Yin and Yang: A Fool's Beginning

  Chapter 15

  Captain Yang

  I reach the palace with a fine sweat covering my brow. Plucking my helmet from my head, I neaten my hair and take a calming breath.

  Walking up the enormously long palace steps, I feel my chest swell with pride. Our kingdom is the finest in all the lands, and I’m honored to be allowed in the palace.

  From its thousand carved steps lined with silver and obsidian, to its gold-plated pillars, it is a testament to achievement. It’s unquestionably the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

  As I walk up those steps and face the majestically dressed palace guards, I let my pride swell.

  It’s one of the rare emotions I let myself feel. In fact, I encourage it. I’ve been taught to encourage it. As a sorcerer, you are trained to only let selective emotions pass through your wall of control: loyalty and pride for your kingdom and Queen. Everything else must be expunged. For all other feelings have no place swelling in the heart of a soldier.

  Maybe that’s why I enjoy coming here so much; the palace is one of the few places I feel truly alive, for it’s one of the only places I let myself feel anything at all.

  Still, the thrill I get as I walk up those steps, introduce myself to the guards, and am led inside, is unmistakable.

  Just as soon as that thrill peaks, responsibility kicks in. Garl has sent me here in order to convince me the legend of the Savior is true. Then… I will directly guard the Princess herself.

  .…

  It’s a fact I haven’t truly considered until now. With the distraction of watching Yin fight so powerfully and unconventionally, I haven’t had the opportunity to realize what’s ahead of me.

  Now I can’t turn away, because soon, I will protect the Princess.

  I feel my heart beating uneasily in my chest and am all too aware of the blood thrumming through my body. Nonetheless, I let nothing show.

  A contingent of two palace guards leads me through an enormous atrium. Though I’ve been to the palace before, I can’t say I’ve seen it all. In fact, if you gave me a week, I would be unable to tap all its secrets. It’s one of the biggest buildings in all the Kingdoms. Sprawling and elegant, it has been added to for millennia. There are secret tunnels, lost rooms, and whole sections that can only be accessed by members of the Royal Family alone.

  All of it is stunning. Every pillar is carved and pressed with precious metal. There are adornments everywhere, from snarling lion statues to jewel-encrusted boxes from faraway lands. Everything glitters with extravagant beauty.

  I let those sights distract me as I march through that cavernous hall. The sound of my heavy footfall intersperses with that of the guards. In fact, it’s the only sound as they lead me through a hall, and then another, and then another.

  It takes almost 15 minutes before we reach the records room. If I was impressed by the rest of the palace, this place is arguably 10 times more incredible.

  The palace guards lead me to an enormous, ornate set of blue and black doors, mumbling at me that I have leave to enter on my own. Then, with salutes, they march off, their boots echoing through the hall like beating drums.

  I stand before the doors, press my lips together, and breathe.

  My body is unusually tense, raw emotion unsettling my firm resolve.

  Although I’m not normally one for dramatic thoughts, facing those closed doors feels a little like facing destiny.

  Still, after another moment’s pause, I push into them and walk through. As I press one hand firmly into the ornate blue and black metal, it parts before me like nothing more than cloud. It doesn’t even groan.

  As the doors open, they reveal an enormous room. If I’d believed the atrium was large, I now realize it’s small in comparison.

  As I step out onto a mezzanine level, my gaze is drawn forward. The room is domed, with mezzanine level after mezzanine level circling around the sides of the building. And everywhere, as far as the eye can see, are books and scrolls.

  Their colorful spines look like gems all lined up in neat rows, and they are lit up by the soft, muted light streaming in from the enormous skylight above.

  I stand there and stare, my hands hanging loosely at my sides as I cast my gaze everywhere.

  It takes me too long to hear several steps echoing toward me. Turning to my left, I see two men walking up a twisting staircase that leads down to the level below.

  They are both wearing long white and red robes that hide their feet and make it seem as if they are gliding along.

  Both greet me with dour smiles, and both look alike – old, with sallow, pale skin, and hooded eyes. I doubt either gets much sun, and from the bored looks they give me, I imagine they rarely meet other people too.

  “Sirs,” I say as I bow, feeling clumsy as my armor bulks uncomfortably around my move.

  Again I feel unsettled. Again I can’t quite marshal control over my emotions. My mind is a mess, and for some damn reason I can’t get Mae’s burnt shoes out of my head.

  “We were informed you were meant to arrive,” one of the men says.

  “Two hours ago,” the other finishes.

  I bow low and offer a polite smile. “I was unavoidably detained at the barracks. You have my sincerest apologies.”

  Both men stare at me as if I’m a blotch on one of their perfect books.

  “Whatever detained you at the barracks can’t compare in significance to what we are about to share with you,” one of them points out with a heavy sigh.

  I nod.

  “Come,” the other waves me forward.

  Silently they lead me down several levels. All the while, neither of them speak.

  As I walk, I stare at the books around me. I can’t even begin to estimate how many there are, and nor can I begin to imagine how much knowledge they must contain. Yet as we descend, the books begin looking older and older. The brighter colors of modern times are left behind as lines of sun-kissed scrolls meet my gaze instead.

  When we reach the very base of the room, and I walk out onto a great black marble floor that has been polished with hundreds of years of footfall, I shiver.

  Not only is it cold down here, but there is a distinct sense of… age. It feels as if I’m walking back in time, and I’m about to face the very genesis of the Kingdom itself. Perhaps even the Araks.

  As we walk, the two record keepers lower their heads in reverence, draw their arms in, and clasp their hands together. They look as though they are about to go before the Queen.

  I want to find out where we’re going, and yet I can’t interrupt. There’s something powerful about the silence that makes me shiver at the thought of breaking it.

  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 chant
ing 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 toward 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 any way.

  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 r
eason, 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 learned 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.