Homecoming - Christie Golden [32]
She gave him as reassuring a smile as she could manage, then went to the Klingon vessel’s bridge.
“I summoned you to the bridge to see this before we transported down,” said the captain of the Klingon ship to Torres. She stepped slowly down into the main area of the bridge, her eyes glued on the screen.
The Spires of Boreth. She vaguely recalled Miral waxing eloquent about their beauty. Of course, B’Elanna had ignored her mother. Surely nothing Klingon could be graceful and lovely. But B’Elanna was wrong, and as she stared at the spires catching the first morning light, turning shades of gold and rose, she understood why this place was so revered.
“Isn’t there some kind of poem?” she asked. “About the spires? Something about spears to the stars.”
The elderly Klingon captain nodded and quoted:
“Standing like spears to the stars
The Spires of Boreth pierce the heavens
A glorious army of spirit
To be wielded at Kahless’s return.”
[92] “It’s more lyrical in the original Klingon,” Torres said. She took one more look at the spires, their gracefulness all the more startling in their contrast to the rough wilderness that comprised the rest of the planet, and went to the transporter room.
The first word that occurred to her as she materialized in the Great Hall of the temple was medieval. Seen from the ship, the spires reminded her of ancient Earth towns, and the ornate yet antiquated structure and decorations of the Great Hall further enforced that perception. Animal skins covered much of the gray stone flooring. Torches burned in sconces along the walls, and even the hanging lights were candles. A row of statues in various poses stretched along the right side of this massive corridor. She couldn’t quite identify each particular one, but she assumed that they depicted scenes from the life of the great hero to whom this temple was dedicated. Paintings, too, covered the walls, paintings done in hues of angry red and shadow black.
From somewhere came a faint monotone sound, deep and rich. She assumed it was chanting. The whole place was overwhelming, intimidating. She could only guess at the power the lava caves exerted over impressionable pilgrims. The exotic atmosphere, the rituals involving fasting and steam and heat, the nearly toxic gases the lava emitted, well, it was no wonder to her that Klingons had visions with astonishing frequency here.
Her probably blasphemous thoughts were interrupted by a female’s voice. “You enjoy cutting it close, B’Elanna Torres. Another hour and your mother’s possessions would be leaping flame and black smoke.”
[93] Torres turned to greet Commander Logt. She was even more impressive in person than on the viewscreen. Tall, powerfully built, her dark eyes snapping with pride and confidence, she stood with her hands planted firmly on her hips. The baldric that marked her enviable position cut a vibrant swath across her body.
“It was not a question of enjoyment, but necessity,” said Torres. “I got here as soon as I could.”
“Come,” said Logt. Without another word, she turned and strode down the hall at a brisk pace. Torres had to struggle to keep up. They went down a long, tight circular staircase for what seemed like an eternity; then it opened into another small corridor with several rooms. At the third room, Logt paused. She took a torch from a sconce and wordlessly shoved it at Torres, who took it. Logt removed a key that was as large as her hand and inserted it in the rusting metal lock.
“Why is everything so ...” Torres struggled to find a word that would not be interpreted as offensive.
“Out of date?” said Logt, saving Torres the trouble. “All is as it was when it was first built. If anything is damaged beyond repair, Klingon artisans craft an identical replacement. Nothing here is replicated. Even the food is gathered by ritual hunting parties. It is a powerful reminder of the ancient nature of our tradition. We have one small