The Crux of Eternity: Eternal Dream, Book 1 (The Eternal Dream Saga)

by Lane Trompeter

  I look up from the mirror and into Reknor's knowing smirk.

  “I get your point,” I admit through my shock.

  Reknor begins ticking things off on his fingers.

  “They don't know where you are, they don’t know what you look like, they don’t expect you to be clean and well-clothed. They certainly won't anticipate you living in a house on Castleberry Street with an old half-blind historian.”

  “Why are you doing this again?”

  “As I said before, Jace. Can you afford to ask that question?” We both know that I can’t, but he continues anyway. “I’m an old man. I may not look it, but I’ve been living on borrowed time for years. I feel my age. I have no living relatives, no heir, no partner. What’s the point of all this when I’m gone?” he said, waving his arm around as if to encompass the house and the entire world itself.

  The words 'but why me?' die on my lips. I want to know. Curiosity burns in my veins, for I can sense something behind his words, something deep and poignant. His deception, however honest, provokes mistrust. Yet it’s enough.

  “Okay, okay,” I say, suddenly remembering. “I gave you the details you wanted. What about the fire? What happened?”

  “Oh, I just left a candle lit by your bed last night,” Reknor says flippantly. “You must have moved in your sleep and knocked it over.”

  “Really?” I say skeptically. “That seems... strange.”

  “I know. I didn't expect you to move that much. Especially with your injuries.”

  “Right,” I say, feigning a yawn. “Well, I bet you can leave one by me right now. I’m going to sleep like the dead.”

  Reknor smiles and stands.

  “Sleep well, Jace. Recover. Call if you need anything.”

  I nod, closing my eyes. As soon as I hear him retreat, they slowly open again. I stare hard at the blackened portion of the wall where the curtain used to hang. There isn’t any wax on the floor, nor on the desk. I can hardly imagine even my unconscious mind allowing an open flame near enough for me to 'move in my sleep' and knock it over. That quick story is the only time that Reknor's words rang truly false in my ears. Why would he lie about that? What could have caused the fire?

  What does he have to hide?

  ***

  The hunt has long died down by the time I take my first faltering step under Reknor's care. When I can finally walk freely, the thieves have given me up for dead or gone. I barely think about the hunt, itching as I am to move. I’m young and full of energy. Injury and sickness have never brought me low. Not being able to leave a bed, even to relieve myself, is humbling and frightening and awfully boring at the same time. It’s with blessed relief that I finally totter out of the room.

  Reknor’s house is larger than it looks from the outside. Directly in front of the door, an open area with a desk serves as the front of his scribing. The bell on the desk rings regularly from a steady stream of business. To the left of the opening foyer, decorated in a simple yet refined style, a sitting room furnished to greet wealthy clients provides guests a place to relax. The right holds Reknor's study and the hallway to the door. That blasted, intricately-carved, flame-inlaid door.

  Further back holds the kitchens, worked by one extraordinarily crabby old woman who calls herself Pies. Pies hates to talk to anyone. Over the course of the first few weeks I realize that Reknor has no control over the woman at all. Meal times are set in stone: breakfast at literal dawn, half past noon for lunch, just after six for dinner. If you miss the meal, you go hungry. Pies creates the entire menu herself, and Reknor never gives her any input. He pays her a substantial sum of money, most of which she uses to buy the ingredients for the meals for the house. The one time she catches me in the kitchens, she scowls at me so fiercely that I stumble out like I’ve been struck.

  For all that, the food is outstanding. In the first three weeks, I never eat the same thing twice. There are stews of vegetables and a deep, hearty cut of beef, and dozens of different kinds of bread. Fish, which I have only ever managed to eat as the castoffs of the wealthy, is a delicacy I’m wary of at first but soon learn to look forward to. Under Pies' careful ministrations, I gain weight. My ribs stop showing quite so clearly through my skin. I’m able to walk freely. Not that I do much with it but stare out over the city.

  The window overlooking Reknor’s street is a never-ending tapestry. Merchants bow and wring their hands and cater to the wealthy patrons in one moment, then scowl and throw up rude gestures as soon as they turn away. Nobles ride past in ornate, ostentatious carriages, stopping wherever they please and hardly pausing for pedestrians. Young men on horses canter past, doing their best to look pretty for the crowd. Occasionally, I pick out a cutpurse stalking the streets. They no doubt make a killing with the plethora of soft targets along Castleberry. I haven’t ever been able to make a run at the wealthiest districts of the city. You have to look the part to even have a chance in places like the Meadows.

  A memory, unbidden, creeps its way out of the recesses of my mind.

  I shiver on the rooftop. The snow falls thicker than it has before, and I have to blink to clear the snow from my eyelashes. I’ve been staring down at a butcher shop on the outer edge of the Meadows for hours. If I’m patient, I might be able to sneak down once he throws away his scraps. Waiting in the cold might kill me, but starvation isn’t a reasonable alternative.

  A young girl, probably eleven, approaches, bolder than I ever would be. Her red hair is still relatively red, so she’s eaten well recently, but the ragged state of her clothing and the hunched, world-weary way that she walks flags her as a fellow urchin. Like a hopeless romantic, the girl tries her luck at begging the butcher for his scraps.

  “Please sir,” she pleads, holding out her hands. “I'm starving and it’s so snowing, can you please just-”

  “Bugger off,” the man snaps. He doesn’t glance up, but continues to chop the delicate portions off of a haunch of venison. Experienced street rats would never beg the man, let alone stay after he tells them to leave.

  “But sir, my parents died. I just-”

  “Leave, you little shite, or I'll have the guard here before you can scream,” the butcher growls, looking up with a practiced sneer.

  The girl can’t take the rejection. It happens to some: the last rejection, the last brush-away, the last look of disdain. Suddenly they snap. Some attack their attackers. Some run screaming through the streets shouting nonsense. Others, like the little redhead, just sit down and cry. Her knees crumple, and she slowly sinks down into the shallow, dirty snow and weeps.

  The butcher looks up from his cutting and curses. He strides off down the street, shouting for the guard. I silently will the girl to get up and leave. She shouldn't beg in the Meadows. She definitely shouldn't sit there crying while the Watch is coming. But I know a snap when I see one, so I know that I’m wasting my time with my silent plea. Like I’m the hopeless romantic, I start to climb down from the roof to nudge her along when the sound of booted feet and clinking chainmail freeze me in place.

  The men and women of the Watch surround the girl. They ask her a few cursory questions I can't make out. Apparently satisfied, the captain motions to one of his men, who steps forward impassively and picks the girl up. Suddenly coming back to herself, she screams, loud and long, but it doesn’t do her any good. My body tenses, but I can’t tell if my adrenaline is begging me to save her or run away before a similar fate can befall me.

  The guardsman walks over to the nearest sewer grate. Two of the brawnier men in the group lift the heavy bars aside, and the guard shoves the thrashing, screaming girl into the darkness below. She clings with her arms and feet, desperately crying out in a wordless plea for help. Her face contorts into the desperate fear of a cornered animal. Her giant blue eyes, bigger than any girl has a right to, are filled with frightened tears. The guardsman curses as the girl clings to the edges of the sewer with ferocious tenacity. A second guard finally has to pry her fingers off the edges of the sewe
r, and she disappears as fast as blinking. Her shriek cuts off when the heavy grate slams closed.

  The Watch walk away, ignoring the faintest of cries emanating from under the ground. The butcher returns to work. He cuts his meat with cool precision. He throws the scraps into the alley, closing up his shop and heading upstairs to sleep. My eyes lock on the sewer grate, and I pause, some dormant part of me begging to help her. My stomach rumbles, though, and I thaw quickly enough. Scampering down the brick wall, I dart over and lift the salvageable fat and scraps of meat from the snow before they freeze.

  I ignore the tears that run down my face as I stuff the raw meat in my mouth. I can’t acknowledge them or I’ll have to acknowledge the awful truth. I’m not crying for the little redhead, thrown into darkness so that an arrogant man can stay arrogant. I’m not crying for the brutality of the Watch. No, I’m crying for myself because I don’t feel like crying for the little urchin at all.

  “What are you doing?”

  I start from my reverie. Reknor leans in the doorway with his arms folded, the long sleeves of his shirt hanging loose around his arms, buttons undone. He has the eyebrow over his eye patch cocked, which is about as disconcerting as it sounds. I often wonder how he lost the eye. He hasn’t offered, and I don’t know him well enough to ask.

  “I'm watching the people, seeing wealthy people get cutpursed in broad daylight and struggling to feel for them,” I say wryly.

  “No, Jace. What are you doing?”

  I look at him, then pointedly out at the street, then back to him, then again at the street. On the third repetition he throws up his hands in frustration and storms towards me. I lean back in my chair, uncertain what I’ve done to provoke the man. He towers over me, and the warm wood of the chair is no comfort as he leans in close. I don’t cower, but it isn’t by much.

  “You just... sit,” Reknor says, disbelief coloring his voice. “You don't do anything. When I first saw you, I thought you were curious and intelligent and vibrant... what is this? What are you doing?”

  “I do stuff,” I start indignantly, but I stop.

  I think about the weeks passed. Sitting at windows, lying in bed recovering, never leaving Reknor's house to venture out. The thought hasn’t even crossed my mind. I’m surprised at the thought. Why hasn’t the idea of outside, of the world, of people, entered my thoughts? Why am I just sitting here?

  “I can see your eyes and know you aren't an idiot,” Reknor says, staring intently at me. “I've seen your curiosity and your fire. What happened to it?”

  “I... I don't know. I guess...”

  I look out the window just in time to see a woman slip a purse and toss it discreetly to another thief passing by. A twinge of unease spikes in my gut, and I slide back farther from the window.

  “What do you want out of this?” Reknor asks bluntly. “What do you want from me?”

  “I don't want to be afraid anymore.”

  The words slip from my mouth before I can grab them back. Even as they leave my lips I know them to be true. A tenseness between my shoulder blades tightens my body in the grip of a quiet, subconscious terror. My mental fingers can’t place what I’m afraid of, but the very notion of leaving the safety of Reknor's house debilitates me. Reknor doesn’t say anything, but strokes his beard, his expression thoughtful.

  “What are you afraid of?” he asks me, no hint of reproach in his voice.

  “Knives, and hobnail boots, and nobles, and Timo,” I say in a breathless rush. “And Kettle, and hunger, and the snow, and the Tide, and you, and... fire.”

  I bury my face in my hands as soon as I finish. What am I, some kind of coward? What does this man, practically a stranger, care about my fears?

  “All reasonable fears. Especially me,” he says, crouching down to my level. “What if I told you that I could take away all that fear, including the fears you haven't even thought to have? Let you live in confidence, free from what’s holding you back?”

  “How could you do that?” I ask skeptically, my hard-won pessimism showing through. It sounds like a fairy tale.

  “Well, the fear won't be gone completely. A man without fear is insane. But a man who can conquer that fear is dangerous. It'll take work. Hard work. You’ll have to do what I say, anything I say, no matter how crazy it sounds. You must do it as if I was your commander, your general. It won't be easy. You may want to quit halfway. You may even try to run. But, here and now, if you agree, I won't let you. We will either conquer your fears together or die trying.”

  I look into his smoldering brown eye and, Creator help me, believe. I probably should be terrified at his conditions, at the intensity in his voice, but I don't care. I can deal with hardship, work, and toil to be free of fear. I stand up and reach out my hand.

  His hand engulfs mine as he shakes it with a firm grip.

  ***

  Gripping the wooden practice sword carefully, I eye the post in front of me. It’s painted a variety of colors, as if it has just come from a rural town celebrating the coming of Spring. Red, green, pink, purple, blue, yellow, orange, a random swath of vibrancy from top to bottom. The pole is taller than I am, which puts it about the height of a large man. A storeroom in the back of Reknor’s house has been cleared for my use, the only adornment in the entire space this gaudily painted pole.

  “This is my opponent?”

  “Yep,” Reknor says cheerily from his position off to the side. “Strike pink.”

  “But shouldn’t I be fighting against someone if I am going to learn how to use a sword?”

  “Nope,” he responds in the same tone. “Strike pink.”

  I sigh, bringing the sword around and slapping the pink side squarely in the middle. Reknor appears an inch from my face, and I freeze.

  “Did I say gently tap pink?”

  “No,” I say meekly.

  “Then strike pink!” he shouts, a vein standing out on his forehead.

  I bring the sword up and around and slam it full-force into the pink section. Or, I try to. In my haste and with the strength I’ve put behind the swing, I miss low and hit purple. The blow stings my hands, the vibrating blade trying to jump out of my hand from the impact.

  “You missed. Are you color blind? Strike pink.”

  Growling in anger, I cut at the pole again. My blow strikes directly in the middle of the pink section. The blow is awkward, and my hands ache. Still, I look at Reknor triumphantly. 'Blue' is his only response.

  I spend what feels like hours cutting the pole over and over, high and low and middle and low and middle and high. My arms start to shake after the tenth strike. After the twentieth, I can barely lift the blade. After the thirtieth, I can’t even see which color I’m striking through the sweat stinging my eyes. I cut at the memory of the colors. I force sobs down deep into my chest as blood drips down my hands and my arms move with the lumbering speed of an ox.

  It takes me a moment to realize that Reknor hasn’t called out a color in several attacks. I stare over at him stupidly. My numb hands refuse to let go of the sword. He watches me with an expression somewhere between a grimace and a grin. He holds out his hand for the sword, but I shake my head wearily.

  “You want to keep going?” he asks in surprise.

  “No,” I pant, letting the point of the blade drop and rest on the ground. “I can't make my hands let go.”

  He nods solemnly. With infinite tenderness, he pries my fingers off of the hilt of the wooden sword. I cry out as each finger tugs free with a wet squelch. The dried blood pulls at blisters that have already broken long before. The sword finally comes free, and I fall to my knees, staring at my once-strong hands in horror. Most of the blood is dried already, but new rivulets of crimson leak down my wrists. I swear I can see bone through the skin. Reknor lifts me up, still staring at my hands, and walks me out of the empty room and back into the livable sections of the house.

  He leads me up the stairs and into his room, through his bedchamber, and into his bathing room. A large bo
wl of marble ten feet across dominates the room. He pulls a rope, and steaming-hot water pours from the fixture to fill up the smooth marble bowl. I haven’t seen anything like it, though its use is obvious. When the tub is largely filled, Reknor motions for me to undress and get in the tub.

  “Now, Jace,” he says, forcing me to look him in the eyes. “This is going to hurt. A lot. But let your hands soak in the water. It will help them relax and begin to heal.”

  I nod dumbly. He starts to leave, but I must make a noise. He turns back and meets my eye. I plead with him silently, too proud to ask but scared enough to beg. My fingers are little better than frozen claws. He studies my hands again and walks back over, quietly helping me take off my clothes so that I won’t have to put my hands to use.

  “Even though it might not feel like it right now, that was a pretty damn impressive showing for your first time at the post. I threw my sword down after the fifth stroke on my first effort. Earned me a beating, but still,” Reknor offers.

  He gives me a half smile and leaves the room. I ease down into the steaming, deliciously hot water. Slowly, I submerge everything but my head and my hands. Sharp spikes of pain shoot up from underneath my arms, and I shy away. I grimace, but force myself back into the water. I take a hundred breaths, trying to find some semblance of the stillness. It doesn’t work, but still my heart is calmer as I begin to lower my hands into the water. Fire erupts through my fingers. I hiss between my teeth as my hands dart back away from the warm water. Scowling, mentally hardening myself to what’s to come, I shoot my hands down into the water with one swift motion. My calm breathing shatters, and I pant and grunt like an animal as the water slowly turns pink.

  When I wake the next day, I can hardly lift my arms. My legs aren’t much better off, and my back and abdomen are sheets of aching pain. My hands are wrapped in clean white linen, and I sigh. Reknor is always patching me up while I sleep. When I try to sit up, a splitting headache draws a groan of agony. More stagger than grace, I stumble towards the stairs, thudding with a grunt against the wall. I refuse to use my hands to push off for fear of what that particular experience might do to my sanity.