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

by Lane Trompeter

  I duck under a slash from one of the soldiers, kicking at her knee to keep her at bay while I send a blade of glittering glass to threaten the other. He shatters the fragile sword with a blow, ignoring the aftermath as he doggedly pursues me across the hall.

  Second, you are only limited by your will and creativity.

  The shards of my broken blade never fall. I direct them to pepper his back as I roll away from another cut from the first soldier. Had he not been wearing padding, the shards would have cut him to the bone. Surprised, he obediently falls to the ground as if dead. My second foe presses her advantage, and her cuts come fast and sure. I twist and dodge back, but she’s always there, pressing, pressing, each blow cutting closer and closer. I almost scream as one slash nearly catches the glowing green symbol of my power.

  Finally, your symbol is the source of all your strength. Protect it at all costs.

  Desperate, I summon the dust from the floor and thrust it into her eyes. She blinks madly, trying to clear her eyes with her forearm. Glass soars to my hand, reforming into a narrow dagger, and I place it against her throat. She stills, her emerald eyes glinting and a slight smile tugging at her lips. For a long moment, we stare into each other’s eyes, and I find myself grinning back.

  “Again,” I say finally, spinning away, a flush in my cheeks that has nothing to do with exertion.

  I beckon to a third soldier waiting patiently against the wall. A throat clears nervously behind me. I spin to see a page in the Sealord's livery standing by the door.

  “Yes?” I ask him, annoyed at the interruption.

  “The Sealord begs your presence in the dungeons, my lady,” he says, bowing so that his nose nearly touches the floor.

  “The dungeons? Are you absolutely sure?”

  “Y-yes, my lady,” he says. His entire body is shaking. Why he is so afraid is beyond me. “Absolutely sure.”

  “Very well. You are relieved,” I throw back over my shoulder.

  The soldiers relax. Just as I cross over the threshold and out of the room, I hear them laughing. I pause, frowning. What stops them from relaxing around me? I haven’t heard them laugh once in a dozen training sessions. Why are they so silent and serious?

  I follow the page down through several levels of the palace, passing three separate guard posts. At each posting, the men stop talking and salute me formally. We continue until we reach the open portcullis that leads to the palace dungeons, somewhere underneath the south wall. The page halts, breathing heavily, and I regard him with concern. Sweat beads his brow, and his eyes roam everywhere but at the door leading onwards.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Do not make me go back in there, please, princess,” he begs, eyes shining with tears. “I already can't unsee what little I saw.”

  “I never come here, page. I’m sorry, but you have to lead me.”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  He takes a ragged breath as if to master himself, then sets out at a firm march down the dimly-lit corridors. We pass dozens of cells, many of them full. The only prisoners kept at the palace proper are political, suspected spies, or dangers to the state of the kingdom. Most appear quite miserable, if in decent health. The prisoners on the upper level are treated with a certain level of dignity.

  As we descend, however, the prisoners begin to show signs of abuse. The page never looks aside from his determined march through the dungeons, as if the tortured souls are only real if he sees them, but I’m drawn to study the prisoners and their prison. I’ve never been to this level before. Iron chains hold a woman with dark hair to the wall, her wrists raw and infected, lips broken and cracked. Her vacant eyes stare deeply into oblivion, and she makes no movement at our passage. Hers is not an uncommon plight throughout the second level, and part of me recoils at the abuse they’ve been levied, but I don’t waver. These people have earned their punishments. I’m sure of it.

  Finally, we come to a dark awning leading down, a spiral staircase descending into the deepest reaches. The natural water of the earth seeps through infinitesimal cracks in the stone and slicks the walk with slime and moisture. The sound of our footsteps breaks an unnatural silence as we place our feet carefully on the wet stone. Torches light the stairs, but the darkness seems to press against us whenever we pass between their light.

  Four cells await us at the bottom, simple in shape, but constructed with complex materials. Each was designed, long ago, to hold a Shaper. Created from different alloys and mixtures of elements, their creators crafted these cages in such a way so that they no longer resemble the elements of their creation. A Shaper locked in these cells will be unable to Shape, unable to break free.

  Three of the cells are empty, or appear so, but my father stands in the doorway of the fourth, two members of the Tide flanking him. When he sees me, he smiles warmly.

  “Iliana. I have a gift for you,” he says, beckoning me forward.

  He indicates the open cell with a sweeping gesture as if presenting me a banquet on Mourningtide. Inside, chained hand and foot to the wall, is the assassin who shot me. He’s seen better days. The socket of his left eye gapes dark and red, and chains preventing his unconscious body from sagging to the floor. I don’t think he could support his weight if we freed him. The lone eye remaining to him drifts, unfocused. Even like this, a surge of revulsion and fear clinches my belly at the sight of him.

  “He’s told us all that he knows. Pitifully, he seems to have no connection to the Vengeance at all. He was acting on his own.”

  “How is this a gift?” I ask, turning back to my father. “Kill him.”

  “My dear, I thought you would like the honor. This man is a traitor to the kingdom, and he tried to kill you. He nearly succeeded. When one such as he steps out of line, he must be punished.”

  At the sound of our voices, the man's head perks up. The cruel fire of unabashed hatred returns to his eye. He sneers, and blood and pus leak from the gaping socket on his left. I shrink back to the wall, the man’s hatred palpable and overwhelming. His one good eye darts back and forth between my father and me as if he can’t decide who he hates more.

  “So the bitch lives,” he rasps, rearing back and weakly spitting in my direction. The spit barely clears his mouth, dangling on the ragged beard covering his cheeks. “I hoped to do the Vengeance a favor. The world has gone to shit ever since you and your band of happy murderers took over. The Shapers used to serve the people, not themselves. May you find a place with the Eternal.”

  “I don’t want to be alone with him, Father. He scares me.”

  “I won't leave you, my dear. We’ll punish him together,” he says, his tone calm and steady. “Now, I know you have a talent for Shaping glass. How about we begin with that?”

  He produces a long, jagged shard of a mirror and holds it out to me. Uncertain but obedient, I reach out with my mind and lift it. The blade shimmers in the dim torchlight, turning slightly in the air. The assassin’s scowling face flits through the shard’s reflection for the briefest moment, and I force it to still. The only sounds in the dim room are the soft clink of the prisoner's chains and the quickening gasps of terror from the forgotten page who led me down. I move the shard closer to the man. He quiets as the point hovers in front of his remaining eye.

  “Whatever you do to me, bitch, know that the Creator damns you for this. The power of the Shapers was never meant—”

  He cuts off with a hideous wail as I push the blade into his eye.

  I stare at him, shocked at what I’ve done. The man writhes in unyielding chains, the glass jutting forth from his skull like a twisted mimicry of a horn. I didn’t mean to hurt him so badly. I just had to stop his words. How dare he? How dare he say that the Creator damns me? I’m the Creator's blessed. I’m one of fifteen Shapers to grace the earth. How dare he? The rage from the alley rises up in my chest like a beast unchained. My fear of his hatred fades, and in its place, dark confidence soars.

  I have power over this man. Over his life, an
d his death. Over his suffering, and his solace. He is mine.

  To do with as I please.

  With a thought, I yank the blade of glass out of his eye. He screams a ragged scream and hunches over as far as the chains will take him. The urge to laugh is overwhelming as I watch him squirm. Curiously I stab the blade into his shoulder, but he barely flinches. A short giggle escapes my lips, even though I try to hold it back. Part of me shouts that it is wrong to laugh, but the larger part of me can’t resist.

  “You’re finally starting to learn, my dear,” the Sealord says behind me, his voice filled with a strange satisfaction. “Now, why don't we try something new? It’s nearly impossible to Shape inside another human's body. Otherwise, I would have supreme power, as water is the principal part of a man's blood. No, the human body is, largely, sacrosanct. Let's see if you are ready to pierce that protection.”

  He whispers in my ear. I turn back to the bleeding prisoner and break the mirror shard into a slender sliver. Bringing the narrow blade to the edge of his palm, I put every ounce of my focus into the sliver of earth, connecting to it with every fiber of my being. With a deep breath, I drive it into his hand. He jerks, and his throat wheezes little more than a whistling croak after his previous screams.

  Immediately, my connection to the shard begins to falter, the man's own soul resisting my influence. I close my eyes to concentrate on driving the sliver deeper. As it burrows into his wrist, he begins gibbering. The sounds hold no meaning, any words lost in the echoes that reverberate from the stone walls. I push, weakly at first and then stronger. The sliver of glass worms its way through his flesh. I open my eyes to watch as his limbs twitch and convulse. The shard delves deeper into his arm towards his waiting heart. My limbs start trembling, my thoughts growing fuzzy. The power needed to maintain my connection to the earth wavers as I reach his chest. With a last powerful mental push, I drive the shard into his heart.

  He falls limp. The outward sign of his death hardly even leaks any blood. I glance back at my father through the spots dancing before my eyes. My breath is ragged and uneven, and my vision darkens at the edges.

  “I did it,” I gasp, smiling up at Father. I feel light, like I could take off and fly at any moment. I’ve conquered my fear of the assassin, and in so doing pleased my father. Such... power, to own another so completely. It is intoxicating.

  “Of course you did. You are my daughter,” he says, smiling warmly and taking me into a big hug. I return it weakly. “I'm proud of you, Iliana.”

  ***

  I wake slowly, though my eyes remain clenched shut, the pressure in my head a bottled hurricane. Tears trace streams down my face, mere tributaries to a dark, wet ocean that spreads out on my pillow. I force my eyes open. A narrow slit of a window high above allows the half-moon glimmering through the clouds to break the darkness of midnight, but only just. It can’t be far til dawn, I rub my eyes blearily, shattering the crust of dried tears.

  An image flashes into my head, the assassin twitching as if seizing, sounds coming from his mouth far from human. I flinch and curl up tighter into a ball. I remember, distantly, the feeling of euphoria that came over me, the joy. It’s long gone. Emptiness yawns, the pit that has taken the place of my heart deep and dark. I don’t know why I’m crying. Justice is on my side. But the tears come from some place that doesn’t touch my conscious self. The strange giddiness of the assassin's murder, the horror in the alley, nothing seems real.

  I feel nothing.

  The thought scares me, sending a spark of adrenaline coursing through my veins. The fear is good; it’s something different, something real to latch on to. I lurch out of bed in the near-darkness, striding over to my wardrobe and fumbling out a simple cotton dress. While finely made, the dress is one of ten thousand being sold in the market. I purchased it for just this reason. Sliding my nightgown off, I slip the dress over my head and dig out some simple leather sandals. With a shiver at the chill air, I spin a heavy coat around my shoulders and slip out of my room.

  The palace is not exactly difficult to sneak out of if you know where to go. Torlas taught me long ago, when the joy of disobeying outweighed the consequences. While the walls are sturdy and high around the palace proper, the walls surrounding the garden are short. Protected more by thorn hedges and guardsmen than real fortification, the gardens open practically into the royal apartments.

  I nod to the guard at the entrance to the gardens, and she bows her head, letting me pass without comment. She bears the deep turquoise armor of the Tide, though her hair peeks out a vibrant auburn from the edges of her helmet. I don’t know her name, but I know her face: the soldier who nearly beat me in the hall yesterday. When I stop next to her, her eyebrows rise in surprise. Her nose is slightly crooked, probably broken on a battlefield and forced roughly back into place. A breathless tension rises in my chest as our eyes meet again. Her green eyes, hard as steel, soften as she takes me in.

  “Tide.”

  “Yes, my lady?”

  “What is your name?” I ask, trying to paste a smile on my face. The emptiness inside of me makes the expression feel strange.

  “I am called Poline, my lady,” she says, trying to hide her confusion. “Is there anything my lady requires?”

  “If anyone comes looking for me, you’re to tell them I am communing with the earth. I’m not to be disturbed, even by a messenger of my father. If he wants to see me, he can fetch me himself.”

  “But, my lady, your father—”

  “I have no intentions of causing you trouble,” I say quickly, bowing my head to her. Her eyes widen further. “This is simply a favor I ask. If someone comes demanding me to present myself... tell them the truth.”

  “And what truth is that, lady?”

  “That you have absolutely no idea where I am. You saw me enter, but you never saw me leave.”

  “I will expressly not tell them about the loose bar by the lily,” Poline says, nodding seriously and returning to attention. I’m shocked to hear my secret spoken so openly, but mirth dances in her eyes.

  “Precisely. Thank you, Poline,” I say.

  The brilliant green of the hedges are punctuated by the patches of early Winter snow clinging to healthy branches. When I play in the garden, I turn the earth, sifting it, imbuing it with power. I breathe life into the cold, frozen ground. The trees in the small orchard bear fruit all year round. The leaves never fall from the trees, no matter how cold the Winter or how fierce the storms. The living things of my garden stay beautiful and strong as they ignore the passing years.

  Today, though, I feel none of the familiar pride and happiness as the soul of the earth calls to me. Only in this place, of all places, does the earth feel alive and well in the city. Elsewhere, the rock suffocates the soil under stone's long silence. We’re lucky, quite honestly, that the Mason does not wish harm upon the people of the kingdom. Practically the entire damn city is made of stone. He could crush the walls and buildings almost at will. It wouldn’t take long to have another Breaking, another city destroyed for a Shaper’s war.

  Shaking off the unwelcome thought, I stride through the gardens and between two sections of the hedge to come to the fence. At first, Torlas and I tried to count to the loose bar, but, after forgetting half a dozen times which it was, I came up with another plan. Next to the bar, I planted a white lily. Unique to the gardens, the flower is a perfect marker.

  With a quick moment of concentration, my arm not even glowing through the thick coat, I lift the dirt and grime from the bar and pull it easily from its moorings. I slip out through the fence and replace the bar behind me, making certain that the bar appears exactly as it had before. No point in advertising to thieves and assassins that there’s something interesting in this particular spot.

  I weave my way through the small copse that surrounds this half of the palace and divides it from the surrounding city. The trees are strange in the stone labyrinth of Donir, as most of the city is built upon other buildings and foundations,
including a positively ancient set of sewers that honeycomb everything below the street level. This earth, though still alive, is cut off from the rest by layer upon layer of stone.

  Sifting through the trees, I come upon the row of fences that mark the outside edge of the palace. The estates of important nobles border the treeline, the small patches of land owned by the nobility a sign of status in the overcrowded city. Another loose bar gives me access to the small backyard of the Graevo mansion. I glance up at the house nervously. Torlas shouldn't be home; he’s working out in the city with his father. I don’t want to catch the eyes of the serving staff, lest I be mistaken for a thief or, worse, recognized as myself. I hurry forward and walk out past the guards at the entrance, my chin tucked and coat pulled close. They murmur something about a stranger, when I risk a glance back, they remain complacently standing at their posts.

  With a sigh of relief, I join the flow of foot traffic passing through the city. At this early hour and on this particular wealthy street, few people are walking, but the teeming masses of Donir are a few short blocks away. I let my chin come up, breathing in deeply. The icy wind burns my face and plunges deep into my lungs, the claws of Winter deliciously dragging across my skin. A bit of me revives in the stiff breeze as my soul rises back up to greet my stimulated flesh.

  A smile graces my lips, but, even as I recognize the expression, it falls away. What do I have to be happy about? Something is wrong, whether with me or the world or the Eternal's own grave, I can’t tell. My soul feels broken, tattered, as if the events of the previous day have cut ragged gashes in my very being. The assassin twitches in my mind's eye, and I jam my eyes shut tightly, trying to force the image away. It only grows more vivid, the feeling of the shard of glass creeping through his body, driving towards his heart... I shiver. The wind blows again, but this time the cold bites through my dress and chills me to the bone.