The Stair Of Time (Book 2) (28 page)

Eli couldn’t help but think of Bo.

“Using a series of past life regression techniques, I have attained partial memory of my time as a feline.  Fascinating, really.  But I, by far, am the exception to the rule.  Most people’s minds would not be able to accept such a thing.”

She patted Eli’s pudgy little hand.  “You see, my dear, Andaris Rocaren inadvertently triggered memories of
one of her past lives, which is her present life with you, wherein, based on one of the more common scenarios, she and Andaris are together after he goes back through time to find her.  He is attempting it as we speak, from what is his most common present, the present your Mandie is presently half in, desperately trying to find a way to send himself back to a point in time before she was divided, so that he might be reunited with the
whole
Mandie, the one whose reflection has been cast across the centuries to him through the canine, Jade, your Mandie’s future manifestation.”

Eli stared dumbly on, old, neglected parts of his brain reluctantly beginning to engage, gears straining against the accumulated corrosion of disuse.

“Innocently enough, Andaris had the fool wizard Ashel—who, by the way, would be mortified to learn that he was once a tree sloth—change her into her past life
human
self.  They meant well, but as the saying goes, ‘The path to Kadra is paved with good intentions.’”

Sarilla frowned.  “Naturally, Jade being changed into Mandie caused all sorts of problems—namely, two distinct iterations of the same person existing within the same body in two separate times.  It’s not supposed to happen.  Damn that Ashel Tevellin and his incessant meddling!  He doesn’t know what he does, or even that his mind is not entirely his own.  Grindark is a formidable foe, slipp
erier than an eel and stealthy as a shadow, his subtle guile making him the perfect choice to infiltrate one as proud as the High Mage Tevellin.  Something must be done!  As we speak, Jade and Mandie are dreaming of each other, existing in each other’s time-space.  If Jade is not changed back into Jade, both will die.” 

Eli suppressed a gasp, for this, like the ant analogy, he understood perfectly.  It almost made him long for some more of Sarilla’s mind-boggling convolutions—almost.

“The universe cleans up after itself, Eli.  This cannot be allowed to go on.  It’s like two great wheels turning in opposite directions beneath the same wagon. Either the wheels eventually synchronize with one another, or the wagon is ripped asunder.  Space-time cannot be allowed to be ripped asunder, Eli.  It just isn’t done.  I mean, it would be anarchy, wouldn’t it?  All the worlds falling into one another, swirling together into some great, inescapable vortex.”

Eli gulped and nodded, as if to say, “Why yes, that
does
sound bad.”

“But what if no one’s at the helm to steer the ship – just magic and machinery to turn the wheel and follow a course set many millennia ago?  Mark my words, Eli, there are reefs ahead!  If something isn’t done soon, we will all crash!  Don’t you understand?  This is much bigger than you know.  Although connected, your problem is but a symptom of a greater illness.  The very
hull
of reality that keeps us afloat is in jeopardy of coming apart at the seams!  The fail-safes left behind
should
have engaged already.  The ship
should
have righted itself.  The fact that it hasn’t….” and here she trembled, “can only be taken as further proof that the Lenoy are dead.”

The Willing Wench

Andaris needed time to think, and so declined Bernard’s offer to fetch him a carriage, stating that some fresh air and sunshine would do him good.  Bernard argued that it would be unsafe for the king to walk the streets like a commoner.  Andaris countered by saying that he would probably, given his age and attire, go wholly unrecognized.

“Besides,” he added, a wry grin lending his lips a roguish curl, “if there’s any trouble, I have you strapping fellows to bail me out!”  Bernard grudgingly agreed and, at length, they set off, making their way through the dark underbelly of the city towards the palace.

That had been about forty-five minutes ago, forty-five minutes since he’d begun following Bernard and his underling slug through the red brick streets of Adrianna, purportedly the brightest jewel in his crown of kingdoms.  The afternoon sun felt warm against his face, a light breeze caressing his tired spirit. 

All around, throngs of people meted out their mundane chatter, going about their daily do with the sort of casual competence that comes with mind-numbing repetition.  Since the war, Andaris had been uncomfortable in large groups.  That had been one of the reasons—though he’d scarcely even admitted it to himself—that he’d spent so much time in the archives.

On
this
day, however, he delighted in the experience, allowing the boisterous company of his fellow man to help mend the wounds inflicted first by the shapelings, and then the confounded clockwork stair, emotional wounds which ran far deeper than any of the flesh.

Indeed, at present he found the background noise ideal for serious thinking, something he’d been putting off for far too long.  He wished he knew what it was in his nature that kept him from
appreciating something until it was gone.  If he could figure that out, he suspected he’d have the answers to a great many things and, in general, be a much happier person.

The steep rooflines of mud-thatched buildings rose to the left and right of the street, chipped faces traced by sturdy oak beams which crossed and re-crossed at right angles of one another.  This reminded him of something his grandfather had once said about a mule
: “He’s scruffy all right, but he’s got good bones on ‘im, and that’s all that counts!”

Here and there the windows held thick panes of glass, wavy surfaces obscuring the interiors from curious onlookers, such as himself, hearts glowing with a pale, murky light.  The rest held only shutters, hinged and louvered affairs that could either be latched during periods of inclement weather, or opened when it was fair.

Today, of course, they hung wide to catch the afternoon breeze, making the buildings appear to yawn, as though settling in to take a long nap, gentle giants lounging in the gathering warmth.  Like the street, the interiors bustled with people.  There were those doing the selling—shopkeepers insisting their wares were the best.  Those doing the buying—customers with bright eyes and sharp tongues.  And those just passing by—like himself.

Above most doorways hung brightly painted signs advertising everything from armor to hair cream.  The occasional shouting match could be heard over th
e more familiar hum of activity.

“You want how much?  Why, that’s outrageous, it’s not worth half that!”

“Are you trying to ruin me?  I’m an honest merchant, but I wouldn’t sell it to my mother for that price!”

“Come one, come all, only two coppers to see
The Amazing Crocodile-Man, captured just last week from the deepest swamps of Meldoria!”

“Guards! 
Guards!  Sound the alarm!  I’ve been robbed!  There’s the cutpurse now, heading down that alley!”

And so on.

Not for the first time, nor unfortunately the last, Andaris had cause to marvel at humankind’s capacity for silliness.

A variety of aromas hung thick in the air, one layered atop another, giving his nostrils quite the work-out.  Incense and perfume floated on the surface, spicy, sweet and, at times, sickeningly pungent.  Below this was cooking meat, bold and savory.  And below this was what any town of Adrianna’s size tried to conceal but never quite could—the musty stench of the unwashed masses.

How long has it been now?
he wondered.  He should guess at least an hour and a half.  All that time and wonderful background noise, and he was just as flummoxed as before. 
The brightest jewel in my crown,
he thought, trying to make sense of it all.  This chapter of his life was turning out to be
much
odder than expected.  I mean, going through a portal to another world was one thing.  But then to find oneself ruler of said world….  Well, that was enough to make anyone’s head spin.

And the shapelings are here,
he thought.
  Which means, somehow, so is The Lost One.
 
Guess it’s not all that surprising, given everything else.
 
If different versions of myself can be in different realities, then why not the shadow-blighted Lost One?

While it was true that Andaris was relieved to be with people again, especially after his harrowing escape from the clockwork stair, he wished someone would tell him why everyone, including a portion of himself apparently—a portion that had blessedly
gone dormant again—believed him to be king of this place.  It was more than a little disconcerting to know that, at any given moment, someone might push their way into your mind and take control, especially when that someone turned out to be an alternate version of yourself.

Next time he felt it coming on, he would fight it!  If he was determined enough, perhaps he could fend off the intrusion.  It was all a matter of whose will was stronger.  Although he supposed his will would prove the stronger no matter who won, for it was him either way, wasn’t it?  Yes, indeed.  Part of himself coming to the fore to take control when he found himself, understandably, out of his depth.  But there was more to it than just that.  He also felt as if his body and mind were being violated by something…foreign, and not altogether wholesome.

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.