Star Wars: Fate of the Jedi: Ascension Page 3

  He gazed up at the column that served Tikk for a nest. Khai used the Force to enhance his ability to see in the dark; from this vantage point, Tikk seemed to be slumbering deeply. With a slight tweak of the Force, Khai leapt upward, landing softly beside the uvak. Tikk was curled up beak-to-tail, his wings folded over his body like a blanket.

  Khai watched him for a moment, then glanced at the other pillar. His mount was also asleep. Khai extended his real, living hand to the other uvak and gently, unobtrusively, guided the creature into a slumber from which she would not awaken for several hours. Satisfied, he reached out to pet Tikk’s long, sinuous neck, sending calm to the creature. Tikk stirred slightly, opened one eye, and made a rumbling, purring sound before closing the eye and falling even more deeply asleep.

  Tikk had been a loyal mount, serving Vestara well, as she had served the Sith well.

  Gavar Khai no longer knew if she did so or not.

  There was a snap-hiss as he lit the lightsaber. A soft red glow bathed Tikk’s sleeping features. A heartbeat later the uvak’s head toppled down to land with a thud and a slight crunch on the stone floor. Tikk’s eyes were still closed.

  The death had been accomplished with no pain to the creature, and Khai was glad of it. Tikk had done nothing to warrant suffering. Khai extinguished the lightsaber, nodded to himself, and Force-dropped to land gently.

  He could sleep now.

  TAHV, KESH

  TAHV HAD NOT SEEN SUCH A CELEBRATION SINCE THE SITH HAD FIRST departed its soil to conquer the stars.

  The famed City of Glass, as it had become known through the centuries, had been active day and night ever since Lord Vol had announced that a great celebration would be thrown to honor Abeloth, the Friend of the Lost Tribe. Crafters had used the Force, bribery, coercion, and threats to fashion commemorative fireglobes to encircle the entire city. Each fireglobe—a glass-and-metal sphere that contained something illuminating, be it a candle, a glow stick, or a naturally luminous living creature—was unique. Nothing was mass-produced, and each advertised its maker in some fashion: with a particular design, a unique coloration, or, more crassly but possibly more effectively, a name etched into a pane. A few of the glassmakers had quite literally worked their apprentices and journeymen to death.

  Special shikkars had been crafted for the occasion, too. There would be much maneuvering out of the public eye for a preferred position for everyone in Tahv, be they craftspeople, politicians, or ordinary Sith citizens—although no one in a Sith society would ever consider him- or herself ordinary.

  Delicacies were brought in from across the planet and from other worlds. More than a few vessels met with unfortunate accidents, and their competitors expressed sympathy while rushing to fill the void with their own products. Those who had a noted touch with their brushes were in high demand for the most beautiful, most elegant vor’shandi skin paintings, and tailors scrambled to meet the sudden need for “the most gorgeous robe on Kesh, do you understand?”

  Money was changing hands; reputations rose and fell hourly. And the Sith thrived on it.

  At last, all was in readiness.

  Three standard years earlier, there had been a large, open stretch of land to the north of Tahv. Neither conducive to growing crops nor attractive enough to build houses on, the area had proved ideal for expanding into a port for space-traveling vessels—a thing the Sith Tribe had never before needed, and which had arisen haphazardly in different stages. Work had begun shortly after the arrival of Ship, the mysterious, seemingly sentient Sith training vessel that was older than any of them could imagine. Under Ship’s guidance, the Lost Tribe had created a rudimentary port and soon had vessels that needed room to dock.

  Now the landing area was filled with ChaseMaster frigates, the honored Ship who had started it all, and throngs of Sith. Most were simply eager to welcome their loved ones home, if only for a brief visit. Some were there to analyze behavior, actions, and feelings in the Force and report back to their Masters. Some were there with orders to follow and assassinate.

  All were there to see Abeloth, who had arrived in Ship’s strange innards, and who alone did not choose to land. Ship hovered about fifteen meters in the air, a spherical shape with two pointed extensions above and below it, and two bat-like, membranous wings extending to either side. In its center, looking like a hideous eye, was a circular screen.

  Abeloth waited, of course, until the last possible moment; until after every frigate had been emptied of its crew, until the last celebratory note had been played or sung, until Lord Vol had stood on a hovering dais in splendid, heavy formal robes for an uncomfortably long period of time. On the ground, standing next to his wife, Gavar Khai watched, a slight frown on his face.

  At last, slowly, like a creature awakening from slumber, Ship’s “eye” grew transparent, and then opened.

  Abeloth floated out.

  She did not need a dais, and wore no heavy robes. She wore, indeed, seemingly very little, which somehow managed to cover her more than modestly; a diaphanous draping that caught the breeze and fluttered just so. She had chosen her golden-haired female form, with wise gray eyes, and a slight smile was on her lips. She lifted her arms and tilted her head, and the breeze played with her flowing fair locks as she floated gently to the ground. Khai glanced at Vol. He neither sensed nor saw discomfort in the old man as he rode the dais to the ground next to Abeloth, but he knew that Vol had to be annoyed, at the very least.

  It was going to be a very interesting day.

  The two powerful Masters of the dark side landed almost simultaneously, a meter away from each other. Abeloth waved to the crowds, who were applauding enthusiastically, few of them as aware as Khai was of the tension between the two leaders. Vol, as the host, made the first gesture, moving toward Abeloth with hands outstretched. She turned pleasantly, smiling, and clasped his hands in her own.

  “For far too long,” Vol said, his voice carrying easily, “the Lost Tribe has slumbered on Kesh. While this is and will always be our true home, it is but one of many, for soon worlds uncountable shall be ours. The last three years have seen staggering changes. And today marks perhaps the most significant one since Ship first appeared in the skies of Kesh, informing us of the galaxy that awaited us and assisting us in freeing ourselves from the confines, however pleasant, of our world.”

  He turned his sharp face with its prominent, beak-like nose again to Abeloth, smiling with what seemed like genuine warmth. “On this day, we, the Lost Tribe, welcome one who was once our enemy. We are powerful and strong, and so is our honored guest. By allying with Abeloth today, we lay the foundation for a brighter future for our younglings. The universe is vast. But soon it will be ours—the Lost Tribe’s and Abeloth’s. Our enemies shall fall beneath us or flee in terror, and the Sith, with our dear friend by our side, will rule everything that catches our eye. I ask you, my fellow Tribe members—join me in welcoming … Abeloth!”

  He suddenly dropped Abeloth’s hands and raised his own in an inviting gesture. From every direction, birds suddenly emerged in a flurry of color and rapidly beating wings. Each of them carried a small flower, and they dipped and darted over the crowd, releasing their colorful, sweet-smelling gifts.

  Khai recognized the flower. It was called the Sith Victory. It attracted not flying insects to pollinate it, but ground insects. It emitted the sweetest scent of its brief life not when it bloomed on the bush, but when it was pinched hard, or better yet crushed under one’s foot.

  Laughing, Lahka caught three of the lovely yellow flowers, crushed them, and sniffed happily at the scent.

  The flower was commonly known, and everyone was destroying the blooms all around Khai. Abeloth looked a trifle puzzled, lifting a blossom to her delicate nose and shaking her head at the lack of scent. Khai watched as Vol instructed her, and she gave a slow smile, pinching the flower with exaggerated vigor.

  A shudder of apprehension shivered through Gavar Khai, and he wondered if the Sith Victory flower was aptly
or poorly named.

  The parade that followed was spectacular. All the returning Sith and, of course, the guest of honor rode through the ancient, twining streets of Tahv as dusk fell. Some rode the great, gentle beasts of burden called shumshurs; others preferred to sit atop hoversleighs of some sort. The beautiful fireglobes, each as unique as a snowflake, hovered along the path, lighting the way for the twining line of celebrants.

  Abeloth and Lord Vol sat together on a particularly exquisite hoversleigh. Carved from vosso wood in the shape of a bird of prey and decorated with precious gems and stones, it moved like a living thing. It turned its head this way and that, clever technology implanted so that its eyes blinked, and occasionally it opened its beak to emit a sharp cry.

  “How enchanting,” Abeloth had said when she saw it. “Your craftspeople are quite deft. Perhaps I shall take one such vehicle for myself, as a souvenir.”

  “Something similar, perhaps,” Vol had said, giving her a smile that was both indulgent and predatory. “But nothing quite as lovely as this one, I fear. The competition among artisans here in Tahv is legendarily fierce and violent. I regret to inform you that Master Dekta Amon, the undisputed expert artisan who fashioned this lovely hoversleigh, seems to have disappeared.”

  She had turned, arching a blond brow. “Indeed? Most unfortunate.”

  “Not for those in possession of his few masterpieces,” Vol had said.

  She had regarded him steadily for a moment, unblinking. “Well, then,” she said, giving him an equally charming and equally false smile, “I might simply have to have yours.”

  They had laughed. Onlookers not sensitive to the Force would have noticed nothing. Those who were Force-sensitive would have detected only good cheer. Lord Vol knew they both would have been dead wrong.

  Abeloth seemed to be enjoying herself. Vol watched her with the sharpness of the bird of prey upon whose likeness he rode. Lord Darish Vol was no casual observer of others. He had not climbed as high as he had, nor lived as long as he had, without being superior to any who would challenge him. He had lost count of the assassination attempts and political ploys that had been thrown his way over the last eight-plus decades. But he had learned from each one. And so he played the good, benevolent host smoothly while taking stock of all he saw.

  Abeloth was very attractive, and most appealing. All present, even the throngs of observers crowding the capital city, knew that she was able to shift her shape. It was a fascinating ability, and Abeloth obviously enjoyed giving demonstrations of it. There were three appearances she seemed to prefer: two human, and one Keshiri. All were female, though Vol was well aware that she could also impersonate a male. She cycled through them as the need arose, judging her audience well: pretty but natural-featured Girl with Brown Hair, cultured and lovely Fair-Haired Woman, and a Keshiri who took even Lord Vol’s breath away, aged as he was and aware—thanks to the reports—of her true appearance.

  Night fell while the parade slowly moved through Tahv. The artificial lights that normally kept the city illuminated had been ordered to stay off, so that the thousands of fireglobes might sparkle all the brighter. As the parade reached its termination point—it had taken a serpentine path from the north side of Tahv to the south—the participants emerged to find a bevy of small, floating disks. Each disk would safely lift two or three dozen beings high into the air, and each had a small staff of two or three Sith Sabers controlling it.

  Vol Force-leapt a not-insignificant distance from the hoversleigh to the disk, then turned to Abeloth. “Come join me,” he said, “for the finale of the parade. And then … our masquerade.”

  Abeloth smiled prettily, then floated—she did not even need to leap—to stand beside him. As she drifted through the air, her features changed. The hair grew dark, coarser, and curlier, and her face broadened slightly. Only her eyes seemed the same: gray and unfathomable. He smiled at her, acknowledging her shapeshifting with a nod, and, spreading his arms, lifted the dais upward.

  Tahv was now laid out before them, the fireglobes outlining every one of its streets and adorning the tops of the walls that encircled the city. It was a view that might inspire awe in even the most jaded, Vol thought. He felt a quick stab of pride in his homeworld and his people—both the Lost Tribe and the purity of its line, and those Keshiri who had earned their places as powerful Sith.

  This woman beside him, if woman she could even indeed be called, was a tool to help them to greater glory. And the instant she outlived her usefulness—well, then she would have outlived everything.

  A sudden sparkle of lights shattered his reverie as the fireworks display began. Abeloth watched, strangely enraptured, clapping her hands like a little girl as the pyrotechnics—all directed by the Force to form pleasing shapes and designs—exploded all around her.

  Vol found it a peculiarly disturbing image.

  The masquerade would be the final event of the busy day. The next day, Abeloth and the Circle would have a formal meeting in the Circle Chambers, where the finer points of their alliance would be negotiated. Tonight, however, was ostensibly for enjoyment, entertainment, playful deception, and frivolity; in reality for continued observation, assessment, duplicity, and plotting.

  In other words, it was a quintessentially Sith-like event.

  It would be held in the great hall of the Sith Temple. As was most of the Temple, it was cavernous and dark. But unlike the majority of the spaces frequented by the students, which tended to be austere and forbidding, this hall, which saw large gatherings of a usually celebratory or otherwise pleasant nature—graduations and theatrical productions such as tonight’s—was somewhat more congenial. The walls were still looming rock, carved from the mountain itself, but there were portraits of prominent former students on the walls, marble mosaics inlaid in the floor, and illumination that was more festive than practical.

  The guests were powerful Sith, human and Keshiri, male and female, all at the top of their fields. They were present because Vol wished to either reward them or observe them. The Lost Tribe generally eschewed droids, even though many had come their way in the last few years, regarding their skills and talents as inferior to those of living beings. Most droids had been dismantled, their parts and pieces utilized to improve the weapons and vessels that were deemed so important in the larger picture of galactic Sith conquest. Therefore, human and Keshiri servants, clad in masks but not in costumes, wandered the floor offering beverages and tidbits.

  Those Sith who had received an invitation to what would perhaps be the most coveted occasion for years to come had gone all-out with their costumes, spending small fortunes and making tailors and artisans work without cease for the last three days. The result was an overabundance of finery, with so much jewelry, rare metals, and ornate glass masks on display that the eye grew tired of observing.

  Lord Vol had anticipated as much. He wished his own choice of costume to send a message; one clear, but not blatant. He would not make an appearance until his oh-so-honored guest did. A full hour after the masquerade had begun, Sith Saber Gavar Khai was announced. He did not bring his wife; she had not been invited. From a private room, Lord Vol watched as Khai entered the room.

  “Well, well,” he said, “I see that Khai remembers his mythology.”

  Gavar Khai stood in black from head to toe; not unusual for one who always preferred traditional Sith robes. But this time he wore a cloak of black feathers, each one sporting a jewel, and his mask was a sharp beak.

  “The Dark Tuash of Alanciar,” said Ivaar Workan, standing beside Vol. “An interesting choice.”

  “The question is, is the Harbinger’s news for us, or Abeloth?” mused Vol.

  There were two Tuash’aa of Alanciar in Keshiri folklore, a Dark One and a Bright One. The Tuash’aa were giant birds, believed to bring messages about the coming of the Destructors. The Bright Tuash brought word that the Destructors had either been defeated, or else had chosen not to trouble a world. The Dark Tuash—

  “I im
agine,” drawled Workan, “we will find out. And look—his lovely lady is not far behind him.”

  Workan did not refer to Lahka. He referred to Abeloth. Vol sighed.

  “She does like to make an entrance,” Vol said, not without a trace of admiration.

  Abeloth did not simply make an entrance. She made the perfect entrance. The doors were flung open, and wind rushed in, quite literally ruffling Khai’s cape feathers and disturbing the costumes of several other Sith in the immediate vicinity. The “wind” took on form and color, swirling until it took the shape of a woman seemingly made of ice and air, glittering and beautiful, larger than an ordinary human female, regal and commanding. Her hair was gold, her gown silver, her mask the purest, glistening, icy white.

  She hovered for a minute, acknowledging the applause, and floated gently as a feather to the stone floor.

  “Fallanassi illusion,” Vol said at once.

  “She learns,” Ivaar Workan replied in his pleasant voice. His face was calm, benevolent appearing as the two Sith watched Abeloth.

  “She does. But then, so do I. Come,” he said, rising. “Let us go greet our honored guest.”

  And so it was, when the hour came to welcome Abeloth to the masquerade, Lord Darish Vol, leader of the Lost Tribe of Sith, greeted Abeloth in long, plain brown and tan robes, with only a black mask imperfectly hiding his recognizable features.

  The crowd parted, murmuring uncertainly at first as they recognized his ensemble, then breaking into appreciative laughter and applause that swelled until the entire room was cheering. Vol turned, waving and smiling slightly, giving them a bow.

  “Lord Vol,” said Abeloth, her voice artificially warm. “What an amusing costume … though no one would ever mistake you for a Jedi.”

  Nor would anyone mistake you for an ally, Vol thought, but he kept his musings flawlessly concealed. He smiled amiably, quirked a finger, and a goblet of something purple and rich-smelling floated into his hand.