Читать книгу Ringwall's Doom - Wolf Awert - Страница 5

Ambrosimas, Archmage of Thoughts, lugged his massive body through Ringwall to get to the High Lady Morlane’s chambers. Despite his considerable size he was surprisingly quick, and beneath the fat powerful muscles were hidden. If the occasion called for it, he could strike hard and painfully.

“Morlane, my dear,” he purred. “Terrible times are upon us. So terrible, even, that old friends can barely meet anymore.”

A smile flitted across the High Lady’s face, still beautiful despite the criss-crossing lines life had drawn on it.

“What an unexpected pleasure. The master of feints and deceits, the lover of intrigues and the dancer of thoughts, careful never to take the straightest path out of fear it might bore him, has decided to honor me with his presence. But even behind your many faces, today the disguise for your sinister intentions is a little lacking. This worries me.”

“Oh, my dear,” Ambrosimas protested as he explored his right ear with his little finger. “You have known me for so long, and still you do not really know me. I have no intentions, none good and certainly none sinister. I had merely come for a drink, you see, and had hoped to find no more than a sympathetic soul who would listen to my moaning and wailing without all of Ringwall knowing.” Ambrosimas looked as though he was about to cry, and Morlane felt an overwhelming sadness rise up inside her.

“Stop that,” she scolded him. “An archmage should not play such games with his friends.”

“Apologies.” The broad face cracked into a grin and the sun seemed to shine on Morlane’s heart again.

“Ambrosimas!” Her voice cracked like a whip.

“Alright, alright, my dear. No, truly, it is no more than my own sadness. Nothing serious. I suffer daily from the mistrust that grips Ringwall more every day. You may or may not choose to believe me, but not even two archmages can meet here without somebody sniffing out a conspiracy.”

Ambrosimas pouted and Morlane patted him on the shoulder comfortingly. “Oh, you poorest thing. But has it not always been so in Ringwall? You yourself trust no one.”

“I must protest! That is a completely different circumstance. Deep within me, there is no mistrust.” Ambrosimas laid a hand on his heart and adopted a sincere expression. “It is only on the outside that a certain caution has grown,” he continued before dropping onto a comfortable seat.

“I see. One of those rare occurrences where something hasn’t gone according to plan, is it? And this irks you. Is it not so? Who have you met and who did not do as you asked?”

“Oh, nobody, truly.” Ambrosimas threw his arms up in mock desperation, but then he smiled like a mischievous little boy and whispered conspiratorially: “The thing is… I would like to meet someone.”

Morlane sat upright on her stool, her hands laid on her lap. She could wait. Ambrosimas wanted something, and he would tell her.

“I see you cannot guess. Or perhaps you can, and you choose not to, to spoil my fun,” Ambrosimas resumed after a long pause. His face fell into a sullen grimace. “There was this rather undutiful student once, no manners and no abilities, of course. His only talent was to gain as many enemies in as short a timespan as possible. I merely wondered whether your lessons were any use for the boy. But as I said, it has been a while, and it’s rather unimportant.”

His tone was light, but his body tense. Morlane saw through the lie immediately.

“I understand your troubles. The uncouth lout can still barely wield magic, he is probably even less popular now, and unfortunately, he is an archmage.”

“His becoming an archmage was a lucky chance, as it protects him to a degree. I cannot always watch over him, after all. Still, it makes some things so endlessly arduous.”

Ambrosimas sighed as if the entire weight of the universe rested upon his shoulders.

“I have not seen your erstwhile charge in a long time. You know how it is yourself. Archmages come and go as they please. You cannot simply invite them. Look at you – you are no different.”

“Yes, yes, you’re right of course.” Ambrosimas put on a contrite demeanor and once again Morlane felt as though she needed to comfort him. The Archmage of Thoughts played with emotions like a storyteller played with words.

“Archmages follow no summons but to the magon – it’s too dangerous. But…” – Ambrosimas’s face lit up – “… Nill might not know that. He is an exception to almost all the rules; perhaps for this one too. I am sure he would come to visit you. I’m rather afraid he might not want to seek out his old master.”

His visage of sorrow could have made sandstone bricks cry. The High Lady nodded and smiled gently. Ambrosimas could have dispensed with his usual games: she had never been able to deny him, even when she knew that he was simply taking advantage of her. But Ambrosimas was an archmage. And occasionally he cared for her feelings.

“For you. I could invite him to a cozy chat in a few days, for old times’ sake. Does he still choose to live in one of those awful small caves? They are no place for an archmage. I will send one of my girls to him.”

“In a few days.” Ambrosimas scratched his head. “I would hazard a guess that he is on the way back from the Sanctuary to these, ahem, caves. He will probably choose to take the portal to the Battlefield, and from there to the portal that leads from the Metal quarter to the kitchens. Once there he’ll pass through the mucklings’ work rooms to get into the entrance hall. That’s only a few steps from the stairs down into the catacombs. The best place to catch him is in the kitchens.”

“I am astonished that you still know so much about the habits of old friends you have not seen in a long time,” Morlane teased.

“Habits make us humans, my dear. Habits! And, now and again, a watchful eye to see whether they don’t change. Now, if you please, time is fleeting.” The mummer’s act was dropped. Ambrosimas was once again the archmage, and he left no doubt as to what he wanted.

“I will see what I can do.” Morlane had not abandoned her smile, but her lips seemed to have frozen.

Nill squeezed past the empty tables and benches in the mages’ dining hall, stepped sideways and entered Growarth’s realm. Growarth, according to none other than himself, was the highest-ranking warlock in all of Ringwall, and had complete command of the kitchens. Nill did not doubt the truth of his claim – he was the only warlock in Ringwall.

Occasionally Nill visited his old friend, but today he was in a hurry to get back to the safety of the catacombs. From the back, where meats were smoked and pickled, vegetables were washed and fruits were sorted, he heard the busy sounds of the mucklings. Plates clattered, water sploshed and now and again a knife sang as it felt the whetstone. The only thing he did not hear were voices. The mucklings knew that silence was safest.

Nill slipped through the chambers like a shadow until something plucked at his sleeve. He turned about and saw a girl with a face as white as chalk, her lips pressed together resolutely.

“I have an invitation for you.”

Nill was not in the mood for being invited anywhere. One could never know what the other’s intention was, so he remained silent and waited with a blank look on his face. The young girl had used up all her courage and had to take another deep breath before forcing out another sentence.

“My mistress, High Lady Morlane, begs the pleasure of your company. Will you come, your Excellency?”

Nill had to laugh. The girl turned, if possible, even paler.

This is how far it’s come, Nill thought, for my laugh to scare young girls. Out loud he said: “Very well, you may go. Tell her I will be happy to follow her invitation soon.”

The girl looked close to tears. “Now!” she choked.

“Is it so urgent?” Nill wondered. “Tell her I’ll come. Ask only a few moments patience.”

Nill remembered all too well how Ambrosimas had demanded he learn courtly manners from Morlane. He had obeyed, albeit with the purpose never to bend. But he had underestimated the High Lady’s ingenuity. With only a few words, she had gained a devoted student.

The girl still seemed rooted to the spot, her chest heaving with uneven breaths.

“Go, your path is not mine,” Nill said and waited until the girl had gone. With only a few steps he had left the kitchens. Together with his old friend Brolok he had found hidden passages and gateways that not even the archmages used any more. He chose them now for a long detour before knocking on Morlane’s door.

“You are certain this is the right way to approach him?” the High Lady asked into the room, where Ambrosimas sat, immobile as an armchair.

He saw Nill pull back the hood of his robe with a quick movement. Morlane offered her delicate hand, and Nill took it courteously by the fingertips. But as he bent the knee he trod on the hem of his robe, and both of them began to laugh. Ambrosimas, watching in silence, smiled.

He is still half a boy, Ambrosimas thought. He is endearing on one side, yet the other – well, one of the dangerous kind. I enjoy dangerous people. They are the only ones who truly move things in life. You just have to discover who they’re dangerous for in time.

The boy before him was evidently the innocent side of his former charge. That was the side that interested him least. He had sensed a change. A change in Nill, in Ringwall, and in the magical patterns of Pentamuria. He had to find out what was behind it.

When Nill saw Ambrosimas, the smile that had lit up his features vanished like game from a clearing that had heard a twig crack. A cautious, almost wary expression replaced it.

“A greeting like that will be welcome at any court in the land, but I’d advise keeping it for truly important ladies. For a queen or queen mother, perhaps even for a first-born princess,” Ambrosimas joked as he stretched on his mountain of fluffy pillows.

“Or for the woman he wants to take home when he has had enough of magic,” Morlane added with a glance towards Ambrosimas before turning back to Nill. “You should pay no heed to his japes, your Excellency. I am glad you could come,” she said, pausing for a beat after addressing him as such. It gave it a very special meaning.

“Now that not just one but two archmages have come to visit my home, I feel a little superfluous at the moment. I will leave you alone for a while and make sure you suffer no disturbance. But do not leave! I will be back soon, and I hope to find both of you still here.” And with a smile she slipped through the door – it barely seemed to have opened. Nill made a gesture of helplessness towards her, as if he meant to hold her and keep her there, but she had already gone.

“And now it’s just us two, Nill. And even though I’m not your host, I’d like to suggest you sit down. It is so much more comfortable to have a chat while sitting, wouldn’t you agree?”

The magic Ambrosimas put into these words was a spell of insignificance. He had spent some time considering how best to begin the conversation; he knew that the first sentence is always the most dangerous, especially if when it comes after a long period of silence. Nill the archmage is no longer Nill the boy, he mused. Or is he? We shall see. Ambrosimas also knew that Nill still longed to find his missing father, so he put some amount of fatherly affection into it.

Ambrosimas eyed the slender figure before him appraisingly. Nill had visibly changed over the past few winters. He had grown taller, and looked even thinner for it. His hair had been ruffled by the cowl; it was the only thing that made his face still look youthful.

“What would you ask of me, brother in spirit?” Nill enquired politely.

“Brother in spirit, pah! Nill! My boy, are we in the High Council? I was simply in the area and looked in on Morlane – as you know, a very special friend of mine. That is all. She asked about you and I was not even able to tell her how you’re doing. It was shameful.”

Ambrosimas increased the geniality in his voice to disguise his indignation; he awoke wistful memories at the mention of Morlane, and crowned his artwork with just a touch of reproach – enough to stimulate a slight regret, but keeping some distance from the dangerous game of guilt. That was his gift as the Archmage of Thoughts: to arouse emotions to always get what he wanted. Well, nearly always, he admitted to himself. It did not work on the council. They had known him for too long, and influencing an archmage required something completely different than a bit of wordplay. Alas, Nill had always been a difficult target too, and would be no less difficult today. Ambrosimas could see how cautious Nill was; Nill’s focus was not just on him, but also on keeping his own feelings at bay.

“Thank you, I’m very well,” Nill replied slowly. He had not missed Ambrosimas’ unusual warmth. He slowly sat down on a small stool, his feet close together, his back straight. It was no more comfortable than standing, but kept a safe distance between them nonetheless.

“I must admit I have difficulty believing you arranged our meeting to ask me how I feel,” he added.

“Oh, you do me so wrong, dear boy. The question of how you feel is the one that surrounds me day and night. Ever since you were – how should I put this? – so brave, stupid or mad to challenge three archmages at once in your test.”

Nill smiled in spite of himself. “I think it was somewhere between stupid and mad, yes. Brave isn’t the word I would have used. To be honest, my legs were shaking so badly I could barely stand.”

Ambrosimas’ wide face cracked into an amused grin, his eyes twinkling with pleasure. “When I assumed your patronage, an outcry went through Ringwall, I’ll tell you that. Imagine: an archmage, getting involved with the education of a student! We made history that day, Nill. We shook at the very foundations of Ringwall, you and I.” Ambrosimas chuckled and gave his thigh a light slap.

“You never said why you did, though,” Nill said cautiously. Perhaps this would finally be the moment; he would finally get some answers.

“I didn’t?” Ambrosimas seemed surprised. “I thought it would have been obvious to all.” He adopted a bored, indifferent tone, as if none of it mattered any more. “Without my patronage, you would be dead. A little neophyte managed to scratch the Archmage of Metal’s shiny veneer of honor. And you know how much value Bar Helis places on dignity and honor – especially when it’s his own. And Mah Bu – the way he played with your life force was almost a direct attack. Only nobody in the council saw it that way, me included, I must admit. He would not have lifted so much as a finger if you had not managed to save yourself. Up until his last moments he believed you were the Changer, but you already know that. And the rest, as they say, is history.”

“You disagree? You think I’m not the one mentioned in the prophecy?”

“Boy!” Ambrosimas cried in mock exasperation. “I am the Archmage of Thoughts. I sniff out the truth and separate it from the lies; I wade through the tales of fishwives to find the tiniest kernel of it. No, the person from the mists, the Changer, the great spirit who comes to tear down the foundations of Pentamuria – this you are not.”

Ambrosimas laughed, his multiple chins bouncing up and down. The very air in the room seemed infected by it, swirling and dancing in merriment. Nill could not tell whether this laughter was real or staged; the archmage was too good at his game. He felt relieved, though a hint of doubt remained. “Never trust an archmage,” he heard Brolok whisper in his ear. He remembered Dakh-Ozz-Han’s words: “The opposite of a truth is not a lie, but another truth.” Yet the voices seemed distant and faded; they had lost all strength.

“But if I’m not the Changer, who am I?”

Ambrosimas was visibly enjoying answering Nill’s questions. Every one told him a little of what worried Nill, what he knew, and what absorbed him. He phrased his answers so that every answer would demand another question; once he had Nill asking, he would keep asking.

“That, my dear boy, is the question all of Ringwall would like an answer to. You’re not the only one concerned with it; I myself would give much to know the answer.” His laughter had stopped quite suddenly, his eyes bored into Nill’s. Then he abruptly began to laugh again, throwing his hands up in the air as he liked to do when he was playing at helplessness. “If I knew who you are, I’d know how you are too. Or, perhaps, if I knew how you are, I’d know who you are.”

Nill had long since foregone any attempt at understanding the archmages’ word games. “As I said, I feel fine.”

“Yes, you feel fine.” Ambrosimas added some moroseness to his performance as he stuffed a few more cushions behind his back – as if a comfortable seat was the most important thing in the world. “You feel so fine you don’t even need to sleep at night.”

Nill flinched; his caution was shattered. “How do you know—?”

“How do I know?” Ambrosimas himself was so perplexed at the turn the conversation had taken that he could not think of anything else. He shook his head and abandoned his magic for the moment.

“Nill, please. You act as though you don’t know what this is all about. Let me help you. Only two things matter in Ringwall: truth and power. The White mages search for the truth, although each has their own understanding of it. And the Elemental mages are only interested in influence and power. You may call it a game, but it isn’t. It’s much, much more than that. It’s a constant struggle for balance. Imagine a young bird sitting on a branch – if the branch sways too hard, the bird must fly off. Mages can’t just fly off. The mages must stay in Ringwall. If a mage could ever depose the magon, he would need the strength to take his place as well; otherwise, the new order he hopes to create will be nothing but chaos. There is nothing we fear more than chaos.

“And now, for the first time in the history of Ringwall those who want power for the sake of power sit at a table with those who know that any revolution will only bring misery to the innocent. ‘Nothing will be as it was,’ as the prophecy puts it. There could be no worse fate.”

“I know that. But is that an answer to my question of how you know about my every movement? Or are you trying to tell me that you belong to those who can live without power?”

Nill had raised his guard again. He knew that Ambrosimas’ mind never followed a straight path; it zig-zagged like a hare, leaping and feinting and doubling back all the time. Nill did not want to get lost in the labyrinthine paths of his mentor’s thoughts.

Ambrosimas cursed under his breath. One moment of carelessness and the boy had slipped through his net. He decided to ignore Nill’s question.

“What is the key to power?” Ambrosimas asked, and answered before Nill’s thoughts could scurry off in wrong direction. “Knowledge,” he whispered, “the knowledge of how to rule. And that includes everything that concerns you. Not one of your steps goes unnoticed. Nothing has changed in that regard. Have you forgotten why you’re here in the first place?” Ambrosimas’ voice had become steadily more urgent.

Nill said nothing. He knew exactly why he was here. He was here because Ringwall was the center of magic, because the collected wisdom of the arcanists was kept here, and because the sorcerers had come together here to find the truth behind the magic. He was here because he had dared to participate in the mages’ tournament. He was here because this was the only place in the world where he could hope to find a hint of who his parents might be. The prophecy was, as far as he was concerned, only the key that had granted him access to Ringwall. After his education he ought to have left. Who had forgotten something – Nill or Ambrosimas?

“You are here because the prophecy tells of the end of all order in Pentamuria,” Ambrosimas interrupted his thoughts. “Everyone can see that you have a weighty part to play in this game with fate. The only thing everyone disagrees on is your actual role. Are you truly surprised that everyone wants to know what you do, and that those who can follow you and never let you out of their sights?”

“And what if everyone’s wrong? What if I don’t want to play along?” Nill was outraged. His life was his own, and only his.

Ambrosimas laughed again. “My dear boy, fate doesn’t ask nicely. Only fools believe they have control over their own destiny. Unfortunately, some of these fools sit on the council. We can be grateful if we’re allowed to decide what happens in the future.”

“I understand exactly why every last archmage knows why I can’t sleep at night.” The color was rising in Nill’s face. His anger was almost palpable.

“Well, yes, not all the archmages,” Ambrosimas admitted as he diminished his aura to a small and humble size. “The magon, certainly, and me too. Just a little. The others, I hope, don’t. But that is the reason I wanted to meet with you.”

Ambrosimas could feel Nill slipping out of his grasp. Slippery as an eel, he thought. I should’ve known the boy would hate being watched, but he must have known. He decided to take a different course.

Ambrosimas said nothing. He had to think, but there was little time to do so. Nill sat across from him, straight as a candle, shrouded in a fog of annoyance, anger and stubbornness that grew denser and denser. Ambrosimas conjured up a flock of birds that twittered loud enough to interrupt Nill’s thoughts. He raised his head.

“Do you think you have the patience to listen for just a few more moments?” Ambrosimas asked seriously. “You might have wondered why I never thought to see you as the figure from the mists. Ever since I came to Ringwall, and believe me, that has been a long time indeed, I have tracked and hunted whatever is hidden in our tales and legends. The songs, the myths; the local stories that make no sense anywhere else; the dreams of different people that have taken on a life of their own. And everywhere I look, I stumble upon the remains and fragments of an old book some call the Book of Wisdom. I am unsure whether this book ever existed of if it’s just another fable. But what I do know is that this book is the origin of the five Books of Prophecy. The books of Eos, Arun, Cheon, Mun and Kypt. In these books we have the future in black and white, written at a time in which our history was only just beginning. Almost all the prophecies written in them have become reality over time. Almost. It is my guess that one of these books tells us how the world that follows Pentamuria will look.

“Whoever finds these books, Nill, finds the future. And when you know the future, you may find hope in situations that seem hopeless. But nobody knows where these books are hidden.”

“And what does any of this have to do with me?” Nill’s interest was piqued, but he decided not to show it. Better to remain cool and unmoved.

Ambrosimas’ laughter came back to him.

“Have you never wondered why the arcanists are so worried at the moment? After all, the legends and myths are ancient, and they have been passed down for countless winters through countless generations. Why would the prophecy of the doom of Pentamuria be dug out so recently?”

Nill hesitated. There was something to what his old mentor was saying, but Ambrosimas was after all as cunning as a fulux. He took a moment to check whether the old archmage was toying with him again, but there was no magic to be felt. Everything seemed clear and honest – for once. He shook his head. “You will tell me, I’m sure,” he replied shortly.

“Because the time to know has only just come.” Ambrosimas looked triumphant, but Nill did not understand what it meant.

“All the truths in the world are scattered, just lying about waiting to be picked up. But if you’re blind, you won’t find them. You have to learn to see, be ready for the truth you seek. Or you might as well never look in the first place.”

“And how is this connected to the Books of Prophecy?”

“Simple – they’re just lying around. After all this time. And now they want to be found.”

Was that what the falundron had tried to tell him? That they wanted to be found, and that time was running out? Nill was uncertain. Out loud, however, he said: “Fine, so go and search for them.”

“I most certainly will. I will search for them, believe me. I did want to ask you whether you’d be kind enough to help me. You and me, just the two of us. Two archmages on the hunt for the greatest secret Pentamuria has never known. Together, we can find them, all five of them!”

Nill had to admit that the idea captivated him. Perhaps it had been a mistake to limit his search to his parents. Perhaps they were only one plank in a door that opened to the future. But his wariness remained.

“And why me, of all people?”

Ambrosimas beamed. He knew he had won.

“I think – no, I know that there is something that connects you and these books. Fate chose you to discover the path to the ancient prophecies. You are not the one who will change the world; you are the one who stands ready to defend and protect it. To destroy the world, you don’t need to know the future.”

Nill nodded reluctantly. He could agree with the role of savior if that was truly what fate had in store for him. He felt pride and gratitude warm him from within at being asked by his old mentor for help. Ambrosimas’ expression was difficult to read; he merely looked a little pained and tired.

“Tell me what’s bothering you, Nill. Tell me why you can’t sleep and why you sank into Nothing today. I can help you. I have always helped you, and I will always be there for you.”

So Nill told him. He explained how it felt to have no friends, to be surrounded by enemies. His precarious position as an archmage despite his magical abilities being less than many common sorcerers. His fear of being the Changer, of bringing chaos and death and destruction to the land without meaning to. It was as if a dam had broken inside him, the words came flooding out. Ambrosimas was taken aback by this storm of emotion, and in the end Nill felt empty and exhausted. All his feelings had held tight to the words he had spoken, and they were now out. The body they had left behind collapsed softly. Nill could barely keep his eyes open.

“A terrible burden. But nobody would dare attack you here. If you’d like, I can cast a powerful protective spell over the entrance to your cave. An unwanted visitor will tremble in fear and have third thoughts about what they came to do.” Ambrosimas looked at his plump white hands, a satisfied smile on his lips.

“You would place a fear-charm upon my door?” Nill raised his head, unsure what to think of this.

“More than that, my boy. There are many more protections I could hide in your surroundings, even where you live and sleep. With your permission, naturally.”

“And why would you go to such lengths?” Nill asked. “Please don’t say ‘because I am such a good friend.’”

Ambrosimas’ best smile graced his features. “But Nill, that is precisely the reason. Although admittedly ‘friend’ might be a little too strong a word, it’s all the same to me. Or do you honestly believe an archmage would take a mere apprentice under his wing because he felt funny on that day? No, I have liked your manner from the beginning, Nill. You must learn who you can trust and who you cannot. Even if the trust is only temporary, even then it is worth it. You will achieve nothing without a little trust.”

Nill felt as if he was wrapped in a snug blanket of care and goodwill. He gave a long sigh and submitted to the warmth. A long-lost smile returned to his lips. “Trust. Yes, that is what it’s all about. Everything is connected to trust.”

Ambrosimas leaned back on his cushions, pleased at the way the conversation had gone. “You see, I really did only come here to ask how you are and what you’re up to. You haven’t spoken to me in a long time, and a council meeting isn’t the right place for such things either.” Ambrosimas’ voice lost all modulation, becoming little more than a whisper. “You can tell me everything. You don’t need to keep it all inside. You can tell me the truth. Any truth, or whatever you think is a truth. By all means, you can lie to me, it doesn’t matter. Just don’t give me any half-truths. Half-truths destroy the person who tells them and the person they’re told to. Half-truths are more destructive than full lies.”

That in itself was a huge lie, but Nill merely nodded. Ambrosimas was gifted in the arts of truth, half-truths and lies like no other; he combined and contrasted them with ease, and few could tell what was what. And so Nill hung in the archmage’s web, in the invisible strands that never cut, never held and were never felt.

Nill noticed nothing of it, and he felt safe, for the first time since he had passed under the great gate of Ringwall, and he kept talking. He told Ambrosimas about his search for his parents, of the symbols on his amulet and how he had learned to read them with the master archivist’s help. He told him about Perdis and the falundron.

“Who is this Perdis?” A look of hunger flitted across Ambrosimas’ broad face, gone before Nill could see it. Nill could tell him no more than that he was one of Ringwall’s many mages.

“And the Walk of Weakness? What were you doing there, and why are you so unimpeded by it?” Ambrosimas could have sung praises to his luck. Ancient secrets had been hidden right under the archmages’ noses for countless winters, and the lad just stumbled across them. If this was not evidence of fate’s guiding hand, he might as well be a fish.

“I was interested in the founding of Ringwall,” Nill answered. “It started in the Hermits’ Caves. Behind the sealed door there is a huge number of tunnels and caves, carved into the mountains by the Hermits. There is a different sort of magic, the magic in the Walk of Weakness and another one in the caves around it.”

“Yes, yes, I know,” Ambrosimas interrupted impatiently. “The founders practiced a simplified form of the elemental magics, and Knor-il-Ank itself exudes an ancient one that colors our usual magic. What I want to know is why you were able to keep a hold of your own magic, and whether you found anything down there.”

“The falundron allows me to enter. I believe it’s the only creature that can influence the magic in that corridor. Apart from that there’s nothing. Except for the signs.”

“Signs?”

“Yes, on my amulet, and on the falundron’s back. They belong together somehow.”

“The falundron appears to be the key to many a mystery.”

“Yes, master. The falundron is the greatest mystery of all, yet still the key to all others.”

“And you understand it. Is it your friend?”

Nill denied this. “I don’t understand it at all, but it lets me do what I want and it grants me its protection.”

“I shall see what I can find out about this creature. For now, thank you for your honesty,” Ambrosimas said with a smile, adding a little gratitude to the warmth he had so carefully spun.

“As you know, it’s no longer any of my business to be advising you, Nill,” he continued. “But the only way to deal with difficult times is not to take them too seriously. Fate plays the roughest japes on us, and it has to be said that some of them are bitter. On the other hand, isn’t it funny that a boy can become an archmage before he can even use magic properly?”

Ambrosimas laughed encouragingly, and Nill tried to laugh along. He did not manage more than a grimace.

The door shut silently behind him. Nill stood in the cool corridor and massaged his temples. He felt as though he had taken a long bath in water that was far too hot; his body was relaxed, but there was a pressure in his head that threatened to turn into a penetrating pain.

The temptation to seek a place for the night and simply sleep away everything that troubled him was great, but the smell of smoke, of burnt resin and perfumed oils still clouded his mind. He was certain that Morlane had never used powders or perfume on any of his previous visits. When he had arrived, nothing had been in the air but the fragrance of flowers. It reminded him of Grovehall, of Esara’s blossoming domain, where he could feel safe from whatever scary story his surrogate mother had told him.

Nill pushed his wish for peace and quiet aside and decided that some fresh air would do him good. A thought nibbled at the back of his mind, something he ought not to be thinking, something unwelcome and unpleasant. What had Ambrosimas said? What had he told the old archmage? Nill had difficulties in remembering anything specific, but he knew that he had let things slip he had sworn never to mention to anyone. He grew restless, letting his legs carry him where they wanted as he dug in his foggy memory to unearth every last sentence he had spoken. It took some time to find them. Some were more reluctant than others; some had to be pulled more carefully than a tick that had bitten a newborn. Finally he had all the pieces.

Nill groaned. The sneaky fellow really did squeeze everything out of me, didn’t he? Every last thing. And I didn’t even notice. Is there anyone who can keep a secret from him?

Yet his dismay was offset somewhat by admiration, and even a little pride for his old mentor.

Ambrosimas knew about the symbols on the amulet; he knew about the falundron, and he knew about the connection between the two. He knew that Nill was free to move through the Walk of Weakness and that he had been exploring the ancient caves down there. He had even managed to hear the name Perdis.

But there was one thing he did not know, and Nill suddenly had to laugh. There was one thing he had not mentioned: the Hall of Symbols.

Nill frowned. How had he managed to keep that important part quiet? He had told him about the corridors and caves, but then Ambrosimas had interrupted him because a different detail had caught his attention.

Did you not teach me yourself, old man, that impatience is the downfall of even the cleverest men? He took a certain pleasure from the fact that his old master had made such an elementary mistake. He decided to avoid Ambrosimas under all circumstances. A whisper in his ear told him that the archmage must not find out about that most ancient magic.

Nill swept through the corridors and up the stairs and before long had reached the circular path that connected the inner and outer walls of Ringwall. Occasionally it was interrupted by clusters of small buildings whose purpose Nill did not know. Within the ring he saw the Battlefield, the wild part of Knor-il-Ank, where neophytes practiced their command of the elements, and where the tournament was held. On the other side was Raiinhir, the lower city that had grown around the roots of the mountain. It supplied Ringwall with all its necessary provisions. If Ringwall was the mountain’s crown, then Raiinhir was its chain of office, draped over its shoulders.

I should come up here more often, Nill thought, enjoying the fresh wind playing with his hair. He inhaled deeply and noticed as he did so that the dull pain in his head ebbed away. The wind can blow pain away. Not feelings, though. For some reason the thought reminded him of Tiriwi. Nature has a magic of its own. If you stay away from it for too long, your own life with wither.

He leaned against one of the battlements and felt the warm, coarse stone against his forearms. The wind tousled his hair this way and that, and high above him a few birds of prey were practicing attack maneuvers on anything that moved. Here and there he spotted busy-looking people who quickly disappeared down another set of stairs. All was as it should be. Except for in a distant corner, behind one of the small buildings; several small black puffs sporadically appeared and disappeared again. Nill could not make out exactly what was happening, but the birds seemed keen to avoid this spot. His curiosity was piqued. As he drew closer, he could see what caused such caution in the birds.

A mage was lounging on the battlements. The sun warmed his belly as he gesticulated. Now and then a puff of black smoke rose up and tried to chase after the arrow-doves of Ringwall. They were not very successful; they moved too slowly and dispersed too quickly. The mage did not appear bothered by this. He chuckled when his little clouds evaporated and as he conjured more of them.

He was wrapped in a light brown cloak that denoted a low rank. The stained shirt that peeked out from the top of the cloak and the heavily patched leather breeches he wore were shabby even by the standards of White mages, who tended not to care much for their appearance. Nill’s heart leapt. Morb-au-Morhg still clung to his traveler’s garb even after becoming a White mage. He seemed to have brought the wilderness to Ringwall with him and did not care much for the local customs. He had tied his long, silver-streaked brown hair into several loose knots to avoid sitting on it, and his long beard was wrapped around his waist like a second belt. Morhg the Great belonged to the dwindling number of sorcerers who kept to the old tradition of concentrating a part of their magical powers in their hair. Nill had always wondered what would happen to Morhg’s power if an enemy successfully burnt off his hair with a fire spell. He reasoned that as seasoned a mage as he would have protected it in some way.

The common consensus was that Morhg was easily capable of the rank of archmage, and many even thought he could have become the next magon. Yet he had always preferred the life of a wandering sorcerer. Only now, in the last steps of his long walk, as he called it, had he begun to take an interest in the wisdom behind the magic. Indifferent to power and influence, he had firmly declined a place in the ranks of the elements and had chosen instead to serve as a simple White mage of truth.

At that moment, however, he looked anything but Great, Mighty or any of the other epithets he had earned. His head was slightly tilted as if he meant to track down a new, unknown entity in his vicinity. A smile lit up his face, and disguised the many lines that weathered it.

“It is good to see you again, your Excellency,” he said. “You’ve picked a fine day to visit the battlements of Ringwall.” His use of the dignified title was rather comical when contrasted to his relaxed posture. He had not even bothered to stand up for the archmage. “I have often thought about you since we fought.” Morb-au-Morhg’s eyes slid across Nill’s slim appearance. “I can’t say thinking has helped me much.”

“I have been hiding away from my foes,” Nill said with a smile like sour milk.

“That you have,” Morb-au-Morhg commented dryly, “but so have you hidden from your friends.”

“If I have any friends here, they must be as good at hiding as me.” Nill grew more sullen still.

“Truthfully said, young Nill – or do you prefer ‘Your Excellency’?” As always when Nill felt he was being made fun of, his expression darkened. Morhg acted as if he could not see it. “Your enemies dare not approach you because they fear you, and your friends do the same because they don’t know how to treat you. There are some things in life that are easy to explain.”

“And what’s so difficult about how to treat me?” Nill asked agitatedly. He knew he was not being taken seriously. “I am polite and cordial to everyone. I give them all the respect and esteem they deserve. And what do I get? Respect, certainly, sometimes they’re even polite. But esteem seems foreign to them, and cordiality does not exist in this place.” Nill felt mistreated by everyone – the entire world, in general.

“You are, if you’ll pardon my honesty, still a green lad who has only just learned the differences between the elements. A mage does not care much for a novice, and if he does, it will be little more than a word of fatherly advice or an encouraging clap on the shoulder. On the other hand, you are now an archmage of Ringwall, and you have the greatest power in Pentamuria, of a level you share with only nine other living people. Archmages are revered and attended on to their every whim. At least, that’s how one should act if one puts any value on life or sanity.”

“But I’m only here because I want to learn. I care nothing for my rank. Did you not come here for the same reason? To seek the truth?”

Morb-au-Morhg looked deep into Nill’s eyes and slowly, cautiously laid a hand on his shoulder. Nill felt the warmth of his hand, but also the weight, a weight that grew heavier and heavier. He never knew a hand could be so heavy. Morb’s voice seemed to change. It grew as heavy as his hand and as warm as a cozy fireplace in winter. “Do not forget that you are not just trapped in a game of power and recognition, you do not just fight against tradition and old rules. You yourself are a walking mystery. Nobody knows where you came from, what role you play in Ringwall’s future. Even the magon cannot figure it out. The lack of knowledge is the mother of all fear. It cannot surprise you that the people of Ringwall fear you. What would you expect from people if they are afraid of you, young Nill? They flee, or they bite. You are feeling the winds of caution as they whip through the corridors of Ringwall. On top of that is an army of rumors that fill out every crevice of the city ever since you’ve arrived.”

“Are you afraid of me, Morhg?” Nill asked, puzzled.

“I am too old to fear anything but myself, but I must admit I’d like to know more about you and the mysteries that connect you and our fates. I cannot deny it.”

Nill regarded the old mage in his blotchy cloak and his frayed woolen shirt, his badly patched boots and his callused, strong hands. Years of experience had left their mark on his face, yet he was the very opposite of frailty.

“There’s no great secret,” Nill replied. “Nothing but my parentage. Ringwall’s future has nothing to do with me. You will see. Years from now, you will see that I spoke true.”

“You choose the easy path too quickly,” Morb-au-Morhg said and removed his hand from Nill’s shoulder. Nill shivered. “You are the Archmage of Nothing, a new archmage with no predecessor, no traditions to break with.”

Morb-au-Morhg fell silent. Nill waited for a continuation, but the mage seemed to have finished. Nill’s impatience grew; he had heard it all too often. The great, incomprehensible Nothing.

“The Nothing,” he finally burst out. “Everyone keeps talking about it in hushed voices. Granted, it is the mother of all that is, but what is it worth when it stops being when it starts being?”

His voice was colored by disappointment and anger. He heard the unsteadiness in his speech and hated himself for it. He did not know how many times he had pointed out that Nothing in itself was indeed nothing at all. Nobody seemed to see it but him.

Morb-au-Morhg’s gaze left the walls of Ringwall and strayed to the horizon. He appeared to have forgotten Nill for a brief moment; it took a while for him to respond.

“Many winters ago, I witnessed the beginning of magic here in Ringwall. Exactly like you and all the others who came before, I visited the Sanctuary and felt the raw power of the five elements. It is as it always was, but for one difference.”

Morb-au-Morhg paused. It lasted so long Nill wondered whether he had run out of words. Perhaps though it was just too much; too many thoughts that had to be weighed, accepted or disposed of. Finally he said simply what was so difficult to say, for it was too powerful to say any other way. “When I went there, there was no symbol for Nothing.”

Nill waited expectantly. He could feel the strength behind the words, but he did not understand. These days, there was the Nothing, and back then there was not. So?

“You do not understand, Nill? You, Archmage of Nothing, your own magic dissolving in your hands, do not understand?” Morb-au-Morhg gazed expectantly into Nill’s eyes.

Nill shook his head. “No, I do not understand. Things come and go in Pentamuria. What’s so special about it?”

“Things come and go. Magic doesn’t. If the Nothing ceases to exist when it takes shape, it makes me wonder how it got into the Sanctuary. It will not have been a mage who called it; for a person capable of calling upon the Nothing would indeed be master of it, and the moment the Nothing arrived they would become the new magon. Do you truly believe Gwynmasidon brought the Nothing to Ringwall, Archmage?”

Nill pursed his lips. He felt the pressure the formal address had put on him and did not like it, but he had to agree.

“It came here by itself,” he said.

“Or it was called by someone else.”

Nill felt as though he had swallowed something very painful. He could guess Morhg’s next thought, but again Morhg did not oblige. He stood there silently, waiting for Nill to say it himself.

He heard a ringing between his ears. Brongard’s insults resurfaced from a long-forgotten childhood. You’re barely human. You are a nill.

He understood now what Morb-au-Morhg had been carefully steering him towards. Nill, the Nothing. He could have shrugged and left the scene, but he had not. He had not accepted his humiliation and had accepted the challenge. He could not have known that Brongard was not the challenger.

I will take the name Nill, and the whole world will bow before it, he had said, full of childish pride. And now he was the one to bow his head in shame, shame at understanding the enormity of his stubbornness. Could he truly have been the one to call the Nothing? He shook his head and sought refuge in mockery.

“Everyone sees someone else in me. Some of my brothers believe I am the Changer who will cast the world into oblivion. Ambrosimas believes I was chosen by fate to unveil the prophecies of the ancients, and you see the chosen of Nothing. Fate seems to have a curious single-mindedness when it comes to me, don’t you think?”

Morb was unfazed. “Yes, more than any one person should have to bear. But what do I know; no more than that you are a whelp, yet with barely a grasp on the five elements. And…” Morb paused, as if he feared the rest of his sentence. “You know another one, an older magic. Do not be alarmed, your secret is safe with me. But have you ever considered that the Nothing might be a gateway of sorts to this old magic? Trust me when I say: all these things are interconnected, and you are in their center. Whether you like it or not.”

“And trust me when I say: I have even less control over the ancient magic than over the elemental. How could it be any different? There are no teachers, there is only light and dark, harsh and soft, give and take. My understanding of the subtleties of magic is as shallow as my magical powers, let alone my prowess.”

Nill took a deep breath. His voice needed respite, and when it returned it was almost a whisper. “Do you see now why I do not want the rank of archmage? So much envy, rage, fear and hate. Can you tell me what to do?”

Morb-au-Morhg made a gesture and raised his arms to the sky. Another puff of black smoke emerged from his rough hands and rose up before dispersing. “How could I? I hardly know what to do myself. Find the truth. Part of it is here in Ringwall. Part of it is out there in the world. Find it and learn to understand it. I do not know whether you have the strength to handle it when you do. It is worth trying. Or do what my stormcrows do and disappear. If fate truly needs you, it will protect you. If you are simply incidental to the greater picture, another will take your place. Becoming a stormcrow might be worth a try.”

“So I can stay, or I can run and start over. Those are my choices, hm?” Nill asked. It was tempting, to begin anew with a clean slate.

“There is no starting over. In everything you do, you carry what you have done with you, what has happened to you. Your faults, your mistakes, but also your luster and your strengths.”

“But you can run from fate, you said. Or did you mean something else?”

Finally, Morhg the Great smiled. “Yes, you can – sometimes. Although I prefer the phrase ‘detach yourself’ to ‘run away.’”

“You have my thanks,” Nill said. The two unequal mages bowed to each other. There was much respect between the boy and the old man, and their composed faces were at odds with their wild auras.

Nill returned below the crown of Ringwall. Now that he knew that a decision was imminent, a soothing calmness took hold of him. Slowly he made his way to the middle floors, passed through several narrow corridors and arrived at the wide-open space between the Earth lodge and the kitchens, where a short stair led outside.

This is where it all began, he thought and stepped through the great entrance. He concentrated Fire and Water to pure energy, gave it shape with the aid of the Other World and strengthened it with Metal. He flung his own stormcrow into the air and delighted in the fact that it kept its form much longer than the wisps Morb-au-Morhg had conjured.

Life can be so wonderful, he thought with a smile, and in that moment he did not seem like an archmage at all, much less like a person chosen by fate.

He turned back and returned to the Hermits’ Caves, where he began to pack a few things. He would leave Ringwall, but certainly not through the main gate.

*

“I saw you had a conversation with the archmage.” Like a shadow, a high mage appeared beside Morb-au-Morhg. His dark robe identified him as belonging to the Metal mages.

“False, I had a conversation with young Nill.” Morb-au-Morhg remained calm and countered the arrogance of power with the wisdom of age.

“I just said that.”

“No, I’m afraid you did not. It would appear you are unable to tell the great difference between the Archmage of Nothing and young Nill.”

“You like him, don’t you?” The Metal mage’s lips tautened to an unkind smile.

“Wrong again, unfortunately. I do not like him. I fear him and I fear for him. Which is more or less the same thing.”

“What do you mean by that?” The high mage’s voice grew slightly leaden.

“I meant what I said. No more and no less. You may not know that he was an opponent of mine in the tournament; I had the opportunity to get to know him a little better than most here in Ringwall.” Not once did Morb-au-Morhg’s voice veer from its calm, gentle timbre.

“He survived the tournament, Morhg. He survived Mah Bu’s attack. Do you think he’ll survive us all? The only one left standing?”

“Perhaps, high mage, perhaps.”

And with these words he left the Metal mage, caring nothing for the half-hostile, half-thoughtful look that followed him.

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.”