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

by Lane Trompeter

  As I gaze in wonder, however, I begin to feel a kind of harmony to the structures, as if the whole city has been constructed to a tune beyond normal hearing, as if the entire confusing array is in fact only confusing because the larger picture can’t be seen, as if my perspective is so miniscule that I can’t see the purpose for what it is. An ache forms behind my eyes as I look at the city. I turn again to the bay, needing the relative normality of the docks to ground myself.

  “What is this place?” I ask, utterly failing at a nonchalant tone.

  “I have told you,” Te’ial answers. “You look on Isa.”

  “Isa sank below the waves thousands of years ago. The Breaker completely destroyed it, and the last remnants of the Eternal’s power with it. That isn’t just legend. That is history.”

  “Lyna did destroy the city, as you claim. The ancient kingdom of the Cursed was broken perhaps a dozen miles to the north,” she gestures towards the crack in the distant wall of the bay. “But the destruction was not complete. Isa was built by dozens of generations of Cursed, at the same time they constructed the unnatural Ways your cities cling to like tumors. The efforts of one Cursed, even Lyna, could not completely undo the powers of so many others working in harmony. This small section survived the Breaking. The water you see before you… Isa once encompassed the entire span, and more besides.”

  “What?” I gasp. The bay stretches nearly beyond sight, practically an inland sea. Isa filled… all of it? All of Coin could fit four times into the space, and the buildings of Coin do not tower so into the sky. “Impossible.”

  “It has been the home of the People for many long years since its discovery. There are records, censuses from time long past. Isa alone held millions of people in her walls, and the surrounding countryside many more. Lyna has untold seas of blood on her hands. But come, we must be moving,” Te’ial says, setting off towards the city.

  My feet crunch on what feels like a mixture of gravel and sand. As we follow the path, I glance behind me, noticing again the jagged fissure in the rock… which aligns with the edge of the docks near the water. Am I walking along the literal line of the Breaking of Isa?

  The path turns left and winds up stairs hewn into the rock, and the echoes of life begin to drift back to me. The sounds of haggling, of laughter, of shouts and cries become more distinct with each passing step. The second we step off of the stairs, I pause. Dozens of passersby walk in the same vibrant and gleaming silks they’ve dressed me in, rainbows of vivid color. Jewelry decorates the ears and throats of every person, man or woman, the display of opulence so casual it’s off-putting. The People laugh and argue, cajole and joke, all in the staccato fits and bursts of the I’wia. Hearing the language from all sides jars my ear, understanding nothing but snippets and tone.

  A couple is the first to notice me, dressed in identical silks of the deepest purple with gold and amethyst ornaments perfectly matching their attire. They stop in their walk, stunned. A trio of men, dressed in black leathers akin to Te’ial’s and walking with long curving blades similar to Talan’s, run into them and good-naturedly call out for them to move along. When they don’t, the men follow the line of their gaze and light on me. Instantly, the leader of the men, an absolute giant of a man, drops his hand to his blade and marches forward, his companions at his back.

  “Itlo’ka’enia, Te’ial?” the leader says, his tone aggressive.

  His face, handsome at rest, quivers into a lopsided scowl. A scar, so thin as to be nearly imperceptible, cuts through the edge of his mouth and along his cheek to the ear. A small portion is missing, as if some impossibly-fine blade drew a perfect line through his flesh. His eyes, though, speak double for any lack in his face. Rage and hate, so much more potent and personal than Ton’kapu’s, burns so brightly I flinch.

  “Are’lentiel’e, Sanar,” she responds, raising a hand in warning.

  Their conversation flows too rapidly to follow, but the growing crowd of onlookers makes me uneasy. Several men finger weapons, and the looks of curiosity are quickly being replaced by stares of cold hatred. The continued anger of the giant and his black-clad brethren is only inciting them further. Te’ial says something, but the only word I follow isn’t a word at all but a name: Eo. Fierce whispers erupt through the crowd at the name, anger rippling like a stone thrown into a pond. The man gestures sharply for Te’ial to move, sword appearing in his hand. She snaps something in response, and his face goes stony. He steps aside, reluctance and anger evident in every movement.

  “Didn’t the Seer tell people we were coming?” I mutter quietly to her back.

  “Shut up, Bastian,” she says, the first time my given name has ever passed her lips. “Do not speak. Do not look up. My People hate you and fear you, tainted as you are. Many believe the Seer has lost her way in bringing you here. That I chose it has divided them further. I can’t protect you if enough decide to rid the world of your taint, however temporarily. If you value the skin you wear, follow my steps exactly, say nothing, and do not look up.”

  My first walk through Isa is thus dreadfully terrifying and dreadfully boring at once. The People move aside, however reluctantly, as Te’ial and I walk. I don’t see any of it, however, because I stare as diligently as I can at the street. Aside from the hems of gaudily colored silk dresses and the ornate sandals of their wearers, my eyes only track the whorls and inconsistencies of the wooden street.

  I have to remind myself to keep walking as the thought hits me. The streets of Isa are constructed of… wood? The floor upon which the city is built isn’t stone or earth, but smooth and unbroken wood. We’ve walked for many minutes, and I haven’t seen a seam. Somehow, the entire street was constructed of a single sheet of unmarred wood. What forest… what tree could produce such a plank?

  The People don’t speak as I pass, nor do they spit on me or throw things. The silence, however, is all the more damning. I disregard drawing even the tiniest bit on Thought, terrified one of them will notice the glimmer from the symbol on my leg. The walk ends as my sandaled feet pass over a threshold in the wood, transitioning smoothly to a perfect marble floor. The light brightens as we enter, as if a shade has been raised from a lamp. I glance up despite Te’ial’s commandment.

  We’re inside the gleaming tower of glass I glimpsed before we entered the city. Up close, though… it’s not glass at all. It’s diamond. The filtered sunlight refracts and grows on itself as it passes through the glittering wall, the interior of the tower brighter than direct sunlight. The sun itself is just beginning to arc towards the distant horizon, and, for the briefest of moments, it peeks out from the clouds that hover over the city. The entire wall blazes as if aflame, a cascading, brilliant torrent of light arcing through the tower. I gasp.

  The sun tucks itself behind the clouds again, and the gleaming light resettles to its normal hue.

  “It never gets old,” the Seer’s quiet, strong voice speaks at my elbow. “No matter how many times you see it. Of all that survived the Breaking, I am most glad for the shrine to Light.”

  “This is a temple?” I ask, incredulous. We’re the only two in the tower. Te’ial has closed the doors and retreated. Even though the tower appears translucent, I can’t see outside aside from a hazy blur of color.

  “The only to withstand the Breaking. The others were all lost.”

  “The fifteen others?” I ask sardonically. I feel comfortable speaking for the first time since we entered the hostile city. “For isn’t that what you believe, that there are sixteen elements in the world?”

  “Of course. The records we found here list them, along with the location of their shrines throughout the known world,” she answers calmly. “The knowledge of one has passed from the world, and the element of the other has long been dormant.”

  “What are they, then?”

  “That would be telling,” she says, a faint grin decorating her lips.

  “I’m just about tired of being kept in the dark. I’m going to need you to start tellin
g me what’s really going on,” I say, reaching for my power. Her smile doesn’t falter, and her thoughts remain as unreadable to me as her native tongue.

  “You need to learn patience, Bastian. Do you think I brought you here for riddles? Why do you believe I’ve allowed you to wake up? To torture you?”

  “It’s starting to feel that way,” I snarl. “Are we ever going to get to the point?”

  “You want answers, Master of Thought? Come with me.”

  She strides over to a glimmering diamond staircase cut or formed out of the edge of the tower itself and begins to ascend. For a moment I hesitate. I’m damn tired of being led about like a dog, but what else am I going to do? Go back to the crowd of people who want to kill me? Sighing, I follow.

  By the time we reach the top, my breath is little more than gasps, and the view robs me of what little I still have. The streets do follow a great pattern, the strange peaks and valleys of the alien architecture harmonious when seen from above. There is a truth to it, a value, but it’s incomplete. As eyes naturally track a subtle pattern through the city, it ends abruptly at the bay. Each time I’m able to discern something that seems to make sense out of the chaos that is Isa, it ends inevitably at the broken line of the lost city where it meets the water. What had Isa been? Was it more than just a city? Did it once reveal something grand, something hidden, something now lost?

  “We can speak freely here,” she says, her voice almost lost to the stiff breeze blowing off the water. “The top of the tower is my sanctum; too high to be overheard, too far to be seen.”

  “Do you have so much to fear from your own people?” I ask, gazing out over the myriad buildings and streets.

  “All leaders do, regardless of how much they are loved or feared. But no, I don’t have anything to fear from them. They trust me completely, regardless of what they debate or whisper in the streets. Even so, you and I have to talk about matters beyond the scope of my People.”

  “Are you going to tell me, or are we just going to stand up here in the breeze until sundown?”

  “Before the Eternal’s fall, the world knew quite a bit more about Shaping and all that came with it. They knew what they were capable of and bore that responsibility gravely. They could avoid events like the Desolation of two decades past, when the souls of Shapers exploded into the aether and so many lives were lost. They had methods to contain the destruction or eliminate it entirely.”

  “Why are you telling me this? Are you planning on killing me?” I ask bluntly.

  “Not today,” she answers, smiling. “No, I am enlightening you. The Shapers of old had a process they called Ensoulment. They could give up their lives and enter an object, something the hand of man had shaped. It could be anything created by another: clothing, houses, weapons, or, most commonly, jewelry. In doing so, their bodies and their powers passed on without the deadly explosion current Shapers create when they die. In doing so, they also earned the right to continue to exist, at least in a limited form.”

  “Exist? You mean they didn’t die?”

  “They died as we know it, yes, but their souls lived on in the objects they inhabited. Their memories and skills and personalities could be called on to serve as both advisor and warning to any with the ability to listen. Before you speak,” she says as I open my mouth. “Do you dream, Shaper of Thought?”

  “Rarely,” I answer, but the implication of her words hits me even as the word leaves my lips. “You don’t mean… Jynn? Ulia? You’re trying to say…”

  She holds up her right hand, on which rests a ring of silver: simple, elegant, the surface inlaid with a few subtle, delicate markings that swirl and eddy around one another. My soul feels light, staring at that pattern, the moorings of my body less solid, less sure. That feeling only derives from one thing in this world: the symbol of my power. Of Thought.

  “Open your mind, Bastian, as you do when you Shape. Use your power and see.”

  I reach out, as I so often have before, but not towards a human mind. Instead, I mentally call to the ring, as silly as it seems.

  “I already regret this,” Ulia says, her sulk clear even disembodied. “We can’t go back after he knows.”

  “We reached the point of no return long ago,” Jynn says, the impatience in her voice clearly for Ulia. “Hello, Bastian.”

  “Uh,” I answer. “Hello?”

  Vertigo strikes me. The Seer catches me as I stumble, trying to balance between the world of the spirit and realm of the flesh. Even as I listen to voices in my head, I stare into the eyes of the woman in front of my physical eyes.

  “Don’t push so hard,” she counsels, standing me back up. “Just open yourself to the power.”

  I take a deep, steadying breath and let the tension go, easing towards my power as if it is a colt I don’t wish to startle. The barest trickle of awareness is all I need.

  “It’ll get easier with time,” the Khalintari says. “I am called Asimir, young one. I am glad to meet one of my blood.”

  “A… pleasure?” I answer. “How many of you are there? Are you all in this ring?”

  “There are twenty-seven of us, though some have been here so long that they sleep more than they are aware. Even the Ensouled require a will to live in order to do so,” Jynn says.

  “How long? How long have you been here?”

  “I am the youngest,” Jynn answers. “I became Ensouled three years before the Eternal’s fall. We are the Shapers of Thought from the time of Queen Elitrea, the woman your legends call the Eternal. And we need your help.”

  Chapter 17

  Kettle

  The Final Day of Spring

  In the year 5222, Council Reckoning

  The gaudier the get-up, the less they see you. That’s the plan, anyway. As we saunter, cavort, tumble, and spin our way to the servant’s entrance of Duke Paloran’s estate, however, I swallow back some nerves. My costume is my own design. I’ve taken the traditional silken garb of the People and simply removed two thirds of the interwoven strips of silk. The only concession I’ve made to utility is the scuffed leather boots I stole from Gordyn. Polished to a black shine, the scuff remains despite all efforts to remedy the scar. I would dearly have loved Corna’s input on the costume; she always knows exactly how much skin to show, exactly how to move to attract the gaze of men and convince them to forget you all the same.

  The only benefit to this costume, as far as I can tell, is how Aurelion’s eyes follow me wherever I walk. Others might believe it’s because Gordyn sent him to watch over our efforts and ensure we aren’t attempting anything untoward, but the gleam in his eyes tells a far different story. He makes me want to cover up and strut both at once, and I have to work to keep my breathing even whenever I catch sight of him out of the corner of my eye. It doesn’t help that he’s revealing far more skin than he normally would as well, his physique as honed and primal as his skills suggest.

  Aurelion and Timo wear matching costumes, Timo’s rippling muscles in proud display as well, his powerful frame covered by a thin vest and loose silk pants tucked in at the ankles. Theirs is the prototypical ‘exotic’ look of the far western Khalintars, or at least the exaggerated Donirian view of it. Corna once sewed and hemmed all of our costumes, but of course we’ve lost that resource, so we’re forced to head to costume shops meant to cater to the wealthy of Donir. Thus, we are caricatures of the races and cultures we’re supposed to represent.

  Rather than question us and our absurd attire, however, the guardswoman at the front wave us in, laughing as Timo spouts something charming. I love seeing him like this. Even though we’re in a desperate race for Corna’s life, even though we’re neck deep in a job we would never wish to pull ourselves, still Timo is confident, swaggering, his exuberance for life shining through. My heart hums a tiny melody of contentment despite the constant tremulous note of tension for Corna.

  “You people lack nothing in confidence,” Aurelion murmurs at my shoulder just as we parade through the entrance to the
estate. His breath tickles the side of my neck, and I can’t hide the goosebumps as my body gives an involuntary shiver. “I thought the plan insane.”

  “We know our business,” I say, glancing at him briefly over my shoulder. I make sure not to let my eyes travel down his oiled and gleaming body. Not that his piercing eyes are much better to stare into. “That’s why you hired us.”

  He doesn’t respond aside from giving me a quiet nod and a half smile. I turn back, flustered and inwardly scowling. The man needs to stop being so Eternal-damned enticing. I can barely focus when he’s close, and, despite the ease of our entrance, dozens of unwitting enemies surround us. I can’t afford a slip, as all our lives potentially hang in the balance, Corna’s most of all.

  For this task, I’ve called all of the Family together for the first time in more than two years. It isn’t as if the Gordyn job hasn’t already been as compromised as it’s going to get, and I need them all for our ‘insane’ scheme to succeed. When Aurelion told me we would be stealing something from Duke Paloran’s estate, I expected to utilize a small team, perhaps only a solo job, mainly due to the inordinate number of highly trained professional guards the man employs. Paloran’s holdings include the mountainous regions of the kingdom, from Hollen and Ardinland all the way to the top edge of the Claw Mountains bordering the Baldinlands to the north. Though the land itself is hardly worth the effort of maintaining, the Duke’s territories contain nearly all of the lucrative gold, silver, and iron mines of the entire Donirian continent. His wealth is legendary.