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

by Lane Trompeter

  Paloran also has a strange quirk: he trusts absolutely no one with his belongings. He does not make use of Gordyn’s Imperial Bank, and he most definitely doesn’t trust the money counters in Coin. Instead, he keeps all of his considerable wealth in his own sprawling estate. His is a house many thieves long to plunder, but none have succeeded outside of rumor.

  Unfortunately, Gordyn has no use for any of the money or priceless art. He wants something else: an heirloom, an old artifact of the Paloran line. Best of all, he could provide only the vaguest descriptions of what it is, what it looks like, and where it could be. An amulet, which may or may not contain a ruby, which will most likely be in the private museum Paloran likes to show off for his friends, though it might be in his personal rooms, or somewhere else entirely. And Gordyn demands I steal it without anyone realizing the Family is involved at all. The plan will clearly have to be… fluid.

  I need time, a cover, and a reason to slink about without interruption. Luckily for us, Paloran throws notorious parties for each major holiday, inviting everyone who is anyone onto his estate for a grand feast graced by dozens of entertainers. And Summer’s Dawning is tonight.

  We’re ushered into a waiting room larger than most houses, cleared of all furniture or ornament. They need the space, too. A dozen other performers mill about: jugglers and acrobats, bards and singers, knife swallowers and fire breathers and magicians. Many eye each other with the hostility of rivalry, having performed similar acts throughout the city and competed for patronage. Others simply practice their craft. A member of the nobility has to recommend you in order to even get consideration for Paloran’s celebration of Summer’s Dawning. Faking that letter had been all the more difficult without Corna.

  All the performers turn to see us as we enter, a large troupe of unfamiliar acrobats and jugglers showing far too much skin and far too much athleticism for the average act. I let the others take the lead: Rina in her absurdly salacious barbarian furs, Inia, Koli, and Ezil in the pale silks of the legendary courtesans of Coin, Hom and Yelden in our simplest costumes as mere well-dressed duelists. Aurelion and Timo, though neither fit the skin tone of the Khalintars, do pull off the silk costumes well. I wouldn’t allow Sario or Ret to be involved and leave the Temple of Shadow undefended. The other performers view us skeptically, what with the overstated costumes and caked-on makeup. We look like pretenders, if capable ones. It’s remarkable, however, what obscure skills thieving for a living will teach you.

  As the others settle in, our fake courtesans stretching, Hom and Yelden darting at each other with fake rapiers, each thrust more flamboyant and intricate than the last, I catch Aurelion’s eye and flick my gaze towards the pair of guards in Paloran’s red and white livery waiting at the doors leading farther into the house. He walks with me, taking the lead as we close. Due to the sheer number of guests and the multitude of questionable performers, Paloran has hired dozens of extra guards. The places of genuine value will be protected by Paloran’s normal retainers, but less important things like the doors to hallways are guarded by mercenaries only interested in the money. These two definitely appear to be the latter.

  “Kettle,” Timo calls quietly behind me, and I turn. He beckons me over solemnly. I ignore Aurelion’s look of impatience and walk back to him. He enfolds me in a deep hug, and I lean into his strength. My bear.

  “When this is over,” he murmurs above me. “We should get away. Travel. Maybe try our hand in Coin. Maybe not. Maybe just…”

  “What?” I ask him quietly.

  “Corna always pushed us to bigger and better. But look where that’s landed us. I think we need to back off. Take the children and go west. Find a quiet place and settle down.”

  “This isn’t like you. Where’s the excitement?” He doesn’t respond, but only hugs me a bit tighter. “But I agree. A vacation could be nice.”

  He squeezes my shoulder one last time and nudges me towards Aurelion.

  “Let’s get our girl back,” he says with a wink.

  Aurelion and I approach the guards, he with confidence, me with deference.

  “Stop,” the one on the right calls, raising a hand. “Wrong way.”

  “Of course, my friend,” Aurelion answers. “We still have some time yet to pass before we perform, and my companion needs to tend to an unfortunate necessity of life.”

  “What?” the man asks, scowling. Aurelion leans in close.

  “She has to pee,” he whispers.

  “Why can’t she talk for herself?”

  “She is from the Isles, fresh from them, if you catch my drift. I can scarcely understand her jabber, but what can you do? Talent is talent,” he says, casually throwing an arm around the guard’s shoulder. “And she has plenty.”

  “I see what you mean,” the man says in a husky voice, his eyes raking over my exposed skin and forcing me to suppress an entirely different kind of shiver. I smile at him invitingly and, hopefully, vapidly. “I can take her to a place where she can... go.”

  “She gets scared when she’s left by herself. Do you know what it’s like to talk a native down from the ledge? I’ll need to accompany her.”

  “Hum,” the man mulls it over, scowling. “Nothing funny, right?”

  “In the Creator’s name,” Aurelion says, bowing with his hand over his heart.

  “Alright,” the guard mutters reluctantly.

  He leads us farther into the estate. We take two turns down sumptuously furnished hallways before the clanks and clatter of the kitchens grow loud enough to cover our steps. The guard motions to a door off to the left just before the warm and inviting door of the kitchens, and I smile at him again, ducking inside. The second I close the door, Aurelion talks the guard up, his voice muffled but understandable. He’s smooth, I grant him that. Before a few seconds have passed, he has the man talking about his life, his job, his family. I crack the door, and the guard glances back at me. I frown, motioning at my stomach.

  “What’s that mean?” he asks suspiciously.

  “Let me check,” Aurelion says, walking up. He presses himself against the crack, his hands on the wall and the door to either side. In the brief moment his body blocks me from the guard’s view, my hands dart into his pants. His conveniently loose and flowing pants. All manner of things can be hidden in loose and flowing pants. He winks at me, and heat rises in my cheeks, but I don’t have time to scowl before he closes the door.

  “Shit,” Aurelion says blandly. “She has to shit.”

  “Eternal’s saggy tits, we aren’t supposed to be doing this,” the man curses.

  “She’ll be a while. Nasty shits, that one has,” Aurelion says. “Where are you normally stationed in the house?”

  Aurelion asks another question, and the men’s voices begin to fade as they move off down the hall. I quickly unwind the bundle of cloth, revealing an emerald dress appropriate for just such an occasion as this. My shadow darts out from under the thin straps around my body, exploring the dimly lit room and all its nooks and crannies. The second I have the dress on and adjusted, I will the shadow under the skirts. It goes, albeit reluctantly. With a deep breath, I slide out of the toilet and walk briskly down the hall.

  The guard’s voice resonates from the left, punctuated by Aurelion’s charming laugh, so I head right. As soon as I turn a corner, I walk the casual, confident walk of someone who belongs. The darker shade of my skin will stand out, sure, but the People are not so exotic that one might not end up at Paloran’s gala. When the first pair of patrolling guards pay me no mind save to incline their heads in respect, I know I have it right.

  Following my mental map of Gordyn’s sketches of the estate, I make the turn towards Paloran’s private collection alongside a pair of giggling women led by an equally obnoxious set of what passes for gentlemen in this city. It’s easy as breathing to fall in behind them, my pace matching theirs as I become a part of their little group. The men brag about their exploits as officers in the Tide, which makes me roll my eyes. If these
men are in the Tide, one painfully short and the other waddling around a belly conjured from an excess of wine, then the standards of the kingdom are slipping. They prove a rather compelling distraction, as my presence at the back of the group goes unnoticed by either the idiots themselves or the ubiquitous, vigilant guards defending the wealth Paloran puts on display.

  Paloran’s little museum is, unsurprisingly, quite magnificent. Exquisitely crafted statues depicting legendary figures in history are placed tastefully throughout the room, each given enough space to be enjoyed as a single piece of art. Beautifully realized paintings from a dozen different cultures decorate the walls, the vibrant colors of some offset by the muted beauty of others. A master created each piece, and I have to ignore the itch in my fingers to swipe some of the ancient figurines from the early rise of the Khalintars resting on a nearby shelf. I know a collector who would practically die to get his hands on those little bits of history.

  I break from the group as I notice another door leading farther in. The idiot nobles continue on, blathering loudly enough to attract the attention of the guards strategically placed throughout the room. I pause in front of a statue, something in me compelling me to look closer. The engraving at the bottom claims it to be a depiction of Jendo the Mind Razor. His features are aristocratic and strong, with a strong jaw and high cheekbones. A solemn look graces his face, blank eyes cast to the distant horizon. Despite the beauty of the sculpture, an abrupt spike of anger and shock lances through my chest.

  How could they possibly have gotten this so wrong? Didn’t the artist know anything of history?

  The feeling disappears as swiftly as it came, and I wince as my head begins to ache.

  What in all the Depths was that?

  “Ma’am,” a stern voice speaks from behind me. I jump, spinning around. “Is there anything I can help you with?”

  I open my mouth to respond, but then snap it shut. Aurelion Kraft’s handsome grin is not supposed to be gracing the uniform of a Paloran guardsman. The fool. What is he doing?

  “You can only be escorted into the exclusive collection by one of us,” he says loudly. “You’ll need an invitation from the Duke.”

  He steps close, winking cheekily at me. I’m sure my face is stone as I pretend to hand him a paper.

  “Ah, everything is in order. Follow me,” he says, leading towards that closed door in the back. None of the other guards react as he pulls a key from his inner pocket and unlocks the door. I blink in surprise. Where did he get the key? The door opens into darkness lit only by a rectangle of light shining in from the lanterns in the museum behind.

  “You fool,” I hiss as the door closes behind us and plunges us into darkness. “Where did you get that uniform?”

  “Our friend was extraordinarily talkative,” he whispers back. “I realized you would never make it back here without my help. He was also quite receptive to coming with me to check on you in the bathroom. And taking a nap soon afterwards.”

  “How could he possibly have had these keys? Isn’t he a temporary?” I wonder aloud. Strange. Why would the undisciplined mercenary have keys to Paloran’s most valuable assets? “He’ll be discovered soon regardless, you idiot. His fellow saw us leave with him.”

  “Then we’d better hurry, hadn’t we?” he mutters, unconcerned.

  He raises a hand, light shining from it as if he holds a torch aloft. I ignore the pang of sadness that creeps through my heart at the reminder of Aurelion’s power. And what it has done to my shadow. The glow illuminates another, smaller museum. The pieces here are farther apart, but each feels like a shrine to some forgotten deity. I would whisper in this space even if we weren’t trespassing. I kill my natural curiosity to poke around at the priceless works, though, and quickly survey the room for our particular prize.

  It isn’t here.

  How would you know? I snap.

  Gordyn wants something old. Something like me, but from long before. Something more powerful, my boots respond.

  Who were you? Eo? The Shaper of Thought? How do you know what Gordyn wants?

  He wore me for years, Tecarim says. He’s desired the Ensouled for decades. From what I’ve taken from your thoughts, the common knowledge of our existence no longer exists, but Gordyn knows. We are his obsession. The amulet you seek is beyond your understanding. His, too, if I am to be honest.

  How do you know it’s not here? I ask again, continuing to scan the room.

  We can feel each other, talk to each other if we’re close. Nothing Ensouled exists in this room.

  My spirits drop a hair as I surmise that Tecarim is correct: nothing remotely resembles a locket or necklace. Everything on display is a larger piece, from archaic miniature replicas of ancient cities to a hideous painting covered in scrawling lines and colors. Aurelion seems to come to the same conclusion, turning back to the door and reaching for the handle.

  Just as it begins to open.

  I grab Aurelion and throw him down next to the replica of the city, landing on top of him and putting a hand over his mouth before he can make a noise. The reaction is instinctual; I realize the second we hit the ground that we have a perfectly reasonable excuse for being in the private section, and that Aurelion even wears a guard’s uniform. Aurelion smiles against my hand, and I glare at him from an inch away.

  A servant walks in, young, his face strangely familiar in the dimness, the way he walks… I can’t tell, and I almost ask Aurelion to brighten the room so I can know for certain. Surely not. It can’t be him...

  My thoughts scatter as Aurelion’s hand comes to rest on my thigh. My heart skips a beat and I turn back to him, eyes wide. His eyes are hungry and locked on the curve of my lips. The overwhelming urge to kiss him rises in me, the unrelenting need to bend my mouth to his. I fight the urge, trying desperately to stay focused in the moment, to remember where we are, what danger we’re in…

  Our lips meet. I don’t remember taking my hand from his face or bending down to him, but my blood races in my veins, my skin hot and bright, his right hand cupping the back of my head, the burning warmth of his left as he tracks up my leg, sliding under the hem of my dress…

  The door closes with a quiet thump, and I jump off of Aurelion like he’s a poisonous snake. The room is empty. In fact, the room is emptier than even a moment ago. The ugly painting from the wall is gone, a faint dusty outline on the wall the only sign of its resting place. I think again of the way that servant moved, the furtive grace, every step on the balls of his feet. He was a thief, sure as the sun will set, and Aurelion and I will be the clear suspects if we’re found here. How the thief didn’t mark us in the dark is beyond me.

  Aurelion stands slowly, shakily, shaking his head as if in a daze. I beckon for him to leave, but he raises the tips of his fingers to his lips, his expression an equal mix of wonder and confusion. It’s been a long time since I’ve kissed anyone, but his reaction certainly doesn’t match mine. My heart is racing practically out of my chest, the fear and adrenaline and desire each beating their own staccato rhythm against the inside of my ribs. His eyes clear, and he frowns at me. The corner of my mouth tugs upward, but I kill the smile when I see his expression.

  “We’ve got to go,” I hiss, darting over and dragging him back to the door.

  I straighten his uniform, smoothing my own dress as he brushes my hair back into place. Our eyes meet, and my stomach drops in the worst of ways. His gaze is full of confusion and a hint of anger. He most definitely does not look happy to have been kissing me a moment ago. It hurts, seeing that. I thought he was enjoying the kiss in the moment, but obviously I’m wrong. I turn away suddenly at the tell-tale prick of tears.

  By the Forgotten Depths, you fool. Are you a lovestruck teenager? Pull yourself together.

  He is not what he seems, Tecarim says as if answering my inner monologue.

  I wasn’t talking to you, damn it.

  Aurelion Kraft is not the Master of Light. He simply bears an Ensouled ring. They have hidden th
emselves from me, for what end I cannot tell, but I recognized their presence when you brought us so close together.

  My cheeks burn as I face the door, thinking about why we were brought so close together. Inwardly I snarl, the hurt and embarrassment evaporating as I make the conscious choice to be angry instead. I yank the door open and storm out into the museum proper. I push past the two men blocking the door, and they don’t have the balls to protest after they see my face. One of the guards asks Aurelion what the hell he was thinking trying to tumble a rich lady in Paloran’s estate. I’m gone before I hear his reply.

  The bathroom next to the kitchen is still blessedly unoccupied, the faintly snoring man propped against the toilet in nothing but his skivvies. It’s nothing short of a miracle his compatriot hasn’t come looking for him or a cook hasn’t come to relieve himself, but I’ll take the Creator’s pull over the Eternal’s push any day. I slip off the dress and stuff it efficiently into the waiting maw of the toilet, sauntering back down the hallway to my waiting troupe. Aurelion waits outside the door with a stormy expression on his face, but I ignore him, opening the door myself and passing back into the waiting hall. We’ve made it back just in time: the Family is next in line. Aurelion doesn’t follow me through the door. No doubt the guard, as oblivious as he has been so far, would recognize a stranger taking his partner’s place.

  The doors swing wide as I walk to Timo’s side. He raises his eyebrows in question, but I simply shake my head. He shrugs, turning to face the massive banquet hall. We tumble in like the performers we aren’t, contorting and cartwheeling and flipping, the stage set up on the left side of the hall our destination as we dance our way through the widely-spaced tables. Dozens of wealthy guests sit at the decadently decorated banquet tables, their best jewels and silks on full display. I barely get a glimpse of heaped platters of pastries and cakes as I sprint past. Dessert already. The meal is nearly over.

  Yelden casually plucks the wine glass from an intoxicated noble as we pass, his sputtering of outrage provoking a quiet ripple of laughter. As soon as we reach the stage, he throws the wine into Hom’s face, and our pair of duelists commence in a ridiculous display of sword fighting. They range throughout the room, using the backs of occupied chairs for leverage, tumbling over and through the various platters of dessert. The duel is honestly impressive, both in the skill and athleticism required not to kill themselves, or any guests, and in the extemporaneous touches they throw into the performance. Hom takes two slices of cherry pie to the face, tumbling backwards and flicking a bowl of thick mousse squarely onto Yelden’s chest. By the time the men finish by loudly calling that ‘honor has been satisfied’ and stiffly bowing to one another, their clothes are a myriad of colors and the audience is breathless with laughter.