“Won’t be long, boy,” he mutters low in his throat. “You can’t beat all of us.”
I wish there’s something I can say, some rebuttal that will sting the man, but he’s right.
In a flash of movement, he whips his arm forwards. I throw myself to the side. His thrown dagger cuts right through my worthless sack and the flesh beneath, and a long, wicked scour of welling blood burns along my ribs. When I look up, he’s gone. The sound of his running feet slapping on the cobblestones fades into the distance.
Clutching my side, I walk over to the woman and strike her a square blow to the temple. She sags back onto the floorboards with a groan. Jonah taught me how to punch, but damn if her skull isn’t harder than it should be. I suck my knuckles, though the pain of the cut is quickly overwhelming everything else.
Darkness has fallen fully. These three were overeager, but the rest of the thieves will begin the search before long. I want to care, Creator knows I want to, but I’m tired. I look down dully at the blood pouring out of my side, and I barely feel myself slump down to the rotten wood. Some part of me screams to get up, to run, to hide, but I’m just so damnably exhausted. And cold. If I can sleep, for just a few moments...
I jerk awake from dreams of grinning faces in dark hoods and the glitter of steel. My hands go to my side. I’m hurt, but it’s practically nothing. My eyes pop wide when I notice the dark swathe of blood down my shirt, spreading into my pants and into a small pool on the floor.
How am I breathing? How can I possibly survive losing that much blood? Why do I feel so... alive?
The woman is still unconscious on the ground, but something else tickles at the back of my brain. I take a dozen breaths before it hits me: the room is dark. Not just the dark of night, but genuinely dark, as if... I scramble up, warily avoiding the pool of my own blood, and go to the window. My mouth falls open.
Impossible. One of the Stars of Donir has gone out. The flames have burned for so long they are considered eternal. A common saying of the city is that ‘Donir’s light will show the Creator home.’ No one expects him to come home any time soon, either.
I can’t worry about it, though. I’ve been asleep for less than fifteen minutes, but the sky is true dark, not just the false night of cloud cover. I need to change my circumstances, and fast. If I stay, I’m dead. If I leave, I’m dead. What I need is a serious influx of wealth to give me a fighting chance of living beyond the city. The fat merchant’s take mostly fell in my flight the night before, and the rest went to food. My plans for the Historian need to move up. The rain stops, I gather my materials, and I slip out the open window into the welcome cloak of the night.
***
My racing heart refuses to slow as I creep forward over the rooftops. My hands shake throughout my descent into the alley next to my target, hard enough I’m thankful I reach the bottom. I crouch down in front of the Historian’s inset window and take a shaky breath. My entire life on one roll of the dice. If the man doesn’t have what I need...
What I need, right now, is to focus.
I take a hundred long breaths to make myself a part of the stillness. The stillness isn’t silence, which doesn’t exist, but instead a kind of waiting, sleeping watchfulness. Although it can show itself at any time of day, the stillness most often manifests in the night. The clouds pass lethargically overhead, filtering the soft moonlight and obscuring the stars. Their slow, dreary movement only strengthens the stillness. A Star of Donir flickers at the corner of the alley, but the cheerful flame doesn’t reach the window, leaving me placed within the deep, unblemished stillness. The house before me creaks under its own weight, a not-so-silent brick monolith. A black rat scrabbles at whatever lies in the corner between two clay bricks, though even its movements seem furtive. The wind whistles gently through the alley, stirring up the small pile of trash in the corner and raising up the hairs on my bare arms. Even so, the stillness remains.
You might feel it in the last sliver of consciousness before you fall asleep, when all the world is at peace and yet all the terror of the night rises in your chest. It skitters along at the edges of your thoughts as you walk alone at night, your footsteps muffled against the darkness and your eyes trained wide for the slightest movement. You’ve felt it break with the first gentle sob at a quiet funeral, when all of the emotion seems somehow false until it is given voice. It is there, waiting for the opportunity to creep, carefully, laying a quiet, tense gauze over the world.
I remember the first time I ever felt the stillness.
Jonah takes me up onto the roof of the Simply in the deep of the night. The evening is clear, and the moon shines brightly. He looks down at me, smiling and rustling my hair before his dark eyes turn back out over the city. I walk up and place my chin on the low stone wall at the edge of the building. If I could mirror his stance I would, but I’m not tall enough yet. The city is the same as always. The same buildings stretch too far for my eyes to reach, the same ten thousand Stars light up nearly every street. I don’t understand what we’re up here for. I want to be like Jonah more than anything, but I’m bored. I start to fidget, but just as I begin to move, Jonah’s hand closes painfully around my shoulder.
“Don’t move, Jace,” Jonah says, his voice gentler than I expect. “I want you to listen.”
“What am I listening to?”
“Just listen,” he says again, turning back to the city and releasing me.
I try hard not to rub my shoulder, but my hand comes up against my will. Only for a minute. I love Jonah, so I still and stretch out onto my toes, craning my neck to the city to hear something, anything. I hear cats in the alley below, their droning wails the first sign of a fight. I hear boots marching as a passing patrol of the Watch make their weary rounds. I hear one of the girls in the rooms a floor below us, crying out in counterpoint to the grunts of a strange man.
Listening harder than I ever have before, I begin to hear other sounds, more subtle sounds. I hear the wind for the first time. I hear, barely, the guttering of the flame in the lamppost down below. Then, in the back of my mind, I begin to hear something else. More than hearing, it is feeling. Something is there, lurking in the dark recesses of the city and of my mind. A chill shoots down my spine, and I look up at Jonah with confusion.
“What is that?” I ask.
“That, Jace, is the stillness.”
I don’t understand, but I want to be like Jonah more than anything, so I nod seriously.
I wanted to be like him all the way up until the ax came down.
I snap back to the present as I feel myself begin to slip out of the stillness. I resume my deep, quiet breaths and push away the anger and sorrow in my heart. I can’t afford mistakes. Jonah was like a father to me, and he taught me more than anyone else in my life. But he wasn’t careful enough. It isn’t that I don’t want to be like Jonah anymore. It’s that I have to be better.
When I’m ready again, I reach out and run my fingers gently along the glass. The touch doesn’t illicit even the slightest whisper. I pull out a thin metal pick from along my scalp. The grease from my hair actually serves to make the pick’s movements quieter, and no one ever searches a thief’s dirty, ‘lice-ridden’ hair. I wedge my fingernails under the edge of the window and pull upwards gently. I’ve been by several times in the past few weeks to oil every available surface, so I’m a bit more comfortable as I increase the pressure. The window begins to slide upwards noiselessly. It catches abruptly after a short span as the chain holding the window closed stretches taut, a small lock holding each end together.
I bend forward, holding up the window with my left hand and slipping my right hand under the edge. I insert the pick into the lock by feel, and with a few twists it opens with a soft click.
The stillness fractures. I sense as the house becomes suddenly watchful. That click is a noise so foreign to the night that the world resists its intrusion. I struggle not to put the window down and run, but I can’t afford to back down now. Better a swift
death at the Wave’s hands than whatever lies in store for me if the Family catches me. The lock itself remains in its original position, barely. The chain and the window all stand in perfect silence beneath my straining fingers.
Slowly, ever so hesitantly, the stillness creeps back. The cracked silence mends, and I breathe a sigh of relief. Delicately grabbing both ends of the thin chain, I relax my grip on the window and let the lock sag open onto the sill. Lowering the chain to rest as well, I lever the window silently upward and slip forward into the darkness.
My foot encounters the expected table underneath the window, and I maneuver myself around the knick knacks on its surface by patience and memory. I let the window shut, reattaching the chain but leaving the lock open for the way out. My calves are trembling, the effort of staying in a poised, crouched position weighing on my strength. I transfer my weight slowly to one foot, swinging the other down and onto the polished wood floor. Off the table, I survey my surroundings, noting the red velvet couches and their respective end tables as objects to avoid.
I’m here to rob the old Historian: the man whose life’s work is compiling the entire history of the world. He does scribing on the side to support himself, and I first noticed the potential for a worthy take when I watched a nobleman pass him some real, actual gold for his services. Every time he is paid for his work, he retreats back to the same section of the house and comes back without the money in his possession. He doesn’t live an extravagant life, so there’s got to be a pile of gold somewhere back there.
I slip along the wall, stalking towards the door to my right. In the next room, the Historian does his scribbling, and the doorway in the back of his study leads to the reaches of the house that hold my interest. I pause for just a moment as I cross into the study, admiring the shelves and shelves of books lining every wall. My mother used to read me tales from The Enchantress, tales of nobles with generous hearts and men who save women from some dastardly fate. In my experience, both are myths. Nobles are nothing but greedy assholes, and men usually exploit women however they can. Still, the stories stuck with me.
I turn the handle of the door carefully. I haven’t oiled these hinges, so I patiently exert pressure until I feel the door open to my touch. The heavy door swings open silently. As I take a step, however, the hairs on the back of my neck prickle. Something is different about the house. The stillness isn’t broken, or even damaged as when the lock opened, but something has changed. I close my eyes and struggle to figure out what it is, but no sound reaches me. The stillness persists, so I ignore my instincts and close the door behind me silently.
And I’m immediately struck blind. No windows open onto this section of the house, so I lack even weak starlight to see by. I reach out with my left hand, finding the wall within easy reach. My right arm finds nothing but empty space. My head begins to spin in the impenetrable darkness, but I cling to the wall and take a silent step forward, then again, my pace so unbelievably slow I’m certain it’ll be morning before I find anything, but I can’t afford to run into an unexpected table.
My left hand trails around a smooth plaster corner. Still having no idea where the other walls are, or even what kind of room I’m in, I decide to stay on the left wall. I don’t want to risk a light, both because I don’t know if anyone lives in these rooms and because it will be difficult to see any other sources of light if I have my own.
My leading hand prevents me from running directly into a door in the darkness. I let go of the wall, reaching out and running my sensitive fingers over the wood. Something about the intricate carvings sends alarms jangling in the back of my head. I try the handle and find the door locked. Reaching forward and pushing, gently but purposefully, I smile as the door doesn’t so much as rattle in its hinges. Nodding to the watchful darkness, I dig out a piece of flint and a small stone. Scraping the two together as gently as possible, I produce a few weak sparks to get a look at the door.
It’s made out of a wood I’ve never seen before. Inlays of weaving flame decorate every bit of the vibrant auburn surface, and the solidity of the door is instantly obvious. The lock has me risking another slight scrape. The sparks reveal a contraption entirely foreign to me. The keyhole is perfectly round and relatively wide, but no other adornment gives me any hints as to what to do about it.
I shrug my shoulders, relaxing my muscles as I reach for the pick along my scalp. Its longer sibling emerges from its secret place on the back of my thigh. The two pick and tension wrench in hand, I take a deep breath and slide them quickly into the lock. I sweep the pick around the perimeter of the lock, counting as I feel the click of tumblers under pressure from my touch. Ten. A reasonably complex lock.
Something, though, gives me pause. I sit back, frowning at my invisible nemesis. I insert the longer pick back into the lock, pushing deeper this time. The lock swallows nearly the entire thing before it catches. I sweep the pick around, feeling a second ring of tumblers deeper into the door. Ten more. An impossibly complex lock.
I almost give up. The back of my neck still prickles from whatever aberration exists in the stillness, and the lock is so complex that, even though I’m confident, I’m not certain I can manage it.
But never say I back down from a challenge.
I don’t know how many combinations I try. I don’t know how many times I blink sweat out of my open, staring eyes. After an hour, perhaps two, perhaps four, I decide I need to risk a light. I gently tear off a strip of burlap from my shirt and hold it close to the flint. After a few moments, a tiny flame kindles. Even that miniature blaze sets my heart racing, my vision blurring, the sound of distant screams… swallowing heavily, I bring the light close to the dark circle of the lock, leaning forward to peer inside.
A throat clears behind me, deliberate and polite.
I jump backwards, falling down on my ass and strangling a terrified shout in my throat. The flame winks out. I blink. Somehow there is still light...
I snap around, my hands coming up into a defensive posture. Half-blinded by the light, I can only squint into the lamplight at the dark figure behind it. He holds his lamp closer to me, and I shy away. The flame is far too close, too bright, too hot, and I’m trapped in a narrow hallway, a shadowed silhouette holding forth the fire. Creator, anything but fire. There are no windows or doors, and the only way out is through the man behind the lamp.
“How did you get in here?” the man asks again, his voice still more curious than angry.
I can barely hear him through the roaring flames and the confused screams. I rear back and spit at him, more animal than man. He takes a step back to avoid the spittle, thankfully taking the lamp farther away as well. With a shuddering sigh, I try to control my racing breath.
“Don’t spit on my floor again, boy,” the man says, his voice suddenly icy, so cold I feel the urge to shiver. “Now I asked you a civilized question, despite our current situation. I’ll give you one more chance to answer it. How did you get in here?”
“The window,” I say, intimidated in spite of myself.
Some of the meanest, ugliest thugs to walk, sneak, prowl, or crawl through Donir’s streets have tried to intimidate me. They’ve threatened, chased, and beaten me dozens of times, and I haven’t shown fear to any of them in the two years since Jonah’s death. The steel in this man’s voice, however, has me struggling not to cower.
“Which window?” he asks, curious again, his anger evaporating immediately.
“The window in the sitting room, closest to the study,” I say compliantly.
“That window has screeched like a dying cat for ten years. I haven’t opened it in six.”
“I oiled it three times in the last week,” I respond, meekly answering questions he hasn’t even asked. “Just in case.”
“Then I have to thank you,” the man says, inexplicable amusement lacing his voice.
He lowers the lantern, revealing his face for the first time. Long brown hair streaked with gray matches a trimmed and stylish beard. Lin
es of merriment war equally with the lines of sorrow etching his face, and his brown eye smolders. A black eye patch completes the image, giving the man a fearsome appearance. Well, it would be fearsome, but the man is grinning so broadly my face hurts just looking at him.
“It was luck,” the man says, his grin still firmly in place. “How I caught you. Well, unluck for you. I woke up and had a bit of a thirst.”
“You come back here for water?” I ask.
“Hah, boy, I’m not that kind of thirsty,” he says with a chuckle, sweeping past me and through the door before I can turn.
Every fiber of my instinct screams for me to run. My muscles tense, my head drops, and I take my first step towards the window. But something holds me back. I’m curious, just like an idiotic cat. The man doesn’t seem like he intends me any harm. In fact, he seems genuinely happy. The situation is so far outside my experience that I can’t figure out what to do.
The door reopens after a moment; the light reappearing with it. I turn back to see the Historian standing, regarding me, a bottle full of amber liquid in his hand. He pops off the cap with his thumb, tilts the bottle back, and takes a long swig. He sighs softly, a look of contentment passing over his features.
“Would you care for some? I would offer you a glass, but, considering the venue…” he says, proffering the bottle and waving at the bare hall around us.
My nerves shot, my hands already shaking, and my life still somewhere up in the air, I shrug and grab the bottle. A large gulp sends the liquid fire of whiskey burning down my throat. He takes the bottle back without comment, taking another drink before regarding me with a half-lidded eye.
“Why did you stay?”
“I don’t know,” I say honestly. “I’ve never met anyone who treated me…” I trail off. I don’t have the vocabulary to describe how I feel.
The Crux of Eternity: Eternal Dream, Book 1 (The Eternal Dream Saga) Page 4
