Keys of Candor: The Red Deaths

by Casey Eanes

  This is the personal journal of Alebrade Nephile, High King of Vale.

  4th Volume, 391 A.C.E

  Seam flipped quickly to the last entry of the book that pulsed incessantly in his brain ever since he first read it:

  The Benefactors have left me with a very important task, one that is not without consequence. The front has pushed through into the very heart of Lotte. Vale will fall within days...if not hours. I can hear the thunder of war machines outside this bunker as I write, so I know my time is short.

  The Benefactors have instructed me that this defeat will not be their end, but that it will be mine. So be it. They know me and count me as a servant to the Way, and I will ensure that I will preserve their artifacts within my Line. They will reward me upon their return, but division is required now. This separation is necessary to keep the Benefactors secret and secure for another time. A time when some great soul will find them, find them after seeking them with a pure heart and a pure mind and bring them forth again in the Light of Day. Then peace will be restored, evermore. The others will state that the division was to bind them and cast them out, but we, the Followers, the True believers, know that it is to preserve them. This is our task, therefore, to live patiently within the lie and spread the false-truth that the division is necessary. For it is. But not for binding. For preserving. We will wait upon The Keeper to unite us with them once again.

  Seam closed his eyes as the words of the text resonated through him. Warmth and a quickness of understanding lifted him up out of the frustration he felt.

  I am the great soul. I am the Keeper. I will accomplish the task he speaks of.

  Somehow, deep within him the ideas comforted and confirmed him. He would set out and accomplish the task, and he would spend the rest of his life in service to achieving the Great Order that was referred to over and over again in Alebrade Nephile’s log. His father spent years exhausting himself trying to chase peace to no avail. All Camden accomplished was to allow all the other Realms to manipulate and steal what they wanted from the people of Lotte, a strategy that allowed the Grogans ample time to ramp up their efforts of domination. Through this book, Seam found unexpected purpose and new, hidden allies who shared the same hope he had.

  “There is only one way, one power, that will restore order to this broken world,” Seam spoke quietly to himself, “and I will not stop until I get it.”

  A timid knock came against the sitting room door. Seam stood up from the desk and hid the precious tome back within the bookcase, locking it in one quick stroke. He slid the door’s solid iron lock back and cracked the door.

  “You understand that an interruption of my privacy could cost you your life,” Seam spat as the large, wide door swung open. Standing before him was a tall man clad in black linen, whose face was completely covered. Fiery yellow eyes stared back at him like hot embers.

  “Not my life, dear King.” A brandished dirk flashed from the stranger and found its home in Seam’s side. A soft puff of air left Seam’s mouth as he felt the blade penetrate him between the ribs. There was no pain, not at first, but upon the second strike and the third, agony ripped through his entire chest. Seam slammed his fist into the assassin’s temple, sending him reeling back a few steps. The blade glinted in the dim light of the room, wet with blood dripping from its edge. The man dove for Seam, swiping to connect with his chest again as he pushed in closer.

  Seam reached to grab the flask of wine from the desk table and shattered it across the skull of his assailant. The smell of dark, musty drink wafted into the air. Stumbling from the blow, the assassin made another wide swipe for Seam’s neck, but Seam caught the attacker’s arm and threw him into the table. The intruder lunged again, finally connecting with Seam’s shoulder, opening another fresh wound. Seam grabbed the man and drove him into the wall. The collision sent both men stumbling to the floor, gasping for breath. The dirk crashed into a corner of the room, but instead of chasing after the weapon, the assassin climbed on top of Seam, wrapping his hands around his throat.

  The man leaned in next to Seam’s ear and whispered, “This kill will be much more enjoyable than your father’s. Poison is far too easy. But now I will be able to feel your life slip through my fingers. No imagination will be necessary.”

  The man’s grasp tightened as he peered into Seam’s eyes. Seam reached out, his hands desperate for anything to help him as he lay bleeding, suffocating beneath his attacker. His fingers danced across the floor, sliding over the tiles, searching for anything to help until he felt the rim of the flask he wielded earlier. Its smooth metallic edge was just at his fingertips. Darkness began to swirl around his vision. Seam had only seconds.

  He flung his body to the side, bucking his assailant as his hand wrapped around the flask.

  Ignoring the throbbing pain and the oncoming darkness, he pushed through, hammering the wine goblet against the attacker’s temple. The blow knocked the assassin’s grip free and Seam gasped for the fresh air. He jumped to his feet and swung again, smashing the flask into the man’s head. It landed with a resounding thud. Seam tackled him to the ground.

  Adrenaline surged through him as Seam unmercifully bashed the goblet over his attacker’s skull. The once pristine vessel bent, curled, and finally caved under the blows that connected. A primal energy overtook him as his defense transitioned into savagery. The robed spy slumped over dead even as Seam continued his rhythmic, grotesque assault. Exhausted, Seam finally fell to the floor. His hand refused to let go of the goblet. Where the man’s yellow eyes had been, there was only a void, a crimson cavern of blood and death.

  When his consciousness returned and the shock wore off, Seam began to question. What just happened? How did he get in? He thought to himself as he struggled to breathe, his lungs were ragged. He gripped at his side, where blood was seeping from his wounds. He forced himself back onto his feet. He took one look back at the bookcase, ensuring that the tome was secure and staggered back to the throne room.

  Upon entering, the nobles who were still in congress saw their wounded leader and sounded the alarms. A medical team rushed in and surrounded Seam as he lay shivering on the floor, the pious face of the soon-to-be king as white as a ghost. They stripped off his royal robes and began treating the wounds that were freely bleeding. A frenzied mass of bodies rushed in on him, but the medical staff skillfully pushed back the crowd as the surgeons examined Seam’s multiple injuries.

  Once the head surgeon announced the wounds were not fatal, the crowd breathed an audible sigh of relief and thanked Aleph for the good fortune. Royal guards thundered into the sitting chamber and dragged out the dead assassin. They stripped off the dark linen wrappings the attacker wore. He was a Rihtian by race; undoubtedly a slave assassin sent by the Grogans.

  There were many nobles and palace officials who spoke to Seam, assuring him, praising him, but everything that was said seemed to pass through a fog, unable to penetrate the king’s consciousness. He saw them clearly and heard them, but could not listen or understand. A doctor pulled out a syringe, and he felt a strange sense of calmness spread through his body.

  ***

  Seam sat on the throne of Lotte, holding his aching side. He winced with each breath. The pain throbbing between his ribs was a constant reminder of how quickly he nearly joined his father within the depths of the royal catacombs.

  “My liege, the Preost ambassador is here.”

  “Send him in,” Seam whispered.

  A tall, ebony-skinned monk approached the throne. He wore a long, flowing linen robe and carried an ironwood staff. He bowed his head and raised his hand with the sign of Aleph.

  “Blessings on you, High King. I am Wael, the Preost ambassador to your country and Mastermonk of my Order. We are honored to be a part of your upcoming coronation. It will be a beautiful ceremony, and we, the monks of Preost, wish you a long and prosperous reign.”

  “Thank you for your kind words, Wael of Preost. The monks have long been strong allies to our Realm. Wh
at brings you to my court this day?” Seam spoke with bated breath as he pushed each utterance out from his bruised lungs. Each breath, each movement, reminded him of his assailant and the look of brutal determination in the yellow eyes that tried to end his life.

  “I come to ask that you and your Kingdom enter into peace talks with the Groganlands.”

  Seam could not believe the outright boldness of the monk. “Unacceptable. We do not negotiate with a people who have made sport of butchering Lotte’s sovereigns.”

  “My king, I am not unaware of the challenges the Grogans have created for your new kingdom.”

  “Challenges?” The soft-spoken nature that Seam presented to Wael evaporated. “Challenges? You must mean atrocities, monk. How dare you step into my court and try to force parlay with these Grogans, the same ones that, if weren’t for us, would burn your sacred forest to the ground? Do you not see my burning countryside? Do you not remember burying my father, and do you not see the blood still seeping from my own wounds?” His exertion made him double over in pain. “No, there will be no peace until Rhuddenhall burns to the ground,” he whispered, “and I will not discuss this further with you. You are dismissed.”

  The tall monk stood staring into the High King’s eyes. He bowed his head. “Then I will take my plea to the Grogans. Aleph wishes only for peace and forgiveness to fill these lands. May he continue to bless you, High King. I take my leave.”

  Seam rolled his eyes as the monk turned away and left the court. He called for a recess, and he excused himself from the High Hall.

  Once again, Seam found himself in the royal sitting room. He stood over the place where he had taken a life, remembering the shock of having to crush another to ensure his own survival. He gazed through the room noticing that there were no traces of the encounter, as if nothing ever happened. Whoever cleaned the sitting room deserved a promotion. Even the silver goblet had been replaced with an identical twin. On the desk a new datalink had been installed at his request. Seam ran his finger over the power switch, and the screen came to life.

  The gray-eyed man stared back at him, as if he had been waiting, sitting patiently at the other end of the datalink for Seam to come online.

  “You...” Seam growled.

  Hosp smiled and chuckled. “Seam, I told you to be prepared. Everything needed to be convincing. I’m sure you understand. It is no small task to keep our populaces at war with one another.”

  “Be prepared?” Seam growled. “Prepared for what? To be killed? How dare you even think of such a charade? I have no business trusting you. Not after what I have been through!”

  There was a pause over the datalink as the two men stared at each other, locked in silence.

  Seam was first to speak. “It makes me wonder why I shouldn’t send word to the Grogans. Perhaps to Willyn Kara herself about your plans to coup the Sar’s throne.”

  Hosp showed no sign of aggravation, but Seam noticed how his pupils dilated at the sound of the name Willyn. He struck a nerve.

  Hosp spoke, his voice clearly agitated but controlled. “Go ahead, High King, and send word. But I guarantee you that your people will learn how you orchestrated your father’s death. They will learn how you had him murdered in cold blood, just so you could sit on the throne and call yourself king. Imagine how they’ll treat you when they learn of your lofty ambitions? They will not stomach a royal murder, my friend, so think about your actions before your anger leads to your own death.”

  The threats were volleyed, leaving the two men silent once again.

  “You told me you would send a runner to me, not an assassin. I was unprepared. Had you told me, I would have not been so badly injured.”

  Hosp quietly answered the king after clearing his throat, “Rest assured, Seam, there will be no further surprises.”

  “I am willing to overlook this transgression and keep this alliance intact, but I need to know that you will send communication to me when the plan changes.”

  Hosp responded earnestly, “The plan had to change. Our intelligence knew that we needed to facilitate another attack. The Preost monks can be swift catalysts for peace in both our Realms, and your people have already begun to forget the name of Camden.”

  Camden’s name caused Seam to wince.

  “To continue the war effort we needed to throw more kindling on the coals. I sent you my worst assassin, Seam. Though he was able to poison Camden, there was no chance he would succeed in attacking you. His loss was calculated, and I knew very well that he posed you no danger I didn’t inform you and for that I apologize, but to do so would have compromised the...authenticity of the situation.”

  Seam paused and stared at Hosp’s viper eyes. They reminded him of the man that tried to kill him. He swallowed. He remembered the words he read before the assassination attempt. Division is necessary. Not for binding. For preserving. He smiled, knowing that Hosp would soon play a grand part in what was to come.

  “All right, Hosp. So what’s next?”

  CHAPTER SIX

  The crack of bones popping against cool concrete whistled through the prison cell as Willyn stood over a soldier groaning in agony. An inferno of rage burned within her, and her jaw locked as she ground her teeth in a feeble attempt to rein in the fury threatening to take control. Don't kill this man. Keep it together. Amid the screaming sirens and flashing red lights, her mind strained to focus. The entire compound had gone midnight black. Someone cut the power, leaving only the emergency systems to flicker and flare in unison to the chorus of sirens. Willyn's mind, too, was dark, clouded by all that had just transpired. Hosp’s flagrant attempt at a power grab floored her. Normally, Hagan would have taken care of sniveling leeches like Hosp, but instead Willyn had to shoulder the political burden she never wanted while her brother lay dying from an unknown poison. She was so close to answers, to be able to bring him back, but now the unthinkable had happened. Grift had escaped.

  The thought of Hagan snapped a resolute purpose back to her mind, and Willyn looked down at the pistol in her hand. She paused and hammered it back into its holster. Hosp has to wait. Shepherd cannot. I have to find him now.

  A strange clarity set in. One thing at a time, Willyn. Stop one, then the other. I have to know what he used to poison Hagan. Her eyes focused back on the young whelp lying on the floor whimpering before her.

  She stooped over and lifted the soldier to a sitting position as she looked into his hazy, distant eyes. He was injured but still conscious, and he fought to focus on his General.

  “Officer, I need you to tell me what happened right now.” The young guard stammered and held his arms up to shield himself.

  "I swear to the gods, I don't know how he escaped," he groaned.

  Willyn’s arm sprang for him in an instant, ratcheting across his throat. "The gods won't help you if you don't tell me what happened." The idea of un-holstering her pistol flittered through her mind, flushing her with the intoxicating sense of power. She steadied herself and bore into his eyes as he shook with fear. "Tell me what happened now. That is a command, officer.”

  “Yes…yes, General.” His voice staggered out slowly as he weighed his words. “We received… received transfer orders for interrogation. While switching out his bindings he attacked us.”

  “Where did he go?”

  The soldier lifted his finger and pointed to the door. “Out and he veered to the right. I saw it, to the right. I don't know how he did it, but he disappeared! I swear!”

  Willyn looked over her shoulder to the cell door behind her. She had come from the left, the direction of the stairs and the elevator. There was no exit to the right. There was only one entrance.

  Willyn stood back to her feet and addressed the officer as she exited the cell.

  “Get back to your station. Do not raise a public alarm. I will call in my elites.”

  The battered warden stammered to find the words, “I am...I am afraid that I’ve already sent out an alert. Grift’s face will be on every datalin
k in the city by now.”

  It was enough to make her scream. “You idiot! We are in a time of war! We can’t incite a panic!”

  Fury pulsed through her veins. Such incompetence. She breathed in, focusing her energy. The general inside her directed her to attention. Hagan. He is all that matters. Let the people think what they will. Just get Grift. She let go of the ineptitude of the guards. She let go of the people of the Groganlands and their perceptions. I can fix this. I just have to get Grift.

  Without a word she left the guard lying on the cell floor and raced down the hallway, her flashlight bouncing from wall to wall. The answer to the question of Grift’s escape came when her eyes landed on the open ventilation return. The rail line.

  Grift never intended to use the stairs. He was trying to make his escape underground through the winding labyrinth of rail lines beneath the city. Willyn radioed back to the command center.

  “Fire up the emergency generators and reset the power. I need access to the nearest datalink immediately!”

  Her command was met with a quick response and the lights shuttered back to life. Willyn raced to a datalink panel and furiously pulled up a map of all the rail line access points.