Duel of the Gemini

Prologue & Intruder

Orzhova spread out like a jewel in the crown that was the city of Ravnica. All around the Great Temple stained-glass windows shone in the light of the full moon, while stone statues of long-dead angels casted shadows on the gleaming marble floors. Trappings such as these reflected the remorseless opulence that thrived at the very heart of the Orzhov guild, the promise of glory and wealth to all those with the power and greed to obtain them. In the silence of the deserted hall, a dark figure cursed the day he had first decided to come here. He cursed the man who had changed his fate, and caused him to question everything in which he had come to believe. Most of all, he cursed the memory of the woman he had failed to protect.
Born on a world where magic flourished, Sorin Markov was a master in the uses of mana: the magical energy that fuelled the casting of spells. He understood well the delicate balance of the five colours and had learned by heart the legends of the first Planewalkers, known as the Originals: Ajani the Eternal, Jace the Mind-Sculptor, Liliana the Demon-Born, Chandra the Rage and Garruk the Hunter. When his own Planeswalker spark had ignited and he joined the ranks of those that could jump freely between the worlds – to see all, know all and live infinite lives to learn it all – not once did he stop to question the reasons for his gift. He was grateful only for the allegiance to Black mana, which suited well his lust for power. Now, he resented the ability to wield magic with renewed passion.
In recent decades, Planeswalkers had emerged with powers drawing from two of the five colours. Sorin was grateful not to be among them. Such magic had for millennia been practiced by lesser mages, but never at the levels of the Planeswalkers. These beings, while immensely powerful, were widely rumoured to be tormented, even deranged. Some were said to be driven mad by the conflict between the two manas they commanded. The greater the opposition between the two colours, the quicker the descent into madness, or so the legends told, but never had a Planeswalker commanded the two most divergent manas: White and Black. Here, in the Temple of the Orzhov, the seat of worship for that very union, such a being would be a God. In his heart, Sorin feared the kind of being that God would be.  

*****

Passing silently down the ghostly halls, shrouded in the darkness of the new moon, beneath the gaze of grotesque statues of twisted angels and ancient patriarchs, Sorin Markov couldn’t help but pause to savour his surroundings. Orzhova was a spalling city-state of cathedrals, marble squares and grand courtrooms, its colossal expanse dwarfed only by the planet-wide metropolis of Ravnica itself. At its heart rested the jewel of the plane’s highest holy order: The Church of Deals. Despite the stench of White mana, the great church was inherently dark. Powerful Black mana filled the long halls, magic which suited well the dark forces that had long possessed his soul. At night, the darkness did more than just define the Church, it consumed it, forcing the White influence out beyond the reach of its towering spires and stained glass.
Just for a moment, Sorin abandoned the necessity for absolute silence and allowed himself the privilege of a slow deep breath, a few seconds to calm his heightened senses and look inward. This was not the first time he had snuck into the Church after nightfall, and it was in these moments that he could better appreciate the effect the Great Temple had on him. In addition to the fast, rhythmic beating of his heart, characteristic of his former – mortal – race, there was a second pulse, slow and constant. Not a muscle, but something that reached out to the ends of his body with every beat. It was the mana-pool inside him: raw magical energy that he, like every other Planeswalker, drew from the world around them to fuel their great abilities and terrifying creations. Inside the shadowed stone walls of the citadel, the dark mana did more than softly pulse: it surged violently, filling his limbs and his chest with the force of it. He had felt this way before, many times. In the primordial swamps and the crude cities of Zendikar’s vampires, or the barren wastelands on Alara shard of Grixis: anywhere where dark mana thrived. Here though, on Ravnica, there was no bestial fight for survival, no impending cataclysm. The spectral Paruns of the Orzhov Syndicate had used well the last ten thousand years to close their fists over their more-than-reasonable slice of the plane. And here, in the testament to their authority that was Orzhova, the holy centre for the so-called religion of Ravnica, they had cultivated an extremely mature and palatable mana well, the taste of which made Sorin’s darkened soul teem with excitement.
Moving to the back of the grand service hall, he passed the raised platforms where the high priests lead their congregations. At the far end, a marble staircase spread out before him, as intricately carved as any of thousand gargoyles that stood in silent vigil around the cathedral. To climb it would take him out of the Church’s forward section, used for public demonstrations, and into a labyrinth of chambers and halls. This section would be impossibly well guarded, being not only home to the most powerful and high ranking of the Orzhov’s elite, but far more importantly, storage for their vast wealth and riches. Thankfully, there was nothing in any of the hundreds of treasure stores that interested Sorin. The exodus of Alara had given him more than enough opportunities for unencumbered financial gain. What interested him lay behind the stairs. The fabled Sword of Ajani, known on this plane only as the Orzhov’s greatest treasure, but known throughout the universe as an artefact of the most spectacular ability, and soon to be in his possession.
Moving around the polished banister, he arrived at what should have been by all accounts just an ordinary wall in what was already the most unfathomably decedent piece of architecture on the plane. Yet the surging mana now racing in time with his heart beats confirmed what Sorin already knew: the wall was a fake. No stone had been placed nor church zealot or Orzhov slave used to place it. This wall was the result of tireless hours of illusion magic by the arch-magi: a perfect door that would open only to those it recognised as one of its own. This presented a unique problem to Sorin: one of their own was the key, and that meant two colours. An Orzhov arch-mage was a perfect balance of Black and White mana, a vessel for the universe’s two most opposing forces: the singular union which the Church proclaimed brought to them the most perfect and powerful balance.
What Sorin discovered next froze every muscle in his body. The door was open. Though the wall was still visible he could clearly feel air and mana pouring out of the tunnel-like expanse that lay behind it. The air was stale and foul, but not nearly as revolting as the smell of mana: pure White, not corrupted in the slightest by the Church’s dark allegiance. Somewhere down there was source of incredible power, with no ties to Black mana. By all accounts the source was not alive, perhaps an artefact or relic. On the chance it was sentient, it was likely a prisoner, being held by the Church. More important than the source of the foul stench was the person who opened the door in the first place. He had prepared a variety of anti-enchantments, but he was no nature-mage. Even with his best spell, he was not confident he would succeed. His only comfort was that whoever was down there was not likely a member of the guild: he opening of one of the Orzhov’s most secret vaults would be a heavily guarded affair. With that thought in mind, he took the thickest cloth he had and wrapped it around the bottom half of his face, then headed through the stone wall into the tunnel.
Sorin had always despised White mana’s propensity to ‘shine’. It was, for lack of a better word, messy. Tonight was no different. Knowing nothing about whom or what had opened the door had made the demand for secrecy and subtlety even more pressing. Fortunately, even a secret tunnel hidden behind an enchanted wall is elaborate and grossly overdone when it belongs to the Orzhov. Off-shoot channels, small cravats and large statues were everywhere, providing ample coverage for anyone trying to sneak inconspicuously through the maze. Moreover, if, as he suspected, the masterful enchantment-cracker was in fact an intruder such as himself, such an intruder would not likely be looking over his shoulder expecting company. What were the odds two thieves would break into the Orzhov’s most secret tomb on the same night? Sorin put his hand to his face as the stench suddenly began to escalate its assault on his senses. Worse was the gut-wrenching effect of the onslaught of mana. Different allegiances affected him in different ways: he was comfortable around Red mages, despite their interesting choice of pets. And Green and Blue magical creatures always found their way either onto the lighter or darker side of matters, which drastically changed how well he got along with them. But White had never been Sorin’s friend, a fact of which he was now brutally reminded.
The tunnel opened onto a large cavern. From behind a statue of an overweight priest, he could see two figures standing in the distance. Both stood bathed in incredible auras of bright light. Nearer to him was a man, whose face Sorin could not see. The man was staring at his counterpart, whose head reached the roof of the tunnel. The second figure wasn’t just bathed in the mess of White light, he was made of it. His entire shape was crafted from it, as if White mana had been a material used to carve a statue, a statue in the shape of an enormous two-legged, beast faced lion-kin.