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

by Lane Trompeter

  “Miss Po’lial?” a voice interrupts my musings.

  I turn to see an elegant young man in a pressed black suit that fits him perfectly, accentuating the lines of his broad shoulders and slender waist. His face is clean shaven, his features sharp but pleasing. He smiles, and I catch my breath. His full lips look… well. He isn’t the first pretty man I’ve ever seen, but I could lose myself in his bright copper eyes without too much trouble. A flush rises to my cheeks that has nothing to do with the warmth of the Spring evening.

  “Yes?” I ask, feeling slightly breathless.

  “Mr. Gordyn will see you now,” he says, offering me his arm.

  “Right,” I say, trying to shake off the effect the man has on me.

  Timo grunts something almost like a laugh out of the back of his throat. I shoot him a dirty look as I slip my hand into the crook of the man’s arm, his muscular, firm arm. Damn it. I shouldn’t be noticing those kinds of things. Now is most definitely not the time.

  He leads us back and out a glass doorway onto the elegant deck behind the hotel. He pauses, briefly, letting me drink in the beauty of Donir spread out before the yawning blackness of the pit in front of me. The lamps of the city set the rooftops ablaze, the lights of windows sparkling in the darkness of the clear night. I glance at him, surprised to meet his gaze staring back at me. My breathing goes a little erratic again, so I glance back at the skyline.

  “We shouldn’t keep Gordyn waiting,” I say in my best bored voice. I can’t help but assume I’m fooling no one.

  “Of course not, Miss Po’lial,” he says, leading us to a staircase spiraling downwards into the Abyss. The stairs have no railing and no supports; they just seem to drop off into the umbra of the night. Grinning, I lean out over the edge, feeling the coolness of a distant breeze rising from the depths. Hanging from the arm of Gordyn’s mysterious associate, I let his strength take some of my weight so that I can look down into the deep.

  He waits, patient, his arm solid as rock. If Gordyn means to kill me, this is the perfect opportunity for his associate to simply let go. Not that I’m in any particular danger. The shadow will always catch me.

  As I stare down into the darkness, I feel… something. A tug, almost as if an invisible finger has hooked into my chest and gives me a gentle, subtle pull towards the blackness below. I frown, but I can’t get a grasp on the feeling. The shadow under my clothes twists, moving about and agitated. It’s almost… almost as if…

  “I do believe you were right before,” the man says suddenly, breaking my reverie. “We shouldn’t keep Mr. Gordyn waiting.”

  I blink, and the feeling disappears.

  “Right,” I say, allowing him to draw me back over the ledge and onto firm footing again.

  We descend, Timo stepping quietly behind us. I glance back, and he raises his eyebrows, a question in his eyes. I shake my head. I’m acting erratically and I know it, but I’m alright. The horizon of Donir rises out of sight as we drop past the lip of the Abyss. Soon, the watchful stars are the only illumination aside from a few regularly-placed lamps, drops of sunlight in a lightless void. We’re suspended in an unending sea of darkness, the lanterns little more than tiny islands in an uncaring ocean. I shiver, whether from delight or apprehension, I can’t tell.

  Finally, after what seems an age, we reach a building built into the side of the rock wall. We passed half a dozen rooms on our way down, each more ostentatious than the last, each occupied with the tinkling of glasses and the raucous laughter of the rich and the entitled. At our destination, though, a suite of at least five rooms spreads out against the wall. The structure gives off a sense of such solidity that the feeling of weightlessness given by the spiraling stairs dissipates like so much mist before a stiff breeze. The stairs end here, of course. Gordyn owns the lowest and most obviously expensive of the rooms.

  My escort reaches forward to open the door for us, and my eyes latch onto a pair of scars on his wrist, matched with a pair of simple black lines tattooed to his skin. Shorn. Just like before. But this one… this man, no matter how young he looks, vastly outclasses the mercenaries I faced before. The Shorn, or as the People know of them, the A’kai’ano’ri, are given their four lines when they join the brotherhood, and it is only through their mysterious advancement that their tattoos are removed, instead becoming scars to show the growth of their ability and their wisdom. Two scars mean the man has advanced from the lowest ranks of the Shorn, who are already formidable fighters in the extreme, and into the upper echelon of the Tempered. Only the Blades are higher.

  The information was intentionally given. I ignore his eyes, and instead wait patiently for him to open the door. As he turns the handle, a nervous twinge flutters through my stomach, a sudden fear that wasn’t there before. It isn’t just the man next to me, though he’s certainly dangerous. I have no idea what’s going to happen when I cross through this door. There could be a hundred mercenaries waiting to pepper me with bolts the second the door opens. Corna could be dead, or, worse, bound and tortured there in front of me. I’ll do anything to save her, regardless of what it costs me. Hopefully, Gordyn doesn’t know how much she means to me.

  The door swings open to reveal a long cedar table, highly polished and beautifully wrought, the intricate whorls and knots of its parent preserved in the shining surface. Places are set for five to eat, two on either end at the heads of the table, each with a second place at their right hand, with one place set squarely in the middle on the left side. A twin to the chandelier in the opening foyer fills the room, its many facets reflecting a gentle rainbow of light from the lanterns hanging from the walls. Gordyn is not seated, but instead stands at a window across the fabulous room, cradling a glass of some liquor, gently clinking ice cubes together as he muses on the darkness. His form, so slight, nonetheless sends a tremor of fear down to the tips of my toes. He didn’t become the richest man in the world through stupidity.

  He turns at the sound of us entering, his lips quirking into a small smile. For once, the smile actually does seem to reach his eyes. When we met before, I was scared of the predator lurking under the gentleman’s facade, but none of that wolf is in evidence here. Gordyn looks relaxed, confident, almost happy. I immediately feel worse about my chances.

  “Mistress Po’lial,” he begins, beckoning me forward. “I’m so glad you accepted my invitation.”

  “I prefer Kettle these days,” I answer, allowing him to take my hand and press a kiss to my knuckles. “You know as well as I do that I haven’t been back to the Isles in over a decade.”

  “Very well, Kettle,” he says, nodding once. “I would like to welcome you—”

  “Where is Corna?” I cut in. “I trust Atlan did an adequate enough job relaying my words for you to know my terms for this meeting.”

  “Can we not be pleasant to one another?” he asks, frowning slightly. “I’ve treated you with respect and offered to negotiate with you despite the fact that you robbed me and killed more than a dozen of my employees. I feel like we can observe some niceties, considering how… lenient I am being.”

  “The scales are not balanced between us.”

  “No, but we will have a plan in place to rectify that situation before the night is out. Until then, could we please be civil?” he asks, his expression open and reasonable. At my grudging nod, he rings a bell and walks me over to my seat, drawing out my chair. “Now, I assume introductions are in order? Kettle, would you do me the honor of introducing me to your compatriot?”

  “Jon Gordyn, meet Timo of the Family,” I say, feeling ridiculous as the only person seated.

  Timo has no surname, nor does he have any family but ours. I blink in surprise as Gordyn offers Timo his hand to shake. Timo, too, seems taken aback for a moment, but he engulfs Gordyn’s hand in his own. Since I don’t see Gordyn wince or react in any way, I assume Timo didn’t do the barbaric thing and squeeze harder than necessary. He’s come a long way in the last two years.

  “A pleasure. An
d I assume you have already made introductions with Mr. Kraft?” he says as the three men settle into their seats, gesturing to his associate.

  “We have not. Mr. Kraft, is it?” I ask, careful to keep my expression neutral.

  “Aurelion Kraft, my lady Kettle,” he says, smiling a gentle smile that sets my heart to fluttering. “Rumors of your beauty were clearly inadequate. Jon only worries for the facts; he told me only to be careful of you. I had no idea I needed to be careful of my heart.”

  “You are too kind. I do have to wonder, though, how I’ve never heard any such rumors concerning you. You are far too memorable a figure yourself not to spark discussion, Mr. Kraft.”

  “Please, if I’m to call you Kettle, call me Aurelion. I keep a low profile in Donir. My work for Jon requires me to be careful of my reputation.”

  He glances at Gordyn out of the corners of his eyes, but otherwise stares intently at me.

  “And what do you do for Mr. Gordyn?”

  “Well, I handle some of his more… delicate matters. Those that aren’t meant to see the light of day.”

  “He has been a valuable asset for many years,” Gordyn interrupts our banter. “Mr. Kraft has traveled all over the world on business for the bank. He’s never failed to fulfil any contract I’ve given him.”

  “Never?” I ask, keeping my eyes squarely on Aurelion. The smile on his face is as much predatory as congenial. “You must be a man of extraordinary talent.”

  “You have no idea.”

  A polite knock sounds at the door, and servants file in, platters and bottles glittering in their hands. Before I can process their arrival, they’re leaving, my glass full of wine and a delicate and artistic meal laid out in front of me. It’s the kind of food that only the wealthy eat: far too small, far too expensive, and more about presentation than function. On my plate, a thin fillet of tuna rests on greens and a swirling array of sauces, grilled in softened peppercorns with a portion of rice mixed with diced mango and chili peppers: foods of the People, specialties nearly impossible to find in Donir. I haven’t tasted fresh tuna in a decade.

  I glance around. Each of the plates seems to cater to our particular backgrounds. Timo has a massive, rustic steak, a generous portion of roasted potatoes and carrots in an artistic pile relegated to one small corner of his plate. He’s clearly a lowborn commoner, so the fare is no doubt a dream for his simple tastes. Gordyn has a delicate cut of salmon over a bed of rice topped with tiny shrimp in a cream sauce. I’ve heard of a similar dish served in a restaurant alleging to emulate the peculiar tastes of residents of Halfway. If our meals do represent our origins, Jon Gordyn seems to be claiming the one place no one claims as homeland. Aurelion stares down at his plate, a half-smile on his full lips. His plate holds two long, dark vegetables stuffed with some sort of meat, cheese, and a white sauce flecked with green spices. I don’t recognize any of it, despite long experience with the Donirian markets in the Pennies. Where is he from?

  He meets my eyes, his smile broadening. I fight the urge to look away quickly, as if I’ve done something wrong, and instead meet the liquid copper of his eyes unafraid. He looks away first, and I suppress the tingle working its way down my spine. What in all the Depths is wrong with me? I’m here to negotiate for Corna’s life. I’ve walked into the lion’s den, and here I am ogling his cub like some lovestruck fool. I need to focus.

  We eat our meals, chatting about inane nonsense, Gordyn expounding on financial and trade advice that would most likely be valuable if I hadn’t put every penny of my hard-won coin into his hands during the theft. The two men are clever, cordial, their words weaving in and out of one another in a mesmerizing dance. I keep up, barely, doing my best to focus on the conversation and not on the tension building between my shoulder blades. Aurelion makes a joke, and I laugh, letting my eyes drop to the table.

  Which is when I remember the fifth plate set at the table. A wide and flat bowl filled with a red soup and diced tomatoes and greens. A chill rushes down my skin. Gazpacho. Corna is from the western coast, and she always complained about not being able to find a proper recipe since she left her parents all those years ago. I remember joking with her about the ridiculousness of a cold soup. I can see her affronted face, as if I was the barbarian for believing soup should be hot. I look up with narrowed eyes. Gordyn stares back at me, a smirk on his face.

  “Is she here?” I ask, ending the pleasant small talk as swiftly as dousing lamp.

  “Of course she is. She’s been listening the entire time. Corna, darling, please come in,” Gordyn calls cheerily.

  And there she is.

  She walks in from one of the rooms off this main foyer, every inch the beautiful queen I know she is. She wears a sleek midnight blue dress as only Corna can, the delicate silk falling off her body in a liquid sheen of silver highlights. Her hair spirals up on top of her head, her eyes and face clear of blemish or harm. My heart leaps into my throat, my eyes drinking in the sight of her. She’s alive. If nothing else, she’s breathing. Thank the Creator.

  I feel more than hear Timo growl a low growl beside me. I glance at him, concerned, but he has eyes only for Corna. I look back, really look, and the feeling of excitement burgeoning in my breast dies. She’s moving gingerly, favoring her ribs on the left side, doing her best to disguise the limp in her step. Her visible skin, of which plenty is showing, appears healthy, but cosmetics can serve to hide much, and Corna is wearing thick powder. The carefree grace of her movements is absent, instead each step placed carefully and each movement truncated and slow. She meets my eyes for the briefest of moments before she glances down at her place at the table. A chill settles into my heart. The look was one of fear, of pleading terror, a silent entreaty for help.

  My eyes flick back to Gordyn. He watches Corna as she struggles to elegantly sit in the chair for her meal, but it’s a pitiable attempt. Something of the wolf deep in his eyes rises to the surface as he looks at her, looks at her as if she’s a particularly succulent and appealing prey. He slowly turns back to look at me, and there is little human left in his gaze.

  “I see you disregarded my parameters for this meeting,” I speak quietly. Too quietly. The words grate out of me like a serrated blade drawn from my ribcage, each word skipping across bone.

  “I have followed it to the best of my ability,” Gordyn answers. “We weren’t aware of your rule regarding young Corna until after your meeting with Atlan. As you can see, we have done our best to be hospitable to our guest ever since we learned of your wishes.”

  I don’t answer, staring at Corna. She sits, dully, her shoulders slumped, staring at her untouched soup, refusing to meet my eye. Where is the bright, vibrant woman of my memory? She is a doll made too lifelike; all of the pieces there, but the way they fit together wrong, abnormal, unnatural. Gordyn has done this to her. Gordyn has broken my sister.

  “Now, you have something I want...”

  “Here are my terms,” I speak, ignoring the part of me screaming to be reasonable, to hold it together, to keep up the charade. The part of me demanding rationality is a thin candle before the hurricane of my anger. I feel like I’m speaking through mouthfuls of blood. “You are going to get up and walk away. You are going to leave here, now, without making a sound. You are going to pretend I never came into your life, and I am going to do my best to forget you exist. Corna and Timo and I are going to follow when we damn well please. In return, I won’t make you my personal canvas, my knife the paintbrush, until you beg me to stop practicing my art on your flesh. Are we agreed?”

  Gordyn sits, impassive, through my entire speech. He doesn’t respond, either in expression or words, his look one of disappointment rather than fear. He obviously has no idea what I’m capable of.

  “Are you done?” he asks in the same tone as before. I simply stare, beginning a mental countdown in my head before I end this negotiation permanently. “Good. We are negotiating, and I have come here in good faith. I will let this… fit… you are throwing pass,
but my patience is wearing thin.”

  “Enough,” I say, standing abruptly from the table. My chair crashes back and to the ground. Timo rises with me, seeming to grow before my eyes into a menacing bear. “I gave you your chance. Send my regards to the Creator, Jon Gordyn, if he will have you.”

  I summon the shadow, and it roils up out of my clothes, forming into a slender sword. I leap forward, urging the shadow on, gliding into an unnatural dive that easily clears the dozen paces between us. I bring my blade around, narrowing it, thinning it, focusing that edge into the sharpest I can imagine. It will be quick. Gordyn may deserve pain, but at least this bitter business will be over. I strike, my own reflection growing in Gordyn’s eyes as he recognizes his death.

  Aurelion slides smoothly between us, his own sword rising to meet mine. It won’t matter. No blade of steel has ever stood up to focused shadow. But his hand is empty. Why has he sacrificed himself for Gordyn? He doesn’t even have a means of defending himself.

  A light appears out of thin air, brighter than fires, shining as the sun. His glowing blade meets mine and they clash there, darkness and light intertwining and writhing against one another. I stumble back, shocked. He doesn’t press the advantage, but merely sweeps his blade down in a smooth arc, standing at the ready. The Master of Light? In Gordyn’s employ?

  “Stand down, Kettle,” Aurelion says, his eyes pleading even as his body is relaxed and ready. “You can still walk out of here.”

  “What you have done to Corna is unforgivable,” I spit out. “If you would stand with him, die with him.”

  I fall into a crouch and hold my blade behind me. The shadow doesn’t think, not as people do, but it still feels. Right now, despite my anger and determination, the shadow only exudes fear. I almost run, knowing that my greatest ally, my constant companion, does not wish this fight. But Corna is here. If I leave her, I may never see her again.