ICO: Castle in the Mist Read online

  “Not at all,” she managed to say, feeling her cheeks blush and trying to hide the fact that she was flustered. “I will allow that I was startled, but even still you needn’t apologize so.”

  The swordsman lowered his head again, thanking her for her kind words. There was a sincerity in his manner that made his respect for Yorda clear—but it was also clear that he did not realize she was the queen’s daughter and princess of the castle. He probably assumed she was the daughter of some noble family come to visit the castle for the tournament. It did strain the imagination to expect to find the princess walking alone out in a place like this, after all.

  Still, she was curious how a clearly foreign swordsman had managed to venture so deep into the castle grounds without an escort or, she assumed, permission.

  “You are a participant in the tournament?”

  The man looked up, revealing a sturdy chin beneath his faceplate. He nodded. “As you say. I thought to steal a moment of time to look upon Her Majesty’s glorious castle—and I’m afraid I’ve lost my way.”

  Yorda smiled. “You wandered quite far into the castle.”

  “Apparently so.”

  “While we speak here, the time of your next bout might well come and go. Shall I show you the way back to the arena?”

  The swordsman thanked her deeply, then added, “And my apologies.” He removed his helmet. It was certainly against the custom in any land for a warrior to address a lady with his head covered—though as it turned out, leaving his helmet on might have been the more prudent decision.

  Yorda quickly bit the inside of her cheek, trying unsuccessfully to stifle a little yelp. The horns she had thought were a part of his helmet grew out of the swordsman’s head.

  She looked more closely at him. His face and cheeks had been tanned by the sun, making his skin as ruddy as his leather armor. His eyes were a quiet shade of gray, and though he moved with ease, he was not particularly young. His voice flowed like a great river, and from its tone and the serene look upon his face, Yorda guessed his age to be around forty. He was the very picture of a veteran swordsman.

  And not just from another country, but another sort of people altogether.

  Placing his helmet by his feet, he put his right hand over his breast in a formal manner. “I am the itinerant knight Ozuma. While I wandered the lands far to the east,” he told her, “I heard of Her Majesty’s grand tournament, and wanting to test my own skills, I traveled far to come here. In the spring I was at last allowed entrance to this country, and it is my honor above all else that I was given leave to participate in the tournament.”

  He spoke of the lands to the east—Yorda had heard of the city-states beyond their eastern borders. Yet in all of her geography and history lessons, she had never once heard of a land of men with horns.

  “Sir Ozuma…tell me, from where do you hail? That is, where were you born?” she asked, uncertain of the proper words to use in this situation. She had just convinced herself that she had made a horrible breach of etiquette, when Ozuma smiled.

  “You must be startled at my appearance,” he said. “I regret if I have caused you any distress.”

  “No, there’s no need to apologize,” Yorda said, coming three steps closer, then taking one step back. “It is I who should apologize. It was not my place to ask.”

  Yorda clasped her hands together and shook her head, and Ozuma’s smile deepened. It seemed strangely familiar, though it was a few moments before she realized it was her father’s tender smile it reminded her of.

  Why would he remind me of my father? The knight Ozuma’s face looked nothing like her father’s.

  “In the place where I was born, all of us have horns upon our heads,” Ozuma explained. “In our people’s history, it is written that our ancestor carried in his veins the blood of a fierce wild ox, protector of the earth. He was our guardian deity, rescuing the weak and punishing our enemies, with eternal life granted him directly by Sol Raveh, the Sun God. Thus these horns are a sign of our divine gift and a symbol of our holy contract.”

  It was the first legend of this sort Yorda had ever heard. “Do all people in your country look the same as you do?”

  “We have no country, my lady. As protectors of the earth, we walk among all peoples; it is our destiny to wander from land to land. That is our story, as it is my own.”

  A wandering protector of the earth—

  Just as clouds can suddenly rise to cover the sun, a shadow fell over Yorda’s heart.

  If this knight Ozuma should win the tournament, he would join her mother’s gallery of lifeless adornments carved in stone.

  Seeing the sudden dark look come over her, Ozuma’s smile faded. In silence, Yorda stepped to the knight’s side and knelt. With her knees joining his upon the stone, she had to look up to see him, and his shadow covered her completely.

  “Will your next bout be your first in the tournament?” she asked him.

  Ozuma blinked before replying, “The next will be my third match. By the good grace of god, I have prevailed in my previous two.”

  Yorda’s shoulders shuddered. It only required six bouts to carry a contestant to the finals. He was already halfway there.

  “Is something amiss?” Ozuma asked with genuine concern. “Do you feel ill? Your face has lost its color.” Yorda’s heart was torn by indecision. Were she to tell him here—but no, she could not. Saving one man would not change the tournament. She was certain he would not believe her in any case.

  Yet, she did not think their encounter could be entirely by chance. Perhaps there was some meaning to him wandering the castle and finding her here. Perhaps the Sun God himself had led him here? Was he not a defender of the land?

  “The tournament…” Yorda began hesitantly, “the tournament is not what you or the others who participate in it believe it to be. I know the truth. But I do not know how to tell you that you might believe me.”

  Ozuma’s concern only deepened. Yorda took it as evidence of disbelief, and her heart tightened in her chest. “It is a difficult thing to believe, indeed. But I know it for a fact. I’ve seen it with my eyes. My mother…”

  Yorda’s fear caused the words to spill out of her in a flood, but Ozuma gently raised his hand. “Wait,” he said. Without a sound, cloak billowing around him, he walked past her side so that he stood behind her. Yorda quickly stood and turned.

  Ozuma was looking up at the Tower of Winds. His hands were at his sides, but tensed, ready to act should the need arise. Yorda could sense his alertness with her entire body. “What is it?” she asked, her voice barely more than a whisper.

  “What is this tower?” Ozuma asked, still facing away from her.

  “It is the Tower of Winds. The legend goes that a wind deity from another land is imprisoned there—though it is not used anymore. It’s abandoned,” she told him, feeling her pulse quicken, though she was not sure why. The wind was as cold as before, whipping up countless tiny waves on the surface of the water below. The sky was blue from horizon to horizon, and the wind whistled around the abandoned tower as it always did.

  Yorda joined Ozuma in looking up at it. The square windows in the wall opened like empty mouths, devoid of life, or like eyes looking inward at the gloom within the tower. Then Yorda thought she saw something move in that darkness. Just beyond the window. Like someone had quickly passed by or looked out at them—a splash of dark upon dark. She could make out the silhouette, only the faintest suggestion of movement.

  Ozuma squinted, as though looking at something very bright.

  “What…was that?” Yorda asked, still doubting she had seen anything.

  “Someone is there, though as to who…” Ozuma said, returning his gaze to Yorda. His battle readiness of a moment before was gone. “Sometimes, in abandoned places, there are sad things that live in secret, able to survive there and no place else. I would expect what we saw is something of that nature. Do not let it concern you, Princess. As long as you do not venture inside, there is
no cause for worry,” he said, his voice gentle, yet his warning clear: stay away from that tower.

  Yorda’s mind, however, was on other matters. “Did you not just call me princess?”

  Ozuma smiled. Once again dropping to one knee, he placed his right hand upon his chest and bowed deeply. “So I did. For I have observed that you are Her Glorious Highness the queen’s only daughter, the lady Yorda.”

  The feeling of loneliness rose in Yorda’s breast. With her identity known, she felt a distance grow between her and the strange knight, shattering the curious closeness she had felt to him moments before. She realized it had been like speaking with her father again, and the loss felt even more acute.

  “You are correct,” she said quietly. “But we are outside the castle proper, and I was merely taking a walk. You do not need to bow.”

  “By your leave,” Ozuma said.

  The knight stood, his back to the Tower of Winds, standing almost as if he would protect her from the gaze of whatever was inside. “Though it is perhaps not my place as a wanderer to say such things, I would imagine that you sometimes feel inconvenienced by your very position as princess. Walks such as this must be valuable to your heart indeed, and I have disturbed yours. Please forgive me. Also forgive me if I beg that I might accompany you on your way back to the castle. The wind blows stronger than before.”

  It was clear that Ozuma no longer wanted to remain here. Though he had assured her there was no danger from the tower, he sensed something dangerous about the black form they both had seen within.

  Yorda looked around, avoiding the tower. There was no one to be seen. This was likely to be the only part of the castle so deserted. If she were to talk with him further, there would be no better place than this.

  “Ozuma?”

  “My lady?”

  “Before, when I spoke—”

  “You spoke of Her Highness, though you called her mother,” Ozuma cut in smoothly, “and you said you had something to tell me about the tournament.”

  Yorda nodded. So he had been listening.

  “I took it from your words that there is something about the tournament, something unbeknownst to me, that causes you great anguish. Lady Yorda, have you witnessed the tournament before?”

  “Only once,” Yorda said, telling him about the incident three years before in which she had grown ill and been obliged to retire. “But,” she continued, “that is not what I wished to tell you about.”

  She wondered again belatedly whether telling him the secret was the right choice. It seemed a terribly ominous thing to tell a stranger from another land whom she had only just met. And what if this Ozuma went and told others?

  “Do not worry, Lady Yorda,” Ozuma said in his gentle way. “For now, allow me to accompany you to a warmer place. It is grown quite chilly here. That, and I have a request.”

  “What sort of request?”

  Ozuma bowed his head deeply. “In my third bout, I will triumph by virtue of my honor at having met you here today. I wager my life on it. My request is this: tomorrow, at the dawn after my victory, I would accompany you here again.”

  He wants to meet me again? In secret? Perhaps he was asking her to continue her story then.

  “You are certain you will win?”

  “By my name, I shall.”

  Finally, Yorda was able to smile. A great feeling of relief spread through her chest. “Then I will honor your request.”

  “The honor is mine,” he said, bowing.

  As she looked down at him, Yorda realized that she wasn’t sure whether her relief came from the fact that she would not have to tell him her dark secret now, or from the fact that she would be able to tell him all on the following day.

  Together they began to walk back toward the castle proper. Ozuma walked slowly, always a pace behind her. They crossed the long stone bridge, and she sent Ozuma on ahead so that they would not be seen together by the guards. Ozuma bowed again, then made his way off down the corridor of brick and stone. Yorda turned to watch him leave, but was astonished when she blinked and found that he was gone—vanished, like a shadow vanishes in the light. As though the noble knight Ozuma and all that had passed between them had been nothing more than a daydream.

  Hearing other people around her in the castle, their voices echoing off the walls, Yorda felt as though she were coming to her senses after a long sleep. She wondered anew at how a mere participant in the tournament had managed to make his way to the tower. Who had allowed him to pass so freely through the castle grounds that he had gotten lost?

  The more she thought about it, the more she realized how well Ozuma had steered their conversation. For all of his bowing, he had shown very little trepidation. Nor had he seemed particularly surprised when he found out that Yorda was the princess. It was all very suspicious.

  It’s almost as if he knew I was at the tower and came out to meet me.

  But who would do such a thing? And why?

  If Yorda gave the order, she would be able to watch the third bout that afternoon from the throne. Yet were she to request that of one of the ministers, they would be suspicious, wondering whence came her sudden interest in the tournament. Though their suspicion would not be much of a problem, she was afraid the queen might catch wind of it.

  That, and she was not sure whether Ozuma’s bout would be in the Eastern or Western Arena. She was sure that if she asked where the warrior with horns would be fighting anyone could tell her, yet that would only raise more questions.

  Yorda spent the rest of the long afternoon quietly poring over her history books. At times, the shouts of exultation and the horrified gasps from the arenas would drift upon the wind like leaves and come dancing in through her window. Each time she heard the noise of the crowds, her heart would race, and her eyes would slip from the ancient letters upon the page and lose their place.

  It was a peculiar feeling for her that she could have exchanged words so easily with the strange knight and even arranged to meet him again. Was it because he reminded me of my father? The thought weighed heavily on Yorda’s mind, yet it was not enough to explain her heart, nor the fact that she had almost told him the secret of the tournament.

  What did she hope to gain by telling him? Had she wanted Ozuma to abandon the tournament and flee for his life? Alone? Saving one man and ending the tournament were two different things. Or did she hope he would take her secret and shout it from the parapets, foiling her mother’s scheme?

  It occurred to Yorda that the chief handmaiden might make a better source of information about the queen than the Captain of the Guard or the ministers. She would certainly be easier to approach—though there was no guarantee that the handmaiden would be her ally. When she came to help Yorda change for supper that night, Yorda inquired, as casually as possible, on the progress of the tournament. The handmaiden’s hands paused for a moment while tightening Yorda’s sash.

  “It’s just that the noise coming from the arenas today was quite boisterous,” she said, feigning distaste in hopes of sidestepping the handmaiden’s suspicions. “I wondered if some strange new type of swordplay had been put on display. Not that it matters how it is done—butchery is still butchery. I know that my mother believes the tournament adds to the glory of the castle, but I do not like it. I wish that it would end.”

  “I do not know the details of today’s melees,” the chief handmaiden said while straightening Yorda’s skirts. “But as you will be attending the banquet tonight, perhaps you might ask the Captain of the Guard. I am sure he has great interest in the tournament and would be happy to entertain your questions.”

  “Now I want to go to this banquet even less. That Captain of the Guard is the worst kind of garden—give him but the slightest taste of water and his stories will grow into trees tall enough to block out the sun.” Careful not to overdo it, Yorda assumed a look of boredom. “Perhaps I’m just being selfish. I should endeavor to act the part of the princess so as not to disappoint our people.”

>   Yorda smiled and looked down at the chief handmaiden. The handmaiden did not smile back. Her face was the same as it had been the night of the graveyard. Yorda wondered whether it was a mask she wore, concealing some truth beneath it—or whether fear and caution had frozen her face completely.

  She would have to be even more cautious at the banquet. There was a strict order in which those attending the banquet were invited, and it changed each day. Of course, all were administrators or higher, but even the highest-ranking people in the castle such as the Ministers of Coin and Rites were not summoned to each and every banquet. During the tournament, only the Captain of the Guard and his deputy attended each banquet without fail so that they could report the day’s happenings to the queen.

  As the Captain of the Guard began his report that night, Yorda pricked up her ears, trying to pluck the valuable information from his outrageously flowery account. He described each round of combat in such minute detail that the telling took almost as long as the tournament itself.

  Yorda waited patiently for mention of Ozuma’s name, or anything about a strange knight with horns upon his head. So intent was she on listening that she confused the course with which she was supposed to use her silver fork. At the other end of the long table, the queen noticed the gaffe and lifted an eyebrow at Yorda as she quickly returned the fork to its proper place. The Captain of the Guard stopped his report when he saw the expression on Yorda’s face.

  “My apologies,” Yorda said politely, smiling toward the captain. “Please go on.”

  “Well,” the Minister of Court said with a laugh and a rub of his sizable belly, “it seems Princess Yorda has not overcome her aversion to our triannual entertainment.”

  “I’m afraid the princess is bored,” the queen said, her red lips curling upward into a smile. The deputy captain—newly appointed that spring—peered at the queen, enchanted. “She resembles me at her age,” the queen said. “A knight’s skill at arms is of no consequence to a frail maiden, is it?” As she spoke, her black eyes stared directly into Yorda’s across the table as if to say: I have told you my secret. If you wish to reveal it here and now, go ahead, my beloved daughter. Ah, but you lack the courage. There is no way forward from here and no way to return. You must bear my secret with me and remain in silence without exit.