"I Am The Key and I Am The Door" by A.M. Guynes

Rosha sat back and stared at the elegant script she had been trying to perfect for the last seven years. The young Scribe Apprentice smiled up at her teacher. “Well Mistress? Did I get it right?”

Scribe Mistress Thenindra smiled at the adolescent girl. “Very well done, Rosha,” she agreed. “You’re letters are still slightly tilted, but everyone has their own writing styles so it is just fine.” She glanced down at the words on the parchment. “The Riddle Poem is one of the hardest pieces to get correct.”

The Faerie child looked up at her teacher. “Why is that?” she asked.

Thenindra looked into Rosha’s innocent blue eyes. “The Riddle Poem is more than just a mere collection of verse, Rosha,” she said solemnly. “It is something that has haunted our people since before the Sundering. Sometimes, a scribe sits down to copy it and dies because of the magic within those words.”

“But it’s just a poem!” Rosha protested. “How can it cause such harm?” “Put your pen away, child, and come sit by the fire,” Thenindra said after a moment of thought. “I’ll tell you the story of the Riddle Poem.”

Rosha quickly put her scribing tools away. She washed the ink from her hands and pulled off the pinafore she used to keep her cream-colored robes clean. She walked over to the fireplace and took her seat at Thenindra’s feet. “What makes this poem so dangerous, Mistress?”

Thenindra smoothed Rosha’s black hair with one thin hand. “Thousands of years ago, long before we came to these lands, there dwelled a mighty race. They were called the Enthema, and their power was absolute. No one dared to oppose them because they had the ability to bind people’s spirits into various objects, forcing them to do the Enthema’s will.” Thenindra stared out over the dimly lit countryside. The first of the three moons was barely showing over the edge of the Dragon Mountains. “Then the first of our people came. We were strong in a style of magic the Enthema had never encountered before. You know well what I mean.”

“The magic of the Runes,” Rosha replied dutifully, remembering her lessons. “All scribes learn of this magic. That’s what makes us scribes, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Thenindra said. “Ours is a written magic, one that can only be mastered by those with a true gift. The magic of the Enthema, or so I was told, came from the sheer force of their minds. They were not prepared for us and we were able to drive them back. We believed that they could not stand against us. We paid a terrible price for our hubris.”

“What do you mean?” Rosha asked.

“Before they vanished from this plane, the last of the Enthema cursed us,” Thenindra replied. “They took our most powerful scribe, a young girl named Nirashya, and bound her within the mind of her sister Firaneth. Firaneth went slowly insane, insisting that her sister’s voice was telling her to do the most unspeakable horrors. Finally, as a mercy to the poor girl, Firaneth was put to death. Her last words are held forever in the Riddle Poem. They found this written in her journal, along with the words Nirashya supposedly whispered to her during the terrible years of her madness.”

“But how can the poem slay the scribe set to copy it?” Rosha asked.

“Nirashya didn’t die along with Firaneth,” Thenindra told her. “It’s believed that her spirit, driven to great evil by the spell that the Enthema cast, resides in the lines of that poem. This is why no Scribe Apprentice is allowed to copy that poem until their teachers think them ready to pass into the Mastery level magic.”

Rosha let the words sink in before replying. “You mean, you think I’m ready to pass into the Mastery level?” she asked hopefully.

Thenindra smiled. “Yes my dear, I do,” she replied. “I wouldn’t have set you to copying that accursed poem if I thought it would get through your formidable personal shields.” She ran one finger over Rosha’s wings. “You missed a little ink, I believe. Why don’t you go take a bath and we’ll cut your lessons short for this evening. A nice, relaxing dinner and a good book should take the chill out of the story I told you.”

“Yes Mistress,” Rosha replied, secretly glad that she wouldn’t have to work on that horrid poem any further that night. She fluttered off as Thenindra put the cauldron over the fire.

The poem spoke to her, calling her name and beckoning her with all of its seductive power. “You are the one,” the voice whispered. “The one who can set me free.” She tried to ignore the sibilant voice but found herself drawn irresistibly to the desk where the parchment lay. “Speak the words aloud Rosha. Use your magic and open the gate between reality and the world of the written words.” She found herself reaching out with trembling hands, lifting the parchment from the table. Her mouth began to form the dreaded words…

Rosha gasped and opened her eyes. She was standing beside her desk, holding the Riddle Poem in her hands. Behind her, Thenindra stirred uneasily in her sleep. Rosha put the parchment down and turned to go back to her bed. A glimpse of something odd in the dark window made her turn back around. A vision momentarily blinded her. A girl, trapped in a wall, looked pleadingly out at her. A key hole dominated her stomach while a golden key dangled from one hand. Rosha, help me!

Rosha blinked away tears as she carefully lifted the paper off the desk. It had to be Nirashya, the spirit trapped in the verses. Rosha knew she was more powerful than most of the other Apprentices. They’d never even heard of the Riddle Poem. Thenindra was positive that she was strong enough to resist the power in the verse. Perhaps she was strong enough to break the curse, so no other Apprentice had to die. A small part of her quailed at the thought of having such power, but Rosha ignored it. She also ignored the feeling of terror that was growing within her as she resolutely began to recite the poem. She imbued the words with her incredibly strong magic. “I am the door, and I am the key,” she began. “I am the messenger that only you see./I am the keyhole, I am the wall./I am nothing and I am it all./Seek for me and you shall find,/I am locked within your mind./Try to open the gate that’s me,/And your worst nightmare will come to be./Demons hold me in my place./Silent tears stream down my face./For bound to you have I always been/Since this world first started to spin./For I am the door, and I am the key./I am the messenger that only you see./I am the keyhole, I am the wall./I am nothing and I am it all.” A glowing nimbus of crimson light surrounded her. Rosha vanished from Thenindra’s cottage with a cry of terror.

Rosha awoke once more to find herself in a strange landscape. It was almost as if she walked among the stars. Her path was a pale mist that felt as solid as the earth. She got to her feet and began walking along the silvery road. She came to a wall made of pale rose stone that stretched as far as she could see. She followed the wall, looking for a gate or some other way to get through. As she progressed, words appeared in glowing letters on the wall.

Some were lines from the poem. Others were pleas for help. Rosha recoiled as she recognized her own mother’s name among those listed in icy black letters on the wall. Her mother had perished not long after Rosha’s apprenticeship to Thenindra, a victim of a terrible accident it was said. Her apprentice had attempted something beyond his power and killed them both. Just below her mother’s name was the name of the boy she’d been trying to teach. As she progressed along the wall, the names she saw became more and more ancient. Sometimes she couldn’t read more than a few letters. Finally she came to the edge of the gate. Rosha stared as she realized it was the exact scene described by the poem.

A red-haired girl was held inside the wall by the clawed hand of a demon. A silver key hole was embedded in her stomach while a golden key dangled from the one hand that remained free of the wall. An invisible barrier prevented Rosha from proceeding any further. The girl opened one green eye. “Help…me…” she pleaded in a voice as dry as the stone around her. “Help…me…please.”

Rosha carefully lifted the key from the girl’s hand. She placed it in the key hole and tried to unlock the living gate. It took all of her strength to force the tumblers to fall into place. Suddenly, a huge gust of wind lifted her off her feet. Rosha found that her wings were useless as she struggled to maintain her grip on the other girl. Darkness clouded her vision once more as she was slammed into the wall.

“You should have listened to your teacher better.” Rosha blinked and found herself staring at the girl who’d been in the wall only moments before. The green eyes were now blazing a sullen scarlet. “These words are death for the scribe foolish enough to speak them. Or rather, they are a kind of living death, since here you can’t die.”

“What…is…happening?” Rosha asked.

“You are now the gate that binds our worlds apart,” the other said smugly. “You're quite powerful. It took a great deal of effort to bind you here. I’m lucky I didn’t lose you like I lost your mother and that boy-child she was trying to protect.”

“What?” Rosha was stunned.

“Let’s go back to the beginning Rosha,” the girl said pleasantly. “My name is Anthali. I am what’s left of the last scribe to get caught in this trap. I’ve been trying to ensnare someone else to take my place for about three hundred years now. When I got through to Harlik, I thought I had it made. Instead that blasted Merthana got in the way and ended up sending them both to the Haven Lands instead of allowing me to leave.”

“Where…?” Rosha tried to ask.

“Where am I going? Well, that’s hard to say,” Anthali said in a genial voice. “You see, my soul died years ago. I am actually Anthali’s shadow, her emotions and her rather forcible personality. I suppose, since I am still Anthali, I’ll go to the Haven Lands. Or perhaps I’ll be sent to the Shadow Vale for trapping you here. The truth of the matter is I no longer care. You are now the gate and its keeper, Rosha. Your only chance of freedom is to trick another apprentice into taking your place.” Anthali hung the golden key on Rosha’s outstretched hand. “Enjoy eternity, child, for that is what stretches before you.” What had once been Anthali vanished into the mist as Rosha cried silently as the full impact of her folly finally hit her.