by Awert, Wolf
Nill woke up and saw the blackness above him, but this was no magic; merely the night’s sky, all stars swallowed up.
It is the magic of light and dark, Nill thought as he pushed the stars out of his mind. It stands above the elements, it is simpler, but stronger. “Hey you,” he whispered into the night, “you’re playing around and you’ve left me out. But I can see you.”
Understanding dawned on Nill. He could only master the ancient magic in its pure form if he kept a hold of the elemental magic. If he could control the ancient, the elements would obey. It did not work the other way around. There was only one direction. From light and dark to the colors of the elements. All he had to do was let go of the elements. Then the ancient magic would open up to him, and with its help he would win back the allegiance of the elements.
He finally understood the discolored, gray auras that had worried him so much. The ancient and new magics had stopped fighting each other and blended together. If Dakh could have seen this, he thought. Dakh, with his firm belief that everything in the world is solely based on the magic of the five elements. That was no longer the case. There were more possibilities, so there were more magics. He would learn to control it. Sooner or later he would succeed. In this newfound confidence he found calm, and he turned on to his side and fell asleep once more.
The tiny motion made the sand rise. All around, the sand began to move as an approaching squall carried it onwards. In the distance the wind howled as it dashed through the valleys and chasms of the mountains in a vain attempt to find a way out. Desert storms were nothing unusual, for they enjoyed rioting above the sands, unopposed by trees and bushes. They cleaned dust and sand from the riverbeds and the mountain chasms and piled them up neatly elsewhere. More than once a sandstorm had buried the small oasis and more than once the keeper had dutifully dug his subject free. But tonight it was different. The wind wailed as if its heart had been broken, the mountains sang and appeared to sway in the wind, and the sand burnished the rocks to a gleam. The storm was so monstrous that it whipped the sand across the oasis and even there took everything away that had not found the protection of the rock. The hermit shouted something at Nill, his face distorted with fear, but Nill could not hear the words in the storm. He hoped he was doing the right thing.
No sorcerer could tame a storm that was possessed by ghostwinds. Nill threw himself into the storm and crawled forwards with his belly flat against the ground until he reached the edge of the oasis, where the wind blew the sand up and against the trees.
“Earth shield!” Nill screamed at the storm, which laughed in his face. If the elemental magic could not help, darkness would. Nill conjured a dark shield wall and there was a momentary silence around him, but nothing could stand against the ghostwinds. Nill tilted his wall a little. The wind slid right off the shield like a lance against armor and flew into the sky, where it turned back and joined its fellows in tearing up the ground around the oasis. But the hermit, Nill, Ramsker and even the sweetnut trees were unharmed. They only felt a gentle tugging. The sand, the storm’s most dangerous weapon, flew high above them.
When the wind’s strength finally subsided, so did Nill’s and he fell asleep instantly. The sky, still blocking the starlight with dust, presided mercifully over the shattered land.
When Nill awoke the next morning he did not know where he was. The spring and the trees were still whole, but everything else had changed entirely.
Nothing will be as it was. The sentence shot through his head as the holy hermit sat beside the spring, lifting his undamaged bowl with a merry laugh. He even sacrificed a little of the water to clean his eyes, nose and ears of sand. Nill did not feel the water. He stared at an enormous boulder, tall as a man, with a broad warrior’s chest and a head that seemed to melt into the shoulders beneath a helmet. Nill blinked several times, so great was the resemblance between warrior and boulder. Hardness and calm were dominant once, and then Nill suddenly believed to have seen a motion; the risen stone spoke to him. It was a language without words, tones without sound, yet he understood. They came from an oddly glowing symbol that had been burnt into the warrior’s chest with a flaming sword. The rock must have rested here for a long time; it radiated the wisdom of many winters.
The storm had carried away the entire sand wall behind the oasis and dug deep into the ground behind it to free the boulder. Nill stood, trembling in awe before the stone, bathing in its power. His tremble grew stronger as he recognized the first symbol, then the second, and the third. They were the glyphs on his amulet, the runes he had seen in Perdis’ writings, the scars that covered the falundron’s body, the signs from the cave behind the Walk of Weakness. Nill was surprised how easy he found it to read, even though the writing was old and the sentences sounded as though they came from a distant past. He opened his mouth and, without realizing it, read the burning words to the sand, the trees, the sky.
“In the beginning there was fate-space. None know where it came from. It stood in silence and hearkened to the pulse of life, for there was no more at the birth of the world. It fell in love with the dulled sound, encased it, took it inside itself and followed its voice. Together they grew, and shrank, and grew again. Again, again, again, for longer than could be counted, further and further until it took the wondrous game too far and tore into countless small bubbles that now wandered in nothingness and confusion. This was the end of fate-space. So it had been said, and so it had happened, for the mother of all being is Nothing, and all returns to her.
Some stayed still, some felt the pulse of life beat in them yet, and it had no sense, for it soon was silenced. One bubble, only one, did not allow its life to leave. It pulsed with such strength and joy! Its edges touched when it shrank. The space within the bubble went through itself and saw what it was. In terror it fled from itself. All that remained was knowledge and magic.
Magic is the mother of all things, she is the beginning and the end, the place and the path. She is content with herself, and one who controls her is a god amongst gods; for there is no human being that could understand her. It is the magic of Nothing. When summoned, it gains shape, and in gaining shape it can no longer be.”
Nill raised his eyes and felt immeasurably tiny. He had often witnessed this truth: that the magic of Nothing stopped existing in the moment it began. But what then was the meaning of the title and position of Archmage of Nothing, if the master of this magic was a god amongst gods? Was there no end to the mages’ arrogance? Nill continued reading, full of astonishment.
“The Nothing bore fate, which wished for time as a servant. But time created space and caught fate in it. Since then time and fate have been locked in an eternal struggle. And the Nothing carried another child, an unloved third brother, light. The light exploded and grew cold. It grew so cold that it ended up shining, and the shining bore the darkness, for there can be no light without darkness. The light expanded and where it shone it was colder still, and contracted and compacted. Hot vapors hurried through the space and filled it with shapes. And the light grew colder still, so cold that the gases began to glow. And the vapors, too, shrank and grew heavier and denser. So dense that in the thing that had once been an empty and frightened bubble the first dust began to float. Time gave the dust direction, and fate decided to give it shape. So was made the sky, and in the first sky was all we could still see now if the stars did not shine. Know that the bright light of the stars is bitterly cold compared to the first light. Even though it could burn up everything you know before you knew it and leave nothing behind.”
So that’s how the world came to be, Nill thought. What he was reading here was so very different to all the other fables he had heard about the birth of the world. Light and darkness he knew as magics from the Hall of Symbols; it was easy to understand that they were the children of Nothing. What did surprise him was that they were brothers to fate. It was hard to believe that one in control of light and darkness could guide the hand of fate – or could he? Nill was not so sure.<
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“The humans will see the four children of Nothing and know them for what they are, but all will see them differently. So the Nothing wants it and so it will be.
Humans take what they see for the truth, and so they will argue amongst themselves which of their truths is real. They will give their truths names. Earth and Fire, son and daughter, man and woman, light and darkness, here and beyond, in and out, up and down.
This arguing about truths will lead to war and death, and it will be a battle between all living things, with and against each other, not to sink in the flow of time. The world will always change, for good and for bad.
In their search for the truth the humans will step through only one circle and never reach their destination. On their course, many kingdoms will rise and fall. Which will be which? Only time will tell. The things to come are told in the books of Eos, Arun, Cheon, Mun and Kypt. He who seeks them will find them, but know this: Kypt needs Mun as Arun waits for Eos, and Cheon needs Arun for it to serve Mun. We give Fire to guard the Book of Eos. The wise need only ask. Those who have a gift for magical trickery should not approach the guardian. The truth would burn them.”
The text ended there. Nill felt light-headed. He turned around and saw the holy man pick the bowl up from the spring and wander over to the trees to water them.
Nill meant to scream, to show the man what wonders the wind had unearthed, but he could not open his mouth. All he managed was a vague, meaningless gesture towards the great stone.
Nill felt envious of the hermit. In his mind there was chaos, magic whispering in his ears; he heard the spirit of the world speak to him about its birth. In the old man’s, there was only the water and his trees. Nill had the impression he was in a completely different world, and he could not tell where reality ended and fantasy began.
He tore his gaze from the old man and turned back to the stone. The motion brought him back to the real world. The desert and its singing winds, the occasional birdcall in the sky, it all came back along with the taste of dust and salt on his lips. Nill spat on the ground. Dirt, sand, dust, salt, and all the other things that had separated him from reality. With satisfaction he watched his spit sink into the ground. A damp spot was all that remained. That was the reality he knew.
Nill swore to one day understand the writing on the stone. For now he was satisfied knowing that his, and Pentamuria’s, fates were written in the Books of Prophecy. They were what he needed to find. Ambrosimas had known all along. If they’re all as well-hidden as the Book of Wisdom, then I’ve got a long way to go, he thought. He knew that that was what the stone was: the Book of Wisdom, or at least part of it.
Nill was ready to accept the challenge fate had given him. He felt so strong. Eos. The Book of Eos. It must be here in the Fire Kingdom – Fire is its guardian.
For a brief moment the Book of Eos stood between him and Perdis, but only for that moment. Nill turned to the hermit.
“It is time we moved on. I must ask one last favor of you.”
“How could I refuse the one who saved my trees?”
“The symbols you taught the sorcerer. Teach them to me too. Only the symbols, not your writings; I do not have the time he did.”
Nill needed no more than a day. He already knew the runes and only had to learn to replicate them as glyphs. He departed the next morning.
“You have my thanks, and I have one last question.”
“Ask away,” the hermit said genially.
“The sorcerer who visited you long ago: where did he come from, and where did he go when he left?”
“Two questions,” the old man said with a grin, “but I will answer them as best I can. He came from Wood, where the mountains touch the sky. When he left, his steps took him Earthward. He can’t have followed a straight path for long. There is even less water on the road to Earthland than here, and the little you might find is too salty to drink.”
“Then I will take the path to Woodhold and attempt to cross the mountains,” Nill decided. At the mention of the word “Wood” two bright, lucid eyes flashed at him from his past and his heartbeat accelerated. Nill dragged a hand over his face to dispel the mirage. He cheated and asked another question.
“Have you ever heard of the Book of Eos?”
The hermit silently shook his head. Nill nodded and shouldered his belongings, then departed for the path that had brought him here, over rubble and riverbed to the foot of the mountains. A last look back. The wind was already busy burying the stone beneath the sands.
VII
In a far later time, when Pentamuria was only a faint memory and the heroes of its stories were given more deeds than they could have done in two lifetimes, the scholars and philosophers and historians still argued about the exact moment in which the old had irrevocably been destroyed and the new had cautiously raised its head.
Many argued that everything pointed towards the moment when young Nill had read the inscription on the stone. In that moment, time had stopped for less than a heartbeat, and two opposing forces had clashed.
And there was Pentamuria, the entire known world, where the people went about their daily routines, lost within their own thoughts, occasionally wondering at the peace and harmony between the powerful. Those who did not know better thought that the world was at rest. But no impression is more damnably deceptive than that of calm and quiet.
In Rockvice, renamed Worldbrand, King Sergor-Don sat motionless, surrounded by a crowd of followers. The early unrest at the borders had settled, the fallen had been laid to rest and mourned, and it appeared that peace had taken hold. But beneath the surface things festered and bubbled, for he had not given up on his plans to break the might of the mages in Ringwall. They took shape and grew and filled every last corner of his mind.
And Ringwall, too, the object of his ire, seemed to lie in tranquil slumber. No hurried couriers arrived to bring counsel to the king, no envoys came to ask for his wisdom or permission or teaching; there were no magical disturbances within Knor-il-Ank, no experimentation with misunderstood magics, and even the intrigues between and within the various lodges were woven more delicately, more quietly than usual.
Ringwall was boring. But in the innermost circle of power there was not a moment’s rest to be had. The council convened daily and prepared for the great decisive battle to come. It was coming, and it would begin when the mysterious figure from the mists finally arrived at the gates. “If Ringwall is silent, the rest of the world is free,” a common saying went. But the kings in Earthland, Metal World, the Waterways and Woodhold did not trust in a lasting peace and kept cautiously behind their walls. Any probing into neighboring territory was postponed. Ringwall lay in wait like a wild animal, crouched and ready to pounce in a display of all its power.
A young mage stood as a counterbalance to Ringwall, going wherever he felt drawn. He cared little for the fortunes of the world and followed only his own meaningless matters. Since he had left Ringwall he had been searching for Perdis. He had found the trail of an unknown sorcerer who had crossed the desert from Wood to Earth many winters ago. Even that was uncertain; he had accomplished little. Yet he had fought against the soul of Amargreisfing and unleashed unfamiliar energies that had rushed across the land. He had lost his magic in the struggle and found it again with deeper understanding, had weathered a time-storm – or whatever the thing had been – and had had the privilege of reading in the Book of Wisdom. To put it simply: Nill had trampled like a bull through hedges on its search for fresh grass, ignoring the densely-woven webs he crashed into. He did not need to hide. He could read the magic, and so he could also find it.
At that time almost no one saw that there was a connection between the disruptive magic that surrounded Nill and the silent tensions in the world. Three names are known today, three people who were able to read the runes.
Gwynmasidon was one, the magon, who wanted Nill back under Ringwall’s watchful gaze, because he was still unsure which side the young archmage would take in th
e decisive battle. Ringwall’s hunters and a high-ranking Fire mage and his party were to converge in a pincer move in the Fire Kingdom and surround Nill on all sides. It was only a matter of time until they caught him.
Ambrosimas followed his own plans. His knowledge of the sacred Books of Prophecy helped him to understand parts of what was happening. He sat among his soft pillows, his hands together on his huge belly, a satisfied smile playing around his lips. He was glad that ‘his boy’ was still among the living. “Like a khanwolf who’s picked up a trail, you’re on the hunt. What have you found, Nill? Tell me!” he said out loud as he pondered on whom he could trust enough to send out and protect Nill from Ringwall’s clutches.
And the third person known as a rune-reader was Dakh-Ozz-Han. He currently lingered somewhere in the jagged rocks of Metal World and was furthest from the events that were unfolding. He could not learn of everything he wanted to know, and not all he knew did he understand. And not all he understood was to his liking. If Nill was to play an important part in this game of fate, why had he left Ringwall, the one place in Pentamuria where the final verdict would fall? Why had he set out on his own path, where he would inevitably cross his old enemy, Prince – no, he corrected himself, King – Sergor-Don? This was no time for payback, no time to lick old wounds of injured pride. Moon by moon, the magical powers of the world seemed to be steering towards one spot. And now of all times, Nill was wandering around in a desert.
Dakh-Ozz-Han cursed, rather more loudly than his age and dignity would have dictated, and decided that the time for action had arrived. With great steps he flew down from the mountains. First he made for Fire, then Woodward, in an effort to reach the Waterways as quickly as possible. He had to get to the part of the land where the ground was still firm and the harvest good, to save what could still be saved. The fear of arriving too late scourged him like a slavemaster.
