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

by Lane Trompeter

  I want to ask ‘we weren’t expected?’ but I can’t figure out how to get that message across without speaking. Instead, I look over at Watkins in the corner. Raising my eyebrows at Torlas, I motion towards him and indicate a space in between us.

  “You want Watkins to dine with us?” Torlas says in a kind of bemused tone, looking over. Watkins just stands, looking as attentive and disinterested as possible, but I can tell that he’s praying to whatever god, entity, or power he worships. “I suppose the two of us can’t possibly eat all of this on our own. Watkins, come over here and partake.”

  Watkins doesn’t bother to hide his excitement, practically running over. A servant with a chair is there ahead of him, however, and he falls into it awkwardly in his rush.

  “Oh, thank you milord, milords,” he says, nodding at Torlas and me. Torlas and I both give identical flippant waves, and we look at each other and laugh.

  “It’s wonderful that you’ve found a new… associate, milord. May I ask who I have the pleasure of dining with?” Watkins says, addressing Torlas but glancing at me.

  “Ask him yourself, Watkins,” Torlas says, a laugh in his voice. I turn to Watkins, my eyebrows raised.

  “Uh, yes,” Watkins begins. “Well, if I may be plain, sir, who are you?”

  I make a show of deliberating whether or not I’ll tell them, but then I just shrug and smile. My reticence perturbs Watkins, but Torlas just laughs.

  “When our friend is ready, I’m sure he’ll tell us who he is,” Torlas says, his tone leading.

  I nod as I cut off a piece of the sausage and pop it in my mouth, groaning aloud. The spices mix perfectly with whatever unholy concoction is in the center, taking the bite out of the pepper but complementing its taste. It’s blasphemy to swallow, but I do, looking down at the dozen dishes in wonder. What other joys will I find in this sumptuous banquet?

  We continue to chat in our one-sided manner, eating the entire feast with Watkins’ assistance. As the meal winds down, Watkins appears more and more uncomfortable. He hasn’t adjusted well to my silence.

  “Well, my friend,” Torlas says. “I’ve had a splendid time today. I’d love to do this again, minus the chair to the back, at another time. I do, however, require a way to contact you. Is it possible I could have your name, or your residence, or something of that nature?”

  I don’t hesitate for long. I know Reknor planned for me to spend the day silent, but the potential to create a lasting relationship with a duke on the inner council is too good of an opportunity to pass up.

  “My name is Jace,” I say, standing and reaching across the table to shake Torlas’ hand. “I’m a ward of Reknor the Historian, on Castleberry Street.”

  Torlas rises smoothly, taking my hand in his own in a firm grip.

  “I am Torlas Graevo, Duke of Donir. But I’m sure you already knew that.”

  “Not until we got here and they called you by your title,” I say honestly, shrugging.

  “Truthfully? Intriguing. I knew you weren’t of the nobility, otherwise I would’ve seen you at one time or another in the court. A ward of the Historian, eh? Let me ask you something. Would our conversation have gone quite the same if you had known who I was from the beginning?”

  There’s a test somewhere in those words, and I can’t be sure what the correct answer is.

  “I’d like to think so, Torlas,” I say, purposefully leaving off his expected honorific. Watkins looks horrified, but Torlas smiles.

  “Good. I don’t know if you’ve realized this, Jace, but I’ve already come to rely on you. No titles between us. Ever. Agreed?”

  “Agreed,” I say, grinning. “I am sorry I hit you with that chair, though.”

  Watkins gasps, shooting me a murderous look.

  “Apology accepted. I hope your knee recovers apace,” Torlas says, laughing. “I’ll call on you as soon as I am able. And don’t be afraid to call on me, either.”

  “Torlas, it has been a pleasure.”

  “For me as well, Jace. Until later.”

  Chapter 11

  Iliana

  The Thirty-First Day of Spring

  In the year 5222, Council Reckoning

  My eyes open to darkness. I never sleep until sunrise. Not anymore. There is too much to do, between lessons in court and politics, combat and Shaping, history and literature, the list feels endless. The darkness of my room embraces me in the quilt of night, but I ignore the tiny part of me begging to stay in bed. I shrug into a dress and fight back a yawn. I’ve been training ceaselessly, the members of the Tide no doubt weary of constantly feeling the bite of glass. Eventually, Father demanded that we ramp up the violence of my training. Uncle attends my sessions, Shaping shut the wounds the Tide incur. I try to avoid killing anyone, but I’m being pushed to the brink. I’m not sure I have the control to keep preserving the lives of my enemies, temporary or otherwise.

  I glance over at Yrena. Her soft snores pierce the silence of the night. She’s taken to sleeping in my room, and many nights I wake to feel the soft stroke of her hand running through my hair. Uncle suggested I cut off the long locks, as they are a liability in battle, but I can’t bring myself to do it, not with Yrena still combing it every night, sliding the brush carefully through the tangled snarls I accrue throughout the day. It’s a last ray of my childhood that I cling to with silent desperation.

  I slip out the door, nodding once to Poline. Many members of the Tide would have balked at the suggestion that they spend their hard-won training and skills solely protecting a girl who never gets into danger, but Poline is different. She smiles in greeting, winks at me, and falls into step just behind. The empty hallways of the palace take us on our short daily journey to my garden.

  “Sleep well, milady?”

  “Naturally,” I respond, and I can tell she rolls her eyes behind me. It’s always the same question, asked at that time when night and day war for dominance, night ever reluctant to release its grip upon the world. I always provide the same answer, spoken with the soul-weary resignation of a woman three times my age.

  I breathe deeply as we cross the threshold, the scents of life bringing peace. As we round the trunk of the mighty oak towering above the rest of the garden, however, my eyes fall on Father. The Sealord’s brow is furrowed and his eyes distant. He doesn’t acknowledge us for the briefest of moments, though he can only be here to speak with me. When his eyes focus, his face clears, and he smiles the same genuine smile he always has.

  “Iliana!” he says brightly. “I’ve heard you often come here before sunrise. It is indeed a place of peace.”

  “Of course, Father,” I say, but my voice comes out flat. It was a place of peace. Peace the Sealord is no doubt here to break. I love him, but he’s been the harbinger of ill tidings recently. “To what do we owe the honor of your presence?”

  “Can a man not just look in on his daughter?” he asks, his smile faltering. “It would seem to indicate an unsettled mind, to rise so early. Is something the matter?”

  “No, Father,” I respond, feeling a brief stirring of warmth. I go to his open arms, letting him enfold me in a hug. No matter how old I get, the comforting arms of my father will always bring me joy. For a moment, I close my eyes, breathing in the pleasant scent of him, the fresh smell of lake water and love. My mind wanders back to those memories of my childhood, his constant presence, the safety. “I have everything I need here.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” he murmurs, stroking my hair. His broad frame makes me feel so small. “I have ill news.” And there it is. “Do you remember Markis Calladan? He was at your coming of age. He hasn't graced the capital with his presence since, but...”

  A brief memory of a man's face, one among many. Brown hair, narrow face, open smile.

  “Vaguely. Does Calladan not serve as Earl of Firdana? Has something happened to him?”

  “No. Well, nothing has happened to him yet. His wife traveled in secret to Donir and sought an audience with me in private. Apparently
, her husband has allied himself with the Vengeance,” the Sealord’s voice is heavy with sorrow. “I always respected Markis. I’ve no idea why he would see fit to betray me now.”

  “Can you be sure? Is his wife trustworthy?”

  “She brought proof. Missives, in the Vengeance's own hand, directing him on where and when to drop off supplies to aid the rebels.”

  My father once knew the Vengeance, had even been friends with him in the days of the Council of Shapers. Then, the Vengeance betrayed them all, embarking on a killing spree of the other Shapers, fabricating evidence and punishing his peers for perceived wrongdoing. The Vengeance wasn't just a nickname for the man, but in fact the title given to the Shaper charged with keeping others in line. The Council of Shapers had lived by an ironclad series of laws which prevented them from ever taking part in the government or affairs of normal man. The Vengeance's purpose was to enforce those laws, keeping the might of the Shapers from ruining the budding civilizations of the world. Those laws had stood, untarnished, for over five thousand years. Ever since the fall of the Eternal, the Council of Shapers had resisted becoming involved in the workings of the world.

  The Vengeance ruined the tenuous peace, slaughtering his fellows and eventually forcing Telias, the Warmheart, to raise an army to resist him. The Vengeance attacked him and defeated him despite his human allies. Father and Uncle were the last two surviving members of the Council save for the Mason, who was away from civilization out in the wastes of the west, unaware of the turmoil he left behind. They acted in concert before the Vengeance could return and finish them. In desperation, they warned the common people of Donir about the Vengeance's heinous crimes. The Donirians gladly accepted the protection of the Sealord and his friend, the Healing Hand.

  One mystery remains: why did the Mason join with the Vengeance? Father sent messengers seeking the Mason, but they were unable to find him in the desert. The next he surfaced, rumors pointed him directly in league with the Vengeance. The silent war has been waged ever since, seventeen years gone. My hands curl into fists.

  “How could he? His supplies are used to feed the people of Donir! His grain is what provides us with bread!” I exclaim, my voice rising. Poline shifts behind me, her armor clinking slightly. She agrees.

  “I’ve always treated him with dignity. His treason stings worse because of that trust,” Father says, sighing.

  “We must invade his lands and depose him,” I declare. “Men such as him cannot be left in power.”

  “I had hoped, perhaps, to reason with him, to ask him why, but he hasn't responded to my messenger. In fact, the man I sent has not returned nor reported back. I fear for his safety.”

  “Let me go and bring him before you.” The words tumble out of my lips. Even as I say them, my resolve grows steadier. “I will ascertain what has befallen your messenger and bring back the Earl for your questions.”

  A glimmer sparks in my father's eyes, brief and gone before I can register it. He begins to shake his head.

  “I cannot risk you for such a task,” he says, grabbing my shoulders. “You are far more important to me than the treason of one man, no matter how serious.”

  “You’ve trained me for years, ceaselessly, so that I may be of use to you,” I say, grabbing his hands and looking into his eyes. I won’t beg. The Sealord will never soften to such methods. But a righteous fire burns in me, a need to bring this man to justice. To betray the kingdom, for whatever reason, earns him my disdain. But to imprison, or, worse, murder innocent messengers just because they serve the King... I will not stand for it. “Let me be the woman you claim I am.”

  He pauses, appraising me silently. I refuse to wilt under his scrutiny.

  “Very well,” he says begrudgingly. “But take a contingent of the Tide with you. They will look after your safety, in the event that word of your leaving the capital leaks out.”

  “I have no need of an entire contingent,” I growl. This is my mission. If I take an entire army with me, Father will never respect me for it.

  “My dear, you simply can't leave Donir without someone to watch your back while you sleep! Your uncle and I are both busy with a delicate matter, or we would travel with you.”

  Poline takes that moment to gently clear her throat. I glance over at her, and she gives me a wink, her eyes twinkling.

  “I'll deign to take one of the Tide...” I say in a leading tone, letting my eyes drift to Poline. Father glances back at her, grunting under his breath.

  “Your pet guardswoman,” he says, disgruntled. “One guard is not enough-”

  “But it’s all I’ll allow. You know she’ll watch me carefully. She’s been outside my door for years now, and I trust her. I don't know if I could even sleep around a bunch of strange soldiers. Poline will do nicely.”

  “Very well,” he says with grudging acquiescence. “Tide, do you know that area of Firdana? Would you be able to guide and protect the princess?”

  The Tide are always referred to as the singular and unrelenting Tide. The humanity and personality that make soldiers human is supposed to be subsumed by the will of the collective. They don’t need specific names, as they act and respond as one. Poline is different. Her relationship with me throughout the previous two years has helped to break her further out of the shell her training created. The callous way Father addresses her sends a ripple of discontent through the back of my mind.

  “I was raised in Firdana, my lord. I know the area well. I am Shorn, of the second echelon, as well as Tide,” she responds, baring her wrist to the Sealord. He grunts in surprise as he witnesses her trio of tattoos and the clean scar of the fourth. I frown. What nonsense is this? Shorn? “I’ll guard the princess with my life, and more, if necessary.”

  “You had better,” the Sealord answers, his voice carrying none of the warmth he shares with me. Poline doesn’t dignify the threat with a response. She is a member of the Tide, and will damn well do her job. She's told me enough in the last two years. “Iliana, remember. It would be ideal if you brought Markis and anyone in league with him back alive, but do not hesitate to defend yourself. If they would dare attack you, respond without mercy.”

  ***

  We need a certain amount of tact if we’re going to discover who is really involved, and especially if we’re going to rescue the hapless messenger. If he’s still alive, I’m going to bring him home. That much is certain. Father wishes me to travel in all of the pomp and circumstance of the princess of the kingdom, but such ridiculous measures will only send Calladan and his people scurrying into hiding.

  Instead, Poline and I head out of the south gate and join the heaving multitudes traveling the Way of the East. I’ve packed a few of my blending-in dresses to wear on the journey, along with a hooded brown cloak to cover my hair and hide my face, should the need arise. I almost stopped in to see Torlas before I left, just in case, but I received a note from him early this morning detailing how he will be out and about with a new friend. Despite the tiny pang of jealousy at the thought of Torlas being too busy to see me, I’m happy to hear he’s met someone new.

  As long as that new person is male.

  Poline arrives in sensible pants and a tunic, though the quality is barely above peasant attire. I narrow my eyes. I’ve never seen the woman unpeeled from her carapace, so I look her up and down with a critical eye. Curvy outside of her armor, her broken nose only adds to her quaint charm. Her fiery hair and athletic body, honed from decades of training, make her striking. When she sees me, she smiles, and I can’t help but smile in return.

  “Poline!”

  “What, milady?” she snaps, her hand dropping to her sword, her eyes roving the crowd.

  “Poline, by the Creator's forgotten name, you're beautiful!”

  “Milady...” she says, blushing a cute shade of crimson.

  “You know, we may have to put you in a dress for the next ball,” I begin, tapping my chin thoughtfully. “You'll be better able to guard me when all of the eyes in the
room are squarely on you.”

  “I... well, no, absolutely not,” she says, shaking her head firmly. She can’t fool me though. I can tell the idea of wearing a dress to a ball isn’t quite so horrendous, and catching the eyes of men wouldn’t quite be the end of the world, but I let the matter drop. For now.

  “Well, let's be off, then,” I say, spinning about gaily towards the open road. My dress swirls around my knees, my pale calves free in the Spring warmth. It feels good to be out of the palace and breathing fresh air, even better to stop Eternal-damned training my power and my skills, and the best because I have a mission. Father has finally trusted me with doing something.

  “By the way,” I toss back over my shoulder as Poline hurries to catch up. “You’re going to have to drop the whole 'milady' thing. We're supposed to be incognito, neh?”

  I stop, my eyes blurring, my senses scattered to the winds. I feel something, itching, clawing at the back of my mind. As if I should remember something, something that makes me both angry and terribly excited... I shake my head, trying to clear it, reaching up and grasping my skull. Why had that ending to such a simple sentence, such a strange little addition, caused my head so much pain? Why can’t I remember?

  “Milady, uh, I mean, Ily, are you well?” Poline says, the unfamiliar nickname skittering strangely off her tongue.

  “Fine,” I mutter, scratching at my hair and squinting in the strange brightness. Whatever spell I’m under, the feeling is fading.

  “Perhaps we should go back. This journey was a mistake. I'll contact my commander—”

  “No, Poline,” I command, my voice snapping like a whip. “I’m fine. We proceed.”

  People are beginning to look at us strangely, our odd conversation and the dam we create in the flow of humanity distracting others from their business. I shake my head a final time, feeling the loose bun on the back of my head sway underneath my hood, and set forth again. Poline walks beside me, her hand on her sword and her glaring eyes meeting any who dare to look at us. I can tell she’s on a razor's edge with so many strangers within arm’s reach of me.