The keep's corridors are cool, quiet, and creepy. I expected frenetic dashing and ducking out of sight of guard patrols, but it feels abandoned in here. The sounds of "divers alarums" from the outbuildings fade, and I creep along the passageways in my slippers, ears open for any sound. The natural light fades as I push deeper inside and is replaced by a diffuse network of eerie blue lamps. My sense of direction is good, and I make my way north.
Down a passage to my left, I hear the whirring of clockwork joints. My pulse accelerates; I flit across the junction but peek back around the corner. I see two automata, decorated much more elaborately than those in the raid on Midoro. They bear shields and lances, each with thick cables running into the machines' elbows. These must be royal guards, not foot soldiers; their equipment, lightning powered like the soldiers' truncheons.
I slip away and vanish down a side corridor. It leads down a short flight of steps into a larger room. No blue lamps illuminate the room, and it's almost pitch dark. I pause to let my eyes adjust. It's an abandoned kitchen; the pots and pans are well-used but clean, except their thin coat of dust. I carry on.
Most of the next hour is spent this way; seeing or hearing guards in the distance, ducking out of sight, keeping one turn ahead of them… By the time I'm through, I've memorized half of the guards' patrol routes. I cut through unused guard stations, bunk rooms, ballrooms, and parlours without seeing a living soul, but the castle is constantly patrolled by these automata. It implies a staggering amount of paranoia. The king must expect assassins at any time and mistrust the humans he rules.
It's hard to imagine the young Prince Link anywhere in this tomb of a keep. I think of his letters to the Archduke to petition his father, and wonder when last the prince last saw his father.
Based on what I saw of the keep from the outside, I must be near the northern face now but still too high for a useable exit. Though I have yet to encounter a single locked door, there were several scares when I peered around corners to find pairs of guards, perfectly still and silent, blocking doors to lower levels.
I've given up on finding a ground floor exit; right now, I will settle for roof access. Surely, I can find a way down the north wall. With that in mind, I work my way up floor after floor and find myself at a crossroads. From the west corridor, I cautiously peek up the northern way. It ends abruptly at a large and ornate set of double doors – watched by a double set of clockwork guards.
Ducking quickly out of sight, I am exceedingly grateful that their visual centers don't recognize my tiny movements. As I try to think of a plan, I hear a strange sound – real, human footsteps. They come from the south. They sound heavy, like those of a large man. Resisting the urge to run, I sneak back to an alcove down the west passage and crouch out of sight. I put one eye to a gap in the archway's decorative trim to see the walker.
The man who strides into view is huge and muscular. His long dark cloak and grey-brown skin make him almost wraithlike in the dim light, but a crest of flame-red hair highlights him. The cloak is trimmed with gold, and thrown back from a huge barrel chest covered by a rich burgundy vest. Light glints off a gold monocle as he glances down at a collection of papers held casually in one hand.
As he passes out of my sight to the north, I heard the whirr of clockwork joints. Are the guards accosting him? Surely not. Somehow, it's impossible to imagine the vast confidence in that man's stride being misplaced. He must be expected.
He might be my only chance to get through that door.
Heart pounding, I ghost my way forward again and peer around the corner. Two automata are bowing deeply to the stranger, while two more work an elaborate unlocking mechanism on the door.
"He's become, if possible, too frightened. Too cautious. Perhaps a touch of assurance is in order…" the flame-haired man murmurs to himself, and the door opens.
The large chamber beyond gets barely a glance; enough to see a raised dais in the middle of the room, and flights of stairs sweeping around the edges to a balcony and door at the back. Pillars and a thick railing should give me cover to hide on the stairs, but my mind is all on the knife-thin path that gets me in the room.
The man strides into the room. I see the two automata that opened the door for him step into line ahead of him, as a sort of honour guard. The two left behind maintain their low bows.
I am a shadow; I am a magician's assistant; I am not a character in this scene; I let this confident man be the main character and slink up the hallway. Five, six steps; I stop breathing as I slip behind one bowing guard. There's less than a foot between it and the wall. I have to duck under the butt of its lance. It starts to straighten and the doors start to swing closed right in the middle of my crouch. As the weapon's shaft arcs down with terrible, unconscious force, I plant my rear foot and dive forward into a roll.
Like a child's fingers around a slippery minnow, the doors slam shut behind me. The sound covers my roll. I'm not two meters behind the man, but he keeps walking. I vanish behind a pillar and peer out through the railing.
With a clack, the guards go to their knees in front of the dais. (I use the sound to crawl forward, using the rail as cover, to the second pillar. The fifth pillar borders on the balcony, and my door northward out of this room.) The man bows low.
"Archduke Ganondorf Dragmire," a deep voice rasps. It comes from a mound of sorts in the middle of the room, on the dais. I take a moment to parse what I'm seeing. A grand chair sits there, a throne. On it sits a huge man, thick white beard pouring down the front of his robes like a waterfall. He's mostly concealed by masses of thick cables rising from the floor, entering his robes at the ankle, the wrist, the neck. Some flicker with blue light; others are tubes carrying liquids to and from the body.
"King Rhoam Calatia," the Archduke replies, straightening. "Do I find you well? Are you comfortable?"
"As ever," the king says. "Your ministrations leave me without pain in my body, and I thank you. My mind is aggrieved, though. I must know what befalls my people. Tell me what happens in the mists; are my citizens safe? Have the behemoths been seen recently? Do we yet have a plan to slay them?" His voice booms throughout the throne room, and yet he struggles to use it.
I carefully retreat to the wall, keeping the pillar between myself and Dragmire. The stairs are too narrow to hide me completely, but I should be virtually out of sight from below. I crawl up to the third pillar.
"Those few brave souls who must stay in the service of your military are securing more villages each week, highness," the Archduke assures. "Just yesterday, Midoro was made safe. Its people endangered themselves and others with home grown explosives and invited lawless dissident forces to train them in a brutal, undisciplined form of warfare. All of these rogue elements are pacified, and we are treating them even now."
Halfway around the room now, I am in Dragmire's line of sight. The stairs narrow. Even lying down, I can see them through the railing. The guards remain kneeling, heads down; the Archduke seems intent on the king. With a shiver, I realize that the king must be nearly blind if he hadn't seen me roll into the room. Ever slower now, conscious of every twitch of Dragmire's face, I worm my way to the fourth pillar.
"That is welcome news," King Rhoam says. "But what of the leviathans? It has been years now that they terrorize our air lanes. You tell me that they even dive beneath the surface of the mists, as though hunting for squid in the deeps. Our mightiest warships cannot pierce their hides with our largest cannons. What news have you on their actions? Tell me how we will defend ourselves!"
Behind the fourth pillar, I breathe deeply and slowly, try to release my body's tension. Though I haven't been spotted yet, it seems impossible for the Archduke not to notice the motion if I continue from here. I resolve to stay safely hidden until the audience concludes.
"Ah, the matter of these… these 'wind fish' as the people have come to call them…" Dragmire says with distaste. "One was sighted near Midoro before we could intervene. It didn't damage the village, beyond, perhaps, scaring the locals out of what wits they had. Our cannons do harm them, my king; we drive them off, and none dare approach our island directly. The problem lies in killing one before it can escape. My researches continue. I am deciphering an ancient ritual to unseal a great power. When complete, I will have the power to keep our people safe from anything!"
"Is that… is that wise, my friend? That which is sealed by ancient magics was surely sealed for some reason…" The king's voice falters now, weakening.
"I take every precaution," Ganondorf soothes. "Leave it all to me. Aren't you tired now, my king? I keep telling you, your body needs rest. My treatments can only do as much as you let them."
"Yes… yes…" the king sighs. "That will be… very good…"
Archduke Dragmire stands there, attentive, expression stern, staring at the king through his small, gold monocle. Apparently satisfied, he turns… and begins to climb the stairs behind me.
I have an instant to react, as the pillars block his view. I scramble as quietly as I can up the last of the stairs. I hear his footfalls, measured, patient. Darting over to the door, I try the handle. It turns, unlatches with a soft click. With milliseconds to use, I throw myself through the door.
The hinges squeal loudly as it opens.
I slam it behind me and look for a lock. There is none.
The long hall I find myself in is lined with raised stands. On each stand, a glass case; in each case, a treasure. Skylights let in the cheerful morning sunshine, but even standing on a glass case, they're too high to reach. Doors line each wall, and I dash for the nearest.
The door I came in flies open as if a hurricane were behind it. The door I ran to is locked.
I hear only two steps before a huge hand closes on the back of my head. I twist out of its grip, but he pulls me back by my hood and flings me into the middle of the room. With a crash, my dead weight topples a stand. The glass case atop it shatters on the floor. I tumble as I land, but can't find my feet. I come briefly to rest amidst the broken glass, almost on top of the sturdy gauntlet contained in the case.
Ganondorf stands over me, grabs me by the collar, pulls me upright. I grab the gauntlet as he does, the only thing I can think of to use as a weapon.
"Who are you, little mouse?" His baritone washes over me. He didn't even lose the monocle in our scuffle. "How did you get in here, and why are you spying on me?" His fingers feel like iron, and they start to reach up under my hood, around my neck.
It's possible to win a fight with someone who is bigger, someone who is stronger. I'd been doing it onstage half my life. It might have been theater, but that didn't mean it was staged. If I couldn't outmaneuver the other performers, my part of the show ended early. If a strong man gets a grip on me, life becomes difficult, but I still have the twin recourses of flexibility and surprise.
The gauntlet slipped onto my left hand as if it was made for me. Flexing my fingertips into spearpoints, I thrust them into his armpits while curling my legs into my body, giving him nothing to hold but dead weight.
His fingers don't loosen. He grins. I instantaneously feel his balance shift, feel him trying to fall forward onto me. I bring my arms around his, drive each elbow down onto his forearms. His muscular arms don't bend, don't react. We are falling. My palms slap together, fingertips join into a unified spearpoint aimed straight at his throat. My legs uncoil, and I land on my left knee, right foot planted.
I hope his weight crushes his throat on my hands. It doesn't. With an implausible speed of reaction, he takes a half-step, catches himself.
We poise there for a second, his hands on my collar, my fingers to his throat, him bent over me on one knee on the ground. I see the back of the gauntlet on my left hand. The back of the hand has a triple triangle design in brass-on-silver, and there is a socket on the back of the forearm. It looks as though it once held a gem.
I take this all in at once. Time crawls by. Ganondorf tightens his grip with glacial slowness as I think.
The socket would fit my mother's gem perfectly. The gauntlet seems ever so slightly warm, and familiar. It's the same feeling my mother's gem always gave me, and, I realize, the Sheikah wallet did as well. Grandmother said those were objects with their own magical potency; this gauntlet must be, as well.
I relax my right hand and pass it over the gauntlet. I let the white gem drop out of its shadow into the socket, where it locks in place with a satisfying clink. A sensation of lightness and wild freedom courses down my arm.
I look back to the Archduke's face. His eyes are locked on the gem, left opened wide in surprise and right tightening around the monocle with furious focus.
"I am Zelda," I cry. His eyes turn to mine, and he recoils. "Of Hyrule!"
I release the magic in the gauntlet. Left palm open and facing right, fingers straight. A great wind surges under me. Ganondorf's grip weakens in surprise. I leap, straight up, pushed up by the gale. My left hand raises and shatters the skylight above me. I land, rolling, on the steep roof tiles.
Clockwork sentinels line the eaves of the keep like crenellations. The Archduke's voice bellows from below for guards, and their heads turn, lock on to me. I run down the slope of the roof at them. Barely a stone's throw worth of courtyard separates the keep from the outer castle wall, here. I can see the houses and buildings of Castle Town, built right up to the castle.
These automata are built like the royal guards inside, but with sure, steady feet built for the roofing tiles. I call on the magic of the gauntlet and gem. I make the same gesture, palm open and perpendicular to me. Mentally naming this maneuver a Gale Leap, I point my fingers forward and dive into the wind. It carries me horizontally, up and over the lances of the sentinels climbing to meet me. I travel over the courtyards, over the castle wall, and I'm falling, falling into the town.