LITMIR.BIZ

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the wondrous construction that so gripped the boy was a source of discomfort to the druid, one he could not quite grasp. He gave himself a shake as if to shake off his foreboding thoughts and wondered whether his decision to bring Nill here had been the right one. Perhaps, though, it was just the concentrated magical energy below a small dome that caused his unease. For there, at this moment, the High Council held a meeting, led by the Magon.

      Gwynmasidon, the Magon and spiritual leader of the archmages, sat at the top end of a long oval table made of smooth, gray onyx. Rust-red scars dug into the rock, looking more like dried blood than aged iron, yellow sulfurous lines criss-crossed over it. Above all, green shades billowed over the surface and gave the stone an irregular life.

      Across from the Magon sat the five archmages of the elements: Ilfhorn, the young one who watched over Wood, Nosterlohe and Gnarlhand, keepers of Fire and Earth, Bar Helis, commander of Metal and finally Queshalla. Queshalla was the only woman at the oval and after the Magon the oldest member of the High Council. She presided over Water.

      On the Magon’s left and right sides, respectively, sat Keij-Joss, the star-reader, and Mah Bu, who was reputed to always be in the Other World with a part of his being. Keij-Joss and Mah Bu were war-names, honorific titles, in recognition of extraordinary deeds. Some believed war-names were purely coincidental, chosen on a whim – a sentiment shared throughout the halls and corridors of Ringwall and by the common folk in the five kingdoms of Pentamuria. But in the world of magic things do not often happen purely by coincidence. A mage whose real name had become too trivial for anyone to use it any longer had reached the highest rank of recognition. The only thing left for such a person was the title of Magon.

      In the middle of the table, between Keij-Joss and Queshalla, Ambrosimas resided – Archmage of Thought and third master of the spheres. Whispers behind his back called him simply “the word.” If addressed directly, however, it was always respectfully, with his proper name. Ambrosimas was one of the perpetual mysteries of Ringwall. Of stately corpulence and with a constant smile playing around his mouth, he was as suited to playing the fool as he was to being part of the council. His wit was scathing and his advice was profound. But as so often with high mages, appearance concealed truth; his smile seldom reached his eyes.

      Across the table from Ambrosimas there was a stool wedged between Mah Bu and Bar Helis. The stool belonged to the Archmage of Nothing, the incomprehensible and mysterious magic that had not had a place in Ringwall for long. Nobody knew where the magic came from or who had welcomed it here. The space between Bar Helis and Mah Bu had always been slightly larger than between the other mages, and it had grown larger the stronger the Nothingness became. One day the Circle of the Council had broken at this precise place and the Magon had ordered that the magic of Nothing be accepted into the council to fill the gap. The plain shape of the stool – a round surface and three thin legs – was a general sign of disapproval. But what had originally been designed as a sign of disregard now contrasted with the ornamental chairs of the others and served as a constant reminder to keep focused on the origin of magic.

      As the Magon’s gaze wandered along the oval, the Onyx awakened. Pale lights erupted from the center, ricocheting off the edges and burning out in sizzling sparks, or else simply extinguishing before the throne of Nothingness. The stone slab had begun to absorb the magical fumes in the room and release them again.

      Gwynmasidon looked around at the Circle, and the longer he stayed silent the more his presence filled the room. When he finally spoke, his whisper reached every crevice.

      “We have Keij-Joss’ sharp senses to thank that we know of the changes coming to Pentamuria this early. But the glimpse into the future is denied us – a glimpse we know from legends we once had.”

      Nobody who laid eyes upon Gwynmasidon would have guessed that he was the spiritual leader of the Mages of Ringwall. He was of medium height, and his muscular build, not entirely covered by his luxurious robe, and stocky neck told of more than just strength of mind. His hands, which he kept motionless and slightly curled on the table, were callused like those of a fisherman or a farmer. They seemed not to fit with the golden robe which he wore with the same serenity as the pressing burden of his title.

      His face was angular, as though it had been hewn from rock. The nose stuck out from under a broad brow, casting a shadow on his mouth that nobody had ever seen crack into a laugh. He seemed like a wild beast in a king’s clothes but for his eyes. They stared with a strangely broken, empty gaze, like a dying person before they pass through the great gate. Some of the archmages considered the Magon too old. But who knows of the images only the Magon sees, who knows the burden he must bear; of what importance are eyes to someone directly bound to the magical world? Only those brave enough and close enough to him to look into his face took with them a gaze into nowhere, where magical forces collided, fused and dissolved again in a silent storm.

      “We know that a Magon can find a way into the future, and we know that you can do the same. But the cost,” Nosterlohe interjected, sending dark red clouds across the onyx surface that died down in the middle.

      “It is not the price of knowledge that has stopped me from taking that step thus far, Nosterlohe. But what use is a glimpse into the future if we do not know what we are looking for? The future contains not only what will be, but all that can be.

      “Change has always happened, none can escape it. But never has change meant the downfall of a familiar world. On the other hand, the Circle of mages is the first example in Ringwall’s history of a force that can make its own destiny. Fate itself chose for this to happen, made our Circle ever stronger and gave us the Onyx around which we hold council. And so we may well ask whether the foretold change is unavoidable, and if it is, which role Ringwall will play in it.

      “I see a war with many battles. But I do not see an enemy. For five winters our sorcerers wandered Pentamuria, they spoke with the sages of this world, with the arcanists of the five kingdoms, the shaman who look for answers in the Other World, with the eldest druids and the wise women of the Oas. We have collected the tales of the founding of Ringwall and we have found ancient prophecies. We heard the legends of the encounters of men with gods and demons, myths of old Earthen powers and Air spirits. Not all of those we sent have returned, and we still know too little. The knowledge of the future lies in the knowledge of the past. But the past, too, is uncertain and vague.”

      The Magon frowned, causing black clouds to appear above his brow, and the Onyx became even darker.

      “Stories for children and old women seem to be all we have left of the old wisdom. As though the wisdom of our forebears had wilted away to become part of common gossip, lullabies for children and songs of praise for unnamed heroes. And so one single legend remains, for which we have to thank our brother Ambrosimas, who picked it up from the anglers in Waterworld. It is the song of the man from the mists. If this legend still holds even a shred of truth, then a time of change is coming, led and executed by a single man. A single man, alone, with no ancestry and no history, is to make Pentamuria and all those who live in this world reel as the mightiest storm could not. I call this man the Changer, the bringer of alteration. We must know what the other peoples of Pentamuria know about this person. This, and only this, is what caused us to open the gates of Ringwall last winter.”

      “A choice that has doomed us all,” a cold voice rang out. Bar Helis had risen up. If the element of Metal had not existed, nature would have created it anyway just for this mage. He combined Ilfhorn’s resilient strength with the Magon’s inflexible toughness. His face was smooth and had a matte sheen to it. The long nose was curved downwards, the eyes almost hidden under heavy lids, and the corners of his mouth accompanied the points of his thin beard downwards. If there was something Bar Helis despised, it was weakness, and he saw weakness in everything. His magic, the magic of Metal, was very simple. It was of great, piercing power, and he never had to perform a second summon.

      A pale blue wave was emitted from his seat. His resentment was so strong that for a moment all lights and sparks on the Onyx were overrun by it.

      “There will be a battle, but I do not fear it. The successful general chooses the time and place of his victories. The place is Ringwall, the center of the world and the spring of our power.

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