Текст книги "Dawn of the Eagles "

Автор книги: Stephani Danelle Perry

Соавторы: Gene Rodenberry,Britta Dennison
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The woman could speak to him only via voice transmission, but Odo still felt quite certain that it was really her. It had been the sound of Kira’s voice that had finally brought her identity back to him those few years ago.

“So, will you help me, Constable?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “I still don’t understand why you’ve come to me.”

“Because I trusted you once before, Odo, and I want to trust you now. I believe that ultimately—despite your position, I mean—you are on our side.”

“I’m on nobody’s side,” Odo said firmly.

“If that’s true, then why did you help me before? Why not just arrest me?”

“Because,” he said, not immediately sure how to follow it up. “I…suppose I regarded you as an individual, in need of help. It wasn’t your cause that provoked my sympathy—it was just…it was just…”

“What?”

“I don’t know,” Odo said. He really didn’t know. It was true that he had helped her once, and it was therefore true that he had helped the Bajoran resistance movement once, too. But he’d been much less experienced then—he had been reacting to his immediate circumstances without thinking through the consequences.

“You’re lying,”the woman said. “You knew the Cardassians were wrong then, and you know it now.”

“Do I?” Odo said, trying to sound threatening, but it fell flat.

“Yes, you do. You’re not one of them, Odo. You’re one of us.”

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the authors’ imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

™, ® and © 2008 by CBS Studios Inc. All Rights Reserved. STAR TREK and related marks are trademarks of CBS Studios Inc.

CBS, the CBS EYE logo, and related marks are trademarks of CBS Broadcasting Inc.

™ & © CBS Broadcasting Inc. All Rights Reserved.

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All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Pocket Books Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

POCKET and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

Cover art by John Picacio; cover design by Alan Dingman

ISBN-13: 978-1-4165-9905-0

ISBN-10: 1-4165-9905-3

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For Britta, who works harder than me

—S. D. P.

For Lucy and Ruth

—B. D.

Acknowledgments

S. D. Perry would like to thank Paula Block and Marco Palmieri; James Swallow and all the Trekwriters, past and present; her marvelous husband, two perfect kids, and the lovely ladies at the School of Autism who keep the faith. And again, thanks to Britta.

Britta Dennison wants to thank anyone and everyone who contributed to the Star Trekwiki sites, along with Marco Palmieri, Paula Block, James Swallow, and everyone who has contributed to the Trekuniverse. Thanks to my family, especially Thad. Thanks to S. D. Perry, who prevents me from friendlessness and joblessness, and to every teacher I’ve ever had, with the exception of my ninth-grade algebra teacher.

OCCUPATION YEAR THIRTY-THREE

2360 (Terran Calendar)

Prologue

Opaka Sulan was silently watching the landscapers as they worked under the direction of Riszen Ketauna, an artist from a nearby village in the Kendra Valley. She stood at the edge of a covered porch, one of the more recent additions to the shrine, and looked out at the patch of land that had been cleared of brush, trying to envision the finished product as Ketauna had described it. She had no doubt that the gardens would be beautiful within a year or so. But while she appreciated Ketauna’s hard work in planning the aesthetic of the grounds, she was concerned about the use of resources. She couldn’t help but worry.

Ketauna called out orders and encouragement to those who surrounded him on the crumbly blackness of the newly tilled soil. Later, they would break for what amounted to a feast, soup made from porlifowl and kavaroot, fresh berries, iced dekatea. One of the workers had gifted the new shrine with a sizable coop, and there had been eggs and meat for weeks now. It was a sunny day, the land bright with it, and Opaka struggled with a sense of guilt that they should have so much when their world was so troubled. The Cardassians had only tightened their grip since the resistance had truly begun to fight; elsewhere, she knew, Bajorans were hungry, were suffering…

She closed her eyes for a moment, praying that she would not take her own blessings for granted, that she would always be grateful for what she had. Besides, as Fasil was often quick to point out, they had to eat, too. Feeling guilt over that would feed no one.

She found Ketauna on the field. He was dressed in shabby and rough clothing like the volunteers around him. He had his back to Opaka as he bent to assist a woman who was planting a large rubberwood sapling. After a moment under Opaka’s gaze, the artist cocked his head and then turned, as if he had felt Opaka looking at him. He shaded his eyes with his hands to block out the midday brilliance of B’hava’el.

“Your Eminence,” he called up to her, waving. He started toward her, his expression as bright as the day. “I am pleased with the way the gardens are beginning to come together.”

Opaka nodded to him, putting her hands together underneath her robes. “Yes, Ketauna, it’s going to be lovely.” She walked down the steps from the porch to speak to him, a friend of hers since long before she had been named kai—and one of those who had accompanied her when she had recovered the last Tear of the Prophets, that which was believed to be the lost Orb of Prophecy and Change, missing since the time of Kai Dava. The Orb was safely hidden now, looked after by the monks who presided over the shrine at Ashalla. Opaka visited Ashalla when she could, but she did not do as much traveling now as she might have liked; her health would not permit it. In the past six years, she had come to spend more and more time at this location, a place that remained hidden from the Cardassians’ attention, nestled as it was in a remote location between two provincial boundaries.

Opaka was reluctant to commit herself to a single place, but she had to admit that she was not getting any younger; her aging body would not sustain the nomadic lifestyle to which she had been committed when she had first begun to preach. But there was no small measure of selfishness in her acquiescence to allow this place to be constructed, for if she remained here, she would be closer to her son, Fasil, a resistance fighter who lived in nearby Kendra. It was generally understood that this place, in addition to being home to Opaka, was a place of sanctuary for the freedom fighters of Kendra, Opaka Fasil among them.

Ketauna bowed slightly as they met. “I would offer no less to the shrine that will become home to the kai.”

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.

“Tell me, Prylar Bareil,” Opaka said as they entered the sanctuary, “have you ever heard of anyone named Kalem Apren?”

“Yes, I have,” Bareil answered without hesitation. “He is one of the locals from the Kendra Valley that I spoke to when I was attempting to locate you.”

“From the Kendra Valley,” Opaka repeated, thinking to herself that he must be someone that she had already known before, in some capacity.

Fasil cut in. “Kalem Apren is an arbiter in the Kendra Valley,” he told his mother. “He was a member of the Ministry, before the occupation—from Hedrikspool, originally. He is still well-respected among many in the region, and has taken up the mantle of informal governing.”

Opaka was taken aback at her son’s casual reply. It seemed Fasil had possessed the answer to her question all along…and suddenly, she was afraid. Sometimes, there were associations made, feelings that she’d learned not to deny in spite of the seeming implausibility of their connection. As they walked with the prylar whom she had just admitted to the sanctuary, observing him as he took in his new surroundings, she felt it strongly; the young man belonged here, she had no doubt of it, but something about his arrival, Fasil’s awareness of the name that had settled into her thoughts…

She continued to walk and smile, but felt something inside of her closing, shuttering against the implications. Something had underscored her constant fears, lent them a credibility that went beyond the usual—that her only son might leave her soon, to walk with the Prophets.

1

Kalem Apren could have been perfectly content with his current lot in life. When he had been minister of Hedrikspool Province, before the average Bajoran even knew that there was a Cardassian Union, there was always a part of him that resented the responsibility that came with his birthright. He had never been like Kubus Oak, who relished his power so comprehensively that it had devoured him, landed him straight into the lap of a traitorous alien presence. No, Kalem had never been one to clutch and grapple at the authority of his D’jarra; he had always thought himself more like Jas Holza that way, content to simply wield his title and let his adjutants do most of the actual governing.

How times have changed,he thought grimly as he wandered through the afternoon marketplace at Vekobet, in the central region of Kendra Province. Kalem had never particularly cared for Kendra, and had often wondered why the Prophets arranged it that he would be here on business when the Cardassians first showed their true colors. It had been a chaotic time, frightening, infuriating, terrifying. He had offered to help reorganize civilians in the aftermath, with Jaro Essa and some of the other Militiamen on the scene—those of the Bajoran homeguard who had not been killed or absorbed into the false Cardassian-sanctioned new government. And somehow, he had remained here for all these years. He was fairly certain now that he would die here, too, for his new wife was from Kendra, and she seemed to have no intention of leaving. What was there left for him in Hedrikspool anyway? Hedrikspool had lost more than half its population to the exodus, even before the soldiers had come; the government had effectively been taken over by Cardassian political “liaisons,” with most of the older civilians falling in line and the younger running off to join the resistance or subsiding into apathy. Bajor didn’t need politicians at the moment; it needed leaders.

So now that he lived out a simple life in Kendra Province, with a beautiful new wife and many friends, he could simply resign himself to having been plucked from that uncomfortable seat of responsibility and deposited here, to a time and place where a former politician’s roles were much less complicated than before. He still had money and resources; though they had dwindled significantly, there was enough to keep him in relative comfort—relative to the suffering elsewhere on his world. He still had residual influence among the people here, as much for his role in quieting citizens in the aftermath of the first attacks as for his former minister’s seat.

But he could not accept his lot in life. He would not. He recognized now how much he had taken his position for granted in the past—he could have done more, so much more to prevent his world’s current circumstances. But there was nothing to be gained from regret; the only thing to do now was to plan the next step. Because, despite the pessimism of many, Kalem had to believe there would be a next step. It was the only thing that kept him moving.

People greeted him as he passed through the marketplace; a few even stopped to shake his hand. He met the eyes of a man about his own age, a man with a taut, malnourished visage and a pleading expression in his eyes. Please, Minister,his expression read, please assure me it’s going to get better.Kalem smiled at the man, saying nothing, but his expression telling him what he wanted to hear. Just wait. Things will be different someday.Did any of them truly believe it? Kalem knew they couldn’t possibly—they simply repeated it to themselves to shut out the roaring insistence of defeat.

Passing through the marketplace, he found his way to the residence of Jaro Essa, who had been a major in Bajor’s Militia before it had been disbanded. A great many were slaughtered in the early days of the Cardassian attacks, and the handful that were left put in a very quick surrender—much to the chagrin of those like Jaro, who had been in favor of a military coup since long before the Cardassians had announced their formal annexation. If only Kalem and the others would have supported his position! But there was that regret again. Nothing to achieve from it now. The Militia was a distant memory, as was any semblance of real Bajoran government; Kubus Oak and the others were a mere panel of Cardassian pawns.

Kalem represented one of dozens of former politicians and leaders who had sunk into informal law-keeping positions, men and women who had simply taken charge of things at the right time to have fallen into permanent ad hoc positions that seemed to carry lifelong terms, for who else would fill their shoes? There were no elections, no formal designations—only secret town meetings with the few Bajorans who weren’t too despondent, who still saw the point in trying to maintain government at the provincial level. Time and again, the people of Kendra agreed that Kalem, Jaro, and a handful of other volunteers continued to do what they had always done—which was to prevent complete chaos from taking over in the wreckage of their cities.

He stepped to the door of a small adobe home, which opened to his knock.

“Hello, Major,” Kalem said.

“Minister,” Jaro replied. It was foolish, perhaps, that they kept to their old titles when they spoke to each other, but some shared grain of stubbornness would not allow either to acknowledge for a moment that it wasn’t entirely appropriate to do so. Kalem entered the house, and Jaro shut the heavy wooden door behind him, first peering outside as if it would truly ensure they were safe from the prying of collaborators.

“I received the communiqué from Jas Holza,” Kalem informed Jaro as the old militia leader gestured for him to sit in a cracked leather chair coated in a thin layer of dust. Jaro was a bachelor, too busy with his informal adjutant position to keep his home especially tidy.

Jaro was taken aback. “Already? I thought he wasn’t due to contact us until—”

“A discrepancy with the calendar on Valo III. We still haven’t adjusted it satisfactorily to coincide correctly with Bajor’s. I suppose we’ve been too… preoccupiedhere to bother with such trivialities concerning the outlying colonies.”

Jaro never bothered to acknowledge Kalem’s acid sarcasm anymore. He sat down himself, in a chair nearly identical to Kalem’s except that the seat was split open along lacy cracks, the stuffing coming out in tufts. Jaro’s things had once been sturdy and expensive, but time took its toll. “What news did he have?”

Kalem frowned, feeling disgust as he related the information. “News we should have expected. Jas has managed to make himself out to be some kind of goodwill ambassador to the Federation. They have no idea what our real situation here is, and it doesn’t sound as though Jas has any intention of clearing matters up for them. He’s enjoying his status far too much to make waves.”

Jaro nodded. “As I’ve been saying, Minister—we can’t rely on the Federation to help us. Perhaps it’s better that we forge our plans without the consideration of fickle outsiders.”

Kalem shook his head. “But if the Federation truly knew—if we could make it plain to them what the Cardassians’ presence here has become…”

“They won’t listen,” Jaro said firmly. “It’s possible that Jas did try to tell them, Apren, but there simply wasn’t anything they could do to stop it—not within the realm of their own rigid code of sanctimonious laws. We must not pin our hopes on the Federation, or anyone else. There is only us.”

Kalem resisted the urge to argue; it would get him nowhere—they had been over this many times. “What about Keeve Falor?”

Jaro sighed heavily. “What about him?” he said. “My own attempts to reach him have still been mostly unsuccessful, and you tell me that you have had a similar experience.”

Kalem nodded in reluctant acknowledgment. Jas Holza was easy to reach, just as long as he wanted to be reached. He still had money, still had influence in alien trade partnerships. He still had a few warp vessels that he somehow managed to keep under the Cardassians’ notice—the Union paid little attention to what went on in the Valo system, too far away to disrupt their own business ventures. But it was another matter for Keeve. Valo II had fallen into dire poverty—the people there were struggling just to stay alive, to maintain a few strained trade relationships. If it hadn’t been for Jas Holza, probably the Valo II settlers would have perished decades ago. A reliable comm system was the least of Keeve Falor’s worries.

“We should keep trying,” Kalem said. “We should tell Jas to connect us. Bajor needs strong voices, strong leaders who will be ready to do what it takes when the time comes. Keeve is someone I know we can count on.”

“ Ifthe time comes,” Jaro said.

Kalem shook his head. “Major,” he said, “we cannot think that way.”

Jaro’s mouth tightened. “You’re right, of course, Minister,” he said faintly, but Kalem could clearly detect the brittleness in his tone. They had discussed such things often, but still, the years passed and so little had changed.

It will change, though, Kalem told himself. And we’ll have to be ready.

They talked over a few local matters—rationing their allotment of winter crops early this year, a minor boundary dispute between neighboring farms that they needed to resolve before the Cardassian “peacekeepers” got involved. After a time, Kalem rose to go, shaking the old Militia officer’s hand as he left, considering the wisdom of his own dogged optimism as he stepped out into the gathering twilight. Of course, his beliefs were not far removed from Jaro’s, but he could not bring himself to speak them aloud, even if Jaro could. Even if everyone else on Bajor could. There waslogic in making preparations to guide Bajor in the aftermath of a Cardassian withdrawal, and even if he didn’t quite believe that the Union would ever leave them, Kalem would keep moving, keep working to have everything ready. To stop, to hold still, was to welcome defeat.

The services at the would-be shrine had concluded some time ago, but Astraea remained behind, as she always did—sometimes to speak to individual followers about their concerns, but just as often for her own contemplations.

She had fashioned a small chamber in the cellar of this old storehouse, in the heart of Lakarian City, to be a sort of office for herself. As the guide of her faith, she needed a place where she could counsel her followers, though it had been difficult for her to accept the authority of guide from the very beginning. She had known almost nothing of the Way when she had taken on this persona, the name Astraea and everything that went with it.

The Oralian Way performed their rites now in secret, the once great faith having been reduced to the indignity of meeting in basements and back alleys, forced to communicate in codes and over scrambled contact lines as though they were common criminals. Anyone who could be associated with the Oralian Way in any capacity was immediately categorized as a wanted fugitive. Their crimes were no more serious than peaceful congregation, but Central Command had managed to paint the Oralians as dangerous dissenters whose ideals sought to destroy the very fiber of the Cardassian Union—and of course, no member of the military had any inkling of what those ideals truly were. They remembered only the threats of civil wars, and the angry public demonstrations of yesteryear, all conflicts that had been borne of misunderstanding. Modern Cardassians did not care to attribute their people’s achievements to anything beyond perseverance, hard work, and superiority. But Astraea and her followers believed it was not so simple as that, and for that belief, they were pariahs.

Alone in her chamber, seated at a desk before a small computer, her monitor chimed to indicate an incoming communiqué. She started at the sound; she had not been expecting to receive a transmission so late. The followers of her faith generally came to her in person if they had a query or concern, and there were very few of those who even knew her transmission code. She knew where the call was coming from with near certainty, but still her eyes lit up with anticipation when she confirmed that the message had indeed come from Terok Nor.

The call was scrambled, as it always was, and necessitated a code to access; but once the correct sequence was tapped in, the blank density of her screen broke with a horizontal snapping of blue light that settled into the image of her most cherished friend.

The soldier’s black hair was pushed back over a wide forehead that housed a pair of deeply scrutinizing eyes. His gaze flicked up and instantly softened as her countenance appeared on the screen in his office, far away on the space station that orbited Bajor.

“Astraea,”he said, the timbre of his voice almost turning it into a pet name—but the name carried much more weight than just this man’s affection.

“Is it safe to speak my name, Glinn Sa’kat?” she asked him, though she instantly regretted the question—he would not have spoken it aloud if it was not safe.

“I have full control over who reviews these transmissions,”he assured her.

“Even over the Order?”

His lips thinned in demonstrative impatience. “I have told you, we have nothing to fear from the Obsidian Order.”

She shook her head. “I know you think I’m being foolish, but lately I’ve had these feelings that I can’t shake…”

He leaned closer to his transmission cam. “Feelings?”he repeated. “Do you mean…like those you had before?”

A vision, he meant. Astraea shook her head; she was not talking about the kinds of feelings she’d had just after she’d come in contact with the Bajoran artifact at the Ministry of Science. The Orb. In those days, she had still been the Cardassian scientist who bore the name Miras Vara, but that name—that identity—was no more. Miras Vara had disappeared from the Union, from her family, from her job at the ministry. She had become the Guide for the Oralian Way, and had taken on the name used by her forebears as much a title as a designation.