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

by Lane Trompeter

  She and Uncle had a long conversation in Firdana, one I was not privy to, and she left it chastened but determined. It hadn’t taken much to get her to tell me he’s furious she allowed me to engage the Vengeance in the first place. He knows, above all others, how powerful and dangerous our enemy is. They fought to a stalemate shortly after the Liberation. They being Father and Uncle together, against the Vengeance by himself.

  “Poline,” I begin as we reach the door to my chambers. “What is on my agenda for today?”

  “You’re due at the High Court for judgements at ten, and you have an appointment with the Khal of the Ram and his son at five for an early dinner.”

  “Ugh,” I groan. “More men looking to use my title to come up in the world.”

  “You could give them a chance, my lady,” Poline says carefully. “You will have to marry eventually. If you want any choice in who, you need to look around and, well, choose.”

  “No, Poline. I… I’m not sure I have it in me to marry,” I say, fighting against a blush.

  I most definitely don’t wish to marry a stranger based on nothing but his wealth or lineage. There might be one who could convince me… but he’s already bound to our kingdom. Father would never allow it, when my virginity could buy so much we don’t already possess.

  “Tell that to the king,” she mutters at my back.

  I ignore the comment, listening to the distant ringing of bells instead. Only eight. Perhaps I have time to do a little research. Turning right instead of left at the next fork in the hall, I head towards a set of stairs leading deeper into the palace instead of towards the throne room.

  “My lady?” Poline asks, her step hitching slightly as she follows me down the stairs. “Why are we heading to the dungeons?”

  “Something Torlas said. It might be a long shot, but he thinks we might find more information about the messenger—or the messenger himself—in the dungeons.”

  Poline doesn’t say anything, but her silent skepticism is apparent in every returning echo of our footfalls in the stairwell. We wind our way down the spiraling stairs, our steps the only sound in the enclosed space. Soldiers of the Wave stand vigilant as we approach the door leading deeper. It’s an impressive sight, the four members of the Wave stiffly at attention, their armor gleaming despite the early hour. I nod to them, and one strides smoothly to the thick wooden door and opens it for us without comment, either recognizing me or Poline despite our scarcity in this part of the palace.

  “Your diligence will be noted,” Poline says quietly to the men behind, but I continue forward. I have perhaps an hour before I’m due at court, and I need to cover some ground.

  The first cells are, again, largely full, but I ignore the petty criminals contained therein. I move on and descend further, reaching the second level. My steps slow on this level as I peer into more cells. There are many prisoners here, though none are given the freedom of those above. These are traitors, the treasonous and the seditious. They’re chained to walls, their groans audible over the guttering oil lamps placed at intervals throughout the dungeon. I expect to see Markis Calladan here, but we reach the end without finding him. The begging of the desperate is easy to ignore. People only end up in the second level if they deserve their fate.

  The stairwell leading down to the final level looms dark ahead. I slow to a stop without really realizing it. A chill travels down my arms, my pulse growing erratic despite the deep breaths I force through my nose. I try to take another step, to continue my search, but my legs lock up. The darkness of the open doorway grows, its opening a black maw waiting to swallow all that would dare…

  “My lady?” Poline asks quietly at my elbow, her voice strained.

  I don’t answer.

  What am I afraid of? Nothing in these cells can harm me.

  You are not afraid of what is there, a part of me whispers, the voice scraping against the rough edges of my mind. You fear only what you bring. What you’ve done.

  As I stand, frozen, my ear tracks the pleading of a woman in the last cell next to the door.

  “Please, my children, I just wanted to know where they were taking my boys, please, where were they taking my boys, my little Adam, why would they take Adam? Surely he wasn’t big enough to hold a sword, please, give me my Adam…”

  The litany is unending. The uncaring stone swallows the woman’s hopeless voice before it can travel past this meager distance. My heart doesn’t move for her, but my brain latches on to her words and compels me to listen. With a titanic effort, I drag my eyes from the waiting portal and over to her cell. She’s in her middle age, and her skin sags on her frame, as if she was rotund and matronly once, but her trials since have burned away much of what she was. Her hair, gray and thin, clings to her head as if by chance more than purpose. Her eyes are vacant, and I can tell her pleas would fall on the deaf stone regardless of my presence.

  When I step close to the bars, Poline immediately comes to my side, her hand on the hilt of her sword. But the woman doesn’t react. It’s not like her chains will stretch far enough for her to harm me anyway.

  “What happened to Adam?” I ask, my voice shrill in the dim prison.

  Poline glances at me in alarm. I clench my eyes closed and shove the doorway from my mind, swallowing to clear the dryness in my throat. Unsuccessfully.

  “Lady,” I begin again, my voice more controlled. “Where are your children?”

  “This is a waste of our time,” Poline says, but the woman’s eyes suddenly focus.

  “Princess?” she says in wonder. “I came here to find you!”

  “Me? Well,” I answer slowly. “You’ve found me. Why did you seek me out?”

  “I came…” Her eyes glisten with tears, but they don’t fall. “They took my children. Theo I could understand, but Adam was but ten years old. He couldn’t even lift a blade if he tried.”

  “Who took your children?”

  “The Wave,” she answers simply. “They told me they were needed, that my boys would become brave soldiers, but they didn’t want to go and I needed them on the mill, what with their Da passed two Winters ago. Last trip we’d made to Glorwen, there was a line of young folk out the door seeking to join the Wave, and many had been that were turned away, men and women twice the age of my boys.”

  “Wait. Glorwen?” I ask, frowning.

  “Yes, the mill my husband built is less than a score of miles down the Ripple from the city,” she says with a mixture of pride and sorrow in her eyes. “I’ve kept it up, but it’s been hard these last few seasons. Without my boys…”

  “How did you end up here?” Poline asks, curiosity awakened by the woman’s story.

  “I came to Donir to ask for them back. The princess is a nice lady, so all the people say, so perhaps she could help. The worst she could do was say no, right? But I never got to see the princess. They brought me here instead. I just wanted my boys back. Sweet Adam, he’s too small to hold a sword, and Theo’s needed on the mill. Please, just give me my boys…”

  I step back as her litany resumes, the brief moment of clarity already fading from her eyes. Poline and I exchange concerned glances.

  “I know that area,” Poline says. “Shepherds and scrubland, for the most part. They’re hardy folk because they have to be. The Winters are deep, and the raiders are ruthless. Even south of Glorwen, they aren’t safe from the tribes.”

  “But seriously, ‘the Wave is taking my children?’ What is going on in our kingdom?”

  “I wish I knew,” she says, her eyes troubled. “You may be the only one who can get away with asking the king.”

  “I’d be surprised if he told me anything,” I mutter, feeling like a frustrated child and hating it.

  “Do you really think he would be down there?” Poline asks, eyeing the final stairwell with more than a bit of trepidation herself.

  The sound of our voices awakens more of the prisoners, their desperate entreaties and calls for aid rising in the cramped corridor. A part of
me—a large part of me—wants to say no. There’s no reason to check those cells, so deep down in the darkness under the earth. But the absence of Calladan from the second level concerns me, and I need to be thorough with what little time I have to devote to this mystery. And I’ll be damned to the Eternal’s prison before my fear controls me.

  “I don’t know. But let’s hurry,” I say, striding to the stairs and grabbing an unlit torch from a waiting sconce.

  I dip the tarred end into one of the oil lamps, and a guttering and smoking fire springs fitfully to life. The light only seems to deepen the shadows, each step illuminating the new in front, darkness swallowing the old behind. The fear stirs in me as we descend, our eyes squinting forward into the gloom.

  You enjoyed your time here, the voice rasps again in my brain. His squirms, his pain…

  I draw on the earth instinctually, here surrounded by its vastness, and the feeling comforts me, quieting the whispering shadow in my thoughts. The final level holds the same four cells, each unique in their own way, each crafted to hold a being of greater power than any normal prison could restrain.

  It’s silent. The last sounds echoing through this space are those of screams, and the silence now feels close, unnatural, like a presence hovers over our shoulders, judging us for bringing such cacophony to a place of stillness. I almost turn back immediately. There’s nothing here. This place of uneasy quiescence does not welcome us because we do not belong. Without Father and his soldiers, without the assassin and his screams, an oppressive peace fills the space and leaves no room for us.

  I turn to Poline, whose eyes echo my own disquiet even if she would never say it, and we tacitly agree to head back to the world of the sun.

  “Is someone there?”

  Poline’s sword springs out of its sheath before I can finish jumping, the voice so unexpected and shocking in the quiet that my heart skips two beats. No one appears, however, and we glance at each other sheepishly. The voice is familiar, one heard not too long ago, though spoken with far less confidence and strength than when he walked the surface.

  “Markis Calladan,” I say, stepping up to his door and peering in through the barred slit at eye level. The room looks nothing like the cell the assassin had been held in, but the comparable size of the cramped prison makes me suppress a shudder. Of eagerness or dread, I can’t tell.

  Calladan hunches opposite, a chain about his neck keeping him crouched against the wall. The tight chain holds his throat at just such an angle that he can’t sit, but neither can he stand. Instead, he’s forced into an awkward half-crouch, unable to easily wake, impossible to effectively sleep. It’s a cruel and effective form of torture. His body has been degraded by more conventional means as well. The crusted stumps where his fingers should be are still wet and glistening in our dim torchlight. He catches sight of me and smiles through a mouthful of fresh blood.

  “Princess Iliana,” he says, offering a tiny nod. “How kind of you to grace me with your presence.”

  “An accident,” I say honestly. “I see you have received your due.”

  “Spoken like a true believer,” he says, still smiling his bloody smile. “Tell me, princess, do you genuinely believe this is my due? Do you think I’ve earned this?”

  “You betrayed your king. You suborned necessary supplies, food that would go to hungry people. You consorted with the Vengeance, of all people!” Creator knows why I’m shouting.

  “True,” he says conversationally. “I admit to each of these things.”

  “Then yes,” I snarl. “You have earned this.”

  “Remarkable. He’s raised you well. Tell me, what do you call him? Does he make you call him your majesty? Your grace?”

  “I call him father, which is the only title that has ever mattered between us.”

  Calladan looks startled for a moment before he bursts into laughter. The laugh clearly pains him, but he persists regardless, his mangled hands poorly covering his face and smearing his skin with old blood. He subsides after a while, his breathing still uneven, and stares at me with glittering eyes.

  “That man is no more your father than I am,” he finally says.

  “How dare you,” I spit, drawing on the earth. A shard of glass forms in the air beside me. I ignore Poline, who turns to me in concern, pleading with her eyes. “My father is a great man—”

  “Your father is a great man. Which is the only reason your Tide still breathes,” Calladan answers, jerking his chin at Poline. “Masterful swordwork, by the way, Tide. My shoulder still aches.”

  “Why would Poline have anything to fear from my father?”

  “You know its name? Remarkable. No wonder your fear brought on such a strong... reaction.”

  “Answer the question.”

  “I didn’t realize Helikos raised you to be dense, as well. Perhaps that was his intention, to keep you from growing too curious,” Calladan muses.

  Frustrated, I snap. The glass shoots through the bars, slamming into Calladan’s thigh and lodging deep. He yelps like a kicked dog, staggering and choking on the chain about his neck before he can recover his balance on his remaining leg. The glass reflects the torchlight in shimmering red as his blood leaks out of the wound.

  “And he raised you to be cruel,” he says, his voice clear… and sad.

  “Answer the question!” I shout hoarsely through the bars. “Why would Poline be in danger?”

  “Your Tide is safe. Your father spared her the moment he realized you cared.”

  The implication of his words slowly permeates my brain. The idea is so absurd I laugh before I can hold it in.

  “The Vengeance? My father? What kind of preposterous absurdity will you throw at me next? Poline is my daughter?”

  “Ask him,” Calladan says wearily, dismissing me with a wave of his three-fingered hand. “Ask Helikos about Nadine. Ask him how she really died.”

  I tear the glass from one leg and jam it into the other. Blood spurts from the first wound and begins to leak from the other. He groans, slipping down to his knees, choking on the chain about his neck.

  “My mother’s name is too sacred to be heard from your lips. I’ll watch you die here, choking on your own spit,” I growl.

  “My lady…” Poline begins.

  “Enough, Tide,” I snap in annoyance.

  She looks as if she’s been slapped, her eyes hurt. In this moment, I don’t care. I have no memories of my mother, and this traitor won’t sully what little I know of her with his lies. He struggles to stand on wounded legs, his words echoing weirdly in the strange cells as he chokes.

  “Look him… in the eyes… when he lies. Altos told… me long… ago,” Calladan gasps. He struggles mightily, standing on trembling legs as tears stream down his cheeks and blood rushes down his legs. “He’s a fantastic liar. But… when he lies... he never looks away, never blinks. Ask him.”

  His legs give way, and he starts to choke in earnest. The sound of footsteps vibrates on the stairs, and I spin back, raising my hands and summoning more earth and glass to my fingertips. Uncle turns the corner, alone, his expression stormy.

  “What are you doing down here?” his deep voice grumbles. He doesn’t wait for an answer, but pushes past me and looks into Calladan’s cell. Making a short sound of disgruntlement, he pulls an ancient key from around his neck and opens the door. “We cannot break our toys, little one. This one still has use.”

  “I’m sorry, Uncle,” I say, chastened. Only the giant man can get away with calling me ‘little one’ anymore without annoying me. “He was telling horrible lies.”

  Uncle shoots me a look over his shoulder, his expression strange.

  “You can’t believe vipers like this one,” he says, reaching out with his hand and lifting Calladan off the chain by his hair. Calladan’s bruised throat gasps for air, his larynx jumping up and down in a feverish fight for survival. “They will fill you with poison. Aren’t you late, little one? Court began a quarter hour ago.”

  �
�Oh!” I gasp. “I’ll hurry!”

  I turn to go, my skirts rustling as I hurry away.

  “Ask him.”

  I glance back, meeting eyes with Calladan for the briefest of moments before Uncle’s bulk blocks me from sight. Scowling, I dart up the stairs.

  ***

  For all that I hate and despise traitors like Markis Calladan, I can’t shake his words from my thoughts. They burrow deeper and deeper, and the harder I try not to think about his words, the more they stick in my brain. The thought of the Vengeance as my father is still more a joke than anything, but the bit about my father lying…

  I’m a distracted mess at court. Yrena barely combs my hair into a semblance of tidiness after I run up to the doors, and I perch on my small throne to the left of Father with no care to the proceedings. He dictates a dozen decrees, handling disputes with a cold logic that I don’t know if I can match, should my time come. He glowers in disapproval at my tardiness, but afterwards ignores me as usual. I’m expected to be learning how to handle the important members of the populace, and normally I do my best.

  The High Court is only for the wealthy and the nobility. Peasants and laborers bring their disputes before any of the lesser courts in the kingdom, run by the noble magistrates who work under Torlas at his offices, but no one but the royalty can settle disputes between the nobility. Prior to the Liberation, the High Court had been run by a tribunal of Shapers from the Council, Father included. His experience adjudicating disputes was invaluable when he assumed the throne.