"Phyrexians?"
"Other planeswalkers. I told you, they-we-can become predatory, especially toward the newly sparked. I was nearly taken myself in the beginning-Meshuvel was her name. She was no threat to me. My eyes reveal sights no other 'walker can see. Until Serra, I avoided my own kind. They had no part to play in my quest for vengeance. I'd been thinking about 'walkers since leaving Serra's realm. I thought I might need someone more like myself."
"But they died."
"Manatarqua died. I suspect the others escaped unharmed, as I did. They prey on the young and the mortal because a mature 'walker is no easy target. But I had made up my mind almost from the start. I don't need another "walker. I need you. To finally realize that and then feel you die so soon afterward-it was almost enough to make me worship the fickle gods."
Xantcha imagined Urza on his knees or in a temple. She closed her eyes and laughed. He was gone when she reopened them, and she was too stiff yet to climb through the window. Her saner self insisted that Urza wouldn't abandon her, not after sitting beside her for two years, not after
what he'd just said about needing her. Then this world's sun passed beyond the window. Sanity's voice grew weaker as shadows lengthened. Of all the ways Xantcha knew to die, starvation was among the worst. She had dragged herself to the window and was hauling herself over the sill when she felt a breeze at her back. The breeze was thick with fresh bread, roasted meat, and fruit. Urza had returned.
He called the meal a celebration and ate with her, at least until a more ordinary sort of tiredness drove Xantcha back to the bed where she'd lain for so long. She awoke with the sun. There was a door beside the window, more food and, somewhere beyond the sun, near the edge of time, a world called Equilor.
Later, after they'd gotten to Dominaria, when Xantcha sorted through her memories, the largest pile belonged to the years they had searched for Equilor. Every season, for much more than a thousand Dominarian years, she and Urza wandered the multi-verse, taking other worlds' measure. There were surprises and excitement, mostly of the minor variety. After Serra's realm, Phyrexia seemed to lose interest in them-or, at least, had lost their trail. Though they sometimes found evidence of searcher-priests and excavations. Eventually, everything they found was long abandoned.
"I'm headed in the right direction," Urza would say whenever they came upon eroded ruins no one else would have noticed. "I'm headed toward the world that cast them out."
Xantcha was never so confident, but she never understood how Urza found anything in the between-worlds, much less how he distinguished hospitable worlds from inhospitable ones, near from far. She was content to follow a path that led endlessly away from the Phyrexia she knew and toward the vengeance that seemed equally distant. Until the day when they came to a quiet, twilight world.
"The edge of time itself," Urza said as he released Xantcha's wrists.
She shed her armor and filled her lungs with air that was unlike any other. "Old," she said after a few moments. "It's as if everything's finished-not dead, just done growing and changing. Even the mountains are smoothed down, like they've been standing too long, but nothing's come to replace them." She gestured toward the great, dark lump that dominated the landscape like a risen loaf of bread. "Somehow, I expected an edge to have sharp angles."
Urza nodded. "I expected a plane where everything had been put to use, not like this, neglected and left fallow."
Yet not completely fallow. As twilight deepened, lights winked open near the solitary mountain. There was a road, too: a ribbon of worn gray stone, cut in chevrons and fitted so precisely that not a blade of grass grew between them. Urza insisted he had no advance idea of what a new plane was like, no way at all of selecting the exact place where his feet would touch the ground, yet, more often than not, he 'walked out of the between-worlds in sight of a road and a town.
They began to travel down the road.
A carpet of bats took flight from the mountain, passing
directly over their heads. When their shrill chirping had subsided, other noises punctuated the night: howls, growls and a bird with a sweet, yet mournful song. Stars appeared, unfamiliar, of course, and scattered sparsely across the clear, black sky. No moon outshone them, but it was the nature of moons to produce moonless nights now and again. What surprised Xantcha was the scarcity of stars, as if time were stars and the black sky were itself the edge of time.
"A strange place," Xantcha decided as they strode down the road. "Not ominous or inhospitable, but filled with secrets."
"So long as one of them is Phyrexia, I won't care about the rest."
The light came from cobweb globes hovering above the road and the three-score graceful houses of an unfortified town. Urza lifted himself into the air to examine them and reported solemnly that he had not a clue to their construction or operation.
"They simply are," he said, "and my instinct is to leave them alone."
Xantcha smiled to herself. If that was Urza's instinct then whatever the globes were, they weren't simple.
A man came out to meet them. He appeared ordinary enough, though Xantcha understood how deceptive an ordinary appearance could be, and it bothered her that she hadn't noticed him leave any one of the nearby houses, hadn't noticed him at all until he was some fifty paces ahead and walking toward them. He wore a knee-length robe over loose trousers, both woven from a pale, lightweight fiber that rippled as he moved and sparkled as if it were shot with silver. His hair and beard were dark auburn in the globe light and neatly trimmed. A few wrinkles creased the outer corners of his eyes. Xantcha placed him in the prime of mortal life, but she'd place Urza there, too.
"Welcome, Urza," the stranger said. "Welcome to Equilor. We've been waiting for you."
CHAPTER 20
Xantcha had understood every word the auburn-haired man had said, an unprecedented happening on a new world. She dug deep into her memory trying to recognize the language and missed the obvious: the stranger spoke Argivian, the sounds of Urza's long-lost boyhood and of her newtish dreams, the foundation of the argot she and Urza spoke to each other. But if this were Dom-inaria, then Urza would have recognized the stars, and if the stranger were another 'walker with the power to absorb languages without time or effort, then why had he said, We've been waiting?
The stranger touched his forehead, lips, and heart before embracing Urza, cheek against cheek. Urza bent into the gesture, as he would not have done if he were suspicious.
"And you're ... Xantcha."
The stranger turned his attention to her. He'd hesitated before stating her name. Taking it from her mind? Not unless he were much better at such things than Urza was; she'd felt no violation. Once again the stranger touched himself three times before embracing her exactly as
he'd embraced Urza. His hands were warm, with the texture of flesh and bone. His breath was warm, too, and faintly redolent of onions.
"Waiting for us?" Urza demanded before asking the stranger's name or any other pleasantry. "Before sunset I was elsewhere, very much elsewhere. And until now, I did not know for certain that I had found the place I have been seeking for so long."
"Yes, waiting," the stranger insisted, keeping one hand beneath Xantcha's elbow and guiding Urza toward one of the houses with the other. "You 'walk the planes. We have been aware of your approach for quite some time now. It is good to have you here at last."