Wolf Awert - The Reign of Magic

“Wait,” he said, as Nill attempted to wriggle through the open crack in the gate. He struck the wood with his staff and it opened wide with a deafening sound, allowing a better inspection of the space between the outer and the inner wall.

“Now we may enter, and you can be certain that everyone knows now that we have arrived. It is good manners to knock when entering a room or building that is not one’s own.”

Ambrosimas hummed contentedly and gave an apologetic smile as he lifted his mass. Nothing about his movements was reminiscent of the elegance that surrounded Bar Helis. Ambrosimas required the aid of his mighty arms as he stemmed his weight against the table. His chair slid backwards noisily and the Onyx sent sparks in all directions in protest. Ambrosimas’ dulcet voice was quite at odds with his cloddish shape: he was not only an Archmage, but also a singer of ability unparalleled in Pentamuria.

“One or two of you may have wondered why, in the time between the last two winters, I barricaded myself in my quarters and barely appeared at the meetings of our council. Well, I had left Ringwall and was wandering in the guise of a traveling sorcerer around Pentamuria. I can tell you that I have rarely undertaken such a momentous effort and that I was nearly starved to the bone.” Ambrosimas patted his enormous belly, but the airiness in his words went to waste. The Onyx exploded in cascades of light, flying in all directions. Time itself stood still in light of the pause Ambrosias had thrown into his speech. Breath froze in the air, hearts forgot to beat and the magical power of the archmages sitting at the table retreated, for a moment, into the deepest depths. The Magon alone seemed untroubled. Suddenly, the spell was broken and muttering broke out, as if to regain the moments lost. Bar Helis, Gnarlhand and Nosterlohe gave each other disparaging glances. Queshalla and Ilfhorn seemed not to know what to do, and even Mah Bu shifted in his seat. It was more than unusual for an Archmage to leave Ringwall. There were plenty of magical ways and possibilities to travel, and it was not necessary to endanger one’s body doing so. If a person was accepted into Ringwall, they did not leave at their own decision. In rare cases the Magon sent out one of the mages as a sort of trial, and every mage hoped never to be picked for one of these tasks in their entire life.

But Ambrosimas was beaming. He enjoyed the moment and absorbed the attention like sunlight, like a butterfly in the sunshine after the rain. Bar Helis and Gnarlhand, who deeply disapproved of Ambrosias’ peculiar ideas and general fooling about, looked expectantly towards the Magon, hoping for him to be reprimanded. Nosterlohe’s gaze was fixed on Ambrosias. His fists opened and closed again, the only actors in the play of his inner struggle. Nosterlohe was angry, for in Ambrosias’ folly he saw only irresponsibility. Ringwall needed its archmages and could not afford weakness. The Magon, however, remained silent.

Ambrosias waited for the commotion in the room to settle down. Then he continued: “As I was saying, I wandered around in the guise of a sorcerer, and I visited the tablets of Sonx, listened to the songs of Kryll along the water roads and I found the broken pillars near Asrax. It was an uncomfortable amount of climbing up there in the mountains of Metal World, I can say. I looked for magical traces of truth in all the songs and myths I collected on my journey, and…” Ambrosimas paused for effect before continuing, “I found them. These truths are in… how did our Magon put it? Gossip and lullabies, that’s where. The old truths still exist. They are hidden deep down, and I cannot tell whether it is possible to bring them all back from down there. Too many worthless elaborations have been laid upon them by generation upon generation, and too much that does not belong together has been mixed up. What I can report is this.

“In the magical traces left by the thoughts of this world we can see that all thoughts evolved from a single word. From that word came a sentence, and from the sentence came a story. This story is older than humanity, and parts of it are recognizable in plants and animals. It is hidden so deeply that I can neither read nor understand it. But much points to the conclusion that this story was the content of the first book in our world. The Book of Wisdom, or as it is also known, the Book of Creation.”

“The Book of Wisdom is a crazy idea that many fools have tried to follow, my dear brother,” Gnarlhand growled. “I doubt it was ever written, and even if it was, I doubt a story from before our time can offer advice on how to avoid the future held in store for us.”

“Oh, that is of course possible, brother Gnarlhand.” Ambrosias’ eyes glinted mischievously. “Whether it was words in the early time or pictures, nobody knows for sure these days. Maybe there were only thoughts, and because these thoughts had a beginning, middle and an end, the first humans called 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.