Come, take me.
I am yours.
The sword spoke to him in his bones and blood, not words.
Ico reached out, taking the handle in first his right, then in both hands, slowly lifting the sword.
It was a long blade but light as a feather. He gave it two or three swings and then shifted it to his right hand, lunging forward then back, then in a circle, raising the sword to eye level. It felt like an extension of his arm, a part of his body.
I am you.
The Mark on his chest pulsed with light in answer to the sword’s vibrations. Mystical power and purifying light crisscrossed the patterns woven there by his mother’s hand.
We meet again, and again come here together to form a single light!
Ico held up the blade, looking at his own reflection in its broad surface. He felt like the sword wanted him to do it. Warmth spread in his chest.
He saw his own eyes, the straight brows. When he was still young enough to sit on his mother’s knee, she would stroke his eyebrows with her finger and say, “You are a strong-willed boy. Look how straight your eyebrows are.”
He had never heard what his foster mother said next, what she muttered under her breath—but now he knew.
“What a fine man you would have become—”
But he was fated to go to the Castle in the Mist.
I have to give him up to the castle.
The memories became more real inside him until he was feeling them anew, and Ico closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he saw a face in the blade of the sword—but it was not his own.
It was a boy with horns like his. His eyes had a bluish tint to them and were lighter than Ico’s. A long scratch ran down his right cheek.
The horned boy was looking out at him, blinking his eyes. Ico almost called out to him. He felt the boy would hear him if he did. But before he could, the boy in the blade turned and vanished. As though someone behind him, someone unseen, had called him away.
Ico followed after him, into the world the sword was showing him. His soul left his body and chased like the wind after the running boy.
Ico’s senses were sharp, and he felt his awareness spread as fast as the sky and deep as the sea. Past and future seemed like one moment. He could hear it. He could feel it. One second was an eternity, one thing was everything, he himself was limitless, and at the same time, everything was becoming one.
The boy he had seen in the blade was riding on a large bearded man’s shoulders. He was laughing out loud. They were walking through tall reeds. No, wheat. This was a field. The boy was singing, and the man whistled cheerfully, accompanying him. Then they laughed together, the sound of their laughter sweeping across the field rows.
Then he came upon another scene. This time there was a girl with horns. She was sitting in front of a loom, holding thread and spindle in her hands. An old woman with a stern face stood next to the loom, and whenever the girl made a mistake in her weaving, she would slap her with the broad flat of her hand. The girl would pout, but then she would go right back to her work.
What are these things that I’m seeing?
Ico stood, entranced by the shining sword. The scene in front of him changed again and again, but in each a horned child was jumping, studying, running, laughing, crying, playing with friends, or sleeping—living their lives just as Ico had in Toksa, each with a different face.
These children are the Sacrifices.
They had all been brought here to the castle and placed within the stone sarcophagi. He was seeing their lives before they became creatures of darkness and shadow. He could hear their voices, see their smiles, listen to their words. He watched them working under the sun, harvesting grain, scythes in hand and baskets upon their backs. They walked down the field rows, swinging tree branches and singing songs to drive off the birds. They sat in front of plain wooden desks and practiced their letters. They fished in the shallows and splashed water on each other, squealing with delight.
A gentle breeze blew through the village, carrying with it the scent of new leaves and fresh blossoms. They went to sleep tired from the day’s work, thin quilts to keep them warm on the chilly spring nights. They listened to stories told in tender voices by the men and women who raised them as their own. On summer days, their skin was brown from the sun and mud and dirt. On autumn evenings, the moon rose full above them and the sky was filled with stars. Then came the brightness of dawn. The taste of freshly picked fruit. Teeth biting through the skin, smiles brightening as the juice hit their lips. They hunched their heads low in the cold winter, huddled around fires for warmth. They looked up with pride at the village hunters returning from the hunt, taking off their gear, the faint smell of the blood of their catch still lingering around them.
Always shining, always warm, always alive. He saw their lives in an endless series of scenes, like paintings of everyday moments. And faces, so many faces—too many to count.
All the Sacrifices, in every age—they were alive.
And the people who had sent them to the castle were alive. Toksa was the sorrowful farewell port for the Sacrifices. But it was also the place blessed with the task of raising them.
The sword had lain here in the Castle in the Mist as a symbol, an object of worship—but had they ever known that all of the days lived by all of the Sacrifices were still here, kept safe within its blade? The blessing of the Book of Light was nothing other than the joy of life itself.
Ico returned to his body, feeling as though he had come arcing across the sky, through shining clouds, back down into the cave. He was still holding the sword in his hands. Only his face was reflected in its shining blade.
And now the blade was asking him a question. It wanted to know if he was ready. If he was, it would show him the way.
Ico understood. He knew what he had to do. The clarity of the task before him was like the light of the midday sun, shining high in the sky inside his heart.
[8]
HAD IT BEEN yesterday or the day before? Or had an entire month already passed? In this sequestered world, a world without time, it was impossible for Ico to say how long ago the priest and the two guards who wore horns on their helmets had led him through this place.
He lifted the sword before the idol gate, and the stone idols, bathed in the sword’s light, slid to either side. Ico stepped onto the platform he knew would take him into the castle above—alone, this time, without the pride or the fear he had known upon his first arrival. He worked the lever, and the floor began to slowly rise, lifting him into the hall of the stone sarcophagi. He brandished his sword, yet still he hesitated.
This was the path. Ahead lay the queen. Through the hall of the stone sarcophagi he would find her true throne. The sword had told him that.
What slowed his pace? Was it the fear that he lacked the resolve it would take to fight those he would soon face? Or was it that he lacked the strength to cut them down?
No, that’s not it. Ico looked in vain for the words he needed to express his turmoil.
Pale light shone between the idols framing the passage into the hall. He knew exactly what that eerie, ill-omened color represented now.
He stepped out into the hall, shining sword in his right hand, left hand clenched into a fist by his side, and looked upon the source of the pale light.
Every one of the many sarcophagi lining the walls was glowing. Or rather, the designs upon their surfaces, the enchanted patterns, were undulating with living light.
Several torches burned along the walls. Yet their light did not reach the sarcophagi. The designs on the sarcophagi were slithering snakes. One snake per stone. They slithered across the surface of the sarcophagi, weaving patterns that had no head or tail—engraved chaos.
In harmony with the movements of the pale-glowing serpentine patterns, the sarcophagi were humming. It was as though the sarcophagi were in ecstasy, growling like animals lacking mouths. It was a horrifying sight, and yet it possessed an otherworldly beauty. For a momen
t, Ico stood entranced, his heart held by the strange light of the sarcophagi. He felt the strength leave his arm gripping the sword. The point dropped down toward his feet.
What’s going on?
A wind blew through the hall, making the Mark on his chest flutter. His hair got in his eyes. Ico blinked, forcing them to focus.
Someone was crouched amongst the sarcophagi on the landing halfway up the wall in front of him. He took a step closer to see who it was, then realized he was looking at a statue. The figure was bent over as though in lamentation, forehead pressed to the ground. Its arms might have been part of the stone landing, they were pressed so low, and the slender arch of the back made Ico realize who it was.
It’s Yorda! She’s been turned to stone!
The enchantment woven around him by the sarcophagi and their light broke in an instant. Ico launched into motion, running toward her when he saw shadowy shapes rise around her, drifting up like shimmering waves of heat, like shadows forming in a sudden flash of light.
Ico went a few steps farther and then stopped, looking up at the landing. The shades did not move. They merely looked down at him with their dully glowing eyes.
Ico was breathing hard. The shades held their ground. Ico’s heart threatened to burst from his chest. Still, the shades did not move.
Ico steadied his grip on the sword.
“What’s happened to her?” he whispered, his voice hoarse. “I know who she is now. I know what she means to you.”
The shades continued to stare.
“B-but Yorda didn’t want what happened to you. She never wanted you to suffer…”
Ico’s knees buckled beneath him.
Have I come this far only to lose my nerve? No. It’s these sarcophagi that are doing this to me. It’s those eerie glowing enchantments. They’re happy. They enjoy my pain, enjoy the grief of my fellow Sacrifices. That’s the source of those vibrations I’m feeling.
The visions Ico had seen when he looked into the blade came back to him in a rush of memory. It was as though the sword were cutting through his confusion. He saw the eyes of the Sacrifices shining with happiness. The joy of their lives in the village. The brilliance of their existence.
These creatures I’m facing aren’t shapeless things of smoke. They’re not dark souls come boiling out of whirling pools of black. These are the Sacrifices. These are children. The descendants of Ozuma. My brothers and sisters.
They are me.
Suddenly, a howl of rage escaped Ico’s lips. His throat trembled and his voice echoed off the walls of the vast hall.
Ico lifted his sword and charged. He ran up the steps. He wasn’t charging at the dark creatures, he was charging at the sarcophagi. He was going to destroy their pale glowing curses.
He split the first stone sarcophagus he reached in two with a single swing of the sword. On the backswing he destroyed the one beside it. Look how fragile they are, look how weak!
Ico screamed as he ran from sarcophagus to sarcophagus, swinging his sword. As they broke under the sword, their shattered pieces shone brightly, and when Ico cut the lines of their enchantments, they howled like steam escaping a kettle. The coffins crumbled, lost their lives, and fell to cold fragments of stone.
The shadow creatures began to move. Large ones with horns were gathering around Ico, bobbing up and down as they trailed him. They advanced and retreated, formed a line and pulled away. Winged creatures flew in circles over his head. The moment he thought they might land on his shoulders they would peel away or swoop low by his face and flap their wings at him.
Yet they did not hinder his progress. They were just trying to be as close as possible to the sarcophagi when they were destroyed, to be as close as possible to the light of the sword. They wanted to relish the dying screams of the stones.
Up at the highest level, with the chaos of destruction all around him, Ico slipped from the ladder. Yet he did not fall. One of the shades grabbed his collar with its long claws, and he hung in midair, kicking his legs.
Then he was back on the landing. The creature with long crooked horns, much taller than Ico, was standing next to him, looking at him with its white eyes.
He helped me.
Ico steadied his grip on the sword, thinking. The shades thronged around him in a circle. They were swinging their hands, stomping their feet, their eyes burning with the same rage that filled his.
Joy filled Ico’s heart.
More strength filled his arms. The brilliance of the blade drowned out the light of the glyphs on the remaining sarcophagi. Ico gave another shout and brought his sword down on the sarcophagus in front of him. Then with one stroke, the stone sarcophagus split in two. Its keening fell silent, and it crumbled to lifeless stone.
He was a cyclone, a thunderbolt, the power of the maelstrom. Incredible energy moved through Ico’s limbs. Each time the sword crushed another sarcophagus, each time its enchantment lifted, he grew stronger. Ico ran through the hall, bounding up stairs and ladders, then leapt to the next to begin again. He ran across narrow landings, the cacophony of the destruction erasing the whispers of the enchantments.
Ico destroyed the last sarcophagus. Shoulders heaving, he stood. His eyes flashed, watching each of the cursed fragments fly to its final rest. Until his prey was motionless, he would not remove his gaze, like a hunter who would not lower his bloodied sword.
Silence filled the hall. Ico’s breathing gradually quieted. Like a child laid down to sleep, his inhalations grew farther and farther apart until he breathed so quietly he could hardly hear them at all.
The shadowy creatures had moved around Yorda once again. Ico stood at the bottom of the stairs below, looking up at them.
“Let’s finish this.”
Ico held the sword high above his head, and from behind the shades, part of the wall forming the hall began to rumble. Fine dust accumulated over the years drifted slowly from between the stones. The next moment, the wall collapsed with a great cloud of dust and rubble. The way was open through it—a stone staircase.
Ico’s eyes traveled up the staircase, past the shadowy creatures, past the shape of Yorda frozen in grief, all the way to the true throne room of the queen.
The ceiling of the throne room was shrouded in darkness, making it impossible to judge its height. A wall covered with carvings stood in the center, coming to a peak at its top, where two swords hung over a graven crest. This was the seal of the royal house. He wondered why such a thing would be here—what did the royal bloodline mean to the queen? Was this perhaps some lingering trace of pride or attachment?
Directly beneath the crest in the center of a raised platform sat the queen’s throne.
No one was here. Ico could sense no presence. The throne was empty.
Out in the room, four of the stone idols stood, two to each side and slightly in front of the throne. These were slightly taller than the ones that guarded the doors, and their patterns were different. Ico walked between them quietly, holding his sword ready.
He walked up to the throne. Its design was similar to the one that had sat in the room where he had been separated from Yorda, but it was carved from a different stone. That throne had been made of the same gray stone as the walls around him, but this one—the true seat of the master of the Castle in the Mist—was carved from a block of smooth obsidian.
The back of the throne was like a slab of stone, covered with carvings. He saw dragons, two-headed creatures spewing flame, ringing the edge of the throne. No—that’s not flame they’re spewing. It’s jet black mist.
A faint carving stood out in relief at the center of the throne’s back. Ico took another step closer, and its lines came into focus: a perfect circle, surrounded by swaying flames, set in a sky of countless stars.
The scene of an eclipse.
The sun was a mirror reflecting the power of the Dark God, instead of the light that was the source of all life. Light consumed by darkness.
Ico gingerly set his hand on the throne. Cold. He
lifted his fingers and saw the silhouette of his own horned head cast across the seat.
Readying himself, Ico stepped back from the throne. He looked up at the crest above his head and turned to step down off the platform when a voice called out to him from behind.
“Is this your decision, then?”
Ico spun around.
The queen was sitting, leaning back in her throne, lustrous black hair and long black sleeves spread wide. Her arms perched upon the armrests. The many folds of black lace covering her held the shape of her body, but at the same time they seemed empty. If it were not for her pale white face and the tips of her fingers extending from her sleeves, it would have looked as though her gown sat the throne alone.
“Foolish boy,” the queen said, her voice strangely gentle, coaxing. “In the end we find that a Sacrifice child has no more wit than his forebears. I offered you my protection, I offered you my strength, and you turned your back on me. As I assume you have turned your eyes away from the true enemy you were meant to fight.”
Ico stared at the queen’s pale face. For the first time he realized that nowhere could he see any resemblance to Yorda.
Because her face is just a mask, Ico thought. Those fingers I can see are not real. All that is here is a dark void. Hadn’t the queen said so herself many times? She had already lost her true female form. Destroying this thing on the throne would only be destroying a mask.
“You lied to me,” Ico said, his shrill voice echoing in the darkness of the throne room. “You said you would let me go free if I wanted to take Yorda with me. But I saw Yorda turned to stone. You lied.”
“Ah,” the queen muttered, her fingers twitching. “But I have not lied. The Yorda you saw in the room of the sarcophagi is the way you wanted her. Were you to take her hand and separate her from her loving mother, that is what she would become. I’ve merely prepared her for you.”
The queen’s black veil trembled with mirth.
“I have not done anything so foolish as to lie—though perhaps there was more of the truth I could have told you, Sacrifice.”
Ico felt the blood rush to his face and his body grew hot. The sword in his hand began to glow with a brilliant light. In response, the Mark on his chest began to swirl with white energy.