A shiver ran through Ico’s frame. He was no longer cold or frightened—it was something else, vibrating within him, filling him with courage.
“It was Toto who found the prayers woven into the Mark you wear.”
Ico’s eyes opened wide. He grabbed the elder’s long sleeve. “Is Toto all right? He went into the mountains, didn’t he?”
The elder’s smile faded, and his face took on a grave look. “Yes. Toto went to the same mountains as we did and saw the same sight.” That horrible city.
“And this prayer—did it come from the city?”
The elder nodded.
Ico’s memory of the walled city of stone rose again in his mind. He wondered where Toto had gone in those ashen streets. Where had he walked, and how had he found the prayer?
“I am sorry to have doubted your intentions,” the elder said, his voice hoarse.
Ico shook his head. He didn’t care about that anymore. “Is Toto all right?”
“He’s fine.” The elder’s quick reply brooked no further questioning.
Ico looked him in the eyes. “When I return from the Castle in the Mist, I’ll be able to see him again, won’t I?”
“Of course.”
Ico bit his lip. I’m not afraid.
Oneh stood, wiping her tear-streaked face with a sleeve. Seeing the look of determination in Ico’s face put her at ease. She smiled. “Now, Ico,” she said, “you must return your Mark to me.”
She said his name just as she had when he lived in their house. Ico, you’re covered in mud again. Change your clothes this instant. Dinner will be ready soon.
“I can’t wear it?”
A conspiratorial look came into the elder’s eyes and he smiled at the boy. “Actually,” he said, “it is the priest’s duty to place the Mark upon the Sacrifice at your departure ceremony. We only brought it here to you because we wanted to see with our own eyes that the Mark was truly yours, that you were the chosen one, and that you were fit to wear it.”
“That’s why,” Oneh continued, “when you speak with the priest, you must not mention that we met here this morning, and you must on no account tell him that your Mark is special, that it’s not like the others.”
Ico nodded, but a thought occurred to him. “Elder. Wouldn’t the priest from the capital be pleased to know that my Mark is special, just as you and Mother are? Why do I have to hide it?”
“You are clever,” the elder replied, dodging the question. “Your cleverness is knowledge. It falls to you to find the courage that long ago was kin to this knowledge and to give us the light once more.”
[8]
THE THREE BLACK horses walked in a single line, treading the dry grass beneath their hooves.
The priest had arrived in Toksa Village, flanked by two temple guards. The fields sparkled beneath the bright sunshine, and a gentle breeze rustled the leaves of the trees.
Silence hung over the village. People had dressed carefully for the ceremony and swept out their doorways, where they knelt to greet the entourage. Everyone was exhausted—the children from having danced and sung until Oneh finished weaving the Mark, the adults from standing watch day and night. More than one child slept soundly on their mother’s back.
For so long they had been patient, and now the end was near. Once the priest had come and gone, village life would return to normal.
It was strictly forbidden to speak aloud, let alone address anyone in the entourage. Nor was it permitted to look directly at them or their horses.
After the entourage had offered greetings to the elder and his wife before the elder’s house, they began preparing for the departure ceremony. From this point onward, only the elder, his wife, and three specially chosen hunters would be allowed to take part in the proceedings. The rest of the villagers were obliged to remain indoors, in silence, their windows shuttered.
The priest removed his black travel cloak, revealing robes of pure white beneath. From a leather saddlebag, he withdrew a long surplice woven with an intricate pattern and a single phial of holy water. Chanting a prayer, the priest touched his fingertips once upon the surplice’s shoulders, chest, and hem.
The departure ceremony was a beautiful, almost enchanting event—despite the unusual appearance of the priest, whose head was entirely shrouded in a cloth that trailed down to his shoulders, without holes for his eyes or even his nose. The cloth was made of a loose-woven material through which the priest could see out, but no one could see in.
The two temple guards followed a short distance behind him. They wore light traveling armor fashioned from chain rings and leather, with swords hung at their waists and sturdy woven leather boots on their feet. Their faces too were hidden by silver helmets—helmets with horns.
One had horns exactly like Ico’s, while the other’s were the same as Ico’s in size and position, but with their tips turned down toward the shoulders instead of upward.
This was not typical garb for temple guards. Even the elder had only seen these helmets once before, in an illustration in one of his books. They were to be worn only at the Time of the Sacrifice.
Moving slowly, the priest withdrew the scepter at his waist and raised it to eye level. A round orb at its tip sparkled in the sunlight. He then walked in a circle just inside the village gates, using his scepter to draw a line in the dirt. He walked to the east, west, north, and south sides of the circle, stopping in each station to ask the help of the land-spirits who guarded the cardinal directions, and lightly tapping the ground with the tip of his scepter. With the cloth drawn over his head, it was impossible for the elder to make out the words.
The priest knelt in the center of the circle and began to pray. The temple guards withdrew even further back to where the elder knelt beside Oneh, who was trembling so violently she nearly collapsed.
The elder reached out and, with his fingertip, lightly touched the Mark that hung neatly folded over her arm. The gesture seemed to calm her somewhat.
“You may bring the Sacrifice here,” said the priest, turning to face the elder. The elder looked around and raised his arm toward one of the hunters who stood waiting. The hunter immediately turned and sped down the path to the cave.
A few moments later, Ico appeared.
Three hunters walked with him, one in the front and two behind. All of them wore costumes typically reserved for the harvest festival. On their backs they bore bows that had never once been fired and arrows with tips that had never once tasted blood. They had no swords, but each carried a torch. The torches sputtered noisily and gave off an inky black smoke in the daylight.
Ico had already bathed and changed into simple clothes—a hempen red shirt and rough-woven white trousers. On his feet, he wore his own comfortable leather sandals, worn in through years of use. His lips formed a single straight line across his face. Ico stopped just before the circle in the dirt.
“Come here,” the priest ordered. “Come and kneel before me.”
Ico did as he was told. Behind them, the elder spotted a single teardrop from Oneh’s downturned face.
The priest lightly tapped Ico on both shoulders with his scepter, then touched it lightly to the top of the boy’s head, chanting prayers all the while.
“Stand.”
Ico stood, and the priest touched both sides of his waist, then his left and right knee.
“Turn around.”
Ico turned. The elder could feel the boy’s gaze on him. Unable to speak, the elder whispered words of encouragement in his heart. Next to him, Oneh struggled to keep herself from looking up.
The priest tapped both of Ico’s shoulders one last time, then touched the scepter to the small of his back.
“Turn back around and kneel.”
The priest lifted the phial of holy water and shook it over Ico’s horns.
Small damp spots formed on Ico’s fresh clothes where the water splashed.
The priest handed the empty phial to one of the guards, then held the scepter in both hands, level w
ith the ground. He brought it up to the height of his shoulders, lifting it over his head as he chanted the words to a new prayer.
Suddenly a brilliant light sparkled along the circle that the priest had drawn in the dirt—as if a ring of silver had floated up from the ground beneath them.
With a whoosh, the ring vanished.
Ico stood, eyes wide. The priest slowly lowered his arms and, holding the scepter vertically, brought it before his chest. The tip of the scepter sparkled.
“The ritual is complete. He is the true and rightful Sacrifice. Blood returns to blood, time marches on, and the Sun God indicates the path we men must walk.”
The priest turned to face the elder, his expression hidden beneath the cloth.
“The Mark.”
The elder shuffled forward on his knees, head bent low, and stretched out his arms as far as he could to offer the embroidered tunic to the priest.
The priest accepted it and held it out between his hands. Then he paused.
The elder could feel the blood rush to his head. His heart beat in his throat.
What if he notices that this Mark is different? What if he realizes that it was made for Ico alone?
“Step forward, Sacrifice,” the priest said. He placed the Mark over Ico’s head.
The Mark draped over Ico’s chest and back, giving life to his otherwise simple clothes. The elder had to admit, it looked good on the boy. A breeze blew through the village, lifting the edges of the tunic, and when it settled back down, it seemed to almost have become a part of Ico’s slender frame.
The boy’s black eyes looked up unblinkingly at the priest’s covered head.
“It is time to leave,” the priest announced. “Bring the horses.”
The elder and Oneh stood at the village gates, holding hands, watching until the priest’s entourage was gone from sight.
“He’ll come back, won’t he?” Oneh whispered in her husband’s ear, her voice full of tears.
“Yes,” the elder replied simply. The Mark will protect him. It has to.
Once on horseback, the temple guards put Ico’s wrists in irons. Ico rode with the priest seated behind him on the same horse. “You must not speak on the journey,” the priest told him. “Even should you say something, we will not answer. You must follow our orders. It will take five days for us to reach the Castle in the Mist. We will ride with you the entire way, but know that if we see you attempt anything unusual, we will cut you down on the spot. You have been warned.”
Ico replied that he had no intention of running, but the priest didn’t even seem to be listening as he held the reins.
With the irons on his wrists and the chain keeping them close together, Ico couldn’t get purchase on the horse’s neck. Should the horse decide to break into a gallop, he might fall off. Yet there didn’t seem to be any danger of speed. The guards kept the horses moving steadily but slowly. They did not speak a word between them, nor did they seem to be consulting any maps.
Guess they know the way, Ico thought.
They crossed over the grasslands, heading north along the same trail Ico had taken with the elder. Memories flooded Ico’s mind. The mere thought of seeing the stone city beyond the Forbidden Mountains again left him cold.
I wonder how Toto’s doing? I wish I’d gotten to see him before leaving.
They reached the foot of the mountains before evening, but the entourage veered away from the narrow path Ico and the elder had taken. They followed the foothills to the west a short while, stopping where the forest was thick.
“There is a spring nearby. Rest the horses,” the priest ordered, dismounting behind him. One of the guards came and lifted Ico off the horse, keeping hold of the chain attached to Ico’s irons while the other guard led the horses off to drink.
The priest looked up at the forest covering the mountainside, then he withdrew his scepter and began to pray. At one point, he thrust his arms directly overhead toward the sky, and the tip of the scepter gleamed brightly.
Ico gaped. Where before there had been nothing but thick forest, the tree branches parted with a great rustling sound, revealing a path up the mountain.
A spell ward. Ico had heard of these in stories. An enchantment had been laid over this path so that only the priest could find it.
The lifeless woods were silent, save for the clip-clop of the horses’ hooves on the white stones of the path. Ico was wondering how far they had come when they reached a small clearing and he spotted the first star of the evening above them.
They camped there that night, on the side of the mountain, resting their feet around a small campfire as they made dinner. Ico ate first. They didn’t take off his chains, so he had to lean over his bowl like a dog.
Oneh would give me a talking to if she saw me eating like this at home.
When Ico had finished, one of the guards approached and quickly slipped a sack over Ico’s head. He felt chains wrapping around his feet.
“You should rest. We will ride again before dawn.”
In the darkness inside the sack, Ico strained his ears. All he could hear was the wind.
Those guards must be going crazy, having to keep quiet like that.
Ico realized that they would probably have to take off their head coverings in order to eat—that was why they had covered his eyes. I’m not supposed to see their faces.
Ico fell asleep on the grass, listening to the occasional snuffle of the horses.
They crossed the Forbidden Mountains without ever seeing the path Ico had been on before or the stone city. Beyond, they found grasslands and gently rolling hills. On the third day, they forded a river. Once they were away from the mountains the sounds of life had returned.
However, there was a noticeable absence of people and villages. All Ico could see in every direction were grass and trees and the occasional bird.
To give himself some comfort on the journey, Ico had decided to befriend the horses. When they stopped to rest, he would steal up to them and gently pat their necks. All three of the horses were strong and sturdy and walked lightly without ever showing signs of tiring. These horses were far better behaved than the ones they used for farming in Toksa.
One of the guards—the one with upturned horns on his helmet—would let Ico touch and talk to the horses. But the other one, when he noticed, would immediately jump up and yank Ico away roughly. Once, he had shoved the boy so hard Ico had fallen to the ground.
The priest, for his part, barely acknowledged Ico’s existence. Ico did not think the priest had even looked at him once. Between the cloth over his head, his long sleeves, and the high woven boots, Ico couldn’t see the man’s skin. At times, he wondered if there was really a person under those robes.
On the fourth day, Ico detected a curious scent in the air, entirely unknown to him, and different from that of the woods and grasslands through which they had passed. Ico sniffed the air, and the guard with the upturned horns, who happened to be riding alongside, whispered, “It’s the smell of the sea.”
Ico felt the priest tense, and there was a loud crack . The guard quickly pulled the reins and fell behind them. For a few paces, the hoofbeats were staggered, but they soon resumed their usual rhythm.
Close to the sea means close to the castle.
On the morning of the fifth day, they were making their way along a gentle path through a hardwood forest when Ico spotted white birds wheeling overhead. The smell of the sea was stronger in the air now.
Seabirds. I wish Toto was here to see them.
Soon, Ico heard the sound of the wind. At least, that was what he thought it was—but there was no stirring in the air through the forest around them. When he listened closely, he could hear it rushing in, then sliding away. Those must be waves!
The path turned uphill, quickly becoming very steep. The horses whinnied with exertion. At the top of the climb, the forest fell away on both sides.
They could see the sky now. Over the pounding of the surf, Ico heard one of the
guards gasp.
CHAPTER 2
THE CASTLE IN THE MIST
[1]
THEY HAD REACHED the edge of the forest.
Birds chittered in the sunlight, and from somewhere high above came the keening screech of a falcon chasing its prey.
Two weathered stone columns stood under the dappled light that filtered through the leaves at the wood’s edge. The track of lightly trodden ground they had been following ended here in a stone stair that led into the clearing.
The guard in front urged his horse forward, and his mount’s hooves made a loud clack-clack on the stone. The steps were weathered at the edges. Some of the stones were covered by moss, and others were missing altogether, but there was no doubt they had been placed there by human hands.
The horse bearing Ico and the priest followed, its bridle rattling, a sheen of sweat on its neck. The three horses stood side by side on the cracked stone terrace they found atop the stairs. Ico squinted in the bright sunlight, feeling a gentle breeze against his face. A sudden dizziness came over Ico as he realized that they stood at the very top of an incredibly high precipice overlooking the sea.
Far below, the water glinted in the sun. It was Ico’s first time at the sea—but he had no eyes for the gentle flow of the current or the sparkle of the white waves that crashed along the cliff base. The water was a mere inlet, and all of Ico’s attention was focused on what lay on the other side atop another cliff just like the one on which they stood.
A massive castle of giant rough-hewn stones, a dark silhouette against the crystal blue sky, dominating the view. The castle did not perch so much as grow from the cliff face as though it had been carved from the stone itself. It was almost as if some aberration of nature had caused the rock to erode into the shape of a castle that men might construct. It looked solid. The only curves in its construction were the elegantly sloping pillars that supported the outer wall, their bases planted firmly beneath the waves.
Ico couldn’t imagine something looking more different than the Castle in the Mist he had seen in his daydreams and nightmares. Perhaps it was the clear blue sky above or the merry sound of the songbirds in the trees. Still, there was nothing dark, terrifying, or even vaguely ominous about the castle atop the cliffs. It was beautiful, elegant even—an ancient, noble edifice.