Free Harvest of Dreams (The Gods' Dream Trilogy) by Debra Holland

face.
    For a long time, Devore left him alone in his sorrow. Then the Archpriest approached again. “You must continue, Thaddis.”
    Thaddis stiffened, bracing himself.
    Guinheld took him under, to the time when he sailed to Louat in search of Indaran.
    The next scenes, instead of playing out in ponderous detail, skipped like a stone across a pond. Perhaps even Guinheld couldn’t bear the contact with Ontarem that came from Thaddis’s memories.
    The years marched by, and the Goddess didn’t spare him any factor of his coldness, his cruelty, how he’d known, but did nothing to stop Pasinae from murdering his father so Thaddis could rule. Having Seagem’s royal family attend the funeral was a bonus in that the new king then made Daria his target. When he set sail for Seagem to propose, he had no doubt of his reception…until the princess rejected him.
    Thaddis braced himself. What lay ahead was even worse than his capture by Ontarem. He wanted to turn away from the relentless force that marched him through his memories. But as with his defeat, he had to face all the atrocities he’d committed while in the Evil God’s thrall.
    I don’t know if I can live through this.

 
    CHAPTER SIX
     
    “No, I’m not going!” Sadie said aloud in the middle of the crooked narrow street that led through what passed for a bazaar in this remote Middle-Eastern village. An energy, strange and compelling, continued to pull her away from her sightseeing toward the vast desert that lay to the west.
    She halted and looked around to see people lingering in doorways of mud-bricked houses to watch her, curiosity on their faces—or at least the faces of the men. She couldn’t quite tell about the expressions of the veiled, black-robed women. They’d probably never seen an American woman wearing jeans and a long-sleeved cotton shirt stop in the middle of the street—and talk to nobody in English.
    When she didn’t move, a woman standing behind the cloth-covered awning of a vegetable stand beckoned Sadie over to her, then lifted her hand in a sipping motion.
    Far from being greeted with the hostility she’d expected from watching the news on television or visiting in Israel, Sadie had been shown openheartedness and hospitality by many strangers, who seemed honored by the presence of an American in their out-of-the-way villages. From experience, she knew if she followed the woman who’d invited her, she’d be given thick coffee in tiny cups, or cool mint tea and perhaps dates.
    Over and over, Sadie had been touched by gestures of kindness she never would have expected. The last week had changed her perspective on humanity in a way she hoped she’d remember when she returned home in a few days.
    Sadie smiled a thank you, gave the woman a little bow, then pointed down the street, as if she had somewhere to go. Then she waved and started to walk against the pull of whatever energy had been tugging her in the opposite direction of her destination. She’d felt the lure ever since she’d had the strange dream the night her grandmother had died.
    Like I’m being summoned.
    Sadie shook her head but continued to walk, dodging around people who strolled or stopped to look at wares. “I’m headed to the airport. To America. Home,” she chanted under her breath. In the last days, she’d stated those sentences many times, apparently without affect.
    Zeesa, follow the call.
    The hairs on her arms stood up, and Sadie stepped into an empty alley. She stared at a worn mud brick wall, uncaring of the smell of urine and feces that wafted from the far corner.
    Did I just imagine hearing Bubby?
    Sadie touched the right pocket of her jeans where the medallion rested against her hip. She’d become accustomed to the small circle of warmth. But now the coin-sized object seemed to grow hotter. Uncomfortable, but not burning. Some kind of message?
    What if she stopped fighting the compulsion? After all, what did she have to go home to? Unlike previous