CHAPTER FIVE
“You'd better take a
fool's advice
and take care of your
own,
“'Cause one day they're
here…
the next day they're
gone.”
- Don Henley
Vulcan, for Luciano Mantovanni, had been, was, and would
probably always be, a crucible. He knew that it wasn't a very imaginative
metaphor...
...but that didn't make it any less true.
And before him was the hearth, and the heart of the flame: Sevek's
Tower.
He remembered Molly Ainsworth once, in a strangely affectionate,
wonder-filled voice, calling his master “The Wizard of Old Shi'Kahr”; he'd
smiled then, before he could restrain it.
It's truer than she
knows, I'd wager. Orthanc itself... with Gandalf at its pinnacle, rather than
Saruman.
He was one of the few who had leave to beam directly onto the
estate grounds, but had eschewed that in favor of entering through the main
gate. Its intricately filigreed surface was covered with runes carved in the
days before Surak, when the tower had served as a stronghold for the war
mistress T’Lath—protected not by walls, but instead, innumerable swords and the
minds and spirits that wielded them.
Now, there was only Sevek... but Luciano Mantovanni had no doubt
that this place was now more inviolate than even when T'Lath had been at the
height of her splendor and power.
And, of course, though he'd quieted his inner turmoil as much as
he could, and thought he'd achieved more than a fair measure of success, the
sublime serenity of Sevek's mind touched his—cool, but welcoming.
I am in the garden, my
son. Seek me there.
Mantovanni smiled, and returned a wry, Of course you are.
No doubt I'll be
watering roses within the hour.
But it was not to be.
Sevek had company; a Vulcan with an expression that told
Mantovanni that he was both important and
self-important was arguing what was no doubt to him a vital, subtle point of
logic at what he presumed was the conclusion of a long-winded oral
dissertation. His master, as always, was patient...
...and the response, economical as a flash of steel, eviscerated
the man's position, while allowing him to retain his dignity and intellectual
pride—which was, of course, especially important to a Vulcan.
Sevek raised his hand in request for a pause.
“A moment, Minister Sukal.”
The man arched a brow, and his lips thinned slightly; he was
obviously unused to waiting.
Mantovanni rendered the traditional salute—palm displayed, thumb
extended, fingers parted into pairs—and addressed both men.
“Peace and long life, Master… Minister.”
Each answered.
“Live long and prosper, Captain.”
He'd expected the appellation from both: Sevek had always greeted
him with his rank when he first returned home, to honor his accomplishments.
It had never failed to please—until now.
The ancient teacher continued with, “What brings the son of Sevek
home unannounced... but not unlooked for?”
Mantovanni smiled slightly.
“If that's your circumspect way of saying it's agreeable to see me
again, Master, the reverse is true.”
He added, silently, I have
no desire to interrupt Minister Sukal's interview. I can wait…
To speak mind-to-mind in the fashion they were employing was not
considered rude by Vulcans: If the bond was strong enough to permit it, then
clearly the intimacy was to be respected. It was not the exclusion of
strangers, but rather the inclusion of loved ones and kin.
The tone of Sevek's thought was wry.
…but would obviously
prefer to speak with me immediately.
You are unsettled. The
word in Standard I have heard that most applies to your current state of mind
is “antsy.”
Perhaps you should
consider doing as you did when a toddler, Cicero: Run giggling and naked
through the garden. As I recall, it never failed to improve your temperament.
Sevek's humor was unpredictable, but incisive; and when it
referred to actual events, even deadlier.
I think we should
probably spare the minister such a sight, Master.
The old instructor seemed to agree.
“Sukal, I shall return shortly.”
Though obviously vexed, the younger Vulcan inclined his head in
assent.
He had, after all, little choice.
“Though we have other matters to discuss,
“It is marked both ‘Personal’…
…and ‘Urgent.’”
It was
T’Vaar.
At first,
she spoke with a careful formality, discharging her ancient obligation to an
Elder.
“T'Vaar, Adept of T'Pel, greets Sevek, Master of Hand and
Thought, and begs leave to address his son on a matter of import.” Mantovanni smiled: While such a salutation was, today, a mere
formality, and much ignored in polite society, he knew Sevek well, and that the
gesture would touch him.
You never fail to surprise me, T'Vaar.
And she
didn't now.
“Captain… I apologize for disturbing your leave, and the
serenity of Sevek's Tower... but believe the reason is sufficiently
compelling.”
Her face
changed infinitesimally, but to a man who’d been raised among Vulcans, her
emotions were eminently legible: Worry, self-recrimination, and irritation were
all present in quantities that had him immediately alert, and uneasy.
“I am betraying a confidence by contacting you. I must,
however, weigh the promise of silence against the well-being of those for whom
I feel… loyalty.
“Lieutenant Parihn has left
“She had departed
before I could offer my assistance, Captain. It was a few hours after she had
gone that I received her message via time-delay communiqué, in which Parihn
said it was something she, and I quote, ‘has to do.’”
“If she pilots with her usual precision and… affinity for speed… she
will reach her destination—Way Station 242—in a matter of days. There, she has a contact who will help her in the
manner upper echelons refused to, and likely cannot, do… or so she believes.”
Despite the
seeming ambivalence that, as with most Vulcans, she wore like a shroud,
T'Vaar's eyes betrayed her: They were alive with an inner light that was not
simply intellect. Even across the distance, they caught him with their shimmering
depth.
“While I am not privy to all the inner recesses of her
heart, I have been her teacher in the Art for some time, and cannot help but be
aware of your… unique involvement.” She nodded her head in what he
understood was apology for the unintended breach of privacy. As a Vulcan, she
valued the sanctity of her own thoughts and emotions greatly, and had known
that he, being as much of her own race by cultural mindset as human, wouldn’t be pleased at the revelation of
her knowledge.
What’s done is done, T’Vaar.
The question now is, what do I do?
Her next
words narrowed his options even further.
“
“I have not contacted Starfleet Intelligence. Sub-commander T'Laris informs me
that the disposition of this matter will be left to you so long as we may. Our
commander, though, is not a patient
man, and our proffered explanations as to Parihn's location have left him
unsatisfied—especially since our attempts to raise the fighter for recall via
subspace have proven, as you may have anticipated, fruitless. Eventually, she
will be declared absent without leave, and subject to arrest. In addition, I
have no doubt that when Starfleet Intelligence becomes cognizant of what she
has done, her career will be in grave jeopardy.”
To his
astonishment, T'Vaar's next words were in the singsong cadence of Sah’riva, the ancient Vulcan dialect
used today only by poets and seers. Mantovanni recognized the piece—it was the
call to arms from Sanak's Tallarenthia—and
he was stunned that she would honor him with a comparison to such ancient
heroes:
“Arise now, captain of men, for dire is the need of your kin
Do not lie brooding and hidden from the sun
“Take up your cause and banner
For no other man may do what must be done
“And you are he who dares, my lord, the silent blade above
the din.”
She returned
to Federation Standard.
“Sir, you were raised among us, and you know that the Adepts
of T'Pel do not speak lightly; but I forebode, in the old way, that Parihn is
in greater danger than even she knows—a danger not just to her freedom and
life, but the continuation of her very spirit.
“And she is alone.”
T'Vaar
raised her hand, and saluted him in the Vulcan fashion.
“Peace and long life,
Captain.”
He turned to
the man who was as close to a father as he had ever known, and found himself at
a loss for words.
“Sevek, I–I can’t…” He fell silent.
“Rarely have you felt the need
to hesitate when speaking to me, my son. Be at ease.”
Mantovanni smiled briefly, even
in the midst of his upset, but just as quickly worry overwhelmed him again.
“I have to help her,” he
finished.
Sevek arched
a brow.
“While I do
not doubt T'Vaar's vision, the decision must be yours. Perhaps it is Parihn's
fate to meet her destiny in this fashion. After all, she did not ask for your protection… or your aid.”
“No,” he
admitted. “She rarely has.” A vision of Parihn’s small form curled on his couch
asleep made him doubt whether that was precisely
true, and, he amended, “At least not in so many words.”
The ancient
Vulcan bent to inhale the scent of a rose.
“Do you
wish, nevertheless, to give it?”
The question
took Luciano Mantovanni by surprise. He considered it for a time… and found
that the intensity of his feeling on the matter was far greater than even he
had ever realized…
…until just now.
“Yes,” he whispered.
Sevek smiled
minutely.
“Then logic
dictates that you should… abbreviate…
your stay on Vulcan.” When the younger man made as if to apologize, he gainsaid
it with a gentle, “I shall be here when you return… and I have other matters to
occupy me.
“We shall speak then.”
As he
watched Mantovanni depart, Sevek briefly considered first his son’s feelings...
…and then
his own.
We have had each other’s company for five minutes in the
last five years, thought the ancient teacher.
Our reunions are eventful—if infrequent.
He rejoined
his guest.
“Could that
not have waited for a more… auspicious
moment?” the minister inquired. His discomfiture at the interruption, while
subtle as any Vulcan's, was noticeable…
…and would
have been even if he hadn’t
commented.
Sevek arched
a brow.
“Honored
Sukal… I am your counselor, for such has been your desire. I must remind you,
though, that while this is the planet
Vulcan, and the city of
The minister
bowed slightly. The old man had eloquently, politely—and unmistakably—reminded Sukal of precisely why he was so valued
as an advisor.
“For my
presumption… I ask forgiveness.”
In his
youth, Luciano Mantovanni had seen many petitioners wait patiently before the
sun-flayed gate of Sevek: Priests and princes; peasants and pilgrims; problems
and prodigies alike.
Not to mention prodigal sons.
This was his
first look, however, at a panting
puss.
For a
moment,
“Hatshepsut…
what are you doing here?”
Even in the
face of her heat-inspired distress, his former counselor and always friend
trilled amusedly, and affectionately wrapped her tail around his wrist.
“T'Vaar contacted me on Felis Minor…
“…and told me you'd need a cat to kick around.”