The Stair Of Time (Book 2)

by William Woodward

  Grandmamma Sarilla took a cookie off the silver tray between them and, holding it out as a sort of peace offering said, “You did come to me for help, you know. Let’s not forget that. Based on what I know of you from your wife, daughter, and grandmother, you are a good and honest man.”

  At last Eli saw, shining from beneath the elderly facade, the great authority and power of the woman. She seemed to grow in stature without actually changing size, the force of her will swelling to give him a not-so-tender embrace.

  “However,” she continued, “my patience is not without limits. I’ve taken time away from a number of very important tasks in order to meet with you. I would advise you to not squander this opportunity by being childi—overly prideful.” She sighed and smiled, seeming to once again diminish, exhaling part of herself while inhaling part of her persona, becoming the vision of his sweet ol’ grandmamma. “Now here, ya little scoundrel, take a cookie. And don’t worry, you won’t be disappointed. They’re as good as ever.”

  Eli did as instructed—or commanded—quickly devouring the best oatmeal cookie he’d had in over twenty-five years. Inside of ten minutes, he had eaten eight and a half of ‘em, and was now sitting back in his grandfather’s rocking chair with a satisfied grin on his face, wondering why he’d gotten so worked up in the first place. Nobody who makes cookies this good can be all bad, he reasoned.

  Some of the mirth had returned to Sarilla’s eyes, but this time Eli did not take offense. In fact, he felt such a rush of warmth for the witch that he very nearly leaned in and gave her a kiss. She stared at him for a time, seeming to gather her thoughts, then, at length, sat back in his grandmamma’s rocking chair, re-steepled her fingers, and began to speak.

  “What I have to say will take a good while, “she admitted. “Much of it is not only complicated but…convoluted. There is a difference, you know. Convoluted implies complex, but complex doesn’t necessarily imply convoluted. So you see, therein lies the problem.”

  Still smiling, Eli nodded dumbly, his grasp of what she was saying tenuous at best.

  “Even so, as tiresome as it will no doubt become, you must agree to be silent until I am completely finished. All right?”

  Eli nodded again, relieved to hear something he understood.

  “Not a word until I ask if you have any questions, unless, of course, I ask you a non-rhetorical question, no matter what shocking things I might say. Do we have an agreement?”

  Reaching out to pat grandmamma Sarilla’s hand, Eli nodded a third time. “Not a word,” he mouthed silently, crossing his heart. “I promise.”

  The Ballroom

  Andaris awoke on the floor of the ballroom, wincing in pain, at the mercy of some phantom blacksmith who apparently had developed a penchant for hammering spikes through people’s skulls—first left, then right, on and on without quarter. He sat up with a groan and held his head in his hands, thinking of nothing but the pain, breath coming in ragged gasps.

  After enduring several more minutes of this, he cried out in frustration, his voice echoing all around. And just like that, the pain was gone. It did not drain away gradually as such things normally do. It vanished in an instant, as though his cry had flipped a switch.

  The change was so abrupt, in fact, that he laughed, the contrast affecting his body like a drug, flooding every part of him with euphoria. He felt like a man who’d been strapped to a torture table having all manner of nasty things done to him—only to blink his eyes and find himself at home in the arms of his loving wife.

  It was interesting how the mind worked. If not for the pain, he might have been discontented by his present predicament, even downtrodden. It’s true what they say: happiness is just a matter of perspective. One wouldn’t appreciate the blue sky half as much without the occasional cloud. A peasant delights in the scraps from the king’s table more than the king delights in the feast. Hardship and happiness are but two sides of the same coin. Etc, etc.

  Andaris got to his feet without so much as the merest suggestion of a groan. He looked at the tapestry, but now neither saw nor sensed anything especially magical about it. Static figures woven into the fabric—that was all. He felt compelled to stare longer, to strain his ears for the distant strains of harpsichord music, but this time he resisted, not wanting to pass out again, which is what he assumed must have happened. One moment he’d been standing there, totally enthralled by what he was seeing. And then he had awakened with no conception of how or when he’d lost consciousness. Or, for that matter, how long he’d been out.

  Giving his insatiable curiosity something else on which to focus, he turned from the tapestry and crossed the room, coming to a stop before the center window, the vertical bars of which were positioned just right to prevent him from squeezing through. Peering past the bars, past the winding vines and blooming flora which climbed the outer walls and hung over the ledge into the room, he was afforded a bird’s eye view of a bustling town square, the pious stone of a church opposite the irreverent squalor of a tavern, the two squaring off with one another, windows narrowed in what both knew would eventually come to bloodshed.

  People, fully human people as far as he could tell, traveled up and down the dirt and gravel roads with the sort of entrepreneurial spirit that typically comes with new-found wealth, or at the very least, the scent of it in the air. Some rode horses. Some drove wagons. Indeed, an elite few had the fortune of being chauffeured in great black carriages, red velvet curtains concealing their interiors, spiked wheels tattooing the streets with ever more complicated designs.

  Most, however, simply walked, or rather sauntered, eyes scanning this way and that, searching for some opportunity or another. Those on foot tended to be well armed, equipped with all manner of weapons, daggers, swords, and bows at the ready, traveling the streets with a lean, hungry look, the sort folks back home would have frowned upon, giving the possessor of said look a wide berth, whispering behind locked doors and shuttered windows about his or her sinful ways.

  Speaking of sinful, there were even ladies of the night about, and with the sand to walk the streets in broad daylight, billowing, brightly colored petticoats concealing the goods until payment was made, the promise in their eyes all the advertisement they required.

  This town rivals Tinar, he thought with a wistful grin. Getting caught up in the hustle and bustle of the place, Andaris soon found himself shouting out the window and waving. “Hello! Up here! Hello! Can anyone hear me?”

  But not one head turned his way. Unless, that is, you counted the squirrel sitting on a tree limb to his right, just above the crenellated top of a thick granite wall, the nearest end of which was connected to some sort of keep—of which he, thus far, seemed to be the sole inhabitant.

  And not even the squirrel was looking at him, was it? Rather at something it had decided to chase, evidenced by its sudden acrobatic leap from one branch to the next. He followed it with his eyes, but soon lost sight of the little devil as it scurried beneath the golden leaves of a towering, white-barked maple tree.

  That’s when he realized what was missing. Not only couldn’t they hear him—he couldn’t hear them. Distance and wind might account for part of it, but not all. That is, if there was any wind. Because, come to think of it, his face and hands remained curiously uncaressed by even the gentlest of breezes.

  He frowned. Must be magic again. A barrier over these windows that allows me to see out without others seeing in, something that also prevents the transfer of sound. Wish Gaven were here. He’d have some quip followed by that knowing smile of his that would make it all seem somehow unimportant. My Gaven would, anyway.

  His frown deepened as an idea began to take shape. He needed to concentrate on it, for he felt sure that if he didn’t, it would simply slip from his grasp, never to be seen again. Hmm. Now let’s see here…. The thing is, old Gaven said he found his way to a town where he met a girl who reminded him of Trilla, some place where he was able to find comfort and peace. A town where he met a girl
and found comfort and peace…. What if—

  His face lit with sudden mirth. What if this is that place? After all, the arrows did lead me here, and it is a lot like Tinar, based on what I can see, anyway. Gaven sure did love Tinar, almost as much as Rogar, though in a completely different way. But don’t get off track. Let’s think this through. He said the stairs are like a nexus in time and space. So…if that is the right town, it’s actually possible that I’ll find him there, before he grows old and tries to make his way back. Maybe I’ve finally caught up to him! Maybe I’ll arrive shortly after he did. Who knows how these things work?

  He grinned again. Maybe I’ll find him drinking ale in a tavern while flirting with the barmaids and wrestling some back alley bruiser. Like as not all at the same time! And then we can get out of here. Together!

  He just hoped he wasn’t one of them. One of the people, that is. A man should never be made to meet himself, to have his carefully guarded delusions torn away, to stand naked and shivering before his own merciless scrutiny. In other words, to see himself as others do.

  Andaris whirled for the twenty-foot tall doors, thinking not only of Gaven but of a hot meal and soft bed. There must be a way down. One thing was certain. If there was, he would find it. In his heart of hearts, he knew it was extremely unlikely that he would also find his friend. I mean, he wasn’t stupid. He knew the odds. But he also considered himself to be an optimist, which meant he would take small hope over no hope any day, allowing it to motivate him and, at times, to compel him to proceed in a manner that some might deem just shy of strictly rational.

  Self Portrait

  After pulling the doors wide, Andaris stepped into a grand hallway. Gleaming white pillars supported an arched ceiling, every inch of which was covered in a stunning array of painted skyscapes, starry nights brightening to blue and back again.

  The gentle curve of the hall prevented him from seeing more than fifty yards in either direction, but he suspected what lay ahead was much like what lay behind. There were low alderwood benches between the pillars, each contoured back engraved with its own distinct nature scene. Here was a river flowing through a lush mountain valley, there was a gaggle of geese flying in formation above a pine forest, here was a pond ringed by aspen, a single deer drinking from its far shore, there was a herd of wild horses galloping across a rolling savanna, and so on. Each bench seemed specifically designed to entice unsuspecting passersby, such as himself, to sit down and perhaps even take a quick nap, their bucolic settings, quiet elegance, concave seats, and red velvet cushions combining to elicit a feeling of comfort and tranquility that was nearly impossible to resist.

  Above each bench hung golden sconces that would have been indistinguishable from the ones in the ballroom if not for two things—their comparatively diminutive size, and capacity to be lifted off of their hooks and carried about like actual lanterns. The flickering light emitted by the candles reflected off the painted stars, making them wink merrily at him. On either side of each sconce, stretching from floor to ceiling, silver banners draped, centers bearing but a single design: a circle within a circle bisected by a vertical line.

  Which way? he wondered, nibbling his lower lip, peering first left and then right. How many times since leaving home had he asked himself that very question? Seemed like no matter where he went or what he did, he eventually found himself here, lost in unfamiliar environs, clueless how to proceed.

  At length, he chose to go right, mainly because this was, presumably, the direction he must travel to reach the town, but also because he was right-handed. And lest we forget, despite past declarations to the contrary, it had been right turns that had saved him in the caverns.

  The burgundy carpet was thick and cushiony, golden tassels undisturbed by his near-silent passage. The carpet, along with everything else in the hall, appeared to be brand new, as if just bought and tacked into place yesterday. He peeked behind one of the banners, finding only bare stone beneath.

  Who lit all these candles? he mused, realizing that he was already growing tired of the place, of its seemingly endless inscrutability, of the way it flaunted it in his face.

  And why aren’t they burning down? Surely all this doesn’t stay in a state of eternal readiness for whoever might happen by. He sighed. More Lenoy magic, no doubt, triggered by my presence. But why should I trigger their magic? There was something strangely familiar about those dancers, wasn’t there? Is it possible that—

  Thankfully, his musings were interrupted by the end of the hall, reined in before they could take him somewhere he wasn’t ready to go. He came to a stop in the decisive yet uncertain manner that is common to those who find themselves in such situations, staring at the innocent, enigmatic outline of a strikingly nondescript door, cedar planks and brass knob seeming wholly out of place in such an ostentatious setting.

  That’s another thing he’d been doing a lot of lately, walking in and out of doors, whether magical or mundane, to points unknown. And you know what? He was getting pretty darned tired of it. Thanks to all his travels, he’d never be able to look at a door in the same way again. In other words, a door could never be just a door, not to him, anyway. He felt cheated, denied the simple pleasure of walking through a doorway like a normal person, mind unfettered by thoughts of past predicaments.

  Now, whether a portal to a different world or just an adjacent room, they all seemed to possess a certain mysticism—metal, stone, and wood infused with a sense of what- if that he doubted even years of provincial life could eradicate.

  From this point forward, his heart would beat a little faster anytime his hand reached for that potentially all-powerful doorknob. No matter how ordinary. Even if he’d stepped through the doorway a thousand times before, and even if it had led him to the same place each and every one of those times, he could no longer be certain what lay beyond. Doors are like question marks. Once one makes you wonder, they all do. Windows were bad enough. But nothing compared to the somehow enigmatic outline of a closed door.

  Shaking his head at what he deemed to be the conspiratorial beating of his heart, Andaris reached for the potentially all-powerful, yet strangely nondescript, doorknob. And there he paused, frozen in indecision, listening to what sounded like wind whistling from the other side.

  Ah well, he decided, grabbing and turning the knob in a rush. No point in waiting when I know I’m going to do it eventually anyway.

  As expected, the knob turned easily and the door swung wide. What his burgeoning precognitive abilities had not divined, however, was where the door would lead. Fortunately, one of his other non-extrasensory senses took up the slack, namely his sight.

  The door opened into a cobblestone tower, broad steps curving downward, slitted windows providing light—sunlight—and fresh air, hence the whistling sound. Feeling like a mouse that had eaten all of the cheese and escaped the trap, Andaris raced down the cobblestone steps as fast as he dared, courting dizziness like a drunk, vaguely aware of the silver banners hanging to either side, embossed symbols blurring across his periphery, circles within circles bisected by vertical lines.

  When he reached the bottom of the tower, he came to a scrambling stop, suddenly feeling very small, very frightened, and very cold, much as he imagined a mouse might feel after having escaped one trap only to be ensnared by another.

  For you see, framed by the arched doorway through which he peered, there hung a single painting. A portrait, no less, centered between two gleaming pillars just like the ones above. In fact, except for the painting, this hallway looked identical to the other one, skyscapes, benches, and lantern-style sconces all in their places, awaiting his arrival.

  As Andaris walked to the painting, he heard, somewhere off to his right, the sounds of commotion, town streets bustling with activity. It wasn’t far. Perhaps only a hundred yards or so. If he took a right down this hall, he would no doubt come to a nondescript door sporting a dull brass knob, beyond which he would no doubt find the town that reminded him so much
of Tinar, the part he’d been able to see that is.

  As important as these things had been to him just moments before, they were nothing more than background noise to him now, a faint buzzing in the nether regions of his mind. The reason for his dazed state hung before him like a nightmare. What he’d considered mostly in jest before leaving the ballroom, had now actually come to pass. He was standing face to face with himself. That is to say, the man in the portrait was he. True, he was twenty years older, graying at the temples with a haunted look in his eyes, as if staring into an endless abyss. But it was he, nonetheless.

  Noteworthy Answer

  Andaris stood staring at the painting of himself for a very long time, scrutinizing every line of his own face, transfixed by the depth of disappointment and madness in his eyes. Like everything else in this place, it was a work of great art, every stroke meticulously placed, the color and shading adding just the right amount of contrast, making the painting appear, especially given its subject and viewer, almost too real.

  His older self sat in a high-backed wooden chair next to a small table, black cloak over leather armor, a circle within a circle bisected by a vertical line carved deep into the chair’s crest. From now on, considering the frequency with which it appeared, he would refer to this merely as, “The Symbol.”

  He had thought carved, but that wasn’t quite right, was it? The Symbol had been chiseled into the wood with broad, angry debasement, gouged out as though the woodsmith resented it, perhaps even hated it, yet was compelled to make it over and over again, helpless to resist.

  Around his painted neck hung a thick silver chain, weighted down by a thick silver medallion with a blood red ruby at its center. The medallion rested against his doublet with serene indifference, as if it had always been there and always would, features etched into an unmistakable expression—The Symbol, yet again. Behind the table, a partial view of a box seat window could be seen, light slanting through thin lace curtains, a pure, white light illuminating a silver flute, the length of which was held tightly in his grasp, tip glinting in the light above reticulated fingers, three fingers, and a thumb.