ICO: Castle in the Mist

by Miyuki Miyabe

  Yorda gritted her teeth, enduring her mother’s gaze. The smile on the queen’s face widened.

  “True enough, Your Majesty,” the Minister of Court agreed loudly. “Yet I daresay even Princess Yorda would be interested to learn a bit of the customs of foreign lands. The tournament is many things, not least a gathering of the strongest and mightiest from across the entire continent.”

  Yorda turned to the minister. “Are there warriors and ladies from faraway lands in attendance?” she asked politely.

  “Indeed, there are!” the minister said, leaning forward, his belly pushing the silver plate before him farther onto the table. “In fact, we welcome a most unusual knight to this particular tourney. I’ve never seen a man of his like. And his skill is remarkable!”

  [7]

  BY THE TIME Yorda reached the beginning of the stone bridge, Ozuma was already at the base of the Tower of Winds. He stood gazing up at the tower, his back to the bridge.

  She quickened her pace, pleased that he had kept his promise. She was past the midway point of the bridge, the sea wind blowing against her cheek and lifting her hair as she ran, when Ozuma turned and saw her. He was dressed the same as he had been the day before. His black cloak billowed in the wind as he began to walk toward her.

  When Yorda ran up to him breathlessly, Ozuma once again fell to one knee and bowed. Yorda curtsied in return, but when she spoke, she sounded less like a princess and more like a girl from town.

  “I heard you were victorious in the third bout,” she said, hand to her breast. “The ministers were enthralled by your skill with the sword. The Minister of Court said your victory was a sure thing, and the Captain of the Guard’s eyes gleamed like a little boy, so happy he was at the thought of sparring with you.”

  Ozuma bowed again. “I am honored I was able to prevail yesterday, and even more so that I meet you here again, Princess,” he said in his gentle, resonant voice. “I fear I speak above my station, however…”

  Yorda stepped closer to him, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Let us not rest on formalities. I have little time.”

  Ozuma looked up and met Yorda’s gaze, a question on his lips. Today, he was carrying his helmet beneath one arm. His uncovered horns were striking from this close.

  “You must not win the tournament,” Yorda said in a single breath. She shook her head. “You must not win your next bout. You will lose, and leave. You must escape.”

  Ozuma was speechless.

  “I would not say such an important thing in haste or jest,” Yorda continued. “I have good reason, though it is not something I am at liberty to share. Trust me when I say you cannot stay here at the castle. You should never even have participated in the tournament!”

  “Yet,” Ozuma replied slowly, “even should I leave, the tournament will have a champion. I do not see the princess’s fears being put to rest by my departure.”

  Yorda’s eyes went wide. “What do you mean?” She stepped closer, grabbing his arm in both hands. “Do you know something? Did you know when you chose to participate in the tournament?”

  The wind blowing up from the sea whistled around them. Yorda felt the chill in the air, and she looked up at the Tower of Winds to see, in every empty window, dark shapes staring down at them. In her surprise, she took a step back and would have stumbled had Ozuma not reached out to catch her. He lifted her to her feet and looked around at the tower.

  “I believe they can see your heart, Princess. Your presence near the tower agitates them.”

  Yorda looked up at Ozuma’s tanned face, confusion and questions filling her eyes. “Who are they?”

  “Those who have been trapped in the tower. See their shapes? They have the form of humans, but they are empty shades, formed of dark mist. Think of them as shadows who have stepped away from their bodies.”

  Yorda looked again at the windows. They might have been shadows, but they had eyes, glowing with a dull light. She saw several looking down at the bridge—shadows that walk alone.

  “I…I had no idea such things were here. Often I have walked this place alone and never seen them before.”

  “They are sad, cursed things.” Ozuma looked at Yorda’s face, then put his hand gently on her back as if to push her away from the tower. “When you knew nothing of what happens here in the castle, they had no means by which to notice you. But now that you have knowledge, you know fear because you know the truth. That is why you can see them. And that is why they are drawn to the salvation your heart promises them.”

  It would be wise, Ozuma warned her, to avoid the tower unaccompanied in the future. “It will only trouble your heart needlessly,” he said. “Once they have been turned to shades, there is nothing anyone can do to save them. They are forever imprisoned in the Tower of Winds.”

  “But…what are they?”

  “I must apologize, Princess, for my purpose in meeting you here again today was none other than to test you.”

  “Test me? How?”

  “I wanted to ascertain whether the lady Yorda herself would be able to see those shades in the tower. You can; that means your true eye has opened. Which in turn means that you know the truth, and you have touched the source of fear.”

  “You mean the truth about my mother.”

  When she saw Ozuma nod, Yorda’s heart split in two—half filled with relief, half with sorrow and shame.

  “How much do you know?” she asked. “Why have you come to this castle?”

  Leaving the Tower of Winds, Yorda brought Ozuma to the old trolley on the side of the castle. “When I was young,” she explained to him, “they used this trolley to bring supplies for expanding the eastern wing of the castle.”

  The old rails stretched in a long line from the eastern wing up to the northern side, running perfectly straight save for a single curve midway. A thin layer of dust coated the rails, and the trolley, made of sturdy boards fastened together, was chipped and worn at the edges.

  “When the construction was finished, they were supposed to destroy the trolley and remove the rails, but my father ordered them to leave everything as it was.”

  He knew how Yorda loved the view from the rails.

  “I was something of a tomboy and always pleaded with him to let me ride the trolley while they were working. My father let me. I knew nothing of the world beyond the castle, nor did I have any friends my own age. I was very lonely as a child. I believe my father took pity on me. He asked my mother to leave the trolley there until I grew older and tired of it.”

  With Yorda already confined to the castle, the queen had no grounds on which to refuse him.

  “My father’s duties often took him away from the castle. Whenever he would return, he would take me for rides.”

  “Then it is a place of good memories,” Ozuma said. He smiled at the girl.

  “Yes,” Yorda replied, running her hand along the trolley’s handrail. “Many memories.” Whenever she came here, the sound of her father’s voice and the warmth of his hand rose fresh in her mind.

  The trolley had been unused for some time, so neither the queen nor the royal guard ventured here much. It was even possible they had forgotten it existed.

  The doors to the trolley platforms had been locked, but Yorda kept a secret key. It was the one place she could come when she needed to be alone. However, as the rails ran along the outer wall, and there were no handrails save on the trolley itself, it was not particularly safe. It was even dangerous to step out on the ledge by the rails on days when the wind from the sea was particularly strong. For these reasons, she had not visited the trolley for some time. That, and sometimes she did not want to remember her father so clearly. It was too painful.

  “Here there is no one to watch over us. We can talk in peace.”

  Yorda had stepped down from the ledge onto the rails where she could take shelter from the wind. Ozuma walked around the platform, looking with amazement at the many interwoven towers of the castle, the strips of sea visible between them, an
d the blue sky stretching overhead.

  “The view from here is incredible.”

  “Yes, but be careful. The drop at the edge of the platform and the rails is quite steep—like a sheer cliff. One misstep and you could well lose your life.”

  It was necessary to walk through the castle proper to come here, so though this was a safe place to talk, getting here unnoticed would be next to impossible. Ozuma had said that she need only instruct him which way to go and he would take care of the rest.

  She had agreed, and he had taken her under his cloak. Yorda was not quite small enough to fit entirely beneath it, and she thought they would be discovered for sure, but Ozuma assured her it would not be a problem, and curiously enough, they were able to walk directly through the castle without being noticed—even when they passed by others close in the hall.

  Perhaps in his training Ozuma had learned how to hide himself in plain sight. That would explain how he was able to make his way past the royal guards and castle patrol to the Tower of Winds, and how he had disappeared so suddenly when they parted the day before.

  Or maybe, Yorda thought, it is a kind of magic. If he truly is the descendant of one blessed by Sol Raveh, he might very well have power befitting a deity. Maybe even power enough to resist a child of the Dark God, the queen herself.

  Hope stirred in Yorda’s breast. Yet at the same time, she felt a deep guilt. The queen was her mother. She was not sure that even the Creator, the Sun God who was father to all upon the earth, had forgiveness for children who betrayed their parents.

  Ozuma approached and knelt before Yorda, who was sitting on the edge of the trolley.

  “I know the secret of the tournament troubles you, Princess, yet you should know that in the outside world, there are already those who know the truth.”

  Yorda gripped the edge of the trolley tightly. “On this continent? In other lands?”

  “Indeed,” the knight replied. “Though it may be hard for you to believe, beyond this realm there are many who fear this castle and the power of the queen. In past battles, they have seen her terrifying strength.

  “Yet the tournament has long been the only window connecting this land with its neighbors. There are some, like myself, who participate in order to gain information about this land, and others who participate to become a henchman of the queen with all the power that entails. There are many different people in this world, all with different ways of thinking. There are even those who would join your mother precisely because she is so feared.”

  Yorda thought she could understand that. If it were true that the queen held enough power to destroy not only this continent but the entire world, it was better to be on her side than any other.

  And yet it was foolish to imagine one could join her. The queen had no need of anyone else, nor had she any intention of sharing her throne. The only one with whom she joined hands was the Dark God.

  “Yet over the many tournaments, the victors have, without exception, vanished. We never hear of their glorious achievements in battle, their rise to power after their victory. No one has seen them on the battlefields, leading the charge.”

  Yorda slumped, putting a hand to her head as though she could push out her memories of the gallery of statues beneath the graveyard.

  “There are those—people who want peace in this world under Sol Raveh’s benevolent eyes—who would like to know what became of them. To learn what is going on within the queen’s domain and what will happen next. Not from idle curiosity, but from a sense of dire urgency.”

  Yorda looked up. “And you are one of these people?”

  Ozuma’s eyes flickered to her face for a moment. “It is as you say,” he replied. “Princess Yorda, are you aware of the large country, the Holy Zagrenda-Sol Empire, that stretches from far to the east down to the south?”

  She had learned of all their neighboring lands in Master Suhal’s lectures. “Yes, but I had never heard it called holy before.”

  Ozuma smiled faintly. “Its name was changed only three years ago. The founding royal family of the empire consider themselves descendants of Sol Raveh and bear his sign as their family crest.”

  “Not just priests of Sol Raveh, but actual ancestors?”

  “Indeed.”

  A few days ago, Yorda would have laughed, but now that she knew that her mother was the child of the Dark God, it did not seem quite so preposterous.

  “Princess, all men worship the gods and seek connections to them in any number of ways. Royal families and imperial houses desire a close connection to the divine all the more. Creating legends and stories to spread the word of one’s own divine heritage is merely another strategy a ruler may employ. What is important is that the people believe, and they are able to display sufficient strength to keep the peace within their domain.”

  In these respects, Ozuma told her, the Zagrenda-Sol Empire had been successful.

  “Not only do they command a powerful army, but they have developed their lands well to make the country rich. They support merchants in their business and scholars in their endeavors. It is a place not only of material wealth, but spiritual wealth. I do not claim it is a paradise on earth, where all things proceed according to some divine plan. Zagrenda-Sol has her difficulties, as any country does—many, in fact. But these are ultimately inconsequential. No one expects us to be able to create a heavenly paradise during our lives on this earth, and a ruler would be foolish to promise such.”

  “And yet they call themselves a holy empire?”

  Ozuma nodded. “The cathedral of Zagrenda-Sol is impressive indeed. It was constructed over a century ago, yet it boasts a tower high enough to catch the light of the morning star, and the bell tower is wide enough to house an entire village. It takes one hundred strongmen just to sound the vesper bells.”

  Three years earlier, the knight explained, the fifth emperor of Zagrenda-Sol took his throne at the young age of twenty-five. As dictated by law, his coronation took place in the cathedral, and there, the young emperor had received a revelation.

  “In the revelation, the emperor learned that a herald of darkness had appeared upon the land, and that he, as the descendant of Sol Raveh, was to take a great sword of the purest light to destroy it. It was, in essence, a declaration of holy war. After changing the name of his country to the Holy Zagrenda-Sol Empire, he appointed the great cathedral as his headquarters for the coming war. He then created the position of priest-king in the cathedral and declared himself the first. Nothing of the kind had ever happened before in the long history of the empire.”

  While an emperor has the power to assemble and command an army within his own realm, a priest-king is a servant of the Sun God, the knight said, with the authority to assemble a great army from believers in all lands. In theory, the priest-king could call on anyone living where the Sun God is worshipped.

  “After this declaration, the emperor sent out messengers across the continent, putting out a call to arms. I am sure one came here for your mother as well.”

  “My mother? Is she not feared by the people beyond our borders?”

  “Of course. Even in the Holy Zagrenda-Sol Empire, they had concerns about the queen’s power. No one knew that she, and the power she wielded, was the very herald of darkness foretold in the emperor’s revelation. But as a matter of precaution they sent a messenger to ask her assistance in the coming battle. It was a test.”

  Yorda knew little of governance. Yet she had an idea of how her mother would have taken such news. She pictured those beautifully sculpted eyebrows lifting at the words herald of darkness upon the land, and at the announcement that the children of the Sun God had declared holy war against that darkness.

  Against her.

  Yorda wondered if she had been frightened—or perhaps she had merely laughed. Either way, she could not take action until the time of the next eclipse, when the Dark God’s power obscured the sun. Until that day, the queen would have to quietly gather her strength.

  “The q
ueen did not respond to the emperor’s request,” Ozuma said, his voice sinking. He sounded almost sympathetic. “This, of course, deepened the suspicions of the priest-king. Even as he assembled his forces, the emperor had countless scholars and magi working to answer the question of what exactly these signs of darkness were meant to indicate. The emperor himself spent many days in contemplation and study of the revelation’s meaning. And, just recently—”

  Yorda shook her head, cutting him off. “They found that the herald was my mother.”

  Ozuma bowed deeply. “I am truly sorry, Princess.”

  Yorda sighed and covered her face with her hands. She felt as though she had been wounded deep in her chest and bled sadness from the wound.

  Yet in her sorrow she also found solace . I am not alone. I’m not the only one that knows of my mother’s pact with the terrifying lord of the underworld.

  I have friends in the world outside—I hope.

  Ozuma put a hand to his chest. “I am but the advance guard,” he said, though Yorda detected that there was something he left unsaid.

  “In other words, you are one of the warriors of our god summoned to the cause by the priest-king. You’re here to find out what happens to the victors of the tournament—not just as the victor, but as the greatest warrior to participate in the history of the tournament.”

  “It is as you say.”

  For a time, Yorda was silent, feeling unease and doubt weighing on the scales of her heart. Every time she remembered what her mother had done, it chilled her to the bone, yet she did not think she should be so willing to accept everything that this strange knight told her at face value. The herald of darkness certainly sounded like her mother. Yet that was no proof that the knight’s tale was not a false tapestry woven from threads of the truth.