The Stair Of Time (Book 2) (40 page)

Andaris
was not in the least bit surprised to see The Symbol carved into the front of the book cover.  He stared at that for a while, admiring its simplicity, its flawless symmetry, before looking at the spine.

The Stair of Time,
he read. 
That is a good title.
 
By Henry Ogilvy.
  He frowned, feeling woozy. 
But I thought I wrote it. 
He bit his lower lip, resting his hand atop his sword hilt, a pose he sometimes struck when thinking.
 

Are you serious?
Endollin asked with a groan.
  Do you think all the versions of you in all the realities have the same name?  Well, they do not!  In this particular case, however, Henry Ogilvy is a pseudonym.  All the Andarises who end up writing that book choose a penname.  And there are many.  Of these, Henry Ogilvy is easily my least favorite.  Personally I prefer—

Andaris
released the hilt. 
Really have to stop doing that,
he thought.

Mis
interpreting his expression yet again, Majere said, “At least it’s not contrived.  As a writer and editor myself, there is little that gets under my skin more than a contrived storyline.  I’m sure you agree.  I mean, it’s positively infuriating sometimes.  Your alternate self was fairly spot-on in that regard.  And the characters are pretty convincing, too.  Anyway, I’m getting off track, aren’t I?  That’s a failing of mine, I’m afraid.  Now let’s see…where was I?  Oh yes!  If you’ll turn the book over, you’ll see an oak tree through a keyhole, the very same tree that we have been discussing, that we will be traveling through two days hence.  Like I said, you were very nearly too late.”

Andaris did as instructed, seeing an especially majestic oak with a quaint, cottage-style door
that had stone steps leading up to its landing, a little brass bell to the right of its arched doorframe that looked remarkably similar to the one hanging by the entrance to the Lenoy ballroom.  In the foreground were flowers, grass, and even birds, all contained within the borders of a keyhole which, in turn, was contained within a framework of vines, every graceful curve and blooming offshoot rendered in lovely, exquisite relief.

The artist who’d
created the cover had obviously gone to great pains to infuse the picture with as much realism as his or her medium would allow.  And Majere was quite right—it was absolutely charming.  Said artist must have taken a page or two from the Lenoy “Guide of Visual Foolery,” for the depth and detail was such that one could almost believe it possible to reach through the keyhole and interact with the environment on the other side.

“
The ward on the door is nearly as strong as the ward on the bubble,” Majere explained.  “There are things wandering the stairs that we don’t want disturbing our peace and quiet, intruding into our perfect little utopia.  When we reach—”

Andaris stopped listening.

Seeming not to notice, Majere kept chatting away, apparently not requiring a break between sentences to even breathe.

Just what
’s going on here?
Andaris wondered.
Is it possible that I never left my bedchamber in the Lenoy castle?
 
And if so, does that mean that I am now trapped in another one of those accursed dreams?
  The idea that everything between then and now had taken place between his ears made his skin crawl. 
But it can’t be,
he thought.
For one thing, this doesn’t feel scripted like the others.
 
I can do and say whatever I like.  Right?

Deciding to
put his theory to the test, Andaris gave Majere a lopsided grin and said, “I like apples.” 
Yep, definitely not scripted,
he thought. 
Of course, it didn’t feel all that scripted the first time through with some of the other imaginings, did it?  Even so, surely by now, I’d be able to sense it.
  Seeing Majere’s confusion at his strange, edgewise words, he added, “Don’t worry, my-soon-to-be-boon companion.  I just needed to make sure I wasn’t still back in my bedchamber in the Lenoy castle.”

Majere
’s eyes shone with sudden comprehension.  “Oh, good.  I’m glad that’s all it was,” he said, returning Andaris’ smile.  “For a moment there, I thought you’d gone off your rocker.”

“Don’t be too quick to judge,” Andaris
replied with a laugh.  “I’m still not entirely sure that I haven’t.”

“Not to worry,” said
Majere.  “Everything will be explained soon, no doubt at great, mind-numbing length.  Once it is, I’m afraid you’ll understand more than you want to.  Until then,” he raised his hands and looked around, “rest assured, this is all too real.  I wish it weren’t.”

Andaris felt a surge of relief.  He wasn’t entirely convinced, but enough to put it out of the front of his mind.  For
the present, anyway.  “So…Majere, we’ve been talking for a while now.  Do you think we should go ahead and get moving?  I mean, if Sarilla’s been as anxious for my arrival, as you say, and has so much to tell me before we leave….  But let’s continue our discussion as we walk.  I’m enjoying it immensely.”

Majere
beamed with delight, eyes shining with something approaching amusement, and perhaps even mischief.  “I am most gratified by your kind words,” he said.  “Thank you.  And yes, it is probably past time that we go see Mother.  I do tend to go on, don’t I?  She’ll no doubt be annoyed by the delay.  I’m afraid, however, that we’ll have to continue our conversation at a later date.”

“Why’s that?
” asked Andaris.

“B
ecause,” he answered, his voice now booming with authority, “we won’t be walking!”  Majere raised his right hand and, following a brief flourish of his webbed fingers and a bright flash of light, they were transported to the end of a roundish tunnel with cherrywood paneling.

Not far from
where they stood rose a ten-foot tall iron door.  Looming in front of this door was a fellow who looked as if he should have been dead and buried a
long
time ago. Outfitted in a suit of rusted chainmail atop boiled leather armor, gently creaking to and fro, was a skeleton that was nearly as tall and as broad as the tunnel itself.

Andaris gasped and backed away,
hand fumbling for the hilt of his sword. 
I don’t like being ignored!
Endollin complained into his mind.
  What seems to be the matter, anyway?  Is this lumbering oaf of a skeleton making a nuisance of himself?  Shall I dispatch him?

Majere
put a reassuring hand on Andaris’ shoulder. “It’s okay.  There’s no need for that.  It’s just Sholegath.

After a pause, Andaris released
Endollin’s hilt, but did not rise from his defensive stance, nor move forward, keeping a wary eye on the thing.

Majere
turned to Sholegath and, in a casual voice, said, “Will you inform Mother that I have brought Andaris Rocaren to see her?”

“It would be my greates
sst pleasssure, young massster.  Andarisss Rocaren, you sssay?  My, my.  We have not had sssuch a pressstigiousss guessst in many yearsss.  It isss an honor, to be sssure.”  Sholegath bowed low.  “Ssshe will be delighted.”

Th
e skeleton stayed in that position for what seemed an unnecessarily long time.  Just when Andaris decided that it must have gotten a crick in its back, it straightened and turned towards the door.  There was the rattling of keys followed by the resounding clank of an enormous lock.  Sholegath pushed the door open, stepped aside, and ushered them in.

Here we go again,
Andaris thought, resting his hand on the hilt of his sword. 
Be ready.

I exist to serve
,
answered Endollin, sounding bored. 
Ekthellin doth tol ray vu.  Nik tanith del enverin esh…aluthia!
 

The End

Congratulations, intrepid reader!  You have successfully navigated the many twists and turns of The Stair of Time!  In other words, you have finished the book.  Thank you very much for reading!  Seriously.  Now, you will forgive me if I take this opportunity to ask you to do Andaris and company a quick favor: If you enjoyed the book, and even if, Kolera forbid, you did not, please take a moment to leave them a quick review.  Stories live and die on here based on the words of readers like you.  Rest assured, I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t so very important.  Thank you!  And Remember: The adventure continues in The Forge of Dreams—Book Three in The Lost Kingdoms of Laotswend trilogy.  (Coming to Kindles everywhere in 2015!)

Copyright © 2014 by William David Coury

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or scholarly journal.

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