The Stair Of Time (Book 2) (25 page)

Self Portrait

After pulling the doors wide, Andaris stepped into a grand hallway.  Gleaming white pillars supported an arched ceiling, every inch
of which was covered in a stunning array of painted skyscapes, starry nights brightening to blue and back again. 

T
he gentle curve of the hall prevented him from seeing more than fifty yards in either direction, but he suspected what lay ahead was much like what lay behind.  There were low alderwood benches between the pillars, each contoured back engraved with its own distinct nature scene.  Here was a river flowing through a lush mountain valley, there was a gaggle of geese flying in formation above a pine forest, here was a pond ringed by aspen, a single deer drinking from its far shore, there was a herd of wild horses galloping across a rolling savanna, and so on.  Each bench seemed specifically designed to entice unsuspecting passersby, such as himself, to sit down and perhaps even take a quick nap, their bucolic settings, quiet elegance, concave seats, and red velvet cushions combining to elicit a feeling of comfort and tranquility that was nearly impossible to resist.

Above each bench
hung golden sconces that would have been indistinguishable from the ones in the ballroom if not for two things—their comparatively diminutive size, and capacity to be lifted off of their hooks and carried about like actual lanterns.  The flickering light emitted by the candles reflected off the painted stars, making them wink merrily at him.  On either side of each sconce, stretching from floor to ceiling, silver banners draped, centers bearing but a single design: a circle within a circle bisected by a vertical line.

Which way?
he wondered, nibbling his lower lip, peering first left and then right.  How many times since leaving home had he asked himself that very question?  Seemed like no matter where he went or what he did, he eventually found himself here, lost in unfamiliar environs, clueless how to proceed.

At length, he chose to go right, mainly because
this was, presumably, the direction he must travel to reach the town, but also because he was right-handed.  And lest we forget, despite past declarations to the contrary, it
had
been right turns that had saved him in the caverns.

The burgundy carpet was thick and cushiony, golden
tassels undisturbed by his near-silent passage.  The carpet, along with everything else in the hall, appeared to be brand new, as if just bought and tacked into place yesterday.  He peeked behind one of the banners, finding only bare stone beneath.

Who lit all these candles
?
he mused, realizing that he was already growing tired of the place, of its seemingly endless inscrutability, of the way it flaunted it in his face.

And why aren’t they burning down?  Surely all this doesn’t stay in a state of eternal readiness for whoever might happen by.
  He sighed. 
More Lenoy magic, no doubt, triggered by my presence.  But why should I trigger their magic?  There was something strangely familiar about those dancers, wasn’t there?  Is it possible that—

Thankfully, his musings were interrupted by the end of the hall,
reined in before they could take him somewhere he wasn’t ready to go.  He came to a stop in the decisive yet uncertain manner that is common to those who find themselves in such situations, staring at the innocent, enigmatic outline of a strikingly nondescript door, cedar planks and brass knob seeming wholly out of place in such an ostentatious setting.

That’s another thing he’d been doing a lot
of lately, walking in and out of doors, whether magical or mundane, to points unknown.  And you know what?  He was getting pretty darned tired of it.  Thanks to all his travels, he’d never be able to look at a door in the same way again.  In other words, a door could never be
just
a door, not to him, anyway.  He felt cheated, denied the simple pleasure of walking through a doorway like a normal person, mind unfettered by thoughts of past predicaments.

Now, whether a portal t
o a different world or just an adjacent room, they all seemed to possess a certain mysticism
—
metal, stone, and wood infused with a sense of
what- if
that he doubted even years of provincial life could eradicate.

From this point forward, his heart would
beat a little faster anytime his hand reached for that potentially all-powerful doorknob.  No matter how ordinary.  Even if he’d stepped through the doorway a thousand times before, and even if it had led him to the same place each and every one of those times, he could no longer be certain what lay beyond.  Doors are like question marks.  Once one makes you wonder, they all do.  Windows were bad enough.  But nothing compared to the somehow enigmatic outline of a closed door.

Shaking his head at what he deemed to be the conspiratorial beating of his heart, Andaris reached for the potentially
all-powerful,
yet strangely nondescript, doorknob.  And there he paused, frozen in indecision, listening to what sounded like wind whistling from the other side. 

A
h well,
he decided, grabbing and turning the knob in a rush. 
No point in waiting when I know I’m going to do it eventually anyway.

As expected, the knob turned easily and the door swung wide.  What his burgeoning precognitive abilities had not divined, however, was where the door would lead. 
Fortunately, one of his other non-extrasensory senses took up the slack, namely his sight.

The door opened into a cobblestone tower, broad steps curving downward, slitted windows providing light—sunlight—and fresh air, hence the whistling sound.  Feeling like a mouse that had eaten all
of the cheese
and
escaped the trap, Andaris raced down the cobblestone steps as fast as he dared, courting dizziness like a drunk, vaguely aware of the silver banners hanging to either side, embossed symbols blurring across his periphery, circles within circles bisected by vertical lines.

When he reached the bottom of the tower, he came to a scrambling stop, suddenly feeling very small, very frightened, and very cold, much as he imagined a mouse might
feel after having escaped one trap only to be ensnared by another.

For you see, framed by the arched doorway through which he peered,
there hung a single painting.  A portrait, no less, centered between two gleaming pillars just like the ones above.  In fact, except for the painting, this hallway looked identical to the other one, skyscapes, benches, and lantern-style sconces all in their places, awaiting his arrival.

As Andaris walked to the painting, he heard, somewhere off to his right, the sounds of commotion, town streets bustling with activity.  It wasn’t far
.  Perhaps only a hundred yards or so.  If he took a right down this hall, he would no doubt come to a nondescript door sporting a dull brass knob, beyond which he would no doubt find the town that reminded him so much of Tinar, the part he’d been able to see that is.

As important as these things had been to him just moments before, they were nothing more than background noise to him now, a faint buzzing in the nether regions of his mind.
  The reason for his dazed state hung before him like a nightmare.  What he’d considered mostly in jest before leaving the ballroom, had now actually come to pass.  He was standing face to face with himself.  That is to say, the man in the portrait was he.  True, he was twenty years older, graying at the temples with a haunted look in his eyes, as if staring into an endless abyss.  But it was he, nonetheless.

Noteworthy
Answer

Andaris stood staring at the painting of himself for a very long time, scrutinizing every line of his own face, transfixed by the depth of disappointment and madness in his eyes.  Like everything else in this place, it was a work of great art, every stroke meticulously placed, the color and shading adding just the right amount of contrast, making the painting appear, especially given its subject and viewer, almost
too
real.

His older self sat in a high-
backed wooden chair next to a small table, black cloak over leather armor, a circle within a circle bisected by a vertical line carved deep into the chair’s crest.  From now on, considering the frequency with which it appeared, he would refer to this merely as, “The Symbol.” 

He had thought
carved
, but that wasn’t quite right, was it?  The Symbol had been chiseled into the wood with broad, angry debasement, gouged out as though the woodsmith resented it, perhaps even hated it, yet was compelled to make it over and over again, helpless to resist. 

Around his
painted neck hung a thick silver chain, weighted down by a thick silver medallion with a blood red ruby at its center.  The medallion rested against his doublet with serene indifference, as if it had always been there and always would, features etched into an unmistakable expression—The Symbol, yet again.  Behind the table, a partial view of a box seat window could be seen, light slanting through thin lace curtains, a pure, white light illuminating a silver flute, the length of which was held tightly in his grasp, tip glinting in the light above reticulated fingers, three fingers, and a thumb.

Andaris stared at that flute as if it were s
omething he very much treasured but had long ago lost, and then forgotten, only to find it again here.  He studied every detail, allowing himself to become immersed, relishing the look of it—simple, elegant, a cylindrical rod twelve inches long, six holes bored smoothly into silver skin, the initials
A. L. R.
engraved into its belly. 

Andaris Rocaren,
he whispered, feeling his spine tingle with hidden portent, sensing the conveyance of a long-awaited message, a message that had always been there, broadcasting again and again from some shadowed recess of his psyche that, until now, he neither could, nor would, recognize.

Why am I in this painting?
he asked himself.  And of course, the answer was evident.  He was in this painting because he had been here before.  The question was, had he come here as an older man, or had he grown older here?

The latter seemed more likely, and in his heart he knew it to be true, as if all the Andaris’ in all the various points in time and space were linked,
each a part of a larger picture, sensing one another as well as the whole, but not understanding.

Pray tell, who drew these lines
!?
a part of him demanded. 
And what do they form?  What is the larger picture?  One must first know the question before one can know the answer.  The question has been asked.  It has now been asked!

His attention was drawn to the forefinger raised so resolutely above the clenched flute.  It pointed towards the tabletop with more authority than one expects of a forefinger, even one as fine as this—almost as slender and elegant as the flute itself.

His attention was further funneled by a subtle pattern in the paint, drawing his sight inevitably downward, towards, not the tabletop, but the drawer beneath.  It looked so real, distinguishing itself as the painting’s true focal point, the picture within the picture that most could only see by crossing their eyes and tilting their heads.

So mesmerized had he been by
his own aged visage that, until now, he had failed to notice.  It was almost as though he could reach out, pull open the drawer, and take what lay inside.  There
was
something in there, wasn’t there?  Yes, of course there was.

His hand trembled only slightly as he reached for the little wooden knob
, the rounded edges of which felt, not like paint on canvas, but like real wood.  How skilled an artist must be to achieve such an elaborate illusion. 

Or was it magic?
  Could he not, in fact, feel the magic thrumming from its surface, warm and somehow soft, wrapping around him, caressing him, directing him?

Pull the knob,
a voice whispered in his head, a voice disturbingly like his own—but older and coarser, weighted down by burdens long held.  Its need was palpable, smothering him, dreams and hopes and fears coming together to form a vast, unknowable amalgamation.

Pull the knob,
it repeated.

It did not occur to
Andaris to disobey.  The voice was indeed his own.  Of that he was now sure.  A voice from beyond, a voice from the future, a voice from the grave, focused and heightened by this place.  Who was he to deny it—to deny himself?  And it was so close.  Perhaps waiting for him just beyond the next door.

The drawer pulled easily, red velvet sides cradling a silver flute of exceptional quality, the same flute as in the picture, in the picture and now
in
the picture,
A.L.R.
engraved into its glistening belly.  He picked it up, wondering idly what the
L.
stood for, grasping its sleek, shimmering body with the same sort of fervor as his painted self.

Indeed, it shone with an
inner
beauty, as well.  A beauty that spoke to him on a level that he didn’t know existed, cooing to him like the voice.  No, not
like
the voice.…  It
was
the voice, or rather the instrument through which the voice spoke.  It was a kind of receiver.  Question was, could he use it to communicate back? 

Andaris drew the tip of the flute irresistibly to his mouth, reveling in the feel of its cool metal against his lips.  He covered the first two holes with his first two fingers, surprised to discover not only that he knew which note to play, but knew how to play at all
, had, in fact, played this very flute hundreds of times before. 

If he so chose, he could play an entire song—many songs.  After all, he was a master flutist, was he not?  Feeling as if he were perfectly in sync with his gift, with the thing he had always been meant to do, with the thing he’d been
born
to do, had indeed been born over and over and over to do, he blew the note, holding it out sharp and long, listening intently to the way it echoed down the hall, its high, melodic voice awakening doorways within him that hitherto had been hidden and locked, buried beneath mountains of self-denial.

And as if this weren’t enough, he sensed, now that these doorways and subsequent passages were open, that something else had been awakened—a
something of great power that existed apart from himself, yet was linked, a great and powerful
something
that had lain dormant within the immaculate heart of this place for centuries.  Perhaps eons.

He took the flute from his lips with a shiver, or was it a shudder?  Regardless, the note continued to ring up and down the hall, drawing him inexorably onward.  His steps were sure and measured, for he knew exactly where he was going.  Ba
ck to his old room, his bedchamber, the room of the master of the house, Andaris
Londai
Rocaren. 
Strange name,
he thought. 
For a Rogarian, yes,
said the voice,
but not for one of mixed blood.