Chapter 3: T'pavan
He materialised on a curve of clean pink sand that formed a barrier between the heavy, viscous water of the sea and the ragged hem of a young forest. The shimmering depths of the sheltered lagoon rimmed with flame trees and dark, glossy moonflower vines stretched to the far horizon before breaking on the rocky shore of a submerged coral reef.
For a moment Spock leaned against one of the rough, white trunks, the feathered leaves five metres above his head. When he moved from the shade and into the breathtaking heat, he again became aware of the rich, formal Vulkhanir clothing that he had elected to wear. The heavy and ornate material felt strange after the everyday, easy familiarity of his uniform but he knew quite well why he had chosen it.
For one of the few times in his life he declared openly his rank as a Vulkhanir, the fact that he belonged to a Family quite as illustrious as any on Nevas'ashar. Notonly was he Spock, the Vulcan First Officer of the U.S.S. Enterprise, but also Spock the son of Sarek, child of Skon, child of Solkar. Somehow, on this day when he would meet T'pavan again, that knowledge assumed a new importance.
Tall and solitary, he strode out onto the sands, his step confident and deliberate, following the curve of the shoreline.
It was - how long - since he had last visited this strand? Of course, he knew the tally exactly - six years three months and four days. If asked, he could have quoted the passing time down to hours, minutes and even seconds.
It had been nightfall on that prior occasion, and a haze of stars had shone brilliantly against the velvet backdrop of the sea. He stopped walking abruptly as the past rose up to confront him, the memories vivid, unclouded by time, the humiliation of that last evening having lost none of its indignity.
Breathing deeply, he began to walk again, pushing the obstinate thoughts away, sensitive to the knowledge that he must not allow the past to influence the forthcoming reunion with T'pavan.
Surprised by her call to the ship, never the less only at that point did he fully realise how much he wanted to meet her once more, although he was quite prepared to forego a visit planet side solely because of her presence there. Undoubtedly that had a great deal to do with his stubborn Vulkhanir pride, but he was also aware of how much influence T'pavan still retained, how deeply she could still wound him. For despite all that had happened between them, his regard for her had not altered.
An ancient proverb of his mother's came to mind; pride goeth before destruction, and an haughty spirit before a fall! It was a particular favourite of hers – and one she found delight in quoting – especially in connection with Sarek and himself. However, if he was on the road to destruction, he went freely if not altogether with a sense of prudence.
He turned from the narrow strip of sand, careless of the hot sun beating down upon his scalp and shoulders, moving as agilely as a mountain sehlat among its native hunting grounds on Vulkhanir, taking the evasive path through the flame trees until the city of Orkhas'asar opened up before him. Constructed upon a long string of islets, reefs and shoals, the remains of a great chain of submerged mountains, Orkhas'asar was, as the name suggested, a place where stone combined with water in a mysterious blending. The city was built around wide boulevards with imposing statues and impressive fountains as focal points. A circular municipality, the streets were concentric, intersected with high causeways, radiating out from a central point like spokes of a giant wheel.
Spock walked along quiet, tree-lined canals, and through promenades where motorised traffic never ran, responsive to the calmness pervading the streets and which he drank deeply into his agitated soul. He needed this tranquillity after the long, weary years away. His eyes swept the cool, clean lines of pale stone, shining behind the constant hazy cascades of fountains, reminded of his home city ShiKahr, although Vulkhanir could not boast such an abundance of surface water.
Crossing over onto a bridge, he leaned against the parapet, watching the bright, gossamer sails of a skimmer as it passed beneath him. The child steering the craft was obviously a professional and noticing his interest, she laughed up at him, shouting a greeting. Spock, nodded in response, a little shocked by a freedom that would never have been possible on Vulkhanir, reminded once again of his own gracelessness.
With growing apprehension, he turned away from the canal into the winding lanes fronted with grand public buildings, heading for Es'sarhan, the Red Fortress, which was T'pavan's residence and royal city all in one, the hub of Orkhas'asar, and where all the major streets converged. He chose to walk in the shade, the air about him redolent with the fragrance of flowering ysleta and tsinan vines that grew among many other native and off-world varieties in the parks, alamedas and other open spaces, piquantly spicy, assaulting his nostrils with an odour that was a constant reminder of the last time he was there.
The sound of water was all about him, splashing from the fountains at every intersection, lapping at the canals stonework, swirling with slow determination around the bridge ramparts, and if he stopped to listen, he could even hear the faint, whispering, susurration of the sea. It was weird and wonderful, strange and familiar all at once, as if he wandered in some mystical dream, the portents clear if only he was able to decipher the warning. Spock felt his heart skip a beat, his pulses abruptly thundering as, with the thought, he ascended a flight of steep steps and found himself fronting a decorative gate, one of five he knew of and less public than the other four, shaped by a thrusting tracery of interweaving metal leaves, an access to Es'sarhan's extensive grounds. He stopped to read the deeply etched inscription decorating the sidewall, Keh'sarin Es'sarha, the name of the dwelling within the walls, the name of the Family that owned it, on a parity with the most ancient of Families that still ruled Vulkhanir.
And I am a trespasser here, he thought ruefully, who once presumed that the half-human son of a noble Vulkhanir father had rights that in reality did not exist. It was the voice of reason, one he knew it would be wise to heed but he continued to ignore the admonition, swayed by the over riding and totally illogical need to see T'pavan once again. Knowing himself for a fool, he pushed at the gate that opened at his touch and stepped inside, halting for a moment as the automatic keeper scanned him, found him safe, and allowed him to continue unmolested about his business.
A faint tinkling of wind chimes drifted softly on the hot breeze, the only sound apart from the predictable rush and burble of a nearby fountain, and the drowsy buzzing of insects that flew drunkenly from one pollen laden flower to the next. In the baking heat under the sun, Orkhas'asar was a boiling pot but here at Es'sarhan was an oasis of shade and coolness.
With dark shadows sliding across his skin, Spock took the path he knew would lead him to the stronghold, his step still measured and precise, until finally he pushed under an arch formed by a trailing ghefwe, the scarlet flowers huge and papery. From there, he entered a wide, paved square where a rectangular pool surged with the slow rise and fall of moving water. Trees in circular beds of watered earth bordered the pool; crimson bwi with their large silvery green leaves; flowering pao bushes; the glowing moonflowers, all enclosed on three of the courtyard's sides by a wide, shady, cloistered walk, above which the red fortress shimmered, glowing like a banked fire, its domed vermillion roof glittering against the burnished sky.
Containing his mounting unease, Spock crossed over to the poolside, absently gazing down at the slowly moving water. It was opaque, dense, unlike the water of Tehr'a, and only vaguely mirrored his reflection. The scent of flowers was heavy in the air, the faint sounds of the city so far away beyond the high walls that he could almost forget that it existed. Once, he had imagined all that held reality for him was contained in this place, permeated with so many memories of the past; memories of his childhood spent with T'pavan; a place where he had once thought, for so brief a time six years ago, that he had actually caught hold of that elusive condition Tehr'n's knew as happiness.
At the thought, he straightened hastily, attentive to the fact that he was prevaricating, his subconscious deliberately evading the moment when he would have to face T'pavan. He rubbed his hands over the rich material of his ornate sirwal, throat suddenly dry, and with the air of someone going to his own execution, ascended the three broad steps that led up to the colonnaded walk of the citadel.
The porter showed him into a spacious room austerely furnished, and exactly as he remembered it from his previous visits. A few bright rugs were scattered on the tessellated floor, accenting the plain beauty of stone walls, bare except for two original images he recognised as the work of Solkar, the paternal great-grandfather of both himself and T'pavan. There was a low table set near a recessed fire-pit, a black lacquered cabinet against the far wall and a few scattered floor stools – but mostly space and sunlight. It was the room of an ascetic, simple, unadorned, a reflection of its owner.
From somewhere near by there came the sounds of someone strumming a lyrette, the chords soft and accomplished, steeped in melancholy, the hands playing the strings those of a skilled musician.Such mastery was given to few and Spock did not require the sudden sweet voice that soared through the quiet room to recognise the artiste. For a long moment, he stood entranced, listening as the notes burst upward, a cascade of pure melody, subtly vocalized, so desolate in expression that he wondered at such grief. The phrase, repeated twice, altered to an even purer form as the well-known voice weaved a magic cloth of sound, plucking music from the very air, changing it to something absolute, supremely fascinating and complex, holding him in thrall.
Eventually he was released from the spell as the melody died slowly away and he came back to the world to find himself fronting a small statuette carved in ebenie, thehard white wood of the flame tree. It was the image of a young boy dressed in hunting straps, a lirpa balanced in one outstretched hand. He knew without a doubt that it was himself and hesitantly reached out a finger to trace the small figure, his mind absorbed in the far-reaching implications of its presence there. Drawn against his will to the spring of his own being, the hard old wood like satin beneath his fingertips, he stared at the figurine uncertainly. So taken up was he in remembrance of that boy he had once been that he failed to notice for a moment that he was no longer alone. It was only some minute shift in the air, or perhaps the faint rustle of fine cloth against stone that alerted him and he turned swiftly, heart suddenly molten, pulses hammering violently in throat and temples.
T'pavan stood regarding him, framed in a rounded archway, dressed in a clinging gown that left the creamy jade skin of her arms and one shoulder bare. It was austere enough but still rich, and swirled around her like gossemer mist, allowing the emerald sheen of her undertunic to glimmer through.
She indicated the figurine with an inclination of her head. "Does it bring back fond memories, Spock-neha, or would thee prefer to forget the past?"
Her movements as she entered the room had the unmistakeable quality of nobility, the absolute conviction of one who has never had to use caution or humility in her dealings with other people, and she met his gaze with an authority that came only by birth.
Spock, ignoring the question, raised his hand in salute, eyes fixed firmly upon hers, meeting her on equal terms, his inner turmoil hidden from any but the most intensive scrutiny.
"Greetings, Keh'sarin T'pavan. I come to serve."
TBC
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