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

by Lane Trompeter

  A brief moment of expectant silence.

  “Begin.”

  Unlike Benko, Elthe doesn’t move as the fight begins. Instead, he makes an arrogant ‘come here’ gesture, planting his feet and angling the point of his rapier so it aligns with my throat. I have no intentions of doing what the man wishes. I circle, stepping carefully to the side, wary of how far or fast the man can lunge with his long weapon. He pivots smoothly, his feet always in perfect balance, his posture relaxed and steady. When I’ve circled about halfway around him, slowly closing the distance between us, he lunges out of nowhere, the point of his sword rushing towards my eyes faster than thought. I sweep my blade up to deflect the strike, but his sword is gone, darting instead for my vulnerable groin. I twist to my left, bringing my sword down in desperation to block the blow, but again he’s years ahead. His sword is an adder, striking and retracting so fast I can’t even blink. The tip of his sword gently, almost apologetically, pokes my right shoulder just where the muscle would suffer the most damage. The strike is surgical, the control precise.

  I step back, frustrated with myself. The man’s speed is startling, but I should have been ready for it. His smile turns almost rueful as he spins on his heel to walk back to our waiting audience, but Reknor holds up a hand.

  “What are you doing, Mr. Elthe?” he asks, furrowing his brow in confusion.

  “This fight is over. He would have lost all use of his arm if this fight was real,” Elthe says, shrugging.

  “Does he not have another arm?” Reknor asks in response.

  Elthe frowns, glancing back at me. I promptly put my right hand behind my back, presenting my blade in readiness with my left. His eyebrows rise, but then he belts out a short laugh, straight from his belly.

  “Well, you can’t say the boy doesn’t have pluck,” he mutters, assuming his ready stance and waving me forward again.

  This time, I do come on, driving firmly into his range. He strikes, his moves coming with the same casual grace and liquid speed, but I press forward. He retreats, still in control, but I move with him, keeping inside the range of his long and deadly lunges. He counters with a series of short and darting feints, the tip of his sword a scorpion’s tail. My urge to retreat roars under the absurd speed of the attacks, but I force myself closer, my sword reacting only to genuine strikes, my instincts picking up on clues my mind could never read. Before long he’s pressed against the wall, his sword working furiously just to keep mine at bay. The signs of desperation blossom in his face, his movements more abrupt, his control slipping, his eyes roving. He almost gets me with the sheer reckless audacity of his final strike, surrendering all defense to send one last bolt of lightning hurtling at my throat. I move my head, just enough, feeling the air move across my cheek from the blow, cleanly resting my blade across his throat in the same movement.

  His smile is gone. In its place, his eyes smolder in anger. With a careless flick, he cuts my cheek as he retracts his sword. The urge to do likewise on the side of his neck swells in me, but I manage to lower my blade without giving in. The weight of Reknor’s heavy gaze rests on me, and I desire his disappointment less than I desire death. So I step away, ignoring the stinging cut and the thin sheet of blood working its way down my neck. Elthe seems to relax, coming back to himself, a ghost of his former smile gracing his lips.

  He nods towards me once, sharply. I nod back.

  “Sorry, boy. I was careless. You’re too good for me,” he says, attempting to adopt a flippant tone.

  Careless? Please. The man had executed a brilliant surgical strike on my shoulder, in perfect control, without even damaging my shirt. My blood is on his blade because he desires it to be.

  “Of course,” I respond, waving my hand as if it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t. I’ve suffered far worse. “It’s nothing.”

  “Jace of Donir, you are deemed worthy of the A’kai’ano’ri,” Ke’sti’ra says, wonder and no small amount of surprise in her voice. “The Process, in your tongue. The Path. The Forge. The Ascendance. Your skills and your control, both in combat and out, are deserving of the title Nori, the Man, the Blade, the Zenith. You have earned the mark of our order, and all will recognize you for your rank.”

  With a flourish, Ke’sti’ra and the other two whip off the colored scarves on their wrists, revealing unique markings. Each has what looks like a single short line, as if a numeral denoting ‘one,’ tattooed along the inside of their wrists, clear and bold and black against the various shades of their skin. Next to that one line, however, are a trio of scars as if three identical lines have been cut away.

  The terms she uses, some mixture of Isles speech and Donirian translation, all go sailing past me. The Process? The Ascendance? What are these people talking about? And now they want to mark me? What insanity has Reknor brought me in to? It’s with a start that I realize Reknor holds out his own wrist, revealing a similar tattoo. He had the same original markings, but two matching dark numerals are paired with two scars. Despite everything we’ve been through, all of our time spent together, I’ve never seen him out of long sleeves. Has he been hiding this the entire time?

  “The cut on my face,” I say, suddenly realizing. “Another test?”

  “Just so. A Nori must control her emotions in addition to her body. It seems my questions are not necessary,” Ke’sti’ra says, somewhat regretfully, as if she most definitely wanted to test herself against me. “I will admit to some surprise, boy. How many Winters have you seen?”

  “Seventeen.”

  “So young. I survived above the Depths for twenty-five Winters before I dared try my hand at joining the A’kai’ano’ri. Thirty before I was Nori. I was wrong, my old friend, to doubt you,” she says, turning to Reknor.

  “There is no offense. Your questions were not necessary, Ke’sti’ra, but would you do him the honor of asking them anyway?” Reknor asks with a smile.

  “He is no longer um’iel. The decision lies with him,” she answers, turning to me. “Do you wish to test one another, young Nori?”

  “What does um’iel mean?” I ask in response.

  “Stranger. One who is not of us.”

  “And I am, now? One of you?”

  Whatever that means.

  “You are. If you show this mark to another, you will be honored as a Nori, a Blade. For those with knowledge, they will understand that you have an uncommon gift. If you seek to eat from your blade,” she pauses, fingering her own mercenary sigil, “you will find that employers will honor the mark of your ability in accordance with your rank. If someone does not recognize your skill, they are unworthy of your services.”

  “Are we mercenaries then? Skilled fighters for hire?”

  “Have you taught him nothing?” she asks Reknor, her tone chiding. “We are the A’kai’ano’ri. We seek nothing but the End, the telos, the perfection of our bodies, minds, and souls. We know we will never finish. We will never achieve our goal. But still, we strive for perfection. Our skills are merely a product of that search.”

  I think back through the thousand lessons Reknor taught me, the endless books, the absurd tests, the ceaseless search for mastery, for control… I’ve been following that idea ever since Reknor began to teach me, whether I knew it or not.

  “I would love to answer your questions, then, Ke’sti’ra.”

  “Good,” she says, standing and drawing not one, but two blades sheathed side by side. One sword she holds in a traditional grip, the other curves downward towards her forearm. Immediately my stomach sinks. What the hell kind of style is that? “The A’kai’ano’ri are ever seeking tests.”

  I want to say that I put up a good fight, but she humbles me in the span of ten heartbeats. I not only fail to even threaten her once, but I have the feeling she could have disarmed me twice in that span, but took pity on me. I shudder to think about anyone who has to face her in real battle. With a solemn nod from Benko, a pat on the shoulder from James Elthe, and a magnanimous smile from Ke’sti’ra, the A’kai’an
o’ri take their leave.

  I have a thousand questions, but Reknor cuts me off before I can speak by brandishing a piece of crafted vellum covered in gold ink calligraphy. The piece of paper itself probably costs as much as my sword, so I can’t imagine what’s written on it. The grin on Reknor's face, however, fills my gut with unease.

  “What do you have planned this time?”

  “Me?” Reknor says, too innocently. “I don't have anything planned. Two nights from now, however, you do. A unique opportunity, if I say so myself. You can get your tattoo marking you as Nori when you return.”

  “What opportunity could that be?” I ask, sheathing my blade and stretching out my fingers for the note. Reknor snatches it away with a scowl.

  “You’ll damage the ink,” he huffs. Puffing up to his full height and throwing his chest out, Reknor coughs pretentiously and declares: “To the Lord Hollenzar of Hollen, on this Most Special Occasion at the Height of Spring, an Invitation to the Ball of Kings at the Royal Palace of the Kingdom of the Sea, Helikos the blah blah blah.”

  “Who in the Creator's name is the Lord of Hollenzar?”

  “Can't you guess?” Reknor asks, lone eye glinting in amusement.

  ***

  My carriage comes to a mild, lurching stop and I bend over. I can’t see anything but darkness, and my stomach convulses as I taste bile. A young nobleman who has never been to court might be nervous, but that excuse will only go so far. I ruthlessly push down my emotions and take a long, deep breath, reaching for the stillness. I don’t find it, but the action calms me anyway. I summon up what little knowledge I have of noblemen’s sons and knock imperiously on the door to the gilded carriage. The footman opens the door immediately, and I sweep out, struggling for the proper balance between arrogance and humility. I’m not known at court, so I can’t be full of confidence, but I’m still a noble. My short cape swishes behind me as I walk, and I smile. As the first servant to see me bows low, I know I have the walk right, at least.

  I stride up to the palace gates, approaching the wide and inviting double doors. The warmth and music from inside is muted from the threshold. I listen, slowly trying to fall into my role, absently presenting the invitation to a guardsman who nods and welcomes me. The King’s Ball is not a place where you want to be exposed as a fake.

  The palace is largely functional rather than opulent, and the cut stone mildly forbidding as I walk under the portcullis. Glancing up, an eye glints from an arrow slit above as a soldier peers down at me. I hastily face forward again and follow the line of rich and wealthy to an ornate pair of double doors.

  The doors themselves are a work of art, wrought in what appears to be pure gold. Each panel depicts a different cardinal element: waves and crashing storms for water, roaring flame around a volcano for fire, proud mountains and sweeping plains for earth, and a swirling, mesmerizing pattern for air. In the center connecting each panel is a deep hourglass. The doors swing wide, and the couple at the front of the line strides through, heads held proudly as their names echo throughout the packed ballroom.

  I’m supposed to be a young nobleman from a distant and inconsequential province, forced out on a grand tour of the world to become a better man. I’m making a stop in the High Court, gaining in ‘culture’ and experience. The Hollenzars do have a legitimate young son, who Reknor assures me will not show up at the dance.

  The line moves forward, and I straighten my brilliant white jacket and half-cape once again, fighting to keep a scowl off my face. Even my boots are polished in such a way that they look to have an off-white sheen. The only color on my outfit comes from the golden buttons adorning the right side of my tunic. Reknor claims it’s fashionable, but all that I’ve seen so far from the other guests are muted colors. The doors open for the couple in front of me, and I groan inwardly. The vast majority of the crowd is dressed in greens, blues, and reds to honor Spring. No white at all.

  The hall itself is filled with perfect mosaics of crashing waves and oceans, each precious and semi-precious stone carefully wrought and arranged. A balcony surrounds the entire room, with space underneath separated by glittering pillars shaped like water spouts. High overhead a massive orb of water floats over the crowd, flowing and churning, spinning around itself in a slow dance that matches the music. There are no attachments I can see, no glass or wire. The orb is levitating of its own accord, and lanterns float inside of its depths, bobbing around in the water and casting a dim, dappled light over the crowd and the glittering walls.

  Somehow, the king is Shaping the water into the awe-inspiring chandelier without even being in the room. It’s my first experience with Shaping up close, and it sears twelve colors of fear into my soul.

  The walls may glitter, but they have nothing on the guests. Each dress in attendance is a work of art, and, although many are in shades of green or blue and largely unadorned, each woman has on enough jewelry to feed me for years on the streets. Gems I don’t recognize rest boldly on top of cleavage or dangle like magic from earlobes. Men are dressed in muted blues and greens in honor of the Sealord and every guest possesses a noble's bearing.

  A polite cough sounds to my right, and the majordomo looks at me expectantly.

  “Teldaran Hollenzars, first son of the Lord and Lady of Hollen.”

  The man nods and bows for me to enter, slamming his staff three times against the marble. Dozens of pairs of eyes turn to me, and I force myself not to wilt. It feels like my stomach is trying to escape through my bowels, and the shaking in my knees has to be obvious. I’ve stolen from these people, attacked them, hated them, and resented them. Now I have to act like I’m one of them.

  “Elder Son Teldaran Hollenzars of Hollen,” the majordomo calls, and several people whisper fiercely to one another.

  As soon as I start down the steps, however, the crowd turn back to their conversations, the music comes up, and I manage to relax slightly. I am, for the moment, forgotten again. A smile works its way on my face. I don’t have to be me. I’m not the sullen thief of before, or even the proud scholarly ward of yesterday. I’m the eldest son of a noble family, and the court had better watch out.

  My fears disappear like dousing a torch. I saunter forward, my brilliant white clothing shimmering in the lights from above. I ignore the surreptitious glances from the crowd and walk with my head held high. The vibrations from my boots reverberate off of the polished marble floor, but I can’t hear them over the music. The other guests have drinks in hand so… there. On my way towards the servant with drinks, I pass into an open pocket of people. A conspicuously open pocket, the second I notice who stands in its middle.

  The Lord General towers over the crowd, his muscular arms folded firmly across his chest. He wears a simple matte black tunic with matching pants and utilitarian boots. The only thing impressive about him, aside from his unnatural size and stature, is his sword. The weapon is absurd. Easily as tall as the gigantic man himself, the hilt has room for four of my hands to close around it. Ornate, delicate gold tracings work their way around the hilt, but I can see that some of them have been damaged or flattened. That sword isn’t just for show. Somehow, Kranos has found the need to use it. Or the desire. He’s larger than any man I’ve ever met. His shoulders are broad and powerful, his face strong and charming. Despite that, there’s something… off about the man.

  His eyes focus on me, and he beckons.

  Shit.

  I sweep down into a low bow, my hand out to the side in the manner of the eastern provinces. He grunts as I straighten.

  “Hollenzars, eh?” he says, his voice coming out as a melodious, warm baritone. I’m shocked by the pleasant deep rumble as it cuts through the other chatter. “Pretty country, for a pretty people. I remember conquering you.”

  I straighten further, my spine locking, shocked. Some part of my mind knows he’s trying to unnerve a new face, but another part of me feels the anger that the real Hollenzar heir would have felt. Kranos' eyes glitter with a cold intelligence that mak
es my skin crawl. I struggle to keep my face under control, but I redden as the warlord smirks.

  “Lord General, I am glad you have… fond memories of your time in my lands. My father sends his regards,” I say with forced civility.

  “I’m sure he does. If he didn’t, I might be forced to replace him.”

  “You could very well try, my lord.”

  Even as the words leave my mouth I try to will them back. Kranos, for his part, doesn’t move. His eyes are like flint, and I struggle not to take a step back as they narrow. The man's absurd musculature ripples as he moves forward in a forbidding pose, looming over me like a mountain granted life. He bursts into sudden laughter, his head falling back and bumping against the pommel of his sword. He continues to laugh, and I don’t have any idea what to do. All of the etiquette training that Reknor has given me goes out the window in the face of a powerful ruler laughing in my face. I force myself not to look around as the conversations die throughout the room.

  “Perhaps the pup has more bark than his sire. But can he bite?” he asks, and his tone makes the question rhetorical. I simply bow my head, my arms at my side. “Well, then. I like you, boy. You’ve got balls, I’ll give you that. Tell your father I’ll send those reinforcements he’s been waiting on. We can’t have so interesting a future threatened by some crazy barbarians, now can we?”

  “Thank you, sir. We will put them to good use,” I say, having no idea what the man’s talking about.

  “No doubt, no doubt. Perhaps you should lead them, eh? Ah, well. Go enjoy the party.”

  “A pleasure, Lord General,” I say, bowing in the elaborate eastern way once more.

  I fade back into the crowd and travel quickly to the nearest wall to beat my head against it, silently praying into the air above me that my luck hasn’t run out yet. For a moment, I thought he was going to kill me on the spot or invade a land I’ve barely heard of. The sound of the music is muted along the sides of the chamber.