The Stair Of Time (Book 2) (32 page)

Last Words

S
houldering the door aside, Andaris watched with grim satisfaction as the shadows fled before him, his eyes wide with wonder.  The hinges moaned in protest, rusty voices echoing down the hall.

Andaris
started to take a step forward, and then came to an abrupt halt instead, confronted, as he was, by…
himself.

For a time, he merely stood and stared
, limbs and mind struck dumb.  Then, calling upon reserves of will that he didn’t know he possessed, he slowly, haltingly, stepped into the room, holding the lantern before him like a sword, its light fending off the advance of dark shadow and even darker memory.

There was no denying that he
had been here before, many times, both in dream and reality.  Indeed, he had seen it as it was now, lifeless and covered in dust.  And he had seen it as it was before, welcoming and warm
.

T
here is a certain awareness that all abandoned places eventually acquire, whether it be a slouching mansion with a warren of passageways, or an old farmhouse with only two rooms.  If a space had ever been inhabited by a person’s thoughts, hopes, and dreams, the feeling was the same: a residual presence left behind after all else had gone, a stain on the air, a stillness that watched and waited, a mouth breathing against the back of one’s neck, a pulse echoing in one’s ears, a chill prickling one’s flesh.

R
egardless of the location, it never felt right or…
wholesome
, transforming all who entered into unwelcome guests, their tentative steps rising and falling as if against the undisturbed floor of a tomb.

And when
the place included faded pictures hanging crookedly on dust-covered walls, unwound clocks, empty beds and, oh yes, lest we forget, skeletons of oneself, then it became ever so much worse.

It was an odd sensation
, to say the least.  To be staring at these things,
his
things, cherished belongings which a part of himself had possessed for years, but another part had yet to even touch…. Like, for instance, that book lying on the table over there—his future self’s journal.

Andaris stepped towards it, irresistibly drawn, the
lantern chasing the shadows ever deeper into hiding.  Beyond the imaginary worlds conceived by his subconscious, that journal had been the only thing to keep him sane, an outlet for his thoughts and feelings, something tangible to which he might cling.  The day he’d filled up the last page, his slow decline into despair had become a plummet.

There was an unlit torch mounted against the wall on either side of the hearth.  Touching
first one and then the other with the candle from his lantern, Andaris brought them crackling back to life, banishing the shadows once and for all to the farthest reaches of the room.

After allowing a moment for his eyes to adjust, he looked down at the leather
-bound journal—the only thing
not
covered in dust, as though someone had recently picked it up and flipped through the pages. 
But who?
he wondered, spine tingling.

As he stared at it
, that feeling of being in several different places at once intensified.  Andaris tossed the candle into the cold heart of the hearth, feeling curiously gratified as it winked out, its head buried in ash.

Two hands are better than one,
he thought, reaching down and picking up the journal.
Especially when you’re about to read your future…as well as your past.

He stepped
over to the high-backed chair opposite the one in which his bones sat, the one pulled out just enough to allow access, feeling the juxtaposition like a spike through his head.  He remembered sitting where his future self sat now, looking at the other chair in which he was about to sit, the chair’s twin, feeling a presence staring at him, perhaps
his
twin, perhaps his past self, perhaps
him!

The sudden spinning of his thoughts was almost enough to make him drop the journal.  His heart pounded in his ears.  His breath came ragged and fast.  He held the journal tight against his chest and squeezed shut his eyes, waiting for his respiration to return to normal.

At which point, thankfully, he remembered the bottle of spiced brandy behind the clock on the mantle.  The fire kept it warm when his heart grew cold.  He opened his eyes, dipped his head to his bones, giving himself a quirky grin, then turned and grasped hold of the brandy, showing all the fervor of a drowning man.

After popp
ing the cork, he took a couple of long swigs, just enough to settle his nerves and warm his heart.  He returned the brandy to its place on the mantle.  Then, thinking better of it, set it on the table instead.  Releasing a sigh that any passerby would presume was borne of prolonged suffering, he sat down and placed the journal reverently into his lap. 

He waited, looking about the room expect
antly, fearing some retribution for his brazen intrusion.  When nothing untoward occurred—the torches continued to blaze, the shadows continued to shrink, and his skeleton continued to slouch, jaw hanging askew in a caricature of eternal agony—he put his hands against the leather cover of the journal and cracked it open, relishing the feel of the coarse grain beneath his palms.

It’s been a long time,
he thought with a shiver. 
I told you all my secrets….

Beads of perspiration popped out on his brow and upper lip as he turned to the first page
, the first of many, providence hanging thick in the air.  It was his handwriting all right.  There could be no doubt.

Now, you tell me yours
….

***

My name is Andaris Rocaren, third son of Edward Rocaren.  I found this journal shortly after I found this room—this amazing, magical room that seems to read my mind and give me what I most need and want.  Within reason, anyway.  For instance, if I think of something as I’m falling asleep, then it’s usually here when I awake.  Sometimes, it’s stuff I don’t even know I want, like this journal, and the never-empty bottle of spiced brandy.  That was a good morning!

I decided to begin writing down what
’s happened in case I don’t make it out, in the hopes that one day human eyes will look upon what I have written, and learn from my time down here.  Both so that I will be remembered, and so that my time will not have been spent wholly in vain. 

I am alone.  I entered the Lost City with my good friend, Gaven, in the hopes that we could find both a cure for Mandie, and a way back to Fairhaven.  We became separated after going through the mist, and then I found myself wandering around, like a mouse in a maze, the confounded clockwork stair seeming to hinder my every step.

When I found the green door into this castle, of which this room is but a very small part, I was so relieved.  I truly believed I would be lost on the stairs forever—or at least until I died.  There are many doors leading from the stairs to who knows where.  From what I’ve been able to discern, it’s a kind of nexus in space-time.  But I don’t know, maybe that’s wrong.

The door I went through, as you know if you
’re reading this, led to a castle that seemed to exist in another world.  I could see a town outside the windows, and even people.  For weeks I tried to reach them, but could not.  Beyond the way I came, every hall and stair eventually leads me back to this room, as if it’s at the center of a great labyrinth.

There are some extraordinary rooms in this place.  There was one with tiles on the floor that I could move around, each bearing a different symbol.  Another with mirrors on the walls, ceiling, and floor.  Another with nothing in it but a single golden birdcage containing a mechanical sparrow on a perch, a key for winding it up protruding from its back.  It sang such beautiful songs.  I
listened for hours, but so far haven’t been able to find my way back.  It’s as if the rooms and halls change position.  I’m sure that’s only my imagination.  I’m sure I’ll get it down eventually.  I just wish Gaven were here to help me.

Oh, I almost forgot to tell you the best
part—the dining room!  A thirty-foot long ironwood table with ever-burning candelabras placed every five feet or so.  It seats fifty, but there’s just me.  The settings are fit for a king.  The plates are made of solid gold.  And there are crystal goblets that catch and refract the light from the candelabras, casting little rainbows about the room.

This table holds the most delectable food imaginable.  What needs to be hot
, stays hot.  What needs to be cold, stays cold.  There are turkeys, hams, roasts, ten different kinds of bread, pudding, wine, cider, cocoa—all my favorites.

And that doesn
’t do it justice, not by half.  I wish I were a better writer so that I could properly convey what I saw.  It’s so difficult to paint a clear picture with mere words.  I can see it perfectly in my mind, but when I try to describe it I fall short.  It’s SO frustrating! 

Oh well.  Nothing to be done about it, I suppose. 
We are all born with the gifts The Watcher gives us, no more, no less.  Hey, that was pretty good.  Maybe there’s hope for me yet!

Bu
t I digress. I’ve been so easily distracted of late.  I find it takes a monumental effort to keep my mind on track, to focus on any one thought for more than a few seconds. Must be this place.  I can feel it pulling at me in so many different directions.  Sometimes, like now, to a disconcerting degree.

Speaking of which
, did I mention that the temperature is always perfect in here?  It’s as if it automatically adjusts to my body. Every time I start to feel the slightest bit uncomfortable, it changes.

See
what I mean?  There I go again.  So ANYWAY, back to the table.  Perhaps the most remarkable thing about it is this: Every time I eat something, the next day it’s back!  Sometimes I think I can hear murmuring coming from the kitchen, and the sound of pots and pans, but I’m sure that’s just my imagination.  I’ve always been prone to suggestion, and I suppose being alone in this big empty castle is beginning to get to me.

Some of the other doors, unlike the door I entered, may lead from the clockwork stair to actual worlds.  What I see outside the windows, however, is likely just a backdrop, an illusion put in place by one of the Lenoy, a never-ending loop that
’s been running for centuries, and will continue to run, provided the machinery and magic don’t fail.

It’s
too repetitive to be real.  The people in the town go about the exact same routine every day.  They wear the exact same clothes, which isn’t a problem since the weather’s always warm and sunny, and gesture to each other in the exact same ways.

I get the feeling that this was a kind of vacation spot for someone, a place to get away from the trials and tribulations of everyday Lenoy life, whatever those might
have been.  I get the feeling there’s probably a door that leads to pretty much whatever one can imagine.  For all I know, the whole thing was a giant playground to them.  I wish somebody could explain it to me.  I wish I knew where they all went, or at least could find some books on the subject.     

After I
’ve rested and had time to work up my nerve, I plan to go out and explore some more.  It’s difficult, because I’m safe in here and, like I said, between this room and the dining table, have everything I need—physically anyway.  But what about people?  I don’t want to live the rest of my days alone because I’m too cowardly to face the clockwork stair.  True, I do better alone than most, but even I need SOME companionship.  Besides, if I don’t make it back to help Mandie, there’s a very real chance she’ll die.

Well, that
’s all for now.  The clock on the mantle says it’s half past one, which means it’s WAY past my bedtime.  Oh, and that’s another thing.  Time’s kinda screwy down here.  Sometimes it seems to move slower than it should. And other times faster.

For instance, I could swear it was early evening when I started writing.  Surely I haven
’t been at it that long, and yet my body seems to agree.  I’ve been yawning and rubbing my eyes for the past couple of paragraphs.  Oh well, no sense worrying about it now.  Nothing I can do about it.  I’ll write more later.  It’s been nice to have someone to talk to. Goodnight.

P.S.  I
’m going to try visualizing my friends before falling asleep.  I doubt it’ll work, but maybe if I concentrate hard enough.  Anyway, I’ll let you know.

*

The most remarkable thing has happened!  I did as I said.  I visualized my friends and…you know what?  It actually worked!  Well, in a sense, anyway.  I mean, it’s not as if they were physically here when I awoke.  The next best thing, however.  They were with me WHILE I slept.  I know how that sounds, but it’s not what you think.  It’s not that I dreamt of them.  At least not in the traditional sense.  Somehow, someway, my mind, and perhaps even body, were transported to another place.  A kingdom called Adrianna, where Trilla and I rule as queen and king.  Husband and wife.  It was unnerving at times, especially since a part of me forgot the truth and thought the fantasy, complete with memories and dialogue, was real.