walls came together intensified that light, bursting forth with a million tiny stars that were so bright they were painful to look at.

To Pontifex, the most impressive things about the tower’s exterior were its perfect lines and unwavering straightness. Panopticon rose into the air nearly to the same height as the mana core, yet its walls were unmarked by blemishes, bends, dents or even seams. The whole fortress was perfectly straight, with no signs of wear, no indication that its gargantuan frame was made from anything but a single, contiguous piece of metal. Its structural perfection was astounding.

Pontifex pulled himself away from the sight and stepped through the portal.

Inside, the tower seemed eerily quiet. The regular humming of levelers and other beasts was noticeably absent, and the silence unnerved Pontifex. As he stepped onto the lift, he was grateful for its whirring and buzzing.

The vedalken lord traversed the observation room, wound up the spiral walk, and reached for the blood-red crystal in the pedestal. Before he touched it, the door opened. Pontifex took a deep breath, straightened, and entered the chamber.

“What can we do for you, Pontifex,” said Memnarch.

“My lord,” he replied, dropping to the floor to bow.

“Please, spare us the irritation of listening to you mumble into the floor. Get up off your knees.”

Pontifex looked up at Memnarch. The Guardian was standing before him, gazing down intently with all six of his enhanced eyes, each now covered in a dark blue lens. Pontifex nodded and stood up.

“Thank you.”

“Now what brings the vedalken lord to see Memnarch?”

Pontifex had rehearsed a speech, but standing here, before the Guardian of Mirrodin, his words failed him. Somewhere his relationship with Memnarch had gone awry. He couldn’t pinpoint the moment in time when Malil had interceded, taking away from Pontifex the attention of his god. Nonetheless it had happened, and though he ruled the vedalken empire and was the father figure to an entire race of people, right now, before this divine being whom he loved with all of his heart, Pontifex felt like a child.

“I … I …” stuttered the vedalken. He looked up into Memnarch’s eyes. “I have come to ask for your blessing.”

“You want Memnarch’s blessing? For what?”

“To seek the elf girl.”

Memnarch shook his head. “We do not understand. Have we not already charged you with finding her and bringing her to Memnarch?”

“Yes, my lord, you have.”

“What is the problem?”

Pontifex closed his eyes, unable to look the Guardian in the face. “You have sent your servant Malil to find her.”

“Yes, Memnarch has sent Malil to capture the elf girl,” affirmed the Guardian.

Pontifex, his eyes still closed, took a deep breath. The fear he had so many times before conquered now gripped his chest, threatening to hold him back, keep him from saying what he needed to. Finally, he spoke.

“Does Memnarch not believe I can catch the elf?”

Memnarch placed a hand on the vedalken’s shoulder, and Pontifex opened his eyes.

“We understand.”

The vedalken lord smiled. Only after hearing these words did he realize how tense he was. His shoulders were near his ears. His heart was racing, and his four armpits were damp with sweat.

“Memnarch needs the elf girl before the green lacuna,” continued the Guardian. “You and Malil must look for her at the same time.”

Pontifex nodded.

“It is a simple matter of mathematics,” explained Memnarch.

“But-”

The Guardian cut him off. “There is no room for pride here, Pontifex. We must have the elf girl.”

“Why is she so important?”

Memnarch turned and pointed out the window. “Can you see the disease growing within Mirrodin?”

“Disease?”

“We can. We see the degradation of perfection.” The Guardian sidled over to the window. “Come.”

Pontifex followed.

“Can you see the mycosynth?”

“Of course.”

“Do you know what causes these blemishes?”

Pontifex thought for a moment. “Why do you call them that?”

“Because that is what they are. They were not here when Mirrodin was created.”

“No?”

“No, indeed. At first we thought they were no more than a little tarnish, nothing that a good polishing could not fix, but they have grown to what you see now. Towering monoliths of disease. They are a symptom of Mirrodin’s sickness.”

Pontifex had always thought of the mycosynth as something much like the trees in the Tangle or the razor grasses of the plains. They were simply part of the plan. But if they weren’t … The vedalken lord followed back the path he had taken from the blue Lacuna to Panopticon. It was littered with mycosynth.

A chill ran up his spine.

“So the mycosynth are killing Mirrodin?”

“Yes. Yes.”

“What does this have to do with the elf girl?”

“She has something we need. Something inside her,” explained Memnarch. “We must have it.”

“What does the elf girl have, my lord?”

“A piece of divinity,” said Memnarch, not looking away from the window. “A gateway to another plane of existence. Memnarch wishes to cross over, to acquire this gateway.”

“You wish to procreate with her, my lord?”

“No, Pontifex,” scolded the Guardian. “We wish to make her part of our being. To use her to become more.”

The vedalken’s jaw dropped. “Please, my lord, I beg you. Take me.”

“What?” Memnarch turned to glare at Pontifex.

Pontifex dropped to his knees. “Please. You must. I will do anything. I will sacrifice myself and all of the vedalken on Mirrodin if that is what it takes.” He grasped at his god’s crablike legs. “I am ready. My Guardian. Use me. Make me part of your being.”

Memnarch stepped back, and Pontifex fell forward, landing on his belly without the Guardian’s limb for support.

The Guardian looked down with a disgusted look on his face. “For all that you vedalkens cherish knowledge,” he said, “you have such a limited understanding of how things work.”

Pontifex let his forehead rest on the ground. His world was crumbling. First the Synod and now his god had lost faith in him.

Glissa was surprised by the speed at which the leveler made it through the trees. The heavy underbrush was making it difficult for her to run. She very nearly fell flat on her face a number of times. It seemed ages since she’d been on a hunting party.

Even with her rusty recollection of how to move through the Tangle, she kept up a good pace. How then could this leveler outpace her?

Deeper and deeper into the mass of metal trees they flew. As the canopy grew thicker, Glissa had been forced to let Bosh fall behind. He could take care of himself. Slobad was a different matter.

For the past several minutes, Glissa had been steadily losing ground, relying on long clearings to give her a glimpse of where the metallic beast was heading. Here, though, near the deep center of the forest, such clearings were few and far between. The elf wondered if she’d lost the trail.

Leaping over a stump and ducking around a tangled bramble of razor vines, Glissa stopped to listen. Closing her eyes, she slowly isolated all the sounds around her, tuning them out one by one as she had done while hunting with the other elves. The sounds of wind and rustling foliage went first. Then the scampering of vermin and small game. With an uncanny accuracy, Glissa pinpointed two larger creatures within just a few yards from where she was standing. From what she could tell, one was a vorac, walking on three legs with a limp. The other-