“You say you were fighting yourself?” asked Barsovy.
“Yes, sir,” answered Darius in an anesthetized tone. He didn’t look up at his trainer. His head was slumped against his folded arms, his knees propping the weight. His whole body felt numb.
Prydon growled. “Barsovy, has there ever been a case where—”
“Never! Never has anything like this ever happened!” snapped Barsovy. “They enter the valley, they make their choices to provide insight to the Wizards of Old—granted each in a different way but never in battle—and then they exit.”
Darius could hear Barsovy pacing his familiar circle, but this time he didn’t care. From his perspective, all was hopeless. He had failed. As if reading his thoughts, Prydon nuzzled him gently, knocking his arms from beneath his head. Darius looked up, and Prydon smiled tenderly.
In a soft voice, Prydon said, “You have not failed, my friend.”
Barsovy stopped. “He is correct, Darius. You have not failed. I believe that curse sabotaged your trial, or at least it tried to. I believe that curse placed that particular shard intentionally, with the sole purpose of producing your other self in an attempt to influence your decisions. And if that is the case—and I am usually correct—you made the correct choice.”
“But he said the wizards recognized I was marked and were giving me a second chance. How do we know that’s not the case? Has anyone else ever entered the valley marked by a curse?” Darius stood up quickly and held out his sword and staff. “And these? This red flash?”
“That red flash,” continued Barsovy, “could simply be a reflection of the curse that plagues you, but we will not know until you complete your task.”
“Prydon, you once told me that Segrath crafts the sword and staff only once a young wizard has passed through the trials of Mount Tyria, one who has faced himself and the possibility of who he can become. I never did that. Segrath had no idea who I was or would be before crafting this sword and staff. What if there is no connection? What if these aren’t truly meant for me?”
“You are allowing doubt to cloud your judgment,” answered Prydon. “You were presented with no options once Klavon brought that curse upon you. Segrath knew this.”
Barsovy added. “I know Segrath, and I know her power. She is never in error in creation of a wizard’s tools. Despite your situation, she knows your heart. She knows the heart of every wizard even before they complete the trials.”
“Then what good are the trials in the first place?” snapped Darius.
Barsovy slapped Darius hard across the face, not in reprimand but in crude awakening. “You are crossing boundaries of which you should respect! Even though Segrath sees within the wizard, the wizard himself does not. The trials give you that. Yes, you were disadvantaged in not having that discovery of yourself, but you have learned much in your time here, and I believe you know who you are. More importantly, I believe you know who you must become. And to do that, young man, you must face Klavon and destroy this curse once and for all!”
The sting remained strong in Darius’s cheek. “All right,” said Darius, laying his sword and staff across a nearby rock. “Let’s say I defeat Klavon. What’s to say that this curse won’t linger in some way, haunting me forever?”
“There is no way to know for sure, but there is one thing that is certain,” replied Barsovy.
“Nothing is certain,” said Darius, his voice trailing.
Barsovy placed a gentle hand on Darius’s shoulder. “Son, this is certain. If you do not face Klavon, then that curse will remain with you forever, consuming you within the very bowels of the evil it now projects.”
Darius had never been called “son” by anyone, and he regretted speaking so harshly to his teacher, his mentor, his friend.
Barsovy paused and looked straight into Darius’s eyes. He spoke with all sincerity. “And what of the people of Brandor? Are they to be abandoned, left to die at the hands of Klavon…or worse, left to serve him? No. You have no choice. Your path is decided.”
Barsovy squeezed Darius’s shoulder, his lips tight in a strong, determined expression, and Darius knew that Barsovy was trying to give him strength. Darius stared at his hand. The red tendrils were laughing at him, victoriously dancing about his wrist. He wanted to fight it, wanted to be strong…for Barsovy, for Prydon, for himself. It was the first time in a long time that he had felt such self-doubt, and he was not pleased with the sensation it manifested within his body. He was even less pleased that he could not pull from the strength that Barsovy so earnestly offered.
“Remember when I told you that even the strongest, in time, can be corrupted?” asked Prydon.
Darius looked up at Prydon, his brows curled together. “Yes. You think I have weakened?”
“Not necessarily, but if you listen to what you are saying—and what you are feeling—you cannot ignore that this mark has had an impact on you. And now that you denied it its victory in the valley, I am quite certain the curse will fight even harder than before. We must make haste in getting you to Klavon. You must be rid of this…and soon.” Prydon glanced at the sky and then back at Darius. “We leave now. Are you ready?”
Darius’s jaw dropped. “Am I ready?”
Barsovy nodded. “It is a valid question. One that only you can answer.”
Darius stared blankly at his hand and leaned against the rock on which lay his sword and staff. The stones were clear, but the pulse of red that throbbed within continued to stab sharply at his eyes. Taking his staff in hand, he closed his eyes and gently leaned his forehead against the stone. He breathed slowly, inhaling the power from the staff, allowing it to consume his body.
Visions of the past month played clearly in his mind—training, his father’s death, Alara’s village, the valley. And then he saw it…without a doubt…his father’s face smiling back at him in that last shard. Clarity came to him like a clear lake whose fog had been banished by the brilliant sun. His father had fought and died to protect his village, Miora, and him, and Darius would do the same. Barsovy was correct. His path was decided.
Darius opened his eyes, stood, and sheathed his sword. With a surge of determined anger, he answered, “Yes. I am ready. No more doubt. I will not allow Klavon to take me, nor will Klavon be allowed to destroy another village as he did my father’s.”
Barsovy grinned. “That is exactly what I wanted to hear. You, Darius, are master of your choices. Not some wretched curse. And now it is time. Farewell, young one.”
Prydon kneeled, and Darius climbed on his back. Barsovy bowed, and with a rush of wind, he and Prydon took to the sky.
The wave of the barrier brushed across Darius’s body, the protection of the valley soon far behind him. He wondered if he would ever lay eyes on his master or this valley again. He glanced at his gloved hand, grasping to his dear friend, and also wondered if he would ever be free of this curse, completely, totally, without a hint of crimson to remind him of its evil hold. His future was uncertain, but his goal was not. Defeat Klavon and save Brandor. Beyond that, all he could do was hope.
Darkness had already shadowed the sky when they landed inside Klavon’s territory, but it was nothing compared to the darkness that loomed as Darius came closer and closer to the event that framed this entire journey. That day when he left Brandor now seemed a vague memory, almost a dream.
The first time he had entered Klavon’s realm, he’d almost been pummeled to death by dead stalks, a barrier to keep others out or, perhaps, to keep victims in. Had it not been for the aid of the mysterious, young woman, Sira, he might never have made it through. And his master plan to sneak into Klavon’s lair, steal the book, and escape unnoticed was halted by a band of robbers. Had it not been for Prydon and his diligent watch, Darius would not only have lost his belongings, he would surely have lost his life. And again, there was Sira.
Darius frowned at his idiocy, his dependency on others to clean up after his reckless choices and pull him out danger. He would no more have been able to defeat a mouse
much less Klavon. How much he’d changed. Darius was now a wizard, through and through, and the naïve boy who left Brandor was only a memory.
As Darius slipped off of Prydon’s back, he struggled to discern the shapes about them, scouring the area for any indication that they had been discovered as they entered through the barrier. The light of the moon cast long shadows on the ground, and the wind that gently brushed through the trees brought them to life. The shadows danced in and out of hiding, any of which could be a traitor laying in wait, and Darius with Prydon’s help thoroughly combed the area.
Once their task was complete, Darius asked, “Do you think he knows?”
“I doubt it.” Prydon began gathering straw to form a soft bed. “This is the most desolate part of his kingdom, away from prying eyes. We are several days out from his castle, and it would require too much energy of him to monitor his entire realm.”
“Isn’t that what the barrier is for? To warn him?”
“Yes, but even Klavon does not have time to concern himself with every flying creature to pass. At least not so far out. And his arrogance causes him to believe he is invulnerable, and that is to our advantage.”
Darius nodded and looked around. It was quite beautiful, actually, the moon illuminating a horizon of mountains in the distance. “So we are two—maybe three—days out? Flying? Just how big is his territory?”
“Not flying. If I were to fly in,” stated Prydon, “then Klavon would be alerted to our presence, and your advantage would be lost. From here we walk.”
“Walk?” Darius groaned as he helped Prydon gather straw.
“Patience, Darius. I know you are anxious, but you must have patience.”
The next morning, Darius awoke with a piece of straw pressed into his cheek. He peeled it away and sat up. The morning air was cool and crisp, and the smell of freshly cooked meat provided a pleasing fragrance.
Prydon held out a nicely scorched piece of fowl. “I’ve already eaten. This is for you.”
No fire warmed their campsite. That might have aroused suspicion and notice. Darius could only guess that fire from Prydon’s breath cooked the meat, but he took it graciously.
“Thanks.”
Not much conversation floated between the two as they began their hike. Several days would give Darius plenty of time to contemplate his attack, but it also meant several more days for Klavon to destroy Brandor…and for the curse to further entrench itself deeper into his soul. He shook the thought from his mind, trying to create his own barrier against its poison.
Three days later, Darius and Prydon stood hidden in a cluster of trees. A tall mountain stood ominously before them, the outline of a structure dark against a stormy sky—Klavon’s castle.
Chapter Thirty
The Arrival