Chapter 33
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 toward 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?
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 anymore.
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 learned 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.