The Stair Of Time (Book 2)

by William Woodward

  “I’ll have another talk with him,” Gaven promised. “Provided I can find ‘im. But I’m not convinced it’ll make any difference.” He sighed, took a bite of stew, and leaned back in his chair. “Small consolation though it may be, whatever he’s workin’ on probably does involve the greater good somehow. And him holin’ up like this ain’t nothin’ personal, Andaris. It’s just how he does things.”

  “Yeah, I guess I know that. But even so, I don’t think I can keep from resenting it. It’s like I’m getting my leg gnawed off by a wolf and he’s just sitting there with his nose in a book trying to decide how best to domesticate all wolves. It may be just how he does things, but that doesn’t make it right.”

  Gaven frowned, seeming unsure how to respond. “You know Ashel’s like a brother to me,” he finally said. “You also know that he’s saved my hide more times than I care to count. And yet there’s no one on this earth who can bristle my spine faster. I’ve been dealin’ with his conflicting nature most of my life and I still don’t understand it. I sure don’t expect anyone else to.” He shoveled another spoonful of stew into his mouth, chewing and swallowing as if it were the most delectable thing to ever grace his palette. Hunger momentarily sated, he pointed to Andaris with his spoon, squinted one eye, and said, “The thing is, usually what makes him neglect his friends ends up benefiting them too, maybe even saving ‘em.”

  Andaris rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly feeling very weary. He knew Gaven was right. It was just…. Well, if Ashel and the archives were his only problems, he would be holding up better, wouldn’t he? They weren’t, though. Not by a long shot.

  Seeing the shadow pass over Andaris’ face, Gaven asked, “So, how’s Mandie? She doin’ any better?”

  Andaris’ eyes turned glassy. “Worse,” he replied. “She’s awake less and less. A few days ago, the Almighty Ashel came down from mountain high, apparently deeming Mandie’s health worthy of his brief attention. After examining her, he said he couldn’t find anything physically wrong. He promised to look into it, but didn’t know how successful he’d be.” Andaris recalled the conversation all too well:

  ***

  “At this point,” said Ashel, his narrow face drawn with distraction, “I have little more than a working hypothesis. The best way to describe what I believe is occurring is to say that a part of her exists in another place and time, and the longer she remains separate from that other part, or rather the longer the two halves of her remain separate from each other, the less substantive they become, two halves of the same spirit that must eventually cease to exist unless they are once again made whole.

  It’s probable, based on the data I have gathered thus far, that whoever turned her into Jade left behind an encrypted spell designed to activate in the unlikely event that she became Mandie again. The purpose of such a spell is unclear. It may be responsible for her comatose state, or her body and mind may have simply shut down on their own because they were unable to sustain consciousness with only half of a soul.

  There are so many possibilities, each with its own conflicting set of variables, that it’s difficult to say anything with any real degree of certainty. For instance, it may be that this is the work of two entirely separate wizards—one bad and one good. The second may have turned her into Jade in an attempt to preserve this half of her until he or she could find a way to send her back to her own time. Half of a human soul is likely sufficient to keep an animal conscious. It seems plausible, anyway.

  But keep in mind, what seems plausible and what is are often two very different things. Indeed, in many cases what seems most likely is in actuality least likely. For example, until yesterday I would have considered encountering a spell within a spell within a spell to be highly unlikely. And yet today, here we are. I didn’t even detect the faintest suggestion of an encryption until after delving beneath several protective enchantments, the complexity of which was surprising.

  Some wizards can be terribly clever with their spell-weaving, forming an elaborate tapestry from stitches that cross, switch back, and cross again, all when you least expect it, each designed to mislead whoever is trying to unravel them. The spells don’t even have to be that powerful to keep from being undone—provided they’re clever enough.”

  Ashel laughed with what sounded suspiciously like utter indifference. “Of course, it’s just as likely that there is only one wizard involved and that time-space is merely trying to right itself because Mandie doesn’t belong in this now. I simply don’t know yet, Andaris. I don’t believe she is in any immediate danger. This is something that could take months to run its course, leaving her in a state of suspended animation until either complete dissolution or complete integration is achieved, the latter only being possible if we succeed in finding a solution. How long we have all depends on how hard she fights. I will see what I can unearth, but you must be patient. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get back. I’ve been gone too long as it is.”

  As Ashel turned and walked from the room, he began muttering to himself. “I don’t know. I told you that! All three places at once would be my guess. Maybe there’s something in the tower that can help.”

  ***

  “I’ve heard Ashel mutter under his breath before,” said Andaris, “but something about this made my skin crawl.”

  Gaven rubbed his thumb across the edge of the tabletop where some sap had begun to ooze out, examining it with a pained expression on his face. “Yeah, me too. Probably because it sounded like he was actually talkin’ to someone. Well…damn. I’m sorry, Andaris. She deserves better. And so do you. If there’s any way I can help, any way at all, just say the word. She’s my family, too, ya know.”

  “I know. And you know how she feels.”

  The big man’s expression turned hard, countenance donning the same stony mask he wore before battle. “Don’t lose hope,” he said. “If Ashel told you he would see to it, he will. Regardless of the way he’s been acting. And rest assured, if there’s anyone who can sort this mess out, it’s him. I just wish there was somethin’ that I could do. I feel useless.”

  “That’s the problem,” Andaris agreed. “That’s what’s so frustrating. There’s very little any of us can do except Ashel and…. I don’t know.”

  “What?”

  “I’m just not sure how much I trust him right now.” Seeing Gaven’s lips part in protest, Andaris raised a hand. “I know how it sounds, especially after everything he’s done for us, but you didn’t see the way he looked. If you had, you might feel different.”

  The big man shrugged with apparent nonchalance, only his eyes betraying uncertainty. “I know how you feel. But like I said, it’s just his way. It doesn’t mean anything.”

  Andaris sighed. “I hope you’re right. Rodan knows, I haven’t been thinking very clearly of late. A good night’s sleep would do me wonders.” He stood and walked to one of the two windows overlooking the sea, peering down at the moon-ghosted water crashing against the cliffs. “It’s just not fair. After everything she’s been through." His hands clenched into fists. “After everything we’ve all been through. This can’t be how things end. I won’t let it be.”

  “Have you sent word to Sokerra?” Gaven asked from behind, his voice low and somber. “The more minds the better. Something might occur to Trilla that hasn’t to us. It definitely wouldn’t be the first time.”

  Andaris cleared his throat, palming back the tears that had begun brimming in his eyes. “I sent a letter the day before yesterday,” he eventually managed. “If nothing else, she needs to know what’s happening.”

  “Word is Sokerra has a new wizard,” said Gaven. “A bumbling fool of a jester compared to Ashel, a gangly fellow with thick spectacles and a constantly running nose. But who knows? Sometimes fools see things the wise do not. And if she and the wizard—Joven I think is his name—can’t come up with somethin’, maybe the confounded ‘Brothers of the Light’ can. After all, they saved you.”

  Keeping Watch

&nbs
p; A hooded figure stood in the center of a dark room, stooped over a stone bowl, peering into the viscous fluid it contained. Few of these bowls had survived the cataclysm. Indeed, of the hundreds the Lenoy had wrought, only three remained, thumbing their noses, so to speak, at the relentless press of time.

  Like me, he thought.

  The Watcher kept them in what he called “The Seeing Room.” He was the last surviving Lenoy in this time, this now, which made the bowls his by birthright. His ancestors had fled this now long ago, leaving behind twelve guardians. Of the twelve, only he remained—doomed to keep watch over the lesser races for all time.

  How weary he’d grown over the centuries, watching them flail and flounder, building and destroying, loving and killing—a seemingly endless cycle of triumph, tragedy, and pain, the breadth and depth of which they seemed wholly unaware. So many wars had been fought, leaving behind naught but blood and ash and bone. And for what? To defend made-up boundaries and fill great halls with great stores of gold? He would never understand their love of these shiny bits of metal and rock, of these trinkets and baubles that glint in the sun.

  How like crows they are, he thought.

  Of the three seeing bowls, the one he used now was the last to survive intact. How grand it was. How perfect. Refinement and reverence wedded to an intricately worked pedestal. On said pedestal he had placed it, and on said pedestal it belonged, twining stone vines straining to embrace the inexplicable.

  Because of this bowl, he was not alone. Because of this bowl, he could catch glimpses of his boyhood during Laotswend’s prime—the capital city of the once-great Lenoy race. Millennia ago, before the age of crows, when the world was vibrant and civilized, before he was known as The Guardian, The Watcher, The Keeper, or even Rodan, he was just a wizard. An exceptional wizard amongst a race of exceptional wizards, but just a wizard nonetheless.

  He smiled sadly. It had been a simpler time full of promise, and he’d had a name all his own. Shandrael of the Ninth Circle he’d been called. And even amongst the Lenoy, his beauty and strength were renowned, combining to swell his head and shrivel his heart. How arrogant he’d been in those days, a flesh and blood monument representing all that made Laotswend great.

  But time had humbled him. More than humbled him. In fact, if not for his frequent visits to his own distant past, Shandrael of the Ninth Circle would have ended his life long ago.

  The faint scarlet glow emanating from the water revealed only the dim outline of Shandrael’s features—severe, angular skull framing fixed, smoldering eyes. Nightmare eyes they were, peering from deep within the confines of his hood. Most children would recognize them for what they sometimes were—the eyes of a monster in a cave, haunting the forbidding dreamscape of countless young minds, watching, waiting, as patient as time, as inevitable as death.

  The tip of a long, shriveled finger extended from the end of a black sleeve and began to trail delicately, almost lovingly, through the crimson water, forming a figure eight.

  “Infinity for the infinite,” he whispered, sounding mildly amused, voice like crumbling parchment—cracked, ancient, and implacable.

  In the swirling surface, an image began to coalesce, soon forming into a familiar scene: a dispirited young man sat on the floor of a stone alcove, shuffling through a stack of papers that he had pulled from a larger pile, a single candle bathing his features in tawny hues. This young man was of no small interest to Shandrael, for he was the first in centuries to have come through one of the portals. And once through, he had changed a great many things, events of surprising significance, events that should have been fixed points in time, not the least of which being the fall of Rogar.

  “Andaris Rocaren,” he muttered, feeling utterly helpless for perhaps the first time in his long life.

  This boy’s soul was bound closely to Fei, the great river of fate running through all things. It coursed straight through the middle of him, raging and wild, and he through it. How far downstream would he go? Shandrael thought very far. Perhaps too far, the result of which was beyond even his ability to fathom. Yes, this young man would bear close watching, lest he grow into a creature capable of destroying them all.

  Not that he would mean to, mind you. He was a good boy, one of the few Shandrael didn’t wholly detest. In fact, the day he’d shuffled through his mind, he’d been very surprised by what he’d found, pleasantly so. But as they say, the road to Kadra is paved with good boys.

  Shandrael leaned in a little closer, squinting his ancient eyes as Andaris paused to read something of particular interest—hastily scrawled words on a loose piece of parchment. Shandrael felt a hint of amusement, for the page was entitled ‘The Keeper.’ Fei at work again, ever moving through this young man’s life.

  The handwriting on the page was clearly that of a troubled mind. Of this, Shandrael had no doubt. After all, the archaic, angst-ridden script was his own. The name beneath the title, a penname of sorts, was Arthur Hawkwood. Mr. Hawkwood had gone to his grave believing he had written over thirty-six volumes of—what was thought to be at the time—thought-provoking, boundary-testing prose.

  When asked where he got his ideas, Arthur said he didn’t know. Like so many writers before and since, he claimed to have merely been the conduit for something greater than himself. “The weaker the mind, the stronger the conduit!” he’d often joked. How shocked he would have been to discover that he was actually right. It’s a wonder he didn’t at least suspect. I mean, inspiration strikes all sorts, but not weak-minded shoemakers with no imagination.

  Several hundred years ago, when Shandrael was still relatively young, he had dared climb the sheer and all-too-slippery slopes of Mount Alliteration. In other words, he’d fancied himself a writer. It had been interesting to see how the masses reacted to his ramblings, investing meaning into nonsense in order to feel that they were special, part of something larger than themselves.

  Naturally, Shandrael had tired of writing. As he had tired of all things. Except the bowl, that is. Or rather what the bowl represented. Even so, as he read what he now deemed little more than adolescent drivel, he began to feel a bit nostalgic.

  The Keeper

  by Arthur Hawkwood

  In the end, shadowed remnants were all he had left to him, dark dreams first glimpsed beneath the outstretched arms of a forgotten lover. With coiling, serpentine limbs she reached for him, an epiphany without a point. Where have all the days of thunder and lightning gone? Who now resides in the high places of purpose and exultation? I stand before an army of apathetic soldiers—downcast eyes, slumped shoulders, insipid hearts roiling with maggots. The darkness encroaches from all sides, and yet we do not see.

  We are the elite, standing naked before the inferno. We are the face of Rodan and the body of sin. And thus we are doomed, shackled to the remnants of our once pure souls, set adrift atop an endless sea.

  Pity us, for we are tormented and forgotten, cast aside. Nothing more than an old idea made new, its mouth full of jagged teeth, its spine forged in iron.

  Why have you forsaken us, Father? Why do you leave us to wander aimlessly through the dark—impotent, impudent, and impure? Why do you not coddle us to your breast as you once did—cleanse us with your tears and comfort us with your light?

  Must we wander forever, abandoned children in a world gone mad? I hear you cry out as if you are searching. I want to believe, but do not. Are you not mighty? Do your marbled halls not ring with power, reverberating with a triumphant chorus of discordant voices?

  Oh Father, where art thou? Show yourself to me, I beg of thee, before all is lost beneath the crushing waves of indecision. Bare your soul to me, Father. Hold my hand in yours and guide me through the wilderness. Teach me what it means to be a good and righteous man.

  To give us a mind that allows us to grasp the question but not the answer is wrong. To give us a heart so full of love, and yet so thirsty for blood, is cruel. To give us a soul conceived in beauty, of beauty, but stained by darkness—is unf
orgivable.

  There will be a reckoning. The seas will swell with the blood of our fallen—blood that is, and always shall be, on your hands. I pity thee, Father, for you are alone, the light of your glory and gathering dark your only companions. Yes, I pity THEE, as I pity myself, for I am a wretched beast, stinking and snarling, not fit to draw breath.

  But you made me this way. And what greater sin is there than that? As penance it is you, and YOU alone, who must fritter away the eons, isolated by your preeminence, a prisoner of your own making, left to wander the frigid depths of your creation for eternity.

  Book of Flame: 3:19

  The Tower

  Andaris was about to put down the page entitled ‘The Keeper’ when a message appeared in the lower left hand corner, each character burned into the parchment like a brand.

  Come to my study as quickly as possible. I have news that will interest you. I do believe your days of digging through the archives like some pathetic mole are at an end. When you arrive, my servant, Abolecious, will bring you to my tower. He may look strange to your eyes, but do not be frightened. He is harmless.

  Ashel Tevellin,

  First Wizard of the Civilized Kingdoms.

  Andaris felt a shiver down his spine. “The devil tickling the ivories,” his grandmother used to say. Ashel should have come in person, or at the very least sent one of his lackeys. This whole message suddenly appearing on the corner of the page thing was disrespectful, especially considering its condescending tone. More than disrespectful. It was intrusive, arrogant, and even a little disquieting.

  Damn and blast the man! he thought, getting to his feet.