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?”