ICO: Castle in the Mist

by Miyuki Miyabe

It would be impossible to bring Yorda up by the route he had taken. She could manage clambering up small rises and the like, but he couldn’t imagine her clinging to spinning windmill blades.

  In the end, he was able to find some old wooden crates that he stacked to create steps at a place further down the wall. It was a long way around, but it was better than nothing. Ico ran back to the windmill, growing increasingly nervous with each moment Yorda was out of his sight. He didn’t want to think what would happen if the shadow-creatures attacked while they were apart.

  He spotted her, standing on the terrace, lost in a reverie. For a moment, he wondered what exactly was going through her mind, then he shook the thought from his head and called out to her.

  “You have to go around! I made a place for you to climb up! Around that way!” He jabbed with his finger back toward his makeshift stairs. “Understand?”

  After a long pause, she started walking. From his high vantage point, he could watch her every move and call out to her whenever she was walking in the wrong direction.

  Once she had climbed up to a higher landing, there was another problem. In order to get to the idol gate, she would have to cross a gap in the walkway. It had been easy enough for Ico to jump, but for Yorda, it would require quite an effort, and if she missed, she would plummet to the ground far below. The thought made Ico’s knees go wobbly. “No looking down, okay?” he called out to her from across the gap. Yorda immediately looked down and took three steps backward.

  “It’s really not that far across. You can make it if you jump.” He reached out his arm to her. “I’ll reach out and catch you, all right? Don’t worry, just give yourself a running start and jump when you reach the edge. Just like jumping over a creek,” he said, realizing that Princess Yorda had probably never jumped over a creek. She might never have even seen a creek.

  “See that?” He indicated the idol gate behind him. “If we go through there, we can get to the Eastern Arena. I figured out a way. We just have to get through here, and I need your help to do it.”

  Yorda shook her head and took another step back.

  “Well, I can’t do this alone,” Ico retorted. “Look, if we waste any more time—”

  As soon as the words left his mouth, a black pool of shadow began to boil on the ground behind the girl.

  “Yorda! The shades are coming! Behind you! You have to jump!”

  Yorda took a quick look around, then back at Ico’s outstretched hand. She hesitated.

  “You know if they get you I won’t be able to get out of here either!” Ico shouted, wondering if it were even really true. If the shades grabbed her, wouldn’t they be satisfied and leave? They had asked him not to interfere, that was all. Maybe if he gave them what they wanted, they would leave him alone. He could find another way out of the castle.

  The first dark shape began to emerge from the pool, wobbling eerily as it stuck a misshapen foot out onto the stone. Its glowing white eyes found Yorda and glowed brighter.

  Yorda turned back to face the creature, even as it spread its clawed arms to envelop her in an embrace.

  Leave me. Run. Save yourself.

  The words seemed to ring in Ico’s mind, though his ears heard nothing. A wave of weariness crashed over him. If she wanted to stay here in the Castle in the Mist, who was he to stop her? I should just leave—

  Suddenly, Ico’s head began to ache as though someone had set fire to the base of his horns.

  With a start, he realized it was Ozuma. Somehow, the spirit of his ancestor had crept inside his mind, driving back the shadows that threatened to cloud his thinking.

  “Jump!” Ico shouted, swinging his fists. “Jump now!”

  Yorda turned away from the shadow-creature just as its claws were about to close on her shoulders. Her eyes met Ico’s, then fell to his outstretched hand.

  Finally, fear spurred her to action. She ran and jumped. Then she was falling forward, the wind blowing up from the chasm beneath her feet making her hair and dress flutter.

  Ico grabbed her hand in midair, then her weight began to pull both of them down. He fought against it with all his strength.

  The two collapsed onto the near edge of the gap, arms and legs tangled together. One of Yorda’s feet was still hanging over the edge.

  “This way!”

  Helping Yorda to her feet, Ico ran toward the idol gate. On the other side of the gap, the horned shades stamped their feet in soundless frustration. As Ico watched, two of the flying creatures swooped over the heads of their comrades to pursue Yorda.

  The idol gate flared with light at Yorda’s approach as the power of the Book of Light within her shot forth and pushed the statues off to the sides. The two dashed through the opening. Ico looked back; the flying creatures made keening sounds like wind through bare branches. Then they dissipated into formless plumes of smoke.

  Ico caught his breath. “That was close.”

  A smile returned to Ico’s face, but Yorda remained glum. She spread her hands and looked down at them as though she were having trouble believing what she saw. Why am I still here? she seemed to be asking herself. Why did the creatures not catch me? Why did I not let them?

  “You can’t let them get you,” Ico said. “Ozuma said so. I heard him.”

  He brushed his fingertips over the base of his horns. The burning pain had subsided, but he still felt its message loud and clear.

  When they arrived at last in the Eastern Arena, they found it standing silent and cold. Ico crossed the arena slowly, one step at a time. On the round platform in the center of the arena he spotted dark stains that were almost certainly blood. They were the last remnant of the battles waged here—and of Ozuma’s performance that had distracted the queen for those few vital moments. Not even the many years since the last tournament had been able to erase it. Though the life that had drained here onto the floor had become nothing more than a dark smudge, it still held its meaning.

  When he found the device for opening the large circular window in the wall, Ico felt like he might jump all the way to the arena’s high ceiling with joy. He pulled down on the lever, and the shutters on the window opened with a heavy creaking noise.

  A band of light shot across the arena floor, gradually widening to envelop Ico and Yorda in its brilliance. Ico climbed up the outer frame of the window. From here he could clearly see the light hitting the sphere. It sparkled, creating a glow that seemed to fill the stones all around the eastern door of the gate. Soon, what had been nothing more than a solid stone obstruction to Ico’s escape was glowing with a white, pure light, becoming almost transparent.

  “Yes!” Ico shouted.

  A fresh sea breeze blew in through the window and teased at the edges of Yorda’s hair. She too was looking off into the distance at the sparkling sphere by the gate. Then Ico spotted something long and thin lying on the floor by her feet. He jumped down from the edge of the window and picked it up.

  It was a sword—a knight’s sword. It was covered with rust, and the blade was pitted and marked in places.

  What was a sword doing here?

  Ico looked up at the open window and thought. He recalled the thin gap he had seen between the shutters on the window from the windmill. Could this sword have been wedged in between a pair of shutters to hold them open, then fallen down when he opened them all the way?

  He grabbed on to the handle and gave it a swing. Though the blade had lost its luster, its weight felt good in his hands. This would be a weapon far superior to his makeshift club for driving off the shades.

  Ico’s imagination traveled back to that dark day when the enchantment on the castle lifted, plunging its occupants into madness. Maybe someone had come here in their desperation to escape but had forgotten or been unable to work the mechanism to open the window. In a last attempt to spill the light onto the celestial sphere, one might have thrust his sword into the gap between shutters in the hope of prying the window open, and there the sword had remained.

  They wa
nted to bring light back to the castle—to free the trapped souls.

  Then it seemed to Ico that the band of light stretching from the Eastern Arena looked like a sword had cut a blazing path across the sky on which not even the mist that enveloped the castle dared tread.

  [4]

  REACHING THE EASTERN Arena had lifted an incredible weight from Ico’s mind. He could picture the ruins of the castle now, and the route he would need to take to cross over to the western side. The ease in his mind had lightened his step as well.

  Yet, next to him, Yorda seemed even more burdened by sadness. The light of the book within her had not faded, but her face had. She was expressionless, wearing an unfeeling mask.

  Though they had never been able to speak normally to each other, Yorda’s face had always been a clear signal of her feelings. When danger was near, she shook her head and looked reluctant. At times she was scared, and at other times she wept, or showed surprise, or tried to console Ico.

  Now she looked like a being molded from wax. When she stopped to look around, she was like a statue—a priceless object of art left behind in that abandoned castle. Still possessing its beauty, but robbed of its life.

  Ico pressed onward, dragging her along by the hand. Through a long corridor, they entered a room where the shades once again attacked, but Ico handily drove them off with the sword. The weapon served him as well as he had imagined it would. All it took was one swipe to send the shades back to smoke.

  The sun was beginning to redden in the sky and had dropped to a level with Ico’s shoulder. He picked up the pace. He would have to open up the window in the Western Arena and throw light on the western sphere before the sun set. No way am I spending another night in this castle!

  He climbed up three stories, passing through rooms and corridors with familiar shapes, reaffirming his newfound confidence in the layout of the castle. From the windows he passed, Ico occasionally caught glimpses of the Tower of Winds. It seemed to beckon to him, standing apart from the rest of the castle as it did, but he resisted the urge to stray from his chosen course.

  After a particularly long climb up a staircase, Ico entered an unfamiliar room. He caught his breath. The room was almost perfectly square and not particularly large. The walls were straight and entirely unadorned save for eight sconces in which torches crackled and sputtered, casting their light across the room. Only the very top of the arched ceiling remained in shadow, as though some dark creature lurked there, devouring all light that strayed too close.

  The only prominent feature of the room was a raised dais about twice as high as Ico was tall, with a solid-looking chair set in the middle. Both the dais and chair were made of stone and looked as though they had been carved from the living rock of the room itself. Behind the dais, the rear wall of the chamber had crumbled, leaving a pile of gray rubble upon the floor.

  It’s a throne, Ico realized. Which would make this the queen’s room—the place where she sat, hands on the wide armrests, staring down at her ministers. A shiver went through Ico and he raised the sword. If the queen should appear again...

  Ico steadied his breath, senses alert, but the only thing he noticed was a white mist drifting through the room. Ico breathed a quick sigh of relief and turned to see Yorda standing at the entrance by the strangely adorned archway, slowly shaking her head.

  “What is it?”

  Ico walked closer to her and noticed she was crying.

  “This is the queen’s chamber, isn’t it?”

  Yorda nodded, her head hanging.

  “Was this her only chamber? Is this where she managed the affairs of the castle? Where else might she be hiding?”

  In response to the barrage of questions, Yorda lifted her face and walked briskly past Ico’s side to the throne. She was almost running as she clambered up onto the dais, straining with the effort.

  What’s she doing? “Is something there?”

  The rubble behind the throne seemed like an easier route to the top of the dais, but by the time Ico announced he was coming, Yorda had already finished the climb and was standing next to the throne. A teardrop sparkled on her chin.

  Gingerly, Yorda touched one of the armrests. To Ico, she looked like a hunter maiden, reaching out to touch the fur of a sleeping savage beast, not wanting to wake it and yet overcome with curiosity. Stop, he thought instinctively. Let sleeping dogs lie.

  Holding her breath like a swimmer about to plunge into the water, Yorda slid onto the throne. She brought her slender legs together and rested her arms at her sides.

  “Wait,” Ico said through the thickening mist. “Was this your throne?”

  He looked around. The mist was streaming into the room now, making it a sea of white fog so thick it was hard for him to see as far as the throne.

  Ico walked quickly up to the dais, waving his hand to sweep away the mist. He felt like he was swimming. Is this the queen’s doing?

  “Yorda!” he called out, but there was no reply.

  The figure on the throne was no longer Yorda.

  In his surprise, Ico jumped back and let the point of the sword drop down to the stones with a loud clang.

  On the throne was seated a female corpse wrapped in black robes, a black veil over her face. Her slender body was tilted, leaning up against one of the armrests, one arm dangling over the edge so far the withered fingertips almost touched the floor.

  He could see the corpse’s face through the flowing veil, the strong line of the nose, and the tightly closed, bloodless lips.

  Ico blinked. It’s the queen, he realized.

  Next to the throne, he saw two tall figures standing side by side, facing away from him—one with horns clearly visible through the flowing mist.

  Ozuma!

  He held a sword that glowed with the blessing of the Book of Light.

  “Behold, the queen of the castle,” a low voice echoed in Ico’s mind. He listened, his feet rooted to the floor. “She is our greatest enemy, herald of darkness, child of the Dark God himself.”

  Is that Ozuma’s voice? Ico wondered. Who is he talking to?

  Now the other figure stepped off to the side, showing his face in profile. He wore a slender golden crown upon his head, an elegant doublet, and a battle cloak trimmed with leather. In his hand, he gripped a crystal scepter of the sort that priests from the capital used during ceremonies.

  It was the priest-king of the Holy Zagrenda-Sol Empire.

  “It is she,” said the trembling voice of a young girl from somewhere in the mist. “These are my mother’s remains. This is the queen of the castle.”

  The priest-king hung his head and closed his eyes for a moment before looking up again. “The body is cold. She must have taken her own life and the lives of her ministers when she realized she could not stand against the power of the Book of Light.” The priest-king lifted his crystal staff and turned toward Ozuma. “Hers was a foolish, pitiful life. Now, Ozuma, end it. The battle has been won.”

  “As you say, Your Excellency,” Ozuma said quietly, his eyes fixed on the queen’s remains.

  The two men took a step away from the throne, and Ozuma raised his sword, his chain-mail vest creaking with the movement.

  “The queen is finished!” the priest-king declared as Ozuma’s sword swung down through the air. There was a flash of brilliant light, and a moment later, the head of the corpse sitting upon the throne separated from the neck and fell to the floor, trailing the long black veil behind it.

  “This castle has been purified in the name of Sol Raveh.”

  The priest-king made a gesture in praise of the Sun God, lifted his scepter high, and looked up toward the heavens. The white mist swirled upward, concealing his form. Thick and deep, it swallowed Ico whole—

  Yorda had witnessed it all. The head dropping from the queen’s body. The corpse upon the throne. Ozuma and the priest-king returning to the castle to declare the end of her mother’s reign.

  There was a loud thud, and Ico jumped back as though he
had been slapped across the cheek. He blinked. The white mist was gone, vanished, or perhaps it had never been there at all.

  Yorda had slipped from the throne and was lying on her side at its foot. Ico ran up to the dais, leaping to the top in a single bound. “Yorda!” Reaching down, he lifted her shoulders off the floor.

  Yorda’s eyes were closed tightly. Even still, tears ran from beneath her eyelids, streaking down her cheek. Ico tapped the side of her face, stroked her hair, and gently shook her. “Wake up. Wake up!”

  Yorda’s eyes opened. They were swimming with tears.

  “I’m so sorry,” Ico said. “I didn’t know she was dead. I didn’t know Ozuma killed the queen.”

  Yorda’s face was blank, her eyes unfocused. Ico was not even sure if she knew he was there.

  “It’s all right, it’s all right,” he whispered.

  Gradually, strength returned to Yorda’s body and she gripped his hand. Ico gripped back. Yorda sat up on the floor, but her eyes were still distant.

  Suddenly, Ico felt cold. A chill emanated from Yorda’s body as he held her in his arms, as though she were a pitcher that had just been filled with ice water. He had the sensation that something else was inside the girl, pushing aside the Yorda he knew.

  Her head turned, and she looked at him, her eyes sharp like a hawk focusing on its prey.

  “If the queen has died, then how can she be here now?” Yorda asked, her lips like flower petals in spring, the space between them forming an ugly scar.

  The voice was wrong. This isn’t Yorda.

  “How is it that I still rule this castle, when the sword took off my head?”

  Ico recoiled, but Yorda moved quicker, arms wrapping around his head and chest, holding him tight. Their faces came close, until he could feel her breath against his cheek. Their eyes met. Not Yorda’s eyes, but the queen’s. Bottomless pools of darkness, black as the abyss.

  “Tell me, young Sacrifice. How am I here?”

  The queen’s cruel smile spread across Yorda’s face, but Ico saw nothing but those dark eyes staring into his.

  [5]

  ICO TRIED TO think, but his mind had lost its moorings, and he couldn’t seem to hold on to any thought for long.