GUISES OF THE MIND

by Rebecca Neason

  Beahoram continued to walk, to claim by touch the contents of the room. He ran one finger along the gilded edge of the frames on the paintings that lined the wall. He stopped to gaze at the window that ran from the ceiling to floor, bracketed on either side by drapes of the crimson-and-gold brocade and crowned by panes of colored glass. He took a few more steps, watching how his feet buried themselves noiselessly in the thick pile of the deep red carpet while he crossed the room to the fireplace. It was empty now, but the green-veined stone from which it was made, the Living Stone it was called in ancient times, was filled with light. It looked as if the fire had one time entered it and become trapped there.

  Beahoram’s fingers tightened on the mantle. It was his now, all of it, as it should always have been.

  He turned and found Aklier watching him. “It will work,” he said again.

  The Elder swallowed audibly. “These headaches,” he said. “You’ve had too many of them—the first one in the Council chambers and now four more in as many days. The others are beginning to talk. They’re wondering if the headaches might be the God’s way of telling us you should not be raised to Absolute. If it happens again, the Council will begin to look elsewhere for its divine ruler.”

  “It won’t happen again. I was trying to force something my mind was not yet ready to do. I’m content now to wait until after the coronation. The power will come to me then.”

  “I’ve risked everything, Beahoram. If we’re caught, my life will be forfeit, too. Don’t forget that.”

  Beahoram’s eyes narrowed. “I forget nothing,” he said.

  There was a knock on the door. Aklier jerked around nervously, but Beahoram strolled languidly back to his chair and seated himself, a small, self-satisfied smile on his lips.

  “Come,” he called, and the door was opened by a young boy in royal livery.

  “Sire,” he said with a bow. “The Lady Elana E’shala is here. She asks for an audience with Your Majesty.”

  Beahoram glanced at Aklier. The Elder was sweating, his body taut and nearly trembling with fear. Beahoram dismissed the reaction; Aklier was easily frightened.

  “The Elder and I are still in conference,” Beahoram told the waiting servant. “We will ring when we are finished.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” the boy said as he bowed out of the room.

  “You must not see her,” Aklier said as soon as the door closed. “She could ruin everything.”

  “Why? Who is she?”

  “The woman your brother hoped to marry.”

  “Then I must see her. Tell me everything you know.”

  “But, Beahoram—”

  “Don’t call me that,” Beahoram said through clenched teeth. “Never again. Now, tell me.”

  Aklier swallowed audibly. “Elana E’shala is a Gentleborn of the Westron Province. She and your brother have known each other for the past nine years and have been with each other almost daily. Joakal loves her very deeply. He has asked her to marry him after he is Elevated and free to wed. I believe Elana also loves Joakal, but she is very devout. A month ago she returned to her childhood home in the Westron to meditate on her decision whether to marry your brother or enter Service at the temple. She was not due to return until the day of the coronation.”

  Aklier stopped; Beahoram waited impatiently. “What else?” he demanded.

  “Else?”

  “Yes. What personal things can you tell me? You were in my brother’s confidence—I need to know everything.”

  “I know nothing more. There were some things your brother did not confide even to me.”

  “No matter,” Beahoram said with a shrug. “No one doubts I am my brother. Neither will this Elana. Ring the bell, Aklier.”

  The Elder pulled the bell cord. A few seconds later the same servant entered.

  “You may admit the Lady now,” Beahoram said.

  The servant again bowed and left. While they waited, Beahoram watched Aklier. The Elder’s nervousness irritated Beahoram.

  When this is over, Beahoram thought, I’ll replace him with someone who has more courage. I’m certain I can arrange for some—accident—to rid me of Aklier.

  The door opened and Beahoram turned his attention from the Elder to the woman who entered. His eyes widened slightly at the sight of her.

  She was small and delicate, dressed in flowing pants and sashed tunic similar to the ones worn by both Beahoram and Aklier, but in the blue and silver of her House. Her hair rippled in golden curls nearly to her waist. Her eyes were the same blue as her tunic, the color of a cloudless sky in early evening, and even from a distance they seemed to sparkle and dance. When she smiled at Beahoram, a little dimple appeared by the corner of her mouth. Beahoram’s opinion of his brother elevated a little; it seemed they shared the same taste in feminine beauty.

  “Elana,” he said, testing the feel of her name in his mouth. She rushed across the room to him. He stood and enfolded her into his arm.

  “I couldn’t wait until after the coronation,” she whispered, her mouth close to his ear. “I missed you too much.”

  “And I missed you,” Beahoram lied.

  Elana stepped back and searched his face, a little frown tracing a line between her brows.

  “Have you, Joakal?” she asked. There was a slight waver to her voice.

  Beahoram smiled at her. He took her hand and held it, feeling the softness of her skin.

  “Of course I have,” he said. “Tell me about your trip home—what did you do, who did you see? Tell me everything.”

  Again Elana studied his face. She glanced from him to Aklier standing unobtrusively by the far wall, and back to Beahoram.

  “Don’t you . . . don’t you want to know my decision?” she asked uncertainly.

  “Only if it’s good news,” Beahoram said, trying to sound pensive.

  Elana smiled at him. “It is good news,” she said.

  “The best news. Yes, Joakal—I will marry you.”

  Beahoram pulled her again into his arms, savoring the feel of her body against his. His lips found hers and closed upon them greedily.

  This, too, shall be mine, he thought. But even as the words were in his mind, he felt Elana stiffen. She pulled back from him with a low cry. Her eyes again searched his face, then she turned and ran from the room.

  Daylight was beginning to dim and the late afternoon breeze had picked up force as Elana E’shala stood at the base of the temple steps. She pulled her dark blue cape closer to her sides and held her head high, refusing to give in to the tears that waited so near the surface of her thoughts.

  Was it only three hours ago? she wondered, feeling as if these last hours had brought her to some remote and ancient era of her life. Only three hours since she had told Joakal she would marry him and had rushed so willingly into his arms? Three hours since his lips had fastened on hers in a kiss devoid of love, filled only with avid, predatory hunger. With that kiss, Elana’s world had grown dark and still. Her heart felt as chilled as the breeze that blew across her cheeks and stung her already red and weary eyes.

  She would not marry now; that one kiss had changed everything. She would enter the temple and Serve the God, as it seemed she was meant to do.

  She put her foot on the first step and began to climb, though her feet felt as heavy as stone. The tears she promised she would no longer shed sprang again to her eyes. She blinked them away, but it was no use; the pain was still too fresh. Oh Joakal, her thoughts cried, what happened? What changed you?

  Elana reached the top step. Recessed behind four towering pillars that filled the temple porch, the great doors stood open. For the first time in Elana’s life, the temple did not welcome her. Its interior did not look cool and inviting. Today the doors of the temple seemed like a huge gaping maw, waiting to devour her, greedy for her life, her happiness, her soul.

  Elana shook her head, trying to clear away the unwelcome image. This was to be her home now and the love she would have given, had given to Joakal, s
he would turn to the God. Defiant of the pain in her heart, she lifted her chin and walked into the temple.

  Silence was the first thing to greet her—a deafening roar of silence. The air was heavy with it; the stone walls and vaulted ceiling dripped with it. It was woven into the light from the lamps that shone in their sconces along the walls. It darkened the shadowed corners and swallowed the sound of Elana’s footsteps as she walked down the wide center aisle, past the myriad seats where worshipers could sit or kneel.

  She stopped before the altar and knelt at the base of the wide steps. Her heart did not fill with prayers and supplications. “I am here,” was all she could find to say.

  She continued to kneel, staring at the altar towering six steps above her. It, like the pillars outside, glowed with the pale green light of the Living Stone, and on the altar stood the large golden bowl that symbolized the receptive mind.

  My mind is not receptive, Elana thought. Nor is my heart. They are filled with Joakal. Still. I must find out what’s wrong. Even if his love for me is dead, I have to find out what has changed him.

  Elana raised herself off the cold stone floor. She bowed stiffly to the altar then turned toward the small door on her left that led to the cloistered buildings behind the temple. She would make her Oblation of Service here, at this temple as she had always dreamed, but she would do so to remain where she could watch her beloved.

  Elana found the Chief Servant, Faellon, in his office sitting behind a desk covered with the equipment necessary to monitor the daily needs of the temple. The Chief Servant’s halo of white hair, his slight stoop-shouldered body dressed in the dark green robe of Service, his sleepy eyes and patient expression looked out of place next to the computer terminals and communication screen that took up most of the surface area of the massive wooden desk.

  Elana sat in the chair across the desk from him and told the Chief Servant everything. She started with her childhood hopes and ended with the reason she was here. She left out none of her dreams, her doubts, or her pain.

  She was not oblivious to the emotions that played across Faellon’s face as she talked. Elena saw the patient resignation in the set of his shoulders and the lines around his mouth that shifted to an ill-concealed expression of boredom long before Elana finished speaking. Although he tried to hide it behind sagacious nods, Elana could tell that Faellon had ceased to listen to her, to hear, or care, what she was saying.

  “I think, Daughter,” he said when Elana had finished speaking, “you have been hasty in your judgment. Our young King’s mind is on his coronation, as it should be. He is preparing himself for the Wisdom which the God will soon impart to him. If he seemed distant or preoccupied, that is only natural. The burden of becoming the Absolute is a heavy one.”

  “He wasn’t exactly—distant,” Elana tried again to explain. “He was gracious, pleasant. He welcomed me back. Yet when he looked at me, it was with a stranger’s eyes, and the lips that kissed me were not Joakal’s.”

  “How could they be anyone else’s?” Faellon said, dismissing her words. “Daughter, you are over-wrought. Calm yourself. You’ve been away—perhaps you have not heard of the headaches that plagued His Majesty for a time. Thank the God they seem to have passed now, but when they would come upon him, he would fall to the floor in agony and have to be carried, only partially conscious, to his bed. Perhaps these account for the change you sensed in him—who knows what the God might have been imparting to his mind during those times.”

  Elana listened to the Chief Servant’s assurances, weighing them against her intuition. She knew this explanation was not enough. Something more lurked behind the change in her beloved. She could not tell how she knew, but her certainty was unequivocal. She also knew that further discussion with the Chief Servant would be futile.

  Faellon cleared his throat and changed the subject. “Now, daughter,” he said. “You spoke of entering Service. I do not believe you are ready for such a step. The Service of the God must be entered with a calm and quiet heart. Why don’t you stay with us for a time of meditation. Perhaps here, in the tranquillity of the temple, the God will direct you.”

  Elana hesitated only a moment. Where else could she go? To the palace where she usually stayed? No, what she had seen in Joakal’s eyes made that impossible. Back to her home in the Westron Province? No, not yet, not until she knew.

  “Thank you,” she said aloud. “I will stay.”

  “Good,” Faellon replied with a smile as he pressed a button on the top of his desk. After a moment, another green-robed Servant, a woman, entered.

  “Show the Lady Elana to the women’s quarters,” Faellon directed, “and issue her a Servant’s robe. She will be staying with us for a time.”

  The Servant silently stepped back and held the door open for Elana. As she stood to go, Faellon stood also.

  “Remember, daughter,” he said, “Faith is the first step toward the Wisdom of the God.” But his words had the hollowness of rote and his eyes were filled with weariness.

  After Elana had gone, Faellon seated himself and dropped his head into his hands. It was almost time for the evening hour of worship to begin. Any moment the other Servants would file into the temple to be joined by those inhabitants of the city who wished to spend time before the God.

  Faellon knew he must now go into the temple, also. He must stand at the altar and elevate the great Golden Bowl that was the symbol of his faith and Service, and lead the evening rite, as he had done for the twenty-two years he had been Chief Servant. Each night he stared into the heart of the great bowl, trying to understand the mysteries it represented and achieve that state of holy emptiness that would make him a true receptacle for the Voice of the God.

  But he was old now, and tired, and lately his prayers had been changing. How long, O God? the words formed again in his mind. How long will you require this Service from me? Every day they come to me, bringing their questions and problems and pains. I give them the answers of our faith. But the words have become just words that I have said a thousand times before. Let this burden pass from me, O God. Let me rest.

  But, as Faellon rose slowly from his desk and started out of his office, there was no answering echo to his prayer. No gentle assurances swept through his mind or caressed his soul. There was no lessening of the weariness in his heart and he knew that for whatever purpose, the God was not finished with him yet.

  Faellon stopped at the door and bowed his head until his chin pressed into his chest. He raised his arms out to the sides in an attitude of utter submission. If you will not let me go, he prayed, grant me the strength to endure.

  Beahoram stood outside his brother’s cell. He knew he should be preparing himself to go to the temple, keeping up the facade of piety for which Joakal was known, but he could not resist coming here, looking through the small grating in the cell door and watching Joakal pace back and forth in his captivity like a caged animal longing for its return to the wild.

  But to watch silently from outside the door was not enough. Beahoram wanted to see his brother’s face when he told Joakal that Elana had come to him, had told him how eager she was to marry. The need to prove his mastery over his brother was like a gnawing hunger in the pit of Beahoram’s stomach. His heart began to race as he took the key from his pocket and unlocked the cell door.

  Beahoram pushed the door open and stepped into the cell. He noted with pleasure the dark smudges that circled Joakal’s eyes; the lank and dirty hair, his unkept beard—and he, Beahoram, was clean and groomed, dressed in Joakal’s own impeccable clothing.

  Beahoram closed the door behind him and walked about the small room, reveling in the way his brother’s eyes followed his movements.

  Are you comfortable, Brother?” Beahoram asked in a silky, sardonic voice. “Is your new kingdom to your liking?”

  Still Joakal said nothing. His only movement was a slight narrowing of his lips. That was enough to make Beahoram’s heart jump with triumph. He took a step nearer to Joakal
.

  “I had a visitor,” he said, a smile twisting across his lips. “A very beautiful visitor. Do you know who it was? Can you guess? Elana—beautiful Elana. She came to tell you that she had chosen marriage. Are you pleased? I am. Such long, silken hair, like strands of gold. I can hardly wait to bury my face in it while I run my hands over the skin of her soft neck, down her shoulders, her back. After our wedding night, she too will forget you.”

  Joakal lunged. His hands grabbed for his brother’s throat, murder in his fingertips. Beahoram was ready for him. His fist caught his brother in the solar plexus and the air gushed from Joakal’s lungs. He fell to the floor, his eyes wide as he struggled to breathe.

  Beahoram lifted his foot and swung. It hit Joakal in the back, sending him into a spasm of agony. Beahoram kicked again; it felt so good.

  “When I kill you,” he said, “no one will know—or care. You are nothing.”

  Beahoram stepped back, panting. He forced his lifelong rage back under control. Not yet, he told himself, but soon. He looked down at his brother, still writhing on the floor. No spark of pity moved him.

  He turned on his heel and left the cell.

  Chapter Ten

  CAPTAIN JEAN-LUC PICARD stepped onto the turbolift near his quarters on Deck 6 and headed for the main bridge to start the day’s duties. Yet, even as he gave the order and the lift began to move, he changed his mind.

  “Computer, hold,” he said, and immediately the movement ceased. For a few seconds he looked down at his shoes, weighing his decision. Then he raised his head and gave a new order.

  “Deck Sixteen,” he said, and the turbolift changed directions.