Opaka hesitated, and then smiled. “I agree that it is appropriate for the shrine to be a peaceful place, a place of respite and beauty,” she said. “But…sometimes the extravagance seems a bit…brazen, considering its purpose…”

“Oh, but, Your Eminence,” Ketauna exclaimed, “you know the workers have all volunteered their time. The resources we have used in the construction and adornment of the shrine—all have come from people who gave willingly. Your followers want this place to be the most beautiful shrine on Bajor, Your Eminence—as an offering to the Prophets who watch over us. It will belong to allof your followers, Opaka. To all of Bajor.”

Your followers. She still never knew quite what to do with herself when she heard that. She nodded her concession instead. The shrine was nearly finished, and there was little reason to squabble over the particulars of it now.

I am not the potter, but the potter’s clay,she thought randomly, watching Ketauna return to work. While she was grateful to the Prophets for Their many blessings, it was difficult at times to know that so many looked to her for guidance. She could only speak her heart, and hope that the men and women who listened to her would venerate the message rather than the messenger.

Ever since her vision, which had revealed to her the hidden Orb, there had been others. Of late, she’d had a recurring dream that had begun to intrude upon her waking time. A man’s name had been spoken repeatedly by various shadowy figures in her visions, a name unknown to her. She had not yet asked anyone at the sanctuary if the name was one she should have been familiar with, trying to find it somewhere within the archives of her own memory, but there had been so many new people, so many names and faces since she’d left her home, each with their own stories…

Fasil joined her on the porch to watch the planting. Her son had come every few months since the beginning of the shrine’s construction, sometimes for a day, sometimes longer. Opaka wished he would come to stay, but his allegiance to the cause kept him well occupied for most of the year.

Opaka slipped an arm around his waist. “What do you think of the progress Ketauna has made on the grounds?”

“The shrine will be a jewel in the wilderness,” Fasil said. “As it should be.”

Opaka gave him a squeeze, reluctantly letting him go. She wanted to enjoy their brief times together, but there was always an undercurrent of fear, that each visit might be their last. He did not share the details of his activities with her, but she overheard things, she listened to others talk of the resistance. The occupying forces’ advantages often made the Bajoran resistance fighters seem to have a deliberate death wish—though Fasil’s cell, along with a great many of the fighting Bajorans, continued to persist, and occasionally to triumph, year after year.

A third person came down the steps of the porch to join them: a ranjen who had come to live at the shrine shortly after the first structure was built here, over six years before. Her name was Stassen, and she was the daughter of one of Opaka’s oldest friends and followers, a man named Shev.

“There is a traveler here, Your Eminence,” Stassen said. “A prylar. He has come on pilgrimage—all the way from Relliketh. He says he must see you.”

“Relliketh!” Opaka exclaimed. “He has come a very long way.” She considered. Most seekers did not know exactly where she could be found at any given time, and it was alarming to be told that someone had found her here already. Especially someone as far away as Relliketh.

“Did you ask him his name, Ranjen Stassen?” Opaka climbed the steps of the porch to enter the shrine with the young monk, and together they walked across the glossy stone floors, made of locally quarried burnished rock that had been polished mirror-smooth. Opaka could see a hazy reflection of herself, seeming to float beneath her feet as she walked. Fasil followed them not far behind, his gaunt, hollow-eyed reflection moving quicker and more cautiously than his mother’s.

“His name is Bareil Antos,” Stassen answered.

Opaka stopped walking for a moment to reflect on the name. Did it mean anything to her? She was fairly certain that she had never heard it, and yet it had a distant ring of familiarity. Was it connected to the name in her dreams?

“What else did he say?” she asked.

Ranjen Stassen spoke softly. “Would you like to speak with him yourself, Your Eminence?”

Opaka hesitated for a moment and then nodded, recognizing that Stassen knew her well.

“Mother,” Fasil said, placing a warning hand on her shoulder, “Perhaps I should see him first. We cannot be too cautious regarding visitors…”

“I know, Fasil,” Opaka replied, “but if this prylar knew where to find me…there is no sense in turning him away.”

Opaka followed Stassen through the front gates of the sanctuary, her son protectively at her heels. The young prylar stood with his head slightly bowed, dressed in the saffron-colored robes of his order, his earring tilted forward with the inclination of his head. He raised his face to greet the kai, and a hesitant, nervously eager smile spread across his face when he saw her come through the gates.

“Your Eminence,” he exclaimed, and took one of Opaka’s hands to press his lips against her fingers.

“Please,” Opaka told him, squeezing his hand reassuringly, “there is no need for such a demonstration. Tell me, Prylar Bareil, how is it that you have come to find this place?”

He bowed his head slightly once again. “I followed my own heart, Kai Opaka.”

Opaka studied him, searching for dishonesty. “Do you mean to say that no one told you where to find this place, Prylar?”

Bareil looked a bit sheepish for a moment. “Well,” he confessed, “I may have had a very little help…from the locals. I pestered many of them quite significantly—but only to confirm what I already knew was true.”

Opaka smiled. “Is that right?” She could tell by his constitution that he was an honest man. There was no need to take his ear, examine his pagh. The sincerity of his youth and spirit were written plainly on his face. She nodded slightly to Stassen and Fasil, and they stepped back slightly. Not enough to give them real privacy, but an illusion of it.

Bareil seemed to study her in turn, his eyes alight. “You see, Your Eminence, I…knew that I must come to you…to be under your tutelage…. I…I have had a vision, Your Eminence.” He bowed his head.

“A vision,” Opaka said quietly. “Tell me about it, Prylar.”

He continued, his words tumbling out with long-pent-up anticipation. “It told me that I must come to be in service to the kai during the time of the Emissary.”

Opaka took a small step back. “What do you know of the Emissary, Prylar Bareil?” She herself had lately been reading many prophecies that concerned the Emissary, a few of which had become interwoven with items from her dreams, and she had shared her revelations with no one. A name had come to her lately, and she had begun to believe that it was somehow associated with the fabled Emissary of the Prophets, though whether the name—Kalem Apren—was the name of the Emissary himself, Opaka did not know.

“I—not much, your Eminence,” the prylar said, looking somewhat embarrassed. “But…I was hoping that perhaps you could tell me the things that I wish to know.”

Opaka opened the gate where Fasil had closed it behind them. “Yes,” she said. “Perhaps I can…and perhaps there are some things that you will be able to tell me, as well, Prylar Bareil. Please, come inside.”

Opaka could immediately sense hesitation in her son, but she touched his arm in an absent-minded gesture of reassurance, and went on speaking to the prylar. “I bid you welcome to the sanctuary of the kai.” She gestured to the youth in the saffron robes, and he followed her through the gates.