Chapter 8 - Preparations and Prophecies
"Is all this really necessary?" The Doctor's indignant question echoed around the marble corridor he was currently being marched along, accompanied by a pale-faced Suren and a dozen armed Fosters. He was answered by a shove between the shoulder blades, courtesy of Proctor Morovan's energy pistol.
"You have been caught trespassing in a secure section of the Procardinal's Palace," sneered Morovan. "I think that warrants a little 'chat' with his Holiness at least, wouldn't you agree?"
The Doctor sighed. "Well, I'm all for chatting of course, in fact it's sometimes quite difficult to shut me up..." He held up his hands. "But I do often find that being handcuffed does rather tend to take the fun out of the conversation."
"How would you like to be gagged as well?" the Proctor growled, before bringing the party to a halt in front of an impressive set of double doors. "Wait here. Watch him," he snarled, opening the door and disappearing into the room beyond.
"Charming," the Doctor muttered, before turning to his fellow prisoner. The young medic looked pale, a sheen of sweat glistening on his forehead. The Time Lord frowned. "Are you alright, Suren?"
Suren visibly shivered. "Doctor, this is the Procardinal's Inner Sanctum. I've never been here before - in fact I don't know anyone outside the Order who has." He lowered his voice to a barely audible whisper. "None that have returned to tell the tale, in any case."
"Oh, I'm sure there's nothing to worry about." The Doctor grinned, as the ornate doors swung open ominously. "Just follow my lead!"
Proctor Morovan re-emerged from the room beyond, and with a jerk of his head indicated for the prisoners to proceed. The Doctor strode forward confidently, leaving Suren in his wake.
"That's what got me into this mess in the first place," he muttered under his breath, before following, somewhat more reluctantly.
He found the Doctor standing in the middle of a large and lavishly decorated room, staring about himself with an air of nonchalant interest, for all the world as if he were a tourist admiring the architecture. Suren moved to join him, the plush surroundings serving only to increase his anxiety. In front of them was a large and highly polished desk, the surface of which was strewn with ancient-looking texts and rolls of paper, interspersed with gilded goblets and objet d'art. The high-backed chair accompanying it was currently empty, and Suren looked warily around the chamber in an effort to find its usual occupant.
"Over there," growled Morovan from behind them, the nearest Fosters pushing the prisoners in the back so as to remove any doubt as to their destination. On the far side of the room was a set of brocaded curtains, filling the expanse from floor to ceiling. They were flanked by a pair of white-robed acolytes, who promptly pulled the curtains back, revealing an open doorway leading out to an expansive balcony beyond. The Doctor and Suren were herded through the doors, emerging into the dazzling late afternoon sunlight.
"Ah, my Lord Herald! What a surprise to see you again so soon!"
The prisoners turned to see the rotund figure of Procardinal Jonaris, recumbent on a cushioned couch. His evident relaxation was in complete juxtaposition to the number of acolytes busying around him, some occupied with paring his finger and toenails, whilst others massaged his fleshy shoulders. "In handcuffs again, I see?" he sneered.
The Doctor squinted against the reddening sunlight, flashing a disarming smile. "Unfortunately so, Procardinal. It seems to be an occupational hazard as of late."
"Well, when one's occupation is ushering in the obliteration of worlds I can see how that could become the case," Jonaris mocked, but the smile he gave in return soon collapsed into a heavy scowl. "But enough of these pleasantries. I believe you have been trespassing within my Holy Precincts."
Morovan stepped eagerly forward. "We apprehended them in the lower cellars, my Lord. The Herald's transport device was there also."
"Ah, yes," the Doctor interceded, his bound hands raised in admission, "a simple navigational error, you understand. The TARDIS can be a little temperamental from time to time. I really must take her in for a service one of these days..."
"A likely story!" growled Morovan. "Do you really expect us to believe that you are from race so scientifically advanced as to be capable of mastering the complexities of time travel, yet you do not have the understanding to pilot your vehicle properly?"
"Um, yes, well..." The Doctor's complexion flushed, taking on the hues of the blushing sky. "Piloting the TARDIS is often more of an art than a science, I've found, and I'm afraid I'm much more novice than Grand Master. I meant to materialise several floors up, near to where my companions are currently enjoying the luxuries of your magnificent palace." He looked cautiously over the marble balustrade to his left. The balcony appeared to overlook the Civic Square; the Doctor could see a number of citizens milling about far below, hurrying to complete the day's business before the sun set. "Very impressive, I must say... tell me, exactly how high up are we?"
"High enough," growled the Procardinal, "to ensure certain death for anyone unfortunate enough to fall." He looked meaningfully at the Doctor, who stepped cautiously back from the edge. "Now, much as I enjoy discussions of an architectural nature I really must enquire, Doctor, as to exactly what you saw in my cellars."
"Oh, nothing really," said the Doctor, feigning nonchalance. "A staircase, some dusty wine bottles, a set of mysterious metal doors... nothing to write home about!"
Suren stepped nervously forward. "We really saw nothing, my Lord Procardinal. We had exited the Doctor's transport capsule but moments before the Proctor arrived."
"Really?" sneered Morovan, folding his arms across his chest.
"Absolutely!" The Doctor grinned.
"Then why were you facing towards your transport when we apprehended you? If you had just stepped out, then you would be facing away from it, and towards the doors, surely?"
The Doctor cleared his throat. "Well, of course it only took those few moments to realise that we were in completely the wrong place! We were just heading back into the TARDIS to adjust the spatial depth settings when you so fortunately found us. But now that you mention those doors... they did strike me as not particularly in keeping with the architecture. A recent addition, are they?"
"That is no concern of yours, Time Lord!" the cleric spat, snatching his hands away from his attendant acolytes and struggling to sit up. Proctor Morovan cleared his throat and stepped forward.
"The Order has an extensive wine collection, gathered over centuries from across the colony. Some of the examples are extremely rare, extending back to even before the destruction of the Union. Unfortunately we have experienced some pilferage in recent years, and have had to take measures to protect some of the more priceless bottles. The doors you saw are simply an effort to preserve the remainder, nothing more."
"Of course. That makes perfect sense, thank you Proctor Morovan." The Doctor raised an eyebrow. "I must say, for a member of the Civic security force you really are very well informed on the intricacies of the Order. Who is it you report to again?" Before Morovan could respond, the Doctor turned to address the Procardinal: "Well, now that's all cleared up, we really must be going. There is a party to get ready for, after all, and we wouldn't want to keep the Lady waiting, would we?"
Jonaris leaned forward, fixing the Time Lord with an intense stare, his eyes twinkling like jewelled pins in the fleshy cushion of his face. "What exactly are your intentions here, Doctor?"
The Doctor recoiled, surprised. "My intentions? My intent is purely benign, I assure you. Nothing more than bringing the Lady Nyssa safely home. And taking every step I can to ensure her continued safety, of course," he said, his words heavy with meaning.
"Ha!" the Procardinal scoffed. "Do you take us for fools, Herald? Given your track record, you cannot expect us to believe that this is the truth of the matter!"
"'The truth of the matter?' I'm beginning to realise that one has to delve quite deeply on Serenity to begin to have any idea of the truth of the matter. I'd be interested to hear your perspective on that particular subject, my Lord Procardinal."
"You insolent wretch!" Jonaris raged - "I am the Procardinal of Serenity! Most Holy Servant to the Lady! The truth is AS I DECREE IT!"
"Really?" The Doctor's voice raised an octave as his complexion darkened. "I've always understood the truth to be far more objective in nature, and certainly not subject to monopoly!"
The Procardinal struggled to his feet, approaching the Doctor with an air of quiet menace, until their faces were inches apart. "The 'truth' is, Doctor, I could have you flung from this terrace in an instant, and the truth of your failed attempt to assassinate me would have spread across the colony before your worthless body hit the ground."
The Doctor smiled, unfazed by the nearness of the cleric's florid visage or the naked threat hanging in the small space between them. "I think you're forgetting something, Procardinal."
"And what would that be?"
"I am under the protection of the Lady you profess to serve so faithfully. Are you sure you can convince her of your so-called 'truth'?"
Jonaris stared for a moment, before turning away from the Time Lord with a snarl. "Release them, Morovan, and escort them to the Lady's quarters. I have no patience for any further drivel!"
Suren visibly sagged in relief, whilst the Doctor gave an exaggeratedly low bow. "A wise decision, your Holiness!" He beamed, as the Proctor removed their bonds. "Well, we really must get on, lots to do... I expect we'll see you at the feast tonight?"
Jonaris breathed deeply in a visible effort to contain his temper. "Of course," he growled, through gritted teeth. "As the Lady's foremost minister I have the... honour... of hosting the proceedings, and ensuring that she receives the welcome that she deserves." He paused for a moment, his expression developing into sardonic leer. "I'm sure you will enjoy what we have planned." The smile disappeared as quickly as it had arrived, as Jonaris turned towards the Proctor. "Now get them out of my sight, Morovan, before the urge to adjust the Herald's 'spatial depth settings' myself becomes overpowering!"
The Doctor opened his mouth to speak, but was silenced as Morovan quickly barked an order, causing two burly Fosters to spring to life and herd the newly-liberated pair towards the door. They had just reached the threshold when the Procardinal called for them to halt. The party turned and looked at him expectantly.
"Enjoy the Lady's protection while you can, Herald. But remember that nothing lasts forever. We on Serenity learned that three centuries ago. At your hands." He waved a bejewelled hand dismissively, and his heavy features set into a scowl as the Doctor and Suren were bustled from the room.
Footsteps echoed in the dank stone corridor where Brother Byrnus waited, illuminated by a flickering pool of torchlight, his arms folded nervously about him. He turned towards the sound, standing to attention as a hooded, grey-clad figure rounded the corner and approached him, entering his small circle of luminescence. Byrnus knuckled his brow in acknowledgement of the newcomer.
"Well, Brother? How is our guest?"
"Much improved, Father," Byrnus gushed, his voice brimming with relief. "He is responding well to the stimuli, and his anger, though not abated, seems to be focused in the desired direction. I believe he is ready."
The Grey Father nodded his cowled head as he considered his companion's words. "You have done well, Byrnus, against all the odds. When all this is done, you shall be rewarded."
Byrnus bowed, wringing his sweaty hands. "I have merely acted in accordance with the Prophecy, Father. To have played my part in liberating Serenity from ignorance is reward enough."
"True, Brother, true. We stand on the brink of salvation, when all we have been promised these long years is but a hair's breadth away." The Grey Father paused, apparently deep in thought.
"Indeed, Father. I have reviewed our preparations exhaustively - nothing has been missed. All that remains is to act out what we know must happen."
The older man nodded once more, his gnarled hand lost within the darkness of his hood, as if rubbing his face in contemplation. "I am grateful for your diligence, Byrnus, and have every faith in your thoroughness and attention to detail, or I would not have entrusted you with this all-important task in the first place. However..."
"Is something wrong, Father?" Byrnus interrupted nervously - "Something I have missed?"
Something akin to a chuckle emerged from the older man's hood, and he reached out to clasp Byrnus's shoulder. "No, Brother. Be assured I did not mean to cast doubt on your readiness. I just feel I should perhaps visit our mentor one last time. It is fitting, I think, to pay homage on the eve of our deliverance to the one who has been so instrumental in guiding our efforts."
Byrnus bowed deeply. "As you wish, Father. I shall ready the transmat at once." The Grey Father nodded his assent, and Byrnus exited the pool of torchlight and hurried off down a darkened passageway. The older man remained, contemplating the heavy wooden door before him and the hopes vested within the volatile alien youth beyond it.
"Yes..." he muttered softly. "Just one last visit. No harm in making sure..."
"Well, I think that went splendidly considering the circumstances, don't you agree, Suren?"
The Serenite medic momentarily raised his eyebrows as he was marched through the opulent corridors of the Procardinal's Palace at the Doctor's side, before wincing as he felt the butt of a Foster's rifle between his shoulder blades for the umpteenth time. "I'm not sure the word 'splendid' is one I would choose, Doctor, but it certainly went considerably better than I had expected. 'Better' in that we appear to still be breathing, in any case."
"Absolutely!" The Doctor grinned. "Always a bonus, I feel. And he's such a charming fellow, your Procardinal, isn't he?"
Proctor Morovan, who was marching a pace or two before the pair, scowled over his shoulder. "Less of the chatter, Herald, or you'll be going right back the way you came."
"Just a harmless observation, Proctor, I assure you." The Doctor plunged his hands in his pockets, deep in thought as he stared at the pattern in the plush carpet beneath their feet. They trudged for a moment in silence before the Doctor spoke again.
"Would you care to hear another observation of mine?"
"No."
"Excellent!" the Time Lord enthused, ignoring Morovan's monosyllabic grunt. "Well, whilst we were enjoying the Procardinal's unstinting hospitality, I happened to notice something very interesting about his acolytes."
Suren looked up. "The Brothers of the Order?"
"Yes!" The Doctor smiled. "Now, I don't know if you've ever noticed, but they all appear to be exactly the same height. Intriguing, don't you think?"
"Not really." Morovan turned a corner ahead of them, and the party followed him into a larger corridor, even more finely decorated than the last, filled with russet-coloured sunlight streaming through a vaulted glass ceiling above. They were clearly on the top floor of the Palace, reserved for only the uppermost echelons of the Serenite faith.
"Oh. Really?" The Doctor pouted. "Why not?"
The Proctor continued on, stopping before an impressive set of doors, which were flanked by two white-robed attendants. He turned to face his charges.
"The Brothers who attend the Palace are all hand-picked for participation in ceremonial duties. They are required to be a certain height to add a level of uniformity and style to proceedings." He motioned to the hooded acolytes, who moved to open the doors. "The Lady and her Handmaiden are quartered within. You will both remain here until I return to escort you all to the Feast."
The Doctor stopped his examination of the white-robed attendants and turned to face the Proctor. "Am I to understand that our movements are still restricted then, Proctor Morovan? I was under the impression that the Procardinal had released us, and Prime Consul Varden certainly didn't place any limitations on where we could go..."
"But you are in the Procardinal's domain now, Herald, and therefore under his jurisdiction. And given your recent 'wanderings' he certainly does not want you poking about where you're not wanted. So I repeat - you are to remain here." The Proctor leaned closer, menacingly. "Am I making myself clear?"
The Doctor recoiled slightly. "Crystal."
"Good." Morovan briefly scanned the interior of the room, then turned back to his charges. "You may enter. I will return shortly." He turned to the attending acolytes: "Do not, under any circumstances, allow anyone to leave this room." The white-robed attendants bowed in synchrony, as the Proctor turned on his heel and marched back down the corridor.
The Doctor watched him go, the turned to Suren with a hearty smile, indicating towards the door before them.
"Shall we?"
The grey-cowled figure grimaced, every tendon and sinew in his body tensing in anticipation as light flared, and his entire being was meticulously deconstructed. The darkened chamber in which he stood dissolved before the remnants of his eyes. For a moment he existed entirely as a nebulous series of impulses along a line of transmission, before being recombined, atom by atom, in an entirely different place. The familiar tingle of arrival ran along his nerve endings as his destination materialised before him.
As he stepped down from the circular transmat platform, the Grey Father absent-mindedly ran his hands over his torso to verify that he was, once again, all in one piece. This confirmed, he slipped his hand into his pocket and pulled out a small communicator.
"Transmat complete, Brother Byrnus. I shall contact you again shortly. Standby." The device crackled with his subordinate's distorted response, and he stowed it back within the folds of his robes.
The low room that now surrounded him was currently devoid of life. Evidence of recent occupancy abounded however from every surface - the walls were lined with an infinite variety of books, some of which lay open on a large workbench along one wall, where they shared the space with assorted papers, charts, and scientific apparatus. A flask of fluid bubbled merrily above a flickering burner, whilst a similarly agitated kettle rattled on a stove on the opposite side of the room. The atmosphere abounded with rich organic aromas, heady with age and time. The Grey Father headed towards the whistling pot, his fingers tracing along dusty shelves filled with half-assembled electrical components, tools and wiring. The noise of the boiling kettle died down as he removed it from the heat; the renewed silence held no longevity however, being immediately broken by the sound of shuffling feet, the tap of a cane, and a soft, electronically augmented voice.
"Ah - my dear Father. I wasn't expecting you!"
The Grey Father turned sharply, the steaming pot still in his hand. He greeted the newcomer with a curt bow. A dry chuckle emanated from beneath his cowl.
"Given our current situation, old friend, that statement doesn't entirely fill me with confidence. You are the Seer, are you not?"
The figure shuffled forward, the movement disturbing the path of numerous dust particles shining in a shaft of evening sunlight, their leisurely descent agitated into furious swirls and eddies that danced around a robed frame bowed with age.
"Ha! Details, details... you know I don't concern myself with everyday banality. I reserve my skills for matters of much more import than uninvited guests showing up for tea!"
A terse electronic cackle forced itself through the silver breath-mask covering the figure's nose and mouth, which quickly deteriorated into a rasping cough, stirring the dust into an even more elaborate dance. The Grey Father put the kettle onto the rough, wooden table in front of him, then helped his companion to a chair. He sat himself in another, and began to pour the tea whilst he waited for his companion to recover.
"You should get someone to help around here," the Father opined, smiling as he noticed the two teacups set out on the table - "all this dust can't help your condition."
The coughing subsided. "It's not the dust, my friend, so much as this old piece of rubbish." The Seer tapped the silver mask. "I should have known better than to trust Cyber-technology, or the blasted Salostophian trader keen to take advantage of a blind old fool!"
The Father pushed a steaming cup towards his friend's wrinkled hands. "You're no fool, Seer. And you're far from blind."
"Near enough." The Seer indicated the small, dark goggles completely covering his eyes. The lenses were opaque crystal, the frames a dark grey metal picked out with delicate silver swirling patterns. "If it wasn't for these I wouldn't be able to see a thing. Picked them up from the tinclavic mines on Raaga in... well, it must be fifty years ago. Much more elegant in design, you see... unlike this Cyber-rubbish, they were built by someone with an eye for beauty..." The Seer trailed off, deep in contemplation as he stirred his tea.
"Seer– " the Grey Father began.
"Anyway, there's no point cleaning - this old body will be worn out long before the dust overwhelms me."
"Old friend, I–"
"Yes. Well, it's my own fault for messing with chemicals that had no business being together. Never mix elements from different universes, my friend - you mark my words!" The old figure wagged a crooked finger at the cleric. "There's a natural balance to things, and it must be respected!"
The Grey Father stirred his tea, waiting until he was certain the elder man had finished rambling. "On the subject of balance, Seer, you may remember that our current situation is poised on a knife edge."
"Ah, yes. You're here about the Boy. Adric."
"Yes, Seer. I know you've told me in the past of his role, and that he is key to tipping the balance in our favour. Of course we have followed your advice on numerous occasions, and your prophecies have never failed us yet, but– " The Grey Father hesitated, steepling his fingers. "I don't mean to question your wisdom, but I–"
"You are uncomfortable with the fate of Serenity resting in the hands of what, by now, must be a volatile, unstable creature of instinct."
The Grey Father nodded silently.
"I can see your dilemma, my friend." The Seer smiled. "You are used to being in control. In fact you crave control so much, you tolerate the whims of an old fool in order to control the uncontrollable - to shape the future. To leave the culmination of all your work to the whims of a chemically-unbalanced youth must be hard for you, I can see that." He took the cleric's hands in his own.
"You must trust me, Father. Adric will fulfill his role to the letter. Already his Alzarian biology is fighting the unfamiliar chemicals in his system, adapting his physiology to regain control of his mind and his body. That point is close at hand, but he will learn - as you must also learn - that control is an illusion."
"But if the effects wear off before he has completed his mission, then there is no way he will carry it through!"
The Seer sat back, the hint of a smile visible behind the silver mask. "The Boy is confused, and has always been easily swayed. The seeds you have sown in his mind will hold true."
"And the Herald? He appears to be just as unpredictable... if not more so."
"Ah... the Herald." The Seer chuckled. "He is far too preoccupied at the moment with thoughts of his own contributions to history to interfere with our work. That's always been his trouble, really - he's far too sentimental to be a time-traveller. Just keep his mind on Traken, and our success will be assured."
The younger man sighed. "I wish I had your certainty, Seer."
"The change will come, my dear Father." The elder smiled. "Have faith."
"Faith," the cleric said disdainfully, "is the part I am struggling with. I have put a lot of faith in you, old man."
The Seer held his hands aloft in mock hurt. "And haven't I always justified that faith?"
"Overall, yes, of course. I wouldn't be here otherwise." The cleric folded his arms. "But there are things you have kept from us. Things I suspect you are still keeping from us."
"As it was, so must it be, Father. You know that."
The Father stared back at him impassively. "That doesn't help."
"I'm not here to help you, Father. What has been, must be. There is no other option." The Seer leaned forward, peering intently through his opaque lenses. His words, when he spoke, bore the weight of prophecy:
"The Boy will eliminate the Goddess. The Order will fall. Science and logic will triumph over faith, your corrupt society will crumble, and the light of the Source will be reborn from the ashes. And Serenity will take its rightful place in the Universe."
The last remnants of the fading sun clung to the rooftops of the Serenite capital, the dying light staining spires and chimneys in russet hues, whilst the world below was engulfed by lengthening shadows. To the west, the evening sky was painted a rich scarlet, broken only by wisps of cloud edged with gold. To the east the sky darkened, the encroaching gloom deepened by the gathering of ominous black clouds, heavy with rain.
The dwindling sunlight encircled the edge of the high balcony where Proctor Morovan stood, surveying the scene before him. He took a deep breath; the humid air was heavy with exotic scents drifting from the Palace's ornamental gardens, and the evening seemed alive with the chattering of wildlife, as birds and insects lamented the close of another day. In the Civic Square below citizens bustled past each other, limbs heavy from a long day at work, yet eager to reach home before curfew. The Proctor watched them wearily disperse and, not for the first time, envied them their simple lives.
"And you're sure they didn't see anything?"
Morovan turned to face Procardinal Jonaris, who was still reclining in his chair, sipping wine from an ornate goblet.
"I can't be certain, my Lord, but the doors were closed, and there was no sign of anything beyond being disturbed in any way. I suspect they were foiled by the atmosphere lock."
"I wish I could be sure..." Jonaris mused. "I suppose we must be thankful that the last batch had been deployed so recently. Not much to see, even if they did get in." Jonaris took a long draught from his goblet, deep in thought. "Still, it's awfully risky, especially given the nature of the new batch."
The Proctor bowed his head. "I realise what is at stake, my Lord. I have secured the cellar, and posted a guard. The Herald and the medic have been escorted to the Lady's quarters, where your men stand guard. They cannot make a move without our knowledge."
"You had better right, Morovan," the Procardinal growled, finishing his wine with a hefty swig.
"The continued existence of the Order depends upon it."
"So you know all about this 'Source Marker' thingy, do you?" Tegan sat on a plush sofa opposite her Trakenite friend. Nyssa, sipping her tea, nodded.
"Of course I do, Tegan!" she replied, rather primly. "I am an expert in bioelectronics after all. It has always been the case that only those of the Trakenite nobility could become Keeper and commune with the Source."
"And that doesn't worry you at all?" Tegan asked, "That someone might want to get their hands on this ability of yours?"
Nyssa frowned. "But why would they? The Source is long gone, Tegan. It took the resources of all the worlds of the Union to create it, and those worlds are lost. Any ability I have is essentially redundant."
The Australian woman stirred her tea. "I suppose you're right," she reluctantly agreed, "but there's something not right around here, I can feel it. I wouldn't trust anyone on Serenity as far as I could throw them."
"Throw them where?" Nyssa wrinkled her nose in confusion. "Is it really an Earth custom to measure trust by the distance you can physically hurl a person?"
Tegan rolled her eyes. "For cripes sake... Doctor, help me out here!"
"Hmm?" The Time Lord stood by the suite's large window, where he had stationed himself since he and Suren had rejoined the two girls. The medic had taken one look at Tegan and Nyssa in their new attire, and after blushing furiously had stammered something about 'a change of clothes' before hurrying off into one of the adjoining rooms. Bathed in the blood-red light of the setting sun, the Doctor was tinkering with some wiring protruding from a small electronic device, his long blond hair hanging down from his temples. "What's the matter?" he said absent-mindedly, without looking up.
"Oh, forget it," sighed Tegan. She frowned at the Time Lord, clad in his usual cricketing attire - "Hey Doctor, shouldn't you be thinking about getting changed too? There's bound to be something to fit you in there."
"I'm perfectly comfortable as I am, thank you Tegan," the Doctor declared. "Besides, the last time I got changed for a party I was promptly accused of murder, and I've had quite enough of being tarred with that brush recently..." He looked up at the welcome distraction of Suren re-entering the room through an adjoining door. "Ah, Suren! Very dashing - you look quite the gentleman!"
The medic bowed, blushing. He was dressed in a charcoal-grey suit, with a three-quarter length jacket bound by a deep purple sash at his waist; a matching strip of material encircled his neck around a high collared white shirt. "Thank you Doctor, but I'm afraid I pale into insignificance next to your lovely companions."
"Yes, well, you all look splendid, I must say." The Doctor stuffed the device he was working on into his pocket, then walked over to a table filled with fruit and salads at the side of the room; carefully selecting a fresh stick of celery from a platter, he replaced the old stick on his lapel. "There!" He turned to his companions with a flourish - "I'm ready!"
Suren moved toward the seating area, bowing low in Nyssa's direction. "My Lady, you truly look divine... both of you, of course," he said, shyly looking in Tegan's direction.
"Thank you, Suren." Nyssa smiled. "It's all Tegan's work, really."
"I see you are wearing the emblem of the Order." Suren indicated the opaque gem encircled with silver adorning Nyssa's neck.
"It was put out for me." Nyssa shrugged. "I assumed it was required."
The Doctor joined them. "May I?"
Nyssa held the pendant aloft - the Doctor took it with one hand, the other thrust into his pocket. He turned it over, examining the gem closely. "Interesting... does the stone have any symbolic significance?" he queried, pulling his half-moon spectacles from his pocket and donning them.
"Yes," Suren replied, nodding - "it symbolises the light of the Source, kept alive by eternal faith in the Lady, represented by the encircling silver band."
"Encircling?" The Doctor raised his eyebrows - "Or restricting?"
"It is merely an emblem, Doctor. Science and faith, inextricably linked."
"Hmm..." the Time Lord mused, turning the pendant over again and handing it back to Nyssa. "But who is in control...?"
A sharp rap on the door brought the Doctor's train of thought to an abrupt halt. Proctor Morovan entered, flanked by a number of Fosters, and surveyed the company before him.
"My Lady," he said, with a curt nod - "I have come to escort you to the Feast."
The high-vaulted ceiling of the Civic Hall resounded with conversation and laughter as the elite members of Serenite society gathered below. As the last remnants of the sun disappeared from the sky the great and the good congregated in the chamber, attired in their finest robes, nodding courteous greetings to colleagues and acquaintances before pausing to marvel at the sumptuous decoration surrounding them. Outside, rain clouds gathered ominously overhead, deepening the twilight into darkness and obscuring the stars that had cautiously begun to poke their way through the ether. Inside, the vast chamber was illuminated by its own celestial display, as a multitude of tiny points of light hung in the air above the heads of the assembly, swirling and dancing like a tiny, pocket universe. The heavenly light scattered across the room, rebounding off the gilded table wear and the jewels and adornments of the people below. The sparkling air was perfumed with the scents of the vibrant orchids and greenery that graced every available surface, reminding the illustrious guests of Serenity's lush botanical heritage, which was also reflected in the patterns of the numerous weavings and tapestries hanging from the walls. The delicate music floating amid light and scent completed the ethereal, multi-sensory effect.
"You have done well, Fenravic." Procardinal Jonaris stood at the entrance to the Hall, dressed in his finest silken robes, and accompanied by a number of attending acolytes. He looked around with a critical eye, before grudgingly nodding his approval. The Highbishop at his side sank into an exhausted bow, his movements denoting a mixture of reverence and relief.
"Thank you my Lord, you are too kind, it was an honour to serve - "
"Yes, yes - enough of your fawning," Jonaris interrupted with a wave of his hand. "Is everything ready?" He looked at his subordinate pointedly, a raised, plucked eyebrow causing his forehead to erupt into deep, fleshy furrows. The Highbishop nodded gravely, bowing once more.
"All is as you requested, my Lord. I– " Fenravic looked up to find the Procardinal had moved on, cutting a wide swathe through the assembly, and disregarding the gracious bows and curtsies he left in his substantial wake. Wiping the sweat from his brow, the Highbishop turned to the acolytes waiting beside him. "Well, what are you all waiting for? Places, places!" he clapped his hands. "Our guest for honour is on her way!"
