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

by Lane Trompeter

  “Poline, what in the Eternal's hell are you doing?”

  “One of us must remain vigilant, Ily, or this adventure could quickly go awry.”

  “Poline,” I say with all the dignity and authority I can muster whilst naked and half-covered in soap. “I command you into that water before it cools. I will take responsibility for our safety while we bathe. There is enough... in this room to serve should we have need.”

  She hesitates, briefly, but she can’t hide her eagerness as she removes her clothing and efficiently folds each item into a neat pile. I can’t look away from her, the scrubbing cloth in my hand forgotten. Her body is twisted, lean, solid muscle, various scars marring the otherwise pristine marble of her skin. Everything about her body screams warrior. It’s remarkable that she manages to remain so innocuous in street clothes, like she’s just another passing mercenary. Nude, no one could mistake Poline for anything but a trained and tested fighter.

  She eases into the warm water, briefly groaning in happiness as tense muscles release under the water's steaming grip. I resume scrubbing, drawing on a tiny bit of the earth. My arm hardly glimmers in the bright light as a screen of particles, so small as to be invisible to the naked eye, form into a screen outside our door. I’ll know if anything more solid than air disturbs them. Satisfied, I dunk my head deep under water, scrubbing furiously at my hair, my long locks floating in a halo around my head. At last feeling clean, I reach over and ring the bell.

  The maids come to empty the tubs and bring us another batch of hot water. They don’t comment on Poline's physique, though their eyes hardly leave her as they work. Good. Better Poline the center of attention than me. The second bath is even better, the heat of the water sinking deep into my bones.

  “How do you wish to proceed?” Poline asks, her voice low. I sigh before I can stop myself. Back to business. “I believe we should announce our presence by walking straight through the front doors. Give Calladan no time to react, and take him into custody. His guards will not expect two women to be his jailers, and he will be helpless before your power. Any threat on his life will cause his retainers to hesitate.”

  “It won't be as simple as you claim; I'm sure of it. If we go in and he isn’t at home, we could be ruining our chance to find him. Also, I don't want to endanger the life of the messenger, if he still lives,” I respond in a whisper. “We need a covert reason to enter his estate, and some time to find his prison.”

  “The messenger is either dead or imprisoned, and our interference will change neither.”

  “How do you figure? Wouldn't you threaten a hostage if put in danger yourself?” I ask, curious.

  “Ily... I don’t mean to presume, but no one would ever believe a representative of your father would care the least for a simple messenger. A soldier’s life would be a concern for... typical people. The Sealord and the Lord General do not constitute anything resembling typical. In fact, Ily, I’m surprised you care, considering. He is just a man, yes?”

  Poline’s sharp eyes search my face from under half-closed eyelids.

  Why do I care? Do I care? A messenger, a soldier commanded to deliver paper from one place to another, is hardly worthy of my attention. My father's voice resonates behind the words, and I nod in time. The soldier had to know that not all messages he delivered would be pleasant to the listener, and to act accordingly. He’s just a man. He’s not a Shaper.

  So why am I hesitating? The man doesn’t deserve to die just because he delivered a message, but, as Father always says, normal people are as numerous as insects, and only marginally more important. Just as a maggot serves its function in the natural order, so do a farmer and a soldier and a merchant. A messenger knows the risks inherent in his position, especially in speaking for the Sealord. Poline is right.

  “You're right,” I say slowly. The rejuvenated feeling fades. Standing suddenly, I let the water cascade back into the tub as I reach for the drying cloth. “He’s just a messenger.”

  Poline's posture shifts in the corner of my eye, as if she tenses. I try to meet her eye, but she shies away from my gaze. I rub the cloth against my skin, but the water no longer feels cleansing. Frowning, I step out of the tub to retrieve some clean clothes. I can feel something, there on the edge of my awareness.

  Carefully, ever-so-slowly, I swirl the dust through the room. The particles of dust, so fine as to float on the air, caress Poline's face. She’s watching me. I trace the contours of her face, mapping her expression through the path of the dust. I imagine it, my eyes planted firmly on the bed, my back turned to her view.

  A look of melancholy paints her face, tinged with anger, a grimace of such disappointment and anguish I almost spin to see if the earth tells me true. But I don’t need to. Poline is not looking at me as a friend, as we’ve pretended the last few weeks. She’s not watching as a guardian would, protecting my back. She glares in betrayal, and I feel dirty under the weight of her eyes. My mind flits to Torlas. I try to imagine his face, smiling. Instead, I only see his eyes after I described the torture of the assassin.

  A look of melancholy painting his face, tinged with anger, a grimace of total disappointment and anguish.

  ***

  Despite the comfort of the inn, I don’t sleep well. My relationship with Poline has grown over the years, both as my guard and sparring partner. I can count the number of people that I feel comfortable talking to on one hand, and I don’t need all my fingers. Granted, Poline rarely has a choice in whether or not she desires to counsel a princess, but she’s always been understanding, offering succinct advice that never crosses the border between soldier and royalty. The look on her face haunts my dreams, imagined or otherwise.

  The harsh scrape of stone on metal awakens me. Sitting down on the bed, Poline slowly runs a whetstone along her sword, the rhythmic scrape grinding against my already-worn nerves. She refuses to meet my eye, an invisible wall erected between us in the night.

  Hadn't I just agreed with her? She made a point, a valid one, that I was placing unimportant details before the completion of the mission as a whole. It had been Poline who argued for the direct approach, and innocent lives be damned. How can she blame me for agreeing with the very course of action she proposed?

  “I think your sword is sharp enough,” I snap, more peevishly than I intend. She doesn’t react, just nods and slips the whetstone back into her pack.

  “Well?” she says, standing and sheathing the weapon.

  “I trust you to know when we have gone past peace and need to stray into violence,” I say, turning and heading for the door. “The guards may allow us into the foyer, but we need to head for Calladan before he can mount any defense.”

  Despite the agreed-upon insignificance of the messenger, I still hope to find him alive. I know his name is Locke, and that Uncle values him for his talent and loyalty. Most official messengers serve as low-ranking members of the Wave, but Uncle knows this Locke personally. If we move fast enough, perhaps nothing untoward will happen at all. Uncle will be glad if the man is returned whole and hearty.

  And I’ll be glad, too.

  Calladan's estate is impossible to miss. On the eastern edge of Elaren, the manse is a gorgeous representation of the aesthetic of the town. Trees weave in and around the washed white walls of the house itself, branches seeming to disappear into the upper floor's windows, though I’m sure that is an illusion in the dawn light. A low wall surrounds the house, ancient trees thrusting right up to the edge of lush green fields, horses galloping together in wild herds off in the distance. Nearer, stables many times the size of the estate flow organically around the ubiquitous oaks, stablehands of various ages leading horses to exercise in the morning light rising off the distant horizon. They each wear the forest green and silver of the Calladan household, as do the pair of guards standing at the gate.

  They squint at us suspiciously, but don’t reach for weapons. While Poline is well-armed, I appear to be little more than a girl, a simple brown dress swaying u
nder my drab cloak.

  “State your business,” a guardswoman commands, gently holding a hand up to halt our progress. “What brings you so early to the Earl's estate?”

  “We seek an audience with the Earl,” I respond, bowing into a simple curtsy. “We have news of bandits in the south of his land.”

  “Bandits?” the woman asks, surprised. She exchanges a look with her compatriot. “How have you heard these rumors?”

  “They are more than rumors,” I answer, jutting out my lower lip slightly. “My father—”

  “Her father was killed two weeks ago,” Poline cuts in. “I was guarding a caravan visiting Piel, when we saw the smoke rising from the farmsteads to the south. By the time we arrived, the bandits were gone, and Serrah was the only survivor we could find. She hid in the bales of her family's hay.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” the woman says, not without feeling. “I’ll send word of this to the Earl.”

  “That’s not good enough,” I declare forcefully, stepping forward. “My family pays their taxes. We were deserving of protection. I want to speak with the Earl, to convince him to send men after those bandits.”

  “I can assure you that the Earl—”

  “Let the girl speak to him,” Poline interrupts. Her tone brooks no question and has the whip of a commander's displeasure behind it. The guards straighten subconsciously, barely avoiding saluting. “She deserves that much at least.”

  “Very well. We’ll ask if the Earl can see you. In the meantime, I’ll see if any refreshments can be brought to you. It’s a long journey from Piel,” the woman says, motioning to her partner to wait. The man on the left, more of a boy, really, squirms uncomfortably, but stays at attention until the woman returns a few minutes later and beckons for us to follow.

  The interior of Calladan's estate matches the exterior: filled with rustic charm and a simple sort of beauty. Rich woods and delicate potted plants decorate every surface, creating a lush and vibrant atmosphere. The seats the guardswoman directs us to are of warm leather, the earthy brown perfectly complementing the natural tones throughout the house. I struggle not to feel at ease; the house seems as if it was designed for a Shaper of Earth to be comfortable.

  Thinking about the clear signs of prosperity, understated as they might be, brings me back to the mission. Calladan is deliberately diverting food from hungry mouths throughout the kingdom to feed the rebels. The results of his efforts are more than apparent in our encounter on the Way. The common folk should be cheering the Wave and the Tide, not the damned rebels.

  The guardswoman disappears through a door, and her footsteps retreat further into the house. She doesn’t ascend any stairs. The Earl must be on our level. I catch Poline's eye, motioning with my chin towards the entrance. She rises silently, standing sentinel as she always has. I need her, because I’m going to try something that will require all my focus.

  The earth comes willingly to my call, the shawl wrapped around my shoulders providing cover for the muted green glow. I don’t command the earth, not in the usual way. I ignore the yearning to touch it, to Shape it, to command and have those commands answered. Instead, I simply feel. The sensation is instantly overwhelming. The earth permeates everything, from the dust particles floating through the air, the glass of the windows, the rich loam of the soil outside, the trace dirt on our clothes… I swirl in the eddying pockets of open space disturbed by our breathing. I grind against the wooden floors under Poline's boots as she shifts on the polished timbers. I vibrate ever so slightly from the early morning breeze shaking a window loose in its sill. I drift with the unceasing currents of the air.

  I force myself to concentrate, to block out as much as possible so as not to get lost in the sensations of the earth. I narrow my focus, shutting out the myriad sensations around me and questing forth with my senses in the direction the guardswoman has gone. I ignore the dust built up in the corners, the tremor in the rich earth of a tree potted in the hall, the healthy soil falling from the boots of the...

  I latch on to the dirt on the bottom of the guardswoman's boots. I rise, fall, rise, fall... I clench my eyes shut tightly, holding loosely to the feeling of the dirt but distancing myself from the actual sensation of being the earth. The movement stops, perhaps two dozen yards down the hall, and I let my senses drift outward from the woman's boots and onto the dust in the air. I follow the dust sucked into a room from a door's opening, slowly allowing my awareness to expand and fill the new room. It’s large, with pieces of furniture difficult to discern through such a tenuous connection. I can feel the shape of two individuals through the dust, one seated, the other standing beside...

  A window. Finally. I settle my focus on the window just as the door closes and the footsteps of the guardswoman sound in the hall back towards our sitting room. Distantly, I hear her enter, keeping my eyes closed, and Poline's reply, some explanation of stress and how long we’ve traveled...

  My real focus, however, remains with the window. This particular skill is one my father doesn’t know about, mainly because I’ll lose my most effective means of spying on his secret meetings if I reveal it. Over the course of two years, playing around and experimenting with Torlas, I developed the ability to understand words through the vibrations of sound against glass. At first, it had been a joke between Torlas and me, him attempting to whisper against a pane of glass on the edge of the courtyard, me simply trying to understand what he spoke through the rhythms and cadences of his voice. As I got better, however, I realized how valuable a skill it could be to listen to someone from afar.

  “...forget our strength remains thin.”

  The man at the window, his words clear, in control, close. His companion is too far from the glass, and I can’t pick out his reply.

  “We need to get you to safety. You know they’ll send another assassin before long, if they don't show up with a contingent of the Tide and take you overtly.”

  Another assassin? I frown, confused. The other man's voice drifts closer. He approaches the window.

  “...little good to anyone hiding out in the woods with the rest of you. My value—”

  “Lies in your life. Dead, you serve no one, and do good for no one. This cause has enough martyrs, Markis. They’ve never galvanized the people to action. We need the living far more than the dead.”

  “But my people... Will there not be repercussions? Will the Sealord not strike at them for assisting me? I cannot protect them if I run.”

  “And you can protect them even less if you die. Or, worse, if you’re taken. The longer you wait, the more likely you are to make them a target for Helikos to use against you. Your love of Firdana is well known.”

  “Very well, Altos. I’ll—”

  I snap back to the present, sucking in a lungful of air in a sudden gasp. Poline turns to me, alarmed, but I can’t speak for a moment. Altos. Altos. The Eternal-damned Vengeance is a dozen yards from me. What in the Creator's name am I supposed to do? The Vengeance. The Scourge of the Council. The Master of Air. My enemy. Should I strike? Should I run? My heart races, my pulse thrumming at a breakneck speed.

  “Poline,” I gasp in a strangled whisper. “Come here, please.”

  “Ily?” Poline says in concern, sitting down next to me. My hand finds hers of its own accord, my wide eyes meeting her brilliant emerald gaze, seeking answers.

  “He is here,” I whisper.

  “Good...” Poline begins, eyebrows raising. “According to plan...”

  “No, Poline. He is here. Our enemy.”

  Poline's eyes widen to match my own, glancing around and taking in everything in a heartbeat. The guard waits just outside, her back to us, having told us we’ll have to wait half an hour before Calladan can see us. Poline stands, her hand grasping the hilt of her sword. I grab her arm.

  “What are you doing?” I hiss in.

  “I...” Poline trails off, looking down at the hand grasping her sword. That sword has been through much, I’m sure. She fought in a hal
f dozen engagements with the barbarian tribes to the north before being promoted to the Tide by the Lord General. Poline fears little, but what can mere steel do against the power of the air, when so many of her own brothers and sisters have fallen to his cursed power? She looks to me. “What do we do? Can you, well?”

  “I have no idea.”

  How do you know when you’re ready? When you can surmount the greatest obstacle of your life? Can you ever? Some people wilt beneath the pressure or leave the task to others. Some people bravely stand and just as bravely fall. And a very lucky few succeed. I’m in my crucible, my trial. Who will I be? I peer into Poline's eyes, and she slowly nods. Our time. Our chance. To end the greatest threat to my life and my kingdom.

  Our whispered conversation attracts the attention of the guard, who frowns. She starts to come over, our jerky and frantic movements no doubt suspicious. My eyes flick towards her. Poline moves so quickly that, between heartbeats, the guard drops to become an unconscious ornament on the floor. Poline lowers her to the ground almost gently, the corner of her jaw already swelling with the imprint of the Tide's sword pommel. I spin my hair into a tight bun, only a few locks escaping in my haste. With a deep breath, I lead us towards the back room.

  We creep through the open doorway, moving as silently as we can. I command the earth to me, the soil from the plants potted throughout the hallway coming silently to my call. Some of it becomes daggers of glass, more than a dozen floating and moving about my person, more drifts under my clothing, a thin layer of moving, living armor. The Vengeance is a famed swordsman and one of the most legendary Shapers of the last thousand years. Sweat clings to the stray locks of my hair, and I lick suddenly dry lips. Who am I to challenge the Vengeance? Why can’t it have happened in five years? A decade? With more time to hone my skills, to scratch and pull and fight for more power and control?