Dreamwander (In The Ruins of Eden Book 1)

by Kildare

  Around a street corner, a series of remarkable paintings were splashed on a brick wall in colors every bit as vibrant as real life. The first image depicted a dragon that appeared to be a spirit of pure fire. Even in a crouched position it towered over the man facing him, who brandished a sword in defiance. Was the man in the mural himself? They both wore the same outfit. Cillian stepped back in alarm. It was definitely him. Why was he facing off against a dragon? Was this Red Ruin, the dragon he had promised the Imperator he would kill? The monster was huge, dwarfing Ira, the dragon he had ridden. What had he agreed to?

  In the second mural, a citadel of rock capped by a fortress rose from the ruins of an abandoned city, snowy peaks in the distance. The third depicted another city, only it was built on a plain, towers of shimmering light of many hues instead of buildings. Or were they buildings? In their midst soared a tower of white light. The images appeared so real he traced his fingers across the brick to verify his vision. The third city was cloaked in night, the buildings ablaze, the fairytale scene a nightmarish pyre. Why was the city on fire? Who had painted these murals? Were they a warning? A sign of events to come?

  The fifth was unlike the first four, the scene much grander—a planet orbited by the remnants of a shattered moon, an enormous blue star farther away. His first thought was that this must be the planet he was on now, but no, everything was wrong. The moon and sun on this planet were similar to Earth. Unless he was somewhere else now. Who knew where the leprechaun’s portal had transported him.

  In the sixth mural a phoenix soared upward, trailing a long tail of flame. What could this represent? Was it supposed to be an actual phoenix or a metaphor? He had barely asked the question when he saw the seventh. This last image was unmistakably him. Enough of his face was visible to recognize himself. He peered over a rifle from out of a trench across a desolate ruinscape, the barren earth pockmarked with craters and laced with coils of barbed wire. A scene straight out of photos of the Great War. This mural maybe made the least sense. Wars were no longer fought like this. So what was he doing there? Was it another prediction of things to come? Not inconceivable with everything that had occurred so far. Still, he hoped not.

  He stepped back to take in all the murals at once. A stealthy creep of foreboding darkened the bright images. Was this why the leprechaun had brought him here? To see these images? Gobán had said he was taking him to someone. Had that been a lie, these pictures his true intent? For what purpose? Just to see them? Would the understanding come later?

  He heard the faint patter of footsteps in the distance. He spun toward the sound and saw a flash of clothing disappear around a corner. He sprinted after, turned a corner, and spotted a blur of clothing slip through an entrance leading down into a subway. He cursed his cowboy boots. They had many good uses, but running wasn’t one. He slid down the divider between the stairs, vaulted a standstill, and landed on the platform. At the far end a woman dashed up another flight of stairs. He crossed the gap, bound up the steps, and burst out of the exit.

  Suddenly he was no longer in the subway. The stairs had vanished. He was standing in dark woods at night, a pale light shining ahead.

  The trees opened onto a meadow. The light of moon and stars lit distant peaks of white. Icebergs in an ocean black. A cloudy band of stars arced from one horizon to another. He recognized the stars and their constellations—Big Dipper, Little Dipper, Drago, Leo, Gemini, Taurus, Orion. He was back on Earth!

  “Hello, Cillian,” a female voice said.

  That voice. He would recognize it anywhere. He spun around, saw dark eyes shining, moonlight upon black hair.

  “Evelyn.”

  She smiled and turned her face upward toward the stars. “It’s amazing isn’t it? Who knew the stars could be so bright?”

  “So this is a dream, then? You’re not real.”

  Evelyn squeezed his hand. “This is a dream, but I’m also real. I’m not a figment of your imagination.”

  “How’s that possible?”

  “It doesn’t matter, Cillian. I’m here. That’s what matters.”

  A flood of emotions surged to the surface. Scattered images flickered, all swept away by the memory of their last day together in the hospital. “Why did you leave me, Eve?”

  Stars reflected in her dark eyes. He had forgotten how beautiful she had been in her youth. He knew she had been beautiful, but to actually see her again was something entirely different. “I never left you.”

  “You did. You left me all alone. Why did you run from me in the city?”

  “It wasn’t safe there. I don’t think they’ll detect us here. Cillian, I’ve been trying to find you ever since I first heard rumors about what happened to you. I’m not sure what they’re doing, but you must be careful.”

  “Can I trust the angels?”

  “Trust no one. Especially not Loki. You’re involved in a dangerous game. They don’t care if they hurt you.”

  “Who doesn’t care?”

  “I don’t have time to explain all of this to you. You have to trust me.” Evelyn hung her head and mumbled, “We were wrong.”

  “Who was wrong?”

  She lifted her eyes to his, and shook her head. “All of us. Humans. We were wrong about everything. Who we are. Why we’re here. Where we came from. What this universe is, and what it’s for. We were wrong about it all. Nothing is what it appears.” Evelyn looked like she was about to burst into tears. She grabbed his shoulders. “Remember this one thing. You must find the druids.”

  “What druids?”

  “There’s no time. Just find the druids.”

  “How do I know you’re real? That you’re not trying to trick me?”

  “You don’t.” Evelyn pulled his head down to hers and kissed him for a few brief seconds before tearing away. “I’m sorry. I must leave now. If they catch us—if they catch me—” Evelyn shuddered.

  “Don’t go.”

  “I must. I’ve already been here too long. You must wake up now. Wake up, Cillian. Wake up.”

  VI

  -------

  14

  Cillian squatted at the edge of a clear, lazy stream, staring into his own bright blue eyes. He had forgotten how blue they had once been, a sea-blue color amplified by the blackness of his hair. Once he had been rather handsome. The eye and hair color were from Isabelle, as well as the narrow nose. The broad jaw, full lips, and high cheekbones were all contributions from Christian. So much of them in his own face. Even more than his parents, he had forgotten how much he had once looked like his brother Corbin. The memories darkened.

  The young face looking back seemed so strange to him that he still couldn’t accept its reality. That’s because it wasn’t real. Somewhere he was just an old, weak man, whose flame was slowing dying. All the more reason he was so enthralled by the image. He knew it was a cruel illusion, yet, like Narcissus, he couldn’t pull himself away. Cared for nothing but studying his own reflection. After all these years of looking into a mirror, it still seemed strange that all his thoughts were coming from that thing looking back. His consciousness didn’t feel like it came from that, didn’t feel like it came from anything. Just something that sort of floated around in the ether.

  The scent of smoke triggered an alarm that was enough to jerk his attention away and for the first time he noticed his surroundings. He stood in a narrow strip of poplars bordering the stream. Sunlight brightened green pastures beyond. The racket of birds everywhere. He stopped at the edge of the trees. Miles away gray smoke drifted across a golden field of what looked like wheat. Even farther away black plumes belched into the sky, obscuring most of the horizon. Quite a fire to create so much smoke.

  He didn’t recognize any identifying landmarks. Once again he was alone in a strange land, neither near mountains, nor the flat plains around Siderea, if he had even returned to Símhin. He could be somewhere else. The land was a rolling, partially wooded country, a blend of crops and pasture. A road ran along the trees. He saw no sign
of travelers along its mocha track. He thought about walking down it, but thought better of it. Something was wrong, though he didn’t know what. Using the trees as cover, he followed the road and soon saw the first signs of people on the road ahead. He sank deeper into the woods and crept closer.

  A man, woman, and three young children unloaded a cart pulled by a pair of horses. One of the wheels had broken. Seeing no one else on the road, and feeling no reason to fear the family, Cillian walked out onto the road and approached the cart. He had left his cowboy hat and duster in the grass at the base of a tree. It seemed to give him away more than anything else.

  “Hello, fellow travelers,” Cillian cried out. “You look like you could use some help.”

  The family spun around in alarm. They relaxed once they saw him. The strange reaction drew Cillian’s gaze back toward the distant smoke. Were they fleeing some danger lying in that direction? The road was elevated, and for the first time he noticed all the objects strewn in the ditches to either side. Clay jars, farming equipment, clothing, crude children’s toys, and so much more, objects both great and small. Most didn’t appear to be garbage, but had been cast aside anyway. Had they been abandoned as people fled? What was going on?

  “God’s grace be with you,” the man said in Gaelic. As soon as he had spoken, Cillian felt foolish for trying to speak to the man in English. He should have known he was no longer on Earth. He had to be back in Símhin. The man was tall and thin, with balding hair and light-gray eyes. He wore the drab brown tunic of a commoner. “The wheel broke and needs to be replaced.”

  “I can help you with that,” Cillian offered.

  The man introduced himself as Uillin and his wife as Cairenn. She had a round, merry face, blonde hair and bright blue eyes. The three children looked like the mother. The oldest looked to be about twelve and the youngest eight.

  “That must be some sword to have such a remarkable sheath,” Uillin said.

  Cillian had forgotten about Anbhás. “It’s excessive for my taste, but it’s what the sword came in.”

  “Are you a soldier?”

  “No, though I was on a quest for the Imperator to find this sword and bring it to him.”

  “Then you’re too late,” Uillin said, shaking his head in sorrow. “The Imperator was murdered by the usurper Scorpio. And only a week before, his son was killed in an ambush by a troll war party. Dark days lay ahead for all of us.”

  Cillian felt his own mood sink at the memory of Scorpio’s treachery. “What causes the distant smoke?”

  Uillin looked at him incredulously. “Do you not know?”

  “I’m a bit of a stranger to these lands. I’ve had no report of the news.”

  “That explains your strange attire,” Uillin noted as he scanned Cillian from head to toe. “A great army of trolls crossed over Na Sléibhte Lonracha a week ago and overran the border defenses. Two quickly assembled armies rode out to halt them, but were crushed. Since then the trolls have been raiding villages and farmsteads all along the Shining Mountains. We fled our farm three days ago. As you can see, many others have fled before us. Entire towns have emptied. The peace is over. Trolls maraud in the North while civil war tears apart the South.”

  “How far away is this troll army now?”

  “It’s not one army. There are numerous roving bands. As to distance, I don’t know.” The man leaned in and whispered so that only Cillian could hear his next words. “I don’t want to scare the children. Truth is, the trolls could be almost anywhere. Behind, in front, to either side. No roads are safe in this country.”

  “And news of the capitol? Tell me anything you can.” Cillian hoped he might hear some news of Niamh, or at least nothing of her death.

  “The capitol is four hundred miles away, so news comes slow. Aduro is bringing the entire might of his army north as fast as he can to meet the trolls. He commands ten legions, I hear, though the rumors shift like the wind. Scorpio has barricaded himself in the capitol and is awaiting reinforcements. Some of the eastern and western provinces, refusing to bend knee to Scorpio, have revolted. Everywhere chaos and war spread like fire through dry grass. But as I said, these are all rumors. In such times as these, a man has enough to fear of the truth without being frightened by the ghosts of falsehood as well.”

  They finished unloading the cart. Cillian and Uillin strained to hold it up as Cairenn removed the broken tire and affixed the new. The cart was soon repaired and the belongings packed back in. As he looked over their meager possessions, he felt a deep pity for their plight. Everything they owned, their entire wealth, now lay in this small cart. What more had they been forced to leave behind?

  Cillian recalled Evelyn’s urging. “Where would I find druids?”

  By Uillin’s reaction, it was another question he considered ignorant. He pointed off toward the northeast. “The fortress of An Dún sa Spéir is the last refuge of the druids.”

  “How far is the Sky Citadel?”

  “Two weeks by horse.” Uillin smirked as he looked down at Cillian’s boots. “Far longer by foot.”

  “Two weeks,” Cillian repeated. “Then I have quite a trip ahead.”

  “I wouldn’t delay,” Uillin said. “We’ve been waylaid for too long ourselves. Is there any way we can repay you? Are you hungry?”

  Cillian looked at their cart near to overflowing and smiled. “An act of kindness requires no debt.”

  “Then thank you for you assistance. God’s grace embrace you, Cillian.”

  “And you as well, Uillin.”

  Uillin scrambled up into the wagon, gave Cillian one last wave goodbye, snapped the reins, and trundled away down the dusty road. The sight of a family fleeing a war reminded him of his days fighting in Europe. Too many things reminded him of those dark days.

  Lacking anything else to do, he retrieved his hat and duster from the woods and set off east, in the opposite direction of the family. His original quest had been to kill a dragon, but that goal seemed moot now that the Imperator was dead. And who the hell in their right mind wanted to confront a dragon, anyway? Especially one as large as the one in the mural—if that really was Red Ruin. Either way, it had him spooked. A sense of dread predicted a meeting with the dragon was coming whether he wanted it or not. But for now he would search for the druids, instead. Maybe they held the key to why the angels had sent him to this planet.

  Remembering his earlier caution, he slipped back into the cover of the woods. When the trees petered out, he was forced to walk alone and exposed on the road. The land had been rising and for the first time he got an open view of the surrounding countryside. The poplars had hidden distant mountains to the west and south, rocky, snowless peaks weathered down to blocky, ash-gray knobs. He recognized none of the peaks. Had he ridden through any of them in their escape from the trolls? They appeared too small. Just as likely he was a thousand miles away.

  He looked up at the sky. “I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me why you’ve set me here?” A long silence. “I didn’t think so.” Had to be a reason the angels had put him here, even if he didn’t know what that was.

  He walked on for hours, past one abandoned house and farmstead after another, past the ditches strewn with junk and objects he suspected had fallen off carts unnoticed or perhaps had been too heavy a burden to carry. No sign of people anywhere. The smoking fields subsided into the rolling countryside behind him. Only on the higher heights could he still see the distant black pall.

  Despite traveling alone through a dangerous land, he felt a tingle of excitement as he walked. How could he not? After years of living trapped in a decaying cage, he had regained the vigorous body of his youth. He could run and jump and straighten his back, motions he hadn’t been capable of in too many years to recall accurately. Regaining such motions was nothing short of miraculous—something he still couldn’t believe. He kept thinking that if he closed his eyes, he’d surely find himself back in the nursing home. Or more likely, he wouldn’t remember anything. As lo
ng as he had this body, he intended to take full advantage. He would return to his Earthly prison soon enough.

  The road passed through the center of a small village defended by a wooden palisade. The gates had been left open, which to Cillian defeated the purpose of the fortifications. He entered the town unhindered. The village’s abandonment had occurred so rapidly the scene looked little different than a ransacking. A wagon with a broken wheel had been ditched in the middle of the street, crates were tipped over and the contents spilled everywhere, doors and windows left open, and smoke rose from a chimney. Upon closer inspection, the ash in the fireplace still smoldered. He couldn’t believe that they hadn’t even bothered to put out the fire. How terrified the people must have been. Should he be more concerned? He found the wooden play sword of a child, and carried it a ways, swinging it back and forth to amuse himself. Shards of pottery crunched beneath his step.

  The only sign of life in the village was a solitary black cat that ran away as soon as it noticed Cillian. He searched through several houses along the main thoroughfare before finding one that had food stashed in a clay pot. Many of the house’s trappings had been left behind and he took his time to rummage through the pots. He discovered a large block of cheese, a half loaf of bread, a handful of small potatoes, and a wineskin of red wine. He procured a knife from a drawer, and with his meal spread out on the table, he sat down and went to work cutting off a slice of bread and another of cheese. He combined the slices and took a bite. The cheese was mild and the bread proved a little tough, but he didn’t care. He had been walking for hours and was famished.

  As he chomped away on his crude sandwich, he wondered why the house’s occupants had left so much of their belongings behind. Not one of the larger objects had been taken. The beds, chairs, and table all remained. Perhaps they lacked the means to transport the heavier goods. Without a wagon, a person would be greatly constrained by what they could carry. The spartan house contained little more besides the hearth in the center and shelves to hold smaller objects. He had yet to see a cupboard in any of the houses.