Ringwall's Doom. Wolf Awert

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 often thought about you since we fought.” Morb-au-Morhg’s eyes slid across Nill’s slim appearance. “I can’t say thinking has helped me much.”

      “I have been hiding away from my foes,” Nill said with a smile like sour milk.

      “That you have,” Morb-au-Morhg commented dryly, “but so have you hidden from your friends.”

      “If I have any friends here, they must be as good at hiding as me.” Nill grew more sullen still.

      “Truthfully said, young Nill – or do you prefer ‘Your Excellency’?” As always when Nill felt he was being made fun of, his expression darkened. Morhg acted as if he could not see it. “Your enemies dare not approach you because they fear you, and your friends do the same because they don’t know how to treat you. There are some things in life that are easy to explain.”

      “And what’s so difficult about how to treat me?” Nill asked agitatedly. He knew he was not being taken seriously. “I am polite and cordial to everyone. I give them all the respect and esteem they deserve. And what do I get? Respect, certainly, sometimes they’re even polite. But esteem seems foreign to them, and cordiality does not exist in this place.” Nill felt mistreated by everyone – the entire world, in general.

      “You are, if you’ll pardon my honesty, still a green lad who has only just learned the differences between the elements. A mage does not care much for a novice, and if he does, it will be little more than a word of fatherly advice or an encouraging clap on the shoulder. On the other hand, you are now an archmage of Ringwall, and you have the greatest power in Pentamuria, of a level you share with only nine other living people. Archmages are revered and attended on to their every whim. At least, that’s how one should act if one puts any value on life or sanity.”

      “But I’m only here because I want to learn. I care nothing for my rank. СКАЧАТЬ