The Reign of Magic (Pentamura Book 1)

by Awert, Wolf

  “What do you think you’re doing? We haven’t all day!” he snarled pitilessly at Nill. The boy gave an apologetic smile. He did not like being a burden for the group, but at the same time he had an urge to sing out loud. The new magic, he felt, had helped him towards completion, and soon he thought he was floating rather than walking. His first steps were still uncertain, but he soon had his old rhythm back and caught up with the group quickly. The path no longer concerned him; this new game had his full attention. With his courage returned he attempted to guide this new strength to different parts of his body, his arms first, then his legs. I wonder if I can save some of this? he thought to himself. I suppose I have the most room in my belly. It’s all soft down there. I didn’t have a decent breakfast either. There should be lots of space for the magic. I’m all hungry for it. Nill chuckled quietly. The thought of eating magic was rather amusing. And he really felt as though some power was growing inside him. Not much, but at least it was there. What an intriguing thought this was: guiding magic from one’s surroundings into oneself and keeping it there. Nill considered asking his new friends whether they had felt something similar, but at that moment their young guide stepped through a large double door and they entered the Ceremonial Hall.

  In that precise moment, when Tiriwi, Brolok and Nill crossed the threshold into the Ceremonial Hall, silence fell upon the place like a bird landing on a branch. The air is full of the sound of wings beating against the wind to ensure a safe landing, and in the next moment, the wings are quietly tucked away as the scaly claws fasten themselves around the wood below them. The branch bows humbly under the weight, sways once, twice, and comes to a standstill in perfect balance with the bird.

  The hall was struck with a silence that buried the mages’ noise and the mutterings of a small, nervous group of students. Tiriwi, Brolok and Nill were also students, but they were strangers, not of Ringwall. Curiosity fought against contempt, hope battled fear. Time itself seemed to have stopped and the silence filled the Ceremonial Hall to bursting point.

  Nill noticed little of these sudden changes. He found himself standing in a hall, the ceiling of which was the sky and the pillars stretched out into the horizon. Nill knew of the openness of the land, and he knew of the tightness of human housing. He had never considered openness a possibility in man-made rooms.

  “Illusions, the lot of it,” he heard Brolok grumble. Illusions? Incredible. The hall seemed endless. But as he fixated on a certain point he saw what Brolok meant, and could make out walls. As he stopped concentrating on the point the walls disappeared again, showing him the horizon. A whole village seemed to fit inside the Hall. There was enough space between the entrance and the first benches for three or four huts, maybe even for a stable. While Nill attempted to become accustomed to the size and beauty of the Hall, Brolok was inspecting the other people there, apparently unmoved. He saw the magical triangle formed between the mages, the small group of students and their own small group, still standing by the door. The silence had gone from the mages, but the students still did not speak. The mages had begun to talk among themselves, muttering, joking and laughing. They seemed not too concerned with their students, although Brolok did notice the occasional furtive glance. The mages had given up their worldly status at the gates of Ringwall, and nobody could tell whether they had once been lords or just members of the nobility. Most of them wore light clothing. Some wore light brown, gray or even white robes, others had simple cloaks or woolen coats over short cassocks. Brolok knew that the robe-wearers must be the higher-ranking mages, and he saw obvious differences in the quality of the cloaks. Occasionally the light picture was broken up by colorful blotches. The colored robes, now more and more taking over the Hall, did not seek to mingle with the light dressed. They seemed drawn to the middle of the Hall rather than the back of it.

  The air surrounding the noble students seemed to crackle with nervousness. As members of the reigning class of Ringwall they had been brought up knowing the importance of a straight back and unmoved expression. Most of them turned their backs to the newcomers as a gesture of animosity. The faces of those who looked at them were lined with expressions of distrust and enmity. Despite all this, they still seemed to Brolok like a flock of colorful chickens, strange and not belonging to the hall’s natural order.

  The contrast between the mages and the students could not have been more pronounced. The mages wore simple clothing, while their pupils were in full pomp, making even Tiriwi’s silver cloak seem ordinary. Brolok recognized the students from Metal World by their wide hats, their black tunics under the cloaks and the gaudy jewelry they wore. Those who came from the Fire Kingdom had a preference for red, their headdresses were slim caps similar to light helmets, and they were shod in soft boots. The other kingdoms seemed a wild jumble of colors to Brolok, but he knew he would find out who hailed from where soon enough.

  One of the students stuck out like a dragon among lizards, or a phoenix among birds. He stood tall in the middle of the group, surrounded by attentive classmates, their admiration encasing him like a war-cloak does a king. His body was lean, sinewy and in very good shape, although it had not yet reached its full potential. Brolok’s well-trained eye missed neither the relaxed posture that all warriors possessed, nor the pride he wore upon his head like a crown. Brolok scrutinized the young warrior’s face with an air of worry. He had grown early. This boy was no child. This was someone who had learned to tell friend from foe, who took what he deserved. But the most extraordinary thing was his gaze. He saw neither his classmates’ bids for attention nor Brolok’s searching eyes, nor the presence of the mages. His gaze had left Ringwall altogether, but he did not look like it was dreams that he was hunting.

  Nill noticed nothing of this. He only returned to the present when the Hall was almost full. He noticed that the mages were sitting together in groups determined by their colors. Eight different groups formed after a while. Five of them were plain-colored: red, blue, brown, black and green. One of the other three groups was of a swirling sort of gray, so very different with its constantly changing light and shadow to the other mages’ light colors. Another was a deep blue that began to sparkle when it moved. The last one was white with delicate black patterns that seemed to dance, fogging the senses and making one’s eyes water.

  A deep gong silenced the Hall once more and from the back of the Hall ten mages stepped forwards, each of them carrying a mighty chair before them.

  Nill gave Brolok a nudge. “My arms would fall off if I had to do that,” he muttered. Brolok gave no answer. Perhaps he had not heard him, since the air in the room was dense and swallowed even the sound of twenty sandals moving towards their predetermined spots. Nill began to understand what it meant when Ringwall was referred to as “the City of Magic.”

  The ten mages set down their chairs a fair distance from the first row of benches. From the tips of the tall, richly carved seats archaic symbols gazed imperiously into the Hall, wooden guardians from ancient times, defensive magics and fountains of knowledge. The armrests seemed to leap forward like vicious, powerful predators. No two chairs were alike, but all of them told a different tale. Nevertheless, two chairs in particular caught the students’ eyes: one by manner of its precious resplendence, the other with its plainness. Nill might have mistaken it for an ordinary stool, had it not been huge and equipped with a short back.

  A chair for the court jester, Nill thought quickly, but this chair emanated such all-encompassing power that he shooed the thought away quickly. It might be the seat of Ringwall’s secret master. It is not always pomp and grandeur that attract attention. Secrets are much stronger, and so Nill’s most important question concerned who might be sitting on this particular chair. Following the ten chairs nine mages entered the Hall and took their place on them. To Nill’s great disappointment the plain stool was left empty.

  “Well blow me down with a flower, it’s the archmages,” Brolok whispered, shaking all over. “Only very few people ever have t
he chance to even see an Archmage. I’ll bet that counts most of the people in here, too. Even the mages! Can you see their gazes? What could have prompted the archmages to come out from their spider webs?”

  It was not just their arrival that gave Nill the impression that these nine were different from the others. Every last one of them was surrounded by a colored aura the likes of which he had only ever seen on Dakh. But these auras were different – they extended far into the Hall, passing through each other and flickering at the edges. One moment they enclosed their bearers like banners in battle, the next they seemed like birds desperate to escape their chains. In wonderment Nill realized that each aura, too, was different from the next.

  Brolok indicated one of the archmages with his chin. “That one in the middle, that’s Gwynmasidon, the Magon and leader of the archmages.”

  Nill nodded, but he was more interested in knowing why the chair next to the Magon was still empty. Brolok shrugged.

  Gwynmasidon, the leader of the Circle, was as intimidating as he was magnificent. He moved with the grace and unbound strength of a leonpedon, one of those great yellow cats with a large mane and wide paws which enabled them to run quickly across sand. His white robe shone with a brightness so intense that Nill had to squint so he would not be blinded. This, then, was the Magon, the First Mage, spiritual leader of all mages and the keeper of Pentamuria’s destiny.

  At last Gwynmasidon opened his eyes and rose. If eyes are the mirror to one’s soul, then Gwynmasidon did not have one. His eyes appeared empty. Like a gateway to another time, Nill thought.

  “I welcome you here, within the magical walls of Ringwall.”

  The Magon’s voice was dark and booming like distant thunder, while the storm still decided on its path and kept its bolts in the clouds.

  Nill could not bring himself to concentrate on the Magon’s words. He heard something about duties, work, discipline and the great task, but the words were meaningless to him. As had happened before with the stones’ magic, the Magon’s aura filled the air around him. Again Nill felt as though he was being crushed, and decided to siphon some of this energy into his body. To his surprise this was easier than he had anticipated. But he did not understand what he felt. Nill knew that in future he would recognize the Magon with closed eyes by his magic alone, but the magic he felt was alien to him. He could not take it and make it his own. Nill closed off his body and drove out the last vestiges of the Magon’s aura.

  Replacing it was a feeling of fullness. Over and under the Magon’s power lay a second aura. This one was delicate, without the crushing strength he had felt previously, and it had laid itself over him without his noticing. It sounded like gentle music playing in the background, the kind one only hears once the main act has stopped playing. Whose aura was this?

  Nill shut his eyes and followed the slight vibrations to their source. The closer he came to the row of the mages, the more powers became layered on top of each other. When Nill opened his eyes again, the aura slipped out of his grasp. Nill supposed that it belonged to an odd figure who was positioned on the other side of the empty chair, a person so unobtrusive that Nill had almost overlooked him. Medium size, not much hair, a small cap for a headdress and a gray cloak covering a gray robe. Everything about this man was gray and nondescript. The only feature that seemed out of the ordinary was the gray cloth itself upon which dark shadows and lighter spots seemed to dance. Nill could not truly make out where the man began and ended, for the edges around him seemed blurred. What an aura! Nill held his breath, startled.

  This aura danced and twitched and cavorted around the man’s body, and the next moment it became still and inconspicuous. Nothing was constant. It flowed like the light and shadow on its bearer’s robe. Dark memories rose in Nill and made him shiver. Beads of sweat formed between his shoulders and ran down his back, tickling him. Where have I felt something similar before? He tore himself away. Taking on this power seemed too dangerous to him, so he turned his attention instead to the next, last Archmage on the right-hand side.

  This one was smaller than the others, but stocky, with fat rolls granted by his wealth and an amused smile on his face – the contrast to the others could not have been more pronounced. His robe and cloak were white, but embroidered with runes and secret symbols. Nill did not know what to make of these. This man’s aura was strong and fitful, but not as powerful as the gray mage’s and nowhere near the Magon’s. Nill granted a small amount of it entrance into his body and realized with a start that it went straight to his head, then slid through his body of its own accord. He felt dizzy. That wasn’t a good idea, he thought.

  Nill was clever enough not to try to expel this power by force. He simply stopped the connection and waited for the energy’s flow to calm down again. But this took its time. A trace of the aura danced around in his body for a while. Nill was startled. This Archmage was not looking around the Hall in boredom like the others, but staring straight at him. At him, the little apprentice. He closed his eyes in fright.

  Tiriwi and Brolok noticed nothing of Nill’s adventurous little games.

  The Magon ended his speech and the students began to introduce themselves.

  “My name is Sergor-Don from Herfas-San, and I am descended from the Ornbras.”

  The unorderly jumble of noble students had formed a long line, at the front of which this young noble from the Fire Kingdom stood, and the end of which almost ended with Tiriwi, Brolok and Nill – almost, because a gap had been left for all to see, large enough to make clear that there were at least two types of student.

  Prince Sergor stood calmly in front of the mages’ council and looked openly into Gwynmasidon’s face. He held his head high, leaned back slightly so that his gaze would glide down past his nose before leaving his face. Nill felt the cold arrogance and strong will present in this young man spread through the Hall and at the same time felt something like reluctant admiration. There was something wild beneath the smooth surface that would sharpen any shepherd’s senses. The hidden predator in the bush, about to leap and claim one of the less cautious animals from the herd. Or was it more?

  “We thank your Highness for the perfectly formal introduction.” Was that a hint of derision carried in the great Magon’s voice? Nill glanced at the archmages with a curious eye. Derision seemed no companion to this council.

  One after the other gave their name. All of them were Dons, Sans, Bens, Seis and whatever other marks of lineage there were.

  The three from the Hermits’ Caves were called up last, and the muttering increased immediately.

  Brolok stepped forward and gave his name, which was no less in meaning and glory than those of the others of nobler descent. The Magon nodded. “A famous name, although sadly somewhat forgotten. Who is your mother?”

  Brolok was silent for a few moments, searching for the right words, and answered: “Her name is Valna, and she is my father’s wife.”

  The mutterings became whispers and the whispers became hisses. The words ‘half-arcanist’ and ‘sok’s kid’ were audible. It took a while for those present to calm down again. Gwynmasidon waited patiently.

  “She must be an extraordinary person for your father to have chosen her as his wife.” The Magon’s face betrayed no stirrings, but the students and some of the other mages furrowed their brows and murmured in disapproval. None of them wanted a magical cripple in their midst.

  Tiriwi stepped forward and said quietly: “I am called Tiriwi.”

  “Just Tiriwi?”

  Tiriwi nodded.

  “Can you speak up a little and repeat your name? I am afraid most of those sitting here did not hear it.”

  “I’d rather not break the silence of the house by raising my voice.”

  If there were a silence more silent than silence, it would have descended upon them at that moment. Not complying with a Magon’s wish was unheard of in these walls. Even lack of knowledge or fundamental understanding of rules could not excuse such behavior, and more than o
ne of those present held their breath, waiting for the strange girl to be vaporized in fire, fog, hot steam or nothing at all.

  But the Magon simply looked at Tiriwi and said nothing, while in the heads of those assembled a single word started to form, taking on substance and finally filling the Hall with its magnitude.

  “Please.”

  The word was polite, but the sound was cold and metallic, the echo threatening, and even the highest ranking mages winced at the strength of the command.

  Nill, too, raised his head. He had just worked out that the Fire Mages and their understudies wore red robes, the Water Mages wore blue, the Earthen mages brown, the Metal Mages black and the Wood mages green. He had until now only known the elements as points of orientation in the world. On his journey with Dakh-Ozz-Han he had learned that they were, indeed, magical elements. He had told Esara once that all five cardinal directions tasted different, but she had laughed, ruffled his hair and mumbled something about nonsense. But the auras of the five elemental mages were clear and each in their own way unique, as Nill could sense. They were familiar. The Magon’s “please” had just interrupted him as he was about to probe further into the Metal magic, because this was the one he knew the least. His surprise was even greater when he heard another voice ringing in his head.

  “My name is Tiriwi. I am an Oa and the wise women of my people have sent me here, to Ringwall.”

  The name left an echo that mingled with the words that followed and became quieter and quieter – Tiriwi, Tiriwi, Tiriwi – until it finally fell silent.

  It was not just Nill who had jumped at the sudden noise. Other students had, too; some were holding fast to their heads. The Magon seemed less than amused, and the other archmages had a grim look on their faces.