The frustrated Trill wandered through the quarters that had not long ago been her own, looking for something, anything, that might help her figure out where Worf had gone or what Dukat's cryptic message meant. She went past the bat'leths without glancing at them, not wanting to have a recurrence of her earlier hallucination. Her eyes fell to the picture of Jadzia and Worf on the beach on Risa, and she picked it up gingerly, almost as if it might shatter in her hands. Gazing at it, Ezri felt a lump form in her throat.

The photo had obviously been taken candidly, as no amount of posing could have produced such a spontaneous moment of love. The two of them stood on their favorite beach, where they had taken many midnight swims. The sun was just going down, spreading rich color across the sky. Jadzia, in one of her favorite purple dresses, was leaning her slender body against the Klingon's and laughing as Worf favored her with one of his rare smiles. Ezri felt Jadzia inside her, mourning that they had never gone on their honeymoon because of the damned war, and ultimately, Gul Dukat.

Their marriage had held strong during the times they were away fighting, more often then not on different ships. They hadn't been able to spend nearly as much time together as they would have liked, which made every shared moment even more precious.

Jadzia still longed to be on Casperia with Worf, to sleep curled in his arms at night and late into the morning, to go walking and dancing on the beaches, serenaded by the native music, to stand together on the balcony of their hotel room admiring the view of the ocean and the boats skimming the water.

Ezri hurriedly replaced the picture on the table as she felt her individual mind start to be overtaken. Time to look somewhere else. Circling the room a few more times, she began to realize with an expanding sense of dread that the answer didn't lay out here, in the main part of the Klingon's quarters.

If she really wanted to understand, if she really wanted to know where Worf had gone, she would have to bury her feelings and go back in the one place that held the most memories for her.

The room where the memories had been beautiful at one time but were now intolerable. Steeling herself, Ezri faced the door to the bedroom and stepped inside before she could change her mind. It was dark.

She announced in a quavering voice, "Computer, lights."

The room was bathed in a bright, artificial glow. A glance around revealed that all was how she had left it. The Trill roamed around, picking up things and putting them down, having no insight whatsoever.

Her own face appeared in Jadzia's mirror when she stepped in front of it. Studying herself, she looked past her reflection and saw something else. Or, rather, the absence of something else. She whirled around to confirm it, not entirely sure that her eyes weren't deceiving her.

They weren't.

The hook on which Worf's mek'leth had been so proudly displayed was empty. He had taken it with him. But why? He had a phaser, which was a more effective weapon. Mek'leths, bat'leths, d'k tahgs, and weapons of that sort were usually only used for ceremonial purposes and hand-to-hand combat, the Klingon had told his wife once.

Something sparked in the back of Ezri's mind. Turning, almost mesmerized, she ran to the nightstand and fell to her knees, grabbing the wedding photo of Jadzia and Worf in their traditional red leather outfits. Every detail of their lives together, from the moment they first met in Quark's to their last minutes side by side in the infirmary, seemed to replay before her eyes in a second. And then she knew.

In one great revelation, she was certain of where Worf had gone. Ezri wasn't sure exactly how she knew, but she did.

"Oh, my god," she whispered, clutching the frame. "Oh, my god. He's going to kill Dukat."

Metal clanged against rock clearer then ever now. Unfamiliar voices drifted through the thin air as the bedraggled group of prisoners struggled up what Molina had announced was the final hill. Or rather, mountain. The slope had escalated steeply over the last mile, and it was becoming increasingly difficult to breathe. As Worf trudged upward, chest heaving, he could see a bright light behind the treeline ahead, and then nothing.

No more solid ground to walk on, just empty air. A few yards behind him, struggling to keep up and doing an admirable job of it, Lanya climbed with Rilo clinging to her back like a monkey. Only ten more paces…five…two…and then the Klingon was at the summit, gasping like a fish deprived of water and staring in amazement down into the lush green valley.

The scene before him could have been striking, with the tops of the emerald-leafed trees that looked like a carpet of velvet, the huge sparkling lake that resembled a blanket of diamonds, and the rolling hills beyond. It almost could have been striking, if one ignored the numerous domed buildings thrust into the center of the wilderness.

They formed two lines along one long, wide main street. Soukara's sun glinted off the odd metal plating on the roofs, reflecting a blinding light into Worf's eyes. He blinked and looked away, focusing his attention on the smaller buildings, which were constructed of simple brown and gray stone.

A little way off from the main buildings were rows of even smaller structures, lined up like soldiers at attention. The mountains to either side of them were pocked with cave mouths. Naturally formed or not, Worf couldn't discern. Tiny figures, appearing as small as ants from this high up, moved around amidst the openings, some going in, some coming out, some pushing what looked like crudely constructed carts.

Mining, perhaps? But mining what? Soukara wasn't rich in minerals as far as he knew. Now that he noticed them, there were people swarming all over the valley, in between the buildings and on top of them, near the caves, near the militaristic lineups of buildings, looking like a colony of busy insects.

Built on the mountainside opposite where the prisoners stood, closer to the valley floor but still elevated enough to offer a splendid view, was a house, domed in the same metal plating as the other buildings. It appeared to have a single level, but was very long. If it had been a different color, it could have passed for a freighter attached to the rock face. A balcony the length of the house wrapped around it, and large windows lined the side facing into the valley.

At Worf's side, Lanya drew in a breath as Rilo slid to the ground and came to stand between his mother and the Klingon.

"I guess that's Bal'gurna."

"It appears to be."

Rilo pointed in delight at the domed buildings and laughed. "Shiny, Mother!" He tugged on her pants. "Bright an' shiny!"

Lanya smiled down at her son.

"Yes, it is."

Molina stepped up to the front of the group and began to lead the way down the mountain. Lanya bent and hoisted Rilo onto her back again.

The trip down was a lot easier than the hike up had been. After only an hour, they stood at a pair of tall wooden doors guarding the entrance to Bal'gurna. At first the patterns on the gates looked like random markings in the wood, but as he studied them Worf realized with a shudder that the carvings were flames. In fact, the entire fence stretching for miles around the city was covered in the same design. Molina bent and spoke briefly in an unfamiliar language into a comm panel. So they did have some technology here, but the comm system probably extended only to the other side of the gate.

Anything more advanced would risk detection by the Dominion. With a creak, the massive gates slowly began to swing open. The Bajoran stood before them and faced the crowd of tired prisoners he'd led all this way.

"My loyal followers," he proclaimed, beaming. "We have arrived. Some of you may have initial doubts, but you will soon see the glory of the Pagh'Wraiths!"

A Bajoran man began to yell in protest.

"We will never serve the Pagh'Wraiths! We would rather die!" A transformation came over Molina at the man's words. His smile vanished. His eyes hardened. Even his bright red hair seemed to burst into flame.

"How dare you speak such words!" he hissed, sounding more like a snake than a person. "You are standing at the gates of Bal'gurna, the holy city! Consider your miserable self lucky that the Pagh'Wraiths didn't pass judgment on you and strike you dead on the spot."

He gestured to the guards, who stepped forward, weapons raised. "Get them inside! Now!"

Lanya clutched Rilo, the child too terrified to make a sound. As they filed into the gates, the group branched off in two directions. Men were forced to keep to the right, while women and children went to the left. Rilo gazed over his mother's shoulder at Worf as the three of them were separated. He never saw either of them again.

The Klingon was awestruck as he followed the man in front of him down the main street that they had seen from their vantage point at the top of the mountain. The domed buildings were amazingly massive, and the stones out of which they were built appeared extremely heavy. Since there'd been no evidence of the presence of technology, aside from the comm system, they had to have been erected by hand. It must have taken months of labor to complete just one building! Labor…by whom?

His question was answered when he saw a group of three Humans and two Bajorans trudge by, hauling carts full of stones up to the unfinished base of a building. Their clothes, which he supposed were prisoner's uniforms, were filthy and torn, as was the skin underneath. On the other side of the road, another group of people wearing identical uniforms toiled over a boiling pot on a fire, stirring it and occasionally adding a chunk of something to whatever was inside.

As he walked, trailed by a Jem'Hadar guard, Worf found himself thinking back to when he'd been captive on a Dominion prison, the place where he'd first met General Martok.

As he lay on the bunk in the back of the runabout, his broken ribs aching and the cuts on his face stinging with the sweat that had dripped into them, Worf regretted that he hadn't been able to kill that last Jem'Hadar. At the same time, he thanked Kahless that he'd only been on the asteroid prison for a couple of days, unlike the unfortunate Doctor Bashir, who'd been incarcerated there for five weeks. Most of all, he was eager to see Jadzia again.

There had been times when he was grappling with the soldier in the ring when he'd almost been overcome, almost allowed the Jem'Hadar to claim a better position and be able to snap his neck or crush his skull. But when times seemed desperate, all he'd needed to do was picture the face of his parmach'kai. The memory of her perfection gave him the strength he required to defeat his opponent. He thought about the lovely Trill now, imagined the smile her face would light up with when she saw him.

Imagined his Klingon opera collection scattered all over her quarters.

He didn't actually see Jadzia until after the operation in which Bashir had repaired the damage to his ribs and used a dermal regenerator to heal the abrasions and bruises on his face. She appeared in the doorway, looking like a heavenly vision to his tired eyes.

"Hey, Worf!"

"Jadzia!" He gestured towards her with a heavy hand, thankful that Bashir was nowhere to be seen. She needed no second invitation. Striding across the room, she stretched herself out on top of him and kissed him roughly. Her slender body against his was something he had missed during the nights at the prison camp.

Even though they were not registered as living in the same quarters, most days one of them would pack a bag and spend the night. On a few occasions, Worf hadn't seen his own bedroom for a week at a time. Jadzia finally broke the kiss. Something in his eyes must have seemed uncomfortable, for she asked,

"I'm not hurting you, am I? Your ribs aren't too sore for me to be like this?"

The Klingon slipped an arm around her back. "I am fine. Do not move."

She grinned, overflowing with relief and happiness at the outcome of this whole situation. When they'd been trying to destroy the wormhole, she'd half considered sabotaging the effort herself, so that Worf wouldn't be trapped in the Gamma Quadrant. It was unthinkable that she should have to do this, that she should have to be the one to seal her parmach'kai's fate by stranding him in Dominion territory with no way home…with no way back to her.

All had worked out in the end, though, besides the fact that Cardassia was now a member of the Dominion. But that seemed about as serious as a hangnail, now that Worf was back. Looping her arms around his neck and shifting her weight so she wouldn't put pressure on his newly sutured ribs, Jadzia allowed herself to be swept away on a sea of intoxicated happiness as she studied the face of the Klingon on the chair beneath her.

When she had met Worf, she had gained not only a lover but a lifelong friend, one who understood her almost as well as if he could see inside her mind and distinguish her individual thoughts. She trusted him with anything, from her deepest secret to her life. He respected her, seeing not only the beautiful woman that most men were enamored with, but also an honorable warrior to whom he gave his admiration. The Trill grinned.

"I guess you're going to want your Klingon opera collection back."

Now she had read his mind.

"Intact," Worf instructed her with mock severity. She couldn't resist a quick tease.

"More or less," she said, giving a coy, playful smile. In actuality, all the operas were accounted for and sitting in a pile on her nightstand, as she had taken special pains to keep them in one place. Their lips met again, and Jadzia hoped that Worf, with his recent injuries, would feel up to the "welcome home" celebration she had planned for that night in her quarters.

Up towards the front of the line, guards were running their hands over the prisoners' bodies to make sure they hadn't brought any concealed weapons into Bal'gurna. If they passed inspection, they were sent to relinquish the clothes they currently wore in favor of the drab worker's uniforms. A commotion from the side caught Worf's attention.

What he saw when he turned to look shocked him. An attractive Klingon woman, the only other Klingon Worf had seen here so far, was struggling with a robust Cardassian guard. Another guard came up from behind and grabbed her. This only made her fight harder to get away. The second guard said something Worf couldn't hear, and after the first responded, the two of them began to drag the Klingon off towards an empty-looking building.

Worf knew they weren't meaning to kill her. If they had wanted to do so, they would have shot her on the spot, since both carried disruptor pistols. No, it was obvious what they were planning to do. Prompted by a loyalty he suddenly felt for this woman, most likely because she was the only other Klingon in the same predicament as he, Worf sprang out of line and darted towards the woman and her assailants.

Behind him, the guards shouted in surprise and fired their weapons in his direction. The other men in line to be searched dropped to the ground, covering their heads to shield themselves. The two Cardassians were too distracted to notice Worf, and he used that advantage, leaping on one guard and breaking his neck with a single effortless twist.

As the body crumpled into a motionless heap, he got a good look at the Klingon woman's face. She wasn't a woman after all, but a girl, not more than seventeen years old. Her bright eyes, stricken with dread and rage, locked with his for a few seconds, conveying her surprise. Obviously she hadn't expected anyone to come to her rescue, let alone a fellow Klingon. The Cardassian holding her was as shocked as she was, for he released his grip momentarily. That was all the time she needed.

The girl wrenched herself from his grasp, swinging around and landing an impressive blow with her fist into the guard's face. He stumbled but didn't fall, regaining his balance quickly and smashing the girl on the side of the head with his disruptor. She cried out, her hands flying to the gushing wound.

Worf stepped forward to support her, but instead felt a phaser beam pierce him between the shoulder blades. He fell to the ground, sinking once more into darkness, unaware of the eyes that watched him fall.

The Master, observing from behind the very building in which the Cardassian guards had planned to ravish the Klingon girl, clenched his fists in fury as the phaser beam flung her rescuer into the dirt. How dare they treat the future ruler of Bal'gurna like a common worker? Just shoot him down like an animal? Then he repented his thoughts; the fault was partly his.

He'd told only Elij about the importance of this man, so he couldn't blame it on the rest of the sentries for not recognizing him as anyone out of the ordinary. The Klingon girl was another matter. Usually the Master didn't tolerate the unnecessary abuse of the workers, but in this case he'd allowed it to slip, knowing that his chosen future co-ruler would intervene.

Besides, she's from Barrack 7, he thought wryly. It wouldn't hurt her to see who's really in charge. It was always necessary, before deciding to trust someone entirely, to put them in different situations where you could determine what their strengths were and whose side they were on. That was one of the few tactics he'd retained from his old ways, before he answered the call of the Pagh'Wraiths.

Now, watching the Klingon's unconscious form being hauled out of the dirt and dragged off towards the temporary holding cells, he could correctly determine that for the time being his loyalties lay with his people. No matter. That would change. Off to one side, a Romulan who'd been searching the prisoners was angrily berating the surviving Cardassian, who snarled something in response, then turned and stalked away.

Turning to the Klingon girl, who was trying to staunch the flow of blood from her ridged forehead, the sentry commanded only, "Get back to work." No "are you all right?" or anything that might have suggested he was vaguely concerned about her well-being. She glared at the Romulan before stalking off herself, not towards the construction sites but towards Barrack 7.

Adjusting the hood around his face, the Master stepped out of the shadows of the building and followed behind the guards struggling to carry the enormous Klingon. When he was secure in the cell, they began the process of searching him for weapons or communication devices. Satisfied, the Master turned and walked down the street. The sounds of construction were pleasant to his ears; the almost melodious resonance of hammer striking rock was a constant reminder of the miracles that were being worked here.

Bal'gurna, his holy city, was slowly but steadily rising temple by temple from the dust.

To his right, a Ferengi, his face shaded partially by his huge ears, was poking mud into the cracks between two boulders that formed the base of the east wall of a building as a Cardassian woman maneuvered another rock into place. It was rare to find Cardassians here as prisoners. Most of the soldiers he'd come to- Cardassian, Jem'Hadar, and Romulan alike- had been happy to help him, after he'd made certain promises to them which he secretly had no intention of keeping. But his recruits didn't need to know that now.

Later, the time would come when they would want him to fulfill his offer, and when that time came, he would rely on the faith he was sure they would develop in the Pagh'Wraiths. Many of his Bajoran guards had come voluntarily, already believing in the goodness of the true gods of Bajor. They didn't need convincing to offer their services; they already worshipped the Pagh'Wraiths with their entire beings. Everyone here would have that faith, eventually.

To his left, a group of workers perched precariously on a rounded roof, reaching down to grasp a sheet of gleaming metal from the others who balanced on ladders, handing it up to them. The shoddy ladders, in turn, leaned against the solid side of the tall buildings. Sweat streamed off their faces as they squinted in the sun. The roofing of the temples was a grueling job, indeed, but someone had to do it, and the beauty that would spread across Bal'gurna would be worth their laborious toil. Then suddenly something went wrong.

The sheet of metal slipped, cutting a deep path into the palms of the Bajoran man who'd been gingerly gripping its razor-sharp edges. He yelped in surprise and pain and dropped it. The metal fell with a thunk on its side- right on the Bajoran's foot. The man let out a scream of agony so high-pitched that the Master winced, both at the assault on his eardrums and in sympathy for the worker's pain. The severed foot fell from the roof first, spraying blood, and landed with a wet, sickening plop in the dirt, sending a dust cloud billowing into the air.

The Bajoran, now unable to stand, had fallen to his stomach on the roof and was already beginning to stiffen in shock. The other men and women on the roof with him were yelling unintelligibly in panic and horror as they attempted to tie a makeshift tourniquet on their injured comrade's ankle. But the dead weight of the unconscious man was too heavy for them, especially on the smooth, slippery roof. Despite their efforts, the Bajoran slid down the curve of the dome and fell the distance to the unforgiving ground, hitting with an audible snap.

His body convulsed once and lay still in a rapidly spreading pool of blood. The Master sighed heavily as guards came running from every direction to see what the commotion was about. The remaining workers on the roof had started to come down by way of the ladder, but were instructed to stay up and finish the job while the body of their fallen friend was removed. It was unfortunate whenever an accident like this occurred, but it was best just to move on, continue and remember that the Pagh'Wraiths have reasons for all things, even deaths that may seem pointless.

Not wanting to risk being identified by the sudden crowd that had gathered, the Master crept silently away, back up the mountainside and in the rear door of the house from which he had come. From there he shed the worker's clothing and donned his own usual garments, going then to the balcony outside his chamber, where he would wait until Elij came to report in.

Slamming the PADD he'd been perusing down on his desk, Captain Sisko bellowed,

"What the hell do you mean, he's gone after Dukat?"

"Keep your voice down, Ben," Ezri Dax hissed, glancing over her shoulder to make sure no one in Ops had heard, despite the fact that the doors were soundproof. Her old friend had reacted to this news just as she'd suspected he would. His piercing gaze bored into her.

"Are you sure?"

Ezri sighed. "That's what I keep asking myself, but whenever I try to speculate on something else it all leads back to that one answer."

Sisko was pacing now, visibly agitated. And he had good reason to be.

"What is Worf thinking? Going off without permission, in the middle of a war, no less, and trying to assassinate one of the most powerful, not to mention sought-after, Cardassians alive? If he succeeds, the Dominion's hatred of the Federation will only escalate and give them further motivation for winning the war!"

The Trill attempted to calm him down, saying, "I wouldn't count on the Dominion getting too riled up. From what you told me, Weyoun said they wanted him as a criminal. If Worf kills him, he'll just be eliminating their problem."

The captain swung on her.

"That's not the point, Old Man. The point is, Worf is only adding fuel to a dangerous situation, and it could explode at any moment. Either way, the Dominion wants Dukat, whether it's as one of their soldiers or a felon to put on trial. And if it's the latter- well, you know as well as I do that the Dominion is a very strong believer of loyalty within its ranks. They want to see to it that Dukat is disciplined- by them- for his actions. If anyone interferes, there's going to be hell to pay. We both know there's no love lost between Worf and Dukat, and it certainly would be easier for the Federation if Dukat weren't around. But since Worf acted without authorization, there's no guarantee that the Federation can stand up for him to the Dominion, if such need arises."

"I don't think Worf wants to kill Dukat as a member of the Dominion, but rather as the man who killed his wife," Ezri said softly. "He doesn't care about Dukat's political standing. All he can think about is avenging Jadzia's death. As a Klingon, things like that come naturally to him. I doubt he gave any thought to the consequences but will be willing to face them when the time comes." She paused, remembering fondly. "You've seen his loyalty to her proven before. Remember Soukara?"

Sisko studied his desk for a long time, silent. Then his head whipped up so suddenly Ezri jumped.

"Why do you think Worf went to kill Dukat? What made you come to that conclusion?"

The Trill was ready for this. "Well, he took his mek'leth with him. I remember him and Jadzia discussing that the most honorable way to kill someone was in hand-to-hand combat, especially if you're trying to avenge a death. So, along with his phaser, he chose to take a ceremonial weapon." Sisko was nodding, deep in thought. "This next part may sound strange to you, but it's exactly what happened. After I saw the empty mek'leth hooks, I looked at their wedding picture…and suddenly everything was clear to me, like a ray of knowledge that's been poking at my soul and finally found an opening to seep inside. I don't know how it happened, but all my instincts tell me it's right."

The captain sighed, defeated.

"Who am I to argue with three hundred years of instinct?"

She smiled, relieved that he hadn't doubted her outlandish explanation.

"A good and sensible Starfleet officer doing his job and trying to stay sane."

Sisko let out a short, sharp laugh. "An impossible combination these days." Scratching his head, he said, "Now that we have a lead on what Worf went to do, we need to find where he went to do it. To start, why don't you…" The command in his tone was replaced by concern, as Ezri's knees had suddenly seemed to buckle and she had put one hand on the wall for support. "Are you all right, Old Man? You're not getting spacesick, are you?"

She shook her head and felt her way to the couch, where she sank down and put her face in her hands.

"No. It's just that…going in our quarters brought back so many memories, good and bad. I'm kind of in a mentally overloaded state right now." Ezri didn't even notice how she'd referred to Worf's quarters as her own.

The captain regarded his friend with pity and wished he could help her, take some of the burdens onto his own shoulders. But only she had the knowledge needed to understand Worf's actions.

"Don't worry about anything. Go home, get some rest, and don't think about this at all. I'll have Odo look into it."

"You're going to put this out in the open?"

"I have to, now that this has turned into more than just an officer going AWOL."

"All right." Ezri stood. "See you later, Ben."

She left his office and moved tiredly to the turbolift. Sisko turned away. He almost touched his comm badge to call Odo but decided to walk down to Security instead. Suddenly he needed to get out of his office.

A tap sounded at the Master's chamber door. When he bade the visitor enter, Elij slipped into the room and was met by his delighted smile.

"I see you are back, my son."

"Yes, Master."

The Bajoran bowed with his hands together and did some quick calculations in his head, taking into account the prisoners he'd had to execute. The Master didn't need to know about them.

"We recruited fifty-two new workers, including the man you specified. Unfortunately, he proved to be difficult and had to be restrained. Shall I have him brought to you?"

"No, not yet. I have no need for his presence at this moment."

Elij blinked, surprised.

"Then what should I have done with him, oh benevolent one?"

"Assign him to…Barrack 7."

"But, Master, only the extreme rebels are quartered in Barrack 7. Would not placing him there be a risk to his safety?"

The Master smiled tolerantly. Of course, someone like the Bajoran who had not spoken directly to the Pagh'Wraiths would not understand. He considered their conversation over the comm link during the night. Perhaps he had been too hasty in keeping things from his trusted servant.

"Elij, what I am about to tell you must be kept in complete secrecy. The Pagh'Wraiths themselves have told me this." His faithful attendant agreed instantly, so he continued, "I was told in a vision that when Bal'gurna was completed, I would share the honor of ruling it with another. The choice of who it would be fell under my jurisdiction. I have chosen this Klingon to rule Bal'gurna at my side."

Elij's eyes were wide as he breathed,

"But surely the Pagh'Wraiths meant for you to choose someone who would be capable of forming a closer relationship with them? A Bajoran, perhaps?"

A Bajoran such as me?

The Master gave a smile so eerie that Elij wanted to disappear into his robes.

Oh, he has a closer relationship with the Pagh'Wraiths then you know, Elij.

"You mustn't let your love of this community be limited by race, my son. Remember, I myself am not Bajoran."

"True. You are wise as always." The Master continued,

"The Klingon must be assigned to Barrack 7 so he can gain insight into the people he will be caring for. Not all of them will be so resistant, but it is best to prepare for the worst and hope for the best. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Master."

"You may go."

The Bajoran left, his robes swishing at his ankles. Leaning back in his chair, the Master closed his eyes. It wasn't time to speak to the Klingon yet. When the time was right, when Bal'gurna was completed, that was when they would converse for the first time. Not before. Until then, he would just wait…and observe.

Go to Part VI