Reaper of Dreams (The Gods' Dream Trilogy)

by Debra Holland

  “You will have to excuse our people.” Vol tilted his head toward the nearest square building, probably a bakery, based on the lingering hint of fresh bread in the air. “We seldom have ships dock here, and the commoners tend to be apprehensive until they know you come in peace. Once you’ve met Ontarem, our citizens will be reassured, and you’ll see them out and about.”

  The street opened up to a wide dirt area, surrounding what must be the temple or palace, devoid of any carving or decoration. Here at last, people gathered in two long lines, making a path to where three individuals stood together at the top of the steps in front of the massive metal doors.

  Indaran ran a quick look down the rows. Unlike the inhabitants of Seagem, who tended to have blond or red hair, or occasionally pale brown like his mother, and blue, green or gray eyes, most of these people were dark like Vol. But here and there he caught a glimpse of red highlights or lighter eyes.

  Perhaps traces of my ancestors, who must have mingled their blood with these people’s.

  Everyone wore the same ankle-length gray robes. Each held in his or her hands a small round bowl, perhaps a drinking cup. They watched with solemn eyes, no smiles or nods, yet also no fear. So still did each one stand, they could almost be painted statues. How unlike Seagem’s people, who called out boisterous greetings to any newcomers.

  Indaran, followed by Captain Suz and Captain Busale, led the crews down the corridor formed by the natives. Somewhere along the journey, his excitement had trickled away, and he found himself wishing he were home, walking the streets of friendly Seagem, his best friend by his side.

  Thaddis.

  Indaran experienced a sharp stab of missing his foster brother. If the crown prince of Ocean’s Glory were here, together they’d shake these solemn spirits into a whirlwind of fun and activity. But Thaddis, unlike Indaran with his litter of siblings, was the sole heir to Ocean’s Glory, and by his father, King Stevenes’s command, had remained in safety at home.

  Two men and a woman in rich gray robes stood proud and silent on the landing of a flight of broad steps, leading to the temple. Each bore a large goblet held in both hands. The cup was made of a dull silver material; somehow he knew it wasn’t pewter, but some other rare of metal.

  “The Trine.” Vol gestured with reverence, ushering Indaran up the many steps.

  Moving closer to the Trine made it easier for Indaran to shake off the melancholy feeling about Thaddis.

  The two men were as tall and broad-shouldered as he, and of a similar age, but after a quick assessing glance, Indaran focused on the woman. Her beauty hit him like a sword thrust through his heart. Even the loose robe couldn’t disguise her lush body. A large gray pearl, about the size of a bird’s egg, hung on a silvery chain around her neck. The weight of the jewel pressed the fabric of her robe against her breasts, more enticing than the tightest, low-cut gown.

  Her hair hung in an inky fall, almost brushing the ground, framing an oval face with high cheekbones. Her long-lashed eyes were lowered in apparent modesty. Then she glanced at him, aiming a seductive look from tilted brown eyes that spiraled right down to his groin.

  She extended the cup.

  Indaran took the cup. Their fingers touched. A fiery tingle of lust shot through him.

  “Ontarem welcomes you to Penutar,” she said in husky tones. “He has been eagerly awaiting your arrival for several days. I am Pasinae. These are my brothers.” She nodded to the right, “Kokam,” and then to the left, “Nabric.” The faces of the men were a masculine version of hers.

  Indaran flashed Pasinae his most charming smile. “I am anxious to honor your God.”

  She lowered her eyes. The corners of her mouth quivered. Then she looked up. “Drink, my lord prince. Drink up, so that you may become one with Ontarem.”

  Indaran lifted the cup to his lips and took a swallow. Mellow wine mixed with sweet herbs trickled down his parched throat. On the other side of him, he was aware of the two captains drinking from the goblets extended to them by Kokam and Nabric. Behind him, he could hear the other priests and priestesses mingling with his crew, offering them welcome.

  He drained the goblet, slaking his thirst, then handed it back. “A fine welcome, indeed, Lady Pasinae.”

  She moved so close that her breast brushed his arm. She slipped a hand under his elbow.

  He could smell her heady perfume. Or perhaps it was the lingering scent of the wine. His senses clouded. Her beautiful face swam before his eyes.

  For just a moment, he saw her dark eyes light with triumph. Then, grayness overtook him, and he toppled into unconsciousness.

  ~ ~ ~

  The playful sound of water running over rocks trickled into Jasmine’s sleep, coaxing her awake. She lifted heavy eyelids and found herself curled into a ball at the foot of Arvintor’s pedestal, her chador wrapped around her. The thick moss made for a cushy bed, and she rolled onto her back, yawning and stretching out her arms and legs.

  Sitting up, she realized that, despite the chill, her body remained at a comfortable temperature. She brushed the palm of her hand over the silky gray material of the chador. Perhaps when the statue lady had restored the garment and changed the texture and color, she’d also woven magical properties into the fabric. Or maybe it was just the special quality of the weave. Nevertheless, Jasmine felt grateful for the lady’s gift.

  Lady. Goddess, actually. She wondered which one. Arvintor had named three; she’d have to ask him. No, ask Him. Since he was a God, she needed to think of Him with honor.

  Jasmine looked around, dismayed to see the gray tones of her surroundings rather than the vivid colors she remembered from her dreamland. Rising, she touched Arvintor’s hand.

  Warmth. Relief relaxed her shoulders. The God hadn’t been a figment of her imagination.

  “Good morning, Arvintor.”

  Day’s greetings, Jasmine. I hope you slept well. The God’s voice sounded weak.

  “Wonderful, thank you.” She indicated the forest with her thumb. “I’m going to, ah…”

  Arvintor remained silent.

  Jasmine scooted into the shelter of the trees, made her ablutions, and gathered some breakfast moss. She fingered the dun moss, remembering the vivid cobalt color from her dream. How much power would Arvintor need before He could restore the woodland?

  She munched as she returned to the clearing, tarrying by the stream for a drink and a face wash. She picked up the handkerchief she’d laid out on a rock to dry the night before, surprised to see the material once again pristine. She hoped it was the Goddess’s doing. Arvintor shouldn’t waste his energy cleaning handkerchiefs. Dipping the cloth into the water, she stood and walked over to the statue.

  Jasmine knelt and began to scour the base. “I can work while You talk to me.”

  I know not of what passes in the lands beyond this clearing. You will need to travel, explore, learn, and report back to me.

  A fission of fear shivered down her spine. Jasmine didn’t want to leave the safety of this little area. She scrubbed harder, not answering him. I’ve gone through so much in the past few days. Too much. I just want to be left alone, not have to face people. Not to mention confronting a vicious, evil deity. “I’d rather stay here with You.”

  That is your choice.

  She looked up, seeing the weight of the chains Arvintor bore, the sorrow in His eyes. I must help Him.

  Jasmine briefly closed her eyes, searching for inner strength. “Yesterday, I thought my life was over,” she said in a conversational tone. “I was ready to walk into the desert to die. The Goddess sent me here to help heal me. Perhaps She also sent me here to help You.”

  Withea. I recognized her essence around you when first I saw you.

  “Withea,” Jasmine repeated. “I don’t want to leave here…leave You. But I’m willing to do as You ask.”

  Then follow the path of the sun to reach Ontarem’s stronghold. At night, keep the red star that hangs over Exonlah at your back.

  “I’l
l finish my cleaning first since I have nothing to pack.”

  The forest extends for one hour’s walk. Before you leave its shelter, gather enough moss to keep you from knowing hunger until you reach humans.

  “What about language?”

  I’ll use the last of the power you’ve given me to give you the language of Louat.

  What if talking to them doesn’t help? Jasmine didn’t even want to think of what could happen to her if the people followed their evil God’s ways. Instead, she tried to focus on completing her task, making sure the alabaster pedestal shone.

  When she’d finished, Jasmine stood with a muffled groan, and walked over to the stream. She rinsed out the handkerchief, then drank her fill.

  After rising, she returned to the statue and touched His hand. Energy tingled into her fingers, up her arm, and into her brain. She closed her eyes, waiting for the warmth to die away. When she sensed He’d finished the transfer, she opened her eyes. “Good bye, Arvintor.”

  My…blessings…Jas…. Arvintor’s voice died away, and His hand grew cold.

  With a matching coolness in her heart, Jasmine turned and walked into the forest.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Later that day, Jasmine stopped at the last stubby gray tree of the forest, drinking in the beauty of the panorama before her. She gazed at a vast plain of teal-colored grass, rippling in the breeze like gentle swells on the sea. The sky overhead was awash in lavender tints, with a few cotton-ball clouds to break up the vast expanse.

  Experimenting, she retreated a few paces and looked upward. The milky-gray sky loomed ominous and depressing with its lack of hue. She couldn’t wait to stride freely across the land of color.

  But first, she knelt and picked handfuls of moss, dropping them in the folds of her chador. Then she grasped the hem and stood, tying the hem to the side of her robe.

  Moving to the edge of the forest, she stopped and glanced up at the position of the sun, orienting herself in the path of the amber orb. “Here goes.” She tossed the English phrase into the air, took a deep breath, and strode forward onto the plain.

  At first, she enjoyed the novelty of walking in the open amid a vivid landscape. After two days in a gloomy forest, and before that, six months in the misty English weather, her desert-born spirit relished the feel of the sun’s rays on her face. The blue-green grass grew to the height of her knees. Bundling the bottom of her chador into a food carrier was wise, she would have needed to pull up the garment anyway, just to walk.

  As her feet sank into the vegetation, the crushed blades released a tangy herbal scent, which the breeze wafted to her nostrils. A plump bird darted into the air in a flurry of glossy turquoise feathers.

  Good eating if I had my bow and arrows. Although she wasn’t as proficient at archery as her friend, Khan, she could, more often than naught, hit her target.

  Khan.

  Guilt squeezed her. She hadn’t even thought of him since yesterday. The Goddess, Withea, must have sent him somewhere on Kimtair. Was he all right?

  Memories of her childhood friend consumed her. Adored friend, almost like an older brother, he’d taught her English and encouraged her in her studies, wanting her to break out of the traditional Muslim role for women. He’d talked her grandfather into allowing her to volunteer for the Red Crescent and then later to attend school in England to study nursing. Although bewildered by the change of cultures, she’d loved her new environment and had never been so happy.

  Until Amir and Moussad kidnapped me…. She slammed a mental door closed on that memory and concentrated on her hike.

  After half a day of tramping through the grasslands, the novelty wore off. Thirst had dried her mouth, and fatigue pulled at her limbs. The grassy plain still seemed as vast as ever. Had she made any progress?

  She stopped to glance behind her. Only the faintest gray smudge marked the forest. “I’ll walk three hundred more steps, then I’ll rest,” she said out loud, needing to hear the sound of her own voice. “One, two, three…” She counted off the paces.

  On two hundred and forty, Jasmine heard a shout to her right. Turning, she saw a man on a horse galloping toward her, a spear held as if he intended to throw the weapon.

  ~ ~ ~

  Indaran lay on the temple slab, sorting through his recollections, trying to find any shred of color, of emotion. A long time had passed since Ontarem had squeezed the essence from the last of his memories. He had no idea how much time. A few months? A year? Even though he knew better, he kept searching. But once again, the effort proved futile.

  To distract himself, he checked the people around him. Lately, when one of his crew died, the bodies were replaced with living people. People whom, through his othersense, seemed familiar, like the citizens of Seagem. But that couldn’t be. Nevertheless, he included the strangers in his ritual of support. Hold. Don’t give up. I’m here. I care.

  He continued the ritual, the only thing that sustained him, drawing it out as long as possible. But when he’d finished, there remained only emptiness in his heart and a long-suffering boredom.

  Time slid by.

  Gradually, he relinquished the fight, sinking into a melancholy so deep he hoped to slip into death. He drifted into unconsciousness.

  Indaran opened his eyes to a burst of color—a lavender sky arching down to meet a broad plain of teal-colored grass, edged by a gray forest. He strode forward, arms outstretched, wanting to grab the vibrant hues in both hands and hold them close. Then he stopped abruptly.

  I can move!

  He waved his arms around and began to run through the grass, feeling the long blades whip against the soft velvet cloth of his trews. He savored the pounding of his feet on the springy ground, the rapid beat of his heart, the green scent of the grassland. He halted, spinning and laughing. The breeze tossed his unbound hair across his face. He brushed back the strands, then rubbed a clump between his thumb and forefinger, enjoying the sensation.

  What should I do? Where should I go?

  Just the freedom to choose delighted him. He decided to head for the forest. In his eagerness to move, he made each stride almost a leap.

  A dark-haired woman stepped from beneath the trees. He recognized her as one of Ontarem’s people, dressed in a long flowing silvery garment, the bottom of one side bunched at her hip.

  Indaran recoiled. She was one of those who’d welcomed them when his ships had first arrived in this land, drugging the wine in his welcoming cup, thus betraying them to Ontarem. Would she bring others? Armed men who would capture him?

  His hand dropped to his side. No sword. Its absence didn’t matter. He’d fight to the death rather than be recaptured.

  The woman tilted her chin to the sun, a blissful expression on her face. Then she opened her eyes.

  He saw their color. Blue, not brown. Smoky sapphire orbs lashed in black, the color vivid against her dark skin.

  Perhaps she’s not one of Ontarem’s people, after all. Although, he remembered the hint of foreign blood he’d seen in some of the priests and priestesses. Perhaps she was.

  He studied her. A slender womanly figure…. Her long black hair bound into a braid that draped over one shoulder…. Narrow cheekbones, with a generous, wide mouth drawn up in a slight smile. The breeze set curling tendrils of hair to dance around her cheeks. Not a beautiful face, but an arresting one.

  A fire of attraction ignited in his belly; desire spiraled down into his loins. His manhood stirred. A feeling of aliveness blazed through him. He’d been dead for so long.

  The woman ventured out onto the plain, but didn’t appear to see him.

  Piqued, he sauntered closer, wanting to catch her attention.

  Her curious gaze absorbed her surroundings. Still, she didn’t see him.

  He called out a welcome.

  This time she seemed to hear him. Slowly, she turned to face his direction. Recognition dawned in her beautiful eyes. A wide smile blossomed on her face. Welcoming. Loving. She dropped the fold of her garment.
A big clump of blue moss tumbled out. She extended her arms to him.

  He strode closer, reaching out.

  Their fingers touched.

  He resisted the temptation to sweep her into his embrace, to let the feel of her body wrapped in his arms fill his aching emptiness. Instead, he reached up and touched her cheek. The breeze twisted a silky strand of black hair around his finger. He brushed the tendril behind one delicate ear, then leaned forward and pressed a light kiss on the fragrant skin of her neck just below the lobe.

  She shivered, half-closing her eyes.

  Indaran straightened, enjoying the bemusement in her eyes, then he lifted her hand to his mouth, turning it over, and brushing a kiss into her soft palm.

  She leaned closer.

  He cupped her cheeks with both hands, feeling the softness of her skin, and bent forward until only a fingerlength of space separated them.

  Her eyelids drifted lower, and her lips parted.

  He smiled, dipping to feather a kiss on her waiting mouth.

  An unseen hand gripped his shoulder, jerking him away.

  He awoke on the temple slab, his body immobile. A scream of rage built inside him, blocked by his rigid jaw.

  Once again, I am captive. He wanted to beat his fists against the stone and howl out his anger and helplessness.

  For now, Ontarem had another precious memory to steal.

  ~ ~ ~

  Fear jolted through her. Jasmine started to run, but almost immediately stopped herself, knowing the rider would quickly catch her. Her heart lodged in her throat, and her knees shook so hard, she thought she might collapse.

  She pivoted, putting on an appearance of friendliness, by raising her hand in a cheerful wave and sending him her best smile.

  He reined in his brown horse a few meters in front of her, still pointing the spear and making small thrusting motions, as if at any moment he’d let the weapon fly. At a glance, Jasmine could see he was a youth from Ontarem’s people, although he easily could have passed for an American Indian from an earlier time.

  Long dark hair, worn loose except for several braids near his face, framed a tanned face with a hooked nose and almond-shaped dark eyes. He wore a shirt and pants made of something similar to buckskin, but without the colorful beading and fringes she’d seen in pictures of Indians. Several dead turquoise birds dangled from his saddle—more like a thick pad of skin with ropey stirrups, rather than a saddle.