The Stair Of Time (Book 2)

by William Woodward

  It was amazing, even now, how beautiful she was. Sunlight drenched the room, pouring through the bars of the window, casting shadow lattice against the bed and floor. Beyond shone a sapphire sky—pristine, deep blue perfection above the ruin of the Eight Walls, cloudless countenance accentuating the devastation below.

  Mandie’s auburn hair shimmered in this heavenly light, reminiscent of happier times, of warm afternoons spent frolicking across the countryside, of rolling green hills flowing like waves, cresting ever higher towards a distant shore, the vast upheaval of rock and earth known as the Onarri Mountains.

  It was as though the sun had risen only for her, imbuing her still form with divine grace. Her ivory skin glowed ever so faintly, a golden kiss lingering from summer’s heat, a smattering of freckles fending off full womanhood with impish charm. He saw her smiling face in his mind’s eye, green eyes full of mirth and mischief staring up at him with unbridled love.

  She looked so peaceful, lying here in her linen nightdress, so serene, that it hurt his heart. Every so often she would grip his hand more tightly, as though aware of him. On a number of occasions, like now, he gently shook one of her shoulders to try and wake her. He was usually disappointed by her continued slumber and complete lack of response, but today….

  “It’s not time to wake up yet,” she mumbled, her voice sharp with reproach.

  Twin roses bloomed high on Andaris’ cheeks. His heart fluttered in his breast, a nervous sparrow ready to take flight. “Mandie, honey, can you hear me?” he asked, his voice small and faltering.

  “Leave me alone, Erick! Let me sleep. I’m so tired. If you don’t…I’ll tell father about the eggs you broke!”

  Andaris sighed, letting out his held breath. Erick again. She’d spoken of him, to him, before, as well as to her mother and father, and someone named Sarilla. Andaris didn’t think these people were made up. More likely, they were a part of the family she’d been unable to remember, from the life that had been all but lost to her. Whatever was causing this unnatural sleep was apparently giving her access to a part of her mind that had been cut off from the rest.

  If she woke—when she woke—he fervently hoped she retained all that she’d dreamt. It would mean so much to her to know from whence she came, to know just what had befallen her and why. To have thick roots well planted in the earth that she could feel and see, instead of ambiguity floating hither and yon wherever the wind blew it.

  Well, most of him fervently hoped, anyway. There was a small, insistent voice that persisted in asking unsettling questions: Will she be the same if she remembers? Will I be as important to her? Is there someone else in her lost life who she loves as much…or more? Some things are best left undisturbed, buried where they can’t bother anyone. Perhaps there was a good reason for her amnesia. Perhaps it was for her own protection.

  Erick was obviously her brother, but who was Sarilla? Sometimes, when Mandie spoke to her, a dark cloud of worry passed over her face, a thunderstorm brewing between her ears. Other times, she spoke to Sarilla like a treasured confidant, as if she were the older sister she’d always wanted but never had. Her dreams skipped about from one period to the next, seldom sequential, weaving together the colorful tapestry of her past one strand at a time, each end markedly different from another.

  Some profound emotional shift had occurred in her previous life, and Andaris was just beginning to suspect what it was. If only he had more time, he was sure he could unravel the mystery, her dreams offering little windows of insight, each opening into her past in seemingly random order. The question was, if he connected those windows, those dots, would he begin to discern a pattern, a puzzle of some greater design? Hoping to do just that, he’d taken to writing down what she said in his journal.

  On rare occasions, Mandie even played the part of the person to whom she was speaking. It was a little creepy, but without it, Andaris wouldn’t know the names of her mother and father. So far, he had determined that she and her family had lived on a farm. Her younger brother, Erick, was her only sibling, and he ofttimes was a pain in the neck. Her father, Eli Johansen, was a simple, hardworking man. Her mother, Marnie Johansen, had died unexpectedly, and was dearly missed. Mandie liked school, was good at it, but liked sitting in the tall grass beneath the willow tree behind their house even better, just being, as she put it. She was generally happy, and her family was generally fair and kind. Sarilla remained an enigma. It was frustrating, because Andaris sensed that she was important somehow, linked to this unnatural sleep more than all of the others combined.

  The fact that her home life hadn’t been demonstrably different from his own made him feel closer to her, made her seem more real somehow. As much as he’d grown to love and respect her, he now realized that he’d been holding a part of himself back, fearful of the ambiguity. After all, a blank page can be filled with almost anything. Whatever the imagination cares to devise. Bright or dark, straight or crooked, it all fits onto the page.

  Andaris sighed, placed her hand atop the other, and stood up. He’d been here a couple of hours now, and as much as it pained him, knew it was time to go. All the arrangements had been made. Molly, the scullery maid who had tended to his head wound at the base of the wall, had enthusiastically agreed to care for Mandie in his absence.

  “Oh, yes sir…Your Lordship,” she’d told him, bobbing her head up and down whilst executing, considering her portly size and advanced years, an impressively low curtsy. “It’d be an honor and a privilege! I swear, my Tom won’t believe me when I tells him that a bona fide war hero, and a princely looker to boot, wants old Molly to tend to his missus. I tells ya true, and make no mistake, I’ll be the talk of the warren, I will. But don’t let that worry ya, Young Master, I won’t let it go to my head, or let it keeps me from doin’ right by you and your girl.”

  After kissing Mandie on the forehead and wiping a rogue tear from his cheek, Andaris walked from the forcibly cheerful room—that being Doctor Terrell’s bright idea—and made his way down to the stables.

  Gaven would be waiting, probably shaking his head at Andaris’ tardiness while attempting to lure the stable boy into a high stakes card game. Del would be saddled, and all the supplies they needed for their journey would be packed. Everything they could think of, anyway.

  Once again, the open road awaited, and Andaris couldn’t say that he was entirely displeased. Between his obsession with the archives, Ashel’s obsession with the tower, and Mandie’s illness, things had become awfully bleak of late. It would be good to stretch his legs a bit, to breathe some fresh air and clear his head, to find some answers, or at the very least some perspective.

  Despite everything, he smiled. And why not? The open road did indeed lay before them, as familiar as it was enticing. And although he’d learned a great many things about life and himself since first leaving Fairhaven, he still felt the proverbial tug of the unknown.

  Apparently, neither his wanderlust nor his thirst for adventure had been wholly quenched. This time, however, he was setting out with a truly noble purpose in mind, and not alone, determined to accomplish two very specific goals—find a cure for Mandie, and then a way home. He and Gaven would stop at nothing to save her. They would climb any mountain, swim any sea, or fight any foe.

  Lost Blood

  As though in preparation for winter’s chill, a blanket of leaves was pulled snug over hill and dale. Tendrils of mist snaked across the forest floor, adding a touch of gloom to autumn’s patchwork. The ruins of a small stone church huddled beneath a confusion of low-hanging boughs, its thatched roof long since caved in, five of its six stained-glass windows reduced to shards, uneven teeth in narrow, cobblestone mouths.

  The window that remained intact showed a white knight kneeling atop a hill, head bent in reverent contemplation, plated mail glinting in the sunlight. The knight’s gauntleted fists were clasped around the hilt of a broadsword, the shining blade of which was thrust deep into the earth, its forte adorned by five glowing runes: stren
gth, honor, faith, purity, and wisdom.

  All around, offering vivid counterpoint to the knight—whose hair did billow beneath a glistening helm, and whose jaw was set with righteous indignation—lay a dark sea of corpses, all manner of man and beast, all manner of shapelings.

  Tyler shivered, wrapped his cloak more tightly about his body, and cocked his head to the side, ears perked. A cool breeze blew from the north, a harbinger of things to come, whispering to whoever would listen, spreading tales of gray skies and plunging temperatures, of dark, twisted things that are beyond absolution.

  According to local legend, here in this very church over a millennia ago, a child was born who would one day shape the destiny of all. That child’s name was Lectavian Jandar, an exceptionally handsome lad who glowed with both health and happiness. Everyone who saw him commented on how special he was, his eyes alight with an awareness that far surpassed his years.

  If only they’d known how right they were. He was special. Very special. Had they known, they might have done something to prevent the cataclysm that was to come, something like bludgeon Lectavian’s small skull with a stone until he breathed no more, and then cleanse his body with fire atop a sacred altar encircled by twelve white-hooded priests, hands clasped in holy retribution, mouths feverishly muttering incantations.

  Following a fortnight of continuous praying over his remains, they might have then encased Lectavian’s ashes in twelve lead cylinders, each placed in a silver casket filled with water from the Well of Tears, each buried in a hallowed grave exactly one hundred and twenty miles apart from one another, forever entombed beneath twelve feet of black salt and an unmarked slab of the thickest granite. The purpose and location of these burial sites would have been kept secret to all but a select few, guarded day and night by those deemed purest of heart and mind—those least likely to succumb to whisperings in the dark.

  They would have done all this and more to save the world, and perhaps worlds, from almost certain damnation. For you see, in a few short centuries, Lectavian Jandar, from such humble name and beginnings, would come to be known as “The Lost One.”

  Standing before the stained-glass window of the knight, head reeling with such troublesome thoughts, Tyler shivered again. He’d traveled a long way to be here, leaving the safety of hearth and home to try and quiet the incessant whispering, to separate, once and for all, what was real from what was delusion.

  Two months ago the nightmares had begun, wherein The Lost One had come to him and told him how special he was, one of the most special young men ever to have been born….

  ***

  You are descended from the line of Arden, The Lost One said, breath reeking of decay, eyes gleaming with fanaticism. I sired no direct heir, but you need only possess a single drop of my blood in the whole great sea of creation to revive me, and you have much more than that. You are, by far, the closest thing to family I have, Tyler.

  Come to me, my boy. Into the heart of The Waste you must travel. Bring with you enough provisions to last two weeks, for that is the length of the journey on horseback from your doorstep to mine. Many a night you have stood on the edge of the desert, the heavens swelling above, peering towards your destiny with longing eyes and heart. You were peering towards me, Tyler. You have always felt there was something more, something missing, and you were right! It was I!

  Trust in me and I will show you the way. I will visit your dreams at night and tell you which path to take the following day. Clearly, I am not destroyed as King Laris and those other fools would have everyone believe. No, far from it. I am merely resting, gathering my strength for the final sortie. We share the same blood, you and I, as well as what some would call the same taint, but what is in reality a blessing from The Father.

  Our destinies are intertwined, Tyler. If you listen closely to your heart, it will tell you true. You have so much more potential than you realize, than those imbecilic parents of yours realize. You have greatness in you! I have waited so long for the line of Arden to repeat, to produce another such as myself. You can’t imagine the patience required to while away the centuries, waiting for nature, the self-possessed old hag that she is, to take her course.

  The things I will teach you will stagger your imagination. Together we can accomplish anything—two cut of the same cloth, alive at the same time. It’s not supposed to be possible, Tyler. Safeguards are in place to prevent it, the most formidable of which is death itself. But I decided I didn’t want to die, so I didn’t. And you don’t have to either. I can show you how to live forever, or at least for a very very long time.

  You are as a mirror unto me, Tyler, held up to my withered countenance like destiny. And I to you. I know that you are skeptical. But do not worry, my boy. I don’t blame you. I would expect no less of my heir. You require further proof of what my words and your heart are telling you because you are no fool, and that is precisely as it should be. In order to make certain that I am more than a mere contrivance of your mind, a phantom that resides only in your imagination, you must travel to the ruins of a church located in a secluded part of Markane Forest, due south of Rogar Keep.

  In these ruins, beneath the dais, you will find a secret door with steps leading down to my crypt. Between two sarcophagi, behind a loose stone in the wall, there is a registry, its pages containing the births and deaths of those living in that region from the year of the panther, 836, over a thousand years ago, to the year of the owl, 1653, at which time the church closed its doors for the last time, its dwindling congregation dying off and moving away.

  The book was hidden to protect the line of Arden, to keep those of an overzealous nature from tracking down and destroying all related to me. Go there, and you will see that I speak the truth. Go there, and be not afraid, for I am ever with you, and you are precious to me.

  ***

  Tyler broke out in a cold sweat as he walked around to the front of the church, heart beating hard enough to make him feel lightheaded. He couldn’t remember a time when he’d been more afraid. Or, for that matter, had more right to be. There could be anything in there, from a litter of kittens to a trio of macradons. Indeed, if his dreams were to be believed, The Lost One himself waited inside.

  Trying to banish such troubling thoughts, Tyler pulled a torch from his pack, its end wrapped with strips of linen that he’d soaked in the rendered fat of his neighbor’s goat. It was almost dark now, too dark to be traipsing heedlessly into ruins such as these, the collapsing walls of which, if his dreams were to be believed, sheltered the seed of all evil.

  After glancing around to make sure that he was in fact alone, Tyler struck flint to steel and brought the torch blazing to life. If anyone had been there to see, they would have beheld a pale, freckle-faced boy with a head of unruly red hair peering into the depths of the ruins like a mouse into a cat’s maw.

  The church’s main opening once held two heavy verawood doors, the width of each girded by ornately worked fleurs-de-lis strap-hinges, leaves and vines winding their way around large domed rivets, a meticulous scrollwork harkening back to a more genteel era. Not surprisingly, within weeks of the church’s dissolution, said doors were looted, soon followed by its statuary and pews. Time took care of the rest, reducing what had once been a place of particular regard, a place of dignity and quiet worship, to the dilapidated hovel that slouched before him now.

  Taking a deep breath, he raised the torch before him like a sword and stepped into the ruins, trying to ignore the menacing way in which the wind whistled through the windows. If his nightmares turned out to be real, he’d find a lever hidden beneath a tile in the floor beside the base of the podium. He prayed it wasn’t there. Then he could go home and forget the whole business, go back to worrying about everyday things like school and chores, go back to being an ungainly youth on the brink of manhood.

  He saw that his hand was shaking as he placed the blade of his knife beneath one edge of the tile and the podium. It was disheartening how easily it pried up. At first he
didn’t look. Couldn’t look. Then, brow glistening in the flickering firelight, his curiosity compelled him to do what his good sense would not.

  He stifled a gasp, for there, as plain as the narrow nose on his narrow face, stood a lever. It was exactly as The Lost One had described, down to the last detail. I need to get out of here, he thought. Go back home and forget this ever happened.

  Of course, this is not what he did. After moving the lever from north to south, he just sat there, quiet and still, waiting. At first there was no change. One minute passed. Two. Just long enough to give him hope. And then, from somewhere deep below, there issued a low groaning—the din of ancient machinery reluctantly coming back to life. Tyler pictured great rusted gears beginning to turn, the laborious machinations of which were incomprehensible to all but the most learned of scholars, a relic of an age long past, its builders belonging to a forgotten civilization that had been forever lost beneath the shifting sands of time.

  To his further dismay, the crumbling protrusion of the podium, which had appeared to be indelibly affixed to the dais, began to rotate counter-clockwise, a coarse grinding dictating its passage. Every instinct Tyler possessed cried out for him to flee.

  What he prayed was merely the fevered convolutions of a deranged mind, but feared was providence, prevented him from doing so. There was an opening in the floor where the podium had stood. Stone steps descended into darkness, patient, inexorable, beckoning to him.

  From this opening there came a faint, cloying exhalation, stagnant air scented with exotic herbs, patchouli and sage masking a deeper decay. Lacking the strength to walk away, Tyler stood, peered down into his nightmare, and began the descent.