Yin and Yang: A Fool's Beginning (34 page)

“I . . .
what do I do?” she asks suddenly.

It's my turn to laugh.

She wanted the sword so badly, and now she's asking
for directions?

As soon as I laugh,
she tilts her head back and huffs
. “Stand
back,” she commands me.

I draw my hands up in
fake surrender, and take several steps away
. “I hope I don't need to tell you that the sword is much
more dangerous than the fan. You need to be very careful. Please
don't chop your legs off,” I add.

I'm not one
for
humor. I'm a cold-hearted Royal Army
sorcerer, and my father instilled in me that only one thing matters
in life: serving the Royal Family. Loyalty to the cause.

I can't quite help but chuckle as she shoots me a
challenging glare.

“I'm not going to
chop my legs off. If anything, I'll chop yours off,” she adds with
a huff.

Despite her threat, I laugh again. I laugh, not at
the prospect that I am about to become a legless man, but at the
fact her countenance has changed completely.

She's no longer withdrawn. The fear that once laced
every movement and every word has lifted. All it took was to give
her a weapon.

“Did Castor ever let
you train with one of those?” I ask as I gesture to the sword.
“Because you're not quite holding it right,” I notice, starting to
wonder whether this is a good idea.

“No. We trained with
sticks occasionally, but we didn't have any weaponry as fancy as
this,” she notes as she taps the metal of the hilt experimentally.
Then, before I can stop her, she touches the blade.

She yanks her hand back in surprise, drawing her
finger up and gasping as blood trickles from it.

“It's very sharp,” I
say as I take a step forward and hold my hand out. “You do know
what a sword is, right?”

She crams her finger
into her mouth and sucks it, glaring at me as she
does
. “Yes,” she says around her finger,
her voice muffled. “Now stand back.”

I'm seriously starting to wonder whether this is a
good idea. I don't need to add to my already growing problems. If I
accidentally let Yin skewer herself with a magical sword, I imagine
Castor wouldn't wait too long to kill me.

No, break me first, slowly, as he has warned on
multiple occasions now.

That thought makes me
shiver, and a cold sweat trickles down my back
. “You need to be very careful. I . . . perhaps
this isn't a good idea,” I realize.

She lifts the sword
in one arm, heedless of the weight, and points it at me. It's not a
particularly challenging move, and I honestly don't think she's
going to thrust forward and plunge the thing through my chest. It's
just
. . .
determined.

“It feels like the
fan,” she notes as her eyebrows compress in concentration, “I can
push my magic into it.

I start to nod, then
I shake my head
. “No, it's not exactly
like the fan. Each weapon is weighted differently, and can store
different amounts of magic.”

“Right,” she says, as
she lifts the sword up, and before I can stop her, does a figure of
eight. Though her control isn't perfect, her move is strong. In
fact, I note with the smallest smile that her strength is now back
in full. Before, when she practiced with the fan, her moves were
languid and weak. Now the fire is burning bright once
more.

I sigh deeply. I'm not going to get that sword back
off her, short of trying to knock her out and pulling it from her
grip.

So perhaps
. . . I could just train her with
it?

At that uncomfortable admission, I close my eyes and
wince.

A part of me thinks I
am going insane. Another part of me is just following the
curiosity. That feels
. . .
good.

I take several steps
back
. “Okay, your movements are going to
have to be a lot more solid. You can’t afford any grace with the
sword. And your balance must be perfect. When you fill it with
magic, it will become heavy. If you don't correctly center your
body, you will find yourself tipping forward. It will make you a
very easy target for somebody who is more practiced with their
weapons than you are.”

“Got it,” she says
confidently, as she does another figure of eight, this time
controlling the blade better as it whistles through the
air.

“It will take more
than one go to get it,” I grumble lightly. “You need to push your
mind into the tip of the sword. Treat the entire blade like an
extension of your magic,” I say..

“Right,” she says
quickly, pressing her eyes half closed as she
concentrates.

Before I know it, magic erupts down her arm, through
the hilt, and along the blade. It's hot, it's glowing orange, and
it's far too quick.

“No, no, no,” I put
my hands up quickly. “Not so fast. You have to control it. The
sword is not like the fan. It's much more sensitive to your mood.
It is much easier to lose control of. You need to build up a charge
steadily. And once you've learnt to do that, then you can do it
more quickly.”

“I can do this,” she
says as she does another figure of eight, magic blazing over the
blade now, making the channels and runes engraved into the metal
glow like 1000 candles.

I sigh
desperately
. “Yin, listen to me. Please,”
I add.

She actually stops. It surprises me.

“Stop jumping ahead.
Let me teach you what I know,” I counsel.

She nods her head, and again it surprises me.

She is actually listening to me.

“Okay, now, begin
slowly,” I emphasize the word slowly.

She nods.

Then
. . . I go completely against the
tradition of the Kingdom and the Royal Army, and show Yin how to
use a magical sword.

Of course we draw a crowd. It's not just because of
how quickly Yin learns and how competent she is, it's because I'm
teaching her something I shouldn't be.

Yet nobody stops us.

They judge, but they don't stop us.

Yin

It feels so good to use the blade. It feels like I'm
finally learning something worthwhile.

Castor taught me so much. Without him, I'd be
nothing. Now I no longer have him, I have to continue those lessons
on my own. For the first time since I arrived at the Royal Army, I
feel like I'm finally doing that.

My time
practicing with Captain Yang is some of the most
useful I've spent in months.

Though I still pretty much hate the guy, that hate is
slowly getting whittled away.

Of all the people here, he seems to understand me.
Maybe it's just an act; he's a Royal Army sorcerer, after all, and
he's probably just trying to manipulate me. I can't deny my
feelings, nonetheless.

He’s attempting to understand me when nobody else
is.

He let me train with the blade.

The blade
. . . was incredible. So much more
sensitive than the fan, and so much more direct. Heck, so much more
useful too. When it comes to fighting the foot soldiers of the
Night, and then the Night itself, I'm going to need a real weapon.
The Night is not going to be impressed with me standing there in a
dress and flapping around a piece of fabric and wood.

I need weapons and knowledge to win this war.

So despite how harrowing my dreams were that morning,
by the time Captain Yang is finally called away, I feel good.
Better than I have since I arrived here.

For
the first time, I feel powerful
again.

Not completely in control, but getting there.

As Yang is called away, I can't help but thank
him.

I've spent a solid
amount of time snapping at the man, berating him, and being
difficult. Now as he turns and follows several soldiers through the
square, I call out a heartfelt
, “thank
you.”

I'm shocked by how heartfelt it is. In fact, I feel
my cheeks bloom with warmth.

He turns and looks over his shoulder. He doesn't say
anything, he just nods.

I smile.

It's Captain Yang—the man who started all of this—and
I still smile at him.

He takes the sword with him, handing it to some other
soldier in the square, and leaving me with nothing but the fan.

I don't mind though.

My spirits have already been lifted.

Eventually Mae returns, and I'm silent and dutiful as
I copy her moves.

She snarls and snaps as she always does, but I let
her words wash off me. I'm no Royal Army sorcerer, but I pretend
I'm just a stream rushing around them.

As I practice, I let my mind drift. I think about my
training, about the Royal Army, about Castor, and about Yang.

I couldn't have
predicted this new chapter in my life.
Several weeks ago, I thought I would be with Castor in the
mountains until the end of the age. Now, as uncertainty is my only
certainty, I find the courage to smile at it.

Despite what has happened to me, I'm still standing,
and despite how weak I've felt along the way, I'm still strong.

If my dreams this morning were portents, for the
first time today, I feel like I can fight them. Whatever is coming
next, I can fight, because perhaps I'm not alone. True, I have no
guardian anymore, and I have no one to confide in. But even the
arrogant Mae can help me, even though she doesn't know she’s doing
it.

I just have to open up.

And wait for what will happen next.

Captain Yang

I'm smiling, and I can't stop.

It's been a hectic morning, from sneaking around in
the library to training Yin with a magical blade. I shouldn't be
smiling, I should be deep in guilt and responsibility.

Still, I can't shift my good mood.

That is, until I return to my room. It's then I
remember the book.

I don't want to read it, but I can't stop myself. As
dusk sets in, I check my door is locked then return to my bookcase.
With a careful move, as if I'm expecting an attack, I draw the book
out of the shelf.

My fingers tingle as I do and a particularly quick
sweat covers my top lip.

“Right,” I mumble to
myself.

Or wrong. What I am doing is wrong. I'm believing
Garl—one of the most respected warriors in all of the Kingdom—could
be a monster.

. . .
.

No, I'm not believing it—I'm checking it.

Swallowing and
forcing myself to trust in that distinction, I sit on the edge of
my bed and open the book. Placing it on my knees, I angle it
towards the light coming in from my window. I haven't bothered to
light a torch—as dumb as it sounds, I want to keep this as secret
as possible, and
kindling a light feels
like it would leave me exposed.

Breathing carefully, I leaf through the pages, noting
every line that has been altered. There are no words written, no
symbols, just sections circled or highlighted.

Reading the sections
over, moving my lips but not daring to actually
vocalize the words, I frown.

The text details a range of events, from battles to
coronations.

All involving Garl in some way.

The man has been in the army all his life, and as
he's in his 60s, that's been a long time.

Still, even though
I've read this book before, I haven't fully appreciated how
. . . involved Garl has been in the
history of the Kingdom.

That, however, is no mark against the man. Quite the
opposite—it is yet more evidence that he is an upstanding, loyal
citizen. One who has clearly devoted his whole life to the service
of the people.

Leafing through the pages methodically, I come to the
end of the book. There, written on one of the final pages, is a
list.

Of names.

Some of them people, some of them villages.

. . .
.

It takes a moment, but soon enough I realize all the
people are dead and all the villages destroyed. In fact, with a
quickly beating heart, I leaf through the book, checking each name
and village against the facts within.

I don't stop until I confirm I'm right.

. . .
.

I sit there. I let the book lie in my lap as I stare
through the window at the night. Dusk is now gone, and all I can
see are the stars above and the flickering lamps of the barracks
below.

. . .
.

I tell myself it's nothing. All those people died in
the line of duty or from natural causes. As for the villagers,
their demise was either through war or natural disasters.

There is an explanation for everything.

No matter how much I repeat that phrase, it can't
sink down far enough to uproot my doubt.

My top lip is still sweaty, and with a shaking hand,
I dry it.

I ball up a hand into a fist, and press it against my
temple as I move closer to the window. Gripping one hand on the
sill, I stare out at the Kingdom. I can see the square below, and
the buildings of the barracks, and just above, the Palace. Though I
only see a slither of it, it's still beautiful. Lit up by multiple
lamps, I can see the gold glittering even from here.

It's meant to be one
of the most beautiful views in the world. Yet if that is the case,
why do I feel so
. . .
unimpressed as I stare at it?