The Stair Of Time (Book 2)

by William Woodward

  He found it especially curious that, of the hundreds upon hundreds of stairways entering the mist, his was the only one that made it topside. The platform on which he stood, was home to a modest nine stairways—five vertical, three horizontal, and one inverted.

  Since he had no way of knowing which way to go, he decided to roll the dice—literally. From his Pack of Everholding, he retrieved the two six-sided cubes that Gaven had given him one evening after besting him at a hand of knights and swords, the big man’s favorite card game.

  He assigned each staircase a number, two through nine, held his breath, and rolled. The dice were made of solid jade, faces flaunting black lacquer pips. They skittered across the grating, bouncing and rolling with abandon, coming to a stop on double sixes.

  He had decided, should the sum be more than nine, to subtract eight in order to give each candidate roughly the same chance. So, four it was, which meant one of the horizontal stairways. He assumed some magic must keep the traveler from falling off. Even so, the juxtaposition must be nauseating.

  He smiled at himself. Sometimes, when you roll the dice, you realize you have a preference after all. So, number three it is. After marking the stair he’d been on with a piece of green chalk, he chose to continue the descent, choosing one of the five vertical stairways. One thousand three hundred and nineteen, one thousand three hundred and twenty, one thousand three hundred and twenty-one, one thousand thr—

  He stopped counting and perked his ears to the distant call of the trumpet’s dawn. On cue, the sky, as he’d decided to think of it, changed from bluish-green to pale orange. He took out his pocket watch, an ingenious device recently invented by a Rogarian man named Chadwick Greentoe. The time piece combined magic with a revolutionary spring technology in order to keep track of the hours, minutes, and even seconds when one couldn’t see the sun or stars, like say, for instance, when one is lost in underground caverns or trapped atop endless staircases.

  Seeing how it was brand new and had been working perfectly when he’d put it in his pack, he was disquieted to discover that the second hand was running at twice the normal speed—and the minute hand was running counterclockwise even faster.

  Well, he thought, putting the watch back, I’m not even gonna try to figure that one out. He’d almost forgotten about the thing. Now he wished he had. When the trumpet call finally ceased, he resumed his count. One thousand three hundred and twenty-two, one thousand three hundred and twenty-three, one thousand three hundred and twenty-four….

  Every once in a while as he climbed, he heard a tremendous grinding noise, as if the ponderous gears of some great rusted beast were beginning to turn again. Sometimes it was near. Sometimes it was far. Sometimes it came from below. And sometimes from above.

  Now, at last, he knew what it was. One of the vertical stairways to his right began to move towards him, picking up speed while spinning around and around like some crazed top. It was over a hundred yards away when it had begun moving. When it stopped, it was within ten feet. Andaris breathed an unsteady sigh of relief. For a moment there, he thought it was going to hit him.

  But there must be fail-safes in place to prevent such things. Right? I mean, presumably all this served some purpose, unfathomable though it may be to him. Surely the Lenoy wouldn’t allow staircases to just go crashing into one another on a whim. I mean, what would be the point of that? It would be terribly wasteful, not to mention…nonsensical.

  Purportedly, they were an advanced race renowned for their wisdom and sophistication, and as such would have put the staircases here for some logical purpose. It must all fit together somehow. Perhaps the stairs existed collectively to serve some greater design, like cogs in a machine or…gears in a watch, gears that no longer functioned properly….

  He shook his head. Don’t, he told himself. No sense in borrowing trouble when he had plenty to spare. He needed to focus on what was, not what might be, and try to come up with a solution for that.

  For instance, what would he do if the staircase upon which he so meekly stood started to move? As swiftly as the other one had spun, he doubted he’d even be able to hang on. And what, Kolera forbid, would he do if it suddenly flipped horizontal, or worse, inverted?

  The answer was frighteningly simple. There was nothing he could do. He was a stranger in a strange land—a fish without fins, a bird without wings. The only solution was to get off these blasted stairs. To that end, Andaris picked up the pace a bit, resuming his descent without counting. This wrought iron prison must lead somewhere. He just had to keep his head down and feet movin’.

  Several hours later, after having passed multiple platforms, he saw a figure walking up the staircase to his left—which, from railing to railing, hung less than fifteen feet away. The hair on the back of Andaris’ neck raised. His pulse quickened. Another person! He wasn’t alone after all!

  The man—he could at least discern that much—was about twenty feet below, climbing as though the weight of the world rested squarely upon his frail shoulders. He seemed to have lost all hope, taking step after arduous step merely because he didn’t know what else to do.

  Andaris didn’t know if he was close enough to be heard, but decided not to wait. “Hello!” he cried. “Up here!”

  The man came to a sudden halt, jerking his head up as if expecting a dragon.

  “Hello!” Andaris cried again, waving his arms. “I’ve lost my way! Can you help me?”

  Without a word, the man began running up the steps, taking them two at a time, a remarkable feat considering his previous pace.

  Startled, Andaris backed against the far rail.

  As the man drew near, it became clear that he wore naught but old rags, elderly frame gaunt with malnutrition, tip of his gray beard hanging well past his waist.

  Poor fellow, Andaris thought. Seems I may need to help him instead.

  There was something familiar about this man. Wasn’t there? Something in the way he moved. Then their eyes met, and though they were the frantic, fevered eyes of a wild animal, he knew.

  No, he thought. Can’t be.

  But it was. It was Gaven.

  Protracted Edifice

  Rather than the inside of a cozy little cottage, as Eli had every right to expect, the door opened into a round tunnel, roundish anyway, the surface of which was covered, from top to bottom, with cherrywood paneling. Brass sconces provided a pale, smokeless light that bathed the paneling in a myriad of warm and welcoming hues.

  As if unable to hold its breath any longer, from the cherrywood throat there issued a sudden yet gentle exhalation. It wafted past Eli, carrying with it the suggestion of carefully tended secrets, of a time long past but not quite forgotten—not by everyone, anyway.

  Mingling amongst these secrets was the aroma of rich wood and musty parchment, of scrolls preserved in leather canisters, and of rare and ancient spices, cinnamon and clove fragrant enough to make Eli’s head swim.

  His smile was faint, a guttering candle flame compared to his past joviality, but it was genuine. He had done it. And now Mandie would be okay. He thought this because surely a woman such as Sarilla, the self-proclaimed greatest soothsayer to ever live, a woman with enough magic to create all that he had witnessed thus far, could cure his little girl. Sarilla knew Mandie, and so must like her.

  That was Mandie’s gift. She was truly good, down to her marrow, pure and without guile. Everyone who met her liked her, and in time loved her. At first it was difficult to believe, especially for those to whom life had been especially cruel, that she was genuine, that someone could be so utterly kind without pretense. She was an angel in a world of crows, a light to brighten even the darkest of hearts.

  Buoyed by a sense of clear purpose, Eli turned and walked to the wagon. After feeding Bo an extra large helping of oats, he scooped his beloved Mandie into his arms, whispered some final instructions into Bo’s twitching left ear, and walked back to the entrance.

  And so it was with a deep breath, and with considerabl
y less hesitation than he would have normally shown in such a situation, that Eli stepped boldly—as boldly as he could manage, anyway—into the tunnel.

  When he had taken a total of ten steps across the highly polished cherrywood floor, the surface of which was straight and level, this being the reason for the roundish description, the door slammed shut. Eli tried to swallow his heart and just keep walking, but it was no good. He had to know.

  Ten steps later, he was once again standing before the infernal puzzle door, only this time, of course, on its other side. He set Mandie down with an exasperated sigh and, even though he knew it would be locked, tried the handle. To his dismay, it turned, but when he tugged on it, exerting what he deemed to be more than sufficient force, the door remained obstinately in place, as though permanently and indelibly affixed.

  Spouting an expletive that would have registered about an eight on his mother’s one to ten expletive scale, he tried again, this time really putting his back into it. And again, nothing happened.

  He was in the middle of spouting another curse, this one at least a nine, perhaps even a ten, when the bottom panel of the door, quick as a flash, spun about, trading places with its other side, so to speak, so that now the outside was the inside, and vice versa.

  Eli caught a glimpse of the porch, and then once again was sealed within, a prisoner of his own cleverness—or mayhap stubbornness. His mother’s words came back to him, spoken with great feeling to him when he was a rough and tumble tike of about seven. “Don’t be too quick and curious, lest ya meet the devil with a grin on yer face.” Done stirring her watery potato soup, she had pulled out her tin spoon and, with an imperious cackle, pointed at their cat. “Unlike Whiskers over there, ye has but one life to spend. Let her and her ilk confound the devil. The Watcher knows she was born to do it. And leave the rest for us hardworkin’ folk!”

  The inner panel of the door had been blank, the outer covered with tiles. Now, staring defiantly up at him, was an entirely new puzzle. But instead of benevolent pictures of flowers and rainbows and such, this one had harsh characters carved into the tiles with angry, slashing strokes.

  Eli had some vague impression that these might be what preacher Jon referred to as runes. Beyond that, the only thing he knew about them was that they were utterly incomprehensible to him. Surely when it came time to leave, Sarilla wasn’t going to make him try and solve this. Not even a woman, a witch woman to boot, could be that cruel.

  It’ll probably just open when the time comes, he decided. Or mayhap Mandie will be up an’ around by then, and she can solve it. Either way, best leave it alone for now. Best not court trouble before trouble’s due.

  Sometimes Eli was grateful for his simple, straightforward way of thinking. For instance, if not for his unfettered single-mindedness, he was sure he wouldn’t have been able to merely shrug off what could potentially be a life-threatening problem, bend down, pick up Mandie, and continue down the tunnel. Presently, however, this is precisely what he did.

  More than half an hour had passed, and still the tunnel stretched as far as he could see. True to his nature, Eli wondered more about the exorbitant cost of constructing such a protracted edifice, than about how and why said edifice came into being. The exterior of the cottage had been small and the tunnel had not descended, not by an inch.

  Naturally, there was some trick to it. But what did he care about the eccentricities of magical folk? All things led somewhere, and so this must, too. And so on he walked, once again blissfully insulated by his lack of imagination.

  Three sea shanties and one lament later—the acoustics were excellent in here—Eli did, in fact, come to a halt. Looming before him was a great iron door, ten feet tall if it was an inch, secured to the wall with thick, leaf-shaped hinges.

  That alone would have been enough to still the steps of this stalwart farmer from Fairhaven. But there was more. Standing 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, spine straight as a board, eye sockets empty and staring, bottomless black pits that could turn the bravest of men into blubbering cowards. Fortunately, Eli was not the bravest of men. He was merely a father trying to save his daughter’s life.

  Room with a View

  Perhaps the most disturbing thing about this skeletal creature, beyond the fact that it existed at all, was that it wasn’t, or rather hadn’t been, entirely human. Indeed, even without its towering height, there remained a general thickness to its skull that wasn’t quite right, something undeniably alien. Its forehead sloped out too far by half, approaching an angle that could only be described as unseemly, leaving little room for doubt.

  This creature’s ancestors must have hailed from shores too distant to reach by horse or boat, something for which the people of Eli’s sleepy little hamlet, had they known, would have been eternally grateful. The thought of an entire race of these things lumbering across the earth, especially in a place like Fairhaven, was enough to freeze the blood and still the heart.

  Eli lowered Mandie carefully to the floor and, with a stern nod to his opponent, pulled his long-handled axe from the sling on his back.

  The skeleton raised its halberd and assumed a defensive stance, weapon perpendicular to its pelvis.

  “I’ve no quarrel with you, whatever ya are!” Eli bellowed, swinging the axe in a graceful arc, voice echoing down the passage with a ferocity that Mandie would not have recognized. “I keep this axe for choppin’ wood, but if ya don’t let me and mine pass, I suppose it’ll do for choppin’ bone just as well!”

  “There isss no need for thisss,” the skeleton hissed without opening its mouth. “My missstresss hasss sssaid you may passs, be you Eli Johansssen.”

  Thoroughly stunned, Eli lowered his axe along with his jaw and waited to see what wonder would befall him next.

  The skeleton bowed low, leaned its halberd against the wall, threw the bolt on the iron lock, and pulled open the door, leaf-shaped hinges squealing in protest.

  Inside was a room of which any Nelvinian worth his or her salt would be proud. Everything seemed to have been designed to elicit a feeling of comfort and well-being. Come in, it seemed to coo. Sit down. Be at your ease. Everything is all right now.

  Like the tunnel, the room was roundish, and had cherrywood paneling. Unlike the tunnel, it featured a plush leather couch and chair arranged just so in front of a large hearth with an arched top similar to those found in Fairhaven’s more well-to-do households. Brass sconces bearing stained-glass globes provided additional light, filling in the shadows where the hearth left off—casting flickering, prismatic figures against the walls. Some held hands, engaged in a lively dance, stepping and twirling to a melody only they could hear, their movements as unpredictable as they were mesmerizing.

  Eli picked up Mandie and, with a wary eye to the skeleton, walked inside. After laying her on the couch, his gentleness belying his bulk, he continued to look about the room, fascinated by all the shelves and cubbies along the walls, by all the scrolls and books and jars and vials full of The Watcher knew what.

  “My name isss Sssholegath,” said the skeleton from behind. “I am going to ssshut the door now, ssso asss to not let out the warmth. But do not be alarmed. If you require anything before my missstresss arrivesss, merely knock and I will sssee to it if I can.”

  “How long do you think she’ll be?” Eli asked. “Mandie may not have much time.”

  “Alasss, it isss not for me to know sssuch thingsss,” Sholegath replied as he began to pull the door closed. “It could be a moment, or an eternity, it isss all the sssame to me.”

  Eli started to ask him what in the blue blazes he meant by that, but then the door shut and Sholegath was gone. It seemed rude to insist upon opening it immediately back up, so he just stood there, staring. Mayhap if Sarilla didn’t arrive within a re
asonable amount of time, say an hour or two, then he would ask. Hopefully, there’d be no need.

  “Well,” he said with a shake of his head, turning back to the couch, “he’s a cheery fellow, eh, Mandie?” Of course, he didn’t expect an answer. She only spoke at random, and never in direct response.

  Eli sighed, continuing his perusal of the room. There were two doors on the far wall, both of which he soon discovered were locked—without keyhole or puzzle.

  Any that I can see, he reminded himself. You never can tell when it comes to folk like Sarilla.

  On his left was a short, dimly lit hallway which opened into another room. From this room there came two things to tantalize the senses—bright, natural light, almost like sunlight, and the delectable aroma of baking cookies, oatmeal cookies, unless his nose deceived him, just like dear old grandmamma used to make.

  Must be the kitchen, he thought.

  To the left of the left door and the right of the right door, were heavy-duty shutters with iron latches. To the right of the right shutter was a narrow stairway leading up to a landing upon which one person could comfortably stand. Tall and stately at the conclusion of this landing was yet another door. Further description is unnecessary, for all the doors, fore to aft, looked exactly alike.

  Probably her bedroom, he decided, both comforted and unnerved by how domestic it all seemed, unnerved because, like certain aspects of the exterior, it was as though it was trying too hard to be domestic.