ICO: Castle in the Mist (25 page)

“Someday I will take my place as queen of this world. Until then, I choose to avoid senseless conflict, to be as gentle as the dove and clever as the snake. Remember this well, for it will serve you too.”

With that, she gathered up her skirts and left Yorda’s chambers.

Alone again, emotions welled up inside her, and for a while, Yorda could do nothing but curl into a ball, clutching her knees tight to her chest. The strongest of her emotions was fear, but it was her unbridled sadness that made her body tremble unceasingly.

When she had finally settled down, Yorda realized that she still had questions. She wondered if her father had known about her mother’s true nature or the atrocities she had committed. She wondered too if her mother worried that Yorda might not live to see the next eclipse.

Both were important questions. The first would solve a lingering mystery about Yorda’s late father, and the second would reveal Yorda’s own destiny. But the two questions remained inside her without an outlet. They sat by her heart, leeching the life from it and spreading dark branches to block the light from the outside world.

When a contestant in the tournament fell, they were ordered to leave the castle, and so with each passing day the number of warriors remaining dwindled even as the enthusiasm of the spectators grew.

Unless they came from a particularly wealthy merchant family or were artists or scholars of renown, most commoners never had the chance to see the tournament. The noble houses often ran their own swordsmen in the bouts, and there were many highborn ladies who looked forward to the occasion as a chance to don their finest and and present themselves to the world. During these days, the usually austere castle was filled with bustling activity. Its stone corridors came alive with glittering hair and the scent of perfume from ladies vying to outdo each other, while every hall rang with lively conversation.

Tradition held that the queen observe the final rounds on the eighth day from her throne. At the last tournament, three years earlier, when Yorda had been only thirteen, she had worn voluminous robes and a veil over her face to watch the spectacle from her mother’s side. Yet she had grown ill at the sight of the men fighting and the blood splattered on the ground, so much so that she had missed seeing the grand ceremony in which the queen herself awarded the victor.

Yorda was glad now that she had missed it.
If I had been there and blessed the champion—

Now that she knew the true nature of the tournament, she would have been filled with self-loathing, unable even to lift her head from her pillow.

Not knowing her true feelings, those around her assumed that when she said she would not be attending the final round of the tournament nor the ball afterwards, she was still frightened from her experience three years before.

“When you have grown a little more, Princess Yorda, those brave warriors will steal your heart away,” the minister said with a laugh. “Wait another three years, and you will feel differently about the tournament.”

You’re wrong,
Yorda thought.
I know the truth now. My feelings will never change.

The queen did not compel her to attend. For the first three days of the tournament, Yorda wandered the castle halls like a living apparition. Even in her chambers with the windows closed, she could hear the shouts from the arenas and the screams carried on the wind. They revolted her.

The areas of the castle Yorda was allowed to visit were even further restricted during the tournament. Though guests to the tournament came only by invitation to keep out the riffraff, it wouldn’t do to expose her to so many, said the queen, even if they were of noble blood. Yorda knew which areas were off-limits by the guards in front of corridors she usually walked and doors she usually opened. If she wandered out onto the terrace of any room but her own, she would be scolded and sent immediately back to her chambers.

The guards were also excited by the tournament. Their interest was natural, given that they would serve under the victor, but that was not their only stake in the competition. Soldiers were always drawn to the strong and the fiery of spirit. Betting was rampant both within and without the castle walls, with merchants acting as bookmakers, pooling coin from commoners and keeping the bets coming.

Yorda played a little game in which she would walk around the castle waiting to be seen, stopped, and turned back. Even as she walked away, still within hearing distance, the guards would begin talking about their tournament picks, enthusiastic about the performance of this or that combatant. Yorda wanted no part in it. She wanted to walk up to the guards and interrupt their wagering to tell them what the tournament really meant. She wanted to shout it at the top of her lungs. But she knew nothing would come of it. The queen would merely order her locked away, lamenting that her daughter had succumbed to the stress of the event
.
And that would be the end of it.

There was a kind of intimate fear Yorda felt from the word
confinement
and the understanding that it could happen to her. The feeling was never greater than when she visited the high tower directly behind the central keep of the castle. Officially known as the North Tower, most called it the Tower of Winds.

Atop the island cliffs as it was, the castle was surrounded on all sides by the sea. Yet only from the tower in the north could one see the vast grasslands that covered half the continent. The north was the direction of invasions and barbarians, the source of trouble. This was where the Tower of Winds was located.

Master Suhal had explained it once.

“Our great and glorious castle was constructed by the fifth king of our land, Princess Yorda. By your great-great-grandfather. Yet the Tower of Winds was built some thirty years later, in commemoration of the victory over the nomadic horse tribes to the north, which marked a great expansion of our territory.

“These nomadic horsemen revered a wind god as their guardian deity. The power of the wind must have been hugely symbolic to people who galloped across the fields, climbed the mountains, and kept the great plains as their fortress. When our fifth king defeated them, he took their faith, and the power of the wind god they worshipped, and added them to the defenses of our kingdom. The Tower of Winds was built to worship this god.”

In Yorda’s imagination, the wind god had been trapped in the foundations of the tower. She had never heard of anyone in the royal house being so confined—be it for political reasons or disease—but if a god of wind could be imprisoned in her own home, what of her?

Now, the Tower of Winds was simply another part of the castle, one she rarely paid mind to. No ceremonies of any kind were held there, nor was it even used for housing. Her mother had decreed it so when she took the throne. Yorda had never thought to wonder why.

But now that she knew by her mother’s own admission that she had formed a pact with the Dark God, Yorda had another interpretation for her mother’s attitude toward the tower. The queen would not be able to abide the thought of another deity living within her own castle, not even the long-imprisoned god of a vanquished people. It would vex her to have that prison stand on her own grounds, directly behind her main hall. Now that she, daughter of the God of Light in the eyes of her ministers, ruled the kingdom, she had convinced her subjects that there was no need to rely upon the protection of any deity other than their own. Mother would have destroyed the tower if she could. Letting it fall into ruin was the next best thing.

The central keep and the Tower of Winds were divided by a chasm spanned by a long stone bridge. Yorda stood in the middle of the bridge, looking down at the calm blue waters far below. She raised her eyes to the tower. With the lack of upkeep in recent years, the effects of erosion were evident on the tower’s walls. It looked decades older than the rest of the castle. Most of the curtains were gone from the square windows lining the circular tower, and a white curtain had been left out on the rooftop to flap mournfully, tattered and dirty, like a ghost caught between this world and the next.

No guards were on patrol here. There was no bright flash of color from the leather armor worn by the patrols that walked the castle gardens and the outer wall. It was quiet, which was exactly what Yorda wanted. She had taken to coming here frequently since the beginning of the tournament.

Not that it was a happy place to visit. Thoughts of a god confined for eternity chilled Yorda’s heart. And the only things to look at were the desolate tower and a sky and sea so blue and vast she lost her sense of distance. Standing there on the bridge, she often felt that her soul had lost its moorings and begun to drift toward the sky. Riding on the wind, her soul would go far away. Or perhaps it would be drawn into the tower, to hide in the shadow of the tattered curtain at the top, and from there look down on the queen’s domain.

Spurred by such fancies, Yorda began to wonder if she couldn’t indeed climb the tower. She tried to find a way up. Yet two strange statues stood barring the doorway, and no matter how much she pushed and pulled at them, they would not budge.

The statues were of a curious shape, vaguely humanoid, but blocky and with the odd proportions of primitive idols. Their bellies had separate carvings on them—idols within idols—a warrior wielding a sword on the right statue, and a mage wielding a staff on the left.

Whatever the idols were, they were the guardians of the tower, barring the entrance. Without an obvious drawbar or lock, she couldn’t even begin to imagine how she might get inside. Nor could she ask Master Suhal. He would merely scold her and tell her that the Tower of Winds was no place for the princess to go for an afternoon constitutional.

When she touched the idols with her hand, the sense of confinement she had always associated with the tower struck her more forcefully and more coldly than ever before.

The wind that whipped around the tower blew hard. Perhaps the strength of the wind deity trapped inside had not faded entirely. Or perhaps the god’s strength had withered long ago, and this was merely a natural phenomenon, the wind from the sea colliding with gusts from the northern plains.

Yorda left the idols behind, returning to the stone bridge. She had taken no more than a few steps when she noticed a tall, dark figure standing at the far end of the bridge near the castle. Standing and watching.

[6]

YORDA SQUINTED AS
she held up her hand against the buffeting wind and the sun.
Who could that be?
Even from a distance, she was sure it was not one of the royal guards.

The figure took a slow step out onto the bridge. He continued walking toward the middle with slow yet steady steps, without so much as a glance at the view to either side. Yorda wasn’t even sure whether he had noticed her presence.

Yorda took a step backward. The bridge was long, and the figure still quite distant, but should he mean her harm the bridge was her only means of escape. A few more steps back, and her back would be up against those immovable statues.

The sun had already left its apex and was beginning to fall toward the horizon. The black figure walking with long strides across the bridge cast a short shadow on the stones. Yorda breathed a sigh of relief—if he cast a shadow, he was surely a man of flesh and blood.

As he approached, the silhouette billowed slightly.
He’s wearing a cloak.
That’s what gives him that dark shape.

Yorda took another deep breath and realized that she had been walking toward the center of the bridge too, matching the other’s pace without realizing it.

As the distance closed between them, Yorda realized he was a swordsman—she could see his blade hanging from his belt. He used his right hand to keep his cloak from wrapping around too tightly. A piece of metal armor on the back of his hand caught the sunlight and sparkled.

They were growing nearer each other, but still not close enough for their voices to reach.
What do I do?

The swordsman arrived at the middle of the bridge before her. As she approached, he moved to one side, his armor rattling with each step. Then he bent one knee, placed the fist of his right hand on the bridge, and lowered his head.

Yorda stopped, surprised by the sudden obeisance. She straightened her posture. There were only five or six paces between them now.

The swordsman addressed her in a voice that was clear and deep. “My apologies for the nature of our encounter. I beg your forgiveness. I had no intention of disturbing the young lady’s walk.”

Blinking, Yorda put a hand to her chest. “Oh no, I wasn’t—” she began, her voice sounding rough in her ears. Perhaps she had spent too much time in silence in the wind.

She marveled at the strangeness of the swordsman’s appearance. She guessed his cloak was a traveling cloak. His leggings and armor were clearly leather, reinforced by silver and copper studs in places. The manner in which the leather in his armor had been stitched was unlike that of the castle patrolmen, with larger pieces making for a rougher look. The sword at his waist was wide and double-edged. She guessed it was quite heavy, and the cloth- and leather-wrapped hilt looked well worn.

Yet the strangest thing of all was the swordsman’s helmet. It was the color of burnished silver, with holes for the eyes, yet it covered his face from the top of the head down to the jaw. His ears poked out from small holes on the side, and above that animal horns had been attached, apparently made of real bone.

She had never seen anything of the sort.
He is not of our land. A swordsman from another country.
Yorda gathered her wits and cleared her throat, which was, she realized, exactly the sort of sound a noble lady might make in the situation, which in turn made her oddly embarrassed. She was rarely in public, and whenever the opportunity did arise, she was only required to perform a practiced role, nothing more. The only words she needed to say were those she had been taught for the occasion. This had been the nature of her only contact with the outside world until now. In fact, this encounter might very well be her first time ever speaking so freely with a stranger.