ICO: Castle in the Mist (47 page)

Ico grabbed the Mark firmly in one hand. It crumpled between his fingers, but its light remained steady.
Now go!

Waiting for the queen’s shoulders to bend back, Ico ran toward the sword. His extended fingers touched its hilt and scraped at it, getting it into his hand when the queen’s next blast of wind came over him. Ico clutched the sword. Its light wrapped around him, shielding him from the blast.

Ico stood and ran over to the wall, tracing a wide circle back to where he had begun.

Another blast of wind. Ico lowered his head and met it, sword raised. He took one step toward the throne. Then another. And another. But when he raised his sword again and looked up, another blast hit him, knocking away the sword. Ico was flung into the air. He tumbled to the ground, defenseless. The impact of the hit made his body scream. His right horn struck the floor and blood flowed.

Ico’s head spun with pain and rising nausea. He got an elbow under himself and sat up, looking down at the blood that flowed from his head pooling on the ground. His right horn hung loosely from its base.

A broken horn—the sign of defeat and shame.

“This is your end, Sacrifice!”

The queen’s arms lifted again.

An icy gray wind blew forth. It erupted like a living thing from the lines the queen’s fingers traced in the air. Ico saw it coming for him, he saw it tremble with a cruel appetite.

A black shadow fell across his legs.

Ico curled up into a ball and shut his eyes tight, but the moment passed and he realized he was still breathing. His eyelids trembled open. His head felt like it would split.

Can stone feel pain?

He looked up to see a large shadow looming over him, broad shoulders on stunted legs, with the same horns that he had. Strangely curved arms spread out, protecting him.

It was one of the shades—turned to stone. As Ico watched in shock, it crumbled to dust before his eyes.

—Be brave, Brother.

—Stand. Fight.

Ico heard disembodied voices coming from every direction, near and far.

He looked around to see that the queen’s throne room had filled with the shadowy creatures. They were hovering around Ico as they had once surrounded Yorda. Winged shades flew over his head, and those that resembled men stood around him, supporting him.

—We will be your shield!

The shades advanced step by step, forming a rank around the throne with Ico behind. The cursed creatures the queen had created had broken the chains that once bound them.

Ico looked at their shadowy features and gasped as he saw the living faces that the sword had shown him.

—Take the sword, Brother.

—You can destroy her.

The words wrapped around Ico, and he felt strength welling from the core of his being.

The queen remained on the throne. The pale mask of her face did not move or betray any expression, yet her voice was filled with rage, and her mounting anger ruffled the hem of her black robes.

“Wretched things, you would turn on me?”

Another blast. A row of the slowly advancing creatures turned to stone, preserving their misshapen forms for a moment before exploding into dust. Yet still the mob continued their advance toward the throne.

It was a moving wall, defending Ico.

Flying shades turned to stone and fell as dust from the air. The feel of powdered stone on Ico’s face brought him back to the present. He got to his knees and stood, looking around for the light of the sword. When he found it, he ran directly to it, picking it up in both hands just as one of the creatures next to him turned to stone.

—Use the sword.

—Use its strength.

—Defeat the queen.

Suddenly, the sword’s power increased. The blade extended until it was longer than Ico was tall, longer even than the shades in front of them, and it shone with the brilliance of the noonday sun, sending forth waves of power that made the stones on the floor of the throne room ripple.

—You can see the queen.

—It is the power of your Mark.

—You can see the queen who has lost her mortal form and become the castle.

—You can see her true shape.

The shades’ words brought Ico a deeper understanding. The final key he needed for his battle.

Of course—what had Ozuma said?
Remember the queen’s words. Remember the elder’s words.

The Mark would help him see the queen’s true form—this was the knowledge.

The sword would help him defeat her—this was the courage.

That which was once split had come together again.

“If I can see it, I can fight it!” Ico shouted, and the shades echoed his cry. The ring tightened on the throne. Even as their brothers turned to stone and fell to dust, they surged forward. An army of Sacrifices.

“Hateful things!” the queen roared, and her hand faltered as she traced another glyph in the air.

Ico lifted the sword above his head. He charged up onto the platform, making directly for the throne. The sword traced a beautiful arc in the air, trailing white light as it cut straight for the queen’s chest.

There was an explosion of light centered on the tip of the sword. It grew, enveloping the throne, and Ico saw the ring of dark creatures around him evaporate in it.

It felt as though the sword had struck nothing as it pierced cleanly through the queen’s black robes. Ico followed its momentum until he was practically leaning over the throne, seeing its black obsidian reflected in the blade.

The queen doubled over, her chest collapsing onto the seat of the throne. Her arms, stretched over her head, stopped abruptly, grasping the air. Then her fingers lost their strength, her elbows bent, and her head fell backward, revealing her white throat.

The strength left her shoulders, and her arms fell down on the armrests together.

Ico looked at the queen’s white face, so close to his own. He was looking at a white mask. Where her eyes should have been were two dark holes. Then the darkness faded.

“I…” the mouth of the mask moved. Ico kept his grip firm on the sword. “I cannot be…”

Ico shut his eyes tight. Then with his remaining strength he thrust the sword forward again.

The white mask crumpled. Like white paper burned by an unseen fire, it fell inside itself, wasting away to nothing. Her black robes lost their shape and color, turning to a drab gray, their embroideries fading, until the cloth itself began to thin and disappear.

No one was left sitting upon the obsidian throne.

The last ring of light emitted by the sword reached the corners of the throne and evaporated to mist.

The sword dropped from Ico’s hand.

With a clang, it fell upon the throne. It was no longer shining. Now it was dull, aged. Rust showed on the hilt, and the notches in its blade told the tale of its many years.

For a moment it hung balanced, half off the throne, before falling onto the floor next to Ico’s feet.

Ico lowered his arms and stood a while just looking at it.

The glow of his Mark had faded as well, as had the shades from around the room.

Ico staggered back, almost toppling off of the platform. He found it hard to control his own body.

Fresh blood flowed from the base of his right horn. It ran down his neck and trickled onto his shoulder. New blood flowed with every beat of his heart. His knees bent and he sat, face dropping. He raised his right hand to hold down his horn, but couldn’t lift it all the way before he lost what strength remained in him and collapsed on the spot. His face was calm, peaceful, like that of a sleeping boy.

The Castle in the Mist realized something was different—its core, its soul, was gone.

In countless rooms, walls of stacked stones sighed. Cobblestones in the floor began to rattle.

We are cages. We are empty.

The strength that held us in place is gone. The darkness that bound us together has faded.

The vibrations were so faint at first that not even the most wary bird would have noticed them. Yet the entire castle had begun to tremble. Every stone, wall, and floor began to shake. Tiny particles of rock fell from the cracks where the ornamented walls met the ceilings. As one, every torch in the castle was extinguished. Water in the copper pipes ceased to flow. The wind that whistled through the towers and across the terraces and along the outer walls grew still.

We have held this false shape for so long.

All of this should have faded years ago.

Minute vibrations became a noticeable trembling that came with a keening noise. The birds sitting on the Tower of Winds or flying around the old bridge sped away from the castle.

It is ending. I am ending.

On two slender legs she climbed the stone stair to the queen’s chambers, the tattered hem of a dress falling around them.

Yorda was free of the stone, and her body had begun to glow again as she walked.

She saw the boy lying on the stone floor, his back to her. He was exhausted and covered with wounds.

Yorda approached. She knelt by his body. She extended her fingers and touched his cheek as she had when they first met.

The boy’s face was dirty with blood and dust. His eyes were closed.

All around them the Castle in the Mist shook with a low rumbling noise Yorda felt in her body. The sound of the deep, vital foundations collapsing. Yorda looked up at the royal crest over the throne. The vibrations increased until Yorda could see the stones shaking.

The carving of the crest split in two. Along with the pair of carved swords, it fell to the floor behind the throne with a loud crash.

Yorda put one hand on the floor to support herself as the castle shook anew. She could hear the castle screaming through her hand.

There isn’t much time.

Yorda reached out and picked up the boy in both her arms.

Pillars crumbled, floor tiles buckled. Yorda continued on, ignoring the swirling dust and the collapsing walls. She advanced with steady feet through the groaning, screeching, lamenting castle. She passed through a corridor and it collapsed behind her. As she crossed a hall, she saw its floor give way, crumbling down into the earth. A chunk of rock grazed Yorda’s heel. She did not stop. Through the next room and the next, destruction and collapse followed close behind her. But Yorda did not look back. Over swaying steps and collapsing bridges, down secret stairs that only Yorda knew, they reached the underground pier. Yorda stepped across the wet sand, making for the water. The ground rumbled under her feet. The shock waves were growing more violent. When she stepped on the pier, one of the rotting pilings gave way and the pier collapsed, leaving nothing but a few scattered boards floating on the water.

Yorda smiled.

Still carrying the boy, she stepped into the water. The vibrations in the castle above sent ripples across the surface of the water. Yorda lifted her arms, keeping the boy’s face above the lapping waves.

Pushing her way forward, she reached one of the planks from the shattered pier. She laid the boy atop it. He was still asleep. Blood oozed from where his right horn attached to his scalp. The blood dripped down onto the board, staining it red.

Yorda kept moving forward, pushing the boy along on the board. The water rose until it was just below her chin, and then higher until she could go no farther.

Summoning all her strength, Yorda pushed the board forward as hard as she could. As though it heard her unspoken plea, the current shifted, carrying the plank out through the grotto toward the open sea. Yorda watched it go.

The final dying cries of the castle reverberated through the grotto. Yorda whispered something as the boy drifted away, though even had he been awake it would have been impossible to hear her over the clamor of the collapsing castle. He had never been able to understand her language, in any case.

“Goodbye,” she said.

Then, pushing back through the water, she quietly turned back toward the castle.

One of the pillars gave way. When it fell, the one next to it cracked and buckled, as though victim of a fast-spreading plague, followed by the next and the next.

In the Western Arena, the viewing stands crumbled first. Rubble buried the platform where knights had once fought for their lives and for honor. Finally the arena itself collapsed under the weight of the rubble, dragging the walls down with it and burying the queen’s observing throne.

The large reflectors to the east and west shone brilliantly, standing through the quakes. As their bases shook and the earth split, they fell to the ground, facing up toward the sky. At the same time, the two spheres above the main gate collapsed into dust.

The branches of the willow trees in the courtyard swayed like a maiden’s hair, brushing against the inner walls of the castle as they began to crumble. Gravestones toppled and split or were swallowed into the ground as coffins were spat out onto the grass.

Waves passed along the water filling the underground jail, and the copper pipes running through the castle boomed with echoing noise, sounding like bells tolling the doom of the castle. Water sprayed from cracks in the pipes, flowing down into the earth.

Gray dust rose up, mingling with the white mist that floated around the castle grounds. Wrapped in its veil, the towers of the castle leaned and toppled. They fell to the inside and to the outside, new rubble falling upon old.

By the giant waterfall, the chains of the eight hanging cages split one by one, and the cages plunged into the water far below. The water increased in volume, sending up a terrific spray notable for its absence of rainbows. Their purpose voided, the cages sank below the water.

Towers in the east, west, and main keep collapsed, as though the castle had been nothing more than a painting upon a folding screen that was now being put away by giant hands.

The last thing remaining was the main gate, the only path to the outside world, and the Tower of Winds that had stood so long and seen so much darkness.