Meressa continued. “Tomorrow, those shells will be taken from this place and committed to the land, buried to lie beside the shells of their ancestors. But what of their eternal souls? For those who perish in the void, uncountable distances from the land, what will befall their spirits?” She looked up into the sky and spread her hands. The Cardassian cleric felt the thrill of surprise once more; the kai’s gesture mirrored the same ritual pattern that Bennek had performed aboard the Kornaire.All she lacked was a mask of recitation for the similarity to be complete. At his side, he heard Hadlo’s sharp intake of breath, and from the corner of his eye he saw that Gul Kell’s first officer was glancing his way. Even Dukat sees the resemblance.
“You need not fear for the souls of our brave friends,” said the priestess, smiling warmly. “The faith that moves through us all, that brings life to our flesh and to our eternal spirit, is the faith of the Prophets. We feel their love and their wisdom, in life as we do in death, and in doing so we know that once our brief candle is extinguished”—the Kai paused, dousing one of the ceremonial tapers—“a new light will be illuminated. The light of the way toward the Celestial Temple, where all live anew in the bosom of the Prophets.” She bowed her head for a moment, and all the Bajorans followed suit. “What remains after death is but a shell. A sign that the paghhas begun its final journey to the Prophets. We ask that they reach out and guide the souls of the Eledato their reward, knowing that we shall see them again when the day comes for our light to be eclipsed.” Meressa looked up. “And we give thanks to our friends from across the stars for their kindness in bringing closure to the families of the lost.” The kai and the other priests bowed to the altar and then again to the Cardassians. Unsure of the correct etiquette for the moment, Hadlo and Bennek hesitantly mirrored the motion, sharing a questioning glance.
Bennek could see that the cleric was troubled by the kai’s benediction. The uses of language, the gestures and ritual—there were several points between the Bajoran rite and Oralian funeral sacraments that were alarmingly alike. The old man clearly read the intention in Bennek’s face, the need to speak it aloud, and he gave the slightest shake of the head. “Not now,” whispered Hadlo. “We…we must tread carefully.”
The energy of the moment bled out of Bennek in an instant, and he felt crestfallen. “But, Master, do you not see that—”
Hadlo held up a hand to silence him. “Remember where we find ourselves, Bennek,” he husked. “Amid those of our own kind who see no value in the Way, on alien ground among those who may be misguided. We must take care to ensure that these people are kindred spirits. We must find the right moment.”
Ico glanced at Kell as the gul let out a low breath between his teeth. She raised an eyebrow and spoke quietly so only the Kornaire’s commander would be able to hear her. “Am I to take it that you do not find this ceremony to be as enlightening as I do?”
Kell grunted softly. “‘Enlightening’ is not the word I would have used, Professor. ‘Primitive,’ perhaps. ‘Distasteful,’ even.” He looked at her, amused with himself. “You are the expert on alien cultures, are you not? Tell me, what can we expect to see next? Rousing hymnals? The ritualized slaying of some small and inoffensive animal?”
She resisted the impulse to sneer at Kell’s words and simply cocked her head. “I do not believe so. What data our observers have gleaned shows no predilection toward behavior of that kind. Bajoran religion appears to be beneficent, at least within the bounds of the inherently repressive nature of all enforced faiths.”
“And did your observers tell you how long these interminable benedictions go on for?” Before them, the Bajorans had lit a series of oil lamps and joined in a solemn, metered chant.
Ico smiled thinly. “I believe that some formal ceremonies can last for several hours.” She looked away, watching the Oralians. Hadlo and his junior Bennek were sharing words as well, but too low for Ico’s hearing to pick up the speech; it mattered little, however. Her skills included the training to read the physical cues of humanoid body language, and with men like these clerics who were unschooled in the arts of obfuscation and dissembling, it was almost child’s play to divine their emotional states. Bennek balanced on the cusp of youthful enthusiasm, dazzled by the sights and sounds of the new environment around him, while Hadlo reeked of desperation and the steady drumming pulse of fear. She’d sensed it in the old man the moment she had first seen his face, his watery brown eyes staring up at her from the screen of a padd. Ico could read the cleric’s emotional index as easily as she could the text of a book. Then, as now, she knew he was the correct choice to participate in the Kornaire’s mission. All that was required was a steady, vigilant hand to ensure that he led the Oralians down the path that was being laid out for them.
Her attention returned to Kai Meressa and the Bajorans as the ritual for the dead came to a slow, stately conclusion. It fascinated her, the way that the Bajoran faith was so clearly threaded through everything that the aliens said or did. The same shapes and motifs appeared in their clothing and their architecture, the oval symbols recurring again and again. Ico was quietly content that she had been born into an era where Cardassia had grown out of such unsophisticated beliefs; she was the product of a Union where belief in the strength of her people’s destiny was enough, without the need to resort to the invention of phantom deities. There had been a time in Cardassia’s past when they too had been hidebound by dogma and creed. Ico’s placid face hid an inner grimace as she imagined her species in thrall to weak men like Hadlo and his Oralian nonsense. But the Cardassian civilization had matured, finding new strength in its austerity, and the cleric’s Way was withering and fading; perhaps, in time, Cardassia would be able to educate the Bajorans so they might find a measure of the same maturity.
The ceremony concluded, the Bajorans broke apart into groups, some remaining in the courtyard, others leaving. Dukat noted that the natives of apparent high rank bore distinctive jeweled rings and chains about their right ear. Every Bajoran he saw had the earring, but some sported simple silver or steel versions, while the men and women who stood with the First Minister wore ones studded with gemstones and precious metals. He followed Kell and Ico, with the others from the Kornairetrailing behind him, through a tall set of doors that were carved from a dense black wood inlaid with copper plates beaten into friezes. He looked up and saw renderings of Bajoran warriors armed with cannons, primitive crossbows, and strange kite-like gliders engaging in battle with one another. The copper was worn and smooth to the touch.
Pa’Dar came to his side. The scientist had his ever-present tricorder in his hand. “These carvings are ancient,” he noted, peering at the device’s screen.
Dukat nodded. “I’ve seen something similar in the mineral baths at Corvon.”
“Not like this,” said the other man. “The Corvon mural dates back to the pre-Hebitian era. These…” Pa’Dar put out his hand and ran gray fingers over the metal. “Perhaps there’s something in the structure confusing the scanner. According to my tricorder, these plates are more than fifteen thousand years old.”
Dukat looked around, taking in the high ceilings of the Naghai Keep, the ornate columns ranging up the walls, the floors of polished granite slabs. Banners and tapestries hung in alcoves behind humming stasis field generators; there were towering paintings of landscapes and Bajorans in robes and tunics that seemed little different from the clothes worn by Verin and the others. The soldier felt a sudden and palpable sense of history pressing in on him from all around, almost as if the age of the castle were a scent in the air.