Star Wars: Fate Of The Jedi: Omen Part 7

"We did what we could with Valin and we'll do what we can with Jysella," Leia told her daughter. "And we'll see about that carbonite. For some reason, Daala does seem willing to talk to the two of us. Probably because even though she and I were on opposite sides fifty years ago, she respects the rank I once held as Senator."

"Your rank? Pssh. I think she agrees to meet with us because of my roguish charm," Han quipped.

"Sorry, only one strong and powerful woman in your life, flyboy," Leia said.

"Two," Jaina interjected, slipping an arm around her father's waist and squeezing briefly. Han brightened.

"It's Seff I'm worried about," Leia continued, still thinking of the prisoner.

"Yeah, me too," Han said. "I know the Masters needed to know. But it shouldn't go beyond that group. This guy needs to be protected. We're the ones who need to study him and figure out what's wrong with him and, presumably, Jysella and Valin. All the GA wants to do is slap him in carbonite, and that doesn't help anything."

Jaina grimaced. "While I am delighted beyond belief that I no longer have an official observer practically following me into the refresher-particularly not one who looks like my dead younger brother-that doesn't mean we're not all being watched. One journalist in particular seems very keen on chatting with Jag and me. Trying to ditch him is like trying to shake a mynock off the hull."

"Anyone I know? I'm so terribly fond of the press," Leia said drily.

"You might," Jaina said. "Guy named Javis Tyrr. He's gotten very popular recently and he's been a total pain to Jag and me."

"Javis Tyrr," Han said. "Average size, perfect hair, smirk that begs to be wiped off with a blaster?"

"That'd be him. He was right across from the Temple when Jysella came tearing out of it and fought with Bazel Warv and Yaqeel Saav'etu. He got some very clear images before Yaqeel destroyed his cam droid in her fight with Jysella." Jaina looked slightly pleased as she spoke.

"She did?" Han said. He looked impressed. "Good for her."

"The entire situation played straight into Daala's hands, right down to the press being present," Leia said. "It almost sounds orchestrated, but I don't see how that could be possible."

"No, it's just a really lousy coincidence." Jaina sighed. "Like I said, Tyrr has been buzzing around me and Jag. He's almost always either near the Temple or the Senate chamber."

"Ah, good old Jagged Fel. How is old Durasteel-For-A-Spine anyway?" Han asked.

"He's certainly got his hands full with the Moffs," Jaina said.

"I should have reduced the number of Moffs he has to worry about when I had the chance," her father said.

Shortly after Jacen's death, Han, Luke, and several Jedi Masters had confronted the Moffs about their role in Allana's supposed murder. Han, his heart full of grief and fury at the death of his son, even though brutal and bitter necessity had forced him to acknowledge that it had to be done, had placed the business end of a blaster to the head of the Moff who clearly had been tapped to take the fall. The Jedi present hadn't stopped him from pulling the trigger. It was Han himself who made the decision to stand down, as the Masters had known he would.

Now, as Han referenced the incident, his wife and daughter both knew he didn't mean the words he spoke. Oh, he definitely wished he meant it, of that Leia was certain, but that was an entirely different thing.

"He says it's like babysitting evil intelligent children who take every advantage when the parent is away," Jaina continued.

Despite herself, Leia let out a snort of amus.e.m.e.nt. "How very apt," she said.

"Fortunately," Jaina continued, "at least for the moment, they are also behaving like children. There seems to be enough snarling and sniping among themselves-and the mandatory inclusion of females didn't help that, for sure-that Jag hasn't had too many outward difficulties. But it's a strain." She shook her head. "This conflict between the GA and the Jedi ..."

The turbolift had reached its destination, one of the small cafeterias, and settled to a stop. Jaina leaned forward and touched a pad to prevent it from opening immediately in order to finish the conversation. She looked earnestly up at her parents.

"Mom, Dad ... it's not helping anything. Not the Jedi who are having these ... these problems, not the Imperial Remnant or the GA, not the public, not anyone or anything."

"Certainly not young love," Leia said wryly.

Jaina flushed slightly. "Well ... okay, I admit, it isn't really conducive to romance. But Jag and I are adults, and we know our duties. Neither of us begrudges the time and effort and diligence they demand. But the extra strain of dodging first observers and then reporters, the finger-pointing ... well, it certainly doesn't help."

Han slipped an arm around Leia's narrow waist and squeezed. "I don't know about that. I kinda miss the moments when your mother and I had to steal time together." He winked at his wife.

Jaina rolled her eyes and let the doors open as her parents kissed. An apprentice, a human boy about age five carrying a tray heaped with a disproportionate ratio of sweets to vegetables, gaped at them. Apparently Jaina did not want her romance to be a topic of conversation, but didn't care if her parents' was.

Leia didn't much care, either, and patted the blushing boy's fair head as they stepped out.

"Where's the caf dispenser?" Han demanded. "And sterns, I'm starving."

"Men." Leia sighed.

KESH.

TWO YEARS EARLIER.

THE WINDOWS OF VESTARA'S CHAMBER WERE OPEN, ALLOWING A SOFT, cool breeze fragrant with the heady scent of dalsa flowers in bloom to waft congenially about the room. Vases containing other varieties of cut flowers were perched on pieces of furniture. Paintings from the finest artists around the world, both Keshiri and human, adorned the walls. Everything in the room bespoke beauty, calmness, and contentment.

Everything except Vestara herself.

She fidgeted on the chair, drawing a soft rebuke from her attendant, Muura.

"If my lady wishes to appear beautiful, then she must be patient," Muura said in the soft, lilting accent of her people. Even after millennia spent with humans among them, the Keshiri had not quite lost the rhythm of their native tongue. Vestara liked hearing it, although the vast majority of humans and the Keshiri themselves regarded it as a liability. Vestara thought it was soft and beautiful and perfect, like so much of the Keshiri.

She gazed at her image in the mirror as Muura's clever fingers braided and pinned her long, light brown hair. The intricate vor'shandi face markings had already been painted on. Their history predated the Sith presence on Kesh. Each mark of the brush dipped in the dark brown nectar of the s'rai plant had deep significance and was bestowed with heavy ritual. Vestara admired the delicate tracery of a dalsa flower and its trademark thorns trailing up her neck and across her cheek, then frowned a little as the leaves merged with the scar on her mouth. She always ordered the artists to disguise her scar with a design whenever possible. At least this way she could minimize her disfigurement.

She distracted herself from her self-criticism by wondering for the thousandth time why she was being summoned before the Circle of Lords. At first, when the summons had come to her and her parents yesterday, borne by no lesser a figure than a Sith Master in full formal robes, she had thought it had something to do with her application to become an apprentice. But then the summons had stipulated that she appear, alone, at the High Seat in Tahv. If it had been something as traditional as taking on the role of apprentice, she would have been summoned to the Sith Temple.

Her father, Gavar Khai, himself a Sith Saber, exuded surprise and puzzlement in the Force. Lahka, her mother, wasn't Force-sensitive at all, but even she couldn't miss the tension and mystery. She glanced worriedly from husband to daughter, but held her tongue. This was Sith business, and not for her to know about.

Vestara's father had questioned her at length that night, his presence affectionate but concerned. Had she said anything to displease anyone of significance? Had she broken any of the rules Tyros vowed to obey? Perhaps slacked on her training or studies?

Mute with apprehension, Vestara had shaken her head. She had done none of these things.

She did not mention the conversation she'd had two days previously with Ship.

In fact, the subject of Ship had not been mentioned at all, by anyone. Shortly after Ship's arrival at the Temple, security had taken to the air and demanded that everyone clear the skies around the area. All training had been postponed, and the Temple was closed until further notice, save to those who lived there. No doubt, the Circle of Lords was discussing the strange vessel and what it meant for them, but ordinary Sith had no idea as to what was going on. It was all as mysterious as Ship itself.

Vestara shivered, even though the air circulating through the room was warm. She extended a hand, and a gla.s.s of water floated into it. She sipped the cool liquid from a straw so as not to mar the vor'shandi markings so close to her mouth while Muura finished up.

"There," Muura said, smiling, meeting Vestara's eyes in the mirror. "You look lovely, mistress!"

Vestara did not answer. She turned her head this way and that, then rose to view the formfitting green dress that was slit up the side to showcase her long, lean legs. Her arms, sleek with muscle, were also adorned with vor'shandi markings, and every finger on her hands sported a ring of some sort. The markings, painted on by artists who had studied for years under their masters as Vestara would study under hers, would wash off tonight in the bath, leaving her skin pristine and undamaged. The jewelry that dangled from her ears was draped around them, not inserted in the lobes.

Vestara was a member of the Tribe, and as such she would never dream of deliberately disfiguring herself. Her hand again went up to touch the scar on her mouth, then she clenched her fist and deliberately brought it down. All that could be done to remove the scar had been done, and she would simply need to become accustomed to it.

And make sure that every opportunity she got, she covered it up with beautiful artwork.

She glanced over at Muura, who beamed up at her happily from her shorter height, and sighed. Unadorned with jewelry or cosmetics, and wearing only the simplest of clothing, the Keshiri girl seemed to Vestara to outshine her own beauty as the sun did the moon. That, like her scar, was a simple and unchangeable fact that must be endured.

Vestara glanced around at the room. Where was-ah. She extended a hand, and her training lightsaber sprang to it. She had just finished fastening it to her jeweled belt when a knock came at the door.

The knock was for Muura's benefit, not that of Vestara, who could sense at once who was on the other side of the door.

"Come in, Father," she called.

Gavar Khai was clad in his usual attire-full Sith robes, black trimmed with silver. His long hair, as night black as his robes, was pulled back into a topknot. Vestara dropped a curtsy, then stood quietly. His dark eyes narrowed as he examined her, then he nodded and held out his arms.

She slipped into them and felt them close around her comfortingly, as she had when she was a little girl. He was guarding his emotions well, but Vestara was strong in the Force, and this was, after all, her father.

"What's wrong?" She drew back to peer at him searchingly; she was almost as tall as he was now.

"Nothing you need to worry about," he said, not denying that there was, indeed, something amiss. She frowned, confused, sensing sorrow, worry, and ... pride? Something was definitely not right.

But she was Sith, of the Tribe, and she hoped one day to become a Sith Master, and Sith Masters did not fall apart when their parents seemed worried. So instead Vestara smiled at him, and he cupped her cheek and smiled back.

"Tikk is waiting. I had one of the servants give him a bath. Can't have you attending such an important meeting on a dusty, smelly uvak, now can I?"

Vestara laughed and hugged him. "I suppose not."

Gavar pushed her away gently. "Off with you then. You don't want to be late."

"You're not-" Vestara caught herself. She had thought her father would see her off, but he made no move to leave with her. Too, he would have been in his formal robes, not his everyday garments. Indeed, Gavar did not seem to intend to leave the room.

"No. I have some things I need to discuss with Muura." He smiled and squeezed her shoulder. "Hurry, child."

Vestara was still standing there, puzzled, when Gavar gently closed the door. The last thing Vestara saw before the door shut was Muura looking at her master with a confused expression on her face.

SO PUZZLED WAS SHE BY HER FATHER'S BEHAVIOR THAT FOR FULLY HALF the flight to Tahv, Vestara wasn't even thinking about standing before the Circle of Lords. But as soon as the walls of Tahv appeared below her, her thoughts immediately turned to what might happen.

The walls of Tahv had been built centuries before as a pragmatic measure; five thousand years ago, there had been dangerous beasts that needed to be kept at bay, and nearly every large habitation of Keshiri was enclosed within walls. With the arrival of the Sith and their knowledge of superior technology, even though they did not have the means to craft much of what they knew how to fabricate and operate, the Keshiri-and their new Sith allies-were able to drive off some of the dangerous, predatory creatures and domesticate others. The ever-practical uvak had been tamed for centuries, but hitherto had been reserved only for Keshiri leaders.

Times had changed. The walls had become decorative rather than functional. Nearly every high-ranking Tribe member possessed an uvak or two. And the Keshiri, whose world this once had been, had become second-cla.s.s citizens.

The city enclosed within the once protective embrace of the walls had changed as well. It was now more beautiful than utilitarian, reflective of a society with sufficient extra resources, power, and time to devote to the arts. The Sith had brought the Force to bear on the place, directing the growth of trees into pleasing shapes-a very popular form was the double helix-levitating fountains, and, most famously, forming sculptures out of gla.s.s.

The Sith craftspeople who could simultaneously heat and shape great amounts of the pale lavender sand that stretched for kilometers from the city to the ocean were much in demand. Three guilds had a stranglehold on the craft, and compet.i.tion among them was fierce. The term cutthroat came to mind, quite literally; artisans often had bodyguards in their employ lest they end up with a distinctive shikkar dagger blade-the shikkar being an exquisitely crafted, single-use weapon made of gla.s.s, the idea being that it was used for a very specific purpose, at which point the blade was snapped off and left in the victim's body-from a rival guild in their gut.

Their work was everywhere to be seen in Tahv-in windows, as statuary, as jewelry and trendy shikkars, and even as domes and spires in sheltered areas of the city where their fragility was not in danger-or where Force-users, who could protect them, dwelled.

The poorer inhabitants, all of whom had no facility with the Force and most of whom were Keshiri, lived closest to the wall. The areas grew more luxurious and more attractive the closer one came to the center of Tahv, an area known as the Circle. Here was the seat of government, comprising the Grand Lord, seven High Lords, and thirteen Lords. All were, of course, Sith.

And it was the Circle to which Vestara had been instructed to report. There was an open stretch of land just north of the cl.u.s.ter of buildings, including the gla.s.s-domed capitol in the exact center, and Vestara saw several uvak and the placid, broad-backed riding shumshur already there. She landed Tikk gracefully, and a Sith dressed in the distinctive ice-blue color that marked him as an attendant to the Grand Lord stepped forward.

"You are?" he asked. He had light blue eyes and reddish-brown hair, and beneath the blue livery his body was obviously heavy with muscle. Vestara wondered why this strong, attractive human was merely an attendant. But then, there were many who considered simply serving the Grand Lord sufficient an achievement.

"Tyro Vestara Khai," she replied. "I was summoned."

He nodded, his face betraying nothing. "Yes. Tyro Vestara. I was told to expect you. Do not keep them waiting. Enter the capitol and speak to the Sabers there; they will take you before the Circle of Lords."

Vestara followed his directions, moving quickly but not too quickly lest she look too eager. The warmth of the day faded as she stepped into the circular capitol building. It was dark and cool inside, and from somewhere came the sound of splashing water. She paused, letting her eyes adjust to the sudden dimness after the brightness of the day outside, and suddenly realized: I am in the capitol. I am about to go before the Circle of Lords.

It was then that she heard the sounds of boots on the stone floor behind her and she turned.

Three Sabers, two women and one man, regarded her evenly. She had no idea where they had come from, but she was unsurprised to see them. They were Sith Sabers. She shouldn't have been able to sense them coming.

She bowed politely, and they nodded in acknowledgment. "I am Tyro Vestara Khai," she said. "I was summoned."

"Indeed you were," said the tall, dark-skinned woman. "Saber Shura will take you to the Circle Chambers."

"Follow me," the other woman said, and turned. Vestara obeyed, following the woman up several flights of twining stairs, realizing only belatedly that the Council Chambers were held in the gla.s.s dome of the building. All her life she had only glimpsed the landmark dome from the outside. Now, she would be permitted to see what was inside.

They reached the pinnacle and stood before a seemingly blank wall. Saber Shura reached out with both her hand and the Force, not needing to touch the wall, and suddenly Vestara could see the outlines of a door that slid open.

One of the great lessons her father had taught her, from an early age, was how to conceal her emotions, if not control them. Gavar a.s.sured her that the latter would come with time.

"Soon," he had said, "if you do not wish to be angry, you will not become so. If you do not wish to be afraid, you will cease to be. Even happiness can interfere. You will learn to use your anger, your fear, your hatred. You will choose which emotions you will feel and when. They will become weapons, just like a lightsaber, and you will be their wielder." He had smiled slightly. "But until that time, you must learn to mask them well, so as not to let others have any kind of an advantage over you."

And so Vestara knew that, even as antic.i.p.ation and apprehension surged through her, her heart did not speed up, her face did not show a flicker of her worry, and no false step betrayed her as she strode with a measured pace up the stone stairs. Even in the Force, she projected a sense of calm expectation.

She reached the top of the stairway, entered the gla.s.s chamber, and as etiquette demanded, she dropped to one knee and lowered her head.

"You are Tyro Vestara Khai, daughter of Gavar, son of Thallis." The voice was masculine, slightly quivery with age but still deep and resonant. The acoustics in the chamber were excellent, and the voice came clearly to Vestara's ears. "Rise and face us."

Smoothly, the shimmery fabric of her gown rustling with the gesture, Vestara obeyed. She held her head high on her long, graceful neck, not tilted up in defiance, not lowered in submission. She controlled the frequency of her blinking as she regarded those who had summoned her here.

She recognized them all, of course. The Grand Lord Darish Vol, sitting upon an ornate throne of metal and gla.s.s, the staff of office clutched in a hand so gnarled with age that it resembled a claw. His robes were bright and colorful, appearing even more so in the multicolored light that came through the stained gla.s.s dome. Embroidery that must have taken tailors months to produce ran throughout the cloth. Lord Vol had permitted the hood to fall back, revealing a nearly bald pate. Once, he had been handsome, possibly as handsome as a Keshiri. Even now, he was impressive looking. His eyes, still bright with intelligence, shone intensely from a sunken face painted with the vor'shandi markings appropriate to the occasion. Vol was a striking, almost heavy presence in the Force; he was not the Grand Lord without reason. No one on this world was stronger in the Force than he.

Next to him on either side were seated the High Lords, two of whom were female and actually addressed as "Lady." They wore robes that were similar to the Grand Lord's, but slightly less ornate. Less powerful manipulators of the Force than Vol, they were nonetheless utter masters of it. Vestara recognized among their number Lord Takaris Yur, the Lord whose task it was to run the Sith Temple.

There were no members of the third level of leadership, the Lords, present on the dais, though Vestara had spotted them standing off to the side.

Standing flanking the Lords were the Masters. Their robes were traditionally dark and somber, but were made of expensive material and beautifully tailored. Their faces were shadowed by hoods, but Vestara felt their eyes boring into her, felt them reaching out in the Force to examine, poke, and pry at her. As she turned back to the High Lords her gaze was caught and held for a moment by Lady Rhea, who narrowed her eyes speculatively, as she had two days before when Ship had arrived.

The Grand Lord, the High Lords, and the Masters of the Sith presented an intimidating picture, by design. They wanted to throw her off-guard by keeping her ignorant of the purpose of her summons as long as possible, in the hope that she might accidentally reveal something.

Vestara felt a surge of rebelliousness, which she quickly quashed. They would get nothing from her save that which she chose to give them, and that included revealing such a desire. As she had told Ship, Sith blood pumped in her veins, Sith heritage was encoded in her genes.

A youth not much older than she, wearing the traditional black robes she usually wore but with the bright red sash that marked him as an apprentice, stepped forward.

"Surrender your training weapon, Tyro," he said.