The Stair of Time

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, not 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. After 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.