ICO: Castle in the Mist

1

YORDA HAD LIVED in loneliness so long and so complete that it had penetrated her being, becoming her flesh and blood.

When she saw herself in the mirror or reflected on the surface of a pool of still water, she saw not a person but a thin skin stretched over a lonely void. I’m a container, an empty vessel, a collection of nothingness.

In Yorda’s world, time was stopped. Time was her prison. It had held her for so long she could no longer remember when it began, when she had first realized her destiny. Yet finally she had come to an understanding. Time does not imprison me, I imprison time. Time is my captive. I am the lonely keeper of the key, free to live here so long as I do not relinquish my post. Here I have stayed for so long that time itself is meaningless.

Why is this so?

Who makes me do this?

By whose command am I here?

She had forgotten. In exchange for the power to hold back time, she had lost the power to mark its passage. Over the long years, this oblivion had been a mercy to her, the only peace she could claim.

A sea of forgetfulness, a barrier from the truth, enveloped her. She became a tiny round pebble, sunken into its depths. Here there was only peace and tranquility. Though the waves of doubt and unease might riffle the surface of the water high above her, they would never reach down to the bottom where she lived.

An eternal sleep, not unlike death.

When will it end?

Who will end it?

On whose command will it cease?

Stopping time meant stopping her heart. Nothing changed, nothing moved. Nothing was born, nothing faded. As it had always been. As it would always be.

At least, that’s how it was meant to be-

“Yorda…that’s your name?” A voice, calling her. Dark eyes looking up at her. The warmth of another person standing close, the sound of their breathing.

Where there is life and action, time cannot remain still. The doors of the cage must open and let their captive free.

Yorda…yes. That is my name.

Yorda was dreaming. She dreamt in fragments that seemed to come and go as they pleased as she lay in the cage at the top of the tower above the pedestal room. How long had she lain here? Her dreams followed no logical path, nor could she be sure if they were dreams in her sleep or waking dreams in her mind. Often, she’d relive the same dream many times.

As death and oblivion were closely related, so too were death and dreams. Who can say truly that the dead do not dream? Am I dead dreaming of life? Or am I alive dreaming of death?

In her dream, someone was climbing the spiral staircase that wound round the tower. In her dream, she heard footsteps, saw a shadow on the stairs. She looked up and saw the figure approach. But after she blinked and looked again, she realized it was just a vision without substance.

That was the way it always was. Always she returned to sleep, in search of the next dream.

In this dream, she saw a dark shadow grow upon the wall behind the climbing figure, drawing it in, devouring it. The figure said nothing, only cowered in fear as the darkness took it. A great storm raged outside the tower. She could feel the wind on her face and the cool drops of rain. Her dreams were often indistinguishable from reality.

The figure taken by the shadows-it was a little boy. His intense fear bit into her. Her eyes opened in fright. Then, she did see someone climbing up the stairs of her tower. Going round and round, racing up the spiral with a desperate speed.

Is this a dream? Was the figure I saw before the dream? Which is life, and which is death?

Then she heard a voice call to her. “Is anybody there?”

Yorda sat up halfway. It was the boy, leaning up against the railing, looking at her. “What are you doing in there?”

She could see him with her eyes. She could hear his voice in her ears.

Yorda couldn’t believe it. I’m still dreaming. This is a fantasy my heart is showing me. A gentle, soothing lie. That’s all.

The boy was standing on tiptoe now, stretching as high as he could, and calling out loudly. “Hold on. I’ll get you down.”

He started up the stairs again. Yorda could watch him run with her eyes. He was wearing strange red clothes-a pretty color, though. She wondered at the cloth that fell over his chest and back, decorated with such an intricate pattern. When the boy ran, the fabric flapped and curled like a flag.

Presently, she could no longer see the boy. It looked as though he had crawled out of one of the windows higher up in the tower in her dream. That’s right. I’m still dreaming. I mustn’t forget.

Nothing will happen after this. Nothing will change. I will go back to sleep.

The cage shook around her.

Yorda grabbed hold of the bars, clinging for dear life. The vibrations continued, and then, to her amazement, the cage began to slowly drop. The round pedestal far below her grew larger.

An intricate dream. A dream woven from my wildest hopes.

But the cage did not descend all the way down to the pedestal. Instead, it stopped at the height of the idol gate. There it shook again, and Yorda stood, holding on to the bars.

She could see the heads of the idols just beneath her feet. The four of them stood mute watch over the way out.

She wondered how she knew that. A shiver ran down her spine, and Yorda let go of the bars, retreating to the center of her cage. A fleeting memory bloomed in her mind.

“These idols are our protectors.”

“They’ll protect us, both of us, during the eternity we must wait here in the castle until the time of the revival is at hand.”

“I am you, and you are me. I am what fills you, and you are my vessel.”

Yorda shook her head, letting it hang limply from her neck. I am myself. This is my body. My hands and feet. My hair. My eyes.

There was a loud clanging sound above her head, and the cage began to rock like a boat at sea. She looked up and saw that the boy from before had landed atop the cage.

The cage rocked, and Yorda was thrown against the bars. Above her, the boy lost his balance and fell from the cage with a yelp. The cage lurched again, more dramatically this time, and the next moment it began to fall. The chain had broken!

There wasn’t even enough time for her to blink. The bottom of the cage struck the pedestal with an echoing clang, and for a terrifying moment it teetered, threatening to topple, before coming to rest on the ground. A breath later, Yorda heard a sharp metallic whine as the door to the cage swung open, its lock broken.

The boy was sitting a short distance away on the floor. Silence returned to the room, and Yorda heard the crackling of the torches and the wild breathing of the boy.

Am I still dreaming?

Yorda stepped slowly out of the cage.

The boy was still sitting, gaping up at her. He looked young. Small round black eyes. The strange cloth he wore gave off a dim light. And he had horns.

“We will need sacrifices.”

Fragments of memories danced in her head.

“The Castle in the Mist will require them.”

I am dreaming, Yorda thought. This isn’t some entertainment my mind has woven for me. I am replaying an old memory. It must be, because I know this boy with the horns. I have known him for so long. Together, we walked this castle-

“It was my mistake to attempt to use your power.”

“But do not give up hope. The day will come when a child of my blood will rise to save you.”

“And your mother-”

Yorda retrieved her voice from across the span of ages. “Who are you?” she asked the boy. “How did you get in here?”

But the boy just stared at her blankly. She asked him again, and the boy’s lips moved.

“Are you…are you a Sacrifice?”

The words had a familiar ring to her ears. They were not her own, but words she knew well all the same. They were the words he had used those many years ago. She knew she recognized them. But that was so long ago. And though she could understand them, it frustrated her that she could not speak them.

The memories washed over her like waves, incessant, present.

This boy is no dream, I know that.

Yorda extended her hand and touched the boy’s cheek. I want to feel his warmth. I want to be sure. The boy’s shoulders lifted and his mouth twisted. He’s afraid. Don’t be. But I must be sure you’re real.

That was when they appeared.

Yorda called them the shadows-that-walk-alone. They were shades, born of the Sacrifices. The souls of the Sacrifices were removed, steeped in dark magic, and transformed into the misshapen creatures. Yorda’s mother, queen of the Castle in the Mist, called them her slaves, and she spoke of them with great disdain.

The shades were looking for Yorda because the queen was looking for Yorda. Yorda held time within her body, the shades held Yorda, and the castle held the shades. Even now, the queen reigned over these three layers of warding.

But the boy protected Yorda from the shadows-that-walk-alone. He took her hand, defended her, swung his thin arm, and fought with his tiny frame, driving them back. If the shades dragged her into their realm, she would once again become a prisoner, and the boy would turn to stone, a sad adornment in the castle. Yorda knew this. But the boy did not-even as he did not know that Yorda was the property of the queen of the castle-and he protected her.

Yes, this must be a dream. A dream woven by my heart, in mourning for my dead soul.

The man had promised that she would be saved one day. But no matter how firm his promise, he was just a man and his strength was limited. After all this time, he would have frozen and eroded, then disappeared without a trace.

But the feeling of the boy’s fingers clutching her own and the warmth of his hand were real. He existed without a doubt, burning with anger, trembling with fear, breathing raggedly in the chaos, fighting the shades that sprang up around them.

As she staggered, being led by the boy, she had an idea. She gave his hand a tug. He resisted. He did not disappear. She didn’t awake trembling to find herself still inside the cage.

This isn’t a dream. Believe this. It’s not a dream. The promised time has come.

Yorda pulled on the boy’s hand as hard as she could, turning toward the warding idols.

“These idols protect you.”

Guardians heed the orders of the one who is guarded. Though Yorda might lack the power to drive off the shadows, she could bring light to open the way out of this place.

“Never move the idols. We must defend the castle against the impurities of the outside world until the revival is nigh.”

When Yorda used her own power to move the idols, the shades disappeared from the pedestal room like smoke in a strong wind.

“How did you do that?” the boy asked, glancing between her face, the empty room, and the idols that had parted before them. She saw dark doubts and bright hopes in the innocent eyes looking into hers.

“Come with me, okay?” the boy said. “Let’s find the way out.”

She looked at the horns growing from his head, then she took his outstretched hand.

2

LED BY THE hand as they ran through the castle in search of a way out, Yorda attempted to summon her faded memories. It seemed to her that walking on these stones with her own feet, free of the cage, it shouldn’t be too difficult.

The towers of the Castle in the Mist. Landscapes seen from incredible heights. Endless corridors. High spiral staircases. Crumbling furniture and adornments. Everything was as she remembered it. Many times she had run through here, touching, sitting down to rest. She had to be able to remember.

But like a nightmare in which you run and run and never seem to get anywhere, Yorda’s memories of the Castle in the Mist hung frustratingly close, but always out of reach. It was as though a dark veil had fallen between now and then, concealing her past from the present.

Had the castle always been this vast? Always this tangled? Even though each of the rooms seemed familiar to her, the ways between them were strange and convoluted.

The boy was brave-as though he hardly feared anything. Or perhaps that was just a façade. He should be afraid. Yet his feet ran and his eyes searched without pause. Except, every once in a while, a thoughtful look would come over him and he would stop. After a moment, he’d shake his head and begin to walk again. Yorda imagined that at these times he grappled with doubts and fears in his mind, but for Yorda, whose own memory was clouded, it was difficult to imagine what these doubts and fears might be. If only she could understand him better.

His words were tangled in her mind. Yorda didn’t even know the boy’s name. Yet the horns on his head spoke to something asleep in her heart, trying to rouse it. So familiar, so comforting. She heard a voice whisper in her head.

“Don’t give up hope.”

Who had he been? What was he to me? She stretched out her arms in her mind, trying to uncover memories that lay buried in the shadows. How satisfying it would be to pull them out, drag them into the light.

I want to remember. I must remember.

Sometimes, the boy would take her hand and his eyes would go blank, as though his mind had toppled and fallen inside himself. His expression was that of someone peering at something far off in the distance, something that Yorda could not see. What’s wrong? she wanted to ask. What are you thinking?

Then the moment would pass, and the light would return to the boy’s eyes. He would tilt his head curiously, looking first at her, and then at their surroundings, as though he had been on some long voyage and only just now returned.

After a while-Yorda realized with some surprise that she could mark the passage of time-they made their way to the old bridge leading to the far tower of the castle, dimly visible through the white mist. The statue of a knight stood on the near side of the bridge.

The boy looked up at it and his eyes grew distant.

Something about the tall statue, one horn protruding from his helmet, made Yorda’s heart flutter. Memories swirled inside her, tiny waves breaking against the shores of her mind.

I know this knight. I know him. This is him, the man. But why is he made of stone? Another memory rose, clearer than the others. This is no statue. The curse turned him to stone, binding him here. I know why. I know…

But she didn’t know. It was so close. She stamped the floor in irritation.

When she looked again at the boy, he was standing beside her, glancing curiously between the statue and the bridge. She followed his gaze, wondering what it was that he could see that she could not.

The boy took Yorda’s hand and broke into a run. Yorda ran too, nearly tripping. In a daze, she saw a crack form at their feet across the ancient bridge, and the stones began to fall away from beneath them. Yorda’s legs treaded air, and she fell before she even had time to scream.

But the boy caught her, leaving her dangling from the edge of the bridge. She looked down at the calm blue water of the ocean, waiting for her. A breeze ruffled her hair and shawl, and the cries of seabirds rang in her ears.

The boy pulled Yorda back up onto the remnant of the bridge. His face was pale, and he chattered on rapidly. To Yorda, it seemed as though he were apologizing.

It’s not your fault, she thought. The castle is old. It’s decaying. That’s why the stone bridge collapsed. That’s all.

Or was it? As they ran across the bridge, Yorda found herself wondering why the castle was disintegrating beneath them. It can’t decay. It’s alive. The Castle in the Mist is eternal, isn’t it?

For just a moment, the veil separating Yorda from her memories gave way to her pressure. A realization spilled forth. She grabbed hold of it tightly.

It is because I am free. I left my cage, I’m trying to leave. That’s why the Castle in the Mist is dying. The castle shares my fate. I am the cage of time, as the castle is my cage.

Though her memories remained dark, after that she knew with each step, with each new room they passed, that she was not to leave this place. The feeling grew stronger and stronger, welling up from inside her, binding her to this place. What I am doing is forbidden. I cannot escape the castle. That is the one thing I must never do.

That was what the misshapen creatures told her. They pleaded with her desperately to remember her role. That was why they wanted to bring her back, to quietly end her charade of escape. Just as she had been stopped before once…but that memory too was out of reach.

They ran on through the castle, and again the shades attacked, and again the boy came to her aid, baring his teeth at the dark shapes looming over him, a tiny mouse in a den of lions. The dark creatures vanished, their lamentations left to hang in the air. She realized that the boy could hear them too. As proof, every time he saw them, his fear grew greater…and his hatred, and the tears in his eyes.

Why do I not stop? Yorda wondered. Why do I follow this boy? And what is this strange warmth that flows within me each time I take his hand? This warmth threatens to fill me, I who have spent so long caged in the castle, my life an empty vessel for time to fill. What if it succeeds? Then I would…I would-

I would be a girl again.

That’s why I have to stay here. The queen wants it. I must follow her wishes.

But-

Is that what I want for myself? Is that what I desire?

Though she uttered not a sound, Yorda’s cry of confusion echoed throughout the castle, every corner hearing her question. And so when they finally reached the gates, her answer appeared before them in the form of the master of the castle herself: the queen, destined to rise again, destined to rule the world.

Yet she was wrapped in black, and her once beautiful face was as thin and gaunt as a corpse. Her obsidian eyes flashed with anger, and though Yorda wished it were not so, she had but one name to call this woman: Mother.

The person who bore me into this world.

But I am…I was going to-

The veil dropped away. That which separated Yorda from her memories vanished. Suddenly everything-the whole of the history of the Castle in the Mist-came surging back to her in a great tide.

“Now, Yorda. Back to the castle. You forget who you are.”

Yorda looked to the boy at her side. In the shadow of the closing gates, he stood facing off against the queen.

He is the Sacrifice. And I am part of the castle. We can never be together, aligned in one purpose.

Then the queen left, satisfied to see Yorda’s memory returned. The gates closed firmly shut. The royal audience was over.

The boy lay on the ground, covered in cuts and bruises. Yorda was crying. It took her some time to realize that the tears falling on the tiles of the courtyard were her own. I’ve remembered how to cry.

The boy was speaking to her. She could understand him now. She even knew what language he spoke. It was the same language of the poor knight turned to stone on the bridge-the swordsman Ozuma. She remembered him now too.

The boy was telling her that when he held her hand, he saw visions. He told her that he had seen her with her father on the trolley.

Father. How long ago had she forgotten him? He’d fallen beyond the reach of her recollection.

“It seemed like you two were close.”

Yes, we were. But now I am very far from him indeed. So far that we will never be together again.

Yorda touched the boy’s cheek. In that instant, she made a decision. I will help him escape. I will save this Sacrifice. And I will stay here to play my role, to remain the lock on the cage of time. This will be the last time I take his hand.

Then the strange pattern on the boy’s tunic began to glow. Pulsing. Sending life into the boy, and into Yorda.

As she watched, the boy’s wounds healed. It was as though her hand had melted into him. I can feel it crossing to me. A light of hope. The brilliance of life. The brilliance of wisdom that resists the yoke of darkness.

“I’ll take you with me.”

How could he still want to escape with her, knowing she was the daughter of the queen?

“The day will come when a child of my blood will come to save you.”

Was this the child? Was he more than a mere Sacrifice? Was he the warrior protected by the light of wisdom?

Yorda took the boy’s hand. A new strength flowed from it, washing away her sad determination, cleansing her memories, and beginning to fill the empty vessel that was Yorda.

No. I don’t believe it.

But the boy was there, and he was looking at her. That was when Yorda understood what was drawing out her memories of the castle into the boy. It was him. He wanted to know its dark past. He wanted to know everything. No one could stop this. Not even the queen.

The elder sat up in his chair suddenly.

What was that?

He had been dozing, the Book of Light in his hands. Now he found he could not reach down and pick up the book. His hands, knees, even his tongue were numb. It was as though a bolt of lightning had run through his body.

Gradually he loosened his fingers, rubbed down his arms, and finally got out of his chair to pick up the book. The ancient tome was glowing and warm, just as it had been when he had first taken it from Toto’s hands. The cover opened of its own accord to a particular page.

There, in the middle of a long line of densely packed ancient letters, he saw the illustration of a single great sword.

The elder looked up, awe rising within him.

“He has found the way. He has found it!”

3

TIME LURCHED BACK into motion. It boiled up, whirling in a spiral, arcing like lightning, regaining the pace it once knew in the distant, distant past-

On either side of the castle gate, the celestial sphere in the east and its twin in the west sparkled brightly. A bell rang, signaling with its deep echoing sound the start of the great tournament held only once every three years.

The gates slowly opened, their height such that they appeared to scrape the sky. Knights, soldiers, and mercenaries from every corner of the queen’s domain, and beyond, formed two lines that proceeded across the bridge from the gathering place on the other side. The bright sun reflected off of their burnished gear.

More than one hundred men made up the procession. Some wore helmets of bright crimson, others leather armor polished to a glow by years of use, heavy round shields lashed across their backs. Each contestant had his own specialty. Behind one proudly hefting a giant battle-axe walked another dressed in a long black robe out of which poked a segmented whip with a spike on its end. There were youths in the crowd, boys not old enough to shave. There were mercenaries with keen eyes who had seen many battles, and an old man who had seen more, leaving him with but one.

They advanced between ranks of the royal guard lining either side of the high corridor leading through the courtyard. Their ambition was a tangible substance that shimmered above them like heat rising off the desert. The guards stood with their hands at their waists, chests thrust out so that the royal signets upon their breastplates could be seen beneath their surcoats.

Eight days hence, when the victor had been decided by single elimination tournaments held in the arenas, they would look up to one of these warriors as their new master-at-arms. But for now, they simply watched the procession, expressions hidden behind their faceplates. They knew that whatever skill these warriors had with axe and whip, with dagger and trident, it was wasted on a knight. A knight wielded a sword. As to whether they watched with smiles, cold and hard, or with the curiosity of career soldiers, none could say.

Yorda stood on the terrace outside her chambers, looking down at the spectacle in the courtyard. Her tower stood to the west of the central keep where the queen’s chambers were located. From this height, the procession of warriors looked like little marionettes in a play. Even still, the crunching of their boots on the stones drifted up through the air, and she could sense their elation in the wind that blew against her cheek.

The castle stood atop sheer cliffs overlooking the sea, the salt wind sweeping it year round. Even now, the breeze played with the ends of Yorda’s short-cropped chestnut hair.

Those who were close to Yorda all said that when they returned from a long journey and smelled the sea air, they felt like they were truly home. Not having set foot outside the castle, it was something that Yorda couldn’t understand. She had never known a wind that did not carry the scent of the sea.

The queen did not like to expose Yorda to strangers, and so she had forbidden her to leave her tower during the tournament. It was rare for the queen herself to leave the castle, and even within, Yorda saw no one else but the Captain of the Guard who was always by her side, the ministers who managed the castle affairs, the handmaidens who tended to her, and Master Suhal, the great scholar.

“How peaceful your world must seem at a glance,” the queen would tell her. “Calm as a windless sea. But peel back a thin layer, and you would find invasions and battles waiting. You could hear the ragged, blood-choked breathing of neighboring kingdoms, eager to expand their domain, biding their time. In such a world, the beauty with which you were born is far too dangerous.

“Beauty is a high, noble thing. Thus are men enchanted by it and seek it out. But those who desire you desire also our lands. I must keep you hidden so that you do not entice them or enchant them-because, my dearest, while your beauty holds the power to command the actions of a few men, it does not bestow the ability to govern.

“It is the same for me. The land I govern is the most wealthy and beautiful of all the lands that divide this vast continent. They crave it, as they crave me. From their slavering jaws and their multifarious schemes have I escaped many times. All to protect myself and my beautiful domain, blessed by the Creator. You, who were born into this world as the lone daughter of the queen, have noble blood and noble beauty, thus must you bear my burdens.

“Beloved child, my daughter. I pity you for your beauty.”

The warriors were now lined up in the square before the gate. Mor Gars, Minister of Rites, slowly took his place on the stand that had been erected for the tournament. It was richly decorated with flowers of the season and flags embroidered with the crest of the royal house. The royal guard, in formation around the warriors, lifted their swords as one toward the sky and stood at attention while the contestants dropped respectfully to one knee upon the ground.

The minister began his speech, his voice carrying to every corner of the square with the quiet accompaniment of the leaves rustling in the sea breeze.

A single tear fell on the back of Yorda’s hand where it gripped the railing. The tournament had begun. Yorda wondered who would win, and if he had ever imagined in his wildest nightmares what awaited him after his brief moment of glory.

And she had no way of stopping it.

Ten days before, Yorda had gone against her mother’s word and attempted to leave the castle. An act born of childish curiosity, nothing more.

Yorda was sixteen, a flower just entering bloom. To her, the outside world was the stuff of dreams and longing, a busy place where people mingled and lived out their lives. She wanted to walk upon the grass beyond the gates, if only just once. She wanted to see towns and villages she had never known. She wanted to look back at the castle looming across the water, to see its grand shape from afar. Her youthful heart wanted to escape the chains of royalty, however briefly.

She had pleaded with one of the handmaidens closest to her, who finally gave in and agreed to help. The handmaiden had a lover who worked as one of the guards.

The two worked out a plan. On the night of the full moon, when the leaders of the merchants’ guild gathered and had their meeting with the Minister of Coin, there would be many people of no name or stature on the castle grounds, for one only needed to be a member of the guild to sit in on the gathering and listen. Events such as this meant that there would be many commoners of all ages, both men and women, filling the audience chamber in the central left tower.

If Yorda wore common clothes and mingled with the crowd, she would be able to escape without difficulty. The main gates would open once when the leaders of the merchants’ guild arrived and again when they departed. If she left when their meeting began and returned when it ended, no one would be the wiser. As luck would have it, while the guild members were present, things at the castle became too busy, and Master Suhal suspended his lessons. She would not be missed or lectured on the importance of education. And if anyone did happen to visit Yorda’s chambers while she was away, her most trusted handmaiden would be there to make excuses.

Yorda thought the plan was splendid. It was fun for her to wear the colorful town-girl clothes her handmaiden had procured. The elaborate tunics and short vests that the merchant guild elders and their companions wore enchanted her with their floral-patterned cloth and matching shoes and toques. How happy it made her to wear things she had never even been able to see up close, let alone touch.

Until then, all the clothes she had been given were simple things of the purest white that wrapped loosely around her, with no variation from day to day save for the embroideries on her sleeves and her shawl. Yet even when they were embroidered with the most intricate patterns and designs, the thread was white, or at best a faded blue or brown pigment made from grasses. The queen would not allow her to wear bright vermilion, yellow, or green, saying they would detract from Yorda’s natural beauty.

It was strange when she thought about it. Did the queen not keep her inside the castle, saying that her exceptional beauty was dangerous? Why then did she give Yorda only white to wear, saying that it enhanced her beauty?

The queen herself wore only white. The handmaidens around them dressed in undyed tunics with long sleeves, their hems and sashes of a color that reminded Yorda of the sea. The ministers and other officials working within the castle also wore predominantly white, with perhaps a splash of blue or brown. Though the colors might be fitting for a castle made of brick and copper facing the sea, Yorda found it lacking in gaiety.

At last, the day came when the girls put their plan into action and found it almost disappointingly easy. Yorda ran down the stairs, hid among the bushes in the courtyard, and then made her way from the west tower, careful not to let the guards see her. From there she proceeded from the middle courtyard to the front courtyard and into the crowd. Among the throngs of people, in her full, flowered skirt and apron, with a wide-brimmed hat on her head, no one would recognize the princess. She pretended to ask directions from the handmaiden’s lover, who took her to the front gate, and finally she reached the long stone bridge across the water. The handmaiden’s mother waited secretly on the far side, having received a letter that explained the plan.

Yet when she had crossed only halfway over the bridge, Yorda heard a voice in her mind.

Enough of this foolishness. Come back.

Yorda jerked to a stop and looked around. The bridge was full of people rushing to get into the gates to hear the minister’s speech. There were many going in her direction too, attendants who had seen the guild leaders to the front gate and were now returning to take care of the horses. There was no reason why she should have stood out in the crowd. In fact, when she stopped suddenly, it disturbed the flow of foot traffic around her, and she nearly stepped on the feet of a nearby steward.

Come back, Yorda. You must not leave the castle. Have you forgotten my warning?

But it was no trick of the wind or the crying of seabirds. It was the queen’s voice.

I know where you are, my daughter. I know what you plan. All is clear to me. You cannot defy me. Now return.

A hand to her breast, Yorda felt a sudden chill against her cheek.

Please, Mother, she pleaded in silence, allow me just this once. I want to see what it’s like outside the castle. I’ll come back as soon as I’ve seen. Please, Mother. Please.

Yorda!

The Queen’s voice was as cold as a winter’s dawn and as unwavering as the rocky crags far below the bridge.

If you do not return this instant, I will destroy the very bridge upon which you walk. I need only lift a finger. You will have no choice but to return. And who knows how many of our people will fall with the crumbling bridge into the waves below. Is that what you want?

Men and women walked past Yorda, chatting busily, smiles on their faces. The stone bridge across the inlet was a part of the scenery, as though it had been there since the beginning of the world. As solid as the ground, a road across the water.

Yet it had been made by human hands. Or perhaps the queen herself had built it with magic. Either way, it could be shattered, and if it was, the life it held would be swallowed by the sea. Even the calm sea on a sunny day was stronger than a mere person, and the sea was very wide and very deep.

Staggering, Yorda turned, heading back toward the main gate. Soon she was running. She thought that if she hesitated even just a moment, her mother would take that as a sign of protest and destroy the bridge.

When she reached the entrance to the west tower to return to her room, the guard in the doorway stepped into her path. Yorda reached up and removed her hat. The guard’s eyes open so wide it seemed they might fall out of his head.

“Princess Yorda?”

“My mother has summoned me,” Yorda explained in a tiny voice. She ducked past the guard, frozen in place, running toward her own chambers where her handmaiden greeted her in surprise, embracing her as she ran in the door. But before Yorda could explain what had happened, two guards appeared at the entrance to her chambers.

They had come for the handmaiden. At the request of the queen, she was to appear in the audience chamber at once. Their faces were the blank masks of men who carried out orders without question or sympathy.

Yorda stood helpless, watching them lead her handmaiden away. She was sure that the girl’s lover was being similarly apprehended at that very moment.

What have I done? Yorda threw herself on her bed, weeping. A short while later, another handmaiden arrived to help Yorda change her clothes. The handmaiden’s eyes were clouded, and her lips trembled.

Midday came and went, but by the time the sun had begun to set, Yorda still had not been summoned by the queen. The members of the merchants’ guild had left some time ago, and the front gates were closed. Two guards stood by the entrance to her chamber.

Yorda had tried asking them several times already to let her see her mother, but her pleas fell on deaf ears. By orders of the queen, they told her in voices devoid of warmth, the princess was to remain in her chambers.

When Yorda looked in their eyes, she could tell that the guards were frightened.

Dusk fell as Yorda ate her supper alone in her room. This was normal. Of the three rooms that made up her chambers, she had chosen the smallest with the least adornment, the powder room, in which to dine. The room originally appointed for meals was far too large and always felt cold with its thick stone walls and high ceiling.

No matter how warm her food, it chilled the moment it was brought into the chamber. And the table, as large as her canopied bed, could hold any number of dishes and still look empty. She never liked it.

When her father, the king, had been well, the three of them would take their meals in the royal dining hall. The dining hall was vast, with adornments of cold silver and gold on the ceiling and walls, but her father’s smile would banish the chill in a moment. Her mother in those days had been far kinder.

Yorda's father had passed away when she was only six-already ten years past. Though the memories were still clear in her mind, they became more distant with each passing day.

Her father’s passing had changed her mother. As it changed the castle.

Wracked by sadness and trembling with unease, Yorda found she could not eat. She only nibbled at the food on the trays and platters her handmaidens brought her one after another, then she bade them depart, and sat in a chair next to the window in her powder room, lighting a single candle and looking out to face the deepening night.

From this height, even with the front gate closed, she could see a part of the stone bridge the queen had threatened to destroy under the light of the full moon. The bridge looked pale over the dark sea below, as though it was not truly a bridge, but a phantom created by a trick of the moonlight, and if she blinked, it might disappear altogether.

Yorda strained her eyes, looking for the white spray of the waves where they collided with the columns of the bridge, sighing with relief when she spotted it. It was no phantom. The bridge remained. No one had plummeted into the sea. Yorda had obeyed the queen’s wishes, returning to the castle, her tail tucked in behind her.

What would have happened, she wondered, if she had not heeded the queen? What if she had talked back to her?

You can’t destroy a bridge that size with just a finger. You lie. You’re lying, trying to threaten me! If you can do such a thing, I’d like to see you try!

Yorda planted both elbows on the elegantly carved table, wrapped her hands around her face, and closed her eyes. Behind her eyelids she could see the stone bridge crumbling and hear the screams of the people as they dropped into the waves.

If she had resisted, she knew her mother would have destroyed the bridge without hesitation. It was within her power.

The queen possessed a power that surpassed human comprehension. Yorda had yet to see it with her own eyes, but it was well known. Even Master Suhal attested to it. She had heard the Minister of Coin and the Minister of Rites-even the captain of the knights charged with protecting the queen-say that Her Majesty possessed a power greater than all the knightly order taken together. If any greedy neighboring country thought to take part of their rich land, if they tried to invade, before the knights could even ride, Her Majesty would vanquish the invading force with a single breath.

If one heard only the words, it came across as simple flattery and nothing more. Yet when he spoke of these things, Yorda had seen a chilling fear in the knight captain’s eyes. Master Suhal had told her to study that fear and remember it well.

Princess, he told her, lowering his head, your mother is truly powerful.

Yorda wondered how old she had been. She had a feeling it was after her father’s passing, when unease had begun to spread through the castle. Master Suhal had tried to calm her fears, but Yorda watched the scholar’s eyes too, and she saw that they were dark and shadowed.

As the memories stirred Yorda’s heart, the candle flame flickered.

She wondered if she would sleep that night having not been scolded by her mother. That wouldn’t do. She needed to get down on her knees and plead for forgiveness for the kind handmaiden and her lover. She had to beg for them. It was I who wanted to go outside. They were just following my orders.

Then came a gentle knocking at the door.

Yorda looked around and saw the thick, ebony wood door of her powder room open. The chief handmaiden stepped soundlessly inside. Her face and her hair were the same shade of gray. It was not merely from age, but from something that seemed to have drained the life from her and the color with it. Yorda did not dislike this emaciated old handmaiden so much as she feared her. It was not that the woman herself was frightening; she was loyalty personified, always obsequious and reverent in her service, and seemed, more than anyone else in the castle, to deeply fear Yorda’s mother. That was what frightened Yorda.

Do you know something that I do not? Yorda thought the question every time she looked at the chief handmaiden’s face.

“Princess Yorda,” the woman said in a whisper. The spring of her voice had dried up long before, when the handmaiden had decided, of her own will, to speak only when absolutely necessary. “Her Majesty requests your presence.”

Even though she had been waiting for just those words, Yorda felt her heart seize with fright.

“Very well. I’ll go at once.”

Yorda stood up from the table. Her hands and her knees were trembling. Not wishing the chief handmaiden to see, she turned her back.

“You should wear a robe,” the handmaiden said. “It is very chilly out at night.”

Yorda turned. “We’re going outside?”

“By Her Majesty’s request,” the chief handmaiden said, bowing her head.

Yorda removed a long hooded robe from her wardrobe and put it on. The stars outside her window winked in the sky, watching as she followed the handmaiden, her hooded head hanging low.

4

THE CHIEF HANDMAIDEN led her not to the queen’s quarters but directly to the courtyard in front of the castle. The guards on night watch stood as still as statues watching them pass soundlessly down the corridor.

Out in the courtyard, their way was lit by torches burning atop pedestals as tall as a building. One here, two there; few were needed in the light of the full moon. When the sun was at its zenith, it seemed as though the torches supported the very vault of heaven, but at night they burned low beneath the dark sky. The darkness surrounding the castle was deep and silent.

Occasionally, she would spot the flame of a torch crossing the courtyard. Patrolmen on their rounds held them aloft. The chief handmaiden led her across the square, taking the stone staircase that led to the central west building and following the long curving arc of the walkway there. Yorda was afraid. The rooms and facilities along this walkway were not familiar to members of the royal house. Even though this castle was Yorda’s entire world, she had only infrequently been to the east tower. She possessed only cursory knowledge of its rooms and layout.

The chief handmaiden carried no torch to avoid drawing undue attention. Within the walls of the castle and in the courtyards, the scattered sconces provided ample illumination, but in this place there was nothing of the sort. Even the gentle light of the full moon was blocked by the high walls. The chief handmaiden moved with the quick ease of familiarity, occasionally glancing back to make certain Yorda still followed.

“Where are we going?” Yorda asked. The chief handmaiden did not respond. But when they reached another staircase, she stopped. The hem of her skirts swayed and came to rest.

“Go down these stairs. Her Majesty awaits you below.”

The handmaiden withdrew to the side of the passage, bowing stiffly at her waist. Yorda did not move.

“What business did my mother say she had with me here?”

After a short while, the handmaiden replied, her head hanging low. “I’m sorry, but I cannot answer your question. Please go ahead. Her Majesty will tell you herself, I am sure.”

Yorda took one step forward. She followed with another, then turned to lean over the handmaiden. “You tremble,” she said to the nape of the old woman’s neck.

The handmaiden’s neatly bound hair seemed to twitch. In the gloom, Yorda could spot countless white lines running through her hair. She was getting very old.

“Are you frightened? I am too.”

The handmaiden said nothing and did not move.

“Today,” Yorda continued, “I went against my mother’s word. I come fully expecting to be punished. But why does that merit such fear?” Yorda leaned closer. “I want you to come with me. I don’t want to go alone. I am not frightened of my mother’s anger. I’m scared to walk alone at night. I’m scared of the dark.”

That was a lie. The chief handmaiden knew it as well as Yorda. Yet she did not move.

“Then I order you,” Yorda said, her voice trembling. “Come with me.”

Still bent at the waist, the chief handmaiden spoke to the stones of the passageway. “Her Majesty awaits you, Princess Yorda. Please go down the stairs.”

Apparently, only her mother could give orders in this castle. Yorda walked toward the staircase, eyes on the floor. She could hear her footsteps echoing quietly. She lifted her hands and pulled on her hood against the cool night air that blew up the staircase.

When Yorda’s footfalls had receded into the distance, the chief handmaiden fell to her knees on the spot. Entwining her fingers together, she began to pray. It was not the prayer to the Creator that she knew by rote, it being required of her every day in the castle. It was an old prayer, one she had learned as a child in her homeland far from this place-a prayer to ward off evil.

When she reached the bottom of the stairs and went out into the small courtyard she found there, the full moon-blocked by the walls of the castle until now-appeared in the corner of the sky, looking down on her with concern. Yorda recognized at once where the chief handmaiden had brought her-she was in a graveyard.

Those of royal blood were never buried within the castle walls. In the far distant mountains, a solemn graveyard had been hewn from the rock face of a cliff for the royal graves. Here in this small graveyard rested those few servants whose loyalty was such that they were recognized for giving their lives to the castle. Of course, these were guard captains and high ministers. No handmaiden, not even a chief, would ever be suffered to lie here.

Yorda stood a moment in the moonlight before looking for her mother. The courtyard was surrounded on all four sides by castle buildings and stone walls. Nine gravestones white as bone, washed by the wind and the rain, stood in three rows. The grass was cropped short, and walking on it made her feel like she was gliding across black velvet.

The queen was nowhere to be seen, though under the moonlight her elegant white robes should have been obvious.

Yorda looked up at the night sky and the moon framed by the buildings around her and took deep, quiet breaths. The silvery white robe she wore was woven from priceless silks, and when it caught the slightest amount of light, it sparkled as though coated with silver dust. In this place of death, only Yorda was alive, and the dim glow of her robe only heightened the contrast.

She isn’t here. Why has my mother summoned me to this place?

Even as she wondered, she felt herself relax, and when her eyes fell from the full moon back down to the earth, she saw a dark figure standing before her. It was the very absence of light, lacquer black, and it stood directly in the center of the nine gravestones. So complete was the darkness that at first, Yorda had trouble believing there was a person there at all. It was like all the darkness of night had gathered in one place-a stagnating pool of dark mist, so dense it did not even let the light of the full moon inside.

“Yorda,” the pool of darkness called to her . The queen’s voice. My mother’s voice.

As it spoke, the pool of darkness took the form of the queen, dressed all in black. Layer upon layer of delicate lace made up the long sleeves of her dress, and when they fluttered in the wind they seemed to melt into the night.

Yorda wondered what had happened to her mother’s usual white gown. Struck more by suspicion than surprise, Yorda stepped back. Am I seeing things? Could that really be my mother? Or has some creature of the night taken her form to trick me?

“Approach, Yorda.”

The queen raised her hand and beckoned Yorda closer. Wrapped in darkness, her face and hand stood out clearly. As the moon shone in the night sky above, so her mother’s face shone white in the graveyard.

Yorda walked carefully so as not to trip on the hem of her long robe. Now she was sure the figure was her mother. She could smell a familiar perfume in the air.

“Where is your handmaiden?” the queen asked, looking over Yorda’s shoulder.

“She waits beyond the staircase.”

The queen smiled. “Very good. The secret I will show you is not meant for one of common blood.”

The queen was not angry. In fact, she sounded pleased, as when first trying on an ornate necklace brought to her from a far-off land. Just as when she opened the box, lifted the lid, and took it out.

“You know that only our most loyal servants, those who gave their lives to the castle, are buried here,” the queen said, turning slowly as she surveyed the graves. “Their bond to the castle runs deep.”

“I know. Master Suhal taught me this,” Yorda replied, stiffening against the cold that seemed to creep in through her thick robes. Her breath turned to frost in the air.

“But, Yorda,” the queen said, “this is not just a graveyard.” She smiled at the suspicion on Yorda’s face. “This is a gateway to eternity. I always knew that I must bring you here one day. Tonight has provided the perfect opportunity.”

The queen stepped away from her, black gown billowing in the night air, making for a stone in the corner. Yorda hastily followed. Her own footsteps fell loudly on the grass, and she wondered how her mother could walk so quietly.

Stopping in front of the gravestone, the queen entwined the fingers of both hands before her and, with bowed head, began to pray. The prayer was unfamiliar to Yorda, and the queen’s words so quiet they seemed to slip down the skirts of her robes to be absorbed directly into the ground.

Stopping her prayer, the queen raised her head and the gray stone at her feet slid to the side with a rumbling noise.

Where the gravestone had stood, Yorda could see a staircase leading down into the ground. She gasped.

“Follow me,” the queen said, tossing a smile over her shoulder as she descended the stairs. “What you must see lies below.”

The gravestone was not very large, and the entrance to the staircase it had concealed was quite narrow. Yet the queen descended as though being swallowed by the opening where the stone had stood, black gown and all, without even ducking her head. As if she were without substance, able to pass through the earth unimpaired. In the space of a moment, she had disappeared entirely.

“Mother!” Yorda called out.

But no answer emerged from the black maw of the staircase.

Fearfully, she took one step onto the stairs. She felt herself being drawn downward, and to prevent herself from toppling she brought down her other foot. She took another step, then another. Soon her feet were following each other of their own accord. What Yorda wanted had nothing to do with it.

She practically skipped down the staircase, and when her head was underground, darkness enveloped her. It was pitch black, too dark even to see the tip of her nose. Fear clutched at her.

Above, the gravestone returned to its former position, closing off the only exit. Yorda whirled around at the sound and tried to run back. But all she could feel above her now was the cold soil, and it would not yield no matter how hard she pushed. She scratched at it with her nails, and wet dirt crumbled down onto her face and got into her eyes.

In her fright, she stumbled and fell, but what she saw brought her bolting up straight.

Nothing had changed in the darkness. But through it, she could see the steep staircase leading much further down, twisting and turning as it descended. The walls that had seemed to press so close against her were gone. The staircase stood out against the darkness, a jagged white ribbon that shrank into the depths.

Yorda could not believe that a staircase went so deep beneath the castle. It didn’t seem possible. The distance between where she stood now and where the staircase disappeared into the darkness-just ahead of the queen-was almost as great as the distance between the high tower of the central keep and the front courtyard. Yorda felt dizzy with the height. She also couldn’t understand how she could see beyond the turns of the stair, through what should have been solid ground. Are these stairs suspended in the middle of some vast chamber? Who could have dug so deep, and when? Yorda wondered, even as she feared what she might find at the bottom.

The queen was far ahead of her now, past the fifth or sixth turn. The whiteness of the staircase made Yorda think of a bone, and the queen was a black-winged butterfly crawling along it.

“There is nothing to be frightened of.” The queen’s form appeared tiny in the distance, yet her voice was close, as though she spoke right into Yorda’s ear. “Come down,” the voice said, “this place is within a realm I have created. It is all a vision, yet through my power it is given form. The stairs may appear steep, but there is no danger of falling.”

Yorda carefully began to descend. For the first few steps, she went down like a child does, sitting on each step, holding the edges with her hands. The stairs did not collapse or dissolve beneath her. They were real. The feel of them beneath her fingers was smooth and cold.

By the time she had regained her courage and begun to walk, the queen had disappeared from ahead of her, too far off now to see. The stairs wound around and around, coming to a small landing at each turn before beginning to descend again. As she went down, she stopped being able to tell which way was up. Soon she wasn’t even aware that she was descending, and it felt more like she was walking along a single long road. Above her head was only a void-she couldn’t even hear herself breathing. Nor did her feet make any sound.

Yorda wondered if this strange space could be the path to the underworld they say the living must walk when they die. I wonder if the truth of what my mother is going to show me ahead can only be seen by the dead, and that is why I must die. Each step brings me closer to a living death.

When she realized this, the stairs came to an abrupt end. Yorda blinked. She had been lost in her own thoughts, unaware of where she was.

She had come into a circular space, no larger than a small gazebo. Above her was darkness. The room was surrounded by round columns and filled with a pale white light, like moonlight, though Yorda could find no obvious source.

The long staircase was behind her now, stretching up from between two of the columns. Now the light was fading, as though a torch had been snuffed out, returning the room gradually to darkness.

The queen stood before her. She wore a smile on her white face, and her hair, bound into a black knot on her head, shone with a wet gleam.

“Come closer,” she said. Yorda approached, and the queen took her hand. Her skin was cold, but Yorda clung tightly regardless. She had a sudden sensation like she was floating. The round floor on which they stood had begun to drop. As they went further down, Yorda gaped at what she saw.

They had descended into a large hall. She guessed it to be about the same size as the Eastern Arena. Walls rose at a slant around them, and on their slope stood countless stone statues-a gallery, with the moving platform she rode on at its center.

When the platform stopped its descent, the queen let go of Yorda’s hand, and like a singer performing to a crowd, she lifted her face and spread her arms wide.

“This is my secret. Do you not find it beautiful?”

Yorda spun in a slow circle as she looked over the crowd of statues. There were so many it was hard to count-hundreds, she guessed. The platform had settled at the lowest point of the bowl-shaped room, and it felt as though the stone statues were looking back down at her, so lifelike they were.

Spurred by her curiosity, Yorda left the queen’s side and walked among the statues, looking at each of them in turn. There were men and women, wearing all manner of clothes. Some were old, others young, all with different expressions. Though the stone of the statues was a uniform gray, they were carved in such detail, she could even tell which way they had been looking by peering into their eyes. Some looked up into the sky, others looked down at their own feet. Some statues’ mouths were closed, and others open as though they were about to speak.

She saw warriors with chain-mail vests and knights in full plate armor. That statue of the old man wielding a scepter must be a priest, she thought. And there was a scholar, books tucked under his arm and a round hat on his head. There was a girl, smartly dressed, with a woman standing next to her who could have been her mother. There were two women who looked very similar-sisters, maybe-one with a fan half open in her hand, the feathers on its edges so lifelike they seemed like they might blow in the breeze.

“Stunning, aren’t they?” the queen asked, obvious satisfaction in her voice. In her observations of the statues, Yorda had wandered quite a distance from her mother. So far, she did not hear the tinge of sharpness in her voice.

“Yes, very,” Yorda replied, astonished. “I’ve never seen such ornate sculpture. Mother, what master craftsmen did you order to make these? I had no idea we had such talent at court.”

The queen laughed quietly. There was a coldness in her laugh that made Yorda pause. She turned to look at her mother. The queen stood in the middle of the circular dais, staring directly at her.

“Mother?”

The queen raised her head slightly and pointed with a long finger off to Yorda’s right. “Look over there. You’ll find my newest works.”

Yorda began to walk, her eyes still fixed on her mother. The queen’s smile was growing wider.

She’s trying to catch me off guard, Yorda thought suddenly, feeling goose bumps rise on her skin. Why am I trembling? A dark premonition rose in the back of her mind. Yorda returned her gaze to the statues and found a familiar face standing at the very bottom of the long row.

Though her eyes saw, for a moment she did not comprehend. The statue was of a young woman with a slender figure and oval eyes. Beautiful eyes, frozen in time. Her head was lowered in defeat, yet there was fear and awe in her face as well.

I know that face.

She was wearing a long tunic of a simple design. Her sleeves were embroidered, and her sash had been carefully folded across her waist. Her hair was held in place by a hairpin in the shape of a daisy. Yorda knew it very well. She had seen it practically every day. The pin had been a gift from her lover-

But that’s impossible.

For a moment, Yorda’s eyes lost focus. At last, she understood. The statue was her handmaiden-the very same girl who had used all of her cleverness to help her attempt to escape the castle for one day of fun.

Next to her stood her lover, the royal guard. He wore his sword in the leather belt that went with his leather armor. Its hilt bore an engraving with his surname and a single star to indicate that he was of the lowest rank of guards.

The boy’s eyes were opened wide, and the fingers of his right hand were curved like hooks, gripping at the air, as though he would have drawn his sword, if he had but a second's more time.

“Yes, Yorda,” the queen said, her voice incongruously gentle. “I turned them to stone and placed them here to decorate my chamber. Now you see the hideous penalty your foolishness has-”

But before the queen had finished, Yorda fell to the ground unconscious.

5

THE MINISTER’S LONG speech was over, and the beginning of the great tournament formally declared. The contestants split, heading off to the eastern and western arenas. Yorda could not bear to watch them go, and so she stepped away from the terrace back into her chambers.

She had awoken later that night to find herself lying in bed, with the queen sitting next to her. It took only one look at her mother’s thin smile to realize that what she had seen beneath the graveyard was no nightmare.

“Perhaps that was a little shocking for you,” the queen said, her tone no different than if they had been two girls exchanging secrets beneath the blankets. “I had hoped you would be able to spend a little more time observing my handiwork.”

The queen told her that she had not created her secret gallery for punishment. Had Yorda looked a little longer, she would have seen that more than a few of the statues were victors from tournaments past.

“When the victors are chosen, they’re treated like royalty-true to our word. For a while, they enjoy their post as master-at-arms, and in time they are sent to another keep within my domain, there to serve as captain. While there-say, for a year perhaps-they train the garrison in their techniques. Then, when the conditions are right, I summon them back to the castle.”

“Where you turn them to stone? Why? What possible benefit can be had from such cruelty?”

“A stone warrior cannot turn against his master,” she replied without hesitation. “War is nothing more than a clash between soldier and soldier. Should one of such quality fall into the hands of my enemies, I would be ruined.”

When it became known that the tournament was a shortcut to glory within the queen’s lands, confident warriors came from far and wide-even from beyond the borders of the realm. And so she sapped the strength of her neighbors without raising their suspicions.

“And when they go missing? Surely they must have wives and children, brothers and sisters, friends. Have you not thought on how these people must worry, or their sadness?”

“I fear you’re mistaken, my child,” the queen said. “Not once has anyone demanded to know the whereabouts of one of the victors. That is the sort of people these adventurers are, you know. Nobody cares, no one misses them. If anyone ever should, why, I can simply tell them that the one they search for died a glorious death in battle. That should satisfy all but the most curious.”

Yorda couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “Did you think of this plan by yourself, Mother? Was this your idea?”

“Why do you ask?”

“I want to know.”

The queen put a finger to her chin. “Do you want me to say that it was not my idea? That this was some plan dreamed up by my ministers, one of Master Suhal’s stratagems? Or perhaps it began at the bequest of your late father.”

Yorda knew her father would never do such a thing. Her eyes filled with tears as she looked at the queen.

“My sweet, naive Yorda. You have an innocent soul. Though our land may seem peaceful, look closely and you will find war and strife-even bloodthirsty rivalries for wealth among our own merchants. If it serves to protect our lands from the watchful eyes of our neighbors, no measure is too extreme.”

“But, Mother!” Yorda leapt to her feet. She made to clasp her mother’s arm, but the queen slid aside and stood. She walked over to the window.

The queen’s profile was luminous as it caught the sidelong light of the moon. “You are accustomed to peace and ignorant of the truths in our world. Glory and safety cannot be claimed without a price. This is a lesson which you must learn.”

“You have great power, Mother,” Yorda said with a trembling voice. “I heard so from the Captain of the Guards and even Master Suhal. They say it exceeds the imagination, though none will tell me how. Then why do you fear our neighbors so? Should they invade, can you not push them back yourself?”

To her surprise, the queen laughed merrily. “Is that respect I hear in your words?”

Yorda gripped the edges of her silken covers tight. “No,” she said quietly. “I fear you, Mother.”

The queen drew back her dark veil, straightened her hair, and turned to Yorda. “Well said. I am a frightening woman.” She sounded pleased. “I was born with great magic, and under the protection of the Dark God it has grown into something even more powerful. Indeed, I could destroy the world if I so wished. Yet I have sworn never to use my power unless absolutely necessary.” She lifted a hand, pointing toward the sky. “My power is not the power of the sword, Yorda. That is why I seek only to defend my lands, and never to invade…It is not yet time for that.”

Not yet time?

“These people who fear me recall incidents in the distant past when I turned my powers on a barbarian tribe who sought to form a country of their own too near our borders, and then again when one of our neighbors became too greedy for their own good.”

“What did you do to them?”

“I turned them to stone and let them fall to dust.”

Yorda imagined the scene in her mind’s eye. An entire town turned to stone, a howling barbarian horde frozen mid-charge. For years they might stand, until the wind wore their shapes down to sand.

“Among the kings and generals of our neighbors, there are many who have heard of my power. Thus they are cautious and never move directly against us. However, they fear only me, not the strength of my army. Thus the endless skirmishes on our borders, of which I’m sure you’re aware.”

Indeed, Yorda had heard much from her tutors of the many small conflicts that erupted in the far corners of the realm. “Women are ill-suited to waging war,” the queen said, her voice wilting. “And my power is one of destruction, not warfare. So to keep our neighbors frightened of me, I must be frightening. I do not wish to face them in open battle. That is why I devise these strategies. Culling the most able of warriors is but the smallest part of my plan-a symbolic gesture, if you will. I have sowed many other schemes that grow in places unseen. Ask Master Suhal and the ministers about them if you wish. They will tell you once I have given them permission to do so.”

“Then what is it you want, Mother? Is all this to defend our country?”

“For now, yes,” the queen said.

Yorda’s vision dimmed. She felt not fear or anger, but to her own surprise, a deep sadness. What does my mother want? The knowledge was painful, but she had to know. If she did not ask now, there might never be a second chance. “And when the time comes,” Yorda said, summoning her courage, “what then?”

The queen nodded slowly. “I made a pact with the Dark God. I will use the power he gave me to wipe this world clean and make a new land with the Dark God as its true Creator.”

The Creator Yorda knew was Sol Raveh, the Sun God, who loved and nurtured all from the sky above. So had she been taught since she was a child. The sun’s warmth gave life to all living things, even as its light protected them. Not just her own kingdom, but all the lands looked up to this one God of Light.

Was the religion that followed this deity and prayed to him not administered by their own clerics? Had her mother not sworn her marriage vows in a great cathedral to the God of Light?

“You turn against our own religion, Mother?”

The queen turned up her nose at that. “The country needs its religion, that’s true. If it will help keep the commoners in line, I will pay lip service to any faith required of me.”

Yorda frowned. “I don’t believe the Dark God exists. Even if he did, he cannot possibly win against the Light.”

“You say that only because you do not know the truth.” The queen lowered the curtains, blocking out the moonlight. The light of the single candle in the room flickered, sending shadows dancing across the walls. The queen walked to the foot of Yorda’s bed, leaning in close like a sister sharing a secret.

The silken covers sank slightly beneath her weight. This is my mother, Yorda told herself. She’s real, not something born from shadow.

“The gods wage ceaseless war in the heavens, much as men do on the earth below. The God of Light to whom you pray is merely the current victor in this war, thus does he rule. Only under his temporary reign is my god called a demon and made to suffer away from his rightful glory. One day, I will rise victorious, the Dark God’s child, and pull the King of Light from his throne.”

Yorda fell silent for a moment, considering. “This Dark God,” she said at length. “What is he like?”

The queen smiled, pleased at the question. “He is the one who gives true freedom to those who dwell upon the earth. He governs the darkness.

“What light gives birth to, darkness destroys,” the queen told her in a chant. “That is why the power of destruction has been granted to me. Darkness, not light, governs life. Why, it can even stop time. Trust me, my daughter, though we may lie in wait now, our day of victory will come.”

The queen smiled. “This is written in no history book, and I am sure Master Suhal will not tell you, so I will teach you in his stead. I was born with the blessing of the Dark God, Yorda. The very moment of my birth, the sun in the sky was covered in darkness, unable to shine.”

A solar eclipse. Yorda knew the phenomenon occurred only rarely. The priests and the history books said that it happened when the Sun God rested. At these times, all creatures upon the earth were to cease their activity and join in his rest.

“What you have learned is a lie. People interpret the world to suit themselves, even in divine matters,” the queen explained, her disdain apparent. “The true meaning of the eclipse is that the God of Darkness is resisting the God of Light, showing him that his power has not been completely extinguished. During that brief time when the God of Light was powerless, the Dark God sent me here. I am his child,” she said with evident pride.

“My mother, your grandmother, said it was an ill omen for a royal child to be born without the blessing of the God of Light, and she tried to take my life while I still lay in the birthing bed. But my father stopped her. He said that a child born while the God of Light was at rest would be born with the strength to act in the deity’s stead. My father believed that until his dying day and favored me above all of my siblings.”

Yorda had never known her grandfather, nor her aunts and uncles. By the time she was born, all of them had long since passed.

“Your siblings died quite young, did they not?” Yorda said quietly. What if her mother, to ensure her father’s favor, had done something truly horrible-

“My father was mistaken, of course,” the queen said, ignoring the question. “He was a very kind soul.” When she spoke, it was without the slightest hint of warmth or affection. “I was not to serve in the stead of the God of Light. Nor was I to serve him. I was born to conquer this world and offer it up to the God of Darkness.”

Then Yorda understood. “You’re waiting for the next eclipse, aren’t you?”

The queen smiled softly. “You are clever, my child. A worthy daughter.”

“When will that be?”

“I wonder,” the queen said, tilting her head, an elegant curve to her neck.

It was clear that the queen knew. Of course she would know. The many scholars in the castle, Master Suhal among them, could read the unseen calendar of the skies and gain from it knowledge of the heavens. It occurred to her that she had not seen many scholars amongst the statues below the graveyard-her mother wisely divided the world into those she saw as enemies and those whose skills she required.

“Someday I will take my place as queen of this world. Until then, I choose to avoid senseless conflict, to be as gentle as the dove and clever as the snake. Remember this well, for it will serve you too.”

With that, she gathered up her skirts and left Yorda’s chambers.

Alone again, emotions welled up inside her, and for a while, Yorda could do nothing but curl into a ball, clutching her knees tight to her chest. The strongest of her emotions was fear, but it was her unbridled sadness that made her body tremble unceasingly.

When she had finally settled down, Yorda realized that she still had questions. She wondered if her father had known about her mother’s true nature or the atrocities she had committed. She wondered too if her mother worried that Yorda might not live to see the next eclipse.

Both were important questions. The first would solve a lingering mystery about Yorda’s late father, and the second would reveal Yorda’s own destiny. But the two questions remained inside her without an outlet. They sat by her heart, leeching the life from it and spreading dark branches to block the light from the outside world.

When a contestant in the tournament fell, they were ordered to leave the castle, and so with each passing day the number of warriors remaining dwindled even as the enthusiasm of the spectators grew.

Unless they came from a particularly wealthy merchant family or were artists or scholars of renown, most commoners never had the chance to see the tournament. The noble houses often ran their own swordsmen in the bouts, and there were many highborn ladies who looked forward to the occasion as a chance to don their finest and and present themselves to the world. During these days, the usually austere castle was filled with bustling activity. Its stone corridors came alive with glittering hair and the scent of perfume from ladies vying to outdo each other, while every hall rang with lively conversation.

Tradition held that the queen observe the final rounds on the eighth day from her throne. At the last tournament, three years earlier, when Yorda had been only thirteen, she had worn voluminous robes and a veil over her face to watch the spectacle from her mother’s side. Yet she had grown ill at the sight of the men fighting and the blood splattered on the ground, so much so that she had missed seeing the grand ceremony in which the queen herself awarded the victor.

Yorda was glad now that she had missed it. If I had been there and blessed the champion-

Now that she knew the true nature of the tournament, she would have been filled with self-loathing, unable even to lift her head from her pillow.

Not knowing her true feelings, those around her assumed that when she said she would not be attending the final round of the tournament nor the ball afterwards, she was still frightened from her experience three years before.

“When you have grown a little more, Princess Yorda, those brave warriors will steal your heart away,” the minister said with a laugh. “Wait another three years, and you will feel differently about the tournament.”

You’re wrong, Yorda thought. I know the truth now. My feelings will never change.

The queen did not compel her to attend. For the first three days of the tournament, Yorda wandered the castle halls like a living apparition. Even in her chambers with the windows closed, she could hear the shouts from the arenas and the screams carried on the wind. They revolted her.

The areas of the castle Yorda was allowed to visit were even further restricted during the tournament. Though guests to the tournament came only by invitation to keep out the riffraff, it wouldn’t do to expose her to so many, said the queen, even if they were of noble blood. Yorda knew which areas were off-limits by the guards in front of corridors she usually walked and doors she usually opened. If she wandered out onto the terrace of any room but her own, she would be scolded and sent immediately back to her chambers.

The guards were also excited by the tournament. Their interest was natural, given that they would serve under the victor, but that was not their only stake in the competition. Soldiers were always drawn to the strong and the fiery of spirit. Betting was rampant both within and without the castle walls, with merchants acting as bookmakers, pooling coin from commoners and keeping the bets coming.

Yorda played a little game in which she would walk around the castle waiting to be seen, stopped, and turned back. Even as she walked away, still within hearing distance, the guards would begin talking about their tournament picks, enthusiastic about the performance of this or that combatant. Yorda wanted no part in it. She wanted to walk up to the guards and interrupt their wagering to tell them what the tournament really meant. She wanted to shout it at the top of her lungs. But she knew nothing would come of it. The queen would merely order her locked away, lamenting that her daughter had succumbed to the stress of the event . And that would be the end of it.

There was a kind of intimate fear Yorda felt from the word confinement and the understanding that it could happen to her. The feeling was never greater than when she visited the high tower directly behind the central keep of the castle. Officially known as the North Tower, most called it the Tower of Winds.

Atop the island cliffs as it was, the castle was surrounded on all sides by the sea. Yet only from the tower in the north could one see the vast grasslands that covered half the continent. The north was the direction of invasions and barbarians, the source of trouble. This was where the Tower of Winds was located.

Master Suhal had explained it once.

“Our great and glorious castle was constructed by the fifth king of our land, Princess Yorda. By your great-great-grandfather. Yet the Tower of Winds was built some thirty years later, in commemoration of the victory over the nomadic horse tribes to the north, which marked a great expansion of our territory.

“These nomadic horsemen revered a wind god as their guardian deity. The power of the wind must have been hugely symbolic to people who galloped across the fields, climbed the mountains, and kept the great plains as their fortress. When our fifth king defeated them, he took their faith, and the power of the wind god they worshipped, and added them to the defenses of our kingdom. The Tower of Winds was built to worship this god.”

In Yorda’s imagination, the wind god had been trapped in the foundations of the tower. She had never heard of anyone in the royal house being so confined-be it for political reasons or disease-but if a god of wind could be imprisoned in her own home, what of her?

Now, the Tower of Winds was simply another part of the castle, one she rarely paid mind to. No ceremonies of any kind were held there, nor was it even used for housing. Her mother had decreed it so when she took the throne. Yorda had never thought to wonder why.

But now that she knew by her mother’s own admission that she had formed a pact with the Dark God, Yorda had another interpretation for her mother’s attitude toward the tower. The queen would not be able to abide the thought of another deity living within her own castle, not even the long-imprisoned god of a vanquished people. It would vex her to have that prison stand on her own grounds, directly behind her main hall. Now that she, daughter of the God of Light in the eyes of her ministers, ruled the kingdom, she had convinced her subjects that there was no need to rely upon the protection of any deity other than their own. Mother would have destroyed the tower if she could. Letting it fall into ruin was the next best thing.

The central keep and the Tower of Winds were divided by a chasm spanned by a long stone bridge. Yorda stood in the middle of the bridge, looking down at the calm blue waters far below. She raised her eyes to the tower. With the lack of upkeep in recent years, the effects of erosion were evident on the tower’s walls. It looked decades older than the rest of the castle. Most of the curtains were gone from the square windows lining the circular tower, and a white curtain had been left out on the rooftop to flap mournfully, tattered and dirty, like a ghost caught between this world and the next.

No guards were on patrol here. There was no bright flash of color from the leather armor worn by the patrols that walked the castle gardens and the outer wall. It was quiet, which was exactly what Yorda wanted. She had taken to coming here frequently since the beginning of the tournament.

Not that it was a happy place to visit. Thoughts of a god confined for eternity chilled Yorda’s heart. And the only things to look at were the desolate tower and a sky and sea so blue and vast she lost her sense of distance. Standing there on the bridge, she often felt that her soul had lost its moorings and begun to drift toward the sky. Riding on the wind, her soul would go far away. Or perhaps it would be drawn into the tower, to hide in the shadow of the tattered curtain at the top, and from there look down on the queen’s domain.

Spurred by such fancies, Yorda began to wonder if she couldn’t indeed climb the tower. She tried to find a way up. Yet two strange statues stood barring the doorway, and no matter how much she pushed and pulled at them, they would not budge.

The statues were of a curious shape, vaguely humanoid, but blocky and with the odd proportions of primitive idols. Their bellies had separate carvings on them-idols within idols-a warrior wielding a sword on the right statue, and a mage wielding a staff on the left.

Whatever the idols were, they were the guardians of the tower, barring the entrance. Without an obvious drawbar or lock, she couldn’t even begin to imagine how she might get inside. Nor could she ask Master Suhal. He would merely scold her and tell her that the Tower of Winds was no place for the princess to go for an afternoon constitutional.

When she touched the idols with her hand, the sense of confinement she had always associated with the tower struck her more forcefully and more coldly than ever before.

The wind that whipped around the tower blew hard. Perhaps the strength of the wind deity trapped inside had not faded entirely. Or perhaps the god’s strength had withered long ago, and this was merely a natural phenomenon, the wind from the sea colliding with gusts from the northern plains.

Yorda left the idols behind, returning to the stone bridge. She had taken no more than a few steps when she noticed a tall, dark figure standing at the far end of the bridge near the castle. Standing and watching.

6

YORDA SQUINTED AS she held up her hand against the buffeting wind and the sun. Who could that be? Even from a distance, she was sure it was not one of the royal guards.

The figure took a slow step out onto the bridge. He continued walking toward the middle with slow yet steady steps, without so much as a glance at the view to either side. Yorda wasn’t even sure whether he had noticed her presence.

Yorda took a step backward. The bridge was long, and the figure still quite distant, but should he mean her harm the bridge was her only means of escape. A few more steps back, and her back would be up against those immovable statues.

The sun had already left its apex and was beginning to fall toward the horizon. The black figure walking with long strides across the bridge cast a short shadow on the stones. Yorda breathed a sigh of relief-if he cast a shadow, he was surely a man of flesh and blood.

As he approached, the silhouette billowed slightly. He’s wearing a cloak. That’s what gives him that dark shape.

Yorda took another deep breath and realized that she had been walking toward the center of the bridge too, matching the other’s pace without realizing it.

As the distance closed between them, Yorda realized he was a swordsman-she could see his blade hanging from his belt. He used his right hand to keep his cloak from wrapping around too tightly. A piece of metal armor on the back of his hand caught the sunlight and sparkled.

They were growing nearer each other, but still not close enough for their voices to reach. What do I do?

The swordsman arrived at the middle of the bridge before her. As she approached, he moved to one side, his armor rattling with each step. Then he bent one knee, placed the fist of his right hand on the bridge, and lowered his head.

Yorda stopped, surprised by the sudden obeisance. She straightened her posture. There were only five or six paces between them now.

The swordsman addressed her in a voice that was clear and deep. “My apologies for the nature of our encounter. I beg your forgiveness. I had no intention of disturbing the young lady’s walk.”

Blinking, Yorda put a hand to her chest. “Oh no, I wasn’t-” she began, her voice sounding rough in her ears. Perhaps she had spent too much time in silence in the wind.

She marveled at the strangeness of the swordsman’s appearance. She guessed his cloak was a traveling cloak. His leggings and armor were clearly leather, reinforced by silver and copper studs in places. The manner in which the leather in his armor had been stitched was unlike that of the castle patrolmen, with larger pieces making for a rougher look. The sword at his waist was wide and double-edged. She guessed it was quite heavy, and the cloth- and leather-wrapped hilt looked well worn.

Yet the strangest thing of all was the swordsman’s helmet. It was the color of burnished silver, with holes for the eyes, yet it covered his face from the top of the head down to the jaw. His ears poked out from small holes on the side, and above that animal horns had been attached, apparently made of real bone.

She had never seen anything of the sort. He is not of our land. A swordsman from another country. Yorda gathered her wits and cleared her throat, which was, she realized, exactly the sort of sound a noble lady might make in the situation, which in turn made her oddly embarrassed. She was rarely in public, and whenever the opportunity did arise, she was only required to perform a practiced role, nothing more. The only words she needed to say were those she had been taught for the occasion. This had been the nature of her only contact with the outside world until now. In fact, this encounter might very well be her first time ever speaking so freely with a stranger.

“Not at all,” she managed to say, feeling her cheeks blush and trying to hide the fact that she was flustered. “I will allow that I was startled, but even still you needn’t apologize so.”

The swordsman lowered his head again, thanking her for her kind words. There was a sincerity in his manner that made his respect for Yorda clear-but it was also clear that he did not realize she was the queen’s daughter and princess of the castle. He probably assumed she was the daughter of some noble family come to visit the castle for the tournament. It did strain the imagination to expect to find the princess walking alone out in a place like this, after all.

Still, she was curious how a clearly foreign swordsman had managed to venture so deep into the castle grounds without an escort or, she assumed, permission.

“You are a participant in the tournament?”

The man looked up, revealing a sturdy chin beneath his faceplate. He nodded. “As you say. I thought to steal a moment of time to look upon Her Majesty’s glorious castle-and I’m afraid I’ve lost my way.”

Yorda smiled. “You wandered quite far into the castle.”

“Apparently so.”

“While we speak here, the time of your next bout might well come and go. Shall I show you the way back to the arena?”

The swordsman thanked her deeply, then added, “And my apologies.” He removed his helmet. It was certainly against the custom in any land for a warrior to address a lady with his head covered-though as it turned out, leaving his helmet on might have been the more prudent decision.

Yorda quickly bit the inside of her cheek, trying unsuccessfully to stifle a little yelp. The horns she had thought were a part of his helmet grew out of the swordsman’s head.

She looked more closely at him. His face and cheeks had been tanned by the sun, making his skin as ruddy as his leather armor. His eyes were a quiet shade of gray, and though he moved with ease, he was not particularly young. His voice flowed like a great river, and from its tone and the serene look upon his face, Yorda guessed his age to be around forty. He was the very picture of a veteran swordsman.

And not just from another country, but another sort of people altogether.

Placing his helmet by his feet, he put his right hand over his breast in a formal manner. “I am the itinerant knight Ozuma. While I wandered the lands far to the east,” he told her, “I heard of Her Majesty’s grand tournament, and wanting to test my own skills, I traveled far to come here. In the spring I was at last allowed entrance to this country, and it is my honor above all else that I was given leave to participate in the tournament.”

He spoke of the lands to the east-Yorda had heard of the city-states beyond their eastern borders. Yet in all of her geography and history lessons, she had never once heard of a land of men with horns.

“Sir Ozuma…tell me, from where do you hail? That is, where were you born?” she asked, uncertain of the proper words to use in this situation. She had just convinced herself that she had made a horrible breach of etiquette, when Ozuma smiled.

“You must be startled at my appearance,” he said. “I regret if I have caused you any distress.”

“No, there’s no need to apologize,” Yorda said, coming three steps closer, then taking one step back. “It is I who should apologize. It was not my place to ask.”

Yorda clasped her hands together and shook her head, and Ozuma’s smile deepened. It seemed strangely familiar, though it was a few moments before she realized it was her father’s tender smile it reminded her of.

Why would he remind me of my father? The knight Ozuma’s face looked nothing like her father’s.

“In the place where I was born, all of us have horns upon our heads,” Ozuma explained. “In our people’s history, it is written that our ancestor carried in his veins the blood of a fierce wild ox, protector of the earth. He was our guardian deity, rescuing the weak and punishing our enemies, with eternal life granted him directly by Sol Raveh, the Sun God. Thus these horns are a sign of our divine gift and a symbol of our holy contract.”

It was the first legend of this sort Yorda had ever heard. “Do all people in your country look the same as you do?”

“We have no country, my lady. As protectors of the earth, we walk among all peoples; it is our destiny to wander from land to land. That is our story, as it is my own.”

A wandering protector of the earth-

Just as clouds can suddenly rise to cover the sun, a shadow fell over Yorda’s heart.

If this knight Ozuma should win the tournament, he would join her mother’s gallery of lifeless adornments carved in stone.

Seeing the sudden dark look come over her, Ozuma’s smile faded. In silence, Yorda stepped to the knight’s side and knelt. With her knees joining his upon the stone, she had to look up to see him, and his shadow covered her completely.

“Will your next bout be your first in the tournament?” she asked him.

Ozuma blinked before replying, “The next will be my third match. By the good grace of god, I have prevailed in my previous two.”

Yorda’s shoulders shuddered. It only required six bouts to carry a contestant to the finals. He was already halfway there.

“Is something amiss?” Ozuma asked with genuine concern. “Do you feel ill? Your face has lost its color.” Yorda’s heart was torn by indecision. Were she to tell him here-but no, she could not. Saving one man would not change the tournament. She was certain he would not believe her in any case.

Yet, she did not think their encounter could be entirely by chance. Perhaps there was some meaning to him wandering the castle and finding her here. Perhaps the Sun God himself had led him here? Was he not a defender of the land?

“The tournament…” Yorda began hesitantly, “the tournament is not what you or the others who participate in it believe it to be. I know the truth. But I do not know how to tell you that you might believe me.”

Ozuma’s concern only deepened. Yorda took it as evidence of disbelief, and her heart tightened in her chest. “It is a difficult thing to believe, indeed. But I know it for a fact. I’ve seen it with my eyes. My mother…”

Yorda’s fear caused the words to spill out of her in a flood, but Ozuma gently raised his hand. “Wait,” he said. Without a sound, cloak billowing around him, he walked past her side so that he stood behind her. Yorda quickly stood and turned.

Ozuma was looking up at the Tower of Winds. His hands were at his sides, but tensed, ready to act should the need arise. Yorda could sense his alertness with her entire body. “What is it?” she asked, her voice barely more than a whisper.

“What is this tower?” Ozuma asked, still facing away from her.

“It is the Tower of Winds. The legend goes that a wind deity from another land is imprisoned there-though it is not used anymore. It’s abandoned,” she told him, feeling her pulse quicken, though she was not sure why. The wind was as cold as before, whipping up countless tiny waves on the surface of the water below. The sky was blue from horizon to horizon, and the wind whistled around the abandoned tower as it always did.

Yorda joined Ozuma in looking up at it. The square windows in the wall opened like empty mouths, devoid of life, or like eyes looking inward at the gloom within the tower. Then Yorda thought she saw something move in that darkness. Just beyond the window. Like someone had quickly passed by or looked out at them-a splash of dark upon dark. She could make out the silhouette, only the faintest suggestion of movement.

Ozuma squinted, as though looking at something very bright.

“What…was that?” Yorda asked, still doubting she had seen anything.

“Someone is there, though as to who…” Ozuma said, returning his gaze to Yorda. His battle readiness of a moment before was gone. “Sometimes, in abandoned places, there are sad things that live in secret, able to survive there and no place else. I would expect what we saw is something of that nature. Do not let it concern you, Princess. As long as you do not venture inside, there is no cause for worry,” he said, his voice gentle, yet his warning clear: stay away from that tower.

Yorda’s mind, however, was on other matters. “Did you not just call me princess?”

Ozuma smiled. Once again dropping to one knee, he placed his right hand upon his chest and bowed deeply. “So I did. For I have observed that you are Her Glorious Highness the queen’s only daughter, the lady Yorda.”

The feeling of loneliness rose in Yorda’s breast. With her identity known, she felt a distance grow between her and the strange knight, shattering the curious closeness she had felt to him moments before. She realized it had been like speaking with her father again, and the loss felt even more acute.

“You are correct,” she said quietly. “But we are outside the castle proper, and I was merely taking a walk. You do not need to bow.”

“By your leave,” Ozuma said.

The knight stood, his back to the Tower of Winds, standing almost as if he would protect her from the gaze of whatever was inside. “Though it is perhaps not my place as a wanderer to say such things, I would imagine that you sometimes feel inconvenienced by your very position as princess. Walks such as this must be valuable to your heart indeed, and I have disturbed yours. Please forgive me. Also forgive me if I beg that I might accompany you on your way back to the castle. The wind blows stronger than before.”

It was clear that Ozuma no longer wanted to remain here. Though he had assured her there was no danger from the tower, he sensed something dangerous about the black form they both had seen within.

Yorda looked around, avoiding the tower. There was no one to be seen. This was likely to be the only part of the castle so deserted. If she were to talk with him further, there would be no better place than this.

“Ozuma?”

“My lady?”

“Before, when I spoke-”

“You spoke of Her Highness, though you called her mother,” Ozuma cut in smoothly, “and you said you had something to tell me about the tournament.”

Yorda nodded. So he had been listening.

“I took it from your words that there is something about the tournament, something unbeknownst to me, that causes you great anguish. Lady Yorda, have you witnessed the tournament before?”

“Only once,” Yorda said, telling him about the incident three years before in which she had grown ill and been obliged to retire. “But,” she continued, “that is not what I wished to tell you about.”

She wondered again belatedly whether telling him the secret was the right choice. It seemed a terribly ominous thing to tell a stranger from another land whom she had only just met. And what if this Ozuma went and told others?

“Do not worry, Lady Yorda,” Ozuma said in his gentle way. “For now, allow me to accompany you to a warmer place. It is grown quite chilly here. That, and I have a request.”

“What sort of request?”

Ozuma bowed his head deeply. “In my third bout, I will triumph by virtue of my honor at having met you here today. I wager my life on it. My request is this: tomorrow, at the dawn after my victory, I would accompany you here again.”

He wants to meet me again? In secret? Perhaps he was asking her to continue her story then.

“You are certain you will win?”

“By my name, I shall.”

Finally, Yorda was able to smile. A great feeling of relief spread through her chest. “Then I will honor your request.”

“The honor is mine,” he said, bowing.

As she looked down at him, Yorda realized that she wasn’t sure whether her relief came from the fact that she would not have to tell him her dark secret now, or from the fact that she would be able to tell him all on the following day.

Together they began to walk back toward the castle proper. Ozuma walked slowly, always a pace behind her. They crossed the long stone bridge, and she sent Ozuma on ahead so that they would not be seen together by the guards. Ozuma bowed again, then made his way off down the corridor of brick and stone. Yorda turned to watch him leave, but was astonished when she blinked and found that he was gone-vanished, like a shadow vanishes in the light. As though the noble knight Ozuma and all that had passed between them had been nothing more than a daydream.

Hearing other people around her in the castle, their voices echoing off the walls, Yorda felt as though she were coming to her senses after a long sleep. She wondered anew at how a mere participant in the tournament had managed to make his way to the tower. Who had allowed him to pass so freely through the castle grounds that he had gotten lost?

The more she thought about it, the more she realized how well Ozuma had steered their conversation. For all of his bowing, he had shown very little trepidation. Nor had he seemed particularly surprised when he found out that Yorda was the princess. It was all very suspicious.

It’s almost as if he knew I was at the tower and came out to meet me.

But who would do such a thing? And why?

If Yorda gave the order, she would be able to watch the third bout that afternoon from the throne. Yet were she to request that of one of the ministers, they would be suspicious, wondering whence came her sudden interest in the tournament. Though their suspicion would not be much of a problem, she was afraid the queen might catch wind of it.

That, and she was not sure whether Ozuma’s bout would be in the Eastern or Western Arena. She was sure that if she asked where the warrior with horns would be fighting anyone could tell her, yet that would only raise more questions.

Yorda spent the rest of the long afternoon quietly poring over her history books. At times, the shouts of exultation and the horrified gasps from the arenas would drift upon the wind like leaves and come dancing in through her window. Each time she heard the noise of the crowds, her heart would race, and her eyes would slip from the ancient letters upon the page and lose their place.

It was a peculiar feeling for her that she could have exchanged words so easily with the strange knight and even arranged to meet him again. Was it because he reminded me of my father? The thought weighed heavily on Yorda’s mind, yet it was not enough to explain her heart, nor the fact that she had almost told him the secret of the tournament.

What did she hope to gain by telling him? Had she wanted Ozuma to abandon the tournament and flee for his life? Alone? Saving one man and ending the tournament were two different things. Or did she hope he would take her secret and shout it from the parapets, foiling her mother’s scheme?

It occurred to Yorda that the chief handmaiden might make a better source of information about the queen than the Captain of the Guard or the ministers. She would certainly be easier to approach-though there was no guarantee that the handmaiden would be her ally. When she came to help Yorda change for supper that night, Yorda inquired, as casually as possible, on the progress of the tournament. The handmaiden’s hands paused for a moment while tightening Yorda’s sash.

“It’s just that the noise coming from the arenas today was quite boisterous,” she said, feigning distaste in hopes of sidestepping the handmaiden’s suspicions. “I wondered if some strange new type of swordplay had been put on display. Not that it matters how it is done-butchery is still butchery. I know that my mother believes the tournament adds to the glory of the castle, but I do not like it. I wish that it would end.”

“I do not know the details of today’s melees,” the chief handmaiden said while straightening Yorda’s skirts. “But as you will be attending the banquet tonight, perhaps you might ask the Captain of the Guard. I am sure he has great interest in the tournament and would be happy to entertain your questions.”

“Now I want to go to this banquet even less. That Captain of the Guard is the worst kind of garden-give him but the slightest taste of water and his stories will grow into trees tall enough to block out the sun.” Careful not to overdo it, Yorda assumed a look of boredom. “Perhaps I’m just being selfish. I should endeavor to act the part of the princess so as not to disappoint our people.”

Yorda smiled and looked down at the chief handmaiden. The handmaiden did not smile back. Her face was the same as it had been the night of the graveyard. Yorda wondered whether it was a mask she wore, concealing some truth beneath it-or whether fear and caution had frozen her face completely.

She would have to be even more cautious at the banquet. There was a strict order in which those attending the banquet were invited, and it changed each day. Of course, all were administrators or higher, but even the highest-ranking people in the castle such as the Ministers of Coin and Rites were not summoned to each and every banquet. During the tournament, only the Captain of the Guard and his deputy attended each banquet without fail so that they could report the day’s happenings to the queen.

As the Captain of the Guard began his report that night, Yorda pricked up her ears, trying to pluck the valuable information from his outrageously flowery account. He described each round of combat in such minute detail that the telling took almost as long as the tournament itself.

Yorda waited patiently for mention of Ozuma’s name, or anything about a strange knight with horns upon his head. So intent was she on listening that she confused the course with which she was supposed to use her silver fork. At the other end of the long table, the queen noticed the gaffe and lifted an eyebrow at Yorda as she quickly returned the fork to its proper place. The Captain of the Guard stopped his report when he saw the expression on Yorda’s face.

“My apologies,” Yorda said politely, smiling toward the captain. “Please go on.”

“Well,” the Minister of Court said with a laugh and a rub of his sizable belly, “it seems Princess Yorda has not overcome her aversion to our triannual entertainment.”

“I’m afraid the princess is bored,” the queen said, her red lips curling upward into a smile. The deputy captain-newly appointed that spring-peered at the queen, enchanted. “She resembles me at her age,” the queen said. “A knight’s skill at arms is of no consequence to a frail maiden, is it?” As she spoke, her black eyes stared directly into Yorda’s across the table as if to say: I have told you my secret. If you wish to reveal it here and now, go ahead, my beloved daughter. Ah, but you lack the courage. There is no way forward from here and no way to return. You must bear my secret with me and remain in silence without exit.

Yorda gritted her teeth, enduring her mother’s gaze. The smile on the queen’s face widened.

“True enough, Your Majesty,” the Minister of Court agreed loudly. “Yet I daresay even Princess Yorda would be interested to learn a bit of the customs of foreign lands. The tournament is many things, not least a gathering of the strongest and mightiest from across the entire continent.”

Yorda turned to the minister. “Are there warriors and ladies from faraway lands in attendance?” she asked politely.

“Indeed, there are!” the minister said, leaning forward, his belly pushing the silver plate before him farther onto the table. “In fact, we welcome a most unusual knight to this particular tourney. I’ve never seen a man of his like. And his skill is remarkable!”

7

BY THE TIME Yorda reached the beginning of the stone bridge, Ozuma was already at the base of the Tower of Winds. He stood gazing up at the tower, his back to the bridge.

She quickened her pace, pleased that he had kept his promise. She was past the midway point of the bridge, the sea wind blowing against her cheek and lifting her hair as she ran, when Ozuma turned and saw her. He was dressed the same as he had been the day before. His black cloak billowed in the wind as he began to walk toward her.

When Yorda ran up to him breathlessly, Ozuma once again fell to one knee and bowed. Yorda curtsied in return, but when she spoke, she sounded less like a princess and more like a girl from town.

“I heard you were victorious in the third bout,” she said, hand to her breast. “The ministers were enthralled by your skill with the sword. The Minister of Court said your victory was a sure thing, and the Captain of the Guard’s eyes gleamed like a little boy, so happy he was at the thought of sparring with you.”

Ozuma bowed again. “I am honored I was able to prevail yesterday, and even more so that I meet you here again, Princess,” he said in his gentle, resonant voice. “I fear I speak above my station, however…”

Yorda stepped closer to him, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Let us not rest on formalities. I have little time.”

Ozuma looked up and met Yorda’s gaze, a question on his lips. Today, he was carrying his helmet beneath one arm. His uncovered horns were striking from this close.

“You must not win the tournament,” Yorda said in a single breath. She shook her head. “You must not win your next bout. You will lose, and leave. You must escape.”

Ozuma was speechless.

“I would not say such an important thing in haste or jest,” Yorda continued. “I have good reason, though it is not something I am at liberty to share. Trust me when I say you cannot stay here at the castle. You should never even have participated in the tournament!”

“Yet,” Ozuma replied slowly, “even should I leave, the tournament will have a champion. I do not see the princess’s fears being put to rest by my departure.”

Yorda’s eyes went wide. “What do you mean?” She stepped closer, grabbing his arm in both hands. “Do you know something? Did you know when you chose to participate in the tournament?”

The wind blowing up from the sea whistled around them. Yorda felt the chill in the air, and she looked up at the Tower of Winds to see, in every empty window, dark shapes staring down at them. In her surprise, she took a step back and would have stumbled had Ozuma not reached out to catch her. He lifted her to her feet and looked around at the tower.

“I believe they can see your heart, Princess. Your presence near the tower agitates them.”

Yorda looked up at Ozuma’s tanned face, confusion and questions filling her eyes. “Who are they?”

“Those who have been trapped in the tower. See their shapes? They have the form of humans, but they are empty shades, formed of dark mist. Think of them as shadows who have stepped away from their bodies.”

Yorda looked again at the windows. They might have been shadows, but they had eyes, glowing with a dull light. She saw several looking down at the bridge-shadows that walk alone.

“I…I had no idea such things were here. Often I have walked this place alone and never seen them before.”

“They are sad, cursed things.” Ozuma looked at Yorda’s face, then put his hand gently on her back as if to push her away from the tower. “When you knew nothing of what happens here in the castle, they had no means by which to notice you. But now that you have knowledge, you know fear because you know the truth. That is why you can see them. And that is why they are drawn to the salvation your heart promises them.”

It would be wise, Ozuma warned her, to avoid the tower unaccompanied in the future. “It will only trouble your heart needlessly,” he said. “Once they have been turned to shades, there is nothing anyone can do to save them. They are forever imprisoned in the Tower of Winds.”

“But…what are they?”

“I must apologize, Princess, for my purpose in meeting you here again today was none other than to test you.”

“Test me? How?”

“I wanted to ascertain whether the lady Yorda herself would be able to see those shades in the tower. You can; that means your true eye has opened. Which in turn means that you know the truth, and you have touched the source of fear.”

“You mean the truth about my mother.”

When she saw Ozuma nod, Yorda’s heart split in two-half filled with relief, half with sorrow and shame.

“How much do you know?” she asked. “Why have you come to this castle?”

Leaving the Tower of Winds, Yorda brought Ozuma to the old trolley on the side of the castle. “When I was young,” she explained to him, “they used this trolley to bring supplies for expanding the eastern wing of the castle.”

The old rails stretched in a long line from the eastern wing up to the northern side, running perfectly straight save for a single curve midway. A thin layer of dust coated the rails, and the trolley, made of sturdy boards fastened together, was chipped and worn at the edges.

“When the construction was finished, they were supposed to destroy the trolley and remove the rails, but my father ordered them to leave everything as it was.”

He knew how Yorda loved the view from the rails.

“I was something of a tomboy and always pleaded with him to let me ride the trolley while they were working. My father let me. I knew nothing of the world beyond the castle, nor did I have any friends my own age. I was very lonely as a child. I believe my father took pity on me. He asked my mother to leave the trolley there until I grew older and tired of it.”

With Yorda already confined to the castle, the queen had no grounds on which to refuse him.

“My father’s duties often took him away from the castle. Whenever he would return, he would take me for rides.”

“Then it is a place of good memories,” Ozuma said. He smiled at the girl.

“Yes,” Yorda replied, running her hand along the trolley’s handrail. “Many memories.” Whenever she came here, the sound of her father’s voice and the warmth of his hand rose fresh in her mind.

The trolley had been unused for some time, so neither the queen nor the royal guard ventured here much. It was even possible they had forgotten it existed.

The doors to the trolley platforms had been locked, but Yorda kept a secret key. It was the one place she could come when she needed to be alone. However, as the rails ran along the outer wall, and there were no handrails save on the trolley itself, it was not particularly safe. It was even dangerous to step out on the ledge by the rails on days when the wind from the sea was particularly strong. For these reasons, she had not visited the trolley for some time. That, and sometimes she did not want to remember her father so clearly. It was too painful.

“Here there is no one to watch over us. We can talk in peace.”

Yorda had stepped down from the ledge onto the rails where she could take shelter from the wind. Ozuma walked around the platform, looking with amazement at the many interwoven towers of the castle, the strips of sea visible between them, and the blue sky stretching overhead.

“The view from here is incredible.”

“Yes, but be careful. The drop at the edge of the platform and the rails is quite steep-like a sheer cliff. One misstep and you could well lose your life.”

It was necessary to walk through the castle proper to come here, so though this was a safe place to talk, getting here unnoticed would be next to impossible. Ozuma had said that she need only instruct him which way to go and he would take care of the rest.

She had agreed, and he had taken her under his cloak. Yorda was not quite small enough to fit entirely beneath it, and she thought they would be discovered for sure, but Ozuma assured her it would not be a problem, and curiously enough, they were able to walk directly through the castle without being noticed-even when they passed by others close in the hall.

Perhaps in his training Ozuma had learned how to hide himself in plain sight. That would explain how he was able to make his way past the royal guards and castle patrol to the Tower of Winds, and how he had disappeared so suddenly when they parted the day before.

Or maybe, Yorda thought, it is a kind of magic. If he truly is the descendant of one blessed by Sol Raveh, he might very well have power befitting a deity. Maybe even power enough to resist a child of the Dark God, the queen herself.

Hope stirred in Yorda’s breast. Yet at the same time, she felt a deep guilt. The queen was her mother. She was not sure that even the Creator, the Sun God who was father to all upon the earth, had forgiveness for children who betrayed their parents.

Ozuma approached and knelt before Yorda, who was sitting on the edge of the trolley.

“I know the secret of the tournament troubles you, Princess, yet you should know that in the outside world, there are already those who know the truth.”

Yorda gripped the edge of the trolley tightly. “On this continent? In other lands?”

“Indeed,” the knight replied. “Though it may be hard for you to believe, beyond this realm there are many who fear this castle and the power of the queen. In past battles, they have seen her terrifying strength.

“Yet the tournament has long been the only window connecting this land with its neighbors. There are some, like myself, who participate in order to gain information about this land, and others who participate to become a henchman of the queen with all the power that entails. There are many different people in this world, all with different ways of thinking. There are even those who would join your mother precisely because she is so feared.”

Yorda thought she could understand that. If it were true that the queen held enough power to destroy not only this continent but the entire world, it was better to be on her side than any other.

And yet it was foolish to imagine one could join her. The queen had no need of anyone else, nor had she any intention of sharing her throne. The only one with whom she joined hands was the Dark God.

“Yet over the many tournaments, the victors have, without exception, vanished. We never hear of their glorious achievements in battle, their rise to power after their victory. No one has seen them on the battlefields, leading the charge.”

Yorda slumped, putting a hand to her head as though she could push out her memories of the gallery of statues beneath the graveyard.

“There are those-people who want peace in this world under Sol Raveh’s benevolent eyes-who would like to know what became of them. To learn what is going on within the queen’s domain and what will happen next. Not from idle curiosity, but from a sense of dire urgency.”

Yorda looked up. “And you are one of these people?”

Ozuma’s eyes flickered to her face for a moment. “It is as you say,” he replied. “Princess Yorda, are you aware of the large country, the Holy Zagrenda-Sol Empire, that stretches from far to the east down to the south?”

She had learned of all their neighboring lands in Master Suhal’s lectures. “Yes, but I had never heard it called holy before.”

Ozuma smiled faintly. “Its name was changed only three years ago. The founding royal family of the empire consider themselves descendants of Sol Raveh and bear his sign as their family crest.”

“Not just priests of Sol Raveh, but actual ancestors?”

“Indeed.”

A few days ago, Yorda would have laughed, but now that she knew that her mother was the child of the Dark God, it did not seem quite so preposterous.

“Princess, all men worship the gods and seek connections to them in any number of ways. Royal families and imperial houses desire a close connection to the divine all the more. Creating legends and stories to spread the word of one’s own divine heritage is merely another strategy a ruler may employ. What is important is that the people believe, and they are able to display sufficient strength to keep the peace within their domain.”

In these respects, Ozuma told her, the Zagrenda-Sol Empire had been successful.

“Not only do they command a powerful army, but they have developed their lands well to make the country rich. They support merchants in their business and scholars in their endeavors. It is a place not only of material wealth, but spiritual wealth. I do not claim it is a paradise on earth, where all things proceed according to some divine plan. Zagrenda-Sol has her difficulties, as any country does-many, in fact. But these are ultimately inconsequential. No one expects us to be able to create a heavenly paradise during our lives on this earth, and a ruler would be foolish to promise such.”

“And yet they call themselves a holy empire?”

Ozuma nodded. “The cathedral of Zagrenda-Sol is impressive indeed. It was constructed over a century ago, yet it boasts a tower high enough to catch the light of the morning star, and the bell tower is wide enough to house an entire village. It takes one hundred strongmen just to sound the vesper bells.”

Three years earlier, the knight explained, the fifth emperor of Zagrenda-Sol took his throne at the young age of twenty-five. As dictated by law, his coronation took place in the cathedral, and there, the young emperor had received a revelation.

“In the revelation, the emperor learned that a herald of darkness had appeared upon the land, and that he, as the descendant of Sol Raveh, was to take a great sword of the purest light to destroy it. It was, in essence, a declaration of holy war. After changing the name of his country to the Holy Zagrenda-Sol Empire, he appointed the great cathedral as his headquarters for the coming war. He then created the position of priest-king in the cathedral and declared himself the first. Nothing of the kind had ever happened before in the long history of the empire.”

While an emperor has the power to assemble and command an army within his own realm, a priest-king is a servant of the Sun God, the knight said, with the authority to assemble a great army from believers in all lands. In theory, the priest-king could call on anyone living where the Sun God is worshipped.

“After this declaration, the emperor sent out messengers across the continent, putting out a call to arms. I am sure one came here for your mother as well.”

“My mother? Is she not feared by the people beyond our borders?”

“Of course. Even in the Holy Zagrenda-Sol Empire, they had concerns about the queen’s power. No one knew that she, and the power she wielded, was the very herald of darkness foretold in the emperor’s revelation. But as a matter of precaution they sent a messenger to ask her assistance in the coming battle. It was a test.”

Yorda knew little of governance. Yet she had an idea of how her mother would have taken such news. She pictured those beautifully sculpted eyebrows lifting at the words herald of darkness upon the land, and at the announcement that the children of the Sun God had declared holy war against that darkness.

Against her.

Yorda wondered if she had been frightened-or perhaps she had merely laughed. Either way, she could not take action until the time of the next eclipse, when the Dark God’s power obscured the sun. Until that day, the queen would have to quietly gather her strength.

“The queen did not respond to the emperor’s request,” Ozuma said, his voice sinking. He sounded almost sympathetic. “This, of course, deepened the suspicions of the priest-king. Even as he assembled his forces, the emperor had countless scholars and magi working to answer the question of what exactly these signs of darkness were meant to indicate. The emperor himself spent many days in contemplation and study of the revelation’s meaning. And, just recently-”

Yorda shook her head, cutting him off. “They found that the herald was my mother.”

Ozuma bowed deeply. “I am truly sorry, Princess.”

Yorda sighed and covered her face with her hands. She felt as though she had been wounded deep in her chest and bled sadness from the wound.

Yet in her sorrow she also found solace . I am not alone. I’m not the only one that knows of my mother’s pact with the terrifying lord of the underworld.

I have friends in the world outside-I hope.

Ozuma put a hand to his chest. “I am but the advance guard,” he said, though Yorda detected that there was something he left unsaid.

“In other words, you are one of the warriors of our god summoned to the cause by the priest-king. You’re here to find out what happens to the victors of the tournament-not just as the victor, but as the greatest warrior to participate in the history of the tournament.”

“It is as you say.”

For a time, Yorda was silent, feeling unease and doubt weighing on the scales of her heart. Every time she remembered what her mother had done, it chilled her to the bone, yet she did not think she should be so willing to accept everything that this strange knight told her at face value. The herald of darkness certainly sounded like her mother. Yet that was no proof that the knight’s tale was not a false tapestry woven from threads of the truth.

It was certainly possible that a cabal of individuals seeking to oust her mother from the throne was trying to deceive her. The queen’s plans were terrifying, yet an invasion was a terrifying prospect too, and not only for Yorda. It was a threat to her entire country.

To place her trust in Ozuma’s words was to risk betraying her own country.

“Lady Yorda,” Ozuma called to her, his voice like water over stones. “I had another reason for participating in the tournament and coming here to this castle. That was to meet you.”

Yorda’s eyes went wide. “Why would you want to meet me?”

“Is it not true that you have never left the castle grounds?”

Yorda nodded.

“This is because your mother keeps you confined here.”

“Confined? No, she-well, yes, I suppose she does.”

“Would it surprise you, Princess, to learn that you are not the only one whose comings and goings are so restricted? All of the people of your realm are barred from visiting other lands. Only a handful of trade routes still cross its borders, and these only by virtue of a treaty signed before the queen took her throne. Stranger still, her people do not find this suspicious or question it in the least.”

The reason for this, the knight explained, was that the queen had cast a spell upon the land.

“You mean our citizens are all under an enchantment? That’s ridiculous!”

“My sentiments precisely-but no less true for it, I’m afraid,” Ozuma said. “This is why none question why someone so important as the princess of the realm is kept here in her castle and shown to no one. They never even think to wonder about you, Princess, not even the ministers in charge of the royal household’s affairs.”

Yorda felt a chill, and she hugged her arms close about her body.

“I beg you, listen with a still heart. There is more to the emperor’s revelation I’ve not yet told you. Near the herald of darkness there is one who is aware of the darkness and possesses the power to defeat it. This one is already becoming aware of their role-and the darkness cannot be defeated without their strength.”

“You mean to say that I am the one.”

“I can think of no other. You are the true daughter of the queen, Lady Yorda. You carry her blood in your veins. It is not a stretch to imagine that you wield power yourself, such as might be used against her. That is why she does not let you leave the castle and keeps you within close reach. She bewitches her own people’s hearts so that they will not suspect or question her reasons.”

“Then why did my mother give birth to me at all?” Yorda suddenly shouted. “If she knew she would have to keep me locked up here all my life, she should never have brought me into this world. And why tell me her secret if she feared it becoming known?”

Yorda put a hand to her mouth. She had not intended to reveal that the queen had confided in her at all.

“It is a mystery, and one which you have encountered already it seems,” Ozuma said quietly.

Yorda had no words with which to refute Ozuma’s quiet condemnation.

The things she had seen beneath the graveyard tormented her even now, the fear tempered only by her sadness.

Yorda breathed a long, shuddering sigh and began to tell Ozuma everything, beginning with her ill-conceived attempt to venture outside the castle walls. She told him what she had seen beneath the cemetery, of the queen’s secret, and her pact with the Dark God.

As she spoke, she felt a weight settle upon her shoulders, and her heart became numb and empty.

For his part, Ozuma did not seem moved to fear or hatred. There was only kindness and sympathy in his face.

When she had finished her story, Ozuma knelt beside her. “Thank you for telling me,” he said. “You must’ve been terribly frightened.”

A teardrop slid from Yorda’s eye.

“Yet when you heard the truth from your mother’s mouth, it opened up the eyes of your heart. That is why you could see the lonely shades trapped in the Tower of Winds. You have awakened, Lady Yorda. And,” Ozuma added in a whisper, “the revelation was true.”

“But why?” Yorda asked, wiping the tear from her face. “Why did my mother show me those things? Why did she not keep them hidden?”

“That, I do not know for certain,” Ozuma said. “But were I to venture a guess, I would say that she was sufficiently afraid of you that she took it upon herself to strike first.”

8

“NEAR THE HERALD of darkness there is one who is aware of the darkness and possesses the power to defeat it.”

Even after a night of restless sleep, Ozuma’s words rang in Yorda’s ears. It was all real. It was not a nightmare or fever dream.

While she was preparing for the day, Yorda informed the chief handmaiden that she would be attending the fourth round of the tournament that day. She had to see Ozuma’s skill for herself.

The handmaiden raised a querying eyebrow as she tied the strings at the waist of Yorda’s dress. “The princess will be viewing the tournament?”

“Am I not allowed?”

“No, of course you are. But I thought you disliked the noise.”

“It is noisy, granted. But at the banquet last night, I heard that there is a particularly skillful swordsman in this tournament. The Minister of Court and the Captain of the Guard were both flushed with excitement when they spoke of his prowess. I thought this must be an unusual contestant indeed, and I must admit I grew curious to see him.”

Yorda smiled, but the handmaiden’s frown did not soften. Yorda could see herself reflected in the handmaiden’s pale, washed-out eyes.

Terrified as she was of the queen’s power, the handmaiden made a convenient pawn for her mother. It was no coincidence that her mother had assigned the woman to her at the same time that she revealed the truth to Yorda. Who better to keep an eye on her daughter?

Yorda’s every deed would be conveyed through the handmaiden to the queen. She had to move carefully. Always with a smile, always pleasant.

Yorda knew there was no point in trying to get information from her handmaiden, even though the questions she had were many. She wanted to know what her mother had told the woman, what she had been shown, and why she was the only one to see it. Had her mother revealed to the handmaiden a portion of her secret to ensure her loyalty?

Tell me, Yorda wanted to say, and I will tell you what I know. I know that it is not only we two who are aware of the truth that lurks behind my mother’s beguiling smile. We have allies in the world beyond these walls.

She would tell her about the spell her mother had cast upon their own people with the power she had gained from the Dark God. How all of the knights and ministers had been enchanted. And how they must be the ones to free them.

But as her mother’s only daughter, the thought of what Yorda must do was not only frightening, it was sad. She wanted to ask what the chief handmaiden thought, in all the wisdom of her years, of a daughter who betrayed her own mother.

Could it ever be the right thing to do? If it meant stopping the rise of the Dark God, was it acceptable to ignore ties of blood?

Or perhaps, Yorda thought, I shouldn’t talk to you at all, but to Master Suhal. Yorda felt certain that her instructor knew more than he had told her about the queen. Perhaps that was the source of those wisps of dark shadow she saw at times in the wise man’s eyes.

Who in the castle was awake, and who still slept? She only knew she didn’t want to be alone. It was too frightening.

“I will call on the Minister of Rites to prepare a place for you at the throne, that you might observe the tournament,” the handmaiden said stiffly, her eyes averted from Yorda’s face. “The fourth round is set to begin at noon with the ringing of the bell. Do you know which of the arenas this knight you wish to see will be fighting in?”

“No…” Yorda admitted, “but I’m sure the Minister of Court knows. And I’ve heard this contestant has a very unusual appearance-horns grow from his head.”

“Horns? Like a deer’s, or an ox’s?”

“That’s right-but more like an ox than a deer, I’m told.”

The handmaiden furrowed her thin eyebrows. “Strange appearance, indeed. Are you certain he is the one you would watch? I fear the sight of him might trouble you.”

“I do not think it appropriate to call one of the men who might soon be master-at-arms of the castle troubling,” Yorda said with a bright smile.

The chief handmaiden bowed. Yorda watched her bent, withered frame as she left the room.

Her mother had been there when the men were talking about the strange knight Ozuma, though Yorda had no idea whether such talk interested her mother at all. How would she react when she learned that her daughter wanted to see the tournament? Was the herald of darkness aware that her enemies were approaching? Yorda shivered.

Ozuma’s fourth contest was scheduled to take place in the Western Arena. Yorda entered the arena last to the boisterous cheers of a full crowd. She was wearing a midday dress with a veil drawn over her face. At her side, the Minister of Court advised her to raise her hand and greet the crowd, so she did so, giving them a light wave. This simple gesture was met with loud applause. Yorda found herself unexpectedly moved by the warm reception. Respect and love directed toward the princess was also respect and love for her mother, the queen. Our kingdom is at peace. The people are satisfied in their lives. How could rule by fear produce such happiness? The people greeted her mother as their true queen-what business did she have disrupting that?

“You may proceed to your seat, Princess,” the Minister of Court said, a wide smile across his face. “Until you sit, no one else may,” he added in a whisper, then more loudly, “What an ovation!”

Yorda found herself doubting everything. When she looked out on the crowd, she saw only innocent people, ignorant of the true purpose of this spectacle, deceived by the queen. They were livestock bred for the sole purpose of bringing about the revival of the Dark God. Or is it I who has been deceived by an agent of mayhem and greed, come from another land to take what is ours?

Yorda’s mind reeled, and she nearly lost her balance. Before she drew unwanted attention, she grabbed the arms of the beautifully carved throne and sat, closing her eyes.

From entrances on either side of the arena, two warriors took the floor, led in by royal guardsmen. Ozuma, the taller of the two, walked in easy strides, his helmet tucked beneath his arm. He had taken off his black robe, but other than that, he looked exactly as he had the first time Yorda met him. The longsword at his waist reached nearly to the ground, its tip hanging only a hair’s breadth above the arena floor.

The man he faced was also a giant. He wore a wide, leather battle skirt with a thick belt, also of leather, about his waist. Above that he wore only a vest of chain mail on his chest and a battle-axe slung over his back. The man’s wide bald head caught the light of the torches set along the walls of the arena. In place of a helmet, he wore a small metal circlet.

Together, the two contestants stood before the throne, then knelt upon their knees. Yorda accepted the gesture with a quiet nod. She had the impression that Ozuma’s eyes met hers through her veil for the briefest of moments, but his expression was blank. Perhaps he expected me to come watch him fight today.

The knight who presided as judge over the arena introduced the two swordsmen in a voice that rang loudly throughout the arena. First up was the itinerant knight from the far east, Ozuma. Facing him was Judam, renowned throughout the continent for his skill with a battle-axe. While the crowd made their enthusiasm known, Ozuma slowly donned his helmet. Yorda blushed slightly at seeing the crowd’s favor for him.

“Princess, are you feeling unwell?” the minister asked, leaning toward her.

“I’m fine. Thank you. I was startled by the crowd’s enthusiasm, that’s all. I daresay all these people could turn the chilly depths of winter into a summer day.”

The Minister of Court smiled approvingly. “That swordsman on the right is the fellow I was telling you about. He’s a sure bet for champion.”

“The crowd adores him,” Yorda agreed.

“Perhaps such talk does not reach your ears, Princess, but there is a great deal of wagering that goes on around the tournament. Ozuma began as a complete unknown, but now he is by far the most popular. I would not be surprised if more than half of the people watching here today have money riding on his victory.”

The judge stood between the two men in the center of the arena, one hand on each of the contestants’ shoulders. He read off the rules of honorable combat, after which each of the contestants raised his weapon-a sword for one, and an axe for the other-and repeated the rules in unison.

“The fight goes on until one man falls or admits defeat by tossing away his weapon,” the Minister of Court explained.

Yorda felt queasy just looking at the two men exchanging glares before their fight.

“They do not kill each other, do they? This is a tournament, not a battlefield.”

“Not intentionally, but it does happen on occasion. If one’s opponent does not admit defeat, it may come to cutting. Sometimes, there are fatalities,” the minister said, seeming far too pleased. “Judam, the one with the battle-axe, lost in the next to last round of the previous tournament, and he’s favored to win this year as well. Not only is he a master with that massive axe of his, but he fights like a wild boar and does not know when to yield. In the semifinals three years ago, his opponent, a spearman, wouldn’t let go of his spear, so Judam relieved him of both his arms. Ha! If the judge had not intervened, he might well have cut off the man’s head.” The Minister of Court was lost in the story now, completely forgetting to whom he spoke. “His fight today against Ozuma might well be the deciding bout for the Western Arena. I doubt any other in the tournament could stand against either-here they go!”

The judge gave the call to begin and withdrew to the edge of the circular arena. Judam gave a wild battle cry, brought his axe to bear with incredible speed for one so massive, and dashed off to one side, putting a little more distance between him and his opponent. Ozuma did not move.

Swinging his axe in a circle as though it weighed no more than a feather, Judam stared down the knight, walking around him in a slow circle. When he reached Ozuma’s flank, the knight turned a half step to face him and placed a hand on the sword at his waist. Yorda’s eyes went wide. Ozuma drew his sword with such speed, she saw only the flash of metal before the sword was completely out of its sheath.

Ozuma held the sword with its tip pointed toward the ground. Though he followed Judam’s every movement with his eyes, his feet were still.

Judam’s battle-axe ceased its gyrations. He leapt toward Ozuma. The massive battle-axe cut through the air, while the polished double-edged blade gleamed. A cry went up from the crowd.

When the battle-axe came down, it struck only Ozuma’s shadow. The knight had stepped lightly aside, gaining Judam’s flank. Ozuma’s blade slashed out, stopping only inches from the giant’s back as it struck the battle-axe Judam had deftly swung over his head and down across his back to block the blow. Sparks flew and steel clashed. Their blades met three more times before the warriors leapt back, and there was a brief pause in the fighting.

Yorda couldn’t believe the speed with which the two men moved. Judam advanced, massive axe held in one hand just off the ground, sweeping it in circles toward his opponent’s feet. Ozuma deftly hopped out of the axe’s path, and when he landed, his sword was already swinging down toward Judam’s exposed shoulder. Judam rolled to the side to avoid the blow and stood, axe already lifted above his head. Though the axe was fully as long as Yorda was tall, in Judam’s hands it appeared no more than a twig. It was clear neither its weight nor length gave him any trouble whatsoever. The axe moved like an extension of his own arm.

Ozuma blocked the blow directly to his front with his sword, then lunged forward, pushing his opponent back with his weight. The moment the man’s center of gravity shifted back, the longsword drew an arc through the air, grazing Judam’s right shoulder before the tip of the sword struck the ground. A roar passed through the arena. Ozuma was off balance; Judam came in for the kill.

Yet Ozuma’s defenses were flawless. His sword seemed to dance back up, slashing through one of the leather straps holding the chain mail to Judam’s chest. The vest drooped to one side. Judam scrambled to regain his footing. This was the moment Ozuma had been waiting for. Though Judam managed to dodge the next blow, his balance was thrown entirely, and he fell on his side to the ground.

Judam went into a roll to gain distance from Ozuma, and using his bare hand to rip off the remaining leather strap, he took off the chain mail and threw it at Ozuma’s face. Ozuma ducked to one side and the vest hit the arena floor with a dull crash, sliding all the way to the foot of the stands.

The sound of the next clash between sword and battle-axe was lost in the roar of the crowd. All Yorda could see were the two men like shadows, first drawing closer, then separating, then engaging once more, lit by the flying of sparks. At one point, the two weapons clashed, but it was Judam who lowered his axe first, and Ozuma’s blade bit into the bald man’s metal circlet. Blood ran in rivulets down Judam’s forehead, and the sweat on his head glinted in the sunlight.

Yorda’s hands clenched into fists. Her heart was racing, and her breath was ragged. She could feel her knees shaking on the throne.

Judam gave a howl and toppled over backward. Another cheer rose up from the spectators and Yorda leaned forward to see better.

Despite the fact that he had an easy opening on his opponent, Ozuma did not take it. Instead he took a quick step to the side, putting distance between himself and the battle-axe wielder. It was the right move. Judam jumped up from the ground and used his momentum to swing his weapon around from the side. The shining blade cut an arc through the air.

The missed swing was exactly what Ozuma had been waiting for. The momentum of the axe had carried Judam around until his side was facing his opponent. Ozuma leapt, as agile as a wildcat. This time, not even the swift Judam had time to bring his axe back around to block. Ozuma’s double-edged blade swept to the side, cutting the haft of his opponent’s weapon in two. The head of the battle-axe dropped by his feet, bouncing off to one side, leaving him holding only the handle. Ozuma’s blade slashed out again, and in the next instant the handle, too, was rattling across the arena floor, leaving Judam with a small piece of wood barely larger than the palm of his hand. The massive warrior’s mouth hung open.

A deep wrinkle crossed his shiny pate. His right eye was closed against the blood running down from the wound on his head. As Ozuma closed the distance between them, Judam dropped to one knee.

“I yield!”

The bout was decided. Everyone in the stands leapt to their feet. A wave of applause swept across the arena, honoring the victor. Yorda finally let herself exhale and leaned back against her throne. Next to her, the Minister of Court was slapping his ample palms together, doing a little dance in his joy. Yorda had to smile at that. Then she herself stood and applauded the horned knight.

When Ozuma faced the throne and knelt a second time, a smile on his face answered her own.

That night, even wrapped in her silk covers, Yorda had trouble falling asleep. The excitement of the tournament was hard to put out of her mind. Ozuma’s skill was plain to see, even to her. He would surely win his next two bouts and emerge the victor. Then he would be welcome to the castle as the master-at-arms-

“I am but the advance guard,” he had told her. Finding a place at the castle was his first objective. Next would come spying and gathering information. He would unveil the castle and the queen for what they truly were.

Armed with the knowledge Ozuma had gathered, the Holy Zagrenda-Sol Empire and the fifth emperor in service of the Sun God would come to strike at the herald of darkness.

Should I help them? Yorda wondered. Is my power truly enough to resist the darkness? Or should I turn my back on the Sun God, the great Creator, and side with my mother?

When her eyes opened again, the room was steeped in darkness. She wondered if the questions she had asked Ozuma at the trolley were really questions she should ask of her mother. Why did you tell me your secrets? Why was I given life in this world? For what purpose?

Yorda stared into the darkness but received no reply.

Yorda saw an unsettling significance in the fact that she had learned the truth about her mother only ten days before the tournament began. She wondered if she would be questioning herself so deeply now. And how would she have greeted Ozuma without that knowledge? Fancy a stranger from another land walking freely through the castle and speaking to her, the princess. No, she would have met him with mistrust, no matter how sincere he was or how kind, or how much he reminded her of her late father. The hunger and greed of their neighbors was one lesson Yorda had learned from her mother, and its roots went deep inside her.

Perhaps, she thought, the curious timing of her discovering the truth was the plan of the Sun God himself. Believe in me, Yorda, he was saying. The connection between a person and his god was stronger than the connection between mother and child. Life was to be found only in the light of the Sun God who shared his blessing with all. Therein lay the only prize worth pursuing.

We must not allow the darkness to spread.

Yorda turned over, burying her face in her pillow and squeezing her eyes shut. Father! Why did you have to leave me like this, alone, enemy to my own mother? Then she sensed something-a clear feeling that someone was standing in the room, next to her bed.

Yorda threw back her covers and sat up. The sky was cloudy that night-not even the moonlight trickled in through the window. The darkness in the air felt heavy, turning her familiar room into the silence of the deep sea.

I am imagining things. I’m tired. My worries have stepped outside my body and stand there looking over me.

But then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw something move. It shifted in the night and melted into the darkness.

Yorda turned and gasped at what she saw. Just to the left of her bed, her late father’s face hung like a pale moon.

“Father!” Yorda called out, though her body was frozen. She saw the face smile-he looked just as he always had. That long straight nose, those eyes. Though his cheeks were sunken and his jaw pointed, there was no mistaking him.

He wore a silver crown on which was engraved his family crest-a divine bird with wings outstretched. The clasp holding his short cloak over his shoulders was in the same shape. Blue peridots had been woven into the sleeves of his long tunic, and the edges were embroidered with flowers. She remembered it all, every detail. He was wearing the same clothes he had worn when they placed him in the coffin, when she had kissed his cold cheek farewell. These were the clothes he had worn for his final journey. Even his haggard face was exactly the same.

“You…are my father, are you not?”

Sliding off the bed, Yorda took a step closer, but her father drew away, holding up his right hand to stop her. She spotted the signet ring bearing her father’s royal crest on the middle finger of his right hand. His ring bore only half the seal-the other half was on the ring worn by Yorda's mother.

Memories flitted through Yorda’s mind. When her father had been buried, her mother had tried to remove the ring from his finger, but Master Suhal had stopped her, saying it should remain with the king. This had not pleased the queen, and so she sent Master Suhal away and tried once again to remove the ring. Yet even though her father’s fingers were thin and bony, the ring would not come free. In the end, the queen had given up and allowed the lid to be placed upon the coffin. In fact, the ring was merely an ornament-the actual royal seal was kept separately. Yorda had imagined that her mother wanted her father’s ring as a memento.

The queen had since removed her half of the ring.

Yorda, my beloved daughter.

She heard her father’s voice in her mind.

I did not wish to appear before you like this and disturb your heart or give you sadness. Even so, I longed for this time when I might see you again.

Yorda realized she was crying. “I’ve wanted to see you for so long, Father.”

A gentle smile spread across her father’s face, no different from the smile in her memory, with a warmth that seemed to embrace her even from across the room.

Yorda, I was always with you. Even when you could not see me, I was by your side. Her father lowered his eyes. I did not leave because I could not. I am…a captive in the castle. A captive soul.

“What?” Yorda almost shouted, then she placed a hand over her mouth. “Who did this to you, Father?” she asked more softly.

Her father’s gaze wandered, and Yorda saw in his eyes the same worries that lay heavily upon her own heart. The sensation resolved into a bleak understanding. “Did you know of Mother’s connection to the Dark God? Is that why you remain here?”

Her father’s eyes fixed on hers. Then he nodded, slowly, so that there might be no misunderstanding.

Your true eye has opened. That is why you can see me now. Yorda, my poor, beloved daughter. My wife, your mother, is indeed a herald of darkness, come to bring devastation to this world. I was trying to stop her when my life ended. As my last breath passed my lips, I thought of you whom I was leaving in this world, and my worry was so deep that my heart broke and shattered into a thousand pieces. Yet they did not depart for the land of the dead. Here they stayed, lingering in the shadows-and not to protect you, though I wish it were so.

Yorda stood, eyes open, forgetting to wipe the tears that collected at her chin.

“Is it my mother who holds you here?”

Her father nodded bitterly.

I’m now master of the Tower of Winds. There I am held. Your mother has trapped me and uses my power.

“What do you mean? Do you have anything to do with those dark shapes I saw in the windows of the tower? The ones Ozuma called the shadows-that-walk-alone?”

Yes, her father replied. That is my true form now.

Yorda recalled the twisted shades she had seen. That is my father?

“Why? What’s Mother doing in the Tower of Winds? How does she seek to use your power? How can I help you?”

Yorda spread her arms wide, stepping closer to her father. She wanted to hug him. To ease his suffering. To feel his warmth.

Her father lurched backward. His face, as pale as moonlight, became translucent.

No! She will find me.

“Father?”

Yorda, I am causing you to suffer. Please forgive me. But now, you are my hope. As you are the hope of this castle and of all life upon this earth. You are our light!

Her father began to fade. Yorda ran from her bed. “No, father, don’t go!”

Yorda…

His voice grew more distant, trembling as he called out to her.

Look upon the world outside. See it with your eyes. The God of Light will show you the right path.

I love you, he said, in a whisper quieter than the murmuring of the night wind. And then he was gone. Yorda ran, but her arms embraced only darkness.

Quietly as she could, Yorda wept. She wiped away her tears with fingers that would never again feel the warm touch of her father. Then, walking softly, she cut across her bedchamber to the door that led out to the hallway.

She did not need to touch the door or press her ear to it. She could feel the presence on the other side of the door with her entire being.

The queen. A cold crystallization of darkness. Breathing, walking darkness.

She’s standing right outside the door.

She must have sensed the appearance of Yorda’s father. She stood outside the door right now, extending a slender arm to open it.

“She will find me…”

Her father’s frightened voice. Yorda held her breath, staring at the door. Should it open, you must look into her eyes, she told herself. If she stares at you, you must not waver. You must stand and face the truth, for it cannot be denied.

But the door did not open. After a while, she sensed the queen’s presence diminish. Yorda felt a wave of dizziness overcome her, and she knelt on the floor.

Her teeth chattered at the cold that seemed to invade her body. Her slender hands clenched into fists. Something was coming, flowing toward her, and it could not be stopped. The truth that had waited for this moment wanted to be free. It wanted salvation.

I must not run.

9

WHEN THEY HAD parted at the trolley, Ozuma had given Yorda a pebble, saying it was magic. It was white, no larger than her thumbnail, and smooth to the touch.

“Should you ever need me, grasp the pebble in your hand and call for me. I will come at once.”

Yorda took the magic pebble in her hands now, and after staring at it for a while, she tucked it inside her dress where it would be safe. Walking quickly, she left the room.

When Master Suhal was not tutoring Yorda on history or literature, he was usually to be found in the castle library. The master had been appointed grand chambers of his own, but he spent far more time at the tiny desk in the corner of the library, poring over books and scrolls.

Yorda had never been able to determine Master Suhal’s age. She surmised that no one else in the castle knew either. He was thin and shriveled, with a rounded back, and he walked at a snail’s pace wherever he went. To Yorda he looked as old as the Creator himself.

Yet a change would come over the old scholar when he opened a book. His eyes would sparkle from the deep wrinkles beneath his bushy eyebrows, and he would flip the pages with all the energy of youth. He was a true scholar who had given his soul to his studies, which he loved more than anything in all the world.

Yorda’s arrival in the library caused a momentary stir of commotion among the scholars and students who were there. She had visited the library many times before, but only in the company of Master Suhal, with specialist scholars accompanying them, and only after much preparation had been made.

Yorda tried to smile at the scholars as they frantically scattered, some in an effort to make themselves presentable, others simply to hide. She announced that she was looking for Master Suhal. The old scholar came to the entrance of the library, staff in hand, with a speed she had never seen him before achieve.

“Dear me, Princess! Welcome, welcome!” His voice shook with surprise.

“I’m sorry to come unannounced. But I was reading a book, and I thought to ask you some questions.”

The scholar bowed deeply, his robes sweeping across the floor, and he led Yorda to his desk.

The books and the great library were divided into sections by content. There were no walls. Each section was comprised of a single huge bookcase, and they stretched from the floor all the way to the high ceiling above. Master Suhal’s favorite desk was surrounded by the bookcases where the most ancient history books in the library were kept-the perfect place for a quiet, private conversation, which was exactly what Yorda wanted.

“Please don’t send everyone away just because I’m here. I wouldn’t want to interrupt their studies,” Yorda told him. Privacy was well and good, but she didn’t want to draw undue attention to their conversation either. “I was thinking,” she went on, “how nice it would be if I could just drop in here now and then. It’s always such an ordeal, you see, if everyone has to stand from their desks and bow and put on their formal robes and such. I’m afraid it’s made me quite reluctant to come here on my own.”

“I see. Yes, yes, of course.” The old scholar bowed his head deeply. “Very well, I will let everyone know your feelings on the matter. I am sure they will understand. There is no reason why you should feel unwelcome in your own library, Princess!”

He offered Yorda a chair and shuffled off, returning a moment later with a tray on which sat two cups and a teapot. They were not the silver cups Yorda was accustomed to using, but the years had imbued them with a certain warmth.

“As a sign of welcome, I offer you some of the tea we customarily drink here in the library. It is the fragrance of this very tea that refreshes me when I grow weary after long hours with my nose pressed into a book.”

While they talked, Yorda could occasionally hear snippets of conversations and laughter from the other students and scholars in the library, though their voices were barely louder than a whisper. To Yorda, it sounded like the rustling of leaves or the burbling of a brook-the easy, calming sounds of regular life. She found herself wishing that she had visited the library earlier, even without a reason such as she had today.

Though wanting to speak about the book she had read had only been a pretext, she was genuinely curious about some things in it-it was a book of myths Master Suhal had recommended to her. He listened to her thoughts on what she had read and commended her deep understanding of the text. He also told her of other books, fictions inspired by the myths she had read, and went so far as to get up and bring her several.

Yorda found herself drawn in by the smell of the ancient paper and the soothing atmosphere of the library. How happy she would be if this truly were her only purpose in coming, to forget time for a while and let her conversation with Master Suhal lead her to new and undiscovered places.

She took another sip of her tea, noting the refreshing chill it left on her lips, then returned her cup to the tray and looked Master Suhal in the face.

“Master. As I was reading the other day, a thought occurred to me,” she said. “I wondered if I might not be able to write a book of my own.”

The scholar’s small black eyes opened wide. “The princess wishes to become a writer?”

“Yes. I know that I have many more studies ahead of me and much more to learn. I know that very well, yet I also feel that I may just have the ability if I tried-do you think it improper?”

“Absolutely not, my dear princess, absolutely not!” The old scholar leaned forward and stood, a wide grin on his face. “Princess, perhaps you have not noticed this yourself, but I have long admired your nimble intellect. I have ever since you were but a child. Your eyes see clearly, your vocabulary is rich, and your mind is always agile. You are more than qualified to scribe your own stories, Princess.”

He went on to ask her what sort of thing she would like to write about, and swallowing the sudden quick beating of her heart, she ventured a smile and said, “I thought I would write about my father. My memories of him, that is.”

“Oh. Oh dear Creator!” The scholar’s hands covered his face like withered branches, and he raised his head toward the ceiling, eyes closed. “I have failed you!” he said, his voice shuddering.

Startled by the scholar’s reaction, Yorda sat silently, waiting to see what he would say next.

“Princess,” he said in a voice like one who speaks to a grieving child. He took a step around the desk, closer to her. “How sorrowful you must be, and how rightfully angry that I have not provided you any books telling of your late father’s reign.”

“Angry?” Yorda blinked. “No, Master Suhal, I’m not upset at all, I only-”

The scholar waved his hand. “As your instructor, I believe I recommended to you only two volumes on the subject of our kingdom’s history: The Chronicle of Kings and The Golden Gift of God-is that not correct?”

The Chronicle of Kings he spoke of was a giant tome that told the story of every ruler in the kingdom since the royal house had been established. The Golden Gift of God was a more general work, though no less voluminous, that dealt with the geography and customs of the land.

“As I recall,” Master Suhal went on, “The Chronicle of Kings begins with our first king-the one they call the Conqueror-and continues to the fifth king, the one who constructed this castle which is our home. Perhaps you did not know, but the Chronicle is still a work in progress. At the end of this year, the volume treating the achievements of the sixth king will finally be completed. As your father was the seventh king, I’m afraid his story has not yet been put to parchment. Our dedication is to illustrating the achievements of all of our kings with the greatest of historical accuracy and detail, which is to say that our work proceeds at a snail’s pace. I must beg you in your generosity to watch over us as we work with grace and patience.”

“I know, and I am patient,” Yorda said. She rested her hand on the old scholar’s sleeve. “Master Suhal, what I want to write is nothing more than the memories of my father I carry in my own heart. I do not think I could do him justice were I to attempt to write about his achievements on the throne.”

Master Suhal frowned and stroked his long beard.

“The Chronicle of Kings is a wonderful history book,” Yorda said, “but it only details its subjects as rulers, correct? What I want to write about is not my father as the seventh king, but about my father as a person. How we played together, what sort of things he liked, the songs he taught me-”

As she listed what she would write, she felt the tears rise in her throat, and she had to stop.

Father. She recalled his sad, pale face from the night before. His lamentations of his cursed fate to wander the darkness beyond the boundaries of the living-

She had to figure out how it had happened. She had to learn how she might save his soul.

Master Suhal rubbed Yorda’s shoulder in a kind gesture. “Princess, you are right to grieve. Your father’s soul has gone to join the Creator. He has ascended to heaven, led aloft by a golden light.”

She wanted to shout, You’re wrong! He hasn’t gone to heaven. He’s a ghost, a shade, bound in suffering to the earth. She wanted to grab the old man by his shoulders and shake him, screaming. It’s all my mother’s fault! The queen has done this!

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m being foolish.” Wiping away a tear with her hand, Yorda ventured a smile. “Whenever I think of my father, it fills my heart with light. Yet, I’m afraid, it also brings tears. I love my father, Master Suhal. And before the cruel thief that is time steals away my memories of him, I want to put them down in words that they might last an eternity.”

Master Suhal nodded slowly. “I see, yes, of course. Princess, you merely need tell me how I may assist you, and I am at your disposal.”

Yorda clasped her hands together and then took the scholar’s hands into her own. “Thank you, Master Suhal. Your help will be invaluable to me. For I realized when I started considering this project that there is much I do not know about my father. I know nothing of how he spent his youth, for example. I never heard of his wedding to my mother, nor how the two of them met. And that is just the beginning-”

This next bit was the most important part. Yorda opened her eyes wide and emptied her heart of the truth so it would not show when she looked into the scholar’s eyes.

“I don’t even know how he died. I was only six at the time. I remember them telling me that Father had fallen ill, that I could not see him or stand by his side. Then, no more than ten days later, I heard that he had passed away. The next time I saw his face was when his body was laid in the coffin, just before they carried him to his resting place at the temple where the funeral was to be held-and then only for the briefest of moments.”

The old scholar’s face was clouded.

“Now that I think about it,” Yorda pressed on, “I am not even sure what disease he died of. No one’s told me anything about his final days. You must understand how lonely this makes me feel as his only child. I would like to know all of these things, but who can I ask? Do you know anything, Master?”

In Yorda’s slender hands, the master’s dry, withered fingers grew cold. Where the wrinkles in his face usually told a tale as detailed as any storybook, now they were blank and lifeless. His eyes had lost their sparkle. The passing years had robbed him of his youth, yet now he even lacked that grounded stoicism that came with age. He might have been a piece of sun-bleached wood, adrift at sea.

“Princess,” he said in the stern voice he usually reserved for lectures. Gone was the spring of enthusiasm he had when he spoke of books. “Members of the royal house must at all times strive to keep themselves free of the stain of death-even when it strikes within their own family. It would not be proper for you, as princess, to know the details of your father’s passing.”

“Do you mean to say, Master, that I may not know and may not ask about it?”

“You may not.” The words hit Yorda like a slap. “You should not even think of such things. Lady Yorda, consider your position. Remember that one day you will sit upon the throne. If your rule is to be benevolent, your heart must be pure.”

Yorda pleaded, explained-even commanded-but Master Suhal would not budge. Exhausted by the effort, Yorda finally gave up. It’s no use. She would not have the truth from Master Suhal’s lips. I’ll have to think of another way.

“I’m sorry,” she said at last. “Please forgive my imprudence.”

Yorda stood, bowed curtly to the scholar, and then left, stepping lightly between the stacks of books. Master Suhal made no attempt to stop her. He seemed to have aged a century over the course of their conversation. When he stood to see her off, he leaned heavily on the back of his chair and nearly staggered several times.

Yorda walked back through the middle of the library, setting off another commotion among the scholars and students in her wake. Yorda smiled to each of them as she passed.

A senior scholar stepped forward to lead her toward the exit. “Will you be retiring, Princess? The shelves here form a bit of a labyrinth, I’m afraid. Please allow me.”

The scholar led her down a valley of densely packed bookshelves, their path twisting to the right and left as they walked. They entered a spot where Yorda saw that the books on the shelves had been replaced by boxes for storage. The boxes looked sturdy, with padlocks, but their fronts were fashioned of thick glass so that their contents could be readily identified.

She saw nautical charts and old globes and other intricate devices fashioned of metal whose uses she could not begin to guess at. Then she spotted something like a long, slender tube. Its length was about the same as that from Yorda’s elbow to the tips of her fingers, and it widened toward one end in sections. A spyglass, she thought, recalling an illustration she had seen in a book many years before.

“Excuse me,” she called out to her guide. “This tube-is it not used for looking across great distances?”

The scholar nodded, smiling. “I’m impressed you know of such things, Lady Yorda. Master Suhal has not been negligent in his duties!”

“I was wondering,” she asked him, “why is it here? Wouldn’t it be useful for keeping watch in the castle?”

As soon as she asked the question, it occurred to her that she had never seen anyone in the castle, be it the guards or even the court astronomers, using a spyglass. The reason was obvious. My mother’s enchantment.

They weren’t allowed to look out upon the world outside.

It wouldn’t even occur to them to try.

Fingers intertwined, the scholar smiled at her cheerfully. “Such contrivances are unnecessary. By Her Majesty’s glory, our land has been ensured of eternal prosperity. Its rivers, mountains, and even the seas surrounding us are always at peace. Why, that spyglass there broke some time ago, and no one has even thought to repair it.”

“It doesn’t work at all?”

“I’m afraid not. Look through it, you will see nothing. Yet, as its design and features may yet be useful as a subject of study, we keep it here. Just in case.”

Yorda’s heart stirred. It’s not broken. My mother’s enchantments made it dark. She thought of everything.

But then Yorda wondered what would happen if she were to look through it now that her true eye had opened. The words of her father came back to her. “Look at the world outside,” he had told her. See it with your eyes. The Creator will light your path.

The beating of her heart grew faster. She tensed her stomach so that she would not begin to tremble. Then, with the most innocent smile she could muster, she said, “It is a beautiful instrument, even though it’s broken. I’ve never touched such a device before. Would it be all right if I picked it up?”

“By all means,” the scholar said. “Allow me to-” his hand went to his pocket. “Now where is that key for the storage boxes? A moment, please, Princess.”

The scholar dashed off between the bookcases and promptly returned bearing a small copper key in his hand.

He opened the door to the storage box and gingerly pulled out the spyglass, proffering it to her. Yorda took it in both hands. It was heavier than it looked.

“It’s beautiful!” Yorda held the telescope to her chest. “Might you lend this to me, just for a little while? I would love to examine it at my leisure.”

“Of course, Princess, but I’m afraid it won’t be of much use.”

“That’s all right. I don’t intend to look through it. I intend to look at it. The craftsmanship is simply masterful.”

Yorda lifted a single finger to her lips and leaned closer to the scholar. “Don’t tell Master Suhal that I’ve borrowed this. I want to surprise him later with my intimate knowledge of it!”

The scholar’s face blushed bright red with approval. He looked like he might melt on the spot. Yorda slipped the spyglass between the soft pleats of her dress and, walking even more quietly than before, left the library with her heart pounding in her ears.

Back in her own chambers, she quickly transferred the spyglass to a hiding spot beneath her pillow and ran back to the door. She didn’t want her handmaiden walking in and seeing her using it. If she was going to do this with any degree of privacy, she had to take precautions.

There was no way to lock her chamber door from the inside. Looking around, she spotted a poker by her fireplace and propped it against the door at a precarious angle. When it fell, she would know someone was at the door.

Yorda shook her head, thinking ruefully how feeble her attempts at subterfuge were.

Retrieving the spyglass, she took a few deep breaths to calm herself. Her terrace would be the best spot for viewing, but if she wasn’t careful, one of the guards might spot her. She would have to settle for her next best option: a window.

Fortunately, Yorda’s chambers had windows on three sides, looking out to the south, north, and east. To the south was the central courtyard of the castle, which she deemed too dangerous. She would start with the east. There were no towers to block her view in that direction.

Yorda lifted the spyglass in both hands, as though praying, and then, holding her breath, she quickly brought the small end up to her right eye.

She could see the blue ocean, but the light was so bright it made her eye water. She quickly lowered the telescope, realizing that she must have caught the sun reflecting off the waves.

Even still, Yorda’s heart leapt for joy. It works!

She began experimenting. Adjusting the dial she found on its neck, she tried different angles for holding it. When Yorda finally had it working, she looked through and saw the white feathers of a seabird skimming the surface of the water. It appeared so close it seemed to fly right by her nose, and she gave a little yelp of excitement.

Whitecaps crested the blue water. She saw small rocks amongst the waves, sending up white spray where the water collided with them.

She was used to looking out at the sea, even though she had never touched it in her life. Now, looking at it through the telescope, it seemed near enough for her to reach from her own chambers. After a while, her initial excitement faded, and disappointment reared its head.

This is the world outside.

It wasn’t as exciting as she had hoped. She wasn’t even sure if the spyglass was powerful enough to see what lay beyond the castle. Perhaps she would be able to see nothing more than what she already could from the walls.

Still, it was better than doing nothing. The spyglass, cast off as junk by the others in the castle, was useful to her. That must mean something.

She focused the spyglass to its maximum distance, trying to see as far away from the castle as possible. It was then she noticed a strangely shaped rock jutting from the waves near the shore. When she lowered the spyglass, she found it was too far away to discern with the naked eye.

She took another look through the spyglass. The rock was triangular, growing wider nearer the bottom. It looked almost like a ship sunk at sea, with only its sail remaining above the waters.

Yorda gasped and almost dropped the spyglass.

It didn’t just look like a sail. It was a sail. A sail of stone.

She looked closer and spotted people on the deck of the boat. Their arms were spread wide, as though they were surprised by something, and their faces were turned upward toward the sky.

The stone looked weathered, battered by waves and the relentless wind. Below the sail, the ship itself was almost entirely worn away. The people on the deck, too, were weathered, making it impossible to discern their clothing or features.

Part of the sail had fallen away, though whether it was ripped before turning to stone or crumbled afterward, she couldn’t say. Though the boat retained no identifying markings, it had most likely sailed from another kingdom. A merchant ship perhaps, one that had earned her mother’s wrath and paid dearly for it.

Spyglass clasped in her hands, Yorda ran across the room to the north window. Here, much of her view was obscured by the Tower of Winds. Yet she found that though the tower itself was a familiar sight, with the spyglass she could see the windows on the upper stories far more clearly than she could from the base of the tower.

As she observed the tower windows, she thought she saw something in one of those square, dark holes glimmer with a dull light. She looked again but saw nothing. Perhaps something near the top of the tower was set to reflect the light of the sun?

Looking at it this closely, she could clearly see the effects of weather on the tower, how parts of the wall had crumbled away and the bricks themselves had begun to sag. In places, the window frames were cracked or broken, leaving torn and soiled curtains to whip dolefully in the wind.

My father is a captive in there. What did he mean when he called himself the master of the tower?

Yorda shook her head, trying to will away the sadness and doubts rising in her mind. She turned the spyglass toward the grasslands. The grass was green, and it sparkled under the sun as it swayed in the wind. She looked far, as far away as she could, wanting to see, wanting to expand her world.

Suddenly her hand stopped. She lowered the spyglass and rubbed her eyes, thinking what she had seen was some trick of the light. But when she raised the glass again, they were still there: an endless line of marching figures.

Figures of stone.

Around them, the grass shimmered from pale green to almost blue as it caught the sunlight, but the statues stayed the same, gray and unmoving. She was shocked both by their number and their condition. These people had been turned to stone long before the boat near the shore. So weathered and worn they were that they resembled people only in their silhouettes. Their equipment and clothing had worn away years ago. Were she able to walk closer, to touch them with her hand, Yorda wondered what she would see then.

Yet the longer she looked, the more she could make out. Here there was something like a sword, and there, the lingering shape of a helmet on one of the statue’s heads. There were horses too, and something that looked like a palanquin supported on long poles and hoisted by several porters. She guessed that someone important had once ridden in it. Now they were frozen in place for all eternity.

At any rate, it did not appear to be an invading army, nor a merchant caravan. They looked more like emissaries. If only the flag had frozen at a different angle, she might even have been able to see its design.

She wondered when it had happened and why. All she knew was who was responsible.

Mother, why?

Real fear washed over her, and Yorda staggered back, falling to her knees on the floor.

She had seen the world outside-if only a slice provided her by the spyglass. To think that such horror lay so close, and she had never seen it.

I knew nothing. The people of our country, even those who work at the castle, spend their days in ignorance, under an enchantment. This was what her father wanted her to see.

Yorda withdrew the magic pebble from her pocket and gripped it tightly. She had to see Ozuma, before it was too late.

10

OZUMA STOOD LOOKING off into the distance beyond the old trolley.

“What I believe you saw,” he said without looking around, “was an emissary caravan sent from the Holy Zagrenda-Sol Empire some twenty-five years ago.”

The ocean winds were unusually calm that day. The warmth of the sun on the stones by the trolley made it the kind of afternoon that inspires catnaps.

Yorda shivered. “She turned them to stone without even speaking with them,” she said. “A miracle it did not lead to war on the spot,” she added in a whisper.

“Sadly, it is never that simple,” Ozuma admitted. “Those emissaries may well have had an ulterior motive your mother was right to suspect. The rich land and hardworking people of your country are an enticement to your neighbors. Regardless of what documents the emissaries bore in their satchels, or what niceties they poised on their lips, their intentions were not entirely pure.” He smiled at Yorda. “It is possible that your mother turned them to stone so that worse might be avoided-to protect her country.”

Yorda considered that. What if, for argument’s sake, her mother were not a child of the Dark God but had obtained her powers through some other means? Would Yorda then praise her mother’s leadership? War is war. What was the difference between turning an entire caravan to stone by magic and sending out a banner of knights to put them to the sword?

Even without the threat of a “herald of darkness” to spur them to action, Zagrenda-Sol was an empire, and all empires waged war to expand their borders. It was only natural for those with land and power to desire more. How, then, were the Dark God’s designs to rule the world through her mother any different from those of an emperor? How were his desires any different from those of a mortal man?

“As one who must protect her people,” Yorda said in a quiet voice, “it shames me to admit this. But what troubles me more than any other thing is the fate of my own father.”

Ozuma watched her in silence.

“My mother took my father’s life, and even now that he is dead, she has bound him to the Tower of Winds. I would free him.”

“That is nothing of which to be ashamed.”

Yorda shook her head. “Why did she do it? I want to know-no. I must know. My father will not appear before me again unless I take action. His fear of discovery is too great now. I must go to the Tower of Winds and find a way to open the doors.”

“I will join you,” Ozuma announced. “Yet, though your true eye may be open, Lady Yorda, I do not think you able to break the enchantment that bars the doors to the Tower of Winds.”

“Then what must I do?”

“That is something which you must ask your father. I believe he, and none other, holds the key. Pray at the Tower of Winds, speak to him. I will protect you while you do this.”

Yorda raised an eyebrow. “Sir Ozuma, do the shades in the tower pose a threat to me? My father told me that he is master in the tower. If the shades heed their master, why would he not protect me?”

With a practiced movement, Ozuma swept the longsword at his waist to one side and knelt closer to her. “It is as you say, however-” His voice faltered.

“Please speak,” Yorda urged. “I told you, I’m not afraid.”

Ozuma cast his eyes down for a moment and spoke slowly, carefully choosing his words. “Lady Yorda. The shades who dwell within the tower are, like your father, souls trapped there by the queen’s power. Those pitiful creatures fear your mother greatly, almost as much as they resent her. Lady Yorda, you carry the queen’s blood in your veins.”

“You mean to say the shades would hate me for what she has done. Of course. How could they not?”

“That is why your father is the key,” Ozuma said. “In order for you to enter the Tower of Winds, you must have some mark, some proof of your connection to him. His permission, you might say. I believe that is the key that will open the doors.”

“But what could that be?”

“That, I cannot say. You must call upon him, Lady Yorda. Only then may we find what it is we require.”

Yorda stood. “Then let us go at once.”

Even on a quiet day like this one, the wind around the northernmost tower howled so fiercely not even the seabirds dared approach.

Yorda knelt before the sealed doors, hands intertwined in prayer. She pictured her father in her mind and called out to him. Please, Father, appear before me once more. Guide me. How might I meet you? How may I open the doors to this tower? Please tell me.

As she prayed, Yorda felt a strange presence envelop her body. When she opened her eyes, she saw the shades spilling from the tower windows, spreading darkness down its walls, descending toward her. Even when she closed her eyes she could feel their gaze upon her, cold needles on her skin.

Ozuma stood by her, hidden from view in that way he had of being in a place, yet not being there. She could feel him pushing back the shades through sheer force of will, preventing them from attacking Yorda, driving them back into their sadness, their anger; back into the darkness.

Kind Father, Yorda called to him. Lend me your strength. With your help, I can do this.

Then she heard his voice, coming to her like thunder far in the distance.

…Yorda. Come tonight to the place where your memories of me are strongest.

Yorda tensed and looked up. The shades covered the walls of the tower like ancient moss, too numerous to count, their glowing eyes fixed on her.

“Do not worry,” Ozuma whispered. “Shadows cannot long stand before the light.” Ozuma brandished his longsword, and the sun reflecting off the steel sent the shades writhing away.

“I’m sorry,” Yorda whispered, eyes closed and head hung low. “Please forgive me. I will free you from this prison if I can. All I require is time.”

Yorda…Let the moon’s light guide you. Come to the place of memories…

The voice grew more distant until it faded altogether. Yorda stood slowly and began to walk away from the tower.

That night the moon was full.

When the sun set, the positions of the royal guard and the routes they patrolled changed, but Yorda was intimately familiar with their schedule. Slipping from her chambers quietly, she sped quickly toward her destination, weaving along corridors and skirting the edges of chambers where she knew the guards would not come upon her.

The place of memories her father spoke of had to be the trolley. As a child, she had loved to ride upon the trolley, feeling the wind in her hair. Tonight she wore a black robe, her face hidden in the deep hood. Her soft footfalls echoed down the stone corridors as she ran.

She recalled what Ozuma had said to her earlier that day when she told him of her plans, and the strange question he had asked her.

“Was your late father born in this kingdom?”

“My father is the descendant of a family of ministers who have been close to the royal family since antiquity,” she told him. “That is why, though he is not related to the royal house, he was given a title and a crest of his own.”

Ozuma nodded. “I thought, perhaps, that he might have come from a lineage of priests.”

“Actually,” Yorda said then, remembering, “my father’s family was in the clergy, on his mother’s side. As I recall, one of my ancestors rose to be high priest of the kingdom. Perhaps that’s why my father was so devout, even though he himself was a man of the sword.” Yorda shuddered, imagining her mother married to a man her own father had chosen for her, pretending to follow her husband’s faith-then killing him to make herself a widow queen and advance the Dark God’s plans.

Ozuma said, “I believe it is clear then why the queen killed your father, and why she trapped his soul in the Tower of Winds. No matter what truth you learn from your father tonight, you must not waver in your resolve, Lady Yorda. Never forget that whatever else you may be, the blood of a priest of Sol Raveh runs in your veins as well.”

The silence that hung over the trolley at night was so deep that Yorda might have been walking along the bottom of the sea, yet the cold light of the moon illuminated the rails as though it were day. The wind picked up around midnight. Yorda held her robes closed with a shivering hand as she looked for any sign of her father.

She heard a creaking coming from the wooden platform of the trolley. Yorda looked and saw the rusted lever rocking slightly back and forth. Almost as if someone were testing it to see if it still worked.

Father!

Without a moment’s hesitation, Yorda jumped onto the trolley, grabbed the handle and began to push, her memories of her childhood filling her. Though the rails were red with rust, under the moonlight they gleamed bright silver. It was as though time had slipped back to when the trolley ran every day, bringing Yorda back with it. This was another kind of magic. Yorda was elated.

With a loud creaking, the handle slid forward and the trolley lurched into motion. At first it tilted a bit to one side, then to the other, but soon it was running straight, the wheels turning smoothly.

Yorda lifted her head and held on to the railing, giving it a light rap with her knuckles to urge the trolley on. “That’s it, that’s a girl. Go fast, just like you used to.”

The trolley seemingly heard her request and soon began to pick up speed. Riding on the wind, Yorda’s memories raced ahead of her. She could see her father standing there beside her, hear her own laughter in her ears.

I still love you, Father.

The trolley raced on, the wind whipping through Yorda’s hair. It seemed like the silvery rails stretched off into the night sky, that they would race on and on, carrying Yorda from the castle into freedom.

As she raced along, Yorda soon came to the place where the rails turned to the right, following the outer wall of the castle. Here was another place where one could get on and off the trolley. She pulled the lever back, dropping her speed, and looked up to the side of the rails.

Yorda held her breath. On the narrow stone ledge by the rails, she saw three dark figures standing, shadows without people.

The one in the middle turned toward her, raising a hand. Yorda desperately grabbed the handle, summoning all her strength to slow the trolley. The wheels screeched and sparks flew. The trolley wobbled, leaning to the outside of the rails, but it did not slow immediately. Yorda watched as she sped by the standing shadows.

The tallest was most certainly her father-but who were the other two standing next to him?

She had glimpsed them for only a moment, but the merciful moon lit their features clearly. The faces were familiar, stirring distant memories within her. The two men were her father’s most trusted advisers, one a scholar, the other a soldier. They had accompanied her father from his birth home when he came to the castle, and he had always valued their counsel in matters of state.

Whenever the young Yorda would visit her father’s offices, she would see them there. When her father was too busy to play, they would be the ones to console her. Now that she thought of it, she realized that they had often been there when her father took her for trolley rides. They would smile and wave, remaining out of the way until it was time to return inside, when they would help Yorda as she stepped off the trolley.

They were kind gentlemen, with clever minds and a sense of loyalty as deep as the sea. Only now did she realize that they had disappeared from the castle after her father’s death. Yorda had been too young at the time to even wonder where they had gone, and no one bothered to explain to a child what became of advisors when they were no longer needed. Even had she realized, the shock of losing her father was so great, she would have had no tears left for them.

But now she saw they were reunited with her father. Her mother’s curse had bound them to the Tower of Winds too.

Eventually, the trolley came to a stop. Yorda leapt out and ran back along the tracks, toward the platform she had passed. She tripped once but didn’t feel the pain. The platform seemed impossibly far behind.

“Father, Father!” she called out, crawling up onto the stones.

But the shades were gone.

Panting to catch her breath, Yorda looked around. Abandoned materials sat in piles, and a marker of some kind stood at an angle, casting a curious shadow across the stones.

When she lowered her eyes again, despondent, she caught a glimmer of light a short distance away. Something that sparkled like gold. She approached and slowly knelt, reaching out her hands.

The golden glimmer did not fade. The object felt hard to Yorda’s fingertips. She picked it up and placed it in her palm.

It was her father’s signet ring.

Yorda.

Her father’s voice filled her mind.

That is a token of love once sworn in sincerity, even as it is proof of a broken promise, a gravestone for a sacrificed soul. The ring will open the way into the tower.

Yorda gripped the ring tightly.

Beloved daughter. This will be the last time I can venture forth from the tower to appear before you. The queen has sensed my presence outside of the prison she built for me. The closer I come to you, the more danger I place you in. I’m sorry I cannot guide you myself or lend you further aid. Please forgive your father.

“Father!”

Yorda shouted into the empty night. She caught her father’s voice again, receding on the wind.

You will face many unpleasant truths within the tower. The most difficult of these will be the truth that your father is no longer the man he was.

As master of the tower, I possess none of my former nobility and little of my reason. Barred from entering the underworld and cut off from the joys of life while still tied to this world, as a captive, a shade, I live in eternal suffering. To me in the tower, you would not be a beloved daughter, but prey to be possessed and devoured. That is what your mother, my wife who swore her undying love, has made of me.

That ring you now hold is the only weapon by which you may stave off the shades that serve me within. It will open the way for you and protect you. Keep it close to your person and never let it go.

Yorda clutched her father’s gold signet ring tightly to her chest. Fighting back the tears, she stood straight and spoke, her voice piercing the moonlit silence. “I understand, Father. I will go to the Tower of Winds. And I will free you!”

How cruel a father I am to ask this trial of you. You must do more than free me, you must free this entire kingdom from the clutches of the Dark God. My brave daughter, you must climb the Tower of Winds and there claim the true light.

“The true light?”

It was her first time hearing the words. “What is that? Is it something in the Tower of Winds? Does it wield some power over the Dark God-over my mother?”

In the silence that followed, Yorda’s conviction grew. It must be true. That was why her father’s suffering was so deep. He wanted her to destroy her own mother.

The light searches for you, her father’s voice said at length. Be careful, Yorda. The queen is wary. She must not be watching when you go to the tower.

…How many times my heart told me that you were better off not knowing, your true eye closed, spending your days in peace.

“No father, that’s not true. I’m glad I know the truth.”

Then I pray the Creator will protect you and give you courage. And, her father added in a voice grown thin and weak, though it is not how I would have wished to see you again, I am glad we could meet once more, Yorda. I love you.

Then Yorda felt his presence leave, receding swiftly into the distance.

This was goodbye.

11

THE FOLLOWING DAY was the final day of the tournament. Yorda used the magic pebble before dawn had broken, and by the time she had finished her morning routine and come out to the trolley, Ozuma was already waiting for her.

That morning, Ozuma was wearing a fresh chain-mail vest and new gauntlets on his hands. While it was normal for a swordsman to replace worn equipment, to don new and untried gear the morning of such an important bout was a bold move. Yorda took it as a sign of confidence.

Yorda had placed her father’s signet ring on a silver chain, which she wore around her neck. She pulled it out now, showing it to Ozuma, and told him of the events of the previous night. Ozuma appeared genuinely startled when she produced the ring. He was clearly pleased. But not as pleased as he was to hear Yorda tell of the true light her father had mentioned.

Ozuma’s eyes opened wide. Yorda did not think the stoic knight capable of such surprise. “Sir Ozuma, do you know what the true light is?”

“The priest-king of the Holy Zagrenda-Sol Empire gathered many scholars together over the last few years,” Ozuma said. “Their purpose was none other than to define exactly what would be required to prevent the Dark God’s revival and destroy his child.”

“Did they discover anything?”

“Yes.” Ozuma nodded. “The Book of Light.”

“A book?” Yorda asked, somewhat taken aback. Demons were supposed to be banished with great swords or strokes of lightning-not books.

“It is a magical tome. In it are inscribed the spells that were used to stop the Dark God from rising in ancient times. Were a sword to be engraved with those spells and imbued with magical power, it could drive back the Dark God-or so they say.”

Suddenly, all became clear to Yorda. “That’s it!” she said, feeling her heart grow lighter. “The Book of Light is in the Tower of Winds, I’m sure of it! Why else would my mother hide it and surround it with guardians?”

“It would make sense,” Ozuma agreed. His face was stern, but his eyes sparkled the same as Yorda’s. “Because this book was created so long ago, no one knows where it rests-or if it has survived at all. If it is here, in the Tower of Winds, that would be a tremendous boon.”

Yorda clenched her hands into fists. “Then I will find it and retrieve it! I will drive back the Dark God!”

Ozuma’s lips drew together, and he stared at her. In silence, he shook his head. Yorda saw in his face the same emotion she had sensed in her father’s hesitation the night before.

“It is I who should go to the Tower of Winds,” he said at length.

“No,” Yorda cut him off. “This is something that I must do. That is why my father risked alerting the queen by appearing before me. That is why he came to me with this task.”

After saying her farewells to her father the night before, Yorda had lain in bed sleepless, consumed by her thoughts. She struggled with her father’s suffering and the love that still remained in her heart toward her mother. Now there was no doubt in her mind. “I am the heir to the throne of my kingdom. I must protect this land and its people from the Dark God. That is my duty as its future ruler.” Yorda stood straight and tall, her voice ringing clear. “You requested my help because of the revelation, and my help you will receive. But do not be mistaken. I do not act at your behest. Nor do I ally myself with the Holy Zagrenda-Sol Empire or take orders from your priest-king. I am merely carrying out my duties as sovereign-in-waiting.”

Ozuma blinked, as though looking at the sun as it emerged from behind a cloud.

“If I’m able to defeat the Dark God and ruin his plans of revival, then perhaps I will be able to save my mother as well.”

“Save the queen? How?”

“My mother is the child of the Dark God, she has said so herself. Yet she did love my father, and she did bear a child of her own. She is as much a woman of this world as a servant of the other. When the Dark God has been driven back, I pray that the darkness will release her. Like this country, a curse lies upon my mother. That is what I must try to break. That is my battle.”

Yorda smiled, feeling more in control of her own destiny than ever before. “That is why, Sir Ozuma, I would beg your assistance. Your skill as a swordsman is of great use to me.” Yorda extended her hand toward Ozuma, as a queen does to her loyal servant.

The wind whipped at Yorda’s hair as she stood staring up at the aging, desolate tower.

She could feel the weight of her father’s ring on her breast. When she picked it up in her fingers and lifted it, it sparkled in the sunlight.

The sky above was deep blue and free of clouds, and the sea below reflected its light. Tiny waves sparkled across the water as white flocks of seabirds wheeled in the sky, flecks of paint against the sky’s azure canvas.

She walked across the stone bridge, stopping halfway to look over her shoulder. She had heard a snatch of cheering mingled in with the howling of the wind.

The Eastern Arena was beyond the castle proper. That she could hear the roar of the crowd from this distance meant that their excitement had reached new heights on this final day of the tournament.

Just then, Ozuma and his final opponent would be entering the ring. The spectators standing in the packed gallery around the arena floor would stand as one and applaud. She wondered for whom they would cheer, which contestant had inspired more of them to wager their hard-earned coin. The outcome of this match could make a significant difference in the weight of their money pouches.

She closed her eyes, steadied her breathing, and began walking again. Though she had walked here a hundred times before, today the distance to the tower seemed much greater.

As she approached, she spotted the shadows-that-walked-alone gathering by the windows. She wondered if they had come because they sensed her, or if they always stood there to look out on the world beyond the tower, much as she looked out of her chambers at the land and sea beyond the castle walls.

Now she faced the stone idols before the door to the tower. Yorda brought her feet together and raised her father’s ring. Pointing the mark on the ring toward the idols, she spoke in a high, clear voice.

“As I bear the signet of the master of this tower, I command you. Stand aside!”

A bright light shone from the ring. The flash was so brilliant, Yorda staggered, taking two or three steps backward before she regained her footing. As one, the idols’ heads glowed in response. Unbound energy ran along the lines of their misshapen forms, and a bridge of lightning spanned the air between statues and ring.

With a heavy grinding sound, the two idols parted to either side, revealing a dark rectangular space behind them. At the same time, the light faded, leaving Yorda’s hands numb and tingling. The spell ward was broken.

Yorda stepped forward. A chill wind blew out from the tower, brushing past her cheek. She was alone in darkness and silence.

Yorda had given Ozuma his orders that morning: he was to fight his best in the final round of the tournament and emerge victorious. Yet it must not seem an easy win. Even if his opponent was no match for him, Ozuma was to drag the fight out, driving the spectators to a frenzy. She wanted everyone in that arena to forget, if only for a while, the passage of time. She wanted them to lose themselves in a fight so spectacular they could not tear their eyes away, not even for a moment.

She needed time.

The queen would be watching the final match with cruel curiosity, her eye on Ozuma as he worked his craft on the arena floor. She alone knew that he would one day be a statue in her gallery, and she would want to see just how good he was so she would know what she would be taking from this world.

All that Yorda required was that the queen’s interest be held long enough to distract her attention from other things.

She remembered her father’s quaking voice when he visited her chambers. She’ll find me, he said.

The queen knew everything. Even the slightest disturbance, the merest presence within the borders of the enchantment she had laid upon the castle could alert her, as it had when Yorda made her attempt to leave the castle that day. And yet the queen was only human. She might be the child of the Dark God, but she was no god herself. If something captured her mind and heart so forcefully that for a moment she had no attention to pay to stirrings within her enchantment, then it might just be possible for Yorda to enter the tower unseen. It was, in essence, Yorda’s only hope: a wager more desperate than any taking place in the arena that day.

Ozuma had promised to carry out his end of the bargain. “I will make it a match such as they have never seen, and steal the queen’s eyes with my sword,” he told her. “When her attention is captured, that will be your chance to run into the tower and do what you must do.”

There was no time for dawdling. She took a step, then another, toward the entrance to the Tower of Winds. She passed by the idols sitting silently at the sides of the doorway. She could now see inside the first floor of the tower. She was inside its walls.

The tower had few windows for a structure of its size. The darkness seemed to pool here at the bottom, thick and still. For a tower, the space was vast. The bottommost floor was shaped like a round courtyard and paved with square stones packed tightly together. The construction was very similar to the corridors within the castle proper, save for the occasional stone jutting out from the floor, its edges cracked or smashed altogether.

There was nothing here resembling decoration or furniture at all. There were no sconces or pedestals for torches; the walls were bare. Above her head was only space. The Tower of Winds was as empty as it could be.

Not the best place for hiding something, Yorda thought. Is the Book of Light truly in this place? Is my father’s soul kept here somewhere?

She spotted a spiral staircase winding up the inside wall of the high tower. A railing went along its length, adorned with sharp spikes. The bottom step was off to her right, beckoning her.

Yorda looked around in a circle. The shades she had spotted by the windows were nowhere to be seen. Had they disappeared, or were they watching, hidden in the gloom? She looked up for so long, her neck began to hurt, but she could not see all the way to the top of the tower. Yet now she sensed that the darkness above her was not entirely empty. Something was there, mingling with the natural shadows of the place. Silhouettes against a black backdrop.

Yorda stared for a while longer before finally giving up. It would be quicker to walk up the stairs to the top. My time here is fleeting.

Stepping briskly toward the stairs, she noticed something on the floor of the tower. It was a large circular design, wider than she was tall. She ran up to it and found that it had not been carved into the floor, nor painted there. Instead, it rose from the floor in relief, forming a sort of dais with its edge raised a full inch off the stones of the surrounding floor.

In the back of her mind, she dimly recollected seeing a design like this one in history books she had read years before. Suspicion grew inside her, and she found she could not take her eyes off the dais on the floor. Eventually, she had to force her feet to carry her back to the stairs. Her earlier confidence had fled, and unease was only too eager to take its place.

As she began to climb, pools of blackness emerged from the floor below her. The pools boiled and seemed to writhe across the stones as though living things. Yorda grabbed the handrail in terror and watched as pairs of glowing eyes began to emerge from the dark pools. Pair after pair spilled out into the tower, followed by inky black arms that grew out of the pools like swiftly sprouting weeds.

They were the shades of the tower, the shadows-that-walked-alone. As she watched, one after the other emerged onto the floor, their legs twisted and their backs bent horribly. They staggered more than walked, their movements an eerie dance that would have been almost humorous had the creatures not been unmistakably evil. They advanced up the stairs, leaping from step to step as they rose toward her.

Her voice fled her and Yorda put her hands to her cheeks, realizing now where the shades had gone. Quickly, she dashed up the stairs, only to see another black pool boiling on the landing just ahead of her. A creature emerged from the pool with white eyes like those behind her, but with the shadowy shape of a bird. Its wings grazed Yorda’s head as it shot across the empty center of the tower to the other side of the spiral staircase.

In that brief moment, Yorda saw that the bird-monster had a human face, its mouth open in a silent scream. Three more of the bird-shaped creatures flew up from the landing. One of them spotted Yorda as she cowered against the wall and dove straight at her. Yorda was unable to do anything but throw her hands in front of her face-but as she did so, the ring at her chest flared with a bright light.

With a whistle of wind, the creature’s wing struck Yorda’s shoulder before it careened into the wall behind her to disappear in a puff of smoke. The smoke drifted past Yorda’s face, leaving a lingering chill in the air before vanishing altogether.

Yorda looked down the stairs and saw that the creatures coming up from the floor of the tower had stopped. They recoiled in horror. The figures closest to Yorda were beginning to lose their shape, their limbs melting away and drifting off into the air.

It’s as my father said. The shadows-that-walk-alone are powerless before the ring, the symbol of this kingdom’s former glory and his love for his people.

Yorda held the ring up in front of her face. As she watched, the threads of darkness spilling from the pool on the landing ahead of her dissipated. Soon the pool evaporated entirely. Yorda quickly ran up the stairs, going so fast she stumbled once or twice. Each time, she caught herself with her hands on the stairs and continued to climb. Once, she nearly lost her balance and made the mistake of grabbing the handrail to her left. Her hand caught on one of the sharp spikes and began to bleed, yet still she climbed, legs in constant motion. Finally, when she was breathing so hard she felt her chest would burst, she stopped for a moment to catch her breath. She looked around and saw that she had climbed more than halfway up the tower.

Looking down over the railing, she spotted more than a dozen shadowy things on the floor of the tower, aimlessly drifting. Some of them were crouched on the dais in the center. The birds clung to the walls, slowly beating their wings.

Yorda looked up. At this height, she could finally see the top of the tower. There, hanging from the roof, was something like a giant metal birdcage. There was no other way to describe it. It was cylindrical in shape, the gleam of the iron darkened with age. Yet when the wind that whipped around the tower blew in through the windows, past the ragged shreds of curtains, the dim light of the sun glinted off the thick-looking bars. Yorda realized that this was what she had seen when she peered at the top floor of the tower through her spyglass.

She was amazed by its size. Though its design mirrored a birdcage, it was large enough to contain a grown person. There were sharp spikes all around the bottom and top edges-a strange, deadly looking adornment. Perhaps to keep people from coming too close, Yorda guessed.

A chilling sensation ran up Yorda’s spine. Maybe it was built to hold a person. Maybe there’s someone in it right now.

She heard a voice shouting but could not make out any words. Then she realized it was her own voice, and the sound brought her back to reality. Once again, Yorda dashed up the stairs. She had to go higher. She had to learn what was inside.

Pressed by desperation and fear, Yorda ran, taking two steps at a time. Finally, she approached the base of the cage. A little farther, and her head was level with the bottom. She clung to the railing and leaned out as far as she could.

“Father?” she heard herself call out.

An old, faded robe lay in tatters on the bottom of the cage. She could faintly make out the remnants of gold embroidery around the sleeves. It was her father’s tunic-woven of wool, a deep navy color, softer than silk to the touch. This was the same tunic he often wore for public occasions; the clothes he had worn as he lay in his coffin at the funeral.

She looked closer and saw a tuft of white hair protruding from one end of the robe. My father’s body is here too. Confined even in death. He was the master of the Tower of Winds.

Yorda fell to her knees and wept out loud.

12

YORDA LOOKED AROUND desperately, trying to find some way to release her father’s remains from the cage.

The cage hung from the ceiling of the tower by a chain thicker than Yorda’s arm. The chain was old, its luster long gone, and it was covered with rust. From what she knew of similar devices in the castle, Yorda expected there to be a winch somewhere to raise and lower the chain, but she saw nothing. Tears still streaming down her face, she continued to climb the spiral staircase.

Unused to such exertion, her legs were beginning to give out on her. Her calves were painfully cramped, and her knees and ankles ached. But sorrow and indignation kept her moving, even when she had to crawl up the last ten steps on her hands and knees.

At the top of the stairs was a square landing surrounded by pointed spikes. At the edge, she spotted a metallic lever. She followed the chain from the cage up to the ceiling where it connected with a winch, then ran back down to the lever by the landing.

That’s it!

The lever was set firmly in the stone floor, and when she touched it, the device wouldn’t budge. Whatever oil had been applied to it was long gone, and the lever was stiff with rust. She took it in both hands and brought all her weight to bear on it, forcing the lever very slightly back with a horrendous creaking noise. She saw the chain holding the cage shudder, and the cage dropped a few inches, its base tilting.

Yorda pulled with all her might. She blinked against the sweat and tears that mingled in her eyes. Again she pulled. The skin on her hands was raw and bleeding. One of her fingernails cracked. Once, the sweat on her hands made her lose her grip, sending her sprawling onto the ground and biting her lip. Her entire body screamed in protest at the effort-it was more physical work than she had ever attempted. But Yorda did not give up.

The cage continued to descend at an obstinate pace. She stopped only once to check on its progress and found it was halfway down the tower. This gave Yorda hope, and she turned back around and continued her battle with the lever.

At last, there came a thud she felt in her hands. The lever was all the way down. She heard a heavy, reverberating clang drift up from the floor of the tower far below. Yorda looked over the railing once to check that the cage had, indeed, reached the bottom, then she began climbing down the stairs. She had to fight her legs to make them do as she bade. For a moment she paused, hands on her knees, steadying her breath and wiping the sweat from her brow with the back of a hand.

Suddenly, she felt dizzy, as though her legs were swaying beneath her. No, I can’t fall now, she told herself, but the swaying sensation continued. She realized it wasn’t dizziness-she really was swaying.

Spurred to action by animal reflexes Yorda never knew she possessed, she leapt just as a part of the landing beside her feet crumbled and gave way. The stone of the stairs dissipated in the dust, tumbling toward the base of the tower.

There was no time for fear. The staircase was continuing to collapse beneath her, cracks running through the stones directly toward her feet. She fled down the spiral staircase, the sound of crumbling stone close behind her. Ahead of her, too, there was a gap where several stairs had fallen away. She cleared it with a jump, landing with the tips of her toes on the far edge. She lost her balance and slammed into the wall but was back on her feet immediately and resumed her mad dash.

She felt like she was playing a game of chase where the stakes were her life. She wondered that the stairs in the tower should suddenly grow too weak to support her weight, but then she understood the darker truth. Her mother was trying to smash her against the stones of the tower floor. Had the tournament ended? Had Ozuma emerged victorious?

Now she was practically sliding down the stairs. When she finally reached the bottom, her legs collapsed beneath her, completely numb, and she sprawled across the floor. For a while, she just lay there, gasping for breath. No matter how much she breathed, her chest ached, and her vision grew dim, the floor on which she lay shifting nearer and farther in turns.

Finally she was able to get her arms beneath her and pick herself up. I did it. Just a little farther.

She looked up to see the spiral staircase hanging above her in the tower, as though nothing had happened. It was so quiet, it seemed almost like she had dreamed the collapsing stairs around her, though she could spot the gaps where she had had to jump, and there were piles of rubble around the edges of the tower.

Yorda hugged her arms across her chest. The giant cage holding her father’s remains sat directly atop the round platform in the middle of the floor. The shades were nowhere to be seen.

Careful not to catch herself on the metallic thorns, Yorda approached the door of the cage. With a trembling hand, she reached out and touched the door, grabbing hold of one of the bars.

With a screech that made her teeth ache, the door swung outward.

I guess you don’t need to lock the door that holds a dead man, she thought with relief, though it made her father’s imprisonment seem that much more contemptuous. A fresh tear rolled down Yorda’s cheek.

“Father…”

She stepped inside and tried to pick up the faded tunic. The fabric disintegrated like cobwebs in her hand, sending up a plume of dust. Yorda spotted her father’s bones beneath the tattered cloth. With her eyes she marked the curve of a rib. There was a shoulder. She brushed away more of the tunic and found the bone of an arm. She guessed the bones protruding from the bottom of the tunic were his legs.

Judging by the arrangement of the bones, she guessed her father had been lying stretched out on his right side. But something was missing-she couldn’t find the skull.

Crouching low, Yorda moved around the remains to the other side of the cage. From this vantage point she could clearly see the skull, tucked in beside the ribs, beneath the protruding ridges of one of his arms-as though he had been holding his own head under one arm.

Yorda had seen her father’s body lying in the coffin in the castle. And not just Yorda-a ceremony was held for the entire kingdom. Ministers and noblemen great and small had gathered to pay their respects. After the ceremony, a great procession carried the coffin throughout the kingdom for two weeks, so that the commoners could say their farewells before his remains were laid to rest in the royal graveyard in the mountains. The line of mourners behind his carriage had snaked for miles.

But his bones were lying right here, back at the castle. Was the coffin they took out on the procession empty? Mother must have removed the remains in secret before they left the castle, and then…

Yorda’s tears had dried. She sat down in shock, staring at her beloved father’s bones, when she noticed something curious. The bones were discolored in places. Here and there light purple splotches, like bruises left after a fight, marred the dry parchment color of the bone. Yorda could not bring herself to disturb the bones by lifting them up or moving them, so she poked and prodded, shifting them only slightly, making sure the discoloration was not a trick of the light.

Convinced the bones were discolored, Yorda wracked her brain trying to come up with some explanation. Perhaps, she thought, this was a mark left by the disease that took him. But she knew her father had appeared healthy when he died. It made no sense that a disease could do such damage internally without showing some outward signs. Poison, however…

Yorda did not think her mother would have been capable of both poisoning and disposing of the body all by herself. She must have ordered someone to help her-someone helpless to resist her. And then, when the grisly work was done, her mother had made her helpers disappear-either by killing them or turning them to stone along with the other statues in her underground gallery. It was unthinkable. “I will get you out of here, Father, I promise,” Yorda said, her voice quiet but firm. She reached out for the skull.

The skull was facing away from her, down into the ribs, so nothing seemed out of the ordinary until it was in her hands. Then she saw that something had been placed between the skull’s teeth. She lifted the skull gingerly, as one raises a crown, and gasped with surprise. It was a book. The long teeth, exposed without lips to cover them, were clenched on a single book.

The Book of Light!

Her theory had proven correct. The queen had used the Tower of Winds to imprison the book, much as it had been used ages before to imprison the Wind God from which it took its name. But in order to be sure the book would never be uncovered, simply locking it in the tower wasn’t enough. So her mother had chosen to sacrifice her father, murdering him and binding him to this world with a curse, changing him into one of the shadows-that-walk-alone, and placing him here as the book’s final guardian. Then she killed her father’s advisors and a host of others to serve him in the tower, before sealing its doors with the idols.

As her anger flared, Yorda grabbed the edge of the book and pulled. In her hands, the skull began to move. She had the curious sensation that its empty sockets were looking, no, glaring at her, their sightless gaze boring a hole into her.

Before she could react, the skull leapt from her hands like a living thing, dancing up into the air. She heard a low moan, filled with rage and resentment.

“Father!” she called out, screaming. The skull sped toward her.

Yorda scrambled to dodge out of the way. She caught the skull with the back of one hand, dashing it against the bars of the cage. It bounced, falling onto the floor before shooting back up into the air. In midair it turned, facing Yorda to come at her again, howling like a wounded animal.

She watched as the jaws opened, spitting the book out onto the floor like a carnivore spits out tattered skin and cartilage from a kill. The discarded book fell with a whoosh of dust onto the tattered robe.

“Father, stop! It’s me! Your daughter!”

The skull flew at her. Yorda dodged to the side, but not quickly enough-teeth bit into her right shoulder, gnawing at her skin like a starving animal. She knocked it away again and again, but it kept attacking, lunging erratically like a rabid dog. Yorda ran in circles around the inside of the cage, sobbing with fear and sadness, horror and pity.

Then she remembered the book. If it truly was as powerful as Ozuma had said, perhaps it could break her mother’s enchantment.

But first she had to reach it, and the skull wouldn’t give her the chance. The moment she took her eyes off the skull, it would come for her, dancing, teeth chattering. After several attempts, she realized what the skull was aiming for. It wanted her neck-to chew through her veins and bathe in her blood.

She lunged for the book, and the skull swooped down and bit her hand. Blinded by the pain, Yorda flung the skull against the bars. This is my father no longer-it’s nothing but a monster! She wondered if she had made it this far only to die with this twisted abomination gnawing at her neck.

“Somebody, help!” she shouted, her voice echoing in the empty tower. She ran, and the skull continued its dogged pursuit.

The next time it came at her, she blocked it inches from her neck and it bit down into the flesh of her palm. Reflexively, she swung her hand, and the skull ricocheted off the bars of the cage, spinning in the air and howling with its teeth bared like a hungry animal. The cry pierced to her bones.

At that moment, the silver chain around her neck broke with an audible snap, as though it had a will of its own. Her father’s signet ring fell down her chest, past her waist, and down her leg, before rolling out onto the ground where it glimmered in the dust.

Yorda bent down quickly, scooping up the ring. Blood gushed from the wound in her wrist, splattering her white dress.

The skull was coming directly at her. Reflexively, she thrust out the hand holding the ring, trying to knock it away. A clear light shone from the ring, disorienting the skull, and it brushed past her head and fell behind her. She turned to see its empty sockets glaring at her, and its long, sharp teeth chattering.

The jaws opened, making a sound like howling laughter as it flew toward her. Yorda focused her mind, forcing all her attention on the skull, her eyes spear points. Time seemed to slow. Aiming for the gap between the teeth, she flung the ring with all her strength. The ring flew through the air, directly into the mouth of the skull as it sped toward her throat.

Time stopped. Her father’s skull screamed.

The light of the ring blazed from the skull’s eye sockets, from its nose, and from its mouth, growing more brilliant, until it seemed to shine through the bone itself. The skull howled a final, bitter howl of rage and pain. Yorda clapped her hands over her ears, knowing that if she listened to it, her heart would break.

The skull exploded. Fragments ricocheted around the cage, trailing particles of golden light, before becoming a rain of sparks that trickled down to the floor, glimmering as they fell.

Quiet returned to the tower. Yorda felt her body sway, and she clutched the bars of the cage. The strength left her legs. At her feet, her father’s remains lay wrapped in his tunic, still once more. Atop the tunic lay the Book of Light. Yorda moved in slow half steps toward the book. She leaned over, bent her knees, and finally reached out her hand.

The book was warm to the touch, like a living thing. The cover was ancient and dry, and it bore five words written in a script Yorda could not read. Yet the spirit of those words hit her like a wave, engulfing her, bringing her back to her feet. Yorda closed her eyes and clutched the book to her chest.

As she did, she felt something flowing into her, a divine power, making her entire body glow so that even when she closed her eyes it was bright.

The power healed her, closing the wounds and cuts she had endured during her descent from the crumbling stairs and the fight with the skull. When she opened her eyes, the bite marks on her wrist had vanished entirely.

She still glowed from the inside, the book filling her with light. When she looked around again, she saw a crowd of the shades surrounding the cage in series of concentric circles. There were too many to count. Nearer still, she saw her father, appearing as he had when he visited her chambers as a ghost. His advisers were there too, standing at his side.

Yorda stared at the apparition of her father. Her father looked back, his eyes filled with warmth and gratitude. He raised one hand, his skin the color of shadow. He was waving farewell. The shades in a circle around the cage began to drift upward. They climbed in silence toward the top of the tower, fading as they rose, evaporating like mist in the light of dawn.

Her father’s shade lingered the longest. There were no more words. Yorda watched her father’s form as he lifted into the air, free at last. When all of the shadows were gone, the Tower of Winds was filled with light.

For a moment, Yorda stood praying to the Creator, the book clasped in her arms. The words of the prayer she had known since childhood flowed from her lips, leaving her filled with joy such as a child knows tasting a sweet, fresh fruit.

The enchantment was broken. The tower had been purified.

Yorda walked back outside between the idols at the door, heading toward the long stone bridge. At its far end stood the queen.

She was not dressed in the long, flowing white dress she wore that morning on her way to the final match. In its place she wore a black gown, dark as night-the same gown she had worn when she summoned Yorda to the graveyard.

This is my mother’s true form. I have torn away her mask and revealed her for what she is.

The queen was walking across the bridge, coming closer. No, not walking. She was floating.

They faced one another-the queen wrapped in shadow, the castle looming behind her, the daughter clutching the book to her chest, radiant with light.

“What have you done?” The queen’s voice pierced Yorda’s heart like a knife. “Do you even understand?”

Yorda did not reply. She stared at her mother’s face, framed by her flowing black hair. Her skin was whiter than her poor father’s bones. Not the pure white of new-fallen snow, but of nothingness-an absolute white that permits no other color to exist in its presence.

It was this evil darkness and absolute whiteness with which her mother sought to conquer the world. There was no room here for the color of a man’s flesh or the red of his blood, the rich brown of the soil and blue of the sea, or even the deep green of the trees and grasses. She knew then without seeing that the Dark God, too, must resemble his child: black clothes, black hair, and a bloodless white face.

“I did not expect my own daughter to betray me,” the queen said, stepping close enough that they might reach out and touch one another. “It is not too late, Yorda. Return that odious book to the Tower of Winds.”

Yorda shook her head, clutching the book tight. “It isn’t odious. It is a book of freedom. I’ve used it to release your enchantment upon the tower, while you were busy watching men try to kill each other. Men you value little more than the stones upon which you walk.”

“Naive child,” the queen breathed, her face twisting into a scowl.

Yorda blanched but stood her ground. “Do you enjoy watching men squabble over swords and wagers? Do you like to see them inflict pain on each other, Mother?”

Yorda was sure now that Ozuma had fulfilled his promise to her by distracting the queen. As her cruel lust for bloodshed had risen, she had lowered her guard.

“What do you want?” the queen asked, her voice crackling, echoing.

“I don’t know yet. But I do know what I do not want. I do not want a world where the Dark God reigns. I do not want the kind of world you scheme to bring about. I will stop you!”

“You are a fool!” the queen said. With a flourish she spread her arms wide, her long dark sleeves becoming giant wings, blocking Yorda’s sight.

“As child of the Dark God, I will be queen of his world. And you are my daughter. What is mine will one day become yours. Why do you not understand?”

“I don’t want a world of darkness!” Yorda shouted. “I want a world of people. I want a world of love, love like my father showed me. That is what I want!” Yorda took a step forward, closing the distance. “Did you not love my father? Did you never feel any guilt at what you did to him? What was my father to you? A tool? A warm body to fill a throne while it suited you? Did you hesitate at all before killing him, before cursing him to a suffering worse than death?”

“Love?” The queen tossed back her head and laughed. “Where do you get such precious ideas? Do you even know what love is?”

“I do!” Yorda said, the queen’s words like knives in her chest.

“Then,” the queen said with a smile, “you know that love between two people is worth nothing more than dust! Your trifling sentiments reveal how little you comprehend, my child. I am one with a god, and a god is something far greater than any man!”

“You’re wrong!” Yorda shouted breathlessly, looking like a sparrow defying a hawk.

The queen clucked under her breath. “I see now that it was a mistake to bring you into this world. Why did I think to share my life with you? How did I ever imagine something worthwhile could come of an alliance with a mortal? With one misstep I have earned a lifetime of lament!”

Yorda knew she could not cry-that she had no tears left to cry-yet the sadness rose in her all the same. She felt a tear run down her cheek, and she bit back a sob.

The queen beamed. “Foolish human child. See what has befallen your home, all because you had to free your miserable father!”

The queen flitted up into the air and disappeared from Yorda’s sight. In her place, Yorda found herself looking out on the castle. The place of her birth, a homestead from which she had never left. The castle was her entire world. Now that world was shifting, its outline bending in ways it should not, like a scene viewed through warped glass. The sky was frozen, and the very wind had stopped.

Yorda ran across the bridge, looking for someone, anyone. She listened for voices and heard nothing. When she reached the castle proper, she saw guards, all frozen in place like living statues. One man had been stopped in mid-step, one foot hanging in space. Another was about to speak to a comrade, his lips slightly parted.

She looked around more and found a handmaiden, frozen holding a tray of silver goblets. Her other hand was behind her head, frozen in the act of fixing her hair, fingers outstretched. Even the air inside the castle seemed frozen in stasis.

She heard the queen’s voice, seeming to come from nowhere and everywhere all at once. “This is your doing.”

So dependent was the castle upon her mother’s enchantment that it could not live in its absence. All who lived within its walls, cut off from the outside world, living in false peace, were frozen in time.

“In preparation for the Dark God’s arrival, there had to be people upon the land, for the Dark God takes sustenance from the evil in men’s hearts. Human greed and wickedness are my offerings to him.”

Her mother had not struck sooner, wielding her powers to lay her enemies low, so that she might have a greater population to offer up to her god when the time came. Sacrifices were always fed handsomely until they were brought to the altar.

“Destroy me, and you destroy them,” the queen’s voice said in a low growl by her ear. Yorda felt a cold finger stroke the back of her neck. “But, should you repent and help me imprison that cursed book once again, I will replace the enchantment, and all will be as it was before. What wrong have these people done? Think on it, Yorda. To the ignorant, it does not matter what form their Creator takes. They care not whether they serve a god of light or of darkness, as long as their prosperity is ensured. One god is easily exchanged for another.”

At some point she had appeared directly behind Yorda, and now she stepped in close, enveloping her in an embrace-no different than when Yorda had been a child, sitting on her mother’s knee.

“Why must we argue over such things? Are we not mother and daughter?” Her voice was soothing now, tickling at Yorda’s ear.

Yorda looked down at the graceful curves of her mother’s arm, wrapped in delicate, near transparent black lace that only accented the whiteness of her skin. In that embrace, Yorda felt powerless and immature, her bones slender and fragile, her chest flat like a child’s. And yet, Yorda’s body still glowed with light. The energy that had flowed to her from the book coursed through her veins, illuminating her skin from within.

Yorda gripped the book more tightly, lowering her head and shutting her eyes tight. My mother was chosen by the Dark God, and I was chosen by the God of Light. If I do not stand down, we will fight as the avatars of our chosen deities. The queen says it is a meaningless battle-but I am my father’s daughter. His blood flows in me. And what did she do to him?

She pictured her father’s skull burning with rage and chagrin, locked in the tower for an eternity, the book clenched between his teeth. “You would deceive me, Mother,” Yorda said, opening her eyes. “Did you not tell me, just a moment ago, that I should never have been born? Have you forgotten how you shamed my father? Forgotten the horrible treatment you showed him?”

After a brief moment, the queen replied in a gravelly voice, full of power. “You find my actions unforgivable? You would deny your own mother’s love?”

Though her cheek was still wet with tears, Yorda had to laugh. “I thought love between people is no better than dust.” She took a deep breath and wrenched herself away, turning to face the queen. “I’m tired of your lies!”

Yorda held the shining book up high and thrust it toward her mother’s face. A horrifying scream rent the air around them, echoing off the walls of the castle. The queen covered her face with both hands and flew up into the air like a grim, ungainly bird.

Writhing and screaming, the queen ascended halfway up the Tower of Winds, throwing her body against the stone wall. Her robes spread out wildly in the wind like a black flower blooming in the sky.

“What have you done?”

The queen’s soft, soothing voice was gone. Now she screamed, glaring down at Yorda from high above her.

“You were wrong, Mother!” Yorda shouted up to her. “You tried to deceive me!” She caught her breath, then continued. “Why? Of what worth is it, being the child of a god? Where is the meaning in ruling the world? You did not love your husband as you do not love me! Where’s the glory in butchery and lies? So many lies!”

The book held high over her head gave more power to Yorda. She watched as it grew brighter, filling her with strength, sweeping away the last wisps of doubt as she strode forward to stand beneath where the queen floated in the sky.

Yorda’s hands moved of their own accord, flipping through the pages of the Book of Light. There she found a new power, and it flowed forth in a blinding holy radiance directed squarely at the queen. The light caught the queen in midair, flinging her against the tower.

“Have you forgotten what I said?” the queen screamed. “Kill me and you kill everyone in the castle!”

Suddenly time returned to the castle around Yorda. Everyone who was frozen lurched back into motion. Within moments, screams of terror rose up from every hall and courtyard in the castle. The long enchantment over them was gone entirely now, and as one, every minister and handmaiden, guard and patrolman were returned to their senses, and the reality of what they saw drove them mad.

Yorda did not flinch. Her eyes fixed on the queen, she chose to believe in the power of the book and held it still higher over her head. The Book of Light knew its enemy well. It would not let the queen escape. Again and again, she was dashed against the tower, the white light burning her body, and she howled, unable to escape the reach of the light.

Yorda watched, weeping, as the queen lost her shape and began to unravel into threads of dark mist. Yorda wept more and louder, yet her hands remained firm, pressing the book toward the queen. She was quickly dissolving into the stuff of the black pools Yorda had seen in the tower.

She’s becoming like one of the shadows she created.

Perhaps this was, in fact, her mother’s true shape. Perhaps she was nothing but an apparition, a gathering of motes of black mist. This gave birth to me? My father took this as his loving wife?

The mist dissipated into the sky, winding into the wind, almost entirely gone now. Yorda stood with her legs firmly planted, forcing her weary arms higher. The mist was very thin now, hardly more than the last wisp of smoke from a cold fireplace. The wind picked up, blowing it away.

But a single thread remained, twisting with rage, and from it the queen’s voice sounded in Yorda’s ears, saying, “I will not be destroyed! Look well, for you have failed!”

A powerful unseen force slammed into Yorda, sending her sprawling across the stones of the bridge. The shock of the impact was enough to knock the Book of Light from her hands.

Yorda scratched with her fingers on the bridge, trying to stand. Finally on her feet, she picked up the book and clasped it to her chest. The sounds of disquiet from the castle were growing louder. She heard the clashing of metal on metal, women screaming, men shouting.

The noise washed out over the bridge like a rumbling earthquake. Yorda stood as still as stone, not believing what she saw. On the far side of the bridge, a great throng of people were pushing their way out of the castle, running toward her in a wave. She saw guards, patrolmen, handmaidens, and scholars. The soldiers wielded swords and spears, while the handmaidens bared teeth and nails. She spotted the Minister of Court, his fists clenched above his head as he charged out onto the bridge-at Yorda.

Though they could not have been a more varied crowd, they all had one thing in common-their eyes were clouded with a dark mist. With a deepening sense of despair, Yorda realized what had happened. Her mother, the queen, had turned to mist and possessed them all, driving them mad. She was wielding them like puppets, sending them to kill.

Kill, kill, kill! Kill the one with the book! Kill Yorda!

Yorda had few options. She still held the Book of Light in her arms, yet she lacked the will to lift it again.

This is my mother’s strength. In the end, I could not defeat her. I merely forced her hand and brought ruin to us all.

The shouts grew louder, and the rumble of feet swept closer. Yorda closed her eyes.

“Lady Yorda!” A powerful voice shouted over the noise. “Lady Yorda!”

She lifted her face and saw that the crowd had stopped just a few paces away from her. They were turning, looking back toward the castle. Then their ranks began to dissolve, as new screams of rage and fear rose from the mob.

It was Ozuma. He was brandishing his longsword, cutting down people in his way, charging toward Yorda.

“Ozuma!”

Ozuma swung his sword in all directions, driving back the possessed throng around him, shouting out to Yorda. “The book, Princess! The book!”

Buoyed by his voice, Yorda once again lifted the book in her hands. When she raised it over her head, the crowd on the bridge shrank back, some fleeing altogether. Ozuma pushed them aside, making a path to the front. When he was finally free of them, he ran up and took Yorda’s arm. “Now!”

Grabbing Yorda, he pushed her toward the edge of the bridge.

“What are you doing?”

“We have to run!”

Run? Run where? The Tower of Winds was a dead end. If they ran inside the tower, they would only be trapped.

She hesitated and the crowd regained their fury, advancing, a dark light in their eyes.

“Come with me!” Ozuma shouted. Not waiting for an answer, he picked Yorda up lightly in one arm. He returned his sword to its scabbard, tossed his helmet aside, and ripped off his chain-mail vest to lighten his load. Holding Yorda in both arms now, he leapt from the top of the bridge. Yorda pressed her eyes shut a moment before they touched the foaming waves. Icy water wrapped around her, but her heart was filled with a song both triumphant and sorrowful. The book is safe.

With the Book of Light still clutched in her hands, she slipped into unconsciousness.

How much time had passed since then?

Yorda looked up at the boy staring into her eyes, clasping her hands tightly. I know you, she thought.

And he knew her as well. The memories of the castle-how it had become enveloped in mist until the mist became its name, and fear and awe its reputation-she had shared these with him, through his hand in her own.

That was why doubt now clouded the boy’s eyes. That was how he knew she was the queen’s daughter, the only one who could hope to defeat her.

He knew she had left the castle, bearing the Book of Light, and so escaped the queen’s dark grasp. He knew that when she and Ozuma had plunged into the sea, the waves acted as a veil, blinding the queen to their whereabouts until the currents carried them safely ashore.

But why did you come back? the boy wondered. Why were you imprisoned here? The steel cage that held you in the top of the tower was the cage that once held your father. The cage you fought so hard to free him from. Yet it was you I found lying in that cage. Without hope, sadness your only companion.

And the gallant knight Ozuma was turned to stone by the edge of the old bridge, as lonely as you. Why does he stand there, the knight from a foreign land come to save you, now stripped of his life and the sword he wielded for you? With the passing months the weather wears away at him. He is mindless and cold.

So too do the shadows-that-walk-alone fill the castle once more. The pools from which they spawn form freely on the stones, trying to take you back into their embrace.

What happened after you escaped the castle? the boy wondered. Why, though you held the book, could you not defeat the queen? What terrible misstep did you make that sealed your fate?

Though Yorda could now understand the boy’s tongue, he could not understand her. Still she whispered in her heart:

In the end, I could not defeat my mother.

It had all been in vain. In the end, the child of the Dark God was still master of the Castle in the Mist, and the Dark God still awaited the day of his revival. The threat to their world had not been defeated, merely delayed.

And it is all my fault. I could have defeated her, yet in the end I betrayed myself.

Yorda knew that, though the boy’s language would not rise to her lips, her memories would tell the tale of the great battle that ensued after her escape from the castle, of the tragedy and deceit that followed. If she just held on to his hand, he would learn it all.

But what good would that knowledge bring him? What meaning was there in showing him the defeat her own hands had wrought? The deceit that dragged Ozuma down, cursing his blood, the curse that spanned generations, down to the boy himself.

No, even if there was meaning in showing him, Yorda did not want the boy to know. Not now, when she was powerless, able only to offer apology after apology.

I should release his hand. I will return to the tower, and he may leave here on his own.

But the boy only gripped Yorda’s fingers tighter. His eyes flashed. “The knight Ozuma was my ancestor. The blood of the knight who defended you runs in my veins.” He stood. “This time the blood will not fail.”