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

by Lane Trompeter

  “It’s time we elevated your training regimen,” he says firmly.

  Chapter 7

  Iliana

  The Forty-First Day of Winter

  In the Year 5219, Council Reckoning

  I blend with the large mass of humanity as I leave the Palace District and join the markets of the Mercantile District. Anything in all of the kingdom or beyond can be purchased in the Mercantile District of Donir. The sights and sounds and smells of the place were overwhelming the first time I had ever come out with Yrena. I never imagined so many people could be crammed into one place. Their shouts mingle into a deafening cacophony: hawkers, buyers, sellers, guards, the angry, and the joyful, it doesn’t matter. All raise their voices to be heard above the din, and all succeed in going equally unnoticed.

  The smells are even more vivid, from the sewage and filth rotting in the gutters to the vast array of cooking from a dozen different cultures. Spiced meats, baked bread, rotting fish, and many other scents all swirl together in a combination that is nearly indescribably horrible. You might catch a good scent like one of the sweet vendor's chocolates, but the second you inhale, something vile will assault your nose in the next second.

  I move as smoothly as I can through the cold streets, constantly jostled by the early morning crowd. The bumps and shoves are welcome. Every time I run into someone or brush in between them, their warm, living bodies remind me of my own. I feel alive, more than any time other than when I Shape, and it’s exhilarating to go completely unnoticed for once. No one cares what I’m doing; they’re all wrapped up in their own lives.

  Though a man nearly succeeded in assassinating me less than five weeks before, I finally begged my father to allow me out into the city with Yrena. He agrees that I can’t always be locked up behind stone walls. I need some human contact, especially the anonymous kind that allows me to feel as if I’m just one among many, just another tiny cog in the crowd.

  I distantly hear Yrena muttering behind me. She struggles to keep up as I dance past a cart navigating its way through the rushing populace. The markets are so glorious! A man selling candies nuts smiles broadly at me, the smoke of his tiny oven dirtying his portly face.

  “Would the lady enjoy some sweets to take on her way?” he asks warmly.

  I’m wearing well-made but mundane clothing, hardly the ostentatious display I normally make when I appear in public, but he recognizes me for a person of wealth regardless. I’ve heard there are two main places where wealth can be most clearly seen: in the hands, and in the eyes. My hands have few callouses. When my father trains me to fight, my weapons generally float around where I command. As for my eyes... who can tell?

  “I would love some,” I respond, smiling at him. “Just give me a moment for my friend to show up. She’ll definitely want to pick some of her own.”

  As if conjured by my words, the crowd ripples and spits out Yrena. She’s huffing, red in the face, and clearly irate. She spots me and storms over with black clouds hovering over her brow. Before she can open her mouth, I wave her forward.

  “Yrena, which kind of nut would you like? I see almonds and cashews and walnuts. Oh, sir, do you have pralines? Yrena is particularly partial to them.”

  “As the young lady pleases,” he says, bending down under his counter and bringing forth a white cloth bag. He opens it just as Yrena arrives. She gasps with delight when she sees the sugar-crusted praline clusters nestled inside. Unfortunately, the distraction isn’t enough, for she turns to glare at me again.

  “Don't think that this excuses your behavior, little one! You cannot go running off in the markets without me. It’s a dangerous place for young women, especially ones who look like you.”

  “I can take care of myself,” I mutter defensively.

  “You should listen to your mother, child,” the vendor says, not unkindly. “I’ve seen some horrible things happen right here in the markets in broad daylight. Stick with her.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Yrena says, cocking an eyebrow at me. I stifle my annoyance. As if this street peddler has any idea what constitutes danger for the Master of Earth. I direct Yrena to pay him and move on as she counts out the money, quickly disappearing into the crowd again with a grin.

  I wander from stall to stall like a butterfly, flitting about and light as air. I forget the assassin and the alleged responsibilities my father is going to lay on me. I just smile at strangers, dodge through crowds, and bargain with store owners for trinkets I’ll never buy. That last bit is probably only enjoyable to me, not the poor shopkeeps who have to deal with some girl who doesn’t plan to spend a single coin in their stores. The palace life is good, but it’s great to be out amongst the people. The markets are so large that I can’t possibly meet every shop keeper if I spend a week walking. That suits me just fine. There should always be more people to meet, and more experiences to have. It’s the perfect day.

  My neck snaps to the side.

  Pain sears through my scalp as something drags me by my hair into an alley. A hard shove sends me stumbling to the ground, and my white dress drags in the filthy snow. I spin from where I am on the ground. A bald, pale-skinned man in dirty black leather stands over me. His muscles ripple as he kneels down, and his breath smells of rancid meat. I struggle not to gag as the rotten stench washes over my face. A young woman alone on the streets of the market is always in danger, and it looks like I’ve found myself some.

  “Look at this pretty little thing,” he sneers, though I barely hear him over the din of the market.

  “Yeah, she looks... soft,” a deep voice rumbles over my head. “Must work for a noble, or somesuch.”

  Refusing to let panic take me, I quietly draw on the earth. The mud from my fall fortunately covers the symbol of my power. I will the earth in the alley to form into a thin, nearly invisible shard of glass. The blade floats up behind the pale-skinned man, narrowing in on the base of his neck. I tense to strike.

  “Enough foreplay,” the man behind me grunts.

  A huge paw wraps around my hair and rips me down to the ground. The man drags me bodily into a pile of trash deeper into the alley. I lose my concentration on the shard of glass. The pain burns through my head as if my scalp tears from my skull. Stunned amongst humanity's waste, his hands slap at my legs and try to force them open. I clench every muscle in my body to keep him at bay. I squeeze my eyes shut. His hands roughly pull my legs apart. I whimper. There’s nothing I can do. They’re too strong, my thoughts too scattered. No one will help me even if I scream.

  The man succeeds in forcing a hand down in between my legs. My mind races through fear and doubt and terror. As he tries to force his finger into me, something snaps in my chest.

  I am the Creator-blessed Shaper of Earth. I am the princess of the Kingdom of the Sea. I could kill them for this. I will kill them for this.

  Cutting them with mere glass that won’t satisfy me. I call to the earth all at once, bringing all of the mud and dust together and willing it to coalesce. All of it becomes crystal as one, a shining spear floating in the air, ready to strike on my command.

  Fury surges right below the surface of my chest as the imaged faces of all of the girls these men have preyed upon, all of the women whose lives they ruined, parade before my vision. Worse, much worse, is that he’s dared to touch me. He’s dared to defile my holy skin. How dare he lay a fucking finger on me?

  “You want me?” I ask, a fey smile spreading my lips.

  “Oh, so the bitch likes it,” the big man grunts, raising his hand to slap me.

  With a mental jerk, my spear strikes him under his arm. It rips straight through his chest and bursts out the other side of his rib cage. The spear is not smooth, so it catches on flesh like serrated barbs, dragging pieces of his heart and lungs violently into the open air. My rage is such that the weapon doesn’t even slow in its passage. He falls to the ground beside me with a funny little groan, blood already draining from his gaping mouth.

  I sit up, the spray of h
is blood across my face and chest. The pale-skinned man stares in horror. His eyes are so wide I can see them perfectly, framed by the look of utter shock pasted onto his face. A light pastel green, his eyes are strangely appealing, nearly beautiful. He stares into my eyes, frozen, as I command the glittering spear to hover silently in the air before him. I line up the point with the center of the man's chest.

  “How many women have you raped?” I spit the words out. “How many girls have you murdered?”

  “None, lady, goddess, none! That man made me do it! I just watched out for him. He was going to kill me if I didn't! Please, I have a wife, a child, please!”

  The man's begging is a classic joke. Like panicked rats, his words climb over one another to flee from his mouth. It’s almost like he’s throwing darts blindly at a board, praying that one will hit a place of compassion or mercy somewhere in me. He doesn’t realize that such a mark does not exist.

  With a gesture, I drive the spear through his thigh. His scream is so high and long that it interrupts even the sounds of the market for a brief moment as people crane their necks in our direction. With a thought, I fling some excess mud from further down the alley into his mouth. His scream dies in a cough. I wave cheerfully to the few people who still look our way. A few wave back, and the market returns to its normal chaotic state.

  He struggles to cough the dirt out of his throat, while at the same time fighting to keep his leg still where the spear is embedded. He succeeds at neither.

  “This is far less than you deserve,” I say. “I should drag you screaming to the dungeons and prolong your suffering.”

  I stalk closer and lift his chin with my hand. His eyes are wide with fear, but I notice as they harden. Just as he tenses to punch me, I break off the top half of the spear and impale his hand, jerking his arm around and slamming it into the ground. His scream is little more than a cough this time, and far less rewarding.

  “Your pathetic measures were all too practiced to be anything but habit. That you dare touch any woman is beyond my ability to condone, but you touched me. The Master of Earth, your princess. For that crime, you should die far slower, but I am merciful.”

  The spear rips out of his leg and shoots through his heart before he can respond. The moment the spear strikes, the image of the assassin's hateful gaze flashes in my mind. I wish fervently that I could do the same to him. The man sags onto the dirty cobblestones, the growing pool of his blood staining the brown snow a sickly red. I’m gasping, but not from exertion or fear. I feel more alive in this moment than I ever have before. I’m drained, but exhilarated. These men weren't worth the air they were breathing. Blood spreads slowly from both bodies, mingling into a puddle that threatens to reach my sandals.

  As I step back to avoid the blood, my adrenaline fades, and hollowness replaces satisfaction. My face drops slowly into my hands. I can feel the first rapist's blood sliding between my hands and the skin of my face. I have to fight the sudden urge to vomit.

  In the moment, it was glorious. I delivered justice like a Shaper of old, ridding the streets of my kingdom of filth and depravity. But after...

  I can feel nothing but disgust.

  I bend to pick up my heavy shawl, now brown with muck. Wiping away as much of the blood as possible with the inside of the cloth, I wrap the shawl back around my shoulders to hide the stains on my upper body. The chill of the Winter air cuts straight through my damp clothing as I rejoin the crowd. Head down, I move slowly. No one notices me. I walk through their ranks, covered in the filth of my deeds, and no one deigns to glance in my direction. The people of the market are too busy worrying about their own problems to care about another.

  When Yrena finds me, I’m walking aimlessly. She knows something’s wrong immediately. She pulls me to her and leads me back towards the palace. I can hardly feel her warmth through the ice on my skin, can hardly listen as she directs me back to the castle. We plod through the gates together. The guards glance at us out of the corner of their eyes, but Yrena manages to get me to my room without being accosted. She leaves, calling for the other servants to draw a hot bath.

  The chill of the day and the chill in my soul merge. A violent shiver racks my body, and my teeth chatter so fiercely my jaw hurts. I blink, waking with my face pressed against stone. Slowly, I draw up my knees until I can curl into a ball on the cold stone floor.

  I killed two men. I killed them, and in the moment of their death, I exulted. Is that how I’m supposed to feel? It’s my right to defend myself. Those men earned the death they received a hundred times over. I can still feel their hands on my legs, their creeping fingers… but should I enjoy it? Should I relish watching their bright lifeblood pump from their bodies?

  By the Creator, I did.

  Two strong arms lift me and gather me into a warm, muscled chest. I glance up at Uncle's face. He walks me gently to the waiting bath.

  “I’ll not be far,” he breathes.

  He sets me on my feet beside the steaming water and leaves. Yrena strips me down and guides me into the warm water. I almost cry out as the heat scorches my icy skin. Painful bursts of feeling blast into my numb extremities. Yrena scrubs at my skin, but I flinch away from her touch. I know it’s Yrena, but the foreign hand is too much, far too much like the hands in the alley. Over long, slow, gentle minutes, showing infinite patience and persistence she manages to get me clean, carefully navigating around my torn scalp and cooing softly whenever I flinch. When I’m dried and dressed, Uncle returns.

  “What happened?” he asks, blunt and terse.

  “My Lord General, perhaps we should give her some time. Do you not see the state she’s in?” Yrena asks, eyes lowered in deference. It takes a lot for Yrena to speak around Uncle, let alone challenge him, but the flicker of appreciation in my chest dies as he speaks again.

  “Iliana is stronger than that. Tell me,” he commands.

  He refuses to lift his heavy gaze from mine. I swallow and nod. Under his direction, I begin to report. He taught me long ago not to add extraneous details or emotions to any question he poses. He is a man of healing and the world's premier strategist. He has no time for frills. After the story leaves me, the words do not seem so awful. There’s a distance, as if it happened to someone else, as if a dream rather than a reality.

  “They did not manage to hurt you?” he asks, his tone that of a doctor querying his patient for routine information.

  “No. They died before they could.”

  “Good,” he says. His face softens. “It’s always difficult to kill for the first time. This experience will allow you to grow, to mature. It will not be so hard, next time.”

  I nod, a lie in physical form. The killing hadn't been hard. In fact, it was all too easy, the men barely more than ants beneath the vengeful heel of my power. My turmoil is drawn from the joy I felt at their deaths, not the deaths themselves. Uncle nods and graces me with a rare smile.

  “My little girl. Tougher every day,” he says, turning and disappearing out of my apartments.

  A robe around my shoulders, I settle into my sheets. Yrena sits at my side, careful to leave distance between us. She reaches out tentatively and gently strokes my hair. When I don’t react, she sits closer, slowly drawing me down to rest my head in her lap. My heart eases under her slow, caring caress.

  “I’m not sorry I killed them,” I say quietly. “They were bad men.”

  “They would have done the same to you, little one. And your end would have been far less pleasant.”

  “But... I enjoyed it,” I admit, swallowing thickly. “I loved it when the man begged me for life, because I knew that... I don't know what I knew. But...”

  “Little one, you’ve done nothing wrong. They deserved their deaths. I’m just glad you were able to save any other women from that fate.”

  My eyelids begin to droop under her hand, a lulling metronome. My last thought before I drift off almost shocks me awake. Will I have trouble sleeping? Are nightmares waiting? But I sleep lo
ng, and deep, and dreamless.

  ***

  Two soldiers of the Tide in padded armor are doing their best to simulate an attack. I’ve fought against greater numbers before, but never at quite such a disadvantage. As I grow older, Uncle stacks the odds against me more and more. His deep voice echoes in my mind, though, quieting my nerves.

  Remember the rules, and use them to your benefit.

  Right.

  First, you are nothing without your element.

  The challenge I face applies directly to that first rule. Before, I was allowed to work in the gardens, where my connection to the earth is strongest. The banquet hall where we held the Liberation Ball, however, has remarkably little earth. We’re surrounded by little more than marble and brightly colored stones. Aside from the thin panes of glass keeping the mosaic in place, the best earth I can find is the dust drifting through the air.

  With every ounce of my concentration and all of my energy, I can lift one of the gemstones from the walls with my power, but I can do little more than that. There’s a bit of overlap amongst the elements. My enemy, the Mason, is the Shaper of Stone, and I am the Shaper of Earth. The line where those two elements cross is blurry, at best. Should we ever come into direct conflict, we’ll have the option to fight one another for control of the same materials, but Father warns against it. To mentally and spiritually dominate a Shaper so completely is near impossible; instead, I should stick to the parts of the world that call to me the strongest.

  I’ve never felt more powerful than when my father took me to the far south of Itskalan and through the desert. Every night, I rose and gazed about at the unending earth, closing my eyes and feeling the sand's joyful call. In my urban life, I’ve come to have an affinity for glass. The material is just sand reconstituted, and my connection with it is strong. Dirt is plentiful, but difficult to use effectively, especially in trace amounts. Glass, however, can be used surgically with even the tiniest of shards.