Read Online The Paths of the Dead (Viscount of Adrilankha) by Steven Brust - Free Book Online

something in what you say,” he admitted.
    “I think so, too.”
    “Only—”
    “Yes?”
    “They have burned and destroyed my village, and killed nine of my people.”
    “Well, and?”
    “I wish to kill them.”
    “That is but natural. Perhaps—”
    “Yes?”
    “Perhaps the goddess will help.”
    “You think so?”
    “It is possible.”
    “Has she spoken to you?”
    “Not in a hundred years.”
    “Well?”
    “It can do no harm to ask.”
    “That is true. Let us ask, then. What is required?”
    “Very little.”
    “Then let us attempt it.”
    “Place your hands upon the altar.”
    “Very well, I have done so.”
    “Now close your eyes.”
    “They are closed; what next?”
    “Now you must think about the goddess.”
    “How, think about her?”
    “Yes.”
    “But, what shall I think about her?”
    “What you know about her.”
    “But in truth, I know very little.”
    “You have feelings for her.”
    “Well, yes.”
    “Concentrate on those.”
    “It is difficult, Arra. I feel little now except anger.”
    “You must do your best.”
    “Very well.”
    “Now you must visualize her.”
    “Ah. Visualize her.”
    “Yes. That means to picture her in your mind.”
    “Oh, I know what it means well enough, only—”
    “Yes?”
    “What does she look like?”
    “I assure you, I have not the least idea in the world.”
    “Well, that will make it more difficult.”
    “That is true, but you must do the best you can.”
    “Very well.”
    “Are you visualizing her?”
    “As best I can.”
    “That is good. Continue doing so.”
    “What then?”
    Arra did not respond; or, rather, her response was not to him. She began speaking in some language that Morrolan was unfamiliar with—indeed, a language he had never before heard pronounced. At the same time, he noticed that the altar seemed to be growing warm beneath his hands; he considered remarking to Arra upon this strange phenomenon, but then thought better of it.
    He did his best to do as Arra had bid him, difficult as it was to concentrate when in his heart he wished for nothing except to confront his enemy and rend them. Nevertheless, he tried.
    He created a picture of the goddess in his mind, thinking of her with flowing yellow hair, and bright eyes, dressed in a gown of shimmering white; at the same time he held to his feelings about her, those being composed of a measure of fear, a touch of awe, and even perhaps an element of love. In his mind—already trained, as it were, by his studies of the heathen Eastern arts, which teach discipline if nothing else—the droning of Arra’s voice gradually faded from his awareness. As sometimes happens in that state when one is no longer fully awake, and yet is not entirely asleep, his thoughts began to slip out of his control, and take almost the form of a dream. On this occasion, Morrolan did not afterward remember any details or events from the dream; only that it seemed to him that he left his body, and for a while he was aware of a presence all around him. He was also aware of time passing, though he could not tell how much; it could have been minutes, hours, or days. Arra continued her chant, or, if the reader prefer, her incantation, but Morrolan had ceased to be aware of it in the way that the noise of the chickering, however irritating when it begins, soon vanishes from one’s awareness so thoroughly that one is startled and even a little puzzled when it abruptly ceases.
    We shall not, however, carry the analogy any further. The sound did not abruptly cease; rather, Morrolan gradually became aware that some time had passed. He then realized that Arra was no longer standing next to him, but, rather, had collapsed
onto the floor next to him. Once fully aware of this occurrence, he lost no time in kneeling next to her. Or, to be more precise, he began to kneel next to her, but, for reasons he did not at once understand, he continued down until he was next to her indeed, on his back, staring up at