Far-Seer Read Online Free

disrespectful to drag one’s tail in the holy water.
    The last thing he wanted to do was appear disrespectful, for he knew that High Priest Det-Yenalb might be watching even now from his secret place, high above. Afsan kept his muzzle pointed ahead, as the posture of respect demanded, but he rolled his black eyes upward. Painted on the bowl-shaped ceiling was an image of the Face of God, swirling and colorful. But one of the black circular God’s eyes was really a window through which Yenalb sometimes watched, or so Afsan had heard from a court page. Afsan would make sure that Saleed would get a good report of his penance.
    Afsan had started in the middle of the river channel, as sinners must, and was now working toward the west end. The symbolism had been explained to him kilodays ago at Carno’s Hall of Worship, the first time he’d had to undergo this humiliation. He’d bitten off a playmate’s finger during a game. The other boy — what had ever become of Namron, anyway? — had regenerated the digit in a few dekadays, but he’d also tattled to the creche master about Afsan.
    Anyway, walking to the west end meant walking into the fading light of dusk, reminding one of the darkness that awaited sinners. Even then, Afsan had enjoyed the night, but he had been restrained enough not to point that out to the creche master.
    At the end of the channel, balancing all the while, he bobbed his whole body three times. It was an emulation of the instinctive gesture of territoriality, and, in this context, meant, as the sacred scrolls said, here I draw the line, I will allow darkness to come no farther. After the ritualized bobbing, he turned tail and began the slow march the other way, splashing down the river toward the east, toward dawn, toward light, toward knowledge.
    Knowledge! Afsan clicked his teeth in rueful humor. How little knowledge we have. What do we really know of the planets? Of the moons? How can Saleed turn down an opportunity to study them in detail, to learn their secrets?
    “Boy! Your tail!”
    Afsan’s heart jumped, and his fingerclaws unsheathed in surprise. Having lost himself in thought, he’d let his tail dip into the water. He quickly pulled it up and then swung his head around to find the source of the voice, echoing in the domed chamber.
    It was the wrong thing to do. With legs splayed, tail swung way up, and head turned around, he lost his balance. He came flopping down belly-first into the river, splashing holy water everywhere. The impact hurt — he could feel the free-floating riblets across the front of his belly pressing in on his organs. He quickly got to his feet, and, fear on his face, hurried onto the madaja -wood flooring, the sound of drips hitting the planks echoing much too loudly in the Hall.
    He scanned around for the source of the voice again. There, at the head of the mock river, standing where the sun would rise, was Det-Yenalb, a mid-sized male with an exceptionally long muzzle and earholes that seemed a bit too high on the side of his head. Yenalb wore the swirling, banded, colorful sash of his office.
    “Your Holiness,” Afsan stammered. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…”
    “You didn’t mean to make a mess.” Yenalb didn’t seem to be angry. “I know.”
    “I’ll clean it up right away.”
    “Yes, I’m sure you will.” The temple master looked at Afsan. “You’re the young one from Arj’toolar province, aren’t you?”
    “That’s right, sir. Afsan is my name; my home Pack is called Carno.”
    “Afsan. That’s all? A boy your size should have a praeno-men syllable by now.”
    Afsan cast his head down. “I have not earned my name prefix yet, although I have chosen the one I hope to merit: Lar.”
    “Lar,” repeated Yenalb. It was derived from Larsk, the name of the prophet. “A high standard to aspire to. And, yet, of course, you would not be here at the palace if you were not already exceptional. You’re Tak-Saleed’s latest, aren’t