You approach the sealed northern door.
The six keyholes are arranged in a circle around the carved face of the old woman on the door. Up close, the carving is more detailed than it looked from across the chamber: deep wrinkles, bright little stone eyes, and an expression somewhere between grandmotherly patience and theatrical indigestion.
Each keyhole is different.
Not dramatically different — Conundromus apparently stopped short of labeling them COPPER KEY GOES HERE — but different enough once you look closely.
One keyhole is rimmed with a faint greenish patina, like old copper.
Another is dark and glossy around the edges, almost black.
Another has a warm bronze-colored ring.
Another is surrounded by a tiny sunburst of gold.
Another is plain, cold, and iron-gray.
The last is pale and bright, almost silver-white.
With the keys in hand, the matches seem clear:
* Copper key to the copper-rimmed lock.
* Obsidian key to the dark glossy lock.
* Bronze key to the bronze-ringed lock.
* Gold key to the golden sunburst lock.
* Iron key to the iron-gray lock.
* Silver key to the silver-white lock.
As you hold the keys near the door, each one gives the faintest little tug toward its matching keyhole.
The stone guardians watch in solemn silence.
Then one of them rumbles:
“Keys.”
The other adds:
“Six.”
A pause.
“Promising.”
