Chapter 4

The hour was unusually late in ShanaiKahr, where an emergency session of Vulcan's High Council was brought to order behind locked doors. From their lofty dais the Council of Ten, chaired by the ancient T'Gora, gazed down upon the seats where the High Priestess T'Lar and Marek the Grand Master of Kolinahr waited with their companions.

T'Gora inconspicuously signaled to an attendant, who struck a ceremonial gong. Then opening the session, she announced, "We are gathered here to consider a matter of grave importance. The decision rendered here tonight will affect all of Vulcan. This past year we have witnessed a dangerous erosion of our culture resulting from the revolutionary teachings of T'rel N'hor Yanash. We have all agreed that it cannot be allowed to continue. T'rel N'hor Yanash has been taken into custody. Now this is the question before us: what is to be done with him?"

She nodded at the red-robed bailiff standing to one side of the dais. A door opened. A pair of armed Council guards escorted the handcuffed prisoner to the center of the chamber, then took up station beside the bailiff.

Yanash faced the Council. Although his clothes were dusty, his hair uncombed, he projected a calm majesty that his accusers found disturbing.

The gaze leveled upon him by T'Gora was scathing. "The prisoner will identify himself," she commanded.

"I am T'rel N'hor Yanash," he replied, "son of Norek, son of Tarel."

"Do you consider yourself a son of Surak?"

"I am," Yanash said.

"Surak's teachings promote orderly conduct, yet you have created disorder among the populace. Do you deny it?"

Yanash answered, "Surak's teachings are intended to promote truth. That is also my intention."

T'Gora's hooded eyes studied him. "What is this 'truth' you teach?"

"That our God is a God of love."

"God?" said a kolinahru.

Yanash turned toward him.

The kolinahru continued coldly, "That which you call 'God' cannot be proven to exist, but we do know that love is an emotion. Surak teaches that logic is superior to emotion. Therefore your teaching of love is flawed and inferior. By your own admission you are guilty of promoting an erroneous doctrine."

Yanash was silent.

A priest of Seleya spoke. "There have been reports that you heal with only a touch and even restore life to the dead. Is it true?"

"Ask those who have witnessed it," Yanash responded.

The priest quietly consulted with his companions before saying, "If you do not deny these acts, then tell us this. By what power do you heal and restore life?"

"The power of healing and life belong to God alone," replied Yanash.

"Then logic dictates that no Vulcan can hold such power. Your statements are conflicting and illogical. You must stop deluding the public immediately and make a formal confession of error."

Yanash's composure was unshaken. "It is you who are deluded. If you release me, I will continue to speak the truth."

"What do you know of truth? You are undereducated, your mind untrained, your behavior undisciplined."

The High Priestess T'Lar spoke. "A probe would reveal the state of his mind. Yanash, would you submit to a mind probe?"

"Though I would not advise it," Yanash said, "you may do as you please."

The Council conferred in low tones and concluded that such a probe would be useful. T'Lar petitioned the Grand Master of Kolinahr. With a courtly nod, Marek left his seat and approached Yanash. For a moment they stood eye to eye, then slowly Marek raised an arm and reached out. His long fingers settled on the prisoner's face. For a moment Marek's expression grew distant…

Then he screamed.

The guards rushed forward, stopping short as Marek collapsed at their feet, his face contorted with some nameless agony.

Yanash gazed sadly upon the suffering kolinahru and said, "His mind has been blinded by the light, but he will recover."

From all sides the Vulcans stared at Yanash, and many of their faces were quite pale.

T'Gora of the High Council spoke in a taut voice. "We have seen enough. Remove the prisoner. Help the Grand Master to the healer's chamber."

After Yanash and Marek were taken away, she dismissed the guards and bailiff. A heavy silence hung over the gathering.

At last, very quietly, T'Gora said, "On Vulcan there is no mind greater than Marek's, yet we all saw the damage inflicted upon him. The law is clear in such cases. The criminal must be censured and permanently exiled from Vulcan."

"If he were sent into exile," noted a fellow Councilman, "there is a high probability that a great many Vulcans would follow."

"I agree," said another from the dais. "We could be faced with a schism as damaging as the Romulan departure."

"Incarceration is an alternative," came the response, "but as you say, this one's following is large and loyal. If we keep him imprisoned, they may rise up in revolt and free him."

"A revolution…" T'Gora voiced the one concern uppermost in everyone's minds. It was for this reason they had come together, secretly, at such an unusual hour.

In the deep of the night they felt their hold on their power slipping.

At last the old priestess T'Lar said, "There is only one solution. Yanash must die."

Heads turned, eyebrows rose in consternation.

T'Gora remarked from the dais, "I remind you that Vulcan has no capital punishment."

"Modern Vulcan," agreed T'Lar. "But this Yanash teaches a return to many of the old ways. Therefore I say, let him perish in the old way—slowly, with much pain, so that everyone will see that his power is not without mortal limits."

The images conjured by her words were so horrifying that no one spoke for a full minute.

Then T'Gora said, "The Henidd?"

T'Lar gave a single, sober nod.

Beside her, the priestess T'Sorr rose to her feet. "I object! It is barbaric for a Vulcan to consider torture. We are a people subject to laws. If in fact Yanash has violated any law, he is entitled by that same law to legal representation at a public trial. If he is found guilty, he must receive the sentence prescribed by law, regardless of the consequences to ourselves."

Without looking at her, T'Lar coldly said, "It is Vulcan that will suffer the consequences; it is Vulcan we must preserve. Although I, too, regret the need for such tactics, there is a surprisingly logical human axiom that applies well to our current situation. 'The end justifies the means'."

"Have we become humans?" T'Sorr asked, and then sank into her seat.

The discussion continued. Shortly after midnight T'Gora received the healer's report on the Grand Master's condition. Grimly she announced, "Marek's mind is destroyed. That alone is sufficient to convict Yanash. Whatever its source, his power is clearly treacherous. For the good of Vulcan, he cannot be permitted to live."

After polling the priests of Seleya and the kolinahru masters for their opinions, the High Council delivered its legal decision. Since every member of that esteemed body concurred with T'Lar, there remained only to settle a few delicate matters of procedure. Then the prisoner was returned to the chamber.

T'Gora regarded Yanash through narrowed lids. "T'rel N'hor Yanash, you have been found guilty of destroying Master Marek's mind, of perverting the teachings of Surak, and promoting disorder among the populace. It is the decision of this Council that you be sent immediately to Mount Seleya, and there suffer a death fitting for your crimes."

Yanash received the sentence with equanimity.

Once more the priestess T'Sorr rose up. "I protest!"

As her words rang through the chamber, Yanash turned around and met T'Sorr's eyes. Then the guards converged on him and he was removed to the Council transporter.

oooo

Spock piloted a skimmer through the night while his uncle sat quietly at his side. Sparn had been outraged at the guerilla-like seizure at Ar-Bekani and the humiliation at having been passed over. Though Spock had tried for hours to dissuade him, Sparn insisted they travel to ShanaiKahr in the hope that the others had been taken to the capital.

Reaching for the dash, Sparn tuned in a news channel. A bulletin announced Yanash's arrest and went on to detail his crimes. "A conviction came swiftly," said the reporter. "Due to the gravity of the charges, the High Council of Elders has invoked an ancient penalty. The self-proclaimed teacher and healer has been carried off to Mount Seleya for execution."

Spock's fingers clenched the controls and his heart froze.

"Execution!" Sparn exclaimed. "The report must be in error. In any case, no trial could proceed so quickly."

"Surely not," Spock faintly agreed.

"He tried to tell us that he was going to die. God help us—this cannot be happening. Yanash will not allow it. But change course, Spock—hurry! We must go to Seleya!"

Spock did not bother to point out the contradiction in his uncle's statement. Just now his own thoughts were something less than logical. Again and again they returned to Yanash's strange warning. When I lie down in your place…when I lie down…

Spock was aware of only one ancient penalty of death that involved a prone position. Dread knotted his stomach and for a moment he thought he would be ill. Turning toward Mount Seleya, he pressed the skimmer for more speed.

oooo

Up ahead, Mount Seleya loomed like a dark fortress against the stars. Spock banked the borrowed skimmer sharply and settled among the other vehicles at the base of the mountain. Today the temple would be crowded with pilgrims honoring the birth of Surak. Would there also be an execution? Driven by a sense of urgency, he shut down the engine and snapped open his door.

His uncle's words stopped him. "Wait, Spock! Now that we are here, what will we do? We are only two men, with no authority…"

Spock scarcely hesitated. Unwilling to acknowledge the utter hopelessness of the situation, he said, "We will do all that we can."

Then he was out the door, running. He reached the unrailed stair path carved into the mountainside and his pace hardly slowed. Leaving Sparn far behind, he recklessly skipped steps and charged past startled pilgrims until he arrived at the reception court. There he bypassed the public area and ascended a torturously steep path reserved for the Seleyan priests and their initiates. Winded, his leg muscles burning, he emerged into the private compound and came to an abrupt halt.

He took a moment to regain his composure and observe the activity in the lighted courtyard. The meditative atmosphere normal for this area was tangibly disturbed. Priests and priestesses stood about conferring in small groups. Despite a large number of temple guards, no one seemed to have noticed his arrival.

Then Spock stepped forward. Immediately two guards spied him, rushed over, and barred his way with their lirpas. A priest who had attended a boyhood academy with Spock approached him and coolly noted his breathless, disheveled appearance.

"This area is restricted," Dalek warned. "Surely you are aware of that."

Spock held his ground and said, "I must see T'Lar at once."

Dalek peered down his nose at him. "T'Lar is presently occupied. The priestess T'Sorr has fallen from a cliff path to her death—a most unfortunate accident."

"Then I shall wait," Spock said.

"Impossible."

Spock attempted to muscle his way past the guards, but the lirpas moved swiftly. Circular, razor-sharp blades found his throat. He went still.

Dalek said, "These guards will escort you to the visitor's center and see that you do not stray into forbidden areas again."

Spock backed away from the blades' pressure. He was powerless against the forces at work here, yet he could not leave without making his protest known. He raised his voice so that everyone in the courtyard could hear. "Tell T'Lar: we are a Federation planet! Her treatment of Yanash is in violation of sentient rights and an affront to moral decency! Tell her that I shall protest to the Vulcan High Council! I shall protest to Federation President Ra-ghoratrei! Tell her…" The cudgel end of a lirpa jabbed his stomach and he doubled over in pain.

"Remove him," the priest said.

oooo

Long before dawn, preparations for the Henidd were underway. T'Lar was determined that there be no delay. Time enough later to officially mourn T'Sorr's unfortunate "fall". Her shattered body had been recovered from the base of the cliff quietly, quickly, so as not to disturb the kolinahru researching the Golheni death ritual. On their advice, a fitting site was chosen—the great meditation ledge low on the eastern face, where ancients had carried out their own bloody sacrifices. The site was accessible by stair path and could easily be viewed from both the visitors' and priests' courtyards. Spotlights were trained upon the ledge, long spikes embedded by a construction expert into the solid rock. When all was ready, T'Lar inspected the site and approved.

As morning approached, T'Lar's healer went to the room where Yanash was held under guard. Unlike the priests she served, T'Annel was a woman of unusual compassion. She disliked the task that had fallen to her. While preparing the injection, she had considered refusing to administer it. But had she refused, they would simply have brought in a more cooperative healer.

T'Annel entered the prisoner's chamber and found him sitting on a bed, his arms locked behind him in energy cuffs. Feeling a stirring of pity, she carefully avoided his eyes. A guard pulled up the prisoner's sleeve, exposing a strong, youthful arm. T'Annel placed her sprayhypo to his skin, but her finger froze against the trigger. She considered how she might spare him, perhaps by delivering only a partial dose of the drug that would disable the brain's center of pain control. Glancing up, she looked into his placid blue eyes and her heart behaved strangely.

"T'Lar will demand your thoughts," he told her in a kind voice. "It is necessary that you fulfill your obligation…but know, my child, that I forgive you."

T'Annel's fingers trembled as she pressed the trigger. With a snakelike hiss the drug flooded into his bloodstream. It was a terrible thing she was doing—cruel, unforgiveable. He would go to his death defenseless against the agony, yet this strange man who called her "my child" was willing to forgive her.

Tears blurred T'Annel's vision as she turned and left the room, only to find T'Lar waiting for her.

The sentiment that the old priestess found in her healer's mind displeased her; nevertheless, the job was done. Within the hour T'Lar called her chosen observers to the assembly chamber. They stood as stiff and silent as pillars while the prisoner was brought in. There was no need for words. The guards had been well-instructed and they knew exactly how to proceed.

A doubled rope hung from a hook that had been specially set in the stone ceiling. Yanash was positioned beneath it, his handcuffs removed, his clothing stripped away. The guards bound his hands with the rope and pulled the end until the prisoner's heels left the floor. When he was strung up securely, the beating began.

T'Lar watched without emotion as two strong men methodically lashed the prisoner with bundle-whips. The knotted cords were designed to maximize pain without tearing too deeply into the flesh. It was necessary that some blood be drawn, but not enough to unduly weaken the condemned man. Death would come later, slowly.

T'Lar could see that Yanash was having difficulty with the pain. He shuddered as the whips struck front and back, high and low. All his skin began to look tender and raw.

Without turning her head, she spoke to Dalek beside her. "Now Vulcan will see; they will see what has become of their Shiav's power."

Dalek edged closer. His voice was little more than a whisper. "Tonight Ambassador Sarek's son made a disturbance in the priests' courtyard. He is threatening to create political complications with the Federation. He should have been arrested with the others."

T'Lar's lips tightened perceptibly. "So Sarek's son has turned from informer to advocate. The Federation dares not dictate the internal affairs of a charter planet. Vulcans rule Vulcan. As for Spock—I should never have performed the fal-tor-pan on a half-human. If Spock persists in his aberrant behavior, it may become necessary to make additional mental adjustments."

oooo

In Seleya's crowded visitor center, Spock made an urgent series of calls on his wrist phone while Sparn stood nearby. No member of Vulcan's High Council could be reached. Next, he contacted Vulcan Federation Headquarters, only to be informed by a recording that the bureau would be closed for the holiday.

"Try Starfleet," Sparn suggested.

Spock sighed and shook his head. "It is out of their jurisdiction."

There remained one last, impossibly slim hope. Spock withdrew from his uncle to a more a private place. Alone, he ordered up his father's number. Although the hour in ShiKahr was still early, the image of Sarek that appeared on the tiny screen was impeccably dressed and groomed. The ambassador's eyes caught sight of Spock and narrowed.

"Father," Spock said urgently.

"Spock," Sarek replied in his usual calm manner.

Spock spoke in a low tone. "Father, are you aware of the events here at Seleya? I ask you to put a stop to this outrage. You have influence with the Council. Perhaps they will grant a stay of execution until the matter is properly reviewed."

Sarek's features were stony as he said, "There is not stopping it."

"No stopping it?" Spock struggled for control. "Try, Father! I know you respect the laws of our people."

Sarek looked pained. "Unusual times…call for unusual measures. The good of the many, Spock. You yourself have said it." And at that, he broke the connection.

Spock remained as he was for three full minutes. High up in the priests' courtyard, a gong began to sound. A deep, resonant chanting rose in honor of Surak's birth.

"Dawn," Sparn said to his nephew, sick at heart. He could only hope that Spock was wrong; that Yanash would not be subjected to some frightful Golheni torture.

Since completing his calls, Spock had descended into a dark mood, but now he roused himself. Shadowed by guards, they went out into the warm morning air. The courtyard was packed with pilgrims, but it soon became clear that not all of them had come to honor Surak.

A cry arose at the eastern wall. "There! They are bringing him down. I see him now."

Sparn headed toward the voice and Spock slowly followed in the path cleared by him. They reached the low stone wall. Sparn looked over the sheer edge of the cliff. Priests and temple guards carrying torches were working their way along a trail. By the pale light of dawn he saw Yanash walking with them, holding something heavy in his hands. The grim procession came to a plateau and stopped. Floodlights switched on, illuminating the sledgehammer Yanash was carrying.

Sparn shuddered in horror.

Nearby a man spoke in a cool, sarcastic tone. "The great healer Yanash. Now we will see if he can heal himself."

Sparn swung around and confronted him. "Be silent! Have you no conscience?"

The Vulcan raised a superior eyebrow. "You seem very emotional. Are you one of Yanash's devotees?"

Sparn felt Spock touch him in warning. Of course, they should not be drawing attention to themselves. But as they turned back to the scene below, Spock spoke into his ear, "Only the dead feel no compassion. To think that I once longed to be a kolinahru…"

Voices chanted on the morning wind. The gong rang in mournful, measured tones as Yanash surrendered his clothes. Already the day was lighter, and one could see that his shivering body had been savaged by a beating. Without a struggle he lay down on the hard stone. A guard positioned his right hand over one of four spikes. The sledgehammer swung; Yanash cried out, writhing in agony as blood spurted green.

Sparn was marginally aware of Spock leaving the scene, but he could not bring himself to move. Averting his face, he bit his lip until the hammering and the cries subsided; but still, somehow, he heard them and realized that those terrible sounds would never fade from his memory.

When he was sure of his control, he turned and looked again. Eridani loomed red and angry at the horizon. Its first deceptively pleasant rays shone upon the ledge where Yanash lay spread-eagled, hands and feet impaled. In an hour's time the heat would begin to burn. Drawn by the scent of blood, scavenging insects would find Yanash and swarm over him, biting and tearing at his unprotected flesh. Before the day was over, he would be eaten alive.

Spock spent the morning in a shaded retreat on the far side of the courtyard. A steady stream of Vulcans took part in the deathwatch—unmoved, critical not of this outrage against justice, but of Yanash. What had become of his many followers? The countless Vulcans he had taught, counseled, and healed? Strike the shepherd and the flock will scatter. Now Spock saw his own words coming to fruition, and there was no pleasure in it. Guilt slashed at him for his part in the Teacher's arrest. He had never intended for anything like this to happen.

At noon he went to the wall and forced himself to look downward. Though it seemed impossible, there were still signs of life in Yanash's ravaged remains. With each spasm and gasp, Spock seemed to feel the torture in his own body. Surely Yanash would find release soon.

Sparn appeared at Spock's side.

"His mother," Sparn said, indicating a sorrowful woman keeping vigil at the wall.

Spock did not plan to move, but his feet seemed to walk of their own accord. Reaching her, he said low, "I did it. I am the one."

The woman looked at him. There was no condemnation in her eyes as she touched his arm and said, "Whatever you have done, he will forgive you."

"He will forgive you?" How could a dead man forgive anyone?

Spock turned and walked away. The gong tolled all through the afternoon, but he dared not visit the wall again. Was Yanash still alive? What manner of Vulcan was he? Now and then, fury came at Spock in white-hot waves, and he felt capable of killing Yanash himself, just to end the suffering. Perhaps the temple guards sensed his emotional state, for they continued to follow everywhere, silent and watchful, never allowing him a moment's privacy.

He was pacing the stone floor when a chilling, desolate cry came from below the cliff. He stopped, his heart torn. In a moment voices untouched by emotion were carrying the news through the courtyard.

"So it ends." "He lived as a Golheni; it is only just that he died as one." "This is a great day for Surak."

With a feeling of utter desolation, Spock sank down on a bench and wept.

oooo

Today, more than ever, Sparn had felt his age creeping up on him. The hours spent watching Yanash agonize had been so wrenching that by evening he was utterly drained. As lights came on in the courtyard, he went over to the bench where his nephew had sat, hunched over, for hours.

As Sparn put a hand on Spock's shoulder, the touch intensified his own feelings of grief. Softly he said, "T'teer…nephew…there is no logic in remaining here. Yanash is gone."

Spock slowly lowered his hands and raised his head. His brown eyes stared vacantly.

Breaking the contact between them, Sparn added, "By morning there will be nothing but bones. His mother asked for them, but was refused even that. Come," he urged, "Get up, we are leaving."

Spock rose from his state of shock. Together they descended the steep stair path, but this time Sparn led the way and settled in behind the skimmer's controls. It would be a long flight to his home in Tareel, and the energy feed showed signs of malfunctioning.

Another fact made him equally uneasy. The skimmer belonged to neither him nor Spock. Like those others left behind at Ar-Bekani, they had been lent by camp followers for the day. By now it was entirely possible that the skimmer had been reported missing, even stolen.

As he flew along, a news bulletin declared that the "Yanashites" had disbanded and were returning to their homes. In all parts of the planet, Vulcans were once again embracing the way of Surak.

Sparn turned off the speaker. Beside him, Spock was very quiet as the miles rushed by.

At last Sparn said, "I keep thinking of Sorel and all the others who were arrested. What do you suppose will happen to them?"

Spock's tone was bitter. "Where law is disregarded, anything is possible."

The skimmer gave out on a stretch of safebelt outside Kreb. Abandoning it, they walked the remaining distance to town and there bought public passage to Tareel. They arrived at Sparn's home shortly before dawn. Sparn took a quick turn in the fresher and collapsed into bed, but he doubted that either he or his nephew would be sleeping well.

oooo

At sunrise T'Lar led a small, solemn procession to the ledge where the renegade had been executed. The flesh-eaters had done a thorough job of stripping the bones. She watched the last of the night feeders skitter away from the skeleton, then signaled for the bones to be taken up.

Beside her, Dalek said, "His mother is still asking for him."

T'Lar gave no heed to the patient woman watching from atop the cliff. Her attention remained focused on the attendants enshrouding the skeleton in a thick, white blanket. "There will be no relics to venerate," she pronounced, "no shrine to celebrate his errors. Not even a katra remains."

Her eyes settled on the bloodstained rock and she pointed with a bony finger. "This must be cleansed until no mark is left. Remove the spikes, also. It must be as if he had never lived."

"Or died?" The voice came from the healer T'Annel.

T'Lar gave her a probing look and followed her movements as the procession ascended the stair path to the priests' compound. They paused there to light torches. Then the bones were carried deep into the mountain where the ancients were buried before cremation became the custom. The air in the tunnel was cool and stale. The sounds of their footsteps echoed. At last they came to an unused tomb-hole cut halfway up a stone wall.

"Here," T'Lar ordered.

The guards lifted their burden to shoulder level and shoved it deep into the dusty, web-filled opening. Then a tomb cap was set in place and permanently locked.

Satisfied, T'Lar touched the minds of everyone present, extracting from them a death-vow of secrecy. Last of all she came to T'Annel. As she reached for the healer, T'Annel drew back. T'Lar gazed at the healer and ordered the others to leave the tunnel. Lit by the glow of their torches, T'Lar and T'Annel faced one another.

"Give me your thoughts," T'Lar demanded.

The healer held still. "No. I am not of your priesthood."

"What is this renegade to you?" T'Lar questioned. "Are you a Yanashite—you, who sent him to his death in agony?"

T'Annel winced. Turning her face aside, she said, "There is much that I need to consider. I will remain here for a time, by the tomb."

"As you wish," T'Lar said.

Her footsteps retreated into the distance; the faint flickering of her torch was swallowed by blackness. Alone now, T'Annel stood alongside the unmarked tomb and her fingers tightened on her torch.

"T'Lar spoke rightly," she whispered. "I sent you to your death in agony. My hand, no other. You knew what I was doing…yet you forgave me. That is not logical. But even if I were to accept your forgiveness, how then can I forgive myself?"

For hours T'Annel wrestled the problem without coming any closer to a solution. Her torch began to burn low and she was growing cold. Reluctantly she left the tomb and headed down the tunnel. Coming to the first in a series of thick metal doors, she pressed the latch plate.

Nothing happened.

A stirring of fear sidled through her stomach. Again she pressed the plate, harder.

Still nothing.

Setting down her torch, she put both hands to the latch plate and shoved with all her strength.

The door remained tightly shut.

Panic threatened to close in on her, but she resisted. Ceasing her struggles, she picked up the failing torch. And it came to her that after all, this might not be so terrible a thing. By her injection she had condemned Yanash to a painful death. Now that T'Lar had condemned her, T'Annel saw an opportunity to accept her own death in a spirit of recompense.

She only hoped that her courage would not fail.

oooo

At midday Spock awoke from a fitful sleep, went into the living room, and scrolled through the messages on his wrist phone. There were urgent demands from Sarek and a single call from his wife on Earth expressing deep concern over Spock's recent lack of communication. It was comforting to see Lauren and hear her voice again. All was well at their home in San Francisco. Teresa missed him, and James remained in the best of health. Simon was having difficulty coping with the loss of the prestigious Statler award and his favorite violin, but with Simon that was to be expected.

Spock froze Lauren's recorded image and stared at it for several minutes. Finally he began a response. "Lauren. By now you may have heard that Yanash…has been executed." Fresh guilt surged up as he sought words to describe the recent, unspeakable events. "The atrocities that I witnessed yesterday are…" Entirely my fault? He could not continue. Putting the message on hold, he turned to find his uncle walking into the room.

Sparn looked as if he had aged thirty years. Clearly disheartened, he said, "I know that you did not believe Yanash was the Shiav, and perhaps you were right, but you cannot deny that he was a man of great power and wisdom."

"Yes," Spock quietly agreed.

"Surak took us from barbarism to civilization, but as time went on, the ever-increasing severity of the Surakians' strictures created a new form of bondage. Yanash offered something more. He offered us a richer emotional and spiritual life, and they murdered him. What now, Spock? According to all reports, the followers have disbanded. Yanash was a great man…but he is gone. When Yanash died, it would seem that his work died with him."

Spock nodded. "Even if his disciples are released, it would be suicidal for them—or for you—to openly promote the teachings of Yanash."

"I fear you are correct," Sparn said. "Yet if asked, I will not deny my involvement with the Master. He was no criminal, Spock. They had no right to kill him."

As the day wore on, Spock attempted to rise above his depression and finish his message to Lauren. "I am having difficulty assimilating the horror of what I witnessed yesterday at Mount Seleya. I cannot believe that the powers Yanash possessed were in any way supernatural. It is only that we did not understand them. He was not a god, but a man—and any man is entitled to justice under the law. Upon my return, I intend to pursue every avenue of protest against the Vulcan High Council and the Seleyan priesthood. Their actions in this matter were abominable."

For now, he did not tell her of his own part in Yanash's death. As he considered his next sentence, a chime sounded at the door. He turned in his chair and met the eyes of his uncle who was seated across the room. There was still a strong possibility that they would be arrested.

The chime came again, followed by an insistent knocking. Sparn rose and opened the door. His face registered surprise and he quickly brought Sorel inside. Sorel was the first of Yanash's Chosen Ones to be freed. As if by prearrangement, others arrived. By evening all had found their way to Sparn's house, along with T'Naisa and a few other followers.

The solemn, shaken group seated themselves around the floor and plied Spock and his uncle with questions about Yanash's execution. In turn, those who had been arrested gave accounts of their confinement and interrogation. Though no formal charges had been leveled, they were ordered to disband and cautioned against spreading the "dangerous Yanashite errors".

As darkness settled in, T'Naisa and another woman received Sparn's permission to prepare a meal. Before long they were passing out dinner, and the aroma of the food finally awakened Spock's hunger.

T'Naisa came to Spock's corner carrying two plates, and handed him one. He did not like being served by her. Nevertheless he accepted the food, but when she settled on the floor beside him, he started to move.

She quickly reached for his arm, not quite touching him. "No," she softly pleaded in Standard. "Stay. Hear what I have to say."

Spock relented and for a moment they ate in awkward silence.

Then T'Naisa bowed her head over her plate and said in a voice meant only for his ears, "You have every reason to dislike me. I deliberately harmed you and your family. I have no right to ask for your forgiveness. I don't deserve it."

Spock's heart remained hardened toward her. "You have spoken truly. You don't merit any forgiveness." Rising, he removed himself from the young woman's presence, but all the while he wondered how she—how any them—would react if they knew he had been involved in their Shiav's arrest. The sooner he left here, the better.

oooo

T'Annel's inner timesense told her that she had been trapped in the cool tunnel for 33 hours, but it seemed a great deal longer. The torch had guttered away quickly, depriving her of both light and warmth. Alone in the blackness, she huddled beneath Yanash's tomb and shivered. She was thirsty, and the mental technique for reserving body heat seemed to be losing its effectiveness, but what right had she to complain after consigning a man to hours of death-agony?

Leaning back against the tunnel wall, she closed her eyes, for she had discovered that doing this eased the sense of total blindness. She focused her attention on the faint noises she occasionally heard; scurries and scuttling of tiny creatures that lived deep in the earth…perhaps even creatures that had fed on Yanash…creatures that would soon be feeding on her dead body.

Suddenly there came a sound like a clap of thunder. With a start, she peered into the impenetrable darkness and had scarcely drawn a breath before a rumbling began. It grew louder and louder. Then the world began to shake violently.

Rocks fell from the tunnel ceiling and crashed around her. Dirt sifted through the air. Coughing, she crouched down and put her hands over the back of her neck for some protection. And in her terror she lost track of the minutes. Two? Three?

With a sharp, wrenching jolt the quaking ended, but smaller stones continued to pelt down.

Then, silence.

T'Annel heard the anxious sound of her own breathing, and cautiously began to raise her head. Light burst upon her eyes, warm and sweet and radiant. Had the mountain cracked wide open? But this was no red-hued Vulcan daylight; this was not any form of illumination she had ever observed.

Her vision focused. A shining figure stood beside an open tomb. Light spilled from his clothing. His beautiful face shone as he gazed down upon her.

"T'Annel," he said kindly, "do not be afraid. It is I…Yanash."

Dumbstruck, she stared at him.

He extended his hand toward her. She clearly saw the wounds left by the spikes that had impaled him, and for the first time since earliest childhood she began to weep. With tears of joy she drew his warm, living hand to her lips and kissed it repeatedly. Bending low, she buried her face in the hem of his radiant robe.

"Slay me," she sobbed brokenly, "for I…I do not deserve to live!"

Reaching down, he gently drew her to her feet.

T'Annel did not consider questioning her sanity. The supernatural reality confronting her was beyond any question her world-bound mind could possibly conceive. It was enough that Yanash was here and she was here with him.

"Come," he said, "there is work to be done."

T'Annel let herself be led through the earthquake rubble. At tunnel's end the heavy metal door opened easily at Yanash's touch, and they continued through several junctions until they reached the main tunnel exit. There Yanash turned to her and said, "Care for the injured. For now, speak of what you have seen only to Marek."

"Marek?" she questioned. "But…his mind…."

"Go now," Yanash urged.

T'Annel nodded. Wiping the tears from her face, she opened the door. The adjoining foyer was empty and seemed undamaged, but shouts could be heard from the outer compound. Crossing the foyer, she stepped out into a scene of devastation. Main support pillars had collapsed, dropping an entire section of the priests' quarters. All those not seriously injured were rushing about, tossing aside the manageable pieces of rubble. Emergency workers began to transport directly into the courtyard.

Dalek spotted her and hurried over. "T'Lar was inside," he said in a taut voice.

T'Annel looked at the collapsed building and thought of T'Lar's aged body pinned under tons of rock. How could she possibly be alive?

Her healer's instinct reviving, she said, "The emergency crew will use sensors to locate her. If there is still life, they will transport her directly to the hospital."

She noticed a small gash bleeding on Dalek's wrist. She brought him over to a bench and took a protoplaser from the medical pouch that she always kept at her waist. Though her hands trembled, the wound closed easily. She was wiping away the blood when she caught a sharp, pleasant scent rare on this arid mountain. As she lifted her face, she seemed to feel a bit of moisture in the air.

"Water?" she questioned.

"A result of the earthquake," Dalek said. He pointed to the eastern perimeter of the courtyard.

T'Annel rose and walked over to the wall. A sudden breeze blew a refreshing mist into her face as she looked down the cliff. The ledge where Yanash died had been split in two. Water gushed forth from it like a geyser.