The Chamber of the Concillium was old. How old, nobody alive knew, really. The seat of power to the world, the occupants held in their hands the fate of equines far flung across land and skies.

    Or, at least, that’s what they liked to think. The truth was a little less impressive.

    The room was hewn from stone, with a vaulted ceiling that stretched up toward a bejeweled skylight. The skylight itself spoke of craftsmanship long lost to the people, for its multicolored facets would always shape the light such that, no matter the time of day, a bright shaft shone straight down onto the center of the seal of Westerhoss.

    The sage stood in that light, feeling a bit like an insect under the gaze of a child with a shard of glass, focusing the sun upon him. I will not show nervousness, he thought, even as a bead of sweat rolled down his neck and into the collar of his robe.

    He looked up at the raised dais that surrounded him. The seal itself was inset inside a bronze five-pointed star, the rays of ended at different points on the dais. At each point sat a throne representing one of the five core energies of this world. From his left to right, he enumerated them in his mind - Water, Wind, Magic, Earth and Fire. Five powers, combined, balanced, giving the land life.

    The land which was dying.

    Only three of the thrones were now occupied. The Throne of Wind, made of a milky crystal that seemed to shift as he looked at it, was occupied by General Zephyros, a large pegasus stallion, gray with a black mane and tail, all polished armor and military bearing, his black mustache curled upwards at the ends at the just the right angle. He eyed the Sage with suspicion.

    To his right, on the Throne of Earth, sat a tall earth pony mare with a tawny coat and snow white mane and tale, her eyes as green as the ceremonial tunic and crown that she wore. woman of tawny skin and white hair, clad in green. Sylvana looked at him in his hood with friendly curiosity. Her throne was made from a polished single piece of heartwood, and on its right arm sat her pet leopardhawk. The Sage smiled to himself. She kept Maximillian. That bodes well. Given their history, any positive sign was an encouragement.

    He turned his attention to the center of the dais. In theory, no one throne was more powerful than the others. But over time, the holder of the Throne of Magic had taken on more of the day-to-day functions necessary to manage Westerhoss. That the holder of this throne also tended to be the wisest member of the unicorn race, the Magic users of their world, lent them an air of gravitas. Often, they acted as a peacekeeper between the other two members of the council, helping steer Westerhoss as best he could.

    The current holder of the throne was Pacento Regullus, a Magus of the fourth degree. He could remember the day Regullus assumed his throne, ready to lead the Consillium. How vibrant he looked, his coat shiny black, his horn a polished silver that glowed so bright when he cast spells. Now he sat on the polished chair of black onyx, looking used up, faded to a dusky gray, his horn tarnished, his eyes droopy and wrinkled. Can he really have been beaten down that much in just four spans? I am not a moment too soon.

    Pacento’s head leaned to one side, and for a moment the Sage thought he might be sleeping. The thought obviously crossed the mind of Zephyros, who slapped a gauntleted fist down on the arm of his throne. The sound made him jump.

    “Wake up, old man! You wanted us to hear the youngster. Least you could do is stay awake for it.”

    Sylvana frowned. “No need to be a bore, Bor. It’s not as if we had anything pressing on our agenda.”

    “Don’t start with me, pretty. If need be I’ll—”

    “You’ll do what?” The voice rumbled from the front of the chambers like stone on stone. The Sage approved. A simple amplification spell. Still, very effective. I’ll have to remember that tactic. As he watched, the leader of his tribe sat up straight and his horn glowed. After a moment, the magus seemed stronger and more alert as he fixed the other two counselors with a glare, then nodded. “That’s better. And I’ll have you know, Zephyros, I was awake the entire time.”

    The general snorted once in derision, but kept his mouth closed.

    Pacento now turned to the Sage. “Well, let’s do this formally. Who comes before the Concillium this day?”

    The sage tossed his head and pushed back the hood of his robes. “I do. I am Victorus Cantum, Sage of the Third Level in the Tribe of Magic.”

    Sylvana’s breath caught in her throat audibly. Not what she expected. He turned to look at her and bowed his head. She regained her composure and forced a smile for him. “Greetings, Victorus. It is pleasurable to see you again.”

    “Thank you milady, you are too kind.”

    “Yeah, well, that’s all nice and good, but you two can flirt on your own time,” Zephyros rumbled. “Why did the tribe send you here?” the General asked as he glanced curiously at Pacento.

    Cantum took a deep breath. “The tribe does not know I am here. I come of my own will and choice.”

    The three members of the council shared looks at each other. Pacento frowned. “This is…”

    “Unheard of. I know, your Eminences. But this has been done in the past. There is precedent.”

    The leader of the Earth Tribe leaned in. “Admittedly, I’m still new. But my predecessor never mentioned this. How long ago was this precedent?”

    The Sage gulped. “Three hundred twenty seven spans.”

    “By all that is sacred, you’re invoking a precedent that is practically ancient,” intoned Pacento, surprise evident on his face. “What is it that makes you so desperate to do this?”

    “Honored ones, it is not I who is desperate, but all of us. Westerhooves is dying. The land is no longer whole, and we are slowly choking to death.”

    “Bah. That’s defeatist nonsense,” said Zephyros, waving the idea away with one hoof. “We’ve had a bad few spans, but things always turn around—”

    “I beg your pardon, General, but they aren’t turning around. Lady Sylvania, you know the truth of it. Crops grow malformed, undernourished, harvests are less than plentiful, and ponies go hungry.” He turned to the General. “And the weather, sir, is more unpredictable than ever, putting your tribe both at blame and at risk.” He turned to the Magus. “And most of all, Magus, I know you feel it. The source. It weakens, even as we speak.”

    Zephyros’ scowl grew. “Bah. Why should we listen to you? Since when is an earth pony a member of the Tribe of Magic?”

    Cantum felt the blush start to color his cheeks. Calm, he told himself. You have nothing to be ashamed of. “Yes, I came to my vocation in a unique way. There were reasons for this.” He paused for a moment, glancing at Sylvana. She stirred and seemed to squirm uncomfortably on her throne. He looked back at the General. “But I like to think my not wielding the arcane still gives me a perspective that others might not have.” He glanced at Pacento. “Don’t you agree, your Eminence?”

    The Magus narrowed his eyes, unhappy at the trap the Sage had laid at his feet. He gave a barely perceptible nod of agreement. “That is true. Very well, Sage Cantum. The Concilium will hear you out. Speak.”

    Cantum nodded. “Eminences, the reason our realm is no longer in balance is plainly visible.’ He whelled around and point a hoof at the two empty thrones. “The world of Westerhooves was formed with all the elements in balance to create harmony. Now, we lack two of those vital element. Even now, we lack two vital elements in our society.”

    “Yes, yes,” said Zephyros with a wave. “Of all the people in our realm, we are most aware of this absence. It stares us in the face everyday we serve.”

    “Without those tribes, those elements run wild in our world, never in balance, never in control.”

    “And their loss was indeed tragic,” agreed Sylvana, her expression a mix of sympathy and pity. “But they have been lost to us for generations. The Water Tribe sailed beyond the edge of the world. And the Fire Tribe…” she trailed off, as if afraid to mention their fate.

    Pacento nodded. “They chose their fate. And if your beliefs are correct, doomed us all to slow ruin.”

    “Perhaps not.”

    Pacento looked at the Sage, standing there in the light, and saw in him a defiant hope. “Why do you say that?”

    Cantum knew he had them. “Because this has all happened before, long, long ago. And in researching the ancient texts, I believe I have found the way to restore the two lost tribes and bring Westerhoss back into balance before it’s too late.”

    The three members of the council looked at each other with varying degrees of disbelief and hope. Finally, Sylvana looked to him. This time, there was not an ounce of wariness in her gaze. “Tell us more, Sage Cantum. You have our complete attention.”