The Reign of Magic. Wolf Awert

it a book.

      “The story of creation is probably lost to us forever, but I suppose it wouldn’t help us either way – unless we found the Book of Wisdom in its earliest form, with all the magic contained in creation.”

      “I believe, brother of many words and debaucherous thoughts, that you have entertained us for long enough now, although I always find new appreciation for your abilities with the spoken word.” Bar Helis’ mouth was even more earthbound than usual. As a man of actions he detested words, especially if he could not see where they were leading him.

      Ambrosimas chuckled. “The first of the magical men denounced idleness as much as you do today, Master of Metal. They retreated into the wilds and their tracks were lost. But of one thing I’m certain.”

      He paused again, looking over the people around the table. Once he knew he had their attention, he spoke on.

      “It was their hands that took the Book of Creation and crafted from it the five Books of Prophecy, or as they are known in some places, the Books of Speech and Auguries. Five books there were. They were Eos, Arun, Cheon, Mun and Kypt. And one of these books contains our future.”

      “So it is true, then? The Books of Prophecy, mentioned in only a few leftover hermits’ scriptures, are real?” Queshalla sounded hesitant, as though she were still considering whether this was good or bad news.

      “All of Pentamuria’s legends are based in the Books of Prophecy. And it looks quite like the legends concern the books Eos, Arun and Cheon. The legends are, in fact, history. So our future is written in Mun or Kypt. Those are the books we must decipher. Unfortunately the Books of Prophecy are lost too, although some arcanists are sure that parts or copies of them may be found near the Borderworlds.” Ambrosimas sat back down without interrupting his monologue. “Some of the old knowledge from the Books of Prophecy was known to the hermits, our forebears. Something must have happened in the past that enabled them to leave their caves and hideouts and return to the surface of the world. Something that gave them the strength to found Ringwall. What was this ‘something’ and why did they break from their past so completely that our history only begins with the founding of Ringwall? Let me tell you.”

      Ambrosias’ voice sunk to a whisper.

      “They took their strength from the magic of the five elements that reigns over Pentamuria now, and of which we are now the masters. Before that, however, there was a different magic, an older magic, as when the world began there was yet a different magic. Our future lies in a new magic, and in the coming kingdoms our magical powers will mean not much at all.”

      He fell silent. The Onyx had exhausted its liveliness and was once again a simple, spotted gray stone slab. The archmages sat in shock of the announcement of a future in which Ringwall’s power was taken away, in which the innermost order of the world was changed and even the will to live was not spared.

      This future was too alien, too unimaginable for an Archmage to accept it as fate’s will. Nosterlohe arose first and disappeared behind a column of fire spewed out by the Onyx. One Archmage after the other protested against Ambrosias’ words until the Onyx was spitting flashes and sparks too high for them to see each other, and the crackling and sizzling drowned out the sound of angry voices.

      It took a long time for calm to return to the small room in the tower so that clear thought was possible again and words and sentences could be formed. In this very moment Nill and Dakh-Ozz-Han stepped through the gate.

      The path from the outer gate into Ringwall led them across a bright, plain stone terrace to a wide, flat flight of stairs made of white marble that connected the path with the dark inner wall and an even darker corridor. The stair, sprinkled with yellow flecks of sunshine, was the last bright spot before the dark gloom of the city.

      “There it is again.” Nill stopped abruptly.

      “What is there again?” the druid asked, becoming rapidly less patient.

      “The feeling I got in the Valley of Unhappy Trees. A kind of pulling and pushing at the same time as if it’s trying to tell me something, the smell of dust and mold, the strength of an ancient wisdom, barely covered by false and thin surfaces.” Nill stopped. “Oh, I don’t know.”

      “Whatever you felt in the forest, boy, you will not find it in Ringwall. You can be sure of that,” the druid said. “Let us keep going.”

      It took a while for Nill’s eyes to grow accustomed to the semi-darkness of Ringwall, but Dakh denied any respite. With long strides he hurried down the corridor, at the end of which they had to choose whether to go left or right.

      Compared with the lonesomeness on the narrow path in the hills there was quite some commotion in this corridor. People of all shapes and sizes, clothed in long cloaks with loose hoods walked every way, entered and exited rooms, disappeared behind doors. Dakh placed a hand on Nill’s shoulder and turned around. From their elevated position they could see through the gate in the outer wall onto the path that had led them here. Dakh said nothing, but Nill could not hold back: “That is the world we came from.”

      The druid nodded and added: “And the world I will be returning to shortly.”

      In these plain words lay everything the two of them felt. For Nill one life was over now, and another about to begin. Mysterious and dangerous, perhaps, but maybe also full of strength and achievement.

      Dakh stood there for a moment and then walked a few steps to the left, guiding Nill down a flight of stairs. “So then,” he said, “this is where I leave you. Someone else will take care of you now.”

      Nill was slightly startled. In secret he had hoped for Dakh to stay with him, but he knew that this was but the wish of a frightened heart. Why can’t you stay with me? he thought sadly.

      As though Dakh had read Nill’s mind he said: “I do not belong here, and quite apart from that… if I happen to be in the area, which happens rarely enough, I might as well visit Rainhir and a few of the citizens I knew of old.” Dakh gave him another encouraging smile, hugged Nill tightly and went before the boy could say anything.

      Nill had not quite left the entrance hall when he heard a scratching noise, the clacking of quick footsteps and a subdued scolding. Nill turned around and saw a shod foot kick a ram, who had somehow found his way here, in the backside. Nill laughed. Even in Ringwall they had problems with those stubborn animals. It could have been his own ram – he would not have put it past him. But to reach the hall before Nill he would have had to be able to fly. The ram looked over his shoulder in disgust, gave an angry stare with his slanted eyes and toddled off.

      Gnarlhand, stocky and steady as the Earth he was connected to, was never easily convinced. “With all this talk about ancient, old, new and future magics you forget one thing, brother Ambrosias: according to the tale, the man from the mist will herald in the change, or even cause it. It is vital that we find out who this faceless man is and where he comes from, rather than wondering about the magic he uses or this nonsense about lost books. Is the legend concerning the man from the mist not a story that contains the magic of truth, Ambrosias?”