The Stair Of Time (Book 2)

by William Woodward

  I’d like to believe that part. I’d like to believe that my procrastination stems from something other than fear, that somehow this place is exerting its will over me when I’m awake, just as when I’m asleep. But I know it’s not true. It’s just plain fear, and I loathe myself for it. What good is being alive when it’s like this, anyway?

  The imaginings keep repeating and repeating, every detail happening again and again and again. I feel the scripted emotions welling up within me, and yet am becoming dead inside. I have to get out, but am so afraid. My heart tells me it’s too late for Mandie anyway, that I’ve already failed her.

  *

  Dream and reality have merged at last! I awoke yesterday to find the sword and amulet from the Adrianna imagining next to me on the bed. I wished for neither. The sword speaks to me when I grasp the hilt. It tells me it is the soul of a Lenoy called Endollin. I can talk to it aloud or in my mind, and it hears! It’s nice to have someone real to talk to again. I just wish Endollin weren’t so blasted cryptic. Difficult to understand what he means by anything, especially when he breaks into High Lenoy—the language of the gods. I told him it sounded more like High Gibberish to me. He didn’t much appreciate that!

  Supposedly, the consciousness of this Endollin fellow has been trapped inside the sword for centuries, genie in a bottle sort of situation, except he can’t grant any wishes, and I don’t know how to let him out. Wouldn’t want to even if I did. Seems being trapped in a sword for centuries is enough to make even a god go mad.

  *

  Please disregard what I wrote above, and accept my deepest apologies. I am so ashamed. I have burned all but this one piece of chalk in the hearth, and will soon burn this one, as well, for now I know what I am, and thus do not deem myself fit to further pollute the minds of others. I wasn’t certain until I saw the birthmark on my left arm, just like in the dream. It must have appeared after I touched the hilt of the sword. I realized then that it was I who had gone mad.

  It’s so obvious now that I think about it. A talking sword, indeed! Ridiculous! And a god trapped in it, no less. Hey, why not? It’s my delusion!

  Worse still, according to the accursed sword, the Lenoy are asleep, waiting for The “Chosen One” to wake them. It’s so cliche, I can scarcely stomach it. Seems like if I have to go mad, I could at least be more original about it! I mean, how many books have I read with these same themes? Certainly several. Perhaps dozens. Racing against time to save the kingdom of Nore and all that!

  Obviously, this place is drawing from those books and my fears to create an imagining intended to soothe me. I am so disgusted with myself. I never thought my character would prove so selfish, my will so weak.

  This morning, I tried to get back to the stairs. I really did. Or at least I think I did. It’s becoming difficult to distinguish what’s real and what only happens in my head. Remember how I couldn’t find my way back to the birdcage, how the rooms and halls seemed to be changing positions? Well, now I can’t even find my way back to the freakin green door!

  That room with the tapestry and dancing Lenoy is gone. Now there’s just a hallway with no openings. I searched for hours and, ironically enough, found the birdcage, but not the tapestry room. Perhaps tomorrow I should set out to find the birdcage again.

  Anyway, I know things are shifting around, provided I didn’t imagine this part, too. I know because I started leaving chalk arrows behind, like ya do, so as to not lose my way. But when I found them again, the arrows were pointing in random directions, some even pointing up and down. What am I supposed to do now? I certainly can’t go traipsing about through the floor and ceilings, can I?

  I even found one that was cut in half, shaft separated from its tip, as if the wall had divided and then moved somewhere else. I waited too long to try and get out! Either because now I am insane and thus incapable of distinguishing fantasy from reality, or because this place has decided it doesn’t WANT me to leave. Maybe a bit of both.

  Don’t make the same mistake I did! Save yourself! Leave now if you can! This place is hungry for your thoughts, and perhaps even your life!

  Pray tell, what good is a weapon with no one to wield it? What good is a ball with no one to throw it? But wait, that’s not quite right, is it? Because it is I who am the ball, free to be tossed wherever the Maker sees fit! So, I guess instead I should say, what good is a blacksmith without a forge, or a musician without an instrument?

  Once again, I apologize. Another tangent. I told myself I would hold it together at least long enough to finish this one last entry. To show a little courage and dignity here at the end. But apparently I can’t even manage that much. I’m already losing focus. It feels like my mind is about to spin off again. What a disappointment I have turned out to be. And I had such high hopes.

  I’ll try to hurry. To finish what I intended to say before I lose control. I don’t believe this place is evil. It just wants what we all want, to have a purpose to exist, to do what it was made to do. Perhaps it even ceases to exist if there’s no one here to use it.

  Regardless, you must stop reading and get out! Get out now! Warn others to stay away! My name is Andaris Rocaren, third son of Edward Rocaren. I am dead, and so bid you farewell. Know that I died wretched and alone.

  ***

  Spurred to action by an overwhelming sense of impending doom, Andaris shut the journal and stood up, eyes darting frantically about the room. Have to get out! he thought. Before it’s too late! No time to waste! Procrastination killed me before! Can’t let it happen again!

  Panicked though he was, he made sure to proceed with great care as he unbuckled the swordbelt from his skeleton’s waist and put it around his own, coughing from the flying dust which, at least in part, consisted of his own decay. I’ll carry a part of myself with me always….

  Wishing that he could take a deep breath to steady his nerves, he turned the belt until the sheath hung at a more serviceable angle. Concerned that the leather was too old to be relied upon, he tugged and prodded where it was weakest. It creaked in displeasure at his rude treatment, but overall appeared to be in remarkably good condition.

  Okay, now for the hard part, he thought, reaching for the sword. Grasping only the blade, one palm above, one below, he pulled, freeing even more dust, grimacing at the sick, papery sound of his own desiccation. When he’d worked it all the way out, he wiped the blade on his pant leg and eased the sword into its sheath.

  It’s not like I’m stealing, he reasoned. It is mine, after all. I mean, it was I who dreamt of it back in the caves. And I who awoke to find it and the amulet on the bed. So what if that “I” is now dead, sitting in a pathetic heap of dusty old bones, it was still I, which means I have more claim to it than anyone else—certainly more than anyone other than another version of myself. Question is, did my future self go mad or not? Is there something inhabiting the sword or not?

  He would soon find out the answer to this, as well as a whole host of other questions. But not here. Not now. Not until, at the very least, he was safely back to the clockwork stair. The ludicrous nature of this thought brought a wan smile to his face, and he was glad, for with it came courage.

  He turned to dash out the room, and then remembered the amulet. He didn’t want to pull the thing from his future self’s moldered neck, yet knew he must. It was important. Obviously, there was some part it still had to play in all this. Otherwise, why would it have appeared with the sword?

  Finding no clasp, he raised the chain over the yellow bone of his grinning skull, pulled it past his luxurious mane of gray hair, and slipped it into the pouch on his newly acquired belt. He didn’t know what effect breaking the chain might have—probably none, but why take the chance when he didn’t have to?

  “Sorry,” he told his skeleton. “And thanks for the warning. I’ll try to make sure your effort wasn’t wasted.” Of course, his future self gave no reply, countenance frozen, as always, in a caricature of eternal agony.

  And so without further ado
, Andaris darted from the room into the hall, torch in his left hand, sword in his right—his mundane sword, that is. Down the hall, up the stairs, and into—thank Rodan it was still there!—the ballroom with the dancing Lenoy.

  He was extremely curious about the rooms his future self had described. Indeed, the urge to go exploring before he left was great. Not nearly so great, however, as the urge to save Mandie and, to a lesser degree, himself. Perhaps one day, if he were able to unravel how it all worked, he would return. But first, he had to survive the trip back through the confounded clockwork stair.

  Book of Illusions

  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.

  No choice is made,

  That has to be,

  So now I beg,

  And plead with me.

  So much to you,

  Remains unknown,

  Life and death,

  Not in stone.

  Reset the gears,

  Temptations damned,

  Refuse the power,

  Gold and land.

  You live your life,

  Both now and then,

  Until yourself,

  You meet again.

  The rites of birth,

  Denied us all,

  But offered here,

  To guide a fall.

  Remember well,

  Your goal to start,

  Or let your mind,

  Destroy your heart.

  Book of Illusions: 12:18

  Endollin

  As Andaris stepped from the tapestry room onto the landing, a warm breeze caressed his skin, welcoming him back. The circular stairs with their gleaming steps stretched into the distance, as far as the eye could see.

  At present, the landing was not connected to anything. It extended three to four feet past the base of the green door, beyond which lay naught but open air. He imagined what it might feel like to leap over the edge, and to fall and fall and fall for who knew how long before hitting bottom—if bottom there be. He resisted said urge and, with considerable reluctance, turned around and looked back into the ballroom.

  As you might expect, he felt a mixture of relief and trepidation, fearing, as so often is the case, that the cure would prove worse than the disease. He already missed the sunshine and firelight, preferring it greatly to the diffused glow of the clockwork stair. He was both afraid to close the door, and afraid to leave it open.

  What if, for instance, the door locked and the platform remained disconnected? He might not be able to get back in? Where would he be then? Trapped on a four-by-four square of grating, peering into the glowing abyss, waiting to starve to death? He could try leaping to one of the other landings that protruded from one of the other doors, but didn’t think he would make it.

  So on the surface, without the benefit of thorough analysis, leaving the door ajar seemed to be the reasonable choice. Should he peer deeper, however, which of course he must, the flaw in his logic would become apparent. In other words, what if whatever had so compelled and befuddled his future self came for him while he slept, drawing him once more to the room where he would spend eternity. He shivered.

  No doubt summoned by his goose flesh, a distant moaning was borne on the breeze. It possessed, as such sounds so often do, an almost human quality, a forlorn lament that made him think of dark seas swelling with bodies, arms reaching skyward, eyes pleading for help. He shivered again and, before he could talk himself out of it, slammed the door shut.

  He couldn’t help but smile as he heard the internal click of a lock. But his faded as he realized that he stood face to face with the note that had been tacked so haphazardly to the door, the note that, until now, he had forgotten even existed.

  He frowned, for though he recognized the symbols on the parchment as Lenoy runes, he still could not read them. He had been able to read such letters while inside. So, why not now? Perhaps, whatever magic had been at work before was once again barred by the closed door.

  That was a comforting thought, for that hopefully meant the entity beyond the door could no longer reach him. But it was also an annoying thought, since he had not remembered the note until the door was shut. Could he have read it while it was open? Against his better judgment, he tried the handle. He couldn’t help himself, he was just too curious. As expected, it was locked tight.

  What now? he wondered, letters swimming with nauseating abandon before his eyes. He concentrated harder, determined to make sense of it. He’d done it inside. If only he could remember and apply it here. This might be important. As a matter of fact, he felt certain it was.

  Even if—when, he corrected—a staircase comes, I won’t be able to leave without understanding what this says. He had considered untacking it, folding it up, and slipping it into his pouch. Decipher it another day. But what if something happened to it? What if he lost it or, worse, it crumbled to dust?

  It was then that Andaris remembered the sword. He looked down at the silver hilt with distrust. According to his future self, the sword contained the soul of a Lenoy named Endollin. Provided this was true, maybe he could read the note. Can he see? he wondered. Yes, of course he can. Through my eyes….

  Slipping into a quasi-catatonic state, Andaris reached across his body with his right hand and wrapped his fingers around the hilt of the sword. At first he felt nothing unusual. The metal was smooth and cool, a thing of sleek, flowing beauty. Then, just as he’d decided he’d been mistaken, both now and in the future, he felt a warm tingling course up his arm.

  Who disturbs my rest? asked a raspy, quavering voice. Andaris realized it was speaking directly into his mind. The gray hawk flies at night, you know. I’ve seen it. Beneath a blood red moon it soars, the crimson eye winking with glee at the neverending depths of my sacrament. Here I lay, eternity’s fool, a jester for all courts, immortality dangling before me, always just beyond reach. Now answer me! Who’s there?

  Andaris jerked his hand away. He thought he’d been ready for anything, but apparently was wrong. The sword did talk! Which meant, his future self hadn’t been mad, after all. Well, at least when it came to this. This was incredible! Almost too much to believe. He carried not just a sword on his hip—but a god! The wind punctuated this thought with another soulful moan.

  “Oh…be quiet!” he yelled. And to his surprise, it did. When Andaris’ heart slowed to a steady gallop, he took several deep breaths and, once again, grasped the hilt.

  Who’s there? the voice demanded. I would know the name of my new master.

  “It’s me,” Andaris answered meekly. “Andaris Rocaren of Fairhaven, third son of Edward Rocaren. Umm…Endollin?”

  Directions

  Yes, answered the sword, I believe I was called that once, though by whom I do not…recall. I’ve had so many names since the time of my becoming, since I was flesh and blood. The centuries swirl into utter insignificance. What’s in a name I ask? What does it matter? What does anything matter? Ekthellin doth tol ray vu. Nik tanith del enverin esh…aluthia!

  “Do you mind if I call you Endollin?” Andaris asked.

  Foolish boy! If nothing matters, then why would I mind?

  Andaris smiled. He had a point. “Okay then…Endollin. Will you read this note to me?”

  Read it yourself! I’m not your slave, you know. Just your sword.

  “But I can’t,” Andaris had been about to say. “It’s written in Lenoy.” When suddenly he realized he could. Apparently, as long as his hand remained upon Endollin’s hilt, he could read Lenoy just fine:

  Note to self

  By now you’ve figured out, as I have, and had in your “now,” that time is in eternal flux, provided eternity can still be defined, that is. I came back here again and again, until at last I found the sword and amulet still in the room. That’s w
hen I knew I had gotten here before I got here,—if ya catch my meaning.

  I have spent many years unraveling the mysteries of the confounded clockwork stair. On the back of this page, I have written directions to where you can find Gaven—your Gaven. Once you do, the two of you should make your way back to Gramps as soon as possible. Mandie is waiting.

  There is much to divulge. More depends on our success than you realize. Unfortunately, I can’t tell you without fear of polluting the timeline, and thus inadvertently affecting the future for the worse. Suffice it to say, this is not just about us, Mandie, and Gaven. Far greater things are afoot. More than you can now imagine.

  As you might have surmised, it is I who left the markers to this place, as I must have done before I found them myself. I hope this finds you before it’s too late, and that I come here as I did the first time…before it’s too late. Good luck! You’re going to need it!

  Directions to Gaven

  Wait on landing for two hours. When second staircase arrives, climb three hundred and twenty-seven steps. Take stairway on left. Descend two hundred and twenty-six steps. Wait on landing with sixteen stairways for two days. Take stairway on right, second from the end. It will have red paint on the railings. Climb one thousand, three hundred, and thirty-four steps to a shiny metal door in a wall of doors.

  It will open into a real world,—as real as they get anyway,—to a place called Adrianna, a rural paradise that will remind you strongly of home.