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But there was no fooling Lady Rhea. The older woman reached out a hand and squeezed her shoulder.

“Everyone here understands what you are feeling, Apprentice Khai,” she said gently. “Revel in your delight and pride. Know that you have been chosen for this, chosen more surely than most. Come with me now, and I will show you the secrets of the Omen.

“And further”—her smile widened, became predatory with anticipation—“Ship will share with you its knowledge and wisdom of the galaxy beyond this world.”

Vestara thought her heart might burst from joy and excitement.

“Praise circumstances for the time of your birth, young one,” said Lady Rhea. “For you will know the honor and responsibilities and delights of being among the first in five millennia to leave Kesh … and rejoin our brethren, from whom we have been separated for so very long, to take your place in ruling a Sith galaxy.”

OFFICES OF THE CHIEF OF STATE,

SENATE BUILDING, CORUSCANT

WYNN DORVAN MOVED THROUGH THE VAST CORRIDOR OF POWER THAT was the Senate Building with the calm, almost preoccupied stride of one who knew it well. He nodded a courteous but distant greeting to the guards at the various security checkpoints, who politely wished him “Good morning, sir.” His pocket bulged, but not with anything more dangerous than a sleeping chitlik, who was as familiar a fixture as Dorvan himself.

Wynn Dorvan arrived hours before anyone else and generally left hours later. He stood in the turbolift, not fidgeting or making any attempt at whiling away the time as others might, until it opened on his floor. He strode down the thickly carpeted hallway and keyed open the door to his office.

Dorvan’s office was as free of frills, trappings, and busyness as the man himself. He had no holopics of family, for he had none—well, none outside of the small ball of fur softly snoring in his right-hand coat pocket. There was art on the walls, simply because leaving them bare had proved too unnerving to what few visitors he had, but it was passionless, safe art—unremarkable reproductions of Coruscant’s old Galaxies Opera House and the Manari Mountains. The windows had no full, floor-length drapes in rich fabrics, but only shutters that rolled up or down at a touch to emit or prohibit light as Dorvan found it necessary. There was a desk, a chair, and two extra chairs for the rare guests. It was all in all, clean, simple, and tidy.

Which was why the huge bouquet of trumpet and pyro flowers, in its almost obscene riot of red and purple and rich scent, was so dreadfully out of place.

Dorvan blinked. He was not alarmed; no one could gain admittance to this office save himself, Daala, and a few other trusted colleagues. Besides, an intruder was unlikely to leave flowers.

Pocket stirred, poking her nose out and sniffing the overwhelmingly lush fragrance of the gift. Absently Dorvan petted the chitlik with one hand while he stepped forward. There was a card propped up in front of the bouquet, with his name written on the thick, cream-colored flimsi in a bold yet elegant hand. He knew that handwriting. Chief of State Natasi Daala had left this gift for him.

Utterly confused now, he opened the envelope and read three words: “Sorry. A favor.”

He frowned slightly. What did Daala possibly have to be sorry about?

“Wynn Dorvan, sir?”

The voice was young, female, and eager.

Ah, Dorvan thought with a sad little smile. He turned around to see the speaker standing, shifting her weight uneasily. She was a Twi’lek, striking as all females of her species. Her skin was green, with darker, forest-green stripes visible here and there. She was dressed demurely in understated business attire, her lekku draped in front of her shoulders. She carried a datapad and smiled a bit hesitantly at him.

“I’m—”

“My new assistant,” Dorvan interrupted her.

“Y-yes,” the girl stammered. “My name is Desha Lor. Chief of State Daala appointed me.”

Dorvan recalled the conversation he’d had with Daala in the air-speeder and sighed slightly. He really, really