Harvest of Dreams (The Gods' Dream Trilogy) (51 page)

“All is well.” Jasmine touched his arm. “Arvintor is here. The
Good
God. He will make everything all right. Just open yourself to Him.” She guided Arvintor’s energy to brush the former Trine Priest, as lightly as a feather.

Nabric’s face slackened, and his jaw dropped.

With relief, Jasmine saw the Trine Priest begin to absorb Arvintor’s touch, and she relaxed.

But he shook his head in revulsion and, with his othersense, pushed the power away. “I won’t yield! Nooooo!” the word rose to a howl. Nabric began to shudder uncontrollably. His body shriveled, skin tightening like a mummy, as if all the blood was sucked from him.

Frantically, Jasmine searched for his connection to Ontarem to try to block the God’s death grip on His Trine Priest. But she found nothing to tie Nabric to the Evil God.

The man’s eyes bored into hers, their color fading from black to gray to white. “Ontarem,” he gasped. “My God…” the word trailed off. His arms dropped.

Shocked, Jasmine slid off the horse and backed away, unsure of this new situation.

Nabric’s head tilted forward, and he toppled off his mount.

Jasmine crouched, and placed her hand on the withered chest, but felt no heartbeat under her palm. All that remained was a husk.

~ ~ ~

Desperate, Indaran kicked at the fallen horse with his free foot and was able to yank his leg free. He rolled under another set of hooves and came up, sword in hand. Limping, he headed toward Jasmine, cutting down an enemy who tried to stop him.

Shad swooped in and grabbed Nabric’s coronet.

By the time Indaran reached the horse, Jasmine had escaped, and Trine Priest Nabric lay crumpled on the ground.

In unison, the enemy soldiers collapsed, and the sounds of the battle died away to only the moans of the wounded. The fires snuffed out, and the smoke dissipated. Dampness misted the air. Indaran turned his face to the coolness before stooping to press his fingers to the nearest soldier’s neck. But he wasn’t surprised feel no pulse. The Evil God had taken His men’s lives and suctioned off their energy rather than let them go free to worship Arvintor, His Twin Brother and ancient enemy.

Standing, Indaran limped as fast as he could to his wife, still on her knees before Nabric.

Jasmine looked up at him with haunted blue eyes. “I didn’t mean to kill him.” Her voice quavered.

“I know, dearling.”
Although, thank goodness she had.
But he would never say the words, no matter how much he believed them. Gentle Jasmine would suffer enough for the deed, and his rejoicing in her accomplishment would only make her guilt worse. He leaned down and pulled her into his arms, holding her close, deeply thankful to have her safe.

“Roe-al!” Jasmine pushed him away. She raced to the Che-da-wah man, leaping over several bodies, and dropped to her knees beside him. She thrust her healing energy into him so strongly that even Indaran could see the force of her healsense radiating from her hands. She shook her head at what she found. “No, no, Roe-al!” Her voice rose, and she began to sob.

A scream sounded from the other side of the battlefield. Jora came running, dark hair flying behind her, to throw herself down on the opposite side of the body. Tears wetting her cheeks, she cupped her mate’s face and leaned over to press a kiss on his lips. “You are my heart, Roe-al. Don’t leave me,” she begged, her voice breaking. “Please, stay with me…with your child.”

Having someone who needed her comfort was enough to cause Jasmine to straighten.

Indaran reached down and helped his wife to her feet, so she could walk around and crouch beside Jora, putting an arm around the shoulders of the Che-da-wah woman. Together the two women mourned.

Jasmine didn’t allow herself the indulgence of grief for long. After a few minutes, she lovingly patted Jora on the shoulder, rose, and pushed back the scarf that had slipped low on her forehead from her struggle with Nabric. With a determined look on her face, she hurried to the nearest victim, a Che-da-wah woman, and began to heal her.

Khan, holding Daria’s hand, walked to his side, his steps heavy. “What do we do now?”

Indaran looked around at the soot-streaked, blood-and-sweat-stained warriors, with pain in their eyes and exhaustion in their postures. “We help the healers with the wounded—both human and horse—then we ride for Penutar.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

The main street of Penutar opened up to the temple courtyard, ringed by rows of Ontarem’s soldiers who must have arrived in time from Drayleth. The sight reassured Pasinae, until she realized their army had fallen back from the best defensive position at the cliffs, where they could rain terror on an enemy who fought a steep uphill battle with no protection against any projectiles thrown from above.

Scanning the plaza in the front of the temple, she searched for the commander and found him by his height and the ornateness of his helmet, conferring with two of his aides. Hands balled at her sides, she stalked over to them. “Why are you not guarding the cliff above the harbor?”

He bowed. “We just returned from the encampment on the plains, Trine Priestess. The men can only march so fast. Ontarem ordered us to take up a position guarding the temple until the tidal wave hit.”

“The wave has been and gone.” She gestured toward the ocean.

“There may be more.” As he shrugged, weariness lined his face.

Pasinae wanted to scream at the commander like she was one of the fisherwomen working the beaches of Ocean’s Glory. “As we speak, the enemy fleet has anchored. Their soldiers are rowing to the dock,” she snapped. “Yadarius won’t send a tidal wave harming His allies.”

The commander’s gaze slid away from hers. “I must await the God’s orders.”

Irritation tightened her muscles. Pasinae fingered her pearl, seeking Ontarem’s presence. Apart from pulling on His reserves to hold back the force of the water, she hadn’t felt Him since her arrival in Penutar. But when she touched the God, she found Him deeply focused on a battle taking place in Drayleth.

Through their connection, she saw Nabric snatch up a woman whom Pasinae had never seen before, felt Ontarem’s satisfaction with her capture. But the God refused to acknowledge Pasinae. Precious time seeped away while she tried to get His attention. He absently swatted her away as if she were an insect buzzing around His face.

Pasinae ground her teeth in frustration, then took a deep breath and forced herself to relax, so as not to betray to the commander that Ontarem had just ignored His Trine Priestess. “The God is guiding the battle with the nomads and cannot be disturbed. You will order your men to march to the cliffs. Now!”

The commander nodded, reluctance in his posture. He turned to his aides and barked orders.

Pasinae left him to mobilize his men, but she doubted they’d get to the cliff in time to stop the soldiers of Ocean’s Glory from swarming up the steep road and boiling over the top like ants from an anthill.

As Pasinae climbed the steps to the temple, she felt a thump under her breastbone, as if someone had hit her heart with a fist. Wincing from the pain, she stopped to rub her chest.

A few seconds later, Nabric’s power slammed into her. Shocked, she lost her balance, teetered on the edge of a step, and almost slipped off.
Nabric…oh, my brother! Not you too. How did you die?
He must been killed in the war with the Che-da-wah.

Nabric’s energy swirled through her, blending with Kokam’s, with her own. The force swelled, expanding her ribcage. With a gasp of fear, Pasinae wondered if she could contain the intensity of the Trine, or if her body would explode. Hugging her arms around her, she wrestled the power into some sort of submission, although it seethed and roiled within her, compounded by her grief.

Panting for breath, knowing too many eyes might be watching, she turned her back on the soldiers. Spine straight, she clenched her teeth on a howl of grief.

Pasinae’s first impulse was to run to Ontarem for comfort, to mourn her brother’s death with her God. But, remembering her earlier doubts about how much He actually cared for His Trine, she paused.

I’m alone.

She willed the tears away. She didn’t dare reveal any weakness to Ontarem. Taking some deep breaths, she pushed open the tall double doors to the temple. The familiar scent of geserat incense wafted her way.

Welcome, Archpriestess Pasinae.
The statue of Ontarem looked her up and down, eyes blazing blue in approval.
The power of three within you is far greater than what any of you possessed alone. I am pleased.

Archpriestess.
The title struck her like a blow. She was no longer one of three. Even with Kokam’s death, she and Nabric had maintained the balance of the
Trine.
Now she was alone, and while she’d often wished for her God’s undivided attention, reveled in the times He’d rewarded her solely with His love, but she’d never wanted it at the cost of her brothers. With an ache of loss that made her five years old again, she desperately wanted her family.

All of a sudden, she remembered the news of her mother, of the sister and nephew she didn’t yet know.

The God caught her thoughts.
Your family serves me well. They are strong in othersense.

“You knew about them?” Another secret. Why did bitter feelings of betrayal slice her heart like shards of glass?

The statue of Ontarem tilted His chin to an arrogant angle. The marble chest puffed up.
I know all.

She held in a retort. An argument with the God would be a futile endeavor.

The boy will come to the temple soon. He will make a fine Archpriest. Perhaps he can avoid the failures of your brothers.

With her pain so raw, Ontarem’s words were like salt rubbing into her wound.

You don’t agree?
The statue glared at her.
Nabric failed. He deserved to die.

As she had so many times recently, Pasinae swallowed her resentment. She, too, had failed her God. “Yadarius is free,” she reminded Him, bracing herself for His wrath. “Ocean’s Glory attacks us.”

To her surprise, she didn’t receive a blast of anger. Instead, Ontarem waved a dismissive hand.
Yadarius and His foolish tantrums. Wasting His energy on waves. The strong ones approach—filled with power. Once they are mine—
He waved to the empty pektats,
no God or Goddess will withstand me.

Pasinae wished she possessed His confidence. “In order for that to happen, we will have to win the battle. How fares the army on Drayleth?”

They were overcome and are dead.

The news made her reel. “All? We lost half our army?”

Grieve not, Archpriestess Pasinae. Their energy lives within me. I’m stronger than I’ve been since the prisoners escaped my temple. If we win the powerful ones back, capture the new ones, bind them all to me, I will be unstoppable. I will rule the world, and you will be at my side—the most powerful human in Kimtair.

The familiar vision filled Pasinae, soothing away some of the sharp edges of her grief and resentment. But a tiny thought pricked pinholes in the picture.
Ontarem had made a similar promise to Besolet and look what happened to Her.

“Ocean’s Glory will come here to the temple,” she said with conviction. “They’re after me…after
You.”

I’ll be ready for them. They will fall under my control.

“How?” Pasinae tried to keep the sharp tone out of her voice. “They won’t come near enough to touch You. Nor will they take the drugged wine.” She cast around for ways to form a trap. Her gaze landed on the brazier where lazy spirals of geserat incense wafted into the air.

Inspiration struck. “Summon the rest of the priests and priestesses.” She tried to keep her voice to a requesting rather than demanding tone. “Have them bring every brazier we have. If we fill the room with incense, the scent and haze will disorient them.” She glanced up at the high ceilings. “Can You arrange for the smoke to stay at head level?”

A clever plan, my Archpriestess.

The satisfaction in His voice somewhat relaxed her tenseness.

Each of my priests and priestesses must wear their helmet. With the fumes so intense, even my faithful, who are used to geserat, will feel the effects.

Pasinae grimaced. She had no desire to wear protection, but she had even less desire to be rendered incompetent by the potent incense.

The helmets, made long ago by a fanatical Archpriest, magnified negative emotions and allowed Ontarem stricter manipulation of the wearer’s thoughts and emotions. Retaining some semblance of control over the helmet’s effects took training, and years had passed since she’d had hers.

Pasinae tried to think where her helmet might be, or who would even know its location. Since she’d lived so long in Ocean’s Glory, only making short visits home, she didn’t know all the priests and priestesses nor was she familiar with the day-to-day running of the temple and the city, beyond what she knew from before she her exile.
My bedroom? The armory?

An older priestess hurried in from the side door leading to the women’s quarters, robe swishing as she moved. She carried two helmets and handed the more elaborate one to Pasinae before putting on hers.