Gatecrash

CHANGES OF HEART

Emmara approached the sacred grove where Calomir had an audience with their guildmaster, Trostani. She told herself she wasn’t sneaking up on them—she simply hadn’t announced herself, and her gait was naturally quiet. She couldn’t bend minds or wrap herself in illusions as Jace could, but she had an elf’s subtle step and a good read of body language, and she knew she was not detected. And it wasn’t her intention to eavesdrop, exactly. She would stride into the grove without hiding, as any other audience with Trostani. But she put the slightest delay in her step, because she had the sense that Calomir did not share her desire for peace and unity between the guilds, and wanted to hear how their discussion was going, and how he was advising their guild leader.

It was worse than she feared.

“I recommend we send all available ranks of soldiers, at least thirty cavalry, and a contingent of woodshapers and guildmages,” Calomir was saying. “And if we can call some greater elementals, we should do that too.”

“You believe that that is the proper reaction?” asked the three dryads of Trostani. “Ever since the end of the Guildpact, we have tried to achieve a peace with the Rakdos, and our response to this incident may well determine our relationship for years to come.”

“Exactly. We have tried to achieve a peace. And how well has it worked? Our response to this incident is exactly what is at issue. We must strike back, to prove our mettle to the other guilds. We must demonstrate that we are not willing to sit by while our dignitaries suffer brazen abductions in the middle of the historic Tenth District.”

Emmara stepped into the grove. “Or we can send a dignitary out to meet them,” she said. Calomir and Trostani turned to her. “We send the very same abductee, to show them how deep our commitment to peace goes, and to impress upon this district that the Conclave represents allegiance to unity. We send a symbol of our goodwill. We send me.”

“That’s foolish and you know it,” said Calomir.

“Foolish is the Conclave marching through the streets wielding steel and spell,” she said, “surrendering our argument for peace while the other guilds are already rattling sabers over the Izzet.”

Trostani reared up to her full height, the three dryads addressing Emmara. “We have great hopes for you as an emissary of our guild’s message, Emmara. But Calomir has convinced us that no peace can be brokered with those who would destroy for destruction’s sake.”

Calomir puffed out his chest and crossed his arms.

“That’s not true,” said Emmara. “We haven’t given it a chance, not really, not since the Guildpact. We haven’t let Jace try to reach them …”

“You’ve tried to persuade the mind mage to help in this effort, but as Captain Calomir has said, his loyalties are anything but clear. He will not be part of our response. Do you understand?”

“Yes, guildmaster,” said Emmara.

“On the other hand, we will require you.” The dryads reached their arms out to Emmara. “Your skill with the nature elementals is now required. You will call to them. You will awaken them, to help Captain Calomir assemble the force he needs.”

“No. I won’t. I won’t be party to this. I won’t call a being of nature to an errand of war.”

“The guild is agreed,” said Trostani. “The Conclave has declared it so.”

Emmara started to object, but the words caught in her throat. Her shoulders fell.

“It is the will of all. Are you suggesting that your lone, individual voice should trump those of all the masses?”

“No, Guildmaster. But—”

“Good, then. Proceed. Captain Calomir shall direct your efforts as he sees fit.”

Emmara bowed to her guildmaster. When she turned to Calomir, her teeth were clamped together, as if she were biting words.

“Come with me, Miss Tandris,” said Calomir, offering his hand.

Jace tried to remember the last time he had a relaxing, tranquil day, a day at the end of which he could stretch out, knit his fingers behind his head, and sigh contentedly. Having to best a Gruul ogre warlord in single combat was dire enough, but Jace somehow had to accomplish this feat without the use of spells. If he attacked the ogre’s mind in any way, he would suffer the backlash himself. Jace wasn’t sure he even knew how to sigh contentedly.

Compared to Ruric Thar’s muscle and size, Jace had only wit on his side. He had a keen mind, and he was slow to anger. He would have to turn that into victory.

“All right, then,” Jace couldn’t believe he was saying. “We fight.”

The Gruul warriors roared in a bloodthirsty cheer.

Ruric Thar slashed overhand down at Jace with the axe arm. Jace dodged out of the way, narrowly enough to feel the wind of the cutting blade by his cheek. Ruric Thar immediately followed up with a crushing left fist, impacting with the broad side of Jace’s face. It wasn’t enough to break bone, but it sent Jace rolling across the trimmed grass of the city park.

Jace’s vision was blurred. He climbed to his knees and spat something red onto the grass. He tried to feel that he expected a blow like that, to remember that the ogre would inevitably be able to outdo him in raw strength. He felt like letting fly a torrent of the foulest curses he knew in multiple planar languages; this brawl was plainly insane. But his patient mind took over. He took a breath and blew out his anger. The circumstances were unfair, but he had to abide by the rules at hand, and win within them.

He couldn’t assail the mind—minds—of Ruric Thar, but he could observe the minds of the other Gruul warriors. He could almost read them already. They watched him intently, fists clenched in empathy. The Gruul were the underdogs of Ravnica—they felt for him.

He opened himself to it. He let their thoughts and passions flow through his consciousness, to try to study how they thought. Maybe understanding them could give him an edge against Ruric Thar.

Stop analyzing and react, one of the warriors thought.

Don’t think, you damned fool, thought another. Civilization taught you wrong. Let go of it all! Just hit him!

Their thoughts roared in his mind. They were barely even thoughts. Jace felt overrun by a stampede of unstrategic, impulsive, carnivorous instincts. He needed to understand that, to dissect the secret behind it, and use it.

Jace rushed at Ruric Thar. The ogre swung his axe-arm, but the angle was sloppy, and the blade only glanced off of Jace’s shoulder and tore his cloak. Jace’s knuckles slammed into his target, a sensitive spot in the underarm, and then he aimed for the kidney twice. The ogre reacted with an elbow, sending Jace careening.

Jace sat on the park grass again, his wounds thudding.

Stop holding yourself back, thought one of the warriors. Let the roar come out!

Thinking is getting your face mashed in, thought another. Feel! Uncage yourself!

Jace let it all in, combining the minds of all the warriors into a ring of fury with him as its center. His ribcage pounded and his lungs burned. He could hear the urgings of the warriors in his mind. They thought that in order to beat a Gruul warrior, he needed to think like one—or not think like one. They wanted him to surrender his mind, to let the rage wash over him and overwhelm his logic.

But he had a better idea.

Jace focused on the imagery in the minds of the spectators around him. They weren’t just radiating raw fury and bloodlust—they were imagining how they would attack Ruric Thar if they were in Jace’s place. They were a barrage of combat ideas. Jace let the punches and rolls and throws swirl around him, choreographing an attack plan.

Jace somersaulted at Ruric Thar and grabbed at a leg, clamping onto it. The ogre tried to shake him off, but he bit the thin-skinned area behind the knee, ripping tissue with his teeth. Ruric and Thar roared and kicked Jace off their leg.

More of the Gruul’s battle imagery poured into Jace. He darted back and forth, relying on the warriors’ split-second assessments of the fight to guide him. Ruric Thar swung intermittently with fist and axe, but Jace sensed the impulses of the warriors, and used their unintended warnings to dodge out of the way in time. Ruric Thar was not fighting just Jace, but all of his war party at once. Jace was letting the warriors beat the ogre for him.

When the ogre overcommitted to a lunge, a desperate move flashed in one of the warrior’s minds, and Jace executed what he saw. He leapt onto the ogre’s bowed shoulder and, using a huge tusk for leverage, clambered up onto his back. Jace’s cloak came loose, so he threw the hood over the head of Ruric, the side with the axe. Then, hanging onto Ruric’s head, he beat his fist onto Thar’s cheekbone, as the Gruul’s minds urged—once, twice, three times.

The ogre’s axe flailed, apparently controlled by the head that couldn’t see. The free arm grabbed Jace by the hair, and pulled. But Jace hung on, focused on pummeling Thar’s increasingly bruised and puffy face.

When the axe blade came arcing toward Jace, he didn’t see it, but he felt it through the reactions of the Gruul onlookers. He leapt off of Ruric Thar, landing on his face, but in one piece, on the park lawn.

Jace heard a truncated yelp. Jace recovered and turned back to see the ogre’s own axe blade embedded a few cringe-inducing inches into the top of Thar’s bald head. The ogre held his breath, frozen in uncertainty, both sets of eyes looking up at the axe-arm that had missed Jace and hit Thar.

Thar began to hyperventilate through his teeth.

“You win,” said Ruric, pulling Jace’s cloak away and wincing.

Jace collapsed with relief. The Gruul warriors cheered.

Ruric Thar pulled gingerly with his axe arm, and the blade came free from the left head with a sickening wet sound. He clapped his hand on the wound and slumped heavily to the ground. Both of the ogre’s faces winced as blood trickled out from between his thick fingers, and his breathing was heavy.

Jace broke his connection to the minds of the other Gruul warriors. Their current of battle-obsessed thoughts began to ebb from his mind.

One of the Gruul compatriots, an extensively tattooed man with hair and beard that resembled coarse beaver fur, approached Ruric Thar and began murmuring a shamanic spell. The shaman’s outstretched hands trembled like windblown leaves, and pale light issued from his forearms and swirled around Ruric’s wound. The ogre kept his hand pressed on his head wound, but the bleeding stopped.

“You have some Gruul in you,” said Thar, between heavy breaths.

“Not as much as you might think,” said Jace. “So now, you’ll let your guard down, so I can find what I came for?”

“As you wish,” said Thar.

The ogre took a deep lungful of air, and let it out, closing their eyes. They nodded slightly.

Jace carefully cast his mind out to the ogre, letting his thoughts seep in slowly. He chose Thar first. As his mental senses began to perceive Thar’s thoughts, Jace felt no backlash, so he moved in deeper.

The ogre’s mind was like a museum of prizefights. Thar remembered triumph after triumph in battle, how his axe cleaved through this Gruul upstart or how he wrung the neck of that Orzhov cartel boss. It was an emotional landscape rather than a deliberative one, built on fervor and violence and laughing in the faces of the defeated. This was to be expected, but it made it harder for Jace to locate information about the maze.

He found nothing. Thar had no recollection of anything that Jace might have been researching at the time he lost his memories. Maybe this was all a mistake, a hunch that went nowhere.

He moved over to Ruric instead. Ruric’s mind, under some understandable surface-level shame of the duel with Jace, was also a timeline of clan battles and Azorius head-butts and street brawls with Rakdos hoodlums. Ruric was, if anything, even more savage, more nonverbal and instinctual. Ruric, too, remembered nothing of Jace’s research. Jace’s thoughts must not have transferred into the ogre.

That was it. That was his last lead.

“I don’t understand,” said Ral. “We divined everything. That mage’s research was the last key to the puzzle. We traveled the route, just like the code said to. But there was nothing. Just an old forum.”

“The Forum of Azor,” said Niv-Mizzet, after swallowing the remains of an underling.

When Ral had entered the aerie at Nivix, the dragon guildmaster had been eating a crunchy-sounding Izzet mage, a new recruit who couldn’t seem to comprehend the dynamic properties of mizzium. Ral was so preoccupied with the failure of the maze that he barely noticed one of his Izzet compatriots being devoured.

“Nothing changed,” said Ral. “The mana braids were stable. The atmospheric energy was strong, but remained constant. I expected fireworks.”

“We expected power,” said the dragon. “But there was none. What does this tell you?”

“We didn’t miss anything.”

“Obviously you did.”

“But what?” Ral remembered how little Niv-Mizzet liked to be questioned, and lowered his head. “Great Firemind, what insight do you possess?”

Niv-Mizzet inhaled deeply, and when he exhaled, flames spread out from his jaws, licking around the scales of his muzzle. Even from where he stood, Ral could feel the heat of the dragonfire.

“I have been thinking of the Implicit Maze as a test,” the dragon said. “And a test indeed it is. But it is not a test for one. It is not simply a puzzle of the mind. Do you know why?”

Ral knitted his fingers. Static electricity leaped between his digits. “Of course. Because we have to walk the route. But I did that.”

“And that accomplished nothing. Look deeper. What is the purpose of the Implicit Maze?”

“It protects great power.”

“Indeed it does.”

“And we have to find out what that power is.”

“Of course, but what it is has everything to do with how it is protected. What is missing across Ravnica right now? What conspicuous absence has come about only in recent times?”

“I don’t know.”

“Think of it this way: What existed between the guilds that no longer binds them?”

“The Guildpact?”

“Precisely! Do you not see? Harmony between the guilds was enforced by the magical contract of the Guildpact. But the Guildpact has been sundered, and the guilds are able to clash again—and not just in words, but in violence. In war. Do you find it a coincidence that the maze has surfaced now?”

“The mana braids,” whispered Ral. “The mana paths through the districts. They had never manifested until recently. And that led us to the code in the stonework, which led us to the path through all the guildgates. But what does all of that have to do with the Guildpact?”

Niv-Mizzet blew jets of smoke. “Come now, Zarek! I’ve laid it all out for you! It’s the purpose of the maze that is paramount. It is not a test of discovery. Why test our ability to discover? What would that accomplish?”

Ral protested. “What do you mean? Discovery is everything!”

“Ah, but do not think as an Izzet. Think as its creators did. We have learned the secrets of the maze, and we have tried many routes. But that got us nothing. That is because the maze is not designed to test our explorations, our experiments, our ingenuity. Those who devised it did not value these things as we do. The maze is a test of something else.”

Thoughts swirled in Ral’s mind. He was trying, and failing, to put the pieces together.

Niv-Mizzet bent down suddenly, his head looming before Ral. “Your time is up, Zarek! I told you to find the mage, the mage who touched my mind—and instead you run the maze yourself?”

“W-we don’t need him,” Ral stammered.

“You think we don’t, and yet your puny mind has not even deduced what all of this is for. Perhaps you’re only of use to me as my next meal.”

Bolts of intuition flashed in Ral’s mind. If what Niv-Mizzet was saying was true, then the Implicit Maze was not a way to reward the brightest mage on Ravnica, or its cleverest guild. And yet it was meant to be found, and found only at the proper time.

“The only reason we found evidence of the maze now,” said Ral, “is because it’s related to the Guildpact. It was created to be revealed in case the Guildpact dissolved. So … it’s a device, in some fashion. Activated by a disruption in the Guildpact. It’s a failsafe.”

The dragon’s chest puffed with pride. “That was my conclusion, yes.”

“So … it must be as old as the Guildpact. It traces back to the paruns.”

“Azor, judging by the code you found. The founder of the Azorius Senate.”

The Azorius, Ral thought. The guild of order and logic. Those who believed that law was the foundation of order. And the maze terminated in the Forum of Azor.

“So if it was created by the Azorius … then it wasn’t a way to assess our ingenuity. To truly solve it, we have to do something else. We have to do what Azor would have valued.”

Of course the founder of the Azorius Senate, the ancient Azor, would have tried to foster an atmosphere of peaceful collaboration.

“So … in order to solve the maze, we will have to, what, cooperate with the other guilds?”

The dragon sat back, and his lips pulled away from his teeth in a glistening, draconic smile. “Not exactly.”

An Izzet messenger appeared at the door of Niv-Mizzet’s aerie. “Pardon the intrusion, Great Firemind,” she said.

“Yes? What is it?”

“You wanted to be informed if there were any major guild conflicts.”

“And?”

The messenger looked shaken. “It’s as bad as we’ve ever seen. And potentially about to get much worse.”

Niv-Mizzet drew back his wings and looked down at Ral Zarek. “Let’s depart. It’s time we made a little announcement.”