ICO: Castle in the Mist (23 page)

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.