Dreamwander (In The Ruins of Eden Book 1)

by Kildare

  The woman laughed at his response. “I wasn’t exaggerating the size of the crowd.” She was almost yelling to raise her voice above the tumult. “The people want to see the man behind the legends.”

  The legends? What was she talking about? Though she spoke Gaelic, he wasn’t in Ireland. He had been to Ireland. This wasn’t Ireland. Not America, either. Cillian had no clue where he was. He turned slowly toward her, as if in a dream, and for the first time got a good look at her face. The shadows had played tricks, just not how he had suspected. She was one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen. Dark brown eyes, jet black hair, and a tawny complexion. She wore leather armor, draped in the back by a black robe, a short sword at her hip.

  She smiled again, but another look was there, a strange glint in her eyes. A little too sexual. Why was she looking at him like that? Now in the sunlight, he was certain he didn’t know her.

  She grabbed his hand and tugged with a strong grip. “The Imperator desires to speak to his champion. Don’t make him wait.”

  Cillian followed her, unsure of what else to do. They passed between two lines of soldiers standing at rigid attention and facing each other. Their held their swords pointed up and out toward the man across, forming a peak Cillian and the woman walked beneath. From the look of their dress and armor, the soldiers appeared to be ancient Roman, though their togas were black instead of red, and their helmets had the design of Greek hoplites and were crested in horsehair alternating between strips of black and blue. They wore scale armor over their tunics, leather boots that looked similar to modern sandals, and carried short swords. Behind every soldier facing in toward Cillian, stood another facing outward to keep back the crowd pressing forward.

  At the end of the line of soldiers, an empty chariot sat parked on a strip of pink brick the width of two wagons and running the entire length of the square. The road ascended each set of stairs by a long ramp and ended at the base of stairs leading up to one of the square’s largest buildings. Soldiers lined the entire length. How many thousands of soldiers were needed to stand shoulder-to-shoulder in four rows each a mile long? Whoever had planned this celebration had not trifled about cost.

  The woman climbed aboard and motioned for Cillian to follow. As he grabbed the edge of the chariot to step on, he saw his hand and jerked it backward. Someone had placed his hand where his own should be. He spun around. No one else was anywhere near him and the woman. Afraid of what he might find, he braced himself and risked another glance. Both hands where his own should be were those of a twenty or thirty-year-old, not an elderly man.

  What was happening to him?

  The woman snapped the reins, starting the horses forward. The sudden jolt tipped Cillian’s balance and threw him backward. He reached out and caught the chariot’s front lip with the tip of his fingers, stopping his fall. He pulled himself back up and sheepishly looked around to see who had witnessed his clumsiness. The woman hadn’t, nor did the crowd seem to have seen his near tumble. They were too lost in their own enthusiasm. Still, he felt like a damned fool.

  Having momentarily forgotten his hands, he remembered and raised them to his face for a closer inspection. Gone were the splotchy freckles, loose skin, and veiny, blue roadmap of lines. He moved his fingertips, the motions all mimicking his commands. Though they looked strange, they were his hands. Or at least he controlled them. He squeezed his hands into a fist, felt the strength in his grip. He had forgotten how that had once felt. He pushed his sleeve up, expecting to see a wrinkled, shrunken limb. Same young body. Ran his fingers along his face and neck, exploring the ridges and curves. The skin was taunt and smooth. He squeezed his front upper teeth and found them to be real, not dentures. How was this possible? He needed to find a mirror.

  He wanted to grab the woman and demand she stop, but after a quick look-over he changed his mind. She didn’t look like she took orders too kindly. Had an Amazonian quality to her. She was also armed. The mirror could wait. Only then did he realize his attire. He wore blue jeans, black cowboy boots, a dark gray vest over a light blue denim shirt, and a black cowboy hat. He hadn’t been dressed like this in the doctor’s office. Where had these clothes come from? He hadn’t dressed like this since his youth on their ranch near Killdeer, North Dakota. One shock after another. It was all becoming too much. Was he losing his mind?

  The crowd tossed pink flower petals into the air and the petals drifted back down onto the way and littered the ground and were caught in the woman’s hair and lay sprinkled on the soldiers and members of the crowd.

  As the chariot moved farther out into the square, he realized the sheer enormity of the surrounding buildings. Intricately adorned columns and arches upheld the roofs of structures that dwarfed the people below. The architectural influences of many styles mingled all around. Brightly colored banners hung from some of the taller heights. Seeing the size of the buildings and the number of people, he knew he had to be in a sprawling metropolis. But where? He definitely wasn’t in Rome, or even Greece. Better yet, when? The people wore strange, simple clothing. Not a single one was dressed like Cillian. And who still traveled by chariot?

  Where the road ended the woman tugged the horses to a stop at the base of stairs leading up to an ice-blue dome supported by massive columns of marble. Cillian gazed up in wonder at the enormity of the edifice. Wherever he was, they had architects and engineers of the highest caliber, the buildings rivaling in size and splendor the greatest structures of the ancient world.

  He stepped down from the chariot, and looked around, unsure of what he was supposed to do. Every eye in the square was trained on him. A chant of his name roiled the crowd. His anxiety spiked, a pressure tight in his chest. The shock and initial feeling of flattery were wearing off. He wanted to be as far away from this place and these people as possible.

  He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and exhaled slowly. The woman yelled something and motioned him to follow her up the stairs. He counted steps to distract himself from the surrounding spectacle. The steps ended at thirty-nine. He lifted his gaze upward to a line of people standing in front of the building’s polished white columns. All were men and dressed either in beige togas or the black of the military.

  She leaned in and said, “Stay here. When the Imperator approaches, drop to one knee.”

  A brief flicker of a memory fighting in the Ardennes Forest roused his pride. “I’m an American,” he said in English. “I bend knee to none.”

  The woman cocked her head and squinted. She had no recognition of what he had said. “You’re too tall. He can’t reach that high. You’ll have to bend a knee or this triumph will be pointless.” She smiled, walked forward, and bowed to the Imperator. He said something to her, but all Cillian caught was the word Niamh. So that was her name, then.

  The Imperator was a wizened old man, whispery white hair slipping out from beneath a simple golden crown. The armor he wore was adorned with highly stylized gold and silver. Two dragons squared off against each other on the breastplate. A deep purple cloak draped down his back. Had he once been a warrior, or just played one? He stepped away from the lines of the assembled, the years stooping his posture. The crowd quieted. Despite his bad back, he walked faster than Cillian had expected. Even quite spry for one his age.

  Cillian bent a knee. The Imperator approached bearing a laurel wreath in his hands. When he reached Cillian, he lifted his palms into the air so the crowd could see the wreath. A golden signet ring encircled his left pinky finger. Cillian lowered his gaze as the crowd exploded in approval.

  “Salvator imperii,” the Imperator whispered in Cillian’s ear in Latin as he placed the wreath on his head. The savior of the empire. One speaks in Gaelic, the next in Classical Latin. Where was he? Not St. Peter’s Square in the Vatican, the only place he knew of where Latin was still spoken.

  “Surgo,” the Imperator said, “et turbam obi.”

  Cillian rose and turned to the crowd as the old man had commanded. The Imperator stepped to h
is side, motioning for the crowd to silence. Stillness settled. Cillian gazed out over the crowd, crisp features smearing to a watercolor blur far away. No city on Earth had a square of such immense size, hedged by so much marble. Red rooftops spreading away, mark of a high wall, blue of a river, ridge of forested hills smoky on the horizon.

  “In our hour of greatest need, we prayed for a hero to save our empire.” The strength of the old man’s voice belayed the frailty of his frame. “The gods heard our appeals and sent us a hero. Cillian Rysgaard has not once, but twice protected the empire, defeating the Austri and the Cursi.”

  Cillian had learned to read and write Latin, but never speak it, so how could he understand the man as perfectly as if he spoke English? And what was this protector of the empire nonsense? He had been a soldier once, but that was in the Second World War.

  The thunder of the crowd’s approval washed up over the steps and left him swooning in bewilderment, never having felt so overwhelmed in all his life. He looked for guidance from the Imperator, who motioned to wave. Cillian raised his right arm into the air to the approval of the masses. A frenzy of cheering rolled down the hillside and crashed far away. The Imperator beamed, seemed to enjoy the adulation the crowd bestowed upon Cillian.

  “You’ve earned their praise,” the Imperator said. “Enjoy it.”

  The anxiety subsided, gave way to a tingle of excitement. No small part of him enjoyed the adulation inflaming his ego. Yet he felt a fool, standing before the crowd for reasons he didn’t understand, cheers rolling over in waves, each time the chanting and cheering subsided, another surge. Never in all his life had he felt so empowered, like a demi-god towering above the commoners. The whisper of memento mori flickered in his memory. Words admonished by a slave to a victorious general paraded through Rome in a triumph. Remember that you are mortal. He ignored such reprimands and chose instead to embrace this moment that couldn’t last, would wither to dim recollections, half that weren’t quite right. Soon enough he would be the nameless face in the crowd.

  “In honor of our champion,” the Imperator shouted, seizing upon a lull, “I’ve proclaimed three days of celebrations to honor the gods for this boon. Rejoice!”

  I

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  2

  Another wave of frenzy. A tug at his hand, crowd slipping away, relief of blurry faces against white columns, thin, leathery hand of the old man. Just like that—that last image—and the spell shattered, his exuberance deflated. This city, this triumph, these people were all illusions. Cillian was no hero, not even a young, strapping man brimming with limitless possibilities. No sun ascending, he was the sun sinking into the west, the darkness waiting to consume him.

  The lines parted for the Imperator. They passed through the imposing columns and beneath an arched entrance. Cillian saw no sign of the mysterious woman among the faces. Where had she gone? Strange that he wanted her back, though he didn’t know her.

  Beneath the blue dome lay a deserted, circular auditorium ringed by crescent rows of marble benches facing a raised platform. The walls were lined with life-sized marble statues of men and women, some clad in robes, others arrayed in the gear of war. Was the use a theater? A meeting place? A senate? Hidden columns held the domed ceiling aloft. It seemed to float, a miracle of engineering. He spotted chipped paint around a small, round hole near the center of the dome. The kind a bullet would leave. Did these people have guns? Shouldn’t they? What would it mean if they didn’t? He craned his neck for a better look as the sight disappeared behind the second arch of an exit.

  His tour of the city was proceeding too fast, glimpses of too many sights. He wanted to be left alone to wander the streets and admire the bounty of magnificent architecture, study the lines and angles and curves, gaze upon the exquisite details of the lifelike statues.

  Travels through Europe, during and after the war, had instilled a deep appreciation for the craftsmanship of a brilliant architect. The materials and scope of their designs allowed for a canvas so much more imposing and humbling than the simple arts of a sculptor or painter. He could have spent years traveling the length and breadth of that continent, soaking up the soaring cathedrals, glittery palaces, and crumbling ruins. Yet in none of those cities had he seen as much striking architecture in one place as this city. How had it all come to be?

  Surely, he was in a dream. Had his mind cobbled together all the various architectural influences he had seen in his life to create this mosaic? If so, maybe he had chosen the wrong profession. Perhaps he should have studied architecture.

  Outside again, they crossed a deserted street to a closed gate in a red wall guarded by two armed soldiers. At the sight of the Imperator, they swung open the gates onto a lush garden with an oil painting quality—bright splash of colorful flowers, dazzle of spraying water, brown lattice holding together all the green, yellow beams of filtered light, and the sun wheeling through a cloudless sky. The sweet fragrance of bloom, bubbling of little streams. Here was another immaculate wonder.

  The gate clicked shut behind. They were all alone. The murmur of the crowd quieted, replaced by the warbling of many birds.

  Since the woman had opened the gates, and Cillian’s eyes had adjusted to the light, a feeling that something wasn’t quite right had flickered in the back of his mind that had nothing to do with where or when he was. The garden revealed the source of his confusion. The colors weren’t right anywhere. Not in the trees, or flowers, not in the stones, the sky, or even his own skin. They were brighter and darker, as if he were looking at the world though polarized lenses. He instinctively reached for his face and found nothing. What then could be the cause of the strange tints of color he was witnessing? Was it some effect of this younger body? Had he not realized how much his aging eyes altered his perception of colors? Or were the colors another oddity of this place, wherever this was?

  “Let us talk alone for a moment,” the Imperator said in Gaelic, snapping Cillian out of his thoughts. Why had the old man switched languages? He wanted to ask, but didn’t want to reveal his ignorance. The man, like the woman, assumed he knew Gaelic. Had they spoken before? They couldn’t have. This was a dream. It had to be. Right?

  A walkway framed with intricately adorned arches of an Islamic style ran alongside the garden and provided shade from the sun’s harsh light. Brightly colored mosaic tiles depicting images of mythical creatures and armed men made up the floor. Once again, the artwork left Cillian marveling at the skill of its designer.

  “Bask in the morning sun, Cillian,” the Imperator advised. “It won’t last forever. Though perhaps that isn’t so true for you. For me it is.”

  Having no reply, and suspecting the comments weren’t meant to be remarked upon, he held his silence. The Imperator, like the woman, acted as if they were old friends, though he had no recollection of either. Nothing about the man seemed familiar, jogged even the faintest hint of buried memories.

  “Winter’s first chill embraces me. The mysteries of the next world won’t much longer elude me.” He patted Cillian on the shoulder. “It’s time. Time for a younger man to ascend to the throne. This crown weighs too heavy. I possess this position only because I once deserved it, not because I still do.” He smiled at Cillian, a flash of emotion lacking all guile or sarcasm.

  “I’ve thought much of late about who should replace me. Ultimately, the senate will choose my successor. Still, my choice will hold some sway. There’s my son, Lucens, who’s one of the most capable men in the realm. Yet the senate will be hesitant to award him, lest a pattern of heirship be established. General Aduro would also make a fine ruler. He’s displayed a remarkable degree of clemency for a man in his profession. Too few warriors possess the humanity to see their fellow humans as anything more than animals to slaughter. I tried to stamp that impulse out of my own soldiers when I led them, but each generation starts anew. As it was, shall it ever be. A pity and a tragedy that.” A brief silence followed as he pondered his own words.

  “Amon
g the senators, the list includes Aquilonius and Vulpes, both competent and well-balanced individuals. Niamh is another who’d make an excellent leader. If only she weren’t a woman. The Saora will follow a woman, but the Solaeri never will. Niamh would never accept the position, of course. Many others lurk in the shadows who, out of arrogance or egotism, deem themselves worthy, though they’ve accomplished little and sacrificed nothing for the people. Too many veil themselves in helping society to mask their own desire for power. And the masses allow themselves to be deceived by guile. To lead is to become disappointed in the followers, and to follow is to become disappointed in the leader. These truths never change.”

  The Imperator sighed, stooping a little more, and shuffled on in silence while Cillian waited. He sensed more was coming, ready to spring from the old man’s lips, but kept restrained as he gathered his thoughts.

  “And you, Cillian? Would you desire the throne?”

  “I doubt very much I’d enjoy it,” Cillian answered, shocking himself. How did he know how to speak Latin? He turned away so the Imperator might not witness the internal turmoil reflected in his expression. Everything reeled again.

  “That may be true. The demands of this empire can weary the martial soul. The political intrigue, squabbling, and backstabbing are exhausting. I’ve fled Siderea every chance I’ve ever had. I was born to be a warrior. The rule of the empire was a burden needed to restore and maintain the peace.” The Imperator stopped. “What if I offered you my succession right now? There’s no one better qualified, no one the people adore more. Would you accept such an honor?”

  “I’d have to decline,” Cillian demurred. He hedged his next words, desiring to refuse, but not with such force as to seem only modest. “I’m not that kind of leader.”

  The Imperator gave a sly smile. “And if I tell you that you have no choice? That the decision has already been made?”