Dream of Kings, page 1
Acclaim for
DREAM OF KINGS
“An epic fantasy and absorbing page-turner, Dream of Kings has it all—intrigue, romance, and characters as interesting as they are endearing. With vivid world-building and a compelling plot, fantasy lovers will not want to miss out on Hinck’s latest winner.”
—Tosca Lee, New York Times bestselling author
“A marvelous reimagining of the story of Joseph, Dream of Kings is a tale that will give you a fresh perspective on a number of life’s deepest truths. Inventive, evocative, and powerful, this is a story not to be missed.”
—James L. Rubart, Christy Award® Hall of Fame author
“Another jewel in Sharon Hinck’s literary crown, full of engaging characters and dreamy worldbuilding. Enjoy this one!”
—Kathy Tyers, author of the Firebird series, Star Wars: Balance Point, and Star Wars: Truce at Bakura
“A world of brilliant color and thought, with deep characters on the ultimate quests for truth and life. [Dream of Kings] invokes the heart to find truth in real life—a Creator who still speaks with Spirit and truth through our hearts and dreams.”
—Angela Castillo, award-winning author of The River Girl’s Song and the Westward Wanderers series
“Danger. Intrigue. A sweet romance. And when you toss in a spiritual analogy, you’ve got a real winner . . . which is exactly what Dream of Kings is. I especially loved Jolan’s poignant journey, because who hasn’t been taken somewhere they don’t want to go in life? Then there’s the stalwart Kamor—a positively swoon-worthy hero who is oh-so-much-more than just muscle. Great character arcs and a story that will keep you guessing, you won’t want to miss author Sharon Hinck’s latest offering!”
—Michelle Griep, Christy Award®-winning author of Lost in Darkness
“Sharon Hinck has penned an imaginative Biblical retelling in Dream of Kings, a solid addition to the Christian fantasy genre. Hinck’s story follows Jolan, a dream teller who is kidnapped and sold to an enemy nation. Filled with adventure, political intrigue, and unique characters, this story is one readers will enjoy. The author throws in plenty of twists and turns to keep readers guessing. Hinck can be proud of this novel. It’s an absorbing adventure.”
—Jill Williamson, Christy Award®-winning author of By Darkness Hid
“Palace intrigue, rogue traders, and danger at every turn. Dream of Kings pulled me into a glorious new fantasy world that I never wanted to leave.”
—James R. Hannibal, award-winning author of Wolf Soldier
“To be immersed in a Hinck story is to be held in glorious tension between what is common and recognizable and what is peculiar and unpredictable. Her reader travels secure in such disequilibrium because this world, the world where Dream of Kings unfolds, is populated with characters of great humanity. We all dream. We all question what the dreams could mean about us or our world.”
—Patti Hill, author of Out of the Silence
“Dream of Kings is the perfect blend of fantasy, faith, and fun. While the story Hinck builds upon will be familiar, she imbues it with new concepts, intrigue, and enough romance to keep you turning the pages. Filled with wisdom and heart, this is a story that will challenge readers to find the way the Creator can use any circumstances for His glory.”
—John W. Otte, author of the Failstate trilogy and Ministrix Duology
“Like a beautiful mosaic, this tender story of a woman torn between her past and future inlays fragments of the familiar into a vibrant world of pageantry and intrigue. The result is a fully immersive tale that breathes freshness and fashions the shards of grief into the unexpected beauty of renewed joy.”
—Chawna Schroeder, the author of The Vault Between Spaces
Books by Sharon Hinck
The Secret Life of Becky Miller
Renovating Becky Miller
Symphony of Secrets
Stepping Into Sunlight
The Sword of Lyric Series
The Restorer
The Restorer’s Son
The Restorer’s Journey
The Deliverer
The Dancing Realms Series
Hidden Current
Forsaken Island
Windward Shore
Dream of Kings
Dream of Kings
Copyright © 2022 by Sharon Hinck
Published by Enclave Publishing, an imprint of Oasis Family Media
Carol Stream, Illinois, USA.
www.enclavepublishing.com
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, digitally stored, or transmitted in any form without written permission from Oasis Family Media, LLC.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.
ISBN: 979-8-88605-008-0 (printed hardback)
ISBN: 979-8-88605-009-7 (printed softcover)
ISBN: 979-8-88605-011-0 (ebook)
Cover design by Kirk DouPonce, www.DogEaredDesign.com
Typesetting by Jamie Foley, www.JamieFoley.com
Printed in the United States of America.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Cover
Acclaim for Dream of Kings
Half-Title
Books by Sharon Hinck
Title Page
Copyright Page
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Glossary
The Dancing Realms Promotion
Acknowledgments
The Sword of Lyric Promotion
“The dream teller’s calling is a lonely one. You must live a life of service to those who seek your help. Never bend to the temptation to use the calling for your own benefit.”
– The Archives of Gifts, Chapter 10, page 315
My dreams had whispered to me all my life, but lately they were shouting—shouting something urgent that I couldn’t discern.
I pushed aside the mist of sleep, shaken by my latest dream. My fingers fumbled for a quill and inkwell on the desk beside my bed. By the time I smoothed the paper and scribbled the first words, images were fading like morning frost on a windowpane. Remember. Hand trembling, I coaxed a mental picture from the cloud in my mind. My handwriting quavered as I penned the words. Crown. Silver. Ruby. Thin circlet. Shimmering. What could it mean?
After I finished writing each detail, I blotted the page and added it to a growing stack. When I riffled through the notes collected over the past weeks, cold sweat beaded on my skin. Many in the palace court came to me for my gift, and my answers soothed, counseled, and encouraged. But this was different. These dreams, with their strong connotations of power and purpose, troubled my very soul. I had always struggled to fit in with the guilds, to find a sense of belonging. If anyone found out about these portents, the precarious acceptance I had gained would shatter.
I glared up at my portrait hanging over the desk. A gift from the high lord for my services, the brushstrokes were overly flattering. The artist had widened my eyes instead of showing the way one eyelid drooped—a relic of a childhood illness. No freckles marred the skin on this two-dimensional version of Jolan the Dream Teller, and even my snub nose had been drawn longer and more regal. After all my years dedicated to revealing truth, I had no patience with the falsehood of the portrayal. My role as a dream teller didn’t merit insincere adoration. Yes, I lived in a wing of the palace, but I would always see myself as a servant—to the high lord, the courtiers, and to the humblest villager. I’d seen what could happen to a dream teller who forgot that truth.
My small wooden desk mocked my effort at humility. Few trees grew in our northern land, and those were stunted and precious. No farmer or merchant would have such a luxury. They crafted furniture from woven reeds or carved stone. I could tell myself I was a servant. I could see the danger of power and turn from it. Yet my comfortable chamber, the painting, and the wood furnishings all accused me.
A timid knock sounded at the chamber door.
“Enter.” My voice croaked, heavy with sleep.
The hinges creaked and wood groaned. Cool air wafted from the hallway, ushering in my apprentice Beja. A quilted coat hid her slim figure, and fingerless gloves swathed her hands, allowing her to work while keeping warm in the palace’s drafty rooms. She carried a large basket tied with a festive bow.
“My lady, Cimeran sent this gift, and he asked if you would join him for luncheon today in the sunroom.”
I smiled and lifted items from the basket: a miniature of the palace garden painted on a copper pendant, a soft woolen scarf, and one perfect elemberry. “Where on earth did he find someone who could grow elemberry in midwinter?”
“So I should tell him yes about luncheon?” Her gaze darted to the lush yellow berry in my palm, and she licked her lips.
“Of course. And here, I’ll share this with you.” I carefully broke the berry and passed half to Beja. Appreciative silence ruled while we savored the spicy-sweet flavor. Beja looked so young, as did all the new dream tellers. Not that I was much older. In my late twenties, I’d likely seen less than a fifth of my life. We Norgardians were strong and long-lived. Yet there were days that cold seeped into my bones, the constant intrigue and jostling for position wearied my heart, and the emotionally challenging work made me feel ancient. I couldn’t remember being as fresh and innocent as the apprentices in our guild.
I pulled out a simple dress in dappled green wool. “What’s on the schedule today?”
“Other than lunch with Cimeran?” Beja winked, and I felt a blush warm my cheeks. Why did everyone in the court have to be so interested in our relationship? “The Guildagard meets today, so the head dream teller asked you to meet with some of his seekers while he’s busy there.”
While she reminded me of the day’s other appointments, Beja helped me into the dress, then plaited my hair, coiling it atop my head. I was grateful for the nut-brown color of my braids, which suited my desire to stay in the background. I was also glad of the matching overcoat that protected me from the constant winter chill. The central rooms of the palace were kept cozy with red-veined colith stones burning in the hearths. But colith was expensive, so the outer wings of the various guilds used as little as possible. The midwinter cold seeped through every crevice.
“You could at least wear the pendant that Cimeran sent you.” Beja tucked one last strand of my hair in place.
I shook my head. “I’ll wear it for luncheon, but not for my morning sessions.”
She rolled her eyes. “I know, I know. The dreams deserve all the focus. But I still think it wouldn’t hurt for a dream teller to enjoy some frippery.” She tugged the collar of her simple tan apprentice’s uniform.
Poor girl. When her gift was discovered, she had arrived at the palace with stars in her eyes and promptly been assigned to me—the least flamboyant dream teller in the guild. “The joy comes in helping each person. That’s all I need.” Did I still believe that despite the emptiness that ached like a hollow carved in the snow by a pressing wind? I firmed my shoulders. “You’ll understand soon. In fact, I was thinking tomorrow might be a good time for you to tell the dreams of one of the visitors. Let’s look at the schedule together.”
She lit up like the hundred-candle chandelier in the high lord’s banquet hall. Together we pored over the names and needs on our list. “Am I truly ready?” Her nerves flickered in and out like those same candle flames in a draft. Had I ever been that young? That eager?
“Don’t worry. I’ll sit beside you. But I’ll only speak if you signal that you want help. You can do this.”
Together we hurried to the hall to enjoy a quick breakfast. I left my troubling stack of notes—and my troubling dreams—behind in my chamber, my spirits buoyed by Cimeran’s gifts and Beja’s excitement.
After breakfast, an apprentice from the physician’s guild skulked over and beckoned Beja away. With a word of apology, she followed him out of earshot. Eyes darting, hands gesturing, he conveyed something that he obviously thought was important.
To be polite, I turned my gaze away from their earnest conversation and studied the view outside the dining hall’s window. Brilliant ice spires of violet and blue rose to the sky on Palace Lake, shaped by the pulling wind. As a child, I used to stretch a blanket overhead on days when the pulling wind was strong, screaming with glee as it tugged me airborne. In the winter, those same pulling winds drew moisture upward, creating a magical landscape so vibrant it hurt the eyes. Surely this beauty was a hint of the Provider’s own land, the home where we would one day meet Him. I trembled at the thought. What if I didn’t fit in there either?
Beja slid onto the bench beside me.
“What was that about?” I rubbed my eyes and blinked a few times to bring her into focus after staring at the sun-glistened spires.
“Gorith fancies himself a spy, and he wants to trade information about our guilds. I’m surprised someone like him was granted the gift of healing touch. I can’t imagine he’s a great addition to the physician guild. I told him to go soak his head.”
Her indignation made me chuckle. “You’re wise to stand firm against sharing gossip.” I took a last sip from my mug of hot quoca. The rich, creamy drink made the cold days of winter bearable.
“But he says information is power.”
I set down my mug with a thump. Why did everyone chase power? “Faithfulness and loyalty are the true powers. They strengthen the individual and the whole community.”
“He says secrets bring influence, and that’s why the dream tellers are dangerous.”
Dangerous? I bristled. “We aren’t the only ones who learn people’s secrets. I’d think the physician guild learns many private things. For that matter, even the builders know the details of a person’s home. Focus on your calling and hold your own counsel, and you won’t go wrong.”
Beja nodded. “I won’t forget. But now I’m late for the apprentice meeting.”
She hurried away, and I followed more slowly. So far she’d withstood the temptations of palace intrigue. Would I be able to keep her safe? Or would she stop listening to my counsel? The possibility made my breakfast quoca churn in my stomach.
The quiet room where I met with seekers usually restored my calm. On the other side of the windowpanes, the latest snowstorm swirled, obscuring the sparkling spires in the distance. Though goose down lined my coat, the view made me shiver. I set a warming bowl on the low table between the two chairs and lit the colith fragments within. Amber light glowed from the stones, releasing a subtle spicy and smoky scent and gentle heat into the room—a room with no adornments on the walls, no images to distract from the sharing of dreams. I drew some calming breaths and waited for the first seeker.
Whenever someone in Norgard awoke troubled or fearful, they were welcome to come to us for help. If they had recurring unsettledness, it was usually a sign to schedule an appointment with a dream teller as soon as possible. Almost no one in our land remembered their dreams; fewer still could coax the meaning from them. Some even traveled from distant villages since few had a local dream teller. There were days I grew wistful for a simple village life. But the guild had labeled me as one of the most skilled dream tellers, entrapping me at the palace with a level of responsibility I didn’t want.
“Provider, reveal their need,” I recited the rote prayer. “Bring them understanding. You alone know all things.” I was tempted to ask Him about my own troubling dreams, but the door opened before I could.
A young woman tiptoed in, bundled in a heavy shawl. She scanned the room nervously, then pulled a chair close to the glowing bowl of colith stones without meeting my eyes.
“How can I help?” Even though I kept my voice gentle, she startled at my words. Clearly she hadn’t sought a dream teller’s aid before. “Don’t be afraid. Sometimes the Provider sends us a dream that—”
“That’s just it.” Her chin jerked upward, revealing eyes glazed with unshed tears. “I only remember one image, but it was horrible. Why would He send . . .” She bit off a sob.
I longed to lift away her pain, her fear. “I’m sorry your dream disturbed you. Sometimes when we speak of what we saw, the images lose their power to frighten us.” Reassurance was an important part of what we offered, and patience was a key tool. I silently waited for the young woman to think through her memories. As she did, I closed my eyes. Stark images played across my mind. An elk stamped and frothed, then charged across a frozen lake. Ice cracked, fractured, and the creature floundered then sank into the bitter depths.
I opened my eyes. “Tell me how you felt when the elk disappeared.”
Her eyes widened, snowy white rimming her irises. “Yes! I remember now. It was an elk. You saw it? They said . . . but I didn’t believe . . . how did you . . .”
I took her hand. “Dreams can be confusing and frightening. Some of my own have troubled me.” I bit my lip, wishing I hadn’t voiced that last thought. We were supposed to focus purely on the person we were serving.
