The feeling rises up in me again as we set out on the Bridge of the North. The massive edifice stretches farther than the eye can see, a constant in a world full of variables. The stone is seamless, so perfectly shaped as to defy nature and the senses. The structure is a mark of beauty and strength, arching over the waves passing far beneath the hooves of our horses. Every time I look out over the endless ocean, the feeling of insignificance surges again in my heart. The waves below us are the size of houses and would easily sweep us all aside but for the Bridge beneath our feet.
On the journey out, I forced one of the palanquins to accept another passenger. It’s a simple matter to blank the minds of the guards as I climb in and force whatever important functionary that resides within to accept me as an honored guest. It had been a comfortable, if boring, journey. For some reason, as I leave the untamed land of Donir, I want to experience the return trail from the back of a horse.
It’s supposed to be my lot, as a scribe, to ride in the back of one of the wagons, but all of the servants know I’m no mere scribe. My station, as far as they can tell, is somewhere in between, above them but below the great lords. It leaves the servants in a state of confusion as to how to treat me, so I always act important and get what I want without much difficulty. It’s exhausting to use my power for every tiny request, so I put forth a great deal of effort in appearing as mysterious as possible to the lower echelons. Thus, procuring a horse is as easy as asking.
The day is long. The irritable horse’s hooves clatter against the smooth stones for miles on end. Riding was an Eternal-spawned notion which should never have entered my mind. I was alright while I was distracted by the sights and sounds and feelings of travel, but boredom quickly cured me of that. As we come to a stop, a burning pain ignites between my legs. The towers that mark the beginning of the Bridge are already out of sight. The long road stretches before us, the journey ahead one long unbreaking view of ocean and stone.
Our initial stopping point is the first aberration in the identical stone. An ingenious creation of the old builders, a well rises up in the middle of the road, fresh water bubbling to the surface through some unknown magic of the ancients. Twice daily, caravans can expect to find stops like this one, perfectly placed to make the journey simple and comfortable.
My back aches as I sit the horse. The beast occasionally flicks its tail at some unseen pest. I want to get off, but I dread the feeling I know is coming. With a sigh, I dismount, the chafing between my thighs sending shooting pains through my legs. The horse flicks its gaze towards me, then walks away without prompting. A pair of grooms intercept it and lead it towards the well, shooting me strange looks as I glare after the beast. The damnable horse wanted to let me know that it was in charge. It would be less annoying if it wasn’t true.
I stagger over to the well, fighting for space with the cooks as they gather water to boil for the evening meal. I’m about to dunk my head in the bucket when a ladle appears in my line of sight. I look up into a pair of enchanting eyes, tilted ever-so-slightly upward and filled with mischief. My stomach wobbles in an unfamiliar way as she holds my gaze. I smile and accept the ladle. The smile feels unfamiliar, almost forced, and I struggle to figure out why. It’s only after she turns away that I realize it’s because the smile is genuine.
Her clothes mark her as a servant of the servants, one of the lowest in the entire party. She runs water, picks up horse shit, and participates in any of the other thankless jobs a caravan needs accomplished in order to operate. Perhaps I’ll get to know her better on the journey home. The thought is pleasant, but leaves me with a sense of disquiet somewhere in a dark corner of my mind, like I shouldn’t be thinking such uncouth thoughts towards someone who showed me kindness. It’s not in my nature to dwell, though, so I shake it off without too much difficulty.
Winter holds a less tenacious grip the farther west you travel, and so the air feels just a hair warmer than on Donirian shores. It isn’t much, but it’s the first sign we are headed home. I scramble up onto the massive rail of the Bridge. The sun falls from the sky like a child’s ball, dropped and forgotten before it can hit the ground. The sea becomes a sheet of blood red diamonds for the barest of heartbeats, the water glowing and alive. Darkness falls almost before I can process the majesty of the sunset. That feeling, so unwelcome, bulls its way into my thoughts again. All that I accomplish, all the power I wield, all the people I control.
Meaningless. Irrelevant.
I shudder. There is only one thing that can lift my spirits when the mood comes upon me.
Two other groups camp with us: a merchant caravan bringing what smells of tea back from Donir towards the Khalintars, and a small family of Donirians traveling in the same direction. The fires of the caravan push back the melancholy from my soul. When groups such as ours come together, tradition dictates campfires be set up for all parties to sit, trade news, and tell stories. I join one of the communal fires, sitting amongst perhaps a dozen others. I flick through their surface thoughts as I accept a bowl of stew from a passing servant. Most are engaged in the story of a fat merchant as he discusses how well he ripped off his Donirian counterpart. He’s clearly trying to impress the official Khalintari delegation, but he isn’t making much headway aside from a certain satisfaction at seeing the Donirians conned.
One mind, however, stands out. She’s thinking sarcastically about how annoying the man’s voice is. The blonde hair of the matriarch of the encamped Donirian family glimmers in the firelight. Her kids are just old enough to run around, and she ignores them aside from the occasional shout if they wander too far. She is still young and fairly attractive, youthful fire filling her cheeks and her eyes. I bring my will to bear.
Desire.
She glances around, and her eyes settle on me. Immediately, I can feel her passion, but thoughts of her husband subsume it in guilt. With a mental caress, I wash away the guilt. I turn the thought of her husband into a litany of all the annoying things he does, all the kindnesses he ignores. I sculpt her thoughts like a master with a chisel, turning away negative feelings and stoking her desire. Before long, she stands up and offers me a lingering look over her shoulder. The melancholy lifts from my shoulders as I follow her into the night, just like I knew it would. Some problems can only be solved by a woman.
The journey across the Bridge will take more than a season. Spring will have begun in earnest by the time we reach Coin again. To travel from Donir itself to Coin takes a total of a hundred days if you can manage twenty miles from dawn to dusk. Made up of the strongest palanquin bearers, horses, and wagons teams, our caravan can push twenty-five on the smooth and even Bridge. The days pass swiftly. The vista of the ocean from the top of the Bridge never changes. Sometimes, it’s hard to tell if we’re making any progress at all. Only as the first major landmark comes into view do the days again feel real.
Long ago, when Donir and the tribes of the Khalintars were in constant war, the Bridge of the North was the sight of countless battles. Over the centuries, each side constructed a pair of mighty castles to defend their half of the Bridge. The Donirians created the Dawnhold, a massive and utilitarian structure squatting malevolently across the Bridge. The Khals brought the Duskbank into being on the opposite side, an elegant and flowing structure that melds with the harmony of the Bridge itself. The keeps reflect their peoples.
As the Dawnhold rises into view, the masoned stone is a shock to the eyes after the perfect smoothness of the Bridge itself. Ancient and ugly, the castle is nonetheless impressive in its own way. The walls rise to the height of four men or more; the gates are constructed entirely of thick iron. When those gates close, only the Creator himself could force them open. The gates stand open as we approach, much like they have for several generations. The uneasy truce between the Khals and the Donirians has stood for nearly a century.
The watchful eyes of the garrison still look down on us with suspicion. Most of them are typical soldiers, garbed in the absurd blue chainmail of th
e Wave, as their pompous king calls them. Some, though, stand in the full seafoam green platemail of the Tide. Their eyes never stop moving. If battle is imminent, the Tide will be ready no matter what. I glance over at the lean silhouettes of our personal guard from the Khalintar of the Sword. They are members of the Edge, the most capable and dangerous of their isolated people. Wearing loose, flowing robes and no armor at all, they ride at total ease. Whenever they deign to glance at the Tide, they offer nothing but a confident smirk.
I’m able to relax again as we ride out the other side of the mighty keep. It’s probably my imagination, but the Dawnhold marks a genuine border where even Winter dares not cross. The sun feels tangibly warmer than it was on the other side. Even so, I’m still tense until the castle passes out of sight. The itch in my back doesn’t disappear until we pass out of arrow range.
A few days later, a haze of smoke begins to rise in the distance, blurring the clouds and setting the deep blue of the sky to shimmer. The clamor of civilization floats on the wind: the raucous cries of thousands of souls living in close quarters, the distinct rumble of smith’s hammers, and the throated roar of a thousand arguments. As the first hovels appear spread across the Bridge like turds steaming in the sun, the smells hit. Food from a dozen countries, perfumes and spices from across the world, and, underlying everything, the unrelenting rank of man: our blood, our sweat, and our shit.
I smile as the myriad sensations of Halfway attack my senses. After being on the Bridge, alone but for the occasional traveler and with nothing but the sea for company, the city is a welcome break from the peace and monotony of the journey. There has long been a test of stupidity on either side of the Bridge. You simply ask someone to show you where Halfway is on a map.
The Bridge of the North widens out halfway across the ocean to create a large circle of land complete with soil and natural growth. Throughout the space, the dwellings and streets of a small town sit timeless and unweathered, created from the same stone as the Bridge itself. Finally, a long ramp and matching stone stairs lead northward and down to the surface of the sea, where a stretch of sheltered docks thrust out into the water. Great embankments rise from the depths of the ocean and encircle the peaceful Bay of Solace. Once upon a time, Halfway must have been a beautiful, sculpted little town over the ocean, a haven in the middle of the long journey.
Now, though, Halfway is an ugly stain of brothels, gambling houses, and thieves, each just waiting for the opportunity to rob you of every penny. Made of little more than spit, driftwood, and will, houses cling to the walls of the original stone buildings like tumors. Creative additions cover much of that stone, from additional stories reaching precariously into the sky to balconies and bridges stretching over the narrow, choked streets. Human filth stains what little of the original stone can be seen.
Yet Halfway is prosperous. Each of the predominant cultures in the world meet here to trade. It’s obvious that the Kingdom and the Khalintars would use the neutral port, but the people of the Broken Isles also sail up and land at the harbor to trade for goods. Halfway is the only civilized part of the world where Islanders are a common sight. Most of the sailors of the Isles are dark-skinned, lean, and dangerous looking men. Curiously, though, every single one of the ships is captained by a woman.
Into the morass of scum we ride, our silks marking us as targets, sight of the Edge killing those thoughts as they are born. Beggars still reach up and attempt to grasp at our feet in supplication, and hawkers offer any number of products at the top of their lungs. The shouts die down as our soldiers begin to kick and drive off the crowd, forcing a path through the unfortunates and deeper into the city. We work our way south around the circle until we exit the outer ring of slums and enter the wealthier districts. The servants and slaves break off there, but the rest of us continue to the Southern Star, an inn as luxurious as can be found, rival even to the Falling Edge in Donir. Here, any human service can be found for the right price, whether it be companionship, assassination, or anything in between.
The thoughts swirling through the air are pure chaos, all of the combined hopes and desires of a hundred thousand people stacked on top of one another in a space meant for ten. There are countless flavors of fear, aggression, desperation, joy, hate, and love; a practical feast for my mind. The sun falls as I settle into the most luxurious and expensive rooms in the inn. The previous occupant mysteriously checked out, and our hostess was more than happy to open up her doors to ‘someone of my importance.’ A vague and powerful suggestion goes a long way.
I walk out onto the balcony, the reassuring solidity of ancient stone under my feet. I relish the emotions of the city as they sway along to unfamiliar tunes, darting this way and that, always changing, never ceasing, the complicated dance of humanity and all of our feeble hopes and ephemeral dreams. The churning tide of thought leaves me restless. Throwing on a cloak, I stride out of the inn, blanking the minds of everyone who notices me as I pass out into the city proper. My thoughts go forward to Coin, to a single room on the first floor of a lavish house near the center of the city, to the man sitting there. Tonight is for him.
I sip at passersby, stealing a few seconds from each. I laugh with a group of friends outside a tavern, a long joke coming to a final punchline. I wince as a man takes a powerful slap to the face, his clumsy attempts at courtship innocent but ill-received. I push aside the feeling of helplessness as two men take a whore in an alley, her thoughts on her family a thousand miles away. I swallow thickly as a child desperately tries to revive his father as alcohol still dribbles from his mouth. Finally, I find what I’m looking for.
Two young lovers walk hand in hand, their eyes bright as stars. Each looks on the other with total devotion, the kind of bond that can only be broken by death. His thoughts are of her, of how her hair sparkles in the moonlight, how the flush of her cheeks sends her beauty soaring beyond the sky, and how he can’t wait for the night to be over so that she can lay in his arms. She thinks of him, how he makes her feel cherished, how nothing in the world can be better than being here, in this moment, holding his hand.
I study their feelings. Their joy doesn’t touch me, not really, but the power of their emotion is vibrant and true. I need to understand where it comes from, how it can be so strong. Of every thought and emotion in the world, love has a hold on our minds beyond anything else. Hate, anger, sorrow, happiness, fear, wonder... whatever the feeling, love strengthens and magnifies each. The sorrow for a loved one’s passing is far stronger than any remorse for a stranger. We fear our loved ones, both in that we make ourselves vulnerable to them and fear for them whenever they leave our sight. The hatred that can spawn from love is truly powerful, an ever-growing vine that chokes out all else. To genuinely hate someone, you must first have loved them.
I feel love, but I know I won’t ever experience it. Every time I look into someone’s mind, I find all of the distasteful shit they’re never willing to speak aloud. All of their perversions, obsessions, hatreds, pettiness, righteousness, their misplaced faith and vast ignorance. It’s impossible to love someone when you know every time they think you look ugly, or think of another, or lie.
It’s hard to even like anyone when you know everything about them.
No, Lav, I do this for you.
The lovers continue, their thoughts intoxicating and sweet, a messy mush of care and dedication. I try to ingest their exact flavor of love, tasting it as I have so many before. I’m not sure that it’ll work, especially not for what I intend, but I figure that any kind of love is better than none. I track them until they enter an inn in a decent part of Halfway. I think about continuing to follow their thoughts as they make it up to their rooms, but I don’t have the heart. It isn’t as fun if you don’t get to participate. I’m also in public. It’s amazing what’ll happen to you when you experience two people’s pleasure at once.
As I walk back, I try to hold on to the feeling of their love, try to figure out what makes it special compared to all othe
rs. My feet wander. The occasional person on the streets at this hour often entertains dangerous thoughts, but I don’t really have to concentrate to direct their attention elsewhere and convince them I’m not worth it. Still, I’m distracted.
Hostile intent hones in on my silhouette. I try to direct the man’s thoughts away, but his focus on my unprotected back only sharpens. I frown and turn. A man, pale skin bright in the moonlight, closes rapidly. His mind is such an inferno of anger my senses flinch back. He clutches a knife in his left hand, the blade barely visible in the darkness. The man seems familiar, in a vague way, almost as if I’ve met him before. My eyes have never seen him, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t seen him in someone else’s memory.
Despite my surprise, I don’t panic. It isn’t the first time I’ve dealt with this kind of person. I dive into his brain, sliding past his feeble mental barriers and deep into the heart of his consciousness.
I go too deep.
Too fast.
My thoughts merge with his.
The towering rage of his purpose blinds me.
I’m not Bastian.
She’s gone now. Asking around frantically in the morning, several of the Khalintari delegation witnessed her leaving the fire with a scribe. They told me she left with the kids while I was sleeping, heading back for Donir. I thought we were happily married. The scribe ruined everything.
I struggle to disengage my thoughts from his, but the surging power of his hate buffets me back and forth until I can hardly tell where I end and he begins.
I sharpened the knife for hours thinking of this moment. When I can make him pay. The blade drives into his stomach to the hilt, smooth as silk. I draw it forth and stab into him again. His blood darkens my hands. Finally. After half of a season, finally I’ll be able to rest.
The part of me that remains behind jerks from the impact. A cold fire ignites in my belly. The rest of me shares in the man’s elation, the release. We smile. The horrid haze of anger drifts away. His brain drops into an exhausted stupor.
The Crux of Eternity: Eternal Dream, Book 1 (The Eternal Dream Saga) Page 9
