Could it be that a version of himself, presumably the older man from the painting, had come here and somehow been appointed ruler…and then fifteen years ago had left again…or died? The thought made his skin crawl. Now, not just the devil, but also all his minions, tickled his spine.
Somehow being haunted, or rather possessed by oneself, was much more disturbing than being possessed by some beastie or another—at least it seemed so to him now. He would be glad when they reached the palace where, hopefully, he would find some answers. He had many questions for the queen and her advisors.
My queen and my advisors, he reminded himself. Perhaps he should have accepted the proffered carriage, after all. Further conjecture seemed pointless. He simply didn’t have enough information.
“Bernard!” he called.
The sergeant came to a halt, causing him and his underling slug to collide, the clanking of armor punctuated by a curse and stern reprimand. “Yes…Your Highness,” came the anxious reply. “How may I serve?”
Andaris suppressed a laugh at their clumsiness, opened his mouth to ask how far it was to the palace, then realized that he should know, and promptly closed it again. He stood there a moment, waiting to see if his alter ego would take the opportunity to seize control. When it became clear that he would not, Andaris struggled to come up with some reason for speaking.
Thankfully, Bernard took his hesitation and vexed expression personally, thinking it was due to the collision. Red-faced and puffing, he said, “Begging your pardon, Your Grace. For our ineptitude, I mean. Dremell and I haven’t been workin’ together for long. He’s fresh out of the blocks. Green as they come. Seems this whole business has him a bit undone. I suspected his backbone was weak. At least now I know. Much better now than in the field! Well…no matter, we’ll toughen ‘im up. Tonight, he’ll practice his drills until he can do ‘em in his sleep. Literally! Isn’t that right, Dremell?”
The blonde-haired man, who would have been handsome if not for a rather pronounced harelip, went stock straight, brought his fist to his chest, and cried, “Sir, yes sir!”
Andaris frowned, actually thankful, for the moment, to be king—better that, regardless of the how and why, than Bernard’s underling slug. “No need to worry,” he said, doing his best to imitate his alter ego’s way of speaking. “All is well…only….” He cast a sheepish glance around. “Is there a suitable privy nearby? It has been a long journey and…I’m afraid I don’t remember this part of town very well.”
Bernard’s expression softened, first relief and then amusement parting his lips. “Oh…I see. Yes, of course, Your Eminence. Being that the palace is still a couple hours away, I should have…anticipated. Not surprised you’re unfamiliar with this part of town. Me and the missus don’t even come down here after dark, what with the cutthroats and all.” Now the mirth touched his eyes, as well. “I do, however, know a little place a few minutes north. I don’t know how…suitable it is, but it’s safe enough. Durin’ the day, anyhow. Clean privies, cold ale, and…the best cherry pie this side of the breakers. It’s called the Willing Wench.”
Andaris’ face must have gone three shades of white, for the sergeant pushed Dremell out of the way and took a step forward, looking ready to lunge in for the catch. Andaris could feel himself beginning to sway. The Willing Wench! Now that’s really going too far, he thought. I mean…what are the odds? And he said it like Gaven. Come to think of it, he even kind of looks like Gaven. But he didn’t so much before, did he? And he’s been saying things like durin’ instead of during, and workin’ instead of working. Maybe he’s just becoming more comfortable with me, allowing himself to be less formal. It also could be—
“Your Highness?” exclaimed Bernard, sounding alarmed. “Are you all right?”
Andaris managed a weak smile. “Oh, I shouldn’t think it’s anything serious, sergeant. But I believe I will take you up on your offer of a carriage, after all. Seems I’m more…taxed from my travels than I’d realized. I’d prefer to keep a low profile so…try to find something…discreet. Oh, and yes, the Willing Wench will do fine, unless of course…you’re familiar with a place called The Golden Stag?”
Bernard looked down, chewing his lower lip. “I’m afraid not, Your Grace. I could ask around.”
Andaris dismissed the idea with a wave of his hand. “Don’t bother. It’s not important.”
Bernard nodded and sent Dremell in search of the carriage.
Not more than five minutes had passed before a great black monstrosity of a coach came rumbling down the street, polished panels gleaming in the sunlight, velvet trimmed windows winking at him. Said monstrosity was drawn by four majestic stallions stepping in time—great black beasts with coats that gleamed nearly as brightly as the coach itself. Dremell sat beside the driver, teeth bared in a broad, self-satisfied grin.
“Well,” Bernard admitted, “looks like he finally got somethin’ right. He’s green, but I gotta give credit where credit’s due.”
Andaris cringed at all the attention the fast-approaching colossus was attracting—women with expectant eyes, men with pointed fingers, children with unhinged jaws.
Discreet, he thought, shaking his head.
The Princess Queen
Once inside the absurdly plush coach, Andaris drew the curtains and leaned his head back against the seat, relishing the comforting embrace of almost perfect darkness. Ordinarily, his curiosity would have made it impossible for him not to peer out one of the windows at the passing scenery. But there was nothing ordinary about today, was there?
“I think I’ll forego the Willing Wench,” he told Bernard, not having to pretend to be much more beleaguered than he felt. “Inform the driver to take us straight through. After all the attention back there, I don’t think it would be wise to stop. I’ll warrant word travels faster than this coach. Likely there’d be throngs of people waiting for me when I got out. My bladder will just have to make do. Besides, it’s not so bad, now that I’m sitting.”
As you might expect, no sooner than these brave words had left his mouth, one of the wheels hit a bump in the road. Had he actually needed to use the restroom, it would have been enough to make him grit his teeth and cringe. So naturally, in the spirit of his newfound subterfuge, that’s just what he did.
Bernard cringed in sympathy and rapped loudly against the sliding panel that connected the back of the coach to the front.
After rattling off a string of curses that would have made a sailor, and mayhap even Gaven blush, the driver, an elderly stick of a man—Aldric something—slid open the panel and said, “Yes? What is it? I live to serve the order. Fulfilling your wish is my greatest desire. I—”
“Yeah, I bet it is, you guttermouth cur! Watch your tongue in front of your betters, or I’ll do the world a favor and chop it out of yer fool head and serve it to ya on a plate! Now, as far as what we wish, His Majesty has decided to go straight through to the castle without stoppin’. See that we get there as soon as possible. And mind those bumps, or I swear I’ll stop this buggy here and now and tan your backside somethin’ fierce!”
Aldric Something started to respond in a remorseful tone that sounded as much like a whimper as his previous tone had sounded like a bark.
Bernard slammed the panel shut and, with a mighty huff, crossed his arms and sat back. “Uncultured cur!” he spat. “Beggin’ your pardon, Your Highness. It’s just that his type have always made my blood boil. Act like the world owes ‘em a free meal, and they don’t care who they have to trample to get it!”
Suddenly feeling as exhausted as he’d been pretending to be, Andaris nodded and closed his eyes. It was another one of those infernal headaches coming on. Maybe if he slept until they got to the castle, it would go away. Sleep came with abrupt and, quite frankly, alarming force. And within a matter of moments, plunged him deep into the land of dreams….
***
Andaris found himself sitting in a high-backed leather chair before a small round table, the wooden heart o
f which was proudly embossed with The Symbol. He was in a bedroom with no windows. Somehow he knew it was the room beyond the door he’d chosen not to open. Not yet, anyway. Obviously, he’d never been in this room, and yet…he had. Hadn’t he?
There was a four-posted bed with a blood red, goose-feather comforter. There was a roaring fire in the hearth, the rollicking flames of which cast legions of shadow creatures against the ornately ornamented walls. Attack and retreat, attack and retreat….
His chair’s twin was located on the other side of the table, directly across from him, pulled just far enough out to allow access. Andaris had the unnerving impression that it was…staring at him. Or rather that some ethereal being occupying the chair was staring at him.
It was he, wasn’t it? Oh yes, to be sure. It was his “other” self.
A wave of cold darkness shot through him, at which time Andaris felt an irresistible urge to look down, to make certain he was still who he thought he was. He resisted as long as possible, fearing that the man in the chair would materialize as soon as his attention was diverted. And yet slowly, haltingly, his gaze did indeed turn downward.
He was not surprised to find that he was dressed in the raiment of his alter ego, the attire his older self had been wearing in the painting. There was a sword at his hip and an amulet in the shape of The Symbol at his breast, its center bearing a blood red ruby. He realized the sword was also the same as the one from the fever dream in the cave, the one that had spoken so fervently into his mind about The Lost One, the sword that was supposed to be symbiotically linked to him. He felt a yearning for it unlike anything he’d ever known, and yet had only ever dreamt of it. It pulsed in his brain like a summons, demanding his attention.
“I am waiting for you, my master,” it cooed in the voice of his alter ego. “I am here in our bedroom, waiting so long to be reunited with the flesh of my soul. We should have never parted. It was wrong of you to cast yourself into the abyss. But all is forgiven…if only you come back to me. You must return before the day of the seventh sun. The storm is nigh and the hour is late. But together we may yet avert disaster….
The amulet of Argotha hangs about your neck—the key to many locks, the pass to many worlds, some of which lead to the land of your forefathers, the land of the Lenoy! Their blood runs strong in your veins, mingling with the lesser blood of your human fathers, pumping your heart and filling your mind with thoughts of splendor! You carry with you the mark of our kind, though it has remained hidden until now, biding its time until the day of emergence, the day of your becoming! Behold Andaris! See where the gods have branded you on your left arm. Behold the red brand of Ekthillius!”
Andaris grasped the cuff of his sleeve and pulled, confirming what the sword had just said. Now, instead of a small strawberry mark centered just below his left palm—a pale birthmark that, with just the merest hint of imagination, could be made to look like The Symbol—there was a large strawberry mark spanning the entire height and width of his left forearm, a bright red birthmark that, with no imagination at all, looked like a circle within a circle bisected by a vertical line.
His lips felt too leaden to respond. He simply stared, mouth agape.
***
The coach came to a sudden halt.
Andaris awoke with a snort, glancing about with puffy-eyed confusion. Must have been snoring, he thought, something he only did when he was utterly exhausted.
Bernard was grinning at him as if he were the brunt of an especially amusing joke, the way a classmate in a dream might after you realize that you’re wearing nothing but your underpants.
Andaris ignored him, focusing instead on the din issuing from beyond the black lacquered walls of the carriage. The shuffle, creak, and jangle of men and horses came from all around—sounds that one might expect to hear, for instance, from a detachment of royal cavalry.
“You claim one of your passengers is the king?” asked a thin, nasally voice which, though obviously better suited to accounting than soldiering, still managed to ring with authority.
“That’s correct,” Bernard shouted back. “His Majesty has asked to see Her Highness.”
“Why, I’ve never heard anything so ludicrous! Come out of there with your hands raised. I don’t know what you thought you could gain by—”
“Please Samuell,” implored a woman from somewhere behind, voice small and muffled, “just go look…will you?”
“I don’t want you to get your hopes up, My Queen. It’s undoubtedly a misunderstanding of some sort. Or worse. There’s no way that—”
“Please,” she said again, obviously near tears. “Just…I can’t.”
“I would feel more comfortable if you would move to a safe distance first. No telling who’s in there.”
This was followed by more quiet sniffling and then an exasperated huff. “Andaris!” she called suddenly, voice cracking with emotion. “If that’s you in there, you’d better come out this instant!”
Birds of a Feather
Eli and Sarilla stared at one another for a surprisingly long time, her words hanging in the air like prophecy, preventing further discussion.
Naturally, Eli recovered first, his pragmatic mind ill-suited to protracted contemplation. Sarilla had told him what must occur in order to save his daughter, and that was all he needed—or wanted—to know. For all he cared, the Lenoy could be dead, damned, or out on holiday. All that mattered was saving his Mandie.
True, he didn’t have a clue how best to accomplish said feat—the turning Jade back into Jade part. Only that he would, and that he would because he must. The alternative was too horrible to fathom. Besides, why obsess over details? He’d gotten what he’d come for, and so was now ready to move on. It was as simple as that. No use sittin’ around starin’ at one another, thinkin’ deep thoughts when there was work to be done! Mandie needed savin’, and he was just the man to do it!
Showing very little of his newfound resolve, Eli tentatively raised his hand, looking every bit the shy schoolboy.
Sarilla cocked her head to the side, smiled, and said, “Yes, dear, what is it?”
“Just anxious to be off, that’s all. I thank you most kindly for your help, but now if ya don’t mind, I’d like to know what I need to do in order to turn that Jade girl back into a dog so that me and Mandie…well…you know, can be on our way.”
Sarilla put her hand to her mouth and actually giggled. “I’m sorry,” she said, still smiling from behind her hand. “It’s just that…you must be the most practical person I’ve ever met. It’s a shame our time together is so brief. I think a few days with someone like you would do me a world of good.”
Eli’s expression remained stony as he awaited an answer.
Sarilla sighed and shook her head. “All right, all right, you win. But perhaps when all this is over, you and Mandie can come back for a visit. She is the most delightful girl, you know. Well…yes, of course you do.”
Eli nodded, expression unchanged.
“It’s very simple,” Sarilla told him, getting to her feet. “Just come back into the house with me, shut the door behind us, and then open it again.”
“But what abou—” Eli had been going to say, “But what about changing me back?” when he realized by the depth of his voice that it had already been done. He looked down to confirm what he’d heard, breathed an immense sigh of relief, and then looked gratefully back up at Sarilla. She took his hand. He got to his feet. And they both went inside.
“Now,” she said, eyes sparkling with affection for him, “open the door and look outside.”
He hesitated a moment, then did as she said, taking hold of the knob suddenly, his trepidation making him bold, yanking it wide with an implied, “Aha!” as though determined to get the drop on whatever villain lay in wait on the other side.
“You see, Eli. It is as you saw through the window when you thought you were alone. You recognize that despondent old man over there, the one bristling with weapons and brushing that horse? He
’s a friend of Andaris’. He traveled to this place from Rogar with Gaven and Andaris, and will wait for them to emerge from the hidden door as long as he draws breath. Perhaps longer.
“There are forces at work in the universe that would see his vigil come to an untimely and, most likely, violent end. Forces to which The Lost One himself has sworn eternal allegiance. They cannot, at this time—and much to their consternation, mind you—touch Andaris. He is presently beyond their purview, protected, insulated by the magic left behind by the Lenoy.
“They can, however, make sure there is no one here to open the door when Andaris comes knocking. I have protected this clearing as much as I dare. That, along with the old magic inherent to this place, is the only reason Mandie’s friends were able to access the hidden door in the first place—the only reason Gramps still lives. But it will not be enough.
“The more powerful beings of The Lost One’s dark order cannot, no matter how they try, gain entry. Yet it is possible, statistically speaking, for them to send their minions through. They haven’t discerned how yet, but they will. Unfortunately, stupidity is not on their long list of faults. They could come any time. Likely, they won’t be able to send more than a few at once. Just enough, I fear, to deal with one tired old man, tough though he may be.”
Following a casual flourish of her right hand, the air shimmered a few feet ahead of them, at which point Mandie, Bo, and the wagon materialized.
Eli gasped with pleasure and started to walk forward.
The Stair Of Time (Book 2) Page 25
