The Stair Of Time (Book 2) by William Woodward

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.
    T o 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.

 
     
    Departure
     
     
     
    As Andaris approached the stables , he could see that Gaven was indeed playing cards, just not with the stable boy.  The big man sat at a makeshift table constructed of barrels and planks, an ungainly affair that appeared to have been tacked together haphazardly by someone possessing a personal vendetta against all things square.  Gaven peered over his numbered fan at an elderly gentleman who looked to be somewhere in his late seventies to early eighties—elderly but not old.   Both men wore cagey, calculating expressions.
    W ho could that be? Andaris wondered, eyes widening at the quality and variety of the stranger’s weapons.  Gaven hadn’t mentioned meeting anyone, and it seemed unlikely that this was just some random passerby.  “So,” Andaris called, “who’s winning?”
    Both heads turned, disapproving stares similar enough to be comical.
    “What kept ya?” Gaven asked, unable or unwilling to keep the irritation from his voice, mouth turning down as he turned back to the game.
    The big man hated people being late.  He saw it as a sign of disrespect, and so usually took offens e, unless there was a real good reason not to, and then only if it wasn’t a chronic thing.  “If it was important enough to ‘em, they’d be on time,” he’d often argued.  “Being late says you don’t care about anyone but yourself.”
    Andaris came to a halt before responding, the good cheer that had so recently blossomed in his breast withering away again.  “I’m sorry, Gaven.  I was saying my goodbyes to Mandie and…she started mumbling like she does sometimes, dreaming about her past and squeezing my hand.  It’s like a part of her knew I was there.  I didn’t feel right about leaving until she was done, especially under the circumstances.  You know, there’s no guarantee that she’ll—”  He’d been on the verge of saying, “be here when we get back, but choked on the words before he could get them out.  Face reddening, he looked away and cleared his throat.  When he was sure that he could speak without his voice breaking, he added, “And there’s no telling how long we’ll be gone, so….”
    Gaven swallowed whatever reprimand had been on the tip of his tongue and said, “It’s okay, Andaris.  Really.  I understand.  I probably would’ve done the same thing.” 
    Andaris nodded solemnly, grateful for his friend’s kind words.
    A moment later, the big man’s dour expression was replaced by one that looked much more at home on his broad face—jovial good humor. “Now,” he said, gesturing with flourish to his silver-haired opponent, “it’s high time I introduced the two of you. This is Belfar’s father, the closest thing to a grandfather I’ll ever have, and a mighty fine fellow in the bargain.  As you know, he helped raise me, and that was no easy task.  I was a handful and a half on the best of days.”  Gaven