Yin and Yang: A Fool's Beginning, Page 3

  Chapter 3

  The walk down into the village isn’t one I take very often. I don’t have time to loaf about in the inn, nor do I have the friends to keep me company as I do so. I’m the Savior. All of my days are spent in training.

  So as I head down the winding path that connects to the old stone road that travels through our village, I notice things have changed. The verge is well cut, and several trees have been removed, possibly on the premise that Carcas warriors could hide behind the branches or the blades of grass.

  Though the woman this morning was irritating, her talk of the growing threat facing the Kingdom wasn’t one I hadn’t heard before. It seems that every patient Castor sees shares a similar story. Once I even overheard from a traveler who came all the way from the capital that they were planning to draft young men into the army.

  Though I usually ignore such stories, that one flashes before my mind as I walk faster and faster.

  Despite how chill the wind has become, I don’t feel cold; my nerves are igniting through me like fire. If I’m not careful, my bangle will react, sending blazing power washing over my whole body.

  Though others in the Kingdom are sorcerers, my abilities are unusual, to say the least. My power is far more linked to my emotions, and far more powerful in general. So as I race forward, I try to control myself.

  I tell myself I’m going to the village to find Castor. I will not make a scene. I will simply check that he is okay.

  It doesn’t take long to reach the village. Though the walk is a circuitous one, that usually takes at least 20 minutes, I race down the hill in less than five. Without pausing to think, I easily throw myself down steep, bramble-covered slopes, blasting through the prickles if they dare scratch my skin. Then, when I hit the open road, I sprint with all my might.

  My arms are but a blur by my sides, and on several occasions, I strike the ground with such force, my worn sandals actually crush the pebbles underfoot.

  The village is quite disbursed and occupies a good kilometer over the side of the hill. Old houses of stone and wood are nestled into the trees, with cows and goats and sheep tethered beside them.

  Chickens usually line the road, only getting out of your way if you threaten to trample them. Then giving you a surly look as they squawk and flutter into the closest bushes.

  It’s quaint.

  Or at least it’s meant to be. But now as those rolling clouds come thundering across the sky, every shadow deepens and every sign or shop bell bangs in the powerful wind.

  Powering my way down the road, the first thing I notice is that the streets are bare.

  Nobody seems to be around. Yet, as I concentrate, I swear I can hear voices far off in the distance.

  I sprint through the streets, and as I do, a fine mist of rain begins to fall. As it strikes my shoulders and my exposed cheeks and hands, it tingles, merging with the power filling me from the bangle.

  My long sleeve hides it from view, and I compulsively tug it further down as I rush forward.

  It seems that practically everybody in the village has congregated around the town square. It’s little more than an old statue of a tired looking warrior triumphing over some fiendish looking enemy. Apparently, it depicts some famous soldier from long ago who hailed from the village.

  Well right now, I practically gasp as I see modern soldiers standing underneath it.

  Close by horses are tethered, and with one look I can see they belong to the army. Glistening clean red, gold, and black armor adorn their heads and flanks. While normal horses have a kind, gentle nature about them, these beasts look like thunder tamed by saddles.

  While the horses themselves are impressive, it’s nothing compared to the soldiers. All are large men, and all wear heavy armor. Also gold, yellow, and black, they have breastplates and helmets and gauntlets and boots. Even from a distance I can see that all are adorned with specific engravings that provide protection against magic.

  What are they doing here?

  I can hear women sobbing, and as I push my way through the crowd, I notice that all the young men of the village are lined up close by the soldiers.

  Conscription? Was that traveler right? Have the army come all the way up to our village to draft young men?

  As I near, I notice there are several old men lined up, too.

  Though I barely know anyone by name, I recognize them from the injuries Castor has treated, and quickly conclude that barely any of the older gentlemen are fit for war. In fact, hardly any of the younger men are either; they are flighty, undisciplined, and untrained. If the army intends to use them, then it really must be desperate.

  I reach the edge of the crowd, and as I take a step beyond it, someone growls at me.

  I turn around to see a whopping great man in enormous armor. He has a sword strapped to his back, and the gauntlets along his hands, wrists, and arms are studded with spikes.

  I’ve never seen something so ludicrous. Training with Castor has taught me that you win battles not based on brute force, but on speed, on cunning, and on willingness.

  So I’m not in the least bit intimidated as this man takes another heavy, rattling step my way.

  “Get back, woman,” he snarls.

  I barely look at him. “What’s going on here?” I ask as I stare around, trying to catch the gazes of the people closest to me.

  “I said, get back,” the man says as he reaches me. Without warning, he lays one greasy, heavy hand on my shoulder and shoves me back. Or at least he tries to shove me back. I pivot on my foot and step lightly to the side, and his move sends him stumbling to my left.

  Again, I barely glance at him as I turn to the woman closest to me. “What’s going on? Have you seen Castor?”

  On the words have you seen Castor, she stops ignoring me, and her eyes grow wide. “They’ve taken him and some of the other men into the hall,” she says just as the man gets to his feet behind me.

  With a growl, he tries to grab my shoulder again. Once more, I dodge past him. “What do you mean they’ve taken him to the hall? What’s going on here?”

  “This is conscription,” another soldier says as he marches up to my side, presumably to help his fumbling friend.

  “Conscription? What’s that got to do with Castor?” I demand.

  “If by Castor you refer to Castorious Barr, then his services are in demand by his Queen. The Royal Army needs his expertise once more,” the soldier says in a rumbling voice. “Now stand still.”

  I can’t believe this. Castor is being conscripted? He’s an old man. While I know from experience he’s just as deft on his feet as a mountain lion and twice as strong, these men shouldn’t know that.

  I blink rapidly, sweat collecting over my top lip and between my fingers.

  They have to be joking, right? Castor is 70 years old. They can’t possibly be drafting him into the Royal Army.

  But then I see past the soldiers to the half-open door of the hall. They begin leading men out. Right at the back, I see a flash of gray beard.

  It’s Castor. I’m sure of it.

  They are leading him away.

  I act.

  “What are you doing?” I scream as I muscle forward, straight past the two soldiers. “He’s an old man. Just leave him alone.”

  I rush out, and I feel the leaner soldier snap toward me.

  Again I easily dodge him.

  “Leave him alone,” I scream, craning my neck as I try to catch another glimpse of the men they are leading from the hall.

  “Get back here, woman,” one of the soldiers snarls from behind me.

  I may be just a woman, but I’m clearly more than the man can handle, as no matter how hard he tries, he can’t grab me.

  There’s quite some distance between the hall and me, and filling that distance are military horses and soldiers. That doesn’t faze me, though; I dart forward, as light on my sandals as a cat on its paws.

  At one point, a soldier atop a horse tries to ride into my path, but with o
ne look at the horse, it stops.

  I told you, I have an affinity with animals, and even though these military horses are harder and gruffer than the creatures I’m used to, that affinity still stands.

  I almost reach the hall.

  Then one of the guards outside jumps clean off the top step, lands, and launches at me.

  The guy grabs me roughly by the shoulder. Yanking me back, his fingers dig hard into my flesh. He twists me around, then shoves his face close to mine.

  “This is a restricted area,” he says, his putrid breath breaking against my cheek. “You are interfering with military business, woman.”

  “You have my uncle in there,” I hiss back. “He’s just an old man.”

  “Well, that old man is coming with us. And unless you want to join him, shut up.”

  I stare into his eyes.

  He towers above me, and though he’s not as enormous as some of the other soldiers, I can tell by the way he moves he knows how to handle himself. Attacking him would be a mistake. In fact, everything I have done so far has been a mistake.

  I know how important I am, and I know how critical it is that I keep my secret.

  Yet I can’t stand this.

  “Let me go,” I warn through clenched teeth.

  He shakes me. “I said shut up, girl.”

  I know I have to keep control. But as I stare up at that man’s arrogant, hateful expression, I snap.

  With one smooth, practiced move, I shove him off. I pivot on my hip, pushing my shoulder into his and knocking him backward.

  Though he is clearly a competent and trained soldier, I best him easily.

  It happens so fast, the man doesn’t have time to gasp.

  In the blink of an eye, he goes from manhandling me, to lying in the dust.

  But there he does not stay.

  With a grating snarl, he jumps up. As he does, he snaps his left hand into a fist.

  He has a bangle, just like mine, though his is far fancier. Embellished with a design of curled flames and dragons, as his fingers curl, the design comes alive with energy.

  Energy erupts from his hand.

  He launches toward me, magic spewing from his glove.

  While he’s wearing armor that would protect him from such a blow, one touch from those magical flames, and my skin will blister and burn.

  Or rather, it should.

  For I’m stronger than I look. I also have a bangle of my own.

  Just as those blistering hot jets of red and deep orange surge toward me, I activate my bangle, and send a burst of my own magic against his.

  Mine is stronger, and redirects his blow back against him.

  Not a single magical spark strikes my skin.

  It strikes his breastplate instead, and though the engravings across the metal dance with power, they can’t protect him from the full force of my blow, and he slams into the ground once more.

  I turn.

  I intend to head into the hall. Then I see the soldiers staring at me, the villagers too.

  “She’s a sorcerer,” one of the soldiers shouts.

  “She has an Arak band,” another screams.

  In the common tongue, those who can manipulate the power of the ancients, are called sorcerers. Arak is the term they give to those who came before, and the devices they left behind.

  .…

  Castor has always warned me not to show my powers in public. While there are plenty of other people in this land that can command Arak devices, including women, it is imperative I stay safe until my time arrives.

  Right now, I’ve blown my cover.

  All it took was a single moment of fury.

  I can’t take it back now.

  In a split second, I turn over my shoulder, and I see the expressions on the faces of the soldiers closest. It’s a stomach wrenching mix of surprise, disdain, and awe.

  Sorcerers are valuable. Especially to the army.

  I twirl on my foot, my sandal squeaking against the polished stone of the step. I launch toward the hall.

  I don’t reach it.

  Two soldiers dart toward me, both launching forward with grunts.

  I pirouette, springing off the ground in a graceful move and spinning in the air, letting both men fall to the ground below me.

  While more often than not I get by on speed and strength, Castor has always been sure to teach me agility too. Now I use it.

  Just as I sprint past those soldiers, several more jump before me.

  “Come quietly,” they warn.

  I reply by leaning back, bringing my foot into the air, and slamming it into the ground. As I do, I concentrate. In my mind, I sing to my bangle. In response, it pushes out, cracking the flagstones with magic, and sending them flinging toward the soldiers with the speed of a bird on the wing.

  I have barely a second to enjoy my victory before I see something. From my left comes a jet of green power. Deftly, I drop to my knees, and roll to the side, dodging it easily.

  But as I do, one of the soldiers launches forward and grabs my ankle as he rolls onto his stomach.

  I stumble, but I don’t fall. Instead, I wrench myself free. Fear climbs my back, my power surging with it. As I see more and more soldiers flood toward my position, I realize how perilous my situation has become.

  I can’t even see Castor. I have no idea where they have taken him.

  This is the first battle I have ever fought without him by my side. In fact, in many ways, it’s the first battle I have ever fought full stop. All those games with Castor were just that; he was training me, and never had any intention of hurting me.

  But from the wild expressions on the soldiers’ faces, I realize they do not share his compunctions.

  I throw myself to the side, just as a jet of magic shoots past my left shoulder. It captures my loose hair, and I smell it beginning to singe.

  I have no idea what to do, so I keep fighting.

  In my head, if I can clear through these soldiers and get to Castor, that will be all that matters.

  I can’t be alone. He is my guardian. Without him, there will be no one to lead me to the end of days.

  Desperation washes through me now. In a flood of panic, I spin on the spot, catching flashes of the circling soldiers. From their weapons to their burning gazes to their gold and black armor.

  They are pinning me in, corralling me like a wild animal.

  Shots of green and red and blue energy pass me, striking the cobblestones and bricks and steps, sending chunks of rock hailing around in arcs. The pound of each shot blasting into the ground is a deafening beat.

  Then the heavens open up. With a crack of thunder far off in the mountains, the rain pours down.

  It doesn’t drizzle to begin with – it sails down in a flood.

  The rain strikes my face and arms, driving down my back, the water soaking through my thin tunic and pants. The fabric clings to my skin, and my hair whips around my face, sticking to my cheeks and forehead as I try to keep all of the soldiers in my sights at once.

  Another soldier flings himself at me, and I dart back, my sandals slipping on the rain-soaked road.

  I have to end this and get away.

  But I can’t.

  I can’t.

  I may be the Savior, but I can’t take on a whole unit of soldiers. Perhaps one day, but not this day.

  As that realization dawns on me, I make a mistake, shifting back too swiftly and slipping. I fall to the side, my sandals shooting out from underneath me.

  Then, almost as one, the soldiers pounce.

  One of them barrels into me, pinning my head to the ground with a strong, wet grip.

  Just as I try to shove him off, another skids across the road, shifting water with the speed of his move as he plows into me, grabbing my shoulder and shoving it into the ground.

  “Get off me,” I scream.

  Another soldier launches himself forward, grabbing my legs and locking them together.

  Though I have felt fear, I have
never experienced the surge of terror that now engulfs me. It feels like a flood as it washes through me, shaking every muscle and sending every hair standing on end.

  I struggle.

  They pin me harder into the ground.

  I can no longer count how many there are; I can only feel their distinct grips as they grab my arms and head and legs and back.

  The fear burns even brighter within. Building and building and building.

  The rain drives down all around, splashing over the dirt-covered road and turning to mud. As my face is shoved harder into the ground, the mud covers my cheeks and eyes, even collecting at the corners of my tightly-closed lips.

  “Let me go,” I plead.

  They shove me down harder.

  The fear peaks.

  I shake so badly I start to cry. Tears collect down my cheeks, indistinguishable from the rain.

  As my panic becomes so powerful I can barely breathe, I hear something.

  Far, far away. Carried on the wind, borne on the rain, driven by the crackles of flame – a muttering. Low and constant, it’s dark. Beyond light, in fact, it is Night.

  The Night.

  The force that will end this age. The very thing I must fight and defeat as the Savior.

  I’ve only ever heard its whispers rarely and never so loudly. In times of great stress I’ve become aware of its presence, but now I feel it all around me. It seeps from the cracks in the stones by my face, coiling up like trillions of dark-bodied snakes.

  The harder the soldiers push me down, the more I see the dark. The more it mutters in my ears.

  I feel like I’ll be dragged down by it. As if the dark will reach up from the deepest reaches of the earth, and pull me down into the never-ending Night.

  But I won’t let it.

  I will fight.

  Fear, as Castor always taught, can only be conquered by action. By turning to the dark and throwing oneself right into its center.

  “Get off me,” I scream one final time. As I do, bright white energy collects along my lips. I breathe it into the driving rain. With each desperate word, I speak it right into the shattered cobblestones and ground below.

  I connect to my bangle, to the very force that lies within.

  I give my mind up to the magic.

  I push back.

  The road underneath breaks, and the rain hisses into steam.

  Every soldier is thrown back, and I jump to my feet.

  Power pulls up through my veins, making my flesh tingle with force.

  I breathe.

  I’m free.

  “Castor,” I call into the driving rain. I will find him. That’s all that matters now.

  I try running forward.

  Something snakes out of the darkness. Something fast, something strong.

  It pushes into my back.

  I have no time to register what it is before it starts curling around my ankles and wrists.

  “Let me go,” I scream wildly.

  I’m yanked to the side by that mysterious force, my knees driving into the mud as I’m pushed into the ground. It’s only then I realize what’s captured me.

  Magic.

  Lines of magic have wrapped around my wrists, locking me in place.

  It takes a person with rare control to master moving magic in that way. Most ordinary sorcerers can only send blasts and shots of power emanating from their Arak devices.

  Yet before me, somewhere out there in the rain, is a man with enough control to bend magic to his will.

  Then I see him.

  He comes striding out of the rain, his fingers stretched and stiff.

  “Let me go,” I scream.

  “What the hell is going on here?” he marches forward.

  Though I struggle against my magic shackles, I can’t break them. They move with me, absorbing every gram of strength I throw at them.

  As the man strides forward, the soldiers begin to pick themselves up.

  “What the hell are you all doing?” the sorcerer demands again.

  “Sir, we… she’s a sorcerer,” one points out as he wipes the mud from his face.

  “I can see that. But that’s no reason to pin her to the ground. Now get up,” the man demands.

  Every soldier stands and then salutes.

  Though the rain is still heavy, pounding into the ground with the force of mini cannon balls, as the man approaches, it eases.

  Finally, I can see him in full.

  In fact, he walks right up to me and stares down.

  Just like the other soldiers, he’s wearing gold, red, and black armor. But his helmet is much fancier, with golden dragon wings emblazoned on each side. The magical engravings across his chest plate are also more detailed, and twinkle in the dim light that makes it through the storm.

  Without a word, he continues to look at me, his eyes darting across my face, down my wet tunic, and over my bedraggled, mud-covered hair.

  “Let me go,” I plead. “I haven’t done anything wrong.”

  The man raises an eyebrow. “Apart from attack a garrison of Her Majesty’s Royal Army,” the man points out. Then, surprisingly, he shifts his hand to the side, and the shackles binding me shatter.

  I fall onto my hands and knees.

  I’m free.

  My first impulse is to fight. To plow through these soldiers until I find Castor and get the hell out of here.

  But as I raise my head and push to my feet, that man stares at me, his piercing gaze traveling right through mine. “Don’t,” he says. “I’ve let you go for now, but if you try anything, I will bind you again.” He speaks with force, and I can feel his natural power lacing through his words.

  I stare back at him, locking my teeth together and pushing hard into my jaw. I part my lips a centimeter and hiss, “what are you doing here? Where’s my uncle? Where’s Castor?”

  For a moment, he doesn’t say anything. Again his gaze darts over my face. “He is being drafted. The Queen needs him.”

  “He’s just an old man,” I say through a locked jaw. “He’s of no use to you. Let him go.”

  Once more the man descends into a lengthy silence before he says, “I’m afraid I can’t do that. His Kingdom needs him. We are entering uncertain times, and must draw on every resource we can to secure our freedom.”

  “There are plenty of other soldiers to fight your war,” I point out as I stutter through a breath.

  I’m covered in mud, frozen cold by the rain, and my body aches from my fight. But I do not wobble, and nor do I fall to my knees.

  I will stand, and I will fight.

  If I fall again, the darkness will come crawling up from the cracks to claim me.

  “As I said, we are entering uncertain times, and must draw on every resource we can,” he points out calmly.

  “He’s just an old man.”

  “And you are just a woman. Hold your tongue and show Captain Yang some respect,” one of the soldiers snaps.

  The sorcerer – Captain Yang, as I have just learned – raises one hand swiftly to silence the soldier. “Let her speak. She wants to know what’s happening to her uncle.”

  “No, I want you to let him go. There are so many other soldiers to fight your war,” I say. Or at least I try to. Despite my best efforts, my voice begins to waver.

  I hate showing tenderness. Tears are not for me. After all, I won’t have time to cry on the final day, will I? So what’s the point of getting into the habit now?

  I can’t afford to feel weak and small, but right now I can’t avoid it.

  Whereas once the rain hid my tears, now it can’t, and they streak freely down my face. “Just let him go,” I try once more.

  Captain Yang stares at me. His helmet is large and hides the majority of his face, but in that moment I swear his lips soften into a commiserating smile. “Don’t fear – he will be treated well. He is a war hero. We know his value, and we respect his sacrifices.”

  I curl my hands into fists, hating that tears still tumble down
my cheeks. “Just let me see him.”

  Captain Yang nods. Then he reaches up and removes his helmet.

  For the first time, I see his face in full. With pale brown eyes tinged with gold, he is clean shaven, with neatly cropped hair and a handsome, gentle face.

  I don’t have time for men. Again, I have something much more important to worry about. Plus, that woman was right – I’m not marriage material. With my unruly hair, lean figure, and hot temper, I’m the equivalent of a bramble bush and not a soft rose petal.

  So I don’t blush. I don’t step back and fan my face at how attractive the Captain is.

  I stare at him straight in the eyes.

  “Show me my uncle,” I demand.

  Yang nods his head low, then moves his arm to the left in a sweeping move.

  “Captain,” one of the soldiers says in a low, warning tone. “She’s dangerous—”

  Yang raises his hand in a silencing move once more, and the soldier cuts off mid-sentence.

  I stare at him warily.

  Again Yang sweeps to the left with his arm.

  Carefully I take a step forward, then another.

  When the rain doesn’t twist down to strangle me, and the soldiers don’t surge forward to pin me to the ground, I uneasily walk toward Yang.

  With a nod, he silently leads me through the rain.

  I can tell the soldiers are more than uneasy to let us leave, but none of them say anything more.

  The rain still thunders down, my sandals churning through the mud and splashing it over my torn black pants.

  I’m still cold, and I carefully run my hands up and down my arms.

  Yang watches me. In fact, Yang hasn’t stopped watching me from the moment he strode out of the rain and broke up my fight.

  He isn’t overt about it now, though. But as we walk forward, I can tell his head is inclined to the side, his pale brown eyes surreptitiously gazing my way.

  There’s something very still about the man. He reminds me easily of a mountain, sure-footed and unable to be moved.

  “You’re a sorcerer,” he suddenly notes.

  I don’t answer.

  What’s the point? He saw the fight. He saw what I did.

  “Did your uncle teach you that?” he continues. “Did he give you your bangle?”

  I still don’t answer. I do, however, run a hand over my Arak glove.

  “You’re quite skilled. You gave my men a run for their money.”

  “Just take me to my uncle,” I whisper harshly.

  “I am. You have my word.”

  Though I’ve been steadfastly staring at my feet or hands, I now let my gaze flicker up to his.

  I want to fight it, but there’s something calming about his tone. Something trustworthy.

  I take a breath.

  The wind roars high in the mountains.

  I feel connected to it as I breathe out. From the rain to the mud to the lightning flashing high in the crags, I suddenly sense that ever-present connection.

  Gaea.

  The original Goddess. The origin of all summoned power, and that which I must call upon on the final day.

  With another calming breath, I see him watching me attentively.

  “What are you looking at?” I ask defensively. “And where’s my uncle?”

  “Your uncle is here,” Yang answers as he gestures toward a cart.

  The cart is large, strong, and has metal bars over the windows.

  My heart pounds in my chest.

  “Castor?” I cry. “Are you in there, are you okay? What have you done to him?” I whirl on Yang, “he’s not a prisoner.”

  Before my anger can burn through me and ignite the ever-present power of my bangle, I see Castor walk around the side of the cart. Though there are two soldiers with him, he isn’t bound.

  My heart lifts.

  Then my heart descends as I see the expression on his face. At first, he’s surprised to see me, then I see obvious fear flash in his eyes as he looks from my bedraggled form across to Captain Yang.

  “What are you doing here, Yin?” Castor asks in a booming voice. Although he has no power of his own, in many ways, he is far more powerful than most sorcerers.

  “I saw tracks leading away from the house,” I answer in a stutter, trying to get all of my words out at once, “what are they doing to you?”

  Slowly Castor presses his lips together and stares at me.

  Which isn’t the reaction I expect to see. On any other day, if I had directly disobeyed Castor’s command never to venture into the village on my own, he would have spent the next half hour berating me over my mistake. But now, he barely has several words to share.

  Again my stomach twists in a knot of nerves.

  If I needed any more evidence that what was happening here was serious, Castor provides it.

  “You didn’t mention your niece was a sorcerer,” Captain Yang says as he takes several steps away from me. Yet, as he does, he casts me one more careful glance.

  I would give anything to know what he’s thinking.

  Right now, I have nothing to give, because I’m about to lose everything.

  “You also informed us that she is your apprentice,” Captain Yang says slowly as he looks right at me, “in herbal medicine,” he adds carefully. “Is there something more you wish to share?”

  Castor looks straight ahead. He does not make eye contact with Captain Yang, and nor does he glance my way. He sets his features hard, as if he has cast them from stone.

  “We were of the opinion that the great Castorious Barr had not taken any apprentices in the arts of war for over 20 years,” Captain Yang continues.

  Again, Castor does not answer. He stares right over Captain Yang’s shoulder, his eyes locked unblinkingly on the driving rain beyond.

  “Answer the Captain,” one of the soldiers says, and he moves forward quickly to viciously shove Castor in the shoulder.

  “Don’t,” Yang snaps as he yanks his hand up in a stopping motion. “We are not here to make enemies.”

  “Then let him go,” I say in a warning tone.

  Though I have just been through one hell of a fight, I can feel my energy returning. I can feel my anger and frustration peaking too. How dare the Royal Army think it can come into this village and round up all the men for its stupid little war. The Carcas haven’t attacked in years. The Queen is warmongering. Yet the army feels it has the right to ruin people’s lives based on that lie.

  As Castor has always told me, peace is never won by war alone. True peace can only be achieved, not through endless victorious skirmishes, but through managing people’s expectations. By stemming the tide of nationalism, by providing opportunity, and snuffing out elitism in all its colors and shades.

  Captain Yang arches his neck and glances my way. “As I have told you, the Royal Army requires your uncle’s assistance.”

  “To get to him,” I begin, intending to tell the pretty boy Captain that he will have to go through me first.

  I don’t get the opportunity.

  “Yin,” Castor says in a warning tone.

  I should listen to my guardian, I know that. Yet, for some reason, I can’t. Maybe it’s the memory of the fight, and being pushed down into the ground, my soaking hair splashing into my eyes. Or perhaps it’s the distant muttering of the Night. Maybe what’s really bothering me is that this stupid army can’t see the real threat. While they’re playing war with the Carcas, the real war is left to me.

  I’m the Savior. I shouldn’t have to hide in the shadows. I shouldn’t have to beg for these men not to take my guardian away.

  But as Castor always says, you aren’t given your life, you earn it.

  To him, I’ve always had to prove myself as the Savior. I’ve always had to try my hardest. He has never given me anything based on who I am.

  Right now I can’t heed his advice. Right now, I can’t stem the anger at what these men are doing. They are making my life harder, impossible even. Why? Because som
e pompous, rich, arrogant Queen and her advisors are telling the Kingdom it ought to go to war.

  Soon I will face the end of the ages, and these people are worried about pleasing a foolish monarch.

  As those thoughts run wild in my mind, the power brews within. I can feel it crackling up my spine, arcing between my teeth, and burning deep in my heart, dispersing through my bloodstream with every beat.

  With the amount of force surging through me, soon my skin will light up the rain-soaked streets like a star forming out of my very body.

  “Yin,” Caster warns again, this time the control in his voice wavering. Without even looking at him, I can tell that the stony expression he’s been sporting for the past five minutes is cracking.

  I know he wants me to stop, to pull my head in, not to show my true power. But what’s the point? I’ve already shown this pompous pretty boy Captain and his useless, arrogant soldiers what I can do.

  So where is the harm in showing them what I can really do? Where’s the harm in calling upon Gaea herself to imbue me with the very spirit of all power?

  If I can defeat this army unit, then Caster and I can escape. We can travel the mountains and find some other village to settle down in. I could cut my hair, he could shave his beard, we could reinvent ourselves, hide away until the final year of the age is upon us.

  Captain Yang looks at me. Perhaps he can sense how much magic is building within my bangle, but he doesn’t do anything.

  “Captain, she is charging,” one of the soldiers says. He is a tall man, with gaunt features and keen, hawk-like eyes. If he can sense that I’m building up force, it means he has an ability of his own.

  Captain Yang raises a hand. He doesn’t turn to the soldier who spoke, and nor does he suddenly send magic rushing into me, shackles forming out of pure power.

  No, he simply stands and stares.

  I clutch my hands into fists, concentrating my attention on my Arak band.

  “Yin, no,” Castor says in a forceful voice that vibrates through the air like a blast from a horn.

  In fact, there’s such force in it, that just for a second it manages to capture my attention.

  “Let him go. He is just an old man. You don’t need him for your stupid war. The Carcas haven’t attacked in years,” I spit.

  “I am afraid I can’t let him go. I am afraid you are wrong: the Carcas have attacked. They continue to do so, all along our northern and eastern borders,” Yang says softly and calmly. “I am afraid he is not simply an old man. He is one of the greatest warriors this kingdom has seen. And in our time of dire need, we must call upon his services once more.”

  “I’m not going to let you take him,” I say.

  “Yin, don’t,” Castor tries, his voice now wavering with clear desperation.

  I can barely hear him anymore. The rage has built to such a level that I swear it’s ringing in my ears, screaming at me to do something about this injustice.

  It’s my responsibility to save the world, but if I can’t even save my guardian, then what good am I?

  I act.

  With a smooth, practiced move, I open my left palm and send a surge of force through the bangle and into my fingers. Magic erupts over my skin.

  It’s bright. Fiendishly bright. It leaps high, arcing like lightning.

  I’m aware that the soldiers spring toward me, but Captain Yang doesn’t react. He is barely two meters from my side, and he’s facing me, those pale brown eyes locked on mine.

  He doesn’t move. He doesn’t stop staring.

  The soldier with the hawk-like gaze reaches me first. With a mighty cry, he slashes my way with a kick. As he does, I see two large rings on his middle fingers. Depicting twisted tree roots, they are made of the sleek metal of the Araks.

  I hear something crack up from the earth.

  Roots. Great gnarled roots from trees and shrubs and grasses and flowers. They come spewing out of the cracks in the cobbles, gathering toward me in a fierce storm.

  At first, I shudder back in shock, but I don’t have time to be surprised.

  I leap back, pushing easily into a flip. Where my hands land on the stone, the power crackling over my palms shatters them, sending great swathes of charcoal black singe marks scattering everywhere.

  The man with the sharp features and hawk-like gaze is a plant sorcerer. He can call on the spirits of trees and grasses and bushes, commanding them to aid him.

  I have never met a plant sorcerer, and I’ve only heard of them rarely from Castor’s tales.

  Whereas I can only command pure magic itself, there are sorcerers out there with the most unique of skills. The man before me is one such example, but I’ve heard of others – from men and women who can command light itself to the very weather.

  “Stay still,” the plant sorcerer warns.

  I dodge past an enormous gnarled root that’s cracking from the pressure of moving at the pace of a sweeping bird. Shards of bark blister everywhere, and a powerful dank smell fills the air, mixing with the musty scent of mud to make it feel as if I’ve been plunged deep into the earth itself.

  I do not stay still.

  Just as a clump of roots threatens to grab me by the ankle, I shift back and slam my left hand into the cobbles. They burst up in a rain of burning hot stones and shards.

  Without thinking, and relying on my instinct, I twist into that shower of hot stones and kick them forward.

  They hail down on the plant sorcerer, but before they can do too much damage, his armor lights up, and most of them scatter across his helmet and chest plate, sizzling as the energy leaves them.

  Castor screams my name, begging me to stop, but I ignore him.

  It has already gone too far. Either I fight and win, or I lose and am taken away.

  Castor has always warned me to stay away from people, especially anyone in authority. From the police to the army, he is especially wary of letting me come in contact with people who may appreciate my powers.

  Now I have broken that rule. I have shown my full might to the Royal Army, and there’s no going back. The only way to get out is to win and escape.

  So with that conclusion pounding hard in my chest, I jump back as another clump of roots threatens to curl around my legs.

  The plant sorcerer seems to be the only soldier with any Arak ability in this group, apart from Captain Yang.

  But Captain Yang isn’t doing anything. In fact, for the entire battle, he has been standing there, staring at me, like he always does.

  Yes, he looks surprised, shocked that I have attacked maybe. Or perhaps his real surprise is that a mere woman would have the gumption to take on the army.

  Who knows what he’s thinking, but what’s important is he isn’t attacking get. That gives me an opportunity to deal with the plant sorcerer before Yang weighs into the battle.

  Though the other soldiers aren’t sorcerers, they aren’t pushovers either. They attack in a coordinated, organized manner, supporting the plant sorcerer and never leaving him open to attack.

  I have only ever trained with Castor, meaning I have only ever fought one person at a time.

  I’m rapidly learning that fighting in a group is completely different. I can’t face everyone at once, and whenever someone creeps up behind me, I have to turn fast enough to see what they’re about to do.

  It’s fraught. No, it’s beyond fraught: it’s virtually impossible.

  Just as I skip backward, narrowly missing a clump of roots that threatens to trip me up, a soldier whirls around with his spear. Thankfully he’s not using the pointy end and only raps me across the shoulders with the handle.

  Still, it’s a solid blow, and it drives me to my knees.

  Pain erupts over my arm, but I don’t give up.

  I just jump up, curl my hands into fists, and keep fighting.

  One soldier gets close enough that he tries to grab me by the arms. I lock my hands around his head, kick my legs out from underneath me, and throw the both of us to the ground. Where
as he lands with a heavy, cracking thump, I absorb the force of the fall, roll, and push to my feet just as another soldier threatens to pin me.

  Though I shouldn’t have the attention left over, I’m still aware of the fact Captain Yang hasn’t done anything yet. A few times he’s curtly warned his soldiers not to hurt me, but other than that, he remains standing in the same position staring with that same fixed concentration.

  Castor has always taught me to stand my ground. According to him, at some point, all battles whittle down to one simple fact: who is willing to stand firm and sacrifice more to win.

  I’ve always assumed that means aggressively fighting, but as I catch a glimpse of Captain Yang standing calmly in the center of a fraught battle, I realize he’s standing his ground in a completely different way.

  With calm, focused attention, he’s watching, and doing little else.

  I turn to him again, catching his gaze, and it’s a mistake. The plant sorcerer whirls around, launching himself high into the air, and striking me across the jaw with a powerful punch. While he is decked out in full armor, I’m wearing nothing but a sopping wet tunic. The blow connects, sending my head jerking backward. There’s enough force behind that punch to render me unconscious, but I hold onto scraps of my awareness as I fall against the shattered cobbles.

  In fact, I have just enough focus to feel as roots suddenly spring up from the ground, coiling around my legs and arms, and locking me in place.

  My nose is bleeding, and I feel the warm liquid trickling down my cheeks and collecting at the corners of my lips. As I thrash around on the spot, trying to get free from my wooden shackles, I cut my wrists and legs too.

  It doesn’t matter.

  Nothing matters but winning.

  “Stop struggling,” the plant sorcerer hisses, his voice sounding almost exactly like a swift wind rustling through a forest full of leaves.

  I ignore him and keep thrashing about on the spot, trying to find a weakness in the wood.

  “You’ll hurt yourself,” the plant sorcerer warns.

  I don’t care.

  Not only am I focused on escaping, but the longer I’m trapped, the more I hear that dark muttering. The Night.

  For the second time in a day, I feel it coming closer, far closer than I have ever felt it venture.

  That fills me with a terror far more powerful than the panic of being tied down.

  I can feel my bangle starting to react, my fear coupling with the power within and surging like a tempest.

  The wood suddenly feels less like gnarled roots, and more like an ice-cold shadow reaching out from the depths of the earth.

  “Stop struggling, girl,” the plant sorcerer warns once more.

  I can hardly hear him. In fact, I can hardly see him. I swear my vision starts to go dark as if the Sun has been extinguished in the sky.

  “Yin,” I hear someone call my name, and soon realize it’s Castor.

  Throughout this entire fight, not once has he come to my aid. He is meant to be my guardian, but he’s simply been standing there, watching me fight and ultimately fall.

  I can’t feel betrayed, though, not with that icy touch wrapping itself around my wrists and legs, threatening to drown me in its shadowy embrace. The only thing I can feel is gut wrenching, spine shaking fear. Fear the likes of which ordinary people will never have cause to feel. The fear that your destiny, once so grand, is about to come to a violent and untimely end.

  Just as I feel the panic reach up and coil itself around my throat like hands trying to choke me, I’m aware that somebody leans by my side.

  I can hear the creak of armor, the movement of an arm. Then I feel something being pressed into the center of my head.

  The blackness engulfs me. But not the dark of Night – the simple embrace of unconsciousness.

  I fall into its arms, unable to resist.