Andaris stared at that flute as if it were something he very much treasured but had long ago lost, and then forgotten, only to find it again here. He studied every detail, allowing himself to become immersed, relishing the look of it—simple, elegant, a cylindrical rod twelve inches long, six holes bored smoothly into silver skin, the initials A. L. R. engraved into its belly.
Andaris Rocaren, he whispered, feeling his spine tingle with hidden portent, sensing the conveyance of a long-awaited message, a message that had always been there, broadcasting again and again from some shadowed recess of his psyche that, until now, he neither could, nor would, recognize.
Why am I in this painting? he asked himself. And of course, the answer was evident. He was in this painting because he had been here before. The question was, had he come here as an older man, or had he grown older here?
The latter seemed more likely, and in his heart he knew it to be true, as if all the Andaris’ in all the various points in time and space were linked, each a part of a larger picture, sensing one another as well as the whole, but not understanding.
Pray tell, who drew these lines!? a part of him demanded. And what do they form? What is the larger picture? One must first know the question before one can know the answer. The question has been asked. It has now been asked!
His attention was drawn to the forefinger raised so resolutely above the clenched flute. It pointed towards the tabletop with more authority than one expects of a forefinger, even one as fine as this—almost as slender and elegant as the flute itself.
His attention was further funneled by a subtle pattern in the paint, drawing his sight inevitably downward, towards, not the tabletop, but the drawer beneath. It looked so real, distinguishing itself as the painting’s true focal point, the picture within the picture that most could only see by crossing their eyes and tilting their heads.
So mesmerized had he been by his own aged visage that, until now, he had failed to notice. It was almost as though he could reach out, pull open the drawer, and take what lay inside. There was something in there, wasn’t there? Yes, of course there was.
His hand trembled only slightly as he reached for the little wooden knob, the rounded edges of which felt, not like paint on canvas, but like real wood. How skilled an artist must be to achieve such an elaborate illusion.
Or was it magic? Could he not, in fact, feel the magic thrumming from its surface, warm and somehow soft, wrapping around him, caressing him, directing him?
Pull the knob, a voice whispered in his head, a voice disturbingly like his own—but older and coarser, weighted down by burdens long held. Its need was palpable, smothering him, dreams and hopes and fears coming together to form a vast, unknowable amalgamation.
Pull the knob, it repeated.
It did not occur to Andaris to disobey. The voice was indeed his own. Of that he was now sure. A voice from beyond, a voice from the future, a voice from the grave, focused and heightened by this place. Who was he to deny it—to deny himself? And it was so close. Perhaps waiting for him just beyond the next door.
The drawer pulled easily, red velvet sides cradling a silver flute of exceptional quality, the same flute as in the picture, in the picture and now in the picture, A.L.R. engraved into its glistening belly. He picked it up, wondering idly what the L. stood for, grasping its sleek, shimmering body with the same sort of fervor as his painted self.
Indeed, it shone with an inner beauty, as well. A beauty that spoke to him on a level that he didn’t know existed, cooing to him like the voice. No, not like the voice.… It was the voice, or rather the instrument through which the voice spoke. It was a kind of receiver. Question was, could he use it to communicate back?
Andaris drew the tip of the flute irresistibly to his mouth, reveling in the feel of its cool metal against his lips. He covered the first two holes with his first two fingers, surprised to discover not only that he knew which note to play, but knew how to play at all, had, in fact, played this very flute hundreds of times before.
If he so chose, he could play an entire song—many songs. After all, he was a master flutist, was he not? Feeling as if he were perfectly in sync with his gift, with the thing he had always been meant to do, with the thing he’d been born to do, had indeed been born over and over and over to do, he blew the note, holding it out sharp and long, listening intently to the way it echoed down the hall, its high, melodic voice awakening doorways within him that hitherto had been hidden and locked, buried beneath mountains of self-denial.
And as if this weren’t enough, he sensed, now that these doorways and subsequent passages were open, that something else had been awakened—a something of great power that existed apart from himself, yet was linked, a great and powerful something that had lain dormant within the immaculate heart of this place for centuries. Perhaps eons.
He took the flute from his lips with a shiver, or was it a shudder? Regardless, the note continued to ring up and down the hall, drawing him inexorably onward. His steps were sure and measured, for he knew exactly where he was going. Back to his old room, his bedchamber, the room of the master of the house, Andaris Londai Rocaren. Strange name, he thought. For a Rogarian, yes, said the voice, but not for one of mixed blood.
Torrent of Events
Grandmamma Sarilla took a deep breath, seeming to gather both her thoughts and her courage. She then let it out in a long, tired sigh that drained her face of all humor, revealing the pain beneath. She patted Eli’s small hand, as if regretting the burden she was about to share.
“Now,” she said between pursed lips, “even though I care for Mandie, and am fairly certain this is the only way to get her back, I find myself doubting the wisdom of telling you what you must know in order to have even the slightest chance of success.
You see, I am in a sort of moral dilemma—damned if I do, damned if I don’t, sort of thing. I can cast a spell on you so that you will be able to reveal only what I deem necessary, to whom I deem necessary, thus eliminating the risk of further contamination. But even so…what will the knowledge do to you? This remains to be seen…and I am beginning to grow fond of you, Eli.”
She sighed again. “This is your last chance. Do you understand that? Are you sure you truly want to know? What I am about to tell you will change everything. Indeed, it would drive most men, especially the very powerful and very wise, insane. And if you are insane, you will be of no use whatever to Mandie, and I will have destroyed your mind for nothing.”
Eli surprised the witch by flashing her a boyish grin. “Ain’t ever been known for being especially powerful…nor wise,” he said with self-deprecating charm. “I’m just a simple farmer with simple thoughts, and that’s okay. That’s how I like it.” Now, all the humor drained from Eli’s face, as well, replaced by pain and frustration that equaled or surpassed her own, its depth disturbing on the countenance of one who appeared so young.
“Besides,” he said in a hushed tone, his voice cracking with fresh emotion. “I can’t imagine anything that would drive me more crazy than losing my Mandie, especially after losing Erick and….” The name got stuck in his throat. He coughed, looked away, and tried again, little boy eyes shining up at her, brimming with tears. “And my…Marnie,” he finished with obvious effort. “If I was told that I had to endure eternal torture to give Mandie even a slight chance to live, to have a normal life, to raise a family and grow old with a good man, I’d do it without hesitation. Does that answer your question, Sorceress?”
Sarilla averted her eyes for a moment, swallowed hard, and looked back. It might have been Eli’s imagination, but he thought he saw unshed tears glimmering in his grandmamma’s eyes. “Yes,” she answered. “It does. I’m sorry to have doubted you, Eli. But I had to be certain.”
He gave her a reassuring nod. “It’s all right, Grandmamma Sarilla. I understand.”
She returned his nod, took a deep, steadying breath, and began to speak. “There are many things that I know, many things that I suspect, and man
y things that, no matter how long I search, I cannot begin to unravel. Let’s start with what I know, and what I very strongly suspect, and go from there. I will try to explain it to you in a way that will make sense. But given your limited intellect and experience, it will be very difficult. We are both going to have to stretch—maybe farther than we thought we could.”
Eli just stared at her, trying to decide if he should be offended.
“You see, you and Mandie have had the misfortune of getting caught up in a great raging torrent of events that, even as we speak, is reshaping the landscape of the future. This river runs through all places and all times simultaneously. Mandie has been caught up and swept away by the same river at two different points. It is as if she fell in at one point and, because all the different Mandies in all the different nows are linked, fell in at every point. I say fell, but what I really mean is…pushed.”
Eli’s eyebrows raised, an angry glint in his eyes.
“Now, don’t get me wrong,” she said, forestalling his fatherly wrath with a raised hand. “The person doing the pushing meant well. He thought he was saving her, pushing her out of harm’s way, as it were. There was no way for him to know that what he was actually doing was the exact opposite.
“You see, the man who did this, with the aid of a reckless spellcaster named Ashel Tevellin—one of the very powerful and very wise to whom I referred, not to mention ridiculously proud—loves Mandie a great deal, perhaps as much as you do. He is, in fact, at this very moment, risking life, limb, and perhaps even soul, to try and save her, just as you are. This man’s name is Andaris Rocaren.”
Seeing the flash of recognition in Eli’s eyes, Sarilla raised her hand again. “Now, don’t forget our deal. No questions until I am through.”
Visibly frustrated, Eli nodded.
“I know she has spoken of him in her dreams,” Sarilla continued. “Jade, Trilla, King Laris, The Lost One, Gaven—I have seen them all in her dreams, Eli, for they have been instrumental in changing what is and what will be.” She sighed, smoothing the front of her dress with the palms of her hands. “Okay, now brace yourself, because this is where things begin to get complicated.”
Judging by Eli’s expression, he thought it was far too complicated already.
“All of us carry the same soul throughout our time in this sphere. We sometimes are born as men, sometimes as women, and sometimes even as animals. You, for instance, about three hundred years ago, were a mule of exceptional strength and stubbornness.”
Eli thought this was absurd and wondered again if he should be offended.
“We learn from each lifetime, taking and building upon the past, evolving into the future. Scoff if you must, but if not for the stubbornness and strength you gained as a mule, you would have never reached my inner sanctum, much less my heart, which in a very real sense are one and the same.”
His expression grew even more dubious.
“I know what you are thinking!” she snapped. “But it’s not true. If you are going to question what I tell you already, then we may as well stop here. I am over two thousand years old, Eli. You are thirty-six. How many times does thirty-six divide into over two thousand? Hmmm? More than fifty-six times, Eli. Can you even begin to grasp the scope of that? Don’t you suppose there are a few things I’ve picked up along the way? Some experiences I’ve had that you have not? Just because something is alien to you…. Well, that doesn’t mean it isn’t real!”
Eli’s little boy eyes grew big as saucers, the force of her words pushing his spine straight against the back of the chair.
“And yet, because it lies beyond your admittedly diminutive purview, you have the temerity to think you know what is true and what is false? You have the blind arrogance to scoff at what I am telling you? To say, oh no Sarilla, the other day when I was pulling turnips from the earth, I knew that I understood all things! For you see, I am omniscient, which should come as no real surprise, for as you know, all farmers are omniscient!”
Eli started to say something in his defense, noted the warning in grandmamma Sarilla’s piercing gaze, then lowered his head, clasped his hands in his lap, and tried to look as meek as possible.
Sarilla took another deep, steadying breath and closed her eyes, collecting herself. When she opened them, she was once again calm. “I do apologize, Eli. I’m afraid I was venting a bit. It is just so irritating to be questioned about…well…it’s sort of like arguing astrophysics with…preschool children.”
“No!” they whine. “That can’t be right! And Timmy and Sara agree. What you said about the multi-dimensional axis balancing on the tip of a pin beneath an infinite number of quantum umbrellas can’t possibly be right! It doesn’t fit into the sandbox that is my world, where I build my castle and hold my court. Therefore, you must either be incorrect or mad, or most likely both. Off with her head, I say! I just had potato soup and…and she’s giving me indigestion! Off with her head before my bowels are disturbed a second time!”
Eli nodded, trying to smile, wondering if perhaps his grandmamma’s raving twin was mad.
“Oh, there I go again. So sorry, Eli. We’re here for you, not me. Well, mostly…. It’s just that I don’t typically have a captive audience, so to speak. Certainly not one that will allow me to go on about such things.” She smiled unexpectedly. “You know, it’s really quite cathartic. I feel much better, now. Thank you.”
Eli was glad somebody felt better, because it certainly wasn’t him. This was going to take longer than expected, and he wasn’t sure how much time Mandie had.
“Now, don’t you worry about that, young man, time doesn’t work quite the same here as it does other places.” She gave him a wry grin and, with a brief cackle, winked. “We could talk for days with only a few minutes passing outside. How do you think I managed to reach the ripe old age of two thousand and twenty-nine? Hmmm?”
Eli shrugged, still trying to look meek, both comforted and disturbed, mind reeling at the thought.
Book of Prophecy
The heavens broke and fell,
Ripping asunder rock and dell,
Spheres of light hold the worlds,
Lights so bright that time unfurls.
Gracious gods grant us speed,
Mend our shields in dire need,
Shattered hopes and shattered land,
Smoking field and sacred brand.
On a dusty shelf the worlds do sit,
In a heavenly castle made to fit,
Spinning, turning, roiling traps,
Phantom faces, phantom maps.
The Lost One doth fall from grace,
Stripped of all from master race,
The Watcher doth cower in fear,
Banished blood in Keeper’s sphere.
The creation doth stretch beyond,
The creator mourns in sorrows fond,
The bells doth cry their warning song,
But no one’s there to heed their gong.
Abandoned worlds beyond place and time,
Deserted dreams, forgotten rhymes,
One last chance to rise and reach,
A half-breed comes to cross the breach.
The master race sits in golden towers,
Playgrounds left for golden powers,
The mingling blood not yet conceived,
Blinded by arrogance, pride bereaved.
Book of Prophecy: 5:13
Adrianna?
By the time the note had faded from hearing, Andaris stood at the end of the hall, before the door to his bedchamber. The door was made from a single piece of rosewood, fastened to the wall with silver hinges. The handle was curved like the neck of a swan, and in the center of the door was a silver knocker fashioned, naturally enough, in the shape of The Symbol.
Andaris stood there for a time, poised on the edge of the precipice, trying to decide whether to turn away or to leap in. His left hand fingered the flute as his right reached for the handle. Upon contact, he drew back as though burned, but not by fire.
“So cold,” he whispered.
Thankfully, there was no reply from the ether. He found himself, once again, gripped by indecision. He had a pretty good idea what lay inside this room. The question was, was he ready to embrace it or not? If things were as he was beginning to suspect, it was very possibly his destiny, and thus eventually unavoidable.
“I have been going through a lot of doors lately,” he reminded himself with a sigh. “Perhaps this one can wait until after I’ve explored the town. I mean, if it’s my destiny, what’s the rush?”
Heartened by this unanticipated windfall of cavalier logic, he put the flute into his pocket, turned, and headed down the hall. By the time he reached the door at the other end, the sounds of activity were unmistakable: metal shod feet tramping, wagons rolling, and the general murmur of conversation punctuated by the occasional neighing of a horse.
The door was not nondescript with a dull brass knob, as he’d supposed. Indeed, quite the opposite was true. Far from nondescript, this door was carved of jade and covered with runes that glowed either with their own light, or with the light of the sun that shone through from the other side. Even standing back a bit as he was, he could feel the heat coming off of them, radiating out in all directions. After the unnatural chill of the bedchamber door, he welcomed it, basking in its sumptuous warmth with a faint smile on his face.
In the past, Andaris had found himself frustratingly vexed by the majority of the runes with which he’d come into contact. So this time he was prepared, or at least more prepared. Before leaving, he’d bought a book that supposedly translated all known runes into readable form. The title of this book was, “Runes for Beginners.” Its glossary contained line after line of seven Rogarian letters, A, E, I, O, U, Y, and S, as well as the corresponding letters in all known runic languages. At the far right of each line was a page number.
The Stair Of Time (Book 2) Page 22
