ICO: Castle in the Mist (45 page)

Drenched to the skin, Ico grinned, letting his eyes follow the rainbows through the air. They winked in and out of existence, their sparkling light looking like applause for his courageous jump off the cliff.

He looked up at the blue sky, rimmed by the curve of the top of the cliffs. The sky seemed less blue than it had before he jumped from the old bridge, and it was veiled by a thin white mist. Evening was approaching.

I have to hurry.
He looked across at the other wheels hanging from the chains, plotting his course, and it seemed like the rainbows twisted to guide him, showing him the way.

“Here goes!” he shouted and jumped out into the air. Ico’s arms and legs moved smoothly, no trace of the fear that had sent shivers up his spine moments before. The more he moved, the less he feared. He made the last jump easily and began climbing up the chain toward the pipe, a smile spreading across his face.

He walked along the top of the pipe, nearing the forest, when he stopped and turned to look behind him, wondering what the strange wheels had been placed there for.
Why were they hanging from the pipe? What was their purpose?

Looking down at them from this new angle he realized suddenly that they looked like cages.
That’s what they are, round cages.

People were kept here, hanging high above the waves—

He trembled with the horror of the thought.

But those cages had led him here. Maybe the rainbows were the traces of the souls of the people who had died in those cages, come back to lead his way. All of them wanted release from the Castle in the Mist.

“I have to hurry,” he said aloud, quickening his pace, leaving the thundering sound of the waterfalls, the dancing rainbows, and the eight silent cages behind.

Ico made his way through the thick foliage, over a rocky crag, and along the stone face of the wall. He found he could hear the voice of the sword best when his mind was cleared of thoughts.

He headed down along the cliff, descending until he figured he was about halfway back down the slope he had climbed inside in the darkness. The path here was narrow, and he had to cling to the cliff to avoid slipping and falling into the ceaselessly pounding waves far below him.

His memories returned to him as he moved carefully along the side of the cliff, grabbing at protrusions with his hands and finding indentations for his feet, jumping when he could not reach the next handhold. The look of the sea, the shape of the rocks, and the flow of the water all reminded him of his first visit. When he had descended even further, a scant three body lengths above the waves, he jumped off the cliff into the sea. This time he fought against the current, swimming with strong strokes into the cave that held the underground pier.

Ico arrived at the lowered portcullis and found that there was enough of a gap at the bottom for him to swim through. He broke through the surface of the water on the other side with a splash. He was about to continue on when he had a change of heart and decided it was a better idea to investigate and raise the portcullis before continuing further.

The rope was easy to find, and though the wheel above creaked noisily when he pulled on it, it was easy for him to raise the portcullis. He brought the rope down as far as it would go, watching water stream off the portcullis back down into the channel as it lifted.

Even as he watched, he wondered why he had bothered to raise the portcullis at all—when he realized the answer. I’m coming back through here. And I won’t be alone. I’ll be with Yorda.
I’ll bring her back.
It was likely she wouldn’t be able to swim as well as he could, so raising the portcullis was a good idea.

I will save Yorda. That’s what I’m doing. I haven’t given up.

He dove back into the water and swam swiftly onward. Within moments, he could see the leaning piles of the underground pier.

It was quiet. The sound of the waves did not reach this far inside the cave. He swam until his feet could reach the bottom. Then he stood and walked toward the pier, scrambling up on top of it.

Here I am, back at the beginning.

He wasn’t going to take the queen up on her offer.
I’m making my own way now. With my own hands—and the sword.

The cave seemed different than when he had passed this way before. It was dimly lit and warm. A gentle breeze wafted through, feeling like the morning wind that blew down through the village at dawn, when the hunters gathered to check the gear and choose the path they would take that day. The armor clinked, laughter echoed down the street, and their voices turned to white steam that drifted in the air.
We are off. All is ready for the hunt.
It was an energy in the air here that did not exist before. Ico realized with a start that it was coming from himself. And there was another source—

He would have been able to find it even with his eyes closed. He walked along the path that led from the pier, turning right at the intersection. White light shone up ahead. He could almost hear a noise each time the light winked, its outline so sharp he felt he could trace it with his fingers. If he had, he felt like its shape would be the same as the morning star that shone at dawn and the evening star that stood watch over the twilight.

Ico walked toward the white light.

The path ended in a stone wall, and there he found it.

The sword was on a surprisingly small altar, and at first it was hard to make out, so glorious and blinding was the light that shone from it. As he drew closer, he saw that the altar resembled the shape of the Tower of Winds, except instead of the walls that covered the tower, there were four pillars.

Ico’s sandals made wet sounds that echoed off the walls seemingly in time with the singing in Ico’s breast and the light flowing from the altar. The sword sat at the height of Ico’s waist, in the center of the four pillars. It had no scabbard, and its hilt faced toward him.

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 moment, 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.