Standing at the foot of the bed, his withered hands held before him and his eyes closed, was the oldest Vulcan Pennington had ever seen. Thin and stoop-shouldered, he had tanned and deeply wrinkled skin, obvious testament to the years he had spent toiling under the harsh Vulcan sun. His hair, stark white, was long and smooth, flowing about his shoulders and descending to the small of his back. His simple black robe reached to the floor, hiding his feet, and was devoid of any decorative pattern.
After nearly a minute of standing in silence and watching the Vulcan say nothing nor move a single muscle, Pennington looked to M’Benga, who shook his head. He was just about to clear his throat or make some other gesture to indicate that they were waiting, when the Vulcan’s eyes opened, and he turned his head to face them. Despite the man’s age, there was no mistaking his intelligence or focus.
“I am Sobon,” he said.
M’Benga replied, “Healer Sobon, I’m Dr. M’Benga, and this is my friend, Timothy Pennington. He also is an associate of T’Prynn’s.”
“Thank you for helping us,” Pennington quickly added, “and for welcoming us into your community.” Even as he spoke the words, he realized he likely would be rebuked for undue emotionalism or illogic or some other such damned thing.
Instead, Sobon replied, “It has been some time since my last interaction with humans. I had come to realize that I missed the differences between us, which I view as opportunities for exploration, rather than hindrances or inconveniences as so many of my colleagues once believed.” Nodding toward T’Prynn, he said, “It is agreeable to see that humans and Vulcans can work together and form friendships, just as I believed when I first traveled to Earth.”
For the first time, Pennington actually felt welcome in Kren’than. Reaching up to wipe a line of sweat from the side of his head, he realized he had almost forgotten how bloody hot it still was, even now, after the sun had set. Almost.
“Are you able to help her?” he asked.
Moving from his stance at the food of the bed, Sobon knelt beside T’Prynn. He reached across her body, his curled, wrinkled fingers pressing against three points along the side of her head. “We shall soon see.”
Feeling Sten’s hands around her throat, T’Prynn howled in unfettered rage, her hands clawing at his face. She felt her nails dig into his skin, and lines of green blood stained her fingers. Sten grunted in pain, though his grip on her throat did not waver. T’Prynn forced her fingers deeper into his flesh, tearing at skin and muscle until he finally relented, staggering backward and reaching for his injured face.
T’Prynn rolled to her side and regained her feet, her strength flagging, her throat aching from Sten’s attack as well as implacable thirst. She sucked air greedily, trying to bring her breathing back under control as she fumbled backward, putting space between her and Sten. The wind whipped at her, pelting her exposed skin with blown sand. Looking down at herself, she realized for the first time that her clothing was little more than tatters, held together in some places by individual threads.
Sten bent to the sand and picked up the knife that had fallen there during the struggle. “You grow weak,” he taunted, waving the blade toward her. Blood streamed from the ghastly wound she had inflicted on his face, and he stared at her with scorching hatred, his emotions all but consuming him. “Soon you will have no choice but to submit to me. It is inevitable.”
“If I’m dead,” she countered, “is that truly victory?”
Stepping forward, Sten replied, “If that is all that is attainable, then it will have to suffice.”
“No.”
Turning to the sound of the new voice, T’Prynn was startled to see an elderly Vulcan male, his long white hair and full-length robe seemingly unaffected by the unceasing sand storm. He stood with hands clasped before him, eyeing them with clinical dispassion. Where had he come from?
“Leave us, old man,” Sten said, pointing the knife at him. “This is a private matter and does not concern you.”
The aged Vulcan moved until he stood between Sten and T’Prynn. Turning to face Sten, he said, “You do not belong here. For either of you to have peace, you must leave this place.”
“Not until I have what is rightfully mine,” Sten said, stepping forward.
T’Prynn could not comprehend what happened next. Though the elder Vulcan appeared not to move, Sten’s advance halted, and his eyes widened in confusion—perhaps even fear. She watched as he tried to raise the knife, only to see his shock at his seeming inability to move.
Then, simply, he was gone, swallowed by the sand.
Sobon’s body jerked, and he wrenched his hand free of T’Prynn’s face. His movements cost him his balance, and he would have fallen to the floor if not for Sinar’s quick reaction. He caught his mentor, steadying him
“I am well now,” he said after a moment, patting the younger Vulcan’s hand.
“What happened?” M’Benga asked, his expression a mask of worry.
Pulling himself to his feet, Sobon cleared his throat. When he spoke, his voice was broken and raspy. “Her condition is worse than I first believed. T’Prynn’s mind is occupied by two katras.Her own, and that of her betrothed, Sten.”
“What’s a katra?” Pennington asked.
Sobon said, “It is the embodiment of a Vulcan’s consciousness. During mind melds, it is possible to transfer this from one mind to another. Such exchange is supposed to happen on a voluntary basis, but on rare occasions, it has been done without consent from the receiving individual.”
“And that’s what happened to T’Prynn,” Pennington said, recalling his earlier discussions with M’Benga. “He somehow forced his… katra…into her mind before he died?”
“That is correct,” Sobon replied. “She is now what we call val’reth,one who hosts another katraagainst his or her own will. Because of the trauma of forcing a meld at the point of death, his katrahas become entwined with T’Prynn’s.” He clasped his hands together to emphasize his point. “They are one, though the one still retains the properties of both minds. T’Prynn, naturally, fought this forced union and has continued to do so since the original meld. Since that time, Sten’s katrahas waged war upon T’Prynn’s, beating at it and wearing it down. Eventually, his katrawill triumph, and the result will be a total subsuming of T’Prynn’s mind.”
“Good Lord.” Pennington shook his head. M’Benga had already explained some of this, but the full magnitude of what T’Prynn must have experienced, and had experienced since before he was born, had become clear. Looking to Sobon once more, he asked, “Do you think you can help her?”
“I have created a temporary separation,” replied the aged Vulcan, “but it will not last. However, there is a meld ritual that may prove successful. It is called Dashaya-Ni’Var,to separate that which has become one. Through this meld, we will be able to remove Sten’s katrafrom T’Prynn’s mind.”
“And do what with it?” Pennington asked, before something clicked in his memory, and he looked to M’Benga. “Those things in Sobon’s study. You called them katricarks.”
Sobon nodded. “A very astute observation, my young friend. A vre-katrais capable of preserving a katralong after a person’s death. The care of such vessels falls to the adepts. Long ago, I, too, looked after many vre-katra.If we are successful, Sten’s katrawill be housed in similar fashion.”