The book held high over her head gave more power to Yorda. She watched as it grew brighter, filling her with strength, sweeping away the last wisps of doubt as she strode forward to stand beneath where the queen floated in the sky.
Yorda’s hands moved of their own accord, flipping through the pages of the Book of Light. There she found a new power, and it flowed forth in a blinding holy radiance directed squarely at the queen. The light caught the queen in midair, flinging her against the tower.
“Have you forgotten what I said?” the queen screamed. “Kill me and you kill everyone in the castle!”
Suddenly time returned to the castle around Yorda. Everyone who was frozen lurched back into motion. Within moments, screams of terror rose up from every hall and courtyard in the castle. The long enchantment over them was gone entirely now, and as one, every minister and handmaiden, guard and patrolman were returned to their senses, and the reality of what they saw drove them mad.
Yorda did not flinch. Her eyes fixed on the queen, she chose to believe in the power of the book and held it still higher over her head. The Book of Light knew its enemy well. It would not let the queen escape. Again and again, she was dashed against the tower, the white light burning her body, and she howled, unable to escape the reach of the light.
Yorda watched, weeping, as the queen lost her shape and began to unravel into threads of dark mist. Yorda wept more and louder, yet her hands remained firm, pressing the book toward the queen. She was quickly dissolving into the stuff of the black pools Yorda had seen in the tower.
She’s becoming like one of the shadows she created.
Perhaps this was, in fact, her mother’s true shape. Perhaps she was nothing but an apparition, a gathering of motes of black mist. This gave birth to me? My father took this as his loving wife?
The mist dissipated into the sky, winding into the wind, almost entirely gone now. Yorda stood with her legs firmly planted, forcing her weary arms higher. The mist was very thin now, hardly more than the last wisp of smoke from a cold fireplace. The wind picked up, blowing it away.
But a single thread remained, twisting with rage, and from it the queen’s voice sounded in Yorda’s ears, saying, “I will not be destroyed! Look well, for you have failed!”
A powerful unseen force slammed into Yorda, sending her sprawling across the stones of the bridge. The shock of the impact was enough to knock the Book of Light from her hands.
Yorda scratched with her fingers on the bridge, trying to stand. Finally on her feet, she picked up the book and clasped it to her chest. The sounds of disquiet from the castle were growing louder. She heard the clashing of metal on metal, women screaming, men shouting.
The noise washed out over the bridge like a rumbling earthquake. Yorda stood as still as stone, not believing what she saw. On the far side of the bridge, a great throng of people were pushing their way out of the castle, running toward her in a wave. She saw guards, patrolmen, handmaidens, and scholars. The soldiers wielded swords and spears, while the handmaidens bared teeth and nails. She spotted the Minister of Court, his fists clenched above his head as he charged out onto the bridge—at Yorda.
Though they could not have been a more varied crowd, they all had one thing in common—their eyes were clouded with a dark mist. With a deepening sense of despair, Yorda realized what had happened. Her mother, the queen, had turned to mist and possessed them all, driving them mad. She was wielding them like puppets, sending them to kill.
Kill, kill, kill! Kill the one with the book! Kill Yorda!
Yorda had few options. She still held the Book of Light in her arms, yet she lacked the will to lift it again.
This is my mother’s strength. In the end, I could not defeat her. I merely forced her hand and brought ruin to us all.
The shouts grew louder, and the rumble of feet swept closer. Yorda closed her eyes.
“Lady Yorda!” A powerful voice shouted over the noise. “Lady Yorda!”
She lifted her face and saw that the crowd had stopped just a few paces away from her. They were turning, looking back toward the castle. Then their ranks began to dissolve, as new screams of rage and fear rose from the mob.
It was Ozuma. He was brandishing his longsword, cutting down people in his way, charging toward Yorda.
“Ozuma!”
Ozuma swung his sword in all directions, driving back the possessed throng around him, shouting out to Yorda. “The book, Princess! The book!”
Buoyed by his voice, Yorda once again lifted the book in her hands. When she raised it over her head, the crowd on the bridge shrank back, some fleeing altogether. Ozuma pushed them aside, making a path to the front. When he was finally free of them, he ran up and took Yorda’s arm. “Now!”
Grabbing Yorda, he pushed her toward the edge of the bridge.
“What are you doing?”
“We have to run!”
Run? Run where? The Tower of Winds was a dead end. If they ran inside the tower, they would only be trapped.
She hesitated and the crowd regained their fury, advancing, a dark light in their eyes.
“Come with me!” Ozuma shouted. Not waiting for an answer, he picked Yorda up lightly in one arm. He returned his sword to its scabbard, tossed his helmet aside, and ripped off his chain-mail vest to lighten his load. Holding Yorda in both arms now, he leapt from the top of the bridge. Yorda pressed her eyes shut a moment before they touched the foaming waves. Icy water wrapped around her, but her heart was filled with a song both triumphant and sorrowful. The book is safe.
With the Book of Light still clutched in her hands, she slipped into unconsciousness.
How much time had passed since then?
Yorda looked up at the boy staring into her eyes, clasping her hands tightly. I know you, she thought.
And he knew her as well. The memories of the castle—how it had become enveloped in mist until the mist became its name, and fear and awe its reputation—she had shared these with him, through his hand in her own.
That was why doubt now clouded the boy’s eyes. That was how he knew she was the queen’s daughter, the only one who could hope to defeat her.
He knew she had left the castle, bearing the Book of Light, and so escaped the queen’s dark grasp. He knew that when she and Ozuma had plunged into the sea, the waves acted as a veil, blinding the queen to their whereabouts until the currents carried them safely ashore.
But why did you come back? the boy wondered. Why were you imprisoned here? The steel cage that held you in the top of the tower was the cage that once held your father. The cage you fought so hard to free him from. Yet it was you I found lying in that cage. Without hope, sadness your only companion.
And the gallant knight Ozuma was turned to stone by the edge of the old bridge, as lonely as you. Why does he stand there, the knight from a foreign land come to save you, now stripped of his life and the sword he wielded for you? With the passing months the weather wears away at him. He is mindless and cold.
So too do the shadows-that-walk-alone fill the castle once more. The pools from which they spawn form freely on the stones, trying to take you back into their embrace.
What happened after you escaped the castle? the boy wondered. Why, though you held the book, could you not defeat the queen? What terrible misstep did you make that sealed your fate?
Though Yorda could now understand the boy’s tongue, he could not understand her. Still she whispered in her heart:
In the end, I could not defeat my mother.
It had all been in vain. In the end, the child of the Dark God was still master of the Castle in the Mist, and the Dark God still awaited the day of his revival. The threat to their world had not been defeated, merely delayed.
And it is all my fault. I could have defeated her, yet in the end I betrayed myself.
Yorda knew that, though the boy’s language would not rise to her lips, her memories would tell the tale of the great battle that ensued after her escape from the castle, of the tragedy
and deceit that followed. If she just held on to his hand, he would learn it all.
But what good would that knowledge bring him? What meaning was there in showing him the defeat her own hands had wrought? The deceit that dragged Ozuma down, cursing his blood, the curse that spanned generations, down to the boy himself.
No, even if there was meaning in showing him, Yorda did not want the boy to know. Not now, when she was powerless, able only to offer apology after apology.
I should release his hand. I will return to the tower, and he may leave here on his own.
But the boy only gripped Yorda’s fingers tighter. His eyes flashed. “The knight Ozuma was my ancestor. The blood of the knight who defended you runs in my veins.” He stood. “This time the blood will not fail.”
CHAPTER 4
THE FINAL BATTLE
[1]
THE GIANT FRONT gates of the Castle in the Mist were closed once more. Ico and Yorda stood together in the sunlit courtyard. The memories of the castle and its history now returned to Yorda formed a link between her and the boy, a link firmer than his grip upon her hand.
Ico squinted in the breeze, looking up at the gates that blocked their escape.
“We’ll get out, I promise,” he said. On her knees, Yorda whispered something weakly. Ico looked down at her, still not understanding her words. “It’ll be okay this time,” he said.
How can you say that? she thought, her eyes widening. How can you know?
Ico smiled. “I just know. I can see it now.”
He understands my thoughts, even though he cannot understand my words, Yorda realized.
“There was a battle, wasn’t there?” Ico whispered. Yorda trembled, recoiling from her own memories.
“You broke the queen’s enchantment. Then you and Ozuma escaped and took the Book of Light to the outside world. That’s why the armies of Zagrenda-Sol finally launched their attack.”
Yes, Yorda thought, they came—
At once, a new vision spread before Yorda’s eyes. She saw a massive host of armed men, battle-worn and brave. An armada of warships covered the sea. Atop the deck of the lead galleon flew the flag of the Holy Zagrenda-Sol Empire, and on its bow stood the priest-king himself. She saw him closely now, in profile, his face filled with determination and battle lust. The sun lit his face and made the imperial emblem on his shoulder glitter like gold. Ozuma stood at his side, the longsword at his waist imbued with the power of the Book of Light.
Yes, they came to destroy the queen. With her enchantment gone, the seas around the castle were as easy for ships to enter as a grassy field is to a brigade of footmen. There was nothing to stop them. They crossed the narrow sea, made landing by the castle, and the sound of their boots upon the stones drowned out even the howling of the sea wind.
They arrived to find nothing waiting for them—not a single soldier stood in their way.
Yorda jerked her hand from Ico, wrenching him from the vision of the past. The phantasmal armada upon the waters vanished into the sunlight.
A seabird passed overhead, its cry plaintive. For a while the boy stood there, looking down at Yorda, whose hands covered her face. Then he knelt close beside her and rested a hand on her shoulder. “You don’t want to remember, do you?”
Yorda’s head drooped lower.
“There was a battle, but the castle still stands,” the boy said, thinking aloud. “In the end, Zagrenda-Sol and Ozuma couldn’t defeat the queen.”
Yorda was silent. Again, the seabird cried out, high above them in the clear sky.
“It’s all right,” Ico said. He knew the castle would tell him what Yorda would not. He would learn soon enough of what had come next. Now that the path to her memories had been reopened, the visions would continue whether Ico wanted to see them or not.
“Well, I’m not worried,” Ico said.
Yorda looked up at him, her reddened eyes full of pity. How can you know?
“Because of this,” he said, patting the Mark on his chest. It rippled slightly at his touch. “Remember, I told you the queen doesn’t like it? Well, I think I figured out why my Mark is so special. The pattern on this must be the pattern from the Book of Light! When the elder said I was their light of hope, that’s what he was talking about!”
Ico was young and his body, though small, was full of courage and strength. But it was the Mark that distinguished him from the many Sacrifices who had come to the castle before, and that had bade the phantasm of Ozuma to appear to Ico. The elder was right. Ozuma was right. There was nothing to fear.
Now the boy was talking about another friend, a boy named Toto. He must’ve found the book, Ico was saying. Yet the more he spoke, the deeper Yorda’s sadness became. His efforts to encourage her were valiant, but Ico was still too young to understand the dark tangle in Yorda’s heart, much as he was still too young to wonder why the elder had told him not to speak of his Mark to the priest from the capital. Too young to let the little doubts build up inside him and shake his confidence.
There was much he could still ask her: Why had the priest-king of the Holy Zagrenda-Sol Empire been unable to destroy the castle? Why had Ozuma failed? Why did the queen remain here? How did the castle become enshrouded in mist, why was it insatiably hungry for Sacrifices made in the image of the knight Ozuma? Why had his bloodline been chosen for this dark destiny?
But Ico was more concerned with the future than the past. Mistakes were mistakes, and failures were failures. Why torment someone with memories of their past?
He would accomplish what his ancestor had not. That was what Ozuma wanted. He would free the Sacrifices as Yorda had freed her mother’s victims so long ago. He would bring peace to the world.
He would defeat the queen.
Ico put a fist to his Mark, feeling his own heart beat through the fabric. Ico did not know that there were limits to the power of the Book of Light. He did not know that the priests in the capital—the new seat of the Holy Zagrenda-Sol Empire on this continent—knew of the book’s failings all too well. That was why they maintained their silence and proffered up the descendants of Ozuma to the castle. Not all history is told in stories and chronicles. The parts untold, the dark passages of time, were those that swallowed men’s hopes and made the distinctions between good and evil as nebulous as mist.
Ico stood, taking Yorda’s hand, secure in the belief that their path and the answers to his questions would be revealed.
Ico thought back, recalling the pier at the bottom level of the castle where he had first arrived with the priest and his guards. The guard had gone to a room on that same level to retrieve the longsword that opened the idol gates—which was almost certainly the longsword that had once belonged to Ozuma. That’s why it was able to move the idols. It’s imbued with the power of the Book of Light. Just like Yorda.
It made sense now that they had found Ozuma without his sword. For some reason, he had let go of it, and that had led to his defeat.
I have to find Ozuma’s sword. I’ll just retrace my steps back to the underground pier.
With Yorda by his side, he would be able to pass any idols they came across on his way back.
Ico decided that he would first take Yorda to safety when they reached the pier. With the double protection of Ozuma’s sword and the Mark, Ico would be more than ready to face the Queen. There was no sense putting Yorda in any more danger—and it would be too cruel to force her to face her mother again.
Ico nodded to himself and then turned to the girl. While he had been lost in thought, she had wandered some distance away. She was standing near the gates by the foot of one of the stone torch pedestals that lined the courtyard like two rows of soldiers, her head hung low.
“Hueeeh!” he called out to her. When she didn’t come, he ran to join her. Grabbing her hand, he took her to the stone archway that led back to the drawbridge.
But now the stone archway doors were closed, and the arch was much too high for him to climb. Ico pushed and pulled at the doors, but
they wouldn’t budge. He gave them a swift kick and immediately regretted it. Ouch.
It was as though the queen had foreseen everything he would do and gone ahead to foil his plans. The castle was like a labyrinth that changed to suit her needs.
Ico growled and, hands on his hips, glared at the arch. Yorda had begun to wander away again. She was off to the right, drifting like a shadow, looking up at a high point on the walls.
Yorda stood at a dead end too. It looked like the way here had been hastily barricaded. Large boards had been nailed to the door jambs. They overlapped one another, leaving gaps large enough for him to peek through.
Ico thought he might be able to pull off the boards if he got his fingers through the gaps, but even though he tugged till his face turned red, the barricade remained firmly in place.
He had all but given up when he looked to see Yorda pointing to a corner of the wall near the barricade where some round objects lay in a pile.
“What are those?”
Ico walked over and examined the black objects. They were each about the size of his head and too heavy for him to lift with one hand. He leaned down and sniffed one. It smelled like dirt and—
Firepowder!
He had seen hunters smear tar mixed with firepowder on arrows to take down particularly large or dangerous animals. Because of the risk, he had never been allowed to handle the tar himself, but he recognized the smell at once.
“There’s gotta be a ton of firepowder in each of these!” He looked at Yorda, his eyes wide. “They must’ve used these during the battle!”
“Find the queen!”
The voice in Ico’s head, heavier and more fierce than any he had heard before, made him pause for a moment. Is that the priest-king? He realized he was experiencing another memory of the past. “Destroy the barricades! She can’t hide forever!”
The voice faded. Ico blinked his eyes, coming out of the vision. Yorda was standing next to him, so quiet he couldn’t even hear her breathing. The round, dirt-encrusted balls filled with firepowder sat at his feet, looking as harmless as lumps of mud.