ICO: Castle in the Mist (32 page)

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, under 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?

“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 wall 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.