ICO: Castle in the Mist

  “So this is it…” the guard with the upturned horns on his helmet breathed.

  The horse carrying the priest and Ico whinnied and raised its front legs, bringing Ico’s attention back across the water. A strong sea wind blew, rippling the edges of the Mark where it hung over his chest and back. On the side of the castle facing them stood a massive stone gate, its doors open wide. But there was no way to reach it.

  Ico realized that the stone platform upon which they now stood had once been part of a bridge leading to the castle. The bridge had been wide, large enough for three horses to pass abreast. But now, just a few paces ahead, the stone ended. He held a hand over his eyes to shade them from the sun and saw the other end of the bridge at the foot of the castle gate. It, too, ended abruptly where the cliff began. Between them, only sky.

  You may not enter.

  You may not leave.

  The inlet between the two cliffs formed a moat more effective than any crafted by men.

  For the first time since arriving, Ico detected an undeniable eeriness to the beautiful view. As his eyes adjusted to the light, he noticed that despite the blue sky overhead, a fine white mist hung over every part of the castle. How had I not noticed that before?

  “Down the cliff,” the priest said from the depths of his cowl. He pulled the reins, leading their horse toward the left-hand side of the terrace, where Ico spotted the top of a steep switchback winding down the cliff face. The three horses made their way in single file down the simple path of trodden earth. There was no railing, nor anything else to prevent a single misstep from sending them plummeting off the edge, but the priest kept an easy grip on the reins.

  The entire way down, Ico craned his neck to look up at the castle. He could not take his eyes off of it. A flash of light caught his eye—sunlight reflecting from two large spheres that sat atop the columns to either side of the main gate.

  Ico felt a stirring in his chest.

  You’ve come to me.

  Finally.

  Soon the gate was high above them and the sea close below. White seabirds hopped from rock to rock, and eddies swirled in the inlet. A small stone structure stood at the cliff base, its roof supported by slender pillars. The air was cool in the shadow of the cliff, and the spray from the rocks left a lingering chill on the bare skin of Ico’s arms.

  The party dismounted. A short wooden pier with rotting pilings extended into the water in front of the structure. Beside it, a small rowboat had been pulled up onto the shore. While the two guards moved the boat to a small channel of water leading out into the inlet, the priest stood on an outcropping, facing the sea.

  Ico strained his ears, thinking he might hear the words of the priest’s prayer, but if he said anything, it was lost in the roar of the surf.

  When the boat was ready, the guards waved for them to board. As Ico approached the stern, one of them extended his hand to help him in, but Ico leapt instead, landing directly in the middle of the boat so softly the tiny craft barely rocked in the water.

  Ico imagined the guard was smiling inside his helmet—the same way Oneh would smile whenever she saw Ico jump or climb.

  “Must be nice to be so light,” she’d say.

  But whatever expression the guard wore, it could not have lasted long. He turned away from Ico, a distinctly apologetic hunch to his back.

  It was the other guard’s duty to row the boat. The priest sat at the bow, perfectly still, save for the motion imparted by the water beneath them. A seabird with pure white feathers on its breast and a red beak glided across the waves toward their small craft, barely skimming over the priest’s head. Even still, he did not flinch. Ico trailed his arms from the side of the boat, touching the water that streamed past. Through the clear waves he saw the shapes of fish swimming below.

  They cut across the flow of the tide, slowly advancing toward the opposite shore. Ico looked back up toward the castle. The sky was split into smooth curves by the tall arches that rose between the stone pillars of the outer wall. The guard rowed toward the left-hand side of the castle, and soon the side wall came into view. Ico realized that the castle was not a single structure but rather a collection of several towers. Copper-colored pipes and narrow causeways of stone extended from the tower walls, spanning gaping ravines to link the towers together. The castle was so vast that Ico found it hard to take it all in at once.

  The moment before the boat slipped beneath the castle’s shadow, Ico saw the spheres by the gate glimmer one last time.

  As they neared the far shore, the boat veered further left, heading toward the side of the castle. From here, it was impossible to tell where the sheer cliffs above them ended and the Castle in the Mist began. Is the castle becoming part of the earth beneath it, Ico wondered in a daydream, or is the cliff slowly swallowing the castle whole?

  “Into the grotto,” the priest called from the bow, raising his hand and pointing. Ahead, a cave opened in the rock face. The cave looked like it had formed naturally, but it was reinforced on either side with stone pillars. The guard swung the boat toward the entrance.

  As they paddled in, darkness fell around them. The boat advanced gingerly, a child afraid of being scolded, and the sound of the surging sea fell away.

  Ahead of them, a portcullis made of thick logs lashed together barred their path. The priest looked up at the rocks to the right and called to the guard with the downturned horns. “Now.”

  The guard jumped lightly from the boat onto the rocky ledge of the cave and disappeared into the darkness. The boat continued sliding forward, and just as its bow was about to hit the logs, the entire portcullis lifted out of the waves with a loud creaking noise, allowing them passage.

  The guard reappeared along the side of the cave and jumped back in the boat with a loud thud.

  A short while later, a small wooden pier very like the one they had left on the far shore drifted into view. It even resembled the other in the way that its wooden pilings had rotted, leaving the planks along the top slanting toward the water.

  The priest was the first to disembark when they reached the pier. The guard behind Ico pushed him lightly on the back. Though they were still inside the cave, the ceiling here was much higher, and the cavern seemed to extend ahead for some distance. A sandy path led from the pier, splitting to the right and left.

  “Get the sword,” the priest said.

  The guard with downturned horns nodded and walked off down the right path, disappearing down a stone passageway.

  Ico stood examining his surroundings until the priest tapped him on the shoulder, indicating that he should proceed down the left-hand path. They began to walk, the wet sand making an incongruously humorous slup-slup sound under Ico’s leather sandals.

  A round hole opened in the cave wall. They passed through, and the floor beneath their feet was now smooth. They no longer walked on rocks and pebbles; the passageway here was carved from stone.

  Ico looked around, his eyes wide.

  He had never been in a place like this before. It resembled a grand hall, with sides that rose straight up like a chimney. The room itself was perfectly round, and it hurt his neck to look at the ceiling far above.

  A winding staircase, and in some places ladders, lined the chamber’s outer wall and would once have permitted someone to climb all the way to the top. But as Ico looked closer, he saw that the stairs had fallen away in places.

  A thick, cylindrical pillar rose from the center of the chamber, reaching all the way up to the top—though, as Ico considered it, the structure was far too wide for a pillar. It must have been placed there for some purpose other than supporting the roof.

  The smooth path extended into the middle of the chamber and ended at that central column, where Ico spotted two stone idols, roughly human-sized in height. The idols were rectangular, their sides meeting at sharp right angles, yet they had what looked like bodies and legs and even heads, complete with carven eyes.

  Ico had never seen idols quite like these an
ywhere around Toksa. Their shape resembled the small idols that travelers prayed to for protection along the road.

  The priest slowly approached the idols. The soldier with the upturned horns stayed back with Ico.

  “Are you cold?” he asked in a voice so faint Ico could barely tell it from a breath.

  Ico shook his head. The guard said nothing more, but he rubbed his own arms as if to say Well, I am. Or perhaps his gesture meant I’m frightened.

  Heavy footsteps approached. The other guard had returned. Ico was startled to see him holding a giant sword. No wonder his feet were dragging. The sword was so long that if the guard placed its tip on the ground, the hilt might reach up to his shoulder. It was sheathed, though it looked double-edged by its shape, with a chain attached to the pommel. The grip was as thick as Ico’s wrist, and its color was the dull silver of ancient metal.

  The guard hesitated, looking toward the priest. The priest nodded and indicated with his hands that he should stand in front of the idols. The guard took a few steps forward. He glanced at the other guard, standing next to Ico. Both men’s faces were hidden in the depths of their helmets, but Ico thought he could imagine their expressions: they were terrified.

  “Draw the sword,” the priest commanded. “There is nothing to be frightened of.”

  Holding the blade level to the floor, the guard gripped its hilt with his right hand. His arms shook with the weight of the blade. Though the sword appeared ancient, it slid from its scabbard without a sound, like the well-oiled blade of a soldier.

  A light flared in the dimly lit chamber.

  Ico closed his eyes and lifted his hands in front of his face. The light that bled through his eyelids was painfully bright.

  He timidly opened his eyes to look and saw the soldier standing, feet apart, straining his shoulders to hold the blade level. A brilliant light emanating from the blade bathed the man’s body. The light swelled, enveloping both guards, Ico, and the priest.

  Ico realized that the light wasn’t just coming from the blade—the idols were glowing too. Their glow echoed the brilliance of the sword, and both grew brighter until a light passed from one idol to the other and they split down the middle with a loud crack, sliding apart to reveal a passage beyond. The light faded.

  “Sheathe the sword,” the priest ordered. The guard looked down, bewildered. The blade’s color had returned to a dull silver. After a moment’s hesitation, he reverently returned the sword to its scabbard.

  The priest led them between the two statues. Ico reached out to touch one as they passed. The stone was cold beneath his fingertips. Where did that light come from? he wondered. Ico spied a cavity in the statue’s side with a tiny carving inside it. He looked closer and found that it was a depiction of a tiny demon. It’s like something from a fairy tale.

  The passage opened into the central column. In the very center a small dais like a copper knob protruded from the floor, with sheets of steel radiating out from it in bands.

  The priest said something too low for Ico to hear to the guard without the sword. He walked over to the copper knob, pulled something like a lever next to it, and the entire device began to slowly spin. With a reverberating clang, the floor began to lift and Ico nearly lost his footing.

  The room is rising!

  Ico reached out and touched one of the walls, feeling it slide against his fingertips. A deep sound rumbled beneath them, and he could feel vibrations coming up through the floor. They continued to climb.

  Of all the things Ico had expected to find in the Castle in the Mist, this was not one of them. “Amazing,” he whispered.

  The kind guard gave Ico a reassuring nod. The priest had his back to Ico, while the other guard held the sword with its tip against the floor, clutching its handle with both hands as though he feared it might walk away if he didn’t keep a firm grip on it.

  The clanging stopped.

  They had arrived at the top of the column. Here stood another pair of stone idols. This time, the guard stepped forward and drew the sword with a mere nod from the priest. Again, a brilliant light ran across the idols and they parted.

  As soon as the way was clear, the priest stepped through, the hem of his robes drifting above the floor.

  There were no signs of life. The only sounds were their own footsteps and the metallic chatter of the guards’ chain mail. The castle was abandoned.

  At first, Ico thought they had emerged into a room with a low ceiling, but as he walked further on, he realized his mistake. The room had only seemed low because they had entered beneath a wide staircase climbing from the center of a vast chamber. Ico took a deep breath, trembling as he exhaled.

  You could hold a festival with everybody in Toksa here and still not fill this place. The small stones covering the floor were as many in number as the stars he could see from the village watchtower, and Ico doubted that any of the hunters in the village were strong enough to loose an arrow that could reach the vaulted ceiling.

  What is all this for?

  Stone alcoves formed a grid along the walls, each cavity holding a strange coffinlike box with rounded corners. No, Ico realized. Not just like coffins. They were stone sarcophagi.

  Ico followed the priest up the steps, recalling a story Oneh had told him.

  Once upon a time, the story went, malicious spirits were born within the void that separated heaven and earth. Resentful that they lacked a realm of their own, they stole away human children and robbed them of their souls. But when they found that the stolen souls could not fill the emptiness inside their hearts, they seethed with anger till their rage became like tiny demons inside them.

  Though they had brought the demons into being, the void-spirits were weaker than their own anger, and soon they were forced to do as the demons commanded. Distraught, the Creator hastily imbued the void-spirits with souls of their own, thinking this might placate them. But the demons within the spirits’ hearts took those souls and devoured them, so that no matter how many souls the Creator gave to the spirits, they were never sated but grew even hungrier than before.

  At a loss, the Creator gathered magi from across the land and requested that they fashion stone sarcophagi in which to imprison the void-spirits together with their demons. It was the humans who had suffered when the void-spirits stole their children, so it must be humans who imprisoned them, the Creator declared.

  The sarcophagi they made looked like eggs grown long and were covered with carved incantations of purification and placation. The wizards chanted their spells, imbuing the carvings with power, and the sarcophagi began to glow. Like moths to a flame, the void-spirits were drawn to the light and thereby trapped for eternity.

  Ico looked over the stone sarcophagi lining the walls. These, too, were carved with ancient letters and patterns. Ico’s hand went to the Mark on his chest. The whorls of the patterns there were not entirely unlike those upon the stones. Ico could read neither, though he thought that the patterns on the sarcophagi looked a bit like the outlines of people.

  What does it mean?

  “This is your Mark,” the elder had said when he placed the tunic over Ico’s head. “The Mark has recognized you.”

  The elder had a hopeful light in his eyes when he gave Ico the Mark—so why can I think of nothing but scary fairy tales when I look at these stones? Ico pressed a hand to his chest, lightly squeezing the fabric against his skin.

  While Ico stood in a daze, the priest made his way to the wall and looked up at one of the sarcophagi.

  “There,” he said, pointing to one that looked no different from the hundreds of others save one thing: it glowed with a pale blue light, pulsating like a beating heart.

  As the priest intertwined his fingers and began chanting a prayer reserved for this occasion alone, the stone sarcophagus slid forward on its base, emerging from the wall with the heavy grating of stone upon stone. The guards took a half step back, the horns on their helmets colliding as they did, sending a ringing sound through the hall.
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  The lid of the sarcophagus slowly opened.

  “Bring the Sacrifice,” the priest ordered. The two guards stiffened and exchanged glances. Even without seeing their faces, it was clear neither of them dared to do their next task.

  “You.” The priest indicated the guard with upturned horns. “Bring him.”

  The chain-mailed shoulders of the other guard slumped with relief as his companion turned to walk toward Ico, dragging his feet as he went.

  Ico considered his handlers as the guard approached. These men had been chosen to protect the Sacrifice, a deed of tremendous honor. They were sure to be commended upon their return to the capital. Even before they received this duty, temple guards enjoyed privileges as guardians of the faith. They were the sanctified warriors of the Sun God, the defenders of souls. They were also men of authority—regardless of whether that authority came not from them but from the priests behind them—who wielded power over other officials of the church and capital. They had undergone harsh training to earn their rank. Both their loyalty to the realm and their faith in the Creator who forged heaven and earth and bestowed souls on mankind were infallible.

  And yet, as children of men and fathers in their own right, it was no easy task to offer up the healthy, innocent boy standing before them to an unknown fate.

  The priest had lectured them before they left the capital. “The Castle in the Mist does not demand that we be heartless. The compassion you will feel toward the Sacrifice and the sadness you will feel upon leaving him are all necessary to the success of the ritual. The castle will not be satisfied with just the Sacrifice. We must also offer up the pain in our hearts for it to be sated.”

  It was all right to be sad. It was all right to lament. It was all right to feel anger.

  But it was not all right to run away. The castle must have its due.

  The priest walked over to the Sacrifice and laid a hand upon his shoulder. The horned boy looked up at him, though it was clear from his expression that the boy’s mind was in another place.