Wilde's Fire (Darkness Falls #1) (8 page)

And what does this mean for Brad?

What if my nightmares are visions of the future?

“Yes, but my dad died a long time ago,” I say, making sure to keep my voice even.

“I am aware of your father’s death.” Arland shakes his head. “But surely your mother has informed you of this place?”

“No, she hasn’t.”

“Hmm.” He rubs the chin I’ve seen him rub so many times in my dreams. “So how
did
you arrive here then?”

“We were swimming in the river. My sister and I saw something shimmering under the waterfall. We thought it was the entrance to a cave, so we decided to check it out, but when we swam through, we found ourselves here.” I rub my hands, trying to calm my nerves.

“Your sister? It is only you and the boy who are here now.”

“My sister was with us, but I was able to push her back the way we came, before we were attacked. You don’t think she’s here?” I ask, choking on the food rising in the back of my throat. The thought of Brit being here, alone and confused—or possibly dead—is too much.

“No one else was found in the clearing, otherwise my soldiers would have informed me,” Arland says.

“Like they informed you where they found
me
?” Arland is confident, but I have to know for sure my sister is safe.

He places his hand over mine. “You have my word your sister is not here.”

“I hope I can trust your word,” I say, pulling my hand away so as not to be mortified by my sweaty palms. Arland’s touch is not repulsive; in fact, it’s the opposite. He’s warm and exciting.

“So, you said you’ve been expecting me … . Why have you been expecting me? And what’s wrong with Brad? He looks like he’s d-dying. What were those things that attacked us?” I try as hard as I can to hold my composure.

“Take a walk with me?” Arland asks, standing up.

How can I say no to him? I’ve seen the love in his eyes, kissed his lips, and held his hands in my dreams for the past six years. Sure, they were
just
dreams, but they all felt so tangible. Nothing ever seemed the slightest bit imagined or made up. Now here he is, in front of me, and I don’t know how to react. I’m too nervous to respond.

Arland reaches out his hand to me. “I promise I am not going to hurt you.”

I take a tentative hold on it,
after
I dry my own on the gown.

I’m feeling underdressed, all of a sudden.

He leads me through a kitchen, to the left, upstairs, and then out two large, round-topped, wooden doors that open into a courtyard. It’s still dark and cold outside. Too cold. Wherever I am, summer is not the season. The plants along the side of the building are all dead. By the way the barren chestnut tree in the center of the yard leans, I’m sure it will be dead soon, too.

He directs me to sit on a bench a few feet away from the tree. I follow a gray, flat stone path to the seat and take in the architecture of the building.

“It is beautiful, is it not?” Arland asks.

“Yes. I’ve never seen anything like it. Is everything made of earth, wood, and stone?” From what I can see, the outside walls of the building are made of packed dirt—like those inside the building—but out here, they also have one-foot wide wooden beams every five feet or so. In between the beams are reliefs, but I can’t quite see the details from where I sit.

“It is. This is one of our many military bases. Most of this structure is underground. The only portion of the main building above ground is this courtyard where we sit. We come out here to remind ourselves why we fight.”

“Why do you fight?”

“Survival.” He pauses, then points at the wall. “If you look closely, you will see combat scenes carved into the walls. After harsh battles, some of us come out here and draw out the memories. It is a tool we use to heal our hearts.”

Sadness fills Arland’s words … a sadness I hope I never have to comprehend. I walk over to the walls—run my hands across them as I did inside and inspect some of the distressed art. One in particular stands out more than the others do. A stake impales a woman, driven through her chest and into the ground. A child with a sword in his hand sits, curled at her feet. A dead monster lies next to them. My hands shake. The person who experienced his mother’s tragic death in such a dreadful way is the one who must have drawn this.

Arland stands next to me, leaning into the wall. He touches it with his own hand, closes his eyes, and mutters something inaudible—not to me, but to the wall.

“This was my mother,” is all he says, before returning to the bench.

There’s a part of me that wants to wrap my arms around him, caress his face, and tell him everything will be okay, but I’m sure that would be strange to him. To me, not so much, considering we’ve done that for each other so many times before, in my dreams. It’s safer not to do or say anything, so I follow him back to the seat and fold my hands in my lap. “I’m sorry.”

Arland’s gaze returns to the courtyard. “There is a layer of magic protecting us from the enemy stumbling upon the base, but, unfortunately, there is not enough to protect our entire civilization.”

“Magic?” I ask, careful not to reveal my disbelief.

“This might be difficult for you to accept, but please know I will
never
lie to you. You are Encardia’s only hope of surviving this war.”

Arland pauses and watches me, as if he’s waiting for me to say something, but I remain silent. I don’t know what else to do. As much as I’d like to tell him he’s wrong, I cannot. I’m here, I’ve seen the monsters and the man from my dreams firsthand—running away is hardly an option.

“Many years ago, you and your family lived in this land. Six months before you were born, a Seer gave your mother and father a prophecy. It instructed them to protect you by using old magic to take you out of our world, immediately after your birth, for you would be the Light to end the Darkness seeking to destroy our kind.”

“Me? Light?” War is not for me. Light and Darkness, prophecies and magic—none of this makes sense. I’m sitting on a bench next to a man I’ve dreamed of for years, he’s touched me, he’s telling me I’m some kind of savior—it’s all too unreal.

“Yes,” he says, watching my knees bounce up and down.

I cross my ankles, trying to control my nerves. “But, how?”

“Through old magic.”

“What is old magic?”

“Something people of this world have long since forgotten how to use.” He turns his head toward the sky.

“So a Seer said I’d save this world, but I couldn’t live here—and my parents just did what they were told? No questions asked?”

“I am sure they had plenty of questions,” he says, sitting like a statue—the total opposite of me.

“So why did they do it? Why did they leave?”

“When a Seer gives a prophecy as clear as yours, people listen. We lived in a time of great peace, but they had to protect you, even though it was hard for them to fathom, taking their child out of the only world they ever knew.”

I look around the courtyard. Nothing I see has life. Everything reeks of death and misery. It’s hard to imagine peace ever existed here.

“If my prophecy was clear, did it say where I’d learn this old magic?”

“Not that I am aware of.”

“If no one knows it, how do I learn it?”

“I hoped you would already know, but it appears your mother never taught you.”

I take a deep breath. “And my dad? If no one used the magic, how’d he get my family through the portal?”

“Your father was wise in the old magic—I believe his family continued to practice even though they were not supposed to—but even
he
struggled to find a way to open a portal. He worked tirelessly for weeks, before he informed my father of his plan, but no one else, as the Seer instructed. The two of them worked together at great length before they discovered how to open the portal to your world.”

“Why did he die? If we were on Earth, what killed him?”

“Your father continued coming back to check on us and aid in the battles as often as he could. Conjuring magic powerful enough to allow him to go between two worlds fatigued him; after a few months of living two lives, he tried to return here and immediately stepped into a battle in the clearing. He was ill-prepared and, unfortunately, lost his life.”

My dad is dead because of me
. Mom could never talk about how he died. She would become distant and tell me he was lost in the war, but I assumed an American war—not one from another world. I wonder if that’s why she was always closer with Brit, because somewhere, deep inside, Mom blamed me?

I’m not sure how, but I know Arland is telling the truth. I feel like I know him all too well. His presence is calming, comforting—the way it always has been. Except, this time, he’s real.

“How long was it before all this”—I raise my hands and look around the courtyard—”happened?”

“Two days after your birth. Darkness appeared and slaughtered our people with such ferocity, its minions nearly wiped us out within a few months. We have never battled anything like this before. We drained most of the remaining old magic fueling life itself.”

“Do you have any idea why it’s here? What it wants?”

Arland shakes his head. “We do not know why Darkness is here, but as far as we can tell, it wants us to die. Can you not see it for yourself? There is no sunshine, the plants are decaying, the air smells of death, and people are worn and weary.”

I nod. In the short time I’ve been here, I have noted all of these things: the darkness, the smell, the tired look on everyone’s faces. How can I be from this world? Why hasn’t Mom ever shared any of this with me? Why would she let me live a lie? My life, and everything I’ve ever wanted to be, have all been fake—and Mom knew it.

Arland looks down at me and wipes tears from my cheek with his thumb.

I didn’t realize I was crying.

His touch is warm, gentle—familiar, even. I want to put my hand over his. His deep green eyes return my mixed feelings of longing and loss with what I interpret from him to be hope. His people—
my
people—are counting on me to save this world. This is too overwhelming to think about. What can a girl raised on a horse farm have to offer, in terms of war? My hands are sweating again; I ball them up in my lap.

“Are you afraid?” he asks.

“Only that I’ll let everyone down,” I admit. “What am I supposed to do?”

“Unfortunately, I do not know.”

“So, I just get to embarrass myself in front of all these people until I discover whatever makes me Light?” I ask, wondering if I’ve ever done anything special or meaningful in my life … something that would help me now.

“You will not be embarrassed; not many people know of your prophecy. My father, myself, Flanna, and Lann are the only ones who have been informed officially, although some have discovered information unofficially,” he says, clenching his jaw. “We will keep your identity a secret until the time is right.”

“But someone is bound to find out. I mean, you’re here because of me, aren’t you?”

The muscles in his face relax, and somehow, I feel my own worries slip away when confronted by his resolve. “No one will find out. And yes, we set up Watcher’s Hall to await your return.”

“How long have you been here?”

“There was never an indication as to when you would return, so we have been here for many years. My father used to bring me on patrols with him when I was younger. He wanted me to know the surroundings, so I could maneuver through them with my eyes closed. Now that you are here, I am solely responsible for your well-being.”

“Why are you solely responsible for me?” I ask, shocked and mildly elated.

“I was born five years before you. When my mother was carrying me, the Seer prophesied I would be Keeper of Light. At the time, my family did not understand what that meant. It was not until your father visited with
your
news that they were able to make sense of it. I am your Coimeádaí.”

Arland pauses, then smiles. “You and I have met once before, a day after you were born. You were lying in a cradle your father crafted for you before the prophecy. I peeked in, and you smiled at me,” he says, as if the memory is a good one.

“So that’s why I’ve seen you die in so many of my dreams?” I ask, standing. My arms are at my sides, every muscle tight, fists balled. “You die trying to protect me? Like Brad lies in his room, dying, because of me.”

“I do find your dreams quite interesting. I would like to learn more about them, but I do not believe you are a Seer—and I am not going to die.” He raises his eyebrow, making me feel like a fool.

Taking a deep breath, I sit back down.

“We will have to research why you are having these dreams. Maybe it is a subconscious part of you. My father should know, since your parents informed him of your prophecy. I will communicate with him later, to fill him in on the full details of your arrival. Did your mother
never
speak with you about any of this?” Arland rambles on, avoiding my comment about Brad.

But Brad is all I can think about.

“He’s going to die then, isn’t he?” I say, scowling.

Arland’s face softens.

“He should already be dead. Our Healers do not understand how the poison has not stopped his heart,” he says, not meeting my eyes.

“What’s happening to him?” I ask, my voice barely above a whimper.

“He was attacked by a daemon of Darkness. We call them coscarthas. They are the lowest ranking, but represent the largest population of daemons draining the life from our land.”

“Are they why I need your protection?”

“Amongst other things … .” He stares at me, no hint of concern or fear in his features, like he’s having a conversation with an old buddy on a park bench—only everything around us is dead.

“What other things?”

“Tairbs, hounds, shifters, serpents—those are much more powerful than coscarthas.”

I’m not even sure I want to know what those things are. “So what do they do?”

“They kill without hesitation—like they have no conscience at all. When a coscartha cuts someone with its claws, a poison enters the victim’s body, acting similar to a snakebite. Generally, the poison paralyzes and kills instantly. So why your friend lives, and as for what is happening to him … we do not know.”