Chapter 2
When I’m not training in secret with Castor, I live a very boring and simple life. Our village is high in the mountains, a good trek from the main city of the Kingdom. Though on a quiet and still and bright night you can see the lights of the city flickering far away in the valley, most of the time it’s out of sight and out of mind.
Which, if you ask me, is a good thing. On the few occasions I’ve met people from the capital, I’ve always come away thinking they’re arrogant, flashy, and out of touch with reality. And, no doubt, they go away thinking I’m simple, ignorant, plain, and boring. But I can live with that.
I prefer a quiet life. I train in the mornings, early, well before dawn, then I help Castor out by collecting ingredients for his medicines. Then, after dusk, I train some more, before going to bed.
That’s my life.
Or at least it will be for a few more precious years.
Because soon, soon the end will come. The final year of the age. It is during that year that I will have to fight. I will have to hold back the Night. If I can’t, there will be no more age for our kingdom, for there will be no day in which to live.
Though I understand that, I don’t know as much about my destiny as I would like; what I know I’ve learned from old, tattered scrolls encrusted with the blood and tears of former saviors.
Still, whatever the exact details, the conclusion will be the same. Either I fight and win, or lose and die, taking everyone else with me.
Despite the burden that rests on my shoulders, I like to think I don’t have a particularly morose personality. You don’t see me walking around, my eyes filled with tears, my lips never curling into a smile. Nor do I sit tucked up on my bed, the blankets pulled high over my head as I shudder and shake at the destiny that awaits me.
No. For the most part, I try not to think about it. While Castor thinks that’s a sign of weakness, I’m not so sure it is.
I want to live while I can. I want to smile and laugh while time allows it.
Who knows what will happen in the year that ends the age. So I have to live now.
It’s with that philosophy that I smile as I bathe after my training session, dressing in a simple tunic with black, light pants. Strapping some well-worn sandals onto my feet, I don’t even bother to run a brush through my thick black hair. It usually sits on my shoulders like a wild, matted lion’s mane. It’s more of a hat or a cape, and less like hair. But I like it that way. Plus, who do I have to impress? The trees? The woodland creatures? The snow-covered crags? While there are people in my village, as it would be a pretty lonely village if it was just me, they tend to avoid me. I’m just the girl who collects Castor’s herbs. The strange creature that lives with him in his lonely mountain home.
They all think I’m his apprentice in herbal medicine. In a way, I am. But my apprenticeship runs much further than just learning the medicinal healing qualities of the mountain herbs. Castor instructs me in the art of combat, strategy, and endurance.
Still, despite the fact I’m somewhat of a village pariah, I’m never lonely.
As the Savior, I have a natural affinity for the land and its animals. A babbling brook can just as easily keep me company as a hall full of friends. I often prefer to walk on my own in the high mountains, with only the hawks and mountain lions to talk to.
Still, being the Savior does not prevent boredom. Right now, as I finish buttoning my tunic and patting down my pants, I chew on the edge of my fingernail as I stare out of the window.
Then, far off down the path, I see movement.
People hardly ever make the extra trek up from the village all the way to Castor’s home unless they need something.
Yet as I peer through the window, I catch sight of a hobbling man resting hard on the shoulder of a large woman.
I instantly recognize them as a mother and son from the village. And, with one look at the particular stride of the son’s hobble, it’s easy to conclude he’s broken his leg.
“Castor,” I call as I pull my well-chewed nails from my mouth, “we’ve got visitors.”
I needn’t have bothered shouting out to him; by the time I finish, I see he’s already making his way down the path to greet our visitors.
Castor has a strong stance about him, and for a good reason. He is one of the toughest people I have ever met.
He is the embodiment of true grit. Nothing but blazing eyes, a curly gray beard, and pure, undiluted will.
Right now as he walks down, I can see the mother visibly relax. Her broad shoulders shift in, and I see her chest push out in a deep sigh.
“Right,” I mumble to myself as I press a hand against the cool glass and shift forward, getting a better view. “Stop spying and get the room prepared,” I chide.
Finally, I take my own advice, push away, and dart quickly across the room.
At the back of Castor’s house is a large room he uses solely to treat his patients. There is a table with a sheet over the top that I have to wash every day, regardless of whether it’s been used. And around the sides of the room are shelves and tables and old wooden chests. Stacked on top of them are glass jars full of liquid and ointments and dried herbs and colored clays.
Though I know how to make my way around Castor’s treatment room quite well, there are still plenty of herbs I don’t know how to identify, and a whole group of ointments I have no idea how to administer, let alone make.
Humming to myself as my sandals slap across the wooden floorboards, I hear the front door open.
I feel the pounding beat of footfall as the group makes their way further into the house. Unhurried, I select a fresh sheet from a box and furl it over the table. Then I grab the small tray of tools Castor usually uses to diagnose his patients, rest it on the sheet, and stand back.
A second later, the door to the room opens, and Castor walks in. Behind him is the large mother lugging her son.
As soon as the two of them see me, I see their eyes narrow.
It’s not suspicion.
Nor is it outright hatred.
They’re just uncomfortable.
I watch the mother as she looks from my tunic down to my pants and then up to my unruly hair. She presses her lips together, and I can tell she’s trying to swallow her words. She needn’t bother; I already know what she wants to say.
I look like a boy, don’t I? If not a boy, then I don’t look like a proper lady. From my tunic and pants to my lean, muscular figure, I lack all of the trappings of femininity. I have no adornments; I don’t have time for them. I barely have manners, too.
To underline that fact, I cross my arms and lean back, staring the woman right in the eyes.
Castor clears his throat just as the lady gives a slight harrumph. Then she turns her attention away from me, probably hoping that if she ignores me, I’ll scuttle off and stop bothering her.
“Help your son onto the table,” Castor says in a firm but gentle voice. His tone rings with a comforting timbre, one that can never fail to calm somebody.
“He’s broken his leg,” the lady says as she takes a deep, rattling breath. “He was helping build the new wall around the town hall,” she clarifies as she sniffs, “and one of the stones fell off and struck him. You’ve got to help him,” she adds as she tries to help her boy onto the table.
“A wall,” Castor notes as he selects one of his tools, “why do we need another wall?”
“Security measures,” the son speaks, his voice ringing with pride as he does, “you never know when the Carcas are going to attack.”
Castor doesn’t say anything as he runs his thumb over several jars of ointment, concentrating as he tries to select one.
“Those Carcas have been moving through the mountains,” the woman adds as she plants a ruddy hand on her chest, “it’s up to us villagers to defend ourselves.”
“The Kingdom,” the son shifts up on the table. “We’re the first point of defense. If we fall, those Carcas rats will be able to just sweep down into the
Capital.”
“They aren’t rats,” I mumble as I cross my arms harder and now lean completely into the wall behind me. “The Carcas aren’t going to risk taking their army through the crags. Not in autumn.”
The son, who is still propped up on his arms, shoots me a disgruntled look, but it isn’t a touch on the disgust that flares in the mother’s eyes as she glares at me.
“My son is about to join the Royal Army. He knows what he’s speaking about,” she half spits.
I open my mouth to retort, but Castor gets there first, “Yin, please go and select some yaron lotion from the store room.”
“We’re all out,” I point out as I pull myself off the wall and unhook my arms. I still shoot the woman a challenging look for good measure, though.
“Then you will need to go and collect some more yaron leaves, I’m afraid,” Castor says quietly.
While his voice barely registers above a hush, that doesn’t hide his pointed tone.
He wants me out of this room before I come to blows with this woman and her son.
Fine.
Shaking my head, and mumbling a, “right,” I quickly retreat.
As I walk through the door and out into the drafty, dark hall beyond, I can’t help but overhear the woman as she points out, “what a dull girl. I see why her parents gave her up to be a herbalist; she will never be marriage material.”
Marriage material?
Oh sure, I’ll never make a good wife. But I’ll make a great Savior. I won’t cook and clean and keep house, and nor will I massage some man’s ego while he treats me like dirt.
I will, however, save the world.
I’ll learn the ancient arts of sorcery and summoning, and I’ll hold back the Night for the last year of the ages. That seems a trifle more important than marrying some hick and being a good woman.
Feeling a rush of frustration, I strike out at the wall. With distracting ease, I punch right through the beams, shards of wood cracking around my knuckles.
Now that’s how I keep house.
.…
Though of course Castor will probably make me fix that hole right up when I get back, it feels momentarily good to strike out.
It feels like, with a simple punch, I can strike right through the idiotic traditions of those small-minded villagers.
I’m no fool, and I know it will take more than lashing out, but it still feels good. Especially when I imagine that woman’s reaction to the hole I’ve left in the wall. I can just see her round, permanently-red cheeks puffing out as her eyebrows shoot up behind her fringe. “Ladies don’t punch walls,” she’d likely say.
Yep. Ladies don’t.
But I’m not and never will be a lady.
With that thought filling my mind, I yank open the front door and jog up the path that leads to the woods.
As soon as I walk under the canopy of those great, gnarled trees that border the forest, I let out a sigh.
Then another. I even let my eyes roll into the back of my head.
As I breathe in the fresh mountain air, I let it soothe me as only nature can.
I understand nature. Nature doesn’t give one hoot that I don’t dress in lace and carry a parasol. Neither does nature care that I won’t make a good wife someday.
That’s why I’ve always liked the outdoors.
As I patrol the forest, looking for yaron leaves and just generally wasting time, the sun rises high in the sky. Though it’s tipping into autumn, and the wind now whistles with a cold kiss through the trees and crags, I don’t feel cold.
I’ve always got my bangle and ready access to the incredible magic within.
I usually hide it with gloves or long sleeves, though. Castor won’t let me show it to people. He keeps the fact I’m a sorcerer secret. Though not everyone has the ability to use the devices of those that came before to summon magic, it isn’t a unique skill. The Royal Army is full of practitioners, and I know of a few even here in my lonely village.
As the Savior, I have unique skills, however. On the final day of the age, I must use my abilities to summon Gaea. I will fight alongside her or die trying.
I can also conjure spirits to guide me on my quest. Or, at least I will be able to, once I learn how.
Try explaining that to the simple minded folk in my village, though. While they’ve heard of the Savior, they think she’s little more than a myth. Why wouldn’t they? There hasn’t been a Savior for 1000 years.
Sighing to myself, I run my hands through my hair just as a strong breeze whips past me. I smile into it as I feel its power. Far off, I can hear the wind ripping past the crags, sending a constant, low moan filtering out into the valley beyond.
A chill escapes over my skin, and as I breathe in deeply, I smell rain far off.
I could very easily stay up here all day. I could run through the forest paths in nothing but my worn sandals, my hair whipping behind me like a mane, my arms pumping and my lungs struggling to draw in my next breath. Or I could climb every gnarled tree, leaping from branch to branch as my rough hands scrabble for purchase. Or I could venture high into the mountains and take a swim through one of the iridescent blue tarns, the ice cold water caressing my skin.
.…
But Castor would kill me. Okay, he wouldn’t kill me, but he’d likely make me train twice as hard for a week in punishment.
Still, I take my time as I wander back to my home. I deliberately take one of the long, winding routes that travel along a steep cliff with a fantastic view of the village below.
It’s when I’m walking confidently close to the edge, every step disturbing stones that tumble into the ravine far below, that I see something.
There’s a long, wide, stone road that leads up to the village. Though it’s but a strike of gray against the rolling green hills and slate-colored roofs of the town, I manage to make out forms moving along it.
I also hear the neighing of horses carried far on the wind.
While some in our village have horses, something doesn’t feel right.
In fact, as I stand there and stare, one foot propped on a stone perilously close to the edge, I lean forward. The chill wind whips through my hair, making my cheeks tingle and my ears prickle.
Slowly that feeling that something isn’t right creeps over me. Like the whistle of the wind behind, it steadily grows until it roars in my mind.
Ever since childhood, I’ve always had a sense of danger. It is part of being the Savior. With a close connection to Gaea, I am continually in contact with the natural world. And when malaise and doom descend upon it, it descends upon me too.
As nerves escape over my back with swift ease, I force myself to turn from the view.
Though people do visit our village, and of course merchants travel here with supplies, on occasion we receive so-called official visits. Whether it be from the police investigating some crime, or the tax-collectors, it is usually never good.
Yet as I continue down the path, the feeling that descends upon me is more than simple unease.
The wind begins to roar louder through the crags, and it rushes with ferocious power through the trees and bushes. Taking it as an omen, I push into a run. My feet move expertly through the loose stones, and I never stumble.
I’ve wandered a far way from home, but it takes me less than 10 minutes to get back.
Barreling into the house as if my life depends on it, I practically kick down the door. “Castor, I think something’s going on. I saw horses heading up the road to the village. They’re probably there already…. Castor?” I call as I rush through the main rooms.
I’ve tracked dirt and mud through the hall, but I don’t care. I turn on the spot, my eyes wide as I search for any sign of my guardian.
All too soon it becomes apparent he isn’t in. Though I know I’ve been away for a long time, Castor would have waited for me to return before leaving. While he’s more than happy to let me wander in the lonely mountains, he doesn’t like to leave me at home alone. It’s no
t because he’s worried I’ll make a mess and punch through all the walls. It’s because he doesn’t like people dropping by with only me in the house. Not only am I trite, rude, and dressed like a boy, but I am the Savior, and it is his duty to protect me.
But as I stand there and call out his name one last time, hearing my voice echo loudly through the empty rooms and halls of our house, I realize he simply isn’t here.
Clutching a hand on my stomach, my fingers digging hard into the smooth fabric of my tunic, I start to feel sick. My muscles cramp, and sweat slicks fast across my brow and between my shoulders.
I can’t shake the feeling that something isn’t right.
So, backing off, I quickly twist on my foot and head back through the wide open front door. Jumping the distance between the top step and the last step, I land easily and skid across the loose stones of our path.
I’m about to shout out his name again, hoping that he is just out in the garden, or busy ferreting away in one of the back sheds.
I stop.
About a meter to my left, I see an indentation in the path. Horse hooves.
Searching the ground, I find others.
Then footprints. Large and heavy, they clearly come from sturdy boots.
People have been here.
Though I’ve spent a long time in the woods, Castor still hasn’t taught me all there is to know about tracking. I know enough, however, to realize a group of heavy-set, armored men have been here, and in all likelihood, Castor has left with them.
For several seconds I stand there, curling my fingers slowly into fists. As my nails dig easily into the soft flesh of my palms, I feel the magic within. The power. It always reacts to my emotion, especially despair. Not, of course, that my life is usually filled with despair. But on the few occasions I have ever felt true fear, the power I use to call on my bangle always flared. Now as I stand there staring at those hoof prints, it is no different. I feel sharp tingles race across my shoulders, down my spine, and deep into my legs. With little effort, I could command my bangle to send an arc of magic sinking into the ground, sending mounds of earth more than a meter into the air.
That, however, won’t bring Castor back.
Instead, I close my eyes and tell myself that wherever he is, he is fine. Castor is one of the most powerful warriors ever to have lived. As the guardian of the Savior, he kind of has to be. So, despite the fact it worries me he’s left mysteriously with men on horseback, I tell myself he’ll be okay.
Then I stand there, slowly turning from the open front door toward the bottom of the path.
Castor hates it when I don’t follow orders, and he has a strict rule about me wandering into town on my own. Chaperoned is one thing, but he probably thinks that if I ever head to the village without him, I’ll tell the first person I see that I’m the Savior, and when they predictably laugh in my face, I’ll summon the spirit of the Earth to consume them.
Yet I can’t turn away and walk back inside.
Though I know Castor can look after himself, I can’t deny how fast and strong the wind has become. It’s no longer whistling through the mountains – it’s nigh on screaming. With one look up to the horizon, I can also see clouds streaming in. No, it’s more like they’re marching to the beat of a war drum. In the few seconds I stare at them, they swell, turgid with snowy whites and gunmetal grays. They promise a downpour, and with the wind so ferocious, a storm to remember.
I breathe in.
I can’t deny the sense of danger that fills me as I do.
While Castor is always telling me to keep safe, he also encourages me to follow my instincts. To do what my body tells me is right. To heed the warnings and messages from within.
.…
I walk up to the door, and I close it. Then I turn, jump down the steps, and continue down the path.
I might be contravening a direct order, but I’m following an indirect one. My gut tells me to go, so I’m going.