Gatecrash: The Secretist, Part Two by Doug Beyer Page A

a third and caused the armor of a fourth to bloom into a cage of constricting brambles. But she was outmatched. She leapt over one of her victims and darted through the crowd, trying to make it to Jace, to Trostani, to anyone she recognized.
    When she finally broke free of the mass melee, she did see a familiar face. It was Calomir, flanked by his elite guards, seemingly waiting for her. They paused for a moment, combatants clashing behind her, aerial warriors flying overhead, screams of the dying ringing in the air.
    “Calomir,” she said. “What have you done?”
    Calomir’s voice was even and icy. “Guards, take this traitor back to the Conclave. Keep her secure.”
    The Selesnya guards seized Emmara’s arms and began dragging her away.
    “What have I done, Calomir?” she snarled. “Have I been a voice of sanity during your warmongering? Have I tried to stop this war you’ve caused? Hundreds have died today because of you, and thousands more will come!”
    Calomir said nothing more. She craned her neck to watch him stand there, a look of cold amusement on his face, as the guards brought her through the crowd.
    His heart had gone insane, she concluded. Calomir had been her ally in peace, a guardian of the spirit of harmony of the Selesnya, and she had loved him for it. But now the man she loved had become possessed by a thirst for senseless war, and soldiers of her own guild, her extended family, had taken her into custody as a traitor. She felt bitterly alone.
    She looked back at the battle receding behind her, to where she had seen another familiar face. “I need you,” she whispered.
    Inside the sleeve of her robe, a delicate wooden broach blazed bright and warm against her skin. Its intricately carved veins burned for a moment, then faded, and it crumbled to ash.

    Exava’s Rakdos minions were quick, too quick, and too strong. They snatched Jace and bound his arms, winding greasy rope around his wrists, laughing with stinking, hot breath into his ears. He slashed at their minds with psychic attacks, but they were already all insensate madmen; they had little consciousness forhim to attack at all.
    “Now then,” said Exava. “Shall we begin our game? You play by screaming as loud as you can, and I play by seeing if I can make it even louder.” Using the tip of one of her blades, she razored his tunic from neck to waist, exposing his bare chest. She grinned crookedly and touched the tip of the sword to his bare skin.
    The words came to his mind like white fire, echoing with the image of Emmara’s face. I need you . He knew at once that Emmara had used the leaf. She was in danger, and he had to get to her.
    He struggled to free his arms, but the Rakdos ruffians held him fast. One of them playfully bit his ear, reminding him how close he was to death—or something worse.
    “Where do you think you’re going, I-Go-By-Berrim?” asked Exava. “We’ve just begun our game.”
    Jace focused his mind on finding Emmara in the crowd. He launched out with his inner senses, scanning the battle for the characteristic contours of her mind. It was difficult with so many minds in the area, their thoughts intensified by the screaming pain of puncture wounds or the roar of bloodthirst, and his concentration was compromised by the sadistic Rakdos captors and would-be torturer before him. But a single thought, a single phrase, flared brightly for a moment, infused with bitter longing. He wrapped his mind around that phrase, and he followed it like a thread of spider silk, tracking it over the battlefield. It was thin, but he was able to use it to find his way to Emmara’s mind.
    “I’m here,” he thought to her.
    “Oh, Jace,” came the reply.
    “I can’t come to you now, but I want you to listen to my voice. I’m staying with you. I’m not going to leave you.”
    “Don’t leave me.”
    “I’m not going to leave you.”
    “Are you ready?” Exava asked. “It’s your turn.” The blood-witch shoved the