ICO: Castle in the Mist

by Miyuki Miyabe

  “As one who must protect her people,” Yorda said in a quiet voice, “it shames me to admit this. But what troubles me more than any other thing is the fate of my own father.”

  Ozuma watched her in silence.

  “My mother took my father’s life, and even now that he is dead, she has bound him to the Tower of Winds. I would free him.”

  “That is nothing of which to be ashamed.”

  Yorda shook her head. “Why did she do it? I want to know—no. I must know. My father will not appear before me again unless I take action. His fear of discovery is too great now. I must go to the Tower of Winds and find a way to open the doors.”

  “I will join you,” Ozuma announced. “Yet, though your true eye may be open, Lady Yorda, I do not think you able to break the enchantment that bars the doors to the Tower of Winds.”

  “Then what must I do?”

  “That is something which you must ask your father. I believe he, and none other, holds the key. Pray at the Tower of Winds, speak to him. I will protect you while you do this.”

  Yorda raised an eyebrow. “Sir Ozuma, do the shades in the tower pose a threat to me? My father told me that he is master in the tower. If the shades heed their master, why would he not protect me?”

  With a practiced movement, Ozuma swept the longsword at his waist to one side and knelt closer to her. “It is as you say, however—” His voice faltered.

  “Please speak,” Yorda urged. “I told you, I’m not afraid.”

  Ozuma cast his eyes down for a moment and spoke slowly, carefully choosing his words. “Lady Yorda. The shades who dwell within the tower are, like your father, souls trapped there by the queen’s power. Those pitiful creatures fear your mother greatly, almost as much as they resent her. Lady Yorda, you carry the queen’s blood in your veins.”

  “You mean to say the shades would hate me for what she has done. Of course. How could they not?”

  “That is why your father is the key,” Ozuma said. “In order for you to enter the Tower of Winds, you must have some mark, some proof of your connection to him. His permission, you might say. I believe that is the key that will open the doors.”

  “But what could that be?”

  “That, I cannot say. You must call upon him, Lady Yorda. Only then may we find what it is we require.”

  Yorda stood. “Then let us go at once.”

  Even on a quiet day like this one, the wind around the northernmost tower howled so fiercely not even the seabirds dared approach.

  Yorda knelt before the sealed doors, hands intertwined in prayer. She pictured her father in her mind and called out to him. Please, Father, appear before me once more. Guide me. How might I meet you? How may I open the doors to this tower? Please tell me.

  As she prayed, Yorda felt a strange presence envelop her body. When she opened her eyes, she saw the shades spilling from the tower windows, spreading darkness down its walls, descending toward her. Even when she closed her eyes she could feel their gaze upon her, cold needles on her skin.

  Ozuma stood by her, hidden from view in that way he had of being in a place, yet not being there. She could feel him pushing back the shades through sheer force of will, preventing them from attacking Yorda, driving them back into their sadness, their anger; back into the darkness.

  Kind Father, Yorda called to him. Lend me your strength. With your help, I can do this.

  Then she heard his voice, coming to her like thunder far in the distance.

  …Yorda. Come tonight to the place where your memories of me are strongest.

  Yorda tensed and looked up. The shades covered the walls of the tower like ancient moss, too numerous to count, their glowing eyes fixed on her.

  “Do not worry,” Ozuma whispered. “Shadows cannot long stand before the light.” Ozuma brandished his longsword, and the sun reflecting off the steel sent the shades writhing away.

  “I’m sorry,” Yorda whispered, eyes closed and head hung low. “Please forgive me. I will free you from this prison if I can. All I require is time.”

  Yorda…Let the moon’s light guide you. Come to the place of memories…

  The voice grew more distant until it faded altogether. Yorda stood slowly and began to walk away from the tower.

  That night the moon was full.

  When the sun set, the positions of the royal guard and the routes they patrolled changed, but Yorda was intimately familiar with their schedule. Slipping from her chambers quietly, she sped quickly toward her destination, weaving along corridors and skirting the edges of chambers where she knew the guards would not come upon her.

  The place of memories her father spoke of had to be the trolley. As a child, she had loved to ride upon the trolley, feeling the wind in her hair. Tonight she wore a black robe, her face hidden in the deep hood. Her soft footfalls echoed down the stone corridors as she ran.

  She recalled what Ozuma had said to her earlier that day when she told him of her plans, and the strange question he had asked her.

  “Was your late father born in this kingdom?”

  “My father is the descendant of a family of ministers who have been close to the royal family since antiquity,” she told him. “That is why, though he is not related to the royal house, he was given a title and a crest of his own.”

  Ozuma nodded. “I thought, perhaps, that he might have come from a lineage of priests.”

  “Actually,” Yorda said then, remembering, “my father’s family was in the clergy, on his mother’s side. As I recall, one of my ancestors rose to be high priest of the kingdom. Perhaps that’s why my father was so devout, even though he himself was a man of the sword.” Yorda shuddered, imagining her mother married to a man her own father had chosen for her, pretending to follow her husband’s faith—then killing him to make herself a widow queen and advance the Dark God’s plans.

  Ozuma said, “I believe it is clear then why the queen killed your father, and why she trapped his soul in the Tower of Winds. No matter what truth you learn from your father tonight, you must not waver in your resolve, Lady Yorda. Never forget that whatever else you may be, the blood of a priest of Sol Raveh runs in your veins as well.”

  The silence that hung over the trolley at night was so deep that Yorda might have been walking along the bottom of the sea, yet the cold light of the moon illuminated the rails as though it were day. The wind picked up around midnight. Yorda held her robes closed with a shivering hand as she looked for any sign of her father.

  She heard a creaking coming from the wooden platform of the trolley. Yorda looked and saw the rusted lever rocking slightly back and forth. Almost as if someone were testing it to see if it still worked.

  Father!

  Without a moment’s hesitation, Yorda jumped onto the trolley, grabbed the handle and began to push, her memories of her childhood filling her. Though the rails were red with rust, under the moonlight they gleamed bright silver. It was as though time had slipped back to when the trolley ran every day, bringing Yorda back with it. This was another kind of magic. Yorda was elated.

  With a loud creaking, the handle slid forward and the trolley lurched into motion. At first it tilted a bit to one side, then to the other, but soon it was running straight, the wheels turning smoothly.

  Yorda lifted her head and held on to the railing, giving it a light rap with her knuckles to urge the trolley on. “That’s it, that’s a girl. Go fast, just like you used to.”

  The trolley seemingly heard her request and soon began to pick up speed. Riding on the wind, Yorda’s memories raced ahead of her. She could see her father standing there beside her, hear her own laughter in her ears.

  I still love you, Father.

  The trolley raced on, the wind whipping through Yorda’s hair. It seemed like the silvery rails stretched off into the night sky, that they would race on and on, carrying Yorda from the castle into freedom.

  As she raced along, Yorda soon came to the place where the rails turned to the right, following the outer wa
ll of the castle. Here was another place where one could get on and off the trolley. She pulled the lever back, dropping her speed, and looked up to the side of the rails.

  Yorda held her breath. On the narrow stone ledge by the rails, she saw three dark figures standing, shadows without people.

  The one in the middle turned toward her, raising a hand. Yorda desperately grabbed the handle, summoning all her strength to slow the trolley. The wheels screeched and sparks flew. The trolley wobbled, leaning to the outside of the rails, but it did not slow immediately. Yorda watched as she sped by the standing shadows.

  The tallest was most certainly her father—but who were the other two standing next to him?

  She had glimpsed them for only a moment, but the merciful moon lit their features clearly. The faces were familiar, stirring distant memories within her. The two men were her father’s most trusted advisers, one a scholar, the other a soldier. They had accompanied her father from his birth home when he came to the castle, and he had always valued their counsel in matters of state.

  Whenever the young Yorda would visit her father’s offices, she would see them there. When her father was too busy to play, they would be the ones to console her. Now that she thought of it, she realized that they had often been there when her father took her for trolley rides. They would smile and wave, remaining out of the way until it was time to return inside, when they would help Yorda as she stepped off the trolley.

  They were kind gentlemen, with clever minds and a sense of loyalty as deep as the sea. Only now did she realize that they had disappeared from the castle after her father’s death. Yorda had been too young at the time to even wonder where they had gone, and no one bothered to explain to a child what became of advisors when they were no longer needed. Even had she realized, the shock of losing her father was so great, she would have had no tears left for them.

  But now she saw they were reunited with her father. Her mother’s curse had bound them to the Tower of Winds too.

  Eventually, the trolley came to a stop. Yorda leapt out and ran back along the tracks, toward the platform she had passed. She tripped once but didn’t feel the pain. The platform seemed impossibly far behind.

  “Father, Father!” she called out, crawling up onto the stones.

  But the shades were gone.

  Panting to catch her breath, Yorda looked around. Abandoned materials sat in piles, and a marker of some kind stood at an angle, casting a curious shadow across the stones.

  When she lowered her eyes again, despondent, she caught a glimmer of light a short distance away. Something that sparkled like gold. She approached and slowly knelt, reaching out her hands.

  The golden glimmer did not fade. The object felt hard to Yorda’s fingertips. She picked it up and placed it in her palm.

  It was her father’s signet ring.

  Yorda.

  Her father’s voice filled her mind.

  That is a token of love once sworn in sincerity, even as it is proof of a broken promise, a gravestone for a sacrificed soul. The ring will open the way into the tower.

  Yorda gripped the ring tightly.

  Beloved daughter. This will be the last time I can venture forth from the tower to appear before you. The queen has sensed my presence outside of the prison she built for me. The closer I come to you, the more danger I place you in. I’m sorry I cannot guide you myself or lend you further aid. Please forgive your father.

  “Father!”

  Yorda shouted into the empty night. She caught her father’s voice again, receding on the wind.

  You will face many unpleasant truths within the tower. The most difficult of these will be the truth that your father is no longer the man he was.

  As master of the tower, I possess none of my former nobility and little of my reason. Barred from entering the underworld and cut off from the joys of life while still tied to this world, as a captive, a shade, I live in eternal suffering. To me in the tower, you would not be a beloved daughter, but prey to be possessed and devoured. That is what your mother, my wife who swore her undying love, has made of me.

  That ring you now hold is the only weapon by which you may stave off the shades that serve me within. It will open the way for you and protect you. Keep it close to your person and never let it go.

  Yorda clutched her father’s gold signet ring tightly to her chest. Fighting back the tears, she stood straight and spoke, her voice piercing the moonlit silence. “I understand, Father. I will go to the Tower of Winds. And I will free you!”

  How cruel a father I am to ask this trial of you. You must do more than free me, you must free this entire kingdom from the clutches of the Dark God. My brave daughter, you must climb the Tower of Winds and there claim the true light.

  “The true light?”

  It was her first time hearing the words. “What is that? Is it something in the Tower of Winds? Does it wield some power over the Dark God—over my mother?”

  In the silence that followed, Yorda’s conviction grew. It must be true . That was why her father’s suffering was so deep. He wanted her to destroy her own mother.

  The light searches for you, her father’s voice said at length. Be careful, Yorda. The queen is wary. She must not be watching when you go to the tower.

  …How many times my heart told me that you were better off not knowing, your true eye closed, spending your days in peace.

  “No father, that’s not true. I’m glad I know the truth.”

  Then I pray the Creator will protect you and give you courage. And, her father added in a voice grown thin and weak, though it is not how I would have wished to see you again, I am glad we could meet once more, Yorda. I love you.

  Then Yorda felt his presence leave, receding swiftly into the distance.

  This was goodbye.

  [11]

  THE FOLLOWING DAY was the final day of the tournament. Yorda used the magic pebble before dawn had broken, and by the time she had finished her morning routine and come out to the trolley, Ozuma was already waiting for her.

  That morning, Ozuma was wearing a fresh chain-mail vest and new gauntlets on his hands. While it was normal for a swordsman to replace worn equipment, to don new and untried gear the morning of such an important bout was a bold move. Yorda took it as a sign of confidence.

  Yorda had placed her father’s signet ring on a silver chain, which she wore around her neck. She pulled it out now, showing it to Ozuma, and told him of the events of the previous night. Ozuma appeared genuinely startled when she produced the ring. He was clearly pleased. But not as pleased as he was to hear Yorda tell of the true light her father had mentioned.

  Ozuma’s eyes opened wide. Yorda did not think the stoic knight capable of such surprise. “Sir Ozuma, do you know what the true light is?”

  “The priest-king of the Holy Zagrenda-Sol Empire gathered many scholars together over the last few years,” Ozuma said. “Their purpose was none other than to define exactly what would be required to prevent the Dark God’s revival and destroy his child.”

  “Did they discover anything?”

  “Yes.” Ozuma nodded. “The Book of Light.”

  “A book?” Yorda asked, somewhat taken aback. Demons were supposed to be banished with great swords or strokes of lightning—not books.

  “It is a magical tome. In it are inscribed the spells that were used to stop the Dark God from rising in ancient times. Were a sword to be engraved with those spells and imbued with magical power, it could drive back the Dark God—or so they say.”

  Suddenly, all became clear to Yorda. “That’s it!” she said, feeling her heart grow lighter. “The Book of Light is in the Tower of Winds, I’m sure of it! Why else would my mother hide it and surround it with guardians?”

  “It would make sense,” Ozuma agreed. His face was stern, but his eyes sparkled the same as Yorda’s. “Because this book was created so long ago, no one knows where it rests—or if it has survived at all. If it is here, in the Tower of Winds, that would
be a tremendous boon.”

  Yorda clenched her hands into fists. “Then I will find it and retrieve it! I will drive back the Dark God!”

  Ozuma’s lips drew together, and he stared at her. In silence, he shook his head. Yorda saw in his face the same emotion she had sensed in her father’s hesitation the night before.

  “It is I who should go to the Tower of Winds,” he said at length.

  “No,” Yorda cut him off. “This is something that I must do. That is why my father risked alerting the queen by appearing before me. That is why he came to me with this task.”

  After saying her farewells to her father the night before, Yorda had lain in bed sleepless, consumed by her thoughts. She struggled with her father’s suffering and the love that still remained in her heart toward her mother. Now there was no doubt in her mind. “I am the heir to the throne of my kingdom. I must protect this land and its people from the Dark God. That is my duty as its future ruler.” Yorda stood straight and tall, her voice ringing clear. “You requested my help because of the revelation, and my help you will receive. But do not be mistaken. I do not act at your behest. Nor do I ally myself with the Holy Zagrenda-Sol Empire or take orders from your priest-king. I am merely carrying out my duties as sovereign-in-waiting.”

  Ozuma blinked, as though looking at the sun as it emerged from behind a cloud.

  “If I’m able to defeat the Dark God and ruin his plans of revival, then perhaps I will be able to save my mother as well.”

  “Save the queen? How?”

  “My mother is the child of the Dark God, she has said so herself. Yet she did love my father, and she did bear a child of her own. She is as much a woman of this world as a servant of the other. When the Dark God has been driven back, I pray that the darkness will release her. Like this country, a curse lies upon my mother. That is what I must try to break. That is my battle.”

  Yorda smiled, feeling more in control of her own destiny than ever before. “That is why, Sir Ozuma, I would beg your assistance. Your skill as a swordsman is of great use to me.” Yorda extended her hand toward Ozuma, as a queen does to her loyal servant.