Star Wars: Fate of the Jedi: Ascension

by Christie Golden

  “I trust you find it as amusing as I do. When you reach my age, amusement is a precious and rare thing. Saber Khai. A pleasure to see you. An interesting choice of costume.”

  “The Dark Tuash of Alanciar was my daughter’s favorite story of the Return,” Khai said.

  “You dress to honor her.” Another flick of the finger, and goblets floated to both Abeloth and Khai. “I take it, then, that she is performing well for us still.”

  “So well that for a short time, even I was uncertain as to which side she was on,” Khai said. Truth; Vol could sense that much. But then, those of the Khai line had always been masters of hiding their feelings.

  “No longer, though?” Vol sipped the tangy beverage, quirking a white eyebrow. “Even though she murdered High Lord Taalon?”

  The room seemed to become very still. Khai smiled thinly. “She did what she thought best for the Tribe,” Khai said. “Sarasu Taalon was … rapidly becoming an unfit leader. He would soon have been of no use to anyone.”

  Abeloth sighed. “Such a pity.”

  “We have dissolved our alliance with the Jedi”—Khai said the word as if it left a bad taste in his mouth—“and have allied with a far superior being. Vestara will bring us the Skywalkers, with the young one eating out of her hand.”

  A hint of something—then it was gone. Khai was not lying, not exactly, but not all was as he painted it.

  “Good, good, this pleases me, all of it,” Vol said, smiling benignly at both of them. “Abeloth—you had the pleasure of working with High Lord Sarasu Taalon, and our esteemed Saber Gavar Khai. There are others I wish to introduce to you.”

  He beckoned them forward, seemingly trusting and proud of the Lords and High Lords as he introduced them: the petite and pretty Lady Sashal, the poised and distinguished Workan, and “our true host, High Lord Takaris Yur. He is the master of this Temple, in charge of guiding our younglings properly along the path of the dark side.”

  Abeloth smiled beatifically at them all, though there was a flash—just the merest fraction of an instant—when Vol sensed something so alien that even he felt unnerved. “Such a pleasure. I trust, High Lord Yur, you are proud of the younglings you have trained.”

  “Indeed,” Yur said, inclining his head. “We are the purest possible Sith lineage.”

  “Vestara was one of your students?”

  “One of my finest.”

  A smile, so sweet it would drown the insect that flew to it for sustenance. “She appears to be excelling at her current assignment.”

  “A teacher could hope for no more.”

  “No,” Abeloth said. “To see the younglings excel … to know they are devoted to the principles one instills in them …” Again the strange flicker that sent a chill down Vol’s spine. “Well … one could die happy then, couldn’t one?”

  And Vol realized that, suddenly, Yur saw what he had.

  “Your timing is excellent,” Vol said, changing the subject. “The masque is just about to begin.”

  She froze, turning slowly toward him. “I thought a masquerade was a sort of costume party,” she said.

  “It is! But a masque itself is a play. Theater. It is all about pretending to be something you are not.” He smiled pleasantly. “If you will accompany me, I assure you I have the best seat in the house reserved for you.”

  SEVERAL MOMENTS LATER VOL, ABELOTH, YUR, WORKAN, SASHAL, AND a handful of others who were no doubt patting themselves on the back at being selected for the honor sat in an elaborate box, peering down at the stage. Others took their seats, the vast room filled now with the eager murmuring of an anticipatory crowd.

  The room went dark. A moment later there was a bright light on the stage, and a perfect, albeit much smaller, replica of the Omen hovered there, about to crash precariously into a perfect, albeit much smaller, representation of the Takara mountain range. Some of the most attractive Keshiri whom Vol had ever seen played their own ancestors. They exaggerated their primitiveness, wearing scandalously little in the way of clothing made of animal hides as they pointed up at the Sith vessel and exclaimed, “What is it? It is far too large for any bird or uvak!”

  Vol did not watch the play. It was broad, stylized, and while the actors were likely perfectly adequate, it was a piece of propaganda. He watched instead the being for whom the play had been written.

  Abeloth gazed at the stage, her golden brows lowered in a frown, her lovely mouth thinned. At last, she turned to Vol and asked, “This is a piece of your mythology, is it not? Like Saber Khai’s black bird?”

  “No,” Vol replied. “It is a slice of our real history. This play will show how the Omen, filled with our ancestors, came to crash on Kesh, and how the Lost Tribe was welcomed as the Protectors.”

  Her voice, mien, and presence in the Force revealed nothing. “Protectors?”

  “Surely you know the story,” he said. “When the Omen first arrived on Kesh, our forebears were welcomed and regarded almost as divine beings. You see, the Keshiri believed that—” He broke off and leaned forward, addressing Khai. “Gavar, I can’t believe you failed to enlighten our guest on the single most important part of our history!”

  Caught off-guard, Khai still managed to shield his feelings. “It is our present and future I chose to discuss with Abeloth,” he said.

  “And yet here you are, dressed as a Tuash!” Vol clucked his tongue disapprovingly. “For shame!” He returned his attention to Abeloth.

  “I suppose it falls to me. You see, the Keshiri had an ancient myth about magical and powerful beings called the Protectors. The Protectors would defend and save the Keshiri when the feared Destructors eventually returned. 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.”

  “A legend,” Abeloth said. “As accurate as a giant bird, black or white, foretelling safety or doom.”

  Vol shrugged. “Perhaps. Perhaps not. We have conducted our own research. Such a planetwide catastrophe has been visited upon this world at least once.”

  “You disappoint me, Lord Vol,” Abeloth said. “I had not thought you so susceptible to stories told by primitive beings. The events you speak of are natural disasters, nothing more.”

  “Be that as it may, I think you know the point of why the original Sith embraced it.”

  She smiled slowly. “Indeed. It would have been foolish not to exploit such an opportunity. One might think that the Keshiri would have resented your ancestors for perpetrating such a deception.” She turned to Lady Sashal. “Lady Sashal. You were lied to and taken advantage of.”

  Sashal gave her a slight smile. “Our ancestors were,” she said. “Not I. While the humans of the Lost Tribe and the Keshiri are different races, no one has ever been excluded from achieving high rank if she can prove herself worthy. You yourself worked with Sarasu Taalon. It is merit, not genetics, that enables one to rise or fall in our culture.”

  “Yes,” said Abeloth, “I did work with Taalon.” Vol noticed she left it at that. Sashal apparently did not notice, and continued.

  “The arrival of the Lost Tribe helped my people. They brought civilization—medicine, technology, art. And now both Keshiri and the Tribe stand together as Sith, poised not only to guard against the return of the Destructors, if they do exist, but to do far more—to conquer the galaxy. It is our destiny. And you can be part of that.”

  Abeloth did not bother to hide her amusement, and Lord Vol shook his head inwardly at the delicious irony. Lady Sashal was the staunchest advocate Abeloth had in the Circle. And yet she had, apparently obliviously, just treated this powerful being with condescension. No, Lady Sashal might have her political machinations going full force, but she was foolish. He would not discount her, of course. Vol never discounted his enemies until they were dead. Sashal might be stupid … but stupid beings could still be very dangerous.

  He realized he actually might be grateful to the petite Keshi
ri female. Sashal had distracted Abeloth, who was clearly enjoying toying with her, and he could observe this potential enemy more readily.

  So very often, he mused, stupid people, though dangerous, were useful.

  LORD VOL’S ESTATE

  Four hours later, there was a meeting. It was not held in the Circle Chambers, but rather in Lord Vol’s private residence, and he was the only one physically present. He did not make the amateur’s mistake of underestimating Abeloth, nor the power she might wield over certain members of the Tribe who had once been sent to capture her and instead had brokered an alliance.

  Vol was the single most powerful individual on the planet. He had also amassed more than a fair amount of wealth over the years of his rise, because he had observed early on that often wealth was an asset to obtaining power. He did not, however, accumulate it for himself. Sarasu Taalon might have lusted after beautiful objects or beings, but Vol saw such things only as stepping-stones to tightening his control and solidifying his influence. His estate was lavish and lovely, his public rooms subtly speaking of his wealth and fine taste, but his private rooms were as bare as the apprentice quarters of the Sith Temple.

  He sat now in a chair that was comfortable but simple, and he was surrounded by five holograms. Of all the number of the Circle, these were the only ones he truly trusted.

  Well, he amended as he settled down with a cup of something hot to warm his old bones, trusted as much as the Grand High Lord of the Lost Tribe of Sith could trust.

  Workan, of course. Yur—as neutral as any being could be and still walk the dark side path. Jesko Umarn and Ysadria Kaladris—lower in rank but rising swiftly, hungry for power and recognition and wise enough to ally with the one who could give these to them. And Sammul Sharsa, an older human woman, the widow of a former Lord; she had been chosen to step into his position after his recent—and, unusually, natural—death. They had had two children, one of whom was an artisan, the other a Saber.

  “So,” Vol said without preamble, sipping the steaming beverage. “Tell me your thoughts on this evening.”

  They did. He listened, interrupting each as they spoke in turn only with questions for clarification.

  Some of them shared his opinions. Some did not, and he respected those opinions as well. He had not risen to this position—and stayed for so long, almost unchallenged—without understanding that dissenting opinions were often the most valuable.

  It was Workan who brought up Vol’s greatest concern. “I am unsure about Gavar Khai,” he said. “Per your request, I have spoken with some of his compatriots. They have expressed concern over the girl Vestara’s true loyalty, and fear that therefore Khai’s own loyalty might be compromised.”

  “Few dote on a child as openly as Khai did Vestara,” said Sharsa. She, apparently, did not have undue difficulty with overly doting upon her children.

  “Vestara Khai was chosen by Ship,” Yur countered. “Many more Sith than just her parents expected great things of her.”

  The usage of the past tense did not escape Vol. “We will deal with the issue of Vestara Khai’s treachery or service later,” Vol said. “Abeloth and Gavar Khai’s connection with her is the pressing matter. Kaladris—you were the one who debriefed our returning Tribe members. Give one or two the duty of keeping an eye on Khai and reporting back. It may be the father, not the daughter, who is turning traitor.”

  There were more discussions, and plans, and then at last it was time for sleep. Vol would never admit it, but he tired more easily the older he grew. More and more, he found himself needing to take a few moments to utilize the Force to refresh himself. If only one could completely renew an old body, he mused. But he had to settle for knowing that his age was still more an advantage than a liability.

  Part of his before-bed routine was meditation. Tonight he eased himself down on a simple woven mat located in a corner of the bedchamber. On the mat was a single candle in a glass holder. Vol made the most minute of movements with his index finger, and the candle flared to life.

  He concentrated on the flickering little flame and reviewed the evening, settling things in his mind so that his dreaming self could focus on gnawing on the problems. He went back over the last few days in the same manner, reviewing the information he had gleaned from speaking with several of the Sith who had returned with Abeloth. Not all of them were undecided, as Gavar Khai seemed to be. Some of them had astonishing insights and information, and had been eager to inform their Grand Lord of all they knew in return for earning his favor.

  And some things they knew were fascinating indeed. Like someone methodically planting seeds in fertile ground, Vol recalled all that had transpired in the past few days, gently tucking the seeds of information into the good soil of his subconscious and patting down gently. At last, tired from the busy few days and that night’s event, he rose, sighing as his bones emitted audible creaks, and slipped between the comfortable sheets.

  He was glad there were at least a few hours before the meeting with Abeloth in the morning. Trances were certainly useful, but natural, simple rest was sometimes even better.

  Sleep found him quickly.

  And so did something else.

  He stood, alone, on the lavender shores of the ocean, lightsaber held in one gnarled hand. The heat was oppressive, the sun beating down on him more strongly than it did even in the height of summer. His robes were heavy, far too heavy, and he became aware immediately that this was much more than a simple dream.

  She stood facing him, wearing her lovely Keshiri visage like the mask she had worn tonight. But this time, she was deliberately permitting the mask to slip.

  Vol had seen much violence, deceit, ugliness, and brutality in his day. He had seen, and sometimes committed, deeds such as evisceration of the body and torture of the mind through the power of the dark side. He had seen bodies explode into tiny fragments, watched powerfully intelligent people reduced to gibbering idiots when their minds were destroyed thought by thought.

  And he shrank back in horror now at the monstrosity revealed to him.

  Before him was a nightmare. Her hair was long, twining tendrils of hideousness, her eyes sunken and yet bright as tiny stars, her mouth widening, widening, until it split her face. She laughed, the tendrils reaching out both physically and in the Force.

  “Silly Vol,” she said. “To imagine, even for a moment, that anything human could even conceive of the vastness that is Abeloth, let alone trap me for your own tiny-minded purposes. Now you shall die, and your world shall become mine. I shall be unto them Protector and Destructor both, and there is nothing that you or any of your little friends can do to stop me.”

  The tendrils were on him now, slithering into his mouth, his ears, his nose, caressing in a strangely appealing manner even as he cringed back in loathing.

  It was a dream, he knew, but it was more than a dream as well. And even in such an in-between place, Vol knew what he had to do. It terrified him, but the thought of being destroyed without a fight by this vile thing terrified him even worse.

  He had to dive inside that mind.

  He took a precious second to wrap the Force around him like a blanket, then unshielded his mind and opened it to Abeloth.

  In her arrogant glee at the ambush she had performed, she was reckless. She surged forward, violating his mind, unaware that this was precisely what Vol wanted. She had given him entrance, and he wasted not a heartbeat in opening up to the ugliness that was within. Like a thief with the law on his heels, Vol plundered swiftly, with no care for delicacy or of discovery. And he found unexpected riches.

  Anguish. Loss that ripped and tore at the heart of all that was Abeloth. Betrayal. Need—need!—for companionship, for love, for someone, anyone, anything, to adore her and to never, ever leave. To stay with her forever …

  —Don’t leave me don’t leave me don’t leave me—

  Something that was part of her, that she had loved with all that was in her, was gone, gone beyond finding again, and
someone would pay, and she would be loved and idolized and worshipped, it was right, it was what should be, what would be—

  He felt her astonishment, and then fury, and knew he was discovered. The tendrils were no longer coyly teasing and caressing. They were violent and brutal now, wrapping about his throat, invading his body. He resisted and went on the attack. There was a wound, visible as something black and bloody and infected, in what passed for a soul or a heart of this monster. And he went right for it.

  No one loves you. You are ugly, and disgusting, and if you ever thought anyone did care for you, you were tricked and lied to, and they laughed at your gullibility.

  A blast of Force anger buffeted him, but he rooted himself against it and continued.

  You will never be loved. You will never be adored or cherished. Only feared and hated. And there is nothing you can do, no words you can speak, no one you can become to change that. Luke Skywalker was appalled at what you were, when he truly saw you. He follows you, not as a young gallant, oh no, but to kill you and put the universe out of its misery.

  She convulsed, writhing in pain in the heart of the Force, reacting to his relentless attack on her wounded area as if he were ripping at an infected cut in the physical world. Her attack on him changed from a desire to harm to a desire to escape. Elation filled Vol. He only hoped he could survive long enough to deal the killing blow.

  You live causing revulsion, you will die that way. You will die now—

  He threw everything he had into the attack, slamming his Force self into the psychic, oozing wound as if he were punching a lacerated torso.

  NO!

  Her pain exploded and hurled him back, releasing him, but causing the most exquisite agony Vol had ever experienced to race through every part of his being.

  Vol surged forward out of the dream so quickly that he hurled himself from his bed and landed hard on the floor, where he lay gasping, weak, so weak, sweat-soaked and terrified. He—used to manipulating objects in the Force, leaping great distances, crushing things with a thought—had not the strength of a new-hatched uvak. It was an effort to lift his head, to push himself up off the floor, and the muscles quivered from that simple strain.