Dream Singer: A Dream Chronicle Novel

Other books in J.A. Ferguson’s Dream Chronicle series

Dream Singer

Dream Shaper

Dream Master

Dream Traveler

Dream Seeker

Dream Singer

by

J.A. Ferguson

ImaJinn Books

Copyright

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), events or locations is entirely coincidental.

ImaJinn Books

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Ebook ISBN: 978-1-61194-613-0

Print ISBN: 978-1-893896-02-4

ImaJinn Books is an Imprint of BelleBooks, Inc.

Copyright © 1999 by Jo Ann Ferguson writing as J.A. Ferguson

Published in the United States of America.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

ImaJinn Books was founded by Linda Kichline.

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Cover design: Deborah Smith

Interior design: Hank Smith

Photo/Art credits:

Art © M. C. Krauss

:Asdf:01:

For Laura

Here’s one you might even read!

Always grasp your dreams.

Prologue

Why didn’t they just kill him and have it over with?

He had never liked waiting. Not even now while he waited to be executed.

He sat with his back against the cold stone wall and tapped his fingers impatiently on the clammy floor. He ignored the other prisoners. They were just shadows in the thin light from the single brand set in the wall beyond the barred door. If his impatience disturbed them, they would not argue about it. In the barbaric world beneath the Tiria’s palace, he had carved out a niche with his bare hands. He was not afraid to kill to keep what was his, and they knew it.

Hunger rumbled in his gut. A grim smile twisted across his lips. Why should those above bother to feed those who were already dead in the eyes of Gayomian law? The Tiria would never be so wasteful. She had proven her stifling government’s efficiency by condemning him to death swiftly.

Since the travesty of his trial, he had rotted in this hole that could have come from the depths of a dreamsinger’s madness. Once he had yearned to believe that this was just a nightmare, but it was real. The deprivation, the suffering, the death—it all was real. Too real. The warmth of sunshine on his face was like the memory of a half-forgotten dream. And the sweet song of the wind through the fragrant pine—

He almost laughed. The prison reeked of human waste and forgotten corpses.

He wiggled his bare feet, ignoring the manacles rattling around his ankles. So far, he had been lucky. He had not lost any toes to decay. Not that that would be important when he was shorter by a head.

He rubbed his nape. It was said there was little pain when a sword was driven through the neck, but then again, no one had survived to tell the tale. He had no fear of death. If the choice was that or waiting here until he ceded himself to madness, he would rather die.

Yet, he needed to live long enough to discover who had betrayed him to the Tiria. One of his own had used him to gain favor with that despot, for Gayome’s leader wanted control of the northern woods.

Footsteps resounded toward the cell. He looked up in curiosity. No one had come since he was tossed in this cell days ago. Again his stomach grumbled, but he disregarded it. He was not weakened by hunger... or not too much.

A moan came from the dusky corner. The fools! They could not halt the death due to be served to them on the cold steel of the Tiria’s brutality.

Light strengthened. The guards were afraid of the dark that had been his ally before he was tricked into the Tiria’s bloody hands. He rose. The chains holding him to the wall grew as taut as his fists when he faced the door. He smiled when a key clattered in the lock. Let them see that he would meet his end with pride.

The glare of a torch fought its way into the ebony cell and flickered off the guard’s funereal uniform of black and red. She was one of the Tiria’s feared death warriors.

Bow your head, the guard ordered.

He did not obey.

The Tiria (May she live forever!) has remembered that you are taking up space in her prison. She stepped through the door. Her fingers were steady on the hilt of her broadsword, but her knuckles bleached.

Was she frightened of a manacled man?

The guard was right to be scared, for she knew he could kill her before another breath was drawn. However, with the chains on his wrists and legs, he would be no match for the rest of the guards. If they struck his bonds... There was no use thinking of the impossible, because it might blind him to the possible.

I should have guessed that, sooner or later, she’d get a taste for blood and think of mine. His smile broadened as he added, What are you waiting for? I’ve heard that she doesn’t like to wait to watch her enemies’ heads roll.

Beheaded? The guard wheezed a laugh. You have angered her Supreme Graciousness more than you guessed. The Tiria (May she live forever!) has decreed that you be sent to the thrall-games.

His smile did not waver. He watched the guards’ uneasy expressions. No doubt, they thought him mad with prison fever. Any sane man would react with horror at being delivered to the vassal city of Teles. The residents there enjoyed viewing men in a battle to the death. It was not a quick way to die, but, in his opinion, it was far better than being left to molder in a dank cell.

I’ll have to remember to thank the Tiria—May she suffer in the dreamless depths forever—for her consideration.

A young guard raised her sword and muttered a curse. He laughed at such obsessive loyalty. Only an idiot would submerge her will and thoughts to the Tiria. When the leader of the guards hissed a warning, he was surprised it was aimed at the other guard. Perhaps he was not the only one who could see corruption at the heart of the Tiria’s rule.

He held out his arms compliantly as a guard edged around him to unhook him from the wall. Snarling orders at the disheartened wretches at the back of the cell, the guard pushed him toward the door. The guard was wasting her breath. The drudges did not have a spark of life left. The Tiria had won their souls before taking their heads.

The three guards raised their swords, but he turned to the woman relocking the cell door. Do we leave today?

In a hurry to join the thrall-games?

A change of scenery would be nice.

Come along. No tricks.

Nothing up my sleeve. He moved his elbows to shake the tatters of his tunic sleeves.

Silence.

When the guard backed away, keeping her sword between them, he laughed. The clink of the chains about his wrists and ankles squelched his amusement. Being in prison had not been as humiliating as being chained like a beast.

It was only temporary. When they reached Teles, which should not take more than a nineday, his shackles would be removed. No man had been forced into the thrall-games while manacled. Of course, anything was possible in that evil city. It mirrored the perversions birthed here in the Tiria’s private compound. There were many miles between here and Teles and many opportunities to avoid the fate issued to him by the Tiria.

Muscles not used in months protested as he climbed the steep, narrow stairs. The guards jeered at his wobbly steps. Cursing them silently, he kept his head high. None of his family had served the Tiria. He would not do so now by offering entertainment for her witless warriors.

He emerged into the thin sunshine. His eyes, that had become accustomed to the dark, burned. He halted, rubbing his fingers through his beard. Was it still red, or had it turned as white as a bug crawling from beneath a stone?

Struggling to see, he discovered a crowd congregating in the main courtyard of the Tiria’s compound. Others wore chains, so he was not the only one being sent to Teles. That surprised him. Why would the Tiria be making such a generous gesture to the city that had been subservient to her rule since the Beginnings? She must want something, and she was buying it with these lives.

Snow was heaped around the market booths and the wall marking the Tiria’s private quarters. It had been the peak of summer when he was sent to that hole. Six months was a long time for a prisoner to remain under the earth. Perhaps the Tiria was not as efficient as he had believed, or, he thought with a smile, she had other, more pressing issues on her mind. The people of the northern woods could not be the only ones chafing beneath her cruel persecution.

Were they still free? What had happened since he had last seen the sun? The city was unchanged. Its high stone walls and spiraling towers still separated it from the lands the Tiria ruled. The booths in the marketplace were open for business, but extra guards watched from the walls and prowled the courtyard. The people in the market skulked away from the warriors.

Fear.

It stank in the wintry sunshine like droppings in a stableyard. It hummed beneath the voices in the marketplace. The Tiria had always ruled by fear, but this was something else. Something more. He could not pinpoint it, but a subtle transformation had taken place. He must find out what it was. Then he would turn it to his advantage.

His smile returned as he saw a decorated litter at the front of what looked like a long procession. The Tiria must have a reason for courting Teles with this show of glitter and strength. That might mean a threat to her power. Such circumstances could be bent to his favor.

Walk, thrall, grumbled his guard.

He thought of protesting, but not now. Trying to escape while ringed by the Tiria’s guards would be futile—or fatal.

His time would come. He would be free again. Then he would have his revenge. The Tiria would rue the day she had ordered Durgan Ketassian to the thrall-games.

One

GO BACK. NOW.

Nerienne sighed as she heard the soft voice in her mind. It could be her heart whispering to her, but it was not. It was Bidge, and Bidge should know there was no turning back. Not now, not ever. Fate and the Tiria of Gayome commanded what would come to pass. Not even the First Daughter could defy that dictate.

Cold.

How she wished Bidge would be silent! Although no one else had ever been able to hear the small creature, Nerienne did not want to listen to her whining just as the heavy, iron-banded door from the Tiria’s private compound crashed closed behind her.

A soft hiccup of grief resonated through Nerienne’s head, and she looked down at the creature which was gripping the yellow sash of Nerienne’s tunic with its single foot. It regarded her with a furious blue gaze. Its dark gray feline-like face had no fur, but a crown of bright silver bristled between its two pointed ears.

Cold, Bidge called. Go back.

You know that is impossible. Nerienne found it easier to speak aloud to Bidge. Otherwise, her thoughts and Bidge’s became a jumble.

Go back.

Arguing with Bidge was futile. Nerienne said, Please just be quiet.

She watched Bidge disappear into her black shell which was about the size and shape of Nerienne’s clenched fist. Only Bidge’s foot remained visible, her three toes clinging to the sash.

Touching Bidge’s shell which pulsated with warmth, Nerienne whispered a silent prayer of gratitude to the Eldest Ones. Nerienne’s earliest memory was finding Bidge under a flowering bush in the garden beyond the rooms she shared with her sisters. Since then, Bidge had been her companion and confidante, although Nerienne could not guess how much Bidge understood. She was not even sure what Bidge was or how she had gotten to the garden. Once Nerienne had tried to ask Bidge. The small creature had become so hysterical, Nerienne had swallowed her curiosity and simply accepted Bidge as the friend she was.

And she needed a friend so desperately now as she walked away from the only home she had ever known. Without Bidge, she would not have been able to withstand the grief of leaving her home and those she loved.

The fiercest cold sliced through her heart. She looked up at the thickening gray clouds. If the sun had continued shining brightly on the drifts of snow skulking in every shadowed corner by the high walls, the day would be warmer and maybe she would be, too.

She clasped her hands under her fur-lined cloak. It would be so simple. One whisper would banish the clouds, but she must not. The final message from the Tiria to the First Daughter had forbidden Nerienne from speaking to the wind. No explanation, just a command. Nerienne’s hands clenched in frustration. The order made no sense. Why would the Tiria halt her from using the skills that would ease the discomfort of this trip? There must be a reason that the Tiria alone understood.

Reluctantly, Nerienne ignored the tempting brush of the wind against her cheek. Being a part of its sweet, seductive song was not worth being shorter by a head.

A solitary servant followed her. Essa was surrounded by the red glow of fear. Hastily Nerienne shut her mind, because she did not want to be burdened by the old woman’s terror. She had too many fears of her own.

We must hurry, First Daughter, Essa said anxiously. If we are late... She quivered so hard Nerienne was sure her bones must be rattling.

They will not leave without us.

Nerienne resisted looking back at the wall. She might see eyes filled with tears or eyes crinkled with amusement that her life had taken this unexpected turn. No one must know her dread of what awaited her when her journey came to an end. Bidding her sisters and her womb-mother farewell, knowing how long it might be until she could return, had been heart-wrenching. Yet she must submit to the Tiria’s edict.

What the Tiria (May she live forever!) wishes, you must do with an eager heart.

That had been her earliest lesson, as it was for every child in the Tiria’s realm. Those who failed to heed the Tiria’s dictates spent their final, tormented days imprisoned in the darkest recesses of the Tiria’s dungeon before being separated from their heads. The order had been clear. Nerienne was not to use any of the powers that had been hers since birth and were as much a part of her as breathing.

Until that edict had been announced, Nerienne had not guessed that the Tiria was aware of the powers that had been granted by the Eldest Ones to her First Daughter. The Tiria had not said anything of them on the few occasions Nerienne had spoken with her, and Nerienne had been cautioned by her womb-mother never to say anything about her daily life unless the Tiria asked her of it. The Tiria never had... until several ninedays ago. Nerienne had been brought to her mother’s dusky chambers where the Tiria fired questions at her for more than two hours. Nerienne had seen her mother’s anger in both her face and the glow around her, but had had not time to ask questions. She had been dismissed without an explanation, although she had not anticipated one. Then, the command had come along with the command to go to Teles this very day, giving her no chance to say farewell to those she loved. She did not want to believe the discussion with her mother and this order were connected. She could not guess how they might be, but an uneasiness at the base of her mind refused to be dislodged.

As Nerienne entered the marketplace, a frigid wind tugged at the veil covering her hair. She was relieved to see the final preparations for getting the caravan underway were nearly complete. Dozens of soldiers, recruited from Gayome’s vassal cities, milled about, struggling to stay warm. She frowned when she saw how deserted the square was.

Dreams of catastrophe had haunted her for the past nineday. Were they a portent? That was nonsense. Ordinary dreams meant nothing. Only a dreamsinger sang true dreams.

Shouts came from the far end of the caravan. She stared at the ragged and chained creatures being sent to Teles as fodder for the thrall-games. Their fear was as thick as smoke from the chimneys. Pity filled her, but not because she had sympathy for criminals. They deserved their punishment for breaking the Tiria’s laws. They were being given a chance to remain alive as they provided entertainment in Teles in the foothills of the distant Ring Mountains. Still she pitied them for having to go to Teles... as she must.

Bad, announced a small voice. Stay here.

Bidge, I told you to be quiet.

Bidge glowered at Nerienne before retreating again into her shell.

Staying here was what Nerienne wanted, too. Teles would never be home. Its gardens were reputed to be tiny, and music was scarce. She feared for her mind in such a place. No flowers to brighten her day, no songs to lighten her heart, and, although it seemed impossible, she had heard there was not one dreamsinger in the whole city.

She had asked a delegation who had come to pay their respects to the Tiria why. They had given her no direct answer, which she expected from their scheming ilk. If they had been fortunate to have even a single dreamsinger in Teles, the diplomats would have bragged about that as they did everything else. In their opinion, nothing could be as grand, as rich, as wonderful as the city of Teles and its ruler Stanwic Parand.

She disagreed.

Nerienne stepped around a dog and its pups. They yelped as they raced among the soldiers and the litter bearers queuing up for the caravan. Her banishment from the Tiria’s compound would last—if she was lucky—for no more than this year. Yet it seemed a lifetime.

Your litter waits, First Daughter, said a soldier in a silver uniform. Only the Tiria’s personal guards were granted permission to wear this color. The woman’s clipped hair was as black as her boots. She raised her hand in the salute that started at her breast and went to her shaved temple.

I have no need for a litter, Nerienne said, each word straining past her lips which were clenched against the cold.

First Daughter, the Tiria (May she live forever!) ordered a litter for you. The guard stared at the ground in front of Nerienne’s feet.

Nerienne sensed awe from the taller woman. Not just awe, but fear. Of her? She dismissed that thought, but it stalked her. Something was wrong.

If it is the wish of the Tiria (May she live forever!) that I ride in the litter she has so generously provided, Nerienne said formally, then it is mine.

She disregarded the peculiar pulse of rebellion. It came from her heart, not the guard’s, and had taunted her since the announcement that she was to travel to Teles. Protesting would be foolish, for even the First Daughter was subservient to the Tiria.

Especially the First Daughter, she thought as the guard led her to an ornate litter. Four burly men stood by the poles. They aped the salute the guard had made, but did not speak. Not that Nerienne expected them to, for litter carriers lost their tongues when they gained their position. So the Tiria had decided. So it must be.

The sun burst through a rupture in the clouds, and Nerienne tensed. If the Tiria thought she had disobeyed the order... Nothing pierced her soul. Her heart continued its steady beat. No agony ravaged her body. Closing her eyes, she whispered a silent prayer of gratitude that the Tiria had not been privy to her seditious thoughts.

When the guard pulled aside the litter’s curtain, Nerienne looked at a window near the top of the widest tower. No one stood there. She had been silly to think the Tiria would watch her leave. Her mother wasted no time on her offspring. She simply arranged for her First Daughter to do her duty. Now it was up to Nerienne to obey.

NERIENNE WANTED to stretch her arms. She needed to get a breath of fresh air. She just wanted to sit on something that was not moving. Closing her eyes, she reclined back against the wall of the litter.

It should not have been more than a nineday journey to Teles, but the caravan had been slowed by the cold wind coursing down from the Ring Mountains. By day, they inched through snow. Nights were spent in small settlements where the residents vied to impress Nerienne, never guessing that a clean bed with fresh linen and the quiet of her own thoughts were what she wanted more than anything else.

Do sit still, Essa complained from the other side of the cramped litter. We will be upended.

Nerienne opened her eyes and peered through the dusk. The old woman, with her wrinkled face half-hidden beneath her cloak, had complained as endlessly as Bidge and even more bitterly since they had left the Tiria’s compound. Nerienne had not chided her, for each time Nerienne closed her eyes, the old woman’s image was bathed in a sickish green light of pain.

I am hot. Nerienne reached for the heavy drapes.

Don’t open that! It is so cold out there.

Not cold. Too hot, came Bidge’s low voice.

Nerienne patted Bidge’s shell. We need fresh air.

You shall have enough fresh air when we reach those accursed mountains. Then we shall be forced to walk, retorted the old woman. How my old bones hurt!

That’s because you’re stuck in here. We should walk and build our strength for the mountain road. She opened the drapes and looked skyward. If I have the wind find some warmth to blow our way...

Essa snatched the curtain and pulled it closed. Do not speak so, my lady. Not even in jest. Remember what the Tiria (May she live forever!) ordered. You are to set aside the skills that have been yours all your life.

Nerienne bit back a retort. Her mother’s edict was absurd. The Tiria was the all-seeing, all-knowing connection with everything since the Beginnings. Why hadn’t the Tiria foreseen the discomfort of this journey? She must have, but then why had she forbidden Nerienne from commanding the wind to blow more gently along their route to Teles?

Listening to the melodies played on the winds sweeping the winter cold across the fields, she sighed with frustration. An order from the Tiria must not be disobeyed. Not ever.

If you are hot, Essa mumbled, hand me your cloak. I am cold.

Hot, chirped Bidge as she peeked out from beneath the wool. Nerienne pulled off her cloying cloak. Tossing it on the old woman’s lap, she smoothed her red tunic along her leggings as Bidge mumbled contentedly.

The old woman scowled. "Why did you bring that thing with you?"

Bidge is my friend.

Silly beast! muttered Essa. "What will the people of Teles think of you wearing that thing?"

What do I care what they think? She raised her chin. I am the First Daughter of Gayome, and only the opinions of the Tiria (May she live forever!) matter to me. She sat straighter, then winced when her pendant with its precious bluestones bounced against her breastbone.

Essa shrank back, fright on her ancient face.

Nerienne slipped the silver-strand pendant with its quartet of lifestones under her tunic. The stones were deadly to anyone but the First Daughter. She wished Essa no harm.

Forgive me, my lady, whispered the old woman.

We are both tired. Why don’t we rest?

She closed her eyes again, hoping a nap would hurry this tedious journey. She wrapped her arms around herself as a sudden chill taunted her. The end of the journey would bring no relief for her suffering. Nothing would be right until she returned home, her duty completed. She wished someone would explain why the Tiria was sending her to Teles. In the past, the First Daughter had remained in the Tiria’s compound until her duties were complete. Even the oldest scholars could not recall a time when the First Daughter had left, except in death.

The litter suddenly jerked. Essa shrieked. Nerienne pushed aside the curtain. It fell back into place as the litter bounced again. Her hip struck the sharp framing around the door. The curtain snapped open as the litter stopped. She recoiled from the blast of cold air scoring her face.

Something more vicious than the wind struck her. Absolute terror. It clamped around Nerienne’s throat like a burrower, strangling her. She fought it, but too many minds attacked hers. She could not extinguish fear’s red-hot flame. At her waist, Bidge moaned.

What’s wrong? Nerienne shouted.

A guard shoved the curtain aside and kept her eyes respectfully low. She started to speak, then twitched, surprise widening her eyes. Blood flowed from her lips as she collapsed, a feathered shaft sticking out of her back.

Essa screamed. We’re going to die!

Be silent! If— Nerienne choked back a gasp when the litter lurched into motion. She fell against the cushions. The bearers must be running. What was happening?

She tore the curtains open. Arrows erupted from the trees at the edge of a broad meadow. A river of men flowed toward the caravan.

Elasians! cried someone.

One look confirmed that. Nerienne saw the brand of a skeletal face on the attackers’ cheeks.

Stay here, Essa, she ordered as she gathered her feet beneath her.

First Daughter, you cannot—

The litter toppled.

Nerienne grabbed for the door, but her fingers found only empty air. The litter struck the ground. Pain erupted across her skull. Essa screamed, the sound vanishing into a gurgle.

Pillows struck Nerienne, clinging like fearful children. Shoving them aside, she whispered, Bidge?

Nerienne hurt? peeped the small voice in her mind.

I’m fine. Stay in your shell.

Nerienne need help?

Stay in your shell. She did not want to be bombarded with questions now.

She reached for Essa. Her fingers came back covered with blood. She groaned as a thud of