by Awert, Wolf
He issued the order not to be disturbed when he was on the tower, where he stood on the platform, his arms raised, singing a monotonous melody before he vanished behind the balustrade. It was a prayer, meditation, an encounter with the elements; at least, he let them think so. His regular visits to Skyseeker became a ritual nobody understood, but it served its purpose: nobody dared disturb him. How easy it was to fool the common folk with empty gestures!
Some riders were bemused by the young prince’s behavior, but as he excelled in all earthly arts and could ride and shoot brilliantly, the royal household left him to himself. And so Skyseeker became his own. Yet many foals were born before Sergor-Don retrieved the old scriptures. Finally, he understood them. He read, and he was shocked.
The scraps were old, but infinitely older still were the words upon them. Every sentence brimmed with magic and affected the young prince like a spell, even if they were short and simple.
“Only magic remained.”
These three words were the only thing Sergor managed to read on the first parchment, but as he spoke them loudly and clearly into the wind, a power flowed from the parchment, through him and out into the world. It was not like the wind that shook the people and tore at their clothes. It was more like the gentle force of earth; calm, embracing, controlling.
“There is only one magic, this every creature knows,” he read on a different scrap. “Only the human forgets. He uses magic and forgets his natural knowledge. He invents a feigned illusion of many powers. Know that the changing illusion will alter the world more through those who follow it than the world itself ever can. But he who understands the secret of the first magic can create any for himself.”
The prince did not understand the wisdom in these words; he only felt their might. He did not know what was meant by illusions, nor had he ever heard of this first magic or ever wasted a moment’s thought on where it came from. But he did understand what it meant for him. The magic of the five elements was fragile, and Ringwall, based upon this magic, even more so. Even if Knor-il-Ank was the magical center of the world, Ringwall, the trove of magic of the Elements, the Cosmos, the Thoughts and the Other World, was man’s work. It was fallible. It was only as strong as those who controlled it. It was not, by nature, the center of power, just as little as Gulffir was without the king. Without humans, neither city meant anything.
Several scraps belonged to other books. Most of it was incomprehensible, prophetic nonsense. Yet one of them bore the words: Use the Olvejin. It sees through illusion and carries all magic within it.
“The Olvejin!”
The young prince knew this word, had read it in myths and fables. A magical item of sorts, or a sacred site shrouded in legend. Here in front of him was proof that the Olvejin must have existed, and perhaps he might find a clue to its whereabouts.
It took some time before he had calmed down enough to inspect the last parchment. His immediate feeling was disappointment. It was more of a field sketch than a true map; there were a few wildly zig-zagged lines that could barely be called mountains, and a bent cross that marked a spot. It could be anywhere in Pentamuria, wherever there were mountains. That included the Fire Kingdom, the neighboring Woodhold and Metal World. Even the Waterways and Earthland had some mountains, albeit only at the border to Metal World. Without further clues it would take several lifetimes to find the marked place.
Hours later the prince found among the markings that covered the map a word and a symbol. Both meant the same thing: The sleeping dragon. The prince knew about it. It was a fire dragon. Its raised tail was a rock needle, its back a ridge strewn with ruins, its fire-spitting mouth a twin mountain covered in craters. The dragon was hidden deep in the desert, and few people had been brave enough to search for it. The tail served as a point of direction for trading caravans. Sergor knew the place where the dragon slept, he knew which mountains were depicted on the map, he remembered the stories of courageous men who had crossed them. Did the Olvejin and the dragon belong together? Was the Olvejin the tool of ultimate power, and would it help him gain control over all of Pentamuria? Prince Sergor-Don decided to find out. To that end, he would have to travel to Ringwall, where he could learn more about magic than was possible at his father’s court.
It was for the future of Pentamuria, for the glory of the Fire Kingdom and for the peak of power that Sergor accepted his place as a subordinate student. He had forged friendships with the mighty and been humiliated for one purpose: for a different fate, his fate.
That was the final time anyone will ever stand above me. Everyone who enjoyed giving me orders will have little time to enjoy their sense of power.
The young prince’s smile was grim as he urged his stallion on. With each galloping stride Sergor-Don grew a little older and a little harder.
II
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 wheth
er 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 appra
isingly. 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.”