Ringwall's Doom. Wolf Awert
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