Keys of Candor: Trilogy

by Casey Eanes

  Seam peered at Dyrn and squinted, focusing all his effort and energy on the itch he could feel clawing deep within his psyche. At first there was nothing. It was like running a truck into an impenetrable fortress, but then, he felt a weakness. It was like a crack in a dam, but it was enough. He focused his mental energies and his efforts brought forth a flood of memories and emotions as Seam felt his consciousness slip away.

  Darkness lifted and Seam stood over five bodies, each lying motionless on a gurney. The metal legs carrying him were clumsy and loud, but he bounced with anticipation as he moved between the figures who lay silently in the harsh overhead light of the medical facility. His hands glided over one of the figures, outlining their shape. His vision was blurred, muddy and imperfect, but his sense of hearing and touch were unbelievable. He felt like he could count each individual fiber in the linens covering the five bodies lying before him.

  A young Rihtian doctor stepped into the room and quickly lowered to one knee. “My lord. We are ready to proceed. Are the volunteers to your liking?”

  Seam watched as he pulled back the sheet covering the nearest body and there below him, the face was unmistakable. Arakiel. Arakiel lay silently in a deep sleep.

  “Tell the elders I will begin shortly. Within a few weeks they will all be repurposed, but I still need one more. The last subject was not strong enough for my first round of testing.”

  The voice that flew from him was younger, but Seam could still recognize it. Dyrn. Seam fought to remain calm at the realization he was reliving Dyrn’s own memories and did his best to stop his own paranoia setting in. The desert witch rolled back the sheets covering each of his subject’s faces. One by one the Serubs were revealed: Arakiel, Abtren, Bastion, Nyx, and finally Luken.

  Seam could feel his heart racing as he peered over the bodies, each waiting to be ‘repurposed.’ He knew what was about to come and could not help but feel the slightest bit of remorse for the torture they were about to endure. Are they alive? Each body was ashen and still as if dead. Yet they did not look dead to Seam. Then something stood out to him. Where is Isphet?

  Dyrn turned and examined a sprawling assortment of sterling medical blades and devices gleaming under the luminous overhead lights, bleaching out the white walls of the room. Arakiel’s body was rolled under this harsh light as a covering of spider-like mechanical arms descended from the room’s ceiling, each tipped with a small blade or saw.

  Seam readied himself to turn away as the arms plunged into Arakiel’s body, but the vision became clouded and morphed slightly, though Seam didn’t feel a shift in location. The surroundings remained the same.

  The timing. The timing has changed. Five large tanks had been brought into the operating room, and four were filled with a yellow gel. Inside, suspended in the amber liquid, the Serubs floated like giant puppets, not marred except for the tubes running in and out of their torsos and heads. Bastion, Arakiel, Nyx, and Abtren were all in their holding tanks.

  Dyrn stared at them, and Seam could feel the storm of Dyrn’s mechanical mind as it tallied his progress. “Bring in the display units.”

  The young doctor pushed in an object that made Seam’s heart stop. A long, unremarkable mirror was pushed into the room. Dyrn stared at it and looked back at the beautiful body of Abtren. “Let’s check the transfer.” Dyrn looked briefly down to his right wrist, and there, bound to his arm, were the Keys of Candor. The doctor looked nervously at Dyrn. “Are you sure this will work, my lord? I’d hate to lose another…”

  “Not another word,” Dyrn interrupted. He held up his arm, and Seam could feel the rushing surge of power from the Keys. Seam felt Dyrn’s mind focus on Arakiel, and in a sudden rush, his body disappeared. Dyrn spun around to the mirror display only to find Arakiel suspended in the mirror.

  “Excellent. The transfer to the remote holding cells is working perfectly.” Dyrn stared down at the Keys as pride filled his mind. He stared at the doctor who circled around the mirror. “Let’s test the neural programming, shall we? We need to make sure that their new identity programming takes.”

  Dyrn stepped forward to the edge of the glass. “Wake up.”

  Arakiel’s eyes flew open on command. Silently he stared out, his muscular body naked behind the glass.

  “What is your name?”

  “I...I am...Kaleb from Fayl….”

  Dyrn held up the Keys directly over the man’s face and spoke. “Mount the root identity kernel: subject Arakiel. Re-engage programming, now.”

  Seam saw the man’s face fall into unconsciousness, only to come back laced with the deep lines of rage.

  Dyrn cocked his head and repeated the question. “What is your name?”

  “I am Arakiel, mortal. How dare you approach my throne?” The chamber shook with profound energy, and Dyrn smiled.

  “Good. Now sleep.” Arakiel’s body went limp within the mirror as Dyrn looked at the assistant who stood by him. “Upload the remaining kernels into their neural laces and run the diagnostics to ensure the transfers are successful. There must be no corruption with the transfers.”

  The doctor glanced over Dyrn’s shoulder to Luken’s body lying on the gurney. “What about him, my lord?”

  Dyrn replied, his voice barely containing his rage, “I cannot get the Aleph identity kernel to mount within his lace. The subject continues to claim his name is Luken. Send me over Isphet’s identity kernel. We will see if we can get his mind to accept another program.”

  The doctor bowed and began to exit.

  “And Hart?” Dyrn called up. “Tell the elders that I need another subject, or the pantheon will not be complete.”

  “Understood, my lord.”

  Another time, another vision. Seam saw Dyrn delicately snip at the ligaments within Luken’s wrists, weaving them into a small box that was adhered to his ulna.

  A small red light lit silently over the door, catching Dyrn’s attention. He looked back down over his labor and toiled with the last connection, taking his time to ensure a proper fit. He stood and called out. “Enter now.”

  The same young doctor from the earlier vision stepped into the room and bowed to a knee. He rose back up and turned to the door, motioning with his left arm for someone to follow. A skinny, olive-skinned man stepped into the room. He wore nothing but loose, white linen pants. His bare feet were covered in mud, and his chest was slightly sunken, his ribs protruding. His long, black hair hung around his shoulders like a matted lion’s mane. He took his time stepping into the room, his head down. The man averted his eyes as he peered at the holding tanks. In his hand was a small carved idol of a slithering wooden snake.

  “What is this?” Dyrn barked. “Why are you bringing me this urchin trash, Hart? This was the best you could bring me? How dare you insult my work!?”

  Dyrn raised his hand and slapped the doctor, who cowered back to the door. “My lord. The elders sent him, not me. They told me that this man...this man’s consciousness may prove useful to you.”

  “What?! You told the elders of the corrupted identity mounts?” Dyrn flipped a table and grabbed a scalpel, stepping toward his assistant.

  “Stop, there is no need for this.” That voice. Seam felt Dyrn recoil at the sound of the voice, and he saw Dyrn’s vision swing back around to face the dirty pauper. The man raised his head for the first time to meet Dyrn’s gaze, his yellow eyes burning with passion. Seam’s pulse stopped.

  “I am Isphet, Lord of Chaos!”

  The young man’s yellow eyes pierced through Dyrn without blinking. A flash of recognition glinted in his eye, and Seam shuddered within the memory.

  It’s impossible. He can’t see me…can he? I am simply recalling memories.

  Isphet stepped forward, furrowing his brow as he peered into Dyrn’s eyes. “I think you already know what I am capable of.”

  As Seam’s pulse quickened a terrible pressure built in his head, squeezing and pressing in over him like an avalanche. He felt himself choking, gasping for air as the d
arkness swept over him.

  Seam woke, lying on a gurney, staring up at the operating room lights, his arms shackled to the gurney and his head and neck restrained with thick leather straps.

  “Impossible!” Dyrn’s voice was jagged and filled with contempt. “It was a mistake leaving even a shred of your former self intact, but that mistake will now be remedied. As much as I desire you to suffer for your intrusion, I will not place our mission at risk for the sake of retribution.” Dyrn stared at Seam and flipped switches outside of Seam’s vision. The growing buildup of electric machines whirled, readying themselves for Seam’s coming torture.

  “Goodbye, Seam Panderean. This is the end of your life as you have known it. You belong to my control now.”

  Dyrn flipped a switch as arcs of electricity crawled over Seam’s skin, burning every inch of his body. He arched his back, screaming out in agony as tendrils of white-hot pain roared over the surface of his skin, arcing from his fingertips, eyes, and mouth. A loud thumping noise undulated through the room, distant at first, but quickly invading Seam’s inner ear. The noise pressed in over his eardrums, causing an incredible dull pressure that blurred his vision. Then, cutting through the continuous thuds and crackling electricity was a chattering noise like a thousand metal fingers scratching against stone, but the new noise came from within, choking out Seam’s own thoughts as the taste of blood and bile filled his mouth and the smell of burned flesh filled his nostrils.

  The torturous overload of Seam’s senses stretched his sanity and consciousness. The torture was unlike Dyrn’s former tinkering; there was no methodical plotting. No delicate dance between life and death. Seam fought to focus on his own memories and his own consciousness amidst the torturous, inhuman swirl of pain. The fabric of Seam’s mind was being ripped apart as his senses mixed in unexplainable ways. He could hear his pain and feel the sounds around him as his brain fought to understand the onslaught being levied against it.

  Dyrn’s lips were moving but no words could be comprehended as Seam lay helpless, with no choice other than to accept this horrible punishment. Then, as he watched his torturer, he felt a spark in his chest, an ember being breathed to life despite his circumstances. The same burning feeling that called him into Dyrn’s mind called Seam inward to a secret place. As Dyrn intensified his attack, Seam pulled in one last breath as he felt his spirit cave in on itself.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Hagan Kara stepped from an inky black cloud of shadows and glided across the concrete floors of the Rhuddenhall capitol building, his armor glinting in the moonlight as he approached Willyn’s bed.

  “Strange reversal of fortune isn’t it, Lyn? Last we were together it was me lying in a bed hooked to machines, depending on them for my future.”

  Willyn sat up slowly in her bed and squinted at her brother’s rugged form. His broad shoulders, his angled jaw, his smile...it was all so familiar, but his eyes were wrong.

  “What’s wrong, Lyn? Don’t worry...” Hagan’s deep, raspy voice slid into a smoother, darker tone as he continued. “I know where you are. You and Luken are safe...for now.”

  “Luken…” Willyn’s eyes flew open, greeted by the rays of sunlight that made long rectangles on the gray concrete ceiling. She heaved several breaths as the light chased away her nightmare. She breathed in, closing her eyes again, smelling the dark and cool room around her as her fingers inched across the thin sheets that surrounded her body. Home, I really am home. She knew she was back in Rhuddenhall, but the familiarity was clouded. Everything still felt muddled, just like her dream.

  “I’m here, Willyn.” A warm hand found Willyn’s, and she opened her eyes. Luken’s gray eyes mirrored the concrete surrounding them in the chamber.

  “How did we get here?”

  “Rander saw to that...”

  “Rander?” The snarling face of a distant enemy filled the chambers of her dark mind. She could still hear the echo of the people calling his name in the subterranean arena, ‘Rander! Rander!’ A jolt of fear made her sit up in her bed. Just like Hosp. You left this man in power...the Reds…they will....

  “My Sar.” The grave voice broke through Willyn’s mania, forcing her eyes to the door and the figures entering her room. The object of her fears approached, flanked by two Red soldiers. He issued her a quick salute, only to dip to one knee. Willyn then remembered landing the blow on her enemy, the bow signaling his submission. In the reverent bow, Rander’s silver crew cut hair shone bright in the dawn’s oncoming light. “I trust you have rested well? Forgive me for intruding, but we have much to discuss.”

  Willyn sat up, her crisp blue eyes snapping to Luken for more context. There was no fear on her friend’s face, but she could tell he was wary of the Red leader. Her voice shifted into the cadence of her station. “Hail, friend Rander. I…” She could not speak as her voice vanished at the sight. My arm. There, latched into the stump of what was once her arm, was a mechanical wonder.

  “Forgive me, my Sar. It was the best we could arrange upon learning of your wound. Shipped in directly from Lotte.” Willyn held up the alien appendage, its silver form reflecting the golden rays of sunlight that trailed in from the small windows of the chamber. She laughed as the five digits on the mechanical hand danced with her thoughts. Incredibly, she could feel a dull sensation of what felt like a muted form of touch race up her arm.

  “It will take some getting used to, my lord”

  “She will manage,” Luken broke in, standing beside Willyn’s bed, his face lined with worry. “What do we need to discuss?”

  Rander blinked, his dark eyes staring through Luken, focusing only on Willyn. “My lady, my men need to know what news comes from Zenith. We need to discuss our next steps.”

  Willyn nodded, her mind still cloudy at the sight of the prosthetic arm. It was all she could do not to lose herself in the magic link that now lay between her and the machine.

  “Aye, Rander. We will meet in an hour. I just need some time. We will undergo a full briefing in the war room. Just give me a few moments.”

  “As you wish, my Sar.” Rander saluted and quickly exited the chamber with his silent guards without giving so much as glance to Luken.

  Luken stood as still as a statue as the men left. Willyn could feel his distrust percolate into the room.

  “You don’t like him, do you, Luken?” Willyn spoke as she continued to examine her new appendage.

  “Worse,” Luken whispered as he kneeled to meet Willyn’s gaze. “I do not trust him. He’s got the eyes of a killer. He’d sooner kill you and take the throne…”

  Willyn looked up at Luken and shook her head. “No, Luken. All of Candor thinks the Grogans are nothing but brutes, but he has pledged his allegiance after I bested him. I think we can trust Rander’s support.”

  Luken laughed, his tone dancing into a jig of sarcasm. “You think? You think we can trust him? I want to know we can trust him.”

  “What else do we have now, Luken, but to trust him? Who else do we have to turn to?”

  “Aleigha and the resistance building in Lotte might...”

  Willyn stood from her cot and grasped Luken’s arm with her new mechanical hand, pressing every bit of energy into its vice-like grasp. “If I can’t trust my own Grogan brothers and sisters, I have no one to trust, Luken.”

  Luken winced as Willyn pressed in on his arm. His eyes softened and he shook his head. “You can trust me.”

  Willyn nodded. “I know. I trust you more than anyone else.” She released his arm and stepped past him, glancing out into the long, gray hallway, examining it for any intruders before stepping back into the room. “But we have to be able to trust our allies if we are going to fight. It will take more than the two of us.”

  Luken nodded and sat on the cot next to Willyn’s bed, staring at the floor with a furrowed brow. “Something just doesn’t feel right about him, Willyn. We need to be cautious, but I agree. He is our best chance here in the Groganlands. We need the Reds...” Luken looked u
p, finding Willyn examining her arm again as she stepped across the floor to a long mirror hanging on the adjacent wall. Lost in her thoughts, she scanned the metallic skin, running her fingers over the smooth surface, recoiling at the sensation coursing up her arm. As she drew closer to the mirror she pushed back the hair hanging in her face and stopped several feet from the mirror.

  “What have I become?” Willyn stammered as she ran her prosthetic finger over the scars running down from her forehead to her right cheek, circling the outside of her eye.

  Luken stepped behind Willyn and placed his hand on her elbow as he drew closer. “You have become your people’s only hope. They need you, Willyn. We all do.” Luken’s gentle touch calmed Willyn’s racing mind. The slight embrace brought with it a familiar excitement she had felt back when she first met Luken. Her eyes fell from his and back to her silver arm. Focus. She glanced up, her voice laced with heavy responsibility. “Rander’s waiting, Luken,” she said as she pulled a long-sleeved jacket over her shoulders, concealing her new arm.

  Luken said nothing, but his eyes fell on her with an incredible weight, burdened by something that no words could express. He sighed, nodded and whispered, “Then let’s go.”

  The Grogan war room of the Sar was the most ornate room of ceremony in all of Rhuddenhall. The long, rectangular chamber would pass for a throne room in any other Realm, but for the Grogans this luxurious room was saved for the art of making war. The domed ceiling flew dramatically up to a single giant skylight, where a pillar of bright desert light plummeted down, filling the room with its heat and brightness. Within the circle lay a huge map of Candor, the island continent set perfectly within the circle of light, the land laid bare for future Grogan conquest. She walked into the room with Luken following a half pace behind. This space, this palace of war strategy always reminded Willyn of her father, Wodyn. Memories filled her mind of a distant, far-flung childhood. This was the place she could find her father. He was always alone, staring at the map of Candor, his massive body dwarfed in the spectacle of the chamber. The weight on his shoulders…