GUISES OF THE MIND

by Rebecca Neason

  She did not look down as she moved on to the next phase of her escape. She would not look down again until she must. Instead her eyes scanned the large square stones of the temple, tracing the path her hands must follow.

  Once, the giant blocks had fit together smoothly. But the passing centuries of sun and wind and storms had worn down the hard edges of the stones, creating cracks and crevasses. Hope replaced desperation. Confidence returned and Elana knew she could do it.

  She began to inch away from the window. With her left arm still hooked through the window opening, she reached out with her right hand. Her fingers quested for the first of many holds until she found a place where her fingers slipped easily between the stones. She let go of the window and moved her left hand into position.

  Inch by inch, she slid her toes along the ledge. She moved first one hand, then the other, cautiously, trying to find the rhythm of movement that would carry her to her destination. She did not dare make a mistake. Her senses heightened until she could feel each particle of dust beneath her fingertips, each hidden, undried drop of dew. Still she continued on, looking nowhere, thinking of nothing but the next place to put her hands, the next slide of her feet.

  Her shoulders began to ache from the position of her outstretched arms. Her palms grew sweaty and her fingertips were raw. The muscles of her calves burned from the unnatural balance she fought to maintain. Perspiration soaked the back of her neck and pooled between her shoulder blades.

  Finally, just when she thought she could go no farther, Elana reached the corner of the building. Here the stonemasons of that long forgotten era in which the temple was built had carved images of their faith deep into the cornerstones. These images were so familiar, Elana had forgotten their existence. Now she clung to the carving as a refuge and resting place. The cutwork was deep enough for her to stand and relieve the pressure on her strained, protesting muscles.

  For the first time since starting out, Elana dared to look around. She faced another twenty yards of the same precarious travel she had just endured. Then the building turned again. From there, Elana knew it was only a short distance to the roof of the covered walkway between the temple itself and the Servants’ quarters. If she could make it to that roof—and she would—then she would be safe. From there, she could find a way to the ground.

  The throbbing in her hands and legs subsided and Elana began again.

  While Elana traced her spiderlike crawl across the face of the building, Faellon stood at the high altar. The opening anthems and chanted prayers that accompanied the King’s entry into the temple had all been sung. The ancient regalia was in the hands of the coronation officers and they stood in their appointed places ready to bring each article to the altar, to be blessed, anointed, and applied in its prescribed function. The King himself lay prostrate on the crimson silken cloth, waiting to be raised up by consecrated hands and invested to his new status. All was as it should be.

  Yet, as Faellon held his hands out over the great golden bowl ready to invoke the God’s blessing and power on these proceedings, he felt something stir within his mind that had lain dormant for many years. The sensitivity that had first caused Faellon to enter the life of Service and had raised him to the Office of Chief Servant returned. For so long it had left him, faded through the years of disuse and hidden beneath the routine of daily duties.

  Now it whispered a warning to him; something was wrong. There was a darkness here, an undercurrent of tension and fear that was swelling and had nothing to do with the solemnity of holy rite.

  In the twenty-two years Faellon had been Chief Servant, he had officiated at many royal ceremonies, including the burial of Joakal’s father and mother, and Joakal’s own installment as King nine years ago. He remembered well the feelings, the emotions that had come from the young King then.

  Now he sensed something entirely different, and his receptivity was frightening him. He no longer wanted to hear or to be the Voice of the God. He wanted only to perform this final duty to his King, then retire to quiet anonymity.

  The sensitivity would not leave him. He tried to will it away, but it was like water overflowing a dam—a trickle at first, slowly growing toward a roaring torrent.

  The four Servants who stood near the altar to assist Faellon today were waiting for him to continue. Faellon could feel their impatient thoughts. Did they think he hesitated because he had forgotten the words of the rite? Faellon wondered. Could they, too, feel the emanations in the room?

  Or, Faellon wondered—hoped—was he being foolish? Was this only the imaginings of a tired old man?

  The congregations, spectators, and participants were also waiting for Faellon to proceed. The stillness was broken by the rustle of cloth as here and there people fidgeted in the pews. Faellon gazed down at his hands, then at the golden bowl beneath them. He raised his hands and his eyes toward the heavens, beyond which the God was said to dwell. His voice soared, filled the temple to the furthest corner.

  “O most high and exalted God, who are above all things and above all men, we come before thee today to raise to the holy role of Absolute, Joakal I’lium, in accordance with the words and laws which thou did impart to our fathers. King he now is, and only by thy power, here given and received, will he be raised up to rule with Wisdom over thy people.”

  Faellon’s hands lowered until they were outstretched to either side. Two of the waiting Servants stepped forward, each carrying a small crystal bowl and ewer of scented water. They poured a few drops of the water over each of Faellon’s hands and caught the runoff in the crystal bowls. As the cool water touched his skin, Faellon continued his prayers.

  “In the time that was before time,” he recited, “clean was the world thou created. Clean was the air; clean was the water; clean were the hearts and the minds of thy people. Return us to that perfect state, that we may not sully thy laws.”

  Symbolic purification completed, the other Servants turned away. Faellon was now properly prepared to touch the vessels used in the elevation of the King. He picked up the golden bowl and held it high so that the people might gaze upon it. Then he turned to face his assistants. They stepped toward him, each carrying a crystal cruet. The first cruet contained water, the second red wine, the third held oil, and the fourth contained a pungent liquid incense. A small amount of each liquid was poured into the golden bowl and with this mixture, the swords, scepters, crowns, rings, chains of office, and finally the King himself would be anointed.

  After the anointing, the two Robes of Service, to the God and to the people, would be draped about the King’s shoulders, their weight a reminder of the burden of responsibility he was assuming. His boots would be removed and soft slippers of golden thread would be placed on his feet to symbolize the hallowed path he now must walk. Finally, the Circlet of Kingship would be removed from his head. The Servants of the altar, led by Faellon, would then gather around the King and lay hands upon him, becoming the channel through which the Power of the God would pour to enlighten the King’s mind and create him Absolute, God-embodied. Once the King had been empowered, the final crown would be placed on his head, the scepter and sword given into his hands, and the coronation itself would be completed. Then remained only the closing prayers and the recession from the temple.

  As Faellon received each of the offerings from the cruets into the golden bowl, he looked into the faces of his assistants. He tried again to judge whether they, like him, felt that something was amiss. But they concentrated on their functions and did not meet his eyes.

  Faellon turned back around, ready to again elevate the bowl and utter the prayers to hallow its contents. The bowl nearly slipped from his fingers as a wave of adversarial emotions clashed within him. Impatience, arrogance, and impiety warred against regret and sorrow and fear.

  Faellon looked out over the congregation. Where were these thoughts coming from? he wondered. They could not be from the King. Faellon had known Joakal all of the young man’s life. There was no impiety in
him, neither arrogance nor fear. The source must be elsewhere, whether from one or several, out among the crowd.

  Why? Faellon wondered. And why should he be plagued today by the return of powers he no longer desired? He would not heed them. He set the golden bowl again on the altar and signaled for the four swords of virtue to be brought to him for anointing. His fingers dipped into the dark, viscous liquid.

  Before he could again raise his voice in prayer, Elana’s words as she was dragged from his office replaced the questions that plagued him and the voices that whispered through his mind. Was her voice the Voice of the God? Was it warning him that he had become too intent upon the outward forms of his faith and that he could no longer recognize the presence of Truth?

  But what was the Truth, and whose Truth could be believed?

  Faellon looked at the four swords in the hands of the Elders who stood waiting at the base of the altar. The points of the swords were lowered and pointed at him, ready to be anointed and consecrated before being touched to the neck of the prostrate King. The Elders were looking at Faellon with unrelenting trust.

  Here was a Truth that had been proved over the generations. Here also was Faith made tangible. Faellon’s uncertainties would wait until this day, and his duties, were done. In that instant his mind was made up. Tomorrow was the day he would retire. He had dreamed of this decision, toyed with it almost, but now he knew for certain. He would go home to the hills of the North-march and contemplate the esoterica of belief. Here, finally, was his one last duty and Service.

  Faellon motioned for the first sword to be brought forward.

  Chapter Twenty

  TROI WAS NOT AWARE that she had dozed until the captain’s voice pierced the silent blackness in which she was floating. When she opened her eyes, he was squatting next to her and speaking softly. She had to blink a few times to bring him into focus, for her eyes did not want to work, nor did her brain.

  “I’m sorry, Counselor,” Picard was saying. “I wish I could let you rest, but I need your help.”

  The captain’s words cleared the last vestiges of sleep from Troi’s mind. Apart from the hours that the drug had controlled her slumber, she had had very little rest. That coupled with the long, arduous hours she had spent working with Joakal and Mother Veronica made Troi feel as if she was calling on reserves of energy that no longer existed. She sat upright and ran a hand across her eyes to finish clearing them and tried to put her encroaching fatigue on hold one more time.

  “What is it?” she asked. “What’s happened?”

  “Nothing,” the captain answered. “That’s the problem. I think we have to accept the fact that Elana failed in her attempt to contact the ship.”

  Troi nodded. “What do you think we should do?”

  “I’m not sure, Counselor. I only know that Beahoram will return, just as he said he would, and I for one refuse to just sit here and wait.”

  Troi could not remain unaffected by the force of the captain’s determination. She felt his confidence and a small, weary smile flitted across her lips.

  “You have a plan,” she said.

  Picard snorted. “Well, I don’t think it’s good enough to qualify as a plan,” he said. “But given the circumstances, any action is better than none.”

  Troi nodded. In a sudden flash of understanding, she realized the action the captain was about to suggest was going to include physical force. The realization brought a wave of anxiety, for although Troi was an officer and Starfleet trained, the physical arts of defense had never been subjects at which she had excelled. Still, she would do what she must.

  The captain began outlining his plan. “What I am about to propose,” he said, “will take exact timing. If it does not succeed on the first attempt, it will not succeed at all.”

  “Understood,” Troi said. Her apprehension notched a bit higher.

  “Beahoram will return,” Picard said again, “but I don’t believe he will want any witnesses for what he proposes to do. That’s our one chance. When he arrives, you and the others must be sitting in plain sight—just talking, but quietly, as if I’m sleeping nearby. We’ll take the blanket and roll it to look as much like a sleeping body as possible. It won’t be exact, so you’ll have to shield it somewhat with your bodies. In the meantime, I’ll wait beside the door. When Beahoram enters, Joakal will stand and face Beahoram, which will draw his attention. I’ll grab him from behind. The door opens inward and that will afford us some cover. Without that, we would have no chance of success. Even so we’ll have to hope that Beahoram will be too intent on Joakal to notice much else.”

  Troi listened to the captain, seeing his plan in her mind’s eye. He was right; if the timing was exact, it could work. She knew that Mother Veronica would be no help with this. Neither would Joakal. After his long captivity, his physical strength could not be counted upon. If it looked as if Beahoram was going to get away, Troi knew she would have to be ready to jump in and aid the captain.

  “Any suggestions, Counselor?” the captain asked, pulling her thoughts away from their unpleasant path.

  “About your plan? No, sir. But—” Troi looked over at Mother Veronica. The nun was sleeping, curled into a fetal position. Would she be willing to link with Troi one more time?

  “There is one thing I’d like to try first, Captain,” Troi said.

  “Yes, Counselor?”

  “Are you aware of the—relationship—Will Riker and I once shared?” she asked.

  Picard cleared his throat. “I believe most of us realize that you and Commander Riker were once . . . close.”

  “Among my people, the kind of relationship Will and I shared allows them to read one another, to share their thoughts and emotions, mind to mind, regardless of race or telepathic abilities. In many ways, Will and I still share that bond. I’d like to use it to try and reach him now.”

  “Do you think it’s possible?”

  “I don’t know, sir, but if Mother Veronica is willing to help me once more, we can try.”

  “Very well, Counselor. Make it so.”

  Troi nodded and crawled over to the nun’s side. Mother Veronica was sleeping soundly. The evidence of the strain she had been under was plainly shown by the dark smudges beneath her eyes and the tight lines that ran from her nose to her mouth. As Troi watched, a frown marred the nun’s features, creating deep furrows between her brows as if she struggled with some personal demon. Troi hated to wake her, but she put her hand on Mother Veronica’s shoulder and shook gently, speaking the nun’s name.

  Mother Veronica moaned softly. Again Troi spoke the nun’s name. This time Mother Veronica opened her eyes. She turned her head slightly to look at the counselor, and Troi was grieved to see the look of fear that flashed through Mother Veronica’s eyes when she saw who was bending over her. Troi knew that the nun thought she was about to be asked again to delve into the young King’s mind. Troi felt the hurt, the horror, then finally, her resolution.

  “No,” Troi quickly assured her. “We’re not going to try that again.”

  Troi felt the nun’s answering wave of relief. Mother Veronica uncurled and turned more fully toward Troi, wearily pushing herself to a sitting position. Too exhausted to be truly curious, she merely waited to hear what the counselor had to say.

  “The captain has a plan for when Beahoram returns,” Troi told her. “It’s a good plan and it might be our only chance of escape. It includes overpowering Beahoram by force, and before then there is one thing I’d like to try. I need your help to do it.”

  Mother Veronica bowed her head. Troi felt her weariness like a stab wound in her own conscience. This was not the reason she had worked so hard with Mother Veronica, trying to teach her how to shield her mind.

  “Do you remember the first day we began our lessons?” Troi asked. “I spoke to you then about some of the positive uses for telepathic communication, and I mentioned the possibility of thought crossing distances to bring help. That is what I would like to try now. There is so
meone on the ship, someone with whom I was once very close. I believe, I hope, he will hear us.”

  Mother Veronica looked away. Troi reached out and laid a hand gently on her arm.

  “I know this is hard for you,” Troi said. “I do understand. If I could think of a way to spare you, I would. But I don’t believe I can do this alone.”

  Mother Veronica did not move. Troi could feel the internal war the nun was waging, the struggle between need and inclination, of faith and friendship over fear. Troi knew this was a personal battlefield and Mother Veronica’s decision could only be reached alone.

  “Often in my life,” the nun said at last, “I have prayed for the strength to just make it through one more day—for one day of peace, one day without the voice of other people’s thoughts in my mind. Throughout the years, God has chosen not to grant this prayer.” She turned around to look at Troi. “And so it continues. What must I do?”

  Troi released the breath she had been holding. She gave the nun a small smile that she hoped was reassuring and squeezed her arm in gratitude.

  “Just open your mind to me,” she said. “Our link will not be much different than the one we used on the Enterprise for our lessons. Our minds together will send the message. Are you ready?”

  Mother Veronica crossed herself, then she held out her hands. Troi took them in her own. She closed her eyes and reached for the bond that would pair her mind with the nun’s. It formed easily.

  Whether you realize it or not, she told Mother Veronica, your abilities have grown. They’re becoming stronger and more refined. You could accomplish a great deal with them, if you chose.

  The nun sent no answering thought and Troi did not press her. Instead she concentrated on Will Riker, calling up the image of him, the feel of his mind touching hers as it had in the sweet, golden time of their union.