GUISES OF THE MIND Read online

  But Aklier felt none of the satisfaction he had expected this moment to bring. There was no joy, no sense of accomplishment anywhere in his mind or soul. Instead, as he continued to wait in his palace apartments so near to the King’s, Aklier paced the thickly carpeted floor. His troubled thoughts allowed him no peace.

  Aklier sank into a chair and covered his face with his hands. He had known from the start that Beahoram was different from Joakal, but his blindness to that difference had been misplaced and self-imposed. In his desire to see that hated law abolished, Aklier knew he had closed his eyes to too much.

  He raised his head. On the table next to him, he noticed the goblet of wine he had poured himself hours ago and then forgotten. He reached out and grasped it, raised it to his lips, and drank to ease not the thirst of his body, but of his soul.

  Aklier lowered the goblet from his lips, but the thirst remained. Doubts assailed his mind in new and torturous ways. Had Beahoram always been as cruel and hard as he had become lately? Aklier wondered. A month ago, he would had said no, but now he was not so sure.

  Aklier remembered how he had first seen Beahoram sixteen months ago during a visit to Port Ceevat in the west. The Elder had been there to supervise the off-loading of cargo due for the King’s household, and Beahoram had been working on the docks. Aklier had recognized him immediately and the sight of him had brought to mind the long-forgotten incident of Joakal’s birth. Piecing together what must have happened, Aklier had arranged to meet with the young dock worker whose face was the mirror image of the King’s.

  Or he thought he had arranged it. Now he wondered. Beahoram had been willing enough for the meeting to take place, and he had known the story of his own birth. What was more, though at the time Aklier had been too involved in the conception of this plot, too caught up in the sudden possibility of attaining his long-desired goal to notice it, Beahoram had known about both Aklier’s daughter and his wife.

  Again his new doubts whispered. Had Beahoram engineered their meeting after all? He had certainly made himself conspicuous throughout the day. If I had not reacted, not sought him out, Aklier wondered, would he have found some other way for us to meet? Were all the words and actions I believed to be commitment to a cause mere manipulation? Why else would he have known about my past? Countless people all across the planet have had to sacrifice their children to the law and to the God. Why else should Beahoram know about my personal tragedy?

  Aklier stared at the near empty goblet in his hand. The sip that remained in the crystal cup was deep red—blood red. Soon he would have blood on his hands. No, it was there already. There was the blood of his daughter, whom his hands had carried to the temple and to her death. It did not matter that the law of this world had required it. The blood remained. And there was the blood of his wife, who had died of grief and hopelessness. To those he had now added the blood of betrayal, and of blasphemy against the God.

  The thought chilled him. If the God would not forgive him, he would be banned from the afterlife and eternally cut off from everyone he had ever loved. He would never be reunited with his wife and child.

  Aklier threw the goblet from him. It crashed into the wall and splintered, and the red wine trickled slowly down the wall.

  Aklier lunged to his feet and turned away, but the bitter aftertaste of the wine remained in his mouth. More bitter were the thoughts that continued to tumble through his brain.

  I have betrayed my King and my people, Aklier thought as he took a few stumbling steps. I have betrayed my faith and my God. He stiffened his back for a moment; I would do it again, he told himself. I would do anything to rid this world of that foul law. To keep my promise to Ilayne, I would willingly suffer the eternal blackness.

  Then his doubts crept back and his shoulders once again drooped. What, the voice of his uncertainties whispered, what if Beahoram is lying? What if he is only using you to gain the throne, and he has no intention of keeping his promise? What if all you have risked means nothing, after all?

  Aklier did not want to listen to these thoughts. It was all too possible. Decades embedded themselves into the lines on Aklier’s face. Suddenly he looked like an old, old man.

  If only I had trusted in Joakal’s goodness, he thought as he again began to pace around the room. I should have gone to Joakal and talked to him. He would have listened. I was his friend.

  Aklier turned his face toward the ceiling. He shut his eyes tightly, trying to squeeze away the pain he felt in his soul. Oh, Joakal, why didn’t you discuss your plans with me before I met Beahoram instead of later? Why didn’t you tell me before you were down in that cell? You said you had help coming, but how could I believe you? I thought you were trying to talk your way free. Then the Federation people showed up and they had the Little Mother with them. I should have trusted you, Joakal. I should have known you wouldn’t lie to me.

  Aklier paced around the room a few more times. He knew he was trapped by his own choices. He was as much a captive as Joakal.

  Aklier stopped. A plan, a sudden breath of hope blew through his brain and he held himself still, afraid that any movement might make it disappear. His hand went to the deep pocket of his pants and he felt the weight of the extra key Beahoram had given him.

  I’ll go to the cell, he thought as he swallowed down a gulp of air. I’ll go to the cell and release them, then I’ll offer myself up to Joakal’s mercy. He’ll understand. I didn’t want him harmed—I never wanted anyone harmed. I just wanted . . .

  There was a knock on Aklier’s door. His breath caught in his throat and his new purpose fled.

  He turned. With heavy, weary footsteps, he crossed to the door and opened it. A liveried servant stood there.

  “The procession is forming, Elder,” he said respectfully. “Your presence is required.”

  Aklier nodded. Too late, his thoughts whispered in rhythm with his heartbeat.

  Too late. . . .

  Beahoram stood in his apartments, his arms outstretched while his dressers added the last refinements to his attire. As for his Vigil, he was dressed in white. But this was no simple tunic and pants of bleached cloth. The clothes he wore today were of brocade woven of shimmering silk, with the predatory bird that was the symbol of his House worked white-upon-white into the weaving. The buttons that ran in a line down the front of the tunic were diamond-encircled rubies. More rubies sparked their particular fire at his cuffs and around the base of the stiff high collar, and his boots were of soft red leather.

  One dresser knelt before him, wrapping a crimson sash around Beahoram’s waist. Another stood a few feet away, waiting to fasten the long cloak of white brocade, on the back of which the same predatory bird had been stitched in gold and inset with rubies for the beak, eye, and talons, about Beahoram’s shoulders. A third stood in the corner, carefully cradling the ancient golden Circlet of Kingship with its single bright ruby that would grace Beahoram’s head as he entered the temple. Once these final embellishments had been added to his attire, the dressers stepped back to let Beahoram view himself in the long mirror.

  Beahoram could not suppress the smile that came to his lips. He looked majestic. He looked every bit the part he had assumed and was now to become in fact. No one would think to question or doubt him. Everything he had dreamed of, everything he had planned and worked for, was his now.

  There was a discreet knock on the door. Beahoram nodded and one of the servants who had dressed him went to answer it. Another servant, young and liveried, stood in the doorway.

  “The procession has gathered below, Sire,” he said with a deep bow, “and they await your presence.”

  “Very well,” Beahoram answered and he turned to follow his guide into the corridor.

  The servant walked before him down the long hallway to the top of the great stairs. Then he stood aside to let Beahoram descend alone.

  Beahoram walked slowly. The long train of his cloak fanned out across the stairs above him. The silk of his brocaded clothing and the jew
els studded about his person all flashed in the bright lights of the hall. One by one, the Elders turned to him, then dropped to one knee and bowed in deep obeisance.

  Beahoram stood on the stairs, gazing in triumph at the sea of bowed heads. In their hands he saw the swords and scepters, robes, stoles, chains, and crowns with which he would soon be invested. His thoughts soared. They leapt and reeled and laughed.

  He had won.

  Troi could not feel her body, nor could she feel the hands she knew were clasped tightly in her own. The only reality now, and for these last few hours, was the psychic world through which she wandered, searching for passage to the nether regions of Joakal’s mind. Somewhere, she knew, waited the key to unlocking the full potential of the young King’s powers.

  Never had Troi found a task more difficult. Twice she believed she had found the passage she sought, only to have her efforts blocked by shields behind shields behind shields, in configurations she had never before encountered and for which all her Betazoid training offered no key.

  The amount of psychic energy this effort was consuming was staggering. Alone, Troi knew she would have been forced to sever contact long ago. It was because of Mother Veronica that this effort could be made at all, and whether they should succeed or fail, Troi’s gratitude to the nun remained the same.

  To Troi, this was exhausting work, but for Mother Veronica it was like being caught in a nightmare from which there was no way to break free. Each thought, each image and memory that flowed from Joakal’s mind through hers, was the personal horror, the years of striving and failing to be free of other people’s minds, being condensed, intensified, and twisted. Joakal’s thoughts were invading her as she was invading him. It did not matter that he had opened willingly to them or that their lives could well depend upon this action. Mother Veronica found each second of contact a soul-wrenching ordeal. She had to fight herself not to break away, not to retreat to the far corner of the room and beg to be left in peace.

  And Troi experienced each second of the battle with her.

  Troi would have spared Mother Veronica if it had been possible. It was not; it was only through her link with Mother Veronica that Troi could direct their efforts. She could use her knowledge and training as would any surgeon, but the nun’s mind was the scalpel. Her telepathic abilities were the instrument that must be wielded if they were to find the pathway behind Joakal’s shields.

  Troi felt the nun’s abhorrence as once again they attempted to delve deeply into the young King’s mind. Images, voices, snatches of conversations, and half-remembered written phrases flashed from Joakal’s thoughts, through Mother Veronica’s, and into Troi’s mind, instantly accepted and ignored. These were surface memories, the type that could be picked up on any finely tuned neuro-scanner, in presence if not in content. Troi rejected them at once, as she had been doing for the hours she and the others had been in contact.

  Once more, Troi tried to encounter the neuro-synaptic network that would lead to the telepathic centers of Joakal’s brain. Again her passage was blocked and her probing was turned aside like water hitting a wall. Her mind, and Mother Veronica’s, crashed back in on themselves.

  She broke contact. As physical sensation returned, she felt first the icy coldness of her own body, then the trembling fatigue coming from Mother Veronica. Troi saw how the effort of the last hours had drained the nun. Joakal’s face, too, was possessed of a sickly pallor that had little to do with the pale green light cast by the surrounding stone. Only the captain, as he waited for her report, had any energy to give. Troi felt it emanating from him in strong and steady waves, and she held to his strength like a lifeline.

  Before she could meet his eyes or answer the unspoken questions she knew would be waiting there, Troi closed her eyes again. She forced herself to breathe deeply a few times as she tried to banish the depression of her failure.

  Another failure to report; too many failures.

  She did not have to report it. The captain read it in her face and in her silence. He stood to ease the muscles in his back and legs that had cramped from sitting still for so long while he watched and waited, not wanting his movements to disturb their concentration. He strode briskly around the cell.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” Troi began, but Picard cut her off.

  “You tried, Counselor,” he said. “You all tried, and that’s the most anyone can do. Now we’ll have to try something else. But not until you’ve rested, and each of you has eaten,” he added, gesturing toward the forgotten platter of bread and cheese and the pitcher of water Beahoram had brought with his last visit.

  Troi managed a wan smile and a nod, relieved by the lack of recriminations in the captain’s words and in his thoughts.

  “That’s better,” he said as he squatted down to pick up the platter and pitcher and bring them closer to the others.

  As he neared, Troi again felt the wash of his strength. Even here, he was The Captain, in command of himself and the situation, despite their captivity. This was the very strength and indomitable will that had allowed him to overcome the assimilation of the Borg and had led not only to his own freedom but to the salvation of the Federation.

  Never more than at this moment had Troi been aware of her admiration of the captain, and of her gratitude to Starfleet for assigning her to serve under Jean-Luc Picard.

  Chapter Nineteen

  WHEN ELANA HAD first fled from the palace and the man she now knew as Beahoram, she had been given a secluded room on the third floor of the Servants’ quarters at the back of the temple. She was told it was a room where she would have solitude in which to meditate and recover. Now it had become as much a cell as the one in which she had found Joakal.

  The Servants to whom Faellon had entrusted her after he discovered her in his office had not been harsh with her as they marched her through the corridors. But neither had they been lax enough for her to escape. They stood as her guards on the other side of the locked door.

  In the hours she had endured this enforced retreat, Elana had pleaded and shouted, raged in anger against the Chief Servant and against the God, beat out her frustration on the door until her hands ached and her throat was sore. Then she had wept with bitter, angry tears.

  Now she sat on the edge of the bed and stared at her feet. Her emotions were spent. From time to time a tear still rolled down her cheek and dropped unnoticed onto the hands that lay limp in her lap. Elana could not say from where the tears came; her reservoirs of both anger and sorrow were long empty. The tears merely were.

  From within the temple, a fanfare blasted, announcing the entry of the royal procession. It sounded once and then again, and still it did not penetrate the fog that wrapped Elana’s mind. But the third and final blast reached her. Like a strong wind and the bright, burning sun, it melted the mists that had enshrouded her will and Elana knew she could not give up.

  She did not waste time berating herself for her depression. Time was too precious now; if need be, her self-accusations could come later. Elana lifted her head. Her eyes opened wide, and from some hidden reserve energy surged back renewed.

  Her eyes searched for anything to which familiarity might have blinded her before. The door she knew was blocked to her, and she tossed that thought away as quickly as it appeared. The only other exit was the window. She had looked through it before and found no avenue of escape, but she now ran to it again.

  The cobbled ground of the temple’s enclosed outer courtyard lay thirty feet below, taunting her with the promise of unobtainable freedom. Too far to jump, there was no tree near enough to climb down, no tresses or latticework—nothing but cold, hard stone.

  Elana could hear the melodic chanting of the Servants gently filtering up from the temple as they sang the opening responses to the coronation rite. She bent her head farther out the window, looking for some way, any way, to get free.

  Four feet below her window, a small ledge, no more than six inches wide, stuck out from the stone. Another one was ten feet
below that, marking the junction of the stories. They both ran the full length of the wall.

  Could she do it? Elana wondered. By jamming her fingers into the cracks between the large stones of which the temple was constructed and keeping her toes on the ledge, could she slowly inch around the building and escape?

  Elana drew back from the window. She leaned against the wall of her room and closed her eyes. What she was contemplating was crazy, but there was no other way. Did she have the strength? she wondered. Did she have the courage? Even as she asked herself these questions, she knew she had to try. She would never be able to live with herself if she did not.

  Giving herself no more time to think, she bent and took off her shoes. She pulled the hem of her Servant’s robe from back to front between her legs and secured it with the sash around her waist. Then she climbed out the window.

  She sat for a moment on the sill, listening to the sounds around her. The chanting from the temple, the voices of children in the distance laughing and calling in their play, birds singing, the sounds of the city. The sounds of life.

  Elana knew that if she fell, she would not survive. Yet there would be no life left for her if Beahoram was not stopped. Trying to ignore the sudden twisting of her guts, Elana turned and lowered herself over the edge.

  Her stomach grated against the stone of the windowsill as she descended. Long heartbeats of panic swelled while her bare feet sought the relative safety of the ledge. Was it farther away than it looked? What if she could not reach it at all? Would she have the strength to pull herself back inside, or would she hang here until her fingers grew numb and she slipped, plummeting down to the courtyard and her death?

  These thoughts flashed in an instant through Elana’s brain. They were there in the sounds of her own breathing and the feel of the stone beneath her body. She did not want to think them. She tried to concentrate only on her actions, on each precious inch she covered. Finally, her toes touched the small stone outcropping. Her shoulders were still well above the sill, her arms could still reach inside her room. She rested her cheek against the stone surface where she had sat a long moment before and waited until her heart ceased its frantic pounding.