Ringwall's Doom. Wolf Awert

the fear of the mages of Ringwall that had stopped the prince from burning his opponent to ash. It was the game of cat-and-mouse, the satisfaction that Nill would have to carry the humiliation of his defeat with him until the day he died. To Sergor-Don, it was the just punishment for a common muckling who had dared demand a place with the nobility, all because Ringwall had given him the mercy of a few lessons in magic.

      The prince had had little time to savor his triumph, for at that very moment Gulffir, the City of Flames, capital of the Fire Kingdom, was gripped by fear, worry and unease. The old king lay dying, valiantly fighting off the pull into the Other World. He had one duty left to do, the last duty any regent must: to give his son his blessing and a final smile. But above all else, he must witness his councilors and generals swear their oaths to follow and serve the new king. Then, and only then, was it certain that the future would look to the past for guidance, that the common folk obeyed a single will, and the surrounding powerful families accepted their new ruler. The court prayed for the heir to return in time, the sorcerers sent out magical calls and the wild riders on the plains mounted their ritualistic hunt, for the spirits to join those of the prince’s and his followers’ horses and grant them speed on the way home.

      The prince heard the calls. Blazemane, his fiery chestnut steed, turned into a beacon of flames in the setting sun. The small stallion’s tough, indefatigable muscles moved in everlasting harmony. The prince had long since left his following behind. He rode at a rising trot, his knees drawn up to the horse’s withers, kneeling more than sitting. Riding like this spared the mount, but demanded everything from the rider.

      The powerful hooves beat the dry earth, throwing a plume of dust into the dark blue sky. Fast riders need no herald: dryness and wind presage their arrival. The wind also brought the smells of the plains back to the prince: macchian, rosemiriam, horseweed and the powerful scent of the common bluish-gray thynus flower. After so long in Ringwall, he finally felt the freedom that was his people’s most valuable asset.

      Sergor-Don sang against the wind, his long hair whipping against his ears, the tart, bitter taste of dust on his lips. The plainsflowers had never smelled sweeter, and the tears which the wind wrung from his eyes had never been saltier. Saltbringer, they called the wind; as quickly as it conjured tears it dried them again, and none in the prince’s retinue would have guessed that they were not tears of sadness. Sergor did not weep for his father.

      These tears will be my last, the prince thought. They are but salted words, spelling the end of my youth and the beginning of a new future. He was surprised that the moment he had so eagerly awaited should be heralded by wistfulness. But wistfulness was fleeting, born only for the moment. Now life would have to pay what it had promised him.

      Sergor-Don’s thoughts strayed from the present; his memories took control and brought him to the Tower of Worry and Hope. It was so named because one could see far into the distance from the top and witness before anyone else who returned, and who did not. Some called it Skyseeker. The tower was the tallest building in all of Gulffir. Tall and slender, it towered above the city; it almost seemed to sway in the wind like a blade of grass. Whenever his strict timetable of studies and duties had allowed for it, the young prince had been drawn to the small outlook. Depending on his mood he was either the lone sentinel that warned the land of approaching danger and saved the kingdom, or the all-powerful ruler who watched from above, rewarding the bold and punishing the idle.

      Loneliness was the immediate feeling conveyed by Skyseeker’s peak, but one could also understand the strength that could grow from it. Loneliness did not bother Sergor-Don. He had endured it from the early days of his childhood, but never suffered from it. From lonesomeness grew strength, and from strength, power. And you could never have too much power, he knew.

      The small platform offered little room to walk on. As he paced around it, a set of stones always interrupted his concentration. A watcher up here had full view of the surrounding area, save for the sun’s point at midday. It was blocked by a sort of bay. There was no entrance to it, nor windows to look out from. It was as solid as the walls below. In his childish anger he had beaten against it with his fists, and learned the lesson that anger can amplify pain severely.

      One day, he had stood on tip-toe upon the winding stair that led to the top to touch the bottom of the walled-off area. There was no entrance here either, but as he scratched the stones he found that the mortar had rotted. He drew his knife and plunged it repeatedly into the gap between the stones until the mortar had fully given way, releasing a pitiful sigh of ancient air.

      There was a hollow space there! It had taken many more visits for Sergor-Don to remove the first stone and place it on one of the steps, and many more still until he had enough stones to stand on to reach into the hole. He had to sink his arm up to his shoulder into the hole, and all he got for his trouble was an old cloak, rolled up and skewered by a spearhead. The cloak was so old that it started to fall apart as he removed it. Dust and brown tatters he held in his hands. But hidden within that rolled-up cloak was a treasure more valuable than all the riches of the Five Kingdoms. It was several old parchments, hastily bundled together. They were torn in places, burnt in others, and stained all over in different colors that told of blood, the sweat of countless hands and tears from long-blind eyes.

      The prince remembered clearly how he had held them close to his face and breathed in the magical vapors that still clung to the scraps after so many years. It was all he could do at the time; the writing was unreadable to him. The map that was rolled up with the other parchment was equally useless to him. But Sergor-Don, the young prince, was not a child like any other. He stood still for a moment. Then he carefully stowed everything back in the space, returned the stones to their positions, cleaned the dirt and the dust from his precious clothes and made his way to Auran-San, his father’s First Advisor.

      “Teach me to read!” he commanded in his child’s voice.

      Prince Sergor-Don read all he could find in Gulffir, and as he did so he found himself pushing further and further into the past. He finally read the tales that the court scribes had written to honor their kings. The older the stories were, the closer their writing resembled that on the parchments he had found. To his dismay, the only thing he was not allowed to read were the books of magic they kept at court.

      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.