Disclaimer: I fully acknowledge that Paramount has exclusive rights to DS9 and the Star Trek universe, and that all characters are the uncontested property of Paramount Television, except the ones I've made up and therefore own.

This story is a loose sequel to a previous story of mine, called 'Snakecharmer'. I'd recommend reading that first, just to give you some idea of what's going on in my version of the DS9 universe, but in any case, you should be able to get some idea from the text. I started this story because I wanted to write about Hebitia, the society that pre-dated the Cardassians on their homeworld: I have made almost all of this up.

The title comes from the symbol of the Ouroboros: a snake with its tail in its mouth, signifying the eternal round of life.

*"Perhaps my best years are gone, but I wouldn't want them back...Not with the fire in me now."*

Samuel Beckett, Krapp's Last Tape.

Bashir could almost be sleeping, Garak thought. The young man's face was closed and still, as remote as the ritual masks that had once been carved on Hebitian graves. A while before, the Cardassian had switched off the ventilator, preferring, in this dry air, to rely upon the nanogen oxygen regulators which now controlled Bashir's breathing. As though the young man could hear him, Garak murmured

'Where are you now? Where have you gone to?' - as though the essence of Julian Bashir might still be intact, locked inside the prison of his own unmoving flesh. Garak did not know whether this was no more than his own vain hope, or whether the neural damage had been so extensive that everything Bashir had been was now erased; his mind no more than a tabula rasa, his body running on the ancient dictates of brain stem function.

*Genneshen thinks I should end it here, Julian. Simply kill you. He says that what's done is done, that it's too late. He says you've travelled too far to come back, that you're already beyond the gates of life and into the eraya, the mixture-that-lives, ready for your next life...* The thought trailed away.

All Genneshen's talk of the Tenathan Path, of death and reincarnation, filled Garak with resentful unease. He wanted to tell the old man *Don't talk to me about that nonsense. I saw too much superstition during the Occupation, and look what good it did the Bajorans.* - but whenever he met Genneshen's empty gaze, he felt obscurely ashamed. Leaning over, he brushed Bashir's hair from his brow, but the young man's face did not change. Bashir's skin felt colder than the stone on which he lay.

'Julian...'

The name echoed away into the shadows and Garak felt a quiver of atavistic fear run down his spine. One never knew who, or what, might be listening. He did not want to believe in the being that haunted Senghala, but he did not feel that he had a choice. On that first long night of vigil he had asked Genneshen if there was any way the Assatra could enter the shrine. He had tried to keep his voice neutral, emptying it of fear, but Genneshen had heard anyway and smiled.

'*Enter the shrine*?' the old man had repeated, mocking. 'I thought you'd realised. It's already here.' He leaned closer, his whisper a spider-rustle in Garak's ear. 'If you listen very carefully, you can hear it - just beyond the edge of sound, as though it's waiting behind a door...' He cocked his head on one side. 'Can't you hear it?' The empty eye sockets betrayed nothing, but Genneshen's smile was sly. Garak thought *He's crazed. All this time alone, guarding this place...It's sent him mad.* - but then the old man said, in an utterly reasonable tone of voice

'For the moment, it's compelled to stay where it is. Quite safe; no danger to anyone. Except for your young friend Dr Bashir, of course...'

That was some hours ago now, and Garak had been told that he would have longer to wait before he would know whether Bashir was to live or die. Pushing the unwelcome memories aside, Garak resumed his vigil.

1.

'I'm the one who ought to be doing the testing,' Bashir argued, a month earlier. Stubbornly, the Major shook her head.

'There's no way I'd let you go through with this. And anyway, even if I thought it was the best idea I'd ever heard, you'd still have to convince the vedeks and Kai Winn. I mean, you're calling it a test - take my word for it, Julian, they're more likely to see it as a violation. You don't have the necessary training.'

'Well, neither do you, as far as I know, and you've used Orbs before.'

'That's different,' Kira protested. 'I'm Bajoran. I made my peace with the Prophets a long time ago. And I meditate at least once a day - I'm used to the disciplines, but you're not. The worship of the Prophets isn't just some kind of spiritual lip-service, Julian. It's a real practice, and it's hard. I've been doing the exercises for over twenty years. You can't just show up in front of an Orb and expect it to spill all its secrets.' She ran a distracted hand through her dark red hair, making it stand up on end like an animal's fur.

'Look,' Bashir said, trying not to sound impatient. 'I'm sure you have your own beliefs about what the Orbs are and how they function. But I've been studying a great many of the ancient texts, particularly the Dakhur Arcana, and if you'll excuse my saying so, I don't think they're intended to be taken metaphorically. I think some of those texts are - well, user manuals, not religious allegories. And if my theory is correct, then an Orb is no more than an extremely sophisticated sub-quantum device, based on a sequence of wave function integrals, which can be directly linked to the neural pathways of the user. They're beyond any technology that we have, needless to say, but they're still explicable. And if I'm right, they could help us win the war.'

He and Kira stared at one another, from opposite sides of the ontological divide.

'I can't afford to let you take the risk,' she said at last.

'And I can't afford not to.'

*********************************************************************

Later that day, as he sat nursing a cup of Tarkalean tea at a table on the Promenade, Bashir found himself facing his own rationalism.

'Of course there's nothing mystical about the Orbs,' Garak said, with some scorn. 'The Order had examples of early technology from this part of the sector, and I'd be the first to admit that we have no idea what most of it was used for. But it's no use treating the things as though they were separate and discrete mechanisms without a thorough understanding of the accompanying context. I don't believe the Orbs are meant to be used separately. I think we're looking, analogously, at a cog or a wheel and saying 'I wonder what it does?' '

'Cogs don't work on their own,' the doctor remarked, absently. 'The Orbs do.'

'Well, do we know that? Has anyone undertaken a study to see whether changes take place in the other Orbs when one of them is used? The Bajorans are such a simple- minded people, and they really do behave like a cargo cult in the face of wonders. They take everything at face value, and they're too superstitious to start proper, rigorous procedures of analysis.'

'They respect the Prophets, that's all,' Bashir murmured. He stared into his cup of tea to avoid Garak's gaze, thinking *Don't look at me like that, Elim. As if you still cared about me. Even though I know it's true.*

As if he had heard Bashir's unwelcome thought, the Cardassian made a dismissive gesture.

'Oh, yes, the wormhole aliens. But you see, we're just as bad. Maybe the Prophets aren't aliens at all. Maybe they're a form of machine that's vastly beyond our ability to comprehend it. You see, I don't feel that any of us have been asking the right questions, or developing alternative hypotheses. We've all been too awed and amazed by the Prophets' apparent powers.'

'Well, that's precisely what I've been saying about the Orbs,' Bashir protested. 'We need to start testing their capabilities. We need all the available resources on our side before the next wave of the war.' He sighed, drumming his fingers on the top of the table.

'Have you discussed this with Sisko?' Garak said.

'Not yet, no. I'll have to do so within the next few days.' Bashir replied. He glanced at the Cardassian. 'Why do I not feel that he'll be particularly responsive?'

Garak merely gave him a wry smile, and did not reply. Carefully, the doctor said

'Elim, I have been very careful to avoid asking you why you were so preoccupied those few weeks ago, and if you will recall, I also avoided asking awkward questions about the split lip you got from "walking into the door of the shop." '

'Oh that...Well, it was a little clumsy of me, I suppose,' the Cardassian said, staring down at the table. 'I failed to take due care to consider the direction in which I was going.'

'Indeed,' Bashir said. He added 'You know, I could make some very interesting speculations about what happened between you and Sisko. I must have picked up a trick or two from a certain ex-spy I know.'

'Indeed?'

'I didn't think Sisko was after a new suit when he paid all those visits to your shop.' Bashir paused, weighing his words. 'Let's say any suspicions I might have entertained were confirmed when he asked me for biomimetic gel.'

'I see.' Garak gave him an uncertain look. 'Julian - has this made things difficult for you, with Sisko?'

Bashir paused for a moment before replying.

'You could say that my relationship with my commanding officer has been a little strained.'

'On my account?'

'Of course it is.' Bashir said impatiently. He did not want to say: *Elim, I think Sisko knows. That you and I were lovers, back there at Derreven. And for all my clumsy attempts at putting him off the scent, I suspect he believes that we still are. Ironic, isn't it? Because he's wrong.* For if he said that, they would have another hurt, angry discussion about why they were lovers no longer, and Bashir did not think he could bear that. Instead, he took the easy way out and said

'He's scapegoating you, and it makes me angry, that's all.'

The Cardassian sighed.

'Julian...I knew the risks before I entered into my agreement with Sisko. What do your people call it? The devil's bargain...That was the role I accepted. To take the blame, when he could not.' He gave a small smile. 'Never expect gratitude from princes, Doctor. That isn't the way the game's played.'

'You're the expert,' Bashir murmured. 'Anyway, I have to get back to the infirmary.' He stood abruptly, conscious that people were looking at them. No doubt, Bashir thought grimly, the gossip would be all over the station by evening. The doctor and his Cardassian friend, sitting together in public. *And if I meet him privately, someone always manages to notice it, and then the rumours are ten times worse. That's the trouble with this fucking place. No privacy.*

Garak said quickly

'Julian? I'll be in my quarters later. If you should want to talk.'

It was almost a plea, and Bashir knew what it must have cost the Cardassian to make it. He nearly said, in concession, *It's not your fault*, but instead he nodded, once, and strode stiffly from the Promenade.

2.

Garak did not believe in false hopes. He had entertained too many of them, earlier in his career, and they had invariably led to disappointment. He was therefore resigned to spending another evening alone, facing shadows, and he was genuinely surprised when the door chime sounded. When he opened it, Bashir stepped quickly inside.

'Good evening,' Garak said.

'I thought I was never going to get away,' Bashir complained. 'First Ensign Barberet's liver, then some Bajoran child with para-measles...Anyway, never mind that. I've decided. I'm going to Bajor.'

'To Bajor? To do what?'

'I've devised a test. A neural relay device, to run some checks on an Orb's internal structure.'

Brushing past Garak, he went to sit on the couch, where he launched into a lengthy and involved explanation of his hypothesis. The Cardassian, recognising a man in the grip of obsession, took the armchair and listened. Garak was not a scientist, but if his judgement was correct, the doctor's theory was some way ahead of current thinking. Now that the secret of Bashir's neural enhancement was open knowledge, Garak reflected, he made a somewhat disconcerting companion. To hide his discomfiture, the Cardassian interrupted

'Well, yes, very interesting. Are they going to let you anywhere near an Orb?'

'They will if Sisko tells them to.'

'I see.'

'I'm going to convince the Emissary to pull rank on the Vedeks. It's too important a chance to let slip.' Sitting forwards on the couch, Bashir rubbed his eyes. 'From where I'm sitting, the Orbs are starting to look more and more like the Holy Grail.'

'The what?' Garak said, puzzled.

'Oh, sorry. It's a human reference. An old story from Earth - I bet Miles knows it, actually, it's from his part of the world. There's a king, and he establishes peace throughout the land, and people gradually grow restless and discontented. Crops fail; wells dry up - that sort of thing. There's a blight. And then the king's knights see a vision of a sacred cup, and go off in search of it.'

The expression on the Cardassian's face would not have led anyone to suppose that he was impressed.

'Do they find it?' he asked, sceptically.

'Well - yes and no. One of them sees it, but he's not pure of heart, and so he dies as he reaches for it. And another knight goes mad, but finally one of them does find it, and brings back the message that he's learned.'

'Which is?'

'Which is, I suppose, that the knowledge of the Grail is contained in each person's heart. It's like a quest for your own soul. The wasteland represents a damaged spirit, and the aim of the quest is to heal yourself. That's one interpretation, anyway. Don't you have any similar legends on Cardassia?'

'Oh, a few old stories, dating from Hebitian times...I haven't thought about them for years.'

'Tell me,' Bashir asked. For a moment, Garak thought, it could almost be the old days again, sitting over a glass of something and talking about literature or art. Perhaps the doctor simply wished to make up for his earlier single-mindedness, but whatever the reason, the sudden attention was welcome and so was the chance to ignore the undercurrents for a while. The Cardassian smiled, and said

'They were told to me as a child...There's Drvari's sphere, and the story of the flying barge...'

'Go on.'

'I don't really remember. Drvari was a heroine from before the Hebitian period. There's a tale of how she fought a demon to save her people, and then went north, where she found a black sphere in the wilderness that stole her soul...Then, years later, two heroes went on a quest to find the sphere, and it gave them great powers. They conjured up a magical boat and took on a whole army, laying it waste. Then they battled a demon, too, and imprisoned it in the sphere, and buried it deep in the mountains so that the demon could never escape.' That story had always distressed him, Garak remembered now. He had never known why he found it so disturbing, but he also recalled asking that it be told to him over and over again. He realised that he had fallen silent. Bashir was looking at him expectantly.

'I'm sorry,' Garak said. 'I'm better at embroidering the truth than telling stories.'

'It seems to be a universal constant, doesn't it?' Bashir said, ignoring his apology. 'Each race possesses archetypal legends which contain the most fundamental truths of their people.'

'Magical lies,' Garak murmured. 'I've told you before, never under-estimate the power of a good lie...' - and then he realised what he had said. As if no reference had been made to his genetic enhancement, Bashir smiled.

'You know,' he said 'I always wonder about the people in those legends. Whether they're based on real individuals, and if so, what they felt and thought. What did King Arthur think, seeing his warriors running off, chasing visions, and leaving him alone in his castle? What did your Drvari feel, when she went off on her quest for the sphere? What went through the minds of your two heroes?'

'We'll never know.'

Bashir frowned.

'I wonder if people will tell stories about us, years from now? About how we fought the Dominion, and lost a station in the sky, and found it again?'

'I wonder if I'll still be the villain of the piece,' Garak said, and could not keep the touch of bitterness from his voice. Bashir glanced at him in surprise.

'You? You won't be the villain. You'll be the magician: the mysterious person who appears out of nowhere and baffles the onlookers...'

'Sometimes I think I baffle myself...Well, maybe they'll tell stories about the magician, and the young man he loved.'

'Oh, Elim...'

'Did you come here just so that we could tell each other tall tales, Julian? Or was there another reason?'

'We can't seem to leave each other alone, can we?' Bashir said unhappily.

'Perhaps it's fate.'

'Fate chose a bloody awkward time at which to strike, then.'

Garak moved over to the couch and, before Bashir could protest, put an arm around the young man's shoulders.

'Come here. That's better. Do you know,' he murmured into Bashir's ear 'you'd have made a superb torturer?'

Bashir blinked.

'I beg your pardon?'

'If the job you did on your victims was half as good as the one you do on yourself, we could have retired half of the Obsidian Order.'

Bashir's face remained sombre. He said

'I don't like living like this. Pretending we've had some sort of falling out, me treating you as if I barely know you and don't like what I see, anyway...I'm sure no-one's fooled.'

'Then why do it?'

'Because of - reasons.' Bashir said. Garak sighed and said

'So at the moment, we have the worst of both worlds. We're no longer lovers, but we still have all the disadvantages of an illicit relationship. A long time ago now, Julian, I told you how it would be...Before we even returned from Derreven. I always knew that it couldn't last, and sure enough it didn't.' He swirled the dark kanaar in his glass, gazing into its depths. 'At least we still have the semblance of a friendship.' He glanced at the doctor for confirmation but Bashir did not meet his eyes. 'And don't think I enjoy it, having you snarl abuse at me in public, and pretend to avoid me. But better that than the alternative - if people think we've quarrelled, so much the better. It diverts attention.'

'Well, it hasn't been easy for me, either. I mean, Miles is a nice bloke, but I'd rather be spending my holosuite rations on you.' Bashir rubbed his temples. 'Oh, I don't know. I don't know what I want.'

'I blame myself for the bad influence I've set you. You've also become twice as cryptic as you ever were before.' Moved by a long-held suspicion, the Cardassian added 'Julian? Is this anything to do with Section 31?'

'Oh, God,' Bashir said. 'I was hoping you wouldn't ask that.'

'It's the obvious question to ask. Look, believe it or not, it doesn't matter. I understand. Who could understand better than me? I'm not blaming you for anything; I'm not asking you for anything. Except this. Do you still care about me?'

If he listened hard enough, he thought, he could hear the sound of his own heart beating. After a pause that seemed to last forever, Bashir said

'Yes. You shouldn't even have to ask.'

'Well, then,' the Cardassian murmured, and bent to kiss him. Bashir's eyes drifted shut and he let Garak take him down onto the couch. The Cardassian unfastened Bashir's uniform; to his own disgust, he found that his hands were shaking. Afraid that Bashir would notice, he removed his tunic, then clad only in his undershirt and trousers, straddled the young man's body. He ran a finger across Bashir's lips and the doctor twisted so that his face was half buried in the cushions, like a cat refusing to be distracted from the important business of sleep. Garak bent and kissed the corner of his mouth; Bashir barely stirred. Frustrated, Garak sat back and sighed. Bashir's unaccustomed passivity at once excited and disturbed him, but the underlying message was clear.

*You want me to take responsibility* he thought *You want me to control you so that you can pretend you didn't mean it*. For once, he found, he had no taste for mind games. Deliberately, he turned Bashir's face to the light and hit him with the flat of his hand. Bashir's head jerked and his eyes flew open in shock. Garak hit him again.

'What the hell - ?' Bashir managed to say. Garak had not intended to strike him particularly hard, but he had failed to estimate his greater Cardassian strength. Bashir, dazed, grasped his wrists and rolled over until Garak was lying on his back. The doctor was genuinely angry.

'You bastard,' he snapped, forcing Garak's hands above his head. 'You hit me like that again and you're fucking dead.'

'Promises, promises.' Garak remarked archly. He had not bargained on quite such an extreme reaction, but he had to admit that it lent an unexpected dimension to what had hitherto been a fairly equitable relationship. Though the doctor had shot him that time, he reflected; it was not wise to underestimate Bashir.

'I mean it,' Bashir said coldly, and from the light in his eyes, Garak could see that he did.

'Well,' he murmured, 'You'd better find some appropriate way of punishing me for my temerity, hadn't you?'

He lay, unresisting in turn, as Bashir summarily rolled him over. Garak rested his head on his arms, feeling his erection stirring against the leather surface of the couch. Beyond the immediacy of his own sensations, he realised that this had been building for some time. Bashir was furious: with Garak, with the situation, and perhaps most of all with himself, his own duplicities and evasions. If that fury did not gain some measure of release, Bashir would be the one to suffer from it. Garak was not, he reflected now, one of nature's submissives, but he would go a certain distance for the sake of love. Bashir's breath was quickening in his ear, and the hands pressing him down against the couch were, for once, not gentle. Garak gritted his teeth against the sudden invasive pain, and the corresponding damage to his Cardassian pride, understanding the necessity for it and knowing, not without shame, that it would quickly be outweighed by the pleasure.

It was soon over for both of them. He could hear Bashir's ragged breathing end in a sound like a sob, and then the young man withdrew. Released, Garak turned over and sat upright. Bashir's head was tilted back against the couch and his eyes were closed, but beneath the lids, Garak saw, they sparkled with tears.

'Oh, Julian,' he murmured. He reached out and touched the doctor's cheek; blindly, Bashir grasped Garak's hand and held it against his face.

'Elim...I'm sorry, I'm sorry...'

'What for?' Garak said. He moved along the couch, pulling Bashir close so that the young man's head rested against his shoulder.

'For hurting you...'

'Don't be absurd. People would pay good latinum for that on Cardassia. You should start charging a fee.'

Bashir looked outraged for a moment and then, reluctantly, he smiled.

'This shouldn't have happened,' he whispered.

'No, I know: we can't be lovers,' Garak murmured. 'You've told me before. But we are each the sun around which the other orbits, Julian, and it's going to take more than circumstances to change that.'

'Fate, you said,' Bashir murmured miserably.

'I probably lied.'

'I ought to go,' Bashir said, and retrieved the jacket of his uniform. He stood up, then looked uncertainly towards the Cardassian.

'Go on,' Garak said, unable to bear the guilt in Bashir's face. 'I'll be all right; don't worry about me.'

'I'll call you. We could meet for lunch, maybe?'

'Whatever,' Garak said, and watched him as he walked slowly through the door.

*********************************************************************

Later, alone, Garak found himself unable to sleep. He lay watchful in the soft darkness, remembering. Images drifted before his mind's eye. Issenara, and the haze of rain across the trees; Dukat's eyes glittering in the lamplight; Bashir's head jerking back beneath the neural lash. He had rescued Bashir from Dukat's perverse scenario and taken him to Derreven, where they had become lovers at last. Garak had been under no illusions that it would last, but being proved right was little comfort.

They had both agreed that the relationship must be kept a secret, yet it had been Bashir who had demonstrated an unexpected streak of deviousness, using the revelation of his genetic alteration as an excuse behind which to hide an unacceptable love. Yet it had worked: no-one, except perhaps Sisko, had seen past the smokescreen of Bashir's changing personality to see Garak standing in the shadows. Garak thought now: *You did all that, for me. You built up the walls and kept people out, just to protect me. They think it's the broken secret of your enhancement that's changed you. They're wrong.* He shook his head, marvelling at the doctor's cunning. Garak would have liked nothing more than to flaunt their brief affair before the command staff, with all the Cardassian pride of possession. *You hold me in such disdain, and yet the best of you made me his choice.* He could feel the arrogance of his smile dissolving into irony. *All that, just for me.*

But then there had come the fury and turmoil of the war, accompanied by the strain of pretence. Garak had hoped that things would be easier once they returned to the station, but those hopes had not been fulfilled. He could sense Bashir moving away from him, spending more time with Miles, spending more time alone, and at last Garak had listened to the once-valued detachment which had never quite deserted him, and ended the relationship. Bashir had greeted the decision in silence, but Garak knew that relief was warring with distress and he couldn't blame the young man for what he felt. The relationship had been a liability for the doctor, and Garak had admired him for taking the risk in the first place. He had tried to resign himself to the situation, but it seemed that neither of them could let go. This evening had been the third such incident. Empty days, Garak thought, punctuated by moments of regretted passion. A Obsidian Order operative should never let the heart rule the will, but he no longer fitted that description. He lay back, settling himself against the pillows and waited with a practised patience for the face of his love to fade from sight and let him rest.

3.

'I trust you realise how many strings I had to pull to allow you to do this,' Sisko said. The Commander's tone was neutral, with none of the challenge that the doctor had been anticipating, but it still managed to get under Bashir's skin. Reining in his temper, Bashir replied

'Yes, I know that, and I appreciate it. But I really feel that all of our resources, including the Orbs, need to be explored if we're to withstand the Dominion.'

'Explored or exploited?' Sisko asked, and now the neutrality was gone. Hostility lay close to the surface of the conversation.

'I'm sure you're aware of the difference,' Bashir said, with equal coolness. He could tell what Sisko was thinking; the dark gaze held a fire which he had seen with increasing frequency in recent years. * He's coming to see himself as the chosen...all that self righteousness, all the talk of good and evil... Never believe in your own myth.* Aloud, he said

'I'd like to proceed, if I may.'

Sisko turned to the Vedek.

'Is that acceptable?'

The man bowed his head.

'If the Emissary says so.'

'Well, then, I suggest we leave for Bajor, and allow the doctor to perform his - *devotions*.'

*****************************************************************

It was said that the Dekhana shrine was one of the oldest on Bajor, rivalling even B'Hala, and Bashir had little difficulty believing it. The place lacked the elegance of later Bajoran architecture; its angular solidity was more reminiscent of Cardassian structures. The Orb of Prophecy and Change now stood on a single block of maranite, beneath the massive arch of a fan vaulted roof. The walls had been concealed behind crimson banners, each bearing a character of the etrana liturgy, but through the remaining gaps Bashir could see the flaking remnants of coloured plaster, layer upon layer, where the shrine had been decorated down the ages. The place smelled of smoke and age.

'Take as much time as you need,' the presiding Vedek, Ettain Nares, told him. 'We don't worship here any longer. All that stopped during the Occupation when the place was sealed.' He ran a hand down the lintel, frowning. 'You can still see the disrupter damage. There are reminders everywhere, Doctor, even here.' Ettain's old face crumpled in unhappy bewilderment, as though he was still unable to comprehend the catastrophe that had befallen his world. Bashir knew that there was no way that Ettain could be aware of his relationship with one of those occupiers, but the Bajoran's words made him feel guilty nonetheless. He put a hand on the old man's arm and said, inadequately

'Never mind. It's over now.'

'Oh, I know, I know. But the memories, Doctor - they'll never go away. The Way teaches us to forgive, but I'm too old for that, I'm afraid. Still, it won't be long before I'll see the Prophets face to face, and when I do, I'll ask them "What were you thinking of? Why didn't you protect us? Why did we have to suffer so?" ' He fixed Bashir with a rheumy eye. 'The sort of questions people always ask the gods, you see. They must get very tired of it. But they should consider more closely what they subject us poor mortals to, shouldn't they? My colleagues say that's heresy, but quite frankly I've ceased to care. Anyway. I'll leave you to do whatever it is that you have to do.'

Alone, Bashir stood and considered the Orb. Despite his earlier rationalisations, he still found himself unable to repress his unease. He felt as if the Orb was watching him, rather than the other way round. It seemed amused, and very patient, as though waiting to see what he would do. There was the sense of a vast, underlying intelligence: so encompassing that only a fraction was focused on the brief spark of consciousness that stood before it. *What are you?* Bashir thought, but the Orb did not reply. Reaching out, he rested his hand on its smooth, curved exterior. It felt warm, like flesh in summer, and it seemed to stir beneath his palm. Unnerved, Bashir snatched his hand away. The Orb was made of some kind of metal, nothing that was organic; it felt utterly wrong.

*Come closer* the Orb whispered, inside his mind. This inner voice spoke absently, as though its real attention was focused somewhere else. Bashir had rarely felt so insignificant.

*No*, he told it, trying to get its attention, but he could feel its presence receding from him, slowly at first, then rushing away across some unimaginable distance. And then it was back; its mental gaze directed solely on Bashir. It was overwhelming, as though some huge presence hovered above him. The universe shifted on its path.

*THAT is who you are* the Orb said, with distant satisfaction. *We have been expecting you...* - and then the weight of the world fell upon him.

Often, when he was alone in his quarters, Garak would draw the drapes across the viewport to shut out the endless night. Sometimes he came close to forgetting that if he drew them aside, he would see only darkness and stars. He could almost pretend that one day he would pull the material away to see the sudden blaze of a Cardassian dawn: it was not easy, living out of the sight of the sun. Now, the drapes had another purpose; they prevented him from staring through the viewport, waiting vainly for a glimpse of the shuttle that would bring Julian Bashir back from Bajor. He had schemed for days to find a way to accompany the young man, but it was too much of a risk. Bashir could not afford Sisko's displeasure at the moment, and Garak recognised that the importance of the task was too considerable to be jeopardised for the sake of the heart. He had stepped back, with as much grace as he could muster, and let Bashir go alone.

He did not enjoy the privilege of being left alone with his thoughts, these days. Without Ziyal's unconditional affection, or the doctor's more considered love, to distract him he found that the hours in which he gazed into the abyss were becoming increasingly frequent. Doubts gnawed at him: his actions on Sisko's behalf, his part in the Romulan entry into the war, the future of his own lost Cardassia...He found that he was no longer capable of the old objectivity; he could not shake himself free of his concerns with the same ease. This was truly the first sign of age, he thought; when one was no more than the sum of one's doubts. And then there were the dead.

With a jolt of memory he was once more stepping out of the airlock, searching for her, sensing the truth moments before he hastened through the door of the infirmary to find Ziyal lying on the couch. Even now, he could not have said what she had meant to him. It had not been love, not in the sense of infatuation, or desire (though Guls knew that had played a part in it), or even affection. It had been something else, a recognition of her, as though a piece of a puzzle had fallen into place without revealing the full picture. She had been necessary to him, somehow, like her father; an integral part of the pattern of his life, but he did not understand why. Comprehension remained just beyond his grasp, like a dream that had flown. Bashir had done his best to comfort him after her death, but the pain was still there: a wound that had closed, but not healed. *Enough of this* he told himself. There were ways out, after all. The wire might be gone, but in these unsettled times it was easy enough to find an escape route.

Crossing to the desk, Garak pulled open the drawer and reached inside, groping for the hypospray. Now that he had only the occasional visitor to his quarters, there was little need for secrecy, but old habits died hard. The knowledge that Bashir would disapprove if he knew was enough to preserve a measure of discretion. Extracting the spray, he held it up to the light. The cartridge was half empty. Garak's eyes narrowed in momentary calculation. Aware of the risk of addiction, he was rationing the theracine, but it appeared that he had already used the weekly allowance. Tomorrow, he told himself, he would start to cut down, and smiled at the fragility of the lie. He held the hypospray against his throat and activated it. There was a moment of coldness against his skin and then the drug was through, sliding through the arterial conduit of his neck-ridge. He gasped as it hit home: seeing the sudden sparkle of light from the lamp, the clarity followed by a warmth in the pit of his stomach. It did not provide the dulled sensuality of the wire; the drug had an amphetamine base, which combined with the endorphin trigger generated - well, something for everyone, Garak thought with grim amusement. He sat back and waited for the drug to reach its full effect. It was not a long hit, perhaps lasting an hour, and he wondered whether it might be possible to modify the molecular base. It would bear further investigation, though it was ironic that the one person who would almost certainly know was also the one person whom he could not ask. He looked around his quarters with distaste. The silence was beginning to unnerve him; it was too quiet in here, he decided. He needed more stimulating company than the voices in his head. Quark's bar should be able to come up with something. Garak picked up his jacket, left his quarters and headed for the empty diversions of the Promenade.

When he reached the entrance to Quark's, however, he found a small, tight knot of the command staff standing outside: Dax, Kira, and O'Brien. The two women were murmuring to the Chief; Garak's hearing could not pick up what they were saying, but he could easily detect the sympathy in their voices. As he drew closer, they stepped automatically to one side to let him pass, and he was just in time to hear Dax say

'They don't know what happened. The Vedek said that he found Bashir when he entered the room - he was lying on the floor, and the Orb was quite still and closed. They called a medic and Julian was taken to Dekhana Hospital, but they still don't know whether he'll - Garak? Can I help you?'

'No,' the Cardassian said, softly. 'It's quite all right, thank you.' The clarity of the drug lent speed to his thoughts; he knew what he must do. Giving Dax a mechanical smile, he turned on his heel and headed swiftly towards the shuttle bay.

1.

The young man stepped out into sunlight, blinking. Behind him, galaxies spun away into night. He had the sudden disorientating sensation that he had been someone else entirely, living a different life, in a place that was unknown and undreamed of. Puzzled, he looked down at his hands, at the familiar long fingers interlaced with the tattoos which had been given to him on his fourteenth birthday. Now, seven years later, the indigo lines were still sharp and blue, blurring only along the edge of the faint scales that ran across his knuckles. The tattoos marked his ancestral name. His mother's name, anyway: the fingers that should have carried the symbols of his father's family remained, and would remain, blank. Dravan tried to stifle the old resentment. He was no longer the fatherless boy from the back country of the Emeraya, but one of the chosen candidates for the succession.

Still bemused, he glanced up to see the woman staring at him.

'Nervous, Dravan?' Vanesha Morrec asked tartly, but she was smiling.

'I - I suppose so,' the young man said.

'Well so you should be. Welcome to the Hassenet Ai,' Vanesha said, and took his hand to help him down from the barge. Blinking in the sudden sunlight, Dravan followed her onto the stone quay and up the narrow path that led to his future.

At his first sight of the complex, Dravan stood and stared. The Hassenet Ai was the most remarkable building he had ever seen, and to someone who had been raised in the impoverished hive villages of the Emeraya, it was also one of the largest. Yet despite its size, it remained curiously unobtrusive: blending so harmoniously with the surrounding landscape that the untrained eye might almost have passed it by. The Hassenet Ai curved effortlessly into the embrace of the mountain wall, settled into a natural crescent in the cliffs. There was a seamless transition between the black stone and red wood of the complex and the rocks beyond. At the front of the complex, before the metal doors of the meditation annexe, stretched a courtyard of polished stone. Beyond, on the open plateau, a wide terrace descended in a series of graceful, irregular steps. A central channel carried a glistening torrent of water down the steps and away to the canal. The natural growth of amu and sootgrass had been encouraged to invade the terrace, giving continuity between the complex and the plateau itself. Dravan realised that he was standing not in an area of natural wilderness, but in the middle of a carefully planted garden.

Vanesha crushed a fragment of amu between her fingers, releasing the pungent, smoky scent into the clear air. Dravan turned. Far to the east, he could see the bright line of the sea, and a betraying glitter as the sun reflected off a window in distant Genneret.

'There'll be plenty of time to look,' Vanesha said, adding more sympathetically 'But it is impressive, I know.'

Gently, she took his arm and led him up to the terrace.

'Don't worry about being a little apprehensive, Dravan. It's only natural...But you're one of the Chosen. This place is to be your home. '

Her voice was wistful, remembering. Looking at her, Dravan could see the faint silver traces that still dusted her third eye.

'You come from Yemeth?' he asked.

'A long time ago now...I was younger than you are. Sometimes it seems like another life. I wanted to stay in the Te'tua, but it wasn't to be; my path took me elsewhere when I was twenty. Here, in fact, to the Hassenet Ai.'

'How long have you lived here?'

'Twenty three years, two months and a day.' Vanesha's smile widened. 'I never stop counting, you see; I always want to remember the day on which I became alive.'

'You must know the Adept very well,' he said, enviously.

'Well enough. But so will you, very soon. He chose you, after all, as one of the candidates. The others are already here; you've made the longest journey.' She paused, suddenly, and grasped Dravan's arm. 'Look. He's come to meet you.'

At the edge of the terrace stood a tall figure, motionless, staring towards the city. At the sound of their footsteps, the man turned, revealing a sharp, amused face. Even at this distance Dravan could see that the man's eyes were blue. Dravan stopped dead. It was as though his breath had suddenly deserted him. He had seen Adept Ariad Arasha once before, at his own selection, but then Arasha had been only a remote robed figure, concealed behind the mask of the Tesseret. Now, he seemed utterly familiar, as though Dravan had known him for years, would always know him.

'It's really him,' he breathed, and Vanesha said

'Yes, it really is Adept Arasha. Well, don't just stand there. Come and meet him.'

As if in a dream, Dravan began to walk towards the waiting figure. And deep within his self, the ember of the soul that one far and future day would become Julian Bashir stirred, as a new pattern began.

2.

He did not look up when Sisko stepped in. There was nothing, Garak felt, that he could say to the man. He refused to engage in tedious explanations as to how and why he had come to Bajor; presumably Sisko had already been alerted to the fact of the borrowed shuttle. The Cardassian was expecting an argument, however, and had already marshalled a catalogue of half-truths and outright lies, which could be produced should the occasion require it. Cautiously, the Captain said

'Garak? I didn't expect you here so soon.'

'I'm sure you didn't.' Garak replied. Even to himself, his voice sounded remote. Raising his head, he saw with a faint satisfaction that Sisko appeared at something of a loss. He did not say anything more, but waited until Sisko dropped his eyes. The Captain said

'It happened last night. It was the Orb - Bashir wanted to run some tests, to check his theory. The key to the Wormhole is contained within the Orbs, he said. But something went wrong - we don't know quite what.' He looked down at the still figure on the bed and sighed. 'Doctor Varein says he's sustained no neural damage.'

'And what happens now?'

'Varein's working round the clock to find out what caused it and how it might be repaired.'

'I see.'

A middle aged Bajoran entered the room, halting when he saw Garak.

'Who are you?' the man asked.

'A friend.'

'When were the Cardassians friends to the Federation?' The man's skin flushed easily, Garak reflected. He reminded the tailor of Kira. A hot people, the Bajorans; incapable of cool reasoning or detachment.

'Well,' he said smoothly. 'I'm friends with this one. And who are you?'

Sisko interrupted

'This is Doctor Varein, who's working on Bashir's case.'

'Oh? And what have we discovered so far?'

The doctor flushed an even more unbecoming shade of scarlet at Garak's tone, but gave a brief report with a reasonable degree of civility.

'I'm sure you're doing your best,' Garak said, with patronising disdain.

Ignoring him, Varein said to Sisko

'I'm surprised he was allowed in here. The patient needs to be left undisturbed and -'

'Mr Garak is with me,' Sisko said, and the Cardassian raised his head in surprise. He recognised that silky note of danger in the Captain's voice, and so, it seemed, did Varein.

'Emissary - I meant no disrespect, I was simply surprised to find a -'

'Mr Garak is to be allowed access to the patient at all times. Is that quite clear?'

Sisko could be impressive when he chose, Garak thought. The Bajoran stuttered further apologies, made a few hasty notes on Bashir's record, and disappeared. Garak looked questioningly at the Captain.

'Garak, you and I have had our differences, but at least there are times when we can put them aside and act in what passes for unity.'

'I can see that that's the closest I'm going to get to an apology from you.'

'I have no intention of offering an apology,' Sisko said. Their eyes met, and locked. 'That was simply a statement of fact.'

'"Fact" is a difficult notion,' the Cardassian mused. 'What might seem plain and evident to me does not, it would seem, possess the same characteristics for you. What seems manifest to you may not, from my perspective, be the case.'

'And what if I told you that, from *my* perspective, a rift has developed between one of my finest officers, currently lying in a coma on that bed, and myself, and that my natural inclination is to lay it at your door.'

'And why would that be?'

'I find myself asking why Julian Bashir appears to have undergone a radical personality shift over the past few months. He's become remote, arrogant, and seems to prefer concealing his thoughts behind a mask. Is that the real Bashir, I wonder, released now that his genetic enhancement is an open secret? I find that hard to believe. When you serve beside someone, year after year, through death and loss and war, you can't hide yourself as completely as that. I know Julian. And I know that he can keep a secret, but not one as fundamental as his entire personality. So I ask myself, are there other, deeper reasons for such a transformation? Such as a highly inappropriate relationship?'

'I must congratulate you, Captain. I hadn't suspected that you possessed such depths of imagination.'

'I don't.'

'You can't expect me to confirm your suppositions.'

'I've no expectation of your doing so. Understand this, Mr Garak. I do not like you. I doubt that I ever will. If I had proof that one of my command staff was involved in a relationship with you that passed beyond the ephemeral parameters of the occasional lunch, don't you think that I would have put a stop to it before now? You've both been very careful. I have no such proof.'

'Are you going to insist that I leave?'

'No.' Sisko said. At the Cardassian's look of surprise, he added 'I have my reasons for letting you stay with him now.'

Garak said, with care

'Would you like to tell me what those reasons are?'

'Mr Garak, I suggest that you treat my tolerance with gratitude rather than enquiring into its justification,' Sisko said. 'Good afternoon.' Turning on his heel, he left the room, leaving the Cardassian staring after him in astonishment.

3.

They walked in silence along the terrace. He would, Dravan thought, remember that walk as long as he lived: the heavy afternoon light lying golden on the flagstones, the Adept's measured step beside him, the little dark-winged assuri humming among the herbs that crept up between the cracks.

'It's a beautiful place,' he said, shyly. 'It's so serene and the air's so still, as though we're a thousand lians away from the city - I suppose Genneret's quite close, really, but you'd never know...' Dravan realised, with a sudden flush of embarrassment, that he was rambling. 'I'm sorry,' he mumbled, contritely. 'I talk too much when I'm nervous. Everyone says how annoying it is...'

He was reassured to hear Adept Arasha laugh.

'My dear young man, don't worry about it. In a world where everyone increasingly guards their tongues, it's refreshing to encounter such candour. You're to be commended, not chastised. However, it's true that one of the first disciplines of the Tenathan Path is the capacity for self control...Tell me, how far have you progressed with your meditational practice?'

'I've already reached Third Level,' Dravan said with some pride, but Arasha replied only

'I see. Well, that means we have further to go when we return to basics.'

'Adept?' Dravan asked, bewildered.

'We're not spirit-worshippers, Dravan. The Tenathan Path's not like the devotional way of the Mirahasi: power comes from within your own self, not from the initiatory grade that your teacher bestows upon you. Things are done a little differently here, as you'll soon learn. I don't expect you to understand all this just yet,' he added, with a sharp glance. 'I'm aware of your background.'

Dravan had been dreading this subject, but it was, curiously, a relief that Arasha had raised it so soon.

'My teacher couldn't give me proper training,' he said, honestly. 'She did what she could, but her own understanding was limited. Actually, I'm amazed that you chose me for a candidate.' He looked expectantly at the Adept, hoping for reassurance, but Arasha said only

'Well, there's no need to discuss that just yet. Look, we've reached the complex.'

Dravan paused at the entrance, suddenly reluctant to step inside. Within, he realised, all the other candidates would be waiting. They would become his colleagues; they were already his competitors. Arasha had chosen seven people, three men and four women from all over Hebitia, and of these, only one would become his successor, to take the Hassenet Ai into the next century. Since the day of his selection, Dravan felt that he had been walking through a dream: the fatherless boy from the back-country, chosen to be a candidate for one of the highest positions in the world. And now, the dream was over, and it was time for a new life to begin. Taking a deep breath, he stepped through the door of the complex.

After that initial meeting Dravan was surprised, and perhaps a little hurt, when he did not see Adept Arasha again for over a month. Despite the fact that Arasha had selected him out of the Thousand, an indication of Dravan's abilities, he now found himself relegated to the lowest ranks of the acolytes. He was accompanied by the other seven candidates. They had already begun to get to know one another; cautiously at first, as they assessed one another's characters and the threat that each of them posed. Almost from the first day, Dravan felt that he knew who the Adept's successor would be. The candidate was a young man named Arrac, who came from one of the wealthy political families of Genneret. He was charming and highly intelligent, with a deep commitment to the various spiritual practices that the candidates had to undertake. To add insult to injury, Arrac was also a sincere, kindly person and had a dreadful memory, which prevented him from being too perfect. Faced with such a competitor, Dravan knew that he did not have a hope, but he could not bring himself to resent Arrac, and they soon became friends.

At first, the candidates treated one another with an elaborate politeness, not wishing to be seen to be so petty as to engage in outright conflict. Gradually, however, this wore away and a more natural set of alliances and enmities established itself. There was no-one whom Dravan particularly disliked, and so the possibility of some long-lasting feud, which he had been secretly dreading, did not arise. No-one alluded to his humble origins, and no-one called him 'fatherless', which had been the standard insult during the course of his meagre schooling. Without external stimulation, therefore, Dravan's insecurities were given free rein to emerge from within.

Although the presence of Arrac had led him to believe that he would have no chance at the succession itself, Dravan still hoped that he would have a useful role to play within the Hassenet Ai and his lack of training concerned him deeply. He frequently found himself lying awake at night, wondering whether he could keep up with the meditational exercises. They seemed to come so naturally to the other students, but Dravan found them a continual effort. The others had been trained in such matters since early childhood, but Dravan, the bastard outsider, had come late to the practices, and then only because a new teacher had taken pity on him.

The principles of the Tenathan Path had come as a revelation to Dravan. Most of the people of his village followed the Mirahasi way: worshipping the One Spirit which, so the Temple claimed, had made the world and now kept it in its perfection. Perhaps Dravan's bastard status, which had always ensured that he remained on the fringes of his society, had inclined him to scepticism, but he could not help feeling that the world in which he lived was very far from perfect. He did not disbelieve in the One, but whenever he looked at the poverty and misery of his home, and the wealth and power enjoyed by the infrequent visitors of the Mirahasi Temple to the village, he thought that the spirit could have made a better job of things. The Temple's insistence that technology should be controlled, for example, seemed to Dravan to be reactionary. Surely it could do no harm to develop existing machinery to be more useful, he thought, but the Temple kept a rigorous curb on scientific knowledge.

In the last year of Dravan's life in the Emeraya, however, things had begun to change. A new teacher had come from the city, and taken special notice of her brightest, most marginalised pupil. Dravan had, at last, found an adult to whom he could utter his heretical thoughts, and he was astonished to find that she agreed with him. She told him about the Tenathan Path: a philosophy which held that its adherents should discover wisdom for themselves rather than relying upon received principles, and which was based on meditation and insight instead of worship. On Dravan's insistence, his teacher had taught him what she knew.

Dravan had loved the meditations, and found a genuine commitment to the principles of the Path, but he had been astounded when his teacher had told him that she was proposing him as a candidate for Adepthood. Believing her to be seriously misguided, he had almost refused, but her determined persuasion had won out in the end and against all his expectations, he had been selected. Dravan came to the Hassenet Ai convinced that he would be exposed as a fraud, and his worries were heightened when, six weeks after his arrival at the temple, he found that he had lost the ability to perform even the most basic of the exercises.

Excusing himself from the lesson, he went outside to stand on the broad terrace. It was late summer now, and the sun was already low in the sky. There was a gentle wind from the mountains, smelling of fragrant grass and woodsmoke. Everything was in harmony, Dravan thought in despair, except himself. *One more time*, he thought, and began to undertake the Fourth Pattern: the meditation of movement. Beginning, he tried to let his awareness dissolve and coalesce within his abdomen. The tutor's words echoed in his mind: the purpose is to remove the barrier of self awareness - to become aware and one with the world, you must first forget yourself. Unfortunately, this was exactly what Dravan found himself unable to do. His hands felt like weights at the end of his arms; far from being the graceful young man whom his first teacher had so praised, he suddenly found himself catapulted into an adolescent's ungainliness. Dravan passed through the First and Second harmonies with difficulty, then stumbled into the paradoxical Fifth. Then he realised that Adept Arasha was standing in front of him, and a sensation like a stone came to rest in his stomach. He found a nearby slab of rock and sat down heavily. Arasha said

'Don't let me put you off.' Then, as he saw the dismay on Dravan's face, he added, conversationally 'You know, you're much better than I was at your age. It's always the way. You start off, and you think you can do it all - but it's superficial. You don't really understand the Form. Then, when you begin to grasp it, it throws you back to where you started. Don't worry, young man. You'll master it.'

Strolling across the terrace, he sat down beside Dravan. Apart from the festivals, and that first brief meeting (when he had been too overwhelmed to remember his own name, let alone anything more pertinent), Dravan had barely seen the Adept. Now, as they sat in a lengthening silence, he studied Arasha covertly. If there was, perhaps, a glint in the Adept's lambent eyes which suggested he was perfectly well aware of such scrutiny, Dravan did not notice it. The young man absorbed every detail: the elegant curve of Arasha's browbone, the patrician arch of his nose and the delicate ridges along his jaw. The scales which lined his throat were dark, almost indigo, unlike Dravan's own moonsilver skin, and indicated the Adept's Hassenian origins. An islander, Dravan thought, feeling even worse. He remembered, with shame, his own hived village in the mountains, where the homes were invariably dusty and poor. In the islands, he had heard, the buildings were made of hamanite and pearlwood, and everything was clean and clear and graceful.

'So,' the Adept said, making Dravan jump. 'Tell me about the Emeraya. About your home.'

'There's nothing to tell. Nothing interesting, anyway.'

A fluted eyeridge lifted in momentary amusement.

'Nothing? I've only visited your part of the world once, but I would have thought there was much that was interesting. The smell of the earth after rain, the way the clouds lift up from the crags and the rock glistens like metal...The stories people tell in the darkness, around the fires...' The quiet voice continued, telling Dravan about his own home, until at last Arasha fell silent. Dravan stared at him halfway between surprise and misery.

'Don't think I don't know how hard it is,' the Adept said gently. 'I was very young when I came here, too. All the other students seemed better qualified, or more spiritual, or just - better, but old Passias Munec had selected me himself as a candidate. I spent every day for a month wondering when they were going to find out I was a fraud and send me home. But they never did. And now here I am, still feeling the same way.' Seeing the young man's eyes widen, he added 'Dravan, you are not on trial. The trial is over. I have made my choice: you are one of the chosen candidates for the succession. It's simply that you're still halfway between worlds; you haven't had time to adjust. But it's time to leave your home behind you now. When you see it again, and your mother, nothing will be the same. It's time to change.'

'I don't think I can,' Dravan said, with raw truth. Then the comforting weight of Arasha's arm was around his shoulders and the Adept's breath was warm against the serrated ridges of his jaw.

'Don't you?' Arasha said cheerfully. 'Oh, I'd say there's hope for you yet.'

4.

Two days had now passed, and Garak was chafing with an impatience that he took good care to conceal from Sisko and the Bajoran medical staff. Bashir's condition was slowly deteriorating; the crimson eye of the neural monitor winked steadily on, revealing the network of damage. Garak sat patiently beside the bed, from time to time falling into an uneasy doze which left him more tired than before. The theracine helped to some degree, but once the heightened awareness had subsided, the drug left him feeling edgy and anxious. Then, towards the end of the second day, Sisko appeared in the doorway and said

'It seems your presence is required at the shrine.'

'What?' Garak was too exhausted to dissemble.

'Vedek Ettain is asking for you. It's urgent. It's about Bashir.'

Wondering whether he had slipped into some permanent state of dreaming, the tailor rose without protest and followed Sisko from the room. Together, they walked in silence through the dark streets of Dekhana. It must have rained during the day, for the air was filled with the metallic freshness that occurs after a storm, and water dripped from the leaves. Garak shivered, hating Bajor all over again. By the time they reached the shrine, it had started to rain once more and the light from the lamps at the entrance blurred and refracted down the polished stone of the steps. Garak glanced up at the portals of the shrine, and reflected once more on how greatly he despised Bajoran architecture: its lightness and airiness, so insubstantial and incomplete. The pale stone of the shrine reminded him of insipid alien flesh. At the entrance to the shrine he and Sisko removed their shoes, then stepped inside.

The place was empty apart from the shrouded figure waiting at the far end of the shrine. Trying not to look about him, the Cardassian followed Sisko along the aisle. The place affronted his sensibilities: so much effort, wasted on a paean to deities who were not gods at all, not emergent from the spirit of the people but simply alien, imposed from without and worshipped with fear. The vedek said, in a voice that was devoid of expression

'Well. It's been a long time since a Cardassian has set foot in a shrine of the Prophets.'

'I don't imagine I'm very welcome,' the tailor replied, stiffly.

'Whether you are welcome or not is beside the point. The Prophets wish to convey something to you, and so you are here.'

'I beg your pardon?' Garak said. Sisko and the vedek were both looking at him with the expressions of people who knew something that he did not, he thought with irritation. The vedek drew aside the double doors at the end of the shrine and said

'Go in. The Orb is waiting for you.'

After a moment's pause, the Cardassian did so. He heard a muffled sound as the doors shut behind him. The light was dazzling; he ducked away from it, blinking in distress, and when his sight cleared he saw that someone was standing before him.

'Elim?' his father said. 'You took your time.'

That the Adept had faith in him should have increased his confidence; instead, it only made Dravan more nervous. He tried to do as Arasha had suggested, and have greater faith in his own abilities, but it was like writing on sand. Eventually he gave up, applied himself diligently to his lessons, and let matters take their course. Gradually, the exercises began to make sense again, and he embarked on the meditational training with the older students.

It was not long after their conversation on the terrace that Arasha once more paid him a visit. Dravan was reading at the time, studying one of the books of Horet. He was so absorbed in the conversation between Sulis and Atia that he failed to notice that the Adept was leaning against the doorway, arms folded and watching him with evident amusement.

'Good afternoon,' Arasha said politely. Dravan leaped like a startled animal and dropped the book on the floor. He bent to retrieve it, feeling his neck ridges flushing dark with embarrassment and trying frantically to remember whether his lips had been moving as he read, a childhood habit that he had never quite managed to outgrow. The Adept's face was as grave as if he was reciting the litany. He said

'Dravan, I'm going to Genneret, for a couple of days. As I'm sure you're aware, the talks are beginning in the Autriachy, and I'm obliged to attend. Would you be good enough to accompany me?'

'Of - of course. What must I take?'

'Yourself will do. I'd suggest a spare robe, however. The weather looks a little uncertain.'

In a panic, Dravan upended the clothes chest onto the floor as soon as the Adept was out of the room, bundled a clean robe, an overmantle and his new and better boots into a bag, and hastened down towards the quay. He was conscious enough of his dignity not to run, but as he hurried past the communal meal hall he heard Vanesha Marroc's sardonic voice say

'I didn't hear an alarm. Where's the fire?'

The Adept was already down on the quay, giving instructions to the barge-poler.

'Dravan, you're here. That was quick....Take the left hand seat, please.'

The banks of the canal were dry with dust after the long, hot summer, but there was a welcome breeze from the water. Ahead, lay the spine of the mountains, luminous in shadow against the sun. Everything about the day seemed vivid to Dravan: the smell of the sand baking in the afternoon heat, the sudden coolness of the air as they drifted through the Avama Pass, the Adept's long hand gripping the ornamental side of the barge and occasionally leaning over to trail it in the water. Arasha was silent, and at first this made Dravan restless; he sat and racked his brains for something intelligent to say. Then, as they were waiting for the first of the locks to open, Arasha gripped Dravan's arm and said softly

'Look.'

'Adept?'

'Just there, on the edge of the rock.'

The little creature was sitting beside a crack in the stone and staring at them with eyes the colour of the sun. As Dravan watched, it raised an insolent hind foot and scratched its dorsal ridge with a long claw, blinked, and was gone like magic into the crack.

'A sifa' the Adept said. 'Have you seen one before?'

'No. The Emeraya's too cold for them; you don't find them above the Passes. What a beautiful creature.'

'They are, aren't they? Yet they're becoming increasingly rare. I remember when I was young, they used to come up into the garden behind my father's house and sing, and their eyes would be like stars in the trees. And now you almost never see them.'

Dravan glanced at the Adept. Arasha's face was downturned, gazing into the past.

'What's happened to them?' Dravan asked.

'Over-extensive farming along the Herai, mainly. They have to apply nitrates in order to get anything out of that barren soil, and those kill off the insects, so that the voles and ittics don't get enough to eat, and so the sifa starve in turn. In the old days, it was different, but now that refugees are flooding into Genneret and the rest of the Herai from the south, the population's swelled and there has to be enough food to go round. It's sifa or Hebiti, I'm afraid; the animals or us.'

'And there's nowhere else for the refugees to go?' Dravan asked, thinking of the people forced from their homes and into an uncertain future.

'Not now that Rassadia province has closed its gates. There are too many people coming up from the south, but what are they supposed to do? If they stay where they are, they'll starve. We have to take them in; that's what the city was built for, and that's the role it will continue to play. As long as we can feed them, we won't turn them away.'

'But the Judiciary sees things differently, or some of them do,' Dravan said, forgetting to guard his tongue. The Adept smiled as the barge surged forward.

'You seem to have a shrewd grip on realpolitik...' he said, not without a touch of irony. 'Yes, the Judiciary sees things differently. The Judiciary, in fact, sees expansion as the answer to the south's problems.'

'Expansion?' Dravan said, shaken. 'You mean colonisation? War?'

'Well, not necessarily. My old friend Essoy is, I understand, reccommending that we establish new colonies along the western coast of Shehassa. No-one's there, as far as we know. Empty country. But Shehassa is a long way away. Colonising it will require forethought and planning, and a considerable amount of investment in existing resources. The Judiciary, unfortunately, do not place a great deal of store in long term solutions. Why go all the way to Shehassa, and spend all that energy on cultivation, when you could simply colonise the north instead? After all, there's no-one up there, except the Tribes.' The Adept gave a small, ironic smile. 'No-one who matters, anyway.'

'I suppose it would be naive to suggest that we begin conserving our resources at home, and develop new ways of managing them, rather than taking over other people's territory?'

'Quite hopelessly so, I'm afraid.' Arasha's smile broadened. 'I fear you're not cut out for a role in politics, young man. You're much too sensible.'

Dravan said diffidently, thinking of his old teacher

'People have been discussing - ideas - in the Emeraya. Ideas to help with agriculture.'

'Ideas?' Arasha said sharply. 'Do you mean ideas forbidden by the Mirahasi Temple? Technology?'

Dravan wished he'd never opened his mouth. The Adept's blue eyes were burning into his own, and the expression on Arasha's patrician face was impossible to interpret. Dravan knew as well as anyone that the Tenathan Path adhered to a very different philosophy, but one did not lightly speak heresy, even to the Adept of that same path. He had never heard Arasha advocate technological development, after all. Fearing the worst, Dravan whispered

'Yes. Technology.'

'Ah,' Arasha said, with a sudden smile. 'But the Spirit has forbidden us to use more advanced technology than we already possess, Dravan. The Spirit instructs as as to what we may, or may not, develop, and so what you have just uttered is heresy of the highest order. According to the Mirahasi Temple, anyway.'

'Forgive me,' Dravan said. Arasha made an impatient gesture.

'Ask forgiveness of the Temple, not me. The Hassenet Ai is diplomatic enough to agree with the curbs that the Temple have placed on technology. The Temple has the ears of the Judiciary, after all. We're a powerful player in the game, but it's the Temple which remains at the top of the hierarchy. You can say anything you like to me, Dravan, but if you're going to speak heresy, take good care that you know who's listening.'

Dravan murmured assent. The barge glided around a bend, and they were out onto the aqueduct above Genneret: the high stone walls of the Iket glittering in the late afternoon sunlight, punctuated with the dark spines of the hamath trees, and beyond the city the sea was a span of gilded water as far as the islands.

6.

The Cardassian could not breathe. The air seemed to curdle in his throat, choking him. He felt a hand like an iron band around his arm.

'Sit down,' Tain said, with veiled contempt. 'You're growing old, Elim, to let little things bother you like this.'

'I saw you die,' Garak whispered, and then looked up into his father's face to see that there was no light behind Tain's eyes. Within them, something moved, as though the familiar face was no more than a shell.

'You're not Tain,' Garak said.

'Of course not. But whose fault is that? It is you who clothe me in flesh, give me form, provide me with a voice. I emerge from your desires.'

'A Prophet?' Garak asked, guessing.

'What I might be is no concern of yours,' the form of Tain said. It seemed to ripple, as though he saw it through the heat from a fire, or beneath water. 'I have a message for you.'

'From whom?'

'It concerns the human.'

'Sisko?' Garak said.

'The Bashir. It is important that he remembers.'

'At the moment he's in no condition to remember his own name,' the Cardassian said. He sat heavily down on a nearby bench.

'His name,' the entity said with distant disdain. 'You are enamoured of such words, as though they had meaning. What is a name across the span of the eraya?'

'I don't understand. What is the eraya?'

- but the image shivered and changed.

'Julian,' Garak said, and before he could stop himself he held out a hand.

'So wedded to form. In order to remember, the Bashir must be taken to the place that you call Gened.'

'To *Gened*? To Cardassia? Why?'

'It is not relevant that you know why. It is only necessary that the thing should be done.'

'Gened's a big city,' Garak said. 'Where exactly did you have in mind?'

'There is a Hebitian shrine outside the city, in the hills. It was once named the Hassenet Ai; now, they call it Senghala.' The entity spoke with disdain, as though it found the names offensive.

'That place has been a ruin for a thousand years. There's nothing there.'

The entity did not reply. Garak continued

'You can't expect me to take him all the way back to Cardassia. He's hurt. There are political implications - I -'

'If you don't,' the entity said indifferently 'He will die.'

7.

Dravan tried not to stare as they entered the city, but it was not easy. There was too much to look at: the great arches of the new aqueduct which carried water from the Herai to irrigate the gardens along the heights, the vaults of the libraries for which Genneret was justly famed, the bridges spanning the canals. Dravan had come through Genneret before, on his way to the Hassenet Ai, but it had been at night and he retained only a confusing impression of lights and buildings, and the lap of water against the sides of the barge. Now, the city basked in the heat of the late summer afternoon. The sun was beginning to fall down towards the distant sea, spreading a crimson glow across the water, and the shadows were lengthening.

They left the docks and walked up into the city. Genneret smelled of dust and spice and age; incense was drifting down through the air from the colonnade as they made their way to the Iket. Dravan realised that he was hungry, and tried to stifle the sensation. A well-disciplined will, he told himself, should be able to overcome such a trifling affliction. Arasha glanced at him, and the Adept's lips twitched.

'If you're hungry, say so,' Arasha said. 'If there's nothing to be gained by self denial, don't practice it. I don't want you fainting halfway through the introductions.'

'Sorry,' Dravan mumbled.

'We're physical beings, not creatures of light and air. There's nothing wrong with that,' the Adept said. He headed in the direction of a nearby stand, and handed Dravan a parcel of hot smoked fish, wrapped in hamath leaves. 'Despite my Hassanian origins, I've never seen anything wrong with eating in the street. Refinement has its place, but not all the time.' He bit into his fish, and Dravan followed suit, watching the passers-by as he ate. People were different in Genneret, he concluded. It wasn't so much their darker skin and eyes, as the manner in which they held themselves: a kind of brittle, glittering confidence, as though they knew themselves to be the lords of the world. Dravan felt suddenly too tall and too pale; then he looked at Arasha's islander-blue eyes and felt a little more at home.

'Come on,' the Adept said. 'They'll be waiting for us at the Iket. Now, when we get there, I'll introduce you to everyone. But I want you to watch carefully, and draw your own conclusions. Don't be too influenced by what I seem to think; learn to make your own views. But try not to let your expression reveal too much, either. The first lesson of diplomacy is the ability to keep an inexpressive face.'

'I'll try.'

'Good. Well, here we are.'

Heads turned as they walked into the atrium of the Iket. Dravan glanced around him, letting his gaze slide from face to face. Most of them wore expressions of polite interest, but once or twice he thought he glimpsed a flicker of hostility, even contempt. He tried to remember those faces. One of them, indeed, barely bothered to conceal his distaste.

'Arasha,' the man said, stepping forward from the shadow of a column. 'I might have thought we'd see you here, exercising your political ambitions.'

'Hardly ambitions,' the Adept murmured with a smile. 'After all, my meagre intentions could never compete with your own. I came because I was asked.'

'I see you've brought your latest young man with you,' the other said. Dravan looked at him, seeing a tall man in early middle age, with a cold, eager face.

'Let me introduce Tanis Dravan,' Arasha said. 'One of my acolytes, and a very able person. Dravan, this is Edos Sharak. As I'm sure you know, he's the current leader of the Mirahasi Temple, and an old acquaintance of mine.'

'It's been years, hasn't it?' Sharak said, with an ambiguous smile.

'I fear so. Well, if you'll excuse us, Sharak, I'm sure we both have more pressing matters to attend to than reminiscing about our past.'

Taking Dravan by the elbow, he steered him in the direction of a small knot of Glinai and Legates.

'You'll have to excuse Sharak,' he murmured, wrily. 'Our philosophies are hardly compatible, and sometimes life grows more bitter with every year that passes, rather than less.'

Before Dravan could ask him what he meant, they were among the throng of politicians and in the flurry of introductions, Sharak's hostility faded from his mind.

The talks continued into evening, when the meetings settled into the closed session. Released from his duties, Dravan found his way to the nearby lodgings and was shown his room. Once installed, he sat quietly on the edge of his couch, letting the mass of information settle in his mind. Initially, it had been confusing, but he thought he had a grip on who was who. He was not expecting to see Arasha again that night, but there was a knock at the door and the Adept's familiar voice said

'Dravan? I was planning on getting some dinner. I don't know if you'd care to join me?'

'Of course,' Dravan said, springing up to open the door. 'But I thought you'd be going with - well, with more important people.'

'They asked me to,' Arasha said gravely. 'But I needed some time to think, in more congenial company. I'll have to attend the main banquet tomorrow - as will you, I'm afraid - but the more pompous expressions of Genneret's dining houses aren't really my style. There's a little place up near the Sessara gardens which is more appropriate for us poor ascetics.'

The restaurant was, however, hardly ascetic. It was a small place, with a courtyard overhung with nightlily vines and a balcony overlooking the soft shadows of the city below. Dravan could smell the resinous scent of the hamath trees, borne on the warm air down from the gardens and mingling with the smoke from the braziers. Over his regova stew, Arasha said

'Well? So what were your impressions of the Judiciary?'

Dravan finished a mouthful of grilled espar and replied

'I thought Essoy seemed to know what he was talking about. His analysis of the political situation in the north seemed very thorough and balanced.'

'Essoy has a good head on his shoulders. Besides, he's lived with the tribes - he's not one of these pontificating rhetoricians who prefer theory to facts. What did you think of Gulyan Semilay?'

'I think she's weak on strategy,' Dravan said 'But her report seemed well reasoned...'

He gave Arasha a brief summary of his opinion of the other speakers. The Adept listened intently, his eyes fixed on Dravan's face.

'So. You seem to have some intuitive grasp of what people are saying - not what you hear them say. That's your meditational practice coming through, you see: an understanding of the whole, not merely of the surface. Tell me, what did you think of Semilay's proposals for colonisation in Tamesh?'

Dravan said

'If the options are as she presents them, then it seems to be the only long term strategy.'

'But not a short term one...' Carefully, Arasha dissected a grain-cake. 'You see, Sharak was - for once - quite correct when he pointed out the disadvantages of a colony. In order to provide materials, we'll need to strip our own provinces of resources. Investigating what lies beneath Tamesh will take time, and further investment. We don't know whether there's arenium, or mines filled with the purest jevonite, or simply nothing underneath the continent.' He took a sip of ku'anaar and gazed out across the lights of the city.

'Sharak's a fanatic,' Dravan said slowly.

'Of course he is. He's always been a fanatic. He thinks that he's the chosen of god; that the Spirit comes to the side of his bed at night and whispers in his ear. For all I know, it does. Maybe that's why Sharak always looks so haunted.'

'He's not a fool, though.'

'No, Sharak's not a fool. But he does have a very highly inflated sense of his own importance. He can't bear anyone to disagree with him...Like most fanatics, there must be a deep well of doubt somewhere inside Sharak's soul.'

He twisted the stem of his glass between his fingers, seeming to reach a decision.

'Dravan,' he said. 'Let me tell you what I think. I don't think anyone on that council is convinced by their own arguments. I think Sharak wants to go to war with the north, and unless someone puts forward a sufficiently compelling counter-proposal, that is what will happen. Now. When we were travelling here, you mentioned the conservation of resources. I want to know what your views are on that.'

Flustered, Dravan said 'All I meant was that we faced the same problems at home: my people thought they were going to have to leave the Emeraya when the rains stopped falling, but they began exploring other ways of doing things...Irrigation, desalination of the marshes...' His voice trailed away, remembering the possibility of heresy. Then he recalled Arasha's words: *Never be afraid to tell me the truth*.

'Tell me about them,' Arasha said. The calm voice was almost hypnotic. Dravan gave him an uncertain glance, then began to repeat the practical environmental lessons he had learnt at first hand in his harsh homeland. He suddenly realised that he had been speaking for a good twenty minutes; flustered, he ducked his head and applied himself to his cooled dinner.

'Well, they say espar's better when it's cold,' the Adept said philosophically. 'No, there are so many problems - and yet it's the only way...There are too many of us, Dravan, and only one world for us all to live in.'

'One world...'Dravan echoed. He followed the Adept's gaze.

The early constellations of the Season of Rains were sparkling above the dark edge of the sea. Dravan followed their familiar configurations, finding the Crescent and the Wheel, then the Eye of Dhalet rising an angry red. He glanced at the Adept and found that Arasha was looking at him; a level, intent stare that did not waver when Dravan met it. In the lamplight, the Adept's eyes were transformed to a pale, subtle gold. Unnerved, Dravan searched for a sensible topic of conversation and said hastily

'Do you think the philosophers are right, Adept? That we're not alone in the universe? That there's life beyond the stars?'

Arasha said quietly

'I don't know. Does it matter? We'll find out when the time's right. What's important is that there is life beyond life...If other beings inhabit the space between the worlds, we're unlikely to know about it. Not as we are now, anyway.'

'It would solve a lot of problems,' Dravan murmured. 'If we could just fly from Hebitia and found new colonies on other worlds.'

'I'm sure it would bring just as many problems,' Arasha said, smiling.

'When I was very young, I used to dream about the stars. I should like to travel among them someday,' Dravan said, and then, afraid that this would sound foolish, he added 'But of course, that's just a childish fantasy.'

'If your wish is that great, then you will.' Arasha said. 'But knowing what to dream, that's the important thing.'

At length, they left the eating house and walked down together through the gardens. The sounds of the city below were swallowed by the night, and the air was cool and heavy before the approaching rain. The events of the day were catching up with Dravan; he could barely keep his eyes open, yet Arasha seemed as alert as he had first thing that morning.

'I think an early start's in order tomorrow,' Arasha said.

'Mmm.'

'Do I detect a certain lack of enthusiasm?'

'No! No, I'm fully prepared for the morning.' Dravan protested.

'Well,' Arasha said, with a sidelong glance. 'You should find it interesting.'

When they reached the lodgings, Dravan went inside his quarters, mechanically removed his clothes and collapsed onto the bed, where he lay blinking at the ceiling, too tired to sleep. Mentally, he reviewed the day, sifting and storing points and arguments according to the mnemonic system in which he had been trained. Even as he followed the familiar discipline, however, he was aware that other thoughts drifted beneath the surface of memory...Arasha beside him in the transport, gazing at the sifa; sitting intent and still in the meeting of the Judiciary; smiling at him in the lamplight. He could still feel the warm pressure of Arasha's long fingers upon his arm. A voice whispered inside his mind

'This is how it begins...And it must not begin.' and then he was asleep.

8.

When Garak stepped from the chamber, he was ashamed to find that his hands were shaking. What he needed, he thought, was a shot of the theracine; surprising, to find how much he wanted it. His mouth felt parched, the blood seemed to beat in his head and it was only with difficulty that he managed to reply to the old vedek's courteous question.

'Mr Garak? Did the Prophets provide you with the answers you required?'

'As I believe is common with supernatural entities, they presented more problems than solutions,' the Cardassian said sourly. The Vedek merely smiled and inclined his head.

'We are here to learn, not to be instructed. If it is the will of the Prophets, you will find the answers you seek. The Emissary has asked that you meet him in the main hallway.'

Garak found that he was glad to leave the room. Sisko was sitting quietly on a bench by the entrance; for the first time, Garak realised how greatly he looked at home here. *It wouldn't surprise me if the good Captain took up holy orders*. As if he had heard, Sisko looked up and nodded.

'Garak?'

The Cardassian heard his own voice sounding small and thin in the echoing vaults of the hallway.

'It seems I'm to take Bashir to Cardassia.'

He was gratified to see that Sisko appeared thoroughly startled.

'To *Cardassia*? Why?'

'The Prophets, if that's what they were, proved to be somewhat inconclusive on that particular point. What's that human saying? God moves in mysterious ways? Well, these ones certainly do.'

'Why would they want Julian to be taken there?' Sisko mused. 'His only link with Cardassia is you.'

'Believe me, I'm as baffled as you are,' Garak said. He felt a shiver run along his spine. 'Captain, I find this place somewhat less than welcoming. I'd rather appreciate it if we could continue our discussion elsewhere.'

'Very well. We'll go back to the hospital. I'm sure we both want to find out how Julian is.'

After his encounter with the entity of the Orb, Garak no longer hoped for a miraculous recovery. He was relieved to find, however, that the young man's condition had appeared to have stabilised. Bashir's breathing had become less ragged, and Varein reported that the neurological scans revealed no change. He greeted the news that Bashir would be returning to the station with impatience.

'This is madness. He's in no condition to be moved.'

'I'm afraid we don't have a choice,' Sisko said.

'And why is that?'

'It is the will of the Prophets.'

Varein stared at Sisko with barely concealed scepticism.

'You can hardly expect me to take that as a reason. I'm a doctor, not a vedek. Doctor Bashir's hardly in a condition to be moved to the next room, let alone back to Deep Space Nine.'

'Nevertheless,' Sisko said, implacably. 'That is where he will go.'

9.

The talks had now been proceeding for two days, and appeared to have reached an impasse. Sharak was adamant that the necessary evil of conquest must be faced: the Judiciary should declare war on the Tribes and once they had conquered the territory, the flood of refugees could be directed north under the control of Genneret. As he spoke, Dravan could see the little gestures of growing conviction and agreement around the chamber and his heart sank. Sharak would convince the Judiciary to take the short term solution: the easiest, bloodiest, route of war. When Sharak had finished giving his impassioned and bombastic speech, full of fire and rage and talk of the Spirit's wishes, Arasha at last rose to his feet. Carefully looking at a point somewhere just beyond Sharak's left shoulder, as though it pained him to contemplate the Mirahasi leader directly, he screwed up his elegant features and said

'Sorry. Can't be done.'

'What?' Sharak asked, dangerously.

'It can't be done. Because in order to pursue a war, you'll have to take your troops through the Avama Gap. That's right, isn't it? That's the swiftest route through the mountain wall to the northern territories, unless you're to go round the coast - and that will bring you well into the rainy season.'

'That's right, yes,' Sharak grudgingly agreed. 'We'd take them up through the Gap. What's the problem?'

'Well, you see, I don't happen to agree that we should declare war on the tribes. Terrible idea. It's impractical, and expensive. Quite apart from the fact that it's probably morally wrong, though I wouldn't know about that sort of thing, being only a poor scholar who lives out in the hills...I'm sure the Spirit possesses greater wisdom than I,' he added, in a tone of voice that made it clear he believed no such thing. Dravan held his breath. Sharak was approaching apoplexy, but other faces around the table betrayed different emotions: doubt, bewilderment, even a trace of amusement on the features of Arasha's friend Essoy. 'Anyway,' Arasha continued 'All that's beside the point. You see, from your point of view, the problem is that the Hassenet Ai owns the Avama Gap.'

He glanced at Sharak's frozen face.

'Oh, I'm sorry. Didn't you know? How remiss of me not to have mentioned it before. Yes, it was ceded to the temple back in the Third Era - I believe it caused quite a fuss at the time. Anyhow, we own the Gap and if you want to take troops through it, I'm afraid you can't. It's very easy to seal it off, you see, if you dam up the Yeveran River at its source. Of course, doing that will cut off Genneret's main water supply as well, but I'm sure you'll find a way round that.' He waved a negligent hand towards the distant, glittering sea.

There was a brief and weighty silence. Dravan, after a look at Sharak's thunderous expression, was beginning to wonder whether they would leave the chamber alive, but then Legate Semilay said

'If we don't go to war, and if we've ruled out the idea of a colony, what are we to do?'

'Do?' Arasha said, startled. 'Oh, I hadn't got that far yet. Excuse me. I'm just going out for a breath of fresh air.' He nodded towards Dravan. 'Listen to him. He'll tell you.'

- and he was gone. Everyone looked expectantly at Dravan. Very slowly, he rose to his feet, fixed his gaze on the ceiling, and began to speak. He spoke about the conservation of existing resources. He took care not to utter a single breath of heresy. His voice sounded very small and insignificant in the vastness of the council chamber, but they listened anyway, and when he had finished speaking he dared to take a nervous glance at his audience. He was astonished to see that, with the exception of the scowling Sharak, they were looking at him with something akin to respect, and then his knees gave way and he sat down hard in his seat as they all started to talk at once.

*********************************************************************

Much later, he went in search of the Adept. He found Arasha outside, leaning on the wall and gazing out across the city.

'How could you do that to me?' Dravan hissed. He was angry enough not to care what he said to his mentor. Arasha looked utterly blank.

'Me? What did I do?'

'Leaving me alone in there to talk to them. Leaving me to make a fool of myself!'

'Ah,' Arasha said. 'But you didn't, did you? You surely don't think I'm irresponsible enough to have just gone away and left you? I was listening at the door.' He blinked with apparent surprise. 'You know, sometimes I think I'd make an excellent spy... You spoke rather well, I thought. Some good ideas - all that stuff about irrigation and cyclical harvesting. You may have erred rather on the side of youthful idealism - guaranteeing free food to the elderly might prove a bit impractical - but basically it was a sound address.'

'But - '

'Dravan,' the Adept said, turning to face his agitated acolyte 'Why do you think I brought you here?'

Dravan paused.

'So that I could begin to learn a bit about how government works, I supposed.'

'That, too, but it was also so that you could make an address to the Judiciary. Best that they get your measure, otherwise they'll think you're young and impressionable and people will be trying all sorts of tedious things - bribery, seduction, who knows what. You've shown that you're a thoughtful, strong minded person and that's all they need to know for now.'

'You might have told me!'

'Your problem is that you tend to pay too much attention to your nerves. If I'd sat down with you before we set off and said "Dravan, this is Very Important, so listen carefully. You're to make an address to the most influential people in the province, outlining your theories for environmental conservation and improvement, and I want you to get it absolutely right otherwise we might go to war and hundreds of people will die" - what do you think you would have done?'

'Hidden under the bed? Thrown myself in the canal?'

'That had crossed my mind. As it is - I took a risk. But not a very big one, I think. I know you, Dravan. I know you better than you know yourself, and I trust you. You are a very bright young man; you just don't realise it yet. The council didn't really need your arguments as such: they're smart enough to have thought of them already. But what they needed was for someone to articulate those arguments; to put a reasoned case against Sharak. And their relationship with me is too uneasy for that to be possible. But you - you're young, and new, and attractive. They'd accept from you what they never would from me. The whole idea was to give them an excuse to stand up to Sharak, so that's what you were, I'm afraid. Quite a day,' the Adept said, reflectively. 'Your first address, and your first real enemy. And now, I think we should go to the shrine and pay out belated devotions.'

Dravan had not realised how greatly the episode had affected him until they stepped through the iron doors of the little shrine which stood at the heart of Genneret. Here in the silence of the shrine it seemed easier to think; he was able to sift through his memories and discard those that were of little value. Kneeling here was like being in harmony with the world. The dark, curved walls of the shrine surrounded him, and the flame of the lamp sent the shadows racing across the polished arches of grey mennanite. As he had been taught to do, Dravan focused his attention upon the flame, seeing it rise and fall with the flow of the world, following the mercurial river of the Path. He felt his consciousness expanding out, until it was as though he stepped from behind the twin pillars, in all places at once, seeing his own bowed body from all perspectives and realising its irrelevance. Letting the atmosphere of the shrine sink into his soul, he guided his thoughts towards the afternoon's events, but it was still too much to take in. Instead, he found his mind drifting towards Arasha, kneeling beside him. And he discovered, with a mixture of delight and dismay, that his thoughts were not very devout.

He snapped out of the meditative trance and stole a look at the Adept. Arasha's eyes were closed. His sleek black head was bowed in contemplation and Dravan could hear the soft, even rhythm of his breath. The usually mobile face, so often alight with enthusiasm or interest or the Adept's wicked sense of humour, was expressionless, and oddly vulnerable. Kneeling so close to him, Dravan could see the signs of age - the slight blurring of flesh along Arasha's jaw, the lines around his eyes - and reflected that it had never occurred to him to wonder exactly how old the Adept might be. Arasha's robe dipped at the back of his neck, revealing the smooth, dappled scales, and Dravan had the sudden overwhelming urge to stroke the patterned skin. Appalled, he looked away and took a deep breath.

As yet, he had not allowed himself to think of Arasha as anything other than his guide and mentor. During his time in the city, those disturbing physical impressions had been growing, but Dravan had ruthlessly forced them to the back of his mind; despite their vividness, it was not yet the time to dwell upon them. Dreams, however, were another matter. He had not yet gained sufficient self mastery to be able to control those, and whenever he had closed his eyes, they gathered close: the vision of Arasha's gentle hands on his skin, the Adept's gaze burning into his own as the sinuous, graceful body moved against him. He should not be remembering those dreams; not here in the shrine.

*The way lies through discipline; through the power of the will the soul's bidding is done: confirm my will against instability...* Dravan recited the words of the litany over and over again, until they settled in his mind and left no room for his uneasy desires.