C6 Chapter VI

The path was arduous and the air too dry, and as far as the eye could see the only living things were lone, leathery plants that Nill’s ram completely ignored. He would occasionally chew on some thorny bush, but it did not sate his hunger, and that reflected in the accusatory look in his eyes when Nill looked at him. Nill shared his own rations with the ram.

On the fifth day the ground finally grew harder and the light grays gave way to a pale yellow. Somewhere in the distance a dust storm raged that made the sky look white as it hid the sun from view.

“No sun and still no shade,” Nill complained as he instinctively wiped his brow. It was bone-dry and refused to give even a drop of cooling sweat. The ram had stopped circling a while ago and nudged Nill onwards whenever he wanted a break.

“You’re merciless, you know that,” Nill scolded the ram. “You’re pushing me like a donkey and you won’t even carry a tiny bag.”

The ram looked at him as if to say: “Move your legs, not your mouth,” and some of the restlessness and urgency he had felt in the falundron made Nill obey. With a sigh he continued onwards.

At the end of the sixth day, their first with no food or water, Nill and his companion saw a mountain range that shone a bright, coppery red in the setting sun.

They look like they’re on fire, Nill thought, and now he understood why Encid was called the City of Flames . Can’t be much further. We should be there by tomorrow.

They rested a little way off the path. Their camp was not comfortable: the ground was hard rock beneath a thin layer of sand, and jagged bits of stone poked up all over the place.

Tomorrow we’ll be there, Nill thought before exhaustion pulled him into the world of sleep. The night passed dreamlessly and ended the same as morning came at the first rays of the sun. The ram no longer needed to urge him on. Nill threw his baggage over his aching back and marched onwards.

The landscape changed frequently now. The caravan trail they followed began to carve its way through the rock. It looked as though the rocks around them were growing taller with every step until the path suddenly ended on a great open space. In the middle was a fountain. Behind it was a wide stair with long, flat steps that led upward. No problem for a practiced rider, but less ideal for a ram.

Nill helped himself to some water from the fountain and washed his face, then wetted a rag and cleaned his ram’s eyes, nose and mouth of dust and sand before climbing the first few steps.

Encid was a strange town. Sections of winding stairs alternated with straight paths. There were lanes to the sides and small open spaces, benches and trees. “The most important part of a city is the trees,” he had once been told, but he had not understood the meaning of it until now. Now he noticed that the air grew fresher with every step. There was a smell that gave the wanderer a sleepy contentment. Here, even the pervasive dust settled. The tall rocks granted wanderers welcome shade and coolness, and the scent of flowers was rich in the air.

A babble of voices told Nill that people were nearby, and at the top of the next set of steps there was a round plaza with another fountain in its center. This was no mere hole in the ground; it was an ornate stone structure with green bushes surrounding it and carved stone benches that invited passers-by to sit and relax for a while. The men near the fountain stood together in small groups or sat on the floor playing with dice, smoking or drinking a golden liquid from tiny cups. Its sweet smell mingled with the pipe-smoke and made Nill feel slightly light-headed. The coolness of the evening had reawakened the people’s spirits, as the scorching heat of day forced them to retreat to the shade of their homes. Several women stood a little way apart, and their colorful shining clothes seemed to sparkle like jewels compared to the men’s drab gray and brown cloaks.

Nill stopped and waited for the curious eyes to settle on him.

“Hal!” he greeted them. “Might a weary traveler find a place here to rest and eat?”

One of the sitting men spoke up. He decided against rising to greet the stranger. “Be welcome, stranger. The caravans usually camp down by the bottom of the stairs and wait for someone to receive them.”

The voice sounded rather haughty.

“You don’t look like you traveled with a caravan; or at least not a very large one.” Some of the bearded faces cracked into grins and the men’s gestures showed quite plainly their opinion of rams compared to horses or camels.

“Continue along the road and take the stair Woodwards. You will find an inn or two there. Or is someone expecting you in Encid?” The haughtiness grew more mocking.

Nill began to boil inside, as always when he was not taken seriously. Who does this muckling think he his? Who does he think I am? But he had barely finished thinking the thought when a laugh began to bubble up inside him and spread across his face. Am I really going to start behaving like one of Ringwall’s mages? He wondered, and his smile grew wider and gained the soft glaze of leniency not usually given to such a young man. The crowd only saw him laugh, though, and never guessed at the thoughts that had caused it, and in their renewed curiosity they raised their heads once more.

Nill replied calmly: “Nobody expects me. I come and go with the wind. And that is why I sleep in the dust of the by-road or beneath the roof of a lord.”

The other speaker stood up and looked around to make sure he had everyone’s attention; for he was vain, and like all vain people a little stupid as well.

“You’ll find no lords here in Encid. All the power in the Fire Kingdom lies with the king in Gulffir. The rest of the realm puts its strength in the eldest of the tribes. Only in Encid, City of Flames, is each of the thirteen tribes represented by a family. And Abimarch alone presides over them.” The man’s voice was heavy with pride.

“So take me to him,” Nill responded.

The speaker’s eyes, which had just been so derisive, were suddenly angered, and his mock politeness disappeared with a harsh laugh. He had had enough of this stranger’s games. “I’ll take no shepherd’s boy before Abimarch.” The man turned his back to Nill.

Nill answered to the crowd at large as they eyed him part curiously, part warily. “Thank you for your information. Do not worry about me. If Abimarch is who you say he is, which I have no reason to doubt, then my path will take me to him anyway.”

With these words Nill turned around and, ignoring the bubbling babble that began to rise behind him, climbed the next set of stairs with his ram close by.

What Nill saw appeared to be the houses of the city, but he was not entirely sure. He had never seen a city like this. All the houses he knew had been built. Stone was layered on stone, bricks on bricks, and where wood was plentiful planks and beams were connected until they formed a structure that was clearly a house or a hut. A house breaks through the flatness of the land around it. It stands tall and proud, even if it is only a one-room cabin. But this was completely different. The housing here was carved into the rock.

The canopies that covered parts of the open yards consisted of lengths of joined leather, stretched over wooden beams that had been anchored into the mountain. The wood must have come from far away and showed the great wealth of the city. To Nill, knowing only the cramped space of small rooms and having seen the endless distance in Ringwall’s halls for the glamour they were, these houses seemed palatial in their size. It was as though some madman had fused tent and cave. And everywhere he looked, there were steps, ledges and bays. It was impossible to tell where one domicile ended and the other began. Even the streets and paths of the city seemed to meld into the buildings.

Unsure where to go in this mess of chambers and courtyards, and without any recognizable directions, Nill turned to one of the bigger rooms. He had the impression that he had already entered a house without realizing it.

“Come closer, but move not too hastily,” a croaking voice came from a jutting slightly above Nill’s head. Nill looked up and saw a glowing pair of eyes looking down at him from beneath an impressively bushy pair of eyebrows. The rest of the face remained hidden in shadows, but the hunched back and the veiny right hand he could make out told Nill he was speaking to a very old man.

“Forgive me if I have intruded on your property; I am not from here, and I find this city rather confusing.”

“Even we have our difficulties here from time to time. The light plays with the stone in a tricky way, and the stone is more alive than the blind folk believe. Come closer that I may see you properly, and please keep a good hold on that ram of yours.”

As Nill drew closer, a soft, deep growl made him falter. In the back of the room, barely distinguishable from the brownish-yellow stone, a huge animal rose. Its shoulders were about waist-high to Nill.

“A ripper? You own a ripper?” Nill gasped, and he instinctively laid his arms over his ram to protect him.

The old man shrugged. “We call them faline. Ripper, you say? Never heard that before.”

The animal had come closer and held its head low as it approached. The lower its head went, the more prominent its back became, and with every step it looked bigger and mightier. Its eyes were half-closed and the short sallow fur stood on end. The old man made no indication of holding the faline back.

Nill forced himself to take a deep breath. “What’s its name?” he asked, less out of interest than to relieve the tension in the air.

“Doesn’t have one. Why should it? It’s an animal. Names are for people.”

Nill had to admit that the question had been rather futile; in his homeland, none of the sheep had had names either, not even his ram. On the other hand, he had heard of horses receiving names. Maybe horses were a different matter?

“But you could give an animal a name,” he said.

“What sense is there in that? People have names because fate has a plan for them. Or because their parents put into them their own wishes or blessings. Animals aren’t chosen by anything, that’s why they don’t have a name.”

“But there are humans who give themselves their own names.”

“There are wise people, and then there are fools. If you give yourself a name, you’re either doing it unknowingly as part of what fate has in store for you, or you’re trying to tell the world: ‘look at me, this is me.’ You tell me! Is it the fool or the wise man who acts like this?”

Nill had to suppress a smile. He had certainly been a fool when he had taken the name Nill from an insult, as a sign of defiance. Or maybe not – beneath fate’s invisible hand things sometimes happened that were not so black and white. Maybe it had not been foolish, but destiny.

The faline seemed to have seen its fill. It padded over to the entrance where it let out a long, drawn-out screech that was answered from several different places. It then returned to its spot by the wall, sank down to the ground and blended once more into its surroundings.

“We have our own guards here,” the old man explained. “The faline thinks you should be allowed to stay, so I will offer you my hospitality.”

The old man slid down from his jutting and bade Nill to follow him further into the large room. The ram followed the two humans at a polite distance. Out of nowhere several figures appeared, bringing with them fresh tea and a few bowls of perfumed water. Young, fragrant hands washed the dust from Nill’s face and cooled his neck. Nill enjoyed the gentle motions, but enjoyed even more how the people here used their time. In Ringwall, you ate when you were hungry, and Nill wondered whether all courtly manners lay with the nobility and the mages. They could have learned much from the mucklings here. As Nill thought it, the word ‘muckling’ made him falter. The inhabitants of Encid had no knowledge of the arcane, and Nill felt no magic anywhere. But the word muckling seemed suddenly unfitting, even distasteful to him.

They ate for a long time. Silently and attentively they enjoyed their meal and Nill felt his strength returning. He did not miss the fact that the front half of the semi-open room had slowly begun to fill with people who looked upon his host with respect, even reverence.

“Sit beside me, stranger,” the old man said, “and tell me and the others what brings you to Encid. You are no trader, and the ram by your side does not make you a shepherd.”

Fate brings me to Encid , Nill thought as he sat down beside his host. Did Morb-au-Morhg not say that part of the truth would be found outside of Ringwall? And I still want to find my parents and understand what the prophecy means.

Nill felt once more the feeling of urgency he had carried with him since his last encounter with the falundron, and which he had never been able to shake off entirely. So he cleared his throat and prepared to speak when he suddenly realized that he was in Sergor-Don’s kingdom. The peacefulness of the place had almost made him careless.

“My name is Nill, the nothing, and there is no reason for my being here. Should there be a reason, then fate alone knows it. Where I come from it is customary for young folk to visit all five realms before taking over their parents’ duties. I wish to visit the Borderlands; there is an old legend in my village that tells of a man called Perdis who found an ancient scroll in the Borderlands.”

This was neither truth nor lie. Nill knew he would go to the Borderlands if he had to. And he really was searching for Perdis, and the runes he had brought with him. Among the crowd there was muttering when he mentioned the Borderlands, but the old scripts and even the name Perdis elicited no reaction.

“We in the Fire Kingdom have no great love of scrolls,” the old man said. “The wind takes the symbols too soon. Only the spoken word lasts, as it goes from generation to generation. You mentioned a legend. Tales are what make up a great deal of our people’s lives. You would do us a great honor if we could hear one of your own.”

Nill did not need convincing; it was tradition to repay hospitality with news from the far reaches of the world, or to tell stories that had likely not made it here yet. But Nill had come to learn something important. And so he began his speech with the words:

“I would like to tell you a story from your own kingdom, a story that might have been long forgotten, but is worth remembering.”

The old man nodded in approval, but several other exchanged meaningful glances. It was unusual, not to say impertinent, to tell tales that had their origins in the realm one was visiting. But Nill began to speak of five sorcerers who had sought refuge in the Borderlands during the Great Persecution.

They studied a magic no one had known before. It was the magic of the five elements, of Earth, Metal, Water, Wood and Fire. In the Fire Kingdom they were pursued by fast riders and only their magic enabled their escape. As long as they kept a safe distance from the settlements, they remained unmolested, for there were things in the plains of greater importance than hunting sorcerers. But with time their supplies dwindled, and at the least opportune time, when they reached the desert, they had no more water. They dragged themselves through the scorching sands until they reached an oasis at the foot of the mountains, where a hermit lived and guarded a small spring. The water came from a small hole in a rock, and the hermit caught it in a bowl. When the bowl was full he poured the water onto the roots of one of the eight sweetnut trees that kept him company and fed him their fruits.

The sorcerers pleaded for water, and the hermit promised them all the water he did not need for his trees. With avaricious eyes they watched the bowl slowly fill, and when it was full the hermit carried it to the next tree, removed the large leaves on the ground, watered the tree and replaced the leaves.

The Sorcerers were incensed; they were parched, and the hermit was wasting the water on the roots!

“The water is for those who live here,” he told the sorcerers, for he had noticed their angry glares. “I will happily forgo my share for your sakes, but I cannot make that decision for the trees.” The sorcerers knew the wisdom in the lonesome man’s words and decided to be patient. It took several days to quench their thirst, and longer still to fill their waterskins, for at the end of each day there was not much left. And during the night the trees even received a second bowl. On the eve of their departure the first sorcerer handed the hermit a costly dagger as thanks for the gift of water, but the old man declined with thanks.

“I need no weapon. There are no enemies I need to defend myself against. And should a troop of soldiers decide to end my life, a dagger would stop them not.”

The second sorcerer dwelled on this for a few moments and then held out a hand in which lay a beautiful ring, but again the hermit did not accept the gift. “Should word get out that I have such a ring in my possession, the thieves would come or worse. I would rather you keep it.”

Determined to thank the hermit for his water, the third sorcerer pulled a light overdress from his traveling bag, but the hermit said: “I spend my days in the shade. You need the clothing more than I. Should you die in the desert, the water would have been drunk in vain.” The sorcerer bowed his head in shame.

The fourth sorcerer procured a map from his shirt and said: “This map shows all the important paths. We detailed them on our way here. With this map you will never get lost.” The hermit again gave his thanks and said: “Maps are of use to those who wander, but I am the spring’s keeper and will stay here until the end of my days.”

“Will you not grant us our right to thank you, as tradition dictates?” the fifth and youngest sorcerer cried in anger. He was the Sorcerer of Fire and he made a rock float over, and burnt into it with hot flames several signs. “It will take a long time for sun and wind, water and salt to heal the wounds I have cut into this stone. The symbols will remind you always of us and remain a mystery for eternity.”

“Your gift to me was your company in my solitude. It is thanks enough for me. I will happily accept your mystery as another of nature’s own, another task fate has given me. I will not need the symbols to remember you; I will never forget.”

The impulsive young sorcerer felt suddenly guilty of his outburst and said: “With your answer you have given me another gift, and also bestowed upon me a great shame. I will not leave until I have repaid my thanks.” The young man spat thrice upon the wet earth, pulled a feather from his brimmed hat and scratched a few markings into the ground. “With sand and a feather you can praise whatever you wish. You can show nature its beauty through your own eyes, and you can witness the things you have written disappear beneath the strength of the sun.”

“Something so fleeting can hardly hurt,” the hermit said jovially. “I gladly accept your gift.”

The next morning the first four sorcerers continued on their journey, but the fifth remained to teach the hermit the art of letters, and the secrets of their deeper meaning.

“We have no knowledge of what happened to the other sorcerers,” Nill said thoughtfully. “We believe they were the first to practice the magic of the elements, and as that is the magic we all know today, it seems clear that they survived. According to the legend, it was due to the Fire Kingdom that the old magic never died out, as the burnt symbols remained forever. And it was one of the sorcerers of the new magic, of Fire, who took the elemental magic to the Fire Kingdom and then all of Pentamuria. That is the legend we hear.”

The listeners’ faces radiated satisfaction. The old man had chewed on green leaves while Nill spoke, and now he spat the pulp into a small cup. Then he said:

“I thank you, stranger. It took great courage to tell us this story, for you have also told us how you see your hosts. A man who can tell a tale is a clever man, and one who invents them has the makings of a wise one. You knew before you arrived that we have no love for writing, and that pictures are of little meaning to us. And yet there is much truth in your words. Images and words have no value to those who are always traveling. But in the desert, where the people live among the water and the rocks, where they never leave, things are different. And to this day our scholars still debate whether the Fire Kingdom came from the desert and conquered the plains, or whether the plainsmen left for the desert when they grew more numerous and the plains no longer offered enough food.

“The spring you spoke of has probably long since run dry; but who knows what nature can do. If the hermit was ever visited by a disciple he found worthy, perhaps there still is a keeper there. So go, go with Abimarch’s blessing toward the sun, to the rocks of the Borderlands. You must seek out the holy men of the desert, for only holy men would write in the sand only to wait for the wind.”

Nill gave his thanks, but did not depart immediately; he remained under Abimarch’s roof in Encid for a few more days before continuing on his travels. He had not dared ask for a healer; his visit in Encid would not remain a secret.

“Where do we want to go, old boy?” Nill asked his ram as they stood upon the last sandstone hill of Encid, the vast, uninviting, rough plain of rubble before them. “It all looks the same around here.”

The ram scratched the ground with his hooves impatiently. He likely saw no reason in wilting beneath the sun for a long time. He simply trotted off.

“When a leader grows weak another takes command,” Nill sighed and followed his ram.

The rubble was difficult terrain to cross; every step needed to be precise and careful. At noon they took a break in the shadow of a great boulder until the sun had set a little further and the heat was less intense. Nill had pulled his shirt up to his nose and closed his eyes to minimize water loss. He thought about the story he had told Abimarch and the rock-cutters. The five sorcerers had passed through a desert of sand, not rubble. But who could tell vision from imagination?

As evening drew close they reached the roots of the mountains on the far side of the plain and crossed an old riverbed. To the left it was no more than a great hole in the mountain, half-hidden by the shadows of the cliff and perfectly suited to anyone wishing to hide there. The water had gouged a deep furrow into the ground over thousands of years, and had melded stones and earth to a dense layer. The riverbed was a blessing for Nill’s sore feet, and they continued on with considerably less difficulty than before. They marched until the sun’s rays had given their last light. Nill summoned a half-light in a last-ditch effort to keep going, but he might as well have tried to get the moon down to earth to light their night.

“What is wrong with me?” he wondered aloud. “Where has my magic gone? I’m a mage without magic.”

To continue stumbling through the darkness would have been foolish and dangerous, so they stopped where they stood. Their camp was very basic: Nill simply laid down on his bags. The ram nudged a few rocks apart and settled in the hole he had made.

The night was almost over when the ram suddenly leapt up from his slumber, gave a startled bleat and ran off into the darkness. Nill was immediately wide awake. His light sleep saved him from the usual disorientation. The earth tremored under his feet, there was a distant low hum, like the gallop of a thousand mounted warriors, and there was a cool breeze in the air. Nill hastily shouldered his baggage and ran. He did not know what was coming his way, but it brought the familiar energies of Water and Earth with it. He tried to make his body light to quicken his pace, every step a leap, but his body did not obey. Nill ran, stumbled, straightened up and kept running. He did not feel the pain nor the blood that streamed from the graze he had just received. The hum grew louder and closer with the speed of a flying dragon. The air was wet and cold now, as if it was raining, but the sky was clear above him. The mountains would be his refuge, but he could not reach them; the ground was already rising but he felt a stitch in his side and could hardly breathe. The noise had reached him and now crashed all around. A wave of cold air raced past his back and dragged him off his feet. The energies were hectic and chaotic. Nill’s senses blacked out. I hope my ram made it out, he thought.

The first sunlight found Nill’s huddled figure lying between two rocks. His bags had pulled his arms towards his back; he wriggled free under much cursing. His head was pounding, his neck felt like a dry and fragile twig, and his feet were on fire. The sunlight pressed relentlessly into his eyes and the hum he heard was not magical in nature, but in his head. Nill rolled over, his back now to the mountains, and looked upon the chaos that engulfed the land only a few steps away from him.

The land was in motion. Mud and water flowed past him, carrying with them giant stone blocks like petrified riders on earthen horses. Now and then the water rose and lapped up over the mud, only to sink again. Nill stared, transfixed, at the roaring rush of stones. The smaller ones were ground to powder, the bigger ones cracked in half, the biggest ones pushed their way through and then got stuck, then slid a little further and got stuck again.

Nill did not know how much time passed. When he awoke from his torpor, the landslide had at last passed. A small stream of water still flowed through the gaps, but it soon sank into the earth and was dried out by the burning sun. The unusual humidity in the air lay like armor on Nill’s chest; every breath was a chore as the sun bathed him in heat. He felt dizzy. He poured some water from the larger waterskin over his head and fought hard to remain conscious. Worry and doubt kept him awake. What had happened to his ram?

He gave a call, unsure whether the ram would hear him and less convinced still that the ram would actually follow the call. If it had managed to survive, he was certain they would find each other again. And if not, if it had been buried beneath the landslide, it already had a mightier tomb than any human could have given it.

Nill carefully clambered over a rough barrier of stones that had come to rest on the side of the mud stream and found himself back on the riverbed. It was different than before; torn, washed away, covered in debris. The thorny bushes were nowhere to be seen except in the form of a twig or two poking out of the mud.

The mud was treacherous, as it was easy to sink into it, but the rocks offered more solid ground. Flies and midges performed a hectic dance over the many small puddles that remained.

On one of the more imposing blocks that jutted out of the mess a figure was silhouetted against the sun. Nill’s heart leapt. His ram! He dropped his bags and ran towards the animal. The ram tensed up, then leaped down. Its eyes were, as always, disapproving and bad-tempered. Nill attempted to fling his arms around the ram, but it dodged the embrace and gave Nill a nudge in the back as if to say: “Keep moving, we’re not there yet.”

“No!” Nill retorted. “We can’t go on now. There’s something more important, something that needs to be done. You stay right here, look at me, listen to me. I never understood whether you’re just an animal or a disguise for any demon who fancies wool. I don’t know what you are.

“I am going to end that right here, once and for all. I will give you a name. You will be called Ramsker. You’re half ram and half something I don’t know. But I swear to you, I will find out.”

Nill returned to pick up his baggage, then gave the ram a slight kick on his hindquarters.

“Come on, Ramsker, we’ll be on our way.”

Ramsker hissed grumpily.

They followed the riverbed towards Metal and marched for two days until they finally reached the end of the landslide. The mountain ridge to their left had retreated and was now merely a hint on the horizon. Before them was yet more rubble, pebbles and stones as far as the eye could see, and to their right fine yellow sand painted dunes into the distance. Ramsker rammed Nill in the back of his knees, but Nill did not need the hint; he had already seen the trees in the depression below. Where there were trees there was water, and water drew people. Nill descended from the flat hill and trudged up and down the dunes. Ramsker followed.

“Might we draw closer?” Nill shouted into the air – he could not see anyone.

“Come, come. Water is a valuable commodity, but shade costs nothing and I’m willing to share.”

Nill could finally make something out. In the middle of the hollow stood a rock that threw a dark shade. The voice had come from a small bundle of clothes cowering in the rock’s shadow.

Nill leapt down the sand bank, avoided crashing into the sweetnut trees and dropped his bags to the ground. Ramsker followed meekly.

“You have astonishing strength for someone fresh from the desert,” the man remarked.

“I am young,” Nill laughed, “and curious to meet you. I had almost given up hope of finding you.”

“If fate finds it appropriate, it would have happened anyway, but how did you know I even existed?”

“There is an old tale that is popular with Encid’s rock-cutters. It speaks of a holy man who keeps vigil over a spring in the desert,” Nill lied easily.

“I do indeed, but a holy man? Tss.” The hermit shook his head. “I can see no holiness in guarding a spring, just as I wouldn’t see it in a shepherd just because he does his job for the herd.”

“So why do you live in this lonesome place?” Nill asked.

“Fate left me behind here, or maybe I was under its guidance all along and it wanted me to stay. Who knows? Just like you and many others, I was just passing through with my head full of dreams of treasures and glory and all those other things I’ve forgotten. Adventures. Truth. Myself perhaps. I was close to death – no water, you see – and I saw the trees in the distance.

“There was an old hermit here, just like me today. He asked whether I would help him carry the water to the tree-roots. His legs pained him, he said, every step was torture. I was young and healthy, just like you, and so I did as he asked. I watered the trees, never too much and never too little.”

“And the hermit did nothing else?”

“Oh, he did. He would sit in the shade for hours on end, talking to himself. And he wrote. He would write in the sand with twigs or the hard end of a frond. He wrote everywhere, filled the place up with it. Sometimes he would get angry when the sun went before he was finished. The night winds always made sure he’d have more space to write the next day.”

“And what did he write?” Nill’s heart was beating in his throat. He had found it.

“Old symbols, ancient runes nobody else could read. He said he’d learned them from his master, and he from his master before them. I asked if he could explain them to me, and show me how to write; there was always a lot of time in which I had to wait for the bowl to fill. I was impatient in those days…”

The old man smiled reminiscently.

“And he showed you? Explained them to you?”

“Yes, he did, and I remained his disciple and stayed with him until he passed away. He never asked me to do it. I could have left at any time. But I did not, and I am still here.”

“And now?” Nill asked. “Do you still write in the sand?”

“As a matter of fact I do. But why do you ask?”

Nill opened his mouth to ask about Perdis when a mighty hand gripped him and flung him with such force that the sun blacked out and the moon and stars stopped shining. Nill saw nothing except a thin mist that slowly dissolved before his very eyes. In the sand, half-buried, he saw bones. The spring still dripped, but everything outside of the few trees that were right next to it had wilted and died. Death had reached the oasis. As quickly as the vision had come it was gone again, and Nill was back in the sand, dust and heat.

“Not all the inner eye sees is good,” the holy man said. “You do not look like you just made a peaceful discovery.”

“No, it wasn’t pretty. You will not have a disciple. You are the last keeper of this place. You have fulfilled your task.”

The words were terrible and cruel, and Nill did not want to have to speak them, but nothing in the world could have stopped them from leaving his mouth in that moment.

“Nothing I didn’t know before,” the hermit said, untroubled. “I’ve expected it for a long time. I knew my fate the day the sorcerer came here.”

The hermit wiped his brow as if to wipe away unwelcome memories like sweat; his gaze went right through Nill as if he was not there at all.

“I thought he would be my follower,” he continued. “As I was to my master. But he left as he came.”

The hermit stood up, took the filled water-bowl and watered one of the trees.

“The next bowl is for us,” he said as he sat down beside Nill.

“You need not worry for your trees. Some will die, but the ones closest to the spring will live on and wait for a better time. But tell me of this sorcerer.”

“Here in the desert, you don’t fall ill. You have food and water and your clothes will easily outlive you. When you live in a place like this, you don’t need anyone else. You live in peace with the animals. There are no predatory beasts in the area and the wild riders know there’s nothing worth stealing here. And still… once, a venomtail got me. I was lying, paralyzed, on the threshold to the Other World. It was right here, exactly where we’re sitting now. I remember it like yesterday. I did not fear for my life, but it pained me not to know what would happen to my trees when I was gone. That was when the sorcerer came. He was like an envoy sent by destiny itself. He was a healer. He drew the poison from my body and I was cured, my fears banished. I knew I could continue serving my trees.

“Feeling my strength return was a momentous occasion. I wanted to thank the sorcerer, but I had no possessions to share. The only treasure I had was the one I inherited from my master. I could read and write, and so I offered to teach him these arts.”

“And what did he say? I bet he couldn’t wait to learn.” Nill hung on the holy man’s every word.

“He laughed at me. ‘I am a sorcerer,’ he said. ‘If anything, I should be the one to teach you.’ But it was the only thing I could give, and he ended up caving in to tradition. It would have been a bad omen for him to leave without my thanks. He said he would stay until he could read the symbols. He said, I remember the words exactly, ‘Good, I will learn your writing. When I have learned enough, consider your debt repaid.’ I had no idea what a bitter time it would be.

“He stayed longer than it takes a foal to leave its mother’s womb. He helped me carry out the water, he hunted for the two of us, he blessed the trees, but my debt never shrank.

“After the first foaling-length I asked whether he had learned anything, and he replied ‘So much, yet not nearly enough.’ And he stayed for as long again. In the end he had read everything I knew, he knew every sign and symbol and rune and drew them more fluently and accurately than I ever could. He took all I had to give. I don’t know if you understand.”

“No, I don’t really. You still have it all. You will only have lost it when you forget to write or read. You lost nothing but time, and that was a small price to pay.” Nill did his best to comfort the man; his agitation had woken Nill’s sympathy.

“I see you do not understand,” the hermit said and clasped Nill tightly by the arm. “I was not just the keeper of the spring, I was the keeper of the symbols as well, and I was looking for my replacement. Now there were two who could read them, and one of us was a sorcerer. I don’t know if he kept the secret; I never knew any more of him after he left. If I were to show you the symbols too, then there would be three, and over time more and more people would learn them and in the end the whole world could read. Then I can still do everything I do now, read and write, and yet I have nothing left. There is nothing left to keep. I would not need a replacement. If everyone can do something, then there is no reason for someone to have responsibility over it.”

“The sorcerer who came to you,” Nill said, “was a keeper of the magic that belongs to the symbols, and I am his successor. You were the keeper of the runes. He is grateful for what you did, but he begged one last service of you.”

“You know this sorcerer? How?” the hermit asked with surprise.

Nill hesitated before deciding on the truth.

“I am not sure. The band between us has torn apart. I must find him, or hope for your help. Did you know his name?” His voice had taken on a pleading tone without him noticing.

“He gave it to me, but I’ve forgotten it in the years since.”

“Was it…” Nill hesitated again, gathering all his strength and courage before spitting the name out, “Perdis? Tell me, was it Perdis?”

With a crack like sap in fire the name shot out of Nill’s mouth, but the holy man shook his head. “No, it certainly wasn’t that. Perdis, you say? Never heard that one. That can’t have been his name.”

“Why not? How can you be so sure?”

“Because Perdis isn’t a name, it’s a magical item. Perdis or Perdit. There are many names in the old stories. Lospit or Tokas. Remnants of other languages, other names.”

“What kind of item is it?”

“An empty case, a tube, a chalice without a bottom. You speak into it quietly and the tube makes your voice loud and powerful. Perdis is what you speak through.

“There is a Perdis in the legends of old. He is the voice of fate, he wanders around the world with no free will or consciousness, damned to proclaim the divine, or cosmic, or Other World’s will. In the end he is freed, and as an old man he has to start anew like a baby child, but the gods gave him the time to learn, and so he received a new name. He is the immortal. Not a pretty tale. Only fools want immortality.”

“Could you imagine someone naming a son after him?” Nill asked a little despondently. If Perdis wasn’t a name, could the writer of the script in the library have been his father anyway?

“No.” The hermit yanked Nill back into reality. “Only a shaman could be so crazy to bestow upon a child such a name, but shamans are commonly childless, and what warlocks and witches do is beyond my knowledge.”

“Could he have chosen the name for himself?” Nill pressed on.

“Unlikely, and if he did, he must have been a very desperate man to see himself as a mere shell of a person, with no free will of his own.”

Nill blanched. To him, Perdis was a hero, a man of the secret knowledge, his savior, perhaps his father. Now this? But he did not give up. “Could a mage call himself that?” he asked.

“Ha! Mages believe themselves to be equal to fate, don’t they? I can’t imagine a mage calling himself Perdis. They don’t change names. They carry their noble names with all the pride they can muster. No, no, my boy, no mage would call himself Perdis.”

Nill gave one last try.

“Look closely at me. The sorcerer, did he look like me?”

“No.” It was flat and final, but hope is not so easily dashed.

“Not even a little bit?”

“For a start, he did not have dark hair like so many others. I can’t remember if his was red or blond. I do remember, though, that he was tall.”

“A giant? Big and strong?”

“No, tall and thin, as if he never ate. His eyes were wild. Or were they lifeless? It’s all so long ago.” The hermit became lost in thought.

“The harder I try to remember, the less I can recall. But he had both eyes, I can see it clearly. One was gray and the other was blue or green or something thereabouts. It kept changing color. I was never quite sure what direction he was looking in.”

Nill’s heart sank. That did not sound like his father. There is a connection , he thought defiantly. If Perdis isn’t my father, he still knew my parents. I will find him. I have to find him.

Nill and the hermit had an uneasy night. Nill fell asleep quickly, for the march through the desert and his flight from the landslide had cost him much strength. His last thought was that he was in a magical place, here at the oasis. But his sleep gave him neither peace nor rest. Thoughts and dreams chased him and he flipped and tossed and turned.

The elements inside and around him were in constant conflict. Every time their fights became too intense, white light came and separated them, or darkness fell upon everything and muffled the chaos. And then the elements arose again, for they could never stop being without the world falling apart, and it all began anew.

Nill saw himself now chasing the elements. I need to approach this differently, he told himself and ordered the Fire to stop. It ignored him, as did the other elements. He made the darkness catch them. He threw the blackness out like a net and caught Earth and Water like fish. The other elements escaped. With a bolt of white light he hit Fire and it stopped in its tracks. He had no success with Metal and Wood. He shone the light through the dark net and gave his next bolt a black tip. Ore and wood trembled, stopped, and then raced away.

Nill woke up and saw the blackness above him, but this was no magic; merely the night’s sky, all stars swallowed up.

It is the magic of light and dark, Nill thought as he pushed the stars out of his mind. It stands above the elements, it is simpler, but stronger. “Hey you,” he whispered into the night, “you’re playing around and you’ve left me out. But I can see you.”

Understanding dawned on Nill. He could only master the ancient magic in its pure form if he kept a hold of the elemental magic. If he could control the ancient, the elements would obey. It did not work the other way around. There was only one direction. From light and dark to the colors of the elements. All he had to do was let go of the elements. Then the ancient magic would open up to him, and with its help he would win back the allegiance of the elements.

He finally understood the discolored, gray auras that had worried him so much. The ancient and new magics had stopped fighting each other and blended together. If Dakh could have seen this , he thought. Dakh, with his firm belief that everything in the world is solely based on the magic of the five elements. That was no longer the case. There were more possibilities, so there were more magics. He would learn to control it. Sooner or later he would succeed. In this newfound confidence he found calm, and he turned on to his side and fell asleep once more.

The tiny motion made the sand rise. All around, the sand began to move as an approaching squall carried it onwards. In the distance the wind howled as it dashed through the valleys and chasms of the mountains in a vain attempt to find a way out. Desert storms were nothing unusual, for they enjoyed rioting above the sands, unopposed by trees and bushes. They cleaned dust and sand from the riverbeds and the mountain chasms and piled them up neatly elsewhere. More than once a sandstorm had buried the small oasis and more than once the keeper had dutifully dug his subject free. But tonight it was different. The wind wailed as if its heart had been broken, the mountains sang and appeared to sway in the wind, and the sand burnished the rocks to a gleam. The storm was so monstrous that it whipped the sand across the oasis and even there took everything away that had not found the protection of the rock. The hermit shouted something at Nill, his face distorted with fear, but Nill could not hear the words in the storm. He hoped he was doing the right thing.

No sorcerer could tame a storm that was possessed by ghostwinds. Nill threw himself into the storm and crawled forwards with his belly flat against the ground until he reached the edge of the oasis, where the wind blew the sand up and against the trees.

“Earth shield!” Nill screamed at the storm, which laughed in his face. If the elemental magic could not help, darkness would. Nill conjured a dark shield wall and there was a momentary silence around him, but nothing could stand against the ghostwinds. Nill tilted his wall a little. The wind slid right off the shield like a lance against armor and flew into the sky, where it turned back and joined its fellows in tearing up the ground around the oasis. But the hermit, Nill, Ramsker and even the sweetnut trees were unharmed. They only felt a gentle tugging. The sand, the storm’s most dangerous weapon, flew high above them.

When the wind’s strength finally subsided, so did Nill’s and he fell asleep instantly. The sky, still blocking the starlight with dust, presided mercifully over the shattered land.

When Nill awoke the next morning he did not know where he was. The spring and the trees were still whole, but everything else had changed entirely.

Nothing will be as it was. The sentence shot through his head as the holy hermit sat beside the spring, lifting his undamaged bowl with a merry laugh. He even sacrificed a little of the water to clean his eyes, nose and ears of sand. Nill did not feel the water. He stared at an enormous boulder, tall as a man, with a broad warrior’s chest and a head that seemed to melt into the shoulders beneath a helmet. Nill blinked several times, so great was the resemblance between warrior and boulder. Hardness and calm were dominant once, and then Nill suddenly believed to have seen a motion; the risen stone spoke to him. It was a language without words, tones without sound, yet he understood. They came from an oddly glowing symbol that had been burnt into the warrior’s chest with a flaming sword. The rock must have rested here for a long time; it radiated the wisdom of many winters.

The storm had carried away the entire sand wall behind the oasis and dug deep into the ground behind it to free the boulder. Nill stood, trembling in awe before the stone, bathing in its power. His tremble grew stronger as he recognized the first symbol, then the second, and the third. They were the glyphs on his amulet, the runes he had seen in Perdis’ writings, the scars that covered the falundron’s body, the signs from the cave behind the Walk of Weakness. Nill was surprised how easy he found it to read, even though the writing was old and the sentences sounded as though they came from a distant past. He opened his mouth and, without realizing it, read the burning words to the sand, the trees, the sky.

“In the beginning there was fate-space. None know where it came from. It stood in silence and hearkened to the pulse of life, for there was no more at the birth of the world. It fell in love with the dulled sound, encased it, took it inside itself and followed its voice. Together they grew, and shrank, and grew again. Again, again, again, for longer than could be counted, further and further until it took the wondrous game too far and tore into countless small bubbles that now wandered in nothingness and confusion. This was the end of fate-space. So it had been said, and so it had happened, for the mother of all being is Nothing, and all returns to her.

Some stayed still, some felt the pulse of life beat in them yet, and it had no sense, for it soon was silenced. One bubble, only one, did not allow its life to leave. It pulsed with such strength and joy! Its edges touched when it shrank. The space within the bubble went through itself and saw what it was. In terror it fled from itself. All that remained was knowledge and magic.

Magic is the mother of all things, she is the beginning and the end, the place and the path. She is content with herself, and one who controls her is a god amongst gods; for there is no human being that could understand her. It is the magic of Nothing. When summoned, it gains shape, and in gaining shape it can no longer be.”

Nill raised his eyes and felt immeasurably tiny. He had often witnessed this truth: that the magic of Nothing stopped existing in the moment it began. But what then was the meaning of the title and position of Archmage of Nothing, if the master of this magic was a god amongst gods? Was there no end to the mages’ arrogance? Nill continued reading, full of astonishment.

“The Nothing bore fate, which wished for time as a servant. But time created space and caught fate in it. Since then time and fate have been locked in an eternal struggle. And the Nothing carried another child, an unloved third brother, light. The light exploded and grew cold. It grew so cold that it ended up shining, and the shining bore the darkness, for there can be no light without darkness. The light expanded and where it shone it was colder still, and contracted and compacted. Hot vapors hurried through the space and filled it with shapes. And the light grew colder still, so cold that the gases began to glow. And the vapors, too, shrank and grew heavier and denser. So dense that in the thing that had once been an empty and frightened bubble the first dust began to float. Time gave the dust direction, and fate decided to give it shape. So was made the sky, and in the first sky was all we could still see now if the stars did not shine. Know that the bright light of the stars is bitterly cold compared to the first light. Even though it could burn up everything you know before you knew it and leave nothing behind.”

So that’s how the world came to be, Nill thought. What he was reading here was so very different to all the other fables he had heard about the birth of the world. Light and darkness he knew as magics from the Hall of Symbols; it was easy to understand that they were the children of Nothing. What did surprise him was that they were brothers to fate. It was hard to believe that one in control of light and darkness could guide the hand of fate – or could he? Nill was not so sure.

“The humans will see the four children of Nothing and know them for what they are, but all will see them differently. So the Nothing wants it and so it will be.

Humans take what they see for the truth, and so they will argue amongst themselves which of their truths is real. They will give their truths names. Earth and Fire, son and daughter, man and woman, light and darkness, here and beyond, in and out, up and down.

This arguing about truths will lead to war and death, and it will be a battle between all living things, with and against each other, not to sink in the flow of time. The world will always change, for good and for bad.

In their search for the truth the humans will step through only one circle and never reach their destination. On their course, many kingdoms will rise and fall. Which will be which? Only time will tell. The things to come are told in the books of Eos, Arun, Cheon, Mun and Kypt. He who seeks them will find them, but know this: Kypt needs Mun as Arun waits for Eos, and Cheon needs Arun for it to serve Mun. We give Fire to guard the Book of Eos. The wise need only ask. Those who have a gift for magical trickery should not approach the guardian. The truth would burn them.”

The text ended there. Nill felt light-headed. He turned around and saw the holy man pick the bowl up from the spring and wander over to the trees to water them.

Nill meant to scream, to show the man what wonders the wind had unearthed, but he could not open his mouth. All he managed was a vague, meaningless gesture towards the great stone.

Nill felt envious of the hermit. In his mind there was chaos, magic whispering in his ears; he heard the spirit of the world speak to him about its birth. In the old man’s, there was only the water and his trees. Nill had the impression he was in a completely different world, and he could not tell where reality ended and fantasy began.

He tore his gaze from the old man and turned back to the stone. The motion brought him back to the real world. The desert and its singing winds, the occasional birdcall in the sky, it all came back along with the taste of dust and salt on his lips. Nill spat on the ground. Dirt, sand, dust, salt, and all the other things that had separated him from reality. With satisfaction he watched his spit sink into the ground. A damp spot was all that remained. That was the reality he knew.

Nill swore to one day understand the writing on the stone. For now he was satisfied knowing that his, and Pentamuria’s, fates were written in the Books of Prophecy. They were what he needed to find. Ambrosimas had known all along. If they’re all as well-hidden as the Book of Wisdom, then I’ve got a long way to go , he thought. He knew that that was what the stone was: the Book of Wisdom, or at least part of it.

Nill was ready to accept the challenge fate had given him. He felt so strong. Eos. The Book of Eos. It must be here in the Fire Kingdom – Fire is its guardian.

For a brief moment the Book of Eos stood between him and Perdis, but only for that moment. Nill turned to the hermit.

“It is time we moved on. I must ask one last favor of you.”

“How could I refuse the one who saved my trees?”

“The symbols you taught the sorcerer. Teach them to me too. Only the symbols, not your writings; I do not have the time he did.”

Nill needed no more than a day. He already knew the runes and only had to learn to replicate them as glyphs. He departed the next morning.

“You have my thanks, and I have one last question.”

“Ask away,” the hermit said genially.

“The sorcerer who visited you long ago: where did he come from, and where did he go when he left?”

“Two questions,” the old man said with a grin, “but I will answer them as best I can. He came from Wood, where the mountains touch the sky. When he left, his steps took him Earthward. He can’t have followed a straight path for long. There is even less water on the road to Earthland than here, and the little you might find is too salty to drink.”

“Then I will take the path to Woodhold and attempt to cross the mountains,” Nill decided. At the mention of the word “Wood” two bright, lucid eyes flashed at him from his past and his heartbeat accelerated. Nill dragged a hand over his face to dispel the mirage. He cheated and asked another question.

“Have you ever heard of the Book of Eos?”

The hermit silently shook his head. Nill nodded and shouldered his belongings, then departed for the path that had brought him here, over rubble and riverbed to the foot of the mountains. A last look back. The wind was already busy burying the stone beneath the sands.