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

by Lane Trompeter

  The Crux of Eternity

  The Eternal Dream, Book One

  Lane Trompeter

  To my father, who fanned the flames when they were but an ember.

  To my wife, who turned those flames into a bonfire.

  The World of Light

  Prologue

  The Coup

  The Seventh Day of Winter

  In the Year 5204, Council Reckoning

  A thin, bright yellow flame balances on the air, hovering over the wick of a half-melted candle. The feeble light illuminates the inside of a stark, utilitarian tent. Noises of a martial gathering drift in through the open flap: the jingling of armor and harness, the rough tones of soldiers coarsely joking, the soft wicker of horses grumbling to one another. A cot stands pushed into a corner, dust from the dirt floor covering it from lack of use, while a table graces the center of the tent, maps hiding every inch like a patchwork tablecloth. A single chair is pulled up to the table. A man in a hooded black robe etched at the seams with bright reds and oranges bends over the maps, his posture hinting at advanced age.

  The candle flickers as a draft of the cold Winter air spins into the tent. The light gutters and nearly goes out. The man snaps his hand out, and the candle flares briefly before settling back into its cheery glow. In that short burst of light, another figure appears, standing quietly in the shadows, and the sounds from without cut off as if sealed behind the great stone of a tomb.

  “I knew you would come, old friend,” the hooded man says from the table, his voice weary. It echoes weirdly in the sudden silence, as if the two men are lost in a deep vault.

  “How could I not, Telias? Is it not my duty?”

  “Hah, duty,” Telias chuckles, his laughter mocking.

  He reaches out, and the light from the candle jumps from the wick to his palm, remaining there and burning. The man in the corner tenses, his hand reaching above his shoulder for a sword sheathed diagonally across his back. The fire grows, soon a handful of glowing, crackling energy.

  Telias spins his other hand around the flame, and it smooths, a perfect sphere of fire. The bright colors swirl inside the globe, contained by the man’s iron will. The fire does not strain to assume its natural state, but floats calmly, sedately, as if content. The close flame illuminates Telias' face. He still appears to be in the blossoming of his youth, handsome behind his light brown beard. His eyes, however, belie his youthful features. In his gaze rests the heavy weight of the wise, the ancient, the broken.

  From the sphere breaks the beak, then the dangerous eyes, of a miniature phoenix. The bird looks on the tent with the fierce gaze of a predator. Slowly, the flaming sphere shapes itself into the body, wings, and talons of the proud creature. The phoenix shakes, the excess sparks cascading off its tiny body and drifting to the floor in a bright shower of light. The bird paces in the air between Telias' hands, occasionally shaking or picking at itself. Always contained within the shape of the flawless little phoenix is the bright and hungry light of fire.

  “Are you going to defend yourself, Telias?” the man in the shadows asks, his voice strained as he watches the performance.

  “No, Altos. I won't. I’m just enjoying the last moments of life as I see fit.”

  The phoenix leaps from his hands, its flaming wings leaving behind a trail of bright cinders as it circles the room. The bird dives sharply for the figure in the shadows, who ducks and draws his sword in the blink of an eye. Telias doesn’t press his advantage, though, too busy laughing as the bird returns to his grasp. He closes his hands on the tiny creature, and it disappears into his skin.

  “No, I won’t defend myself,” Telias says again, staring down at his glowing hands with a sad smile.

  The other man slowly walks forward. Sword held loosely in his hands, he stares down at the maps, studying them and shaking his head. The room darkens as Telias' hands lose their glow, and soon the entire tent is plunged into midnight blackness.

  “Why are you doing this? Why are you forcing me to kill you?” Altos suddenly cries out in the darkness, his voice filled with agony.

  “Why? Can you truly ask me that question? I won’t be a part of what you’re creating. I can't sit beneath that madman on the Council and listen to his ravings. Everything that we’ve defended, every truth we were raised on, is dead. I may as well die with them.”

  “Telias, please, reconsider. I’ll speak for you before the Sealord. I can convince him to show mercy.”

  “No, old friend,” Telias' voice reverberates through the darkness with finality. “My war is with Helikos. But I won't fight you if you stand with him.”

  Silence lasts in the tent for long moments, only the harsh scraping of Altos' breathing rasping against the quiet. The lack of noise is unnatural, artificial, something that can only be created by forces beyond normal ken. Neither man chooses to break it, and no sounds from the outside world can possibly pierce it. It becomes stifling, oppressive, a leaden weight that hangs upon the shoulders of both men as they wait, invisible mantles of burden. When Altos speaks, the tent shakes with the force of the gale arising outside.

  “Telias of the Council of Shapers, sole Master of the Flame, your Vengeance stands ready to pass judgment on your deeds. Are you prepared to answer for your crimes?” The words are ceremonial, a shield to separate the man from the judgment, as if such is possible.

  “I am.”

  “It is forbidden for a Shaper of the Council to lead and govern men. This army you have raised is a clear breach of our laws. It is forbidden for a Shaper, but not for a man.”

  A pause. The dull sound of a dagger slamming into wood echoes through the soundless space.

  “Become a man.”

  Chapter 1

  Kettle

  The Second Day of Winter

  In the Year 5219, Council Reckoning

  “Just a little bit farther, Grace,” I call down in a whisper.

  The tiny waif clings to the hewn stone wall twenty feet above the ground with half again still to climb. I’ve gone first, the gaps between the stone practically broad paved steps to my questing fingers. My legs casually dangle over the side of the mark’s stone balcony, swaying in the night breeze. Grace, however, is struggling. The moment of truth, as always, is when she glances at the ground below. The girl doesn’t freeze, which shows promise, but her arms are trembling little sticks clinging to the stone. She reaches with uncertainty for the next handhold, her fingers brushing blindly against the mortar. Her small blonde head shakes back and forth, and her lips move as she mutters to herself.

  Silently encouraging her, I try not to make any noise. Though the resident of the house is a light sleeper, we’ve scouted his patterns. He sleeps the deepest after his mistress leaves for the night, so the start of our climb coincided with the woman's emergence from the house. We have a reasonable window of opportunity, and the job is fairly low risk. Grace just needs to pick up the pace.

  I uncoil a rope from around my chest, but she must hear something. She glances up, and, even in the gloom of the night, her eyes flash with anger and determination. Shaking her head resolutely, she reaches above her with renewed confidence. She levers herself over the balustrade, breath coming a bit heavier than the climb requires.

  “I did it, Mother!” she whispers excitedly.

  I grin and give her a nod, recoiling my rope. Though I’ve never actually brought life into the world, these pale little Donirian orphans are all I ever need. We turn towards the glass doors. I unfold a leather satchel that contains the tools of the trade and decide on a pick and tension wrench. We�
��ve lost a little time on the climb, so I can’t waste time explaining. Still, she avidly follows my every move as I slide the oiled metal into the keyhole.

  The lightest pressure, however, causes the door to swing open a crack. I frown as a prickle of danger creeps down my spine. The doors are locked every night; we do enough scouting to know that. The mistress was out on the balcony earlier that evening despite the chill in the Winter air, so she certainly could have forgotten to lock the doors again. Ignoring the pang of unease, I gently open the door.

  The snores of the master of the house greet us. Spread-eagled on his bed, his round belly and hairy chest gleam white in the moonlight, along with some of his less... appealing features. Grace and I share a look, and she has to clamp her hand over her mouth to avoid bursting into laughter. Playfully, I cuff her on the head and she scowls, but her chest still shakes with mirth.

  I beckon and lead the way, creeping silently across the room. With a hand motion, I send her towards the wardrobe in the corner. The fancy silks the merchant wears will fetch a pretty price from the right people. His girth just means there’s more silk per shirt to sell. I creep closer to the bed, heading for the desk beside it. Papers cover every available space, some business missives, some love letters to woo back his wife. She’d left when she found out about the mistress. The merchant had seemed distraught, but he also hadn't stopped seeing the other woman.

  As soon as we’re fully in darkness, a rustle of movement slides along my skin underneath my clothes, familiar as the sun’s warmth. Emotions not my own begin to well from the recesses of my mind, a yearning to move, to fly, to explore...

  No. I’ll let you out later.

  The dim impression of disappointment echoes in my thoughts, but I push it aside and focus.

  The merchant's snores cause the faintest rattle of the objects on his desk. Creator, what a fool. The stoppered ink bottle and golden quill tips slide into a pouch at my side. I reach for the first drawer, looking for the bags of coin for his mistress’s ‘allowance.’ It’s a surprisingly efficient way for the merchant to deal with having such a woman on the side. I don't respect either of them, but they certainly know their business. She provides him a service, and he pays her accordingly.

  A creak sounds behind me, and I spin. Holding perhaps a dozen silk shirts bundled in her arms, Grace’s panicked eyes find mine across the dim room. The wardrobe door still swings ever so slightly. I raise a placating hand, and she visibly relaxes, her breath leaving her in a sigh.

  She’s going to be a good one. I feel a motherly responsibility for the orphans that roam the streets. Many are so like me: rejected by their families, forced to work menial labor or beg just to survive. Donir is filled with them, far more than seems possible. I once heard a nobleman remark that he couldn't tell which was more numerous, the rats or the orphans. Taking his purse had been a matter of propriety.

  Grace has a similar tragic story. Her mother died giving birth to her, and her wretched louse of a father never forgave her for the tragedy. He treated her poorly, ignored her, and beat her as she got older. Finally, as his debts mounted, he attempted to sell her to a brothel. Since the Simply burned, none of the others are generous enough to take a malnourished little runt like Grace. When the brothels weren't an option, he turned to the Khalintari slavers. Luckily, that was when Grace decided to run.

  There aren’t many places for orphans like Grace to find a home. I know what it’s like to have nowhere to go. I started the Family so that those with no reason to hope could find a place as long as they needed it. When we found Grace, an angry shopkeep was chasing her in the Pennies, a knife raised over his head and rage in his voice. She carried, of all things, a single strawberry, hardly enough to keep her alive another day, let alone work to hide the bones that stuck out through the rough cloth of her ragged tunic.

  I trusted Timo to handle the man, and he had with his usual clumsy strength. Timo struck him with a right cross out of the middle of the crowd, and the man went down far faster than gravity would normally take you. I shadowed Grace to make sure the Watch didn't catch her. She eluded them, holing up in a hollow space between broken bits of masonry in a little-traveled alley. At that moment I knew she was one of us: nimble, smart, and desperate. Grace only joined the Family a month ago, but she’s already pulling her weight.

  The wood of the drawer hardly whispers, barely more than a snake sliding across the desert sands. The merchant's snores continue unabated, his corpulent belly rising and falling like the bellows in a smithy. My fingers quest into the dark opening for the sacks of carefully counted money. My hand hits the bottom of the drawer. I gently reach back and forth, but the drawer is empty, the one above also bare.

  Odd. I watched the man reach into this drawer and casually toss his mistress a bag with my own eyes less than an hour before. We moved down from the roof across the way as the mistress left and were into the room less than a quarter of an hour later. Where is the money? I reach farther back, knocking as gently as possible for any secret compartments.

  My arm is thrust into the desk almost to the shoulder when a sudden shout erupts from the floor below.

  “Thief! There’s a thief in the house!”

  I jerk back on reflex. The desk rattles as I wrestle my arm free of the drawer. The merchant snaps awake, his florid face and grandiose mustachios whipping into view in the dim light.

  “What?” he exclaims, his voice groggy and muffled by sleep.

  I duck down, easing into a prone position beside the man's bed. I look for Grace's feet through the gap between the bed and the floor. She’s standing, of all places, behind the drapes. I silently roll my eyes. Talk about finding the most idiotically obvious place to hide. I need to have a word with that girl.

  “He's heading to the back of the house! On him, boys!”

  The shout echoes up from below. Feet pound as the three men of the merchant's personal guard run past downstairs. By the forgotten Depths, there’s another thief in the house? The merchant above me groans and rolls to the side, his bulk eclipsing the faint moonlight as he spins to get out of bed. Hardly daring to breathe, I scuttle underneath the bed like a spider, his feet missing my back by a hairsbreadth. The wooden floors groan under the man's weight as he staggers upright, and the whole bed springs upwards in relief.

  My face warms in the dark. Talk about finding the most idiotically obvious places to hide... here I am, hiding under the man's damn bed. My reputation as the best thief in Donir fades before my eyes. My apprentice, hiding behind the drapes. Me, cowering under the bed. Hardly masters of our craft.

  The merchant stumbles over to his desk, lighting a lamp and staggering towards the door. He doesn’t glance around, though his steps look tentative from my limited angle. I figure he’s going to go out to join the chase, but instead, he locks the door.

  “They better catch the bastard,” he mutters under his breath, his nasally voice instantly grating on my nerves. He’s panting from the ten-step jaunt to his own bedroom door. How the mistress manages to come back night after night is beyond me. “Waking me at all hours of the night, ugh.”

  He settles back onto the bed, the mattress driving down and into my back. My eyes bug out of my skull and my breath leaves me in a quiet wheeze as the merchant's full weight settles above me. As he lays down, the pressure eases. I scramble silently to the side. Papers rustle, and he begins muttering unintelligibly to himself. It doesn’t seem that our light sleeper is returning to his dreams. And he’s left the lamp burning brightly.

  Sighing, hoping the man doesn’t look up and notice the pair of scuffed black shoes sticking out from under his drapes, I settle in for a long wait. I could get out easily, perhaps without the merchant even noticing, but I can’t communicate with Grace, and I’m definitely not going to leave her behind. The Family looks after its own.

  A crash from below sends a tremor flashing through the house, and a string of profanities echo up the stairs. The merchant sits up, the downward bulge of the
bed luckily to my left.

  “He's a quick one! Just stab him, forget trying to grab him. We'll sort it out later,” a rough voice calls.

  “He's run to the kitchens! Cut him off!”

  Whoever the unlucky sod is down below, he’s an idiot. Somehow, in the fifteen minutes it took us to come down from the building across the street and jump the garden wall, he snuck in through the balcony doors and stole the very stash we’re here for. I should have known the unlocked door wasn't merely a coincidence. Why the man has been found after successfully completing the theft, and down in the main house of all places, is the true mystery. Had the bags been where they were supposed to be, Grace and I would have been gone before the door could finish swinging closed.

  The sounds of continued pursuit rattle throughout the house, banging and slamming and the crunching of what sounds like porcelain. The master of the house curses under his breath, then louder as another horrendous crash interrupts the chase below. He levers himself out of bed and trots to the door. Fumbling with the key, he throws the door open and shouts down the stairs. His words are indistinct, something about his guards costing more than they’re worth. Several insulting epithets are included for good measure.

  You don't hesitate if you want to live in this business. I slip out from under the bed, the merchant's shouts adding to the cacophony below and hiding any sound of my movements. I grab Grace by the arm. Another crash covers her startled squeak. The balcony doors click shut quietly behind me, the merchant's shouts now muted. The rope on my back is too slow, it’ll be noticed before we can make ourselves scarce. With a sigh, half regret and half joy, I call to the shadow.

  The familiar, comforting smoke erupts from my clothes, noting my urgency. The darkness moves through the air like oil through water, absorbing the lamplight from within and the starlight from above in equal measure. It doesn’t reflect light, an impenetrable darkness that defies the senses. Shadow is a poor word for my element, because it requires no light to live, but it’s the only word that makes sense.