Authors: Kaleb Nation
The Key and Its Map
Bran slept better that night than he had in weeks. He awoke in the crooked bedroom, and there was another tray of warm food beside his bed. He didn’t feel like eating, but he made himself down everything that was there. He had no sense of the time, and though he didn’t think he could sleep any more, he couldn’t drag himself out of the bed. So he lay there and did nothing until he fell asleep again.
When Bran awoke again, he had gotten so much sleep that it hurt him to remain in bed, so he pulled himself up and struggled uneasily to his feet. Nim, who had restlessly moved from the dresser to the chair beside his bed, immediately leapt in front of him.
“There you are,” Bran said to her. Nim seemed relieved that he was finally up and ready to move about. Bran saw the key was still sitting on the table beside his bed, where he had left it, so he absently picked it up.
He ran his fingers along the markings on the shaft, not really concentrating on what he was doing. His fingers kept going over the same shapes.
He held the key closer to his eyes, for the grooves were very small and hard to see. They didn’t follow any real pattern, it seemed, because there was no start or end to the shapes, and they didn’t make any form but seemed to spread in circles and straight, maze-like lines, until they met up at one thin, flat bit that ran all along the bottom.
He thought it would be interesting to show to Gary, as he was the obvious expert on keys, and perhaps there was a way of matching the design to where the door might be.
Bran and Nim left and wandered down the halls, looking for any sign of where Gary might be. Bran was still very curious after all that Gary had told him about working with his mother. There were so many questions in his head that he wanted to ask—questions that had plagued him for years. But even as important as they were to Bran, he could hardly think of them for more than a few minutes before his mind returned to Astara and his driving urge to find her.
He had made his way down the hall and found an open door, beyond which was a room with a low ceiling and a long desk in the center holding two lamps and some open books. It was a library, with three rows of shelves in the center of the floor, like miniature walls about an inch taller than Bran. “Hello?” Bran said, stepping in with Nim keeping close to him. There came no response. So he crossed the room to the desk, glancing from side to side as he passed the shelves.
There was something on the table that caught his attention. It was no longer than the length of his thumb, bright red and cone shaped; attached to its side was a small length of chain connecting to a ring on the other end. Bran picked it up and realized that it was a key ring.
“Well, that’s random,” Bran said, amused. Nim passed his shoulder and landed on the desk, and Bran saw that she had found something else. It was an old, bent map, folded at the edges. It was opened to Elsie Island and West and East Dinsmore, with the blue water separating them and other small islands littering the area around. Elsie Island, curiously enough, was marked with a red triangle, and as Bran looked closer, the red marking was actually glowing slightly, though hardly perceivable under the lamplight.
“Good morning.” Bran heard Gary’s cheerful voice behind him suddenly, and he spun, which he regretted because it made him appear guilty. Gary was standing just over Bran’s shoulder with a smile.
“I was looking for you,” Bran said quickly. “The door was open.”
“No worries,” Gary said. His eyes shifted to the key ring in Bran’s grasp. Bran quickly set it onto the table, though Gary picked it right back up.
“I’m glad you found this,” Gary said, tossing the gnome-hat key ring into the air and catching it again.
“It’s one of my own inventions,” he said, eager to show it off. “I don’t usually get to show this stuff off to anyone. You see, it is connected with the map here. Wherever this key ring is,” he touched the red triangle on the map, “this symbol points to it.”
“What do you use it for if you never leave?” Bran asked. Gary seemed puzzled by this.
“You have a good point,” he replied. He looked at the key ring and then tossed it to Bran.
“You should keep it,” he said. “I obviously have little use for it. It’ll be a souvenir from your visit here.”
Bran turned the simple device over in his hands. He didn’t have much use for it either but didn’t want to turn down Gary’s gift. Finding he didn’t have anywhere to place it, and not wanting to put it in his pocket for fear of stabbing himself in the leg, he settled with attaching it to the zipper of his jacket. “You’ve got the key again, I see,” Gary noted as he went to the other side of the desk and started closing the books and placing them back on the shelf.
“I noticed something that I wanted you to take a look at,” Bran said. “It could be nothing, but it seemed a bit odd.”
Gary leaned over the desk and took the key. When Bran had pointed him toward the markings, Gary drew a magnifying glass from a drawer, looking closer at them.
“See?” Bran said. “It doesn’t follow any real pattern, like decoration usually might. I don’t know if you can tell who made it or maybe what country it might be from because of that. Maybe like a marking certain keysmiths might use?”
It sound rather far-fetched, but Bran wasn’t about to leave any chance behind. Gary turned the key over and actually seemed to be curious about what Bran had found.
“That’s strange,” Gary said after a few moments. But he wasn’t looking at the design Bran had pointed to; his attention was on the oddly shaped handle. He turned the key around again, and then his eyes lit up.
“Look at what I found,” he said, squeezing the handle. Inside the grip, Gary’s fingers pressed two tiny buttons that Bran had not seen before, as they blended into the key’s design. Gary grasped the key at both ends and began to twist it. Bran jumped, fearing that he was going to break it between his fists, but suddenly there was a click.
The bit and the handle, which had been lined up perfectly, were suddenly uneven, and Bran thought the metal had been bent. But Gary continued to turn the key slowly, and Bran saw that the key itself was actually made of two twisting pieces, and as they turned, the bit folded inward mechanically, tiny hidden gears creaking until the metal disappeared entirely, leaving behind nothing but the handle and a straight, metal rod covered in the markings.
“What is that?” Bran asked with a gasp, reaching forward instinctively to take it.
“Wait a moment, Bran,” Gary stopped him in a hushed tone, and he dug about in the desk drawer again, finally pulling out a thin black box no larger than his palm. He opened it, and Bran saw that it was an ink pad. Before Bran could react, Gary had pressed the shaft of the key against the ink.
“What are you doing?” Bran protested, but Gary pressed the straight end of the key upon a piece of paper. He began to roll it, gently pushing down as he turned the key, and the ink left behind a stamp of sorts. Gary returned the key to Bran without taking his eyes from the paper and drew the magnifying glass over it. To Bran’s surprise, he saw that the markings formed a map.
It was so plain in front of them that Bran wondered why he hadn’t noticed it before. The markings were so small that he wouldn’t have been able to see them if not for the magnifying glass. As Gary focused it more, Bran perceived a tiny series of arrows pointing a way through a complicated maze, with symbols all around the edges in a language he had never seen before. Gary moved the glass to the end, and Bran saw that the directional arrow was incomplete.
“There’s a missing part,” Bran said, touching the blank end of the paper.
“Of course, he would have taken it,” Gary said under his breath.
“Who?” Bran asked. “You know who has the other piece?”
The magnifying glass flew across the room, and Bran jumped back as he heard it crash and shatter.
“Yes, I know who has it!” Gary spat his reply. His eyes were filled with rage.
“But it’s not worth it,” Gary said. “Look at what’s happened! Haven’t you seen where all this has gotten you?”
Bran put his hands up to calm Gary but was cut off.
“Your friend is dead,” Gary went on. “Emry is dead. Do you want more people to die while you try to make things right?”
“I’m just trying to help her!” Bran burst, anger welling up within him. Gary drew back at this and started out the door.
Bran heard Gary’s angry footsteps getting further away and, seized with anger, started after him. Nim struggled to keep up, and Bran followed Gary, calling after him. When he got to his office, Gary slammed the door in Bran’s face.
He balled his fingers into fists and almost left, but then he grabbed the door handle, only to find that Gary had locked it. “
Onpe likoca!
” he commanded, and he threw the door open.
“Gary!” Bran hissed, but he stopped. Gary was not in the room. Everything was still and untouched, as if Gary had gone through the door and disappeared entirely, yet again.
“Gary?” Bran demanded again, though his voice held little power. He and Nim were by themselves again, except for Escrow sitting in his cage. Even the bird, however, only rocked back and forth wordlessly. Bran closed the door, the room still lit by the light in the fireplace. He crossed the room slowly to Gary’s desk and peered over in case the man had stupidly hidden there.
“How does he just disappear like that?” Bran said angrily, striking the desk with his fist. Escrow croaked irritably at the noise.
“Lies, lies,” the bird murmured. “Salty, salty.”
“Shut up,” Bran said to it. “You know where he’s gone, but of course you won’t tell me, because you’re a stuck-up bird.”
Escrow turned his back on Bran.
“Gary!” Bran yelled, filled with frustration. Bran seized the glass of water on Gary’s desk and threw it with all his might into the fireplace, screaming Gary’s name once more so loudly his voice pained him, and Nim dove out of sight.
However, Bran’s outburst brought him back to his senses. Bran was scared at just how angry he had become. But beyond that, another sound captured his attention—he heard the water glass clatter into the distance.
He turned to the fireplace and stared at the flames. His curiosity drew him forward slowly until he was standing on the rug in front of the grand fire, and he peered deeply into the flames. It might have been his imagination, but for a second, as the flames wavered among one another, he thought that he could see a deep darkness behind them that went somewhere else.
It was hardly something he considered before, but seeing it sent a start through him. He looked all across the mantle for some way of turning off the fire. There was a hidden hole on the right side where a key might have fit. He was in such a rush that he wasn’t even thinking straight, so he opened his palm toward the fire and shouted, “
Wirate!
”
A blast of water spewed from his hand like the bursting of a fire hydrant. It drenched the fireplace until Bran closed his hand so the water ceased its gushing. For a second, nothing remained but blackened coals—but the fire burst up again, roaring even more powerfully than before and with such heat that Bran was forced to step away.
“Of course you’re hiding something back there,” Bran hissed, and he rapidly searched the room with his eyes for anything that might help him. He looked down at the rug, and an idea came to him—one he might not have even considered if he had been in a sane state.
But he was desperate. In a second he had lifted the rug, and Nim dove at him as if she might stop him, but he only grabbed her and pushed her into his pocket. He took one deep breath of air and started to run directly at the fireplace. The fire roared as if in welcome, the heat burning his face, until Bran was at the mantle. Lifting the rug in front of his body, he threw it into the flames.
Bran burst forward with a shout, and he tumbled and tripped over the rug. The flames consumed it in a second so that his knees brushed the white-hot coals, and he felt every inch of him beginning to burn. He pushed himself ahead, his lungs filling up with smoke. And though his mind screamed at him that he would slam against the back of the fireplace and be trapped, he tumbled ahead, until his face felt cool air once more.
The Room beyond the Fire
Bran’s chest struck hard against the floor beyond, and he rolled once, wincing as his head slammed against something wooden. He looked up quickly and saw that he had fallen straight through the fireplace and found himself to be in another room.
The fireplace was double-sided, and flames lit this side as well in a flashing, crackling light that sent shadows up the walls as it consumed the tattered remains of the rug. Bran sat up, blinking as he looked around. There was furniture, mostly couches, strewn about messily, everything in disarray from old lamps falling against the walls to bird cages and tables on their sides. It looked like a storage room, but as Bran turned his head to soak it all in, he saw a distinctive feature. The winding walls that circled high above his head were covered with picture frames. In the frames were photographs of a familiar person: his mother.
No matter which way he turned his head, Bran was greeted with the face of his mother. Pictures of her smiling, laughing, sitting down, and standing; one of her in front of a building and another of her in a red jacket. He stood and turned in a circle; there were more images of his mother than he had seen in his entire life.
Behind him, Bran heard a flute playing the last few notes of the heartrending song Bran had heard before. He turned quickly and saw Gary lying on one of the couches, his eyes closed and the flute pressed to his lips. The pieces finally fit together, and Bran recognized the melody. He had heard this song before, played in Nigel Ten on the music box that had held Nim. The music stopped.
“So, Bran,” Gary said. “You have stumbled upon my room of misery.” And his voice was filled with such desolation that Bran felt a pain go through his own heart.
“How did you get these?” Bran asked. Gary did not reply, and Bran’s eyes continued up to the pictures on the opposite wall. As his eyesight adjusted, he saw another familiar face in the images: it was Gary, and he was standing beside Bran’s mother in every single one.
“You didn’t just know her,” Bran said. “You loved her.”
“That I did, Bran,” Gary said. “And it was that love that led to my downfall.”
He pressed the flute to his lips once more, but he only managed to draw forth two notes before he began to weep. Gary sat up slowly, burying his face in his hands.
“It’s the song I wrote for her, before she left,” he said, his voice intermingled with sobs. “I made it into a music box and gave it to her, so she could hear it anytime she wanted. But it wasn’t enough.”
Gary shook his head with grief. “I met your mother while we worked on the Project. It was good, I promise you Bran, the Project was good—or at least I was fooled into thinking we had good intentions. Perhaps Baslyn was far more influential than I realized, even after I separated myself from his group.”
Gary wiped his eyes quickly. “Your mother captivated me the first day I worked with them, simply captivated me—I had never met someone like her before, with that smile and those eyes and her laugh that would bring joy on the dullest and darkest of days. We worked so closely that it was mere months before we were together. Everyone knew of it. Even Baslyn. And even…Thomas.”
Gary spat Bran’s father’s name out with contempt. “When I found out Baslyn’s true motives and told them that I was leaving, I thought that Emry would go with me. But I had gravely miscalculated Baslyn’s control over them.”
He sobbed again. “It was almost a cult, Bran. Baslyn had done something to Emry, he had changed her somehow. Whatever Baslyn ordered, they carried out. When I told Baslyn I was leaving, Emry didn’t come with me, she left me. And she came to be with Thomas, the man who stayed behind with her and the Project.”
“And they just let you go?” Bran whispered. Gary nodded.
“They couldn’t kill me,” he said. “They knew that much. And Baslyn knew that with Emry still there, I would never turn them in. So I simply left.”
Gary’s face was filled with tears again. “But I still loved that girl—your mother. I loved her more than life itself, more than anything in the world. I would have done anything to get her back. I would have paid anything, Bran—but sometimes there is nothing you can do.” Gary shook his head sadly.
“You never got over her,” Bran said. Gary shook his head, glancing around at the photos.
“Most people move on from ones they love and lose,” Gary said. “But I haven’t. I have gone forward in solitude. I feel as if Emry died without ever giving my heart back. And these photos are all I have left of her, Bran.”
Gary sniffed, his expression turning bitter. “And Thomas—with me gone, your mother clung to him. I began to wonder if I had made a mistake by leaving them, if I had lost the one thing I truly cared about. I had to watch them, your father and the woman I loved together, because I had refused to take part in their Project.”
Gary sighed. “Perhaps I am simply an addict to pain, Bran. Because every second I saw her happy with your father, I wanted to tear my own heart out just to make it stop; at the same time, I could not stop watching them, just to make sure she was all right. And even now, after she’s been dead for all these years, I cannot stop watching her. She haunts my dreams—dreams of us together, of how things could have been; dreams that turn to nightmares when I awaken. And seeing her necklace…”
Gary gestured toward Bran. “You wear it now, don’t you? She gave it to you before she died?”
Bran hesitated, but then he drew it out from under his shirt, so that the silver of it glimmered in the light. Gary looked at it, but then turned his head away.
“That necklace was my gift to her,” he said. “It was…very special to me, something that had been mine for a long time. I thought for sure she would give it back, but she never did.”
“Maybe she kept it as a memory of you, Gary,” Bran whispered.
“I can’t hope for that much,” Gary said quickly. “She hardly loved me when she died. Why would she want to keep it as a memory?”
“Perhaps she realized she had made a mistake,” Bran said, his voice lowering even further. Gary said nothing but only sat staring at the wall. He seemed deep in thought, and the tears continued down his face, drying on his cheeks.
“Perhaps that is why she wore it close to her heart,” Bran said. “Maybe she realized that if she had stayed with you, then none of this would have happened; she never would have created the Curse and wouldn’t have lost everything she loved.”
Gary bent forward, hiding his face in his hands. “You might have been my son, Bran,” Gary said. “I might have been your father if she had chosen differently—if fate had only led me and her together.”
Bran could say nothing. Would things have been better had it happened that way? Would his mother still be alive, and would she and Gary and Bran be living somewhere together, happy? The thought tortured Bran, so that he felt lost, as if that crossing of paths, and her decision, had changed everything from what might have been into what it was now.
“Perhaps that was not our fate,” Bran said. It was all he could say. Gary did not move.
“What is fate?” Gary asked. “How can one believe in fate when it has betrayed me so much?”
“Because it means that it has all happened for a reason,” Bran said.
“That is foolish.”
“And it’s all we have,” Bran replied. “Maybe it was fate that you would lose her and all these terrible things would happen. Maybe it was fate that Astara would be gone and I would come here and meet you. Maybe this is simply one tiny piece in a grand fate that all of us are set to fulfill—and even though my mother’s choice changed everything, I’m still here, and maybe I can make it right again.”
Gary mulled over this, saying nothing for a long time.
“You don’t think I wish our fates had been different?” Bran whispered. “I’ve only been here for a few days. And you, Gary, are far closer to a father than my real one ever was.”
No other words in the entire world might have warmed Gary more. He closed his eyes.
“I’ve been such a horrible person, Bran,” Gary said, wiping his eyes. “All of this has been a lie. I knew from the moment I saw the Key where you were headed. I just couldn’t bear to watch you go after your friend, when she might very well be dead and you might go on searching for ways to save her all your life and become just as heartbroken as me.”
“I’d do anything to get back the people I love,” Bran said. “It would hurt me far more to leave my friend to die and know there was a chance I might have done something.”
“I loved your mother the same,” Gary said. “More than anyone ever did or ever will.” He wiped his eyes. “I know what love is. I have felt it. I have suffered from it. And you damn well better go after your friend before the same curse that took your mother from me also takes Astara from you.”
His words held bitterness and pain but also the strongest resolve. Gary then held both of his hands out and took Bran’s hurt wrist between his own, drawing him closer. He had something in a bottle next to the couch, and he unwrapped the gauze around Bran’s injury, pouring the liquid over it. Bran jumped because it stung at first, but a second later his whole arm felt different, and he realized that whatever Gary had poured on him had healed it.
“You had that all along?” Bran said with shock, turning his hand in circles.
“I thought I might convince you to stay,” Gary said. “But I see now that you will not be deterred in freeing those bound by the Specter Key’s power.”
“You know of the Specters?” Bran said.
“Yes,” Gary nodded. “You know much of your mother’s crimes. Think to her greatest: the stealing of those innocents in the desert, those souls she used for the Curse. That Key binds the lock that holds their spirits imprisoned, and he who holds it holds the power of their souls.”
“Can’t we destroy it?” Bran asked.
“It’s protected by magic,” Gary replied.
“Then why can’t I simply set them free?”
“There is only one place for that to be done,” Gary said. “The door to their prison. I do not know how to get there, but the map from the Key will guide you through.”
“I don’t have all the pieces,” Bran pointed out.
“You will have two now, though.” Gary picked up his flute again and unscrewed the mouthpiece. What was left was a metal rod with intricate markings, and Bran knew what it was: for the other piece of the map.
“This map,” Gary said, after putting ink on the flute and imprinting it onto paper, “is many centuries old and separated into four pieces so that only those deemed worthy might enter the ground. It was not done this way by anyone who was part of the Project but by those who built the place to which it leads.”
He slid the paper into Bran’s fingers in a slow but deliberate motion. “A piece was hidden on the Key, another on the flute. I don’t know where the others ended up after the police discovered Baslyn’s plan, but I assume they are with those few who escaped. You must find your father, and he will take you and the Key to its door.”
Bran looked down at the piece of the map in his hands and then back up at Gary.
“Come with me,” Bran said, but Gary only shook his head.
“I have not left this island since before your mother’s death,” he said. “I don’t have the strength to leave it now.”
“Just come with me,” Bran said fervently. “You’ll be better once you are over her.”
“Not yet,” Gary said. “But the day will come.”
Bran took a deep breath. It pained him to see Gary’s eyes fill with tears again.
“You should be off,” Gary said.
“Thank you,” Bran replied. Gary only nodded. And Bran left him behind with the photos of Emry and set off to save Astara.