Star Wars_ Fate of the Jedi 02_ Omen - Christie Golden [16]
Wynn nodded, not necessarily agreeing—his approval carried no weight, and both he and she knew that—but in acknowledgment of her words.
“Master Kenth Hamner wishes to meet with you tomorrow. Will you be available?”
Daala considered for a moment. “No,” she said. “Isn’t my schedule too tightly booked for that?”
Again, the ghost of the not-quite-grin. “It is indeed. You couldn’t possibly spare him any time for at least …” He entered some data and looked up at her inquiringly. “Three more days?”
Jysella Horn would be locked away like her brother within the hour. Hamner would have to arrange a meeting with his fellow Masters, and probably, frankly, contact Luke Skywalker, even though it violated the terms of Luke’s exile. That shouldn’t take more than a day or two, given that most of the Masters seemed to be sticking close to Coruscant these days.
So that would give her one, two days to leave the Jedi Council stewing and fretting. Long enough to work in her favor, not so long that she looked like she was neglecting a duty.
“Perfect,” she said. “I wonder if I should promote you, Wynn.” She graced him with the smile that still managed to disconcert men of almost all ages.
“Oh, please don’t, ma’am,” he said, sounding utterly sincere. “Right where I am is just perfect. Any higher and I’d have to have someone under me, and that just wouldn’t do.”
Daala laughed.
KESH
TWO YEARS EARLIER
THE OCEAN SIGHED AS IT RUSHED FORWARD AND RECEDED IN A RHYTHM even more ancient than what was unfolding on its lavender-sand shores. While the sun was bright and warm, a breeze came from the sea to cool the heated faces of the two figures standing there.
They faced each other, as still as if they were carved from stone, the only motion around them that of their hair and heavy black robes as the wind toyed with them.
Then, as if by some unheard signal, one of them moved. The soft sound of the ocean was punctuated by a sharp snap-hiss. The almost perfectly symmetrical, light purple features of Vestara Khai’s adversary were abruptly cast into sickly green relief. Vestara activated her own weapon with a fluid motion, saluted her opponent with it, settled into position, and waited to see who would make the first move. She balanced lightly on the balls of her booted feet, ready to leap left, right, or straight up. Still her opponent did not move.
The sun was at its height and its light was harsh, beating down on them like something physical. Their heavy dark robes were stifling hot, but Vestara would no sooner abandon her robes than she would abandon her weapon or her heritage. The robes were traditional, ancient, a deep and valued part of who she was, and she would endure the encumbrance. The Tribe valued strength as much as it valued beauty; rewarded patience as much as initiative. The wise being was the one who knew when which was called for.
Vestara sprang.
Not at her opponent, but to the left and past him, leaping upward, turning in the air, and slashing outward with the blade. She felt the blade impact and heard its distinctive sizzle. He gasped as she landed, flipped, and crouched back into a defensive position. The sandy surface was treacherous, and her foot slipped. She righted herself almost instantly, but that moment was all he needed to come at her.
He hammered her with blows that were more of strength than grace, his lithe body all lean muscle. She parried each strike, the blades clashing and sizzling, and ducked underneath the final one. Lightness and agility were her allies, and she used them freely.
Her long, light brown hair had come loose from its quickly twisted braid, and the tendrils were a distraction. She blew upward to clear her vision just in time to block another one of the strong blows.
“Blast,” she muttered, leaping back and switching the blade to her other hand. She was completely ambidextrous.