The Seventh Friend (Book 1) by Tim Stead Read Free Book Online

bore a geometric pattern of green and clear lights, so that the illusion of forest light would be all the better.
     
    Legend had it that the builders had asked this particular god what he wanted in his temple, and that his reply had been simple. Something a wolf could live in with comfort.
     
    Quin was startled to see a man standing in the road opposite the temple. He wore no cloak, hat, or any kind of protection from the rain, and he was soaked. Even so he stood there unmoving, as though transfixed by the sight of Wolf Narak’s place of worship.
     
    “Are you well?” he called, approaching the man. “May I be of service?”
     
    The man’s eyes snapped round to stare at him, startled. Quin saw that in the same movement he had drawn a knife. It was a short blade of peculiar design, having two points and a slight curve to it. Quin stopped short and pushed back his cloak, laying his hand on his own sword. The other man stared at him for a few moments, then turned and ran down one of the narrow alleys between temples, rounded a corner, and was gone.
     
    Quin was left with an impression of insanity. The man had been dressed as a priest, but he had not been able to make out the style of the robes, wet as they were. Certainly the mind behind those staring eyes was deeply troubled.
     
    He stood outside the temple for a minute or two; just to be certain that the man would not come again, and when he was sure that he would not he turned and pushed open the door of the House of Wolf Narak.
     
    The interior was dimly lit. Three small lamps burned above the granite block that served as an altar. Quin was grateful to be out of the rain and stripped off the heavy cloak, placing it over a copper rail that was fixed to the wall by the door. He peered into the gloom, but could not see any sign of life.
     
    “Maryal?” he called, and for some reason an image of the madman with the knife came to mind, and with it a pang of anxiety. “Maryal?” His second calling was a little more urgent.
     
    “My lord!” She emerged from the darkness and threw her arms about him. “There was a man watching me,” she said. “I was afraid.”
     
    Quin allowed her a moment of familiarity and held her against him, his mind filling up with the scent of her hair and the warmth of her flesh.
     
    “He is gone,” he said to her. “I showed him my sword and he ran away.” He took hold of her shoulder and gently moved her to arm’s length so that he could see her face. She had a beautiful face; dark, intelligent eyes set atop a fine straight nose and a generous mouth, all framed by dark hair that coiled thickly down her back.
     
    Maryal was not one to fear for no reason, and he had seen nothing in the man that would have caused so great a reaction.
     
    “What did he do?” he asked.
     
    ‘Nothing,” she said. “But he stared and stared so, and he spoke words without meaning – no language of Avilian at any rate. I would swear he had lost his wits.”
     
    “I thought the same,” he said. “But it is no matter. He is gone. I will mention him to the guards.” It was not the custom in Avilian for women to bear arms, but he would have to talk to the major about changing that. He did not like to think of Maryal being vulnerable to any passing madman.
     
    Quin cast his eye around the temple. It was larger than it seemed from without. The grey light of day was mellowed by the green glass and augmented by the yellow lamp light. His eyes grew accustomed to it and he could see the ornamentation – walls covered by carved leaves, oak and beech, and by stone pine cones. The altar itself was carved with a wolf’s head, not fierce, but contemplative, stone eyes gazing towards the door as though it were no barrier at all to the god’s sight. The area before the altar was built like a hearth, for containing coals, but in this case it was filled with dry leaves and twigs. A place that a wolf might lie.
     
    There was space behind the altar;