CHAPTER XII
A SORCERER AND A CHILD
It was bright where he stood. Far too bright for his eyes, so he shielded them with his arm, wondering at where this was that the sun shone so.
He slowly lowered his arm as his eyes took into account the light. Ah, it was a field. A plain of grass, and a small stand of trees was upon a distant crest. As he looked about a wind gently swept across the field, making waves upon the tall grass. It was the same as far as he could see. Surely it was beautiful, but he wondered why he was come to such a place, and from where. He took though, but could not remember where he should be, or even who he was. It was altogether strange.
He glanced up at the sky. But there was something odd in the wind now. It was not as sweet as it had been a moment before, and the blueness of the sky seemed tainted, as though a deep and hidden sickness eternally rotted at it from behind its expanse.
He looked more keenly at the sky. It was certain: the clouds and heavens were somewhat darker than they had been. He returned his eyes to the plain, and saw, to his surprise, that the distant trees were somewhat nearer now, though he could not fathom why this should be. He turned, looking to the south. How it was south, he could not rightly say, but he knew it, as surely as he might know anything else. And, strangely, here it was that he saw the sun; yet it was not a midday sun. It seemed that twilight were falling, for it was sinking towards the trees on the horizon, though with greater speed than should have been.
And then it was that he heard words and cries. They echoed to him from what seemed to be far off valleys and plains out of sight. He could not discern their meaning, however, though he knew them to be calling out to him. Whether it was some other tongue, or some strange means that kept him from understanding, he did not know. The more he attempted to grasp what was being said, the further it slipped from him. But his heart he felt sicken, and he knew by some other sense that the words were of anguish and dark prophecy, and portended a swiftly arising evil.
And so it was for, as the sun descended, failing to behind the trees, a last burning eye of crimson, a wan dusk seemed to shroud the land. The trees withered and died, their trunks turning to cinders and dust that blew away in a chill wind that arose suddenly. The grass too shrivelled and died, the plain becoming a choking field of ash swept with a gasping wind. Barrenness took everything.
And still the sun fell. Only the trees that its light fell upon yet lived, and they sat upon either side of it.
He attempted to cry out, with his voice to stay the sun, and beg it to stay. To warn it that if it should leave, all would be darkness forever and the last of the living things should die. But no words came from his throat, and he watched in horror as the leaves on the trees began to yellow.
Still the sun sank lower. But then he saw a wondrous thing. Even as the sun touched the horizon, and hope failed, a figure appeared. In front of the sun, silhouetted black, it rose up, and the sun halted there, still upon the horizon. In its hand the figure held a sword upraised, as if in final defiance of the darkness. Above his head wheeled two ravens, and he knew them to be the servants of the darkness, croaking in mockery. This was some hero, it dawned upon him. Someone who would fight against the darkness to the end. And for an instant his heart recalled hope.
But now worse befell. Above the sun, seemingly born of the darkness behind, two eyes opened like those of a fearful wraith of night. They burned in menacing hatred of all life they did not rule. And they despised the one who defied the darkness, which was their servant and master. They bent their overwhelming power against the sun, and it shuddered, falling into darkness. The trees died. The figure vanished. And the eyes flamed up in victory whilst great hands of darkness sped from them to envelop all the barren earth in the tyranny of shadows. He heard a last despairing cry, a piercing shriek of final anguish, rise up from the lands, and then all was darkness and silence.
And in the void he heard a laugh. The sickening laugh of evil triumphant.
Serge blinked his blinded eyes as the morning sunlight crept in through the edges of his tent. He sat half up and shook his head to dispel the last phantoms of sleep that clouded his mind. Rising fully he drew in a deep tired breath that hinted of an unrestful sleep. From outside his tent he could hear that nearly the whole camp was already astir. He had slept late, something that he had often done at home, but never yet on this journey. He thought for a moment, in consideration, a stray thought crossing his darkening mind. Was it that he had dreamt again? He could not surely remember, but the thought would not leave him. He closed his eyes, attempting to recapture what it had been, and the thoughts of his mind, as he had awoken. It seemed that a chill wind wrapped tendrils about him as he did so, hinting at a premonition that ran deep, but no more could he discern. He shook his head with a half worry, uncertainty plaguing him.
The flap of the tent was pulled aside and Schala glanced in.
"Finally, Serge, you are awake. If you make this a habit, you're likely to sleep this war through. And that's not why I brought you along on this adventure, I'll have you know."
He frowned, glancing past her to the outdoors. As he had surmised, it was already somewhat late in the morning.
"What time is it?" he wondered aloud, beginning to feel somewhat ashamed that he had not awoken sooner.
She laughed lightly at his uncertainty.
"Ah, only about midday. I came to see you earlier, but you were still asleep. I thought it best to let you be."
"Well, thanks..." Serge muttered. In truth he would have preferred to have been awakened.
Schala shook her head.
"Well, as it is, no harm is done. But it would be best to rise now. When you are ready, come and see me. I wish to speak with you."
Serge nodded and Schala left, closing the tent behind her. Serge stood as much as he might in the small tent, his joints paining him from having slept on the hard ground. The blankets, such as they were, were meant to keep out the cold, not provide comfort in any form or manner.
When he was once more dressed he stepped outside. The camp was more busy than he had thought. Men ran everywhere, tension ran thick through the air, and Serge noted with the hint of a shudder that war was most certainly on the horizon.
As she had requested, he sought out Schala first of all. It was not long before he found her, pacing about with her head bowed in deep thought. As he came up and hailed her she looked up, whatever worry and concern had plagued her passing instantly.
"Morning, Serge," she said in an undeniably merry tone. "I trust you slept well."
"I don't know," he said uncertainly. "Bad dreams and all that."
She looked him over curiously.
"Now that could mean two things, I should think. One dark, the other meaningless. For your well-being, I would counsel you to assume the second."
Serge understood her reasons in saying this and, though not wholly convinced, found himself in agreement. He had been dreaming things of meaning so long, it seemed odd to him to dream something of no consequence.
"So, has Crono been around today?" he asked.
She shook her head emphatically.
"No, nor my brother for that matter. And it is he that worries me more. I know for a certainty that Crono is yet in his tent, but my brother's wanderings are, shall we say, prone to difficulty. But in regards to Crono, he's behaving somewhat oddly, from what I could discern last night."
Serge nodded thoughtfully. He too had noticed his friend's sudden shift in mood, though he had only done so from a distance.
"Yes, I very much wonder what it is." Schala thought out loud. "Ah, probably all of...this." She motioned about her to where people ran this way and that, preparing for the coming war.
"Being responsible for so much, so many, can be trying to the best. Especially for one who has lost his wife."
Serge nodded solemnly in agreement, having seen how that death had afflicted Crono from the first.
"That was very hard on Crono, losing Marle, just like that," he said. "I had only just met her but...I could see she was of like spirit to him. She wasn't easily daunted, not even when she was dying. But I think that that arrow, in a way, killed them both. He hasn't been the same since."
"Yes," Schala agreed, "Only the purpose of restoring Guardia drives him now. All else is forgotten. He speaks of nothing else to us now but of that purpose."
Schala looked about suddenly, as if some thought had crossed her mind.
"Where is my brother?" she asked sharply, as thought on a premonition, "Crono is in his tent, and we are here. But where is Janus? Suddenly I grew anxious. If I were to guess, I would wager that he is causing some trouble somewhere."
Serge shrugged; he, certainly, had not seen the wizard yet this day.
"But I will not concern myself with him now. Rather it is about you that I worry," Schala continued, "I've had little enough chance to talk with you since Marle died as we've been so busy preparing for this infernal war. How does you mind sit in all of this?"
"My mind?" he asked, "What do you mean by that?"
"Crono's mood, Marle's death, and the battles you've faced, Serge. They all conspire to weigh heavily upon your spirit, and I daresay that is one thing that you do not need at this time. You have done much since we reached Guardia. I am only making certain that you are not about to turn mad on me."
Serge smiled at the compassion in her words.
"Now, is this Kid or Schala speaking?"
She smiled.
"A little of both, I believe. It is Kid's mind, but Schala's voice, as it is most often for me."
"Well, I'm fine. But things are happening kind of quickly for my liking."
Schala nodded in agreement.
"You do your best, I can see, and what can one do, but their best? I have seen this world, felt its ways..."
Understanding of her words trailed off as Serge's own thoughts took hold of him. Schala seemed so confident in herself, and he wished that he too could be so sure of things. He wasn't even sure the war they were about to begin was a just one.
But did it matter? If he was not on one side, he was on the other and, of the two, he knew Guardia's was the better. But it did not quell the lingering doubts that gnawed at his conscience. true greatness is not in destruction, but in healing...; those words, spoken to him what now seemed to be ago, returned to him. Yet how to heal the hurts of Guardia without dealing harshly with its enemies? Things had been far more certain to him when he had gone up against the shadow of Lavos...
"Serge?" Schala wondered, pausing from her speaking. Serge started, having forgotten her at his side.
"You are doubting, then? Ah, you are. I can see it in your eyes."
Serge looked at her, surprised at how swiftly and truly she had guessed his thoughts.
"And you don't think that my mind harries me in a similar manner?" she said "I wager even Crono is. There is much to be both gained and lost in the coming days. And, whichever way this may end, many people will certainly perish. This is worth contemplating."
Sorrow crossed her features.
"The sad truth is that I had hoped that such times were at an end, with the destruction of the enemy Lavos. But it seems that mankind is just as flawed as he was, and we can never fully banish evil from our own hearts, only hide it for a while. Our wills are our own enemies, more surely than that ancient one that came from the stars ever was."
"Now don't you go becoming a philosopher on me, Kid," Serge said with a laugh in his voice.
"Sorry," she answered shortly, "it is only that, to let you know, some part of me still remembers Lavos, clear as a waking thought: the unfathomable hate and sadness that that creature bore. I can still feel it at times as these, hiding like a shadow in my mind. And I wonder: if we are so like that evil, is mankind then destined for such an end as well. For surely he was not always so. What destiny drove him to such darkness? Ah, but don't worry yourself my friend. Be assured that your side is just, if any can be in this flawed world."
"But I had that kind of confidence, once," Serge muttered sullenly, "when I fought FATE, and the dragons; then I didn't have any doubts about my rightness. I saw my enemy, and there wasn't any question about what needed to be done. But now, Kid..."
"Ah, dear Serge, my friend, I understand you better than you might know. You're growing up and learning wisdom, and questioning that which once seemed clear," she said with a shake of her head. "It is inevitable, and for the best, for in time your doubts will cease and your conviction will return, and you will be stronger than ever before, having wisdom to guide you and temper your power."
And Schala was, of course, correct. In her words he felt some of his old strength touch at him. Yes, perhaps in time.
Even as he thought this his eyes glanced absently across to the far end of the camp, and paused.
"Hey, Kid," he asked quickly, "is that your brother over there?"
He motioned to a far away tent where a figure was pacing.
"Is it?" she questioned, unsure. She squinted, frowned, then darkened her stare.
"Yes," she said with a curse under her breath, "and trouble follows him even as I guessed. Come!"
They came up to a large group of people who were watching the wizard intently. What had so captivated them was this: a duel was beginning.
Serge clasped his hand to his mouth when he saw it. Schala merely scowled.
"Janus," she said to him as he passed her. "What fool thing is this now? A duel? Who have you tricked into this?"
Janus shook his head.
"It was well accepted," he replied. "I only laid the challenge. It was for the boy to accept or decline; to be foolishly bold, or a coward."
"What a choice that was," she replied angrily, not amused. "You were wondering about him yesterday. Is this the way you question?"
Janus fixed a stern look on her.
"Crono spoke to him alone, and I merely wished to know what passed. He said it was only formalities of a king to a subject, but he is a liar. It cannot be all. I will punish him for his falsehood, and discover what I wish to know."
And turning a deaf ear to Schala's outraged cries, he strode proudly to where a circle of people had been made. At the far end stood Sigurd. To the surprise of Schala and Serge, he seemed unafraid; perhaps he did not know his peril.
"You accept then, child? Only a liar then, which is better than a liar and a coward," Janus taunted. A man ran forward and fearfully placed Janus' scythe in his hands.
"This weapon does not abide liars. And neither do I. Tell me, I counsel you. For I am a harsh enemy, as any who have faced me will testify."
"I have answered you already," Sigurd replied steadily. "No more will I say. I do not wish for a battle, but if it must be, then I will rise to meet it."
Janus scowled disdainfully, glancing about at the people.
"He feigns at desiring peace!" he laughed. "Or is that the guise your cowardice takes, perhaps?"
Janus laughed to himself, and stepped forward a pace. Sigurd did likewise, drawing his silver blade from a scabbard at his side with a swift flourish so that the silvern blade caught the gleam of sunlight as though it were fire.
All awaited the first stroke, knowing that in no way would the child be able to bear it. Janus stood tall and grim above him, and made his attack. The scythe blade swept the air in a vicious swath, one that would easily have rent an weaponless man in two. But Sigurd was quick, and the dread weapon stopped short of causing harm, stayed by the silver edge of the Star Sword Meredter; the scythe was notched, the sword was not. Janus laughed, loud and grim, and suddenly it was unsure whether this was merely a duel, or if it was that the wizard truly intended to slay the child. His next stroke came swifter, and harder. Yet it too was parried, only now Sigurd's blade flashed in reply, and the dark shaft of the scythe took the stroke as Janus leaped back in fearful surprise. But it passed barely noticed, and Janus shook his head reprovingly.
"Better than a mouse, I admit." he said loudly in mock praise. Yet those who listened more discerningly could mark the faint shadow of a tremor in his voice, passing only slowly. "Now I shall not be so light in my blows."
Ten. Twenty strokes passed. Then thirty. And the people were breath-taken. Sigurd still stood, parrying every movement of Janus', and returning with skilful strokes of his own. The sound of the weapons echoed clear across the plain, and many more people gathered to see what this thing was.
Forty, and Janus became enraged. He had thought this to be a duel of no consequence, a simple practice for him. Yet here he was, unable to overcome a child. His eyes burned fiercely, yet it was to no avail in cowing Sigurd. Not in twenty years had he known a battle so distressing.
Fifty, and there were no signs that either was to submit. At last Janus could no longer bear to be so shamed.
"Ai entra sai hael..." he cursed with a harsh whisper, and at the next stroke Sigurd's blade recoiled so violently from the scythe that it was certain that it had been wizardry. It flew far from his hand and landed softly in the grass.
"Coward!" Sigurd gasped, even as Janus lifted him up roughly by the neck, raising him off the ground so that their eyes met level.
"You fool! You never had a chance against my power! I was fighting battles, nay, wars, hundreds of years before your birth!"
In reply, Sigurd only snarled: "Craven! You swore no magic!" He struggled desperately in that vicious grip, attempting to free himself without success. Yet his spirit was not crushed as Janus had hoped, and seemed even more fierce in defeat. This stubbornness angered the wizard all the more, for he resented such impudence to be shown to his face. In anger he hurled Sigurd far across the field with a mighty throw so that he landed hard on the bare earth. Shaking the ringing from his ears, Sigurd struggled wearily to his feat, near all of his strength spent. But in his eyes a resolve welled up, a determination that Janus saw only too well, and filled him with resentment for this young boy who continually defied him.
"And now," Janus hissed menacingly, "you shall tell me all I wish to know, from least to greatest! For you shall discover that none can keep a secret from me against my will, nor fail to know my wrath if they anger me. And indeed, you have angered my greatly!"
In these words Schala heard some of the darkness that had been Magus return to her brother, and she felt a slight fear rise up in her heart, both for the young child he now looked on with so dark a countenance, and for her dear brother. He could not begin to wander down those paths of darkness a second time.
But Sigurd had already risen again, in bold defiance. But to the amazement of all, though he seemed weary beyond words, in body he seemed uninjured, and in his eyes gleamed a cold fire of something none could mark. But in the very least he seemed undaunted by his dark opponent. Perhaps it would have been otherwise had he known the power and wrath of the one he faced, but even had it been so it may have been that Sigurd would not have quailed. Now he levelled a sharp gaze over to Janus, a challenge clear in his eyes. And Janus answered that challenge in strength. For now he stretched forth a gloved hand and, as he stood there, a figure tall and mighty, it seemed that a pall of darkness fell about all, and his eyes darkened to crimson, and then to the colour of black cinders, the centres as smouldering embers.
"Janus, no!" Schala yelled, but he did not listen even to her voice, and her cry faltered in despair. He began to murmur under his breath. Softly at first: slow and melodious, yet with a dark and foreboding menace. What words or incantations he spoke none could mark, yet Sigurd started in a sudden fright, seeing well the dark look upon Janus' face, and realizing for the first time the dire peril he was in. He dove for his sword that lay gleaming silver in the grass where it had fallen. Yet for all his swiftness, it was too late. In an instant the voice of Janus rose dramatically, as if the very hills had lifted their voices to the wind. A chill breeze arose, and the spells that he uttered gained in speed as well. They became an echo of thunder that rends the still night air, and a dark cloud arose from a world unseen to envelop Janus in blackness. Then with a movement of his hand, as a fisherman casts forth his nets, the darkness flew from Janus to Sigurd. So even as Sigurd's grip fastened on the hilt of his sword, a writhing strand of darkness wrapped itself about his arm, ensnaring it in a chill bond.
He grappled with the magical cord, yet his hands passed through it as through smoke, though it held him as firm in thrall as any chain of forged iron. In desperation he raised his sword to his free arm and swung for the accursed strand. Indeed the blade severed the icy grip, and the darkness that had entangled his arm faded from a dark mist to oblivion, freeing him. But ever more streams of night came at him, as a hundred writhing snakes without form or substance, but with power nonetheless. The spells of the dark wizard Magus were far too mighty for him to counter. His sword slipped from his hands to the ground and, though he struggled valiantly against his bonds, they wound themselves all the more tightly about him, constraining his every move.
All this Schala watched in horror, shocked and saddened alike by this sudden and unlooked for display of evil from her brother. She had thought that such things he had banished from his heart forever; this had been nothing more than a naive hope, she saw now.
"Do something, Kid!" Serge yelled, and she started, glancing upon him with a paling countenance. He, too, could see the very real peril Sigurd was in Janus' clutches.
But she was as uncertain as any, and hesitated for a moment as the words drew her out of her troubled thoughts.
"Do what, praytell? My brother won't listen to me in this mood."
"Then stop him!" He looked urgently and saw the constricting bonds ensnared Sigurd. "Use your powers! You're stronger than he is, aren't you?"
Schala winced slightly.
"Yes, certainly, but against my brother?" she murmured, obviously loath to strike her brother in combat.
"Fine, I will!" Serge cried, vexed by Schala's unusually pensive mood. Though it was likely beyond him, he at least would not sit idle.
"No..." she said slowly, placing a hand on his shoulder and drawing him back from where he had already begun to walk forward. "You'll only get hurt. I'll talk to him. Curse you, Janus, and your thoughtless stubbornness for making me do this."
All this while Janus paced about the spot where he now held his enemy completely in thrall, a look of dark and sweet victory sweeping his face. Now and again, even as the bonds seemed to loosen, he would chant some dark words of power, and the mystical ropes would twine themselves all the tighter.
"Do you submit now, urchin?" He growled at Sigurd.
In pain for lack of breath Sigurd winced, yet in defiance struggled a few words from his magical prison.
"Nay, never. Never shall I while you wrong me so! There is nothing I hide. What would you have me tell you?"
"Liar!" Janus yelled, and struck him across the face with the back of his fist so that fresh blood dripped from Sigurd's mouth.
Then Janus gripped an iron hand around Sigurd's neck, and his countenance became exceedingly grim.
"I shall crush the very breath out of you, if you do not loosen your tongue!"
But even at that moment he felt a hand on his shoulder. He swept about striking a terrible fist at what he deemed to be another attacker. But he started in surprise to see his dear sister struggling to rise from the earth, faltering from the heavy stroke he had dealt her. He stepped back a pace, his face sincerely apologetic, for he had not intended, not then or ever, to harm his sister in any way. Schala clutched her jaw in pain, and scowled in wrath.
"Whaddya think you're doing, Janus!?" she demanded, rising with uncertain footing.
"Schala! Are you all right?" he asked, true concern in his voice, "I..."
"Shut up!" she yelled, heedless of the manner in which she spoke. "I don't care who ya thought I was. What you're doin' here is sick!"
Behind Janus the dark nets dissipated, for he no longer put his thought to them. Sigurd stumbled wearily to the earth, fiercely drawing heavy breaths. But Janus did not so much as look, for to him the well being of his sister was nearer his heart.
"Are you alright?" he asked again, taking her gently by the arm.
She scowled a sideways glance at him, and angrily stepped away.
"Of course I'm okay. You don't think you could get the better of me, do ya?"
Even so she was in certain pain, and her eyes were plainly in a swoon from the power of his fist.
"Just stop this," she demanded, her eyes now blazing hotly.
Behind Janus, Sigurd rose weakly.
"It is all right, Princess Zeal. You needn't put yourself in peril for my sake."
Janus spun at the sound of his voice, the anger instantly returning to his face.
"She shall never be in peril from me! For you, though, I cannot say the same!"
"Janus, stop!" Schala cried again, locking her hand about his wrist, "Darkness is banished, do you not remember? You have denied it mastery of your heart!"
He swept his hand from her grip.
"No more so than you of yours, kind sister. But if you wish it, then I will halt this; for your sake, but for no other."
"Princess Zeal!" Sigurd cried out. "This will end as it must. I thank you for your compassion, but will not bow before your brother, though he break me."
Schala's eyes looked from brother to child with deepening concern. But on seeing the utmost graveness with which Sigurd had spoken, she bowed low, and retreated.
"It is no longer our battle," she said to Serge at her side. "He has chosen his fate, and in this matter I will abide by it. But I pray my brother uses caution. I looked into that child's eyes, and saw something there I could not discern. I wonder, now, how this will end."
While she said these words, Janus had once again returned his dark eyes to the child.
"We may continue at your will, Lord Magus," Sigurd said calmly, with a mocking flourish of his hand. Janus could only shake his head in disbelief. He had met blades with the child, enchained him with magic so potent it would have cowed even a great knight. Yet here he was, mocking him, who was prince among sorcerers.
"What would you do, boy?" he taunted in return. "What know you of either magic or lore, or feats of arms? You are no magician, and are at my mercy in spellcraft. As for swordplay, I have seen you fight. It was a contest in which I bested you; had you not held a blade beyond your station, it should have been even swifter. Yet still you defy me? I see: you are both hardy and foolish, and think yourself mightier than you are, like some peasant waif who prances about the woods, thinking himself to be a slayer of dragons. But this is no play; your very life is at my mercy! Do you not see that if I so willed it I could cast such a despair upon your mind that you would gladly tell me all out of sheer hopelessness? But in my compassion I give you now a chance to contemplate your place. I counsel you not to spurn this, for I will give you no mercy hereafter."
But Sigurd's anger rose at these words of reproach, and he shouted brave words of wrath in reply:
"Do not insult me so, lord of cowards, master of impotent shades and abominable spirits. I bested you in swordplay, by my own power. You played me false when you swore that you would use no sorcery."
"Child, I warn you, do not anger me for a second time. It was you who betrayed our faith. Your very weapon is magical, and if not for it you would not have withstood a dozen of my blows. Indeed, it is a weapon so far above you as Zeal was above the kingdoms of the earth; you know nothing of magic!"
This all Janus said harshly, and his sallow face was beginning to darken in anger again. But Sigurd replied:
"Do not take me for an unlearned fool. Magic or not, I even so know much of the histories of the world. Yea, even of Zeal, and of you, mighty braggart! Your pride is your flaw, and will not allow you to submit to a child such as I."
Then Janus thundered, in dreadful wrath:
"You dare to speak to me so of flaws? Me, Janus Rostines, nes il Zeal es meredet? Nes il diom, es teros faerio2! Bow before the lord of sorcerers! Do you know to whom it is you speak? You say you have studied of ancient times, so then you must know that I am no lowly captain, nor any common king, but a prince and lord of the mightiest land that ever was, and ever shall be: I am a child of Zeal the magnificent, Zeal the glorious, Zeal of the thousand names wielding power unmatched, even unto this day!"
"That I know well enough. And thus I knew I never had any hope of besting you, though my power were twice what it is. But honour will not let me stand down like a craven who flees at the first sight of battle and pain. And as sure as the sun sets and moon rises, and spring follows winter, I shall never bow to so haughty a lord as yourself, for you deserving of neither respect nor honour, and are only the king of cowed and fearful subjects."
"Enough, fool! Stop, or you shall feel the wrath I have only threatened with, and you will taste bitter death itself. Were you not so young, and were you my servant and not the thrall of another, I should have killed you before now for mere insolence!"
"And were you not who you are, I should have turned my back on you before now! You are not my king or sovereign, and I owe you no allegiance. I answer to none but my king. To him I shall indeed submit myself for judgement on this matter, as I do in all. And if any secrets lie between he and I, which they do not, there they shall remain ever unknown to all but us, and I shall not reveal them under any threat of death or pain to you or any other, save at the command of my king!"
"Are you so much a child that you think I will forever brook such insults to my very face?" Janus thundered with a fatal tone, and his face became livid with a dark scowl. "If you will not reveal your mind to me, then this will be your doom, child! I care no longer for secrets. Make ready, Sigurd, your death is at hand!"
And with a flash of his hand he sent forth a bolt of fearfully dark and fatally potent lightning at Sigurd. But then Janus paled in sudden bewilderment, and perhaps even a little fear. For the stroke by which he had meant to strike down Sigurd did naught. Indeed, the bolt had been true as to the skill of its master, and had not wavered in its momentary course. But now Sigurd remained standing, unscathed, the dark stroke having vanished in a flash of searing light.
"What is this? This cannot be so!" Janus cried out, taking a momentary step backward.
And now Sigurd laughed, a clear piercing laugh of one who has taken a foe by a sudden and unlooked for storm.
"Even as I have warned you before!"
And a bright flash rent the air between them and a bolt of lightning, white and pure even as Janus' had been dark, leapt to Sigurd's waiting hand with a clap of piercing thunder that echoed in the ears of all.
"So this is what I saw," Schala whispered to Serge. "He is a sorcerer child. A rare thing, indeed, in these days."
"You were much mistaken when you thought me but a fool in matters of sorcery. For till now I have but restrained my true power, in hopes that I could sway you to the truth of my words by other means, and knowing that your certainty in your own power would undo you. And so it has, for now see! Our contest of might is not yet ended, for neither has submitted to the other!"
In sudden fear Janus called his scythe to his hand. Wheeling through the air to his waiting grip he prepared to defend himself against one whom he had thought surely defeated long before.
"Hold!" a commanding voice called out from the watchers."Stay your wrath Janus, you fool. And you too, Sigurd."
Crono strode out from the midst of the people, a grim smile on his face.
"It seems that once again, my friend Janus, you have underestimated someone to your folly!"
Janus looked at him in rage, yet not wholly removing his gaze from Sigurd. Though a truce had been imposed between them by Crono's appearance, he did not trust Sigurd to honour it, and was uncertain of what power this child might possess; and his anger still burned heavily against him.
"How long have you watched?"
Crono fixed a stern and admonishing gaze on his friend.
"Since the start," he said darkly. "I know well who insisted on this duel, and could have warned you not to think so lightly of the child. Have I not looked into his eyes? Am I a fool that I could not see that uncommon might rested therein? And if I were to judge, I should proclaim you bested, friend."
"Bested? Not half so! I was but making trial of my power. Had I..."
"Yet this child did not even do so much, not till the end. He has what you do not: patience!"
Crono looked at Sigurd.
"And as for these secrets and hidden things you speak of, they are delusions of your dark mind." He looked over at Sigurd.
"He never told me any of this magician's power of his."
Janus glared at Crono.
"Then what, if not this, are you hiding! What did you speak to him about?!"
Crono scowled, but laughed slightly nonetheless.
"Of Guardia, and his home by the sea. Of his family, and his lineage and, moreover, to give him a fitting scabbard for his sword; or did you not notice that the blade was held sheathed to his side? It was not so yesterday, most especially not in one adorned with true-silver. What in this is so wrong? Is this the mighty secret you yearned to know?"
Janus did not answer, but frowned deeply. Crono, he was certain, was speaking the truth. Yet something was uneasy in his mind and, much to his vexation, he could not place it. Some secret was still being kept from him, perhaps. And, as a master of deceptions, he despised this.
He nodded in affirmation of Crono's answer.
"As you demand. But still, do not expect me to take kindly to this child! From this day forward we shall be as enemies."
Crono glared back harshly.
"Janus, nothing do I expect of you except to treat my people with their due respect and not harry them. Need we be divided on the brink of war?"
Janus did not answer, but cast a cold and scornful gaze in the direction of Sigurd. Their feud was not over, their eyes said to each other. It would take some greater thing to end it.
Janus swept his dark cloak about him and strode off from the crowds, the people parting wide to let him pass, fearing the his dark glance that seemed to bear a fatal shimmer.
Crono now looked reproachfully at Sigurd.
"He was not alone in folly, however. You are both too proud. Keep your honour, yes. And most certainly cherish nobility. But too much pride is simply foolishness, and shows but a lack of wisdom, and too much concern for one's self."
Sigurd bowed, yet his face burned red from the rebuke.
Crono turned and strode off past Serge and Schala, saying no word, though the faint hint of a mysterious laugh was on his lips, and his face was more joyful than it had been for some time.
As he departed, Serge turned to Schala.
"I didn't think your brother to be so ruthless," he said softly and in surprise over what had just passed.
A darkness crossing her eyes, she returned his words sadly.
"Yes, at times he is. Woe to those he calls enemy. But so has he always been, at least since his youth. Lavos is gone, but the darkness that was the Sorcerer has not left my brother's heart yet. He returns to it when it pleases him, it seems"
"Isn't there any way he can change that, maybe keep himself from it?"
"How can to hide one's true nature forever? Is that even possible, Serge? I myself had thought so before today, but I see that it is simply how he is, and it will never depart from him. Lavos is dead, but his mark remains imprinted as a scar upon our world, a lingering wound that may never fully heal. Janus shall never fully abandon his old ways."
(Last Edited September 21, 2004)