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transformed his
Thran-inspired artifact into a Phyrexian abomination. The
complaint, though sincere, had always perplexed Xantcha.
The Thran, as Urza described them, believed that sentience
and artifice must always be separate. Xantcha's cyst wasn't
remotely sentient, and she supposed she could have dug it
out of her stomach, but it had become part of her, no
different than her arms ... or Urza's faceted eyes.
Besides, if she hadn't discovered how to make her sphere,
Urza would have had to provide her with food, clothing, and
all the other things a flesh and blood person required,
because Xantcha, though she was almost as old as Urza, was
indisputably flesh and blood.
    And just as indisputably Phyrexian.
    Xantcha willed the sphere higher, seeking the swift
wind-streams well above the mountains. She had a long
journey planned, and needed strong winds if she wanted to
finish it before Urza returned from the south. The sphere
rose until the landscape resembled Urza's tabletop, and the
sphere began to tumble.
    Tumbling never bothered Xantcha. With or without the
cyst, she had a strong stomach and an unshakable sense of
direction. But tumbling wasted time and energy. Xantcha
raised her arms level with her shoulders, one straight out
in front of her, the other extended to the side; the
tumbling stopped. Then she pointed both extended arms in
the direction she wished to travel and rotated her hands so
they were both palms up. She thought of rigging and sails,
a firm hand on the tiller board, and the sphere began to
move against the wind.
    It was slow going at first, but before the sun had
risen another two hand spans, Xantcha was scudding north
faster than any horse could run. Xantcha couldn't explain
how the sphere stayed aloft. It wasn't sorcery; she had no
talent for calling upon the land. Urza swore it wasn't
anything to do with him or his artifacts and refused to
discuss the matter. Xantcha thought it was no different
    than running. The whys and wherefores weren't important so
long as she found what she was looking for and got home
safe.
    But questions lurked where Xantcha's memories began.
They crept forward once the sphere was moving smartly, and
there was nothing to do but think and remember.
    * * *
    The beginning was liquid, thick and warm as blood, dark
and safe. After the liquid came light and cold, emptiness
and hard edges, a dim chamber in the Fane of Flesh, the
first place she'd known, a soot-stained monolith of
Phyrexia's Fourth Sphere. Her beginning wasn't birth, not
as Urza had been born from his mother's body. There were no
mothers or fathers in the decanting chamber only metal and
leather priests tending stone-gouged vats. The vat-priests
of the Fane of Flesh were of no great status. Though
compleat, their appliances were mere hooks and paddles and
their senses were no better than the flesh they'd been
decanted with. They took orders from above. In Phyrexia
there was always above-or within, deeper and deeper through
the eight spheres to the center where dwelt the Ineffable.
He whose name was known but never spoken, lest he awaken
from his blessed sleep.
    Obey, the vat-priests said unnecessarily as she'd
shivered and discovered her limbs. A small, warm stone fell
from her hands. The vat-priests had said it was her heart
and took it from her. There was a place, they said-in
Phyrexia everything had a place, without place there was
nothing-where hearts were kept. Her mistakes would be
written on her heart, and if she made too many mistakes,
the Ineffable who dwelt at Phyrexia's core would make her a
part of his dreams, and that would be the end of her. Obey
and learn. Pay attention. Make no mistakes. Now, follow.
Later, when Xantcha had crossed more planes and visited
more worlds than she could easily recount, she'd realize
that there was no other place like Phyrexia. In no other
world were full-grown newts, like her, decanted beside a
sludge-vat. Only