A deep wrinkle crossed his shiny pate. His right eye was closed against the blood running down from the wound on his head. As Ozuma closed the distance between them, Judam dropped to one knee.
“I yield!”
The bout was decided. Everyone in the stands leapt to their feet. A wave of applause swept across the arena, honoring the victor. Yorda finally let herself exhale and leaned back against her throne. Next to her, the Minister of Court was slapping his ample palms together, doing a little dance in his joy. Yorda had to smile at that. Then she herself stood and applauded the horned knight.
When Ozuma faced the throne and knelt a second time, a smile on his face answered her own.
That night, even wrapped in her silk covers, Yorda had trouble falling asleep. The excitement of the tournament was hard to put out of her mind. Ozuma’s skill was plain to see, even to her. He would surely win his next two bouts and emerge the victor. Then he would be welcome to the castle as the master-at-arms—
“I am but the advance guard,” he had told her. Finding a place at the castle was his first objective. Next would come spying and gathering information. He would unveil the castle and the queen for what they truly were.
Armed with the knowledge Ozuma had gathered, the Holy Zagrenda-Sol Empire and the fifth emperor in service of the Sun God would come to strike at the herald of darkness.
Should I help them? Yorda wondered. Is my power truly enough to resist the darkness? Or should I turn my back on the Sun God, the great Creator, and side with my mother?
When her eyes opened again, the room was steeped in darkness. She wondered if the questions she had asked Ozuma at the trolley were really questions she should ask of her mother. Why did you tell me your secrets? Why was I given life in this world? For what purpose?
Yorda stared into the darkness but received no reply.
Yorda saw an unsettling significance in the fact that she had learned the truth about her mother only ten days before the tournament began. She wondered if she would be questioning herself so deeply now. And how would she have greeted Ozuma without that knowledge? Fancy a stranger from another land walking freely through the castle and speaking to her, the princess. No, she would have met him with mistrust, no matter how sincere he was or how kind, or how much he reminded her of her late father. The hunger and greed of their neighbors was one lesson Yorda had learned from her mother, and its roots went deep inside her.
Perhaps, she thought, the curious timing of her discovering the truth was the plan of the Sun God himself. Believe in me, Yorda, he was saying. The connection between a person and his god was stronger than the connection between mother and child. Life was to be found only in the light of the Sun God who shared his blessing with all. Therein lay the only prize worth pursuing.
We must not allow the darkness to spread.
Yorda turned over, burying her face in her pillow and squeezing her eyes shut. Father! Why did you have to leave me like this, alone, enemy to my own mother? Then she sensed something—a clear feeling that someone was standing in the room, next to her bed.
Yorda threw back her covers and sat up. The sky was cloudy that night—not even the moonlight trickled in through the window. The darkness in the air felt heavy, turning her familiar room into the silence of the deep sea.
I am imagining things. I’m tired. My worries have stepped outside my body and stand there looking over me.
But then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw something move. It shifted in the night and melted into the darkness.
Yorda turned and gasped at what she saw. Just to the left of her bed, her late father’s face hung like a pale moon.
“Father!” Yorda called out, though her body was frozen. She saw the face smile—he looked just as he always had. That long straight nose, those eyes. Though his cheeks were sunken and his jaw pointed, there was no mistaking him.
He wore a silver crown on which was engraved his family crest—a divine bird with wings outstretched. The clasp holding his short cloak over his shoulders was in the same shape. Blue peridots had been woven into the sleeves of his long tunic, and the edges were embroidered with flowers. She remembered it all, every detail. He was wearing the same clothes he had worn when they placed him in the coffin, when she had kissed his cold cheek farewell. These were the clothes he had worn for his final journey. Even his haggard face was exactly the same.
“You…are my father, are you not?”
Sliding off the bed, Yorda took a step closer, but her father drew away, holding up his right hand to stop her. She spotted the signet ring bearing her father’s royal crest on the middle finger of his right hand. His ring bore only half the seal—the other half was on the ring worn by Yorda's mother.
Memories flitted through Yorda’s mind. When her father had been buried, her mother had tried to remove the ring from his finger, but Master Suhal had stopped her, saying it should remain with the king. This had not pleased the queen, and so she sent Master Suhal away and tried once again to remove the ring. Yet even though her father’s fingers were thin and bony, the ring would not come free. In the end, the queen had given up and allowed the lid to be placed upon the coffin. In fact, the ring was merely an ornament—the actual royal seal was kept separately. Yorda had imagined that her mother wanted her father’s ring as a memento.
The queen had since removed her half of the ring.
Yorda, my beloved daughter.
She heard her father’s voice in her mind.
I did not wish to appear before you like this and disturb your heart or give you sadness. Even so, I longed for this time when I might see you again.
Yorda realized she was crying. “I’ve wanted to see you for so long, Father.”
A gentle smile spread across her father’s face, no different from the smile in her memory, with a warmth that seemed to embrace her even from across the room.
Yorda, I was always with you. Even when you could not see me, I was by your side. Her father lowered his eyes. I did not leave because I could not. I am…a captive in the castle. A captive soul.
“What?” Yorda almost shouted, then she placed a hand over her mouth. “Who did this to you, Father?” she asked more softly.
Her father’s gaze wandered, and Yorda saw in his eyes the same worries that lay heavily upon her own heart. The sensation resolved into a bleak understanding. “Did you know of Mother’s connection to the Dark God? Is that why you remain here?”
Her father’s eyes fixed on hers. Then he nodded, slowly, so that there might be no misunderstanding.
Your true eye has opened. That is why you can see me now. Yorda, my poor, beloved daughter. My wife, your mother, is indeed a herald of darkness, come to bring devastation to this world. I was trying to stop her when my life ended. As my last breath passed my lips, I thought of you whom I was leaving in this world, and my worry was so deep that my heart broke and shattered into a thousand pieces. Yet they did not depart for the land of the dead. Here they stayed, lingering in the shadows—and not to protect you, though I wish it were so.
Yorda stood, eyes open, forgetting to wipe the tears that collected at her chin.
“Is it my mother who holds you here?”
Her father nodded bitterly.
I’m now master of the Tower of Winds. There I am held. Your mother has trapped me and uses my power.
“What do you mean? Do you have anything to do with those dark shapes I saw in the windows of the tower? The ones Ozuma called the shadows-that-walk-alone?”
Yes, her father replied. That is my true form now.
Yorda recalled the twisted shades she had seen. That is my father?
“Why? What’s Mother doing in the Tower of Winds? How does she seek to use your power? How can I help you?”
Yorda spread her arms wide, stepping closer to her father. She wanted to hug him. To ease his suffering. To feel his warmth.
Her father lurched backward. His face, as pale as moonlight, became translucent.
No! She
will find me.
“Father?”
Yorda, I am causing you to suffer. Please forgive me. But now, you are my hope. As you are the hope of this castle and of all life upon this earth. You are our light!
Her father began to fade. Yorda ran from her bed. “No, father, don’t go!”
Yorda…
His voice grew more distant, trembling as he called out to her.
Look upon the world outside. See it with your eyes. The God of Light will show you the right path.
I love you, he said, in a whisper quieter than the murmuring of the night wind. And then he was gone. Yorda ran, but her arms embraced only darkness.
Quietly as she could, Yorda wept. She wiped away her tears with fingers that would never again feel the warm touch of her father. Then, walking softly, she cut across her bedchamber to the door that led out to the hallway.
She did not need to touch the door or press her ear to it. She could feel the presence on the other side of the door with her entire being.
The queen. A cold crystallization of darkness. Breathing, walking darkness.
She’s standing right outside the door.
She must have sensed the appearance of Yorda’s father. She stood outside the door right now, extending a slender arm to open it.
“She will find me…”
Her father’s frightened voice. Yorda held her breath, staring at the door. Should it open, you must look into her eyes , she told herself. If she stares at you, you must not waver. You must stand and face the truth, for it cannot be denied.
But the door did not open. After a while, she sensed the queen’s presence diminish. Yorda felt a wave of dizziness overcome her, and she knelt on the floor.
Her teeth chattered at the cold that seemed to invade her body. Her slender hands clenched into fists. Something was coming, flowing toward her, and it could not be stopped. The truth that had waited for this moment wanted to be free. It wanted salvation.
I must not run.
[9]
WHEN THEY HAD parted at the trolley, Ozuma had given Yorda a pebble, saying it was magic. It was white, no larger than her thumbnail, and smooth to the touch.
“Should you ever need me, grasp the pebble in your hand and call for me. I will come at once.”
Yorda took the magic pebble in her hands now, and after staring at it for a while, she tucked it inside her dress where it would be safe. Walking quickly, she left the room.
When Master Suhal was not tutoring Yorda on history or literature, he was usually to be found in the castle library. The master had been appointed grand chambers of his own, but he spent far more time at the tiny desk in the corner of the library, poring over books and scrolls.
Yorda had never been able to determine Master Suhal’s age. She surmised that no one else in the castle knew either. He was thin and shriveled, with a rounded back, and he walked at a snail’s pace wherever he went. To Yorda he looked as old as the Creator himself.
Yet a change would come over the old scholar when he opened a book. His eyes would sparkle from the deep wrinkles beneath his bushy eyebrows, and he would flip the pages with all the energy of youth. He was a true scholar who had given his soul to his studies, which he loved more than anything in all the world.
Yorda’s arrival in the library caused a momentary stir of commotion among the scholars and students who were there. She had visited the library many times before, but only in the company of Master Suhal, with specialist scholars accompanying them, and only after much preparation had been made.
Yorda tried to smile at the scholars as they frantically scattered, some in an effort to make themselves presentable, others simply to hide. She announced that she was looking for Master Suhal. The old scholar came to the entrance of the library, staff in hand, with a speed she had never seen him before achieve.
“Dear me, Princess! Welcome, welcome!” His voice shook with surprise.
“I’m sorry to come unannounced. But I was reading a book, and I thought to ask you some questions.”
The scholar bowed deeply, his robes sweeping across the floor, and he led Yorda to his desk.
The books and the great library were divided into sections by content. There were no walls. Each section was comprised of a single huge bookcase, and they stretched from the floor all the way to the high ceiling above. Master Suhal’s favorite desk was surrounded by the bookcases where the most ancient history books in the library were kept—the perfect place for a quiet, private conversation, which was exactly what Yorda wanted.
“Please don’t send everyone away just because I’m here. I wouldn’t want to interrupt their studies,” Yorda told him. Privacy was well and good, but she didn’t want to draw undue attention to their conversation either. “I was thinking,” she went on, “how nice it would be if I could just drop in here now and then. It’s always such an ordeal, you see, if everyone has to stand from their desks and bow and put on their formal robes and such. I’m afraid it’s made me quite reluctant to come here on my own.”
“I see. Yes, yes, of course.” The old scholar bowed his head deeply. “Very well, I will let everyone know your feelings on the matter. I am sure they will understand. There is no reason why you should feel unwelcome in your own library, Princess!”
He offered Yorda a chair and shuffled off, returning a moment later with a tray on which sat two cups and a teapot. They were not the silver cups Yorda was accustomed to using, but the years had imbued them with a certain warmth.
“As a sign of welcome, I offer you some of the tea we customarily drink here in the library. It is the fragrance of this very tea that refreshes me when I grow weary after long hours with my nose pressed into a book.”
While they talked, Yorda could occasionally hear snippets of conversations and laughter from the other students and scholars in the library, though their voices were barely louder than a whisper. To Yorda, it sounded like the rustling of leaves or the burbling of a brook—the easy, calming sounds of regular life. She found herself wishing that she had visited the library earlier, even without a reason such as she had today.
Though wanting to speak about the book she had read had only been a pretext, she was genuinely curious about some things in it—it was a book of myths Master Suhal had recommended to her. He listened to her thoughts on what she had read and commended her deep understanding of the text. He also told her of other books, fictions inspired by the myths she had read, and went so far as to get up and bring her several.
Yorda found herself drawn in by the smell of the ancient paper and the soothing atmosphere of the library. How happy she would be if this truly were her only purpose in coming, to forget time for a while and let her conversation with Master Suhal lead her to new and undiscovered places.
She took another sip of her tea, noting the refreshing chill it left on her lips, then returned her cup to the tray and looked Master Suhal in the face.
“Master. As I was reading the other day, a thought occurred to me,” she said. “I wondered if I might not be able to write a book of my own.”
The scholar’s small black eyes opened wide. “The princess wishes to become a writer?”
“Yes. I know that I have many more studies ahead of me and much more to learn. I know that very well, yet I also feel that I may just have the ability if I tried—do you think it improper?”
“Absolutely not, my dear princess, absolutely not!” The old scholar leaned forward and stood, a wide grin on his face. “Princess, perhaps you have not noticed this yourself, but I have long admired your nimble intellect. I have ever since you were but a child. Your eyes see clearly, your vocabulary is rich, and your mind is always agile. You are more than qualified to scribe your own stories, Princess.”
He went on to ask her what sort of thing she would like to write about, and swallowing the sudden quick beating of her heart, she ventured a smile and said, “I thought I would write about my father. My memories of him, that is.”
“Oh. Oh dear Creator!” T
he scholar’s hands covered his face like withered branches, and he raised his head toward the ceiling, eyes closed. “I have failed you!” he said, his voice shuddering.
Startled by the scholar’s reaction, Yorda sat silently, waiting to see what he would say next.
“Princess,” he said in a voice like one who speaks to a grieving child. He took a step around the desk, closer to her. “How sorrowful you must be, and how rightfully angry that I have not provided you any books telling of your late father’s reign.”
“Angry?” Yorda blinked. “No, Master Suhal, I’m not upset at all, I only—”
The scholar waved his hand. “As your instructor, I believe I recommended to you only two volumes on the subject of our kingdom’s history: The Chronicle of Kings and The Golden Gift of God—is that not correct?”
The Chronicle of Kings he spoke of was a giant tome that told the story of every ruler in the kingdom since the royal house had been established. The Golden Gift of God was a more general work, though no less voluminous, that dealt with the geography and customs of the land.
“As I recall,” Master Suhal went on, “The Chronicle of Kings begins with our first king—the one they call the Conqueror—and continues to the fifth king, the one who constructed this castle which is our home. Perhaps you did not know, but the Chronicle is still a work in progress. At the end of this year, the volume treating the achievements of the sixth king will finally be completed. As your father was the seventh king, I’m afraid his story has not yet been put to parchment. Our dedication is to illustrating the achievements of all of our kings with the greatest of historical accuracy and detail, which is to say that our work proceeds at a snail’s pace. I must beg you in your generosity to watch over us as we work with grace and patience.”