• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

He turned his sharp face with its prominent, beak-like nose again to Abeloth, smiling with what seemed like genuine warmth. “On this day, we, the Lost Tribe, welcome one who was once our enemy. We are powerful and strong, and so is our honored guest. By allying with Abeloth today, we lay the foundation for a brighter future for our younglings. The universe is vast. But soon it will be ours—the Lost Tribe’s and Abeloth’s. Our enemies shall fall beneath us or flee in terror, and the Sith, with our dear friend by our side, will rule everything that catches our eye. I ask you, my fellow Tribe members—join me in welcoming … Abeloth!”

He suddenly dropped Abeloth’s hands and raised his own in an inviting gesture. From every direction, birds suddenly emerged in a flurry of color and rapidly beating wings. Each of them carried a small flower, and they dipped and darted over the crowd, releasing their colorful, sweet-smelling gifts.

Khai recognized the flower. It was called the Sith Victory. It attracted not flying insects to pollinate it, but ground insects. It emitted the sweetest scent of its brief life not when it bloomed on the bush, but when it was pinched hard, or better yet crushed under one’s foot.

Laughing, Lahka caught three of the lovely yellow flowers, crushed them, and sniffed happily at the scent.

The flower was commonly known, and everyone was destroying the blooms all around Khai. Abeloth looked a trifle puzzled, lifting a blossom to her delicate nose and shaking her head at the lack of scent. Khai watched as Vol instructed her, and she gave a slow smile, pinching the flower with exaggerated vigor.

A shudder of apprehension shivered through Gavar Khai, and he wondered if the Sith Victory flower was aptly or poorly named.

The parade that followed was spectacular. All the returning Sith and, of course, the guest of honor rode through the ancient, twining streets of Tahv as dusk fell. Some rode the great, gentle beasts of burden called shumshurs; others preferred to sit atop hoversleighs of some sort. The beautiful fireglobes, each as unique as a snowflake, hovered along the path, lighting the way for the twining line of celebrants.

Abeloth and Lord Vol sat together on a particularly exquisite hoversleigh. Carved from vosso wood in the shape of a bird of prey and decorated with precious gems and stones, it moved like a living thing. It turned its head this way and that, clever technology implanted so that its eyes blinked, and occasionally it opened its beak to emit a sharp cry.

“How enchanting,” Abeloth had said when she saw it. “Your craftspeople are quite deft. Perhaps I shall take one such vehicle for myself, as a souvenir.”

“Something similar, perhaps,” Vol had said, giving her a smile that was both indulgent and predatory. “But nothing quite as lovely as this one, I fear. The competition among artisans here in Tahv is legendarily fierce and violent. I regret to inform you that Master Dekta Amon, the undisputed expert artisan who fashioned this lovely hoversleigh, seems to have disappeared.”

She had turned, arching a blond brow. “Indeed? Most unfortunate.”

“Not for those in possession of his few masterpieces,” Vol had said.

She had regarded him steadily for a moment, unblinking. “Well, then,” she said, giving him an equally charming and equally false smile, “I might simply have to have yours.”

They had laughed. Onlookers not sensitive to the Force would have noticed nothing. Those who were Force-sensitive would have detected only good cheer. Lord Vol knew they both would have been dead wrong.

Abeloth seemed to be enjoying herself. Vol watched her with the sharpness of the bird of prey upon whose likeness he rode. Lord Darish Vol was no casual observer of others. He had not climbed as high as he had, nor lived as long as he had, without being superior to any who would challenge him. He had lost count of the assassination attempts and political ploys that had been thrown his way over the last eight-plus