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

by Lane Trompeter

  “Juliet,” I begin, gently lifting her hands away and standing up. She waits quietly, expectantly. “I've brought... brought you something.”

  I can scarcely get the words out, but she simply smiles with a sudden joy.

  “A gift? What is it? I can smell something divine. Did you bring me something to eat?”

  “I... yes,” I say softly. “I have brought you food fit for the Creator himself. Delicacies that would have graced the Eternal's table thousands of years ago, and she would have been impressed beyond speech. Sit, please, and eat while it’s warm.”

  We settle into the table, and I slide Juliet plate after plate of Miranda's fare. Juliet consumes each with a look of such rapture on her distorted features that I smile even as tears roll quietly down my cheeks. The entire time, she comments on the food, asks me how my life is going, and probes about my own health and physicality, as if she is the doctor that she once aspired to be. Throughout the meal, the painting looms close to my left like a specter of death.

  She finishes the food, sitting back in her chair with a grateful sigh.

  “Creator's holy name, that was perfect, Jace,” she says, laughing.

  Her voice still possesses the elegant tones I remember. I study her face, looking at the lines that might have been, imagining what this young woman looked like, how lovely she must have been. Because there, in a dingy hut, face wasted by a ravaging disease, single eye dull and unfocused, I can’t help but find her beautiful.

  “I brought you something else,” I say quietly.

  “Two gifts in a single day?” she says, patting the table with a smile. “Good. You had better make up for some lost time, because it’s lonely here without any new blood. I have the others, sure, but moments of happiness are few and far between in this place.”

  “That’s exactly what I figured. This is my apology,” I say, heart breaking anew.

  “Yes, well, we’re just getting acquainted. You'll know better in the future. Well, what is this second gift? It’s not like I'm going to refuse it,” she says mischievously.

  “I remember a comment you made, about how you loved a certain artist, how he occupied your thoughts. So, in apology for my absence, I decided to get a painting for you, created by Caldero.”

  “Caldero?” she asks incredulously. “No, you haven't. There are seventeen on the entire planet, and each of them priceless.”

  She carefully ignores the tragedy lurking under the surface.

  “I... acquired it from one Duke Paloran. He was loathe to part with it, but I was able to convince him after a time.”

  “'The Lost Girl'?” Juliet gasps. Of course she knows exactly which painting I’ve taken. I didn’t even know its name. “You brought me 'The Lost Girl'?”

  “Yes.”

  The word falls on silence. It seems to echo in the tiny room, bringing back with it the stillness. The stillness grows heavier the longer we hold our silence, and it binds us, holding back words and emotion and leaving us in a quiet, electric tension. As still as marble, her breath hardly moves her frail chest. I bite my lip, struggling not to shout to break the moment.

  “I'm so sorry,” I gasp out, fighting the turmoil in my chest and losing. She comes forward again, comforting me even in her despair.

  “No, Jace, no. How could you know? Please, Jace, do not weep for me...”

  After long, indeterminable moments of sorrow, silence descends again. This time, it feels better, more whole. Juliet strokes my back one more time, then points her face towards mine.

  “Jace, would you... will you... describe it to me?”

  Her voice is so sincere and hopeful that I don’t question. I immediately turn and begin to speak. I speak for hours, my voice growing hoarse, my imagination stretched to its limit. My words touch on the colors, the shapes, the brush strokes, the feel, the image. The gentle curve of blue, achingly delicate and recalling the horizon. The sharp angle of white, a space of order amongst chaos. The delicate splash of subtle red, a hazy mist of drifting life. I paint the painting again and again, words the color, pauses the lines, metaphors the thoughts and the girl and the lost.

  It’s dark outside when the candles gutter out, but I continue to speak, my eyes having long remembered each contour and delicate intricacy of the art. Finally, I subside, my voice falling silent and my throat aching from the effort. My arm wraps around Juliet's thin shoulders, and her head rests lightly on my chest in the dark. We lay in the straw, the words still burning between us like a ship’s beacon calling for aid in the midst of a towering storm.

  “That’s better,” she says quietly, wonder in her voice.

  “What? What’s better?” I ask in a whisper.

  “That’s better than seeing the painting itself,” she says, putting her arm around me and squeezing gently. “Thank you, Jace.”

  Lying there in the darkness, cradling a broken woman to my chest and barely holding my own fractured soul together, I recall my first reaction to the painting. I believed it hideous, without sense, without thought. How was I so foolish? When you look closely, when you take the time, the true image, the true message, the true exquisite beauty rises to the fore, the chaos and sadness just another infinitesimal part of the seamless whole.

  It is beautiful.

  It is her.

  ***

  My feet hit the earth with a soft puff of dust as I leap the fence. I head back home, hardly looking left and right as I walk. The morning was a quiet one. I woke with the small, fragile bundle of rags under my arm and lifted her gently to the thickest part of the straw. She didn't move aside from raising a hand in gentle farewell. I stroked her hair once, softly, and left the colony behind me.

  No more words were necessary. The previous night held everything that needed to pass between us. Even as I walk away, I know I won't ever see her again. It’s okay. In fact, it’s perfect. The closeness we’ve shared is greater than anything I’ve ever experienced, and watching her deterioration would only destroy this transcendent moment. That hand opened in a wordless goodbye echoed my sentiments exactly.

  As I near the house, I get an odd feeling along the back of my neck. My hairs stand up in the way that tells me I need to duck. I glance around, but nothing appears out of the ordinary. Soldiers tromp down the street, wagons trundle through the muck, and the pedestrians pointedly ignore one another. All normal.

  As I take another look, though, it hits me. They are all soldiers. Many of the pedestrians look to be armed in some way or another, each obviously muscular and in shape, hair cropped close. The riders all sit with a bit too much precision, the wagon flaps all drawn closed in an identical manner. And, of course, the soldiers marching in unison are hiding in plain sight, a common spectacle throughout the city.

  It takes all of my willpower not to head for the nearest rooftop. There are any of a million reasons why soldiers would be impersonating everyone in a crowded intersection. If only I can think of any good. I try to shake off the feeling, but my reflexes are itching like mad. Are they after me? Or Reknor? Surely they wouldn’t go through so elaborate a hoax because they discovered that I crashed the King’s Ball. Duke Paloran is in prison, isn’t he? Did the thieves rat me out?

  I think about climbing up and going in through a window and into Reknor's house, but the soldiers have already seen me. Stealth is out of the question. I walk up like nothing is wrong, taking Reknor’s front steps two at a time and sliding into the house quickly.

  “Are you entirely blind? Or just stupid?”

  I almost jump, but I catch myself and glance up at Reknor leaning over the railing on the stairs to the second floor.

  “The question seems a bit rhetorical, all things considered,” I say, shrugging. “Obviously, you already know. I was coming here to warn you.”

  “Jace: the only man I know who would knowingly enter a deathtrap surrounded by half an army in order to warn me. Literally, half an army.”

  Suddenly he turns and goes back to the front window.

 
“Here they come,” Reknor calls, a frown in his voice. “I was wondering what they were waiting on. It’s been hours. But I guess they were waiting for both of us to be in the same place.”

  “Whoops,” I say, but there isn’t any remorse in my voice. “Why are the King’s soldiers coming for us?”

  “I may be involved in certain activities that would tickle their fancy. A great many such activities, in fact.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Well, I may or may not be meeting with the Vengeance and plotting the downfall of a tyrant,” Reknor responds easily as he walks down the stairs and buckles on his sword.

  “What?”

  “We don’t have time to hash everything out, but, in short, yes. I’ve hated Helikos longer than you’ve been alive,” his voice shakes for the first time, not in fear, but in anger. “I tried to be careful, tried to keep you out of it, but you appear to have ended up facing the same fate. Or, well, blast. You would be.”

  “You have a plan?”

  “Damn if you being here doesn’t ruin the original plan. I guess that you go through escape plan number one, and I go through number two. The exit tunnel is behind the big door.” He doesn’t have to specify which door. There can only be one. He pulls the key off of his belt and tosses it to me. I catch it deftly, sliding it into my pocket as I jog up the stairs past him. “And where are you going? You know that dozens of soldiers are about to kick in this door, correct?”

  “Of course I do,” I say cheerily. “That’s why I’m going to get my sword.”

  “Sensible,” Reknor says. “But you won’t need it. Go to the tunnel now so that we can be sure you make it out.”

  Something in his words leaves me abruptly and totally afraid.

  “What about you?” I ask, the forced cheer gone from my voice.

  “I’ll manage. Damn, all that I thought I would tell you, and now I don’t have enough time. Couldn’t they have waited an hour before they just charged the front doors?” Reknor says, moving over by the door and glancing through the window.

  The door begins to shudder under blows from outside, but like everything in Reknor’s home, it is well-built. I turn back to grab my sword, but Reknor raises his foot dramatically high. I can’t help but watch. He slams his boot down on a certain floorboard, which depresses. Screams of men in perfect agony erupt from outside, and the shuddering abruptly ceases.

  “What was that?” I ask conversationally.

  “You think I haven’t been waiting for this? Well, that should give us enough time to chat. Listen, boy. Everything that you can carry from the house is yours. The rest I’m sure will end up in Helikos’ coffers, so we’ll have to do something about that. By we I mean me.”

  “You’re planning to die here, aren’t you?” I cut in. “Don’t.”

  “Jace, don’t be a child. All men die. I am dying so that you can live. All of our secrets preserved. A whole future there for you to take, to seize.”

  The door shudders again, more heavily this time.

  “Why can’t we both go out the tunnel? Isn’t that the point of an escape tunnel, to escape?”

  “Ah, my boy. They will be through and chasing you in moments, and there is more to hide than just your escape. I can’t let them find that tunnel. So I’m going to delay them long enough for you to collapse it.”

  “I still don’t get it,” I say, panic clawing at me at my soul. “Why don’t we collapse the tunnel together? They can’t follow us then.”

  “They have to believe that there wasn’t ever a tunnel at all. And the only way for me to ensure that is to stay behind,” Reknor says regretfully. “If I could have chosen a different way to say goodbye, I would have.”

  “What is so important about that tunnel? Why is it worth your life?” I ask desperately.

  “The answers are down there. Waiting for you. I love you, Jace,” Reknor says, walking over and pulling me into a hug.

  I cling to him like a sailor to a piece of driftwood, the last hope on an unforgiving planet. It’s the first time Reknor has ever told me that he loved me. Tears well in my eyes, and I struggle to let go when he loosens his grip. The door finally splinters behind us, and Reknor turns and draws his sword.

  “It’s about time to go, Jace. Down the tunnel and pull the lever at the first door. It is low, near the ground, just as you pass through to the right. Let go of your fear, if you’re still holding on to it. I’m sure you’ll find the right path.”

  “I love you, old man,” I say quietly, desperately, to his back.

  “Remember,” he says, half glancing back at me. “These men do not ask questions.”

  The door bursts in.

  Reknor spins, his sword lashing out and almost decapitating the first man who stumbles through. He engages the second, disarming and slicing a neat hole in his throat. The sword work is brilliant, but more men press in from behind. I reach down at my side, but my sword still waits upstairs, useless. Reknor engages the fourth man, the third lying on the ground with a deep wound in his groin, blood gushing out too fast to follow. It is all happening so fast. And here I am, gawking like a frozen fawn.

  “Are you still standing there?” Reknor thunders as he cuts down another man. “Go. Go!”

  I jump, spinning and running for the door. I turn the corner frantically, fingers fumbling with the key as I struggle to work the intricate lock. Windows shatter to the side, and I stop as men shout a battle cry. I listen, hard, but the sounds of battle continue. I finally manage to get the counter turn and pull the giant door open, slipping inside before I can think. The door closes behind me with a soft thud, and the swordplay becomes muted like I’ve fallen underwater. I look around, surprised to see that the room is little larger than a closet. A trap door waits in the center, and a chest sits in the corner. Curiously, a lit torch burns in the corner. Where does the smoke go? Who lit it? Reknor?

  I walk over to the trap door squarely in the middle of the room, reaching down and yanking the handle. The door flips up with startling ease. A ladder descends into darkness. Grabbing the torch, ignoring the tiny voice that tells me to drop the live flame, I put my foot on the first rung. The floor is hardly ten feet down, and I drop the last few feet to land in a crouch.

  The tiny room is built out of solid stone, a sole exit leading into further darkness. After a hundred yards with the torch my only company, I come to a door, which opens easily at my touch to reveal an old sewer, so ancient that it doesn’t even stink anymore. A channel runs down the middle of a large, curving hallway made of the same cut stone as the room behind me. Some murky, filthy water still fills the bottom of the trench, but I can tell that nothing has been emptied into the area in a long time. I half-expect to see the bones of forgotten urchins lining the walls, one in particular with brilliant red hair. But the corridor appears empty.

  The expected lever, low on the stone wall of interlocking bricks, waits for me just where Reknor described. I glance back at the small tunnel, imagining the house that was a home, the man who was a father. Gone. Taken from me by a tyrant king and his soldiers. Swallowing thickly, I grasp the lever and pull.

  The rock groans, the sound as if the very earth cries out in pain, and the tunnel collapses in a cataclysm of noise and stone and dust. The torch gutters and blows out in the explosion of dust, plunging me completely into darkness. As the last rock settles, I close my eyes and fight back tears.

  “Too soon,” a voice, quavering and yet steady, resonates from the darkness behind me. I spin around, my eyes straining from their sockets to see in the dark, but to no avail. “The man should know better.”

  Chapter 19

  Iliana

  The Final Day of Spring

  In the year 5222, Council Reckoning

  Ours is the last carriage to arrive, the servants gathering in a swarm to help us out of the door, lead our footman aside, unhook the horses and lead them to the expansive stables, and finally provide a long line of people to bow us up to the doors. We’re fas
hionably late, the kind of late that only men and women of our stature can afford. The excessive greeting is the kind of expense that only fools like Paloran would indulge in, but I hardly notice. Though I haven’t made many public appearances in my life, I know they had damn well better bow when they greet their princess.

  Torlas’ arm flexes firm and strong beneath my hand. I try not to notice, but I can tell he hasn’t been skipping fencing practice. My face is warm as he leads me through the glittering gates of Duke Paloran’s estate. The banquet hall is already full when we arrive, but every person in attendance stands as a man calls in a loud and clear voice.

  “The Princess Iliana of the Kingdom of the Sea, escorted by Duke Torlas Graevo.”

  No one meets my eyes as we walk to the table to be seated at Paloran’s right hand. A gigantic and intricate display of late Spring flowers in a dozen hues decorates the hall, each placed so carefully as to feel like a small piece of a grand and greater whole. Flowering garlands drape from the ceiling, and the heady scent of gentle blossoms hangs in the air. As soon as we’re seated, servants enter with crystal carafes of wine in a variety of colors, dyed to match the exact shades of the flowers throughout the room. Each tray appears to be a flower itself, the glasses arranged to fill in the color of the petals. I take a pale yellow from the tray, impressed in spite of myself at the presentation. The movement restarts the conversations that our entrance stilled, and the hall soon buzzes with conversation.

  “My lady,” Duke Paloran speaks from my left. He’s a burly man, the genetics of his warrior line apparent in his figure despite never having wielded a sword himself. His florid cheeks complement his extravagant mustache, and his belly is the only thing more impressive than his estate. His voice is both rich and unpleasant at once, its power offset by a wheeze that can only be derived of sickness or inactivity. “I cannot tell you how pleased—and surprised—I was to learn our humble gathering would be graced with your royal presence.”