Chapter 33

Dawn is frosting the desert floor in shades of ochre and gold, creeping up the edges of the jagged promontories that scatter the plateau, and pulling long, twisted shadows from the feet of the statues that guard the ancient altar as the acolytes file along the rough path to where the Elders wait. Spock follows T'Sil, white robe bright against the receding gloom; T'Cora brings up the rear; and, between them, walk Sytek and Staas, who arrived at the sanctuary less than two seasons ago, but whose mastery of the Disciplines has proved superior. Below them, bathed in shadow and the fading light of the Watcher, spreads the sanctuary complex, where a mobile line of flickering torchlight describes the path of the adepts pacing the final hour of the watch; above them, the night opens onto a blanket of stars and darkness, washed in the clear, cold air of a midwinter sky. On the southern horizon, sinking into the thin, silver-gray line of sunrise, a distant yellow star in the constellation of Bezhun, the Oculus, is setting out of sight. Spock trains his eyes on the dusty path and resists the temptation to look up, to allow himself to name it or its third, water-rich world.

The Elders are standing on the dais: Master T'Sai in the center, flanked to her right by Solak, to her left by Suvar, three hands raised in the ta'al. They have been waiting, Spock knows, since the light left the sky at sunset, standing in silent meditation while they reach inside themselves for the inner silence that they must channel in order to confer srashiv, the first step on the path to Kolinahr. The altar is as old as the sanctuary itself - curling, High Golic runes shrinking back against the stone under the slow assault of sand and years - and its care and upkeep will fall to Spock and his four companions after today. The altar of Kolinahr is, as yet, closed to them, but srashiv is a token, a promise of sorts, that the symbol of ultimate logic is within their grasp.

T'Sai inclines her head, and the acolytes drop to their knees before her, forming a rough semi-circle on the dusty ground. She does not speak as she descends the shallow steps to the terrace but Spock can feel the brush of her mind with every footfall, skimming the edges of his thoughts as she paces the arc in front of their down-turned heads. There is no sense of invasion, of being known, of intrusion into the self; not yet - only the simple graze of a mind so powerful that it has already passed into legend. Spock sits quietly and allows the quiet wash of consciousness to blanket him; there is no defense against it. For many hundreds of years now, the Adepts of Gol have spent their days in meditation and instruction, cloistered in their sanctuary quarters where their minds can be at peace, but, as he feels the low hum of psi-energy envelop him like a cloud, he believes he understands why his ancestors once feared the Kolinahru above all others.

Spock closes his eyes, steadies himself, prepares to descend inside. Srashiv is not Kolinahr; it is a way-marker on the path to Truth, nothing more. All that is required is evidence of progress, and he knows that this has been achieved. He is no longer the man who arrived, in desperation and disintegration, at the doors to the sanctuary, and, if true serenity, as yet, eludes him, then it is at least within his reach again. He can fail today and return in a week, a month, a year, to receive srashiv again, when his controls are stronger, when the ghosts holler a little less loudly, when it is possible to move easily from sleep to wakefulness after a night untroubled by dreaming. But as T'Sai releases Sytek's mind and moves to enter T'Sil's, he understands that he does not expect to fail. And, though tradition does not permit to be here to see her confidence rewarded, neither does T'Kel.

When you first came to us, she told him last night, before she left him to keep his pre-ceremony watch in hours of darkness and meditation, it was my counsel that you be turned away. I made this recommendation in the knowledge that you were in crisis and that the imbalance in your katra had already confounded the capabilities of four mind healers of considerable talent. Do you understand my meaning?

He does. As he has begun the process of picking away the debris from his cluttered Path, some things have become clearer, shifting slowly into sharper focus as his mind adjusts. It is possible, now, to view with a kind of detachment the violence he has done to his controls; the emotional erosion he has allowed to proceed unchecked; the gradual disintegration of Venlinahr. He knows that srashiv is only the beginning of the process of renewal that he set in motion when he arrived at the sanctuary doors, and he knows, even as T'Sai presses cool fingers to his forehead and slides easily, irresistibly, into his mind, that his road will be long, and difficult, and full of danger, but the fact of the matter, he has come to understand, is this: had the Masters turned him away when he fell on his knees to petition for admittance to the path of Kolinahr, there was no other recourse for Spock. Had they read his crisis as evidence of weakness and turned their backs forever, he would have been lost.

He almost was.

-o-o-o-

There is no one to meet him at the arrivals port, of course; he has not told his parents of his plans, and, truthfully, he's not even certain that they're on Vulcan. This would, in fact, be his preferred scenario: his father is scarcely the embodiment of all that is serene in Spock's life, and he imagines that the opportunity to rebalance himself, to restore his fracturing shields, will best present itself in the absence of Sarek. But it's a stray thought, nothing more: Spock is beyond specifics now. He simply needs a place to be while he tries to fit together the jagged edges of his fractured controls, and he currently lacks the necessary presence of mind to reason through a selection of options. It must be Vulcan. Beyond that, the details are academic.

But as the car pulls up at the gated entrance to Amanda's gardens, it is dismay, nevertheless, that registers as he notes the unmistakable evidence of occupation in the house beyond. The concept of luck is illogical, a human idea, designed to bring order to the bubbling chaos that constitutes every life by instituting a force outside of conscious control that can be neither summoned nor commanded, but, he is obliged to acknowledge as he presses his hand to the sensor at the gateway, it has a certain cynical appeal. Were he human, he might be tempted to conclude that bad luck has been his constant companion these past months.

Taaval opens the door as Spock approaches. If he is surprised at the arrival of his master's son, he gives no sign, simply nods perfunctorily and steps smoothly aside to allow him to enter, folding his hands behind his back as Spock crosses a threshold he had not thought to see again for many years. Jim, he is unsurprised to note, is everywhere: on the heated air; in the scent of roses that drift in through the opened door; a footstep on the stair; a high, clear laugh; a touch; a brush of skin; a grip; the smell of water; a taste of metal and salt and rust…

"Welcome, son of the house of Sarek," says Taaval now, and the images shatter, collapse, scattering on the negligible breeze. "Your arrival is unexpected."

There is no need to acknowledge the covert censure in the words. Taaval can disapprove all he likes; Spock is here now, and protocol places him higher on the pecking order, regardless of whose observance of the social niceties is better in evidence.

"I regret…" says Spock, but he finds that the words escape him before he can complete his sentence. He is extraordinarily tired. He cannot remember ever feeling so tired. "I regret that there was insufficient opportunity to advise of my intent. Please inform the Ambassador that I will attend him in his anteroom."

"I will inform the Ambassador of your arrival," says Taaval, with a patrician bend of the head. "However, he has been obliged, temporarily, to attend to a matter of business in Vulcana Regar, where he will remain for a further 1.3 days. No doubt he will wish to speak with you on his return."

"No doubt," says Spock. The city's cloistering heat is particularly unbearable today, and the loose fabric of his robes does little to mitigate its assault. "And the Lady Amanda?"

"The Lady Amanda is in her study. If you would care to sit, I will announce you."

Spock nods. "I will await her in the family quarters."

"As you wish."

There is no element of the arrangements that is, in any sense, as Spock would wish, but there is nothing Taaval can do about that. So Spock simply nods again and sets off towards the wide living area that occupies the western side of the house, as his father's assistant makes his way upstairs to tell his mother that her only son has, unexpectedly and without warning, returned home. There is likely to be emotion, he understands, and he hopes that his shields will hold. He is so very, very tired.

The family rooms are cool and shaded, washed in sepia tones by the anti-glare frosting that blocks the worst excesses of the afternoon sun as it spills through the windows. The lower panes are open onto the gardens as Spock enters, and the air is sweet with blossom, freshened by the cool water of his mother's fountain in the courtyard outside. At least the flowers are different. He is not sure he can process, with any great efficiency, the scent of yelas or favinit or waneti and still maintain his controls.

It occurs to Spock to wonder how long it has been since his last meal. That he cannot accurately recall does not bode well for the satisfactory maintenance of his metabolic requirements, and yet the thought of food repels him. A brief scan of his internal systems reveals a distinct caloric deficiency, but, more alarmingly, a level of dehydration that approaches a moderate sodium imbalance. He cannot, however, find evidence of any pressing thirst. This, in itself, is cause for considerable concern.

But as he's crossing to the replicator with the vague idea of ordering something cold and liquid and high in sucrose, he hears the door slide open behind him, and the unmistakable gentle footfall of the Ambassador's wife at the threshold. He would know it was her, even without the sudden spike of psi-noise across the parental bond; the sudden rush of emotion, quickly restrained; the soft intake of breath as he turns. There is something about the way Amanda moves - the lightest of touches, as though she's gliding across the ground, surrounded by the air of quiet affection that she wears like a cloak - that Spock believes he would recognize in a darkened room. He locks down his shields, fights off the dizzying sway of nausea as they fail to hold in any meaningful sense.

"Mother," he says, and he looks up.

"Spock!" she says quietly: a soft sound, a horrified sound, and he sees the color drain from her face as her hands rise, unsteadily, to cover her mouth. Spock steels himself. He is aware that his outward appearance gives voice to his inner turmoil, but her reaction is not exactly encouraging. He wonders how much of his evident disorder is the source of Taaval's tight-lipped disapproval. "Spock," says Amanda. "Are you ill?"

"I believe I must rest," he says.

"I believe you must," she agrees, and he is uncertain as to whether her continued failure to approach him, as she most certainly wishes to do, bodes well or badly for their interview. "Taaval will ask Veshek to make up your room. When did you last sleep, dear?"

"Five point seven days ago," he answers. And then, "This figure is not adjusted for Vulcan time."

She nods, but distractedly. "And your meditation?"

It is the obvious question. He expected her to ask. But he finds, now that the words are in front of him, that it is remarkably difficult to make himself answer.

"I have…" he says, and hesitates. "I have been experiencing some difficulty in achieving the trance."

"For how many days?" asks his mother. Spock says nothing, and her eyes widen, abruptly, in understanding. "Weeks? Oh, Spock…"

"It has been," he replies slowly, carefully, "an unusually trying period."

She takes a step forward. It is only with extreme concentration that he is able to prevent himself from taking a mirror step back.

"Spock," she says, "something is wrong. Please… please tell me. Why are you here?"

It would have been so much easier had his parents been offworld. Veshek would be here - quiet, constant and reliable - and he would require neither explanation nor discussion; Spock would have been free to reorient himself in a universe that has, without warning, decentered, and to do so in the manner of his choosing and in such time as he sees fit. The questions that must be asked would have come in time, of course, but later. Later, when he is equal to the task of answering them.

"Your enquiry is valid," he says now, as neutrally as he can. "I trust you will understand my reasoning if I defer a full clarification of specifics until such times as I…" Again, he hesitates, and he understands the unspoken meaning it affords his words, but it cannot be avoided. He is so tired. "…as I may be in a position to elucidate further," he finishes.

She wants to argue. He can see it in her eyes, the set of her expression, the small downturn of her lips. But she has been the wife of a Vulcan for many years. She says, "You must tell me only as much as you are able, Spock."

He makes himself look up. He cannot speak these words into the floor of her home, and he cannot countenance the implications of his failure to meet her gaze.

He says, "I have resigned my commission. I have left Starfleet."

There is no explosion of disbelief. There is no battery of questions. There is nothing, indeed, except a sharp intake of breath and a spike of something discordant across the parental bond, quickly silenced.

"Oh, Spock," she whispers, and her eyes, as they search his face, are liquid with sadness. "What on earth has happened?"