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

by Lane Trompeter

  “We will wait. If that door opens for anyone but Jon Gordyn, we will also leave, take our metal to Coin, and see what land can be purchased there.”

  Atlan nods once, sharply, his temper and bruised ego nearly getting the better of him. He shuts the door behind him with a quiet click. As soon as he’s gone, I jump up from my chair and slip off my shoes, padding over to the door and pressing an ear against the thick wood. His exasperated sigh is audible through the door, but Atlan’s footsteps fade as he heads off down the hallway. I smile as he snaps at someone in passing, damning them for being slow out of his way.

  I turn back to Timo, who is already crouched on the table, his hands in a cup waiting for my foot. I nod, running forward and leaping in the whisper-thin dress. My shadow catches me and carries me to his waiting hand. He lifts me as easily as a child, my weight nothing to his broad shoulders. Standing on the table with his arms stretched above him, I’m just within reach of the gleaming ceiling. Perfect.

  The shadow comes to my call, boiling out from underneath my dress. Carefully, quietly, I hone the darkness into a blade, thin as air, sharp as a careless word, a blade impossible to forge. Even as I focus on the blade, I plead with the shadow to make my vision true. I hold the weapon loosely, the form really more a personal affectation than a necessity. The blade will exist whether my hand touches it or not. When I think I’ve got it, I turn it in the air, and the blade disappears. I blink, confused, turning the blade again. It reappears. The sword is so thin as to be invisible in profile.

  Looking upwards at the marble ceiling, I gauge my strike. The beautifully inlaid stone is perfectly crafted, not a speck of dust to be found even close up. Picking a spot, I stab upwards, bracing myself for the impact against the rock.

  I almost fall forwards off of Timo’s hands as the shadow slides straight through the marble as if it isn’t there. Timo grunts below me, stepping to keep me in balance, a tiny bead of sweat tracking down his broad face. I whisper an apology and look back to the ceiling.

  The blade has sunk nearly to my fingers into the rock without a whisper of sound or resistance. Cautiously, I wiggle the sword, and the thinnest stream of rock dust trickles down onto the polished wood table. Well, then. This is going to go much easier than I thought. With a smooth twirl on the solid base of Timo’s massive hands, I spin a graceful circle. My blade cuts through the marble effortlessly. White dust sprinkles down on the table, but nothing more. There is the slightest tremor, almost invisible in the marble, but the ceiling holds itself in place.

  “I’m through,” I whisper down, and he nods. “Now comes the hard part.”

  I’m not an idiot. Cutting a circle over my head of heavy gold-inlaid marble is a fantastic way to become a thin, blood covered flatbread on the floor below. As exciting as that would have been for Jon Gordyn to open the door to, I like myself taller. Instead, I’ve cut upwards at an angle, the rest of the ceiling serving as a natural funnel to hold the plug in place. I jump down, landing lightly in my dress. Timo and I dash around the room, extinguishing all of the lamps in the room but one to see by.

  “Brace me,” I say, eyeing the near-invisible line I’ve cut in the marble.

  “You’ve got this,” he answers softly.

  He crouches behind me and puts his back to mine. I lean into him, his solidity comforting and calming. When I call on the shadow fully, the remaining darkness erupts from beneath my clothes and forms into a cloud over our heads. The light in the room dims as if passed through a dirty pane of glass. Long ago, I learned a critical lesson about my power: the shadow can and will do anything I ask it to, but it can’t stand bright light or the direct rays of the sun.

  For lack of a better idea, I form the shadow into a hand pressed against the marble like a server would carry a tray of heavy food. Narrowing my eyes and my focus, I push. The marble groans, and the room trembles slightly. My instincts beg me to hesitate, to run, most definitely not to stay under a ton of loose marble, but I drive the fear into the back of my mind where its whispers can’t distract me. Sweat beads on my forehead, the shadow and I collectively straining against the weight of the stone. It shifts minutely. I redouble my focus, the weight of the rock pressing back so powerfully my bones shudder through my connection with the shadow. Timo gasps behind me as the weight settles on him as well.

  Finally, the stone begins to lift. The marble wobbles, and I clench my eyes shut and force it to steady. Stale air leaks down into our room carrying a tide of dust. I struggle not to cough, holding the rock firm and sliding it to the side. With the utmost care, taking longer to set the stone down than it took to move it, I let the rock settle onto the floor of the room above us with a dull thud.

  I lie on Timo’s back for a long moment, breathing heavily, and he’s content to let me. I jump up, forcing some energy into my leaden limbs. Time doesn’t rest for the weary. I stumble, drained, my heart beating a lethargic rhythm and my thoughts slowing to a crawl. I shake my head, but it feels like a gauze has been placed over my eyes.

  “Find a way to get rid of all this dust,” I mumble, climbing gingerly onto the table. “And give me a lift.”

  “Tha’,” Timo says as he climbed up, eyes fixed squarely on the new hole in the ceiling. “Is one hell of a way in.”

  I ignore the slip into his natural speech. I have to agree with him. At a pat on the shoulder, he compliantly bends down and makes a cup with his hands. I put my foot into the stirrup he makes, counting down from three silently with my fingers. He explodes smoothly from his crouch, throwing me upwards unerringly towards the hole. I wince as I fly, half-closing my eyes as I envision my shoulder cracking against the unyielding rock, but I pass through without so much as brushing the sides, twisting and landing noiselessly on the stone.

  I smile. We’re in. All our wealth, all our planning, everything we’ve done will finally pay off. He passes me up the remaining lit lantern. I swing it around slowly.

  Then again.

  Once more.

  My smile falters.

  I squint behind me.

  The room is a few paces wide, perhaps ten long, the walls bare stone and mortar. It has nothing of the shining marble and exquisite woods of the rest of the bank. The door that opens into Gordyn’s office is barely a crack, a simple lever to the side clearly the catch. The rest of the room, however...

  Empty. Mostly.

  My spirit flees down to my toes and lodges squarely in the soles of my feet. My shadow reacts to the sudden change in mood, twisting deep under my clothes and tight to my body. Risking the Family, throwing our lives like dice... for what? Nothing. There aren’t piles of starsilver. There isn’t a single precious stone. No papers, no bank accounts, nothing of any value. Just some wooden pedestals in the corner.

  Despondently, I sulk to the end of the room. Not pedestals, but display cases. A flicker of hope ignites in my chest. Eagerly, I peer down into the case on the left. The tiny little flame of hope in my breast dies as quickly as it came, even its embers fading into darkness. Elaborately carved, the case’s inner workings are expensive and intricate. The stand is crafted made of pure crystal, that alone worth… at least something compared to the empty air of the rest of the room.

  Sitting on that stand, however, innocuous and depressing, are a pair of leather boots. They are in decent repair, polished and shining, but I can see a scuff on the side of the left one that couldn’t be buffed out. They’re nice boots, I guess, but they’re just boots. They sit there, mocking me, laughing silently. I scowl down at them. Stupid boots.

  There is a plate engraved with a block of words below:

  “Found Spring 5214, body of dead thief, male, killed by trap in Khalintari manse. Higher and deeper than any thief found before, luck heavily involved. Sound suspected.”

  Shaking my head, I feel every bit the jackass. Standing in this ridiculously secret vault and risking the lives of dozens of people and all of our collective wealth, I’ve found an egomaniacal banker’s trophies of dead thieves. Sighing
deeply, I plod to the next pedestal, refusing to let my hope rise. This stand holds a necklace, a green gem glimmering under the flickering flame of my lantern. The metal is some dusky gray material I don’t recognize, the gem large, as gems go, but no more than semi-precious. Simple and attractive... for a peasant on her first trip to the market.

  Disgusted, I spin away. A flare of emerald light flashes in the corner of my vision. I turn back, eyes narrowed suspiciously. The gemstone in the middle looks as if it’s glowing under the light of my lamp, gleaming as if alive with reflected sunlight. I blink, and the glow is gone. A trick of the light. The necklace is just a necklace. The plate below reads:

  “Found Winter 5199, farmer, female, extraordinary crops even in Winter. Late husband purchased at a local market. Wild.”

  Even more confused, I turn to the final case. This case is empty. Not even a speck of dust covers the crystal surface of the stand. Dully, more for the sake thoroughness than curiosity, I read the engraved message:

  “Found Summer 5201, deep in the excavated remains of the Bridge of the East. Adjacent to a pedestal, engraved with an identical symbol. Light.”

  I hold my lantern closer, squinting. I’m wrong; the finest coating of dust does mar the surface of the crystal. I can just see the outline of a small circle imprinted in the thin dust. A ring perhaps?

  What the hell is this? Random trinkets? Trophies? To the Depths with this shit, and Gordyn too. I start back towards the hole in the floor. The whole scheme, two long years of planning, has been for nothing. Less than nothing. In fact, we’ve lost everything.

  Just as I prepare to leap down, something tickles at the back of my brain, almost like someone runs a finger across the back of my neck. I glance back. The feeling grows, a silent call. I find myself staring at the pedestal on the left. The one holding the boots.

  Well. If I’m going to have to rebuild everything the Family’s lost, at least someone else can feel the sting of loss. The thought feels right, as if the silent air... agrees. I shake my head, trying to clear it. The stress and exhaustion are making me lose my wits. But still... Creator knows what value Jon Gordyn places in these meaningless items, but he’s going to waltz into his secret vault and find them missing.

  The glass of the display case is thin and no doubt easily broken, but I want the mystery of my coming to be complete. Eyeing the simple lock inset into the front of the wood, I slide a few picks out from under my skirts and get to work. A tingle of warning sounds in the same corner of my mind where the urge to return came from. I pause, examining the area briefly. Nothing disturbs the silence save for the muffled sounds of the busy bank far below. The lock is well-made, oiled, and sturdy, but I find the correct tumblers in a few swift turns of my fingers. The last tumbler snaps into place.

  Click.

  My heart slams against my chest. I jerk my hands back, but I’ll never be in time. The needle trap is cunning, ejecting straight out from the wood on either side, exactly where any thief's hands have to be to pick the lock. My right hand, miraculously, is splayed in just such a way as to have the needle pass between two of my outstretched fingers. The left, however, is not so lucky.

  The tiny prick is hardly noticeable, the pad of my middle finger welling with a single drop of blood. I hold it up before my eyes, mouth open, unbelieving. The simplest of traps. A needle trap. I allowed my frustration and my disappointment to blind me to simple caution. I can already feel a burning in the tip of my finger, the poison working its way through my blood. My own pumping heart is now my greatest enemy; the faster my blood works through my veins, the faster I will die. Jon Gordyn is not one to take a prisoner, especially in his inner sanctum. To have reached this point, the poison will inevitably be deadly.

  The urge to reach in and look at my 'prize' itches at the back of my mind. With a shudder, I climb wearily to my feet and reach out for the black leather boots. My outstretched finger touches the leather—

  Cut it off, you damn fool!

  “What?” I say aloud, snapping my hand back from the smooth leather and glancing around. I’m still alone in the dark room. I frown, my head cloudy, either from poison or exhaustion, I can’t tell. Did someone just speak to me? I reach out for the boots again, my fingers coming in contact-—

  Last chance, girl. Use the shadow! Your finger! Cut it off. You have seconds. NOW!

  Jolted into action, I jerk back and form a blade of the shadow in my good hand. The shadow writhes, and I can feel its distaste for what is to come. You and me both, buddy. After the briefest hesitation, I push the blade of darkness smoothly through the base of my finger. For the moment, there’s no pain. I watch, bemused, as my middle finger drops to the ground with the quietest sound. I pull back and dismiss the blade.

  As soon as the shadow dissipates, blood begins to pump out of the stump in time with my frantic heart. The pain jams its way into my brain like a sword thrust. I clutch at my wounded hand, my breath coming in hyperventilating gasps, still unsure if I’ve even been in time to stop the poison. Or where the idea came from in the first place. The itch in the back of my head starts again, the urge to look at the boots. The lantern is still upright next to the stand, so I struggle to my feet though the haze of pain. Sitting benignly where I left them, the polished leather gleams in the near darkness. I tentatively reach out my good hand. The tip of my finger touches the surface of the left boot.

  You might want to wrap that thing up, a wry voice says in my head. The voice sounds distinctly male and definitely mocking. Passing out from pain and blood loss would be a remarkably sad end to a Shaper of Shadow. You're also going to have to deal with the finger if you want us to make it out of here.

  “How are a pair of boots talking to me?” I mutter, more to myself than to the boots.

  What do you mean, how am I talking? I am Ensouled.

  “What?” I ask. Witty.

  Ensouled... never mind. We don't have time to discuss how in the Creator's name a fledgling Shaper of Shadow doesn't know what Ensoulment is, because we have to get out of here. Form a cap for your finger out of shadow.

  Squinting through the pain, I do so, the darkness creeping up and sealing away the wound. The stub still pulses out tendrils of agony, but the bleeding slows and then stops. I feel the distinct urge to hide the hand, protecting both the injury and the shadow holding me together.

  “What do you mean, we?” I ask, the question suddenly striking me.

  We. As in, you and me, the boots say, as if speaking to a tiny child.

  “Why should I take you with me? You're, well, you're scuffed,” I mutter, having no idea why I’m conversing with the boots when I should be getting out of there.

  I know, the voice responds, a profound sadness ringing through his voice. They were my favorite boots, but they were all I had on hand at the time. To think that I’ve been spending decades, perhaps even centuries in a pair of scuffed boots is the most unfortunate in a long line of unfortunate happenings. But you can't leave me. I saved your life.

  The boots have a point. I sigh, reaching in with my good hand and pulling them forth. I look at them askance. They’re too big for me, and I need to hide them somehow.

  Just put them on. I'll handle the rest.

  I shrug, sliding the boots on underneath my dress. The leather is supple and soft. When I stand up, I’m surprised to feel a perfect fit. I flex my feet, and they fit even better, adjusting to the shape of my body, hugging my calf but leaving the flexibility I need to run or fight. I can tell, instantly, that they are the best pair of boots I’ve ever worn.

  I'm touched. Now, pick up your finger and get us the hell out of here.

  I resist the urge to vomit as I gather up the tiny little appendage, trying not to look as I slip it into the pouch with my thieves’ tools under my skirts. I have nothing to wipe up the blood, so I leave it. A few spots mar my otherwise pristine white dress, which I can hide with a little artful maneuvering. I spin to head back towards the glimmering light from the massive hole in the
ground.

  I blink awake on the ground, my breathing still coming in sharp gasps. I’ve forgotten all about the insane exertion required to lift the damn ceiling. We have to get out of there, but I don’t have the energy to put the stone back. I barely have the energy to walk. Groaning, I drag myself over to the hole. Timo's powerful arms catch me as I fall bonelessly into the room.

  The boots sigh in the corner of my mind. How can a disembodied voice sigh?

  Take some from me, he says, his voice tense. You need it.

  “Take some what?” I say, my speech slurring. Timo cradles me in his arms, his face a sudden mask of panic.

  “Wha's happened to ya, Kettle?” he says, stroking my hair like a babe.

  You can stop talking to me out loud, fledgling. I can hear your thoughts. If you keep asking questions of the air, people will start to talk.

  Fine, I snarl through the haze of pain and exhaustion. Take what?

  Touchy, touchy. Reach down with your mind, just like if you were controlling the Shadow. Feel my energy, the light of my soul...

  I do as he asks, letting Timo support my weight fully, focusing completely down towards my feet. At first, I feel silly. Nothing happens. I’m just staring dully at a pair of black leather boots. But then, I reach. I feel him. The energy of a soul, bright, burning, and powerful. The teeming energy crackles just behind the surface of some invisible barrier.

  You have to let me in. The wall is your own.

  Sudden fear strikes me – a prick of adrenaline sparking through the roiling clouds of my thoughts.

  You’re strong, I think, sharpening my focus as much as I can through the haze of exhaustion. How do I know if I should let you in?

  If you knew more of the Ensouled, you would know better than to suspect me of such a crime. But, as it stands, you have little choice. You’re hurt, weak, exhausted, and near death. The man who runs this bank, the man called Gordyn, will be here soon. Let me in, and we can fix this before it is too late.

  If you try anything, I’ll banish your scuffed-up boots to the bottom of the forgotten Depths. You will join the Eternal, I warn.