The Stair Of Time (Book 2) (39 page)

Now
, the benumbing fog through which he’d been trudging was rapidly beginning to clear, burned off by the revitalizing rays of new hope, by the blue skies and sunshine of a future which suddenly looked much brighter than it had just moments before.

Hmm.  Wonder if
I can convince Ashel to come back with me.  Even with the way he’s been acting lately, he couldn’t say no to helping me save Gaven.  And there’s always Endollin.  Seems like he should know a great deal about this place.  And there’s the amulet—the key to many locks and pass to many worlds.  There must be some magic that can extricate it from the box.  And there’s the flute…. If it functions as it did in the imaginings, it could come in “very" handy.  And there’s my past and future selves traipsing about somewhere.  Can’t forget them. 
He smiled.
You know, this might actually work!

As excited as he was at the prospect of rescuing Gaven, Andaris felt nearly an equal combination of relief and dread as he considered what he must do next.  Part of him wanted to bound up the remaining steps and swing open the door—secret knock be damned—before it vanished into the ether from whence it had sprung.

Another part of him wanted to go
skulking back the way he’d come, dreading the thought of telling Gramps the distressing news.  Even though Andaris believed there was a very real possibility that they could get Gaven back, it was still going to break the old man’s heart.  Gaven was all Gramps had left, and now fate had seen fit to take him away, too.  Indeed, even if they could get him back, there was no guarantee that Gramps would live long enough to see him again.

Andaris sighed. 
If fate is a wheel, as some folks believe, then we certainly are due for a lucky spin.
 

Ultimately
, he neither skulked back nor bounded up.  He merely kept on as he had, one foot in front of the other, moving with grim determination, stern expression and gritted teeth for all or none to see.  Gaven, no doubt, would have been proud.

When he reached the door,
he stood motionless, head bowed, taking the opportunity to collect his wits, rehearsing what he would say to Gramps.  When he was ready, as ready as he could be, that is, he raised his hand and tried the secret knock, rapping his knuckles against the center of the king’s face, flakes of paint chipping away with each strike of his fist.

One, two, three, pause.  One, two, three, pause.  One two. 

There was no answer, so after a moment he tried again.

One, two, three, pause.  One, two, three, pause.  One two.

This time he waited a full minute, but there was still no answer, so he took hold of the handle, choosing to ignore how cool and smooth it felt, said a quick prayer and—

Dearly Beloved

Just beyond the door that Andaris was about to open, three people stood—a woman and two men.  They were huddled around a deep, rectangular hole, a freshly dug hole, muddy boots and blistered hands giving silent testament to their labor.  It was raining softly, almost as if Kolera itself wept at the passing of one of its own, one of its favorites, her gentle soul like a blooming flower in springtime, its delicate bouquet never meant to last.

The world was shrouded in shades of gray, seeming a
t odds with her lovely memory, vibrant only when compared to the sorrow filling their hearts.  The trees stood grim witness, drooping branches holding hands, the doleful tale of ages past written in timeless relief upon their bark. 

Amidst it all, the woman tenderly spoke,
her eulogy intended to comfort those left behind, each word weaving a line cast forth to the family and friends of the
very
dearly departed, into the dark, storm swept sea of their grief. 

“Poor, sweet Mandie,” she said.
  “Why is it that some live so long while others are snuffed out before they even have a chance?”

The
casket was lowered slowly as Sarilla spoke, magic instead of brawn providing the locomotion.  Clothed in her favorite blue dress, Mandie’s body was austerely positioned atop a bed of bright red rose petals, ribbons and bows adorning freshly washed hair.  Her eldest doll, Melissa, lay by her side, resting for all eternity in the crook of her right arm. 

“We thank
The Maker for welcoming her soul back into His kingdom,” Sarilla went on, voice growing smaller and fainter as the ceremony proceeded.

Eli hadn’t spoken, eaten, or even cried since he’d found Mandie the previous morning.  He had not even stirred when Sarilla had told him that she would arrange for her body to remain free of corruption for all time, preserved within a glass coffin as he saw her now—young, precious, and beautiful. 

That morning, after cooking breakfast,
Eli had gone to where his daughter slept, same as always, gone to bathe her and clothe her and comb her long, auburn hair.  It had been a bright and cheery morning, a blue sky and birdsong kind of morning that seemed full of promise, similar to how it had been the day he’d found Marnie dead.

Sarilla had
gone looking for him that very afternoon when, for the first time ever, he’d failed to show up for their daily walk through the gardens.  She’d knocked on his door several times before letting herself in, only to find him standing there still as a statue, face a blank slate, eyes wide and staring.  The indomitable Eli had finally broken.  First his wife.  Then his son.  And now his only daughter—his beloved Mandie.  So like her mother she was….

Given how
withdrawn he’d been the past few days, Sarilla was more than a little surprised when Eli slipped his arm into hers and began to weep, silent tears streaming down the face of a man who had lost everyone and everything most dear to him.  She paused, finding her old heart touched in a way that it hadn’t been for a very long time.  Here stood this grizzled bull of a man, holding onto her and crying, soul laid bare for all the world to see.  The feeling was almost indescribable, a trembling moment in time too fragile to bear, a moment both too tender and too painful to endure.

She squeezed his hand and, when she could trust herself to speak again
said: “Take care of her, Father, for she is very dear, and deserves a special place by Your side.  A gentler soul never walked this earth.  She was loved and treasured beyond all worldly possessions.  The wheel ever spins, and thus we have no doubt that we shall be united again.  Until that time, we shall carry her memory with us.  Always.  In faith everlasting, we stand before Thee with open arms and upturned eyes, Your gaze filling our hearts with wonder….”

The End of the Middle

The handle
turned easily, as he somehow knew it would.  Andaris took a final, steadying breath and swung the door wide.

He
began to step through, and then froze, transfixed, gaping at one of the most astonishing sights he’d ever seen.
Wrong place,
he thought, struggling to make sense of it all. 
Not place!
he realized.
Time!
 

The chessboard courtyard and everything within
its borders was more or less the same as he remembered.  But what lay beyond….  Well, that was quite another story.  Something that looked suspiciously like one of Sarilla’s bubbles mushroomed in the distance, its concave wall approximately half a mile from where he now stood.

B
ut that was just part of a dream,
he thought.

O
n the other side of the sphere was naught but desolation, a war-torn landscape riddled with twisted, mutated horrors, shambling beasts that could only be shapelings, the stuff of which nightmares are made—fire, brimstone, and ash.  Lush and beautiful inside.  Deadly and unimaginably horrific outside.

W
hat made the scene most difficult to grasp, however, was not what had so utterly annihilated the terrain beyond the bubble, but rather what transpired within.  The creatures that inhabited the verdant landscape around the courtyard were, while not entirely human in appearance, most definitely
not
shapelings.

There w
as about an even mix of, for lack of a better term, men and women.  Some of them walked in pairs, strolling casually, seeming to be in the midst of deep, philosophical debates.  Others lounged on manicured lawns, reading novels and poetry, eating grapes and playing music.  Indeed, he even spotted a harpist, a young woman with flowing red hair and a green dress who sat strumming beneath an especially majestic oak, the broad canopy of which provided shade for both her and her delighted audience.  Situated in the center of the dome, the tree was a definite focal point, a place for people to gather and socialize.  He strained his ears, but was just far enough away that he couldn’t hear.  Pity.  He’d always loved a good harpist.

How
fantastic it all seemed—an idyllic paradise beset by endless hordes of shapelings, its inhabitants behaving as if they hadn’t a care in the world.  Strategically positioned around the sphere, their enemies waged constant war against its apparently impervious exterior, explosions blooming here and there with crimson fury, fanning out along its vast convexity, unable to produce even the slightest vibration within.  The shapelings were no doubt growing more and more dismayed by their impotence, yet Andaris knew they would never stop.

S
urely this bubble isn’t as eternal as it looks,
he thought. 
After all, what is?

“Um, excuse me, sir” said a polite voice to his left, the voice of a young man with perfect diction.  “But…would you happen to be…or to know, Andaris Rocaren of Fairhaven?”

Andaris turned to
wards the voice, not surprised to discover that he was being addressed by one of the not entirely human, but most definitely not shapeling things.

Standing
about six and a half feet tall, it strongly resembled a young man in his early twenties.  Except for three things: first, it had gills that opened and closed at regular intervals, as though keeping time with the beating of its heart.  Assuming it had a heart.  Its peculiar physiology incorporating that most fundamental of human organs was certainly no guarantee, but if one were to come to a conclusion based solely on its extremely affable expression, it surely did.  Second, it had a faint bluish tint to its skin.  Third and last, its obvious intelligence shone through bright orange pupils.

Shortly
after making this initial assessment, his continued and uninterrupted scrutiny yielded details which heretofore had gone wholly unnoticed.  There were, in fact, four things that set it apart: the gills, the bluish tint, the orange pupils, and a bit of webbing betwixt the fingers.  Four things, that is, if one did not count the purple and green plaid trousers, something which Andaris was certain any respectable youth in his or her right mind would not be caught dead in.

“Well
…yes,” replied Andaris.

The man thing smiled and reached into the left pocket of its corduroy vest, pulling out a large golden watch.  “Yes, you are Andaris
?  Or yes, you know Andaris?”

“Oh
, sorry.  Yes, I
am
Andaris.”

“Thank T
he Maker!” it exclaimed, popping open the watch and studying its face.  “You’re very late, you know.  We were beginning to think that you had been killed, or were being kept prisoner somewhere.”  It held the watch up, dangling it in front of his eyes.  “See?”

Andaris shrugged,
not knowing what to make of it, for both minute and second hands were running backwards.

“Well, at least you’re here now.  That’s all that matters.  So
….  If you’ll kindly come with me, I’ll escort you to Mother.  She’ll be thrilled to see you!”

“Mother?”

“Oh, that’s right.  You would know her as Sarilla, wouldn’t you?”

“Sarilla?” he asked, doing his best to keep his jaw well and firmly hinged.

“Why, yes.  Do you truly not know?”

Not
fully understanding the question, Andaris shook his head.

The man thing stared at him quizzically, seeming somewhat taken aback.  “Well then, where do I
begin?  I suppose at the beginning, eh?” 

Andaris endured the familiarity of being nudged in the ribs without comment.

“You see, among many many other things, Sarilla is the mother of us all.  Three hundred years ago, she and Father Eli, The Watcher rest his kind soul, joined in holy matrimony, after which time they bore many healthy children.  Us.”

Despite his best efforts,
Andaris’ jaw went slack, his doubts about his current state of wakefulness, much less sanity, greatly intensifying.  “Eli?” he asked timidly.

The man thing
’s quizzical expression deepened.  “How delightfully odd.  I was told you two knew one another.  Well, no matter.  After Mother explains things to you and Endollin, all will become clear.  Then you can return to the clockwork stair, go back in time, and set things right.”

The man
thing frowned, peered meaningfully around, and held out his hands, palms up.  “We can’t go on like this forever, you know.  Mother is strong, and she is aided by some of the children.  But even so…the bubble weakens.  We are all that remains of this, or any other world.  The Lost One has destroyed all else.  And now, as you can plainly see, he has bent the entirety of his will on breaching this dome.  It’s not a matter of
if
it will fall, but rather
when.
”

“
Return to the clockwork stair?” Andaris echoed, feeling another headache coming on.

“Why yes.
  That is, of course, the only way to awaken the Lenoy so that they may put a stop to this.  None of this was supposed to happen, you know.  Out of all the races on all the worlds, Mother was the only one to see it.”  Noting Andaris’ pale face and anxious expression, it cocked its head and asked, “Are you sure you’re all right?  Emotionally, I mean?  You’re looking a bit peaked.”

“Yes
. I’m…fine,” Andaris lied, feeling slightly indignant, his well-feathered pride, in spite of the bizarre circumstances in which he currently found himself, ruffling at the question. 
When,
he wondered,
did we establish that
I was all right in the first place?  I mean, who in their right mind would be?

This creature was apparently as guileless as it was friendly, for it
flashed him a toothy grin and said, “Thank, Kolera!  That was a close one!  For a moment there, I thought maybe it was something I’d said.  Probably just a sour stomach or something, eh?  All that traveling about through time and space?  Well, not to worry.  I get those myself.  You know, I have the feeling we’re going to be boon companions, you and I.”

Becoming more and more overcome, Andaris
simply nodded.

“
And don’t you worry about the stairs, my friend.  You won’t be alone.  Besides Endollin there, you will have me!”  He stomped his bare foot, which Andaris saw was also webbed, against the ground and snapped his fingers.  “Oh dear, I suddenly realize I have you at a disadvantage.  In all the excitement, I failed to introduce myself.  Terribly rude of me, isn’t it?  Sometimes I’m as wooden-headed as any tree.”  He smiled, gave Andaris a little half bow, and held out his webbed hand.  “Please forgive me, my soon-to-be-boon companion.  My name is Majere, and I am very happy to at last make your acquaintance.” 

Andaris took the man-
thing’s light bluish hand, vaguely aware of how oddly cool and smooth it felt.  It reminded him of something, but at the moment, for the life of him, he couldn’t think of what.

“Speaking of trees,
” said Majere, “I’m sure you noticed that especially majestic oak over there.  Well, that is where Father Eli was laid to rest.  Mother kept him alive as long as she could.  Four hundred and twenty-six years far exceeds a typical human lifespan, you know.”

Feeling
utterly dazed, Andaris just nodded again.

Majere
frowned.  “But in the end, we all must bow to the reaper, must we not? Nothing and no one is immortal.  Not even Mother….  As difficult as it is to accept, she appears to have finally entered the autumn of her life.  Indeed, she’ll be fortunate to witness the turn of the next century.  It is almost beyond comprehension.”

He sighed.  “
Anyway, when Father passed, we planted that oak tree above his grave to serve as a marker.  He refused a traditional headstone.  I believe his exact words were, ‘Better to let new life spring from old, than to be covered up by some chiseled chunk o’ rock.’”

Andaris
grinned, finding it amusing for someone with perfect diction to say, ‘chunk o’ rock.’”

“
And I swear, Andaris, something of him remains in that tree to this day, imbuing bark and limb alike, watching over his children for all time—protecting us.  One cannot help but feel at peace when resting beneath its venerable boughs.  I mean, just look at how grand it is.”

Th
ere was definitely something about the tree that drew the eye.  Part of it was its awesome size, but not the greater part.  There was some intangible force that attracted one’s gaze and there made it linger.  Andaris had felt much the same while staring at that lake on the plateau, except here he sensed no malice.  If there was a presence possessing the concentric circles of the tree’s core, resulting in even a rudimentary sentience, it was benevolent.

It’s almost like it’s staring back at us,
he thought. 
And smiling.

“
When Father Oak reached full maturity, Mother and eleven of the children joined hands in a spell circle and, after three days and three nights, made a new gateway, positioning its opening into the side of the tree, creating a fixed, unchangeable bridge between this world and the stairs.”  He nudged him in the ribs again.  “Unlike the chessboard gateway, eh?  That thing hops about from one place to another, seemingly at random...anytime it pleases.”

Andaris
was about to ask why they didn’t just flee the dome before it failed, escaping into the stairs in favor of an earlier time, when Majere said, “Shortly after making this gateway, our most talented craftsmen covered the entrance with a door, the entirety of which was warded by our best mages to prevent unsanctioned passage—in or out.  We’ve even done some landscaping to the place.  It’s really quite charming.  Here.  See?”

Majere
pulled a book from the right front coat pocket of his corduroy blazer, a slim volume whose cover appeared to be made from some exotic variety of burlwood.  “I almost forgot I had this with me.  This is a copy of the novel that another version of you in an adjacent reality wrote, a book from your future and my past.  It’s titled, fittingly enough, The Stair of Time.” Majere held the book out.

Andaris took it from him, feeling even more dazed than before.

“We’ve used it as a kind of instruction manual,” he went on, “for the layout and inner workings of the clockwork stair.  This other you spent half a lifetime mapping it all out, making good use of that Deluxe Set of Sir Huxley’s chalk you purchased, and then later incorporating his notes into the book you’re holding.  The writing itself is a bit…difficult to get through at times, no offense to you or your other self.  It’s not that you don’t possess a certain flair when it comes to the weaving of words, it’s just that certain spots could benefit from some, shall we say, judicious editing.”

Apparently mistaking Andaris’ bewildered expression for wounded feelings,
Majere quickly added, “But not to worry, my friend, it’s the same kind of stuff that plagues all writers, word redundancies, clunky sentence structure, grammatical errors.  Nothing that can’t be fixed.  Besides, it’s the information contained within those pages that really matters.  Especially when one reads
between
the lines, when one strings together the hidden meanings and double entendres planted throughout the text and sees an immense puzzle beginning to form, a puzzle which, once solved, bestows secrets within secrets upon the reader, things that have proved invaluable to us and our cause.  You know, in the fight to save the worlds, the multiverse, and reality as we know it.”