Ringwall`s Doom

by Awert, Wolf

  Ambrosimas’ wide face cracked into an amused grin, his eyes twinkling with pleasure. “When I assumed your patronage, an outcry went through Ringwall, I’ll tell you that. Imagine: an archmage, getting involved with the education of a student! We made history that day, Nill. We shook at the very foundations of Ringwall, you and I.” Ambrosimas chuckled and gave his thigh a light slap.

  “You never said why you did, though,” Nill said cautiously. Perhaps this would finally be the moment; he would finally get some answers.

  “I didn’t?” Ambrosimas seemed surprised. “I thought it would have been obvious to all.” He adopted a bored, indifferent tone, as if none of it mattered any more. “Without my patronage, you would be dead. A little neophyte managed to scratch the Archmage of Metal’s shiny veneer of honor. And you know how much value Bar Helis places on dignity and honor – especially when it’s his own. And Mah Bu – the way he played with your life force was almost a direct attack. Only nobody in the council saw it that way, me included, I must admit. He would not have lifted so much as a finger if you had not managed to save yourself. Up until his last moments he believed you were the Changer, but you already know that. And the rest, as they say, is history.”

  “You disagree? You think I’m not the one mentioned in the prophecy?”

  “Boy!” Ambrosimas cried in mock exasperation. “I am the Archmage of Thoughts. I sniff out the truth and separate it from the lies; I wade through the tales of fishwives to find the tiniest kernel of it. No, the person from the mists, the Changer, the great spirit who comes to tear down the foundations of Pentamuria – this you are not.”

  Ambrosimas laughed, his multiple chins bouncing up and down. The very air in the room seemed infected by it, swirling and dancing in merriment. Nill could not tell whether this laughter was real or staged; the archmage was too good at his game. He felt relieved, though a hint of doubt remained. “Never trust an archmage,” he heard Brolok whisper in his ear. He remembered Dakh-Ozz-Han’s words: “The opposite of a truth is not a lie, but another truth.” Yet the voices seemed distant and faded; they had lost all strength.

  “But if I’m not the Changer, who am I?”

  Ambrosimas was visibly enjoying answering Nill’s questions. Every one told him a little of what worried Nill, what he knew, and what absorbed him. He phrased his answers so that every answer would demand another question; once he had Nill asking, he would keep asking.

  “That, my dear boy, is the question all of Ringwall would like an answer to. You’re not the only one concerned with it; I myself would give much to know the answer.” His laughter had stopped quite suddenly, his eyes bored into Nill’s. Then he abruptly began to laugh again, throwing his hands up in the air as he liked to do when he was playing at helplessness. “If I knew who you are, I’d know how you are too. Or, perhaps, if I knew how you are, I’d know who you are.”

  Nill had long since foregone any attempt at understanding the archmages’ word games. “As I said, I feel fine.”

  “Yes, you feel fine.” Ambrosimas added some moroseness to his performance as he stuffed a few more cushions behind his back – as if a comfortable seat was the most important thing in the world. “You feel so fine you don’t even need to sleep at night.”

  Nill flinched; his caution was shattered. “How do you know—?”

  “How do I know?” Ambrosimas himself was so perplexed at the turn the conversation had taken that he could not think of anything else. He shook his head and abandoned his magic for the moment.

  “Nill, please. You act as though you don’t know what this is all about. Let me help you. Only two things matter in Ringwall: truth and power. The White mages search for the truth, although each has their own understanding of it. And the Elemental mages are only interested in influence and power. You may call it a game, but it isn’t. It’s much, much more than that. It’s a constant struggle for balance. Imagine a young bird sitting on a branch – if the branch sways too hard, the bird must fly off. Mages can’t just fly off. The mages must stay in Ringwall. If a mage could ever depose the magon, he would need the strength to take his place as well; otherwise, the new order he hopes to create will be nothing but chaos. There is nothing we fear more than chaos.

  “And now, for the first time in the history of Ringwall those who want power for the sake of power sit at a table with those who know that any revolution will only bring misery to the innocent. ‘Nothing will be as it was,’ as the prophecy puts it. There could be no worse fate.”

  “I know that. But is that an answer to my question of how you know about my every movement? Or are you trying to tell me that you belong to those who can live without power?”

  Nill had raised his guard again. He knew that Ambrosimas’ mind never followed a straight path; it zig-zagged like a hare, leaping and feinting and doubling back all the time. Nill did not want to get lost in the labyrinthine paths of his mentor’s thoughts.

  Ambrosimas cursed under his breath. One moment of carelessness and the boy had slipped through his net. He decided to ignore Nill’s question.

  “What is the key to power?” Ambrosimas asked, and answered before Nill’s thoughts could scurry off in wrong direction. “Knowledge,” he whispered, “the knowledge of how to rule. And that includes everything that concerns you. Not one of your steps goes unnoticed. Nothing has changed in that regard. Have you forgotten why you’re here in the first place?” Ambrosimas’ voice had become steadily more urgent.

  Nill said nothing. He knew exactly why he was here. He was here because Ringwall was the center of magic, because the collected wisdom of the arcanists was kept here, and because the sorcerers had come together here to find the truth behind the magic. He was here because he had dared to participate in the mages’ tournament. He was here because this was the only place in the world where he could hope to find a hint of who his parents might be. The prophecy was, as far as he was concerned, only the key that had granted him access to Ringwall. After his education he ought to have left. Who had forgotten something – Nill or Ambrosimas?

  “You are here because the prophecy tells of the end of all order in Pentamuria,” Ambrosimas interrupted his thoughts. “Everyone can see that you have a weighty part to play in this game with fate. The only thing everyone disagrees on is your actual role. Are you truly surprised that everyone wants to know what you do, and that those who can follow you and never let you out of their sights?”

  “And what if everyone’s wrong? What if I don’t want to play along?” Nill was outraged. His life was his own, and only his.

  Ambrosimas laughed again. “My dear boy, fate doesn’t ask nicely. Only fools believe they have control over their own destiny. Unfortunately, some of these fools sit on the council. We can be grateful if we’re allowed to decide what happens in the future.”

  “I understand exactly why every last archmage knows why I can’t sleep at night.” The color was rising in Nill’s face. His anger was almost palpable.

  “Well, yes, not all the archmages,” Ambrosimas admitted as he diminished his aura to a small and humble size. “The magon, certainly, and me too. Just a little. The others, I hope, don’t. But that is the reason I wanted to meet with you.”

  Ambrosimas could feel Nill slipping out of his grasp. Slippery as an eel, he thought. I should’ve known the boy would hate being watched, but he must have known. He decided to take a different course.

  Ambrosimas said nothing. He had to think, but there was little time to do so. Nill sat across from him, straight as a candle, shrouded in a fog of annoyance, anger and stubbornness that grew denser and denser. Ambrosimas conjured up a flock of birds that twittered loud enough to interrupt Nill’s thoughts. He raised his head.

  “Do you think you have the patience to listen for just a few more moments?” Ambrosimas asked seriously. “You might have wondered why I never thought to see you as the figure from the mists. Ever since I came to Ringwall, and believe me, that has been a long time indeed, I have tracked and hunted
whatever is hidden in our tales and legends. The songs, the myths; the local stories that make no sense anywhere else; the dreams of different people that have taken on a life of their own. And everywhere I look, I stumble upon the remains and fragments of an old book some call the Book of Wisdom. I am unsure whether this book ever existed of if it’s just another fable. But what I do know is that this book is the origin of the five Books of Prophecy. The books of Eos, Arun, Cheon, Mun and Kypt. In these books we have the future in black and white, written at a time in which our history was only just beginning. Almost all the prophecies written in them have become reality over time. Almost. It is my guess that one of these books tells us how the world that follows Pentamuria will look.

  “Whoever finds these books, Nill, finds the future. And when you know the future, you may find hope in situations that seem hopeless. But nobody knows where these books are hidden.”

  “And what does any of this have to do with me?” Nill’s interest was piqued, but he decided not to show it. Better to remain cool and unmoved.

  Ambrosimas’ laughter came back to him.

  “Have you never wondered why the arcanists are so worried at the moment? After all, the legends and myths are ancient, and they have been passed down for countless winters through countless generations. Why would the prophecy of the doom of Pentamuria be dug out so recently?”

  Nill hesitated. There was something to what his old mentor was saying, but Ambrosimas was after all as cunning as a fulux. He took a moment to check whether the old archmage was toying with him again, but there was no magic to be felt. Everything seemed clear and honest – for once. He shook his head. “You will tell me, I’m sure,” he replied shortly.

  “Because the time to know has only just come.” Ambrosimas looked triumphant, but Nill did not understand what it meant.

  “All the truths in the world are scattered, just lying about waiting to be picked up. But if you’re blind, you won’t find them. You have to learn to see, be ready for the truth you seek. Or you might as well never look in the first place.”

  “And how is this connected to the Books of Prophecy?”

  “Simple – they’re just lying around. After all this time. And now they want to be found.”

  Was that what the falundron had tried to tell him? That they wanted to be found, and that time was running out? Nill was uncertain. Out loud, however, he said: “Fine, so go and search for them.”

  “I most certainly will. I will search for them, believe me. I did want to ask you whether you’d be kind enough to help me. You and me, just the two of us. Two archmages on the hunt for the greatest secret Pentamuria has never known. Together, we can find them, all five of them!”

  Nill had to admit that the idea captivated him. Perhaps it had been a mistake to limit his search to his parents. Perhaps they were only one plank in a door that opened to the future. But his wariness remained.

  “And why me, of all people?”

  Ambrosimas beamed. He knew he had won.

  “I think – no, I know that there is something that connects you and these books. Fate chose you to discover the path to the ancient prophecies. You are not the one who will change the world; you are the one who stands ready to defend and protect it. To destroy the world, you don’t need to know the future.”

  Nill nodded reluctantly. He could agree with the role of savior if that was truly what fate had in store for him. He felt pride and gratitude warm him from within at being asked by his old mentor for help. Ambrosimas’ expression was difficult to read; he merely looked a little pained and tired.

  “Tell me what’s bothering you, Nill. Tell me why you can’t sleep and why you sank into Nothing today. I can help you. I have always helped you, and I will always be there for you.”

  So Nill told him. He explained how it felt to have no friends, to be surrounded by enemies. His precarious position as an archmage despite his magical abilities being less than many common sorcerers. His fear of being the Changer, of bringing chaos and death and destruction to the land without meaning to. It was as if a dam had broken inside him, the words came flooding out. Ambrosimas was taken aback by this storm of emotion, and in the end Nill felt empty and exhausted. All his feelings had held tight to the words he had spoken, and they were now out. The body they had left behind collapsed softly. Nill could barely keep his eyes open.

  “A terrible burden. But nobody would dare attack you here. If you’d like, I can cast a powerful protective spell over the entrance to your cave. An unwanted visitor will tremble in fear and have third thoughts about what they came to do.” Ambrosimas looked at his plump white hands, a satisfied smile on his lips.

  “You would place a fear-charm upon my door?” Nill raised his head, unsure what to think of this.

  “More than that, my boy. There are many more protections I could hide in your surroundings, even where you live and sleep. With your permission, naturally.”

  “And why would you go to such lengths?” Nill asked. “Please don’t say ‘because I am such a good friend.’”

  Ambrosimas’ best smile graced his features. “But Nill, that is precisely the reason. Although admittedly ‘friend’ might be a little too strong a word, it’s all the same to me. Or do you honestly believe an archmage would take a mere apprentice under his wing because he felt funny on that day? No, I have liked your manner from the beginning, Nill. You must learn who you can trust and who you cannot. Even if the trust is only temporary, even then it is worth it. You will achieve nothing without a little trust.”

  Nill felt as if he was wrapped in a snug blanket of care and goodwill. He gave a long sigh and submitted to the warmth. A long-lost smile returned to his lips. “Trust. Yes, that is what it’s all about. Everything is connected to trust.”

  Ambrosimas leaned back on his cushions, pleased at the way the conversation had gone. “You see, I really did only come here to ask how you are and what you’re up to. You haven’t spoken to me in a long time, and a council meeting isn’t the right place for such things either.” Ambrosimas’ voice lost all modulation, becoming little more than a whisper. “You can tell me everything. You don’t need to keep it all inside. You can tell me the truth. Any truth, or whatever you think is a truth. By all means, you can lie to me, it doesn’t matter. Just don’t give me any half-truths. Half-truths destroy the person who tells them and the person they’re told to. Half-truths are more destructive than full lies.”

  That in itself was a huge lie, but Nill merely nodded. Ambrosimas was gifted in the arts of truth, half-truths and lies like no other; he combined and contrasted them with ease, and few could tell what was what. And so Nill hung in the archmage’s web, in the invisible strands that never cut, never held and were never felt.

  Nill noticed nothing of it, and he felt safe, for the first time since he had passed under the great gate of Ringwall, and he kept talking. He told Ambrosimas about his search for his parents, of the symbols on his amulet and how he had learned to read them with the master archivist’s help. He told him about Perdis and the falundron.

  “Who is this Perdis?” A look of hunger flitted across Ambrosimas’ broad face, gone before Nill could see it. Nill could tell him no more than that he was one of Ringwall’s many mages.

  “And the Walk of Weakness? What were you doing there, and why are you so unimpeded by it?” Ambrosimas could have sung praises to his luck. Ancient secrets had been hidden right under the archmages’ noses for countless winters, and the lad just stumbled across them. If this was not evidence of fate’s guiding hand, he might as well be a fish.

  “I was interested in the founding of Ringwall,” Nill answered. “It started in the Hermits’ Caves. Behind the sealed door there is a huge number of tunnels and caves, carved into the mountains by the Hermits. There is a different sort of magic, the magic in the Walk of Weakness and another one in the caves around it.”

  “Yes, yes, I know,” Ambrosimas interrupted impatiently. “The founders practiced a simplified form of the e
lemental magics, and Knor-il-Ank itself exudes an ancient one that colors our usual magic. What I want to know is why you were able to keep a hold of your own magic, and whether you found anything down there.”

  “The falundron allows me to enter. I believe it’s the only creature that can influence the magic in that corridor. Apart from that there’s nothing. Except for the signs.”

  “Signs?”

  “Yes, on my amulet, and on the falundron’s back. They belong together somehow.”

  “The falundron appears to be the key to many a mystery.”

  “Yes, master. The falundron is the greatest mystery of all, yet still the key to all others.”

  “And you understand it. Is it your friend?”

  Nill denied this. “I don’t understand it at all, but it lets me do what I want and it grants me its protection.”

  “I shall see what I can find out about this creature. For now, thank you for your honesty,” Ambrosimas said with a smile, adding a little gratitude to the warmth he had so carefully spun.

  “As you know, it’s no longer any of my business to be advising you, Nill,” he continued. “But the only way to deal with difficult times is not to take them too seriously. Fate plays the roughest japes on us, and it has to be said that some of them are bitter. On the other hand, isn’t it funny that a boy can become an archmage before he can even use magic properly?”

  Ambrosimas laughed encouragingly, and Nill tried to laugh along. He did not manage more than a grimace.

  The door shut silently behind him. Nill stood in the cool corridor and massaged his temples. He felt as though he had taken a long bath in water that was far too hot; his body was relaxed, but there was a pressure in his head that threatened to turn into a penetrating pain.

  The temptation to seek a place for the night and simply sleep away everything that troubled him was great, but the smell of smoke, of burnt resin and perfumed oils still clouded his mind. He was certain that Morlane had never used powders or perfume on any of his previous visits. When he had arrived, nothing had been in the air but the fragrance of flowers. It reminded him of Grovehall, of Esara’s blossoming domain, where he could feel safe from whatever scary story his surrogate mother had told him.