Sower of Dreams (The Gods' Dream Trilogy)

by Debra Holland

  Nothing. Not even a hint of brine in the parched air.

  She took deep breaths, striving for calm. To break her paralysis, she forced herself to take a step. The hot sand slithered under her feet. At least being in a dream protected the soles of her feet from burning.

  The act of moving freed her from the bonds of her childhood fears. I’m a woman grown. A warrior. This is an entirely different dream walk than my last meeting with Indaran. She tried to believe her words.

  Trudging to the top of the hill, Daria looked around. Sand dunes ringed this barren, rocky outcropping, scarce of vegetation. A sense of purpose unfurled tendrils of knowingness. There must be a reason for her being here, and she needed to find out what.

  Her ears caught a rhythmic sound, and then the scrape of a shod hoof on a stone.

  More curious than apprehensive, she waited.

  A rider on an ebony stallion, leading a pack mare, appeared between two ridges, The man wore a loose, light-colored garment over trews, and a head-covering that looked like a cap with a long cloth shielding the back of his neck. She noted the bow hooked close to his hand on the saddle and the fletches of what must be a quiver of arrows on his back. No sword, though.

  He turned his head. A strong face, unlike any she’d ever seen. Hawk-like features. Dark skin. Penetrating brown eyes.

  His gaze shot to hers, like an arrow through her heart.

  Daria felt the impact and stumbled back, her hand flying to cover her chest. Beneath her palm, her heartbeat stuttered, then quickened, like a horse kicked into a canter. Warmth spread under her fingers, racing throughout her body. Her knees weakened.

  The man reined in his stallion, watching her, his eyes narrowed. Slowly, he extended his hand to her, palm up, a clear invitation to come to him.

  She reached out her hand.

  A chain of connection forged across the distance between them.

  Then she saw darkness stain the horizon behind him. A clear warning of danger swept through her othersense. She lowered her hand and backed away.

  Then the dream threads unraveled. Daria slept on, dreamless.

  ~ ~ ~

  The next morning, the Iselda rounded a final rocky promontory, and Daria watched from the king’s deck as Ocean’s Glory hove into sight. The bustling L-shaped harbor, replete with boats, from tiny fishing skiffs to large oceangoing ships, teemed with life.

  The palace commanded Daria’s view of the city. Built of the raystone prevalent in Stevenes’s kingdom, the castle shimmered in orange hues in the late afternoon sunshine. Pointed caps on each tower flew different colored flags.

  While the Iselda slipped through the clear channel toward the docks, Daria stood shoulder to shoulder with her eldest brother, Cihkel, and studied the city. Wooden and rusted metal buildings clustered around the docks, seemingly plunked down without Seagem’s careful order. Perhaps Besolet had taken no hand in the building design.

  A more condescending deity, the Goddess Besolet interacted solely with her priests and priestesses and the royal family. Daria preferred Yadarius’s accessible approach to His people.

  Cihkel dipped one shoulder to lean close to Daria. “What do you think of your first sight of Ocean’s Glory?”

  “It’s so different.”

  Like the emeralds in his heir’s coronet, her brother’s eyes sparkled with excitement. She couldn’t match his enthusiasm for Ocean’s Glory. “I can’t take it all in—the color, the buildings, the lack of organization….”

  “Just wait until we dock. Then you’ll see how different everything is.” He pointed to the largest wharf, his loose sleeve flapping. “The royal quay. I doubt Thaddis will meet us. This is too formal an occasion. But—” he squinted “—Counselor Ogan is waiting, complete with royal retinue.”

  “Stevenes’s first advisor?”

  “A good man, reminds me of a sugar dumpling. But make no mistake, underneath that merry countenance is a mind as sharp as my blade. He must deeply grieve his king’s death.”

  The Iselda closed in on the dock.

  Daria smoothed her hair, attempting to ready her appearance.

  Cihkel helped by tucking an errant strand into a braid. “You look beautiful, little sister. I’m sure you’ll catch Thaddis’s eye—if his mistress lets him out of her sight.”

  “Mistress?”

  “Pasinae. Found her on one of his sea voyages not too long after Indaran’s death.”

  His voice softened. “She’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. Dark, exotic.”

  “Sounds like you’re attracted to her?”

  “Any man would be. But I prefer more warmth in my women.”

  “Like Lady Elanath?” she teased, realizing with a flash of othersense, that the petite lady was the reason for the lighter spirits her brother had displayed lately.

  A flush suffused his cheekbones, and he threw a quick glance behind them at Iceros. “Like Lady Elanath.”

  “Father will be pleased. Now he can stop worrying about the baker’s daughter and that tavern wench Setteff was teasing you about.”

  “I’m going to stuff Setteff’s loose mouth with cannfish glue.”

  Daria laughed at the idea. Cannfish glue was as strong as it was foul smelling.

  Cihkel’s eyes glowed, and a grin played about his mouth. “It’s early days with Elanath and I, but she’s very special to me. My othersense tells me….”

  “She’s your heart’s mate.”

  “Yes,” he said with a reverent catch to his tone. “She’s my heart’s mate.”

  The Iselda nudged the pier. The crew moored the ship and rolled out the gangplank.

  Daria followed her brother down the steps of the king’s deck, thinking about their conversation. Although happy for Cihkel, she couldn’t help feeling an ache under her breastbone, and wondered if she’d ever fall in love. Maybe I’ll meet someone on this visit. But he’ll have to move to Seagem.

  They all made their way to the dock, and Counselor Ogan hurried forward.

  Short, plump, with smooth skin under a pointed gray beard, he did remind her of a sugar dumpling.

  He stopped in front of Iceros with a small bouncing bow. Looking up at his old friend, his round cheeks crumpled, and tears glistened in his blue eyes. “Iceros. I welcome you and yours into the protection of Besolet.”

  Ogan gestured for a man wearing a black uniform with a crimson sash and holding a black satin pillow to come forward. Several red-gold medallions of mourning lay on the pillow, glittering in the late afternoon sunlight, their vermilion-velvet straps hanging over the sides.

  With both hands, Ogan picked up the ribbon of the largest gold medallion and held it in front of Iceros. “Stevenes, the King, has passed to Besolet’s glory.”

  Iceros bowed his head. “May he dwell in splendor at Her side.”

  Ogan slipped the medallion over Iceros’s head. The red of the ribbon slashed against the green of the king’s tunic.

  Daria shivered and looked away.

  Ogan repeated the ceremony, starting with Cihkel, then Joshel and Setteff. When he came to her, she caught a whiff of spicy cammor leaves, used to prevent the gna-fly from burrowing holes in velvet. Some tiny dried leaves nestled in the creases of his tunic, left behind by a careless servant. She resisted the urge to brush them off.

  Ogan picked up a medallion. “Stevenes, the King, has passed to Besolet’s glory.” He slipped it over her head.

  The coin-sized medallion settled against her chest, heavier than the jeweled necklaces she wore for formal court occasions. The weight dragged on her othersense. She wanted to yank the ribbon over her head and fling it into the harbor. Instead, she placed her palm over the pendant. “May he dwell in glory at Her side.”

  Ogan’s smile crinkled the skin around his eyes, giving her a glimpse of his sugar dumpling personality. “Iceros has written of the beauty of his daughter, but the reality is even lovelier.”

  Daria returned his smile, well used to this type of gallantry from her f
ather’s elderly courtiers. “Thank you, my lord. Although my father has always been complimentary, he still says I’m not the beauty my mother was.”

  Ogan took her hand, tucking her palm into the crook of his arm. He guided her toward the waiting coaches. “None of you look like your lady mother; you all favor your father. However, you must also remember how deeply your father loved his wife.”

  Daria squeezed his arm. “I remember, indeed.”

  Her father climbed into the first coach.

  Ogan led her to the next one and helped her inside. She slid across the soft crimson leather of the seat. Yellow satin lined the walls. She leaned close to the glass of the window and looked outside, grateful to avoid the brightness of the coach. The vibrant colors of Ocean’s Glory unsettled her somehow, and she longed for the cool greens of Seagem.

  Setteff plopped down beside her. Cihkel and Joshel followed him, taking the seat across from them. The coaches pulled forward, the wheels and hooves of the horses crunching over a roadbed of broken shells. Her brothers began a rapid dialogue about the city, comparing any changes, pointing out favorite haunts, and reminiscing.

  Staring out the window, Daria allowed the conversation to flow around her. Her attention centered on the idea of love, the deep, soul-connecting bond her othersense told her Cihkel had found with Elanath. As a child, she’d always taken for granted that she’d have the kind of marriage her parents shared. But since she’d become old enough to wed, the offers made to her left her unmoved. She’d started to doubt that she’d ever find the man her heart sought.

  Daria gave the slightest toss of her head. Well, if not, I’ll remain unmarried. Her father wouldn’t be pleased, but he’d not force her into a loveless match.

  The road circled in front of the palace, interrupting her reverie. Broad steps made of polished stone swirling with pale orange and black sparkles ended in a landing by the entrance. An enormous gold-and-crimson striped canopy shaded the area.

  A black-uniformed soldier stood at each side of the double gold doors, swords sheathed. They held pikes crossed in an X in front of the doors.

  A gong sounded. The soldiers snapped their pikes upright. The doors flung open. A tall man dressed in black strode through, walking to the edge of the landing. Thaddis? A striking man, to be sure. A woman and several courtiers followed him. The coach rolled forward, and Daria lost sight of the party.

  When the coach stopped, her brothers hastened out. But at least Setteff reached out a hand to help her. Hoping her appearance wasn’t too wind-blown, Daria strove for a dignified exit. Unfortunately, Setteff let go before she’d reached the ground, and she took a mincing hop to balance. Under other circumstances, she’d have dug a sharp elbow into her brother’s side, but today, settled for acting like a princess instead of a mannerless hoyden.

  Lifting her skirt the slightest bit, she followed her brothers up the stairway. Above them, the man who could only be Thaddis stood in solitary splendor, his entourage arrayed in a semicircle several paces behind him.

  Curious, Daria tried to get a closer look at the woman who must be Pasinae, but Cihkel’s broad back obscured her view.

  Thaddis stood as tall as her brothers and father, his auburn hair darker than Joshel’s. His features were as handsome, too—high cheekbones, a strong, dimpled chin, and a wide brow upon which rested a braided crown of red-gold set with yellow sunstones. His tawny eyes gleamed with the same light as the stones. What an unusual color. When his gaze touched on her, uneasiness crawled up her spine.

  The crimson velvet of Thaddis’s medallion of mourning blazed across his chest. The medal, twice as big as Iceros’s, showed Stevenes full face instead of the profile etched on Daria’s.

  In front of Iceros, Thaddis placed his hand over his medallion. “Stevenes, the King, has passed to Besolet’s glory.”

  One by one, her family went through the greeting ceremony, allowing Daria time to take in the beauty of the woman.

  Pasinae. She had no doubt. All that Cihkel had described, and more. About the same height as Daria, Pasinae had dressed entirely in silk, the exact shade as the ribbon on the medallion. The material clung to every curve of her lush body and highlighted her creamy, golden skin.

  Daria tried not to stare at Pasinae’s perfect features—oval face, short, straight nose, and generous red lips. Her luminous brown eyes, long-lashed and slightly tilted under delicate eyebrows, fascinated Daria. She’d never seen such dark eyes. They made her green orbs seem ordinary.

  Pasinae had swept her hair up in the front, using a ruby comb to hold it in place. The rest flowed in a thick fall to her waist.

  Daria took her beauty for granted—her looks were a part of her—no more or less than her fighting skills, her penchant for burrowing into ancient tomes in the library, her dislike of change. But seeing Thaddis’s mistress reduced Daria to the gangly awkwardness of adolescence.

  Thaddis looked to Daria, and she realized her turn had come. She started toward him, trying to find her usual assurance with her body instead of the gawky and muscle-bound youngling who’d taken her over. Still disconcerted, she raised her eyes to Thaddis’s, only to be captured by the hawk-like intensity of his gaze.

  Almost frozen in place, she barely registered his ritual greeting. But when she touched her medallion, the words of her response sounded calm instead of stumbling from her lips.

  Duty over, his pose relaxed, although Thaddis didn’t smile, and his amber gaze remained raptor-sharp. “Princess Daria.” He took her hand, and with a slight bow, brought it to his lips.

  His lips touched her knuckles, sending shivers over her skin, further unbalancing her. Her othersense pulsed, and she reached for understanding, but like the rest of her, the ability twisted away from her attempts to center.

  Bad or good? I cannot tell.

  ~ ~ ~

  Khan glanced behind him and resisted the panicked urge to kick Nika into a gallop. The horses were almost spent, and without a goal, it would be pointless to waste the small amount of energy they had left. With gritty eyes, he scanned the bleak land ahead of him. No protection. Only the same barren sand, broken by small rocky outcroppings and a few stunted bushes. He could see no refuge from the sandstorm smudging the horizon behind him.

  He pulled Omar’s parting gift from the inside of his shirt, unrolling the aging parchment and squinting at the faded lines markings. The hidden city should be around here somewhere.

  Omar’s idea had sounded great when he’d handed Khan the map. But after traveling five days in the desert, Khan hadn’t found the place he sought. If I don’t find shelter soon, Amir will have his wish for my death fulfilled—without lifting a finger.

  A shudder racked him. Better to have a quick demise in a car accident with his horses still safe in their stable, than all of them suffering a torturous death, scored and suffocated by a sandstorm.

  The wind picked up, sending sand whirling around the horses’ knees. His stomach twisted in fear.

  The scrape of Nika’s hooves on a hard surface caused him to look down. There, half-buried, lay the faintest trace of a crumbled brick road, its dun color blending into the sand.

  A look behind at the approaching storm goaded him into kicking Nika into a last dash toward salvation. “Allah, guide me,” he prayed, leaning low over his horse’s neck and pulling on Daisy’s lead rope.

  Low symmetrical shapes appeared in the distance, different from the rocks of the desert.

  The wind gusted sand into his face. He must hurry before the storm obscured everything. “Faster, faster,” he called into Nika’s ear. The horse responded with a last burst of speed. Khan dropped the lead rope as Nika pulled ahead, trusting Daisy would follow the stallion.

  There. The largest of the ruins had a vague dome, and the remains of the road led straight to it. “Please, Allah, may this be it.” If he judged wrong, there wouldn’t be time to search anew. He’d have to make a temporary shelter and hope he and the horses survived.

  Minutes drew out li
ke hours before the road ended in front of a circular building, made of pale stone worn by time. He reined in Nika and jumped off. It only took him a minute to run around the round structure.

  No entrance.

  Reaching his starting place, he pounded the wall in despair, his heart thumping with each thud of his hand. He detected a slight movement and stepped back to study the wall. A faint crack outlined a door. He struck harder, not caring how the brick bruised his flesh. The door moved a few more inches, only to stop and refuse to budge.

  The edge of the storm hit. Needle-sharp sand scoured his skin and obscured his vision. Khan clawed the opening to the left, then to the right, scraping his skin and breaking off his nails. He must have triggered a hidden lock. With an abruptness that caught him off-balance, the entry slid aside.

  He fell onto his knees, jarring his body. He scrambled to his feet. Without pausing to assess the room, he held his arm protectively before his eyes. Holding his breath, he turned into the storm to grasp Nika’s reins and pull him inside, Daisy crowding behind.

  Khan strained to close the door, but fearful of being trapped inside, left it open a few inches before collapsing against Nika, his chest heaving as he gulped for air. Through the crack, the wind screamed like an angry monster.

  The door thudded shut, plunging them into darkness.

  ~ ~ ~

  The doors of the sleeping room closed behind the last of the servitors, and Thaddis, King of Ocean’s Glory, breathed a sigh of relief. He’d had a difficult day, and tomorrow would be worse. Feigning sorrow in the face of his people’s scrutiny required a great deal of energy. And excellent playacting skills.

  Clad in a heavy black satin nightshirt, he gazed in satisfaction around the room, which, until this week, had belonged to his father. Stevenes’s taste was too simple and cluttered. Books and papers littered the shell-inlaid surfaces of several small tables. The gilt around the two large mirrors looked dull, and the coverings of the brown leather chairs and red-and-gold damask sofa were worn and shabby. The portrait of his mother smiling down on him would have to go. He couldn’t face her too-sweet smile every day.