Yin and Yang: A Fool's Beginning (15 page)

Instead I clasp my hands behind my back and march
on.

Finally they lead me to a slab of simple white stone
that looks like a roughly made lectern. Then one drifts off as the
other reverently cleans the stone with a white silk cloth he
produces from somewhere. When the other returns, he has something
tucked under his arm. At first it looks like nothing more than a
simple tube lacking any decoration at all. The closer it gets,
however, I realize it's smooth, sun-bleached bone.

In fact, now I pause, I realize the roughly hewn
lectern isn't made out of stone at all—it's bone too. One enormous
chunk of bone.

With extremely careful moves, the record keepers open
the bone tube and produce a slim scroll.

It is small, and as they roll it out, it’s little
more than the length of a man's arm.

Yet, as they roll it out, my stomach clenches with a
sudden bout of fear.

I'm a soldier, and I've trained for years. I have
faced truly terrifying enemies, and yet right now, as a mere scroll
is unraveled before me, I feel like I'm facing off against the gods
themselves.

With a fine sweat picking up across my brow and top
lip, I try to still my rapidly beating heart.

It doesn't work.

Both record keepers take several steps back, place
their hands up, and start to chant.

Their chanting is low at first, but quickly arcs up,
and as it does, it seems to fill this entire enormous room.

Suffice to say it is one of the eeriest experiences
of my life. I want to interrupt and ask them what the hell they're
doing, but I can't muster the courage. So instead I stand there and
wait.

I'm drawn towards the scroll, and want to walk over
and find out what's on it, but I know my place. I will not move
forward until I am told to.

So there I stand and listen as I wait.

With that constant, droning chanting filling the
room, and the cold air, my skin crawls with a fiendish chill. Yet I
stand and neither move back nor forward.

Finally the record keepers cease. Suddenly. So
suddenly, in fact, my muscles jerk with surprise.

I've come down here to be convinced that the legend
of the Savior is true. While I have just witnessed a somewhat
unsettling routine, I'm still no nearer to finding out what's
really happening.

“Come,” one of the
keepers says as he moves his arm in a wave, his long sleeve
billowing.

I walk forward, trying to hide my hesitancy.

I reach the bone table and stare down.

Under the dim light that reaches through the skylight
far above, I see an aged section of tanned hide. It is old, ancient
even, and yet is still whole, the writing on it visible.

And something else.

Blood.

For that's the first thing I see: bloodied handprints
cover every section of the hide. Though the blood is old, somehow
it still shimmers with that of a freshly cut hand.

Amongst the handprints is writing. Ornate and old,
it's of a script I have never seen. It’s also glowing. A hot white
blue, it looks as if lightning is trapped within every word.

It's mesmerizing, and draws me in. In fact, without
knowing it, I place my hands on that smooth, cold bone table, and
lean forward, my face inching ever-closer to that fresh blood and
those burning words.

The record keepers do not speak and neither do they
yank me back. Even if they tried to, I doubt I'd notice.

There's something
so
. . . bewitching about the
scroll. As I stand there staring, I feel bound to the spot by some
unseen, unknown, powerful force.

Though my gaze darts methodically between the writing
and the blood, I can't read, nor understand it. Whatever it's meant
to signify is lost to the sands of time—the script so old I've
never even seen it. Who knows, it could even be Arak.

Somehow, the feeling I get as I stand there makes up
for the fact I can’t read those symbols.

This palpable, strong feeling of import descends upon
me. It pushes down from above like some great weight settling on my
shoulders, and yet it also ascends from the floor, creeping and
crawling up my skin like thousands of spiders squeezing behind my
armor and clothes.

My face is now so close to the scroll, my skin almost
touches the blood and blazing letters. I know I should not touch
it; I know I shouldn’t even be leaning this close. Yet I can’t pull
away.

I can’t pull away.

I stand there, stooped forward, stuck. Unable to move
back, my gaze is drawn further and further into those blood rimmed
symbols.

That incredible sense of importance now becomes twice
as strong. It draws me in again. Right into the scroll, as if the
old, tanned, blood-covered hide wishes to consume me.

I try to pull back.

I can't.

Instead it pulls me forward. As it does, my mind is
beset by a completely different sense. Far from import, now I feel
a growing darkness.

From all around, something builds. Something that
makes my skin crawl, my back stiffen, and my heart almost stop.

I've never felt anything like it, and as long as I
live—no matter what enemies I fight—I likely never will again.

It feels as if I'm sensing the very origin of evil
itself. The very genesis of hatred, violence, and destruction.

Something that long ago the Araks referred to as the
Night.

Now the Night crawls all around me. Creeping up my
skin, it wends its way into my bloodstream, then seethes and
bubbles as it's carried to my heart.

Suddenly I feel a hand on my shoulder, and I'm jerked
back.

I gasp, clutching at my chest, my sweaty fingers
scrabbling for purchase over my smooth breastplate.

. . .
.

It takes far too long to realize I'm no longer
pressed over that scroll, something drawing me in.

My mind can't catch up, and my body is too filled
with the fire of fear.

Still, as I flatten a palm on my chest plate and
breathe deeply, I realize nothing has happened.

I'm fine.

. . .
.

Or am I?

I have never felt anything like that.

Both the record keepers now stand before me, blocking
my view of the scroll atop its bone plinth. They stare at me with
blank expressions.

“What . . .
was that?” I manage, still struggling for breath, despite the fact
I have not run, nor fought, nor exerted myself in
anyway.

Yet I'm wearier than I've ever been. I feel as if
I've just battled every army in all the lands.

“This is the scroll
of the Saviors. Across its surface is the blood of every Savior
since time began,” they explain.

“What does the
writing say?”

“We do not know. It
is in Arak script. All that matters is . . . the force.
Did you feel it?”

I stare at them, my
mouth agape, my body still shaking
.
“Yes,” I manage. “I felt it. What was it?”

“The battle. Night
against Day, light against dark, death against life,” they answer
opaquely.

“What?”

“You felt the never
ending battle against the Night, Captain Yang. The battle the
Savior herself must fight at the end of each age.”

I still don't
understand
. . . . Or perhaps I
do. My body still crawls with the sense of doom that claimed it.
That . . . feeling of some immense dark force pressing
into me.

I shudder.

I try to pull myself together, but it's far, far
harder than it should be. Though I try to marshal my emotions, they
run freely through me like water gushing from a broken dam.

“Do not worry,
Captain Yang; the effects will pass. It is almost impossible for a
sorcerer to control themselves around the Savior’s Scroll. It
unsettles the very basis of your magic. But as we have said, it
will pass,” they assure me.

I shake my head, pushing a hand into my brow. I don't
know what to say, and even if I could find the words, I doubt I
could force them from my shaking lips.

“It is that force
that the Savior must fight,” one of the record keepers says as he
points at the scroll. “The Night. Now you have faced it, you can
appreciate this situation.”

Yes
. . . yes I can.

Before coming here, I was undecided. In my mind, the
legend of the Savior was little more than a story. Though General
Garl himself had told me it was true, in my heart I still hadn't
believed it.

Now
. . . now I can't deny it. The
certainty of it pumps through me with every beat of my
heart.

“Now, Captain Yang,
Princess Mara is waiting,” both record keepers bow low. Then one
waves me forward as the other reverently packs up the
scroll.

Though I follow as I'm led away, I can't help but
stare over my shoulder as the scroll is rolled and packed back in
its bone sheath.

. . .
.

I've never felt like this before. With good
reason—the emotions I'm experiencing now are far more powerful than
a properly trained water summoner should ever endure.

Maybe that more than anything unsettles me, for its
evidence that perhaps I'm not as powerful as I like to believe.

As I'm led back up those spiraling staircases, I
start to calm down. In fact, the further I get from the scroll, the
more my control returns. Yet it can't return completely; a seed of
what I've just experienced will be with me forever.

When I first entered the library, I'd been overcome
by its beauty. Now, all I want to do is get out. For some reason,
I'm desperate to feel the sun against my cheeks, to breathe real
air, and to get out from this dungeon, no matter how beautiful it
might be.

I half jog, turning around every now and then, hoping
that the slow record keeper would just be a little faster.

“This will be a
sacred task,” the old man says as he reaches the mezzanine level
that leads to those two enormous blue and black doors.

I don't reply. I nod curtly, turn around, and
practically sprint for the doors. I don't care if I seem impetuous
or I'm acting out of turn; I have to get out of here.

The record keeper mutters something again, but I
don't hear it, and jog forward, reaching the doors. I practically
shoulder them, and spring right out as they open.

It's only when my heavy armored boots strike the
smooth floor outside that I start to truly calm down. Even then, I
still have to control my urge to run until I can get right out of
the palace and as far away from that scroll as distance allows.

You're a captain in the Royal Army and you’re a
sorcerer, I try to tell myself.

No matter how much force I put behind that thought,
it can't cut through my nerves.

Which is, perhaps, only reasonable. I've just learnt
that not only is the legend of the Savior true, but the legend of
the Night is too. Worse than that, I've just met that dark, chaotic
power.

Now, well, now I am to devote my life to helping
Princess Mara keep that dark force back.

. . .
.

My life has taken an incredible turn, one that will
take me to a destination I never before imagined.

Yin

It doesn't take long before someone knocks on my
door. At first I think it's the arrogant Captain Yang. After all,
he always seems to be there. He appeared whilst I was training with
Mae, and stood there and stared at me the entire time. Though for
the most part he is usually completely calm and collected, a few
times I saw him smile.

That makes me hate him all the more. Whatever he
thinks about me, he’s wrong. In fact, whatever any of them think
about me, I'll prove I don't care.

Jumping angrily to my feet, I saunter over to the
door, standing before it as somebody opens it roughly.

It isn't Yang. In fact, it's just two guards. They
look amongst themselves warily, then cast their gazes over me.

They look
. . . I can't put my finger on it. It
isn't exactly scared, but it's close. As I realize that, I
smile.

I also cross my arms
tighter
. “Are you here to let the bear
out so she can train again? Does Mae want to dress me up in pretty
white shoes and watch me dance?”

“You're coming with
us,” one of the soldiers says flatly, though I sense a note of
hesitancy, one that he covers up with a gruff cough.

“Don't try anything,”
the other soldier says as he tries to look at me severely. But he
too can't quite hide the fact he's scared.

“And do I get to ask
where I'm going?”

“You're coming with
us,” the soldier repeats, then he points with a stiff hand through
the door.

“If you try anything,
be warned, we are both competent sorcerers,” the other soldier says
darkly.

I
smile
. “I'm sure you are,” I say
sarcastically.

The soldiers exchange glances, then I watch as they
stiffen their stances, curling their hands into fists.

“Don't make this hard
on yourself,” one of them warns.

Though I could happily go toe to toe with these two
men all day, I find myself raising my hands and spreading my
fingers in submission.

Whilst I'm confident I can easily take these two men
on, despite how proficient they claim to be, I still can't risk it.
I still don't know where Castor is and why exactly he has left me
here.

He’s meant to be my
guardian, his sole task is to keep me safe until
I summon Gaea.