by Awert, Wolf
“You’re saying that some mages always know where we are and what we’re doing?” Brolok did not like the thought of having someone staring over his shoulder for everything that he did.
“Not exactly. But if you walk along, you’re seen, if you use magic, it’s felt, and if you disappear for too long, you’re looked for. If Nill was injured or captured and calling for help, then he’d be heard or felt by someone in Ringwall. Have you tried contacting Ambrosimas?”
Brolok pulled a face. “I don’t trust him,” he growled.
“He’s Nill’s patron,” Empyrade said.
“He’s an Archmage,” Brolok added.
“I see.”
Nill woke suddenly. He had no idea how long he had slept. The light in the Hall of History was coming from the walls; there were no windows. The air was still dry and dusty. There was no wind to tell him what time of day it was. He looked for the key frantically, thanking the gods when he felt the hard, rounded shape of the pebble beneath the soft fabric of his clothes.
He pulled out a wooden block from a corner and climbed onto it, getting in reach of the top-most stack of thin parchment, the layer of dust on them attesting to their rare use.
Nill pulled a stack down and was powdered gray. Puffing at the parchment he deciphered the top line with difficulty. They were old runes, but he could read them. They were not in the shape he knew, and they were intricately decorated; it seemed wasteful to him, for the message in the letters remained the same. But he could make out what they were. “The… Org- Origin of Meg… No, that’s an ‘a’… Magic. The Origin of Magic!”
He had found what he had been searching for. Something about the Nothing. But the first sentence crushed his hopes in a manner crueler than he could have known.
“No creature has ever understood, or will ever understand the secrets of the origin of all magic,” he read.
If that’s the truth, why waste good parchment on it? he raged silently. The other pages contained similar nonsense and other thoughts best left omitted.
Right at the bottom of the first stack Nill found four bound pages with the title “The Art of the Magical Script.”
There was not much written about it. Round shapes were harmonious, broken ones better for short-lived spells. Magical scriptures themselves contained no magic, but only released the casting mage’s magic; in truth, the written symbols were all but irrelevant to the outcome.
Nill was getting annoyed. That’s complete nonsense, he chafed. Every sign and symbol contains an amount of magical energy. The writer binds the magic to the word, and the reader releases the magic.
Nill had played this game with Esara so many times that the notion of a mage dismissing the concept was almost insulting. To his gratification he found that he was not the only one who disagreed with the original author.
Someone had crossed out the page and drawn a symbol of contempt over it. It was cracked and Nill had to take care not to change it further. But the message was clear. Someone had been as annoyed as he was and had taken his frustration out on the sheaf.
But Nill could not condone the vandalizing of another’s script, even if it was purest rubbish. Nill turned the page over and found a small portion of text in the middle, surrounded by intricate ornaments. It was really quite remarkable. It was beautiful, comprising many linked signs and symbols, painted with color. It was more a moving picture than a decoration. Nill attempted to trace some of the symbols in his mind, and the parchments fell out of his weak hands. He began to tremble. His breath was short and shallow, his heart beating at an unnatural rate. He had recognized two of the symbols. They were well hidden, but there was no doubt about it: they were identical to the ones on his amulet. He reached beneath his shirt to pull it out, and then remembered that the real amulet was hidden.
He searched for more familiar signs. He did not find them all, but enough to see that the secret in these pages was not in the text written on them. The true message was hidden in the ornate border.
“How clever,” he thought. “Hiding a secret message where everyone can find it, but nobody will look.”
He was certain that there was a secret message in the symbols. Anything else would have made no sense. But knowing where the message was and deciphering it were two completely separate problems. His amulet had carried a message too, but even people like Dakh and Ambrosimas had been unable to read it.
Only two symbols were clearly the same as on his amulet. The others he had found were adorned with additional strokes, hooks and curves; he could not tell whether they changed the meaning or whether they were only there to add to the disguise.
I have to compare these to my amulet, side by side.
It would have been easiest to just take the pages with him, but he imagined that the consequences would not be desirable. For one, he respected that the parchments belonged here; for another, he was afraid of being stopped by a passing mage, asking him what he thought he was doing, stealing from the library. Someone had gone to great lengths to hide this message from the world, and he did not want to jeopardize everything by being lazy and careless. It was safer to memorize every detail of the border, so he could later trace it with charcoal and paintbrushes.
Although there were only four pages, the first being nothing but the disfigured title, it was difficult work remembering every tiny bit of the decoration. He never knew when a stroke was mere embellishment or actual content. It took a long time for him to internalize two of the four pages well enough to be satisfied. The last page was just a crest, shaped like a treetop. He had a far easier time memorizing this page than the previous two.
Something stuck out, though. A few flourishes beneath the writing looked different from the many symbols and shapes he had memorized. They looked like the runes Esara wrote.
“Perdis,” Nill read.
He leapt up. A name! It must have been the name of the original writer. Perhaps his father, or his mother; or someone who had known either, or at least had the same knowledge of script. Nill stared at the five symbols that told him nothing of whether their originator was male or female. But he did not care. He had a name.
While he was deliberating on what next to do, he heard steps from the central room.
My day’s over, he thought. The Archmage is back to get his key. Keys, it’s always about keys. I needed a key to get in here, and now I need a key to understand the writings on this parchment. Perdis must have left it somewhere. It would take many days to peruse every scripture here, and from his experience with Perdis so far, the key would have been hidden equally carefully. It was possible that he would find it on these very pages. Nill looked over the text about magic and beauty and shook his head. Before he was not absolutely certain which of the symbols in the border were important there was no point in complicating his search.
The steps drew closer quickly. A shadow fell upon the threshold, a huge one at that; two steps later, it shrank to a tiny sliver as another light became primary to it.
It was not Mah Bu. It was one of the many Mages of Ringwall Nill had never met; this one was robed in brown. He could have been a White Mage, choosing to wear darker colors, or one of Metal, Earth or even the Other World. There were intricacies to the colored robes that Nill did not understand. Not that he cared; if he wanted to judge someone, he did it by their aura, not their clothes. This man’s aura was not unusual in any way. Nill lowered his gaze back to the parchment, hoping he would be ignored.
The mage crossed the room in long strides, hesitated, took another step and then stopped. He turned around and addressed Nill. “Who let you in?”
“Archmage Mah Bu lent me his key so that I may do some research,” Nill answered politely.
Nobody questioned an Archmage’s decision, at least not aloud. The brown mage shook his head, presumably in disbelief, and continued to the Chamber of Power. Nill stood up, put the parchments back under the stack where he had found them, aligned their edges carefully and left the room where he had found more than
his wildest dreams had promised him.
On his way back to the Hermits’ Caves he cudgeled his tired brains. Now what? Where do I go next? How do I find out who Perdis was, and who can tell me what the symbols mean? And most importantly: whom can I trust?
The days of long travels were gone. Nill was more familiar with the portals and shortcuts than anyone he knew, and he arrived at the Hermits’ Caves quite soon. Everything was silent. Brolok and Tiriwi were probably out to a lesson, although he could not remember what their lesson was to be today. There were more important things taking precedence in his mind. Nill shooed away the thought of his friends and rifled through his parchment, brushes and inks.
If only I could trace them onto the parchment with my mind,” he thought. Now I’ve got to do it all, by hand, from memory. Perdis must have taken weeks to do it; I don’t have that kind of time.
Time!
He realized that his day was over. He pressed a hand to his shirt, just above his chest, and felt pain. The keystone was still in his pocket, even though the sun had set and risen again.
Nill prayed to his luck, hoping Mah Bu had forgotten about him and the pebble. He then called himself a fool for even thinking it.
After a great deal of effort, he had recreated the ornamental frame from the second page as closely as he could. It was not as beautiful as the original, but Nill did not care. A few lines were crooked or slightly misplaced, but the symbols themselves were easily recognizable, and that was good enough for him. A few smudges dotted the picture where his quill had got stuck. He would rather have done the whole thing with his brush, but the most delicate lines were too thin for the brush he had, and so he had had no choice but to reach for his quill.
He did not go as far with the third page, preferring to sketch it. It had to be enough to aid his memory. He did not bother with the last and first pages.
He replaced his things, took the copy in his hand and went down the path that led to the catacombs.
When he reached the sealed door he found that he was incredibly tired. How was he to remove the seal alone, without his friends’ help?
He attempted to lift the outermost layer of Water in vain. He was so slow that the falundron was renewing the magic before he had even had time to get rid of it.
Nill decided to forget about the magical layers that made up the seal and reached through to the little lizard. His hand was very close. His thoughts stroked the inanimate animal gently. Hello old friend. I’m back.
He was not sure if the falundron had noticed him. Although it had not moved at all he had the feeling that it was stretching.
Help, Nill thought. I can’t open it alone.
And there it was again, that mystical connection between the old world and him that he had felt so painfully through his wounds. Nill attempted again to remove the Water layer.
It’s so much easier when nobody’s trying to stop you. He grinned. The Wood burned to ash, the Fire was quenched, the Earth was scattered to the winds and the Metal melted away. The seal was undone and the falundron still sat motionless.
Here, old friend, I’ll take you with me. Just don’t bite me again, and keep that tail of yours well away from my hand!
Nill held out his scarred hand and was just thinking about how best to lift the little lizard without touching the poisonous spines on its back when it stretched its neck a bit. It lifted a leg and placed it on Nill’s hand. It dug into his skin with its claws and dragged itself forward.
Nill held his breath. He had never seen the falundron move so deliberately.
Another leg followed, bending the small body to the right. With a sharp movement it pulled its last two legs onto his hand. Nill winced as the claws dug into the soft skin around his fingernails, but he did not dare make a hasty movement.
The falundron turned around so that its head faced his fingertips and its tail was up in the air. It hesitated for a few moments and then lay down, evidently comfortable.
Nill was jubilant. The happiness at this ancient, prehistoric animal willingly climbing onto his hand was greater than the pain he felt. A person who could survive a falundron’s bite and sting, he reasoned, could just as easily ignore the claws.
He pulled the gate open and it swung out smoothly. Brolok had needed such strength to open it that Nill was surprised. Behind the gate he bent over and picked up his amulet, still nestled cozily in the bundle of cloth he had wrapped it in. The symbols were there.
He pulled the rolled-up parchment out of his belt, stemmed it against the floor with a careful toe and unfurled it.
“If I had a stone I could keep it open more easily,” he thought. But there was no stone about the place and so he put his amulet on the side opposite his foot.
The world opened up before him. The signs on his amulet, the symbols he had traced and – Nill could not believe his eyes – the scars and gashes on the falundron’s scaled skin.
Nill had guessed that they were not battle-scars, as Brolok had presumed, but a picture of the world. Now he realized that they had both been wrong. The cracks and gaps in the leathery skin were glyphs, writing on the living animal’s body, without the details and embellishments that the borders and his amulet boasted. But there was no doubt; the same symbols as on the amulet and the parchment were on the falundron’s armor.
There was something even more disconcerting. The markings on the falundron’s skin and on his amulet matched. There was the same amount of them, and in the same order. They both told the same message.
There were more symbols on the parchment that Nill had not seen before. If he imagined the embellishments away, the core that remained seemed unfamiliar. They did not fit with the amulet and the lizard.
I have to go back to the library. I still have the key. I hope I can keep it a while longer. It’s too late to continue today, he thought.
He wrapped the amulet back in the cloth, shut the door and set the falundron back on the lock. It resumed its petrified stance immediately. Nill could see the seal renewing. He returned to his cave, his mind in turmoil, wild thoughts racing through it.
Think harder! he told himself, but he lost the fight against his exhaustion. He had barely lain down on his bed when sleep took him.
While Empyrade was helping Tiriwi and Brolok search for Nill, casually giving them a glimpse of the way mages worked in such a situation, the archmages were in a heated argument in the Magon’s tower.
“You should never have allowed the boy to enter!” Ambrosimas roared, his face so red that several present were expecting blood to come shooting out of his nose at any moment.
But Mah Bu simply laughed. He was evidently enjoying the situation, completely in the here and now for once. “Why should I not? An opportunity like this presents itself once in a lifetime. He was the one who asked me about the library; he was the one who wanted to gain access.”
“And I, his mentor, was the one who was against it!” Ambrosimas punctuated his words with slams of his fists on the table. Surprisingly, the Onyx seemed undisturbed, and the cracks did not creak under the pressure.
Mah Bu shrugged. “That may be all very well and true, but the next time I beg you to openly present your intentions on the matter. If we are informed, we can respect your decisions. But I repeat, at the risk of boring everyone here: I never invited your protégé to come to the library with me.” He knew that the other archmages were backing him and turned slightly towards the Magon. The gesture was clear enough to show that he thought the discussion with Ambrosimas was over.
“Let us not forget,” he continued, “that we still have no inkling of Nill’s origins. He is an unusual student, we agree on that much. He desires far more than just to learn magic. So much more, that is clear. But we do not know what he wants or is searching for. He is a young lad with little power, but still he is the one unknown factor in this game of fate. It is possible, and in my opinion probable, that he has no idea of the role he plays. That does nothing to mitigate the danger he poses. The amulet told lit
tle of him. Oh, the amulet.” Mah Bu exhaled deeply. “I regret remaining passive and not conducting the investigation myself. According to the mages that did, the amulet contained strong magical energy, but it was not related to the traces we found in the boy’s childhood clothing. At least not the way our seekers described its aura. It is almost as if someone is trying to trick us, and there are two unrelated amulets in the boy’s possession. But there is only one, that much is certain. We would have found the other already.”
The Onyx before Ambrosimas crackled ominously, drawing several suspicious gazes to the Archmage of Thought. His impassive face did not betray him, however. Where could the boy possibly have hidden the amulet from Mah Bu and the others? he wondered silently, and his regard for Nill rose.
“If we are to find out anything about Nill, we would have to question him before the council,” Mah Bu said. “But I doubt he would survive; part of what he knows is buried far too deep. And I will not lie: I do cherish the little fellow and his outstanding courage, and wish him no harm. May I remind you all that unlike Bar Helis I considered Nill’s trial a success. No, we must not hurt the boy. Not until it is absolutely necessary.”
Ambrosimas ground his teeth. Mah Bu, you disgusting hypocrite, he thought.
“If we decide against questioning the boy, and I am one of those who would rather vote against, we will have to give him a certain level of freedom and watch his actions closely. Then we will find out about his intentions and what he seeks.”
Most of the council nodded their assent, and Mah Bu sat down, satisfied.
“We know for certain that the boy is… a little more curious than most,” Queshalla remarked.
Ilfhorn opened his green eyes. “You are right, of course, sister. But I’m afraid that the situation goes beyond mere curiosity. He is looking for something, and I would rather like to know what. Besides, what harm can he do? Does anyone really believe that our treasured scriptures are in danger? One of our brothers sighted him there, a model of patient study – not running rampant.”
