If he exists and isn’t a figment of my imagination.
~ ~ ~
Jasmine sat on a rock by the river, trailing her hand in the clear water playing over the stones, letting the gurgle-swish sounds bubble through her mind and relax her thoughts.
Her pup balanced on a rock, dabbling his paws in the stream. From the way he flicked his head, his golden eyes fixed on the water, she surmised he must be after bugs or fish. Bugs, she hoped. Grabbing a fish would probably overbalance him.
She tapped the surface of the water, thinking.
The man in her vision had held her. Since childhood, no man had never held her with such care. The rapes by Amir and Moussad were her traumatic introduction to sexual relations. Just the memory sent her pulse skittering in fear, and she could feel the rapid thump of her heartbeat. But with him, she’d experienced a sense of safety…of tenderness.
Why?
Because I was in shock from my wound? Because Arvintor was supporting me? Or was it because of the man himself?
She shrugged. He was only a vision. Regardless of why she had the vision of the man, the fact that she had it meant her subconscious was processing the trauma. Good.
With a crunch of moss, Jora joined her, placing one booted foot on the rock next to Jasmine. “Night is falling. Most of the people have returned to the camp. Would you like to go, too?”
“No, I’ll stay here with Arvintor.”
“The Stridza will remain. Sha-na, Roe-al, Dihel, and myself as well. You won’t be alone.”
Jasmine smiled. “I don’t mind being alone.”
Jora frowned. “It is not good for you to be alone. Some quiet time—” she waved a hand toward the water “—This everyone needs, yes. But not too much. Roe-al has started a fire. We sleep in the open tonight. Come.” She held out her hand. “Join us.”
Jasmine placed her hand in Jora’s, allowing herself to be drawn to her feet. Obeying an impulse, she hugged the other woman. “Thank you,” she whispered, enjoying the warmth of connection when Jora returned the hug.
Falling silent, they walked to the fire. One of the Che-da-wah had cut a circle in the moss down to the dirt, bordering the pit with rocks from the stream. Inside, the firestones burned with their sullen light, sending an acrid smoke into the air. The others were already sitting cross-legged on hides laid around the fire.
The two women each settled down on a hide. Roe-al handed Jasmine a pottery bowl of what seemed like a grain, vegetable, and meat stew, and a bone spoon. She scooped the savory mixture into her mouth, enjoying the taste of the food’s unfamiliar spices.
After she’d finished, Jora took away everyone’s bowls and spoons. The others curled up on their hides, pulling another chamois-like skin over their bodies. Their blue or green pets snuggled beside them.
With her chador for warmth, Jasmine didn’t really need any covering, but the weight of skin blanket wrapped comfortably around her body. Her pup stretched out at her side.
She stared up at the stars, tracing the patterns she’d picked out the night before. Her eyes grew heavy, and the last thing she thought about was the blond man.
Jasmine found herself drifting over a turquoise ocean, floating like a cloud in the lavender sky. She sighted land, and like a swimmer caught in a riptide, was pulled closer.
A desert lay beneath her, but not like the one surrounding her homeland. This one seemed ancient and desolate. A wasteland, rather than a natural desert. In the distance, she saw ruins and sailed closer. Melted slags of what must have once been massive structures were buried under layers of sand.
What had happened here? A war?
A flash of green pulled her to a verdant garden growing in the midst of the ruined city. Flowers dotted a multitude of colors among the greenery, even pink roses very similar to the ones blooming outside her friend Khan’s greenhouse—the ones his mother had planted years ago. In the center of the garden a familiar statue stood near a pool.
Withea!
Like a seabird skimming the water, Jasmine flew over the garden. The fragrant smell of flowers perfumed the air. She circled the statue.
The Goddess seemed to nod her head.
Then Jasmine sped back over the greenery and toward the solid wall of a two-story house.
She winced, trying to halt her momentum, but couldn’t stop. She sailed right through the wall, then paused, hovering in the middle of a large room.
In the light of the flames crackling in a fireplace, she saw Khan sitting cross-legged on the ground, talking to a woman with long blond hair.
He’s alive!
Thankfulness geysered up in her heart. Khan was in Kimtair! He was safe under Withea’s protection.
“Khan,” she called, eager to greet the friend she hadn’t seen for six months. “Khan.”
But he didn’t turn his head, didn’t seem to hear her.
Disappointment stabbed her. She so wanted to connect with him.
Instead, his attention stayed focused on the woman, who sat with her back to Jasmine. Her friend had a soft light in his eyes when he looked at this woman.
He’s fallen in love. Jasmine laughed, wishing she could tease him. She tried to float around the room, wanting to see the face of Khan’s beloved, but with a snap, the scene shifted.
Now, she stood in the desert, the ruined city nowhere in sight. A column of mounted men in black moved toward her.
Soldiers. The first man carried a pole with a round object poised on the end. A severed head, the rotting skin sagging and peeling from the skull.
Jasmine gagged and glanced away. She inhaled, gathering her courage, then looked back, careful not to look at the lead man.
The third man in line drew her attention. His auburn hair shone in the sun, and his pale skin was ruddy with sunburn. But even the exposure to the harsh desert hadn’t shaken the man’s arrogance. Like a hunting cat, his gold eyes in an aristocratic face seemed to peer right through her. A miasma of evil clung to him.
Jasmine swallowed down a shudder.
This man is a danger to Khan. The sensation the Che-da-wah had called othersense throbbed with alarm. I have to return. Warn him.
She tried to kick off into the air. But her feet remained buried in the sand. The cavalcade of soldiers rode past her, heading straight for the ruined city. And there was nothing she could do to stop them.
The scene shifted again.
Jasmine stood on a packed dirt surface in front of a square stone building the size of one of London’s city blocks. The ominous gray structure loomed over her, and she shivered and half-turned away.
Where am I?
She took small pivoting steps, examining her surroundings. The dirt yard around the building stretched for about two hundred meters.
Behind her, one broad avenue led from the structure bisecting blocks of boxy gray buildings, miniatures of the large one, with unpaved streets running between them. Other crooked streets snaked through the city. Houses? Businesses?
A few dark-haired people wearing long gray robes, not unlike her chador, moved through the streets, carrying baskets or bundles. No one glanced in her direction. Nor did they stop and talk to each other. They seemed to avoid eye contact.
She could see no green plants or flowers growing anywhere. No children playing, no animals, no bright colors. Almost no sounds.
Jasmine wondered if she were enmeshed in one of Arvintor’s dream teachings. Although, she paused to think, she could feel the breeze blowing on her face, carrying the hint of the sea, and something else. She wrinkled her nose, not liking the noxious herbal smell.
She turned to study the large edifice. The odor seemed to be coming from there.
I need to go inside.
As soon as she thought the words, her shoulders hunched in resistance. She didn’t want to venture anywhere near the structure. But something urged her forward.
Arvintor, are you there?
No answer.
She closed her eyes, touching her center, trying to unde
rstand the feeling.
Jasmine urged her reluctant feet toward the huge double doors. Up close, they dwarfed her, making her feel small, lost. The smooth panels were without any pattern or engraving, set into the middle of the building. They were made of some type of dull pewtery metal, which seemed to absorb the light.
Maybe they’re locked, she thought hopefully. But when she pushed one panel, it swung inward on silent hinges. How strange that she could manipulate objects in this part of the dream, rather than being insubstantial.
The stench of burning herbs assaulted her. She wrinkled her nose.
Smells like some kind of noxious incense. Yucky, the Baker children would say. Jasmine had a quick pang of missing her former charges. The Bakers must be frantic with worry over her disappearance. “Don’t dawdle,” she said out loud, using one of Mrs. Baker’s no-nonsense sayings.
Maybe she should take the time to enter into a trance and try to get a message to her former mentor, letting her know she was safe. Mrs. Baker possessed her own form of othersense. Could a psychic message pass between worlds? Time and place have no meaning on the other side of the veil, she reminded herself. But for now, she must focus on her purpose for being here…find her purpose for being here.
Jasmine cupped her hand over her nose and stepped inside.
Dim oval lights clung to the walls, glowing enough to see she’d entered an enormous room that reminded her of a gigantic warehouse. Rectangular slabs marched in long rows from end to end. On each lay a person who seemed to be sleeping. Or, her morbid mind raced, like they are lying in a crypt. Fear crawled over her skin, making the hairs on her arms stand up.
Her feet froze. Only by reminding herself that these people might need help made her walk forward, moving to the nearest body.
A woman, with red hair braided into two plaits, lay as silent as death. Her eyebrows and the lashes of her closed eyes were the same color as her hair. Freckles dotted her skin. She looked thin, but—Jasmine studied the slow rise and fall of the woman’s chest—alive.
Jasmine reached out a tentative hand, touching the back of the woman’s wrist. Her skin seemed cooler than normal. “Wake up,” Jasmine murmured, tapping her wrist.
The woman didn’t stir.
Jasmine shook her shoulder, willing her to wake.
Still no response.
Abandoning the idea of trying to wake the woman, Jasmine glanced around. In the front center of the cavernous room, a statue stood. Arvintor, yet not Arvintor.
Ontarem, the Evil TwinGod.
Jasmine wanted to flee, but instead her feet took her down a broad center aisle leading to the statue. The closer she came, the more she could see the difference in the two Gods. Not in their identical faces, but in the arrogant set of Ontarem’s perfect features, and the coldness reflected in the carved eyes. A crimson kilt, similar to the one worn by Arvintor, made a brilliant splash against the grayness of the building.
A crown with high points and colorful jeweled designs rested on his head. He held a long spear like a staff. Runes decorated the shaft. Looking at the lettering made her dizzy, and she tore her gaze from the statue.
Large bronze braziers burned on each side of the statue, wafting their noxious fumes into the air.
At Ontarem’s feet lay a raised stone slab, bigger than the others, positioned like an altar. A man lay upon it, dressed in emerald-green velvet. His cloak spilled down the side of the gray slab, another bright color in the dull surroundings.
A compulsion tugged Jasmine to the side of the altar. Slowly, she approached and leaned closer.
Him!
Her dream man lay as still as death. Only the slow rise and fall of his chest reassured her that he lived.
He was so handsome.
Jasmine touched the gold cornet, brushed a strand of long, blond hair off his cheek, traced the dark brows with one finger. Then she cupped her hand around one stark cheekbone. “Wake up,” she whispered. “Please wake up.”
She cast a wary glance at the statue, but the evil God seemed to take no notice of her.
Desperate, Jasmine shook the man’s shoulder. “Wake up.” This time she raised her voice, but he didn’t stir.
She chewed on her lip to contain her disappointment.
I’m not really here. This is a dream, she tried to reassure herself. But this place exists. He exists. I’ll need to come here in person. Maybe then, I can wake him.
A door in the wall behind the statue opened, and a squat dark-haired man in a gray robe stepped through. He wore a silvery helmet, made of the same pewtery metal as the door, and shaped like an upside down coneflower. His unusual headgear should have rendered him a comical sight, but instead created a sinister appearance.
He didn’t seem to see her, but she didn’t want to draw any attention to her presence.
Another man strode through the door. Taller, younger, with handsome, arrogant face. An air of authority. A large gray pearl swung from a silvery chain around his neck. His dispassionate dark gaze swept the temple, obviously assessing. “Report, Vol.”
The shorter priest bowed. “Two more have died, my Trine.” He pointed to the third row. “That woman there and the man in the far right corner. Both originals.”
“Then have them replaced at once.”
“Yes, my Trine.” He hesitated. “The death rate has risen. We lose some every day.”
“Then it’s good that we have replacements.”
“What do we do if we run out?”
“In a few days,” the Trine said, crossing his arms over his chest and making his tone cold, “our God will be lord of all Kimtair. We’ll have plenty subjects to give Ontarem power.”
“Yes, my Trine. That is good, my Trine.”
Jasmine’s hand flew to her mouth to cover a gasp. She needed to leave, to return to her body, and seek Arvintor’s guidance.
Determination spiked within her. She bent and kissed the man’s still lips. “I will return for you. I promise.”
Then Jasmine willed herself awake.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Jasmine shot to a sitting position. The others lay sleeping; still mounds lumped under their sleeping skins. The light of dawn glowed in the grayness around them, imbuing the statue of Arvintor with a pearly glow. The firestones flickered in the pit; a trace of acrid smoke drifted her way. A snore vibrated from across the firepit. The Stridzat issued a snarling shuhh, shuhh, shuhgg that must be a trial to his mate.
Careful not to disturb the others, she slid out of the skins and strolled over to the statue, slipping her hand into Arvintor’s. “I dreamed last night. Was it your doing?” she asked in a soft voice.
Some. Withea was responsible for the section with your friend, Khan. And I don’t know about the last images of the captive in the temple. However, the man’s othersense ability is very strong. As is yours. Perhaps, he pulled you to him.
“I must go to him.”
He lies in the heart of Ontarem’s temple. My brother could be setting a trap for you. Ontarem would like to have you as his captive to siphon off your energy. He’d gain much power from you. You would be imprisoned for the rest of your life.
“Can’t you do something?”
My power is still limited.
“What about when the rest of the clans get here?”
I will be much stronger. However, not enough to challenge Ontarem and win. I’m not sure if I will even have enough to protect the Che-da-wah. When Ontarem turns his eye upon them, there will be war. They have given up their hidden life to free me. In return, all my resources must be used to protect them.
Jasmine sighed in disappointment. “I understand. I will have to go alone.”
Not entirely alone. Until all the clans of the Che-da-wah are united as my people, the plains won’t be safe. Roe-al will guide you to the edge of the plain.
“All right.”
My awareness will follow you until you reach my brother’s city. Then I will cast off my chains and flood this area with color. That
act will be like a flare streaking into the sky. Ontarem will be enraged. There will be momentary chaos until he organizes his response, maybe one or two hours. Having his attention focused on me might allow you to rescue your friend. This act is all I can offer you.
Jasmine squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. “Then it will have to be enough.”
~ ~ ~
Roe-al rode Racer through the tall grasses of Drayleth, chasing the amber sun toward Penutar. He took a deep breath of the familiar verdant air, rich with morning moisture, relieved to be away from the oppressing grayness of Sanglakic. Jatay chittered from her seat behind him. By the lower pitch of the sounds, he could tell his monga was also happy to be out of the gray forest.
As the sun rose, the crystal ruenar coating the grass took flight. The miniscule sparkling bubbles, in rainbow hues, floated through the air, then popped, making plip, plip, plip sounds. Beside him, Jasmine, on Darklady, seemed lost in the wonder of the bubbles, a dreamy smile on her thin face, her blue-eyed gaze following the ruenar from ground to air.
Her young monga peered past her, curiosity brightening his amber eyes. Roe-al eyed the light green color of the monga’s fur, which wouldn’t darken for several more months. How strange that the pup had chosen a mongat. Usually a monga was about six months older before he or she selected a human partner. But this one had adamantly protested at being left behind, making clear his intention to follow. So Jasmine had no choice but to bring him along.
They traveled past two hills, the boundary of the West Clan’s territory. Roe-al had to suppress a childish impulse to detour in that direction. But he reined in the whim. Dihel had already departed at first light. At this moment, he was probably sitting in the graptah of the clan’s Stridza, telling the tale of Arvintor’s rise. Hopefully, he wouldn’t be met with the same reaction his clan had given Jasmine.
Roe-al found himself torn between pride in being selected as Jasmine’s guide and protector, and regret at not being the one riding to bring the news of Arvintor to the other four clans, especially the West Clan.
Reaper of Dreams (The Gods' Dream Trilogy) Page 9
