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.