The Specter Key (17 page)

“You see, Bran,” Gary said, “this device will turn this door into the entrance that the key belongs to. In this case,” he pulled the key from the bowl of water, “it’s the house of some family somewhere in the north, if I remember correctly. If I was to put a car key in, I’d step into someone’s car. If I was to put in the key to the Morkhoml Bank Vault, I could be a very rich and untraceable villain.”

“That is incredible,” Bran stammered. Gary gestured toward the bowl.

“Just put your key in there, and you’re off,” he said impatiently. Bran didn’t see a reason to waste any more time, so he dropped the key into the bowl and stepped back. His heart began to beat faster as he realized how close he was to finding Astara again. He rubbed his hands together nervously.

“Go on,” Gary pressed, waving his hand at the door.

“It was nice meeting you, and thank you,” Bran said, but Gary only nodded again, so Bran took a deep breath and reached for the handle. He hesitated and then pulled on the door.

A shattering explosion threw Bran back off his feet. It erupted in his ears and crawled up and down skin, filling his vision with green light until he was blinded by it. The noise was so loud that his eardrums popped, and he felt his head strike against the wall, and all went black.

Escrow and the Letter

When Bran awoke, he couldn’t remember how he had gotten into a bed, and his vision was so hazy that he wasn’t able to tell where he was. He turned his head and blinked and was able to make out that he was in a small bedroom with furniture against the walls and a window that had thick curtains over it. The room was oddly shaped, every corner angled and crooked, and even when Bran blinked his eyes to make sure it wasn’t an effect of the explosion, it still appeared crooked.

Bran tried to sit up, but an overwhelming pain burst from his left hand, and he lay back against the pillows. He winced and saw that his hand was entirely wrapped up in gauze.

“What?” he said with dismay, trying to move it but finding that even the slightest motion sent a fiery pain all through his wrist and arm. He slowly pushed himself up with his legs, which were under the heavy gray bed sheets. There was no television or telephone to be seen, and Bran became more and more uneasy.

He heard a noise outside the door, and Gary poked his head in.

“Good, you’re awake now,” he said, nodding in Bran’s direction.

“How long have I been asleep?” Bran asked.

“Many hours, I would expect,” Gary replied, entering and moving toward Bran’s bedside. “I haven’t really kept track. Hit your head pretty hard in there.”

“What happened?” Bran asked with horror. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No,” Gary shook his head, with a hint of disgust. “Unless nearly destroying my device counts as something wrong. Then yes, you did.”

He glared at Bran. “Your key blasted the device into pieces, and I barely made it out of that room without injuries myself!”

Bran was left in shock, unable to even speak an apology, but then Gary’s expression reversed, and he began to laugh loudly.

“Oh come on, Bran, it’s only old machinery,” Gary said. “What’s important is you’re alive, and I’ve discovered my device isn’t quite as perfect as it seemed. I think what I need now is to begin work immediately on repairs for Revdoora version 2.0.”

He laughed and then pushed something at Bran. “Drink this.”

Bran swallowed it, though he was still confused at how happy Gary seemed.

“I am sorry, though,” Bran said.

“Don’t worry!” Gary laughed. “It might be a good thing you’ve got to stay with me a few extra days, on account of you being hurt.”

He leaned over the bed to look closer at Bran’s injured hand. “You hurt that side the worst I would say. Can’t tell if it’s broken or what, but it wasn’t in good shape.”

“I can’t move it,” Bran said, wincing again as he tried to. “You don’t have a doctor I could go see? That might be best.”

Gary shook his head. “Not down here I don’t. And I don’t think you’re in much condition to make it all the way back to the mainland by yourself.”

“You don’t have a way of getting me there?” Bran asked.

“Unfortunately,” Gary replied, “I cannot leave this house for any reason. You would be on your own.”

“But—” Bran protested, struggling to get his legs free of the sheets. “What about Astara? I’ve got to find the door to that key somehow!”

“Well, be patient,” Gary said. “You can’t go anywhere in that condition—and no matter how great your magic powers may be, I know for certain that an untrained mage such as you attempting to heal that injury will almost assuredly make it worse.”

“But I can’t stay here!” Bran said with desperation. “I have to go. I’m wasting time just lying here in bed!”

At hearing those words, Gary looked hurt.

“Well…” Gary began, but he couldn’t finish what he was going to say.

“I mean, it’s just important I help Astara,” Bran said, trying to calm himself. “Nothing against you.”

“I-I understand,” Gary stammered. “But…you’re hurt, and you’re welcome here, and I’d hate to see you leave so fast—it doesn’t have to be a bad thing you’re stuck here. I could take a look at that key for you some more, you know.”

“You have more devices?” Bran asked.

“Oh yes, plenty,” Gary quickly returned. “I’ve got gobs of things I could do to study that key. I am an expert on keys you know, and I’m sure I’d find something.”

He seemed to be grabbing anything just to make Bran stay, and it was very odd, because Bran had thought that Gary didn’t want him there. But Gary was obviously eager to help, and Bran really needed him.

“All right then, I guess staying a bit won’t hurt,” Bran said with reluctance, and Gary’s face lit up.

“That’s splendid!” he said, rubbing his hands together. “You won’t find a finer place than this one. And you and I will find a way to get your friend back, I promise.”

It was just peculiar how excited Gary was all of a sudden. Bran hoped that it was perhaps nervousness or seeing another human after being alone so long.

“What happened to the key?” Bran asked.

“It’s over there in the bowl of water,” Gary said, gesturing to Bran’s bedside table. “It seems it’s got a way of keeping itself from harm. The bowl and the pillar are the only things that weren’t wrecked in that room.”

Bran slid closer and drew the key out with his good hand, shaking it so the water fell off. As he sat back down, his necklace slid out from under his shirt. Gary drew back and gasped, stumbling as if his heart had stopped. Bran, afraid at first the key had done something, moved away as well, but then he saw that Gary’s gaze was on the necklace.

“Are you all right?” Bran said, looking down and then back to Gary.

“Yes, yes,” Gary stammered. “Quite all right, Bran. It’s just…I hadn’t expected to ever see that necklace again.”

“You’ve seen it before?” Bran said with surprise.

“Oh yes,” Gary nodded, regaining control of himself. “I just thought for sure she would have…gotten rid of it, a long time ago.”

“My mother?” Bran said with shock, reaching to touch the necklace and feeling oddly as if he should hide it from Gary’s gaze. “You knew her?”

A silence fell over the room as Gary hesitated.

“I did,” he said simply. “Once. A long, long time ago.”

His face became forlorn, and he moved like he was about to say something else, even holding his hand out toward the necklace. But he stopped himself, and stepping back through the door, he disappeared.

Bran froze in shock but pushed the sheets off his legs and hurried to the door.

“How did you—” he began, but Gary was already gone. The hallway beyond split off in two directions. He looked down each but saw no trace of Gary in either. The candles lining the walls seemed to have dimmed on their own. It made the red and gold wallpaper and the dark carpet appear sinister. Bran listened for Gary, and he heard a sound straight ahead, so he started off.

“Gary?” he called, trying to get his attention, but he found that the end of the hall met with another, which he took, passing many doors and displays of keys. He came to the end of the hall rather quickly and found that it opened into the main room at the balcony, the ship hovering many levels below his feet and the gentle rumblings of the sleeping creature within causing the floor to buzz.

At first, Bran didn’t catch any trace of Gary, but then he saw a shadow two levels higher, disappearing through a door that closed quietly. Bran hurried around the balcony, winding up until he reached the level where the shadow had been, finding that he was back at the door to Gary’s office. He almost knocked, but his eagerness got the best of him, so he simply burst through.

The room was shrouded in total darkness. The dim light from behind him sliced through it, a beam falling across Gary’s desk, Bran’s silhouette framed across the room. No one was there.

“Gary?” he said softly, but there came no reply. He was sure he had seen him go into this room. He gently closed the door behind him, and the only light came through the giant window behind the desk and from the low coals in the fireplace. Bran was suddenly able to see through the glass clearly: the fish that swam by, the debris that carelessly floated there.

Bran was about to leave, afraid he might wake Escrow and be caught snooping, but he spotted something sitting on Gary’s desk. It was Adi’s letter. He glanced around the room one more time, but he didn’t sense anyone watching, so he crept closer to take a look.

There were various odds and ends strewn across Gary’s desk, and Bran was careful not to knock anything aside. Bran stole one more glance at the door before he picked the pages up from the unsealed envelope, opening them and squinting to read. It was too dark, so he bent them toward the light.

A great shriek split the air, and the letter was jerked from Bran’s grasp. He spun, but in the darkness he only heard the scream of Escrow.

“Unwelcome!” the bird called. “Unwelcome here!”

“Hush!” Bran demanded in a hoarse whisper, but he heard the sound of papers being torn, and he spun to see Escrow viciously shredding the letter with his beak. Bran dashed across the room, but the bird cried out again, dodging to the desk and tearing it up with his talons, until in mere seconds it was nothing but worthless confetti.

“Unwelcome!” Escrow said, and he hissed and spread his wings. The bird scratched the shreds of the letter behind him and snapped at Bran’s hand when he tried to grab them.

“You’ve made a mess!” Bran said angrily, but as he had only one usable hand, there wasn’t much he could do to fight the bird. Escrow nipped at his fingers, and Bran jerked back.

“Stop that!” Bran ordered.

“Unwelcome!” Escrow retorted, snapping his beak to keep Bran back.

“I was just going to look at it,” Bran said, trying to keep his voice down.

“Lies!” the bird’s voice came. “Salty, salty lies!”

“Quiet!” Bran said, snapping his fingers around the bird’s beak and forcing him to be silent. “You’ve already destroyed it, so I can’t read it anyway.”

The bird wiggled his head free and waddled around on the desk, glaring at Bran until he finally left the room in disgust.

A Lullaby for Lost Love

As there was no television, Bran sank down into the pillows of the bed and stared at the ceiling. He felt that he should be doing something, and yet he was trapped where he was, and twice he considered using magic to attempt to heal his injury. Bran finally drifted away into slumber, but he was given no rest. His mind was filled with a repeat of what he had seen under the bridge in Dunce, following Astara’s ghostly form through the woods to her grave. His dream was so vivid it was as if he was there again, the magic tearing at the ground and pulling her coffin back to the surface. But this time, her body was there beneath the wooden shell. Her eyes were already open, staring back up at him as she huddled in the corner, buried alive.

He reached to pull her out, but his hands went straight through her. Her ghostly body washed away into a green mist. She blew upward, swirling freely out of the coffin and into the air. He chased her body as it glowed, flying through the trees, but as it went, it slowly dissipated until there was no light left.

His subconscious told him to look down, and he saw that he was holding something tightly. The green gem in the key’s handle glowed into his face, the same color as Astara’s smoky form. It was blinding, and Bran moved his hand to cover it, but then the gem itself became a mist and drifted out of the key, leaving the woods around Bran black.

Bran awoke, rolling over, twisting his legs in the bedsheet. He winced as he leaned on his injured hand and swung over to the other side, finding that he was covered in sweat though the room was cold. He managed to sit up, unable to recall why he was out of breath until he remembered the dream. He reached up to wipe his forehead with his good hand and nearly knocked himself in the eye with the key, which had somehow made its way into his fist.

He stared at it, though the room was dark, and unlike in his dream, no light came from the gem. He set it on the table next to the bed and wiped his face with the edge of his sheets, which were soaked in his own sweat. The dream was hard to clear from his mind, and it had left his body so weak and sore that he had to lean against the chair when he stood. He dug some fresh clothes out of his bag and managed to get them on with his good hand.

He didn’t see Nim at first until he spotted her asleep across the room on a long string of fat cotton balls that had been placed on the dresser. It felt odd knowing that Gary must have come into his room, though Bran could not complain, for there was also a glass of water and a silver tray of food beside the bed.

There was a bowl under the lid of some type of soup with vegetables and garlic and tiny bits of fish. It tasted so fresh, though Bran couldn’t tell what was in it. He sipped it down with the spoon, and as he ate, he slowly began to feel a little bit better and more alert. He glanced over at Nim again, but he didn’t want to wake her, so he set his spoon quietly to the side and left the room.

He wandered down the hallways, and presently he heard clanking noises and a hammer coming from around a bend. He followed the sounds until he reached the balcony and saw Gary far below, working on the giant ship. He was suspended by a system of pulleys and ropes so that he was hanging against the side of the hull, hammering a board down over a rotted opening.

Bran almost called down to him but thought better of it and walked down the circular hall until he finally reached the bottom.

“That’s a big ship,” Bran said, trying to start conversation. Gary glanced at him.

“Good morning,” he said. He wasn’t as cheerful as he had been before.

“What’s it doing all the way down here?” Bran pressed. “I can’t even imagine how you got it inside this place.”

Gary didn’t seem very willing to stop his work, but he finally did, setting the hammer down onto the plank of wood.

“This ship,” he said, wiping his hands, “was once sailed by the great pirate Pythagorus Fearum.”

“A pirate?” Bran asked. “Then why have you got the ship down here?”

Gary grinned at that.

“Well, there’s a lot of history behind this ship,” he replied. “Keys aren’t my only obsession.” He lightly tapped the wood. “I’ve got many of Fearum’s personal items. I suppose you would say I collect them. I’m probably one of few who know his true legend.”

“And what’s his story?” Bran said, trying to keep Gary talking.

“Well, I shan’t tell you the whole legend of Fearum,” Gary said, “but suffice it to say that Pythagorus was perhaps one of the nastiest, and least spoken of, pirates in his day.”

Gary shook his head. “He committed a great many crimes, including the one against a monastery of the Ancients which sealed his doom. The Ancients cursed Pythagorus and all of his descendants to suffer their deaths by fire.”

“How many descendants does a pirate usually have?” Bran asked.

“More than you want to know about,” Gary replied, and he slowly began to lower himself down with the pulley until his feet touched the ground.

“Pythagorus was thankfully more reckless on the open seas than he was on land,” Gary said. “He had only one son, who in turn had only one son, who also had only one son.”

“And did he really die by fire?” Bran asked.

“Tragically, yes,” Gary said. “As every descendant has after him. His son was said to have been burned at the stake; his grandson died when his burning house fell on him. It is difficult to find the true history of the other generations, as few public records are kept on it.”

Gary nodded at the ship.

“I fancy myself the world’s only true expert on Pythagorus Fearum,” he said with a grin. “Legend has it that after Pythagorus’s death, his loyal first mate Skully Crossbones wrote the only existing record of his life, and that Skully still wanders the world, awaiting his final leave from Pythagorus so that he can die.”

Gary gestured upward. “And the triangular sails were his sign, colored green and black, so that all ships that came within sight would know to turn about rather than risk the wrath of the pirate named Fearum.”

“You seem to know quite a bit about him,” Bran said. Gary looked up at the giant ship with an affectionate gaze.

“Perhaps I have a weakness for obsessions,” he said. And at that, Gary began to wheel himself back up with the pulley. Gary started to hammer again, but Bran gathered up his courage and started again.

“I went looking for you last night,” Bran said. “But I couldn’t find you in your office.”

The hammer did not stop.

“I wanted to ask you about my mother,” Bran pressed.

“What of her?” Gary said, his voice cool.

“Well, last night you told me you’d met her before,” Bran said.

“I did,” the man nodded.

“But I don’t remember anything about her,” Bran said. “You’re one of the few people I’ve found who does.”

“There were many of us who knew Emry before she died,” Gary said, and he stared straight ahead at his work, as if ignoring Bran would make him disappear.

“You can’t tell me anything about what she was like?” Bran said. Gary stopped the hammer suddenly, its head hovering an inch from the nail.

“Did Adi send you here for this?” Gary snapped. It took Bran by surprise.

“N-no,” he said, confused. “Adi didn’t even tell me you’d known my mother.”

“She didn’t, did she?” Gary responded. “She didn’t tell you anything about the Project?”

“You mean the Farfield Curse?” Bran asked. The speed of his reply caught Gary unawares. He looked down at Bran quickly with anger in his eyes.

“Adi failed to mention you knew of it,” Gary said. “I only knew it as the Project until it was twisted into that deplorable thing you know as the Curse.”

“You worked on the Farfield Curse?” Bran said with alarm. Gary seemed to take offense at those words, because he started to wheel himself down until he was just above Bran’s head.

“How about I tell you a little story,” Gary said, his eyes narrowing. “Many years before you were born, someone stumbled upon a cave, and in this cave was the corpse of a man whose arms were clutching a box of ancient scrolls. The Mages Council, wishing to decipher these scrolls, commissioned a secret group of mages to decode them. At its head was a man by the name of Baslyn.”

Bran blinked at this, and Gary caught his reaction to the name.

“You have heard of him as well,” Gary said. “No matter, this story is not Baslyn’s. It is actually the story of a young man—one who knew entirely too much about a pirate by the name of Pythagorus Fearum. When Baslyn discovers that the corpse that had held these scrolls was none other than that of the legendary pirate himself, he brings this expert onto his research team—along with others, including a man named Thomas and a woman named Emry.

“Along the way,” Gary went on, “this man, Baslyn, discovers that these scrolls spoke of a magical power beyond anything in his wildest imagination: of another place, of creatures, of dark magics no one had seen even in their nightmares. And feeling that he might find a way to use these for his own advantage, he proposes to his group of researchers the outline for a plot.

“Being young and under this man’s influence, his group sides with him—all save one, the young man who knew so much of the pirate Fearum. He alone decides to stand against them but unwisely chooses to ignore them rather than alert the Council of their true plans. So he is forced to leave.”

“And so Baslyn,” Gary said, “and his followers, with the man named Thomas and the woman named Emry, continued their horrific work, and I think both you and I know the end.”

Gary shook his head sadly.

“So yes, Bran,” he finished, “I do know much about the Farfield Curse and how your mother was brought to her end.”

Bran opened his mouth to reply, but Gary only wheeled himself up the side of the ship again.

“She changed before she died, you know,” Bran called up, in what little defense of her name he could muster.

“But her end was hardly when it was meant to be,” he heard Gary say.

“Well, you were just a friend of hers,” Bran called back. “She was my mother. So you can hardly act like it affected you more than it did me.”

Disgusted, Bran spun around to leave the room before he became angrier.

“Where are you going?” came Gary’s voice.

“I don’t know,” Bran said sharply. His voice carried the bitterness that had washed over his heart. Time was being wasted with every moment he was stuck there.

“It might do you well to rest, Bran,” Gary said, with unexpected concern.

“I can’t sleep anymore,” Bran replied over his shoulder. “I’ve been having the worst of nightmares.”

He heard Gary’s pulley begin to creak once more until he reached the ground.

“Come now,” Gary said, cleaning his hands in a towel. “Let me help you.”

“I don’t want any help sleeping,” Bran hissed. “I want to find my friend!”

“You won’t have any luck there until you’re well again,” Gary said, though his voice carried no anger. He tossed the towel back onto the table, passing Bran for the hall.

Though Bran did not feel like doing anything that Gary said, he reluctantly followed until they had come to the office. Gary gestured Bran to the couch, the fireplace crackling warmly as Gary sat in a large leather chair across from him. There was a square wooden table beside him with two drawers, and he reached for the brass pull of the top.

“I think that a bit of music might help you,” he said. He drew a long, slender box from the drawer and opened it gently. Within it was a perfectly polished silver flute with black etchings around its surface.

“Just rest,” Gary insisted. “I’m a Netora, if you haven’t figured it out by now. Music is one of my many passions.”

“My friend is a Netora as well,” Bran said. Gary looked up at him.

“As was your mother,” he said softly, “before she fell for that which was her end.”

Bran did not know how to take Gary’s words, because they only built new monuments upon the mysteries he had already constructed.

“But don’t think of her for now,” Gary whispered, as if he could feel Bran’s uncertainty. “How many nights has her memory haunted both you and me?”

Bran did as Gary had told him and lay back, as much as he wished to do otherwise. The couch was comfortable, and he realized that though he had rested the night before, the nightmares had left him even more tired. His heart was weary as well, and each thought of Astara pained him all the more.

“Close your eyes,” Gary said. “You’ll feel better after a while, Bran.”

Gary began to play. The song started slow at first, a few notes repeated like the droning sound of the flute awakening from its slumber. It surrounded Bran, opening like a new morning in another world. The notes flowed out effortlessly from the instrument, as if it was playing itself in the softest tones it knew. Bran’s eyes had opened without him fully realizing it, and he saw that Gary’s fingers were working the flute, his mouth pressed to the other end as he did. He nodded for Bran to close his eyes again, and so Bran obeyed and let the music wash over the room.

The song went on, repeating the first short verse once and then transforming into a lullaby, one that was so familiar that Bran had to force himself to keep his eyes closed. He knew he had heard it somewhere, but he could not place the sound. It seemed to be buried deep in the recesses of his mind.

The melody was unhurried and mournful, like the lament of a lost love, its notes seeming to fade into one another like the soft weeping of a man. It was odd how the music seemed to drift across Bran’s mind like soothing incense, sweetly lulling him deeper against the couch, though he tried to fight it. His mind softened to its notes, the worry and the pain over losing Astara slowly wearing away, until its burden lightened from his shoulders.

He opened his eyes wearily to ask Gary the name of the song. But when he looked toward the chair, he saw that Gary’s eyes were closed, and there were tears rolling down the man’s cheeks, as he slowly continued to play the notes by memory.

The room became hazy, and notes washed over Bran like ghostly hands pushing his eyelids closed until he had fallen asleep.