Keys of Candor: The Red Deaths

by Casey Eanes

  The dog by Wael’s side suddenly began to growl, its bristled hair springing up from its back in alarm. An eruption of noise sounded from all sides of the chapel, a huge rolling roar of people screaming. It was unlike anything Kull had ever heard and instinctively the thought of Grogan rooks ascending from the horizon filled him with a rush of panic. The dog was barking madly as long ribbons of drool fell from its maw onto the chapel floor. Wael placed his hand on the beast and it instantly became calm. The monk closed his eyes as the rumbling din receded.

  “What was that?” Kull shouted.

  “Lotte has just crowned their new king. That was the sound of Seam Panderean ascending to the high throne. The people are now rejoicing.”

  Wael showed no sign of joy or appreciation as he mentioned the new king’s ascension.

  Returning to Ewing, Wael continued, “We are going to need you to stay here, Ewing. We will need a reliable contact within Vale. Those who we could trust are becoming...unreliable. I’ll send word to you once we learn Grift’s fate. Are you able to stay in Vale?”

  “Aye,” Ewing said nodding his head. “I’ve got an appointment here anyway,” He winced as he glanced down at his gnarled stump of a leg. “How do you plan to make the trip into the Groganlands? In a time of war there is no way you can ride the line cars.”

  Wael smiled with a knowing look. “That’s where you come in, my friend. Do you still have any of your old logging trucks in the city?”

  Ewing nodded. “I believe I can pull some strings for you, Wael. My logging business in Vale all but folded years ago when I settled in Cotswold. I still have some friends here, though. I’ll see if I can’t pull a few favors.”

  “Pull all the strings you can, Ewing,” said Wael. “Kull and I are going to need all the help we can get.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Deep pain rolled through Seam with each shallow breath. As hard as it was to focus on his new duties as king, his wounds reminded him of one thing: he was alive. His first experience of having to kill another man had not gone at all as he expected. He had trained, of course, in the Academy for combat, but the thrill that came with defeating a true attacker was so…intoxicating.

  The new king continued to shower himself with inner accolades over his first victory. He was the first, but he won’t be the last. Others will come. They will come to take me away from the Path, but I’ll kill them before they stop me. Seam shuddered as he reveled in the dark thought of having to take another life. He did not tremble from fear or disgust, but out of a strange sensation of fulfillment as he imagined himself conquering his foes. He found himself running his long fingers across the dusty old bookshelf hiding his most prized possession. Day after day, he would orbit his private sitting chamber, just to be near it. Behind his bolted chamber door he was free, finally free to delve deep into the lore of the forsaken tome that revealed his path to him and to hold the key that had been unhinged from his late father’s broach.

  As Seam turned the key over in his hands he noticed its intricate design. Two beasts, serpent-like in their design, were locked in conflict, their mouths touching, forming the key’s bow. Upon further inspection, small markings of an ancient script flowed from the sides of it, markings identical to those on the spine of the ancient relic he recovered from the library.

  This Key will unlock my path, my purpose, he thought to himself.

  Soon all of Candor will be swept up in this one bold act. They will be free once more. Free at last to bring order to this cursed continent. Free to establish and usher in my new reign.

  ***

  The king has requested you to transport him to an undisclosed location. Report to him immediately.

  Bronson stared at the message blinking on his datalink. It had only been three hours since the coronation ceremony, and it seemed that the king was disregarding all of the galas and parties that had been meticulously choreographed in his honor. He could already see that his work was cut out for him as the new head guardsman. This most recent request confirmed his fears about his new sovereign. How am I to advise a king who wants no advice? Not only did the request burning on his screen throw out all sense of protocol and security, it seemed especially risky considering the recent assassination attempt. It left a bad taste in Bronson’s mouth and made him nervous. He punched a quick response into the datalink on his wrist, the blue letters ticking off in rush: I’m on my way.

  ***

  Bronson knocked at the king’s chamber door and waited. He could hear Seam’s voice, muffled by the thick oak frame.

  “Come in.”

  Bronson entered and bowed. He rattled off the excuse he had been reciting before answering the king’s call, “My king, I came as quickly as I could. Gathering a convoy together in the midst of the coronation celebration was no easy task on such short notice.”

  Seam’s reply was short as he snatched up a book from the bookcase, “I don’t need a convoy, Bronson. If I needed one, I would have asked for it.”

  “But, but sir, the king’s detail always travels by...”

  “Not this time, Bronson!” Seam’s fist fell down on the desk with a resounding thud. “Now let the security detail go celebrate or do whatever else they wish tonight. I simply need you, and that will be all.”

  “But...”

  “Do not question me again, Bronson. Is it the captain of the guard’s job to question his sovereign’s requests?”

  Bronson’s eyes lowered, “No, my lord.”

  “Then listen to what I have to say.” Seam’s eyes tore through him as he sneered.

  Bronson was both appalled and shocked at the verbal lashing. For decades he served the Pandereans faithfully. Camden had only been supportive of his painstaking efforts and focus for detail. He assumed it was his thoroughness in all situations that propelled him to this new post.

  Bronson stammered a weak reply as he backed from the room, “Yes, sir. I understand. You can meet me at the rear concourse, and I will have a vehicle ready. We will be sure to slip away quietly.”

  As Bronson hustled away from his quarters toward the transport hangar, Seam glanced into the satchel he had collected containing his treasured book of writings and the key he received from his father’s cold corpse.

  Tonight will be special. Everything is coming together. Soon this will all be worth the struggle.

  ***

  Bronson left the royal chamber as hot anger washed over him. He had not had much interaction with Seam during the later part of his father’s rule, but he always assisted with the security of the royal family, and never had he been so insulted. Aleph, what an idiot. He’ll get himself killed, and then I’ll be next if I’m not careful. To Bronson, Seam was still a child, and an insolent one at that.

  Mischief and rumors had never been too far from Seam when he was growing up in the palace. The Realm had long been filled with sordid stories of the young prince’s late night soirees and antics. But this behavior...this is something different, Bronson thought to himself. In public, Seam appeared to be the future king that all of Lotte expected him to be; brave, strong, and resolute. Yet amid the private staff who served him personally, stories were being traded about the royal’s erratic nature. Stories that painted him as increasingly unstable. As if some form of mania was taking root within him, some sort of dark madness. Bronson saw no evidence to validate the rumors, but he noticed even during Camden’s reign how the prince’s hands would often shake, and at best his concentration in the royal proceedings was aloof. What concerned Bronson was the rumor’s increasing frequency. He kept hearing from others within the palace that Seam was changing. That the young royal would not sleep, spending his nights locked in his study, talking to some unknown party. Was he talking to himself? Or with someone else? Bronson couldn’t be sure.

  He slipped himself into the oversized, black military vehicle and turned over the ignition. The engine rumbled with anticipation. He rolled up to the side gate of the palace and muttered to himself, “Something might not be
right with him.” He felt for the sidearm he carried on his belt.

  As soon as Bronson parked the vehicle, the door of the transport flung open. Bronson’s heart jumped, and his hand gripped for his weapon. He turned only to notice that the King had entered the vehicle cloaked in a long black cape. It was as if a blur of shadows had been swept into the cabin.

  “What took you so long, Bronson?” the royal hissed underneath the hood.

  Bronson struggled to find words, still startled at this sudden apparition. “My liege?” Bronson did not mean for it to be a question. Slowly, he forced his hand away from his sidearm.

  “Of course it’s me.” Seam spoke with sharp, staccato sentences, “Now we cannot sit here all day. We must move. I have pressing business to attend to. Take me to the Crossroads.”

  Bronson slammed on the brakes. What did he say? “Sir?” He looked behind the seat and stared over at his king to ensure he had heard correctly. “The Crossroads? Sir?”

  “Am I not making myself clear, Captain?” Seam shouted, his frustration giving over to rage. “Take me to the Crossroads! On top of Trosedd’s Peak. Or am I to take it that you have not heard of it?”

  Bronson stared into the dark eyes of his new king. Never in his life had he heard such a request. “Of course, my Lord.” He gunned the engine, and the heavy tires spun away from the palace.

  The Crossroads? In Aleph’s name, why does he want to go there?”

  The history of Vale had long been contested by the scholars and the historians, and there were many legends about the founding of the capital city. Some said it grew from being a small, peaceful logging village that tremendously benefited when the ancient Predecessor rail lines were uncovered. Others claimed that Vale was built on the outskirts of what had once been another city, Muldock.

  Muldock. The very thought of it fell over Bronson like a chill that sets in before an illness. Muldock was the subject of many childhood ghost stories and tales used to frighten Valish children into behaving. The legend blossomed into a frightful nursery rhyme.

  Fit for Muldock,

  You Naughty Child,

  Waste your days

  In the Rotting Aisles,

  Waiting with those dead and gone,

  Unable to sing Aleph’s song.

  Bronson found the rhyme disturbing and made a point never to sing it to his own children. Legends like Muldock were not to be trivialized. Most people in Lotte left history to die. Bronson always enjoyed studying old stories, but Muldock was one he wished he never read about. Whatever truth lay in the legends of that city, that truth was to be feared. Muldock was a dark and treacherous city, filled with mass public executions, wanton violence, and savagery beyond imagination. It was a city ruled by a dynasty of malicious and destructive kings, horrible enough in their own right, only to be usurped by one last terror. One of the Five. The Sorrow of Lotte—Abtren of the Serubs, cursed be her name.

  Abtren, cursed be her name, along with her Serub kin, split Candor down the middle, as if it were a fat bull chosen for slaughter. They held the entire continent in their mighty grip, crushing any who dared challenge their rule, never parlaying with their enemies and reveling in genocide. Worshipped as gods by the conquered, the Serubs claimed to be the embodiment of the divine on Candor, sending the entire continent to fall into utter darkness.

  Bronson hammered down the pedal of the vehicle as it sped into the night. Roadside ruins of ancient shrines blotted the landscape. These rotting ruins grew taller and taller where the three ancient trading paths finally converged. History was clear enough; the blood of humans was traded on this peak, bought and sold as a commodity in order to make amends to the conquerors. Alephian monks, in a swell of religious fervor, destroyed the temples and shrines of the dark place, leaving them in ruins. They commanded all those who served Aleph to treat the place as cursed ground, for it was still filled with a dark and twisted energy that clung to the very earth rumbling beneath the transport’s tires.

  As the truck slid up the mountainside toward Seam’s destination, the road became surrounded by a thick, foreboding forest that squeezed out the moon’s soft light. Bronson shuddered as he stared out into the pitch black surrounding the vehicle. It was as if the headlights were only candles.

  Seam smiled as he watched Bronson’s eyes stare out into the darkness beyond them, fear dancing on his face. “Come, come, Bronson. Surely you are not one for superstition? For ghost stories?” He let out a low chuckle.

  Bronson turned; startled by the first words Seam had spoken during the long drive.

  “Of course not, sir. I just can’t see a thing out this window. Even with the lights on I can barely see ten feet in front of us.”

  “So, you are scared of the dark then?” Seam smirked with his arms folded across his chest.

  Bronson’s reply was flat, devoid of any of the real fear hammering against his heart. “No, sir. I am simply looking out for your safety. Considering that your normal protection detail was left behind and you only have me with you, I have to admit that I am a bit concerned.”

  Seam turned his eyes out the side window of the truck and stared out into the dark trees rolling by.

  “Don’t sell yourself too short, my loyal Captain of the Guard. Your frets are for nothing. This trip will not take long.”

  After another half hour of snaking through the black forest, the ruined features of the Crossroads began to rise around the road. At first, small toppled hovels and stacks of rubble grown over by moss and weeds were visible as the headlights glanced over them. Then they reached the mounds. The mounds of the dead, long buried in massive graves, forced the truck to weave and wind between them. Bronson’s stomach flipped inside as he wound through the maze. He wondered how many innocents were thrown into shallow graves here, buried twisted together, uncared for and unloved in this cursed place.

  Following the mounds, skeletons of small buildings appeared, emerging from the darkness on the sides of the road. They were covered with thick ivy growing through their windows and out of the roofs that had long since collapsed. Some of the old buildings were hunched over, falling in on themselves, as if they were begging to crash to the ground and be relieved of their own weight.

  Seam’s voice pierced the silence as the truck continued to crawl up the abandoned highway. “Captain.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  Seam pointed from the back seat. “I want you to bring me to the center of the ruin. There should be an old temple complex there.”

  Unquestioning but full of dread, Bronson replied, “Yes sir.”

  As the truck turned a sharp corner its lights revealed the square, and just as Seam had said, there lay a massive, unkempt temple, standing proudly, defiant of the decomposition that surround it.

  How could this place still stand? Bronson wondered to himself. And why would the monks leave it standing?

  Bronson’s eye caught a faint flicker of light from behind the red stained glass windows of the building. At first he thought it was a reflection of the truck’s headlights, but as the truck turned away the stained glass continued to flicker, and then glow. There was a light or a fire inside the temple lighting the red panes.

  There’s someone in there.

  Seam opened the door and got out without a word. Bronson, in turn, stepped out of the convoy with his king. Seam turned and held out his hand.

  “Stay here. That is an order. I will not be long.”

  Seam slid away from him, making his way toward the door standing open at the front of the temple. He disappeared through it as he hurried into the darkness.

  After a few moments passed, Bronson slid from his seat of the truck. He stood, grabbed his rifle, and headed toward the temple.

  I will just as soon die before I leave my new king alone in such a place, thought Bronson as he snuck up to one of the open windows. Peering in from the safety of the shadows his fear for his king grew with what he saw.

  Seam was sitting at a small fire across from a figure that w
as clad in a black hooded robe, very similar to his own. The two characters looked like shadows sitting across from one another as they spoke.

  Seam’s eyes danced from the flickering firelight as he spoke softly with the hooded stranger. Bronson gripped his rifle and clicked off the safety, his eye aiming down the sight. He warned the stranger in his mind, Make one move.

  ***

  Seam’s words flew out from him, “Vashti, I have something for you. I have dreamt of this day for a long time, and now I am finally able to begin the process of redemption.”

  A soft, gentle voice came from underneath the stranger’s hood. It seemed to sing like chimes over the crackling fire.

  “Show me, please.”

  Seam reached up to his right shoulder and unclasped the hidden key he had found within his father’s royal robes. As he released the key he stood and handed it over for inspection.

  “Oh, Seam. This is exciting indeed. You have done very well.”

  ***

  Bronson did not lower his weapon, but stared in through the window, straining to hear the conversation and make out the identity of the stranger opposite Seam.