by Awert, Wolf
Nill pushed his wish for peace and quiet aside and decided that some fresh air would do him good. A thought nibbled at the back of his mind, something he ought not to be thinking, something unwelcome and unpleasant. What had Ambrosimas said? What had he told the old archmage? Nill had difficulties in remembering anything specific, but he knew that he had let things slip he had sworn never to mention to anyone. He grew restless, letting his legs carry him where they wanted as he dug in his foggy memory to unearth every last sentence he had spoken. It took some time to find them. Some were more reluctant than others; some had to be pulled more carefully than a tick that had bitten a newborn. Finally he had all the pieces.
Nill groaned. The sneaky fellow really did squeeze everything out of me, didn’t he? Every last thing. And I didn’t even notice. Is there anyone who can keep a secret from him?
Yet his dismay was offset somewhat by admiration, and even a little pride for his old mentor.
Ambrosimas knew about the symbols on the amulet; he knew about the falundron, and he knew about the connection between the two. He knew that Nill was free to move through the Walk of Weakness and that he had been exploring the ancient caves down there. He had even managed to hear the name Perdis.
But there was one thing he did not know, and Nill suddenly had to laugh. There was one thing he had not mentioned: the Hall of Symbols.
Nill frowned. How had he managed to keep that important part quiet? He had told him about the corridors and caves, but then Ambrosimas had interrupted him because a different detail had caught his attention.
Did you not teach me yourself, old man, that impatience is the downfall of even the cleverest men? He took a certain pleasure from the fact that his old master had made such an elementary mistake. He decided to avoid Ambrosimas under all circumstances. A whisper in his ear told him that the archmage must not find out about that most ancient magic.
Nill swept through the corridors and up the stairs and before long had reached the circular path that connected the inner and outer walls of Ringwall. Occasionally it was interrupted by clusters of small buildings whose purpose Nill did not know. Within the ring he saw the Battlefield, the wild part of Knor-il-Ank, where neophytes practiced their command of the elements, and where the tournament was held. On the other side was Raiinhir, the lower city that had grown around the roots of the mountain. It supplied Ringwall with all its necessary provisions. If Ringwall was the mountain’s crown, then Raiinhir was its chain of office, draped over its shoulders.
I should come up here more often, Nill thought, enjoying the fresh wind playing with his hair. He inhaled deeply and noticed as he did so that the dull pain in his head ebbed away. The wind can blow pain away. Not feelings, though. For some reason the thought reminded him of Tiriwi. Nature has a magic of its own. If you stay away from it for too long, your own life with wither.
He leaned against one of the battlements and felt the warm, coarse stone against his forearms. The wind tousled his hair this way and that, and high above him a few birds of prey were practicing attack maneuvers on anything that moved. Here and there he spotted busy-looking people who quickly disappeared down another set of stairs. All was as it should be. Except for in a distant corner, behind one of the small buildings; several small black puffs sporadically appeared and disappeared again. Nill could not make out exactly what was happening, but the birds seemed keen to avoid this spot. His curiosity was piqued. As he drew closer, he could see what caused such caution in the birds.
A mage was lounging on the battlements. The sun warmed his belly as he gesticulated. Now and then a puff of black smoke rose up and tried to chase after the arrow-doves of Ringwall. They were not very successful; they moved too slowly and dispersed too quickly. The mage did not appear bothered by this. He chuckled when his little clouds evaporated and as he conjured more of them.
He was wrapped in a light brown cloak that denoted a low rank. The stained shirt that peeked out from the top of the cloak and the heavily patched leather breeches he wore were shabby even by the standards of White mages, who tended not to care much for their appearance. Nill’s heart leapt. Morb-au-Morhg still clung to his traveler’s garb even after becoming a White mage. He seemed to have brought the wilderness to Ringwall with him and did not care much for the local customs. He had tied his long, silver-streaked brown hair into several loose knots to avoid sitting on it, and his long beard was wrapped around his waist like a second belt. Morhg the Great belonged to the dwindling number of sorcerers who kept to the old tradition of concentrating a part of their magical powers in their hair. Nill had always wondered what would happen to Morhg’s power if an enemy successfully burnt off his hair with a fire spell. He reasoned that as seasoned a mage as he would have protected it in some way.
The common consensus was that Morhg was easily capable of the rank of archmage, and many even thought he could have become the next magon. Yet he had always preferred the life of a wandering sorcerer. Only now, in the last steps of his long walk, as he called it, had he begun to take an interest in the wisdom behind the magic. Indifferent to power and influence, he had firmly declined a place in the ranks of the elements and had chosen instead to serve as a simple White mage of truth.
At that moment, however, he looked anything but Great, Mighty or any of the other epithets he had earned. His head was slightly tilted as if he meant to track down a new, unknown entity in his vicinity. A smile lit up his face, and disguised the many lines that weathered it.
“It is good to see you again, your Excellency,” he said. “You’ve picked a fine day to visit the battlements of Ringwall.” His use of the dignified title was rather comical when contrasted to his relaxed posture. He had not even bothered to stand up for the archmage. “I have often thought about you since we fought.” Morb-au-Morhg’s eyes slid across Nill’s slim appearance. “I can’t say thinking has helped me much.”
“I have been hiding away from my foes,” Nill said with a smile like sour milk.
“That you have,” Morb-au-Morhg commented dryly, “but so have you hidden from your friends.”
“If I have any friends here, they must be as good at hiding as me.” Nill grew more sullen still.
“Truthfully said, young Nill – or do you prefer ‘Your Excellency’?” As always when Nill felt he was being made fun of, his expression darkened. Morhg acted as if he could not see it. “Your enemies dare not approach you because they fear you, and your friends do the same because they don’t know how to treat you. There are some things in life that are easy to explain.”
“And what’s so difficult about how to treat me?” Nill asked agitatedly. He knew he was not being taken seriously. “I am polite and cordial to everyone. I give them all the respect and esteem they deserve. And what do I get? Respect, certainly, sometimes they’re even polite. But esteem seems foreign to them, and cordiality does not exist in this place.” Nill felt mistreated by everyone – the entire world, in general.
“You are, if you’ll pardon my honesty, still a green lad who has only just learned the differences between the elements. A mage does not care much for a novice, and if he does, it will be little more than a word of fatherly advice or an encouraging clap on the shoulder. On the other hand, you are now an archmage of Ringwall, and you have the greatest power in Pentamuria, of a level you share with only nine other living people. Archmages are revered and attended on to their every whim. At least, that’s how one should act if one puts any value on life or sanity.”
“But I’m only here because I want to learn. I care nothing for my rank. Did you not come here for the same reason? To seek the truth?”
Morb-au-Morhg looked deep into Nill’s eyes and slowly, cautiously laid a hand on his shoulder. Nill felt the warmth of his hand, but also the weight, a weight that grew heavier and heavier. He never knew a hand could be so heavy. Morb’s voice seemed to change. It grew as heavy as his hand and as warm as a cozy fireplace in winter. “Do not forget that you are not just trapped in a game of power a
nd recognition, you do not just fight against tradition and old rules. You yourself are a walking mystery. Nobody knows where you came from, what role you play in Ringwall’s future. Even the magon cannot figure it out. The lack of knowledge is the mother of all fear. It cannot surprise you that the people of Ringwall fear you. What would you expect from people if they are afraid of you, young Nill? They flee, or they bite. You are feeling the winds of caution as they whip through the corridors of Ringwall. On top of that is an army of rumors that fill out every crevice of the city ever since you’ve arrived.”
“Are you afraid of me, Morhg?” Nill asked, puzzled.
“I am too old to fear anything but myself, but I must admit I’d like to know more about you and the mysteries that connect you and our fates. I cannot deny it.”
Nill regarded the old mage in his blotchy cloak and his frayed woolen shirt, his badly patched boots and his callused, strong hands. Years of experience had left their mark on his face, yet he was the very opposite of frailty.
“There’s no great secret,” Nill replied. “Nothing but my parentage. Ringwall’s future has nothing to do with me. You will see. Years from now, you will see that I spoke true.”
“You choose the easy path too quickly,” Morb-au-Morhg said and removed his hand from Nill’s shoulder. Nill shivered. “You are the Archmage of Nothing, a new archmage with no predecessor, no traditions to break with.”
Morb-au-Morhg fell silent. Nill waited for a continuation, but the mage seemed to have finished. Nill’s impatience grew; he had heard it all too often. The great, incomprehensible Nothing.
“The Nothing,” he finally burst out. “Everyone keeps talking about it in hushed voices. Granted, it is the mother of all that is, but what is it worth when it stops being when it starts being?”
His voice was colored by disappointment and anger. He heard the unsteadiness in his speech and hated himself for it. He did not know how many times he had pointed out that Nothing in itself was indeed nothing at all. Nobody seemed to see it but him.
Morb-au-Morhg’s gaze left the walls of Ringwall and strayed to the horizon. He appeared to have forgotten Nill for a brief moment; it took a while for him to respond.
“Many winters ago, I witnessed the beginning of magic here in Ringwall. Exactly like you and all the others who came before, I visited the Sanctuary and felt the raw power of the five elements. It is as it always was, but for one difference.”
Morb-au-Morhg paused. It lasted so long Nill wondered whether he had run out of words. Perhaps though it was just too much; too many thoughts that had to be weighed, accepted or disposed of. Finally he said simply what was so difficult to say, for it was too powerful to say any other way. “When I went there, there was no symbol for Nothing.”
Nill waited expectantly. He could feel the strength behind the words, but he did not understand. These days, there was the Nothing, and back then there was not. So?
“You do not understand, Nill? You, Archmage of Nothing, your own magic dissolving in your hands, do not understand?” Morb-au-Morhg gazed expectantly into Nill’s eyes.
Nill shook his head. “No, I do not understand. Things come and go in Pentamuria. What’s so special about it?”
“Things come and go. Magic doesn’t. If the Nothing ceases to exist when it takes shape, it makes me wonder how it got into the Sanctuary. It will not have been a mage who called it; for a person capable of calling upon the Nothing would indeed be master of it, and the moment the Nothing arrived they would become the new magon. Do you truly believe Gwynmasidon brought the Nothing to Ringwall, Archmage?”
Nill pursed his lips. He felt the pressure the formal address had put on him and did not like it, but he had to agree.
“It came here by itself,” he said.
“Or it was called by someone else.”
Nill felt as though he had swallowed something very painful. He could guess Morhg’s next thought, but again Morhg did not oblige. He stood there silently, waiting for Nill to say it himself.
He heard a ringing between his ears. Brongard’s insults resurfaced from a long-forgotten childhood. You’re barely human. You are a nill.
He understood now what Morb-au-Morhg had been carefully steering him towards. Nill, the Nothing. He could have shrugged and left the scene, but he had not. He had not accepted his humiliation and had accepted the challenge. He could not have known that Brongard was not the challenger.
I will take the name Nill, and the whole world will bow before it, he had said, full of childish pride. And now he was the one to bow his head in shame, shame at understanding the enormity of his stubbornness. Could he truly have been the one to call the Nothing? He shook his head and sought refuge in mockery.
“Everyone sees someone else in me. Some of my brothers believe I am the Changer who will cast the world into oblivion. Ambrosimas believes I was chosen by fate to unveil the prophecies of the ancients, and you see the chosen of Nothing. Fate seems to have a curious single-mindedness when it comes to me, don’t you think?”
Morb was unfazed. “Yes, more than any one person should have to bear. But what do I know; no more than that you are a whelp, yet with barely a grasp on the five elements. And…” Morb paused, as if he feared the rest of his sentence. “You know another one, an older magic. Do not be alarmed, your secret is safe with me. But have you ever considered that the Nothing might be a gateway of sorts to this old magic? Trust me when I say: all these things are interconnected, and you are in their center. Whether you like it or not.”
“And trust me when I say: I have even less control over the ancient magic than over the elemental. How could it be any different? There are no teachers, there is only light and dark, harsh and soft, give and take. My understanding of the subtleties of magic is as shallow as my magical powers, let alone my prowess.”
Nill took a deep breath. His voice needed respite, and when it returned it was almost a whisper. “Do you see now why I do not want the rank of archmage? So much envy, rage, fear and hate. Can you tell me what to do?”
Morb-au-Morhg made a gesture and raised his arms to the sky. Another puff of black smoke emerged from his rough hands and rose up before dispersing. “How could I? I hardly know what to do myself. Find the truth. Part of it is here in Ringwall. Part of it is out there in the world. Find it and learn to understand it. I do not know whether you have the strength to handle it when you do. It is worth trying. Or do what my stormcrows do and disappear. If fate truly needs you, it will protect you. If you are simply incidental to the greater picture, another will take your place. Becoming a stormcrow might be worth a try.”
“So I can stay, or I can run and start over. Those are my choices, hm?” Nill asked. It was tempting, to begin anew with a clean slate.
“There is no starting over. In everything you do, you carry what you have done with you, what has happened to you. Your faults, your mistakes, but also your luster and your strengths.”
“But you can run from fate, you said. Or did you mean something else?”
Finally, Morhg the Great smiled. “Yes, you can – sometimes. Although I prefer the phrase ‘detach yourself’ to ‘run away.’”
“You have my thanks,” Nill said. The two unequal mages bowed to each other. There was much respect between the boy and the old man, and their composed faces were at odds with their wild auras.
Nill returned below the crown of Ringwall. Now that he knew that a decision was imminent, a soothing calmness took hold of him. Slowly he made his way to the middle floors, passed through several narrow corridors and arrived at the wide-open space between the Earth lodge and the kitchens, where a short stair led outside.
This is where it all began, he thought and stepped through the great entrance. He concentrated Fire and Water to pure energy, gave it shape with the aid of the Other World and strengthened it with Metal. He flung his own stormcrow into the air and delighted in the fact that it kept its form much longer than the wisps Morb-au-Morhg had conjured.
L
ife can be so wonderful, he thought with a smile, and in that moment he did not seem like an archmage at all, much less like a person chosen by fate.
He turned back and returned to the Hermits’ Caves, where he began to pack a few things. He would leave Ringwall, but certainly not through the main gate.
*
“I saw you had a conversation with the archmage.” Like a shadow, a high mage appeared beside Morb-au-Morhg. His dark robe identified him as belonging to the Metal mages.
“False, I had a conversation with young Nill.” Morb-au-Morhg remained calm and countered the arrogance of power with the wisdom of age.
“I just said that.”
“No, I’m afraid you did not. It would appear you are unable to tell the great difference between the Archmage of Nothing and young Nill.”
“You like him, don’t you?” The Metal mage’s lips tautened to an unkind smile.
“Wrong again, unfortunately. I do not like him. I fear him and I fear for him. Which is more or less the same thing.”
“What do you mean by that?” The high mage’s voice grew slightly leaden.
“I meant what I said. No more and no less. You may not know that he was an opponent of mine in the tournament; I had the opportunity to get to know him a little better than most here in Ringwall.” Not once did Morb-au-Morhg’s voice veer from its calm, gentle timbre.
“He survived the tournament, Morhg. He survived Mah Bu’s attack. Do you think he’ll survive us all? The only one left standing?”
“Perhaps, high mage, perhaps.”
And with these words he left the Metal mage, caring nothing for the half-hostile, half-thoughtful look that followed him.
