* * *
“I send you to face your past and you come back with a broken rib! And stitches!” yelled Barsovy. “And you let him fight another wizard? Before facing the valley? Do you realize just how dangerous that could have been?”
Prydon grinned. “He performed quite well.”
“Did you now? Did you?” Barsovy said with a scolding tongue. He glared at Darius, burning him with a stare that made even his ribs go numb.
“Sorry?” A mixture of remorse and fear gripped Darius’s throat, and his answer came out as a squeak.
“Oh, well, since you’re sorry.” Barsovy’s sarcasm produced a chuckle from Prydon, but Barsovy ignored him and instead turned his glare to the ground, pacing the familiar circle.
This was a ritual Darius witnessed many times in his training. Barsovy slipped into a focused state of concentration, and Darius knew that nothing would distract him—not without retribution, a consequence Darius had no desire to witness. Besides, a solution was soon at hand, and Darius couldn’t help breathe a sigh of relief as the pain, not only from the broken rib but also from the tight bandages that swore not to let it move, was quite annoying.
“Nope.” Barsovy halted and stared at Darius as if he’d read his thoughts. “I have no solution. You will simply have to face the valley in your present state. Unless, of course, you’d like to wait until that heals on its own.”
Darius froze. “But…”
“But what?” asked Barsovy.
“Well, I was hoping you could use some kind of medical…magic or something,” said Darius.
Barsovy laughed incredulously. “Medical magic? That takes years of study and is not learned in this place. As a matter of fact, most wizards have others in their service dedicated solely to that art. But not here.”
“But—” Darius tried to say.
“But nothing! Why do you think we have the protective spells as you train? No, I have no time to mend broken wizards to be! Nor do I want a constant companion to follow me around tending to weaklings!”
Darius rubbed his ribs.
“So you’ll just have to deal with it,” added Barsovy. “Nope. No time to heal for you, young man. I say you’ll do fine, and that is the end of it. Now, follow me.”
Prydon shrugged, and Darius was left with no choice but to accept his painful situation. He rubbed the bandage around his chest.
Barsovy turned and stood still, facing a wall of trees. With eyes closed and after a few awkward moments, a thick cluster of trees began to shake violently. The roots pulled up from the ground, and dirt showered down as they stepped away from each other, revealing the start of a hidden path.
Barsovy walked into the newly formed tunnel, and Darius followed. The trees continued to uproot themselves, creating a path as they progressed, and when Darius looked behind, the dislodged trees returned to their beds of dirt and closed in once more. The ground covering their roots returned to an undisturbed state, and had he not observed it, he would never have known a path had once weaved in their place. The walk was long, and when their path came to an end, they were greeted by a small clearing and the steep side of a mountain. As they moved closer, Darius noticed a small crevice opened in its side.
“Here. Enter when you see fit.” Barsovy pointed and then walked underneath a canopy of trees and sat. He crossed his legs and closed his eyes as if he were no longer of this world.
Darius stood with Prydon by his side. “This is it,” said Darius as he rocked on his heels. He felt like a child leaving for his first day of school, only worse. He was going to face judgment.
“You’ll be fine,” said Prydon.
Darius bit the side of his lip and looked at the small opening. “So what exactly am I supposed to do in there?”
Prydon lowered his muzzle near Darius’s face. “In there, you will do as all wizards before you have done.”
“That’s not very helpful.”
Prydon smiled. “Your heart will guide you.”
The dragon gently nudged Darius toward the opening, and when he stepped into the crevice, everything went dark. A soft purple hue glowed like moonlight even though Darius knew the sun was still high in the sky. As he followed a cramped path, his heart pounded inside his chest like a waterfall beating the river below. He breathed slowly and blew his breath between tightened lips. Although it was not cold, his breath condensed, forming a fog in front of his face. His hands trembled as he braced himself on the damp walls, and he ducked beneath jetting rocks.
The path sloped downward amongst loose rocks, and he planted each step carefully; a broken leg to match his rib would surely do him no good, not to mention the anger it would provoke in Barsovy. And Darius didn’t relish the thought of crawling back out of the crevice, dragging his leg behind him. No. His goal was ahead and would not be impeded by carelessness.
It became darker, and the rocks that obstructed his path were now entwined with massive, thick roots; roots from trees Darius could not see. The roots, however, provided some hold, and his movement was quickened with their assistance.
When the path opened into a valley, Darius stopped and gaped at what was before him. This was nothing like the valley in which he had trained—and nothing like he would have expected.
The Valley of Wizards was dark, the sunlight banished behind a dreary veil of clouds. The trees were large with gnarled limbs interwoven to form canopies that blocked out any light the clouds might have let escape. It was almost as if the valley were a massive cave, the sky being nothing more than a vague illusion.
Darius walked slowly forward, following a well worn path and wondering when he would reach the wizards of old. Wisps of purple light darted past like ribbons blowing in a strong wind, and Darius thought he could hear whispers brush against his ears.
The trees opened, and their entangled limbs liberated themselves. The ground began to shake and Darius almost lost his footing. Like the trees he had encountered following Barsovy, the trees here uprooted themselves and pulled back. Instead of a small path being formed, however, these massive trees formed a tight ring around a vast clearing and planted their roots once again.
The purple wisps accumulated around Darius, and he turned about, not sure what to make of them. All of the sudden, the ribbons flew straight up into the sky and vanished. Darius stood silently, alone in the opening, and the darkness hung over him. A thick fog rolled in like a wave of oppression, and Darius’s throat tightened as the sky darkened even more. Soon he could see nothing.
A stab of panic forced his breathing, and he wondered if he’d somehow taken a wrong turn and stumbled into some warped version of hell. The fog pushed down on him, and he fell to one knee. He looked down at the invisible ground, his hands beneath him hidden by the haze. He pressed against the rocks to make sure he wasn’t floating and would at any moment crash to a distant ground and, perhaps, his death. He wasn’t, and for a moment he felt foolish for checking.
Darius tried to stand, but the weight of the darkness held him down, and panic grew inside. Moments dragged on and insanity threatened, but just when he thought he might lose his mind, a wave of light, a small hazy ribbon, floated from above and penetrated his body. He looked up. The darkness continued to surround him, but some unseen energy told him to stand. He hesitated, but the unease melted away and was replaced with indomitable determination. Darius stood tall, and his breathing steadied. It was time.
A bolt of lightning shot from the sky, and in its path stood a crystal shard, at least seven feet tall. Darius shielded his eyes as the lightning continued to strike all around him, shaking the ground beneath his feet. After what seemed an eternity it ceased. The entire area was covered with crystals, each one pulsing identically with a white blue light.
The fog diminished until there was only a thin layer on the ground, swirling around his feet. He approached one of the crystals and looked deep inside. Darius gasped as he gazed at a young boy, with perfect clarity, standing inside the shard. And that boy was him!
r /> He stepped back and bumped into another. Turning, he again stared at himself. As he staggered about the field of prismatic towers, each crystal housed another replica.
Darius sat in the center of the objects, resolved to know their purpose, and closed his eyes. Thoughts filled his mind; thoughts of home, thoughts of his mother, his father, Prydon, Alara, thoughts of Klavon and Sira, thoughts of Barsovy, his training, the mark on his hand.
The mark on his hand began to pulse, the red tendrils throbbing beneath his skin. He stood and walked to a crystal. Staring at his face, the eyes moved and returned his gaze. But they weren’t his eyes. They were different, not remotely like the eyes that greeted him when he looked into the river at home in Brandor, and Darius did not like what he saw. He raised his sword and struck the crystal. It shattered, and a dark red light darted into the sky with a scream.
Surprised by his own actions, Darius turned to another shard. This time, the self gazed with eyes he could not see. Again, Darius struck the shard, and another red light shot to the sky, a red deeper and darker than the first.
He paused. So was this it? In judging the character of the Dariuses within the crystals, was he revealing his own? Darius walked from crystal to crystal, gazing into each face, his own face, each one representing a certain path—a possible character either light or dark, strong or weak, compassionate or selfish. The wizards of old were testing the depths of his character, his ability to discern the right way—and more importantly to choose it.
Darius stared into the crystals. Some of the faces were hideous, vicious and cruel—at least that was his perception—and Darius immediately made waste of them. Others were more difficult to read, and he struggled with the subtleties of their expressions. With those less obvious, he would place his hands on the crystal, close his eyes, and attempt to determine the depth of the one within. He would develop an image in his mind, but always, there was a mist surrounding it, never allowing him to clearly distinguish a true path. As if to make it even more difficult, Darius wasn’t sure if the image was pure fabrication or guidance from some more powerful source—maybe even the curse.
Darius struggled but knew he had no choice. It would have to be enough for him to make a decision, and shard after shard, wisps of light shot into the air with a shriek. When red and amber wisps screamed forth, Darius knew he made the right decision. Sometimes, when he made his choice, the tendrils in his hand would burn like fire as if destruction of the shard in some small way caused destruction to the curse. It was at these times that Darius would fall to his knees, grasping his wrist and catching his breath, but always with a small sense of victory.
Other times, the less subtle shades of red, bordering on pink or even white, were not so encouraging, and the tendrils would remain calm. Still, Darius was determined. He would not allow himself to be filled with doubt, for doubt would surely cloud his judgment.
In time, only two shards were left. He studied the two with all intensity, and each returned his gaze. Both sets of eyes showed leadership and strength, but there had to be more—some subtle nuance he was missing. Darius stood between the two, leaning from one to the other, pressing his hands against the shards and trying to read them, trying to visualize the essence of each, trying to comprehend the character within and know which one represented the true, pure way.
With each he saw images, scattered and random, but again he wondered if it was his own fabricated illusion or a deceitful picture presented by the curse. Finally he made his choice, believing the one to be left untouched was of the purest character. He raised his sword against the other and the crystal shattered to the ground. When he did, however, the familiar wisp of color did not whirl into the air. Instead, as shards of crystal fell to the ground, a mist stood where the crystal had fallen. And as the mist faded, Darius stood facing himself, in all form solid.
“What have you done?” the now solid Darius yelled. “You have chosen incorrectly!”
With a shocked impulse, Darius raised his sword and struck at the other Darius. “No! You are not the one!”
“You fool!” screamed the other, deflecting Darius’s blow. “You are flawed! That mark has clouded your judgment!”
Darius’s heart pumped hot blood through his veins, and he glanced at his hand. The crimson tendrils were boiling beneath the surface of this skin. “No! This can’t be! I was right!”
Darius raised his sword again, and the fight continued, but with every blow Darius struck, the other Darius volleyed and returned the same. Minutes passed, and Darius pulled out his staff. It was no more effective. In fact, every spell simply dispersed into a puff of smoke.
The other Darius laughed as one in utter disbelief. “So what do you plan on doing? Fight me all day? You cannot defeat me. I am you, and you are I. Neither of us can possibly defeat the other as we are one and the same. Surely you must see that now.”
Darius was tired and his wounds, although healing, ached. He stopped and leaned against the last crystal. The other Darius showed exhaustion as well and did nothing but stand.
“You know I am right,” he said. “I can fight you forever if you’d like, but where would that put us?”
Darius stared at him.
“The wizards of old have shown you mercy.” The other Darius’s eyes softened. “They know that mark, and they have granted you a second chance.”
Darius scoured the face of his opponent, trying to read what was beneath. “A second chance?”
“Yes,” acknowledged the other Darius. “Now, choose the right one! And be thankful that I had the strength to fight!”
Darius looked into the remaining crystal. The eyes were pure, clear as day, tender and caring.
The other Darius approached him, breathing down his neck and speaking deliberately in his ear. “He is weak. You have witnessed my strength. I am your true design. Why else would the wizards of old have allowed me to stay when you struck my crystal?”
Darius turned his head and locked eyes with the one who stood so close behind him. In those eyes, he sensed raw strength, true power. The other Darius, an odd smile on his lips, bowed submissively.
Darius turned back to the one in the crystal and stared deeply into his eyes. In those eyes he could envision people, guided and protected by the one housed in the crystal prison. In those eyes he could envision favor and love for those over whom he stood.
Darius returned his staff and drew his sword.
The other Darius nodded his head and smiled. “Yes,” he said. “I am pleased.”
Darius raised his sword. “I am too,” he said calmly as the sword fell hard and struck not the crystal shard but the other Darius.
Shock housed the face of the solid reflection as he held the sword sticking through his stomach. “No!” And with a flash of red lightning, he was gone.
Darius turned back to the last crystal shard. The Darius inside smiled and bowed, and for a moment he thought he saw his father’s face staring back at him. But all too quickly the image vanished and was replaced with an opaque swirling of color, much like that in the stones of his staff and sword. He stared at it, and the cloudiness dissipated until all that was left was clear white light. Relief washed over him and he felt a weight lift from his heart and mind…but the mark in his hand began to pulse, and Darius buckled as the pain increased. He looked up at the shard once again and…a faint shade of red flashed deep inside the crystal.
Darius’s heart stopped, and he threw his hands against the shard. “No!” He stared deeply into the depths of the light, hoping it was only his imagination…It was there, faint and intermittent, but the red flash was no illusion.
As if to finalize the decision, two bolts of light shot from the shard and, with the shriek of a dragon, crashed against the crystals in Darius’s weapons. The color pulsed within the stones, mirroring that which was within the shard, and Darius fell to his knees. Tears filled his eyes and he lay against the crystal tower.
It was some time before he gained the strength—
physically, emotionally—to make his way out of the valley. There was nothing more he could do. He had been judged. The mark on his hand had done its deed.
Chapter Twenty-eight
Success