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

by Lane Trompeter

  “I wish I could say the same, Cursed,” she says in her musical accent, turning and spitting off to the side. “I regret to the bottom of my cherished heart that I was just forced to save your life. Again.”

  “Captain, could you perhaps answer me a single question?”

  Te'ial doesn’t respond other than to twist her spear, and the unfortunate crunch off to the side seems to signal the end of the horrible monster. Te’ial looks the same, and yet... somehow different. I can’t place the change, but something about the woman is clearly off.

  “Why can't I move my body?”

  “You’ve been drugged. Your mind has recovered, as the Seer has foreseen. Your body will soon follow. Though you may find yourself weaker than you remember,” Te'ial answers through gritted teeth, as if being anywhere near me is an affront. Even as she speaks, my fingers begin to tingle. Terrified, I glance down, but this time, my fingers move in accordance with my commands. No monster. I sigh in relief.

  Te'ial sees the motion, but wordlessly turns and strides away, her lithe form swaying as if she still walks on her ship. I want to call after her, but I’m more preoccupied with the sudden return of sensation to my body. The tingling shifts into a thousand needles jabbing my flesh, and I cough out a strangled cry of pain, curling up on the dirt floor of my cage and clawing at the earth and straw. My entire body trembles, from the skin of my back to the edge of my fingernails, the needles rising to an unending crescendo of pain and overwhelming sensation.

  I shudder through endless shallow breaths, even my lungs abused and disoriented. Creator knows how long it takes, but the pain abates, the unending sharp waves of agony fading into nothing. Its absence is almost as shocking as the pain itself. I dully roll onto my back, my thoughts jumbled and slow. My mind is a difficult terrain to traverse, the edges rocky and uneven.

  The setting sun dips behind the jungle to the west. The entire day was spent in shuddering misery. My muscles respond lethargically at best, twinging and rippling strangely at my commands. I make it halfway to a sitting position before I collapse back and to the ground, my stomach muscles burning. I lift my arm, holding my hand before my face. The fingers are slender, too slender, the nails dirty and untrimmed, longer than I’d ever let them grow. My arm trembles even at that pathetic effort, sinking against my will to rest on my chest. I feel like a stack of bones with too-little skin stretched too-tightly overtop. A beard adorns my face, and I twitch with shock as my hand, near the center of my chest, brushes the edges of that beard.

  “Food, Cursed,” Te'ial's voice rings from above my head, the scorn and hate practically crawling along my scalp, as if she would rather be cutting out my eyes than feeding me.

  She carefully places a wooden bowl on the ground between us. The smell of something warm and hearty with just a bite of spice drifts on the air. I roll over, suddenly ravenous, and reach a shivering hand out towards the food. My hand knocks against the bowl clumsily, but Te'ial is there, steadying my hand so that the soup won’t be wasted. After my third attempt fails as miserably as the first, she pulls it out of my reach. I loathe myself for whimpering as the food leaves my sight.

  “El'ti'raniuk, Cursed. You are worthless,” Te'ial spits, the unfamiliar word carrying such vitriol I’ve no doubt she’s insulting me.

  A strong hand grabs my tunic and drags me over to the edge of the cage. With a grunt, she props me up, threading her arms through the bars and bringing the bowl to my lips. Greedily, I suck at the broth, choking on the spice and the unfamiliar flavors but unable to stop. She pulls the bowl away, bringing a cloth to my face and wiping my soiled beard clean. The gesture could almost be interpreted as tender, but she jams the bowl back to my lips and forces more of the burning liquid down my throat.

  When I finish the bowl, she walks away without a second glance. I turn to roll after her, but instead just slump to the ground. Creator, even my heart beats strangely, and my body refuses to respond to my call. My legs twist about on the ground, useless, dancing to an unheard beat. My arms tremble at the barest sign of activity, my once-nimble fingers reduced to clubs wielded by thugs at midnight. I’m a prisoner in my own body, screaming silently.

  With extraordinary effort, I manage to lock one hand awkwardly around one of the bars, pulling myself halfway to my feet. My legs strain, lifting my body partly off the ground. I feel light, far too light, but my weight is still too much for my quivering legs to bear. I flop back to the ground painfully, what little I have that passes for muscles burning and overexerted.

  What have they done to me?

  Te'ial stopped her walk at the sound of my efforts, turning to watch my pitiful efforts. I whimper, more beaten dog than man. A spark of the man I was tries to catch in the ashes of my pride, but can find no kindling. Let her watch. The first tear, when it comes, is long into the minutes of dry sobs that wrack my emaciated body.

  ***

  The morning dawns, muggy and humid. Misery mounted me and rode me mercilessly into unconsciousness some time after midnight. With a titanic effort, straining for five minutes or more, I manage to drag myself into a sitting position, back against the bars. My neck muscles soon protest, and I have to let my head loll against my chest. The sights aren’t exactly compelling, anyway. A village, made mostly of wood and thatch, stands in the near distance. All other directions are blocked by impenetrable jungle.

  My mind, once a keen blade, is now a dull razor, sliding roughly over the surface of my thoughts. It’s painful to think, painful to breathe, painful to even exist. I’m clearly far to the south, deep in the Broken Isles, either on the Isle of the Seers or nearby. How the Seers kept me from waking for the journey is beyond me, because the journey from north of Halfway back to the far southern continent takes months.

  Hang in there, Lav. I'll get out of here before anything can happen to you.

  When Te'ial brings my breakfast, she initially pulls back, her nose wrinkling. Of course, with no ability to move, I pissed and shit all over myself in the night. Despite the stench, she dutifully kneels and offers me the bowl. She has to hold the bowl to my lips again, coddling me like a wounded fawn. She gets up to leave, half of the soup spilled in my beard or on my chest, but I reach out, grasping at her hand.

  “Captain,” I say, my voice sore from the unrelenting sobs of the previous night. “Where am I?”

  “You are in the care,” she spits the word like a curse. “Of the People. Let me be the first and the last to welcome you to Oti'lent.”

  “Thank you for the welcome, however begrudged. I know it can't be... easy, looking after someone you so clearly despise.”

  “I will do my duty as the Seer commands,” Te'ial says woodenly, her words more rehearsed than genuine. “No matter how distasteful.”

  “Captain.”

  “Stop calling me that, thriska Cursed,” she growls. “Your taint has cost me my ship.”

  “What?”

  “The Seer foresaw the day in which I would discover a Cursed and bring him before her,” she says, her voice distant. “When that day came, I would lose my ability to sail free. I would only sail when and where the Seer commands.”

  “Why would you allow someone to take your ship from you? You were a fantastic captain, from what I could see.”

  “When you meet the Seer, you will understand,” she responds, shaking her head. She glances at me, her lip curling, and the moment of vulnerability closes as surely as a slammed door. “Work your limbs, Cursed. Recover your strength. You are to meet the Seer soon, and she will not demean herself by walking out to your... sty.”

  “Wait, Captain, one last thing,” I call to her, and she turns. “How long have I been out? I've never been to this part of the world, so I do not know the season.”

  “It is Spring, though it shall quickly move to Summer. The year's long day approaches,” Te'ial says, and I sag in relief. It’s only been a few weeks. I can make it back to Lav and make things right in time, but Te'ial lingers. She stares at me with a sudden hunger in
her gaze. Fear starts to worm its way into my belly, curling around my spine and clenching there tightly.

  “You didn't answer my question,” I say, the words grinding out of me, the impossible truth slowly beginning to dawn on my cracked and unsteady mind. “How long have I been out?”

  “It is Spring,” Te'ial says again, smiling a wicked smile. “In the year 5222, Council reckoning. You have been sleeping for more than two years.”

  Feeling fades. Sense fades. My vision narrows to a point, then disappears. Two years. Two long years. Two years and the months I spent on the journey to Donir, the weeks I wasted feasting. Two years. Lav... Eternal damn my soul... Lav... What have they done to you? Have they taken care of you? Is it even possible?

  “Let me out.”

  The words come from a distance, grating against the back of my throat like a rusted razor over stone. Raw, broken my voice is little more than a whisper.

  “You will meet the Seer, and she will determine your fate,” Te’ial calls, almost crowing in her awful jubilation.

  “Let me out.”

  “Listen, Cursed, our conversation is over—”

  “LET ME OUT,” I scream, my eyes focusing, my hands drawing up to squeeze the bars of my pathetic little cage. “I NEED TO LEAVE.”

  My arms lose their tremble. My mind burns away the mist smothering my thoughts. I scramble up, one hand squeezing the wooden bar so hard it cracks, lunging forward with the other hand and reaching out into the open air.

  I can barely focus. My breath comes in ragged gasps. My vision wavers between a red haze and the startled brown face in front of me. I strain, slamming my shoulder again and again against the small gap in the bars, more beast than man, scrabbling mindlessly at a trap. A silver glow pierces the early morning air, and the woman squints, raising a hand before her eyes.

  Her thoughts lay themselves out before me, a churning cauldron of hatred, a fading glee, and a rising tide of fear. I growl, crushing the pitiful thoughts that dance across the surface of her brain, slamming my own desire, my need, over and over again at her faltering brain like a hammer on an unwitting nail.

  LET ME FREE. LET ME FREE. LET ME FREE.

  She falls to her knees, grasping at her head, hands pressed against her eyes as she screams out her pain on the ground. Even so, she starts to crawl towards me, whimpering and rolling, her mind begging her body to bring her forward so she can do as commanded. Anything to stop the pain, anything to stop the unceasing command.

  LET ME FREE. LET ME FREE. LET ME FREE.

  Others appear, dark faces in the light of my silver glow, shock and fear blanketing their expressions. I shout, reaching for their minds, but...

  The silver light winks out, the sudden silence as deep as the roar of my thoughts the moment before, my energy completely spent. My body drops out from under me like a puppet with cut strings. My muscles refuse all commands, twitching and rippling weakly under my too-tight skin. Te'ial moans in agony nearby, though I can't stir myself even to roll my head to the side. Instead, my eyes stare sightlessly upward, not even squinting as the sun finally crests the jungle trees.

  Lav, how could this have happened? After everything I've done, after all this time... Oh, Lav, can you forgive me? Does your soul look down with hatred? I abandoned you. I let them abandon you. You never stood a chance without me, and now... now... I break into quiet tears, the weeping so gentle as to be impossible to separate from my ragged breathing. No matter how physically gentle they remain, the tiny tremors reverberate a hellish pulse of agony with each trembling sob. My spirit wilts before the onslaught, the grief like bitter swords piercing, piercing.

  The light of the sun breaks before a shadow. My eyes struggle to focus, the burning orb of morning scorched into my sight for long moments. Finally, my watering gaze focuses on the source of my shade: a woman, tall and proud, her frame powerful and intimidating despite the gray of her hair and the wrinkles on her face. She wears an elaborate series of sashes pinned with various trinkets and adornments, a strange, incongruous collection of odds and ends. A pair of feathers, old and yellowed with age. A knife no larger than a child's thumb, the grip made of curling gold. A silver ring, reflecting the light of the sun in a burning gleam. A hook, ornately carved from the bone of some long dead creature.

  Her eyes are liquid pools of the deepest umber. Reflected there... compassion. Sympathy. A depth of understanding I never imagined could exist. Those eyes hold me, stilling the sobs deep in the confines of my chest before they can wrack my spirit any further. She smiles, a deep dimple appearing in her ebony skin.

  “Who are you?” I ask, hoarse and shattered.

  “I am the Seer,” she answers, her voice deep, melodious and certain the sound a distant bell, sonorous, somber, yet welcoming. My mind quiets before the presence of this stranger. “What causes you such pain?”

  She knows the answer. The cant of her eyes, the gentle tilt of her head, the barest impression of her thoughts… she knows why I’ve lost my mind, part of me still sobbing out the unrelenting pain of it. Even so, my mouth opens, my abused vocal cords straining to tell her, to let someone else feel this mountain of pain.

  “Lav,” I whisper, the sorrow so powerful it almost overcomes the serenity this woman bears. “My brother. I've failed him.”

  “How have you failed him, Bastian?” the woman asks, her eyes full of all the sympathy the world can express, the tenderness a mother holds for a babe.

  “He can't look after himself,” I manage, my eyes closing, tears squeezing out to patter uselessly on the earth. “He needs me.”

  “Why?” her voice approaches, forcing my eyes open, forcing me to focus on the present and forget the grief, if only for a moment.

  “Our parents... they...” I can't force the words out through the lump in my throat.

  Don't tell me, a voice speaks in my mind, but not just a single voice. Another voice, hidden and practically in sync, echoes behind the words of the Seer. Someone strangely familiar, higher and more feminine than the Seer herself. Show me.

  “Bastian!” Elina calls from the kitchen in surprise, a smile broadening on her beautiful features. “We didn't expect you for another month. I thought you were on a trip with your master?”

  “We were able to conclude our business before we anticipated,” I mutter, struggling not to slam the door behind me. I hate coming back home, especially for visits like this.

  “Nomman!” Elina calls, her voice echoing cheerfully through the house. “Our son has come back to visit!”

  Nomman stirs upstairs, rousing himself from a nap at the sudden activity.

  The furniture remains the same, placed the same, worn the same, exactly as has been frozen in my memory for the past decade. The house is a small, two-story affair, but few can afford even this paltry modicum of space and comfort in Coin. We have a tiny piece of lawn behind the house, a washline of clothes fluttering there gently in the breeze, the bright reds and blues of Khalintari garb. Elina still cooks the same meals; the aroma of her crab soup drifts through the house like some tantalizing reminder of better times. The sound of the same stone bowls rings off of the same stone counter.

  Nomman walks down the stairs, smile falling away from his face at the sight of my scowl. A glimmer of fear thrills through him, the plucking of the first string of a symphony of terror. I leaf idly through his thoughts. He knows something is wrong, though he has no idea why a singular look at my face should send such a spasm of horror through him. Still, he feels it.

  As well he should.

  “Son,” Nomman says anyway, recovering his smile. He enfolds me in a hug, which I return, squeezing too tightly to be comfortable. He extricates himself shakily, keeping his wooden smile plastered on his face. “How was the trip?”

  “It was lucrative. The Sealord’s negotiators were remarkably apt to agree to our terms.”

  “That's great!” Nomman says, grabbing my shoulders and shaking me slightly. I resist the urge to hit him. “Elina, did you hear
?”

  “What, Nomman?”

  “Bastian's work went well again! As we always knew it would. Our prodigy,” Nomman says, leaning back and looking on me with pride.

  “And what of your other son?” I bite out, rage lurking far too close to the surface. “Where is Lav?”

  “Lavilion is fine, Bastian,” Nomman says, glancing behind him towards the common room. “He is resting, but we took him out earlier today. The wheeled chair you sent back from your travels was perfect.”

  “We’ll see,” I say, brushing past Nomman and walking farther into the house.

  “Bastian,” Elina calls. “Should I add to the soup? Will you be staying for dinner?”

  “Yes, Bastian, please stay. We would love to hear the story of your journey,” Nomman adds behind me.

  “I'll stay for dinner,” I say over my shoulder. “I wouldn't miss it for the world.”

  I ignore their excited chatter, their damning lies, their casual disregard. My brother’s room is in disarray: disheveled sheets, cobwebs in the corner, curtains drawn against the evening sun, offering barely a glimmer of light to illuminate the cramped little room. I stalk to the window, stepping past several stains on the floor. Healthy light filters in as I spread the drapes.

  A grunt sounds from the corner. A man sits, thin as glass, frail as flowers, huddling in a polished wooden chair attached to a pair of large wheels. His shirt is soiled from a dozen spilled meals, his chin still bearing the remnants of their last attempt. His eyes squint against the light, though they focus on nothing. An unruly mop of black, matted hair hides most of his face.

  Lav. My big brother.

  I stalk out the back door, grabbing a clean towel from the line out back, slinging a heavy bucket over to the water pump. Slowly, carefully ignoring the eyes regarding me from the kitchen, I pump the bucket full and stagger back under the load.

  “Let's get you cleaned up,” I say, my voice soft.

  Absently, I reach out to his thoughts. They are the same: the familiar fear and hunger and weariness, emotions a flickering kaleidoscope, merging into and around one another, an unruly mess of feeling for a broken mind. The flashes of memory are similarly shattered, brief images of three faces: Elina's, Nomman's, and my own, but only as if time has been reversed. Elina and Nomman look happy, content, even joyful in the brief but lucid image in Lav's memory. My face is young, no more than three years old, and I am the only one who does not seem happy in Lav's tortured mind. My face twists in pain, a look I rarely wore as a child. I can’t place what moment Lav remembers of me, but I wish it were happy.