Keys of Candor: Trilogy

by Casey Eanes

  He spat the words at her. “You are not the first yellow-eyed assassin to make an attempt on my life. Did you think that I am a fool?” Vashti butted her head at him, but Seam, in one fluid motion, pinned her to the ground.

  “No, no, no, my dear. We read the very same tomes, and we both know exactly what is needed now. I see now that you had no intention to allow me to savor the unbinding. You never intended to continue together.”

  Vashti thrashed as pure panic pulsed within her. She screamed, her shriek only echoing off the carved walls of the dank room. She fought to pull herself away from the king’s heavy grip, but Seam was too much for her. She clawed at his face as he threw her against the pane of glass and held her against its cold surface. As Vashti pressed against the glass, the mirror woman stood to her feet. She pressed her hands against the pane of glass, grasping for Vashti like a caged panther. Terror flooded Vashti’s eyes as she glanced at the woman pawing at her through the glass and then back again at Seam. His cold stare tore through her. He forced the dagger from her hand and held it in the air as he looked back to her.

  “You are beautiful, Vashti, but your beauty is nothing but a cloak to cover your sinister schemes. Don’t think I could not see through your intentions. I am no fool!” He bellowed at her, “I AM THE KEEPER! Now serve your purpose.”

  Hot tears stung her eyes as she pleaded for her life. “No! Please! No! I swear I will do anything, my king! Please! NO!”

  The whisper that invaded the room roared with rage.

  “NOW! DO IT NOW.”

  Seam put his hand across Vashti’s mouth to muffle her screams and leaned in next to her ear.

  “Your lies won’t help you now. Attempting to betray me is the last mistake you will ever make. Now it is time to go to sleep so others can be awakened.”

  Seam thumped the dagger deep into Vashti’s chest without hesitation and fought to hold her still as she whipped from side to side. He muffled the howls of pain that attempted to escape from her lips. He kept his hand clasped around her mouth as her cries morphed into a morbid gurgling. In a few quick moments the struggle was over and Vashti’s body slumped over onto Seam. He pushed her to the side and watched as her blood flowed out, sizzling on the platform below him, the aroma of hot iron permeating the cold air, her body’s essence smoking in the cold room. The blood smeared on the pane of glass simmered with heat and then evaporated.

  The metamorphosis of the trapped visage happened in mere seconds. The old woman in the mirror stood upright before him, invigorated and renewed. Her loose, wrinkled skin tightened in an instant. The haggard façade gave way to a beautiful face of a woman in the vigor of her youth. Her vibrant blue eyes pierced Seam and filled him with an explosion of awe.

  She spoke with an authority that caused Seam to shake. “Take me back to Vale, Keeper.”

  “As you wish, my lady. As you wish.”

  Bronson's hands shook as he drove in silence back toward Vale. His king was resting in the back of the vehicle, his face hidden in the darkness. Bronson pushed on, reassuring himself every few minutes, but his mind whirled like a hurricane. He could not understand how Seam could be so close to the...thing he was transporting back to the capital. How could he even stand to sit so close to it? Whatever transpired between the new High King and the mysterious woman here at the Crossroads was now over, and to Bronson, it really didn't matter compared to the abomination that now shared space with them. How can I take this to Vale? Aleph above, what should I do? The entire night had been so unorthodox, first with the woman at the temple, and now this. Bronson knew something felt wrong when Seam came out of the temple.

  It felt like nothing at the time, just a pinprick of doubt in his mind, like a short blunt splinter that refuses to be wedged out of the finger it’s lodged in. It smelled of trouble, and Bronson’s intuition blazed with hot caution as Seam emerged from the shadowy ruin. What had it been that bothered him so much?

  He was smiling. That was it. Seam came out of that dank dungeon with a smile on his face, as if he were in Aleph's gardens. He had been nearly giddy, in fact, laughing like a child who fooled his teacher. He spoke in rapid, short bursts, which were hard for him to follow. Then he heard his king’s command.

  "There's a mirror I need help fetching, Bronson! Follow me!"

  A mirror? From this place? What madness is this? What happened to the woman?

  He had been wise enough to hold his tongue as they descended deep into the dark, failing to mention that he sat for nearly three hours while Seam was occupied with the mysterious woman. Must be a lover, Bronson guessed. But where is she now? And now he wants me to fetch him a mirror in a cursed temple dedicated to the Old Ones. He would sooner fetch all the stars in the sky than to set one foot into that foul place. He shut his eyes in an effort to compose himself and followed his king without a word.

  After passing by the altar and main meeting room, Bronson followed Seam to a door obscured by the temple’s main platform.

  "The catacombs are down here. Watch your footing." Bronson plodded down the slick stairs into the hallway of carved doors. It was nothing Bronson had ever seen before. The etchings forced him to stop dead in his tracks in a potent mixture of awe and dread. Shadows danced in manic forms from the light of Seam's torch. Each carving seemed to vibrate and pulsate with malice and glee, and to Bronson it felt as if the walls were alive, breathing and beating with unnatural life.

  This place is cursed. The overpowering stench of mold and rot hung in the place, and the light of Seam's torch was an unwelcome visitor in the dungeon. Bronson’s mind whirled around another grave thought. The girl. Where was the Preost girl?

  All of it made Bronson's head ache with panic. Years of dutiful military service kicked in, forcing him to tamper down his emotions as he followed his king deeper into the darkness.

  The vibrating hallway fell into a small portico. A swift sound cracked in the darkness and Bronson saw something move. His hand shot down to his holster for his pistol. He pulled his weapon and threw the sights right on the stranger, only to realize that they too had pulled a gun. Seam unleashed a flurry of curses and screamed at Bronson before he could squeeze the trigger. The deep bellow echoed off the wet stone walls.

  "Do NOT break the mirror, Bronson, or it will be your life!"

  Bronson lowered the sidearm and stared at himself in the mirror. It was spotless. Among all the dust, mold, and rot the mirror looked as new as any Bronson had seen.

  "I'm sorry, sir. It's just that I thought I saw someone."

  "I assure you we are quite alone down here." Seam's voice grew calm. "You only saw your reflection...I'm just glad you didn't destroy it." Bronson nodded, but could not shake the feeling off of another presence with them. As if someone else was watching them.

  Seam spoke, "We need to transport it back to Vale immediately. Bronson could see that the craftsmanship of the piece was ill suited for the decorum of the High Hall. It was odd, really. To come all this way only to fetch something as plain looking as this mirror.

  "Very good, sir."

  "We will need to take it up together slowly. It is heavier than it looks."

  "Sir, forgive me, but should I call in for some more men? I would hate to have you strain yourself in your recent condition."

  "If I wanted a convoy up here, I would have one. Now help me."

  With that the two made their way back out of the temple, mirror in tow. As soon as they exited the temple, Bronson thanked Aleph, pausing to breathe in the cool, fresh air. He experienced enough of this night, and he hoped never to have another like it. What if this was going to be a normal occurrence during Seam's reign? These odd, late night excursions.

  If the extraction of the mirror was all that transpired that night, Bronson would have laughed the entire experience off. He could have easily chalked it up to the eccentricities of the new king. A man seeking a memento of an encounter with his lover or some other nonsense. These inadequate stories which could have served Bronson well van
ished as Seam laid the front end of the mirror down into the truck and let himself in the vehicle.

  "Let's get back to Vale."

  "Yes, sir." Bronson was pushing the long, thin mirror into the enclosed bed of the convoy and tucking it into safety when he saw her and shock hammered through his entire body.

  There before him was the most exquisite woman he had ever seen, staring up at him from within the mirror. Her eyes were a cold blue, and to Bronson they reminded him of an ocean; not soft, but strong. He stared at the woman in the glass, petrified, trying to make sense of the impossibility. She stared back at him and her mouth formed the beginning of a smile. Bronson's anticipation to see such beauty was palpable. Everything in his body wanted to see that smile.

  Her lips parted in a slow showcase, not of the pearly neat rows of snow white teeth that Bronson expected, but instead a forest of daggers, serrated and ravenous, the headwaters from which a crimson river of blood freely poured out.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Willyn exposed the dark innards of an abandoned shack as she darted her flashlight through the old cabin’s front door. The hovel’s floorboards were broken and jutted up like jagged teeth. Willyn and Luken found the building after trailing a fresh set of prints through the thick jungle on the island.

  As Willyn eased into the shack she called out to Luken, “I know someone was here recently.” Luken pressed through the door as Willyn continued, “Even if it is not Shepherd, you have someone camping out on these islands.”

  “I’m sure you’re quite right,” Luken muttered, eying the structure. His gaze lingered on the holes in the floor.

  A long gush of wind blew through the trees, and a clap of lightning announced the arrival of a coastal gale. Rain drops galloped across the roof, building into a steady roar.

  Luken groaned and looked back out into the jungle before closing the door. “Doesn’t sound too good out there. I suggest we stay put. We can keep searching once the storm passes.”

  Willyn threw up her hands, but said nothing.

  “I know what you are thinking, but we already lost his trail. We’ll pick up the pieces once this storm blows through. Besides, you wouldn’t be able to find your own face out there.”

  Willyn kicked at a piece of broken floor before picking it up and tossing it to Luken. “Well, if I have to sit here wasting time I might as well be warm. You do have matches, right?”

  Booming explosions of thunder rattled the loose timbers of the cabin. Willyn looked out of a small, dirt-streaked window and watched trees bending beneath the powerful winds. Rain threw itself horizontally, and with each rush of wind the ramshackle hut moaned. Several drops of rain fell from the thatched roof only to be swallowed by the white sand that made up the floor of the cabin’s back room where the two started a small fire.

  “You should get away from the window. Our sea-storms are nothing to tempt.”

  Willyn lingered and stared out into the night. She closed her eyes and tilted her ear to the glass. Her shoulders relaxed and a faint smile crept over her face.

  “It sounds like war.”

  Luken’s face twisted as he answered, “And that is a good thing? You know, it is dark but I can see you smiling.”

  “Sort of. I am used to it. The thunder, it sounds just like artillery fire. You are pretty safe if you have artillery backing you.”

  Luken chuckled, “Well leave it to a Grogan to enjoy the sound of explosions. Where I come from, when you hear that sound it means you are dead.”

  Willyn shook her head and her smile disappeared as she slid onto the floor next to the fire. She wrapped her arms around her legs and squeezed her knees into her chest.

  “I just said I am used to the sound. Better to relate to the sound than fear the fact that this horrid little shack will probably fall in on us any minute.”

  A small smile grew on Luken’s face as he looked at her. “So you are scared of the storm?”

  Willyn shook her head, “You are impossible. Just let me think in peace.”

  Luken reclined on the sandy floor and stared into the fire. “As you wish.”

  The silence did not last long as Willyn stared into the pulsating embers and twisting flames.

  “It doesn’t add up, Luken,” she said as she threw a small timber on top of the fire.

  “What doesn’t?”

  “The tracks. They led to this cabin and nowhere else. They stopped here. Those tracks stopped right here. We searched both rooms but there is no one here.” Her eyes locked with his in the firelight. “Why?”

  Luken lifted himself from the sandy floor and wiped his pant legs clean. He stood in silence for a few moments continuing to gaze into the small fire. Willyn examined Luken as he stood by, running something through his mind. She could not help but notice how handsome he truly was. Her logic relaxed. Stop it. You’re hungry and tired. She shook the thought from her mind. After all he put her through there was no reason to find anything about him attractive. You’re exhausted. That’s all it is.

  She spoke, hoping her words would bury her thoughts. “What are you thinking?”

  He glanced at her, his gray eyes shining in the ember glow. “Actually, Willyn, it does make sense. I should have thought of this earlier.”

  Luken walked across the room, stamping his heel against the sandy floor. Each kick made a clunk, and a small cloud of dust puffed up into the air.

  Willyn smiled at the odd display. “What are you doing? You can tell me so at least I can help.”

  Luken’s eyes sparkled with interest as he looked up at Willyn and grinned. “The floors. He might be under the floor.”

  Willyn’s eyes grew wide with realization.

  She began stomping at the floor until she felt something strange. Her foot hit something hard and sturdier than sand, but a hollow thud accompanied the feeling. She squatted down and began to dig away at the white sand.

  A wooden trap door.

  She laughed at herself and called to Luken, “Hey, come look at this!”

  Luken stood over her, and she looked back up at him. He quipped, “You know if he’s down there, that means I’m right.”

  Willyn could not hide her smile. “Well, get me a light and let’s find out.”Luken handed her a flashlight, and he opened the door with one swift tug.

  Willyn lay on the ground and dropped only her head into the hole, her curly red hair hanging all around her face as she shone the light down into the opening. She looked around as the small beam of light illuminated the darkness.

  “It’s a root cellar, Luken. There are barrels and barrels of stuff down here. You were right about the space under the floor. Maybe bootleggers would hide their goods here until they could sneak it inland.”

  “Well, hopefully there is more than just bootleg. We are looking for a terrorist after all, not a good time.”

  “There is only one way to find out!”

  “Can you get down there? Is there a ladder?”

  Willyn did not bother to respond as she dropped down into the cellar. The small flashlight provided a beam of reference, and as she scanned the cellar floor she saw that the trove of goods was nearly as big as the cabin above her. She opened one of the barrels nearest to her. The sweet smell of dark fermented sugarcane met her, and the glint of dark liquid bounced back her flashlight’s glow.

  She called up to him, “Well, you were right about one thing!”

  “What’s that?”

  “Guess.”

  “Bootleg?”

  “Yep. Bootleg.”

  She looked deeper within the dark storeroom, past the lined barrels. Something shifted behind her, a shuffle of quick movement. The hair on the back of her neck stood on end. Is he really here? She spun around and examined the corner the noise came from.

  Nothing. Just more barrels and plenty of shadows.

  She went back past the barrels and deeper into the dark. She could make out boxes stacked in the back corner of the room. Barrels, boxes, and provisions were everywhere,
yet there was no sign of Grift.

  Another sound of rustling whispered from Willyn’s left. She turned off her flashlight and stood absolutely still. The room became a midnight void, and she became stone. The small square of light from the trap door was squeezed out by the shadows. There was nothing left in the room except for Willyn and the sound of whatever was shuffling.

  Luken called down to her. “What are you doing down there? Why did you turn out the light?”

  Willyn turned to whisper back up the trapdoor but stopped herself as she pushed her back against the nearest wall.

  A quick shift of the crates in the far corner caught Willyn’s ear again. The sound was too much to be a rodent or a trapped animal. He’s here. Her right hand dropped to her hip as she reached for her pistol. She slowly unlatched it as she pushed away from the wall and crept toward the sound. New sounds became more pronounced the closer she drew to the boxes. Wheezing. Grunting. Raspy deep breaths slowly lifting and falling. He’s hurt. He lost too much blood. He’s probably lying in the corner waiting for me to shoot him. Then another thought ran through her mind. It could be a trap. It probably is a trap.

  Her left hand clutched her light as she lifted her pistol and trained its barrel on the sound in front of her. One step after another, Willyn inched closer to the strained breaths, intentionally shuffling her feet. The breathing sounds quickened, and Willyn knew her opportunity was about to present itself. Her nose caught the scent of the battlefield, infection and festering wounds. At least he isn’t dead. I would enjoy cutting off his infected arm myself. The sounds became soft grunts, almost laughter. The sickening sound of a death rattle threw a knot into Willyn’s throat as she readied herself for what was next. The darkness shattered with the sound of a crate smashing to the ground.

  Gods! It’s not him!

  Willyn threw on her light to see someone lunging for her. A quick squeeze of the trigger and the cellar exploded with a burst of light from the muzzle of her gun and the booming echo of the shot bouncing off the walls. Something slashed across her face as the attacker’s head snapped back and its body crumpled into a mashed coil of flesh. A warm rush of blood ran down Willyn’s cheek, and a familiar stench invaded her nostrils. She knew she had just downed a morel.