Keys of Candor: Trilogy

by Casey Eanes

  The screens went black once again. A hush fell over Rhuddenhall before a chant rang through the streets, in the alleyways and the tenement houses. “Kara! Kara! Kara!”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  A torrential downpour of rain and hail hammered down on the metallic shell of the titan sheltering Seam and the Synod. Arakiel sat across from Seam as the High King flipped through topographical maps on his datalink. He looked up from the red and green lines and spoke. “Arakiel. Where is Bastion? I know we are close.”

  “Not as close as you may think,” growled Arakiel. The Serub’s threatening voice was barely audible over the din caused by the maelstrom raging outside. “He is not in the Red city. He has been buried beneath the mountain. Within Legion’s Teeth.”

  Seam scrolled over the dipping lines until a blanket of sharp pinnacles were illuminated beneath his fingertips. The holding area of the titan was dim, but Arakiel could make out a smile as it crept across Seam’s face. “Tell me again, Arakiel. How is it that you know where each of your kindred is buried?”

  Arakiel stood from his seat and was silent for a moment before providing a brief answer. “I listened.”

  “You listened?”

  Arakiel nodded. “Yes. I listened before each was locked away. They called out to me. They all call out to me.”

  “Fair enough,” quipped Seam. “Now, let’s go find your brother. I’ve been waiting long enough.”

  Seam slipped from the cargo bay and stepped into the cockpit. Waves of rain and hail ran down the portholes, making it impossible to see the red rock walls surrounding the hover tank.

  “Change of destination, captain. Plot a new course for Legion’s Teeth.”

  The captain leaned forward and tried to glance through the porthole. “With all due respect, sir, we can’t see a thing. We’re likely to run this convoy right into the cliff walls. We’re barely moving as it is.”

  “I don’t want excuses.” Seam’s voice was flush with frustration. “I want us in Legion’s Teeth by tomorrow.”

  The captain dipped his head and glanced back out the window. “Yes, sir.”

  The stench of alcohol wafted through the air, and the echoes of shouting and music could be heard through the floor. Wael closed his eyes behind the blindfold wrapped around his face and tried to concentrate. The room holding him was dark, but warm. His hands were bound, but he could feel the old wooden floors beneath him and the thin, dingy curtains hanging behind him. From the sound of the rustic Elumite music and smell of spirits, Wael deduced he must be above a bar or brothel. Each was common enough throughout Elum.

  The journey to find the Sixth had not been easy. After sending Willyn and Grift out of Preost, Wael had spent a full day in prayer. He did not sleep and no substance touched his lips during that day, yet despite his intentional silence and rigorous focus, Aleph did not speak to him. The One did not provide any guidance, no clues as to where the sixth Serub was hiding. A spark of disappointment and doubt had threatened to light within the Mastermonk, but he extinguished it with a skill that only came from rigorous decades of discipline. Aleph had not abandoned him. Aleph had never abandoned him.

  Long ago, the Mastermonk had learned a valuable secret. Hope was a discipline. After his chants had ceased and his incense was burned down to ashes, Wael stepped out of Taluum with no true direction, his mind completely devoid of any real insight into where the Sixth could be found. Yet his hope remained, and it pushed him out into the wilderness.

  He had spoken to his associates before departing, instructing them in their tasks to keep the Realm’s priorities in place. This was no small task for his protégés, but his instruction was largely a courteous formality, as the Mastermonk’s closest protégés had long ago learned how to manage Preost in his absence. Wael left them in the night, after sharing a small prayer with his trusted advisors. He took only his staff and a small satchel and disappeared, blending with the chorus of night animals that surrounded the hidden fortress. The other monks had seen their master go many times before, but never had Wael left with such a weight on his shoulders. Finding the Sixth divine was not like brokering peace during a time of war. His present challenge, the conflict with Seam, Hosp, and the Five, was completely different. With the exception of what Aleph could or would do, the Sixth Celestial was the only path that Wael knew to take. A path that had led him straight into a bounty hunter’s trap.

  Seam sat staring at the wasteland rolling by the porthole as his long caravan of titans, rooks, and transports made the slow trek to the mountain range of Legion’s Teeth. He couldn’t help thinking how odd it was for a thunderstorm to break over this arid bit of borderland that sat between Riht and the Groganlands. Hosp stood rigidly next to the High King, at least by all appearances. None but he and the Serubs knew that it was all an illusion. The Surrogator’s soul had been sent into whatever dark abyss would dare take it, and Seam sat chuckling to himself as he thought on his meteoric rise in power. Each and every day brings me new abilities, new gifts. Soon there would be nothing left to check him. All of Candor would soon quake under him and no puppet government in the Groganlands would be needed. You can claim the Sardom and finally leash the furious Grogans. He glanced at the empty, rigid body of his old, worthless ally.

  As the hours dragged on, Seam excused himself into his private chamber. The empty body of Hosp followed like an orbiting moon, silently pulled by the High King’s presence. He closed the door and extended his hand toward Hosp, testing his powers on the malleable body. Somehow, the High King found it easier to control Hosp than the body of Kull. He was surprised at this revelation, but he could not argue at the truth of his experience. It was as if there was some buffer in his ability to connect with Kull’s body. A buffer that did not exist with the baggers he had enslaved nor with the body of Hosp who stood before him.

  This is strange. Very strange. Hosp’s body mimicked his every thought, whereas Kull’s body had only obeyed with his utmost concentration. He would have given this more thought, but he quickly assumed that this was linked to the incredible surge of power he had gained inexplicably over the last few weeks.

  He extended his hand outward to Hosp, focusing his energy, concentrating on the body before him as he had with Kull. A masterful feeling of capability fell over him as his arm bearing the brace of keys surged with a warm, encouraging energy. Suddenly, without warning he felt a wave crash over him and he tumbled underneath a colossal current. He opened his eyes and saw himself staring at himself. His brain panicked in an effort to understand what had just happened. He cursed, but the voice filling his chamber was not his own. The voice was Hosp’s.

  Seam looked down and saw the hands of the Surrogator filling his vision. Somehow, he had projected his very own essence into the empty body of Hosp. Panic shifted into glee as his jaw dropped at the newfound ability. He could not believe that the Keys would allow such a possibility. Suddenly, an onslaught of memories merged with his own consciousness, as if a titanic memory dump from Hosp’s brain was reconfiguring itself with Seam’s essence. Memories flashed by Seam’s eyes like holographs, and Seam stood transfixed.

  A desert dune stood in his mind, with the cursed sun blazing overhead. The fiery orb was oppressive, its hot light hammering down on him. He looked down and saw the hands of a child, his hands, and heard a rumbling behind him. He turned, knowing that the small backwater town filled with small adobe dwellings was Intryll. The distant rumbling was now close, too close. He turned back toward the dune and ran to its summit, his little legs straining to push him forward.

  Then he saw them. A fleet of black shadows, Grogan rooks flying through the desert. A raid. As he turned screaming, he heard the machine guns begin to whirl and the rockets explode. Then there was only blackness.

  Another memory, another place. He stood next to a woman, her face marred with hot tears streaming from red, tired eyes. He reached out to her, his hands now the size of a man’s, but the woman pushed him away, cursing him. He stepped away from he
r to better see the mob of people gathered in the starless, desert night.

  Two enormous bonfires burned, casting long billows of red light over the crowd of Rihtians huddled around them. A small child stood between the two fires, bound. She looked out over the people, staring at him, clamoring for him to see her, crying out for him with a shrill voice. A thought fell through Seam’s mind; a horrible mind-numbing realization. ‘That is my daughter.’ The truth of the scene fell over him like a ton of bricks, but Seam could feel that she was not the true focus of this memory. Behind the girl stood a huge earthen pillar, decorated by an elaborate mosaic, a collage of shining tiles. No. Not tiles, but something else. Seam strained to see what it was, ignoring the cries from the girl. Broken glass. The mosaic was made of broken glass that reflected the nightmarish red firelight out into the desert air.

  Mirrors. A mosaic of broken mirrors. From a distance Seam heard chanting, low and ominous, yet building. A parade of five dark-clad figures snaked their way out of the shadows, joining the crowds who surrounded the scene. They walked in a row as the Rihtians clamored to give them a wide berth. The figures were draped in black, but bore stark white masks of animal skulls. Upon closer inspection, Seam could see that they wore a wicked collage of bones, draped over the strangers like cloaks, each rattling as they walked.

  The desert witches had arrived.

  The ceremony began. All were silent except for the wails of the small child bound between the flames. The crimson light of the fires seemed to grow with new energy, their light reflecting off the broken mirrors and giving the crowd a nightmarish hue. The five desert witches undulated like twisted puppets in the red light, kicking up sand and throwing handfuls of ash into the desert wind. They danced like dervishes, causing all the people gathered to shake with palpable fear. Their moaning chant rose with each turn of their dance, with each spin of their skull masks, circling around the girl like the coils of a snake, until finally they stopped. Four of the witches knelt down, bowing toward the shattered obelisk. In the middle of the circle stood their leader, a warlock known only to the people as Dyrn.

  More shade than man, Dyrn stood tall, wearing the skull of a stag crowned with giant white antlers that threatened to scrape away the midnight sky. He walked with grim purpose toward the sobbing girl who threw herself against her chains. Dyrn unsheathed a dagger of bone and stood before Hosp’s daughter, running his dirty, long-nailed fingers on her face, tenderly pushing away her tears. He turned around and screamed, his deep guttural voice echoing off his bone mask as he pointed directly at Hosp.

  “Remember this day, Hospsadda. Remember the day you gave your all to the true gods. Remember the power and life you have bought for your people. We will be once again spared by their coming wrath, spared by their coming rule because of this sacrifice. Your sacrifice. You have secured your place in their coming kingdom.”

  Hosp stared at the warlock’s eyes behind the mask of bone. They were the color of blood.

  Dyrn turned, chanting a low, undulating prayer that grew into a din of howls and screams. The sound of Dyrn’s voice echoing in the night made Seam’s consciousness recoil. The dagger bone was lifted above the warlock’s head. He held it there for only an instant and he screamed with horrific finality, “FROM DEATH COMES LIFE!”

  The broken mirrors flashed in an instant with the horrible faces of the Five, each smiling with unholy delight. Seam felt Hosp’s own emotions mimic the faces of the Five in the broken mirrors. He was pleased with what he had seen. The memory faded and Seam felt swept again to another place.

  The beautiful face of Vashti faced his own, and Seam felt Hosp’s fist tighten with rage. The Crossroads. Hosp had been with Vashti at the Crossroads. Vashti stood, her face bent in a scowl.

  Vashti sneered widely, her teeth like white pearls, shining against her luscious dark skin. “There is nothing to worry about, Hospadda. My father does not suspect anything….”

  Hosp’s thin, weasel-like voice echoed in the musty sanctuary commanding his young protégé. “You must take every precaution. It is imperative that you remain discreet. You did not listen to me. You’ve been away from Preost for too long, and now our plans hang by a thread.”

  Vashti growled, “I will not go back to Taluum, Hospsadda. My mistress needs me.” “

  Hosp cut her off, “It is time to focus, Vashti. The plan is already set into motion and I can’t have the Mastermonk suspecting anything. He’s already on high alert. The young Panderean has snuffed out Camden’s life. You must be more careful.

  “What did you tell him? What did you tell Seam?” Vashti’s eyes narrowed with the question.

  Seam felt Hosp’s body tense as he whispered, “I have convinced him that he will be the Keeper.”

  Vashti roared, her voice echoing over the abandoned chamber. “What?!”

  Hosp held out his hand to silence her. Seam felt Hosp’s face bear a twisted, cruel smile. “Yes, Vashti. He will be the Keeper. It is to our benefit that the new High King gather all the Keys of Candor. He already will have one, and soon he will have two. That is once he gathers the one protected by his Captain of the Guard. I will see that he gains the Groganlands Key once Hagan is disposed of.”

  Vashti pulled away from Hosp her voice as sharp as a razor. “How could you do this? The plan was that I would gather my father’s brace, and pay Filip off.” She turned away from him running her fingers through her hair. “This was not our plan, Hosp. She stared back, her eyes threatening. “Why do you shrug away your rightful place? Why will you not be the Keeper?”

  Hosp stared at her, but his mind grew distant. “Because Seam is the only one who can unite the Realms under one banner. He comes to the table with many advantages. First, he is of a royal lineage. Second, he is young, charismatic, and charming.”

  Vashti sighed, frustration washing over her face. Hosp’s voice grew more determined, challenging her attitude as he spoke. “The most important thing, Vashti, is that he is malleable. He has been easy to manipulate. He killed his own father with only an empty promise.”

  Vashti interrupted, “And why would you give him the Keys? You are handing the most powerful weapons in the world to a fool. Don’t you understand how dangerous that is?”

  Hosp took a step closer to his apprentice, and Seam could feel the cold anger running through him. Hosp spoke, his voice as cold as ice. “Vashti, don’t you dare question me. Seam will unite the other Realms, and I will bring the Groganlands under his banner. He will do all the hard work for me.”

  Vashti spat at him, “Is this who you really are?” Seam could see her shake with rage. “Content to be the High King’s lapdog?”

  In an instant, Seam felt Hosp tackle her, slamming her arms back to the stone ground. Hosp screamed, “I AM NO DOG.” Disgusted, he stood over her, his voice growling in the dark. “You are short-sighted. Seam has no idea the power that he will wield. It will take time, but I know much that you don’t, young one. Seam will push the limits of the Keys too far. It is only a matter of time. It will happen in an instant, and that, Vashti, is when I will strike.”

  Vashti struggled, unable to break away from Hosp’s grip, her face flushed. “What? What do you mean? How will you do this?”

  Hosp laughed at her and whispered, “He will gain too much confidence in his powers. He will test his limits and lose control of his own body. And that is when I will strike.”

  Seam’s consciousness panicked within the memory, the truth of his sudden weakness revealed. He screamed, trying to push through Hosp’s detailed recollections, trying to re-establish control over the Surrogator’s body so somehow he could push his way back to his own. Hosp was not waiting to strike; instead there were much more powerful foes waiting for this moment. Mind-numbing fear washed over him when he felt the thunderous crash against the titan’s walls and heard Arakiel scream for his kin.

  “Abtren! Nyx! Get in there! NOW!”

  Seam felt the vehicle carrying him crumble like a cardboard box. The three Celestial
nightmares did not hesitate to rip through the thick steel walls, their blood red eyes fixed on the Keys latched on the arm of Seam’s unguarded body. They howled with an otherworldly blood lust and for the first time in months, Seam felt fear. With all his might he focused, channeling his energy, extending the Surrogator’s hand toward his own abandoned body. He would only have seconds before everything he had built would crumble.

  Seam cursed himself as he fought to forge a connection with his abandoned body. He forced Hosp’s palm open and channeled his entire focus back to his own flesh and blood. Please. Please don’t let me die like this.

  The steel walls surrounding Seam gave way like paper in seconds as Arakiel ripped a large section of the wall free. Abtren and Nyx joined him, howling like a pack of wild hyenas. Arakiel seemed to swell and grow as he pushed himself through the wall. With no Keys to check them, the Serubs bolted toward Seam’s unguarded body with unbridled rage. Seam focused one more time, trying to find his way back. Aleph! Don’t let me die like this!

  Arakiel slammed into Seam’s rigid frame, tackling his body to the floor. The Serub chief drew back his massive hand and swung for Seam’s skull. It came down like a hammer, only to be grasped by the king’s hand. Seam’s eyes flew open as he snapped forward and clamped down on Arakiel’s fist, absorbing the god’s power once again. Seam’s eyes mimicked his enemy’s, turning blood red, only to fade back into their natural color. The High King stood, wrenching Arakiel to his knees, his face a mask of rage.

  “How dare you?” A rush of power swept from Arakiel’s bones and flooded Seam’s veins.