Yin and Yang: A Fool's Beginning (29 page)

He doesn't
turn
. “And say what? That the Kingdom's
most legendary warrior attacked you in a corridor . . .
yet nobody saw and nobody heard?”

As he notes that, I
realize that
. . . somehow, no
one has come out of the doors dotted along the hall, despite how
loud our battle was.

. . .
.

I look up at his departing form.

“Tell Garl. Share
your suspicions. He won't believe you. He needs me. And so, Captain
Yang, do you. Follow my warning. Follow my advice. Or turn down the
path of your father and see what horrors await you there instead.”
With that, Castor walks out of sight.

He leaves me
. . . a mess.

Breathing erratically, I push my back into the
nearest wall, pressing a hand over my eyes.

I try, I try to control the torrent of emotion
tearing through me. I try to stem the tide by building wall after
wall before it. I can't.

No matter what
training I call on, feeling leaks through my
defenses.

My father always told me that to be the best Royal
Army sorcerer I can be, I must purge myself completely of emotion.
No trace of feeling should remain in the body of a sorcerer—for
feeling stops the control of magic. Worse than that, it directs it,
when only the cold logic of the mind should.

I stand there for too long trying to get a handle on
myself until I regain enough control to walk away.

Shaking.

Confused.

Terrified.

Yet
. . . curious. More curious than ever,
in fact, to find out what's really going on here.

Before in the library I concluded Yin was nothing
more than a painful distraction. Now, however, I realize she could
be the one and only key to finding out what's really going on
here.

It's only that promise that sees me straighten my
back, dry my brow, and continue on.

Yin

I return to my room. I don't care that I'm crying—why
should I? Though it seems to amuse and bolster every soldier I
meet, I don't try to hide it.

I was taught never to hide my emotions. Get in the
way of feeling, and you get in the way of magic. I might have hated
my tenderness before, but now I realize I can't deny it.

I'm not like Captain Yang—I will not purge myself of
emotion, no matter how inconvenient and uncomfortable those
emotions can be.

Plus, these soldiers can enjoy my tears all they can
now, but I won't be crying forever. Nor will I be trapped
forever.

I will endure, and then I will fight.

For now, however, I can't stop the torrent of
tears.

When I reach my room, I crumple against the wall.

I hook my arms around my knees and I hug them close
to myself.

I don't sob; I let the tears flow freely.

I want to tell myself that Castor wasn't telling the
truth—that his act of indifference was just that. An act.

But
. . . I just can't shake the feeling
it's more than that. That, just maybe, he's right: I'm no longer
his apprentice and I'll never see my home again. For now until they
grow bored of me, I'll be the property of the army.

I start to break down again, the tears coming fast as
I breathe hard.

Though I’ve been taught never to hide from my
emotions, I want nothing more than to push them back now. They are
just so powerful. I feel so small and insignificant in comparison.
All those years of training, of strengthening myself, seem
completely insignificant as I rock back and forth like a child.

Castor always promised me that he would be there,
right up until the end. No matter what happened to him, no matter
what he had to endure, he would help me until the final day of the
age. After all, he's my guardian, and that's what a guardian is
meant to do.

Now as I sit there with my back pressed up against
that cold, hard stone, I can't help but think it's over.

Though I want to believe that he hasn't abandoned me,
I can't force myself to accept he will continue to be there for me
either.

Something complex is happening, and I have no idea
what it is.

So
. . . what do I do?

I've had it drummed into my head that as the Savior I
have to be so very careful. There are forces, that if they know who
I am, will come after me.

Far more vicious than an illusionist, these creatures
are the foot soldiers of the Night. They would make the General
seem tame in comparison.

Shivering as I think about them, I run my hands up
and down my arms, my fingers bent, sweat collecting between
them.

How can I be careful if Castor isn't by my side? He
knows so much more than me. My training is incomplete, and I need
someone like him.

I can't do this on my own.

Feeling colder than I ever have, as if the spirit
within my Arak device has burnt out completely, I let my back slip
off the wall, and I crumple to the floor. Though it may be
unfathomably pathetic, I just lock my arms around my chest and bury
my head into the crooks of my elbows.

I sob, I weep, I cry. I let it all out in one
unending rush of sorrow and fear.

Yet, through it all, despite how low I am, I don't
give up.

There is that grain, the spark that never goes out,
that is buried deep in my soul. No matter the hardships I endure,
it remains. No matter the successes, no matter the failures, it
remains.

It's always been there, and if I'm willing to believe
in it, it will always be there.

Something to hold onto even in the darkest of
nights.

Right now, though it's hard, I hold onto it again.
Slowly, I let the last of my tears trickle down my blotchy cheeks.
I shift my head back, and rest it against the cool stone floor.
Then I turn, rolling onto my back as I stare up at the ceiling.

Reaching my hands out, I unfurl my fingers and stare
at my palms.

Even when you are weakest, you are powerful just so
long as you remember what it feels like.

To reinforce that fact, I fight against the magical
enchantments enshrouding this room, and I force several sparks of
magic to collect over my fingers. They dance and crackle, their
light playing against my dirty hands.

With wide eyes, I watch them. I watch them as they
grow, oh so slowly, but grow they do.

. . .
.

I can do this.

Even if I don't have Castor, and there's nobody to
help guide me, I have to try.

That is my destiny. No, it's more than that: it's my
choice.

I will face the Night. If I am willing to do that,
then surely I can do this?

I can find the strength to move on. Without Castor, I
will train myself. Whatever it takes. Even if it means staying here
willingly, and learning whatever I can from Mae and Garl and all
those other arrogant fools. Even Yang. If he can teach me anything,
I will learn it.

I will gather those lessons like a rolling stone
gathering speed as it tumbles down a hill. The more I learn, the
stronger I will get.

I won't let a soul stop me.

Finally I push up. I don't dry my tears; I let the
magic within do that. As I force heat to rise through my cheeks,
the moist feeling disappears. Then, with a breath, I extend my arms
and take up a defensive position.

“Nothing is going to
hold me back,” I tell the empty room. Though my voice is not
particularly loud, it echoes around that tiny space. As it does, I
let myself believe my own words.

Nothing is going to hold me back.

Captain Yang

It's the hardest thing I have ever done, but I
control myself. As the day continues, I say nothing. I don't
breathe a word of what transpired between Castor and myself.

. . .
.

I tell myself it's because I am biding my time,
waiting until the General is alone so I can tell him without Castor
or the Princess present.

As the day comes to a close, and the Princess is
taken back to the Palace, Castor with her, I still find myself
unable to breathe a word.

Everything I want to say is stuck in my throat. It's
as if Castor has tied my words to a rock and lodged it in my chest
with whatever strange power he possesses.

Or maybe it's more than that. Maybe his words are
starting to affect me. His veiled warning about Garl.

Though Garl is the kind of man who will do whatever
it takes, I tell myself Castor is overstating things. Garl is no
monster. In fact, he's a hero. Just as my father was.

My father
. . . .

As soon as I think of him, I feel a cold sweat
slicking across my brow.

Of all the things that can undo me, thinking of him
is the worst.

Though he died long ago, my relationship to his
memory is just as complex as my relationship to the man had been
when he had lived.

He was a strong and
truly uncompromising man, and he single
handedly taught me how to be the best Royal Army sorcerer I
could be. In fact, he demanded it. He was a sorcerer himself, and
he had learnt the art like no one else could. His ability to purge
his emotions was second to none. Even towards me, his only son, he
had never shown a gram of compassion, let alone love. Emotion would
only get in the way of training.

Though perhaps I had not understood that fact as a
child, I understand it now. I'm not bitter towards him, because
there's nothing to blame him for. Without his insistence, I
wouldn't be the man I am today. And considering the destiny that
awaits me, protecting the Savior herself, I must thank him.

Yet still, I can’t deny that merely thinking of him
sends tense shivers darting through my back and arms.

No matter how unsettling the memory of him is,
however, I will not renounce him. I will never do that.

There's nothing to renounce. He was a hero.

A hero, I tell myself firmly as I walk through the
square.

Castor is trying to undermine me. At every turn, he
says something that he knows will rile me. There's no actual truth
behind his words.

. . .
.

As I think that, I
think of Garl. And more to the point, Yin's reaction to him. The
palpable, undeniable fear. I see it every time his name is
mentioned. This morning, after her accident with the fan, I saw
fear washing through her as Garl stood by her side, his eyes
narrowing in interest
. . .
.

I break off my thoughts, shaking my head to chase
them away.

I continue to walk determinedly through the
square.

Night settled in hours ago, and torches have been
lit, casting their bright, flickering glow over the cobbles before
me.

As the wind catches a lamp close by me, I hear the
flames crackle and spark. Unlike water, which washes around any
obstacles thrown in its path, the fire bends with the wind, but it
protests, growing brighter and crackling harder.

Just like Yin.

Yin.

I am no longer going to deny she's at the center of
this. She is the key to finding out what Castor really wants.

I am determined to find out what that is. That's why
I'm walking quickly and surely towards her room.

In fact, it's becoming an old habit. I have gone to
see her in her tiny cell at least once a day since she arrived. Yet
somehow it feels like it's been longer than that. Despite the fact
I haven't even known her for a week, it feels as if I've known her
my whole life. Perhaps it's her intensity, or maybe it's because
her arrival has coincided with the complete upheaval of everything
I know.

Or maybe it's something I can't even fathom yet.

But the point is, as
I reach her door and close my hand into a fist, getting ready to
knock, it feels
. . .
right.

Though we could very
well get into another argument—as I seem to do little else when she
is around—I still can't deny the desire to see her. Staring into
her flaming personality feels like the greatest act of courage I've
ever
experienced.

As I think that, I squish my face up in contempt. I
must be tired, I assure myself, then I lean forward and knock.

She doesn't answer. This time, rather than just
opening the door, I knock again. I don't want to find her
half-dressed.

However, after I knock multiple times, I soon realize
she isn't going to say anything. So, with a rattling sigh, I open
the door a crack.

My cheeks flushing
red at what I might find, I soon realize she is fully dressed.
She's also stan
ding in the center of her
tiny room, practicing with the burnt remains of her fan.

She doesn't look up as the door swings open and I
take a tentative step into the room. In fact, she continues to
practice as if I'm not there at all. With concentration plastering
her face, her lips drawn thin against her teeth, she moves the fan
in great arcs around her.

Though she lacks the same quality of fluidity she had
this morning, her moves are still powerful and direct.

I find myself being drawn in as I watch her, almost
forgetting why I'm here.

Then, as she furls
the fan around in a great arc, her body moving in perfect time with
it, I see her shoot me a terse glance
.
“Didn't your mother ever tell you not to let yourself into ladies
rooms just to stand there and watch them?”

I splutter, taking a light step back, but not
actually leaving the room.

“Do you want
anything?” She rolls her eyes, but doesn't stop practicing. Every
move is strong, directed, concentrated. I can see how much she's
been practicing; her once rough moves are now more polished, and
yet, paradoxically, freer. It's harder to predict what she'll do
next, and it is almost thrilling to watch her.