Reaper of Dreams (The Gods' Dream Trilogy)

by Debra Holland

  A teal blue snout peeked around the man’s back. Intelligent golden eyes studied her.

  Jasmine didn’t dare move, but the horse shuffled a half step, bringing the strange creature behind the man into view. The animal looked like a large, long-nosed squirrel covered with bushy fur the color of the grasslands and had human-like hands, similar in size and shape to those of the raccoons she’d seen in the zoo, with thick claws that moored the animal to the back of the saddle pad.

  The hunter flourished his spear, barking out a command she didn’t understand.

  She panicked. I thought Arvintor gave me the language. Now what am I going to do?

  He urged his horse closer, repeating the command.

  Her heart beat so loud she thought he could hear her fear. But at least this time she caught the gist of the words.

  “Who are you?” he seemed to be saying. “What are you doing trespassing on the grounds of the Che-da-wah?”

  Arvintor’s language must be several hundred years out of date. I probably know some form of medieval Louat, and the language has shifted since then.

  “I am Jasmine.” She touched her chest. Now what do I say? Is he going to even understand me, much less believe my story? I come from another planet… “I mean you no harm.” She concentrated on projecting peace and good will, even though her throat closed until she doubted she could speak further.

  The fierce expression on his face didn’t change.

  “I mean you no harm,” she repeated, forcing out the words and hoping this time he’d understand her.

  He jerked his spear in the direction she’d been traveling, a clear command.

  At least, he’s not taking me out of my way. She turned and began moving forward, ever aware of the spear pointed at her back.

  She marched for about two hours, her body and spirit becoming ever more weary before seeing triangular shapes in the horizon. As she approached, Jasmine realized the Che-da-wah had cone-shaped tents made of hide similar to the pictures she’d seem of the teepees used by the American Indians. She counted fourteen tents set in two circles around a large one in the center, to which two room additions had been bumped out.

  The smoke from several cook fires drifted her way, and she could hear the sounds of life—children laughing and playing, the rumble of conversations, and several different tones of pounding noises.

  One by one, the people caught sight of them, and the sounds stilled. As if called, two men and two women headed toward them from different areas of the camp. They wore the same kind of soft-leather clothing as her captor. One pair appeared older, with lines around their dark eyes and mouths, and the white streaks threading through their flowing hair. But all moved with a proud, upright gait.

  They stopped two meters away. Their tanned faces remained impassive, but she caught several lingering glances at her blue eyes. Her captor slid off the horse and began a long explanation, only some of which she could follow.

  The older woman stepped forward. Up close, Jasmine could see carved bone beads sown into her clothing. The color of the beads blended into the chamois-like material, making a muted pattern. Her thin face, with the sharp cheekbones and thin nose, radiated hostility. She stared into Jasmine’s face with a narrowed gaze that increased the wrinkles around her eyes and mouth.

  The older man snapped something at the woman.

  She turned and snarled a response.

  The conversation spit back and forth, with Jasmine only understanding a word here and there. But a cool uneasiness chilled her when she thought she heard the word kill.

  Jasmine started an automatic prayer to Allah before reining herself in with a sense of loss. She hadn’t lost her faith, although her recent experiences had certainly dented her belief in God. Her religion had once so twined within her life that she wasn’t sure how to separate herself from her spirituality.

  But Allah was a God of Earth. If she wanted to pray, she needed a deity on Kimtair. Arvintor was powerless, and of course, she couldn’t call upon Ontarem for help. And the other Gods weren’t part of this land. No God to call upon for help…for comfort. The emptiness stabbed like a knife in her stomach.

  The older man who’d remained silent sidled forward, fingering a fold of Jasmine’s chador. “Spy.” The word hissed from between clenched teeth.

  Her audience didn’t miss Jasmine’s startled response.

  The two men seized her arms, one on each side. Even the old man had a grip like a dog with a favorite bone. They pulled her toward one of the tents. She stumbled over a clump of grass, and they jerked her upright. Several of the squirrel animals in different shades of blue and green skittered out of the way, showing puffy rabbit-like tails.

  Two men, of an age similar to the man who’d captured her, lounged near one of the tents, polishing their spears. A fuzzy squirrel animal with thick blue fur tugged on the corner of one man’s tunic. He tapped the creature’s nose away.

  The old man barked at the men.

  They sprang to their feet, hurrying to stand on either side of the tent opening.

  The older man thrust her into the tent, shutting the flap behind her.

  Jasmine landed on her hands and knees on a carpet made of animal skin. The moss she’d picked in the forest scattered across the floor covering. She looked around, curiosity pricking through her fear. Although the light was dim, the hole at the top of the tent provided some daylight to illuminate the almost ten-meter space.

  A fire pit in the center burned some kind of stone like a beige coal that crackled and glowed with a sullen orange light. A hollow metal box hung on a hook about a meter high. Swirling punched-out holes decorated the sides. A lantern?

  Several round leather boxes stacked in a crooked pile must hold the family’s possessions. The tails of burgundy-colored root vegetables were braided into a long plait and hung from the tent poles, the ends almost brushing the floor. A polished wooden bowl held tiny bone beads. A folded-up chamois cloth lay nearby, a circular design partially beaded across the top.

  Jasmine peeked over the brim of a larger wooden bowl and saw liquid within. She touched the surface and brought her finger to her mouth. Water. She scooped up several handfuls and slurped them down.

  Her thirst quenched, Jasmine crawled around the fire, passing the hanging root vegetables and inhaling their sharp radish scent. She collapsed on a pile of furs and curled up in a ball on top of them, too exhausted to even cry. With a sick feeling in her stomach, she tried to figure out what to do.

  They think I’m a spy. They want to kill me. But they can’t know I’m a spy for Arvintor, so who do they think I’m spying for?

  She heard the sound of rapid conversations echoing around the campsite, some tones angry, some shrill.

  The news about me is spreading. She began to shiver, remembering the terrible violations by Amir and Moussad. Withea’s magic had made her feel years, not just days had passed since her rapes. But now, fear cracked open the suppressed emotions around the memory.

  She clutched her knees. Will I have to endure that defilement again? What about torture? Her mind raced in fearful circles.

  Will they give me a chance to explain? Will they even understand my version of their language? Believe me about Arvintor?

  A scratching at the bottom of the entrance made her crawl over and push the flap aside an inch. A tiny lime-green snout poked into the tent. One of the squirrel-like pups. Jasmine made some clicking noises with her tongue. “Come here, baby,” she whispered in Arvintor’s language. “Come keep me company.”

  The little squirrel wiggled through. Then the creature lost its balance and tumbled nose-down into the floorskin.

  Jasmine scooped up the baby, cuddling the furry body to her chest.

  The animal licked her chin like a puppy, then began to gnaw on one of her fingers.

  Jasmine rolled onto her back, letting the animal curl up on her stomach. Stroking the thick fur, she tried to think about what she knew about American Indians. She’d put the computer
Khan had given her to good use, spending a lot of time on the Internet learning about ancient cultures and medicine—her two favorite topics. Maybe something from her knowledge could be applied to this situation.

  These people are nomads. Ontarem’s people had lived in the city. Had the Che-da-wah been nomads even then? Or had they become nomads later after the cities fell?

  She stroked the fur of the squirrel pup, grateful for the comfort of the animal. “Hey, baby.” Is it a him? She turned him over and checked. Yep, a male.

  He cuddled into her lap, dropping into the immediate sleep of an exhausted baby.

  Cute. Should I give him a name? No. He probably already has a name. Plus, who knows if I’ll even be alive in a few hours? A spur of fear drove her back into planning.

  How can I escape?

  These people ride horses. For a minute, she grasped at a wild plan to steal a horse and ride for the forest.

  Not a good idea, Jasmine. These people will chase after you. Who knows what they do to horse thieves? Well, she amended, I bet I do know. I’m sure they kill them.

  She clutched the pup to her chest.

  The animal woke and squeaked in protest.

  But wait. Jasmine bolted to a sitting position, cradling the pup. What if I did steal a horse?

  The pup scrabbled up to snuggle under her chin, using its claws for purchase.

  Busy thinking, Jasmine dropped an absentminded kiss on the top of the pup’s head.

  For a few minutes, she basked in the fantasy of her riding away in secret triumph. She’d reach Ontarem’s city far more quickly on a horse than on her own two feet.

  Dare I risk it?

  Reality took over. Probably not. But at least I can think about it.

  She lay back down, calmer for having something for her mind to puzzle out. The pup curled back into a ball. Anything was better than fretting that any moment these people would decide to kill her.

  ~ ~ ~

  A shout jerked Jasmine out of a doze and a lingering sense of warmth, safety. When she blinked her eyes open, she saw twilight had dimmed the light in the tent, although the firestones continued to cast a flickering glow that heightened the sharp shadows playing against the pale hide walls of the tent. Her languidness vanished.

  The pup shook himself awake and yawned. A long narrow tongue curled out and licked Jasmine’s hand. She ruffled the fur on his head, grateful for the companionship.

  The pup tilted his head like a cat, obviously wanting his cheeks and under his chin scratched.

  The flap of the tent drew back, snapping against the side.

  Fear leaped into her throat, and Jasmine swallowed, lifting her chin and schooling her face to impassivity. Perhaps, like the American Indians, these people valued a show of courage.

  The young man who’d originally captured her poked his head in. “Come.” He barked the word, gesturing with a sharp wave of his hand.

  Jasmine gave the pup one final pat and put him down. Rising with as much dignity as possible, she walked over to the man.

  He grabbed her elbow, yanking her through the doorway. When they were outside, he herded her toward the big tent, centered in the middle of the camp.

  She took a deep breath of the smoke-scented air, trying to calm her apprehension. In spite of their fast pace, she cast curious looks at the people surrounding the cook fires, eating and talking.

  The natives fell silent, stopping what they were doing and staring until she passed. Then voices rose, tossing staccato conversations into the descending night.

  Although they marched in double time, Jasmine tried to pretend they were out for a friendly stroll. “What’s your name?” she asked in a conversational tone.

  Apparently startled, he let his name drop out of his mouth. “Roe-al.” Then his face closed.

  “Roe-al. Nice to meet you. I’m Jasmine.”

  He ignored her, increasing his stride until she almost jogged at his side. On the far side of the camp from where she’d entered, several adolescents, both boys and girls, guarded a herd of horses.

  Two men flanked the big tent, spears in hand. One reached over and pulled open the leather flap of one of the bumpouts, calling out a phrase, which took Jasmine a few seconds to process. “Stridza, Roe-al approaches with the prisoner.”

  “Enter.” The command came from within.

  With a harsh shove to her back, Roe-al pushed Jasmine into the tent.

  She stumbled forward a few steps, then drew herself up to a stiff position of pride.

  The hide slapped closed behind her.

  On the other side of the fire pit, a man and a woman sat cross-legged, their backs as regally straight as Jasmine’s. The flickering light from the fire and three square metal lanterns set on poles illuminated the couple.

  They appeared middle aged, their brown skin beginning to wrinkle over sharp bones. The man’s long black hair, threaded with white, hung in thin braids to his waist, while the woman’s thick gray-and-black hair was plaited into a heavy crown. Jasmine had a frivolous second of wondering if the weight of that braid ever gave the woman headaches.

  The woman had a proud hooked nose and arrogant eyes. She stared at Jasmine without speaking.

  Jasmine stepped closer and nodded a greeting. “Hello,” she said, stumbling over the strange accent. “My name is Jasmine.”

  Silence greeted her, lengthened. She took a moment to discretely glance around, noticing the hanging root vegetables and stacks of boxes as in the other tent. Suspended above, upside-down bunches of dried herbs sent out a pungent smell, quickening her healer curiosity.

  A large map painted on one panel of the tent caught her attention. From where she stood, the drawing seemed as if the artist had depicted the country of Louat. She wished she could inch closer and examine the details.

  The man pointed one gnarled finger at her. “You are a spy for Ontarem.”

  Ontarem? She didn’t dare speak.

  If they’re upset that I’m a spy for Ontarem, then they can’t be his followers. Should I greet them in Arvintor’s name? What if they hate Him? Take the risk, Jasmine, she told herself. They probably plan on killing you anyway. You might as well be killed for the truth. And maybe hearing about Arvintor would do some good.

  She made a decision. “I greet you in Arvintor’s name.”

  “Arvintor,” the woman said in a sharp tone. “What nonsense name is that?”

  “Arvintor is the brother of Ontarem. The good God, the good twin. The one whom Ontarem overthrew and bound in chains.”

  The man spit into the fire. “A child’s tale.”

  “No, it’s true. Arvintor lives in the forest. I can take you to him. Prove this truth.”

  They stared in horror, mouths agape, wrinkled skin pulled tight. “Sanglakic!”

  Sanglakic. Sanglakic. Jasmine rummaged through her new vocabulary, trying to identify the meaning of the word, and came up empty.

  The woman tottered to her feet, but once upright, moved with quick precision around the firepit to face Jasmine. A heated brown gaze bored into hers.

  “You dare mention Sanglakic. From our longest memory, we have been forbidden to go there. To even speak of it.

  Does she mean Exonlah? Jasmine opened her mouth to ask, but the woman barreled on.

  “Now you, a stranger, come into our midst. Why? To betray us to the Evil One?”

  Through the fear clutching her stomach, Jasmine scrambled for the foreign words. “No. Never. Arvintor sent me. Not Ontarem.” With an unconscious gesture, as normal for her as breathing, Jasmine touched her healing energy, sending the power toward the woman to soothe her anger.

  The woman’s eyes widened until they looked as though they’d pop out from her skull. Her hand snaked out, slapping Jasmine across the face.

  Jasmine’s head snapped back. The sting of the blow brought tears to her eyes.

  “How dare you use your othersense on me.” The woman spit out the words. “The practice is forbidden. You imperil us all.”

/>   Jasmine blinked back tears; through the ring of pain in her head, she tried to understand what was happening.

  The woman turned to the man. “We must pack up camp. Leave immediately. Before Ontarem turns his eyes to us.”

  The man rose to his feet, moving as if his bones hurt.

  “As for you—” She shot Jasmine a nasty glare. “You will learn how we deal with spies.” Thrusting open the flap, with a push of her hand on Jasmine’s chest, the woman propelled her through the entrance.

  Jasmine stumbled backward, tripping and landing on her bottom in the trodden grass.

  The guards swooped down and snatched her up.

  In a dramatic flourish, the woman pointed her finger at Jasmine. “Take her back to the tent,” she said in ringing tones. “Send the word throughout the camp. Pack. There will be no sleep tonight. We must disappear from this place.”

  A rumble of protest replied. Faces shot hostile looks Jasmine’s way.

  The woman raised her voice over the crowd. “Once we’re ready to leave, we’ll kill her. If Ontarem turns his evil gaze this way and sends his soldiers, all they will find is her dead body.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Over and over, Indaran relived the dream—imagining himself strolling over the plain of tall blue-green grass. If he concentrated hard enough, he could feel the wind on his face, sniff the grassy scent in the air, enjoy his sense of freedom.

  Best of all was reaching her. Seeing the look of welcome in her smoky blue eyes, the wide smile that lit up that thin, fascinating face. This time he followed through on the kiss he’d come so close to giving her before. He pressed his lips to her soft mouth, then deepened the kiss, hearing her moan, and feeling her arms slide around his neck to hold him tight.

  He stayed in this part of the memory for a long time, relishing the feel of a woman in his arms. And not just any woman…this woman. Her slight frame and womanly curves fit his body as if she’d been made for him.