GUISES OF THE MIND

by Rebecca Neason

  “That was most considerate, Captain,” the King said. “However, such a conversation is not possible today. We have, therefore, had guest rooms prepared here in the palace for you and your companions. We will meet again tomorrow.”

  The King turned away. He remounted the steps and sat again upon the throne, then motioned toward the waiting Elders.

  “Aklier will show you to your rooms,” the King said, waving his hand in the Elders’ direction. “You may leave Us now.”

  Picard gave a curt bow. If the captain was irritated by this abrupt dismissal, he was too practiced a diplomat to let it show in his voice.

  “I look forward to our meeting tomorrow,” he said evenly. Then he turned and strode toward the doors. Troi saw the surprised Elder glance up at the man on the throne before rushing to follow the captain.

  Troi and Mother Veronica fell into step behind them. Troi noticed that Picard looked neither right nor left as he walked, but held himself at attention until they were out in the corridor and the doors had once again swung shut.

  As they started down the long corridor Troi could again feel the little tendrils of fear that wove themselves in and out of Aklier’s consciousness. He began to wring his hands together nervously as he tried to find the right conciliatory words to offer the captain. Troi listened closely.

  “I’m sorry if His Majesty seemed brusque,” Aklier said, his words quick and breathless. “Please understand, Captain Picard. You have arrived unexpectedly, and at a very inopportune time. The King—all of us—are quite overwhelmed with the preparations for the coronation. Tonight is His Majesty’s Vigil in the temple and tomorrow at dawn the ceremony for his Coming to Age will take place. It will be impossible for him to speak with anyone until after these have taken place. Please accept my apologies, Captain, and understand that we had not scheduled your arrival for several more days.”

  While he talked, the Elder led them down the long corridor, up a flight of stairs, and down another corridor to the appointed guest rooms. The doors were opened, revealing three magnificently furnished chambers. For the first time since leaving the Enterprise, Mother Veronica spoke.

  She turned to the counselor. “Please,” she said softly. “Stay with me.”

  Troi smiled at the nun, then turned to Aklier. “The third room will not be necessary,” she said.

  “As you wish,” he said, giving Troi a slight bow. “Because of His Majesty’s Vigil, there will be no formal dinner this evening. Your meals will be brought to you here. If there is anything else you require, you have only to ring and a servant will attend you.”

  “Thank you for your help,” the captain said. “We will be eagerly awaiting the time when we can speak with His Majesty in greater depth.”

  The Elder sketched another bow, then turned and hurried back the way they had come. Once he was out of earshot, the captain motioned for Troi and Mother Veronica to join him in his room.

  “Now, Counselor,” he said once they were all seated. “What is your report?”

  “The King is very arrogant,” she said. “That is, perhaps, not unusual, but he is also very full of anger. He doesn’t want us to be here, and neither does the Elder, Aklier. The other Elders and the servants we encountered were a little surprised by our arrival, but Aklier was near a state of panic, and the King was furious. There is something more, Captain. When you introduced Mother Veronica, the King was surprised. He doesn’t remember sending for the Little Mothers. The sight of Mother Veronica frightened him.”

  “He has two minds,” the nun said. Both Troi and Picard turned to look at her. Mother Veronica did not meet their eyes. She sat ramrod straight, her gaze focused on the distant wall, or on some ethereal point beyond seeing.

  “What did you say?” the captain asked.

  “Two minds—he has two minds,” the nun repeated.

  “Mother Veronica, look at me,” Troi said. “Tell me exactly what you read from the King’s mind. It is very important.”

  Slowly Mother Veronica turned her eyes to Troi’s face. “I did what you said,” she began. Her words were soft and hesitant, as if she had to search for each one before she used it. “I walled my mind against his thoughts. But some of them were too strong. Too strong,” she repeated in a whisper, then grew silent.

  “What were they?” Troi urged. “What did you learn?”

  Again Mother Veronica looked, unseeing, at some distant point. “The King . . . his mind is dark, his thoughts . . .” She closed her eyes and shook herself. The breath she drew was uneven.

  “The other mind is far away,” she continued, without opening her eyes. “It is buried. There was light, but it is fading. That’s all I learned,” Mother Veronica said. “And I didn’t want to learn that much.”

  Picard turned to Troi. “Counselor,” he said, “can you explain that? Could the King be suffering from some sort of mental aberration?”

  “Do you mean like schizophrenia? No, I don’t think so, Captain. I would have felt that, and none of the reports sent by the cultural observers over the past few years have mentioned any unusual mental powers or conditions. But we know so little about the people of this planet, maybe there is a true psychological change that accompanies this Coming to Age. Maybe we’ve arrived during some sort of transition period.”

  “Well, whatever is going on here,” Picard said, “I hope it will become clearer tomorrow.” He tapped the communicator insignia on his uniform. “Picard to Enterprise,” he said.

  “Enterprise. Riker here,” came the almost immediate response. “I didn’t expect to hear from you quite so soon, Captain.”

  “Our initial meeting with the King was rather brief, Number One,” Picard explained. “It seems he will not have time for us until after the conclusion of the Vigil of his Coming to Age tomorrow morning.”

  “Do you want me to have you and the others beamed back to the ship?” Riker asked.

  “No. The King has had rooms prepared for us here in the palace. I think it best if we use them. I’ll report in after I have spoken with the King tomorrow.”

  “Aye, Captain. Riker out.”

  Aklier returned to the audience chamber. When he entered the room, Beahoram dismissed his attendants. “All except Aklier,” he said as he turned to the Elder. “You will attend me as I prepare for my Vigil.”

  Aklier bowed low. “As you will, Your Majesty,” he said.

  The room emptied. Once they were alone, Beahoram stood and descended the steps of the dais. Aklier watched Beahoram begin to pace, walking back and forth while he slapped his right palm impatiently against his thigh. Then he stopped and ran both hands through his hair in a gesture so like his brother’s that Aklier’s breath caught in his throat. Beahoram turned on his heel to face the Elder. The look in his eyes made Aklier take a step backward.

  “We’ve got to act quickly,” Beahoram said, “or everything will be ruined.”

  “Why? Nothing has really changed. Isn’t it better to proceed according to plan, especially now that the Federation people are here?”

  Beahoram again studied the Elder. Aklier felt his heart begin to pound as the younger man’s eyes narrowed.

  “You’re a fool, Aklier. Everything has changed now that the Federation people are here. That one in the brown robe—”

  “Mother Veronica,” Aklier supplied.

  Beahoram nodded. “Mother Veronica—she’s a danger to us. I don’t know how she did it, but I could feel her mind touching mine. Why didn’t you tell me my brother had sent for these Little Mothers?”

  “I didn’t know. Joakal was full of plans for after he became Absolute. He would hint at them, but he never discussed them—except, perhaps, with Elana.”

  “Well, it’s too late to do anything about that now,” Beahoram said as he began to pace again. “The Federation people are here and we have to act. The other female, the one with the dark eyes, she’s a threat to us as well. When she looked at me, I could have sworn she was reading every secret I have. We’re too cl
ose to success to take any chances. They have to be eliminated before the coronation.”

  Aklier gasped. “We can’t . . . kill them. The people on their ship . . . the whole Federation—”

  “No, we can’t,” Beahoram said. He resumed slapping his thigh, as if the action helped him think.

  Finally he said, “Tonight, when they call for their evening meal, make sure that there is something to make them sleep added to their wine. Something strong, so they’ll stay asleep for hours. Then, after moonset when most of the palace is asleep, have them carried to my brother’s cell. They can stay with him until after the coronation. Once I am crowned, their own laws will keep them from interfering.”

  “How can I . . . who do I . . . ?” Aklier stammered.

  Beahoram snorted with disgust. “Must I do all your thinking for you? There are always corrupt servants. Find them and use them. You’ll have to do it. I’ll be at my Vigil.”

  “I’m supposed to attend your Vigil with you.”

  “That doesn’t matter. If someone does come through the temple, it’s me they’ll be looking for, not you. It will be easier for you to slip out during the night than for me to do it. I have to stay where I can be seen by any of the Servants that might pass through the temple during the night. Now go, Aklier, and hurry. Be back here before sundown.”

  Aklier bowed and left Beahoram’s presence. Once the Elder was out in the corridor, he leaned against the wall and waited until his heart ceased pounding. He lifted a hand to his forehead, to wipe away the beads of nervous sweat that had gathered there, and noticed that his fingers were shaking.

  Nothing was working out the way he had anticipated.

  Chapter Thirteen

  THE FIRST OF Capulon’s two moons was well into the sky and the second had just become visible when the sun touched the far horizon and sank slowly from sight. All of the Elders from the Council, except for Aklier, and thirty of the senior temple Servants, headed by Faellon, lined the corridor outside the King’s private chambers. At the moment the sun disappeared, the Chief Servant knocked on the King’s door. Immediately, it swung inward and Aklier stood framed in the doorway. A few steps behind him was the King dressed all in white, without jewels or adornment of any kind except the long crimson overcloak draped around his shoulders to protect him from the chill of the temple.

  “It is time,” Faellon said and he turned away. Aklier and Beahoram followed Faellon past the rows of witnesses that closed ranks behind them as they passed.

  When they reached the head of the column, Aklier stepped into line and let Beahoram take the place beside Faellon. There were now sixty of them—thirty Servants of the God, thirty servants of the people—twice the sacred number to walk the King to his Vigil.

  “O, Light of the God,” Faellon intoned, “shine on us that we do not stumble in darkness.”

  With one accord, the line began to move. It was a colorful procession: the Servants in their long hooded robes of deep green, like a row of emeralds on the move; the Elders dressed in the finery of their Houses, a kaleidoscope of fabrics and hues; and the King leading them in shining, unspotted white and deep crimson.

  The boots of the Elders pounding on the stone floor drowned out the sound of the soft-soled slippers of the Servants as they passed out of the palace and into the blue and purple shadows of gathering twilight. The people they passed as they crossed the city square all stopped to watch. Some touched their foreheads in a three-fingered salute, others fell to their knees; all watched the procession with the joyful, hope-filled hearts that their young King had long ago inspired.

  The long line at last reached the temple and mounted the steps. When Faellon reached the four pillars that guarded the temple doors, he raised his hands beseechingly toward the sky.

  “Look favorably upon our doings here, O Great God,” he called in loud and dramatic tones. “Guide and protect us as we enter your temple, following the Laws revealed to our forebearers.”

  He lowered his hands and led the procession through the doors and down the long nave. He stopped before the altar. After a deep bow in its direction, he turned and motioned for the King to kneel. Two by two, the rest of the column came forward. The Elders slipped reverently into the empty pews; the Servants, after a bow to the altar, each turned to the side and marched to the rear of the temple, climbed the hidden stairs, and joined the rest of the temple population in the railed loft. From there they would watch the proceedings and sing the responses to the sacred ceremony that began the Vigil for the King’s Coming to Age.

  Once everyone was in place, Faellon turned back around and mounted the six steps to the altar. He bowed in obeisance to his God, kissing the cold stone before him. Then he lifted the golden bowl and raised it high over his head.

  “We are empty, Oh God, without you,” his voice rang out.

  “Come, fill thy people,” sang the response.

  “We seek thy Virtues.”

  “Come, fill thy people.”

  “Guide us to Wisdom . . .”

  Faellon sang through the Litany of Invocation; the responses echoed back each time until the temple seemed filled with a single cry. When the litany ended, the Chief Servant turned and brought the golden bowl to the kneeling King. He placed it in the outstretched royal hands.

  “Youth passes from you this night,” Faellon said. “The burdens of manhood come with the sun. Let this sacred bowl be your model. As you kneel here in the God’s holy temple, empty your heart and mind of all things past. Become as receptive as this waiting bowl. Only then can the God’s Wisdom fill you—only then will you be ready for the burden of your future, for you must rule not in your own wisdom, but in the God’s.”

  Faellon placed his hands briefly on the King’s head in blessing. Then he turned away—the ceremony had ended; the Vigil had begun. All of the Elders except Aklier, who was to witness the Vigil, stood and filed from the temple. The Servants did the same. Not a word was spoken, and soon there was left only Aklier kneeling in the front pew and the young King kneeling before the altar, staring into the depths of the golden bowl.

  Minutes passed by. The silence deepened. Finally Beahoram placed the bowl on the floor, sat back on his heels and sighed. Then he turned to the Elder.

  “Is it arranged?” he asked.

  The sound of Beahoram’s voice startled Aklier from his private realm of regrets. “It’s arranged,” he confirmed without looking up.

  “Good.” Beahoram stood and stretched. “This is going to be an interminable bore,” he said. “I wish I’d thought to bring some food.”

  Beahoram came over and sat in the pew next to Aklier. He propped his feet up on the rail in front of him. “Do you have your flask?” he asked. “Give it to me.”

  Aklier reached into his pocket and withdrew the silver flask that was filled with the strong amber wine he had planned to drink to fortify himself before this night’s business. Reluctantly, he handed it to Beahoram.

  Elana had sat among the Servants during the ceremony, and with them she had left the temple. But now, alone, she returned. Although Joakal had changed in some unfathomable way into a person she could never marry, the sight of him kneeling before the altar stilled some of the aching loneliness that had filled her these last weeks. Her eyes, and her heart, were hungry for the sight of him, and she crept silently back to the loft where she could watch him undetected.

  He was not kneeling, as when she had last seen him. Joakal, who had always shared her love and reverence for the God, was lounging in a pew, his feet propped up, disdainful of where he was. She saw the flash of silver in his hand as he raised the flask to his lips; he was drinking, here in the God’s presence. The sight almost made Elana cry out.

  Elana felt darkness close around her and settle somewhere in the region of her heart. Over the last weeks she had almost—almost—convinced herself that Faellon was right and she had misjudged the change in Joakal. But here was irrefutable proof.

  She raised a hand to her mouth and bit
hard on one finger, trying to stifle the sob that was collecting in her throat. Part of her wanted to run away, to leave behind the pain of what she was seeing. Another part of her, the part that had so hungered for the sight of Joakal, begged her to stay a little longer. As she battled between desires, some of the conversation filtered up to her from below.

  “Do you have the sleeping drug?” The words were faint but clear; the voice was Joakal’s, and yet it was harsher than Elana ever remembered it sounding.

  “Yes” was the reply. Elana recognized Aklier’s voice.

  “Who did you find to help you?”

  “Do you really want to know? If you’re in ignorance, no one can blame you, should something go wrong.”

  “If I don’t know, Aklier, I’m at the mercy of others. I’ll never be that again. Tell me.”

  Elana leaned forward to listen more closely, her tears banished as she concentrated on the faint words.

  “Tymlan is the servant who will bring their meals. He hates his work in the kitchens. I’ve promised him enough money to buy a commission into the palace guards. All he has to do is deliver the trays. I’ll put the drug in their wine myself.”

  “And after they’re asleep—who is to carry them to my brother’s cell?”

  “Tymlan, myself, and Benget, the captain of the guard of my House.”

  “What did you promise him?”

  “My niece—her hand and her dowry. He’s a very ambitious man.”

  “Will that be enough to ensure their silence?”

  “Yes. I made it very clear that I would not be subject to future threats and that if they talk, they die.”

  “Very good, Aklier. I wasn’t sure you had the stomach for this. I’m glad I was wrong.”

  Suddenly there was a burst of harsh laughter and it stabbed Elana’s heart to hear it. Then the laughter faded and the words continued.