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Vestara nodded. “This is not a diplomat’s vessel,” she agreed.

“You have been given free rein of it?” Khai said, reaching into his robes and producing a piece of flimsi and a writing instrument. When Vestara nodded, he said, “Good. Draw it for me while we speak.”

At once Vestara obeyed, laying the flimsi down on a flat piece of furniture and beginning to sketch. She heard a slight rustling and turned, curious. Her father was reaching inside his robes, searching for something, and a moment later his hand emerged.

He held out a shikkar.

Vestara smiled. Of course—the sensors would detect no weapon, as the shikkar was made entirely of glass. She recognized this one as one from her father’s personal collection. It was a piece crafted by one of the most famous shikkar glassmakers, Tura Sanga. Sanga’s work was distinctive, and this was no exception. The shikkar was long and elegant, stark black and white, the hilt slender and long, the blade barely the width of a finger. Its fragility was deceptive. The only weak spot was where the blade joined the hilt—a quick snap would separate the two. Vestara wondered who she would use it on. Ben? The great Luke Skywalker himself? Perhaps, if she was lucky. After all, she had already cut him once. She could do so again, should the opportunity arise. She accepted the noble weapon with a humble nod of thanks, and stashed it carefully in her own robes.

“How is Mother?” she asked.

“She is well. Missing you, but proud of what you are doing.”

Vestara smiled a little. “I am glad. I strive to make you proud.” And to become a Saber like you … or even soar higher than you. She did not attempt to shield her emotions from her father; he encouraged her ambition and would not take offense.

“You did fine work on Dathomir,” Gavar continued. “And even though your Master is dead, you are still to be granted the rank of apprentice. We will find a new Master for you when this business with Abeloth and the Skywalkers is complete. I am sure many will be eager to teach you.”

Vestara straightened slightly, basking in the praise.

“The so-called Nightsister prisoners we took are being sorted out according to their abilities and Force-strengths,” her father continued.

“They go willingly?” Vestara was surprised.

“Some do, most do not.” Gavar shrugged his broad shoulders. “It matters not. They will do what we tell them, or they will suffer. And a little suffering often changes minds.” He smiled. “And so another world has yielded to the Tribe what we need if we are to be strong and spread across this galaxy.”

Vestara nodded. “I am glad they are proving useful.” She glanced over her shoulder at him. “The apprentices … how are they doing?”

He looked confused for a moment. “Apprentices?”

“The ones that Abeloth is turning mad,” Vestara said.

Khai chuckled. Warm affection spread from him in the Force. “Dearest daughter, there is not a single thing wrong with any of the Tribe Sith apprentices that a good beating will not rectify.”

“But—”

“I know what Taalon told Skywalker. It is an utter fabrication. We got the idea from you, my clever girl. We needed a good reason for the Skywalkers to ally with us, and it made sense to claim that our apprentices were suffering the same fate as the Jedi Knights.”

“I see,” Vestara said. It was an excellent plan, one that played well upon the idealistic natures of both Skywalker men. It was sound enough that she herself, who ought to have known better, had believed it. “So … what is the true reason we are allying with them?”

Gavar gazed at her shrewdly. “You have held your tongue and guarded your feelings well thus far. But I think perhaps that information should come later.”

For an instant, a dark flicker of resentment welled up in Vestara, but she extinguished it almost as soon as it came. She was fairly certain her father hadn’t noticed. “Of course. As you see fit.”

“I share your grief about Lady Rhea and Ahri Raas,” Gavar continued, changing the subject. Vestara’s brow furrowed slightly