“In my heart, I believe all you’ve told me, without exception. But I took an oath. Kailyn must prove who she is.”
“Our word isn’t proof enough?” McCoy’s eyes flashed in anger, and Kailyn touched his hand.
“Shirn is right. I’ll have to prove it at home. It’s only fitting that I should have to prove it here first.”
“How?”
“By showing that I have the Power of Times, that I can master the sacred crystals of the Crown.”
Kailyn found Spock after the feast had broken up, in the scroll room, a square cave off the main grotto. There, cabinets full of parchment rolls held the story of the Kinarri herders from their earliest days on the protected plateau. The scrolls were written painstakingly in the hands of as many different scribes as there had been generations of Shirn’s people. Carefully drawn pictures and diagrams cropped up often to illustrate tales of hunts and harvests, legends of the wind gods and heroic exploits. With the aid of a set of translation pages, Spock was able to gather the drift of most of what he read, idea for idea if not word for word.
As he read, he recorded the handwritten work on his tricorder after convincing Shirn it would be a terrible loss of history if the parchments were ever destroyed.
The Vulcan looked up as Kailyn sat on the rug next to him.
“Are they interesting?” she asked.
“Quite. It is rare that a society living on such a relatively primitive level should keep such detailed records of written history.”
“Usually, they’d just be oral records, right? Passed down from generation to generation in the form of stories?”
Spock raised an eyebrow in mild surprise. “Correct.”
Kailyn smiled. “Social history was one of my favorite studies when I was growing up.” The smile faded and she looked away. “Growing up. I feel like I’m still growing up.”
“That is not unusual,” Spock said softly. “I have never understood why so many races instill in their offspring the notion that growing up, as you phrase it, is merely a stage of life that one passes through in a finite period of time.”
“Isnt it?”
Spock shook his head. “Perhaps the terminology leads to errors in perception. If it were simply referred to as ‘growing,’ perhaps it would be easier to conceptualize as a process that continues throughout life.”
“That’s too logical for most beings, Mr. Spock,” she said with an ironic smile. “Most races aren’t Vulcans.”
“So Dr. McCoy persists in telling me. Instead of devoting effort to becoming more logical, he prefers to avoid it and remain—”
“Handicapped?” Kailyn volunteered.
“I would not use such a strong word.”
“Why not? It is a handicap, to be caught up in emotions and fears.”
“Vulcans have emotions,” Spock said carefully. “However, we do not let them interfere with rational observation and judgment.”
“I wish I were a Vulcan. It would make it a lot easier to be a leader.”
“Not necessarily, Kailyn.”
“But I’ve watched you. You can size up situations, take advice, weigh choices—and then act forcefully in a crisis.” She sighed, and her eyes were even more sad than usual.
“You are drawing conclusions from incomplete data. You have only observed me in a discrete set of circumstances.”
“But I know what I saw—”
“You saw me acting as a leader because I was placed in such a position by assignment of Captain Kirk.”
“Do you want to be a captain yourself?”
Spock almost smiled—how often he’d heard that question. “No, I prefer to gather information and deliver it in orderly, usable fashion to those who can best apply it to decision-making. To advise, upon request.”
“But you’re in command on this mission . . .”
“As a Vulcan and Star Fleet officer, I carry out those duties assigned to me. Captain Kirk is an example from which you might learn a great deal.”
“What makes a leader, Mr. Spock?”
He paused to consider, and thought mostly about Kirk—the qualities that made him a man others would always turn to and follow. “An ability to delegate tasks, to know subordinates so well and trust them so completely that they can be relied upon to do the job as if the captain himself had done it. In return, they trust him and give their loyalty willingly.”
“I didn’t mean only Captain Kirk.”
“I realize your reference was generic, but I know of no better example,” Spock said quietly.
“That’s what my father always said.” She sighed again. “I wish the captain was here to talk to . . . or my father.”
“You might try talking to Shirn O’tay.”
Kailyn brightened. “I think I will.”
The short, bearded man bounced up and down on his feet, and his gravel voice nearly shouted at Shirn.
“But I swear the buck is mine!”
A younger man leaned down, nose to nose with the bearded fellow. “And I say it’s mine. It came back to the cave with my herd—that makes it mine.”
Sitting on his white rug on the ground between them, Shirn listened patiently, seeking the right moment to intervene. When the bearded man paused for a breath, Shirn spoke up—quickly. “At this rate, the buck will die of old age before you decide.”
“No it won’t—I’ll fight him for it,” said the bearded man heatedly.
The younger herder rolled his eyes. “Oh, gods in the mountains. You always want to fight, Blaye. When will you—”
“Wait, Dergan,” said Shirn to the young man, “Blaye has a point. Fighting is one way to settle differences.”
Blaye planted his feet far apart and his hands on his hips, as if to say, I told you so.
“But,” Shirn continued, “it’s a troublesome way. Even if you win, you’re bruised and weary. I remember when I was a young man and I fought over a snowsheep. Oh, I won, but I was so tired, I couldn’t drag it back to my herd and it ran away and right into a zanigret’s claws.”
Blaye shifted his jaw back and forth nervously, softening his bellicose stance a bit. Shirn’s eyes shifted from one to the other.
“Are there other ways?” Shirn asked.
“That’s what we came to you for,” the bearded man said.
“Ahh, of course. Well, we could kill the buck and divide it in half.”
“Wait,” Dergan protested. “That buck will be fathering offspring for years. I’m not going to give up a stud sheep for a pile of meat and bones!”
“Neither will I!”
“Well, then, what about a split of those offspring?”
“Never!” roared Blaye, his voice echoing off the cave walls. “I’ll have to wait three Feasts for the first calf. Meanwhile, he’s got the buck all that time, and that beast will be into every cow in his herd!”
“Dergan, are any of your cows pregnant?”
“Three of them.”
“Answer me this—you didn’t have that new buck when you went out to graze this morning, did you?”
“Neither did he! And it has no brand . . .”
“But you have it now,” Blaye rumbled.
Shirn finally got to his feet. “That’s quite true.” He towered over both men and placed an arm around the shoulders of each. “What about this? Dergan keeps the buck—”
“No!” shouted Blaye.
“—and Blaye gets the first born from your herd, his choice of buck or cow.”
“But that’s not fair,” Blaye said.
Shirn let go of the younger man, and ushered Blaye to a corner. “If anything, you get the better of the bargain, my friend. He gets a beast well along in years, while you get one that’s fresh and healthy with a whole life ahead of it. Hmm?”
Blaye scratched his beard as he thought about it. Meanwhile, the old chieftain ambled back to Dergan, who frowned. “I don’t like it,” he said flatly.
“You’ll be coming away with something you didn’t have this morning
. . . and it’s better than getting all dirty and banged up in a wrestling match . . . Hmm?”
“All right,” Dergan finally said.
“I also agree,” said Blaye, less than cheerfully.
“Cow or buck” Dergan snapped.
“I’ll decide when I see what’s first born.”
“And I’m going to brand that buck right now . . .”
Both men bowed to Shirn, then exited, watching each other suspiciously. Shirn smiled to himself; he never ceased to wonder at the problems his people brought to him.
“How did you do that?” said a small, awed voice.
The old man turned to see Kailyn standing in the cavern doorway. “Ahh, you were spying on us here in the great Court of Mountain Law?”
She laughed and came over to him. “They were ready to strangle each other and you sent them away satisfied. Maybe not happy, but satisfied.”
“Simple common sense, my child.”
Kailyn’s face clouded over. “Why do you call me child’?”
“I’m sorry. You’re not, are you? You’re an adult, and soon to lead your people.”
Kailyn looked at the floor. “I’m afraid of that.”
“Being an adult, or being a ruler?”
“Both, I guess. I’m afraid they won’t accept me.”
“They will, if you can wear that crown your father left here. The rest is up to you.”
“Is that how it was for you?”
“Yes, I suppose so.” He put his arm over her shoulders and guided her over to sit on the soft rug. “But I didn’t know what I was doing when I became leader here. I was very young, like you, when my mother died and left the homeland to me.”
Kailyn stared, wide-eyed. “How did you learn?”
“By reading, asking questions, watching. I found out what had gone before, what was good, or bad. A good ruler does only what is necessary, with a light touch whenever possible.”
“But how will I know what my people want?”
Shirn laughed. “Oh, you’ll know. They’ll tell you. The trick is to know the difference between what they say they want and what they really want.”
“Teach me,” she begged.
“No, Kailyn. If you learn it, you learn it yourself. No one can teach you.”
“I don’t understand how I can devote my life to declaring that I’m leader of Shad.”
“You don’t. Your people will declare it, once, by word—then it’s up to you to prove it, continuously, by virtue and deed.”
Kailyn gave the old man a hug and left the cavern.
McCoy was busy flung up his sleeping mat when Kailyn found him in a smaller side chamber, off the main grotto. It didn’t take a lot of arm-twisting to convince him to go outside for a walk.
The night air was crisp but here in the sheltered valley there was no sharp wind, and it felt almost warm. Kailyn slipped her hand inside McCoys and they strolled along the cobblestone road that led to the ascending stone stairs. She confessed her fears to McCoy and told of the chats with Spock and Shirn.
“Did they help you?”
“In some ways, yes—and in some ways, no.”
“Well, that sounds conclusive.”
She lowered her head and gave a short, rueful laugh. “Oh, Doctor I’m so confused.”
“Hey, we know each other well enough for you to call me Leonard.”
That made her smile, and she snuggled closer as they passed a low stone wall overlooking the starlit pastures.
“Tell me what you think,” she said.
“About what?”
“Leadership.”
McCoy snorted. “What I know about leadership you can fit on the head of a very small pin. I’m one of the world’s most religious followers. Somebody tells me what to do, that’s good enough for me.”
“To quote Leonard McCoy, ‘Poppycock!’ ”
“Spock’s a leader.”
“He claims he only does what he has to do. Besides, you always question him before you follow his orders. That doesn’t sound like a passive follower to me.”
“Well, he huffed, “who said anything about being passive.”
“I’ve watched, since we came to the Enterprise. The captain and Mr. Spook trust you so much that they always listen to you, even if they didn’t ask for your advice. You can change their decisions by what you say—you can lead the leaders.”
McCoy gazed up at the black sky and the splash of stars painted across it. “You’re pretty perceptive, young lady. I guess I do know a thing or two about the subject, but that’s because I’ve been working for some mighty effective leaders all these years.”
“What stands out when you think about them? What makes them special?”
“Understanding and compassion,” he answered without a moment’s thought. “That’s what sets Jim apart from some run-of-the-mill order-giver. He doesn’t tell anyone to do anything he wouldn’t do himself. He asks a lot, but he also gives a lot. Think you can do that?”
“I . . . I don’t know.”
“Well, I know—and I say you can. There . . . are you any less confused?”
“Not really. Spock talked about delegation and trust, Shirn talked about common sense and listening, and you talk about compassion and understanding.” She spread her hands imploringly. “What makes someone a good leader?”
McCoy held her shoulders gently. “All of them. And there’s not one of those qualities you don’t already have plenty of.”
She hugged him tightly, impulsively, then just as abruptly turned and pulled him along. There was snow on this section of the ancient roadway, and a gentle dusting of flakes began falling, drifting to the ground in lazy, slow-motion dances. They both pulled their fleece parkas tighter around themselves.
“I was so afraid I’d feel lost without my father, but I don’t.”
“You sound surprised.”
“I am,” she said, in a voice filled with wonder. “Oh, I miss him more than I’ve ever missed anyone else, and I know I may never see him again in this life. But for the first time, I’ve accepted it. If he’s died, I know the gods will take care of him, and he’ll be happy with them. And I couldn’t have done that without you and Mr. Spock.”
“Sure, you could have. You don’t give yourself enough credit, Kailyn.”
She stopped talking and locked her dark eyes onto his. “You and Mr. Spock are the first men I’ve ever really known, outside of my father and the servants. I didn’t even know your names a few days ago, and now . . . I feel so close to you. You were strangers, and now being with you makes me feel secure and cared-for.”
McCoy felt himself blushing. He quickly took her hand; this time, it was his turn to pull her along.
“That’s good, and it makes me happy—but you don’t know us that well.”
“Why not?”
“There’s a psychological term—crisis syndrome. That’s what we’re going through. They first noticed it back in the twentieth century. People trapped in lifeboats or tunnel collapses or some life-threatening situation—while they were in it, they felt like they were best friends, brothers and sisters, intimate lovers. But once it was over, they withdrew into their own protective shells again. It was the danger that made them feel so close, and once it’d passed, so did those feelings.”
“But I don’t want these feelings to pass, Leonard. I . . . I’ve never felt them before.”
“Aww, don’t worry—we’ll never be strangers to each other again . . .”
Kailyn leaned on the snowy wall, sniffing, as a tear edged down her cheek. “But I love you.”
“You’ve been reading quite late, Mr. Spock,” said Shirn from the doorway of the scroll room. “We need to get an early start in the morn.”
“I shall retire shortly. These records have been so fascinating that I lost track of the hour.”
Shirn chuckled. “Dr. McCoy said you’d use that word—fascinating. I’m glad you haven’t found our history dull.”
“Quite the contrary, si
r. Have the doctor and Kailyn already gone to sleep?”
Shirn frowned. “I don’t know.”
The herdsman and Spock went to the sleeping chamber—it was empty, and Shirn’s frown deepened. “Where could they be at this hour?”
“Perhaps they went outside for a walk. Their parkas are gone and Dr. McCoy is not fond of cave-dwelling.”
“If so, we must get them back inside at once,” Shirn said gravely. “The night is not safe here.”
He led the way, and they hurried through the caves.
Chapter Eighteen
The stone-paved roadway had ended, and Kailyn and McCoy continued along a path at the base of a high cliff. The smooth wall of rock rose up to blend with the dark sky—it was hard to tell where one ended and the other began. Below them, the steep slope fell away to the valley floor hundreds of feet down. They walked side by side, but not touching.
“But love . . . ;well, it’s not something you can feel in twenty minutes—or even a few days,” McCoy said, as soothingly as he could.
“What is it, then?” she asked, trying not to cry.
“It’s . . . it’s something different to everyone.”
“To you?”
He cleared his throat—this was not an easy conversation. “A lot of things. Caring about someone more than I care about myself . . . enjoying someone’s company through thick and thin . . . trusting completely . . .”
“I feel all those things about you. But you tell me I don’t really love you.”
“Aww, Kailyn,” he drawled, “I’m not the one for you.”
“Why not?”
“I’m just an old country doctor, not a Prince Consort.”
But she chose not to listen. Instead, she wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him. It was not an innocent kiss, and to his own surprise, McCoy returned it. They held each other in a lovers’ embrace, and he kissed her hair.
“Kailyn, I’m old enough to be your father.”
“But you’re not my father,” she whispered.
That was true, and despite his protests, he didn’t feel like her father at the moment. In fact he felt things he didn’t know were still inside him, things he’d always believed had died with his marriage. Not merely physical desires—they’d never been hard to conjure up. But the desperate longing in his gut to share emotions with someone, to be close and never part—that he’d forgotten, misplaced. Could he really be in love with this girl?
THE COVENANT OF THE CROWN Page 14
