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.