The Hidden Key (Second Sacred Trinity)

by S E Holmes

  I had no chance for worry, this had all happened too quickly. My reluctance was now irrelevant; the Keeper’s fate beckoned, whether I would have it or not. The best I could hope for was that the Ritual worked. In the past a living Keeper bestowed the skills and secrets upon her successor. I had no idea what would happen if she didn’t. The strange collection of items in the triangle flickered like diamond dust, gaining brilliance until their forms were no longer observable.

  The fevered chanting continued as the walls spun in revolutions too fast to catch, shimmering and translucent – a slowly materialising world wavering beyond them. It was like glimpsing a scene reflected in a clear pool, one moment defined, and the next, obscured by a breeze on its surface. I squinted, fighting the vertigo of the spinning chamber and strobing lights, a vast hidden power hinted at and drawing nearer. It was my world, a realm in which I belonged, as had my ancestors.

  But I vacillated. A Keeper’s commitment was a heavy burden, was I ready or even capable of carrying it? Like my family before, obligation was thrust upon me and I had no choice in the matter. More than anything else, I resented it. I had never responded well to authority. The Keeper’s contract seemed the highest demand of obedience.

  I did not think the trade-offs were worth it. In my daydreams I had never wished to stand above, hoping instead for simple things such as true friendship and stability. The thought of near immortality made me ill; I was the only Keeper left. There would be no others to relieve me when my long reign was spent. I was to overcome this trial or die in defeat.

  A chorus of reassuring whispers claimed my attention, the women’s voices prominent in my consciousness. Finally, I submitted to the pull of destiny and the subliminal pressure of my peers. The radiance Smithy, Daniel and I encircled flared, then dissolved into the floor as the booming mantra climaxed and halted. Silence fell and the black candles blew out, smoke curling high in a burning sphere. A brief fireball split and ricocheted off the walls to pierce us all.

  As the heat lit upon me, my awareness became acute. I could hear the slowing of the combined heartbeats in the Sacred Dome, detect the rising and falling of Smithy’s chest as it froze mid-exhalation, a strand of hair fixed. So too, Daniel’s eyelids as they fluttered infinitesimally to stick mid-blink. I could feel the tangible connections forging between us, binding us unalterably together. Others were joined, some recently known, some hazy, whose loyalty to our quest was forever cemented.

  There was a brief moment of stillness and then, the Ritual Chamber coated in white marble veined with pearly phosphorescence. My guardians and my Warriors became sentinels rendered in impassive stone. Blackness blanketed, leaving the brightness of the ceiling disk that contracted to a circle inside the Delta. The ground at my feet groaned and the area within the triangle spread apart, nothingness traded for a stairwell at its apex, widening down into the gloom.

  “The Delta Pathway is open! Welcome, Winsome Light, the Last Keeper of the Crone’s Stone.”

  A sense of urgency stole through me, a compelling force impossible to fight. I descended rapidly and almost fell into the arms of Raphaela at the bottom. Adorned in the same gown, her hair flowing about her face, she noiselessly dragged me to the triangular base upon which a towering marble effigy stood, her name engraved into the stone at its front. I noticed its features were blank. She spun and clasped my hands in her own, bowed her head and muttered an incantation.

  A star burst through my fingers to spike my brain. I cried out, writhing against Raphaela, but she pinned me hard. My eyes flew open. The intensity ravaged my vision, the skin between my fingers glowing ruby.

  “You’re hurting me. Let go!”

  But my squeals and struggles achieved nothing. Thin though Raphaela was, she was too strong and impervious to my pain. She continued the chant through clenched teeth. Her eyes pressed shut, tears leaking from their corners. My anger boiled over. Who were these people to do this to me? Those I loved kept me weak in ignorance so they could ambush my future.

  “Look at me,” I snarled.

  Raphaela raised her head and opened her eyes. Her speech ceased and she stared at me with unrivalled pity and sadness. “It is done. The Stone is yours to protect evermore. I am so very sorry for this burden, Winsome. On one so young.”

  Regret was evident in her lilting Louisiana accent. She collapsed back upon the pedestal of her statue and slid exhausted to the ground. It was then I acknowledged my hands were not empty; they cupped an icy hardness as big as a coconut. Fear seethed in my belly, and for a moment, I was too afraid to look down.

  I clutched the witch’s Stone.

  Its power radiated in waves, shocking me with the strength and malice of its aura. I strained against the overwhelming desire to hurl it away, to cleanse myself of its hateful stain.

  “You cannot be rid of it that easily. Whether you will it or not, it is tied to you now. You know where you must hide it.” She sagged against her own tomb and before my horrified gaze, aged. Raphaela’s lovely face withered, her hair lost colour and lustre. “You are running out of time to ask me what you need to know.” She smiled feebly. “I return to the heavens soon. Free, at last.”

  From the fringe of my vision, the glittering Stone beckoned, tugging at my unwilling focus. My hands peeled apart. Nestled within rested a flawless globe that gleamed with a thousand colours: peach, topaz, shot through with vivid reds, aqua and mauve – captivatingly beautiful. There was the endless azure of wide summer skies, the vibrant green of unmown grass, and the golden corona of the sun as it first brushed the night-time horizon, streaking the constellations with all the possibilities of a new day. I stared down into its limitless mysteries.

  In its kaleidoscope depths were softer hues too numerous to count, that evoked the intense blush of first love, the crumbly sweetness of vanilla slice – my favourite food, the joy of unexpected discovery when cataloguing a fresh collection. Rapture fired my veins, a molten yearning so intense I had to claim it and take this gift of infinite reward and pleasure for my own. I could stare into the Stone’s myriad facets forever and never be bored … nor completely fulfilled. There was always more to behold.

  “Winsome,” Raphaela cautioned. “Shield your mind, do not surrender. Hide the Stone!”

  Her voice broke into my daze, a bothersome gnat in my ear. I psychically shook her away and returned to the gem’s perpetual temptations. The exhilaration of learning to ride a bicycle, of savouring an excellent book, of hot chocolate and marshmallows by the fire on a snowy winter’s eve, of tantalising experiences yet to come – the sizzling stroke of a lover’s tongue. My secret fantasies of Smithy.

  “Winsome. You must hide it. Now!”

  There were my parents, alive and smiling with me safely between them. An ordinary girl in an ordinary world. Raphaela hauled herself up and before I could react, slapped me twice across the cheek. My head jerked with the impact and the stinging woke me from the trance. She crumpled to the floor. I juggled the huge jewel to the tips of my fingers and awkwardly pressed my wrists together, hurrying to conceal it and rid myself of the Stone’s all-consuming magnetism.

  In a flash, it reduced to a baby-pink diamond in the shape of a heart between my palms, shrinking to an ever smaller point of light that blinked out and was gone. Its absence devoured me, a loss as profound as if my mother and father had been torn from me yesterday. I sunk to my knees and wept. Raphaela dragged me to her against the plinth. She pushed the hair from my clammy forehead.

  “Remember Enoch.”

  Memory of his spell the first time I’d seen him truly, cleansed my mind like a spring shower, banishing the horrid limbo of craving. It was over. Next to me, Raphaela sighed relief.

  “The Claiming Ritual is complete.” She spoke to air, but I got the impression the message reached unseen recipients.

  The diary materialised in her lap. I took in the space we occupied over her shoulder. This room mirrored the basic cylindrical structure of the Sacred temple, but here corridors ext
ended outwards at intervals, spokes from a circular hub. It was a mausoleum. The final resting place of generations of the Order of the Sacred Trinity sacrificed opposing Finesse. My parents were here somewhere and I felt their presence keenly.

  Statues fronted the curved niches of previous Keepers atop marble Deltas, their wrists crossed at their chests, each holding their preferred Object. Their names carved the floor. Isadore, Alexandra, Bernadette, Raphaela – a staggering millennium of service between them. I sought for Isadore, the first of our sisters to grace this earth. Her features were smooth where her face should be, and her hands hung unencumbered by her sides.

  “So many things could have gone wrong, Winsome.” Raphaela recounted as much to herself as to me. “It is a wonder you are here. That you resisted the novice Keeper’s curse and lasted until Daniel could bring you the Amulet. That the Ritual succeeded without a living Keeper to pass on the legacy. That you triumphed against the Stone just now. It bodes exceedingly well.”

  “I nearly got lost in the Stone. If it were not for you …”

  I could not accept Raphaela’s praise; I had almost failed before I’d even begun. Doubt in myself surged. I wanted more than anything to be someone else, to run away and pretend I hadn’t experienced the grubby depths of the world, what seethed beneath. I weighed exile at obscure locations and whose face I would request from the plastic surgeon as a disguise.

  “If it weren’t for me, you would not be here prematurely. None of this would be necessary.” Raphaela intruded on my distraction. “You are strong, Winnie. You are the youngest Keeper, and untrained, yet here you sit, sane and undamaged. You truly are a credit to your lineage. Now, we have much to discuss. Ask me your questions, I owe you that much at least.”

  Perhaps it was overly optimistic to label me undamaged. And she was right. The narky part of me mulled over all the things this woman was responsible for, the stupid helicopter included. I had serious reservations about Raphaela’s optimistic evaluation, but I had to exploit her knowledge before it was too late. Raphaela was my best chance – possibly my only chance – to defeat the Crone and reclaim my future.

  Seventeen

  Where to begin? How did one fit enough questions to cover more than a thousand years into a conversation with a woman who withered visibly with every passing instant? Witnessing her decline made me ill.

  “Will you be alright?”

  “Winsome,” she smiled, her eyes clear despite advancing age. “I greet this end without hesitation. If I have regrets, they are that my deliverance has come at your cost. And I will not get the opportunity to know you, for which I am profoundly sorry.”

  “How do I beat her?”

  “You must remember, Winnie, a skill unpractised is a skill lost. The Keepers before me had been too successful at hiding. Their talents remained dormant and diminished down the years. So when my turn came, I inherited almost nothing of the original power Isadore possessed innately. How are your dreams, Winsome?” she asked. “The visions will hound you to action, unless you wish to succumb to madness as was Bernadette’s fate.”

  “Hiding is definitely out, then.”

  I suspected those dreams of Daniel and his doomed family could get a whole lot more horrid before the end of his story. If they weren’t the worst of it, I couldn’t imagine sleeping ever again. A chill seeped my bones and my teeth began to chatter.

  “From the beginning, we Keepers have buried our heads in the sand. Yet the witch has indeed been busy. She leaves a trail of desolation in the endless search and no one is immune. Not babies, not mothers, brothers, grandparents, not anyone. The despised witch must be challenged and you are the only one to do it.”

  Her hair was white and wispy, skin creased like parchment. She casually fingered her jaw, reaching into her mouth to extract a tooth. Her tongue nudged the inside of her cheek at newly raw gum. She changed position, rolling stiff shoulders.

  “So this is arthritis. Most objectionable.”

  I pushed her on. “You changed the Ritual to give me help?”

  “Previously, we inherited our gifts in consecutive fashion. I have altered the Ritual to ensure you will receive our accrued pasts, regardless of Bernadette’s insanity. It is not the only alteration I made.”

  That sounded ominous.

  “Seth.” She could not hide the longing, before her tone hardened. It appeared that she remained unaware of his true name. “You will not suffer the lonely centuries as I did, Winnie. I made sure of it. He will protect you with his dying breath. When your travails are finally over, he will be by you for life. You can live as normal people, love, have children, and perhaps even grow old at a normal pace. This bequest to you is my atonement.”

  Peachy! Did I really come across as so romantically inept? There were several flaws in her white-picket-fence fairytale, which Smithy would point out were he present. I settled for stating the obvious.

  “But D-Seth was yours, Raphaela. He loved you.” If Daniel had not shared his true name with Raphaela, who was I to? Technically, he hadn’t shared with me either, but it seemed I could now access more and more of our history. Maybe full disclosure was due to us nearing the end game. I hoped how this knowledge helped, became clearer soon.

  “Do not judge him harshly, Winsome. You have no concept of what he’s lost.” I didn’t have time to put her straight on that account. “Seth has been imprisoned for innumerable years. He will come to see you as his saviour, as the one who offers him purpose after all that time. You will have freed him and provided him with the occasion to exact revenge on his tormentor. More than anyone, Seth as you will come to know him truly, deserves a second chance at happiness. You should offer him that chance, Winsome.”

  I detested the word “should.” Thanks to her free-loving meddling, dealing with Daniel was going to be tricky. In the real world, where flower-power was brown and shrivelled in its pot, Smithy enjoyed beating him with a metal bar. It was probably best to omit the choking episode of my last visit, too.

  “Will any of the things you have done help me win?” It was ungrateful, but Raphaela had not answered my original question.

  She worked to fill her lungs, her efforts shallow and rasping. She had reached old age in an alarmingly short period and was after all, a victim too. I should reserve my bile for the one who deserved it most, the one who necessitated our involvement from the beginning. My predecessor gave me a gap-toothed grin.

  “Murdering you now is no easy feat, even without the modifications. Your supremacy is on the ascension and you will develop your own abilities to fit the demands of the role. These will be extraordinary, I am positive. A Keeper turning to face her foe. That would be something to see. I predict the vile Priestess will not have it as easy as she anticipates.” Her speech tumbled forth under the pressure of shrinking time.

  “And you have accepted the mantle as the youngest Keeper. The Key is your primary objective now. You simply must find it, and the remaining lost articles. You have to leave for Lafayette as soon as chance allows. I believe Bernadette found the Keeper’s Key and brought it with her from the old continent. I followed her journey down through Canada, exhausting all other alternatives en route for its resting place. Bernadette died on my land in Lafayette and I am sure she was in possession of the Key. I trust it will lead you to the Sceptre.”

  “This Key and the Sceptre will help me defeat our enemies? Is that why it’s important to reunite the lost articles?”

  “I have researched our history as thoroughly as possible, to no avail. I am not sure what reuniting the lost articles achieves. But I am certain it is the best way forward. Bernadette’s delirium blocked the knowledge of those before her, damming it behind addled ramblings. If only Isadore had not burned the original diary.”

  “Hmm, if only …” There were so many if onlys. The past Keepers were a bloody unhelpful lot and sapped any charity I might have felt.

  “She obliterated the diary because she came to wrongly associate it with the deaths of
her children and of those who came after them, while she lived on impervious to the trials of age. Too much time alone does strange and terrible things to a person, Winnie. It is something I was unable to overcome.” Dishonour lined her desiccated features. “I cannot adequately convey my remorse for such a crime.”

  My panic mounted. “But I’m not ready. I’ve only been training for days.”

  Vague references to lost articles offered slim salvation. They were lost for pity’s sake!

  “Winsome, when Finesse realises you aim to challenge her, waiting for you to fade with old age will no longer be an option. Not that she has ever been a patient creature, but you and those dedicated to helping you are the last of us and have the accumulated life spans of the Sacred Trinity at your disposal. Who knows how long you shall live. In essence, my actions have compelled a confrontation. Destiny entangles Anathema and the Trinity in a web of convergence.”

  Hugo had tried to explain this way back before I had a clue what he meant. His story conjured giant cosmic spiders weaving their infinite tapestry, each thread forcing us closer to our enemy. Then, I believed he was tapped in the head. Now, their creepy little arachnid offspring burrowed under my skin and no matter how I scratched, I could not get them off. Ill-defined questions fogged my brain. There was much more I needed to know, but the words would not line up.

  “The Crone is arrogant beyond belief. Still, her imprisonment will have shaken her and she will need to recover and make new plans. You have this small advantage, use it. Plus, she will draw out this game for fun, believing herself infallible. The delay is your opportunity to stay one step ahead.”

  Raphaela sagged. A puff of wind could feather her away, skin gauze-thin over a skeletal frame. This was how Bea, Fortescue and Mrs Paget might go in the gentlest version of events – the other versions vile and bloody. Raphaela didn’t have time to wait for my brain and mouth to coordinate.