ICO: Castle in the Mist (2 page)

“The Sacrifice cannot fall ill,” his father said with grim confidence. “Nor can he be easily injured. He will be exceptionally healthy, in fact. You need only raise him to become as solitary as the hawk, as pliable as the dove, and deeply committed to his fate.”

“
Raise
him?”

“Yes. As elder, you must raise the child born this night as though he were your own.”

“But what about the parents?”

“Once his birth mother is able to walk, the parents must be cast out from the village.”

“What? Why?” the elder asked, even though he knew what the answer would be.

“That is the custom,” his father replied. “The couple who has given birth to the horned child must leave Toksa Village.”

Then, for the first time, the hard lines of his father’s face softened, and tears shone in the corners of his eyes.

“I know it sounds harsh. But it is in fact a mercy. Imagine the anguish of parents forced to raise a child they know must leave them before he is fully grown. If separation is preordained, the better it be quick. Muraj and Suzu will live a good life in the capital. They are free to have another child, or three, or five—as many as they wish. Greedy though the castle may be, it will not take more than one child from a single family.”

The steel in his father’s voice left the elder speechless for a time, until at last he managed to utter a name. “Oneh…”

His wife. What would Oneh think? She knew the village custom as well as he did. How would she take the news that they were soon to become direct participants?

“How will I tell Oneh?”

He already had six children with his wife. Four had been claimed by accident or disease before reaching adulthood, leaving them one son and one daughter. They had grown well. Their son had already taken a wife.

“Are Oneh and I even qualified to raise a child at our age?”

“Of course. He will be like a grandson to you.” The new elder’s father smiled a thin smile, showing dark gaps where his teeth had fallen out. “Think of it this way. Because the horned child was born tonight, your own grandchild, who cannot be far off now, will be spared his fate. You should consider yourself fortunate.”

The elder shivered. His father was right. Because the Sacrifice had been born tonight, the village would live in peace for many years, maybe decades.
My grandchildren will be spared.
Still, he could not tell whether the chill that ran down his spine was one of relief or of horror that his father would say such a terrible thing.

His father clasped his hands once more, shaking them with each word. “Know this,” he said. “The elder must never fear. The elder must never doubt. No one will blame our village for this, nor will they blame you. We are merely following custom. Do everything the priest tells you to do. Accomplish your task, and the Castle in the Mist will be sated.”

Do as the priest says. It is the priest’s doing—no one will blame the village—or the village elder—the elder—

“Elder!”

The voice brought him back over thirteen years of time in an instant. Back to his seventy-year-old self; back to long whiskers growing from his chin; back to thin, bony shoulders.

“Sorry, Elder, didn’t mean to intrude.”

In his doorway, several men of the village stood shoulder-to-shoulder, still dressed for field work.

“It is no intrusion, I was merely doing some reading.”

The men exchanged glances until one of them spoke.

“Mistress Oneh’s weeping in the weaving room.”

“She became violent,” said another man, “like a madness took her, and she tried to break the loom. We held her back, Elder, but she’s wild yet.”

That explained why the loom was still silent.

“I will go myself,” the elder said, placing both hands upon his desk for support as he rose from his chair.

Oneh, sweet Oneh. There have been enough tears.

How long would it take for her to understand that no amount of tears or rage could change what had happened? That no matter how high she raised her fist to the heavens or how hard she beat the ground in lamentation, it was all for naught.

Their cries would not reach that ancient castle perched upon the cliff at the end of the world, far to the west where the sun sank after its daily journey. The only thing that could lessen the rage of the master in the castle, that could stave off the castle’s curse for even a short time, was the chosen Sacrifice.

[2]

SMALL PEBBLES FELL
down from above the boy’s head, plinking on the sandy floor. First one, then another.

The boy sat up, looking up at the small window set at the highest point of the cave. The window had been hewn out of the rock, and long years of wind and rain had smoothed its edges.

A face appeared.

“Psst! Hey!” a voice called down. “I know you’re in there!”

“Toto!” the boy replied with a smile, wondering how his friend had managed to climb up to the window like that.

“What,” Toto said, “don’t tell me you were still sleeping.”

The boy had been lying on his side—there wasn’t much else to do.

“You’ll get in trouble if they catch you.”

Toto grinned. “I’m an old hand at this. No one saw me.”

“You sure?”

“Hey, you should be thanking me. I brought you something—”

Toto threw down a white cloth bag into the cave. The boy snatched it up and looked inside. There was a fruit and a wrapped bundle of baked sweets.

“Thanks!”

Toto grinned. “Don’t let them catch you eating those,” he advised. “That old fogey they got by the door will take ’em away.”

“He wouldn’t do that.”

The boy’s guards weren’t particularly friendly, but neither were they cruel. When they brought him his three meals a day or came to set a blaze in his fireplace on cold nights, they would look down at the floor or off to the side—fearfully, apologetically—and leave the moment their business was done.

“Psst, Ico.” Toto lowered his voice to a whisper. “Don’t you ever think of running away?”

Ico—for that was the boy’s name—turned away from the window at the top of the cave, letting his eyes travel across the gray walls. This cave was on the northern edge of the village. It had originally been a small, rocky hill until the men of the village hollowed it out by hand, specifically to house the Sacrifice. Ico would remain here until the priest arrived to lead him away. The years that had passed since the cave’s construction had smoothed the marks left on the walls by the stonecutters’ chisels and axes. Ico could run his hand over it and feel nothing but featureless rock.

That was how long ago the custom had started and the sacrifices had begun.

It would take many words to describe how he felt at that moment, and they all jostled for attention in Ico’s head. Yet he lacked the confidence to choose just the right ones and line them up in just the right order. He was thirteen.

“I can’t run away,” he finally answered.

Toto gripped the edge of the window with both hands and stuck his head farther in. “Of course you can! I’ll help you!”

“It won’t happen.”

“Says who? I can break you out tonight, and then it’s a quick run to the woods. I’ll swipe the keys and you’re free!”

“Where would I go? Where would I live? I can’t go to another village. When they see the horns they’ll know I’m the Sacrifice, and they’ll drag me back.”

“So don’t go to a village. You could live in the mountains, hunt game, eat nuts and berries—you could even clear a field for a garden. You never get sick, and you’re strong as a bull, Ico. If anyone can do it, you can.” Toto frowned. “Of course, I’d be going with you. Let’s do it! Let’s go live in the wild! It’s better than…this.”

Toto was a full year younger than Ico. As good a friend as he was, he was also fiercely loyal to his family, especially his younger brother and sister. Ico couldn’t imagine him leaving them behind. And yet, there was a sincerity in Toto’s voice that made Ico think he really meant what he said. That sincerity hurt.
Toto’s willing to throw everything away…because of me.

“Thank you, Toto,” Ico said, trying to sound somber. His voice cracked.

“Don’t thank me. Say you’ll come!”

“I can’t.”

Toto shook his head. “You’re a lot of things, Ico, but I never figured you for a coward.”

“Think of what will happen to the village if I run. Without a Sacrifice, the Castle in the Mist would grow angry.”

Not just the village. The capital too would be destroyed, all in the space of a night. No,
he thought,
there probably wouldn’t even be time to blink.

“So what if the castle gets angry?” Toto asked, growing angry himself. “What’s so scary about the castle anyway? My parents won’t ever talk to me about it—Mom practically covers her ears and runs when I ask questions.”

It wasn’t that Toto’s parents didn’t want to talk about it—they were forbidden to talk about it. It was part of their custom, because they knew that the Castle in the Mist was always wary. Not even a curse could be whispered under the breath. And the castle suffered no one to challenge its authority. No one.

“When you turn fifteen, they’ll hold the ceremony for you,” Ico told him. “You’ll learn what it means then. The elder will tell you everything.”

“That’s great,” Toto said, a bit too loud, “but I want to know now! How do they expect me to just sit here and accept it until they think I’m ready? Once they take you off to the castle, you know you’re not coming back, right? Well, that doesn’t work for me. I’m not going to just stand around and let that happen.”

“But, Toto, I
am
the Sacrifice.”

“Because you got horns growing out of your head? Why does that make you anything? Who thought all this crap up anyway?”

It’s just the way it is,
Ico wanted to say, but he held himself back.

“You know something, don’t you?” Toto’s voice suddenly grew much quieter. “Tell me, Ico. I have to know.”

Ico slumped. Hadn’t the elder told him—in a tone that left no room for interpretation—not to speak of what he knew, of what he had seen?

It was already several days ago that Ico’s horns had grown suddenly in the space of a night and the elder had taken him over the Forbidden Mountains. They had ridden on horseback for three days to the north, going where not even the hunters dared tread. They saw no one on the road, no birds flying overhead, no rabbits in the underbrush, no tracks of foxes in the soft mud left by rains the day before.

Why were the mountains forbidden? Why did no one come this way? Why were there no birds or animals to be seen? All of Ico’s questions melted like a springtime snow when they reached the top of the pass and he saw what lay on the other side.

“I brought you here to show you the horror the Castle in the Mist has wrought, the depth of its rage—and the true meaning of your sacrifice,” the elder told him. “Only the Sacrifice can quell the castle’s wrath and prevent this tragedy from happening again. Look well upon it. Carve the sight deep within your heart. Then fulfill your duty and do not think of flight.”

The elder’s words still rang in his ears.

Ico had known he was to be the Sacrifice since he was a child. He had been raised for this purpose and none other.

Ico’s daily life had been no different from that of any other child in the village. When he was bad, he was scolded; when he was good, he was praised. He tended the fields and the animals. He learned how to read and write, he swam in the rivers and climbed in the trees. The days went by quickly, and he slept soundly at night. Before his horns poked out from beneath his hair, even Ico often forgot they were there at all.

And yet, he knew that he was the Sacrifice, that he was different from the other children. The elder told him that often, almost every day. What he had seen across the Forbidden Mountains, however, had a greater impact on Ico than any words. It made him painfully aware, beyond a doubt, of the weight of his burden. Ico reached up, absentmindedly brushing the tip of one of his horns with a finger. Here was the proof that he was the one chosen to prevent calamity, to save his people.

How could I run from that?

On the trip home from the mountains, Ico’s resolve had become as hard as steel. Whereas his duty as the Sacrifice had only been something vague before, a role in a distant play, now it took a clear and definite shape. He never noticed the tears the elder shed as he hurried his horse ahead of him on the path. When they returned to the village, Ico had moved into the cave without being asked.

“I got it!” Toto shouted from the window, jarring Ico from his reverie.

“What? What is it?”

“I’m coming with you, Ico. I’m going to the castle!”

Ico jumped up, standing against the wall directly beneath the window. “You’re not going anywhere! If the priest found out, they’d lock you up. Probably the rest of your family too. You really want that to happen?”

Toto gulped. “Why would they do that? Who says I can’t see the castle? If only the Sacrifice is allowed to go, what about the priest? Does he have to throw
himself
in jail?”

“Now you’re just being ridiculous.”

“Why do I even bother?” Toto grumbled. “
You’re
not even on your own side.”

Ico shook his head. He looked up at his friend’s face, beet red with anger, and suddenly he felt the tension leave his shoulders, and he laughed out loud.

Toto’s a good person. A good friend. And I’ll never be able to see him again once I leave.

That thought made him feel lonelier than any other.

A good friend…Which is exactly why I must go to the castle.

“Toto,” he said after a moment of silence, “I know what will happen if the castle gets angry. But I can’t tell you. I can’t go against custom. It’s just like when they say we’re not supposed to swim in the deep water on days when the west wind blows or ride into the mountains without trimming our horse’s hooves. It just is, and you’ll have to wait for your ceremony to know why.” Ico’s voice was calm and even. “It’s true, though, that when the Sacrifice goes to the castle, the danger is gone. And you know I won’t die, right?”