by Awert, Wolf
“It is good to see you, Your Highness,” a voice whispered.
Prince Sergor looked around. The rooms got smaller and more pathetic each time. This one was not only small, but filthy to boot; more a rough-dug hole in the earth than a chamber. Leafy, decomposing plant matter was scattered across the floor. The room looked like it had been a stable once. The prince drew his cloak closer.
His mentor and the unimposing mage of the Other World sat in the half-dark, immobile as statues from an era long since passed.
“It was a long way down here, was it not? There are not many rooms like this, and most of them have passed from all memory. Ringwall grows upwards, leaving its roots behind.” The dark one giggled; the prince could not see the humor in the sentence.
“It’s time for another foray into the Other World. Follow me.”
Prince Sergor-Don found himself standing on a wide plain, putting him in mind of his homeland. Sparse vegetation, devoid of people, dry earth beneath him, though it was not dusty. Strangely, there were not even any creatures of the Other World anywhere in his sight. The prince looked around for his companion and saw him standing some distance away.
“This is a huge place. Staying together won’t be easy. As you can see, even the Other World has areas that most avoid.”
Prince Sergor nodded. “And what exactly are we doing here?”
“Nothing at all; I just wanted you to see this place. Think of it as halfway from our world to the Other World. It’s part of it, somehow, but then again it’s not really. The place itself is irrelevant. There are many ways to get to the Other World, if you know how to go. You can go by Earth or by Air; Fire and Water, too, but those take special skills. Entering the Other World is not bound to the five elements, and that’s the real secret behind it. If you’re too stuck to the five elements, you’ll never understand the Other World.”
The prince shivered. For the first time he felt he was standing before one of the magical secrets that had drawn him to Ringwall in the first place. Again and again he had discovered, much to his chagrin, that these secrets were guarded more jealously than his father’s crown jewels. Finally, he thought.
“Tonight we travel together, to the Other World and back again. We will use all the ways that are possible, and we will get stuck on those that aren’t; learning the possible means finding the impossible, as well. Are you prepared?”
Prince Sergor-Don said: “Just tell me what to do.”
“Nothing. You’re not doing, you’re looking. You need to get a feel for the Other World, or you’ll get lost here; and I can’t be sure that you’ll find your way back. And even if you do, you certainly won’t end up back in Ringwall; more likely in your home castle, or in the fever-fens, or in a small village a few days’ ride from the Waterways. And that would raise questions I’m unwilling to answer. Who knows; just take my hand and we’ll get going.”
The prince felt his wrist clamped vice-like in his companion’s hand. The grip was so hard that only his soldierly upbringing stopped him from crying out in pain. And then he saw and felt it: his guide was sinking into the earth. Before he could even ask a question he was waist-deep in the ground. The surface of the musty earth had reached his chin, was climbing over his lips, pushing into his nostrils and forcing his eyes shut. He was fully submerged. His lungs felt like they were about to explode; the air was gone, and small red stars danced in front of his eyes.
“Stay calm, and breathe normally.”
The prince jerked. He had been holding his breath until now, but at the mage’s words he breathed deeply and his lungs filled with oxygen. His heartbeat returned to a normal rate and the throbbing in his temples stopped. Hand in hand he and his guide made their way through the Earthen lands, slowly at first, then at a leisurely pace, then in a swift march and finally breaking into a trot that reminded him of armies determined to get to their destination on time. Trot? Really? How foolish. He was used to riding. No sooner had he finished the thought than he was storming through the earth.
“Enough,” a sharp command rang out and the prince felt an upwards motion lifting him through the earth. The ground spat him back out and the filthy little room in Ringwall surrounded him once again. His robes were smeared with dirt and moldy straw clung to the precious cloth.
“I didn’t think I’d carry the dirt from the Other World home,” he said, wiping some of the earth that clung to him off.
“The dirt is from this room. You can’t bring anything back from beyond.”
The prince raised his head. “But you can take things from here to beyond, and back again.”
The mage of the Other World and the Prince’s patron exchanged looks. “You’re right; tell us how you found out.”
Sergor-Don snorted contemptuously. Did they take him for a fool, or were they too ignorant to have noticed that in their travels to the Other World they had always been clothed, both there and here? He did not share these thoughts, and instead he said: “When you guided me to the Other World, you took me along, did you not?”
The mage laughed. “No, I did not. I sent you and followed.”
“But that must mean that you can send people or things to the Other World. I must know how that works. May I attempt to send you?” The prince worked hard to keep his face impassive, but a hint of eagerness and curiosity hovered about his hard features.
“You would send your mentor to the Other World like a sack of mice?”
The prince kneeled down as his teacher’s annoyance grew over him. “I am certain, master, that you would find a way back. If I’m to practice what you taught me, then I have to learn to send something beyond and find it again to know if I was successful. What if I make a mistake? What sense is there in meeting in secret places, and then ruining everything with shoddy magic?”
The mages looked at each other. “You speak intelligently and true,” the Metal mage remarked.
“I appreciate your enthusiasm,” the mage of the Other World said, and the pressing feeling on Sergor-Don’s shoulders vanished.
“I have never known a magic to pierce me so. Please teach me the ways. Please.”
“We will show you all you desire. Now then, listen and watch.”
The prince had abandoned his imposing stance. He craned his neck forwards so as not to miss a single thing, but he silently thought to himself: You fools, you arrogant, megalomaniacal fools.
Chapter 8
“Ambrosimas won’t help me,” Nill informed his friends of his woes. “You need a magical key to open the door. It’s a pebble like those that surround the Water in the Sanctuary.”
“I thought as much,” Brolok mused. “Now what?”
Nill made a helpless gesture. He had no further options. “I don’t know,” he said. “But I found out something else.”
And he recounted his conversation with the White Mage at the Sanctuary, and told of his encounter with the Nothing.
Brolok frowned, worry etched into the lines on his face. “You’ve a powerful enemy here in Ringwall, there’s no doubt about it. And this enemy attacks from the shadows, behind a mask of goodwill and friendship. The last trap was far more refined than that stupid attack during the lesson. If we don’t find out what exactly is going on we’re going to have as much of a chance as a moth caught in a rain of fire. But how’s a neophyte to understand what goes on in the minds of the mighty?” Brolok raised his hands to the skies in exaggerated desperation. “Tiriwi, we need help.”
Tiriwi was staring at Nill; Brolok’s monologue had completely passed her by.
“You know what happened?” she asked. “You were touched by Aikros. Aikros is one of our highest spirits, he is a consciousness. How did you do it? I’ve only ever know the elders to succeed. And you said that the mage claimed they use this to recover their strength? I’d have liked to meet him.”
Nill was confused. He did not know what to say to this. After much deliberation he responded, “I experienced the Nothing. I sank into the Nothing between the elements a
t the Sanctuary. That’s all.”
“So Aikros is the Nothing? It’s all so strange. Dakh-Ozz-Han must have seen these things in you early on. Come, Brolok. Let’s leave Nill alone, he needs rest.”
Tiriwi looked into Nill’s eyes and gently brushed over his hair. “Don’t despair. You have been through more than most sorcerers in their entire life. What you witnessed was a grace; a very valuable gift.”
Nill stared at her in bewilderment. His first instinct was to slap the hand away. That’ll be the day, when Tiriwi starts giving me motherly strokes like Esara, he thought. But Tiriwi’s eyes stopped the impulse. There was something in those eyes that he had never seen before. The instructive tone of voice, the pretended superiority that always made him feel like a stupid little boy was gone. What was even stranger to him was that the matter did not seem strange to him at all. But this last thought was already dim, and after another breath Nill had fallen asleep.
He slept deeply and did not dream. When he awoke, Tiriwi and Brolok were already gone, and Nill cursed under his breath. “Why didn’t they wake me? Weren’t we going to learn about healing herbs today? Or was that yesterday?” Nill’s usually so active mind was cobwebbed and dusty. It took ages for one of his thoughts to stand out from the general buzz. He poured a bowl of ice-cold water over his head, his teeth chattered for a moment and he finally felt awake. His brain still did not work as he wanted it to. “No healing herbs today, that’s right.”
Nill trotted off and hoped that movement would get his mind working. He decided to visit the kitchens.
Growarth the warlock looked Nill up and down. “You look excellent, my boy. Healthy, strong and hungry.”
“I’m confused, weak and thirsty, actually,” Nill grinned.
“No no no, my boy, you’re healthy, strong and hungry! Just what you’re hungry for is still unknown to me.”
“I think I overslept and I’m having trouble getting out of the arms of sleep. Arms, hah! More like tentacles or cobwebs or whatever else can get you stuck.”
“Here, drink this. It’ll fix you right up.”
Nill threw the liquid in the cup down his throat and heaved a sigh. “I needed that. What was in it?”
Growarth laughed his booming laugh. “Water.”
“Water? Just water?” Nill raised his fists in mock outrage.
“You said you were thirsty. Now tell me what you want. Where lies that appetite?”
Nill punched the air with his fists. “I’ve come to learn that there’s a library in Ringwall. I need to get in. I had a brush with the Nothing. If I want to learn more of the Nothing, I’ll have to get into the library. The mages don’t understand it, or they don’t want to talk about it and hide behind riddles and double-talk. Even Ambrosimas, my mentor, talks his way out of it.”
“The only one who can help you is an Archmage. Nobody else would dare cross the rules to make an exception. Let me think for a bit. If your friends can’t help, turn to your enemies. You can only get help from people connected to you, never from those who care not.”
“What do you mean?”
“Everyone in Ringwall knows that the Archmage of Metal isn’t fond of you. The gaze of the Magon is probably the only reason you’re still alive. It’s a dangerous road but maybe Bar Helis might grant you entry, in the hopes of securing your demise in there.” Growarth laughed again.
Nill never knew when to take the huge cook seriously, but he saw the wisdom in the words, even if the solution seemed risky. But in that moment of doubt Nill knew that once all other avenues were blocked off, he would have to go that way.
“As you wished, I told the boy that there’s nothing better than surrendering to Nothing. I assume he’s probably dissolved by now, and all that’s left of him is a shadow wandering between this and the Other World.”
The White Mage smiled in a self-satisfied way. He had swapped his light robe for a gray, intricately embroidered cowl.
“And?” The silvery-gray image of the Archmage spat a bitter laugh. “I know of your ability to convince others to take actions they’d rather not, Mapheron. I believe you when you say your actions led to the desired reaction by the boy. But I must wonder, how then is it that the boy is wandering around Ringwall, very much alive?”
The distorted voice had grown threatening, the noise echoing around the room. The previously confident mage seemed to sway under the invisible blows the voice dealt.
“You all fail me. One as badly as the other. You are incapable of killing a student who has shown no more magical prowess than a common hedgehog! With every failure you make a mockery of yourselves, and by extension, Ringwall.” The Archmage rose to his feet. “I must take matters into my own hands, for I know one thing: The Changer seeks the power to destroy everything, and to gain more power in the destruction. Search for the one who wishes for power, and grant it to him. His greed will be his end. It’s the simplest solution. But I will grant you one last chance. If you fail me again, you will be stripped of certain… privileges.”
The mage had gone pale, and sweat dripped from his brow. “It won’t come to that. I swear it.”
Nill resolved to try anything he could that had even the slightest chance of granting him access to the library. The answers to his questions were there, he knew it. So much was clouded. So much he could not understand.
If one of his parents had been a mage, there might be hints to that in the scrolls. They might have written some themselves. Sometimes hopes and dreams manifest in the strangest ways, and Nill hoped for a sort of internal certainty that would take hold of him once he read about his parents. But it was not just the search for his heritage that drove him forward. The unknown symbols on his amulet, for one; and of course the mysteries of the Nothing. And what was the true story behind the hermits? Brolok’s advice was, as always, short, to the point, and utterly impossible to implement.
“Learn magic, enter the tournament, beat all the other stupid, weak sorcerers whose years of experience have softened their minds, and become the youngest mage to ever live. There, you’re in the library. It’s that easy.”
The last thing he needed right now was sarcasm, but Brolok was right; it was the only safe way. He had echoed Ambrosimas almost word for word.
Nill knew all too well that he had no chance of winning a contest against a tried and tested sorcerer. Only the best survived the tournament, and even the best would not get through without a considerable helping of luck.
“There’s got to be a short cut!”
Nill could not muster the courage to even come close to the Archmage of Metal. Instead he found his legs taking him to the corridor that led to the library, without really knowing what he was doing there. He loitered around for a while, saw the odd mage or two enter or leave the room, always taking care to close the door behind them. But he could not bring himself to address any of them.
He walked up to the door and inspected the lock. “All the elements and the three spheres are woven into the lock,” his mentor had told him. Perhaps he could find out how the differing magical energies worked together. Somewhat helplessly, he stared up and down the door.
“What are you doing here?” a voice rattled through his head.
Nill jumped and turned around hastily. Before him stood the Archmage of the Other World, the man he had challenged for his third task.
“Apologies, my lord, but is there not a library of sorts behind this door?”
The Archmage made no indication that he had heard Nill.
“The door is locked with a magical seal. How do I gain entry?” Nill was aware of his own audacity, but he could not do worse than get a “no” for an answer.
“Why do you want to get in?” the Archmage asked in a dull, flat voice. Nill recognized the silent screams of the floating figures in the Other World in that voice. How different his detached expression was from that of his mentor, where the emotions ran wild, fighting and playing. Nill was never sure whether Ambrosimas’ expression showed truth or whether he wa
s simply a masterful actor.
“I wish to learn,” he said after a long pause.
“You have teachers and are fortunate enough to have the patronage of an Archmage. Are you not happy with that?” Mah Bu asked.
The voice was nothing but words. And the words were naked. There was no sound that caressed them, no pitch that told of the speaker. The voice had no threat, no anger, no curiosity or joy. It was utterly empty; so flat, in fact, that the Archmage might not have spoken at all, but been a vessel for another’s words.
Nill bowed his head humbly. “I am, and yet it is not enough. I cannot yet succeed in every task my teachers set for me, and I have much to learn. Apart from that there are areas of magic I have never set foot in. I don’t even know what areas there are.”
“Why don’t you ask your mentor?”
“I have asked, my lord, and he commands patience.”
“Of which you have none.” It was not a question, but a statement.
“I learn a lot, but I don’t always understand why. Preparations for that which has yet to come, but which I do not know. I have not learned a single spell, no incantation or gesture that goes beyond what I already know. Sometimes I feel as though I’m learning the weakest magic there is.”
The Archmage’s face moved for the first time, but Nill could not interpret it.
“There is no weak magic, but I understand what you’re saying. An Archmage of Thought is not a fighter, but a diplomat. Do not underestimate your patron for this. He is nigh invincible in a fight. Powerful spells are useless against him, for he has already attacked and defended before the words have left your mouth. That is why he might not be the right teacher for the knowledge you seek. If you seek combat and power, then Fire, Metal or the magic of the Other World are better places to look. Even if Ambrosimas is the wrong teacher for what you want, he is the right one for what you need.”
