GUISES OF THE MIND

by Rebecca Neason

  Picard gave a curt nod, once more in command. “Counselor,” he said, “I want you and Mother Veronica, as well as the King and Elana, to stay well back until we are out of danger. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then, Commander,” Picard said, turning back to Riker. “If you’re ready—”

  Riker was prepared to carry Elana for the first part of their return to the upper levels. But when he stepped toward her, Joakal held up a hand to forestall him.

  “Thank you, Commander Riker,” he said, “but I’ll take care of Elana.”

  “As you wish, Your Majesty.” He waited until Joakal had helped Elana to her feet and lifted her. Then with one more glance at the captain, Riker led the way back up the staircase and through the twists and turns of the cellar, until they approached the kitchens. All was quiet.

  “Lieutenant Worf,” Riker called.

  “Here, sir,” the Klingon’s voice boomed through the stillness.

  They turned the final corner. Up ahead they saw Worf and his men sitting casually by the door. There was no sight of servants or guards, though the body of one man lay sprawled, unconscious, on the floor beyond them. Worf was grinning a warrior’s grin.

  “Report, Lieutenant,” the captain ordered.

  “When the palace staff tried to follow Commander Riker, we fired a few warning shots. Realizing they were not armed, we fired well above their heads. That one,” Worf indicated the body on the floor, “would not be warned away. He is only stunned. Once he went down, the others backed away and we have not seen them since.”

  “Very good, Lieutenant,” Picard said.

  Worf then seemed to notice that the captain was in his sleeping attire. Looking slightly embarrassed for the captain’s sake, the Klingon picked up the captain’s uniform and held it out to him. Picard quickly pulled it on over what he was wearing.

  Behind him, Joakal eased Elana out of his arms. Once she was safely seated, he walked up to Picard’s side. “Captain,” he said, “let me talk to the people out there. They are my subjects and my responsibility. They’ll listen to me.”

  Picard hesitated, weighing the possibilities of violence and their chances of success. “All right,” he said at last. “But please, Your Majesty, do not put yourself in plain sight until we are certain of their support. If they choose not to believe you and one of them is armed—”

  “They’ll believe me, Captain,” Joakal said before Picard had finished. “Trust me.”

  Joakal crept forward until he was beside the Klingon. Worf’s body tensed, ready to pull the King to safety if needed.

  “Yesta?” Joakal called out. “Are you there? Can you hear me?”

  “I am Captain Yesta,” a deep voice answered.

  “Who is it that calls me? Why have you defied the authority of the palace guards?”

  “Yesta,” Joakal called. “I am glad it is you, my friend. Listen to my voice. You know who I am. You’ve known me since I was a child and you served my father. Who am I, Yesta?”

  “You have a voice like that of the King’s. But you are a liar, for the King is in the temple at his coronation.”

  “No, Yesta,” Joakal said. He stood. Worf put a hand to his arm, to pull him to safety, but Joakal shook it off. He stood regal and proud, looking like a King despite his haggard, unkept appearance.

  “The one who has usurped my place in the temple is a liar,” Joakal continued as he began to walk slowly forward. “Come out and meet me, Yesta. Look at me. Talk to me. Then come with me to the temple where I will prove I am who I claim to be.”

  A burly man with dark, gray-streaked hair stepped out from the kitchen. He was dressed in a long vest of thick brown leather over loose-fitting pants and a tunic of plain black cloth. On the right of the vest was stitched an insignia, and around his neck was a heavy chain, a badge of office. The only weapon he carried was a long, metal-wrapped club.

  He and Joakal spoke quietly, a few brief sentences, then the captain of the palace guards dropped on one knee, offering his club two-handed to the King. Joakal laid his hand on the weapon in token acceptance, then he turned and gestured for the Enterprise personnel to join him.

  “Yesta and his guards will accompany us to the temple,” the King told the others. “But we must hurry now, before the coronation is completed.”

  Joakal and Captain Picard, side by side, led the way out of the palace. The others followed in a close group behind them, Capulonii and Federation intermingling as they ran.

  Elana was carried in the arms of one of the Enterprise security men. Troi tried to stay close to her and to Mother Veronica, concerned by the fatigue she sensed beginning to descend on both these women. She could hold her own exhaustion at bay for a while longer. But when this was over, she promised herself, she was going to bathe, she was going to eat, and then she was going to sleep long hours where she was warm and safe.

  They ran from the palace, leaving behind a bewildered kitchen staff. They ran down city streets and across the city square, ignoring the startled looks on the faces of the people they passed. They reached the temple and dashed up the long flight of stone stairs.

  From inside they could hear the swell of music and the sound of chanting. Joakal paused at the top of the stairs and touched one of the Guardian pillars. He looked back over his shoulders and met the eyes of Elana. Troi felt the wave of love he sent her. Then he stepped forward, put his hands on the temple doors, and pushed. They flew open. The others stayed a few paces behind to let Joakal alone, as was his right, lead their entrance into the temple.

  The young King marched forcefully across the narthex. Head held high, he entered the nave and strode into the long center aisle.

  “Stop,” he cried out in a loud, commanding voice. “In the name of the God who is above all, the God whose name is Justice and Truth, stop this unlawful rite.”

  Throughout the temple, voices faltered, heads turned and cries of alarm went up. At the altar, Faellon, who had been reaching to lift the Circlet of Kingship from Beahoram’s head, ready to begin the most solemn part of the ceremony, the laying on of hands, took a step backward. He would have stumbled, had not one of the other Servants reached out to steady him.

  Joakal continued down the long aisle until he reached the base of the altar. Seated on the draped and cushioned chair that had been placed on the third step, Beahoram had not moved.

  Behind him Faellon looked up and met Joakal’s eyes. Joakal uttered no word. His presence alone accused and convicted Faellon.

  The Chief Servant slowly shook his head. His face paled, and he tore his eyes away from the sight of the identical features on the two younger men. Faellon looked out at the group of palace guards and Federation people that had mingled and filled the center of the nave. He caught sight of Elana in the arms of the uniformed security officer. Faellon saw the dirt and blood on her hands, her scraped cheeks and disheveled hair, the tears in her robe. Shame washed through him and Faellon buried his face in his hands.

  Beahoram stood. “Who are you?” he demanded, his eyes burning with rage. “What is the meaning of this?” he roared.

  Joakal finally turned his gaze from Faellon’s face to Beahoram’s. “The meaning, Brother,” he said, mimicking Beahoram’s own form of address, “is that your days of deception are at an end.”

  Beahoram turned to the Elders, the officers of the coronation who held the great swords in their hands. “Seize them,” he shouted.

  They did not move. Their eyes, like those of Faellon before, shifted back and forth between the identical faces. A little smile lifted the corners of Joakal’s mouth. Beahoram saw it. His rage swelled and his face twisted into a snarl.

  “Seize them,” he shouted again. “I, your King, command you.”

  Beahoram took a step toward Joakal. His hands were raised and ready to close around his brother’s throat, eager to squeeze the life from him. Joakal did not move. His eyes did not waver from Beahoram’s face. The small smile that was his only weap
on did not slip as Beahoram came closer still.

  The sight finally shocked Tygar, the Head of the Council of Elders, into action. He stepped from his place among the officers of the coronation. In his hand he held the great Sword of Wisdom, and he brought it down between the two brothers.

  “In accordance with our laws,” he declared, “I proclaim this coronation at an end. The Council will convene in one hour in the Great Chamber. There we will discover the truth of who is King.”

  Beahoram tensed, ready to spring across the sword and still attack his brother, but Tygar saw him. He brought the sword up again. The tip of it pointed toward Beahoram’s throat.

  Joakal looked across the length of deadly metal. He saw the hatred that still blazed in his brother’s eyes. It had no power over him now.

  Slowly, the small smile that had not faded from his features turned cold and hard and broadened into a grin.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  TYGAR LOOKED UP at Faellon, but the Chief Servant had not moved. He still stood with his face buried in his hands, too stunned and shaken to command even his fellow Servants. Tygar took charge.

  “Gibreh, Kithia, Leboath,” he called to the three other Elders who carried the swords. Immediately, they stepped to his side and, at a motion, brought their swords to ready while they surrounded Joakal and Beahoram.

  Tygar then walked over to the other Elders and ordered the rest of the regalia placed upon the altar. There it would remain under the guard of Yesta and his men until the coronation was resumed. Surprise had kept the Elders motionless, but now they hurried to comply. Each knew the law as well as Tygar and each was aware of what now must be done.

  Even Faellon had finally been spurred into action. While the Elders carried the ancient instruments of crowning to the altar, the Chief Servant spoke quickly and quietly to his assistants. Tygar turned around to face the curious congregation.

  “By the laws of our fathers,” he announced, “this coronation is at an end. It will not resume until the Truth is found in accordance with Ways of the God. You are free to leave this temple, or to remain, but you may not interfere with the completion of the Council’s duty. No one is to try to speak with or otherwise contact any participant, Elder, Servant, or Supplicant, until the court of Justice is at an end. To do so is a violation of the statutes of our world and will be punished.”

  Tygar turned away, ignoring the murmurs that spread among the people. He saw that Faellon and the other Servants, as well as the Elders, had surrounded the two who claimed to be the King. He nodded to them, then motioned to Yesta. The captain of the Palace Guards led his men to that altar and they took their places protecting the regalia. Again, Tygar nodded.

  “To the palace,” he said. The officials surrounding the brothers closed ranks. Tygar turned on his heel and led the way out of the temple.

  Once they had gone, the congregation found its voice. People stood; the gentle murmurs became questions and speculations spoken back and forth across the long room. As the general din increased, Picard took advantage of the noise and motioned his people to him.

  “Number One,” he said to Riker. “I want you, Lieutenant Worf, and the security team to return to the ship. But stand by, ready to return if I call.”

  “What about you and Deanna?”

  “I believe Counselor Troi and I should stay here.”

  “And Mother Veronica?”

  Picard turned toward the nun. She was standing near the counselor, her eyes downcast and again clutching the cross that hung about her neck. She slowly raised her head, looking first at the captain, then at Troi.

  “Here or there,” she said dully. “It makes no difference.”

  “Good,” Picard replied. “We may need you.” Then he walked over to Elana, still carried by one of the security men.

  “Elana,” he said. “I cannot begin to state my gratitude, or my admiration. If you are willing to go back to our ship with Commander Riker, our medical staff will be able to effect a cure to your injuries. I promise you’ll be back in time for the hearing.”

  “Thank you, Captain,” Elana said with a weary smile. “I accept.”

  Picard tapped the insignia on his uniform, delighted to hear its small chirp of activation. “Picard to transporter room,” he said.

  “Transporter room, Tuttle here.”

  “Chief Tuttle, Commander Riker and his Away Team are returning to the ship, and they are bringing an injured guest. Please have Doctor Crusher standing by.”

  “Aye, aye, Captain.”

  “Thank you, Chief. Picard out.”

  Riker and the security force stepped off a little way from the others. “I’ll stay in better contact this time, Number One,” Picard told him.

  Riker grinned. “Please see that you do, Captain,” he said and he touched his communicator. “We’re ready, Chief. Nine to beam up.”

  There was the familiar hum, the rain of silvered light, and then they were gone. Picard turned to Counselor Troi.

  “Well,” he said. “I think we should go back to our rooms at the palace. I don’t know about you, but I’m hungry and thirsty and my feet are cold.”

  Troi smiled. “Agreed, Captain.”

  An hour later, the Council convened in the same chamber where Picard, Troi, and Mother Veronica had had their audience with the King. They stood now at the same great doors, ready to enter, but Tygar blocked their way.

  “You are not of this world,” the Head of the Council was saying. “The outcome of this judgment is of no concern to you.”

  Picard heard the transporter hum behind him, but he did not turn to look. He knew it would be Elana returning. He kept his attention on Tygar.

  “On the contrary,” he told the Elder. “The outcome is of great concern to me and to the Federation. We came here, at the King’s and the Council’s invitation, to sign a treaty. We were drugged, kidnapped, imprisoned by an imposter—”

  “That has not been proved, Captain.”

  “Do you refuse to believe the evidence of your own eyes?”

  “What I believe is of no importance,” Tygar said. “We have laws, Captain. The judgment of this Council goes far beyond the question of identity, or even actions taken against you and your companions. One of these twins should not be alive, but now that he is here we must learn who is best fit to rule. This question must be settled according to Law.”

  “If you had been in that cell with us—”

  “Is there a problem, Captain?” Elana asked as she walked up to Picard’s side.

  “Lady Elana,” Tygar said with a slight inclination of his head, “I was just informing the captain that these proceedings are closed to him. He is not of our world.”

  Elana’s face took on a look of deceptive passivity. Picard was no telepath, but even he could feel her outrage. When she spoke, her voice was steely quiet. “

  “I am of this world, Tygar.”

  “Yes, Lady, but—”

  “These people are with me. Would you deny me entry, too?”

  “No, Lady. Of course not, but—”

  Tygar’s voice faltered at the unwavering stare Elana fixed upon him. Picard admired the aura of command that surrounded the small woman. She was a strong ally and would be a formidable foe. Beahoram, he thought, had better be careful.

  Tygar lowered his eyes and stood to one side, defeated. Elana lifted her chin, turned to the captain, and smiled.

  “Will you give me your arm, Captain,” she said sweetly. “The medical facilities of your ship are barely short of miraculous and I am well healed, but I still feel a little weak.”

  Weak, indeed, Picard thought wryly as he held out his arm. “I am honored, Elana,” he said aloud.

  Followed by Troi and Mother Veronica, Picard and Elana stepped past Tygar and into the Great Chamber. Again, the size of the room was overwhelming. It dwarfed the large array of tables that had been arranged in a semicircle in the center of the floor, and at which the Elders and thirty Servants sat as tribunal. Behind t
he tables, the throne sat empty upon its raised dais, waiting for its rightful occupant to be proclaimed.

  Tygar walked over and took his place next to Faellon at the head of the tables. It was obvious they were to be joint arbitrators, sentinels to see that the laws of the God and of the people were justly observed. Joakal and Beahoram had been seated on plain wooden chairs in the center of the semicircle’s opening. They were dressed in identical clothing, and now that Joakal had bathed and his hair and beard had been trimmed, the likeness between them was even more arresting.

  When everyone was in place, Faellon stood and raised his hands. “The God declared unto our fathers,’’ he began, “My Truth shall be found in the minds of My people and My Laws shall govern their hearts. It is thy Truth, O God, we seek. Let no falsehood remain hidden from Your light. Reveal Your Wisdom to us so that we may guard your laws and your people.”

  Faellon sat back down and folded his hands. He focused his eyes on his interlaced fingers, as though he could not bring himself to look around the room or bear the sight of the identical twins before him.

  Without standing, Tygar took charge of the tribunal. He spoke to the two seated claimants to the throne.

  “You will answer any questions put to you, no matter who asks. You will answer truthfully and without hesitation. Is that understood?”

  Almost in unison, the two heads nodded.

  “We will begin with the obvious. What is your name, the names of your parents and when and where were your born?”

  “I am Joakal of the Ruling House of I’lium—”

  “—Twelfth of that name—”

  “—My parents were King Klavia and—”

  “—Queen Irian. I was born—”

  “—on the seventeenth day of Adin—”

  “—here in the Royal—”

  “—city of She’heldon.”

  The answers bounced back and forth between the two voices, like lines of a well-rehearsed play. If this continues, we’ll get nowhere, Picard thought. It can’t continue for long—they grew up apart from one another.