Once upon a time, the story went, malicious spirits were born within the void that separated heaven and earth. Resentful that they lacked a realm of their own, they stole away human children and robbed them of their souls. But when they found that the stolen souls could not fill the emptiness inside their hearts, they seethed with anger till their rage became like tiny demons inside them.
Though they had brought the demons into being, the void-spirits were weaker than their own anger, and soon they were forced to do as the demons commanded. Distraught, the Creator hastily imbued the void-spirits with souls of their own, thinking this might placate them. But the demons within the spirits’ hearts took those souls and devoured them, so that no matter how many souls the Creator gave to the spirits, they were never sated but grew even hungrier than before.
At a loss, the Creator gathered magi from across the land and requested that they fashion stone sarcophagi in which to imprison the void-spirits together with their demons. It was the humans who had suffered when the void-spirits stole their children, so it must be humans who imprisoned them, the Creator declared.
The sarcophagi they made looked like eggs grown long and were covered with carved incantations of purification and placation. The wizards chanted their spells, imbuing the carvings with power, and the sarcophagi began to glow. Like moths to a flame, the void-spirits were drawn to the light and thereby trapped for eternity.
Ico looked over the stone sarcophagi lining the walls. These, too, were carved with ancient letters and patterns. Ico’s hand went to the Mark on his chest. The whorls of the patterns there were not entirely unlike those upon the stones. Ico could read neither, though he thought that the patterns on the sarcophagi looked a bit like the outlines of people.
What does it mean?
“This is your Mark,” the elder had said when he placed the tunic over Ico’s head. “The Mark has recognized you.”
The elder had a hopeful light in his eyes when he gave Ico the Mark-so why can I think of nothing but scary fairy tales when I look at these stones? Ico pressed a hand to his chest, lightly squeezing the fabric against his skin.
While Ico stood in a daze, the priest made his way to the wall and looked up at one of the sarcophagi.
“There,” he said, pointing to one that looked no different from the hundreds of others save one thing: it glowed with a pale blue light, pulsating like a beating heart.
As the priest intertwined his fingers and began chanting a prayer reserved for this occasion alone, the stone sarcophagus slid forward on its base, emerging from the wall with the heavy grating of stone upon stone. The guards took a half step back, the horns on their helmets colliding as they did, sending a ringing sound through the hall.
The lid of the sarcophagus slowly opened.
“Bring the Sacrifice,” the priest ordered. The two guards stiffened and exchanged glances. Even without seeing their faces, it was clear neither of them dared to do their next task.
“You.” The priest indicated the guard with upturned horns. “Bring him.”
The chain-mailed shoulders of the other guard slumped with relief as his companion turned to walk toward Ico, dragging his feet as he went.
Ico considered his handlers as the guard approached. These men had been chosen to protect the Sacrifice, a deed of tremendous honor. They were sure to be commended upon their return to the capital. Even before they received this duty, temple guards enjoyed privileges as guardians of the faith. They were the sanctified warriors of the Sun God, the defenders of souls. They were also men of authority-regardless of whether that authority came not from them but from the priests behind them-who wielded power over other officials of the church and capital. They had undergone harsh training to earn their rank. Both their loyalty to the realm and their faith in the Creator who forged heaven and earth and bestowed souls on mankind were infallible.
And yet, as children of men and fathers in their own right, it was no easy task to offer up the healthy, innocent boy standing before them to an unknown fate.
The priest had lectured them before they left the capital. “The Castle in the Mist does not demand that we be heartless. The compassion you will feel toward the Sacrifice and the sadness you will feel upon leaving him are all necessary to the success of the ritual. The castle will not be satisfied with just the Sacrifice. We must also offer up the pain in our hearts for it to be sated.”
It was all right to be sad. It was all right to lament. It was all right to feel anger.
But it was not all right to run away. The castle must have its due.
The priest walked over to the Sacrifice and laid a hand upon his shoulder. The horned boy looked up at him, though it was clear from his expression that the boy’s mind was in another place.
The priest knew that the guard had a child of his own-a boy roughly the same age as the Sacrifice. He knew the pain that man had felt on their journey whenever he saw the irons on the Sacrifice’s hands. How could he help but imagine, What if it were my son?
But if they did not offer the Sacrifice, the anger of the castle would not abate. And should the castle’s fury be unleashed, there would be no future for the world of men.
Though our Creator is good, thought the priest, our Creator is not omnipotent. The enemy of our Creator is the enemy of peace upon this world-in league with evil, maker of a pact with the underworld. So men must shed blood and suffer sacrifice, and be allies to god, that evil might be driven back. What else can we do?
Forgive me, the priest whispered deep in his heart.
“Take my hand,” the guard said at last, extending his arm toward Ico, thankful for the faceplate that hid his tears.
The guard lifted him lightly off the floor. With heavy steps, he carried him toward the stone sarcophagus that sat pulsing with light, growling…hungry.
2
"DO NOT BE angry with us. This is for the good of the village,” the priest said as he closed the lid. It was the first thing he had said to Ico since their journey began, and it was also the last.
There was no apology in his words, no plea. The voice behind that veil of cloth was even and cold.
The good of the village…
For the first time, he felt angry. This isn’t just for Toksa, Ico thought to himself, recalling the stone city he had seen from the mountain pass. It wasn’t fair to blame the entire custom of the Sacrifice on the village. It wasn’t their fault.
The interior of the sarcophagus was spacious. Seated, his head wouldn’t even have touched the top, but his hands had been secured in a wooden pillory fastened to the back of the sarcophagus, forcing Ico to stand with his back to the front, bent over like a criminal placed in the village square as a warning to others.
But I haven’t done anything wrong…have I?
There was a small window in the door of the sarcophagus, but in order to look out, Ico had to twist his neck around so far that it soon became painful and he had to give up. So he stood, listening to the footsteps of the priest and the guards fade behind him.
A short while later, he felt the reverberations of the moving floor. The priest and guards were leaving.
I’m alone.
Silence returned to the great hall-the silence of the Castle in the Mist. The silence itself must be the master of the castle, Ico thought, so long has it ruled this place. At least, that was how it seemed to him.
Ico could hear his heart beating-thud thud. He took an unsteady breath. For a long while he stood there, alone, just breathing.
Nothing happened.
Am I supposed to stay hunched over like this forever? Am I supposed to starve to death in this sarcophagus? Is that my duty as the Sacrifice?