C2 Chapter 2

“I don’t want to go.” Everything in her contracted. She bent her back, fastened her long, still rather bony arms around her knees and stared at the floor. As everything contracted in her, the world around her shrank too until it was no more than a dot, a spot of clay stuck in a small gap between two woven twigs. The clay was crumbling at the outsides and was darker in the middle, as though it were still moist.

“Tiriwi!”

Whenever Grimala said her name it sounded as though a bird was calling for her.

“Tiriwi, you aren’t listening.”

Tiriwi freed her gaze from the clay-smeared weaving and looked up into Grimala’s good-natured, smiling face, Chiwita’s mischievous face and Kamana’s serious but friendly face.

Tiriwi had heard enough. More words would change nothing.

“I’m an Oa like you,” she said quietly. “I know every tree-trunk and every leaf. The sun caresses me by day and the moon guards me in the night. You must know that my place isn’t anywhere in the world, but right here. Did you not teach me to be content with what I can find where I live? That in humility we have wealth? And that it is the Oa’s task to preserve the world, not change it?”

Though Tiriwi could no longer remember every single Tree-blossoming she had ever celebrated, she knew that it was far more than she had fingers. Only the last Tree-blossoming did she keep in her memory like a sacred treasure, for shortly after it her entire life fell into disarray.

One evening, when everything was still as it should be, she had ended the day with the other girls by the large fire. It must have been a special evening as Grimala, Keeper of the Village, had stood by her and laid a hand on her shoulder. When Grimala stepped into the circle she always stood until someone invited her. She never had to wait for long.

“Grimala, can you tell us a story?”

“Yes, tell us the story of Osir and Atak and how they made the land and the sky.”

But wise women like Grimala never simply told stories. They were the keepers of myth and legend. They preserved the eternal truths of their people which they told over and over again, until they had become a part of the memories in every Oa’s minds and hearts.

Grimala never let them wait for long. She sat down, crossed her legs, stretched her back, and looked around the circle. The small ones sat right by the fire, the older ones behind them, and the mothers were barely visible in the semi-darkness behind them. Girls rarely sat beside their mothers. They preferred to sit close to their best friends or play under the watch of their older sisters.

Grimala always waited until everyone was still, and all had fallen silent save for the crackling of the fire. Into this silence she would speak her first words. And so it was on this eve: “Today I will not be telling the story of Osir and Atak, for their tale was made for children. Today I will tell you the truth about the beginning of the world, the birth of the sun, moon and all stars.”

The children looked crestfallen, the mothers looked around anxiously, and little furry creatures with cold paws ran down Tiriwi’s back. Osir and Atak, no more than a children’s tale? Grimala waited until all whispering voices had become silent once more and the mothers had taken their children to bed. She seemed not to notice the fire in the middle losing its warmth, the stars blinking threateningly and the moon retreating behind a cloud.

“In the beginning, there was a great empty bubble where the pulse of life pounded. The Void heard the pounding, surrounded it, took it as a part of itself and followed its rhythm. It expanded, contracted and expanded again, until it went too far and tore into an uncountable number of bubbles, meandering in the void. So had it been foretold, so had it happened, for the mother of all being is the Nothing.”

Grimala took such a deep breath that it sounded like a sigh.

“Some of the bubbles stayed silent, in others the pulse of life continued aimlessly for a while before it stopped. But one bubble did not allow the pulse to become silent. It kept pulsing, so full of joy and strength that its outsides connected when it contracted and became stuck there. So it came that there were now two instead of one.

“The Void now saw its counterpart, recognized itself, startled and fled from itself. What it left was its magic.

“Thus the wise ones say, in the beginning there was magic. There was and still is only this one magic. It has no form and no shape, no past and no future, no place and no destination. It is the mother of all things, of the beginning and the end. It is enough for itself, and whosoever controls it is a God, for who else could understand such magic? It is the magic of the Nothing. If summoned, it takes shape and stops being in the same instant.”

The mothers nodded thoughtfully. They had learned of this tale when they had grown from girls into women. Tiriwi felt the mothers’ agitation, felt Grimala’s hand on her shoulder, strong and secure, and suddenly she understood that Grimala was telling the story just for her.

“The Nothing bore Fate, which wished for Time to serve it. But Time refused to serve Fate, and created Space to trap Fate in. From then on Fate and Time have been fighting an eternal battle as disparate sisters. Fate decided on which things happened, but Time decided when.

“The Nothing recognized the wisdom of Space and Time and bore a Light that did not shine. Time, Fate and Light are the three children of Nothing. Time and Fate are never-ending mysteries to humans, whereas Light was different to its sisters.

“The Light exploded and cooled down. It became so cold that it could finally shine, and by shining it became colder still. The places that were particularly cold contracted and took shape. Hot gas fumes raced through Space and gave it forms. And the Light became colder yet until even the gases shone. And when these gases contracted they became solid and kept their shape. In the once empty and frightened bubble the first dust particles began to wander about.”

Tiriwi knew all too much about dust. The wind blew dust in her eyes or carried it out of blossoms. The very earth beneath her feet was made up of fine and coarse dust. But dust in a bubble? Tiriwi had forgotten all about Osir and Atak.

“All of you know this one last bubble. It is the sky above us. Sun, moon and stars are the last shimmer of the Light, and where there is none the darkness reigns. Light and dark made shapes and forms, and shapes and forms are the other side of the Nothing. So began the world.”

Grimala rose to her feet.

“And so, also, the magic of the Oas came into being. The sky above us, the earth below and all around us. And we are in the middle. We are the bridge between the world we live in and the sky we were made in. But only we Oas have kept this knowledge.”

At this, alarm became etched on the mothers’ faces, for this last sentence was not part of the legend, but a warning. But why had Grimala given it?

Tiriwi slept badly that night, but the rising sun of the new day dismissed all murky thoughts. Tiriwi hurried to the forest’s edge and made a rope out of climbers, knotting a loop at the bottom of it, just big enough for her foot. She tossed the other end of it over a branch, tied it as tightly as she could, and so she could swing back and forth with one foot in the loop. Tiriwi would swing all day if she was left alone. The calming, soothing back and forth was what she loved about it. She could also stand on the spot for hours on end, doing nothing but balancing back and forwards on her legs. “It makes me healthy,” she would say. “Don’t talk nonsense, you aren’t ill,” one of the mothers would usually interrupt. It was not that Tiriwi felt ill. She just felt that swinging kept her healthy when she was not ill.

Grimala would always say: “Leave her be. She will stop swinging when she grows up.” Perhaps Grimala was right, but on the day Tiriwi’s small world was threatened she had not grown up yet, and had no intention of doing so. And so she swung. With one ear she listened to the creaking branch, stretching and bending under her weight, with the other she listened to the sudden calls and shouts over by the huts. She looked over to the commotion and had an inkling of what had happened. “Tiriwi, quick, a man!”

Tiriwi merely thought: So what? She had seen a few men, and the appeal of novelty had since evaporated. One man was not worth the excitement. “This has got to be the third one already,” she sighed. Barely a moon cycle went by without some man coming here, who sat in their midst, then retreated to the common house and was served by all the women. Well, almost all women. The mothers with small children usually stayed at home. The first man Tiriwi had seen had moved in with her favorite mother after only a few short days. She had had no more time nor interest left for Tiriwi. She could have easily lived somewhere else, but she did not consider it at all. She had a right to decide where she wanted to sleep. The man had just laughed and said: “Well then it looks like I’ve got two women.” Tiriwi had not been amused at all.

Her mother would rather have had her sleep elsewhere, but no mother made a child leave home. Tiriwi was indignant, but she did not leave the house for it. Oh, what jealousy she had felt then.

The jealousy had calmed down. But still, in her mind men were an annoyance, muddling up the peace and harmony of her village. What did you even need a man for? They just stopped you from doing all the important things. Well... swinging perhaps was not one of them. Her curiosity had got the better of her and she went to see the newcomer.

Grimala had given him food and drink. The man sat in the shadow cast by the common house and told stories. A large amount of women had already gathered around him. The first stories were new ones, and new stories were a rarity. Maybe he would tell something about spirits. That would have interested Tiriwi, but men seldom spoke about spirits. He would be brought down to the river later and washed. That was always a lot of fun, and in the end everyone was completely wet. Tiriwi kept her distance. Bathing the man was a woman’s right, not a girl’s, but there were men who did not want to be bathed. They preferred to stay alone. The older they were, the less they craved company. She had found out that much already. But this man was young, he spoke loudly, laughed loudly and tried to converse with all the women at the same time. Tiriwi pulled a face. This one had no manners at all.

The long, reddish-brown hair hung halfway down his back in matted locks. His torso was lean, bare and tanned brown. He wore half-length leather breeches on his hips and gaiters around his shanks, the dense fur of which he had turned to the outside. She liked doing this with her own gaiters when she wandered around in the meadows beyond the forest. Many sticky seeds, barbed seeds, pollen from flowers and leaves from the Sosawort would get caught in the fur. After about three hours of marching there would be an entire meal stuck to them; one just had to comb it off and cook it with some water. Indeed, life was simple in summer.

The most remarkable thing about this man’s appearance was his eyes. They were very light and Tiriwi thought she could see right through them. The man looked at her and said with a smile: “Hello, lovely.”

No , she thought loudly, turned around and ran back to the forest’s edge. She did not see the man grasping his head with his hands and his face contorted with pain.

That evening Grimala called Tiriwi over to her.

“What you did today was very ill-mannered. Our guest was very shocked.”

Tiriwi was quite adept in making an innocent face, but this time she felt no guilt whatsoever. How rude could it be to run away from something one did not like? She wondered where he had gone.

“I sent him away,” Grimala said.

Tiriwi nodded, relieved.

“Well, that’s all. You may go.”

Tiriwi stood up, went a few steps and then stopped, hesitant. She turned around slowly and said: “You never said a word, and still I heard you, right?”

“I used the thought-language. You seem to know it too, although you are rather young for it.”

From then on Grimala taught Tiriwi about, and in, the thought-language. Just in passing she also learned all the important legends of the Oas which had so far been kept from her.

“Perhaps you can take my spot by the fire someday. Would you like to tell a story tonight?”

Tiriwi shook her head and thought a very clear No .

“Keep it down,” Grimala scolded her. “You must learn to think quietly. You have the strength, but you don’t have to run around all day screaming either. Come back to me tomorrow when the sun has passed its apex.”

When Tiriwi returned the next day she found Grimala in company. On the floor next to her sat a man. She recognized him immediately by his reddish-brown, matted hair. But from this proximity she also saw the many small nicks on his skin. He was not as young as she had thought. Tiriwi had never witnessed a man being allowed to enter Grimala’s house. It must have happened secretly. Tiriwi looked to the ground modestly, while at the same time spying out of the corner of her eyes as curiously and inconspicuously as only young girls can.

“This is Kelim-Ozz-Han. He is the son of Dakh-Ozz-Han and an old friend of mine.”

Tiriwi bowed politely. The name Dakh-Ozz-Han was well-known to the Oas. He was a druid like most of the men that came to visit, and he must have done the Oas a great favor once. But her hopes of finding out something about this mysterious man were dashed. Grimala merely said: “Kelim will teach you the basic magic of the five elements.”

Tiriwi flinched. The elemental magic was not of the Oas, but of the hated mages. As much as Tiriwi had enjoyed the thought-language, she was sure that she did not want the slightest to do with elemental magic.

But Kelim taught her more than the secrets of the elements. He let her explore her own body, opened her palms and soles and let her feel the pounding in her veins. Tiriwi learned to understand the calm beat of her body and then the rhythms of nature.

“Feeling the pulse of life is the first step to healing.”

And Tiriwi learned drumming. She was not yet strong enough for powerful beats, but she could hold a rhythm for a long time without the slightest mistake.

She stayed in Grimala’s house for two moon cycles. Two moon cycles she spent with Kelim and Grimala, learning of a life so different that she wondered how she could ever play with her friends again.

“Tiriwi.” The voice was gentle, but unrelenting, and pulled the girl back into reality. “I know how you must feel. And I know that the task ahead of you is no small one. But you are the only one.”

“Not to the mages.”

Tiriwi’s voice almost failed at the word ‘mage,’ and revulsion made her close her eyes.

The three wise women of the Oa exchanged glances and sighed. “How can we argue with you, for all you have said is right,” Kamana said after a while. “But there are times when the valid is invalid, and what is right and wrong hides behind a higher truth.”

Tiriwi looked at Kamana, stumped. Sometimes the wise women were all but impossible to understand. All she wanted was for everything to stay as it had been and as she knew it.

Chiwita continued: “You understood everything. Whosoever changes the world does not just create, but also destroy many things that are good and valuable. It is for the best to weigh up everything before acting. But sometimes the world changes without asking. Then we must also change, and we cannot hold on tightly to that which we know. If we do not succeed, we become strangers in our own world.”

“Tiriwi,” Grimala began. “The world you love is crumbling, and we must save as much of it as we can. But all we know of the future is that it will be very different to our past.”

Tiriwi turned her head to the door and looked out to the forest’s edge. A Mistglider leapt from a tree and sailed to the roof of a small roundhouse. I don’t want to , she thought. The world can’t change. Not mine. It’s perfect as it is. Her village, no more than a collection of ten or twenty huts, was very old. The magical wood of the first huts was older than the five kingdoms, it came from a time into which even the wise women could not delve. Something like this could not change. Was it not the task of the wise women to guard the old and deflect the new?

Chiwita took Tiriwi’s hand and stroked it comfortingly. “Do not fear, my child. It need not be the end of the world. But we know we cannot stop the Change. We must go with it this time. We need a glance into the future. And it looks as though the mages know more about what awaits us than we do, and as though they have a plan. They, though they kept Ringwall shut to everyone who was not of nobility, have opened their gates for all. Every learned person who wishes to study the world of powers. We do not know what they expect to come of this, but with this first step changes have been made. We believe that the changing of the world begins with the mages.”

Although the wise women had not lost their friendly smiles, and their faces contained no threat, Tiriwi felt disconnected from them, almost cast out from the Oas, and she lowered her head obediently. “But why me?”

“The mistrust between Oas and mages lies too deep,” Kamana said, “for them to grant us elders entry into their halls and chambers. But they do not see children as a threat. They want our knowledge: you must hide it. And we want their knowledge: you must find it. You will be the first Oa to know two schools of magic. And you will tell us what the mages expect and what they fear. Who knows, the truth may lie in the unification of all magics.”

“Let nobody know how far your magical talent goes,” Grimala warned her. “Although your studies are not finished yet, and you do not know many of the things the other students do, you still possess more and different abilities than they do. Do not flaunt them, and do not incite the mages’ mistrust. We have prepared you for this task long enough.”

Chiwita got to her feet. “Prepare yourself. In three days you will leave the village. Grimala has volunteered to accompany you on your journey. You may also choose which mothers you would have join you. You can also choose to take some friends instead if you believe they can make the trip. Your parting will be less sudden then. I can also ask a passing druid to join you.”

“No, no druids.” Tiriwi’s voice was strong and certain. “I don’t want to travel with a man.” She pressed her lips together. Like all her friend she had not yet properly met a man, but that which she had seen was enough for the rest of her lifetime.

*

The air stood still and quietened every sound. Nill sat on the stone rim of the well, dangling his legs, the hard edges cutting into his skin. The village well was special, because stones were rare in this part of Earthland, and they were usually of low quality. They were found only on top of the hills, and even there they were rarely more than thin flat plates that splintered easily. They could be used to scrape fat and blood from the fur of freshly killed game, if one had no better tool at hand. But they did not work well for building houses. The well was built from the few stones that possessed, by chance, a little more strength and durability.

Nill was watching a couple of skinny dogs that were sniffing each other and the corners of the nearby huts. A group of swift cloud-arrows cut across the sky, appearing out of nowhere and swooping down, stopped just short of the ground and was gone the next moment before anyone could turn to see. Nill liked those little hunters, but he was wondering what they were doing here at noon. As hunters of the dusk they woke only when the first feverflies rose from the damp depressions in the land.

The sky was blue. Far too blue, Nill thought, and a little too dark also. Nill squinted and sought the sun’s white sphere, around which the air looked nearly black. The dust’s dry taste had not changed but the air tasted of resin, and nature had become restless. Even the wind had hidden from the piercing sun, and so it was blisteringly hot. But the silence was deceptive. Now and again the wind woke up, broke its silence with small flurries that whisked up dust and made the eyes sore. Nill tilted his head back, flared his nostrils and drank in the air. He was not the only one who watched the sky and the gentle slopes of the hills with a worried look. The elders who spent their days sitting in the shade of the village’s huts had got up and gazed anxiously at the first tiny wisps of clouds that had appeared in the deep blue sky. They seemed like riders, transparent and swift, messengers of a coming event who had only stopped their horses for a very brief time.

Nothing indicated that a storm was brewing, whose winds were feared but whose rain was always welcome. Only the flurries grew more frequent, and the dust devils spun ever faster. Nill saw that the dust was gathering more and more leaves, although the closest bushes stood high upon the slope.

Nill looked along the dirt track that snaked among the hills and disappeared somewhere in the direction of the Waterways and Woodhold in the haze. All Nill knew about these two realms was that the sun rose between them and one had to follow the path for a very long time before one came to the next human settlement. The path was the only safe connection to the rest of Pentamuria, the civilized world that the village possessed. Beyond the village lay waste land which grew ever more barren the further it reached, until it finally merged with the Great Belt of the Borderlands. Even the most experienced hunters and shepherds knew no more to tell about the Borderlands than horror stories that were passed on from generation to generation.

But now Nill’s exceptionally keen eyes had spotted a black dot between the mirages and the hazy, dusty heat. The dot jumped around like crazy and steadily grew in size. Heat and dust devils had always made it hard to see anything in the distance, and Nill waited patiently until he could make it out more clearly.

The wind seemed to die down, but its restlessness was replaced by an invisible presence that began to fill every nook and cranny. The last grass stalks that had escaped the sharp rams’ hooves in some shady corners bent fearfully towards the ground, and Nill felt as if the earth itself was trembling under mighty steps. Although they could not see what was nearing yet, the dogs began to bark madly.

The elders’ faces grew solemn, until someone uttered what they all feared in secret.

“This is magic. The raw, wild power of a mighty druid that announces his arrival like a wave. My father told me about this. He experienced this often, when he was still a young man.”

The other elders nodded. Everybody had a father, grandfather or uncle in their family who had stories of the druids to tell. Those mighty sorcerers of nature who always turned up where they were not expected, sweeping the land, always searching for something they called the Heart of Magic. These druids stood outside the society of Pentamuria and were persecuted, cursed or treated with the highest respect by the various rulers of the world, depending on their respective plans. There was no consistent role written for the druids in the history of Pentamuria, and nothing indicated that this would ever change.

“I’ve only ever once met a druid. More than twenty harvests ago. Was looking for my herd, it got lost in the storm,” remarked Kren, who constantly rubbed his nose with his thumb. “Nothing good ever comes from it.” He did not elaborate what happened when he met the druid, and nobody asked, for now was not a time for stories.

“If we’re lucky, he’ll just pass through and only asks for food and drink.” Olfa scratched his head. The worry in his voice made what he said sound strangely unfinished.

“And if he doesn’t just pass through?” his wife asked from the darkness of their hut’s open door.

“Then he has come to kill someone, or to take them. Most often they take children, but I’ve also heard they take the eldest.” Kren was known to always presume the worst.

Each of these sentences was accompanied by a moment of silence and hung in the air on its own, as if it had to wait for the previous sentence to be blown away by the wind. But in truth the voices had to gather the strength before they had the courage to speak out loud.

“They are immortal.”

“You are talking nonsense. Only the Gods are immortal.”

“No one has ever seen a dead druid,” ranted Cramas Clumpfoot, but then fell into a whisper. “There are no graves, there are no women and there are no druid children. Druids are always men. Nobody knows where they come from and where they go.” He absent-mindedly brushed a few wood chips off his apron that had fallen when he had left his hut.

“I have heard that witches abandon their children, and those children then become druids.”

“Foolish talk! Even witch-mothers are mothers, and mothers don’t just abandon their children.” The old wives shook their heads at such lack of judgment from the men.

“Perhaps the druids simply take the children from the witches,” Kren speculated.

Some nodded appreciatively, others shook their heads.

Nill pretended to gaze disinterestedly in a different direction while his keen ears followed the conversation closely. He knew every single voice very well and did not need eyes to ascertain who was speaking. Esara had never spoken to him about druids, and so he did not really know what to make of them. But someone who was able to rouse the wind, cause nature to become restless and the village folk to gather in scared little groups was certainly worth a careful look. Much to Nill’s disappointment, everyone had heard of the brown men, but no one knew anything in particular.

Meanwhile the dancing dot had become a dark figure that was swiftly coming closer.

Even from this distance Nill’s could see how bulky this man was. It seemed as if the air around him had thickened. It was like a veil that fluttered around him in swift flurries like a billowing cloak. But he was not sure. It could just be billowing dust.

The dogs’ barks were now accompanied by gabbling from the geese and nervous clucking from the chicken. The closer the stranger came, the quieter were the dogs. One by one they shut up, tail between their legs. The chickens ran nervously around, looking for a safe hiding place. Only the geese stayed where they were, hissing hoarsely.

Through the hazy air and with the sun behind him the silhouette of the burly body seemed as one with its baggage, making the colossal figure seem even larger than it was. Very slowly the gray backpack became distinct from the brown body. A single small metal cauldron had not been packed into the bag, and instead was strapped to its outside. The man had well-filled carrier bags hanging from both sides, attached to his shoulders with a wide cord, knocking against his thighs with every step. His legs were covered mostly by a knee-length skirt that was slit open in front and in the back. The skirt’s creases performed a strange dance with numerous items that hung loosely from his belt. The man walked barefoot and his calves, too, were bare. But this was not uncommon. Most of the villagers went without footwear.

Although the stranger had by now almost reached the first huts, Nill could still not make out a face. Anything not covered by the long, shaggy hair was instead hidden behind a thick, matted beard. His chest was bare and only partially covered by the long, reddish-brown hair and beard. Nill could not help but marvel at the man’s light tread. The druid, like any wanderer who reached the village, must have been traveling for a long time, bearing his luggage and his own weight, yet in spite of this his feet barely seemed to touch the earth. Where could such levity come from? , he wondered, for each step touched the ground with the heel, rolled across the entire sole and left the dust with the toes.

Nill had no time for further thoughts, because the stranger had arrived at the outermost huts. Although he politely took his time, the men gave him nothing but silence and hostile glares. The women had retreated into their houses, barely daring to glance out of the dark little windows and door-hatches, their children huddled around them. The village had gone quiet. The silence was broken only occasionally by the howl of a dog that had not managed to dodge a nervously aimed kick in time. The stranger continued his walk calmly, stopping for short breaks at a few houses or peering curiously into the workshops and stables, yet he never stopped for long.

There were not many houses between the outermost edge of the village and the well Nill was sitting on, because the place itself was small. The druid’s eyes lingered on the boy for a moment as he passed. His lips twitched as though he meant to say something, but the mouth stayed silent. It was over in a heartbeat, too short for the man’s pace to lose rhythm. Nill kept his eyes on the druid, bursting with curiosity.

The fellows surrounding Brongard, the Reeve’s son, had gathered at the market square and stared at the stranger with wide eyes. They were too old now to hide behind their mothers’ dresses, yet not courageous enough to play the hero. The Reeve himself stood in the middle of the square underneath the sacred Judgment Tree, where all energies joined together, and greeted the newcomer. “May the luck of the day guide you, stranger. Visitors are rare in this part of the world, yet welcome. I hope you will enjoy your stay here.” He gave the merest hint of a bow, so cursory that the gesture crushed the politeness of his words. A Reeve answered to none but his lord, the King of Earthland, and only in questions of higher magic sought the council of the archmages. The knowledge of his own importance gave his features an expression of pride and grandeur. “I shall take the liberty of having some food prepared for you, and shall fetch a pitcher of my own wine from the cellar. If you would follow me into my home?”

The druid grasped the top of his flat knapsack in a fluid motion, twisted his fist and was suddenly holding a large pot in his hand. “I thank you, Reeve, for your invitation and for your hospitality. I am afraid I have little time. You would be doing me a favor if you could fill this pot with water and bring it to the boil, and perhaps, if it isn’t too much to ask, spread a quilt under that tree over there.”

With these words he gave the Reeve his pot as though he were a servant, laid down his backpack and carrier bags and settled in the shade of the Judgment Tree, from whose branches a black, ruffled crow descended, landing on the druid’s shoulder. The Reeve held the pot, staring into it with a strangely absent gaze, as though still thinking of what to do. Then he called over his son, who promptly took the pot to his mother in the house.

While a quick meal was being prepared in the Reeve’s house, the druid was playing with the crow, which evidently belonged with him. “You’ve rested long enough, my old friend. It’s high time you make yourself useful.”

The rough man’s voice was unexpectedly gentle and melodious. The crow on his shoulder abruptly lifted its head and flew off with an annoyed caw. The beard in the dark face formed a wide grin. “Lazy chap!”

After the Reeve had taken care of bread, cold meat, fruits and honey and the water had finally begun to boil, the druid’s head turned slowly in Nill’s direction, who was still sitting on the well at the edge of the square.

Nill felt something plucking at him, which seemed to say, “Come on now.” But he stayed put on the well. The plucking became stronger and more commanding. “Get down from there, come now.” But Nill had always reacted to orders with pig-headedness, and this time was no different. My place here is my place, and where I’m sitting, that’s where I sit, Nill thought, looking over to the Judgment Tree.

The young fellows did not dare move. They could feel the silent battle that was happening, and in their mind the victor was already chosen. The dust had vanished and the breeze had stopped in the moment the druid had sat down. The heat of noon was back and pressing down on them.

The plucking in Nill’s spirit had stopped and was now rather a gentle pulling. The voice – if it even was a voice – was no longer calling, but instead luring. There were no more words, either, only quiet sounds. Wisperling? Stonesel? Nill was certain they were bird sounds, but he did not know of which bird – it sounded nothing like the ones he knew.

Nill began to laugh and shouted: “If you want something, come here.”

These loud words broke the silence like a stone that breaks a vase. The villages muttered anxiously, the druid made a small gesture with his hand and the crow dived, flapped once over the well to stop the fall, sat down opposite Nill and cocked its head. Nill gazed into the one eye the crow was showing. He had often had birds join him on the ground, but never had one been this large. From head to tail-feathers this crow must have been around one and a half forearms long. He held out his hand. The crow took three steps backward. Come here, flap onto my arm , Nill thought. The crow’s head jerked up, but the bird itself stayed put.

“It doesn’t work that way. Wishing won’t be enough for crows. They’re far too clever and have far too strong a will.” The voice was calm and clear in Nill’s head. “Come and eat with me.”

Nill hesitated for a brief moment but his inquisitive nature got the better of him. He slipped down from the well and ambled over to the sacred tree, taking care to walk slowly, then sat down in front of the druid.

Now, for the first time, he could make out the druid’s eyes. Nill was disappointed. He had expected huge fire-wheels or unfathomable depths. What he saw were two small, button-sized black circles, peering out from underneath the thick hair.

“What are you called, lad?” the druid asked, reaching into one of his many bags and throwing a handful of herbs into the hot water. Where the lid covering the pot came from, Nill had not seen.

“Nill.”

The druid’s expression remained unchanged as he said, rather off-handedly, “That is an uncommon name. Mine is Dakh-Ozz-Han.”

Nill bowed his head in a silent greeting.

The druid looked up from his water. His eyes searched for the Reeve, who was standing ready to receive more instructions.

“I thank you, Reeve. You are a host, and a better one could not be found. I am happy that these traditions, while they have become scarce, are still honored in this village. Still, I must ask you to please go and leave us alone.”

The Reeve gulped, gave a short bow and retreated with a frown on his face, joining the other villagers in watching the strange lunch from afar.

Nill had kept his eyes on the Reeve, but now turned his attention back to the druid. This man’s presence had a certain oppressiveness about it. It was not the shroud of condensed air Nill thought he had seen from afar. It was his smell. The cloak emitted a cloud of scents of an intensity Nill had never encountered before. Heavy smells, dimming the senses, yet among them light aromas such as the smell of fresh hay, some night-flowers and the gently pungent, bitter scent of beli-bush leaves. Or was it something else entirely?

Only now did Nill realize that the wild man’s cloak was woven from bearing muag-cows’ underbelly hair. It was a precious thing, worthy of royalty, yet the druid had let it become dirty with earth and the remains of old leaves.

The druid tore the bread into two pieces, laid one to the side and began plucking apart the smaller half with nimble fingers. He ripped stringy stripes off the meat, wrapped them around the bread and then dipped it first into a white paste and then into a fiery red powder. Then he put it in his mouth.

He used a wooden bowl to drink from the hot water with herbs.

“Don’t you want any? Aren’t you hungry at all?” he asked Nill.

Nill gaped at him.

He had never seen anyone eat so slowly and intricately. The people he knew tended to eat quickly. Usually while walking or working. And even at home, where time was not an issue, the hunger dictated their speed. Nill reached for the bread slowly.

“Dip your bread into the honey first, eat that and follow with some drink. You’ll see, you will like it.”

Nill knew about honey. He had seen the thick, sticky substance a few times and even tried it once, when Esara had been given some as a thank you for a rather large favor.

This part of Earthland was no bee-haven. There were too few strong trees, and the earth-bees built nests too small to be worth taking. If ever honey was available, it was brought by the merchants and was a delicacy for everyone.

The druid reached into one of his many bags and pulled out two long strips of meat, one of which he gave to Nill. “Here, try this.”

Nill knew about jerky, too. He had eaten ram and grollahen before, but this meat came from a different animal. The druid simply hung his strip into the water-pot before eating, but Nill knew how to eat jerky properly and he had strong, shining teeth.

He pulled out his dagger, bit the meat, pulled the strip tense and cut it off close to his lips.

The druid laughed heartily. “A sharp blade you have there, my boy.”

Nill did not know whether to react with an annoyed, unmoved or friendly face. He did not care much for being addressed as “my boy,” but the admiration for his dagger felt good. On the other hand, great warriors show no feelings. In the end, his joy won.

“Where did you get that knife?” the druid asked.

“I forged it.”

“Very good!” the druid said, satisfied.

Nill did not quite understand what the druid found so “very good” about his weapon, but he did not want to ask either. Dakh-Ozz-Han offered no further explanation.

After a few, long moments of silence the druid said: “I am looking for Esara the truth-teller’s house.”

Nill jumped. “What do you want with Esara?”

“Don’t be so nosy. Don’t you think that’s a matter between Esara and me?”

Nill furrowed his brow. “Then go and look for it.”

“You could save me the trouble.”

“Alright. It’s at the far side of the village, the last house. It’s hidden among the trees. You can’t miss it. There is no house like Esara’s.” Nill’s voice brimmed with pride and pushed his irritation away.

The druid smiled. “Do you know her well?” he asked.

Nill nodded.

“She called me, but I don’t know if she knows.”

“Esara?”

The druid nodded thoughtfully.

Nill bit his lip and thought for a moment.

“She’s my mother.”

The druid gave another nod.

“Not my real mother,” Nill hastened to add ­– yet he did not understand why he was telling a complete stranger about his family. “My parents left me somewhere around here, and Esara took me in.” There was bitterness in his voice.

“Parents don’t just leave their children lying around.” The druid’s voice was calm and controlled.

“But they did.”

“Can you remember it? How your parents said goodbye to you?”

“No, how could I? I was far too young.”

“If you can’t remember the moment of parting, how can you claim they left you lying here?”

This angered Nill. His eyes flashed. “Do you know what happened? You act as though you know the truth.”

The druid shook his head yet again. “No, I do not know the past. I have my guesses, I see a few pictures. Still they are hazy and incoherent. Druids are not truth-tellers. Ask Esara instead.”

Nill scowled at him. “She told me never to speak badly of my parents.”

“Esara is a wise woman. Can you go fetch her for me?”

Nill’s face cracked into a grin. “That won’t be necessary, she’s already here.”

The druid got up, turned about, walked the few paces to Esara and greeted her respectfully.

The Reeve, having watched the scene from afar, was content. The druid had obviously come for Esara and her boy. He was loathe to lose the truth-teller, yet relieved at the same time, for his village seemed now free of danger. Esara was a stranger, and everyone knew that they came and went.

“You are here for me,” Esara said. It was a statement of resignation rather than a question.

“Yes, for you too.” The druid lowered his head in agreement.

“You are too early.”

“I know,” said the druid. “But I always would have been too early for you. It’s time. Your cry was so loud, it pained my ears. I came as fast as I could. And as you can see, I have already made his acquaintance.”

“I was afraid I’d called for you. But we can’t change that now. We are no longer free in our actions. Come to my house. It is small and tight, but the trees will lend us their protection.”

The druid emptied his water-pot, packed his belongings back into his various bags and made a bow in the Reeve’s direction, who still stood at a respectful distance.

“I thank you for your hospitality,” he called. He gave Nill, who had also stood up, a slight nudge and followed him and Esara with light footsteps.

“That is a house after my own heart,” Dakh-Ozz-Han burst out once he stood before the flowery wilderness. “You live in a grove more beautiful than can be found in Woodhold, yet you live in Earthland. Even a druid could be stopped from wandering by this.”

“Yes, it’s our last remains of home,” Esara said.

Nill glanced from Dakh-Ozz-Han to Esara and back again. Esara, bearer of the village’s mistrust, and Dakh-Ozz-Han, a mighty druid who scared the villagers witless. Here they stood. The druid had laid his right arm on Esara’s waist and was looking deep into her eyes.

Almost like lovers, Nill thought, yet not. There was no tenderness in their gazes. Esara looked oddly lost, and Dakh-Ozz-Han was holding her steady. The stood there without moving. The only movement was the slight shifting of the whisper-willows’ branches. Even the birds were silent.

Nill could sense powers flowing together right at the center of Grovehall, convening there at that moment. Powers he had never felt before. But he could not understand their nature nor their ways. All he could see was that the intimidating aura surrounding the druid had vanished and made space for something else that had grasped Esara.

There was no space left for Nill. He could not see what battle Esara was fighting, nor why Dakh had to hold her.

Esara stared into the distant nothingness. She heard piercing screams, not knowing that they were her own, and saw shadows flitting past. Explosions danced through her head, leaving silence and blackness in their wake. No sounds, only screams. No pictures, only flashes. She clung onto life with a silvery-gray band that seemed to be coming from somewhere on her forehead, vanishing into the darkness before her.

Dakh-Ozz-Han fought. An elemental storm surrounded him. He held on to the flickering, torn light between himself and Esara with all his might. He felt remains of destroyed magics in Esara’s mind – buried, half-unearthed roots of Fire and Earth, and terrible, mutilated stumps of what once had been the foundations of Wood and Water. The Metal had gone mad and was now tearing through her mind, prepared to slice everything that dared take shape, and Dakh-Ozz-Han attacked it until it retreated, blunt and spent. Then he calmed the remaining roots of Fire and Earth and gave some strength back to the Wood.

Esara swayed as the druid unfixed his gaze. His arm veered around her waist and he held the woman tight.

Nill knew nothing of what had happened, for he could not follow Dakh and his mother on the path they were on. He had stayed in Earthland. But for the first time he saw Esara through different eyes, and he did not know if he liked what he saw. The woman in front of him must have come from another world, one further away than the truth-telling and magical rituals, further than their shared meals, the mends they made on their clothes, her lined face and the herb-drinks she had given him when he was sick. There was an Esara who took care of him, one from before he had arrived, and there was a third Esara, who had been the beginning. This third Esara was the root of her truth-telling and of something that connected her to the druid. Nill decided to ask her about it, and this time he would not give up after a few meaningless answers.

“I will accompany him, for now,” Dakh-Ozz-Han said.

Nill flinched. He had been running after his own thoughts and had not realized that Dakh-Ozz-Han and Esara were talking about him. Did Esara mean to be rid of him?

The druid said: “I will bring him to Ringwall. He will be in good hands there.”

Esara stayed silent, while inside her a beast raged. “Ringwall!” it screamed. “Cursed city of all evil, my pain.”

But out loud she spoke: “Ringwall will not take him. Ringwall has never allowed someone of common descent to pass through its gates.”

“Perhaps I don’t even want to go there,” Nill attempted to calm her.

“You must,” the druid said harshly. “You are an arcanist. You have access to the powers of magic. That is no slight gift. An arcanist can change things, but is always in danger of losing himself in the process.”

“Why is it dangerous if you can do something?” Nill asked.

“Because magic rules. Magic must be controlled, or it will control you. And if it does control you, your own power will destroy you. That is why every arcanist needs a teacher.”

“How can you be so sure that Ringwall will take him?” Esara asked.

“Things have changed in Pentamuria while you have retreated to the rim of the world. Ringwall may still be the City of Mages and the place where nobles from the prince to the squire receive their introduction to magic. But nobody can tell how long it will stay that way.”

“What has happened?” Esara asked, her voice a monotone.

“The past is being blown away by the winds of prophecy.”

The druid pursed his lips and puffed in Esara’s face. Esara shivered.

“Worry has struck the arcanists and the wise of Pentamuria. You know the ancient legends, the songs and hymns of the past?”

Esara lowered her head in assent.

“They are all that is left from the past, for before the Mages of Ringwall there were others who governed it, and again before that. Each period had its own truths. We only recall them in tales, phrases and songs. Do you remember the Book of Prophecy?”

“No.”

“You have forgotten much, my dear. The truth-tellers of the five kingdoms, great sorcerers all, the old druids, the wise women of the Oa, many shaman and even the archmages with the Magon, their leader, they are all convinced that the time of change spoken of in the Book of Prophecy is due in the next two generations. ‘Nothing shall be as it was before. Wastelands will take the place of cities. Verdant oases will bloom where once there was wasteland. The reigning will serve, and the servants will reign,’ the story of Gnaffting, the blind metal-seer tells.

“The Mages of Ringwall want to prevent the prophecies. They believe that they can change fate. But they cannot do so on their own. As such, they have decided to unite all magical groups in Pentamuria, and everyone with magical capabilities will be taught in their ways. We have yet to see whether they will be successful. Oas, druids and shaman are cautious, for their past experiences with the mighty circle of mages were not always good. Apart from that, Pentamuria is not just the five kingdoms. There is magic in the fringe-worlds too, and most of it is not human. But that is of little interest to us. The only thing that counts is that the mages have opened their venerable doors. Nill can go to Ringwall if he so desires.” The last words were directed at Esara as Dakh-Ozz-Han fixed her in his gaze.

A new world began to take shape in front of Nill’s eyes. For a moment, heroism and fame were banished. He saw a mage standing before him. He wore a long white robe and a serious expression on his face. One hand was reaching to the sky, connected to the stars, the other gesturing at the people below him, expelling war, disease and death. Yes, this was what Nill wanted.

“You could become a sorcerer there, perhaps even a warlock someday,” Dakh-Ozz-Han said.

“I want to be a mage,” Nill announced solemnly.

Esara’s face contorted to a grimace of pain

“Who knows? Maybe a mage, then,” Dakh-Ozz-Han smiled. “That is your decision, and depends only on how much strength and skill you show. And on how ready you are to labor. Have you any experience with magic?”

“No,” Esara interrupted. “He doesn’t know a single incantation, cannot neither banish nor summon, cannot strengthen or weaken a thing and he cannot see, either.”

Nill was surprised at the sudden outburst, as Esara had shown little of her feelings up until now. She fought, but against what? And why was she so distressed?

The druid gave her a long look. “He will not come if he does not want to, and neither if you do not want him to. But you know that what you have said is not the truth.” Dakh’s voice had become so quiet that even Nill’s sharp ears could not comprehend his whispers. “Have you not seen his knife? The blade is full of magic and the boy does not even realize. Nobody with a grasp on magic who does not have a teacher lives a long life. You know that as well as I. Nobody with any sort of magical ability can evade it, and they will make mistakes, and their own gift will be their downfall. I ask you, Esara: is that what you want?”

Esara lowered her gaze to the floor and swallowed. Had she not called Dakh-Ozz-Han to this far-off village, even if she was deaf to her own scream? Esara straightened up and stood tall as a queen. “The day is old. Stay the night and leave tomorrow, as early as is possible.”

There was not much to talk about that night. Nill tossed about in fitful slumber. Dakh slept like a stone, while Esara collected the few items Nill was to take with him the next morning. It was not much: a few bindings for his feet in case of cold weather, a blanket, a second overcoat, a pouch with bread and cheese, and his weather-clothing, consisting of a long cloak and a wide hat. Finally she pulled out an old wooden disk from a bundle of children’s clothes.

The next morning, after a simple yet strong meal, they departed. Esara looked deep into Nill’s eyes, embraced him and hung the band with the small wooden disk around his neck.

“This here is an amulet. You were wearing it when Roddick found you. I am sure it came from your parents, and I am also sure that they gave it to you for a reason. Perhaps it will lead you to them someday. Farewell.”

“Why did you never tell me of this?” Nill asked. The slight note of accusation in his words was not missed, but Esara did not react to it.

“The people do not always understand magical objects. Roddick is a clever man. He took the amulet from you and gave it to me with the rest of your things. He knew what he was doing. It is better if the villagers don’t know about your amulet. It is now your decision to wear it openly or not, and who will see it and who won’t.”

Nill laughed out loud. The excitement of his future in the magical world could not be contained, and his face told of it. “Well, Dakh for example! He knows that I’m wearing an amulet now.” He gave the druid something of a challenging look.

The druid’s face seemed like a rough, untouched tree-trunk. Angular, with deep shadows cast by the rising sun which had by now displaced the dawn, unmoved in the early morning wind. All the creases and lines that usually made his face more alive were now simple, broken marks. Dakh-Ozz-Han looked into the distance with a vacant expression on his face, as though he had not heard Nill.

“We must go now, Esara!” The way he spoke her name evoked the possibility of another long story about the past, present and future. Esara understood. This was not goodbye. It was the beginning of a new tale.

Nill noticed nothing. The moment’s meaning passed him completely. He was impatient and could not understand why Dakh and Esara took so much time standing together in silence. If all had been said, they could go. He did not know that not everything had been said, not by a long way.

After what seemed like an age the druid turned around and began to walk with his long, calm steps. Esara kept looking long after the two had disappeared.

*

The air was still cold and stabbed at the lungs, but the grayish-yellow on the horizon promised another hot day.

“Ringwall lies in the direction of Woodhold. We will be going towards the morning sun, however, until we reach the outskirts of Metal World,” the druid said. “That way we can avoid the villages.”

Nill did not understand why they were supposed to avoid the villages. He had expected to enter every village as Dakh-Ozz-Han had: powerfully, spectacularly and in the manner of a king. Nill had a hard time concealing his disappointment, but Dakh-Ozz-Han acted as though he had not noticed.

The druid and the boy kept an even pace, as experienced wanderers do when they have a long way to travel. It was important to move quickly and achieve a good stretch before resting in the early afternoon, at which point they waited for the heat to pass. Nill had taken the lead for now, as he knew every path in the vicinity of his village. At first he stuck to the old path he had taken every morning with his herd. He answered the druid’s questioning look: “I have an old friend to say goodbye to.”

But it was not goodbye. The old ram stood atop the hill where he had always waited, tilted his head to one side and gave the druid a wary glance. He let neither Nill nor Dakh come within twenty paces of him.

“It looks like it doesn’t trust us,” the druid grumbled. “But he seems to be a grand fellow.”

Dakh made a few attempts at baiting him, but the old ram resisted. The druid’s face became more serious after each failed attempt.

“Leave him be,” Nill said. “He’s stubborn, old, but generally quite harmless.”

The druid growled deep within his throat. “No being capable of withstanding a druid’s allure is harmless. Where did you find him and what have you spent the summer doing?”

Nill shook his head uncertainly. “He just appeared. There was a bit of a question of whose responsibility the herd was, but I managed to convince him. From that moment we took care of the herd together. I sat by the slope and he stood atop the hill. And when I brought the herd to the stables for the night he brought up the rear.”

Dakh-Ozz-Han began to move again, taking his eyes off the ram. Nill waved at the ram in a sheepish kind of way and then ran after the druid. Even a simple farewell was too much for him at the moment. Nill felt as though his entire tidy life was crumbling into little pieces, none of which seemed to fit together any more.

It’ll all work out, he thought.

The old ram stood there like a sentinel. Only after the boy and the druid had vanished behind the next hill did he raise a hoof.

Nill walked where he had walked a hundred times before, and even when they had long since left the familiar terrain the landscape was unchanged. A web of tough, dry grass covered the bleached, naked stone of the hilltops. Lonesome black bushes that nobody and nothing could get rid of dug deep into the rock with their roots. This was the home Nill knew, a place for tough and frugal people, for rams, small rodents and scratch-birds. Where the old caverns had crumbled in the white rock now lay deep gorges between the hills that had become fearsome swamps over time. These holes were both a blessing and a terror to the shepherds. In the hottest of summers the herds could always find enough water here so as not to die of thirst, but more than one animal had slipped on the steep slopes and been caught in the bog below.

The hard, triangular grass that grew in the mud at the bottom of these basins was difficult even for the rams to digest, so thirst was the sole motivator for their trips down into the gorges. But for humans, the grass as well as the morass in which it grew in had a different advantage, because it was an excellent building material. Still, the bricks had to lie in the sun for a long time, until the stench had left them. Both animals and humans valued a small strip of good, solid earth between the wet trenches and the bare hilltops. The grass there grew more readily and certain herbs gave the air an agreeable aroma.

The path stretched on, and one day passed like the last. Slowly the dried grass became more yellow, the bushes grew more verdant, isolated birdsong contained speech, and the air was thick with the smell of earth and grass, as though it wanted to fill their lungs completely.

“Have you noticed?” Nill asked the druid.

“What’s that, my boy?”

“All nature is suddenly richer and fuller.”

The druid smiled. “No, I hadn’t noticed. Nature is always rich and full.”

Nill grimaced at this answer and stayed silent for a while. He tramped grumpily after the old man, who was ascending and descending the hilltops with ease. Whenever Nill stopped for a moment to marvel at something he had to run to catch back up to the druid.

“May I ask you something?”

Dakh-Ozz-Han turned his head slightly, not enough to lose any of the smoothness in his step, and said shortly: “What is it?”

Nill ran a few more steps to get beside Dakh and started talking immediately. “Is there a difference between a druid who comes and a druid who goes?”

“Yes,” Dakh acknowledged with a smile. Nill waited for more, but the druid seemed to consider the question answered.

“But why is that, and how do you do it?”

“For druids it is like for all other people. They come with their wishes, hopes, expectations or intentions, and they go with their disappointment or happiness, in great sadness or lost in thought. But why do you ask?”

“That wasn’t what I meant. When you came to our village, all nature bowed before you. The animals and even the wind foretold of your arrival. You brought the people out of their houses, sent the hounds to their dark hiding places, and the earth trembled at your every step. Now I feel that nature is celebrating, and you walk so lightly that you don’t even leave footprints.”

The druid smiled again. “When a king arrives, his people carry the banners before him, fanfares are sounded and drums are beaten. Messengers foretell of his coming, and children and young women lay out flowers and petals to honor him. Everyone sees the herald, because they highly anticipate him. Yet the thief arrives in the neighbor’s dress, the spy stays unrevealed. I came like a warlord and went like a thief. Out here, in the wilds, I move unseen, and I will enter Ringwall as an unloved envoy.”

Nill listened in silence. He had always gone as he had come. Or had he?

Apart from a short rest at noon they had wandered for a full day again. The grass covering the hills was still yellow, sporadic groupings of bushes lent sparse protection from the sun and fresh water was so rare that they had to live off their own rations most of the time. They slept in the small forests that had now begun to cover the hills more frequently. Nill, who had never seen trees this large before, had noticed that the druid always set up his night camp at the edge of the crest, where it was densest. All the more surprised was he when he saw that tonight, Dakh-Ozz-Han had decided to sleep among the roots.

“Look up, boy,” the druid muttered as he noticed Nill’s bemused gaze. “This here is a dry-pine. They water the forest floor from the edge of their crests, unlike most others that do so with their skyward branches and limp leaves.”

They had been traveling for quite a few days now, each passing much like the last. The only pleasant thing was that their luggage was becoming ever lighter, as they had to live off their provisions. The banis they drunk was reaching its end. It was made from the underground bulbs of the alwrag-weed, diluted with water. Fresh banis was easy enough to make, but for that they needed water. They had long passed the swamp-holes, and the riverbeds in the area ran dry. Dakh, too, seemed worried about the water situation.

“I have not witnessed drought like this for a very long time,” he said as they packed up their things the next morning, shaking the cold dew out of their hair and quilts. “We will have to make a detour, and I do not like the thought of that at all.”

“We’ll make up for the time lost,” Nill tried to calm him, but Dakh merely scowled. They did not have to go far. In the early afternoon they came across a wide hollow that was completely covered by a dense forest.

“We will find fresh water here,” the druid said gruffly, pointing at the trees with his staff. “Unpack our things, we will stay here.”

The curt tone in his voice was new to Nill. He did not understand, either, why Dakh had decided to rest so early. Still, he obediently opened their knapsacks and took out the most important things. But then he could no longer contain himself. “Why don’t we just go into the forest and fill up our water skins? We’d have enough fresh water then.”

“Because.”

“That’s no answer.”

“If you long for a good beating, go ahead,” the druid growled. “Now keep your mouth shut and do as I’ve said.”

You’ll have to catch me if you want to beat me, Nill thought as he spread out his quilt a safe distance from the druid. He was upset. He had witnessed Dakh as boisterously friendly, withdrawn and silent, thoughtfully morose and with a sunny smile on his face. He had never seen him this irascible. While Nill was still pondering how to treat this new Dakh-Ozz-Han, he noticed that Dakh’s mighty chest was rising and sinking rhythmically. The evenness of his breaths told Nill that he had fled to the world of dreams.

If he wants to sleep, he’ll sleep, thought Nill with a mischievous grin. We’ll see about that beating soon enough. He’ll be surprised when he sees the full water skins when he wakes up.

He got up silently and sneaked off like a cat. The closer he came to the forest, the softer the ground under his feet became. It got so soft that Nill constantly felt like he was tilting with each step. It was a nice sort of walk, one that made each step feel almost like a leap. But the forest was becoming ever darker and denser. Nill thought nothing of it when he scratched his hands on rough bark or when he was poked in the side by twigs. He carefully groped his way forward though the half-light, until a hard blow hit him in the back, throwing him forwards; at the same time he felt a strike to his forehead. Nill buckled over and fell down, but rolled over onto his back and thrust his knife upwards. His enemy had vanished. All he saw was the even darkness of the tree’s crest that cast an irregular, diffused light on to the ground and bathed the forest in a green hue. Occasionally the mild afternoon wind would break up the leafy canopy and the sun would take advantage of these openings, successfully beaming down onto the ground. Gripped by this otherworldly natural beauty, Nill stood up and gazed at the wondrous lights. But only a short moment later another blow, this time to his arm, tore him out of his dream-world and knocked him firmly back into reality. The first attack was followed by another, and Nill dived to the ground once more. Now he understood what Dakh had meant by the beating. It was impossible to predict the strikes and hits. Wherever the sunlight glinted, buckled figures scurried about. Nill had to squint to make anything out in this jumble of sun rays, light shadows and black turmoil. He was now kneeling on the ground, ready to leap up and lash out. But the enemy was fast.

Nill gasped in bemusement. The small black figures had been twisted and bent branches, moving in the wind like shade-fighters, whipping through the air, spinning around, jerking here and there, rising up and slamming back down again.

It must have been the branches that got me, Nill thought as he wiped his aching forehead, where a small lump had begun to form. He now lay flat on his back, safe from most renewed attempts by the foliage to strike him. Only once or twice did a twig take a swipe at his face.

For the second time Nill raised his eyes to the unending heights of this forest, where the silvery trunks vanished into the dark green ceiling. This is no forest. This is a monumental hall with skyward pillars, silence and serenity under its roof, yet a wild witch-dance on the floor, Nill thought. “Dum-da-dam, dum-da-da-dam, dum-da-da-dam-dam.”

The rhythm of the swinging and flailing branches reverberated within Nill’s body and filled him with a sorrowful song. With sparing movements and slowly shifting his head he let his shoulders circle, until finally his whole body accepted the rhythm. Nill wriggled across the floor, scratching the fallen leaves with his fingertips, toes and ankles, revealing the soft, black topsoil that lay beneath. Nill danced, but not with the weightlessness of a dancer seeking to leave the world behind. Nill danced with the earth. He had slid back into a long-forgotten past, the ancient times when not all life had dared leave the security of the ground. The time of the first dragons, earthbound creatures who had yet to rise up into the air and make it their own. These days only few creatures still moved in this archaic way. Wood olm and den newts, many-legged snakes and flat-lizards had kept the memories of the old times in their bony skulls, and so had, perhaps, many more animals that Nill did not know of. He danced until the forest settled down with the setting sun. Only then did he regain consciousness and felt once more endless sadness and desperation in his heart. Until now he had only known dance as part of exhilaration, at the parties by the Judgment Tree, or just to get rid of excess energy. But this was completely different.

A snapping noise made Nill turn his head. He was able to make out Dakh-Ozz-Han’s silhouette vaguely against the backdrop of the forest. He was carrying a dark red light in his hand, but it barely illuminated his surroundings. “Come, it is time to fill the water skins.”

“What …?”

“Shh, keep quiet. It is better not to raise your voice in this forest.”

The druid walked with slow, careful steps, as straight as the many trees would allow. The branches were still moving, but it was no more than a slight twitch, barely enough to trip up a wanderer. Nill stumbled after Dakh. His senses were in disarray, and he still heard the thumping that had heralded his dance. The painful memory of the beating he had received caused him to raise his arms to protect his face, and his body was all hunched. When he finally reached the pond from which they had planned to refill their water, Dakh-Ozz-Han had already done most of the work.

“Come here, let me help you with that,” he murmured. Nill did not want to accept, but before he could say a word the druid had taken the water skin from him and begun to fill them from the pond, careful not to disturb the mud. He gave Nill a full one back, took the last two in his arms and began to make his way back. Nill followed him with his lips pressed tightly together, his back aching and his head full of sad thoughts.

It took a hot tea, some dried meat and rather a lot of honey to gradually make Nill’s melancholy pass.

“The forest down there is called the Valley of Unhappy Trees. One should usually avoid it. By day, as you no doubt noticed, it is dangerous, and by night most people can enter, but don’t have the strength to exit again. Quite a few people lie buried there. Lost, unknowing wanderers, or sad people, who had long since given up hope. Too many sad stories, too much pain. And the pain in this forest grows stronger the more time passes.”

The druid lowered his head. Even here by the hill, in respectful distance of the forest, they could not avoid its depressing air.

“It’s a magical place, isn’t it?” Nill asked with a mixture of awe, admiration and timidity, looking across the valley to the forest, now hidden in the shroud of the night.

The druid made a tired gesture. “I do not know. I can only feel the desperation and sometimes the helpless anger. Powerful forces are at work here, but whether they are magical, I cannot tell. It is no form of magic I know of.”

Nill shivered at these words. “Is there magic you do not know of? An ancient magic, or magic that is not of the elements?” Nill did not know where the question came from. Something stirred in his memory. Something about the forest that was vital to tell the druid about, but the memory was no more than a wisp of smoke.

“Why are the deepest questions always asked in moments of sorrow?” Dakh’s gaze wandered through the darkness beyond the campfire. “Every druid would now tell you that there is only the magic of five elements, and all other sorts are combinations of those. But I am not sure about that. The older I get, the more I learn about the magic that has been part of me all my life, the less certain I am. You asked of ancient magic. Well, if the legends hold true, this was once the Old Forest of Ancient Trees. But ancient magics are not mentioned.”

Dakh-Ozz-Han knew many tales. Far more than Esara. And he told them well, too. Nill could have listened to the druid all night, had the desire to sleep not won. As much as Dakh kept to himself during the day, he would open up by the nightly campfire. Nill sat up expectantly. The druid just grumbled and said: “This story is quite short. Nobody knows what the Old Forest of Ancient Trees looked like, but this was the only place on Pentamuria where the forest grew. They say that the king camped here with a hunting party once and thought it was far too dusky. Neither joy nor laughter were had at the fire that night. The fool. He did not feel the powers this place has, although he was learned in magic. He could not find any happiness in the place either, although it was there, sleeping contentedly in the darkness. In the Old Forest of Ancient Trees the here and there were as one, earth and space were not separated, old and young felt the same.

“The king had a grove of Mylantos near his palace. Those are trees that shoot skyward like pillars, with silvery, slender bodies, and the branches only start very high up.”

Nill nodded. He had seen them in the forest earlier, but he did not want to interrupt the druid now, so he kept his silence.

“The king’s grove was famed, and it was called the Silver Palace for the trees. By day the sun would shine down through the branches and sprinkle the ground with gold.

“The king asked his sorcerers to bring some of his fast-growing Mylantos here so that he and his company might rest in more comfortable surroundings. But it was in vain. None of the seeds they sowed would grow. One day, something happened. Perhaps it was a bolt of lightning or a storm, nobody knows any more. Either way, some of the old trees burned down and there was a clearing in the woods. The sorcerers planted three Mylantos trees in that clearing. The king never knew what happened with the seeds. He had grown tired of the whole business and left the forest with his party. He went back home and never came back here. What we know today we know from the people who live here. The Old Forest of Ancient Trees was always important to these people, for they felt what was special about the place and declared it sacred.

“The Mylantos grew far quicker than the old trees. Their branches wove together and cast shadows on the ground, and the children of the old trees could not grow. Now there are only Mylantos. But the last of the ancient trees noticed that the Mylantos moved in the wind and sometimes the leafy canopy opened up. Light would soak the ground, and darkness would be dispelled for a while. So they began to move, and so the ancient trees still move. They move towards the light to survive. They are the only trees on Pentamuria that can grow under Mylantos.”

“So both trees now live together in peace.” Nill liked the nice end to the tale, but the druid shook his head sadly.

“I do not know if there is peace. I cannot feel it. The legend claims that the trees were giants and connected the earth to the sky. What we see here and call the “ancient trees” are small, tough warriors, fighting for their lives. These are no giants any more. What you feel are their cries for help, their anger. That is why people call this place the Valley of Unhappy Trees. They know the forest. I do not believe that there is peace here. There will be peace when the ancient trees are alone again.”

Nill liked Dakh’s stories. Something in the way he told them turned the words into song. But he never quite understood what the druid was trying to convey, and this annoyed him. He did not want to seem obtuse or stupid.

“I did not feel anger,” he said, “but certainly desperation. And sadness, too. Why do I always feel like you’re trying to tell me something with your tales? I rarely understand what you really mean.”

Dakh-Ozz-Han plucked a fresh blade of grass from the earth. “I am not trying to say anything. The stories are the ones who want that. That is why there are always people to keep telling them, and every new person sees a different message in them. But that is also the reason that we keep telling stories about the early days of man.”

The druid gazed up toward the sky. “Many generations ago, Shubalo the Seer showed the future to mankind. He did not tell what he had seen. He wrote a song of what would no longer be. The song is sung by druids and other peoples, and has been for many hundreds of years.” And the druid began to sing a few lines in his rough voice.

Where once was magic, still is now

It conquers and defends

King will fall and Circle sleep

And ev’ry reign must end.

With no order, sorrow comes

Into darkness flees the light

When the world is crumbling down

No one retains their might.

Nill shook his head, confused. “That is a song for dancing. But who would give a dance-tune such dark lyrics? Did Shubalo really know the future?”

Dakh opened his hands and looked into his palms, as if to show that there was nothing there. “We druids believe that man once knew his distant future, but the knowledge has been lost. In the tales of the tribes some of the old prophecy is still intact. But I begin to wonder. More and more prophecies are reaching the light of day. Bits of stories that everyone knows, but are still new. Signs inscribed in stone tablets or rocks. And I wonder how we could have missed that? Prophecies made by great mages are truths. But as with all truths, there are more than one.”

Nill shook his head again. “Either it’s true or not. There is no in between.”

The druid smiled. “No, my young friend. It is not as easy as you would think. The opposite of a truth is not a lie, but another truth. As such there is always the possibility that a prophecy does not come to pass, or even to stop it from happening. And that is what the mage’s Circle is trying to do.”

“How?”

The word exploded out of Nill in his excitement and curiosity, shooting through the air loudly and leaving an empty silence in its wake for a moment, which was then filled with the quiet rustling of the fire. Dakh jumped.

“What did you just do? Just now?” he asked sharply.

“Nothing,” Nill answered as innocently as he felt. “I would like to know how the mages intend to stop their destinies from happening.”

The druid exhaled, shuddering. “If you don’t learn to control your abilities quickly, you won’t even have a destiny.”

“That bad?”

“That bad!”

Dakh-Ozz-Han hummed a melody to himself. The notes came from deep within his throat and had little to do with music as Nill knew it, but he could not resist their effect. He felt his energy draining and had difficulty in staying upright. “What are you doing with me?” he yawned.

“It was a difficult day. We will talk more tomorrow.”

Nill agreed, but before he fell asleep for good he jerked up again.

“Wait!”

Nill had remembered what he had wanted to tell Dakh-Ozz-Han all along. First the sadness, then Dakh’s tale, then the strange discourse about truth and lies had pushed all else aside, and so he burst out: “There is an ancient magic in this forest!”

“Leave it for now,” the druid mumbled.

“No, no, I felt it. It was in the movement of the branches. It looked like they were reaching for the light at first, but really it was a dance of souls. I danced with them, and I know it wasn’t about sunlight any longer. I felt like an olm or a dragon, or a…” His eyes fell shut and he heard Dakh’s answer as a distant grumble. One word managed to get through to him.

“The tough warriors are very old,” the druid said. “Their memories reach back to the parts of time that man had no access to. It is possible that they granted you some. You seem more accessible than most people.”

“Accessible”: there was that word again. Esara had said the same after the runes had danced and he had fought the demon. “What does accessible mean?”

Whatever else the druid said to him, he did not hear it.

The next morning they had left the Valley of Unhappy Trees behind them and were glad to be back in the sun. With every step some of the despair lifted, and before long Nill was singing loudly.

“Vitality is best when it comes back,” the druid said simply.

They marched towards the rising sun, the unending mountains to their left in the distance, a small jagged crown on the horizon, and on their right the familiar hills that looked like the backs of a grazing herd of rams from this distance. The landscape kept to its yellowish green and the shrubs and bushes looked like those they had passed already, back near the village. The only things that had changed in the forest were Nill and Dakh-Ozz-Han. Nill had left behind his timidity before the mighty man, and Dakh had begun to teach Nill. He mostly did this with short signs, little more than a nod of the head.

Once, Dakh stopped moving suddenly and craned his neck. Nill looked around but could not see what had caught Dakh’s attention. Once the druid had shown no obvious signs of wanting to keep walking and the calm of the moment had spread across the hill, Nill heard the wind. It was blowing across the land differently than usual, and as such sounded unfamiliar. Nill nodded, the druid smiled, and they continued their walk. That was all that happened. But what could cause the wind to blow differently? The question stayed in Nill’s mind all day.