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

by Lane Trompeter

  “Young lady, is something the matter?”

  My eyes pop open, seeing an expression of concern painted over a fearsome visage. A long, flowing mane of brown hair streaked with gray flows past a thin, tightly groomed beard. A black eye patch barely manages to cover an old, ragged wound. His missing eye immediately recalls the assassin’s wounds, and I step back quickly, raising my hands, cursing silently. I can’t believe I let a man surprise me again. I can still feel the pawing hands of the thugs and the ache in my scalp.

  “No, sir, nothing is the matter,” I say coldly.

  “Ah,” he says, a knowing look coming into his lone eye. It glints, lively enough to make up for the lack of another. “The only time I look as pained as you is when I get out of bed. Creator damn these old bones, I wouldn't wish that kind of hurt on anyone.”

  I give him a once-over. He has broad, strong shoulders, smooth, fashionably cut clothing, and a surety in how he carries himself. Old, maybe. But he doesn’t fool me. This man dreads getting out of bed about how much I dread getting into mine.

  “I'm sure,” I say, cocking an eyebrow at the man. “Well, good sir, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be on my way.”

  I brush past him, but he gently grabs my arm. I nearly call on the earth to strike him down, but he smiles down on me warmly.

  “A bit of advice, princess,” he says quietly, smiling a little broader. I clench my jaw, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a confirmation or a denial. “One of the best things to do when facing something difficult is to look for help. Find someone who’ll listen. Lighter is the burden of a trouble shared. Just an old man's wisdom.”

  He releases my arm, turns and strides down the street as if he owns it. His steps claim the ground he walks on, his polished leather shoes firmly pressing into the stones of the street. As he starts to distance himself from me, he begins to whistle, the melody familiar, but just outside of recognition. I blink as a snowflake settles on my eyelash, and he disappears around a corner in the distance.

  His words… Who can I tell? My father won’t understand what I’m going through; he’s the one encouraging me to do it. Uncle will go with whatever Father says. Anyone who isn’t family will... how will they view me? I try to look at myself from an outsider's perspective, but I can’t place it. I’m a Shaper, chosen by the Creator himself. What would the worth be in considering the views of a lesser being?

  The icy wind blowing straight through my coat, I wander. The turmoil of my soul is no closer to calming. The sun etches a dreary track across the sky, occasionally obscured by ragged gray clouds. The people of the city impart no warmth, no life, as they used to. The alley, and the assassin, and the impossible joy suffusing those moments: each has drained something of the essence of what my life once was. The sun finally drops towards the horizon. I know I will be missed; the Tide may be searching for me even now, but I have no desire to go back to the palace.

  Weight seems to pile on my shoulders, and my steps slow to a crawl. Several people jostle me from behind as they pass, but I can’t be bothered to care. I angle for the side of the street so that I can stop and breathe for a moment. If only I can breathe. Just for a moment. I raise my head for the first time in hours. Without realizing it, I’m less than a hundred steps from the courthouses. The courthouse where Torlas works.

  Before I can even think about stopping, my feet carry me towards the steps. As I approach the marble columns that mark the courts, I slow. I can’t go into a place of the law looking as I do. But, then again, what will they do? Arrest me? Head down, coat pulled tight, I pass between a pair of uninterested soldiers of the Wave, their uniforms immaculate and their faces apathetic. They don’t so much as glance at me.

  As soon as the doors swing shut behind me, it’s like I enter into a different world. The warm, quiet interior is a blessing after the chaotic volume of the streets. A line of people wait to be received by a few clerks sitting behind desks. Most reach the front, describe their problem, and sit to await judgment. The few chairs on the side of the room are full, and several people are forced to stand awkwardly in the open space between the counters and the door.

  I don’t want to cause a scene, so I join the line with my head down. I let my long hair fall around my face, hopefully disguising me further. In these close quarters, it’s possible for me to be recognized in a way that the markets don’t allow. An elderly couple waits in front of me in line, the woman continually babbling into her husband's ear.

  “I tell you, we had better be seen today. It’s been far too long without a single whisper from our counsel. If they keep this up, then we'll rot away and die before they ever have to talk to us! Perhaps that's what they want. Lousy pennygrubbers, always there when you owe them fees, never around when you actually need them. Are you even listening to me, Nore? This girl is! She understands, right?”

  It takes me a moment to realize that she’s talking to me. Glancing up through my hair, I blink in surprise to see both of them staring at me expectantly.

  “Uh, of course!” I say, trying to brighten and praying that they don’t recognize my face. “Lousy pennygrubbers.”

  “See, Nore? Even the youth understand me. I've been around, Nore, you see, I've been on this earth and in this city longer than anyone. I know things. Even if the counselors are trying to wait me out! I’ll not die before I see one of you, hear my vow!”

  The old man – Nore, I presume – turns to me. He reaches into a bag at his hip and pulls out a small piece of chocolate. Popping it into his mouth, he grins like a child and snags another from the bag. He offers it to me surreptitiously, winking. I smile in spite of myself, gratefully taking the morsel. A bit of the coldness inside of me makes way for warmth. He winks again, ignoring his wife as he turns back to look at the line, munching happily.

  It's strange. Every time I want to give up on humanity, someone finds a way to bring me back. Like magic, an old man named Nore has given me a small moment of happiness and a shared smile. It isn’t much, but it’s something. The crack in the ice in my chest is no relief. I can feel something lurking there, some darkness I don’t know if I’m ready to face.

  I come to the front of the line. A young female clerk, probably a few years my senior, flicks her eyes up to me from the paper she’s transcribing. Uninterest practically oozes from her very pores.

  “What is your complaint?” she asks in a flat monotone.

  “I don't have one.”

  “Then what are you here for?”

  “I’m here to see Torlas Graevo.”

  Now she glances up at me in annoyance, her blonde eyebrows disappearing under the curtain of bangs that lays artfully across her forehead.

  “Why would a man like Torlas want to see a... girl like you?”

  There is such a tide of condescension in her words that I might drown if I let it wash over me. I feel like the common dress I’m wearing is an affront to her; she stares straight through me and sees nothing but a foolish girl trying to reach a powerful lord. She might be annoyed that some stranger has walked up to her desk and is asking to see an important man, but that means nothing compared to how annoyed I’m quickly becoming.

  “I imagine he would want to see this girl,” I say carefully, gritting my teeth.

  “Please, child. Rumors say that Torlas already has the run of every noblewoman he desires, all the way to the princess, if you would believe that. Some girl he whose virginity he stole is hardly worthy of his time. Move along.”

  I slide the coat down below the level of my right shoulder, arching an eyebrow at the woman and drawing on the faintest thread of power. The symbol of my strength rises to the surface of my skin, visible only to the two of us in the crowded room. The girl pales. She knows that it will be simple as breathing for me to have her imprisoned and beaten for showing me such disrespect. Just as she opens her mouth to speak, I hold up a finger.

  “Don't say a word. To anyone. About even a hint of this conversation. If you can keep that wagging tongue of y
ours completely still, I’ll forget what happened here. If I hear even the faintest rumor that the princess was anywhere near the courthouse, any courthouse in all of the kingdom, I’m going to find you. And I won't turn you over to the dungeons. No, girl, you will answer to me.”

  The girl gulps and nods, standing so abruptly that her chair screeches on the marble.

  “Now, lead me to Torlas, and nothing will have changed about your pathetic existence,” I say.

  Amusement replaces my anger as she strides forward far too fast for decency. I pull my coat up high, lower my head, and follow. She leads me back through a level of opulent offices occupied by some of the premier legal minds of the kingdom. We ascend two flights of stairs and follow an exterior corridor, the windows shining inward with the bright, cold light of the Winter sun as it nears the horizon. She stops at one of the offices near the end of the hall, bowing before the door so low as to nearly tip over. I let her stand there for a moment holding the uncomfortable pose.

  “Remember what will happen to you if you speak.”

  Her long legs take her around the corner before three heartbeats pass. With a sigh, I turn back to Torlas' door. I can hear movement inside, the soft scratch of a quill on paper and the occasional shuffling of papers. I hesitate. Dare I offer my burdens to this man? It’s Torlas: joyful, playful, a man who actually sees me for me and tries to bring me happiness.

  And to that, I’m bringing only sorrow.

  I let my head come to rest against the door with a soft thump. The sounds inside cease.

  “Is someone there?” Torlas calls from inside, his voice strong and confident.

  I stay in that posture for a long moment, doing my very best to turn and walk away. I know our friendship will never be the same if I walk in. All I have to do is turn my back and continue to struggle with my demons on my own. I don't know if it’s strength or weakness that calls for me to open the door, but I open it.

  Torlas immediately brightens when he sees me, like a child offered a favorite treat. I take in his dim office from the threshold, noting that a flickering candle serves as his only illumination. He’s not afforded a window, and the tangible darkness inside is oppressive. He can always walk outside for a moment of sunlight, but the office is not what I expected to be given to the heir to the most powerful duke in the entire kingdom.

  I take a step into the candlelight and away from the sun silhouetting me to Torlas' eyes. Before I can open my mouth, he’s standing. His arm wraps around my shoulders as he leads me to one of the two chairs set before his desk. I sink into one, and he takes the other. He gathers both of my hands in his.

  “Iliana, I am here for you.”

  His words, so simple, so caring, the way he inflects my name, even the sound of his voice, all pummel at the void that fills my chest. He doesn’t ask me what’s wrong. He doesn’t ask what he can do for me. He just declares, as a true friend should, that he will be what I need him to be. I don’t deserve whatever Torlas feels for me, in friendship or beyond.

  “I...” I begin, but I trail off as the moment of my confession comes upon me. Looking into the eyes of my only true friend, my spirit quails at the thought of losing him. The words stick in my throat. “I have something to tell you. I don't want you to speak or to ask me any questions. I just want you to listen, okay?”

  Torlas nods seriously, already following my instructions. So I tell him. The words come falling from my mouth one after another in a monotone; the uncaring ashes of the pyre of my innocence. Torlas doesn’t respond or react until I describe the torture of the assassin. Even then, he just closes his eyes and continues to hold my hands. My words end abruptly. The story of my deeds is not so long, but the sudden silence is louder and lasts far longer.

  Finally, Torlas opens his eyes: guarded, uncertain, a look of such confusion and mistrust that my soul drops back into the void. It’s just as I feared. I’ve ruined whatever friendship I had with Torlas; cut down any budding relationship before it can even begin. As Torlas searches my gaze, however, a light kindles in his eyes.

  “I’m not going to... excuse what you’ve done, Iliana,” he says, his tone as solemn as I’ve ever heard him. “Torturing the assassin, whether he tried to kill you or not, was wrong. I can't believe that you’d do something like that. I understand, I guess. If someone tried to kill me, I’d want revenge as well. The men in the alley, the rapists, they deserved every bit of their fate. I don't know if I want my fifteen-year-old friend being the face of justice, at least not yet, but all women deserve more than to have those men walk the earth. It may be hard to believe, but this changes nothing.”

  “But you don't understand!” I shout, tearing my hands out of his. “I enjoyed it! I laughed as they suffered! I exulted as they died!”

  “Why? Why would you feel that way?”

  “Because I had power over them. Because I was in control. Of my life and theirs. I finally started to realize that they are beneath me.”

  “No. Iliana, don't say that. That’s the Sealord speaking, not you,” Torlas responds, shaking his head. “No one is beneath you. You are human.”

  “You're wrong,” I spit, acid in my voice. “I’m different. I am the Master of Earth, the only one who can claim that title. I’m blessed to be the Creator's chosen. We are set apart.”

  “You are human,” Torlas says again, his voice growing stronger. “You breathe, you laugh, you cry, you hate. You... love. No matter what you’ve been taught, you’re still human.”

  “I’m not like you, Torlas. I’m a Shaper.”

  “You are more like me than your father. I don't want to do this. But, if I have to, I must. I’m going to pit myself against your father, as much as the thought terrifies me to my core. I won't let you become like him. You need to be more. It isn't just that you can be human and a Shaper; they are one and the same. As long as you let me, I’ll be here, reminding you.”

  “Torlas...” I say, clenching my eyes shut against his words. What was a void inside me crumbles before a torrent of confusion I can't conceal. My family on one side, my only friend the other. Torlas is setting himself against everything I’ve ever been taught, straining against my love for my family. How can he? What does he hope to achieve? As if he stands a chance of winning. As if my father is the cause of all of this.

  “I just want you to know, Iliana. I’ll always fight for you. I know you love your father, and I know you want his approval. But I won't let you stop being the Iliana I’ve always known. If your father makes you do these things, if you ever feel like you felt when you walked into my office today, I’ll be there. Come to me. I'll listen. I'll be your touchstone. I'll keep you human.”

  Chapter 8

  Bastian

  Some Shitty Day in the Middle of an Eternal-Damned Winter

  In the Year 5219, Council Reckoning

  Waking up is a surprise. Feeling like someone stored their collection of cutlery in my stomach, not a surprise. Dim morning light filters through a swarming cloud of dust and a set of half-broken blinds, the string holding the slats together fraying. The walls, too, look ill-used, paint peeling back to reveal the skeletal bones of the structure. Even as awareness returns, the unwholesome tickle of tiny organisms crawling in my hair and along my skin is an unpleasant harmony with the rough blanket draped over me.

  I manage to raise my head, the effort titanic and ultimately futile. I don't learn anything about the room, but the effort of moving my head requires muscles in the vicinity of my navel. The flash of agony has me gasping and blinking away flashes of light. Groaning, I close my eyes and try not to move. Oddly, the bugs crawling on my skin are a welcome distraction from the ungodly agony.

  The door in the corner swings open at the sound of my groan. I don’t have the strength or the inclination to raise my head again, and I can’t focus enough to pick up surface thoughts. It’s probably some brute looking to ransom me or a quack doctor trying to extort me for money before I succumb to my wounds.

  One of the fi
rst times in my life I’m happy to be wrong.

  “I thought I hallucinated you,” I mumble, but I’m not sure I get the words out through my sandpaper tongue.

  “Luckily for you, you didn't,” the servant girl says, her eyebrow quirking over one exotic eye. She’s wearing ill-fitting, rugged, and dirty clothing, her hair a bird's nest perched on her head. She’s a far cry from the clean servant’s uniform and manicured appearance she maintained during our travel over the Bridge.

  “You look like hell,” I say, or try to, but my mouth is so dry that the words hardly stir the air.

  She rolls her eyes and strides over to my bedside. Picking up a rough clay cup, she holds the rim to my lips. My hand comes up and forces the cup closer even before the taste of water registers. Lukewarm water spills through the beginnings of a scruffy beard on my cheeks, but I don’t care. I continue to gulp even as my stomach blazes in blinding pain. Finally, I sag back, panting, trying desperately to contain my shuddering stomach.

  “You, my friend, look like hell,” she says, leaning back into a crouch. She balances easily on the balls of her feet. The thick metal anklet of slavery shifts and settles, the runes declaring her to be the property of Eledar Cortola clearly standing out in silver against the cold iron.

  “Who are you?” I gasp, squinting through the pain of my wounds. “I mean, obviously you’re a slave, but…”

  “I am Lentana, of the Tenkal clan,” she responds woodenly, automatically. “My terms of service are for thirty years, of which I have served eight under contract to Minister Cortola.”

  “But, what, what is going on? Why are we here? Where is the rest of our train?”

  “Gone. When I found you, you were bleeding out on the ground. I took you to the nearest doctor I could find at that time of night. He did his best to patch you up after seeing your fancy clothing, figuring his pay would be extravagant. After I determined you weren’t going to die, I went out to find the other Khalintari. I was in the process of explaining what had happened to Tilinki when the Minister walked out. Apparently, he had been listening in from the balcony above. He told me to forget you existed and begin packing to leave. That was two weeks ago,” she says, sighing. “I had to smuggle you out of the doctor’s when I realized we weren’t going to be able to pay. I was lucky to find this place. I had to evict a bum, who came back with friends. Luckily for us, they weren’t willing to damage the Minister’s property, so the anklet actually helped for a change…”