The Darksteel Eye (8 page)

Bosh poked at the wound on his arm. “I am still a golem.”

“Yes, you’re still a golem, but now you are …” Glissa fished around for the right word.

“Fleshy,” finished the goblin.

Glissa glared at rumpled green creature. “You’re not helping, Slobad.” She turned back to Bosh, watching the metal man poke and prod at the blotch of skin that was now part of his frame. She took a deep breath and threw her arms in the air. “Now you’re just more like me.”

Bosh stopped his examination and turned his attention on the elf. “Like you?”

“I guess so. I mean, I’m mostly flesh, but look.” She held up her leg, tracing the line between where her shin stopped and the metal plate that grew from her skin began. “We live in a metal world. The ground, the trees, even the grass is made of the stuff.”

“So are golems,” interjected Bosh.

“Yes, and so are golems. Even so, with everything else made of metal, maybe it’s not so bad to be a little ‘fleshy.’ ”

*  *  *  *  *

“Damn this flesh body.” Memnarch lifted himself from his serum infusion device. “Why is Memnarch cursed with such imperfection?”

Malil stood by the door, waiting out another of his master’s tirades.

“But with the elf, yes, with the elf, Memnarch will be metal again.” He crossed to the scrying pool. “No. Memnarch will not be metal. Memnarch will be better than metal.” The guardian shuffled across the floor of his laboratory, shaking his head. “No. No. That is foolish. There is no such thing. Is not that right, Malil?”

“What’s right, Master?”

Memnarch lifted himself away from the scrying pool, turning his whole body toward his servant. “Have you not been following what we have been telling you? How do you expect to learn if you do not listen to us?”

“I have been listening, Master, but I must confess, I do not completely understand.”

“Memnarch understands enough for the both of us.”

“Yes, Master.”

“The Creator understands enough for all three of us and worlds beyond.”

“The Creator, Master?”

Memnarch scowled. “Yes, the Creator.”

“I apologize, Master, but you were my creator. I know no other.”

Memnarch nodded. “Yes, yes. His mind is too weak to
understand us. No. No. Memnarch will educate him.” The Guardian gazed into his pedestal.

“Educate who, Master?”

“Do not be obtuse, Malil. You know full well who we are talking about.”

Malil didn’t but went along anyway. “Yes, Master.”

“That is better. Now, let us start with what you
do
know.” Memnarch looked at Malil. “What do you know?”

“I know many things, Master.”

“Yes, yes, but what do you know about the elf?”

“I know that she came from the Tangle and she has something you want.” Malil stopped there. He knew other things, but they seemed inconsequential at the moment.

“What does she have that we want?”

Malil shifted in place. “I’m sorry, Master, but I’m afraid I do not understand what it is that she has.”

Memnarch shook his finger. “It is enough that you know what we want, not why. For our sake, and the sake of Memnarch’s boredom, we shall explain.” The guardian ambled over to the long window and looked down on the interior of Mirrodin. “Come, Malil. Look out the window.”

Malil did as he was told.

“Tell Memnarch what you see.”

Malil looked out over the verdigris ground, the chrome spires, and the blue-white mana core. “I see Mirrodin.”

“Yes, yes, but what is Mirrodin?”

Malil focused on the ground then on the sky. He followed the path of a leveler as it made its way toward Panopticon, then he shook his head. “I don’t understand, master.”

Memnarch put his hand on the metal man’s shoulder. “We will tell you what Mirrodin is. Mirrodin is perfection. Mirrodin is the creation of divinity. It is the work of a god.”

Malil didn’t fully understand, but he felt it was in his best interest to keep that information to himself.

“What is our job here on Mirrodin?”

“To do the Master’s will,” replied Malil.

“Precisely.” The Guardian turned away from the window. “Memnarch is the protector of divinity. We are the keeper of all that you see below and all that is above.” Memnarch hung his head. “Despite that great responsibility, the honor we have been given, Memnarch is still not satisfied.”

“Why, Master?”

Memnarch looked own at his arms. “Memnarch is imperfect. Yes, it is true. We do not understand it. It was not always this way. No. No. Something happened. Something that changed Mirrodin made perfection imperfect.” Memnarch shook his head. “Mirrodin was Memnarch’s responsibility. To guard and care for the creator’s plane. Despite our best efforts, a plague has stolen past Memnarch and taken root inside of Mirrodin.”

“The elf girl, master? Is she responsible?”

“No, Malil. The elf girl is not responsible, but she can help us cure the plague.” Memnarch stroked the hard scared skin on his fleshy arms. “She provides the key to making us perfect again.” He looked up at Malil, and his eyes narrowed. “She can make Memnarch just like Malil—all metal and perfect—but so much more.”

Malil was confused. “Why would Master wish to be like Malil?”

Memnarch scuttled across the floor over to his servant. His four spindly limbs lifted him high above the ground, and he had to bend down to see eye to eye with Malil. Memnarch touched the metal man’s face, ran his finger over his metallic arm, then stepped back.

“We will show you.” Memnarch lifted a vial of opalescent
liquid from a pouch on his belt. He handed it to the metal man. “Drink this.”

“Drink the serum, Master?”

Memnarch nodded. “Yes.”

Malil lifted the stopper from the vial. Swirling it around, he watched the thick substance adhere to the sides of the vessel, clinging as if it were trying to climb to the top and escape over the edge. Instead it sank back down into the vial, sticking to the edges where it had clung, slowly slipping back down to collect in a pool at the bottom.

“Go on,” urged the Guardian.

Malil thought back on all the times he’d seen his master infuse himself with the serum. He thought of the massive containment tanks Memnarch wore and the pressured containers attached to the infusion device on the opposite end of the lab. What he held before him was an insignificant amount in relation to what Memnarch ingested several times a day—a tiny raindrop in comparison to his master’s Quicksilver Sea.

The metal man placed the vial to his lips then lifted the end into the air. The thick liquid rolled across his tongue and down the back of his throat. The sensation was odd. He was unused to eating or drinking as the organic creatures did. He had no need. What was more, he had no idea where the liquid would go or what it would do.

It hit him. A sudden rush of power flooded through his body, and he felt stronger. He looked at Memnarch. His master was gazing at him with great interest, intently watching for something. Then the light in the room seemed to grow brighter. It was as if someone were turning up the lights, over and over again. The light did not diminish, but it never became unbearably bright. Still, Malil could have sworn that the room was constantly getting brighter.

The edges of the tables and beakers became sharper, more clear. The experiments lining the desks and table made more sense to him, their purpose more evident and desired results more useful. The whole world made more sense to the metal man, and he smiled. So this was why his master ingested blinkmoth serum.

In the next second, the world expanded. Nothing inside was as Malil remembered. It was as if he’d left Mirrodin altogether. Where once there was a scrying pool, now there was a towering geyser. Where Memnarch’s infusion device had been now stood a grotesque, metallic juggernaut with long curved tusks and gaping, wide eyes. The creature watched Malil, curious but unconcerned about the metal man’s well-being. Where the windows of the observatory looked out over the interior of the plane were now only swirling colors and lights. It had all become one connected, living breathing creature that refused to take shape or be defined by those who viewed it.

The spike of power and enhanced mental capacity had pushed Malil into a new arena, one that he had never before seen. It was a place so out of control and ominously large that Malil feared for his own life. He hadn’t chosen to come here. In this place everything made sense. It was all connected, everything working in concert to become so much more than the sum of each of its parts. In that moment, Malil realized how terrifyingly little he actually knew.

He had traveled all over Mirrodin, but he hadn’t even scratched the surface.

Dropping to his knees, the metal man curled up, holding his legs to his chest.

“Please,” he said. “Help me understand.”

The gargantuan Memnarch crossed the room, no longer walking but stretching his body so that he encompassed the
space between where he had been and where he was now.

“Now that you have tasted Memnarch’s burden,” said the Guardian, placing his hand upon Malil’s shoulder, “you can never go back. We are sad for you. With true understanding comes the lose of innocence. Funny thing perfection. Only the imperfect can see it for what it truly is, and those who possess it are too blind to appreciate it.”

Malil reached out to Memnarch. “Master, please help me.”

Memnarch chuckled. “You will understand, Malil. Trust us. You will be fine.”

*  *  *  *  *

Pontifex rose through the Pool of Knowledge aided by a simple magic enchantment that propelled him effortlessly toward the surface. He did not have to hold his breath. Vedalken had developed gills that could not only remove oxygen and nitrogen from not only water but nearly any liquid—even liquids as thick as blinkmoth serum.

His head breached the surface as he reached the inner sanctum inside Lumengrid.

“What in the name of the Creator happened here?”

Lieutenant Marek stepped to the edge of the pool and extended his hand. “The human warriors from Medev, Lord Pontifex.”

Pontifex reached up and took hold of Marek’s hand, lifting himself from the pool in a practiced motion. “The humans happened?”

“No,” replied the lieutenant. “A fight happened. The humans caused it.”

Pontifex looked straight into Marek’s helmet. “What happened to you?”

Marek put his hand to his face shield, partially covering a crack in the glass. “It’s … It’s nothing.”

“I didn’t ask you what it was, I asked you what happened. I’m not playing word games here, Marek, I’m trying to ascertain what went on in my absence.”

“Of course, my lord.” Marek stood to his full height, straightening his back. “We encountered the elf and her companions in the lacuna, but they managed to pass us.” He pointed to the crack in his helmet. “This is a result of that encounter.”

The halberd in Pontifex’s hand glowed a deep blue, and the vedalken lord blew out a breath, forming bubbles inside his face mask. After a moment, he began pacing, tapping the end of his weapon on the floor as he walked.

“You can give me the details later, but tell me this: How long ago did they get away, and have you sent someone after them already?”

“When I arrived, they were already gone. That was nearly an hour ago.” Marek lifted his chin. “I formed a sky glider team, and they will be leaving in pursuit shortly.”

Pontifex tapped his fingers on the glass of his face mask. “Call back the gliders.”

“My lord?”

“Call them back,” snapped Pontifex. “We will go after her in due time.”

Marek nodded. “As you command.”

Pontifex smiled. “Good, Marek.” He placed a finger on the crack in the lieutenant’s mask. “I’m glad you’re all right. Give the orders then go get this fixed up and meet me in my chambers. I have something I would care to discuss with you.”

*  *  *  *  *

Pontifex paced in his chambers. The damn elf had gotten away from him, but it was no matter. He would get her. He would find her, and he would deliver her to Memnarch. For now, there were other matters to take care of, matters a little closer to home.

A knock came at the door.

“Enter.”

The door to Pontifex’s private chamber slid open, and Marek entered. The commander of the vedalken elite guardsmen had removed his helmet and was now dressed in simple, functional robes. A sterile-looking bandage covered his forehead—an almost imperceptible dot of blue blood staining its surface—but otherwise the warrior appeared unfazed by his earlier ordeal.

Marek went down to one knee, bowing his head.

“Lord Pontifex.”

The vedalken leader admired the supine warrior’s neck.

“Rise, Marek. Do you have word of the Synod? Have they managed to enact a ‘Special Assembly’?”

“I do not mean to be presumptuous, Lord Pontifex, but wouldn’t you rather hear about the elf girl?”

Pontifex smiled. “All in good time, Marek, all in good time. Right now, I’m more concerned with the other council members. They will not be pleased that a human, the elf, and her companions marched into our fortress—into our holiest shrine, and entered the Pool of Knowledge.” Pontifex crossed the room, his woven metallic robes grinding against the polished floor. “They will try to hold me responsible.”

“My lord, you are the head of the Synod. Surely you can convince them that you—that we did our best to capture the elf and—”

Pontifex cut him off with a wave of his hand. “What you say makes sense, Marek, but I’m afraid there is much you have to
learn about the politics of rulership.” He touched the warrior on the arm. “Despite our best efforts, there are those who will point to this event as evidence that I am not fit to rule the Synod. They will try to use it to their advantage. This ‘Special Assembly’ the other councilors are calling is nothing more than a grab for power. Anything they perceive as a weapon, including the escape of the elf girl, will be used.” He looked into Marek’s eyes, nodding his head. “Power has just shifted hands. At no time after this will my grip on the Synod be less secure. The other councilors are smart enough to recognize this, and they will not hesitate to make a move with whatever means are at their disposal. Do you understand?”