Dreamwander (In The Ruins of Eden Book 1)

by Kildare

  Niamh must have noticed the look on his face. “It’s hard to look at anything else the same, isn’t it?”

  “It is.”

  “May you be blessed enough to see the land of the Tuath Dé,” Rebel Sly said. “It’s said that everything on the other side is more beautiful and wondrous.”

  “Have you ever been there?”

  Rebel Sly laughed. “Few mortals have ever been allowed. Doubtful there are any now living. They say those who have gone, come back in a blissful swoon and never carry a mortal burden again.”

  VIII

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  24

  As the road wound its way down the steep mountainside, Cillian caught glimpses through the trees of Tearmann na Gealaí, the Sanctuary of the Moon, below, but the gaps were too small and the city too far away to get a good idea of its description. Only when they reached the bottom of the pass did the trees end and he could finally see the city. A green meadow speckled with purple-and-blue flowers spread out to a lake bright with the fire of a low, western sun. The lake curved around the walls of the city in what might have been a horseshoe but from this angle was impossible to say.

  He had expected to see a city of strength, of high towers and thick walls like Siderea. What stretched before him was a ghostly desolation boggling the mind by its sheer size. The stone structures had crumbled and fallen, and trees sprouted from the heaps of rubble or spiked the top of the walls. A bastion of rock pointing north from the city’s midst, loomed like the prow of a ship breaking the waves before it, and a crowded huddle of buildings, too distant for details, sat perched on its pinnacle.

  A long, stone bridge crossed the lake, ending at the gates of Tearmann na Gealaí. At each side of the now long-gone gates stood a tower, one erect, the other crumpled down onto the road and into the lake. Thick vines carpeted everything green. As weathered and ruined as the city walls appeared, it would take incredible efforts to breach their still-imposing height. Only a narrow winding gap between the towers was free of rubble. Cillian stared up at the dark tower and offered a quick prayer that it wouldn’t topple down onto them as they passed beneath.

  “Welcome to Tearmann na Gealaí, the last refuge of the druids,” Rebel Sly said. “All the knowledge and history of the Daoine Saora is contained in this city. Atop that rock lies An Dún sa Spéir, my birthplace. Imperator Raighne was also born here.”

  Shadows crept out of their recesses and darkened most of the road, an unsettling effect. Cillian had witnessed enough terrifying creatures in this world to feel anxious without adding the creepiness of gloomy ruins. Birds flittered about among the trees or zipped past, gray blurs streaking from one hidden place to another. Far down a side street a pair of does watched them, heads high and ears alert. The streets were paved, but broken, as much grass now as stone. From all the greenery it was clear the city had been abandoned for hundreds of years.

  Rebel Sly must have noticed Cillian’s discomfort. “You needn’t worry, Cillian. We aren’t in any danger here. We’re being watched by friends.”

  “Then why don’t they show themselves?”

  “They will when we get to the base of the citadel.”

  The streets were so cluttered with broken stone and marble they were forced to pick a meandering path through the heart of the city. Rebel Sly led. Cillian couldn’t help but gawk at the enormity of the ruins. Even in their sorry state much of what had once been could still be discerned.

  The grandeur astounded the mind. Everywhere he looked he was stunned by some architectural feat of design or scope. The style was quite different from Siderea, less angles and more curves, a heavy influence that he could only describe as Celtic. What an awe-inspiring city this must have once been. Why did they keep visiting these strange and remarkable places that he had no time to stop and enjoy? He was constantly in a haste to go somewhere else.

  They passed beneath the base of a massive, circular obelisk covered in engravings that seemed to indicate a war victory, and then down a long broadway bordered on each side with pedestals atop which had once stood statues of men and women. Now most were toppled, and those still standing were only the bottom halves. The heads alone were ten feet high. Some were smashed to bits, some mostly intact, the skillful carving of a mouth or eye visible peeking out through the vines and tall grass. To see such beauty destroyed was haunting. Who had the statues once depicted? Gods? Heroes? Kings? He asked Rebel Sly, but he didn’t know the answer, either. Said no one now living knew, not even the druids.

  “What happened to this place?” Cillian asked. “Why was it abandoned?”

  “Plague,” Rebel Sly answered. “No walls are high or thick enough to keep out pestilence. Most of the city perished. The streets became so filled with corpses that many of the living fled and forever forsook this place. Those who remained found the task of maintaining such a great city impossible. It slowly fell into ruin and became the haunt of birds and beasts. Only the citadel is still inhabited. This city was once the center of a vast kingdom, but now the neighboring kingdoms don’t even bother to try to conquer it. The task of rebuilding would be truly monumental. Easier to let the city rot.”

  “If any tried to conquer it, they’d be forced to fight all the Daoine Saora,” Niamh said. “This is our most sacred site. Even the Imperator knew better than to provoke a war here.”

  “How long ago was it abandoned?” Cillian asked.

  “More than two millennia,” Rebel Sly said.

  The avenue ended at a massive building that had once been domed. Now most of the roof lay shattered within the core of the building. They made their way around the building through narrow side streets. Cillian realized then that the trail twisting among the piles of rubble had been deliberately cleared, and cleared trails snaked away down side streets, too. A loud boom shuddered from somewhere deeper in the city.

  “Don’t worry,” Rebel Sly said. “It’s only a building collapsing. Happens from time to time.”

  The rock citadel grew larger and larger before them. Cillian had misjudged both the size of the city and the height of the rock. It had to rise two thousand feet above the plain.

  The path ahead dove into a forest of black-leaved trees. As they passed beneath the forest’s eaves, Cillian felt that something was odd about the trees, but try as he might, he couldn’t figure out what was off.

  Rebel Sly lifted a horn to his lips and let forth a sharp blast. The leaves exploded. Only they weren’t leaves, but butterflies with wings that appeared black when folded closed, but bore stripes of neon pink when opened. They swirled in a furious storm all around, and once again, Cillian was left bewildered at the sight. The hurricane of wings still raged when they slipped out the back side of the forest and were stopped by heavy iron gates set into the mountainside. Archers hidden beneath dark green cloaks emerged from the shadows all around.

  “God’s grace returns you, Rebel Sly,” one of them cried out. “Too long have you been a stranger to our sanctuary.” He lifted back his veil to reveal long gray hair.

  Rebel Sly approached and wrapped him in a warm embrace. The others approached, thirty at least, and the gates were opened from within. Niamh also offered her greetings and it was clear they all knew each other. The day’s last light was fading and Cillian could make out little of the others, only that men and women both were among their number.

  Rebel Sly and Eoin—the gray-haired man—led the procession through the gates and into the heart of the mountain. Once they were all through, the gates were shut, sending a boom that rippled along the rock walls. Rebel Sly and Eoin led the column. They talked, but were too far away for Cillian to hear of what they spoke. At times they laughed and clasped each other on the shoulder. They clearly knew each other well.

  “Eoin is the commander of the vale’s forces,” Niamh said. “He answers only to the council of the druids.”

  The way was wide and climbed steadily upward, lit by the flicker of torches. Where the tunnel forked into three smaller branches, they too
k the one on the right. It emerged from the mountainside hundreds of feet above the ground and wrapped around the western side. The road was broad and on one side bordered only air. Higher and higher they climbed as the ruins shrank beneath them. Cillian saw the true extent of the city for the first time. It stretched for miles in all directions and filled half the valley. The craggy mountains were shaded purple in the west, backlit by the orange glow of the departed sun.

  A second pair of gates opened back into the rock wall, flickering lamps lighting their way. After a short passageway, the road emerged out onto the mountain’s back and climbed higher up to an inner fortification where the ground leveled before rising a little higher to a second step crowned by an imposing, domed building. The high wall of an outer fortification ringed the entire mountaintop. The gates of the inner fortification were open and within was a square surrounded by a cluster of cramped buildings. Except for Eoin, all the others disappeared into the surrounding buildings or headed back down the mountain.

  “I’ll alert Moriath and Fintan of your arrival,” Eoin said, “but first we’ll get you fed.”

  Eoin led them toward a great hall constructed of wood. It was the first building in the city Cillian had seen that wasn’t built of stone. Heavy wooden doors led into the hall’s belly. Giant timbers held up a high, vaulted roof, hung with colorful banners. Three open-pit fires burned in a line down the center of the room. Tables and benches ran along each side, many already occupied. Most of the people wore beige robes, unlike the green worn by the archers. A few others wore blue. Cillian wondered if the colors marked a distinction between groups. He noted there were two distinct ethnic groups, same as in the camp of Rebel Sly. One dark, the other fair, with a few a product of intermingling.

  The room quieted at their entrance, every eye falling on them. Eoin seated them in a far corner before disappearing through a door in the back. He returned, trailed by three boys bearing plates, knives, and wooden glasses brimming with warm milk. They soon returned with platters of chicken, bread, and butter.

  The party wasted no time setting their knives to the platters, slicing off hunks of meat and bread that they ate with their hands. The chicken was greasy and delicious. Maybe it was simply the degree of his hunger, but Cillian couldn’t recall the last time he had eaten better chicken, and he hadn’t drunk milk so thick and creamy since a return visit to the homestead in his twenties. He cleaned the bones of all meat, sucked the grease off each finger, and chased it with the last of his milk. Barely had he finished when Eoin returned.

  “Fintan and Moriath await you,” Eoin said as he led them back out of the hall.

  “That was fast,” Niamh said.

  “We’re taking this seriously.”

  They crossed through the heart of the fortress to the far end of the rock promontory where tall marble columns upheld a domed roof overlooking the ruined city below. The structure appeared as old and of the same design as the ruins, but it had been carefully maintained, and Cillian got an idea of what the city must have once looked like. Stairs led up to the entrance doors, which were flanked by two, twenty-foot-high white marble statues of men dressed in armor and holding spears. Inside the rotunda more statues lined the walls. Between each flickered a lamp to hold back the night.

  Eoin halted outside a wooden door, rapped upon the face, declared his presence, and pushed the door inward, revealing a study lined with thousands of leather-bound books. Torchlight danced on the walls and small, intricately carved statues that further heightened the sense of being in the presence of ancient knowledge.

  A man and woman dressed in blue robes stood in the center of the room. The man was tall and thin, with snowy hair cascading down his shoulders, and milky blue eyes brimming with warmth. His face was angular, shaved, and friendly. He grasped Rebel Sly’s hands and bowed.

  “God’s grace rest upon you, Rebel Sly. It’s good to see you again.”

  “You as well, Father.”

  He turned to Niamh. “Child, the years haven’t dimmed your grace.”

  “I’ve missed you dearly, Father,” Niamh said, taking his hands into her own. He leaned forward and kissed her brow. She smiled and their hands lingered together before parting. He turned to Cillian and studied him with great attention from head to foot.

  “Strange attire. I presume you’re the reason for which we are blessed with this visit of our wandering children. I’m called Fintan. May I introduce Moriath. We are the head of the druids of An Dún sa Spéir. Welcome to our sanctuary.”

  “Thank you for your hospitality. My name is Cillian Rysgaard.”

  “Cillian Rysgaard,” Moriath repeated, a look of wonder filling her face. “Even as isolated from the rest of the world as we are here, your deeds haven’t gone unheard. It’s an honor to meet a man held in such high regard.”

  Moriath was no less in years than Fintan. She was much darker, similar in complexion to Rebel Sly, with sparkling gray eyes, and a warm face. She hadn’t ceased smiling since they’d entered. “Do you need to sit?”

  “We’ve sat for many miles,” Rebel Sly said. “It feels good to stand for a while.”

  “I’ve stood for many years,” Fintan replied. “At our age, sitting feels better.”

  After introductions, the two druids led them all through a side door into another room lined with more shelves crammed with ancient books. Fintan lit a pair of lamps for light, set them on a desk, and settled down on a square stool next to Moriath. The others stood.

  “We’ve heard many tidings of the outside world that are disconcerting,” Fintan said. “I do hope that such troubles have left you undisturbed, though from the sorrow etched in your faces, I doubt that to be true.”

  “Red Ruin attacked us a few nights back,” Rebel Sly said, “and last night we were assailed by a draugr. Our horses bolted and one of those who accompanied us was killed. A man named Fáelán.”

  “The Black Bow?” Eoin asked.

  “The same.”

  “Rueful news. It was said there was no better archer in all the North.”

  “It wasn’t an exaggeration.”

  “We grieve for your loss,” Moriath said. “We’d heard that Red Ruin had resumed his depredations. It’s been thirty-two years since he was last seen. Odd that he’d venture this far inland.”

  “We captured a wagon train laden with riches and bound for the Grim Mountain,” Rebel Sly explained. “We believe Scorpio was sending the treasure to the Dread Queen, who in turn had promised it to Red Ruin. The rest of my men were transporting it to Mathúin Dearg for protection. I fear Red Ruin has found them.” Rebel Sly hung his head. “I shouldn’t have left them. With Fáelán gone, I may be the only member of my band still alive.”

  “Grim tidings,” Fintan acknowledged. “Do any of you know the story of how Red Ruin received his name?”

  Glances were exchanged around the room, but no one answered.

  “I doubted so. It’s very old tale that long ago passed out of general knowledge. Once there was a city on the edge of the Great Sea with high towers and walls that prevented its sacking, despite numerous sieges. One dark cloudy night, a dragon fell upon the city as it slept off the revelry of a royal wedding. By the time the alarms were raised and an attempt at a defense mounted, half the city had burned, forcing those who could to flee the smoke and flames. The few survivors escaped into the hills overlooking the city. From those heights they watched their city burn to the ground. Red burned the city below and red the clouds above. The survivors called it Oíche an Scriosta Dheirg. Tens of thousands died, and the city was utterly destroyed, never to be rebuilt.”

  The Night of Red Ruin. So that was how the dragon had earned his name.

  “Every few decades, Red Ruin returns to wreak destruction, plundering livestock, killing people, and gathering as much wealth as he can. Once his desire for destruction has been satisfied, he disappears again. No one knows where the dragon keeps his lair, and even if they did, few are bold enough to venture to such a place.�
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  “I spoke with him,” Cillian said.

  Moriath’s eyebrows arced upward. “You’re lucky to still walk among the living; Red Ruin isn’t known for his clemency.” She pushed forward to the edge of her stool. “What did he say?”

  “He said that now that Loki has been released, he’ll bring about the end of the universe.”

  Fintan looked as if the air had been sucked out of the room. “Loki has been released? You’re sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “How did this happen?” Moriath asked.

  Cillian started his story with the doctor’s announcement that he was dying, and ended with Red Ruin’s attack on the road. He was less than honest in the full telling of the story. Some parts were better omitted.

  “We always knew this day was coming,” Fintan said, “though we’d hoped it wouldn’t be during our lifetimes.”

  “What hope do we have in recapturing a god?” Moriath asked.

  “An opinion I share,” Cillian said. “How am I supposed to even find Loki?”

  “There may be a way,” Fintan said. He rose and rummaged through an ancient set of books on a shelf partially veiled by shadows in the corner of the room. “Ah, yes. Here it is.” He laid the book on the table and carefully opened the brittle pages. The others gathered around for a closer look.

  Fintan found the spot he was looking for and spread the pages open. The words were written in a script Cillian couldn’t read.

  “What does it say?” Kjartan asked.

  “The information is incomplete, as only fragments of the original text remain,” Fintan said. “Still, much can be gleaned from the pieces. Long ago the Tuath Dé built a portal on this world to travel to other worlds.”

  “Where is it?” Cillian asked.

  Fintan frowned and shook his head. “The text says that it lies in the midst of a great plain, but the rest is missing.”

  “I think I know where it is,” Niamh said. “I think I’ve seen it.”