The Stair Of Time (Book 2)

For my brilliant family and friends, whose patience, love, and guidance made this book possible.

Thank you.

Contents

1)
      
Out of the Ashes

2)
    
Keeping Watch

3)
     
The Tower

4)
    
Furtive Conversation

5)
    
Despair

6)
     
Bedside Manner

7)
     
Lost Blood

8)
    
Departure

9)
    
A Peculiar Campsite

10)
 
Questionable Cartography

11)
  
A Bit of Levity

12)
 
Aberrant Iterations

13)
  
Sleeping Beauty

14)
 
Area of Effect

15)
 
Strength of Will

16)
 
Into the Waste

17)
 
Under the Dome

18)
 
The Boundary

19)
 
Line of Sight

20)
Wayward Verse

21)
 
Chessboard Courtyard

22)
The Stair of Time

23)
Lonely Descent

24)
Trumpet’s Dawn

25)
Puzzle Door

26)
The Voices

27)
Beyond the Mist

28)
The Old Man

29)
Protracted Edifice

30)
 
Room with a View

31)
  
Out of Time

32)
Grandmamma

33)
 
Reeling

34)
After You

35)
Worlds on a Shelf

36)
 
Little Brass Bell

37)
 
The Registry

38)
Neverending Tapestry

39)
Convolutions

40)
The Ballroom

41)
 
Self Portrait

42)
Noteworthy Answer

43)
Torrent of Events

44)
Book of Prophecy

45)
Adrianna?

46)
Book of Dreams

47)
A Timely Return

48)
Divine Negligence

49)
The Willing Wench

50)
The Princess Queen

51)
 
Birds of a Feather

52)
Me, Myself, and I

53)
Synchronicity

54)
Flock Together

55)
Grasping at Handles

56)
Last Words

57)
Book of Illusions

58)
Endollin

59)
Directions

60)
Adrianna!

61)
 
Bristlebeard

62)
Gaven the Magnanimous

63)
 
Hooknose

64)
What’s the Password?

65)
Live by the Sword

66)
Dearly Beloved

67)
The End of the Middle

The clocks have stopped,

All times unwound,

The words are writ,

The books are bound.

What’s yet to come,

Must still be told,

As years and yarn,

And maps unfold.

Book of Illusions: 12:18

Out of the Ashes

The narrow passage leading from Andaris’ room to the archives had become all too familiar, the days blurring into weeks as his fruitless search for a way home continued.  Guttering iron sconces lit the tunnel, appearing
with less frequency the deeper he went, illuminating damp, moss-covered stone, the bulk of which had been set into place more than a thousand years ago.

The heels of Andaris’ boots echoed off the steps, heralding his
descent with a forlorn quality that could only be produced by one who walks with great purpose but little hope. 
Perhaps today will be the day,
he thought, not really believing it. After all, he’d thought the same every morning for the past nine weeks.

Ashel had
lent aid in the beginning, that is to say, for the first few hours or so, his manner both perfunctory and abstracted as he drew up the necessary documents, each scroll bearing the blood red seal of his high office, three crescent moons above a tower girded in glowing runes.  With a shake of his head and a tired frown, he had added an arcane mark of warding below each seal, a poignant reminder of just how much the world had changed. Andaris had taken the documents gratefully enough and, following some fleeting words of advice concerning the propriety of their use, had been on his way.

There was a
time, no
t so long ago, when neither the scrolls nor the wards would have been needed, when Rogar, the ancient stronghold of the Alderi Shune, was believed to be as eternal as the mountain into which it was built.  That time had passed, although what was and never shall be again still shone in their minds like a beacon, serving to light their way along a dark and winding path toward an uncertain future.

What most knew
, but dared not voice, was this: they had lost far more than just blood, stone, and tears in the fight to hold the shapelings back, to keep them from breaching their defenses and marching unchecked across their border into the fertile, green lands to the east.  Seven of the eight walls lay in ruins.  The ranks of their once indomitable military were decimated.  And yet, an even higher price had been paid, deep wounds inflicted on their hearts and souls that they would carry with them always, their sense of self and belief in their preeminence the true casualties of war.

One of the most
conspicuous examples of the change Rogar had undergone were the blockades, now called checkpoints.  A number of them had been erected throughout the center of the keep when it seemed inevitable that the last wall would fall.  These “checkpoints” were meant to be a temporary measure that would be done away with as soon as things returned to normal.  Not surprisingly, as too often is the case in these situations, they remained in full operation to this day.  As a result, if one wished to be granted access to some of the castle’s more sensitive areas, one must either be a high-ranking official, or possess the correct identification.

The morning following his appointment with Ashel, Andaris had delved headlong into the archives, a confused warren of forgotten rooms and lost passageways, armed with only a ring of brass keys, his freshly minted identification, an incomplete map of questionable authenticity, and his wits.  He had been quite optimistic at the start, patiently culling through the amassed knowledge of an age, each dusty tome and crumbling scroll bringing him that much closer to an answer.

A
fter long weeks of searching, however, he was beginning to lose faith.  Ashel could be of further assistance, of that Andaris was sure, but the schedule of Rogar’s first wizard had become too demanding for such things.  Far loftier endeavors now occupied his time, the professional obligations and personal whims of one such as he taking precedence over all else.  No doubt there were meetings to attend, experiments to conduct, spellbooks to devour, and court intrigues to manipulate. How trifling a friend in need must seem when compared to all that.   

Andaris supposed he should be
thankful for the help he’d already received.  But he wasn’t.  He was worried.  Ashel’s disregard seemed more pervasive than his busy schedule, or even abstracted temperament could explain, merely a symptom of a larger issue, perhaps a much larger issue.  Indeed, the wizard had become increasingly withdrawn of late, secretive and morose, his melancholic nature reasserting itself with disturbing ease, his past arrogance returning like a lost lover.

Gaven
felt his obsession with the tower was to blame—for the timing at least.  “Would have happened eventually, anyway,” the big man had declared just last week. “If not the tower, it would have been somethin’.  You see, Andaris, in spite of what most folks believe, a kajone
can
change its spots.  Trust me, I’ve seen it.  It’s just that one day, likely when you least expect it, they change back!”

Andaris smiled at the memory, feeling some of the weight lift from his shoulders. 
Good ol’ Gaven,
he thought, wishing he were here to keep him company.  Unlike Ashel, he would be if asked.  He had, in fact, offered on more than one occasion.  Unfortunately, the big man had his hands full right now, same as everyone else, working from dawn till dusk felling trees for his new homestead. 
Ah well,
Andaris thought. 
At least tomorrow’s Thursday.

Once a week, he saddled Del and rode out to Gaven’s place—a small cabin situated atop a forested cliff with a grand view of the sea.  The blisters on his palms, inflicted by axe and saw handle alike, were just now beginning to heal.  Yet the toil had not been in vain.  No, far from it.

I
t was gratifying how quickly things were progressing, and more than gratifying to be working with his hands again, to have the fruits of his labor rewarded by something tangible: thick walls constructed from the trunks of old-growth trees, each hewn and notched for added stability, a lean-to style roof sturdy enough to support many feet of snow, a cobblestone hearth with a side chamber for baking, and a covered porch complete with benches and a forge.

Naturally,
Andaris had declined payment for his work, more fulfilled by the altruistic gesture than he ever could be by the coin. When he had been pressed on the matter, as he knew he would be, he recounted a colloquial truism he had recently heard. “According to the warrior-philosopher, Gaven Dunarin,” he had said, “a day that is well and truly spent is its own reward.  And according to me, Andaris Rocaren, a day that is well and truly spent in the company of friends is
more
than its own reward.”

If only
the same could be said of his time in the archives.  He’d spent six days a week down there, scarcely eating or sleeping, and still had nothing to show for it. The big man often commented on how thin and pale he looked. “It’s not natural to spend that much time underground,” he would insist, unable to keep the concern from his voice, his robust good health and ruddy complexion adding weight to his words.  “It’s making you sick, Andaris.  Why, I bet you’ve lost fifteen pounds.”

And he had
.  At least fifteen.  Getting out once a week for some fresh air and exercise definitely did him good, but it wasn’t enough.  More and more, the person peering back at him from the mirror was a stranger, a sad, sallow-complected thing that shuffled to-and-fro with head down and eyes averted.

That’s
just one of the reasons he looked forward to Thursdays so much.  Out at Gaven’s place he was better, feeling almost like his old self again, the hard labor and companionship combining to sooth his nerves and lift his spirits.  The big man didn’t take it easy on him either, seeming determined to make one day count for two, to sweat that haunted look out of his eyes and stuff him so full of rabbit stew that he couldn’t think straight.

After
wards, he and Gaven would sit on the back stoop, talking and laughing and smoking their pipes as the sun went down.  He would be so exhausted that he could barely stand, but it was a wholesome sort of exhaustion, caused by actually doing something rather than by hours of squinting at smudgy text, his only companions the brooding prose of long-dead authors.

Some
evenings were spent in joyful remembrance of old times, drinking homemade apple cider and singing songs late into the night.  Other evenings were more contemplative, the topics of conversation ranging far and wide as they sat and stared out over the tops of the evergreens to the sea below.  Gaven really had picked a nice spot.

Andaris
cherished those visits more than he could express.  Lived for them, really.  It made the rest of his life feel like a dream.  A bad dream.  Not only was it unhealthy to spend so much time underground, it was unhealthy to spend so much time alone, giving one’s thoughts too much opportunity to become fixated and grim.  Needless to say, something had to change—and soon.

When Andaris reached the entrance to the archives, a ponderous oak door reinforced with thick iron straps, he sighed, selected the appropriate key, lit his candle, and let himself in.  Once he’d pushed the door groaning back into place, he turned and held the candle at arm’s length, its tiny flame pitted against the ocean of darkness. 

No matter how many times he came down here, he had to take a moment to bolster himself, to remind himself that he was not lost in the catacombs.  Indeed, one of the busiest halls in the castle lay a mere twenty feet above
, the length and breadth of which was never entirely devoid of activity.

Every few feet or so, he passed an alcove
filled with mountainous piles of books, enough to make the most reserved of scholars leap for joy.  The musty aroma of moldering paper hung heavy in the air, comforting him, whispering of forgotten tales from forgotten times.  It was humbling, and also a little sad.  The diligent works of countless minds abandoned to the damp and the dark, their knowledge forever lost.

Judging by what he had seen thus far, no more than half
of the books were salvageable.  And even then it would take an army of scribes working around the clock.  Some fell to dust as he picked them up.  Others lay rotting quietly in a corner, teasing him with the occasional legible sentence.

It was
a tragedy how much was simply gone.  And remarkable how much remained. Thousands upon thousands of volumes patiently awaited his perusal.  The information he sought could be in any one of them.  Or none of them.  Thinking about it made his head hurt.  He could spend years down here and be no closer to an answer.  Worse still, if he couldn’t find what he was looking for here, be it a cure for Mandie or a map of the Lost Portals, he likely couldn’t find it anywhere.  Ashel had all but said as much.

***

Gaven was bending to place another log on the chopping stump when he heard the clip-clop of hooves approaching from the north.  With the cat-like reflexes that had saved him time and again, he spun about and assumed a defensive stance, knees bent, left side to the enemy, holding the axe vertical with both hands.

For the hundredth time since he’d known him,
Andaris found himself thanking Rodan they were on the same side.  The big man had always reminded him of a bear, and now that he’d grown out his beard the resemblance was uncanny.  Bears could be very affectionate, even playful with those they loved.  But get them angry, incite their wrath, and they could kill a dozen men without even breaking a sweat.  Of course, it was not a perfect comparison—Gaven would almost certainly break a sweat.

When
the
enemy
turned out to be his good friend Andaris, his grimace vanished and his broad face lit with mirth.  “You shouldn’t sneak up on a fellow like that!” he shouted. “I thought maybe you were a macradon.”  His eyes widened in mock fright.  “Or the tax collector!”

“Last I checked
, macradons don’t ride horses,” Andaris called back.  “They eat them!”

Gaven shrugged, as
if to say, “These days you never know.” 

“Hope you don’t mind my
riding out early.  I was starting to come a bit unhinged.”

Gaven
fought the urge to roll his eyes.  “You’re welcome anytime, Andaris.  You know that.  If I had my way, you’d live out here.  Now, go inside and get cleaned up.  I’ve got somethin’
extra special
in the pot for supper!”

The big man finished chopping the wood for the night’s fire while Andaris tended to Del.  In addition to the cabin, they had erected a passable barn large enough to accommodate four horses and an army of mice.  Just as the sun was dipping behind the horizon, turning the sea to gilded glass, Andaris took a seat at the kitchen table—a new addition hacked from the wilderness just yesterday.  Now they could, as Gaven put it, “have a proper sit-down meal like civilized folk.”

Andaris had to admit that, while
his friend’s carpentry skills lacked a certain elegance, he more than made up for it with his ceaseless productivity.  “Why, he’s a one-man sawmill!” Andaris’ grandfather would have exclaimed.  And he would have been right, too.  A cabin, a barn, an outhouse, and now furniture.  What was next?  An inn and tavern?  No doubt beavers from miles around were talking about it—the congenial giant with the eager axe making them all look bad.