by Awert, Wolf
A collective groan went through the room. All archmages had a mastery of all subjects, but they were generally careful not to intrude upon the magics of the other archmages in public. What would Mah Bu do? Would he play along, a good-willed tester, and give Nill a light illness? Or would he invoke the magic of the Other World? Was there even such a thing as illness or poison there? He might curse Nill, but deflecting or dispelling a curse was no mean feat. Even certified mages often had trouble with curses.
Mah Bu seemed unperturbed. He waited patiently for Kleiborn’s signal, raised a hand as if in casual greeting, and looked at Nill.
Nill did not know what to expect, but he immediately felt the effects of whatever was happening to him. It seemed there truly were no illnesses or poisons in the Other World, so instead Mah Bu was simply draining his life. At first Nill attempted to shut off all connections to the outside world. Realizing the uselessness of this action, he attempted to make a connection to a creature from beyond, as he had witnessed with Urumir the shaman. But Nill was not fighting a beast from beyond, but the beyond itself. If any mortal was able to make a direct connection to the Other World, it was a shaman or an Archmage. Certainly not a young neophyte. Nill grew weaker, and in panic he concentrated everything he had on himself in the here and now.
“I am!” his mind was screaming at him.
It was the right choice. It might have helped him had he acted sooner, but as it was Nill broke down and hit the ground with a dull thud. Mah Bu turned around and went back to his seat without sparing Nill a second glance.
Kleiborn stood, quite rigid, in the middle of the Hall. Nill had managed to regain enough strength after a few terrifying moments to lift his head, and now he cowered on the floor. Only Ambrosimas had proclaimed a successful task. Bar Helis and Mah Bu had completely ignored Kleiborn. What was he to judge?
The mages saw the situation as well and looked expectantly at the Magon, the only person with the authority to deliver a verdict in a situation like this. The air in the hall seemed once again to crackle with electricity, little puffs of magic shooting in all directions. The archmages were deliberating in thought-speak, their magics united. As suddenly as the phenomenon had begun, it vanished again.
The Magon spoke, still sitting. Without looking at Bar Helis or Mah Bu, he said: “The council speaks through one voice. The trial is passed.”
Cheers were heard, although they were quiet, and belonged solely to Tiriwi and Brolok, who now ran towards Nill to help him to his feet.
“The council speaks through one voice.” Some of the mages wondered what this meant. Had the vote been divisive, or had the Magon simply ignored the other archmages’ opinions? Nothing was certain after this trial, except that it would be talked about for a long time to come.
With a frowning Brolok on one side and a relieved-looking Tiriwi on the other, Nill forced himself to his feet. Anger and worry kept Brolok’s mouth shut, fighting against the relief that Nill had not sustained worse damage. He wanted to say so many things to Nill at that moment that he could not find a single coherent thought in his mess of a brain. After a few unsuccessful attempts he growled: “At least you left the Magon alive.”
Nill smiled a weak smile. He had no strength for anything else.
Chapter 6
The trial was over, the battle fought. While the young nobles ran laughing through the corridors, celebrating their prowess, the prince, and particularly themselves, Tiriwi, Brolok and Nill returned to the Hermits’ Caves, their minds full of questions. They had barely reached the twilight of the main room when Brolok broke the silence.
“Sit down.”
Nill twitched. His thoughts had been far away, and he sat down on one of the logs without question. He could not work Brolok out. This half-arcanist would humbly lower his head when the nobles came their way. Nill would never have considered such a gesture of submission. And when they were alone, he could stand tall like a commander, giving orders and filled with confidence.
Either I’m free and my own master, or I’m locked up and have to obey, Nill thought, but Brolok kept showing him that the world was not as simple as he imagined it to be. Even Tiriwi, as little as she was used to obeying commands, sat down with the boys rather than going to her room.
“What on earth were you thinking?”
“What do you mean?” Nill asked innocently.
“What do I mean?” Brolok repeated. “Challenging an Archmage!”
“Nothing, or maybe I was. I thought if I get the attention of the archmages, Sergor-Don might leave me in peace. Besides, if I challenge someone who has the power to do things we’ve never learned, then I can gather new experiences. You can’t learn magic by repeatedly throwing fireballs.”
Tiriwi nodded, although the other two did not see her.
“You’re mad. You’ve lost it. You’re completely and utterly insane. What sort of tactic is that? Leaping from one danger into an even more threatening one. Not only did the quarrel with the nobles teach you nothing, but even after a full winter here in Ringwall you still don’t understand what an Archmage is. They are the most powerful beings in all of Pentamuria. If they set their minds to something, then nothing and nobody can stop them from doing as they wish. And you’ve managed to make an enemy of one of them.”
“Yes.” Nill gave an embarrassed smile. “I think the Archmage of Metal was a little annoyed.”
Brolok covered his face with his palm.
“Oh, great bird of oafishness. I have no idea how you plan to survive the next few days.”
“I think it’s best if you stay close to me in future,” Tiriwi said quietly.
Brolok’s mouth fell open. He could not believe what he had just heard.
“What sort of fools am I surrounded by? Do you honestly believe you can protect Nill from an Archmage?”
“No, I don’t.” Tiriwi was frowning, thinking hard. “But perhaps he does not appreciate witnesses and will delay his retribution until something more important comes along.”
Brolok forced his mouth shut. “That’s a right ray of hope,” he sighed resignedly.
“Don’t I have a protector? What of Ambrosimas? He’s my mentor now, he’s on my side.”
Nill thought Brolok was being a little over-dramatic about the whole ordeal. He was highly satisfied with the result of his test and was not in the mood to wallow in the “the world is ending” mentality Brolok was showing right now.
“You’re such a fool.” Brolok looked upward to the cave’s ceiling as if praying. “Yes, Ambrosimas might help you. Maybe he will. But don’t believe for a minute that he’ll help you because he’s your friend or because you mean anything to him. Ambrosimas is an Archmage like the rest. Why do you think he chose to be your patron? Because you’re young and naïve and you need help? Because you’re so good at magic? Because you’re completely mad? I’ll tell you why. Because you have a part to play in his plans, because all an Archmage wants is more power and influence.”
“His face seemed friendly enough,” Tiriwi interjected.
“When an Archmage smiles, he’s hiding a nasty plan. If an Archmage is genuinely pleased, he’ll do his best not to show it. Nobody can see the way an Archmage works. All I can tell you is this: trust no one, no matter how friendly they are.”
Brolok had said his part. He had no more words to offer. But he was not happy about it. He had never had to deal with people who did not understand the five kingdoms; he had never even known that such people existed. And now he was living with two of them.
Brolok felt more helpless than he wanted to admit, but he did not realize that he and his friends were currently in one of two eyes of the storm of fate that surrounded them, safe for the moment. But all around them the threads of fate that had been tied for so long began to unravel, and the mages, no matter what rank they held, moved on tip-toes through the corridors of Ringwall. Never before had the archmages condescended to watch the trials of young Neophytes, and never before had an Archmage become a p
atron. Everything had changed, and the inhabitants of Ringwall reacted quickly.
Old friendships broke because their foundations had been shattered, new practical alliances were forged due to suddenly appearing similarities, and they were not limited to the magical lodges. Ringwall’s life swung between hectic uproar and fearsome paralysis. Decisiveness met with powerless apathy, and few could still tell the difference between courage and desperation.
The second eye of the storm lay in the Magon’s tower, surrounded by its own maelstrom. The High Council of Ringwall was shaken more deeply than they dared to admit. Gnarlhand had succeeded in putting the fragments of the Onyx back together, but the stone itself had transformed. Where it had splintered, the edges had twisted against each other, and now the once smooth green-gray surface was criss-crossed with a maze of scars. The sparks, lights and shadows tended to jump over the cracks, but sometimes they would follow them instead, or split into many. Keij-Joss, Ambrosimas and Bar Helis, sitting at either end of the shattered stone, had to endure a constant storm of colors whose meaning remained a mystery. The Archmage of Earth had not, despite considerable effort, managed to fully subdue the Onyx.
“Brothers.” The Magon raised his voice. “The last time we convened, we were of the erroneous opinion that a fight was coming. We have now seen that the fight has long since begun. We lost the first battle against fate through our own mistakes; we were foolish enough to fight amongst ourselves. We must not allow this to happen again. From this day forth the council will speak with but one voice, and we will walk the road to this voice carefully and united.
“We watched our Neophytes’ trials because we wanted to find hidden signs, harbingers of fate. What we witnessed instead was the shattering of our sacred traditions and much more. We were ripped from our comfortable seat of watching and forced to play along. And once again, we fought.”
“The boy is not a powerful sorcerer,” Queshalla said, leaving the precise meaning of her words ambiguous.
“We needn’t dance around like fairies,” Nosterlohe said to the room at large. “We all know what this is about. Is Nill the stranger from the mist, or is he not? That is the only matter of interest.”
Queshalla shot Nosterlohe an annoyed look. His untameable fiery temperament was throwing red clouds across the table. She hated being interrupted.
“If you ask so clearly, brother, then I will say ‘no, he is not’. But the ‘no’ is but a small fraction of my answer and insufficient to understand the situation.”
Nosterlohe was quite capable of telling a throwaway comment from a rebuke, and for Queshalla it had been an unusually clear hint. But if Nosterlohe thought he had to say something, he would say it.
“We should not have let him pass the trial. By accepting his challenge he put us on the same level as his teachers, and we did nothing. Our hesitation has been noted. It will be easy for us to be thought weak after that.”
“Bar Helis took the challenge and thus also the choice from me and Mah Bu.” Ambrosimas looked thoughtful.
Bar Helis was boiling. Of course they would blame it all on him. Although his face remained impassive as ever, the Onyx radiated the Archmage of Metal’s feelings to all the other members of the council. “He did not pass my test.”
“I am grateful, Bar Helis, that you did not publicly announce your verdict,” the Magon said. “What were we searching for? The unknown, the unusual. And we found it.”
Ambrosimas nodded. “If the answer to our search is an extraordinary neophyte, then it’s him and no other. If we’re searching for a strong, confident sorcerer, then it’s not him. He certainly isn’t the figure from the mist.”
“Tell us, Brother Ambrosimas: why did you decide to assume patronage?” Keij-Joss inquired. “You now have the questionable honor of being the first ever Archmage with a pupil.”
“Fear, my brothers. Nothing but fear in the face of the careless actions of others.”
Ambrosimas rose from his chair.
“I wanted all of Ringwall to know that the boy is henceforth under my protection. And it will stay that way until we find out what part fate would have him play. I do not think he is the Changer, but I could be mistaken in my judgment and the future could show my error. But I’m certain that he is not in Ringwall by pure chance.”
As Ambrosimas sat down, the Nothing spread out across the Onyx, reaching almost all the way over the table.
Then Queshalla spoke into the silence.
“I do not know if we are looking in the right direction. I have been wondering for a long time about what happened to the mages who left Ringwall. They were few and their names are unspoken here. But they have fled our thoughts and avoided our attention. What do we know of these mages?”
The Magon growled. “They are gone. They died in the wild, as is to be expected of someone who cuts through their magical roots. They have withered, died, vanished or lost their powers. Not always of their own volition, with one exception: Sedramon-Per!
“Sedramon-Per, the visitation, the constant nightmare of the Circle. He was the weakest, most useless and most careless mage Ringwall has ever been cursed with. He must have disappeared on that fateful night when my predecessor lost his aura during his battle with the forces of chaos. Keij-Joss and Mah Bu succeeded in locking off the gateway to the center of Knor-il-Ank, and they saved the Guardian of the Seal from the call of the Other World.”
“It was an attempt to destroy our city. But Sedramon-Per failed. I would like to know how he managed to slip from our sight,” Mah Bu said.
“He escaped,” the Magon replied, “because he ceased to use his magic.”
“It seems as though we only tracked Sedramon-Per, the mage. I suggest we hunt for Sedramon-Per, the man.” The Onyx crackled ominously in front of Bar Helis.
“You mean…?”
Bar Helis nodded. “It is not just magic that betrays a man. Send forth the huntsmen. They can track any prey.”
The archmages nodded in a rare occurrence of unity.
“So be it.”
The archmages left the room one by one. The last to leave cast a cursory glance back at the mighty seats and the oval table. All life seemed sapped from the stone. As the last Archmage stepped through the portal, the table began to groan. The scars in the Onyx cracked, and one of the fissures began to re-open.
Although the council now spoke with but one voice, more than one of the members had their doubts about the right way. One of the eight had left all certainty behind with the oval. His doubts influenced his perception, he considered everything they had spoken about anew, comparing, weighing up, and finally deciding. In the innermost room of his quarters, a chamber with no windows, no decorations and no amenities such as wardrobes and chests, tables and chairs, carpets and tapestries, he sat down and built a wall around himself. The Archmage knew that thoughts were restless spirits, always searching for a crack in the hard armor of discipline to escape through. He closed these, crack by crack, tamed the wild thoughts, giving them form and purpose.
At last he opened his eyes, arose in a sweeping motion that did not betray his long repose and made his way to the room where the official dealings of his lodge were taken care of. There he sat down on his throne and called upon one of his grand mages.
“Difficult times are coming, my friend,” he said. “The council of archmages has forgotten that once a single mage almost annihilated Ringwall. The Circle has learned nothing.”
At being addresses as “my friend,” the Grand Mage was overcome with a wave of dread, cold as ice and freezing his entire body. An Archmage had no friends, and the way his hands clawed at the ornately carved armrests on his chair he looked less like a human than a predator crouching before the inevitable pounce to tear its prey to shreds.
“The lucid minds of Ringwall must hold together and unite their power. There are too many among us who think themselves in a position to play with the countless possibilities of fate. Dreamers!”
The Archmage’s mouth dragg
ed downwards in a contemptuous grimace. “We must act. Every day that passes without us doing anything feeds the powers of change, strengthening the person that fate has chosen as its tool. What do we care that he is still half-hidden in the shadow of the future? I know him. I know who he is. But the Magon and the council ask for evidence. Evidence, don’t make me laugh!”
The Archmage’s words were spat into the room, their echo showing nothing but hatred. The Grand Mage stood motionless before his master. Even he, who had been inducted in the higher arts of magic, did not dare cross the rage of an Archmage. The unbridled outburst would be too powerful.
The Archmage took a deep, audible breath and relaxed somewhat. The air vibrated and the Grand Mage’s ears felt as though they were being pushed in.
“The Magon has always had my unwavering loyalty, as does the Circle. But now I must choose between my loyalty to the Circle and my loyalty to the Magon; he does not see the danger, he may destroy us all. We must take matters into our own hands, my good friend. I will eliminate anything and anyone that threatens the Circle. I will not hold myself above any method, be it treason or false talk, murder or lies. I will defend Ringwall. Will you help me? Can I rely on you, my friend?”
The Grand Mage lowered his head in agreement.
“Nobody can know of this; this is why the situation is so delicate,” the Archmage hissed. “I could easily kill every student, sorcerer and mage in the city before they even understood what was happening. But hiding such an act from the other archmages would be impossible. No, no. The spell must be weak, inconspicuous and ordinary, and must not be traced back to me or our lodge. What you must do is this: speak with your friends in the other lodges and convince a lower mage to oblige. I will give him clear instructions. Do you understand?”