ICO: Castle in the Mist

by Miyuki Miyabe

  The elder had once told Ico that the Sun God was the source of light, and as the sun wheeled overhead, so did time flow on. What better device than a Book of Light to control the passage of the days?

  “They brought her back to the castle to be the cage of time. You see, the glow within Yorda was not just that of the book. She glowed with the time she held captive. It was she over whom the Sacrifices stood guard, not me,” the queen said. “They watched her, making sure she did not gain back her human awareness. The fools who rule your people sent Sacrifice after Sacrifice, encased them in stone, and let the magic of the sarcophagi transform them into monsters. One by one, the shades grew in number while time outside the castle flowed on. They continued sending the Sacrifices so that Yorda might not escape. But the more time she held within her, the greater their unease became. So they sent still more.”

  That explains why the creatures wanted to take Yorda back with them so badly. That has to be the answer. That has to be the truth!

  The more time accumulated, the deeper their sin. And the hotter their rage and resentment burned. They couldn’t stop the sacrifices, they couldn’t change the custom. The leaders of the empire kept converting people into shadows to keep their lock on the castle safe. It was exactly what the queen had done in the Tower of Winds. Ico understood it with such clarity that it nauseated him.

  The queen nodded slowly. “You see it now, Sacrifice. They blamed me for my evil deeds, yet while their words still sang on their lips, they committed the same acts over and over, for many long years.”

  The duty of the Sacrifice was never-ending. They would never return to their former selves. Pity us, they had begged him. And he had understood nothing.

  “It was Ozuma’s idea that horned children be offered to the castle,” the queen said. Ico listened, forgetting even to breathe.

  “When Yorda was chosen for the cage, he offered himself and his descendants as her protectors. ‘If Yorda is to suffer for this, then I deserve the same fate. I will go with her to the Castle in the Mist,’ he said.”

  So Ozuma had returned once more to the castle, this time with Yorda. He came without his sword, one horn removed as a sign of his penitence—to show that he had lost his right to be a defender of the land, beloved of the Sun God.

  “I greeted them,” the queen was saying, her voice becoming part of the mist that flowed around Ico. “Do you understand why? Why would I let them freeze time around me? Why would I admit Yorda and Ozuma to the castle?”

  Ico himself was frozen, as though he had become stone.

  “Because I was satisfied, Sacrifice. They were doing my god’s work for me! Picture, if you will, the beloved creations of the Sun God here on the land, the very ones he told to go forth and prosper, sacrificing one of their own kind, twisting them into horrible shapes and locking them away across the sea, and then accepting the resultant peace as their rightful reward. Did they really think they could sin and just wash their hands of it, pretending that nothing was wrong? Is that the proper way for men to behave?”

  Another derisive smile spread across the queen’s face. She lifted her hands toward the sky beyond the darkened ceiling of the throne room. Then her hands moved, tracing the shape of a globe in the air.

  “When men do such things of their own accord, then the entire land is an offering to the Dark God. My master takes as his power man’s fear, man’s hatred, and man’s anger. How pleased he must be! I had won. The darkness had won. Now you see why I was content.”

  Now Ico saw the truth. When the custom of the Sacrifices had been established, the battle between light and darkness had already been decided. The long line of Sacrifices throughout the years had been nothing less than the procession of the defeated army. If men were reduced to sacrificing other men to appease the darkness, the Dark God’s reign had already begun.

  The queen had only to sit back and watch the foolish humans do her work for her. Once they had decided to kill not just one person, but an entire race, the way was set. They had come up with their own reasons for the sacrifices, and their own method for carrying them out. There was nothing to stop them. People were always good at justifying their actions if there was a need, or even the appearance of one, and were quick to turn to violence when necessary. They washed away blood with blood, kindled hatred with more hatred, killed, plundered, always claiming that they were in the right as they built their mountain of corpses—an altar to the Dark God.

  The Dark God’s revival was imminent, with or without the queen’s help. The Castle in the Mist would rule the world, and the queen would regain her former glory.

  Ico sat limply, head hanging down, unable to stand up from the stone floor. He lacked the strength even to cry. He wanted to shout at her again, to tell her she lied, but he couldn’t summon the words.

  This is the truth, a voice said inside him. “That’s why…that’s why you didn’t kill me,” he said, eyes on the floor. “There was no need to.”

  The queen said nothing, nor did Ico need her to. “You said that I was lucky. You meant I was lucky because my Mark freed me from the sarcophagus, saved me from an eternity as a shade. That’s why you didn’t need me, why you said I could leave.”

  Only now did the elder’s parting words make sense. He would be able to return to Toksa Village thanks to the Mark. A Sacrifice who could not become a shade was useless. That was why they didn’t want him to tell the priests about the Mark. If they had learned of its power, they would have ripped it from his chest on the spot.

  “How will you live?” the queen asked abruptly. “Now that you bear the truth upon your back, where will you go? Do you have hope, little Sacrifice?”

  Ico had no words with which to answer.

  “Do you still want to take Yorda from the castle?” she asked gently.

  Ico felt fresh tears well in his eyes.

  “You might as well try. I won’t stop you.”

  “What?”

  “I believe you’re actually capable now. You have clearly been chosen by someone or something. Take her by the hand and cross back to the land, if you so wish.”

  “But if I do that—”

  The queen nodded deeply. “Indeed, the rulers of your empire would not forgive you. Do you fear their wrath? Why? You’re strong. And you’re right to be angry.”

  Ico looked up at the queen—a little boy standing at the feet of a maiden.

  “If you really wanted to change things, if you really wanted to lift the cruel burden that has been placed upon the Sacrifices—if you are ready to rise up in anger against those who told you false histories and sent you to your death, then I will serve as your master and your protector. I will give you sword and shield and an army to lead!”

  Ico blinked, not understanding at first. Me, under the queen’s protection? She wants me to follow the master of the Castle in the Mist?

  “I am not your enemy,” the queen said. “Nor is the castle. No, your enemy sits in the capital, reveling in the prosperity they have gained through the sacrifice of your kin.”

  And they must be punished—the thought rose in Ico’s mind of its own accord. He took a hesitant breath.

  “Sacrifice!” the queen called to him. Her voice was stronger, and her appearance more noble than ever before. Her tone was that of a sovereign addressing her subject.

  Ico felt his posture straighten.

  “There is no time within this castle. Consider your choice for as long as you like. And, if it so happens that you collapse before the sadness, and you fall into despair, and you choose to hold your anger deep inside you, then I will turn you to stone and place you among the others here. As I did Ozuma so long ago.

  “But do not misunderstand—I turned him to stone from compassion. Stone men have stone hearts, and stone hearts cannot be wounded or broken. I would show you the same compassion, if you wish it.”

  The queen vanished, along with Yorda’s body.

  Ico was alone, the dark truth his only companion.

&nb
sp; [6]

  ICO SAT CURLED into a ball, his arms around his legs and his chin resting on his knees. He sat like that for a long time, fading in and out of awareness. He might even have slept. When he finally opened his eyes, his body was cold, and he ached all over from the punishment he had received.

  He was tired, and his limbs felt heavy.

  Ico closed his eyes again. I’ll just go to sleep. I’ll keep sleeping. I don’t want to think, I don’t want to do anything. I don’t want to move. I don’t want to have to make any decisions. If I sit here long enough, maybe the queen will make good on her promise and turn me to stone.

  Ico didn’t really care if she did. He felt as though he was made of stone already. He liked what she had said, about stone hearts being impervious to harm. It made perfect sense. A lot of things she said had made perfect sense.

  But I’m not stone. My heart does hurt. A lot. That’s why I can’t stand.

  He wondered where Yorda had disappeared to. Ico looked up at the queen’s throne. It was empty. Everything was quiet. Sunlight shone in through a window along the corridor ahead. Everything was perfectly normal, as if nothing had happened here at all.

  The queen had offered to let him escape with Yorda, but then she had gone and hidden her somewhere. Does she want me to look for her again? Or was she hoping that I would just give up after all?

  Another possibility occurred to him: Yorda might have left on her own. So I could leave the Castle in the Mist by myself. Maybe that’s what I should’ve done in the first place. I’m the lucky Sacrifice, right? Why throw that luck away?

  If he went back home, he could see his foster parents again. Wouldn’t they be happy to see their prophecy fulfilled, their little Sacrifice returned to them to live in peace?

  Then the voice of doubt rose in his mind. Peace? Really? Even with Toto gone? Even though he’s probably turned to stone? Toto had traded his life for the Book of Light. He had purchased Ico’s life with his own.

  Ico sensed another presence in the room, and he turned, almost expecting to see Toto there.

  It was the shadow creatures—several of them stood in a semicircle behind him. Their eyes glowed, fixed on him. For a while, Ico stared back at them as though beguiled, his breathing slow and labored. Save for the slow rippling of their silhouettes caused by the faint motion of the air around them, the shades were stock-still. But to Ico, it looked as though they were trembling, weeping.

  “I’m sorry,” he said at last in a breathless whisper. He swallowed, then said again, louder, “I’m sorry. Forgive me. I didn’t know—you’re the same as me, but I didn’t try to understand.”

  The shades made no response. Ico sat up on his knees, then swayed as a sudden wave of dizziness came over him. His hands hit the floor, and he sat hunched over for a while, fighting back nausea. When he looked up again, the shades were gone.

  Ico stood slowly and walked over to where the shades had stood. No trace of them, no sign of their presence, remained.

  He left the queen’s audience chamber and walked out into the sunlit corridor. The light hurt his eyes. Ozuma was standing at the end of the corridor, his back to a single, high stone step leading to another passageway. His figure cut a dark silhouette against the pool of light at the corner.

  Ico stopped and faced him.

  “This was your fault,” he said. The words came to him quickly.

  With the light at Ozuma’s back, it was impossible to see his expression. Unlike the shades, his eyes were covered in darkness and gave off no light at all.

  “It’s all your fault!” Ico screamed as he raised his fists and charged the knight. A moment before he reached him, Ozuma slid to one side, his cloak billowing behind him.

  Ico’s fist came down on empty air, and his momentum carried him sprawling onto the ground. His knees, legs, and fists smarted.

  “Your…fault.”

  Ico struggled back to his feet to see Ozuma vault to the top of the step. The knight moved smoothly, betraying neither hesitation nor any acknowledgment of Ico’s presence.

  “You did this to me! To everyone!” Ico shouted as he ran after him, trembling with rage. Clambering up the stairs, he found himself at the beginning of a passageway that curved gently to the right. Ozuma was walking down it, away from him. Ico paused, catching his breath with one hand on the wall. “Turn and face me, coward!”

  Ico felt the strength come back to his limbs. He ran, determined to catch Ozuma, to make him face his descendants—Ico and the other shadowy Sacrifices. This time he would answer for what he had done.

  Ico ran through several rooms, clambering up large steps and dropping down over ledges. He climbed, vaulted, and used chains to swing across otherwise impassable crevices. The more he ran, the faster he went, until he felt his body become as light as the wind. Even still, he couldn’t catch Ozuma. The black knight was ahead of him, always visible, yet always out of reach.

  It’s almost like he’s leading me somewhere.

  After running for what seemed like an impossibly long distance, Ico had to stop, out of breath, hands on his knees. He looked up. I recognize this place.

  It was the small room he and Yorda had come to after they first crossed the old stone bridge. He recognized the walls and the columns, the hanging chains, and the positions of the sputtering torches on the walls. There were the idols, and beyond them, the bridge.

  Will I find him standing out there again? The stone watcher on the parapet?

  Ico could hear the sound of the sea. A briny smell reached his nose. He could feel the wind on his skin. He stopped, hand resting on one of the idols by the door. He led me here…he wanted me to follow him. But why?

  Ico passed between the idols, hearing a seagull cry close by. He was standing at the end of the long stone bridge now. On both sides, the sea reflected the color of the sky. Waves leapt, sending up a spray where they hit the stone columns supporting the bridge. Ico felt like he had emerged into the vast space between heaven and earth after months in a tiny box.

  The bridge was collapsed, no, severed, in the middle. The statue of Ozuma stood on the far side, back turned to Ico. From here, he was so distant, he looked barely larger than Ico’s upraised finger.

  My child, a voice said in Ico’s mind. You and your brothers have borne the great burden of my sin these many years. Yet after all this time, nothing changes, and I remain bound here to the Castle in the Mist.

  For the first time, Ico had the strong sense that he was Ozuma’s child, his descendant, the bearer of his blood. He felt like running to him, up to that motionless figure, and screaming, Why did this happen? Why?

  But what he said was, “What do you want me to do about it?” Ico felt the rage rise inside him and just as quickly slip away, as though his body were too weary to hold on to it. He sobbed quietly. “What am I supposed to do?”

  There was love here, the voice said.

  Ico blinked. The seagull was hovering, flying against the wind only a few arm spans away from him, its beady black eyes watching him for a moment before it angled its wings and sped off into the distance.

  Ico walked up to where the bridge had crumbled. He looked down over the ragged edge at the rolling waves far below, the deep greens and light blues swirling beneath white foam. The castle might be frozen in time, but all around it the sea was alive, in motion.

  The sound of crashing waves rose up from beneath his feet, wrapping around him. Ico squinted, looking toward the statue of Ozuma. He couldn’t leave Yorda here alone, Ico thought. Even after she became the cage of time, he returned here to be her protector. He chose this.

  Why? Because he regretted his powerlessness, his inability to defeat the darkness?

  Was he just trying to live up to the expectations of the empire?

  Or maybe he had realized that there was no place for him in the world outside.

  No, Ico thought. That’s not it. It was because he couldn’t save Yorda. He couldn’t leave her to bear the burden of his failure alone. He,
who reminded her so much of her own father when she was a little girl.

  That’s why Ozuma returned and remained.

  Ico’s heart ached as though he had been stabbed. He gave a cry and fell forward onto his knees, hands to his chest where his Mark was glowing brightly.

  There was love here, the voice said again.

  But whose love, Ico wondered. He had assumed Ozuma was talking about the queen and her daughter—but maybe…

  From the very first time he had seen her, Ico had wanted to save Yorda. There had been no thought, no reason—when he saw her in the cage, he knew he had to set her free.

  Ico shook his head. I didn’t know anything then. I could just do what my heart told me to do. But not anymore. Right?

  With his newfound knowledge, why should he care about Yorda? Why should he worry about saving her if she wasn’t to be saved?

  I could leave her and escape this place.

  Or I could take her with me and become a fugitive of the empire. The thief who stole the lock holding time in place over the castle. He wondered what the rulers would do if he took her and escaped, and kept running, and running.

  They would probably find another cage to trap time. But would that save Yorda? Would it save me?

  There was another alternative. He could choose to serve the queen, fight against the empire that made his people sacrifices. With the queen’s strength behind him, victory was certain. Then he would serve the queen, and they would rule the world.

  But what of Yorda? What would she think, she who had wept even as she aided her mother’s enemies in an attempt to destroy her?

  And Toto? Could he be brought back to life by the queen’s power? Would he even be my friend if he did come back? Would he forgive me?

  Ico grabbed the intricate woven lines of the Mark tighter, trying to catch the rainbow brilliance that ran along its curves. Then it felt as though the world had brightened around him.

  Toto’s courage, Yorda’s pleas—how could he turn his back on their tears?

  My child, Ozuma said to him. Ico looked up, smoothing the rumpled cloth of his tunic with his hands.