Yin and Yang: A Fool's Beginning (35 page)

Several weeks ago, even several days ago, it would
have filled my heart with pride.

Now, no matter where I look for comfort, nothing will
wash away the doubt.

“It's nothing, you
are overreacting,” I tell myself.

My voice is barely above a whisper, and could not
convince a soul.

Closing my eyes and squeezing them tightly shut, I
shake my head.

Without realizing it, I turn, and I face the
book.

It’s open on the last page, with that list of names
clearly visible even in the dying light.

In a snap, I walk over to it and close it. Though I
feel like throwing it out the window, or forcing my magic into the
paper until I destroy it completely, I don't.

Instead I turn, walk over to my bookcase, and put it
back inside.

I stand and stare out the window once more.

At the Palace.

I wait for its mere presence to calm me. I wait for
it to inspire the loyalty I should still have.

. . .

I keep waiting.

I probably stand there for at least 10 minutes until
I step back.

The doubt will not be assuaged.

There are questions, and I must answer them. I can't
push them away any more.

Surprised at that realization, I practically
gasp.

If my father could see me now, he would be so
disappointed. And angry. He crafted the perfect son, the perfect
testament of loyalty to the Kingdom.

And look at me now. I'm doubting everything.

I try to feel guilty. I try to conjure up shame,
because that will get me to stop what I'm doing.

No matter how hard I try, it doesn't work.

I can't fight the urge to investigate this, to keep
asking questions. Because that urge is the most human part of me,
the last true set of emotions to be purged from my soul.

And like it or not, I can't stop holding onto it.

So I take several steps back, and I turn my back on
the Palace.

I tell myself it's not symbolic. I'll satisfy my
curiosity, and of course I'll prove Garl innocent, then I will
return to the same level of loyalty I held before.

Nothing will change.

With that mantra repeating in my mind, I take off my
armor and dress in normal clothes.

Then I gently close the door of my room, and quietly
leave the barracks.

I don't really know where I'm going. All I have is a
list of names of people and places. Though I could go to the Palace
and ask the record keepers if they have any conclusive evidence on
whether Garl is a monster, I'm not that stupid.

Though I have relented to following my curiosity on
this, I won’t give up my common sense.

While I know Garl trusts me, he won't if he finds out
what I'm doing. I will ruin our relationship completely.

Indeed, I could even be charged with treason for
this. As for my position as guardian of Princess Mara, I would lose
it.

Completely.

I could be expelled.

As those desperate thoughts run through my mind, they
don’t turn me around. It feels as if nothing can.

I'm being compelled by a force I've never truly
understood, for it's one I've spent most of my life denying.
Instinct. The culmination of emotional knowledge.

Maybe hope. Hope that if I travel this path something
will change. Something within me.

I slip out of the barracks and reach the streets.
It's a calm night. There is no wind, there is no rain, and a little
of the day's heat still lingers. That doesn't stop me from putting
my hands into my pockets and shrugging into my collar. Or maybe I
just don't want to be seen. For as I walk the streets, I'm sure to
keep my head down as I stare at my feet and don't dare make eye
contact with anyone.

It takes a long time to figure out where to go.

Though most of the names on the list are people who
died a long time ago, and most of the places are far away, there is
one that is within the city.

A district. One that used to house a poor minority
known as the Reformists. Though my knowledge of them is rusty, as
they existed before I was born, I know they wanted to get rid of
the monarchy. Their message, among others, was that the Royal
Family had no right to rule. They claimed the Kings and Queens kept
knowledge from the populace to keep them weak. Or something like
that.

Despite the details,
I remember one fact acutely—they wiped themselves out. There was
bitter infighting in their group, and one night, they had a mini
civil war. It resulted in total bloodshed. There were several
powerful sorcerers amongst their ranks, so by the time the Royal
Army intervened—for it took them a long time to be alerted
to the fight—it was too late.

All the men, all the women and children, all dead.
The fools didn't understand their own power, and died because of
it.

Though those are all the details I remember, I do
know where that district is, and right now I find my feet taking me
there.

I breathe in the cool night air, but it can’t dampen
the heat that rises through me. I keep telling myself I'll find
nothing, but my body reacts as if I will. My heart beats faster, my
breath comes quicker, and my hands grasp back and forth—a sure sign
I'm unsettled.

On foot, it takes over an hour to reach the district.
These days, the buildings have been replaced, and there’s no
evidence left of the Reformists. Why would there be?

No plaque, no
memorial, no statues. Nothing. They killed themselves. It was a
senseless tragedy, and because it was senseless, why would it
be
memorialized?

I hear myself
repeating these facts in my mind, and they feel practiced, and come
with familiar ease. Yet
. . .
they also feel loose. As if they no longer have the traction they
once held.

I find myself walking the streets of the district,
not really sure what I expect to find. The more I do that, the more
frustrated I become.

Why did I even come here? Of course Garl is not
guilty.

As I say that, I catch myself.

Something else catches me too. Something I try to
dismiss at first, but can't quite.

You are taught in your first year in the Royal Army
that the lay of the land is everything when it comes to battle.

The higher you are, the easier it is to observe your
enemy. And looking right over the district is a walled-off hill.
Above that hill is a series of towers.

These days they belong to the Royal Army, in fact,
they've always belonged to the Royal Army. That wall has been there
since the very building of the city.

It always has
soldiers posted there. It's one of the highest positions you can
get in the city that isn't the Palace itself, and that makes it a
perfect position for the army to watch the gates. There are two
great alluvial plains just before the city, and the mountain ranges
behind. Making it very important
for the
Army to be able to watch both directions at once in case of enemy
attack.

. . .
.

Before I can take this as evidence of Garl’s guilt, I
dismiss it.

It doesn't mean the
Royal Army killed the Reformists under Garl's command. It just
means
. . . it was highly
likely they knew exactly what was happening in this district while
the so-called mini civil war occurred.

“You need more,” I
tell myself out loud.

So, the Royal Army may have been aware of what was
happening in the Reformist district—but perhaps other things
prevented them from intervening.

Perhaps they didn’t have the resources, I suggest to
myself as I turn on the spot, staring up at the wall behind the
district.

No.

They would have had the resources. The watchtowers
along that wall are always kept equipped with both soldiers and
weapons. It is also very easy to relay messages between the towers
and back to the barracks. So, presumably, at the first sign of
bloodshed in the Reformist district, the barracks would have known
minutes later.

Maybe there was some
other reason the soldiers couldn't intervene, though. Maybe
. . . the Reformist sorcerers were too
powerful, and the soldiers were overcome before reinforcements
could arrive.

. . .
.

That wall is considered one of the last lines of
defense before the Palace, and I know for a fact it is always
staffed by some of the Royal Army's best warriors.

Still, even a great
warrior can be overcome if the numbers are against him. Maybe the
Reformists ganged up
. . . but
if they ganged up, that meant they worked together, and civil wars
aren't usually such social affairs.

Again my top lip slicks with sweat, and I dry it off
with a shaking thumb.

I don't want to believe any of this. Why should I?
It's pure speculation. I have no hard facts.

Realizing that, doesn't dampen my doubt. In fact, it
reignites it; now I can't ignore the fact it is possible Garl was
responsible for genocide.

It's the first time I think of it in those terms, and
I shiver as I do.

Genocide.

Even if the army knew the Reformists were fighting
and didn't get involved, that is still tantamount to murder. You
are taught in the Royal Army that you are there to protect, and
sometimes that means you must protect people from themselves.
Failure to do your duty means people die.

And people died here. Almost 150 according to
historical figures.

150.

How could 150 people kill themselves without anyone
else getting involved?

“Don't do this to
yourself,” I warn through clenched teeth. Don't ignite the
doubt.

It's too late though.

As I stand there and
turn slowly on the spot, I can't help but feel the historical
events I've learnt
about can't possibly
be true. Standing here now, I see how very hard it would be for the
army to have failed to help before 150 people killed each
other.

Either the
army
willfully turned a blind
eye...or...or...they committed genocide.

Eventually I force myself to walk home.

It’s a long
and
somber walk. I feel colder than I
ever have before. Considering I once took comfort in the numbing
qualities of that same cold sensation, I should welcome
it.

I can't now. It doesn't feel like it's purging
emotion, it feels like it's purging everything that makes me more
than blood and bone.

I eventually reach the barracks. Without a word to
anyone, I go back to my room. I do not go to bed. It's late, but I
will not sleep.

Instead, I pull out that book and study it. Well into
the wee hours of the morning. I gather every fact I can.

Yin

I dream again that night and then again the next and
the next. Though the dreams terrify me, I try not to let them
affect me. Too much.

I hold onto my newfound power. I try to learn every
lesson I can, no matter how humiliating.

Because by and large they are humiliating. Mae has a
knack for insulting me, and always finds something I can't do and
proclaims it makes me nothing more than a dirty mountain bear.

I push through that, and I practice.

Before I know it, a week goes by and then another and
another.

Time is drifting past me, and I try not to waste it.
As the dreams worsen, I can't deny what is coming.

The end of the age. I don't know when it will be. A
week from now, an hour, a year. But it is coming.

So I train and train.

I close in on myself, barely talking to anyone except
for him.

Captain Yang.

It's stupid, but if I even so much as glimpse him
only once in a day, it lifts my mood.

He’s the closest thing I have to a friend now that
Castor has abandoned me. That being said, I never see him as much
as I would like.

Though we do train together occasionally, it's only
ever when Mae is busy. It's only ever when Captain Yang isn't. And
frankly, he seems to be the busiest person I've ever met. There's
this cloud of responsibility that hangs over him, and I never see
him crack a smile. That being said, he is a Royal Army sorcerer,
and they aren't exactly known for being emotional.

My days and nights are exactly the same, and I've
fallen into a routine. Begrudgingly, I always do as I am told, and
I very rarely act out any more. I don't even bother to threaten my
guards. I just let them get away with the insults and the
snickering, and I concentrate on the task ahead.

I use the library liberally, or at least whenever I'm
allowed. I read everything I can, from training manuals to history.
I want to find every edge, every weapon, every possible
opportunity.

. . .
.

It's exhausting. I never stop, because I'm not
allowed to.

As I walk out into the square for my morning
training, I notice Mae is nowhere to be seen.

Some officer walks up
to me, and rather than talk directly to me, he mumbles to my
guards
, “she is to train on her own this
morning. Mae has been unavoidably detained.”

Without glancing at me once, he turns around and
walks off.

One of my guards
gestures dismissively into the square
.
“Don't make any trouble, and stay in your section.”

I feign a smile and march down into the square.

It's a beautiful morning, but it's chillier than
usual. My cheeks tingle with a brisk breeze, and I deliberately
pump heat into my hands to keep them warm.

Then, without pause, I take up position, and begin to
practice.