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

by Lane Trompeter

  I dash back into the fight, darting stabs at Aurelion’s eyes, his throat, as preternaturally quick and fast as my mind can think the attacks. He deflects them with ease, his glowing sword always there, always meeting mine at the perfect angle, never gracing me with anything but the barest of movement necessary to defend himself. Each clash of our weapons sends both into a wavering frenzy, the swords losing shape as the elements war directly with one another. Aurelion has two scars. He is Tempered, one small step below the Blades themselves. I can no more break his defense than I can kick through granite.

  “Enough, Kraft,” Gordyn snarls. “You know I want her alive, but end this charade.”

  “Last chance,” Aurelion says, his voice steady and low, low enough that perhaps Gordyn can’t hear him. “Go.”

  My breathing is ragged, my best attacks useless. I can feel something in the shadow I’ve never felt before: weakness. The shadow itself is tired, its response to my will sluggish, as if its war against the light is wearying us both. I almost listen to Aurelion’s advice. I let my weight settle back onto my heels, beginning the turn to get the hell out of this fight for which I’m utterly unprepared. I tense to go…

  Timo runs into the fray, his great roar shaking the structure of the Edge as surely as any earthquake.

  I can’t leave them both. I would rather die fighting for them than live a coward without them. Aurelion turns to engage Timo, his glowing blade darting back and forth like a golden snake. I watch Timo shy back, smoke and flame erupting across his clothing, his skin blackening before the onslaught of the light. Tears blur my vision as he staggers back, great sweeping swaths of burned flesh replacing his pale skin. The keening wail filling the space is my own.

  I have one chance. Aurelion is in Gordyn’s employ. If Gordyn dies, Aurelion will have no need to continue fighting. I open my hand, willing the shadow into a short dagger. Gordyn’s eyes meet mine across the room. I cock my arm back to throw and pray as I have never prayed before for this blow to strike true. I snap my hand forward, the shadow little more than a dim blur through the air.

  Light erupts from the side, light such as I have never seen, a twisting, glowing, living mass of brightness. The light weaves a cage around my little dagger of shadow, capturing it as surely as a rabbit in a snare. I growl, willing the shadow back to me to try again. The shadow, however, does not return. I feel it, as surely as I feel the rest of it pooled in the palm of my other hand, but it can’t respond. It’s trapped.

  Then, the light begins to squeeze. I gasp, falling on my knees, as the fear in the shadow spikes to a crescendo. Pain erupts through our bond, a pain so intense I can’t see, I can’t hear, pain such as I’ve never imagined. The light constricts further, pressing against the darkness inexorably, inevitably, crushing my shadow in a noose of glowing power. Twisting ribbons of light dart here and there to keep the shadow locked firmly in its cage. The shadow in my hand quivers, trembles, weeps. The light snaps inward one final time, and the forlorn sliver of shadow disappears. The pain evaporates. I sit up, seeing without seeing the light dissipating, leaving nothing behind in its wake.

  The shadow is gone.

  My shadow.

  Gone.

  Sorrow comes as swift as an adder’s strike. The remaining shadow keens a lamentation, the sound unheard, the sorrow unfelt, the despair unrelenting. Tears stream down my cheeks, all fight gone from my limbs, my eyes staring vacantly at the spot my shadow occupied but a moment before. The remaining shadow retreats, sliding under my clothes against my will, hiding against my skin. I don’t try to call it back. I can’t form a thought so precise. I’ve failed in the one vow I swore when I took up R’hea’s mantle.

  Some of the last living shadow in the entire world is dead, gone, as if it never was, as if it never can be again. I shoved my element squarely in the face of its most feared and hated enemy. forced it to continue fighting a fight shadow long ago lost. And I had to watch as it suffered the same death living shadow had evaded for millennia. No one can shoulder that burden but me.

  Distantly, I hear Aurelion shouting at Timo, demanding he stop fighting. My lips move, but I can’t hear my own words. Some noise must escape, though, for the shouting stops and quiet falls. The glow of Aurelion’s sword disappears, and the dimness of the dining room is shocking after the brilliance of his Shaping. The Creator-Cursed Master of Light, nothing but a lackey? How could I have known?

  My gaze tracks dully around the room, my eyes leaden and slow. Corna huddles in the corner, her eyes wide and terrified. Timo leans against the wall near the door, breathing heavily and clutching at his blackened torso. Aurelion stands, elegant as before, the only sign of his exertion a light sheen of sweat on his forehead. For a second, it almost seems his hand glimmers in the darkness, but the moment passes without much interest for my thick and languorous thoughts. Gordyn steps back to the dining room table, righting his chair and seating himself once again at the head.

  He gestures for me to resume my seat. Numb, I comply under Aurelion’s watchful gaze. There’s confusion in Aurelion’s posture, as if he can’t understand why the fight left me so suddenly. He steps forward and helps me into my chair. I collapse into it like a marionette without strings.

  For a brief second, Aurelion allows his hand to linger on my shoulder, and I feel the first ripple of emotion deep in my shocked and shaken heart: anger. If I was more aware, I would have shrugged his hand off, but his touch is gone before the action registers. Instead, I shiver. The sadness, the unending sorrow of my shadow is an ocean too wide to cross and too deep to swim. The fear and uncertainty of this moment is too much to grasp. But someone caused this pain. A bitter seed grows in the bottom of my heart. Gordyn’s orders led me to this moment. Whether it takes me a dozen breaths or a dozen years, I won’t forget.

  And neither will he.

  Gordyn studies me from behind steepled fingers for a moment, and I feel the distant urge to straighten and regain something of my confidence from before, but the impulse can’t pierce through the malaise swimming at the surface of my brain. He’s already won. What purpose is there in bravado? What hope in swagger? The only truth lies buried in my soul, and of that he will get no sign.

  “I truly meant this to be a good-faith negotiation,” Gordyn begins, his voice the same neutral tone as before. “Your friend for my goods. I heard rumors of your abilities, always heightened and exaggerated until you were some legendary beast, a terror of the night to stalk children’s nightmares. I am sorry to see that the rumors were merely that.”

  “You have no idea,” Aurelion speaks from the side, still standing and eyeing Timo across the way. “I saw her anger, I saw her intent, and I acted accordingly. But if I didn’t see this woman coming? If she could choose the arena? If she didn’t have others to protect? Believe me when I tell you I will not sleep well if she wishes me harm.”

  Gordyn sits back at Aurelion’s words, studying me anew.

  “What do you have to say to Mr. Kraft’s… opinion of you?”

  I stare. As if I will give him anything. He watches me in turn, and long moments pass. Timo’s harsh breathing and occasional grunt of pain mixes with Corna’s terrified little gasps in the silence. Slowly, inevitably, I struggle to the surface of my shock and sorrow. Even if I’ve led us to this end, I have to do my best to save my Family.

  “What do you want, Gordyn?” I ask, forcing my spine to lock. “You’ve won. You have me at your mercy. Why continue the game?”

  “The ‘game’ I am playing is beyond your understanding, thief. But, despite everything, you may be of use yet. They say you can steal anything if you set your mind to it…” he trails off leadingly.

  “I acquired a pair of boots a few weeks ago. I don’t think their owner ever meant to part with them.”

  “Point taken,” he says, nodding. “I’m going to be honest with you, Kettle, Mother of the Family. I approached this meeting with the hope of hiring you. You’ve forced me to reevaluate my expectations for this rela
tionship.”

  “And?” I ask, impatient.

  “Well, now I’m afraid I can’t trust you,” he says frankly. His eyes give away nothing. “So I’m going to have to keep your friend as insurance against your no-doubt clever and meticulous plan to end my time on this earth.”

  “Take me,” I say, eyes flicking to Corna. “Let Corna and Timo go, and I’ll do whatever task you ask of me free of charge.”

  “If I judged you before correctly, and with Mr. Kraft’s assessment of your abilities, I have to say I can’t imagine a world in which I feel safe without some kind of power over you. How can I trust you won’t stab Mr. Kraft or myself in the back the moment we allow your friends to leave?”

  “My word?” I say weakly. I know, even if I would keep my word, that these men will never trust it. Gordyn gives me a glimmer of a smile, as if I’ve told a mildly humorous joke. “You know that power over me only lasts as long as she is safe.”

  “Of course,” Gordyn says, waving the concern aside as if the thought is ridiculous. “I would not make a lasting enemy of your abilities. I just wish you to understand: I will not be trifled with. Your friend will remain unharmed so long as you work as my ally. The second I discern a hint of treachery from you, she will die a long and painful death. Don’t even give me reason to question. Now, if you do as I ask and accomplish this task, I see no reason why we can’t part as amicably as you demanded at the beginning of this meeting.”

  “What do you want me to do?” I ask, my heart sinking like lead through water.

  “I want you to steal something for me,” he says, blinking once as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Perhaps it is.

  “What could I possibly steal that you can’t buy?”

  “Something beyond price. Mr. Kraft will fill you in on the details. When my desire is met, your friend will walk free. Until then… well. ” he says, standing and walking to the door. He turns back as he opens it to leave. “Oh, and those boots you acquired? Keep them, for now. Perhaps they will prove useful.”

  Chapter 14

  Jace

  The Forty-Third Day of Spring

  In the year 5222, Council Reckoning

  “You have the potential to be one of the best swordsmen I have ever seen. You have natural speed that is absurd, personal commitment, and, best of all, timing. The difference, however, between the great and the best is a simple thing: control.”

  “Elaborate,” I say, raising an eyebrow at Reknor’s excited expression.

  “You have great endurance and natural talent,” Reknor says, pacing, staring at the floor intently. “Your speed is fantastic. What you lack, to put it simply, is control. Every master of every discipline can tell you about being able to control your craft, about having perfect discipline to never question your instincts, to allow your experience and talent and knowledge to merge into one single force that is seamless, as if the parts were never separate. Control. Just as a master mason needs to be able to place a chisel just so, and strike at exactly the right angle, with the perfect amount of force, to dislodge the precise amount of stone that he desires. Just as the painter places each sliver of color with deliberation and vision for the whole piece. Just as the greatest runners know exactly the stride length they need to achieve their best speed, how hard they can push themselves, exactly when to burst and use their final reservoir of energy. Control is the complete knowledge of your body, your capabilities, and the limits, or lack thereof, of your craft. You already have the natural instincts and creativity of a potential master. If you learn control, Jace, you will be unbeatable.”

  The tasks that Reknor created to teach me 'control' were impossible. Cut halfway through an inch-wide candle. Cut all but one strand of a hempen rope. Put out three of five lit candles with a swing of my sword, in various order, not in a row, in a single slash, with multiple attacks. Cut the straps of Reknor's training armor without being touched in full combat, as if Reknor is a slouch with the sword himself. Hang by one hand from a rope and fight. Fight Reknor hanging upside down by my knees from a pole. Fight from my back, from my knees, with one leg, with one arm. Prune a neighbor’s bushes into perfect shapes with slashes of the sword. Be awoken in the night with a sword to the neck, and expect to win. Do each of the above tasks blindfolded. Spin a dozen times and complete them dizzy.

  I failed time and time again. I cut through a hundred ropes, two hundred, before the first success came and the final twine was left intact. I split candles down to nubs, then melted and reformed them to start again. Over months, I started to make genuine progress in the impossible tasks. The ropes and the candles have become trivial. I’m nearly as much at ease upside down or in the dark as standing on my own two feet in the day. My right and my left hands are practically interchangeable.

  For all that, I’m still terrified as I eye the stranger standing with quiet confidence in the center of the training room.

  Where there had been colored poles and the various and sundry equipment of Reknor’s esoteric training, a simple mat has taken their place. The stranger is small and wiry, his skin several shades darker than my own. I figure him for a Khalintari, perhaps from the far north or west. A bright green sash wraps around his wrist, but otherwise his drab and unremarkable clothing does little to set him apart.

  Reknor kneels off to the side of the room, his eyes serious and calculating, two others also waiting quietly: a man with a rakish blonde beard and a shaven head dressed in a blue military cut of the latest fashion and a woman in the dark leathers of a mercenary, her clothing a shade lighter than her deep brown skin. A scar bisects one of her eyes, brow to cheek, but the eye itself still gleams out a vibrant blue.

  “Hello,” I say without the faintest idea of what’s going on.

  The woman snorts indelicately, shooting Reknor an incredulous look.

  “You told me you had a worthy challenger, not a real ak’aia,” she snaps, loud enough for me to hear. I don’t know what ak’aia means, but her tone says enough.

  “I told you this would be unorthodox,” he retorts.

  “You said unorthodox, not unprecedented.”

  “There is precedent,” Reknor answers, looking at her with some kind of hidden meaning I can’t fathom. His words seem to mollify her, though she can’t wipe a skeptical look off her face.

  “Jace, this is Benko,” Reknor continues, ignoring the woman and gesturing towards the man standing in the center of the room. “And this is James Elthe,” the man nods, giving me a playful wink and a grin. “And this is Ke’sti’ra of the Rak’a’to. They are here to test some claims I’ve made about your abilities with a sword.”

  “A test?” I ask, my stomach dropping a bit. Weren’t you supposed to be warned before a test?

  “You will be afforded one duel with each of them,” Reknor explains. “These fights are an exercise in the control you’ve developed. Your path to victory is through delivering a fatal strike, yet inflicting no harm upon your opponent. Any blood drawn is a sign of weakness, and you will fail the test. Your opponents will follow these same parameters.”

  Benko, whoever he is, does not speak at all for himself, nor seemingly react to Reknor’s explanation. He simply stares at me, his eyes deep and dark. The sword he holds is thinner than mine, double edged and deadly.

  “Benko of No Name, you are called to question this um’iel and see if he is worthy of the A’kai’ano’ri. Your sacred task is before you. You are the test,” the dark mercenary Ke’sti’ra intones from the side. Question? I’m going to answer questions? I breathe an inward sigh of relief and relax a hair.

  “We are the children, yet we seek to learn. We are the ore, yet we seek the hammer. We are the soul, yet we seek purification.”

  All four voices in the room speak the words in various accents, their cadence blending into a simple harmony. My confusion deepens. Is this some sort of ritual? Some kind of ceremony?

  “Begin.”

  Instantly, without any sign of tension or expectation, Benko
explodes into action, his blade whipping straight for my unprotected neck. I block the first three blows with my sword half out of its scabbard, backing towards the corner to give myself room. Benko matches my pace, refusing to give up the initiative, his sword an unceasing strike of lightning. Each swing moves in blurring intensity, but the sheer speed costs him his ability to feint or effectively counter. Once the man commits to an attack, he’s committed. After a tense few seconds where I’m almost trapped against the corner and kept from effectively maneuvering, I finally see an opening. He steps forward, his weight transferring to the ball of his forward foot to put more force into his next strike. I step in with him and have the satisfaction of watching his eyes widen in surprise as I close suddenly inside the arc of his weapon and plant an elbow squarely in his solar plexus. His breath leaves him in a quiet wheeze, and he staggers backwards. I give him no time, closing ground and ending the fight with the tip of my blade against the inside of his groin. He steps back, struggling to regain his breath, and bows his head formally. I nod in return.

  The rakish man Elthe continues to smile, but the dark mercenary of the Isles wears something of a stunned expression. Reknor appears stoic, but his smugness radiates from across the room. Just as my breathing returns to normal, Ke’sti’ra speaks again.

  “James Elthe, you are called to question this um’iel and see if he is worthy of the A’kai’ano’ri. Your sacred task is before you. You are the test.”

  Elthe stands, stretching his shoulders and patting Ke’sti’ra on the head as he passes. She scowls, but otherwise doesn’t react. He draws his rapier smoothly, the thin blade ending in a gleaming point. Grinning a confident grin, he winks again, but I can see the seriousness in his eyes as he takes on a ready stance. The casual facade is nothing but a playful mask.

  “We are the children, yet we seek to learn. We are the ore, yet we seek the hammer. We are the soul, yet we seek purification.”