Destiny (The Keeper's Trilogy Book 1)

by Olivia Ali

  As I find my way through the trees that have been my solace for so long, a fire begins to burn within me, bringing me courage in these times of darkness. With each step I take, I stand taller, braver and resemble more of the man that I once was on the surface world. The trees are scarce now and I begin to walk through what must be a meadow or a field; my eyes ever vigilant, darting around the sparseness, ready for the shadows that could and would probably jump out at any minute. As I near the edge of the field, a point begins to form at the edge of the horizon, getting bigger and bigger the closer I get. My steps begin to quicken as hope seems to make the fire within me burn stronger and warmer. The point turns into a spire and a spire into a tower, a tower into a building…and a building into a church.

  I stop for a moment, marvelling at the sight of it. I feel for a moment as though I recognise it, as though I have been here before. In front of me stands a majestic stone archway with large wooden doors adorned with metal bolts and hinges. The archway stretches up and curves to touch a circular stained-glass window with the paintings of people looking up at a black winged angel. This myth is that of the Amaranth; a tale of a complacent prince who was named a saviour to the people of Asan.

  Or perhaps it was God’s Sacrifice, the angel that God sent down as a message to us all; the angel God damned. If that was the case, then this was a Hammerite church, and the two arched windows proved this point. These windows had colours red and silver around the silhouette of a hammer. I followed the structure ever higher, finally finding the steeple that had caught my eyes in the first place, its steel cross catching in some hidden light.

  My eyes were bought back down to the stone doors and the four guards that stood vigil over it; two on either side. The guards were too made of stone and had crests upon their chests. Another mirrored them forming the centre of the huge doors, something my eyes had missed on the first glance. I continued to step forward, slower this time, still vigilant of the shadows that might jump me at any minute. As I stepped onto the concrete steps that formed the base of the church, the doors opened without a touch and I stepped into the light that seemed to emanate from the building, pausing for a moment before entering the magnificent structure.

  I stop just inside the doorway to marvel at the imposing tapestry that stood before me on the wall. Its main colour was blue; a dark indigo background with a much lighter blue figure emblazoned as though the figure were a beacon. But I guess, in a way it was a beacon, a beacon for the Hammerites and their patron Saint Edgar, the father clan. A half-clothed man holding a hammer in the air, light shining from his head like a crown adorned the centre of the tapestry. He had a muscular form and a ring of fire etched around his figure. To the Hammerites, he was a prophet, a speaker for their Lord the Builder. He saved the Hammerites from the accursed Mechanists who betrayed them with their ways of progression as opposed to the means for foundations. The Mechanists had strayed from the path set down by the Builder; the need for the preservation of human life, and instead fought for their advancement and created robotic brains that could power themselves. They had thought they were Gods! And this, St. Edgar could not allow on his oath as a Hammerite. And so, he rose up, for the sake of his beliefs and his God. His strength and valour were truly represented well in this simple yet iconic piece of art.

  To both my left and right was a pathway, the way lit up by fiery torches. Assuming they would both lead me to the interior of the church, I picked one at random and pursued its destination along the blue and red patterned carpet that covered the centre of the floor as a runner against the cobblestones. As I followed it around the corridor, I was led into a huge atrium and I realise now that this is no church but a cathedral as told by the level of detail and structure within the room I now occupied. Ahead of me on the far wall was a large circular stained-glass window. Tints of purple and blue formed a mystical background in contrast to the intimidating red of the hammer that lay in the centre of the glass. In front of this window on a podium was a statue of The Builder himself holding a hammer within his hands as though he were presenting it to someone perhaps? Along the pathway towards him were dark wooden pews that stretched up either side towards the podium, the same silver and red carpet forming a pathway between them. I followed the lines up, seeking a pew somewhere near the front to sit and think a while. I sat for a while, thinking and wondering why such a place had suddenly appeared here; a place of worship, a place of colour, beauty and light in a place of decay, darkness and shadow.

  I closed my eyes a while, letting the fresh air within the church take me to a place I visited often as teenager in my hometown. The place held significance to me and at a time when I felt very lost, it bought me solace, just as the mystery cathedral I was now in was doing. It felt so strange to feel something warm heat up my core, I felt human for the first time in what must have been years.

  Abruptly, I was bought out of my thoughts by a loud tingling sound, as though someone were dragging their hand through a wind chime of some sort. I looked around, having now risen from my pew. I stepped out into the aisle and noticed an open door in the right-hand corner below the stained-glass window. It was something I hadn’t noticed before and the design on the door was rather elaborate so you’d think it would be something I would have noticed at first glance. I approached the door slowly, being sure to keep my eyes peeled for movement at any moment. I noticed a pattern forming on the door; it was changing from a plain wooden door with iron ingots to a very macabre image of a hanged man painted on to the door in dark colours. It resonated a strange feeling within me, as though part of me had seen the image before that only that part remembered. The other part seemed to have eradicated it from thought, but the memory of it was still there...somewhere. As I got closer, the image changed again and the door became reinforced with metal; iron crawling over the wood and choking the life out of it, nails wrought themselves in the border and a dove flew into life on the top panel with a golden key in its beak.

  I knew then that it was a sign! The Keepers had found me, my brothers had come back for me; this was their sigil and it was showing me the way. A light formed at the end of the corridor the door had revealed and I made hastily for it without a second thought. But the closer I got, the further away it seemed to be, as though it were running away from me as I was running towards it. I stopped suddenly, thinking back to the image that had appeared on the door; the first one of the hanging man. Words from my past slithered into my ears, words a teacher had said to one of my fellow Scribes, who at the time had called Mr Ancient as he looked as though he were over a thousand years old; this was probably an exaggeration though. He had taught us the history of the Keepers and how they were a united religion who believed, like the God lovers, that Noah had sent a dove to find land during the Great Flood but instead of an Olive Branch, the dove instead bought back a gold key. According to legend, the key was a sign from Keeper Rune Mages who had managed to protect their compound and surrounding village against the flooding and rise their land to the surface.

  The Keepers split in more recent years into two groups; The Keepers of Time and the Keepers of Secrets. One group concealed the future, the others the past. Talus then came along and he and his brothers united the two once more, however there was a sect of brothers who disagreed with the union and split themselves off and taking on the Dharsi name, becoming a separate brotherhood altogether. The start of their reign had been marked by the hanging of a man, a sacrifice if you like to show their insubordination.

  It was then that I realised I had been tricked. I tried to turn back, escape the fate that all this time I had been trying to avoid. As I ran towards the door it grew further away and I knew then my attempt at escape was folly. Now I was theirs! I felt the light behind me turn to shadow as a sudden coldness crept over me sending shivers up my spine. I stopped then and turned, facing the approaching shadows; they would not take me...not without a fight. As it neared closer to me, I closed my eyes and outstretched my arms, letting the light that r
an through my veins flow out through my fingers. My light would fight this darkness...

  Chapter 4 - The King’s Deepest Regret

  After he left Tristan to head back to the city, Theorryn came to stand by Ivan as he waited for the rest of the mourners to drop dirt onto the casket. The two waited in an awkward silence. Theorryn preferred it this way though; Ivan was one of many who disagreed heavily with the way he was currently leading his life - right into the nearest pub night after night. Ever since his beloved Mariah had died, a stiff ale had always been the perfect end to his day. It was never just the one though, one followed the other, and another, and so on and so forth. It just made things easier.

  As the last of the mourners dropped the dirt, the guards began shovelling more on top of the casket. Ivan turned away, leading the other councillors that had formed around him into the palace and towards the throne room where the Princess Iris would be waiting to receive them. As they walked in silence, Theorryn wondered what the meeting might hold for them. The higher up members had been very secretive as to what it was about and this puzzled him greatly.

  “Have you been drinking again?” Theorryn was brought out of his thoughts by Balderick who had been walking next to him.

  When Theorryn didn’t answer, Balderick shook his head but said nothing. The smell of stale ale was obviously more noticeable than he had realised. But he didn’t care – people could think what they wanted so long as they didn’t voice their judgements. He followed the others into the throne room and they began filling up the stalls in the sides of the room. Iris was sat at her own throne next to her father’s wearing a long black dress almost as dark as her hair and making her pale skin paler still. She had retreated inside after dropping the first lot of dirt onto her father’s casket – unable to face the dull affair any longer.

  Theorryn took his place next to Hamish in the stalls. Hamish was the mediator with the Keepers – not that his role meant anything anymore as they had all Faded. Theorryn had often wondered what it was about Hamish that had not made him suffer the same fate as his brothers and sisters. Hamish said nothing to Theorryn as he sat, he didn’t even acknowledge him with a nod but Theorryn was glad for it – he had never liked the Keepers anyway, not since they caused him to lose both of his sons. He waited patiently as the other members of the council scattered into the stalls – barely filling them out. When everyone had taken their seats, Ivan took to the platform where the thrones sat, Derek the head of the royal guard standing beside him.

  “Welcome my friends,” Ivan addressed in his heavy eastern accent. He had been a resident in Az Lagní for as long as anyone could remember but his accent was one of the things that had never left him. “I am sorry to ask you here on a day such as today…but as they say…needs must. I have a matter of great importance to inform you all on, but first I would like to introduce you to an esteemed guest.” He outstretched a hand and a cloaked figure stepped out of the shadows. “Ladies and gentlemen, Lord Isiah of Nuzùlu!”

  Many of the council members gasped, a ripple of whispers and hushed voices suddenly making the throne room rather echoic. Nuzùlu was the hometown of their late Queen Isolde and the Lord Isiah was her brother. But what matter of Az Lagní would ever concern him? As the council members quietened again, Isiah removed his hood to reveal long flowing blonde hair, much like that of a woman’s. The purple cloak concealed the rest of his body, leaving his attire unto the imagination, but it was probably as regal and girlish as his hair Theorryn thought. They were like that in Nuzùlu. The last time the Lord Isiah had been seen in Az Lagní was at Isolde’s and her son Jacques’ joint funeral – about sixteen years ago.

  “It would appear,” Ivan continued with his address. “That we have all been deceived. Now the exact origin of this deceit is unclear but I hope that the Lord Isiah can clear up anything that may be a little unclear. You will all remember how the Queen shared her death with her son Jacques who had been thirteen at the time. He had gone missing in the moments after the poisoning of our Queen at Iris’ tenth birthday banquet and the guards had found him dead on the river bank hours after the Queen gave up her fight.” The council members, almost in unison muttered a word of memorial for their lost Queen and Prince and now their King, each bowing their heads and placing their right hand over their chests before returning their gaze to Ivan.

  “But it would seem that our Prince never died and that he is still alive today.”

  The rumble of whispers returned to the room only louder this time and more urgent. Many were shaking their heads and clapping their knees in laughter, thinking it were a joke. Theorryn however knew it to be true. He remembered the night well unlike many more recent nights. Isiah had bought a much-tormented Jacques to his door to say goodbye to Romeo and Tristan. He had never explained why he was taking him away, just that it was for the best and that it was time he learnt about his heritage to the Keepers. As far as Theorryn was aware he was then taken to Dilu to become a Keeper but when he heard of the death, he had half believed it until Tristan wrote to him telling him of their reunion on his initiation as a Scribe.

  He watched the other members of the council, eagerly awaiting their silence as their rising whispers echoed in his ears causing his head to pulse. He rubbed his temples in annoyance – if he had known this would have been today’s event, he would not have had that ale with his breakfast. As he let his eyes wonder, he spied Daniel leaning against the stalls opposite him, a very worried look on his face. Daniel had been the King’s advisor – could it have been that he knew the untold story of the true events of Jacques’ disappearance? You’d think someone of his stature would after all.

  “My friends, please hold your tongues!” pleaded Ivan, raising his voice slightly. “The Lord Isiah will now explain the events of that night as he remembers them.” He nodded his head to Isiah as he took to the centre of the platform.

  “As Ivan has already stated, many of you will remember that night…some of you through word of mouth and others of you deny the true events in favour of the account just given for reasons of loyalty to your king.” Isiah had a very commanding voice, an aura or sheer dominance and masculinity about him despite his contrasting appearance. “I ask you to join with me now in recounting the events as I saw them…as some of you saw them.

  “Jacques had been late on attendance to the Princess’ banquet so on the request of my sister I went to find him in the courtyard with two young boys. Upon cajoling him, I bade him in, telling him to fetch his mother a glass of wine from the kitchens on his way up. Upon my return to the hall, Jacques was with his mother handing her the wine only for her to hours later be coughing and spurting it back up with blood. Many of you will remember the king’s outburst at his son for serving his wife a poisoned brew, how he accused his own son of murder and betrayal. But he was ill-advised on his own part and cast his son out without listening to reason, he had only given the glass to his mother…he had not poured it…we all know the outcome of that story.” The poisoning of the Queen had been linked back to the cook Claire who had been given the concoction by a trader from an unknown land with the intention of setting up a rift between the Queen and her brother. Their plan had of course failed when she was arrested and sentenced to death for betrayal to the crown, the trader however was never caught. The only thing they had succeeded in was Isolde’s death.

  “To save the further humiliation of my nephew I took him away in the hope the King would come to his senses. He stayed with a friend of mine whilst I tried to calm the situation, informing the King that there was no way Jacques would poison his own mother. He chose to inform the people of his son’s disappearance and then on his apparent death. So, I took Jacques away and yes, I confess to having harboured him all these years away from you but alas, what else was I to do. Up until now I had been constantly writing to Rubuen, begging him to see the error of his ways. But he never saw things the same way as I, and the reason I am before you now is not to contest your King but to simply do right by my
nephew and give him the chance his father never did.” As Isiah finished his story he took a step back, giving the floor back to Ivan who addressed the council members once more.

  “As you all know the king has been rather ill for the past few months,” many of the council members were whispering amongst themselves as Ivan spoke, but he chose to ignore their insolence and continue with what he was saying. “Yesterday evening before the king took his final breath, he admitted to me that his son Jacques was still alive and told me the same story that Isaiah has just told all of you. If any of you contest that story, I suggest you speak up now!” he raised his voice, silencing the council once more.

  Theorryn let a snigger escape his lips, unheard by the others – Ivan was not an intimidating man but quite obviously a man that the rest were rather afraid of. He watched as Ivan looked over the members in the stalls, still not saying a word, a stern look painted upon his bony face. He was obviously pausing for effect – seeing if anyone would dare to contest not just himself but the Lord Isiah. Once he saw that he now had control of the room once more, he stepped to the side, addressing the council as he paced the platform where Iris sat at her throne. Theorryn was surprised at how silent she had been – had she too known all this time that her brother was alive? The fresh tears on her face told him otherwise though, she was obviously too overcome with emotion and grief that she couldn’t utter a single word.