The Seventh Friend (Book 1) Read Online Free Page A
Author: Tim Stead
thick with unspoken words that Narak could not bear it.
“I am distracted, Caster,” he said. “There are things that I must do, and I fear to delay too long. Please stay and enjoy what you can.”
Having excused himself he went out, passing Poor in the corridor. The steward was startled to see him so soon. It was Narak’s custom to make an evening of it when he returned from the forest, but tonight he could not. He climbed the short slope to his private study.
Narak loved this room. He lit the lamps and closed the door, taking the time to appreciate it all over again. It housed his books, his favoured chair, and mementoes of a long life. He ran a hand along the leather spines of the collected volumes, sat in the chair. It was a large brown leather piece that he had purchased a couple of centuries ago from a craftsman in Telas Alt. It was not pretty, but it was probably the most comfortable chair ever devised, and cradled him like no other.
He sat quietly and closed his eyes. His breathing slowed and he repeated the chant taught to him long ago by Pelion himself.
Petan Shafal Ah. Petan Shafal Ah.
The chant meant nothing. Pelion had told him that it meant nothing, but it took the place of thought, allowed him to focus more easily on his breathing, to send the world away for a while.
He unleashed his aspect, became the god. It was as though he had been bound in a mirror, and now was released. He was both the man and the wolf, retained his clarity of thought and gained his wolf hearing, nose and sight. He felt free and powerful within himself, looking at the darkness behind his eyes with something that was not an eye, and what it saw was not light, but something else.
He was in the Sirash.
Narak had tried to describe the Sirash to Caster, and to others. Even his fellows of the Benetheon did not share the experience well. It was like swimming, and like flying, but unlike either. He saw nothing, but there were lights there – lights that were not lights, and currents, and slopes, and it felt like oil. He had no presence, but he was anywhere he wished to be.
Drifting allowed him to gain control. Like everything else in the Sirash it was the opposite of what it seemed. When he was accustomed to the movement he glided over the top of it, imposing himself on the tides, riding them. He found a wolf, a welcoming spark of consciousness, and settled for a moment behind its eyes. It was in woodland close to the edge of the great forest. He turned and looked down through the thinning trees at tilled fields; a bonfire pushed a tower of smoke into still air. The sharpness of the wood smoke came to him through the wolf. He saw a haystack, a house in the distance with a small courtyard, surrounded by green fruit trees. This was Berash.
He released the wolf and moved again. Navigating through the darkness was a skill, and he was rusty. He moved what he thought was east, towards Bas Erinor, and touched another wolf. Now he saw the slopes of the Dragon’s Back, huge mountains topped with snow and ice. The wind was blowing chill and the pack was on the scent of an elk. This was further west. A mistake. He moved again, slipping a greater distance through the darkness and came across another mind, dimmer, smaller. A dog. He touched it and saw a street that needed cleaning, piled with garbage. He smelled food, human food past eating, but it smelled good. He had no control over the beast, and as much as he wanted it to do other things, to explore more populated streets, the dog carried on with its business, unaware.
This was Bas Erinor, he was certain. The glimpses he caught when the dog looked up were enough. The style of the buildings was Avilian, and the street sloped up to a great dark mass which he assumed was the city of the gods. Not much seemed to be wrong here, but how could he tell?
A burst of light and noise sent the dog running the other way, a glance back showing an open
“I am distracted, Caster,” he said. “There are things that I must do, and I fear to delay too long. Please stay and enjoy what you can.”
Having excused himself he went out, passing Poor in the corridor. The steward was startled to see him so soon. It was Narak’s custom to make an evening of it when he returned from the forest, but tonight he could not. He climbed the short slope to his private study.
Narak loved this room. He lit the lamps and closed the door, taking the time to appreciate it all over again. It housed his books, his favoured chair, and mementoes of a long life. He ran a hand along the leather spines of the collected volumes, sat in the chair. It was a large brown leather piece that he had purchased a couple of centuries ago from a craftsman in Telas Alt. It was not pretty, but it was probably the most comfortable chair ever devised, and cradled him like no other.
He sat quietly and closed his eyes. His breathing slowed and he repeated the chant taught to him long ago by Pelion himself.
Petan Shafal Ah. Petan Shafal Ah.
The chant meant nothing. Pelion had told him that it meant nothing, but it took the place of thought, allowed him to focus more easily on his breathing, to send the world away for a while.
He unleashed his aspect, became the god. It was as though he had been bound in a mirror, and now was released. He was both the man and the wolf, retained his clarity of thought and gained his wolf hearing, nose and sight. He felt free and powerful within himself, looking at the darkness behind his eyes with something that was not an eye, and what it saw was not light, but something else.
He was in the Sirash.
Narak had tried to describe the Sirash to Caster, and to others. Even his fellows of the Benetheon did not share the experience well. It was like swimming, and like flying, but unlike either. He saw nothing, but there were lights there – lights that were not lights, and currents, and slopes, and it felt like oil. He had no presence, but he was anywhere he wished to be.
Drifting allowed him to gain control. Like everything else in the Sirash it was the opposite of what it seemed. When he was accustomed to the movement he glided over the top of it, imposing himself on the tides, riding them. He found a wolf, a welcoming spark of consciousness, and settled for a moment behind its eyes. It was in woodland close to the edge of the great forest. He turned and looked down through the thinning trees at tilled fields; a bonfire pushed a tower of smoke into still air. The sharpness of the wood smoke came to him through the wolf. He saw a haystack, a house in the distance with a small courtyard, surrounded by green fruit trees. This was Berash.
He released the wolf and moved again. Navigating through the darkness was a skill, and he was rusty. He moved what he thought was east, towards Bas Erinor, and touched another wolf. Now he saw the slopes of the Dragon’s Back, huge mountains topped with snow and ice. The wind was blowing chill and the pack was on the scent of an elk. This was further west. A mistake. He moved again, slipping a greater distance through the darkness and came across another mind, dimmer, smaller. A dog. He touched it and saw a street that needed cleaning, piled with garbage. He smelled food, human food past eating, but it smelled good. He had no control over the beast, and as much as he wanted it to do other things, to explore more populated streets, the dog carried on with its business, unaware.
This was Bas Erinor, he was certain. The glimpses he caught when the dog looked up were enough. The style of the buildings was Avilian, and the street sloped up to a great dark mass which he assumed was the city of the gods. Not much seemed to be wrong here, but how could he tell?
A burst of light and noise sent the dog running the other way, a glance back showing an open
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