“It'll be worth it, little girl.”
“If we don't all die,” I mutter, pinching the bridge of my nose and rubbing away a rising headache.
“You are so gloomy,” Corna says, rolling her eyes and slapping me on the arm. “Don't we have something else to do today?'
“Yes, your contact. Don't forget: we need to intercept the messenger Gordyn is inevitably going to send to confirm Rina's identity. She may well be dead if we don't.”
“Yes, Mother,” Corna says. “Teach me how to pick the pocket, will you? Teach me how to make—” she cuts off with a huff as I elbow her lightly in the ribs.
“I want to go check in on the children before we meet with your friend. It feels strange without them.”
***
Once I decided to rob Jon Gordyn, I immediately divided the Family. Even though we won’t be ready for months, probably years, I want to remove our place of operations from the obvious estate in the Corpses and make us much harder to find. Almost every adult member of the Family is off on a task. I leave Hom and Yelden to watch the house. They have by far the easiest job; they just get to sit on their asses and make sure the house stays clean. The children, though, are now apprenticed to the Temple of Creation. The Creationists were glad to accept more than a dozen budding acolytes in worship of the Creator. For a reasonable donation.
I gave the little ones an offer when I dropped them off: if they enjoy the work and genuinely want to join the priesthood, I will allow them to stay on after the Gordyn job is over. Many of them barely know me or each other, so I expect several to take me up on that offer. It hurts to think about my children leaving me, but the life of a priest is often more satisfying and far less dangerous than to be a part of the Family.
So the house is silent. I walked into the broken-down confines of the mansion with Corna eight-hundred ninety days before. The money we earned for turning in her fake corpse purchased the estate along with several others throughout the Corpses. Corna and I explored every nook and cranny, grinning and laughing and starting at the smallest of sounds. It was the first day I called Corna my sister. It was the first day that we started the Family.
The silence of the house is unbearable as we walk out. The lack of laughter, the absence of children's feet and the scrape of chairs, the emptiness without Timo's booming laugh and Corna's slashing sarcasm. The stillness of a house breathing, breathing, breathing... exhaling. A weight settles on my soul as I glance back at the looming, crumbling facade. The paint is chipped, the wood timbers showing rot, and the sloping roof is bowed in places. The house is hideous, but beautiful. It has been a home for over a hundred souls in the last three years. It provided shelter, warmth, and love throughout those last eight-hundred ninety days. Walking away from it is one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.
When I left the Isles, I didn't have a single friend, nor did I have a family left. I was as bereft of humanity as is possible outside of the grave. I had no love, no friendship, no joy. The Family has helped to heal those wounds. Each soul we took in brought me further away from that dark precipice. The House represents all of the positives of friendship and love for me.
As we walk away, I can’t shake the feeling the Family is never going to come together under that roof again.
***
We stroll across the city, arm in arm, our simple dresses finely made but difficult to place. As ever, the perfect disguises are those in which you allow people to see exactly what they want to see. A person of low means will see us as a half-step above them, two servants out on some errand for our master. They will see the calluses on our hands and the light muscle of our arms and assume we work for a living. A wealthy person will see the cut and quality in our attire and recognize some level of money, but they won’t be able to tell how much. That lack of knowledge will leave them off-balance, and most affluent people would rather assume you a peer than be proven the opposite after they treat you poorly.
There are hundreds of Temples of Creation spread throughout Donir. I’ve spent time praying at each one over the last three years, begging for forgiveness I know will never come, though a part of me hopes the Creator hears me wherever he’s gone. The Creationists will tell you he’s still around, that he cares for us, but the People know better. Humanity killed him long ago.
Each temple possesses its own appeal. Some, like fire and water, have a constant stream of humanity coming and going. The wealthy love to pray at the altar dedicated to the Sealord’s element. Some believe he might even be able to hear them. The poor pray to fire and the legend of the last good Shaper to exist in Telias the Warmheart. Since his death fifteen years ago, a dozen popular songs and stories have been composed expounding on his loyalty and honor. Other more obscure elements like thought and lightning hold the near-silence of an empty sanctuary, little more than the occasional devotee gracing the temple’s peaceful halls. The vast majority of the temples are dedicated to one element, each providing a single altar at which supplicants can pray and connect to a single aspect of the Creator.
The grandest temple in the kingdom is located on the edge of the Palace District, standing proud right along the edge of the Pennies. Construction on the mighty edifice finished three years ago; a massive undertaking funded by the Creationists and the King together. The columns in front would take a dozen men linking hands to encompass, and the relief over the entrance is a stylized carving of each of the greatest Shapers in history, locked in moments of myth and legend. Anna the Wind-Daughter, carved impassive and beautiful, a gale rising behind her to signify the cleansing of the Bridge of the East. Heloren the Unceasing Flame, a stone clutched in his hands as he takes the heat from a volcano off the western coast of the Khalintars. Intiol the Wise, a scroll in his hands, who used Thought to bring the warring Khals together. And, of course, Helikos the Sealord himself, gravely and proudly displayed in the middle of the frieze, triumphant over the corrupt Council of Shapers. Although all fifteen of the elements are displayed in the grand temple, the altar of water is honored above all.
Supposedly, a larger, even more impressive temple exists in the Khalintar of the Coin, so large as to dwarf every other edifice ever raised to the Creator. It has existed for hundreds, maybe thousands of years, hearkening back to the first days after the fall of the Eternal. Conspicuously, that temple is said to have a full sixteen altars, one more than any other. No one knows what the last altar is supposed to symbolize. Some worship at it nonetheless. People have always had faith in absurdly ambiguous ideas.
Corna and I pass out of the Corpses and into the Pennies, but then we turn south, away from the temple at the palace and into one of the simpler districts of the city. The land south of the Pennies is filled with working class families and small shops. Nothing ever happens here, and the roofs are all a uniform shape and height. For the peace and quiet, it has been dubbed the Meadows. If you want specialty work from craftsmen not corrupted by the flow of gold, or if you desire a loaf of bread baked with love and time, you go to the Meadows.
Nestled along the edge of the city against the southern wall, a lone Temple of Creation was quietly constructed three years ago. Small, unattended, and out of the way, this particular temple is my favorite place to pray. It’s dedicated to the Unknown, the element that has not been Shaped since the fall of the Eternal. The element is acknowledged as real because the Shapers of the Council were able to find many Shapers of the Unknown during their reign. Whenever a Shaper of the Unknown was discovered during the reign of the Council, their lifelong task was to travel the world and search for the element of their power. None had succeeded.
Until now.
I walk into my temple, smiling to see that the lights of the sanctuary muffled as I requested. The hooded lanterns and oddly-placed torches create a strange, flickering set of shadows that dance about the floor and walls as if alive. The living shadow under my dress shifts, recognizing the safe space. With a thought, I let it pool in my footsteps, and the darkness eagerly seeks out the co
rners of the room. The shadow seems just a darker part of the dim corners, but I can still feel it. The temple is in good repair despite the lack of congregants; I make sure that the only temple dedicated to my element is looked after.
The Priest of Creation in charge of the Temple of the Unknown, Nolan, was once a promising young member of the clergy, his intelligence and dedication to the Creator unsurpassed. But, as he learned the history of the fallen Council of Shapers and compared it to the alleged reasons for Helikos' coup, he had been unsatisfied. He began to speak out against the Sealord and his rule, but before he could gain more than a handful of followers, the Temple threatened to eject him from their ranks or send him to the Khalintars in exile. I offered him a third option: learn to be subtle and stay in charge of a small, out-of-the-way Temple. He can still preach, and I make sure he has a steady stream of listeners. The Family likes to go to temple together on feast days.
Nolan's voice echoes from the back rooms of the temple, though distance obscures the words. In a pause, a small, childlike voice raises a question. Nolan responds, and his words grow more distinct the closer we come.
“... never heard why you should be afraid?” Nolan asks, curiosity in his voice.
“All we know is that the Eternal has saggy tits,” Kit's voice, entirely earnest. The other children all chorus in agreement.
“And a dried-up—” Tera begins.
“Right,” Nolan cuts in, flustered. I hold up my hand to Corna, and we stop outside the room, grinning. I wonder if Nolan had any idea what he was getting into when he agreed to take them on. The door is shut, but it’s made of thin wood and the sound carries easily. “Well then, a proper story is in order. Would you like to hear the true history of the Eternal?”
“Are there any thieves?” Elan asks, excited.
“Assassins?” Kit puts in.
“Bakers!” Tera shouts, and I can picture her tiny arms shooting up as she wriggles.
“Bakers? Why in the Eternal's dried-up-”
“Okay!” Nolan exclaims in a state of near-panic. Corna and I struggle to contain our laughter. “How about I just tell you. This story involves everyone. Thieves, assassins, and yes, bakers, too. No interruptions. Just listen.”
When Nolan speaks, people listen. The timbre and rhythm of his voice is hypnotizing, entrancing. As he begins his story, we fall into the words, becoming a part of the fabric of the myth itself.
We know the day. We know the year. We know exactly how long it has been since the Eternal reigned. More than five thousand years ago, before the King and his new kingdom, before the Council of Shapers and their long rule, there was the Eternal.
Where she came from is legend. Her reign stretched as many years as it has been since her fall, for she could not die. She was the undisputed, unquestioned ruler of the world. Every nation bowed to her, every Shaper served her, and every man, woman, and child worshiped her. She was a woman of startling beauty, so that all who looked on her loved her. It was a good thing, because they had no choice. She ruled the world with an iron fist, and she was unafraid of enforcing the laws, her laws, to their fullest extent.
The reign of the Eternal was a glorious time for humanity. Her capital, Isa, was the wonder of the world. The city was staggering in size. Homes wrought of such size that they would make the palace look like a hovel, walls so high the clouds graced their tops, the city was crafted of shining, polished stone. Under the Eternal's rule, we made the Ways, connecting the world and all of its people. The land was reformed, the continents brought together. Shapers dedicated their lives, hundreds of years, to remaking the land in the image of the Eternal's vision. Art and writing and medicine flourished. There was no war, no famine, no strife. Everyone who opposed her was crushed. Every family that raised their voices disappeared. Even kings guarded their tongues and their thoughts, lest their rule be short.
For the Eternal had the greatest of advantages. She could look into the past, the present, and the future. The Eternal was the Master of Time.
She had the power to stop the flow of time in its tracks, even to reverse the events of the recent present. The Eternal could read the possible futures and change the course of history. She knew the thoughts of her opponents before they had them. She knew who would betray her, when, and how. With this power, she ended all opposition before it could begin.
For five thousand years, the Eternal's reign was gracious and benevolent. The world flourished, and the people loved her. Whenever she left Isa, parades followed, the multitudes groveling before the ancient queen. No one with a prayer of opposing her existed, and no one left alive cared to.
But there are consequences to a life that lasts so long. No human was meant to live so many years. After five thousand years of rule, the Eternal stopped leaving Isa. She stopped leaving her mighty palace. She stopped leaving even the throne. She grew distracted. Her eyes looked far into the distance, and her attention focused less and less on the world outside her throne room. Some believe that her mind snapped, having been alive for so much longer than human beings are meant to live. Others believe that she lost her way looking into the past or the future. In any case, she drifted away from the present.
A hundred years into her distraction, the Eternal’s soldiers chased a young thief as he ran through the streets of Isa. They believed he had stolen a ring from a wealthy woman of the city. The men, having been the sole source of law for thousands of years, were arrogant and cruel. The soldiers executed the boy even as they caught him, for thieving was not tolerated in those days. But the boy had stolen back his own property. He had given a girl a token of his favor and took it back when she was unfaithful to him. In her spite, she had called on the Queen’s soldiers. That boy was Fenril, the son of Eterian, the Shaper of Earth and Vengeance of the Eternal.
When Eterian returned from a long journey and discovered his son slain, the earth bucked so powerfully as to shake the very walls of mighty Isa. He stormed into the throne room and demanded justice for his son. He shouted. He raged. Anger and pain shattered his voice. But the Eternal never saw him, her eyes far away. He begged her, there on his knees before the throne, but she never acknowledged his presence. After two long days, he left.
Eterian believed her mind broken. His rage and sorrow drove him to speak out against the Eternal. For the first time in her long reign, she did not respond to an opponent's words. She did not see them coming. The Vengeance of the Eternal was a respected and feared position: he was her justice. He carried out her will as a judge, and as assassin when called upon. He had been at her side for many centuries.
Though most people loved the Eternal and ignored Eterian’s words, others began to listen; those whose ancestors had been rounded up and executed in advance of crimes they would never get the chance to commit, those who wished for power or a kingdom of their own outside her domineering rule, even those who just wanted chaos to descend upon the world.
The first army since the beginning of the Eternal's rule was raised in Donir. None of the people had the faintest idea how to be soldiers, nor what war really entailed. The first army was made up of a mob of farmers, craftsman, laborers, and, yes, bakers. They picked up hammers and pitchforks, standing behind Eterian as they marched down from Donir towards Isa. A contingent of the Eternal’s Immortals met them on the Bridge of the East, led by Genos, the Shaper of Wind. When asked to lay down their weapons, Eterian responded that they wanted to speak with the Eternal. They just wanted her to listen.
In response, the Immortals attacked.
Eterian fought against Genos, Shaper against Shaper, for the first time in millennia. While they fought, the Immortals fell on Eterian's civilian army and slaughtered them. They never stood a chance. The elite troops of the Eternal were merciless to those they viewed as traitors. Lightly armed and unarmored, they died in droves. Eventually, Eterian managed to kill Genos, sacrificing himself in the process, and their battle shattered the mighty Bridge of the East and cut Donir off from Isa.
The p
eople of Donir rose as one in anger and righteous fury. The Bridge's destruction allowed them time to build, to train, and to simmer in their anger. Word spread. Shapers, friends of Eterian and angry over the death of so many innocents, joined the cause. While the Eternal's armies marched across the Bridge of the West along the Ways through ancient Canto, now Coin, the Donirians prepared. By the time the Immortals started across the Bridge of the North, the Donirians were ready. Though still not up to the level of their foes, who had been raised to fight from birth, the Donirians outnumbered the soldiers more than ten to one. Shapers fought on both sides, names that still echo down through history. Jendo the Mind Razor. Kelion the Crashing Wave. And the most well-known of all: Sherrine, the Breaker.
For a hundred years, the war raged across all the land, and no city was spared. By the time the final battle was joined before the gates of Isa, less than half of the population of the world survived. The siege of Isa lasted for two decades. Shapers died on either side, the inheritors of their power raised on war and thrown into the fray. At long last, Sherrine was born. She was the Master of Stone, one of the most powerful to have ever lived. She knelt before the gates of Isa for three days. The defenders looked on, glad for the respite and resting as Sherrine seemed to pray. In reality, she was Shaping.
The walls of Isa stood for five thousand years of history and two decades of constant war. The Breaking took a single day. The walls fell inward, the massive slabs crushing and decimating thousands of innocents inside. In the effort, Sherrine herself perished, the explosion of power upon her death breaking what was left of the southern continent. When the world finally took another shuddering breath, Isa was gone, and the Eternal along with it.
Or so the people thought.
Over the next few years, all of the people looked for the rise of a new Shaper of Time. They were terrified of a new Eternal rising. Every baby was tested, every child examined endlessly. The entire world came together to search, trying to avoid history's repeating. After a generation, people started to question. After a hundred years, people started to forget. After a thousand, the Shaper of Time became a legend, a myth to scare children. But the Temple has the records. The Eternal existed. And there is only one explanation: she still lives.
The Crux of Eternity: Eternal Dream, Book 1 (The Eternal Dream Saga) Page 11