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I want you to picture a tower; the kind you think of when you think of castles -- with wizards at the top, or piles of precious items stacked like cordwood, or a captured princess with a magic spindle. The Tower is Black. Not black; Black. It is miles and miles tall, and until you reach that rumored, mythical room at its apex, there is nothing inside but the stairwell that winds round and round, clinging to the outer wall, spiraling out of sight both above and below you. Remi glared at Madeleine. "This is important." She tried to look contrite. "I'm sorry, Remi, please continue, I'm paying attention; I promise." The stair spiral is enormous -- it would have to be in a tower that size -- and since the Tower is, as I said, Black, it's almost impossible to make out even the loop that you're on, let alone the ones above and below you, unless you stare for hours and hours either up or down... ... if you do that, you can start to make out the other loops of the stair, but you'll also probably go crazy. Why? Because that stairwell is Time. Time is not a ball or a thread or a skein or a tangled mess and certainly isn't a straight line -- it's a spiral -- huge, and almost always too big to make out from the point of view of the things traveling on it, even though each loop is only a little ways below or above the others -- close enough, actually, that people with a particular kind of gift can look up and down without going completely crazy; close enough that other people can jump up, or down, or across (if they're skilled or powerful or crazy or just... cats); close enough for some poor bastards to simply slip and fall to someplace else. Remi turned back to Madaleine from where he had been staring down along the stacks and stacks of books in his personal office. "Do you understand?" Madaleine frowned, considering the question carefully. "No," she finally said. He smiled, looking almost relieved. "Good girl," he murmured. Time to jump some of the stairs. An old man packs away chess pieces while standing in a room that belongs to Garret, who is at the Land's End because he can see twelve steps into the future. The old man drops the black queen -- Excuse me: the Black queen. -- and she lies there, forgotten (and forgetting) until: "What's this?" Roland the Bellboy asks, bending forward from where he's sitting -- taking a lunch break -- in Garret's office and picking up a black chesspiece. Garret peers. "The Black queen," he says. "Damn. I'm going to be looking for her in a few weeks." "Me too," Roland responds. Later he will have no idea why he said such a ridiculous thing. Again... In room 412, the Black Queen herself knocks a pawn from its place on the board, and it tumbles to the floor. Elsewhere, Roland slips from the Stair and falls backwards, living time in reverse like Merlin. Exactly like Merlin, in fact. The next day, the maid finds the piece and, inexplicably, drops it into her apron pocket next to the shiny piece of metal she uses to test the tautness of the guestroom sheets, rather than placing it back on the board. She brings the piece to the the same old man, who smiles and offers to teach her to play. She wins. Conceding his defeat, he keeps the piece. Garret, caught up to the point on the Stair where he needs to find the Black queen, pulls it from his desk drawer and goes in search of the Old Man. The two men trade. Black Queen takes Pawn? Pawn takes Black Queen? We'll see. The Black Queen goes back in the Old Man's box, with her children, where she belongs. Garret leaves the pawn on his desk for -- well, a very long time -- because he knows he needs too. Finally, he knocks the piece onto the floor, where it will lie -- "Lie? Lay?" "Oh no... it definitely lies. It always lies." -- until: "What's this?" Roland the Bellboy asks, bending forward from where he's sitting (on his lunch break) in Garret's office and picking up a white chesspiece. Garret peers. "White pawn," he says. "Marta? Weren't you--" "Yeah," Marta says, plucking the piece from Roland's fingers. "Room 412 is missing a piece -- I'll take it up there and put it back where it belongs." Roland breathes a trembling sigh of relief, but has no idea why. "This is exhausting." "Obviously. Keep going." This series of events gives a very particular book just the opening it needs, and it spirits Roland's firstborn son away, breaking a deal. "An' he were taken The man with the crystalline horns is very unhappy. He bounds out of the rug, riding a creature half dragon, half unicorn, et cetera. The darkness behind the rug billows up in black, oily clouds, obscuring the murals on the wall. Nothing can stop him. The Last Resort possesses wards against a great many things, but there are no holy talismans in the bedside stands to keep This One from the building, and each guest sups on the remnants of fallen souls. He turns to the concierge, a cruel smile twisting his lips. She swallows. "Hello, sir, do you have a --" He interrupts with Words of Power; Words of Summoning. "There was a crooked man and he walked a crooked mile.", he whispers. Silence. " -- reservation?" Sarah concludes. Blue-in-blue eyes narrow, and frost rimes the windows. "Evan Winters," he replies. "I'd like to see The Management." "Roland?" "Yes?" "I need you to find me a miracle." |
