Simply find the runes that look familiar and flip to the appropriate page, on which the entire alphabets of both languages will be disclosed, and a full translation can begin. A, E, I, O, U, Y, and S were chosen because it was quite difficult to say anything at all in High Rogarian or any other language without them.
Ironically enough, now that Andaris had the book, he no longer needed it. The runes were Lenoy, and he could read them just fine. Deciding not to dwell on what that might portend, he reached back to finger the top of the flute, taking solace in its irresistible smoothness, in its silvery perfection.
The Symbol, the painting, the flute, the voice, my room that isn’t my room, and now this, not to mention all the questions that preceded those. He sighed. Sometime soon I’m going to have to have a serious sit-down talk with myself. If I wait much longer, I’ll have no choice. The list of things I don’t understand will fill my head so full that it’ll push all else out, and I’ll be powerless to think of anything else. But not yet. Not now. First, the town.
There would be plenty of time to sort things out after he returned to his bedchamber. As a matter of fact, he had the sneaking suspicion that that is where most, if not all, of his questions would be answered—whether he wanted them to or not. That being the case, what point was there in driving himself to distraction, attempting to “sort things out” by nine parts conjecture and one part deduction? None that he could fathom. Indeed, by that reasoning, it was nothing more than a waste of time and much needed sanity.
The runes on the door were wards, complex spells woven together to guard against everything from the hounds of Kadra, to the common cold. Not one of them, however, would prevent him from exiting, only others from entering.
To get back in, he need only blow the correct note on the flute, C sharp, if memory served—provided one could call something one never actually experienced memory. Well, no matter. It was merely another line for the list, another one of those things he didn’t know, but knew.
Finding himself in surprisingly good spirits, he very nearly whistled a tune as he pulled out the flute and blew B flat, the note required to open the door from this side. The runes glowed more brightly, beginning to hum in concert with one another.
The door vibrated, shaking the floor beneath his feet, and then with a loud whoosh recessed into the wall. The hall was bathed in bright sunlight and fresh air, the sweet scent of spring tickling his nostrils. He did not recoil, avert his eyes, or even squint, but instead stood tall and proud, welcoming the light with pupils boldly bared.
On the other side of the door stood two guards wearing full suits of plated mail, the hem of their cloaks fluttering in the breeze. Beyond them bustled a crowded thoroughfare. The guards whirled on him, swords drawn and shields raised, eyes slitted behind slotted helms.
“What’s the meaning of this!” the burly one on the left bellowed. “This is highly irregular! Identify yourself and…and put your hands into the air, blast your eyes, before I gut ya like a fish!”
Andaris smiled calmly, doing as the man instructed. “Have you forgotten me so soon?” he asked them, the words coming to his tongue easily, as though long rehearsed. “Why, I am Andaris Londai Rocaren, who else? Like the phoenix, I rise anew—raised from the ashes of time so that I might come to the sacred door of Locknorien. After nearly one hundred and sixty cycles, Your Lord and Savior has returned, as foretold in the books of Elderin. Kneel before me, my children. The time of waiting is at an end!”
“The King!” exclaimed the flaxen-haired guard on the right, dropping to his knees and bowing his head. “It’s a miracle! Rodan be praised! Against all hope, His Majesty has returned to us in our hour of need!”
Book of Dreams
Traps close within my mind,
I seek what is lost but cannot find,
Righteous indignation upon my lips,
A ghastly smile to launch my ships.
Why do we grieve for a past undone?
How do we stay the prodigal son?
The eternal blazing that consumes our dreams,
The gradual lazing of tomorrow’s seen?
I feel a reckoning on the breeze,
A second hand ticking time with ease,
The Devil’s fingers entwined with mine,
The doleful moan of a long dead line.
All ends in ruin for better or worse,
We struggle and strive for every curse,
We sit atop mountains made of loss,
We cry in vain for the luck of the toss.
How do we know which way to go,
When every path reaps what we sow?
How can we find the forgotten door,
When every breath is held for more?
Will lust and greed and gold and fame,
Keep us from doom and eternal shame?
Will the reaper grin and give us a nod,
While the jesters dance and merrily trod,
Atop my corpse like drunken sods?
I find no sense in the daily strife,
Which eats my soul and steals my life,
I strike vile bargains with the powers to be,
To stay the course o’er a gloomswept sea.
Where am I that is so cold and dark?
I must see my pen to leave my mark,
Where has all the merriment gone?
Sunshine and laughter and giggling song?
Life balances upon the tip of a knife,
And every direction scores with strife,
Many have had this very same thought,
Small comfort I trade for what I have wrought.
If I should die before I wake,
May The Keeper come and try to take,
My immortal soul gifted to another,
My flesh and blood saved by His brother.
The center cannot hold, it never could,
The edges unfold, as you knew they would,
The sunlight fades, its children bare and black,
The darkness shades, its cloak o’er my back.
What must it be to feel innocent and clean?
I cannot remember for all that I’ve seen,
As my flesh sours and begins to rot,
I sit and ponder on all that I’ve sought.
Unseemly it seems to cling to a dream,
Unjust it becomes to make such a seam,
Unfair I do judge the fair fates to be,
Unequivocal and silly and tired of me.
The walls are crumbling and all I do is sit,
Listening to mumbling and words that I writ,
The fires are spreading and devouring my world,
The moon is treading above darkness unfurled.
I laugh and I laugh and I laugh some more,
I am the bane of man and time’s eldest whore,
I pledge my allegiance to everything and all,
And I laugh and I laugh and I laugh as I fall.
Book of Dreams: 7:10
A Timely Return
Andaris clamped shut his mouth and stared in wonder at the flaxen-haired guard sprawled on the ground before him. What he’d just said, the bit about being their Lord and Savior, had spilled from his lips as if he’d said it hundreds of times before. What’s more, it had been completely involuntary, his mouth seeming to move of its own volition.
How odd, he thought.
And now this man had prostrated himself before him in apparent homage, as flat as one of Grandfather Rocaren’s “extra special” griddlecakes—sword, shield, knees, and elbows akimbo. Stranger still, just before said man had assumed said position, he’d exclaimed, “Against all hope, His Majesty has returned to us in our hour of need!”
So what in the blue blazes, as Gaven might put it, was going on here? Lord and Savior? King? But king of whom and of…what? Andaris cleared his throat, preparing to ask the soldier his pardon. After all, people were beginning to stare. When he noticed that the guard on his left had not only not prostrated himself on the ground, but had removed his helm and
was glowering at him in a decidedly unworshipful fashion, right hand gripping his sword hilt tightly, black beard jutting in indignation.
“It’s a capital offense to impersonate His Majesty,” the man informed him with careful, even words. “Lord Rocaren has been away now for more than fifteen years, and though I’ll admit you bear a passing resemblance to His Highness, you are far too young to be His Highness.”
Andaris once again felt himself swell with authority. He tried to stop it, but could not. Puffing out his chest and straightening his spine, he bellowed, “I would have you drawn and quartered for your insolence if not for the years of faithful service, Bernard!” The tenor of his voice surprised him, ringing forth with a resonance that left no room for doubt. “I know you mean well, old friend. That you think only of the good and glory of the empire, of Daedronell and the White. But lest you forget, raising arms against your sovereign is also a capital offense.”
Bernard’s dark eyes trembled with indecision, the tip of his sword dipping. After what felt like an unnecessarily lengthy pause, eyes and sword regained their previous menace. “The thing is,” he continued, tone insistent but now less certain, “we did not actually see you emerge from the sacred door. We turned, and there you were. You might have simply snuck up behind us. And also, how could you be so young and…and if you are king, why do you not wear the raiment of your office?”
Andaris’ smile was large and languid, eyes shimmering with amusement. “I will humor your questioning a bit longer, Bernard, but soon this foolishness will come to an end and you and your underling slug will escort me up the steps of enlightenment to the ivory throne of Ekthillius. From that lofty perch, as the first rays of dawn break over the Shindellin range, I shall address my people, telling them of my adventures beyond this mortal coil, of my rebirth as foretold in the Book of Prophecy, and of my constant companion, who listens even now, but does not believe. Of him I will speak most candidly, for He is much more than He knows—our greatest weapon against The Lost One and the shadow-blighted shapeling brigades!”
At this, Bernard looked wholly undone, so out of sorts that he scarcely knew his own name, much less anyone else’s. Indeed, if at that very moment someone had asked him his name, he likely would not have had the emotional wherewithal to respond with anything resembling complete certainty. It sounded like his old master, and yet…. “I believe it starts with a B,” he would have fumbled. “Ber…something—I’m almost sure of it!”
“Now, sergeant, if all that I have said does not convince you, then perhaps this will!” From his pouch, Andaris drew forth the silver flute, touched its eerily cool metal to his lips, and blew a series of notes, each clearer and more poignant than the last.
Bernard gasped and finally dropped to his knees as the sacred door of Locknorien whooshed open and a covey of dove burst forth, curling into the cloudless blue sky like white smoke from the creator’s own chimney.
Andaris raised his left wrist to the heavens and, as the door whooshed shut again, shouted, “I stand before you, bearing the maker’s mark, the brand of truth which all my line possess!”
The blood sign to which Andaris referred was 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.
Now Bernard was as flat as his slug of an underling. Well, almost anyway. His gut was too prodigious to be “griddle” flat. “Begging your pardon, Your Majesty!” he cried, lifting his head and averting his eyes. “I will suffer any penance you wish! A week in the blockades! Twenty lashes across the back! A year as a serf! Whatever punishment you deem fitting for my insolence, I will gladly accept, for it will be nothing compared to the suffering I bore during your absence. The suffering we all bore. To have you vanish before our eyes right after war broke out was almost more than your people could endure.”
Bernard got to one knee, chest heaving as he fought back tears. “But you should be proud of us, Your Majesty. We have been at war fifteen years now, and still, Adrianna, the brightest jewel in your crown of kingdoms, remains intact. The White have fought long against the shapeling invaders. We have given up much ground. Geridan Forest to the east, the seaports to the west, the iron mines to the north. But here we stand firm! We will retreat no further! We will not give up the capital city to those beasts!
Her Highness, The Lady Rocaren, has rallied The White for one final battle. She has drawn her cloak of concealment about us, shrouding our borders in mist. She has vowed to give The Lost One no quarter! ‘We are like bears that have retreated deep into our dens,’ she said. ‘And now we wait, sharpening our claws in the dark, for the invaders to bumble in, making ready to slash their fool throats and stave in their fool heads!’”
Bernard’s tear-streaked face split into a broad grin. “She said those very words to the gathered masses just last week, Your Highness. You should have seen the effect it had on them! They more than worship her after all she’s sacrificed, they love her, every last one of them, and would gladly lay down their lives to save her. And now, against all odds, you have returned to us! Here at the end, in this our darkest hour. And so perhaps all is not lost. Perhaps, with you by her side, there is still hope. How overjoyed she will be at your return, Your Majesty! Will they all be!”
Divine Negligence
Eli had to admit, two thousand and twenty-nine was a pretty large number, especially when it came to someone’s age. Rather than being awed, or even impressed, however, he felt sorry for Sarilla. He couldn’t say for certain, but was relatively sure, that he wouldn’t want to be that old.
After a hundred years or so, the whole business would get kinda tiresome, wouldn’t it? Heck, it was gettin’ tiresome already. What must it be like to live so long? His tongue burned with questions he wanted to ask regarding the monotony of extended existence, but seeing as how he wasn’t supposed to talk at all, much less about matters of such breadth and weight, he kept his mouth shut.
Sarilla cocked her head at him, a shadow passing over her lined face. For a moment, she looked gray, brittle, and very, very tired, as if she might expire on the spot. Fortunately, the moment lasted, well, only a moment, the ghost of long years slipping from her countenance like fog from the surface of a still pool.
She shook herself and fixed him with his grandmamma’s deep blue eyes. “Now, where was I? Oh yes. Time—that deceptively linear construct. That’s why I decided to live so long, Eli. I did it because of time. To my knowledge, I know more about how it all works than any other person alive. Funny, isn’t it? Time is why I can endure time. In other words, I can endure the bone-crushing press of accumulating years because I want to unravel the secret of existence, of which time, obviously, is an integral part.”
Eli graced her with a nervous half-smile.
“You’ve heard the saying; all the worlds sit on a shelf. But do you know where that shelf exists? Hmmm?
Not sure if she expected an answer, if this is what she had to referred to as a non-rhetorical question or not, he simply nodded.
“I’m not certain myself. I don’t think anyone is. But if pressed, I would say the shelf exists in another plane of reality, in a quaint little study no bigger, proportionally, than your grandmamma’s living room. All the worlds, except for their own, were made by the Lenoy. Of this, I am now certain. I borrowed and then transformed a little pocket of their space to suit my own needs. I fear one day I will be discovered, fear and…hope. For you see, more than I fear discovery, I fear that the Lenoy are dead.”
After all that had befallen his family, Eli wasn’t sure what to believe. Before losing his faith, he would have disputed the point until he was blue in the face, until the veins in his neck stood out like angry serpents ready to strike. “A god can’t die!” he would have argued. “Why, anyone with a lick o’ sense knows that!” And that’s what they were. Surely. If the Lenoy had created the worlds, as Sarilla so clearly believed, what other explanation was there?
But now that his wife and son were gone…. Well, that changed everything, didn’t it? At least if the Lenoy were dead, they weren’t what he’d begun to fancy The Watcher to be—a petty child who tears the wings off of butterflies for sport. As far as deities went, he’d prefer deceased to sadistic any day.
Shortly after losing his family, he’d decided that The Watcher must either have ceased to exist, or be a being of singular cruelty. Before the week was out, he’d settled on the latter, mainly because no matter how he’d tried, he couldn’t quite accept the former, couldn’t quite wrap his mind around it.
Where exactly does The Watcher fit into all this, anyway? he wondered.
Sarilla paused, cocking her head to the side, seeming uncomfortable with what she’d just said, as though worried that some force on high would smite her down for her impudence even as her words hung in the air with ominous portent—a noose for her slender neck. Worried and…hoped.
Eli shivered. The air seemed to shiver, too, a slight rippling spreading out from where they sat.
Sarilla gave herself a mental shake and went on. “It is conjectured that each world is contained within a sort of glass sphere, fashioned in the great halls of magic by our creators. They are known to us by many names—The Ancients, The Lenoy, The keeper, The Watcher, and Rodan. As should be evident by what I have just articulated, some civilizations believe in many gods, others just one. In a way, they are all correct. Unfortunately, the vast majority have no idea that they are worshiping the same thing. Many wars could have been avoided if they’d only known the truth. Of course, there may be a reason, or reasons for the knowledge to remain hidden, eventualities which, given my current vantage, have yet to occur to me.
The Stair Of Time (Book 2) Page 23