by Awert, Wolf
Nill would have been more than astonished if he could have seen Ambrosimas. The Archmage of Thoughts was far less honest with the world and with himself than Nill assumed. He had retreated to the furthest corner of his rooms and stood before a giant crystalline mirror. Although it was made with the finest silver, the reflection it offered was blurred and hazy. Ambrosimas cursed under his breath.
“Every step I take makes the future more incomprehensible,” he complained aloud, and the walls darkened to fit his mood.
“How clear it all used to seem. The prophecy tells of the fall of Ringwall, and that would be the catalyst for Pentamuria’s end. And along comes Nill, an answer to the Nothing.”
Ambrosimas dragged the sky and the earth together and concentrated them with the five cardinal points until it became nought but a point; it exploded into such bright colors that his mirror winced and raised a threatening finger.
“We all failed, and that means you, too,” Ambrosimas ranted, poking his image in the chest. “Nobody cared to notice as the Nothing snuck into Ringwall. We did not see its place at the Sanctuary, we took the empty spot on the council for granted, we did not understand it for the shift it truly was. The Nothing was the beginning of it all. Not Nill.”
Ambrosimas opened the skies again and lowered the earth back to the ground, and the horizon appeared once more. The figure in the mirror grew slimmer.
“And now this falundron; it gives Nill the ability to move unhindered in the Walk of Weakness. On top of that, we have Perdis, whom nobody knows. A mage in Ringwall who left his name in the library, and there is no other record of him. Hide-and-seek. Anyone could be Perdis. But he is the missing link between the amulet, the falundron and Nill. Who is this person?
“And Nill? Why would fate decide upon such a small, weak boy to carry out its plans? Or is Nill not a tool, but a messenger of a new age?”
Ambrosimas was surprised at this new idea that had sprung at him from the mirror. Sometimes, thoughts are uncontrollable, free of the strict rules the mind imposes on them, and they play around – a dismal reminder to anyone who believes themselves to have true control of thoughts. Ambrosimas scowled and attempted to rein in his ideas. He quietly muttered a spell.
“As lightning they may strike
growing from, belonging,
crawling slow and running
in hordes and herds alike.
Created and then taken
A random one to no avail
remains so empty and so pale
Images and thoughts awaken.
Ever have in mind an end
Never for too long impend
Act or you are forsaken.”
But this new thought of tool or messenger did not give way to a new one.
“Well then, you swine,” Ambrosimas told his idea, “I accept your challenge. If you are truly powerful enough to avoid my magic, we will see where you get your strength.”
He cleared his mind in a long, arduous process that involved throwing out all his old thoughts and pushing the new one into this corner and that. It took quite some time before he was satisfied enough to look back into the mirror.
“If Nill is truly a harbinger of a new age and not a player in this game of fate, I’ve been looking in the wrong direction all this time. Nill is far less important that I thought; I must no longer look to the future, I must venture into the past.”
“I hate you!” Ambrosimas yelled at his new thought, for he knew what it meant for him. Finding the Books of Prophecy was no longer important. Nill’s past was the key to his questions.
“Nill, boy, from this moment your questions are mine as well. Luckily, I have methods you do not.”
These “methods” were what brought the cold sweat to Ambrosimas’ brow. There were things that even he, the Archmage of Thoughts, dreaded. He would never be the same after exposure to this magic; never be the man he had always been and had grown to love. The struggles, the sacrifices he had made to become who he now was. Oh, he was playing a dangerous game. The stakes were high, the potential winnings even higher, and the game was far from over. The archmage laughed bitterly.
And we masters of magic believe ourselves to have fate firmly in our hands, and yet it does with us as it pleases.
He helped himself to a slice of black bread and spread honey thickly upon it.
Leaving Ringwall with the taste of sweet honey on my lips is comforting, if nothing else, he thought.
The honey dripped off the bread and ran down his fingers, slipped past his wrist and staining the delicate cloth of his sleeves. But Ambrosimas barely noticed as he stared into vacant space. When he finally rose, it was not to act, but to fetch a cup of wine. He filled it from the pitcher, added a whole pouch of spices and heated it absent-mindedly.
His fingers stuck to the cup, but did not feel the heat; the fiery drink passed over his honeyed lips and down into his stomach. Ambrosimas grimaced in disgust. No wine was ever as sweet as the honey he had treated himself to, but the hot spices sent streams of embers through his veins. He lurched to his feet and entered an adjacent chamber that was completely empty. The only decoration here was the floor; a closed eye was formed by the artful arrangement of small tiles.
Ambrosimas’ breath was shallow. He settled onto the eye and delved into his own body. The first thing to happen was that his breath fused with his pulse. The beads of sweat on his face dried, and the face itself lost its color. Fear rose from the area around his kidneys, but was melted away by the heat of his heart. A comfortable warmth spread from his navel, enclosing his heart and enlarging his manhood. Ambrosimas summoned all the strength he could muster and concentrated every last bit of heat to a small, white-glowing point within himself.
The birds’ voices fell silent and then returned to their usual evening chatter before quietening once more. The soft beat of the nightsailors’ wings came and went in the darkness. Now and then a rock-owl called down from the roofs, until the songbirds took the morning duty. For a day and a night Ambrosimas had sat upon the eye. Now he rose and drew great and powerful symbols onto a bare wall with his hands. His sing-song voice made the dust settle, through which previously had shone the sun, bathing the dissolving wall in pale light. Rust-red rings in a niche awoke and in the small portal in the corner of the room a form began to manifest. It had to hunch low, for it was tall and the pointed hat required more space than usual. Ambrosimas turned his back wordless on the portal. Keij-Joss, the tall Archmage of the Cosmos, followed him silently.
The two archmages stood upon the eye and embraced. Their wide auras grew larger still, more translucent, and finally began to meld. Keij-Joss shrank as Ambrosimas grew, but his breadth diminished. Their fused aura stormed around the center of the eye, surrounding a single body that was unlike either Ambrosimas or Keij-Joss. The eye opened and blinked at the sun. The ground had disappeared under the new figure, and the world had opened itself to them. The mage that had sprung from Ambrosimas and Keij-Joss was no longer on the mosaic, but in the clouds, surrounded by them, part of them. The clouds grew thinner, rose high to a thin sliver of mist until they finally dissolved and made space for a wide, blue sky.
“Pentamuria, open. Eyes of the sky, be my eyes. Birds of the air, see for me. No more than a sign is what I need; no more than a sign is what I want.”
With these words the mage sent out sign upon sign into the world. Every symbol Ambrosimas had seen on Nill’s amulet was branded into the eyes of the sky, and for each of them there was an explosion in the air above Pentamuria.
After the last symbol was sent, the mage stopped, breathing heavily. The sudden silence allowed him to listen, until sudden squawking and screaming tore him to the ground. The eye closed again and it took all his remaining strength to stay awake. He had little time left.
If he could barely stay upright with the birds, how would an ever broader audience affect him? He cursed his impatience and attempted a slower ritual.
Tree and bush, scrub and thicket
That bends in the wind and skywards grows
Grasses and herbs, matted moss
That sees in the darkness and everything knows.
Be as my ears, flower and fern
Find farmer’s tales and fishwives’ lace
What’s needed is short, no more than a word
What I seek is called Perdis, a man and a place.
The mage pressed his hands to his ears, but the approaching pain came from within. The world around him shrunk as the first black shadows from outside dulled his senses. Only in the innermost point of his eyes and ears did he still hold tight to the connection with the outside world. And his greatest task yet lay before him.
Incapable now of another ritual, he sent an image out, an image of earth and stone, of feet and claws, of hooves and paws, of gliding scales. The sounds of steps and leaps, stumbling and scratching were his pleas now.
A last image of his skin, his hands, as they constantly changed, died. The spell was too powerful even for him to complete. The archmage crumpled and the eye beneath him blinked. Ringwall shook as though it had just woken from a dream. The falundron removed the seal from the gate, rose and stretched its neck into the air of the catacombs. The White mages of Ringwall exchanged worried glances. Some held hands and formed protective circles. They all felt an enormous magic, as there had never been in Ringwall before. The magon raised his head anxiously and sent his spirit hurrying through the corridors. He only looked down once he had made sure that there was no magical gap among his archmages. Whatever had happened, the High Council was unscathed.
The other archmages and their cloaked subordinates were worried too, but less for Ringwall than for themselves. It was important for them to know who could cast such a spell, and why it had happened. And so the lodges sent out their High mages and grand mages and for a long time the rooms were empty as the corridors were full. But the messages they brought back were confusing. The origin of the magic was in the Quarter of Thoughts, but the magic was far too strong for a master of illusions and glamours. Even the magon would have had difficulty in holding streams of such immense magical strength.
Those familiar with auras were sure that this magic bore Keij-Joss’ fingerprint. His abilities were relatively unknown; they could not put anything past him. But what was the magic of the cosmos doing here on earth, in Ambrosimas’ quarters? Finally, there were those who were certain that only the Other World could cause such a tremor, and consequently they suspected Murmon-Som. The guessing went back and forth. The only thing they all agreed on was that what had just been summoned was a magic of the elements nobody had ever known before.
Nill remained blissfully unaware of all of this. The magical storm passed him by as he stepped into the hallway that led from deep within Ringwall’s foundations to the outside world, where his teachers had once claimed there was no notable magic in that location. Blind mice, Nill thought as he beat the earth from his clothes and cautiously made his way around the swampy spots by the exit.
Nill was intent on his hasty departure not being noticed too soon. But, as always, plans are made to be foiled. The quiet beating of his feet in places where otherwise silence reigned had been enough to wake several stoneteeth in Ringwall’s walls. They could not see, only feel, but they felt the direction he was going in, and that woke the eyes that had been placed there by mistrustful minds. A flickering robe melded with the shadows of the roughly-hewn walls.
“So, the chick leaves the nest. Not too clever, leaving all alone, with no protection, on a long journey. I will send someone to look over him.”
III
The moment he had mounted his steed, Prince Sergor-Don had banished Ringwall from his mind. What lay before him could not be accomplished by stooping over barely legible scrolls. The very air in Gulffir seemed to vibrate as the town anticipated his arrival. Fear and worry pushed the people out of their houses and into the streets. The courtiers had left their quarters and formed fleeting groups in the halls, coming together and breaking apart whenever they were joined by someone they did not trust. And such were many. The king’s old councilors whispered and hissed like old fishwives cooking up rumors. The sorcerers of the court kept to themselves and made sure with their own means that no one could eavesdrop on them; the generals had called their captains to hold a council of war, even though not a single weapon had been raised in the kingdom.
Those who held office and respect in Gulffir were poised to lose all; those who had lived off scraps hoped to gain everything. The stewards responsible for clothing and armaments, for building material and tools had worry in their faces, for in the past they had never been accountable to a higher position than themselves. For too long they had neglected their duties, and the fear of retribution was like the crack of a whip on their backs. The cooks did not know whether to prepare a banquet or provisions for a marching army. Tyr, heold of the kingdom and the master of horses and stables, worried about which animals he could keep for breeding, which yearlings must be broken in, which horse he could promise to which rider. His stock had shrunk as the sick king’s hand had lost its power. Many of them cursed themselves for fools, knew they should have thought what they were now thinking many moons ago; but the king’s steady infirmity had never given them pause.
Prince Sergor-Don had left his companions far behind and arrived at the outer perimeter of Gulffir before night fell. He could see from afar that the traditional red banners of the Fire Kingdom had been exchanged for black as a sign of mourning.
The young man’s chiseled features betrayed no hint of emotion; no sorrow, but also none of the satisfaction he secretly felt.
The old fool’s finally at peace now.
Sergor-Don galloped through the gate and leapt down from his horse. Immediately a servant came to guide it to the stables. The prince stormed up the stairs to the castle’s entrance and sprinted through the long corridor where even his soft-soled boots caused an echoing din. He reached the antechamber before the throne room. The guards straightened up when they caught sight of him and hastily opened the double doors to let him through.
Through the creaking crack between the doors shone the golden light of many candles. It felt as though the entire room was rushing towards the prince. Familiar smells from his childhood days, the rustle of clothes, wildly dancing spots of light and shadow flew at him before finally coalescing to something recognizable.
Sergor-Don knew this scene. He had witnessed it many times in his youth; every time his father the king held an audience, he had been surrounded by the powerful and the strong. The only difference was that today the two thrones were empty. The right one had been so for as long as he could remember, for his mother had died early in his childhood. But now the left one was vacant too. As if to make up for the lack of a person on the throne, a painfully dense throng surrounded the platform upon which the thrones stood. The effect was odd; the center seemed almost unreal to him in comparison.
Next to his father’s throne stood, keeping a respectful distance as always, Auran-San, his old teacher and first councilor at the king’s court. His appearance was gaunt, yet he radiated such power that the group of generals beside the queen’s throne seemed diminished. The prince felt as though he was standing in front of a set of scales, their pans quivering up and down due to the tiny, involuntary movements the people in the room made. Of course, Auran-San was not wholly alone on the left side. Behind him stood the courtiers and the most important sorcerers of the court.
Indeed, today judgment must be swift and wise, the prince thought as he scanned the room for the central force present. Who presided over Gulffir when Father let go of the reins? Auran-San? Astergrise, the old marshal, commander of the palace guard? One of the generals perhaps, or even Haltern-kin-Eben? Who could know with such a man – one moment he acts solely as keeper of tradition, the next he might as well be king for all his flouncing. He realized that he was looking in the wrong places.
The central power in Gulffir was a small object in fr
ont of the two thrones. Upon a red velvet stool lay the crown of the kingdom, glittering ominously. Sergor was able not only to see it clearly, but also to see life in it, even if that was no more than a reflection of the flickering torches and candles. Only the crown was important.
The king’s favorite dog and the stunted dwarf fool sat together on the stairs before the throne; their shadows were small and posed no threat. In the second line behind the throne stood the servants. Prince Sergor-Don recognized a few, but even the man who had once held his pony and the one who had carved his first wooden sword did not dare betray a flicker of emotion.
And now the vultures circle together, the prince thought. He remained in the entrance for another moment to engrave the image in his memory forever; he had to remember who stood where. His pupils dilated for the merest heartbeat when he realized how close together Auran-San and Haltern-kin-Eben were.
Idiot, he cursed silently. Must you show them all that you support the first councilor? All that remains is to see who the captains are loyal to. Not to you, Astergrise, I can see that. I suppose you didn’t howl loudly enough with the dogs.
After what seemed an eternity, Prince Sergor-Don began to walk at a leisurely pace towards the throne. Just before reaching it, he turned slightly to the left and addressed Auran-San.
“Where is my father?” he asked.
The first councilor essayed a bow and replied quietly: “My prince, you came too late. A tragedy. Your father has already left us. If you would follow me…”
Auran-San made an inviting gesture, but it was slow with mourning. He turned around and led the prince to a small chamber behind the throne room. He gave a short sign and from the shadows on the wall emerged two guards to unlock the small door.
The prince hurried over to the deathbed, where he fell to his knees. “Leave. All of you, leave me alone,” he called as he grabbed hold of his father’s cold hand.
His words were not to be a respectful farewell.
You were a useless fool. How can a King achieve greatness and power if he does nothing but rest easy on what he has? Didn’t Astergrise always cite the Book of Sunn, saying that a great marshal can win a war without leading a single battle? Is it not greatness and power, exactly like fear and powerlessness on the enemy’s side, which stops attacks before they even begin? Ringwall has never fought a war, yet all of Pentamuria bows before it. I was there, father, and I have studied their ways. So believe what I tell you now. That was what I wanted to learn, not the simple summons they teach. And I learned. The High Council of the Archmages and the Magon is not Ringwall’s true strength. It is its weakness. All it takes is someone who understands Ringwall, and it will fall. Do you understand? Ringwall will fall. But before I take care of the Mage City, I must save the Fire Kingdom. Our kingdom, that you so recklessly left to rot!
