The Stair Of Time (Book 2) Read Online Free PDF Page A

for too long, lest one be drawn beneath to the murky depths, to a place where dark things slither and swim.
    Feeling disoriented, Andaris broke eye contact, a feat which proved surprisingly difficult.  Harmless indeed, he thought.
    Looking mildly disappointed, Abolecious said, “You come with me.  I take you to Master.  He wait in tower.  Tower Abolecious home.  You come to home.”
    Andaris just stood there, all but gaping, not sure what he would do until he opened his mouth and with a cringe replied, “Okay, take me to your…Master—the ridiculously pompous peacock that he has become.  But I’m warning you, if I hear wind chimes or catch even the slightest whiff of pheasant, I’m out of here.”
    Abolecious bowed to him again, not seeming to understand anything beyond his acquiescence, turned, and began walking toward the full-length mirror in the corner of the room, leaving a trail of slime on the flagstones as he went.
    Andaris took a deep breath, wishing even more fervently than usual that Gaven were here, making one of those snide comments he was so good at: “ Why, any slimier and this fella would be on a plate next to a side of rice!”
    W ithout looking back, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, Abolecious walked into the mirror, through the mirror, the unrippled surface of which did not reflect him or the room, but rather showed another place, a place as grand as Ashel’s study was modest, a circular room lined from top to bottom with books—leather-bound tomes with gilded pages and cryptic symbols on their spines.
    A cathedral ceiling supported by massive wooden rafters added to the general sense of grandiosity.  Scores of bats hung from these rafters in winged cocoons, and yet the floor remained curiously guano free.  In the exact center of the room, situated between the gaping maws of twin hearths, stood a walnut desk with enough surface area on which to tap dance, the toes of its clawed feet splayed wide.
    All but swallowed by a wing-backed chair, looking for all the world like a petulant child, sat Ashel Tevellin.  He beckoned for Andaris to step through, gesturing with the first two fingers of his right hand, a smug expression on his narrow face.
    Fingers made for the piano, Andaris thought.
    A moment later, trying to ignore the discordant dervish playing up and down his spine, he managed to do the wizard’s bidding.  It was like stepping into a cold pool of water, only it was more gelatinous and seemed to be aware of him somehow.  Cool, gelatinous, and sentient.  It felt like hundreds of fingers coursing up, down, and all around his body, probing, searching, questioning.  The space between the study and this other place began to stretch.  Andaris had the sense that he was stretching too, becoming thin as taffy, winding around and around himself.
    Just when he thought sure he would snap, he fattened back out and stepped into what he would one day refer to as “The Church of Ashel,” a sanctuary for those terminally afflicted by delusions of grandeur and self-worship.  The temperature and lighting seemed specifically designed to create a warm and welcoming atmosphere, perfect for putting naive visitors at their ease.  Andaris felt a headache coming on.  And, of course, he heard not only wind chimes, but also ocean surf.  And smelled not only braised pheasant, but also custard tarts. 
     
    Andaris’ mouth watered involuntarily.  “So…why all the theatrics, Ashel?  I mean, who are you trying to impress?  Abolecious?”
    Following a calculated delay, one made more aggravating by the soothing strains of harpsichord music, Ashel answered, his disembodied voice surrounding Andaris, coming from everywhere and nowhere at once.  “I do not feel the need to explain myself to the likes of you.  I doubt your pedantic mind could even begin to grasp the answer, so what’s the point?”
    “See, that ’s exactly the sort of thing I’m talking about.  Why, when you’re