ICO: Castle in the Mist

by Miyuki Miyabe

  “I know, and I am patient,” Yorda said. She rested her hand on the old scholar’s sleeve. “Master Suhal, what I want to write is nothing more than the memories of my father I carry in my own heart. I do not think I could do him justice were I to attempt to write about his achievements on the throne.”

  Master Suhal frowned and stroked his long beard.

  “The Chronicle of Kings is a wonderful history book,” Yorda said, “but it only details its subjects as rulers, correct? What I want to write about is not my father as the seventh king, but about my father as a person. How we played together, what sort of things he liked, the songs he taught me—”

  As she listed what she would write, she felt the tears rise in her throat, and she had to stop.

  Father. She recalled his sad, pale face from the night before. His lamentations of his cursed fate to wander the darkness beyond the boundaries of the living—

  She had to figure out how it had happened. She had to learn how she might save his soul.

  Master Suhal rubbed Yorda’s shoulder in a kind gesture. “Princess, you are right to grieve. Your father’s soul has gone to join the Creator. He has ascended to heaven, led aloft by a golden light.”

  She wanted to shout, You’re wrong! He hasn’t gone to heaven. He’s a ghost, a shade, bound in suffering to the earth. She wanted to grab the old man by his shoulders and shake him, screaming. It’s all my mother’s fault! The queen has done this!

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m being foolish.” Wiping away a tear with her hand, Yorda ventured a smile. “Whenever I think of my father, it fills my heart with light. Yet, I’m afraid, it also brings tears. I love my father, Master Suhal. And before the cruel thief that is time steals away my memories of him, I want to put them down in words that they might last an eternity.”

  Master Suhal nodded slowly. “I see, yes, of course. Princess, you merely need tell me how I may assist you, and I am at your disposal.”

  Yorda clasped her hands together and then took the scholar’s hands into her own. “Thank you, Master Suhal. Your help will be invaluable to me. For I realized when I started considering this project that there is much I do not know about my father. I know nothing of how he spent his youth, for example. I never heard of his wedding to my mother, nor how the two of them met. And that is just the beginning—”

  This next bit was the most important part. Yorda opened her eyes wide and emptied her heart of the truth so it would not show when she looked into the scholar’s eyes.

  “I don’t even know how he died. I was only six at the time. I remember them telling me that Father had fallen ill, that I could not see him or stand by his side. Then, no more than ten days later, I heard that he had passed away. The next time I saw his face was when his body was laid in the coffin, just before they carried him to his resting place at the temple where the funeral was to be held—and then only for the briefest of moments.”

  The old scholar’s face was clouded.

  “Now that I think about it,” Yorda pressed on, “I am not even sure what disease he died of. No one’s told me anything about his final days. You must understand how lonely this makes me feel as his only child. I would like to know all of these things, but who can I ask? Do you know anything, Master?”

  In Yorda’s slender hands, the master’s dry, withered fingers grew cold. Where the wrinkles in his face usually told a tale as detailed as any storybook, now they were blank and lifeless. His eyes had lost their sparkle. The passing years had robbed him of his youth, yet now he even lacked that grounded stoicism that came with age. He might have been a piece of sun-bleached wood, adrift at sea.

  “Princess,” he said in the stern voice he usually reserved for lectures. Gone was the spring of enthusiasm he had when he spoke of books. “Members of the royal house must at all times strive to keep themselves free of the stain of death—even when it strikes within their own family. It would not be proper for you, as princess, to know the details of your father’s passing.”

  “Do you mean to say, Master, that I may not know and may not ask about it?”

  “You may not.” The words hit Yorda like a slap. “You should not even think of such things. Lady Yorda, consider your position. Remember that one day you will sit upon the throne. If your rule is to be benevolent, your heart must be pure.”

  Yorda pleaded, explained—even commanded—but Master Suhal would not budge. Exhausted by the effort, Yorda finally gave up. It’s no use. She would not have the truth from Master Suhal’s lips. I’ll have to think of another way.

  “I’m sorry,” she said at last. “Please forgive my imprudence.”

  Yorda stood, bowed curtly to the scholar, and then left, stepping lightly between the stacks of books. Master Suhal made no attempt to stop her. He seemed to have aged a century over the course of their conversation. When he stood to see her off, he leaned heavily on the back of his chair and nearly staggered several times.

  Yorda walked back through the middle of the library, setting off another commotion among the scholars and students in her wake. Yorda smiled to each of them as she passed.

  A senior scholar stepped forward to lead her toward the exit. “Will you be retiring, Princess? The shelves here form a bit of a labyrinth, I’m afraid. Please allow me.”

  The scholar led her down a valley of densely packed bookshelves, their path twisting to the right and left as they walked. They entered a spot where Yorda saw that the books on the shelves had been replaced by boxes for storage. The boxes looked sturdy, with padlocks, but their fronts were fashioned of thick glass so that their contents could be readily identified.

  She saw nautical charts and old globes and other intricate devices fashioned of metal whose uses she could not begin to guess at. Then she spotted something like a long, slender tube. Its length was about the same as that from Yorda’s elbow to the tips of her fingers, and it widened toward one end in sections. A spyglass, she thought, recalling an illustration she had seen in a book many years before.

  “Excuse me,” she called out to her guide. “This tube—is it not used for looking across great distances?”

  The scholar nodded, smiling. “I’m impressed you know of such things, Lady Yorda. Master Suhal has not been negligent in his duties!”

  “I was wondering,” she asked him, “why is it here? Wouldn’t it be useful for keeping watch in the castle?”

  As soon as she asked the question, it occurred to her that she had never seen anyone in the castle, be it the guards or even the court astronomers, using a spyglass. The reason was obvious. My mother’s enchantment.

  They weren’t allowed to look out upon the world outside.

  It wouldn’t even occur to them to try.

  Fingers intertwined, the scholar smiled at her cheerfully. “Such contrivances are unnecessary. By Her Majesty’s glory, our land has been ensured of eternal prosperity. Its rivers, mountains, and even the seas surrounding us are always at peace. Why, that spyglass there broke some time ago, and no one has even thought to repair it.”

  “It doesn’t work at all?”

  “I’m afraid not. Look through it, you will see nothing. Yet, as its design and features may yet be useful as a subject of study, we keep it here. Just in case.”

  Yorda’s heart stirred. It’s not broken. My mother’s enchantments made it dark. She thought of everything.

  But then Yorda wondered what would happen if she were to look through it now that her true eye had opened. The words of her father came back to her. “Look at the world outside,” he had told her. See it with your eyes. The Creator will light your path.

  The beating of her heart grew faster. She tensed her stomach so that she would not begin to tremble. Then, with the most innocent smile she could muster, she said, “It is a beautiful instrument, even though it’s broken. I’ve never touched such a device before. Would it be all right if I picked it up?”

  “By all means,” the scholar said. “Allow me to—” his hand went to his pocket. “
Now where is that key for the storage boxes? A moment, please, Princess.”

  The scholar dashed off between the bookcases and promptly returned bearing a small copper key in his hand.

  He opened the door to the storage box and gingerly pulled out the spyglass, proffering it to her. Yorda took it in both hands. It was heavier than it looked.

  “It’s beautiful!” Yorda held the telescope to her chest. “Might you lend this to me, just for a little while? I would love to examine it at my leisure.”

  “Of course, Princess, but I’m afraid it won’t be of much use.”

  “That’s all right. I don’t intend to look through it. I intend to look at it. The craftsmanship is simply masterful.”

  Yorda lifted a single finger to her lips and leaned closer to the scholar. “Don’t tell Master Suhal that I’ve borrowed this. I want to surprise him later with my intimate knowledge of it!”

  The scholar’s face blushed bright red with approval. He looked like he might melt on the spot. Yorda slipped the spyglass between the soft pleats of her dress and, walking even more quietly than before, left the library with her heart pounding in her ears.

  Back in her own chambers, she quickly transferred the spyglass to a hiding spot beneath her pillow and ran back to the door. She didn’t want her handmaiden walking in and seeing her using it. If she was going to do this with any degree of privacy, she had to take precautions.

  There was no way to lock her chamber door from the inside. Looking around, she spotted a poker by her fireplace and propped it against the door at a precarious angle. When it fell, she would know someone was at the door.

  Yorda shook her head, thinking ruefully how feeble her attempts at subterfuge were.

  Retrieving the spyglass, she took a few deep breaths to calm herself. Her terrace would be the best spot for viewing, but if she wasn’t careful, one of the guards might spot her. She would have to settle for her next best option: a window.

  Fortunately, Yorda’s chambers had windows on three sides, looking out to the south, north, and east. To the south was the central courtyard of the castle, which she deemed too dangerous. She would start with the east. There were no towers to block her view in that direction.

  Yorda lifted the spyglass in both hands, as though praying, and then, holding her breath, she quickly brought the small end up to her right eye.

  She could see the blue ocean, but the light was so bright it made her eye water. She quickly lowered the telescope, realizing that she must have caught the sun reflecting off the waves.

  Even still, Yorda’s heart leapt for joy. It works!

  She began experimenting. Adjusting the dial she found on its neck, she tried different angles for holding it. When Yorda finally had it working, she looked through and saw the white feathers of a seabird skimming the surface of the water. It appeared so close it seemed to fly right by her nose, and she gave a little yelp of excitement.

  Whitecaps crested the blue water. She saw small rocks amongst the waves, sending up white spray where the water collided with them.

  She was used to looking out at the sea, even though she had never touched it in her life. Now, looking at it through the telescope, it seemed near enough for her to reach from her own chambers. After a while, her initial excitement faded, and disappointment reared its head.

  This is the world outside.

  It wasn’t as exciting as she had hoped. She wasn’t even sure if the spyglass was powerful enough to see what lay beyond the castle. Perhaps she would be able to see nothing more than what she already could from the walls.

  Still, it was better than doing nothing. The spyglass, cast off as junk by the others in the castle, was useful to her. That must mean something.

  She focused the spyglass to its maximum distance, trying to see as far away from the castle as possible. It was then she noticed a strangely shaped rock jutting from the waves near the shore. When she lowered the spyglass, she found it was too far away to discern with the naked eye.

  She took another look through the spyglass. The rock was triangular, growing wider nearer the bottom. It looked almost like a ship sunk at sea, with only its sail remaining above the waters.

  Yorda gasped and almost dropped the spyglass.

  It didn’t just look like a sail. It was a sail. A sail of stone.

  She looked closer and spotted people on the deck of the boat. Their arms were spread wide, as though they were surprised by something, and their faces were turned upward toward the sky.

  The stone looked weathered, battered by waves and the relentless wind. Below the sail, the ship itself was almost entirely worn away. The people on the deck, too, were weathered, making it impossible to discern their clothing or features.

  Part of the sail had fallen away, though whether it was ripped before turning to stone or crumbled afterward, she couldn’t say. Though the boat retained no identifying markings, it had most likely sailed from another kingdom. A merchant ship perhaps, one that had earned her mother’s wrath and paid dearly for it.

  Spyglass clasped in her hands, Yorda ran across the room to the north window. Here, much of her view was obscured by the Tower of Winds. Yet she found that though the tower itself was a familiar sight, with the spyglass she could see the windows on the upper stories far more clearly than she could from the base of the tower.

  As she observed the tower windows, she thought she saw something in one of those square, dark holes glimmer with a dull light. She looked again but saw nothing. Perhaps something near the top of the tower was set to reflect the light of the sun?

  Looking at it this closely, she could clearly see the effects of weather on the tower, how parts of the wall had crumbled away and the bricks themselves had begun to sag. In places, the window frames were cracked or broken, leaving torn and soiled curtains to whip dolefully in the wind.

  My father is a captive in there. What did he mean when he called himself the master of the tower?

  Yorda shook her head, trying to will away the sadness and doubts rising in her mind. She turned the spyglass toward the grasslands. The grass was green, and it sparkled under the sun as it swayed in the wind. She looked far, as far away as she could, wanting to see, wanting to expand her world.

  Suddenly her hand stopped. She lowered the spyglass and rubbed her eyes, thinking what she had seen was some trick of the light. But when she raised the glass again, they were still there: an endless line of marching figures.

  Figures of stone.

  Around them, the grass shimmered from pale green to almost blue as it caught the sunlight, but the statues stayed the same, gray and unmoving. She was shocked both by their number and their condition. These people had been turned to stone long before the boat near the shore. So weathered and worn they were that they resembled people only in their silhouettes. Their equipment and clothing had worn away years ago. Were she able to walk closer, to touch them with her hand, Yorda wondered what she would see then.

  Yet the longer she looked, the more she could make out. Here there was something like a sword, and there, the lingering shape of a helmet on one of the statue’s heads. There were horses too, and something that looked like a palanquin supported on long poles and hoisted by several porters. She guessed that someone important had once ridden in it. Now they were frozen in place for all eternity.

  At any rate, it did not appear to be an invading army, nor a merchant caravan. They looked more like emissaries. If only the flag had frozen at a different angle, she might even have been able to see its design.

  She wondered when it had happened and why. All she knew was who was responsible.

  Mother, why?

  Real fear washed over her, and Yorda staggered back, falling to her knees on the floor.

  She had seen the world outside—if only a slice provided her by the spyglass. To think that such horror lay so close, and she had never seen it.

  I knew nothing. The people of our country, even those who work at the castle, spend their days in ignorance, un
der an enchantment. This was what her father wanted her to see.

  Yorda withdrew the magic pebble from her pocket and gripped it tightly. She had to see Ozuma, before it was too late.

  [10]

  OZUMA STOOD LOOKING off into the distance beyond the old trolley.

  “What I believe you saw,” he said without looking around, “was an emissary caravan sent from the Holy Zagrenda-Sol Empire some twenty-five years ago.”

  The ocean winds were unusually calm that day. The warmth of the sun on the stones by the trolley made it the kind of afternoon that inspires catnaps.

  Yorda shivered. “She turned them to stone without even speaking with them,” she said. “A miracle it did not lead to war on the spot,” she added in a whisper.

  “Sadly, it is never that simple,” Ozuma admitted. “Those emissaries may well have had an ulterior motive your mother was right to suspect. The rich land and hardworking people of your country are an enticement to your neighbors. Regardless of what documents the emissaries bore in their satchels, or what niceties they poised on their lips, their intentions were not entirely pure.” He smiled at Yorda. “It is possible that your mother turned them to stone so that worse might be avoided—to protect her country.”

  Yorda considered that. What if, for argument’s sake, her mother were not a child of the Dark God but had obtained her powers through some other means? Would Yorda then praise her mother’s leadership? War is war. What was the difference between turning an entire caravan to stone by magic and sending out a banner of knights to put them to the sword?

  Even without the threat of a “herald of darkness” to spur them to action, Zagrenda-Sol was an empire, and all empires waged war to expand their borders. It was only natural for those with land and power to desire more. How, then, were the Dark God’s designs to rule the world through her mother any different from those of an emperor? How were his desires any different from those of a mortal man?