Earthborn (Homecoming) by Orson Scott Card

true enough. So they laid down their weapons on the stone floor of the platform.
    At once the strangers closed on them, seized them, bound them, and forced them to run with them through the woods until they came to a place where twenty such platforms were clustered. On them many buildings rose, most of them houses, but not humble ones, and some of the buildings could not have been houses at all, but rather were palaces and gamecourts, temples and, most prominent of all, one solitary tower rising taller than any of the trees. From that tower you could sure look out over this whole land, thought Monush, and see any enemies that might be approaching.
    If the soldiers hadn’t gagged Monush and his men, he might have asked them if they were the Zenifi. As it was, they were thrown into a room that must have been built for storing food, but now was empty except for the four bound prisoners.
    In Edhadeya’s dream, thought Monush, weren’t the Zenifi
asking
to be rescued?
    Akma awoke from his dream, trembling with fear. But he dared not cry aloud, for they had learned that the diggers who guarded them regarded all loud voices inthe night as prayers to the Keeper—and Pabulog had decreed that any praying to the Keeper by these followers of Akmaro was blasphemy, to be punished by death. Not that a single cry in the night would have a child killed—but the diggers would have dragged them out of their tent and beaten them, demanding that they confess that one of them had been praying. The children had learned to waken silently, no matter how terrible the dream.
    Still, he had to speak of it while it was fresh in mind. He wanted to waken his mother, wanted her to enfold him in her arms and comfort him. But he was too old for that, he knew; he would be ashamed of needing her comfort even as he gratefully received it.
    So it was his father, Akmaro, that he nudged until his father rolled over and whispered, “What is it, Akma?”
    “I dreamed.”
    “A true dream?”
    “The Keeper sent men to rescue us. But a cloud of darkness and a mist of water blocked their view and they lost the path to us. Now they will never come.”
    “How did you know the Keeper sent them?”
    “I just knew.”
    “Very well,” said Akmaro. “I will think about this. Go back to sleep.”
    Akma knew that he had done all he could do. Now it was in his father’s hands. He should have been satisfied, but he was not satisfied at all. In fact, he was angry. He didn’t want his father to think about it, he wanted his father to
talk
about it. He wanted to help come up with the interpretation of the dream. It
was
his own dream, after all. But his father listened, took the dream seriously enough, but then assumed that it was up to him alone to decide what to do about it, as if Akma were a machine like the Index in the ancient stories.
    I’m not a machine, said Akma silently, and I can think of what this means as well as anyone.
    It means . . . it means . . .
    That the Keeper sent men to rescue us and they lost the way. What else could it mean? How could Father interpret it any differently?
    Maybe it isn’t the interpretation of the dream that Father is thinking about. Maybe he’s thinking about what to do next. If the Keeper was just going to send another party of rescuers, then why send me such a dream? It must mean that there will be no other rescuers. So it’s up to us to save ourselves.
    And Akma drifted off to sleep with dreams of battle in his mind, standing sword-in-hand, facing down his tormentors. He saw himself standing over the beheaded body of Pabul; he heard Udad groan with his guts spilled out into his lap as he sat on the ground, marveling at the mess young Akma had made of his body. As for Didul, Akma imagined a long confrontation between them, with Didul finally pleading for his life, the arrogance wiped off his face, his beautiful cheeks streaked with tears. Shall I let you live, after you beat me and taunted me every day for weeks and weeks?