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

by Lane Trompeter

  “Dearest,” I whisper into her ear, gently grabbing her arm. “Please, the people in the crowd are harmless. People are looking at you because you're looking at them.”

  Poline tries to relax and does a decent job of it. We stroll for a while, my hand on her arm. Any glances our way are merely curious. Who is this young girl, hood up in the unseasonable warmth, hiding her features but walking with unmistakable refinement? Who is the woman that marches next to her with a distinct military bearing, her armaments and posture unmistakable? Whatever conclusions they draw, none could dare to venture that the princess of the Kingdom of the Sea is traveling in secret with a single guard. Such a thing would be impossible.

  “If we’re going to pull this off,” Poline says after a few minutes. “You'll have to stop giving me commands.”

  “Then stop walking like a soldier,” I shoot back.

  “Then stop walking like a princess.”

  Shrugging, I slump my shoulders, trying to mimic the thinning crowd pushing to or from the gates of Donir. Some peasants swing their arms around as if they have no idea where their hands will end up, and their walks vary from carefree to plodding and weary. I let my arms swing, my shoulders swaying with the motion, my feet plopping onto the ground with what I hope is a casual stroll. No one looks at me funny, so I figure I’m not doing too bad of a job.

  Glancing over, I nearly burst into laughter. Poline looks an absolute fool, her head back, her arms swinging far too high, her feet far too loose. She looks over at me, her eyes widening.

  “You look ridiculous,” we say in tandem, dissolving into gales of laughter. Now passersby actively avoid us, these loons pacing around like idiots, giggling maniacally in the middle of the road.

  “We're hopeless.”

  “Utterly,” Poline says, shaking her head. “So much for subterfuge. I imagine everyone on the road knows something strange is going on. We'll never get the jump on Calladan this way.”

  The grin fades from my cheeks, the reminder of our mission sucking the wind out of my sails, the gravity of the situation murder to my levity. We are on the way to seize a traitor, a landed noble treasonous to the crown, a man who would dare to imprison or murder innocent people to keep his secret. The brief sense of freedom at the start of our road disappears, mist before a strong wind. In its place, duty.

  “We'll have to walk as naturally as we can,” I say. “And stop drawing attention to ourselves. I look forward to the surprise in Calladan's eyes when we arrive.”

  ***

  The journey from Donir to Firdana takes a week's hard march. We could have ridden horses, but it would have made us all the more conspicuous. All of the flowers are in bloom and the crops just beginning to peek out from the soil with the onset of Spring. The crowd on the Way grows sparser the farther we travel from the capitol, but the Way of the East is never truly empty. As far and away the easiest method of travel between several of the major cities on the continent, the Way provides a steady stream of humanity traveling in both directions. The stones of the Way don’t appear worn despite the millions of feet it has weathered over the past millennia.

  No one gives us undue attention. The occasional group of ruffians leer at us from time to time, but one closer look at Poline and the worn grip of her sword seems to satisfy any curiosity as to whether or not we are amenable to their... advances. We move at a good clip, outpacing most people on our way. Both Poline and I are in significant athletic shape, having trained together every day for years. We are also well-furnished with supplies, though we stop occasionally for fresh fruit or squeezed lemonade from an enterprising vendor who has set up a stand along the busy Way.

  We sleep the first night under the stars. I lie on my back, the roll of cloth Poline lays out for me genuinely comfortable in the tall grass beside the Way. We don’t bother with a fire; I snuggle in my bedroll, staring up at the unending multitude of stars in awe. The ten thousand ever-burning Stars of Donir dim the stars over the city, their light stronger than the firmament. Out here, a simple day's walk from the city, the stars blanket the sky, and their light illuminates the sweeping farmland and the dark mass of the Kinlen Forest to the east. Drowsy and warm, I drift away.

  A familiar nightmare shakes me awake. The scenario changes, but always I’m helpless, bound, unable to move and unable to scream.

  A scant few hours have passed since I fell asleep. The stars still glitter in the dark cloak of midnight. Poline’s silhouette is off by the Way, ever alert, ever watchful. She shifts and glances back at me, somehow recognizing my return to consciousness. The air has grown chill absent the sun, the cold Winter air only reluctantly surrendering to the warmth of Spring.

  “Poline,” I call quietly, and she lopes over to me.

  “Yes, milady?” she asks in a whisper, her voice tender in the still night.

  “Could you guard from, well, over here?”

  “It will reduce the effectiveness of my—”

  “Poline,” I say again, gently cutting her off. Some of the young girl I once was creeps into the edges of my speech.

  Poline doesn’t respond, but sits next to me, turning away but leaving her back close to my bedroll. I roll over and snuggle up close to her. She stiffens, the gentle contact so unlike the violence and physical abuse we normally deal to one another. After a long few moments, she relaxes, at least as much as a Tide guarding a royal can possibly relax. Her muscles move underneath her shirt, her firm and powerful back comforting in the night, her warmth stilling the shivers before they can begin.

  My heart slows into a steady rhythm. The responsibilities of my station, my title, and my power are far away. I feel like Iliana, the girl who loved for her old maid to comb her hair, the girl who could cause mischief with her young friend and laugh about it, the girl who I thought I buried with a tortured assassin…

  I drift to sleep, curled halfway around Poline, who watches the night and does not tremble.

  ***

  Three days pass largely uneventfully, though I grow a bit disgusted with my own smell. I haven’t had the chance to bathe, and my skin is crusted with old sweat.

  Something begins to trouble me as we walk. A lot of the people on the roads seem more haggard than normal. Men and women walk with their clothes ripped and hanging from their bones like sails after storms. Although some people have the desperate gleam of those willing to toe the line of the law, most just appear downtrodden and soul-worn. Women loosely hold the hands of children that don’t have the energy to seek freedom. Any conversation is hushed and private. No one waves or smiles.

  We pass a vendor selling strawberries near midday on the fourth day. Part of me wants to stop, but I’d rather not expose my face to anyone I don’t have to. Just as we pass, the vendor shouts and kicks a sullen little boy who comes too close to his stall. Anger kindles in my chest, and I start to turn aside and give that vendor a piece of my mind, but Poline lightly grasps my arm. In response to my silent question, she nods back at the spectacle. The boy scampers back to the stall, flashing a rude gesture to the man, then dodges another kick as he cheekily pops a large strawberry into his mouth. The vendor's cries pierce the quiet morning, but few of the Way’s desultory travelers show interest in the exchange.

  “What is this?” I murmur, more to myself than Poline.

  “I don't know,” Poline says, her eyes roving across the sparse crowd with unease.

  “So the Way isn't normally like this? I thought I was imagining it, or too sheltered to understand...”

  “No,” Poline says, her voice heavy. “Something is very wrong. Every kingdom has its own share of the destitute, but this... even in my early days with the Wave, I never saw so many like this. It feels like these people are refugees, fleeing war or famine.”

  “And we aren’t at war,” I say, frowning. “All reports show the kingdom as being fantastically prosperous. Every year we’ve seen signs of a flourishing economy. The poor are supposed to be disappearing, not gaining in number.”

&nbs
p; “Perhaps it has to do with our mission? Could the treason of one man cause something like this?”

  “Not of one man, even a man in a position of power like Calladan. He holds dominion, yes, over large tracts of farmland, but we would have noticed earlier if his crop yields were significantly down. His betrayal would have been far too obvious. By all rights, the only mistake the man made was in trusting his wife.”

  We travel in troubled silence for a time. A patrol of the Wave rides past, their blue armor shining, magnificent in the morning sun. The soldiers appear nervous, their hands clutching the hilts of their swords, their captain taking them along the Way at a solid clip. People shy away from the horses, but some move aside with less haste. A few shout at the soldiers, their words angry but indistinct. The crowd has an ugly feel to it, as if some bitter poison creeps beneath the forlorn facade of the people. The Way feels suddenly busy, as if the traffic has picked up, but, glancing around, I can tell the feeling is false, derived more from my own anxiety than reality.

  No violence breaks out, so we move on, but Poline keeps her hand on her sword, and I keep my hood pulled low over my face. People leave us alone, but more pointed glances come our way as if our gender and well-made clothing make us targets. The tension eases as the patrol passes out of sight, but only a little.

  Soon, the farmland gives way to an offshoot of the Kinlen Forest, the trees encroaching almost to the edge of the Way. The distant sound of shouts echo back from ahead, but the voices ring jubilant, a marked difference from the anger directed at the Wave. Poline and I exchange uncertain looks. We are nearly to the point where we will diverge from the Way and head east towards Firdana, and the last thing we need is a distraction.

  An open wagon trundles into sight, people crowding around and holding out their hands. A woman wearing well-fitted armor of leather drives, a bow comfortably balanced at her side. Two men stand in the back, tossing down something to the pack of people below: bread. The men are not accepting money, but instead gifting food to the desperate masses. They, too, are armored in quality leather, slightly worn from use, but well-cared for.

  “Who are these people?” I ask.

  Poline goes rigid next to me, the muscles of her jaw jumping under the skin as she grinds her teeth.

  “Held,” she grits out.

  “I don't follow,” I say, looking at her with concern. “What is being held?”

  Poline ducks aside, drawing me gently after her. The wagon draws abreast of us, and I glance up at the men above. I meet the eye of one of them from under my hood, and he pauses, staring back for the briefest of moments. His thin cheekbones stand prominent and striking against his hair, the lustrous deep brown of coffee. Poline studiously looks the other way, slouching and using me as a shield from the wagon. An outcry distracts him, and he jolts back to his task, throwing some of the last loaves of bread to the waiting people.

  “Held is a man,” Poline speaks into my ear, her voice trembling with anger. “He was of the Tide.”

  “Was?” I ask, confused. “Members of the Tide swear their oaths for life.”

  People cheer and talk excitedly even after the food runs out. The edge of desperation has been dulled amongst the crowd as they revel in the unexpected gifts.

  “Was. We came up through the training together, living and breathing and fighting beside one another. Even so, I was barely able to recognize him in time. He has changed much.”

  “How? Did he desert?”

  “It’s obvious now,” Poline snarls. “He disappeared on a routine mission enforcing the will of the kingdom in the south near Itskalan. The kingdom refused to tell us much, but I spent a year trying to figure out what happened to them, what happened to my brother, as close to me as blood. A few members of his patrol were found dead, the cuts deep and precise, so perfect as to be impossible. The consensus was that the Vengeance had struck, murdering a patrol to weaken our hold on the region. The missing bodies were assumed to have been taken for torture, Held included.”

  “But that isn't what happened to him,” I slowly say, my heart dropping into my shoes. I glance at Poline, but she only glares after the wagon.

  “No,” she says, not seeming to notice the tears gathering in the corner of her eyes. “He must have been part of it. He murdered our brothers and sisters and joined the Vengeance.”

  “Then why in the Creator's name are we letting him go?” I say, setting out after the wagon. I haven’t gone a step when Poline's hand again grasps my arm. “What? They are traitors, members of the Vengeance's army.”

  “As much as I agree with you,” Poline begins, her voice quavering between sorrow and anger. “Our mission is paramount. Held, for all his training, is just a soldier. A good one, but no more than a sword. Calladan represents something else entirely. We can't allow anyone of real power to defect, or we will soon find ourselves in civil war.”

  As logical and sound as Poline's reasoning is, I struggle not to run after the rebel soldiers myself. I’ve never met any real rebels face to face. I want to learn what makes them false, what can possibly force them to betray their oaths and everything they once held dear. I want to punish them, not only for daring to fight against my birthright and my father, but for daring to hurt Poline.

  But she’s right.

  “Damn it,” I spit, turning back roughly and heading off down the road. To Firdana.

  ***

  The Kinlen Forest drops away behind us, the ominous mountain at its center the only indication of its dark depths. We leave the Way and follow the road to Elaren. Though well-maintained, the road is not so intricate or timeless as the Way of the East. The land grows more wild and untamed the farther we travel. The rolling meadows are lush and green in the fresh covering of Spring, gigantic wildflowers peeking over unending seas of tall grass as far as the eye can see. Occasional farmland encroaches on the shifting waves of grass, hugging the road as if afraid the wild will swallow them whole if built out of sight of civilization.

  Our journey is peaceful and uneventful to Elaren, the only sizable town in Firdana. Elaren sprawls over several miles of land, streets broad and paved with flat flagstones. The roads curve gently around a motley assortment of homes and shops, mostly built of rustic wood but for the occasional cherry red of brick. Broad sweeping pastures and fallow fields surround the town. The town seems to have grown naturally around the wilderness rather than the reverse, and the quaint beauty of the place creates a natural peace. Oaks conquer a dozen town squares, their massive branches stretching over and around the homes, lending shade to the broad pathways under the gray beards of drooping moss.

  A few farmers greet us pleasantly and smile as we move into the city. The people all move slowly, their gaits rolling and unconcerned, the clipped speed and stress of Donir entirely absent from the streets of Elaren. While the town itself can muster a fraction of the population of Donir, the sheer area the town occupies is nearly identical, so the people have the space to breathe.

  I consider driving straight towards the Calladan estate, which stands on the opposite edge of town abutting a vast series of fields devoted solely to the training of Firdana's magnificent horses, but I reconsider after seeing myself in the clean glass of a shop window. Grime smudges my face, and my hair is a tangled mess. Though I don’t need to look presentable in order to apprehend a criminal, a princess should still look the part. While I don’t want to draw attention to us by walking into the most expensive establishment in Elaren and flagrantly flashing starsilver coins to the patrons, I also don’t want to spend my time wondering if I’ll be cohabitating with fleas and lice, so we rent a room at a decent, but far-from-ostentatious inn near the center of town. The woman running the inn is deliciously plump and cheerful, welcoming us and showing us to our room personally.

  “Is there anything I could get the two of you ladies, aside from a hot bath?” the innkeep asks, smiling. I’ve just begun to settle onto my bed, letting my pack drop onto the polished wood floor, when I snap back to attent
ion.

  “Good lady, please, bring us twice the water you normally would. I want to clean myself, then take a bath,” I say eagerly.

  “Oh, darling, you do look tired. Have you walked far?” the woman asks, her smile understanding.

  “We've come from—”

  “All the way from Itskalan,” Poline cuts in, affecting weariness. “We need the bath more than I would ever admit to anyone in public.”

  I blush, shooting Poline a look out of the corner of my eyes. The innkeep's friendly manner set me at ease, and, for a brief moment, I forgot entirely our purpose for being in Elaren. We can’t be sure who might warn Calladan, as reports indicate he is well-loved amongst the people of Firdana. The woman doesn’t seem to notice, but thanks us for our patronage and promises us warm baths in no time.

  “Thanks for that,” I say sheepishly, plopping down onto my bed.

  “It’s what I'm here for,” Poline says languidly, already stretched out on the wooden floor next to her bed, hands behind her head.

  “What are you doing?” I ask, amused. “You realize you have a bed right next to you.”

  “With the grime from the road and this thick layer of sweat caked in my hair? I’m most definitely waiting for the bath before I touch those clean sheets.”

  Jumping up, I groan aloud, scowling at my sheets, now slightly rumpled and most definitely dirtier than a moment ago. Poline cracks an eye and bursts into laughter.

  “What?” I snap, annoyed.

  “You should see the look on your face, Ily.”

  I open my mouth to give her a piece of my mind, but a knock interrupts me before I can get going. A pair of maids set up two copper tubs side by side, then scurry out the door. After a moment, they return with buckets, dumping the water in scalding hot. Steam fills the tiny room as the girls make a dozen trips up and down the stairs. I scarcely allow the water to cool enough not to outright burn me before I slip off my clothes and into the steaming water, sighing instantly in relief. My skin opens, my pores awaken, and a week of hard travel slides off my skin. Halfway through a thorough scrubbing, I notice Poline, still in her clothes.