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

by Lane Trompeter

  Sounds dire. Let me in.

  I try to drop the wall, but I run into a problem – I have no idea how to do it. I feel the energy on the other side, but I can’t reach across the invisible divide. I strain against it, but nothing happens. Nary a tremble.

  Time's ticking, fledgling.

  Then help me, I snap in response. How do I lower it?

  The wall is made of your own mental defenses. It’s the divide between your soul and the rest of the world. You have to accept another soul into your own. It’s a daunting prospect even for the prepared, but you don't have a choice. Lower the wall, or die a gruesome death.

  Trust. It will require me to trust. It will require the boots... to be family. Family. I think of Timo. I would let him into my body to save him. His strong arms are wrapped around me, the support of a person who loves me beyond reason. I think of Corna, a dozen feet away across the hall, her unwavering faith and trust in me. I will have to find it in me to give these boots the same trust.

  Desperation isn't enough, I say. Speak trust into me. Give me a truth.

  He hesitates. A second slides past. Another.

  I was once a man. Living. Breathing. But I gave up my soul to save the woman I loved. The last thing I ever witnessed with my living eyes was her heartbroken, panicked stare.

  What is your name? I ask.

  Yatan Tecarim.

  The name is familiar, but distantly, as if I’ve heard it in passing. His words ring with undeniable truth. I consider this man. Yatan. As I would give my life for my family, he had for his. A man who had paid the sacrifice I pay daily, ignoring the hole in my heart where my brother still lurks. The hole where Talan's sheepish grin and his strong arms lay in wait to ambush me in moments of weakness. Both of us have to live with giving up the ones we love in order to save them.

  I hope they both forgive us, Yatan, I say, quiet even in the depths of my mind. Echoing. The wall begins to erode, the crackling, living energy tentatively reaching across. I reach as well, and the energy of Yatan's soul dives forward into mine.

  My back arches out of Timo's grasp, every muscle clenching as one. The exhaustion burns away before an unending tide of power. My thoughts sharpen, my heart the bellows of a citywide smithy, my eyes track dust falling in unfathomable patterns. I’ve never felt so alive. We’ve never felt so alive.

  A craving forms, not my own, a surging desire to possess, to claim. The energy is everywhere, in every part of me, but it is not me. I stop seeing as he claims my eyes. I stop hearing as he claims my ears. Part by part, piece by piece, I lose my body in a war I have no idea how to fight. I feel my arm raise without giving the command. Something, someone else stares at my own hand in wonder.

  Deep within my core, however, I’m still me. An alien presence scratches at the will of my resolve, demanding possession of my body, digging at the will in me to live, to fight, to act. It’s like fighting a hurricane. I can’t harm him. I’m trapped in my own body, and I can feel him clawing at the barrier, ripping down the last defenses I have left.

  He blinks our eyes. We focus on Timo.

  No! I scream in the darkness of my thoughts.

  I drive my mind like knives into him. The energy flinches back. I cut away a piece of him and isolate the power. When I reach for it, absent his will to control it, my soul consumes the energy for myself.

  Images pass before me, memories, faces I don’t recognize, but do. Cities that don’t exist, but once did. The face of a woman hovers over me, her eyes pleading, perfect blue and deep beyond measure, her mouth open in horror, lips quivering. The image is burned through every piece of energy I consume, every part of my body I recover. Cutting him off, piece by piece, I consume him. Slowly, fighting back every inch, I drive him back into the boots, using his own energy against him and walling him away.

  I gasp.

  Again.

  Again.

  My body responds. My limbs relax, falling dormant in Timo's care, his arms still gentle as I distantly hear him pleading with the voice of the lost. I sit up, my eyes still sharper than ever before, my heart still churning at a racing stroke. My body is alive in ways it never has been before, but I don’t have time to wonder. I have seconds, maybe less, until Gordyn walks in.

  I should never have trusted a pair of Eternal-damned talking boots. How insane am I? How gullible? At least I have control. For now.

  The shadow comes to my call, easy as breathing. I need less than an ounce of the focus I normally use to Shape. A thin tendril of shadow wraps around the handle of the lantern, bringing it down and passing it off to Timo. He grabs the floating lantern from the air without a word. With a thought, I lift the stone plug above us and settle it silently into place. The ceiling groans as it accepts the weight again. A line, so thin as to be nearly invisible, is the only sign of my entry. With a thought, the shadow covers the table in a thin sheen, then sweeps away, any trace of dust scattered to the floor and the corners.

  “Light the lanterns and stand behind me,” I say, the words quick and clipped.

  I sit down at the table, satisfied as Timo takes his place over my shoulder. I glance around the room one final time. It will have to be enough. The shadow hasn’t left the stub of my finger, and no blood leaks through. I definitely don’t have the concentration for that, but somehow the shadow remains. I rip off a small strip of cloth from the interior of the skirt, mentally releasing the shadow and wrapping the wound tightly. The symbol on my face needs to fade.

  Just in time. The door clicks open, and Atlan walks in and smiles at us, the fake smile of all sycophants. He moves aside to reveal a different kind of man entirely. The man wears a similar suit, but it fits in a way no suit will ever fit Atlan. Not like the suit has been tailored and cut for him, but as if the style itself was designed for him. His walking stick, clearly an affectation, is carved to resemble a stylized wolf. He exudes a confidence that is palpable just by seeing his first step, as if that step has no need to claim the ground, because it is already his.

  He could pass for thirty, but I know him to be somewhere closer to forty. In any other situation, he might be attractive, ridiculously so. His rakish beard is perfectly trimmed, his enormous confidence beyond compare. But then, I look into his eyes. So pale a blue as to be mistaken for white, they appear open and welcoming. A complete and bald-faced lie.

  His eyes, in the shallows, are warm, living, humane. Beneath... this kind of man has clawed his way from the Depths. There is nothing there but darkness, murky pools to which a bottom cannot be found, no matter the seeker. I stare into them, near-mesmerized, willing my own panic to remain buried deep.

  Gordyn marches firmly over to the other end of the long table, taking his seat at the opposite head. For long moments, we simply eye each other like duelists, our respective seconds hovering over our shoulders. I slowly quirk one eyebrow, holding my posture rigid. His hands rest gently on the table before him, his eyes appraising, weighing, measuring. I break the silence first.

  “Jon Gordyn,” I say, bowing my head slightly.

  “Aea Po'lial,” he returns the nod, the perfect measure of respect. “I was not aware of your arrival. I know with certainty that you’ve been absent from the Seers Isle for a decade at least. How have you come to my city, claiming to represent your nation, no less?”

  “A decade ago, the Seer sent me on a task of which I may not speak,” I say, my stomach lurching downward. “I have but recently returned. Though I did not get to stay long… as one of the People, I do as the Seer commands.”

  “I see,” he says, his tone identical, offering nothing. “My associate has come to me with a rather weighty claim.”

  “The Seers have need of the land once known as Itskalan. The Seer herself has Seen that you, and perhaps only you, can deal in such things.”

  “I have some power over certain portions of Itskalan,” he agrees, brow furrowing ever so slightly. “But I would have to bring your offer before the Sealord in order to work out any lasting deal. Provided I l
ike the arrangement and believe I can sell it to him. You may have heard, but the Sealord is somewhat jealous of his territory.”

  “Our offer is simple,” I say, hardly knowing what I’m going to say next. The plan had been to leave before Gordyn ever knew we were there. I never banked on seeing his manicured little beard. “You are aware of the might of our ships.”

  “Of course. Your people have perhaps the most powerful navy in the known world.”

  “Do not insult me with ‘perhaps,’” I say calmly. As if I haven’t just contradicted one of the most powerful and terrifying men in the world. “We offer ships.”

  “While valuable, ships, even many ships, could not possibly—”

  “You misunderstand,” I cut in. I see Atlan behind him, a look of relief in his eyes that he isn’t the only target of my rudeness. Atlan’s eyes flick to Gordyn to see his reaction. For Gordyn's part, he gives away nothing. He doesn’t react other than to close his mouth. I don’t see even the slightest hint of anger or annoyance.

  “We will not give you ships. We offer the use of ships. In their entirety. For a period to be determined by our negotiations.”

  “Their use,” Gordyn says, his voice making the words a question.

  “Unlimited,” I respond, knowing the value of what I offer. The ships of the Seers are massive, unparalleled monstrosities that can as easily plow through heavy waves as cut around them. The People account for a significant portion of all worthwhile shipping traffic through the Great Sea, connecting the exotic goods of the Broken Isles to the Khalintars and the Kingdom of the Sea. Our rumored wealth is directly tied to our ships. “If you wish to hire them to the Sealord, and let him move his little armies across the face of the Blue, you may. The ships would be yours to command, yours to spend. They will come crewed and ready to obey the whim of the architect who builds us a new land in Itskalan.”

  “What period of time would we be negotiating?” Gordyn says, leaning forward ever so slightly. It’s the first sign of his intrigue in the impossible deal. As if the man can actually sell us a country out of the kingdom. The brass balls on him...

  “Our first offer will be for a period of twenty years.”

  Gordyn's eyes widen almost imperceptibly, his shoulders moving ever so slightly, tensing and relaxing. His eyes don’t change, but the look they cast out is almost... feral. I’m uncomfortable under that gaze, more so than before, but the hunger shows I’m speaking to something below that calm and careful facade.

  “I can promise nothing,” he says. He stands abruptly and walks around the table, offering his hand to help me stand. Before he can reach me, I stand on my own, hiding my wounded hand in the folds of my skirt and accepting the proffered hand gently. “Save to consider your offer and, perhaps, bring it before the Sealord.”

  “The Seer knows more than any of us could imagine. She has Seen this and knows of our success. I thank you, Jon Gordyn.”

  I let him lead me towards the door. As we move, the air swirls through the room, the sudden swaying of my skirts and the passage of bodies kicking up a fine dust. Atlan sneezes, violently, then begins to cough.

  At first, Gordyn regards him with a measured look that hints at scorn, but then his gaze sharpens. He glances around, his brow furrowed slightly. His fingers grip mine ever-so-slightly, as if in tension or warning. I struggle to remain calm, painting a mildly concerned expression on my face.

  “Can nothing be done for Keagan Atlan?” I ask, glancing at Gordyn. “He seems disturbed.”

  “I have—” He coughs another few times, holding a silken kerchief to his nose. “I am highly agitated by dust, and particles of any kind, really. The air in the bank has always been clean—” he breaks off, panting, and makes a hasty exit.

  We hear his distant cough as the door swings closed. Gordyn’s eyes search every corner of the room. The hairline seam in the ceiling of the room is barely noticeable, but my gut tightens as his eyes rake the ceiling. He reaches for the ornate handle of the door and pauses, looking back at me. Some part of him recognizes that not all is as it should be. I can almost feel his suspicion, his calculation, as he tries to do the arithmetic. For my part, I simply stare at him, my expression bored. I hope. The tension in the room eases, slightly, as he steps into the hall.

  “I will begin to make overtures to the Sealord,” he says. “This will take time. Would you perhaps allow me to know where you’re staying, you and your... associate?”

  “The Falling Edge,” I answer carefully.

  I ignore the talk of Timo, and he is wise enough to keep his mouth shut as well. The Falling Edge is one of the most expensive and chic establishments in the city. Situated on the Pennies side of the Abyss and built right up to the edge of that chasm, its most expensive rooms dangle over the precipice, defying the will of the winds and the earth.

  “Ah,” Gordyn says, nodding. “Then I’ll provide you with the best. You can stay in my personal room for the duration of your stay.”

  “We are honored by your generosity, Jon Gordyn.”

  “Mistress Po'lial, I look forward to seeing you again.”

  One of the bank's many security personnel takes his place by my side at the top of the stairs. I allow him to take my hand, lifting my skirts with the other. As we walk down, I feel Gordyn's eyes boring into my back. My skin crawls, knowing how close I came to being exposed.

  I'm sorry.

  The sudden return of the voice shocks me. I lurch to the side in surprise, so wound up I’m dodging aside at the slightest hint of danger. Creator-forsaken boots. I lean heavily on my escort and pull at my skirts for balance. Timo steadies me, for which I give him a nod of thanks.

  It had been so long... I believed myself in control...

  Shut up, I snap in my mind, trying to drown out his sullen voice with anger.

  “Hold.”

  The word, spoken so gently from above, nevertheless has its desired effect. I glance back. Gordyn stares down at me, his ice white eyes sharp with a new and unwelcome intensity. He doesn’t come closer, but instead makes a sharp gesture to his guard. The man steps away from me, his sword clearing his scabbard with a whisper of well-oiled leather.

  “What is the meaning of this, Jon Gordyn?” I say, pointedly ignoring the man poised next to me with a blade.

  “Mistress Po'lial. Would you do me one favor before you go?” Gordyn asks, his voice dangerously soft and slow.

  “Yes, Jon Gordyn?” I ask, feeling the perspiration beading on my brow, fighting the sudden urge to turn and run.

  “Will you show me your footwear?”

  Time slows. The boots betrayed me again. In my slip, shocked by the voice echoing in my head, my skirts must have come too high. Whatever these boots are, they are precious to him. His eyes are angry, but also show a certain admiration... and a certain smugness. As if, despite losing his boots, he still holds all the cards.

  I let my hand drop, flicking a quick sign to Timo. Gordyn opens his mouth, no doubt to call some order, but I bring my hand up, and a tiny jet of shadow shoots towards his face. He jerks aside, and the darkness cuts a thin line across his jaw. He wisely drops to the ground, the return arc of the shadow missing him by a hairsbreadth. I spin, my heel digging into the soft carpet, my arm already coming up to block the guard's blow. I shouldn’t have worried. Timo already has him down, his jaw probably broken, the sword tiny in Timo's paws.

  “Run.”

  My shadow cuts the flowing skirts away from my legs with each stride, strips of expensive cloth fluttering down behind me like fallen leaves until my bare skin shimmers in the lamplight. Timo keeps pace, shooting me a crazy grin.

  “Back in the shit,” he says, his voice almost gleeful. These are the moments when Timo loves life. Crazy bastard.

  As if I don’t feel the same.

  We race out the stairwell entrance. Distance muffles Gordyn's shouts of alarm. People can’t hear him over the bustle of the bank, so our entrance serves as the first sign that something is amiss. We burst th
rough the cage just as a clerk attempts to close it behind him. The man tumbles away, and the coins he carries roll in all directions. The crowd explodes into chaos as some scramble for coins and others fight for the exit.

  Timo clears the way, his massive size demanding the crowd to melt before him. The people begin to settle as we near the entrance to the busy bank, the bustle behind us dying down as the last of the coins either return or disappear. Unfortunately, the sudden quiet allows Gordyn's voice to finally clear the crowd noise.

  “Doors,” he calls, his voice as calm as ever.

  I glance back. A veritable army of personal guards surrounds him, some pushing forward towards us and others surrounding him in a tight cordon. Guards near the entrance immediately leap to action. The doors begin to close. The giant stone monoliths are impregnable, their weight ridiculous in the face of human power. If they close, we are never leaving this bank.

  Under normal circumstances, the Imperial Bank has so much security and vigilance that the only reasonable threat will come from outside, some armed force powerful enough to feel that they can rumble with the mercenary army Gordyn employs. No one has ever successfully stolen anything after having willingly walked into the damn place. So the doors open outward. Strategically sound, as Gordyn appears to only fear a threat from the outside.

  In this instance, however...

  Timo picks up his pace, lowering his head and shoulder as he thunders forward. The Creator-blessed sunlight and freedom disappear in front of us as the doors slam closed. A man stands with a steel locking bar, ready to lower it into place the moment the way completely shuts. The bar starts to drop.

  Timo strikes the guard like an irate bull, the man's weight only adding to Timo’s own unbelievable force. The doors explode open, the men pushing them closed erupting into short screams before the mighty edifices crush them against the exterior walls. Everyone in the street turns to look, the sound of several tons of stone slamming against the carefully manicured facade of the building louder than thunder. We don’t pause. Timo immediately favors his right shoulder, so I pull his arm over my shoulders and lurch forward.