Reaper of Dreams (The Gods' Dream Trilogy) Page 2

  Daria shivered in his arms and glanced away, obviously frightened.

  Indaran nuzzled her hair with his cheek, trying to reassure her. “I’ll bring back the ships laden with interesting goods. Just think of all the stories I’ll have to tell.” He tried to coax a smile out of her. “I’ll even seek out a special trinket for you, little bird. Or would you prefer a toy or a new pet?”

  The set look on her girlish face made her seem old beyond her years. “I want you to come home, Indaran.” Her emerald-green eyes appealed. “Father’s counselors grumble that their prince is out—” she deepened her voice “‘—gallivanting on a useless chase for glory.’”

  He laughed, delighted with her mimicry of Counselor Rickel. “I can see them now. The voyage isn’t for glory, Daria, but for exploration, for adventure…” And…to be completely truthful, she was right. “And…maybe a little glory.”

  Her solemn expression didn’t change. “Mama’s worried. She walks around with her forehead like this—” she used two fingers to pinch together the skin of her brow “—when she thinks I’m not looking.”

  Her words hit him like a fist in the stomach. His people had followed him, leaving behind family and friends. They wanted to turn home; their loved ones wanted them to return home. The burden of decision weighed on him, and he set Daria down. “Yadarius will keep us safe,” he said to assure himself as much as her. But will He? We are out of touch with Him.

  “Mama says you are sailing beyond Yadarius’s realm.” Her words gave voice to his concerns. “We don’t even know what gods rule the ancestors’ country where you’re sailing to.”

  Indaran looked toward the distant land, drawn like a magnet to metal. “We only know that they’re TwinGods,” he murmured. “Even their names are lost to us.” Determined, he clenched his fist. “But I’ll find them out.”

  I need to speak with Yadarius. “Time to return, Little Bird. Tell Mama not to worry. Yadarius will never forsake us.”

  “But how do you know?”

  He flicked the tip of her little nose. “Because when we started this trip, He told me so.”

  The ship shuddered.

  Indaran straightened. Was something wrong? He tried to shield his sister from his sudden concern. “Go, little bird, I must awaken.”

  Her expression almost slid into a pout, but she caught herself. “I’ll visit again.”

  He smiled. “Promise?”

  His body acted out the gestures and said the words, perfectly following the script of that day, but underneath another memory stirred.

  I’m lying on a slab in Ontarem’s temple.

  Indaran tried to reconcile the ripple of awareness with the present, but couldn’t.

  Daria slashed her fingers across her chest. “Sword’s oath.”

  He laughed at her fierceness, but inside another him wanted to scream a warning. “My little warrior.”

  The Treasure shuddered again.

  Daria vanished.

  With a strangled gasp, Indaran awoke. Bolting upright, he kicked aside the bedclothes and scrambled out of bed, panting in the chill early morning air. He grabbed the telescope case and flung the chain over his head. Not bothering to change, he yanked on socks and boots, and ran out of his cabin.

  He flew up the stairs and across the deck to the helm. “What’s amiss, Mastin?”

  “A current seized us, My Lord.” The man’s thin face tightened with worry. “Never saw one so strong. It’s carrying us straight to that land. Don’t think we could come about if we wanted.”

  Something has torn the decision from my hands. Those TwinGods?

  I don’t know whether to feel excited or afraid. Maybe both.

  With a painful snap, Ontarem disconnected from Indaran’s brain, leaving behind the slime of His avariciousness.

  Daria. He wants Daria!

  A scream of horror built up in Indaran’s throat, but his locked jaws only reverberated the sound against his teeth. Rage shot through him. He strained with all his might to break the paralysis of his body, until he thought his heart would burst with the effort.

  Finally, exhausted from the fight, Indaran collapsed. He shut his eyes against the tears of weakness that threatened to spill forth. Shame coursed through his veins. Would that he had died before he’d given up that last memory….

  Before I betrayed Daria to Ontarem.

  CHAPTER TWO

  LOUAT, SIX MONTHS LATER

  Jasmine Karzai emerged from the dark tunnel leading away from her shattered life, walking into the gray land of her vision. In front of her, stubby trees with thick trunks the color of new cement laced tangled branches overhead, dangling leaves like pewter coins that tinkled as they fluttered in the breeze.

  The glimpses of the sky she caught through the branches showed…she paused to think…not the misty-paleness of a London winter, but an absence of hue, as if the color had leached away.

  “I’m not on Earth anymore,” she whispered in Arabic, waiting for fear to slam into her.

  Instead a feeling, not of peacefulness…how could she ever know peace after what she’d been through…but an absence of turbulent emotion, settled into her body. Perhaps I’ll never have to feel again.

  A rasping sound behind her signaled the closing of the tunnel door. She whirled, watching as the dark maw in the center of a small round building vanished, leaving an unbroken wall. She ran her hands over the worn, beige brick, but found no way to distinguish the entrance. The magical statue, goddess, spirit, whatever the lady was who lived inside, had firmly closed her domicile.

  “I can’t go home again,” Jasmine said the words out loud, determined to accept the truth. But through her numbness, only the faintest of apprehensions tickled her stomach.

  Jasmine turned and faced the forest. Perhaps it was just as well she wouldn’t collapse into a ball of shivering fear. She faced a new life. Am I even up to the challenge?

  “I’d best get started.” She tried to sound strong, but the words came out with a bit of a quiver, which she ignored, taking a brave step forward.

  Her tennis shoes sank into the thick dun-colored moss carpeting the forest floor. She clutched a fold of the dull-silver chador she wore over her scarlet silk blouse and blue jeans, as if grasping for courage, and ventured under the nearest tree. The statue lady had transformed Jasmine’s tattered black chador into a garment that would allow her to blend into her surroundings, and the silky feel of the fabric brought her comfort.

  Releasing her grip on the chador, Jasmine stretched out both arms, curling her fingers and wiggling her hips, relieved to move without pain. Then she stopped and held still, allowing the essence of the new world to seep into her.

  Jasmine relaxed into the silence. Only the faint metallic stirring and a distant rush of running water came to her ears. No bird or insect sounds. Best of all, no people.

  She took a deep breath of the loam-scented air, so unlike the dryness of the sandy desert she’d left behind only an hour ago. Was it only an hour ago? How long had she remained in a trance in the Goddess’s healing pool?

  Shaking her head, she moved on, heading toward the sound of water. With each step, her feet sank about three or four centimeters into the springy moss. The moss would be good to eat either raw or dried.

  Jasmine stopped abruptly. How do I know that?

  She crouched, pinching some of the moss between her thumb and forefinger, and bringing the plant to her nose. The herbal tang smelled pleasant, and she touched her tongue to a springy frond. Nothing happened.

  Should I take the risk?

  Jasmine pursed her lips. Finding food will be a problem. She might as well try this.

  Perhaps the statue lady had deposited the knowledge into Jasmine’s mind. She sent me this far. I should trust her.

  Easing a bite of the moss into her mouth, Jasmine chewed slowly, analyzing the taste. Kind of tangy, but not unpleasant. Probably full of those antioxidants Mrs. Baker had always talked about.

  That thought brough
t a pang of regret. Maybe I can feel after all.

  She pulled up a handful of moss, then rose, thinking about her employer. Amir and Moussad had kidnapped Jasmine from a park near the Bakers’ London townhouse, right in front of the children.

  Amir and his bodyguard had wanted her knowledge of the ancient map that had been in her family’s possession for generations. Her grandfather had given it to her friend, Khan, when he’d fled their homeland to escape Amir’s plan to murder him.

  Perhaps, I’ll find Khan here somewhere. The thought didn’t bring any excitement. When her friend found out what his half-brother had done to her, he wouldn’t rest until he found a way to revenge her. The act might cost him his life. Better to stay lost…from everyone.

  At least those two evil men hadn’t hurt her charges. The safety of the Baker children was her only comfort. But the family who’d been so kind during her six months in England must be worried. And Jasmine had no way of letting them know she was safe. The Bakers would be left to wonder and worry. As would everyone else, especially her parents and grandfather.

  Better they not know my shame.

  Her thoughts slid away from the memory of the rape and beatings she’d endured. The statue lady had waved a healing hand over the experience. The wound remained, but as if Amir and Moussad had tortured her for information years ago, instead of merely days past.

  Reaching up, she fingered a round leaf, feeling the coated glassy texture. Not metal after all. She plucked the stem from the branch, studying the thin green veins running through the pewter surface of the leaf.

  A subtle compulsion wrapped around Jasmine’s mind, and her feet drifted onward before her conscious brain decided she should move. Curious, she wound through the forest, following a beckoning thread. The sound of babbling water grew louder. The trees thinned, and she stopped.

  A clear membrane, like a bubble, stretched between the trees. She peered through the iridescent surface into a circular clearing and saw a wavery view of a large statue in the shape of a standing man.

  A lightning flash of feeling slashed through her numbness. “Arvintor!” She called the name. Need tugged her, and she pushed ahead, feeling the bubble burst around her.

  As if riding the flow of a river, Jasmine strode toward the statue, her hands outstretched to greet a long-beloved companion. Long beloved?

  What am I doing? She pulled herself out of the mental current, sidestepping to a halt.

  She shuffled backward a few feet. Arvintor? How do I know his name?

  Jasmine studied the statue. The feeble rays of the sun filtered through the pale sky, outlining the figure in stark relief.

  Rusty chains wrapped around a bronze-colored body, a little larger than life-size, his hands slightly extended as if in supplication. A short kilt draped around his hips. The figure had a well-muscled physique, yet his strong shoulders seemed bowed by the weight of the chains. His face showed the classic handsome features she’d admired on the Greek and Roman statues in the British museum when she’d taken the Baker’s children on cultural outings. But something about his eyes drew her. Sadness? Despair?

  Moved by compassion, Jasmine edged closer, noting the lichen growing on his right thigh like a mottled skin disease. She climbed onto the rounded base, touching his hand for balance. Instead of cool bronze, warmth tingled into her palm.

  Jasmine gasped, jerking her hand away and almost losing her balance. She examined her palm. The skin looked normal, if a little dirty.

  Gingerly, she extended her fingers to touch Arvintor’s.

  Once again, heat seeped into her fingertips. This time, she didn’t pull away. Perhaps this statue, like the lady in the shrine, wanted to communicate.

  Jasmine waited, half expecting Arvintor to send her into a dream state like the lady had. But nothing happened.

  The heat that seeped into her fingers called forth tingling energy. The same healing pulses Jasmine used to soothe pain when she worked with sick people flowed from her fingertips into the statue. Only this energy was stronger somehow, not just the traces of warmth she usually experienced. Nor was she willing this to happen. Yet the process seemed necessary, so she allowed the healing energy to flow from her body into the statue.

  An image of purity came to her. No, not purity, cleanliness. The statue must be cleaned.

  She stepped down and fished under her chador for the handkerchief in her pocket. The handkerchief had been well-used, wet with tears and mucus, then dried into a stiff ball in the scorching desert. But like her clothing, after bathing in the healing pool surrounding the statue of the lady, her handkerchief had emerged pristine—fine Irish linen edged with cobwebby lace. The perfect washcloth for a magical statue—if Arvintor was a magical statue. Although from her recent experience with the lady, her belief slanted in that direction.

  Jasmine hopped off the base and hurried over to the river, more like a stream actually. About two meters wide, the stream looked shallow enough to wade in. The clear water flowed over granite rocks, and she wondered what type of fish might hide in the shadows.

  She crouched, dabbling her fingers in the cool water. Her long braid slipped over her shoulder, the tip dangling in the stream.

  Cupping her hands, she sniffed. Smelled fresh, so she drank. The water tasted crisp and clean, with just the slightest hint of minerals.

  After soaking her handkerchief, she carried the cloth back to the statue, climbed on the base, and began to wash Arvintor’s face.

  Jasmine scrubbed away years of grime. Generations of grime. Centuries of grime.

  She paused, holding the handkerchief in the air. How do I know that? More of the lady’s knowledge, or his?

  Underneath her toiling fingers, the alabaster hue of marble appeared. The statue wasn’t bronze after all. The face took on the vestiges of life. The marble eyes flickered sky-blue.

  Jasmine blinked to clear her vision.

  Jasssmine. The word hissed into her mind.

  She gasped. The statue knew her name! How?

  Help me. The phrase whispered through her puzzled thoughts. A different language—not Arabic, not English—yet she understood the words.

  “How can I help you?” Jasmine whispered back in Arabic.

  Free me.

  “How?”

  Finish the task you have begun. That will be the easiest part. A hint of humor rumbled through the words.

  “How do you know my name?”

  From your thoughts.

  “You can read my mind?”

  I can see your vision of yourself and understand the meaning of your language.

  “I’m not sure I like that.”

  I will respect your privacy and only penetrate the surface of your mind to communicate with you.

  “That’s acceptable.” She bent to the work with renewed energy, scrubbing Arvintor’s body, making trips back and forth to the river to rinse away the dirt. Oh, for a scrub brush and bucket of soapy water. Jasmine suspected those were only the first in a long list of things she would soon wish she’d brought from Earth to this world of….

  Jasmine looked up at Arvintor. “What is this world called?”

  Kimtair.

  “Kimtair,” Jasmine repeated. “I like that.” She picked at the lichen on his leg with her fingernails. “And this place?”

  This is all that remains of Louat, the once vast and beautiful realm I ruled with my twin brother, Ontarem.

  The more Arvintor’s body emerged from the encrusted dirt, the more his voice in her head gained in strength. She scraped off the last of the lichen. “Is there a statue of Ontarem near here, too?”

  No.

  The word shivered across Jasmine’s mind. She brushed the cloth across his knee. “Tell me what happened.”

  The story is long, and I have little power.

  “Does what I’m doing help you?”

  Yes.

  “Good.” Jasmine fell silent, spending the next hour finishing the cleaning task. To her surprise, the delicate handkerchi
ef held up under the hard usage. Arvintor’s doing?

  She shrugged, scrubbing at his sandaled feet, until the pale marble emerged.

  Rocking back on her heels, she looked up at him. “Do you need me to clean the base, too?”

  You have labored long. Rest now.

  Jasmine nodded, walking over to the stream. She crouched and splashed water on her hot face. Then she took a long, cool drink.

  Obeying Arvintor’s prompt, she returned and lay down on the cushiony moss near his pedestal. She closed her eyes, allowing herself to relax. Fatigue weighed down her body, and her muscles ached. A pleasant ache, really, from a job well done.

  She drifted into sleep.

  The clearing changed. Lavender color flooded the sky. An amber sun coated her surroundings with rich golden light. Green seeped into the trunks of the trees, and the moss turned cobalt blue. But most beautiful of all, the round leaves of the trees glowed with jeweled colors that reflected the light, like the stained-glass windows she’d seen in London cathedrals. The breeze blew through the branches; the leaves tinkled together, sounding like a dozen wind chimes.

  Arvintor came to life, stepping off his pedestal. The rusty chains vanished, and his skin glowed with an iridescent hue, muscles rippling as he moved. His eyes gleamed bluer than a desert sky; eagerness glittered in his gaze. He waved his hand, indicating the area. “Behold the wonders of Exonlah, the most beautiful part of Louat. Before my captivity, I chose to spend much of my time here.”

  Jasmine looked around, bemused. “I don’t blame you.”

  “Ontarem’s final revenge against me was to imprison me here and drain the beauty from Exonlah.”

  “How have you endured the grayness all these years?”

  “My brother couldn’t steal the beauty of Exonlah from my memories. Sometimes that was all that sustained me.” He extended his hand to her. “Come; let me show you my former kingdom. See the days when the TwinGods ruled as one.”

  Jasmine sat up, placing her hand in his. His fingers closed around hers, warm and firm.

  The clearing disappeared. A city sprang up around them.