Star Wars: Fate of the Jedi II: Omen

by Christie Golden

  “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-class 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 glass.

  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 competition 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 glass, 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 cluster of buildings, including the glass-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 glass 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 assured 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 anticipation 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 sen
se of calm expectation.

  She reached the top of the stairway, entered the glass 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 glass, 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 glass 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.

  Vestara felt her veneer of serenity flicker slightly, then calmed herself again. Unhurriedly, her fingers not fumbling in the least, she unfastened the training lightsaber and presented it to the youth, who took it and retreated.

  She tried not to guess at the meaning of the request. It could be that they were planning to accept her for apprenticeship and would therefore give her a real lightsaber of her own.

  Or it could be that they were denying her entirely, rejecting her even as a Tyro.

  Vestara forced herself not to swallow hard.

  “Tyro Vestara Khai,” Grand Lord Vol continued. “Tell this gathering the story of the Return.”

  Of all the questions she might have been expecting, that one most certainly wasn’t it. Vestara couldn’t help it—she blinked in surprise and confusion. Tell the Lords and the Masters about a belief that had been part of their history for millennia? The very cornerstone of their existence on Kesh? Was this some kind of trick, or trap?

  She clamped down on the uncertainty and the fear that wanted to come along with it and instead allowed herself a small smile.

  “I am certain this august body knows the story, but I obey the Grand Lord’s request,” Vestara said. She was pleased; her voice did not betray her with the slightest quiver. She straightened and clasped her hands behind her back, reciting the details of a story every single being in the room, indeed probably on the planet, knew by heart.

  “When the Omen first crashed on Kesh, our forefathers were greeted warmly by the Keshiri. They were made welcome, brought safely down from the crash site on uvak-back, and treated almost as gods. The Sith soon learned why. The Keshiri believed that the arrival of the Sith was, indeed, an omen.”

  Her gaze flickered to Lady Rhea. The older woman regarded her impassively. Vestara reached out, subtly, into the Force, but could glean no hint as to how her recitation was being received. She continued.

  “They believed that the Sith were the predestined Protectors, who would protect the Keshiri when the feared Destructors would eventually return. The Destructors, according to ancient Keshiri myth, periodically descend on inhabited worlds to wipe out civilization and return all beings to their natural, primitive states. Research conducted in recent years does seem to confirm that such a planetwide catastrophe has been visited upon Kesh at least once, lending credence to the legend.”

  Her throat was dry. Gamely, Vestara pressed on.

  “The Sith felt that indeed they … we … were the ones who had been foretold, and know that it is our destiny to grow strong, to gain wisdom, and, when the time is right, to stand firm against the Return of those who would destroy Kesh.”

  “Destroy Kesh,” said one of the Lords whose name Vestara couldn’t remember, “and other worlds as well. The Sith destiny is too vast to be confined to one world. Was this not taught to you, Tyro Khai?”

  Ah, there was the trap. She cursed herself for not catching it sooner, it was so obvious. She was not yet able to control the blush that rose to her cheeks as she answered.

  “Of course, Lord—” Ai, what was his name—Workan, that was it! “Lord Workan. But for five thousand years, we have not been—”

  No. Oh, no. That wasn’t the trap. She’d walked right into the real one and mortification flooded her. Then she felt a reassuring presence, almost as gentle as that of her father. An assurance that while it was a trick, it wasn’t a trap.

  Lord Workan smirked and glanced over at Lady Rhea. Vestara realized that it was she who had sent the brief brush of comfort. Lady Rhea, slender, tall, graceful as a sorumi doe, stepped forward.

  “Everything we have known for over five thousand years changed yesterday beyond imagining,” Lady Rhea said in her deep, husky voice. “For the first time since the Omen crashed in the Takara Mountains, we have found a way off Kesh. A way to fulfill our destiny. This … Ship … has sought us out for that selfsame purpose.”

  A little thrill went through Vestara when she heard the emphasis put on the word ship, as if it was a proper name rather than a simple noun, as she had done when thinking about the vessel.

  “It is, as you have no doubt surmised,” Lady Rhea continued, almost drawling, moving inexorably forward with a graceful stride in Vestara’s direction, “much more than a simple vessel. It is a Sith meditation sphere. I imagine you can tell me its purpose, can you not?”

  Vestara hesitated. Should she lie? Would it be dangerous for the Lords and the Masters to know exactly how much she knew, how Ship had spoken to her? Or would it be better for her to tell them everything? It was likely that no one in this room had slept since the arrival of the strange vessel. And it was likely that it had spoken to them as it had to her. After all, these were the very leaders of the Sith, the keepers of all that it meant to be Sith. She wanted badly to lic
k her dry lips but wouldn’t let the gesture betray her anxiety.

  “It is designed to train apprentices,” Vestara replied.

  Lady Rhea had reached her now and stood with her hands on her hips. The gesture spread her black cape behind her, and even though Vestara was nearly as tall as she, the overall effect was imposing. It was meant to be.

  “Indeed,” said Lady Rhea, almost purring. “What did it tell you? And what did you tell it?”

  Vestara met Lady Rhea’s eyes evenly and told the truth. All of it. Right down to her burning desire to become a Sith Master. Her father had once said that the main thing that differentiated them from Jedi was that the Jedi were too afraid to embrace passion.

  “Don’t ever be afraid of what you feel, Vestara,” he had said. “Just know that you can use it. You must use it, or else it will use you.”

  And she used it now. Ship had contacted her. It had spoken with her. She used that, and her deep wanting—her need—to be trained. To become a Sith Master. To fulfill her destiny, as the Sith were about to fulfill theirs.

  The chamber was hushed as Vestara’s youthful voice rang out clear and strong and deeply passionate. Lady Rhea listened raptly, her eyes on Vestara’s face. Finally, the girl finished, and stood waiting.

  Lady Rhea glanced back at the Lords and the Masters with what could only be called a look of triumph.

  “You see? Everything she says corroborates what Ship told us.”

  “It is … an unusual way to pick an apprentice,” said Grand Lord Vol, placing the tips of his fingers together and regarding Vestara speculatively.

  Pick an apprentice? Vestara’s breathing caught for just a second. Could it finally be—

  “But I suppose that once, it was not so unusual,” the Grand Lord continued. “Ship is, after all, a training vessel.”

  Lady Rhea turned back to Vestara, smiling, and there was genuine pleasure emanating from her in the Force.

  “Yours was the first mind Ship contacted, Vestara,” she said. “It was intrigued by you. Far be it from the Circle of Lords to stand in the way of the decision made by such a construct.”