Keys of Candor: Trilogy

by Casey Eanes

  As she slid closer to her target, Willyn could not help but smile. The low light, the dust, and the rumbling of the tools provided the perfect cover. The jackhammers laid a blanket of noise that could disguise the sound of a stampede.

  Viga still had his pistol drawn and his finger rested on the trigger. Willyn slipped in behind him and struck hard, grasping his wrist while kicking at his knee. Viga buckled to the ground, but his grip held tight. Willyn slammed her elbow into his mask, meeting the bridge of his nose twice, unleashing a torrent of blood from behind the plastic hood, before ramming her knee deep into his forearm. Despite the assault, he would not relent his grip on his weapon.

  A shot rang out and illuminated the dusty corridor as the bullet ricocheted through the dark. The jackhammers stopped as the men ran from their posts. Through the cloud of dust, Willyn saw their faces behind the plastic masks: Baggers. They were probably fresh from Zenith. The other man followed suit, dropping the chains and retreating from the scene, leaving Willyn alone with her prey. Viga’s strength and fortitude surprised her, and she cursed as he continued to try to wrench his pistol free. She refused to let go of his wrist, and she pummeled his face without mercy with her elbow.

  “I order you to stand down, soldier. I am Willyn Kara!” Willyn screamed as she continued her attack.

  Viga forced himself to his feet. He grasped Willyn by the throat and landed a head butt against her temple, avoiding any protection her mask could give her. An earthquake of pain shot through her skull. She had underestimated him; the man’s strength was incredible. Willyn struggled to find a new angle of attack as Viga hurled her into the stone wall. The blows he landed on her stole the wind from her chest and sent her gasping for air. She sucked in, trying to find a breath through her confining mask as she dove toward the middle of the room, her mind locked on the shot she knew was coming.

  The shot rang out with an explosion of light and sound. The bullet careened across the room and left a white-hot trail in the dusty air. Viga turned to level his sights on Willyn again.

  “I don’t care who you are,” he bellowed, his voice hollowed by the mask he wore.

  Willyn’s hand found a loose rock. She hurled the stone, and it connected with Viga’s face, the shield of his mask cracking like spider webs right above his left eye. The blow stunned him long enough for Willyn to charge back in. She dove for the gun, using her knee as a battering ram. Viga actually let out a howl of pain but swung out, connecting a heavy fist against Willyn’s face. Willyn stumbled back and felt her feet give way to the brittle floor. Fear flooded her mind as she felt her body lose control and freefall into a void. She swiped at the air before falling into the cavern, landing on her back. She braced herself for impact and heard her bones snap as she landed. Something had broken her fall in the darkness, but it felt like her leg had snapped in two. Her breathing mask broke away, and she lay in a crumpled heap, trying to orient herself in the darkness.

  She tried to force herself to her feet, but every inch of her body screamed, recoiling from the trauma. She managed to roll to her back and looked up above. The opening she fell through was at least fifteen feet overhead. Through her blurred vision, she could see the silhouette of Viga trying to peer down and find her with his pistol.

  The room was frigid and the air was motionless compared to the dust bowl that swirled above her. A chill ran through Willyn as she remembered exactly where she was, but the voice she heard stole her breath away.

  “I’ve been waiting for you.” A deep chuckle broke through the room. “You’ve been very, very busy.”

  Willyn rolled to her side and saw the outline of a mirror, its resemblance like those she had seen in the Spire and underneath the Taluum sanctuary. She cursed as large, green cat-like eyes glowed in the darkness locking on her. As she looked toward the glass, her heart hammered with panic.

  A voice spoke to her, a whisper in her ear. “Do not fear him.” Her eyes darted around the room, her mouth agape. The voice had been Hagan’s, but as her eyes darted around the corridor, she knew she was alone.

  The green eyes grew, shining an uncanny light in the darkness.

  “You are here to release me. Surely you must be the Keeper of the Keys.”

  Willyn froze, and her body shook with fear. She mumbled, trying to find the words, hoping and dreading that she was going insane and that the fall had rattled her brain. She blinked, trying to ensure the specter in the glass was really present.

  Four shots rang out from above and Willyn tensed, waiting on the bullets to rip through her, but none hit their mark. Surrounded. I’m surrounded. After a few moments, a rope was lowered down into the room. Willyn swallowed as the wide green eyes from the mirror curved up into a wide, cruel smile.

  The Serub in the glass spoke, his voice like the sound of the mountain. “I can help you, if you will only release me.”

  She turned her eyes upward, desperate to see who was coming into the chamber as her leg screamed with desperate pain. Willyn lay there trembling, joined only by her reflection in the Serub’s mirror as a new enemy descended from above.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Seam stood alone, a pillar of black against the white horizon of the Rihtian desert. Gazing across the barren desert plain, his eyes lost focus, his mind deep in thought. The hot wind whipped through his long brown hair, and he breathed in deeply, savoring the heat of the desert air. He tallied all that he had accomplished in only a few short months.

  Father could have never dreamt of it. He never saw the possibilities. He was blind to the potential.

  A wicked web of past events and future realities jostled in Seam’s mind. He had not slept for weeks, but he felt no weakness. The only price he paid from bearing the power of the Keys was that his mind would not stop. Every thought was crisp and clear like the dawn’s morning rays, but they never ceased. Candor had been conquered, but Seam’s mind knew no peace.

  Peace. The word rolled around Seam’s mind like a marble in a maze. Hadn’t that been the point of it all? Peace? He looked down at the iron gauntlet he had stolen from the Mastermonk. Locked in place were the five Keys of Candor. Peace comes at such a high price. It will continue to cost. It will always cost…

  In one swift motion, Seam opened his datalink, his fingers flying through memorized patterns.

  “Bronson.”

  The tinny electronic assembling of Bronson’s voice rang out. “My lord?”

  “Bring me Nyx...no, no. Bring the entire Synod to my location. I want them to see this.”

  Seam looked back out over the desert sands as his mind wandered. The path is set. My path is clear.

  Bronson spoke, a cloud of nervousness in his breath. “Yes, sir. I will see to their escort immediately.”

  “Very good,” Seam said as he slammed the cover of his datalink closed and shook his head.

  Bronson fears them...he has no idea. Seam beamed as he thought about the secret he had uncovered. The Serubs were no gods, despite their showcases of impressive power. How could they be? Weren’t the gods supposed to be limitless?

  He glanced down at his wrist, at the interlocked iron vines and sunlight that kept the Keys locked firmly in his possession. They are chained. Held. Bound.

  Yes, Seam had realized the real truth since claiming his place as High King of all Candor, Ruler of the Dominion, and Keeper of the Keys. There was only one god on Candor. It was him.

  Bronson closed his datalink, swallowing the knot in his throat. His position as Head of the Guardsmen was becoming harder and harder to manage, especially since the Serubs had been released from their mirrors.

  The cost of keeping such creatures at the High King’s beck and call was terrifying. Seam had long washed his hands of taking any responsibility for his newfound allies, choosing wisely instead to delegate the responsibilities of keeping the beasts satisfied to Bronson.

  Bronson’s frame had shrunk, and the uniform that was once snug began to swallow him. The things he had had to do to keep the Serubs appe
ased were things he could never forgive himself for. No matter how far he tried to distance himself from their evil, he knew he was no more innocent than the madman he served. Blood was on his hands and he knew it. In truth, he was worse than the king he so hated because of what he had to do.

  Each of the Three were ruled by their hunger. Hunger that had to be managed and controlled per the High King’s royal orders as he dangled Bronson’s family by an invisible thread. Each Serub made their request known to Bronson and he was then chartered to procure the resources for each of the nightmares that dwelt within the shadows of the Spire.

  Arakiel wanted warriors delivered to his chambers, ready to fight. Bronson found more than enough victims from the flocks of Grogans that poured into Zenith. Bronson did his best to avoid those who had fled for safety from the Surrogator’s rule... those who secretly held Red sympathies. It was a losing battle. Arakiel was like all the other Serubs. As his powers grew, so did his hunger. What started as five warriors a week soon blossomed into ten, and then increased again to twenty.

  What happened to them, Bronson could never confirm. All he knew was that he delivered them, always under the notion that they would be trained by an ancient teacher of the ways of war. They would enter Arakiel’s chamber, the door would shut, and then the screams would begin. When summoned again into the Serub Lord’s chamber there was no evidence of the murders and no bodies that required disposal. The routine of keeping Arakiel fed took on an uncanny normalcy, and Bronson reasoned away the crimes he committed with the knowledge that the warriors would at least die fighting.

  Abtren’s tastes were subtler. Seam had given her permission to seduce her prey within the denizens of the Spire. Thankfully, Bronson had little involvement with the deadly dance of cat and mouse. Abtren would move through the Spire, her kaleidoscopic eyes searching for her next victim, like a spider surveying its web. Sometimes she took one. Sometimes two. Sometimes more. Men. Women. It didn’t matter. Few could, or would, resist Abtren’s charms. Even to be in her presence for a few moments would cloud one’s mind with potent desire. Her seductive voice caused an overflow of yearning to overtake whatever victim she had chosen, her lush lips dripping with a disastrous honey. Bronson thanked whatever grace was left for him that he did not have to contend with or manage Abtren’s desires.

  Of all the Serubs to serve, though, Nyx was the most wretched. She didn’t partake as often as her siblings, but she would pull Bronson to the side and stare at him with her horrible eyes. Eyes like those of a wolf hiding in a sheep’s skin.

  “Bronson,” she would call. “I am getting quite bored. I think it is time that you find me a new playmate.”

  Children. Children were the delicacy that Nyx wanted most. No matter how much he protested, Nyx would only need remind him of his debt to her, and he obeyed, praying that his compliance would prevent Abtren from revealing his attempted treachery to Seam. Bronson had a hand in children dying so his own could live. The double standard tortured his soul.

  Bronson did not allow his mind to entertain the thoughts of what happened to them. He could not allow himself to go to that place. The only thing he did was give the credits to the mercenaries who handled the collection. He refused any further involvement.

  Bronson cursed as he thought about his new position, his new duty. He had been trapped in an unimaginable hell all because the king’s primary mercenary refused to deal in children, claiming that this violated his contract. The man had actually pulled out the digital contact on his datalink and cancelled it in front of his face. Cyric’s refusal to feed Nyx infuriated Bronson because Seam had so quickly delegated the torture onto him instead. Bronson paid what it took to delegate the task to others, but the credits still came from his own hands.

  The new responsibilities wore on his mind, fraying his consciousness unmercifully. His precautions to maintain some foothold to his sanity were not enough. Darkness began to break through the walls like a flood. If he saw a child in the city streets of Zenith, it sent his mind reeling with an explosion of grief and regret. He stopped venturing out much by day, and when he did, he made every attempt to stay away from populated areas. For days, he would feel his hand linger on his pistol. Wouldn’t it be easier if you just ended it all? Why damn yourself further?

  When the doubts and judgments arose in his mind, he turned to drink. One bottle. Three. Ten. It didn’t matter. The alcohol never seemed quite stiff enough to chase away the faces of children that haunted his mind. Needle tracks on his arms were the evidence of the drugs that would help dull the agony. He would take anything as long as it kept the screaming orphans out of his mind.

  Bronson had seen to his new responsibilities very efficiently. No matter how much he tried to fight through the reasons of why he kept up the charade of loyalty for Seam and his Synod, he knew the truth. He could feel hell tugging at his soul. Aleph’s judgment would be swift and terrible for the zookeeper of nightmares. He was sure of his coming punishment. The beasts he kept were never satisfied. Their thirst for blood would never be quenched.

  When he was alone he would practice a deadly ritual. He would hold his gun in one hand and bring the stiff cocktail of drugs and whiskey to his lips. He could not taste the explosive heat that he flushed down his throat, nor could he feel the numbness that he so wanted to experience. His mind was a dark, twisted alleyway of unending agony. He would hold the gun to his head, cock it, and take another swig of drink. There he would stay at the edge of blowing away his brains, weighing out his options as the hours passed by through the night. He thought of the resistance, of Seam, of how far he had fallen. He thought of his wife, of his children who felt like the embers of a dream life he had nearly forgotten. He had long abandoned drinking his whiskey from a glass and would bring the full bottle to his lips. In a few minutes, it would be like him; empty.

  What are their names? What are the names of your children? His drugged frenzies made his family seem so distant, like a candle floating in the vastness of an ocean. How long has it been since you last saw them? When did we last speak?

  He slammed the gun down on the table screaming, “WHY!? Why me?” The question ripped through room. He took another swig of whiskey before slamming his fists on the desk and screaming at the ceiling. “Answer me! Have I not served you? Have I not SERVED?” Bronson flipped the table and sent it hurdling across the floor. He stooped over the pistol and pushed it under his chin, tears flooding his face as he fell to his knees. “I can’t. I can’t. This is too much. I am already damned, I can’t.”

  His finger slowly pressed on the trigger, but the face of his children flashed in his mind, forcing him to pause. His hands trembled as his soul raged within, weighing his desperate option, but he could not pull the lever. Not without knowing that his family was safe. They were his only reason to live.

  He owed it to them to stay alive, no matter how far he would have to plunge himself into the abyss. Even if he lost his soul through the process, he had to stay alive to see his family protected. Broken prayers would burst from his mind as he sobbed, gasping to come to grips with his reality.

  Aleph, I understand the cost of my actions. I will not plead for mercy upon myself, because there is none left for you to give. I ask only for the sake of my family. Keep them from these nightmares. Protect them from the monster I have become. Have mercy on them, and if it pleases you, allow me to see them one last time before I die.

  Seam strolled down the side of the dune he had been perched on to examine the desolate field below. The sand crumbled and slid beneath his footsteps into the windswept bowl below him. As he carefully stepped down the hillside, his datalink chirped. Hosp was waiting, fidgeting on the other end of the connection. Seam glared at the gray-eyed visage on the screen.

  “Seam.” Hosp’s thin, whispering voice drifted in the desert heat. “I need to ask for your assistance. I fear that the Red resistance is growing too strong. It threatens our opportunity to procure the next mirror.”

  Seam looked bac
k out over the field and sneered, refusing further eye contact with his sniveling ally.

  “Hosp. How is it that in the months following our collection of the keys I have united all the Realms, rebuilt the city of Zenith, and kept three gods in check while you…” He stared into the screen, his eyes vicious. “…while you fail to unite the Groganlands?”

  Seam stepped into the hot, deep sand and pushed further into the valley. The scalding sands were open, flat, and void. Seam’s foot fell against something solid beneath the sandy debris. The feeling brought a smile to his lips, distracting him as Hosp responded over the datalink.

  “Seam. With all due respect, you have never had to wrestle with the Grogan people. They are a stiff-necked people. Lotte was firmly in your grasp, and Elum has no qualms with your leadership as long as their trade is not regulated. I doubt the monks in Preost formally know how to respond to your rule. You have no idea how tense the situation is here. The Grogans are the hardest Realm to seize, and you know this. It is a task that I think you would rather avoid.”

  Seam stared deep into the screen, his face stern and eyes dripping hate. Hosp did not relent. “These people are deeply patriotic and loyal to the Sar. I will overthrow this resistance, but I need your support. I need your resources. With the proper investment, I can quell this rebellion within a week.”

  Seam leaned down to dig his fingers through the white sand and laughed.

  “One week, Hosp? Is that all? Such big words for someone who has not dampened the Reds’ fury in two months.”

  Hosp’s eyes glared through the screen at the High King. “I know where they have headquartered, Seam. I know where the Reds have made their base.”

  Seam continued digging away at the sand. “And...”