Star Wars_ Fate of the Jedi 08_ Ascension - Christie Golden [12]
Those Sith who had received an invitation to what would perhaps be the most coveted occasion for years to come had gone all-out with their costumes, spending small fortunes and making tailors and artisans work without cease for the last three days. The result was an overabundance of finery, with so much jewelry, rare metals, and ornate glass masks on display that the eye grew tired of observing.
Lord Vol had anticipated as much. He wished his own choice of costume to send a message; one clear, but not blatant. He would not make an appearance until his oh-so-honored guest did. A full hour after the masquerade had begun, Sith Saber Gavar Khai was announced. He did not bring his wife; she had not been invited. From a private room, Lord Vol watched as Khai entered the room.
“Well, well,” he said, “I see that Khai remembers his mythology.”
Gavar Khai stood in black from head to toe; not unusual for one who always preferred traditional Sith robes. But this time he wore a cloak of black feathers, each one sporting a jewel, and his mask was a sharp beak.
“The Dark Tuash of Alanciar,” said Ivaar Workan, standing beside Vol. “An interesting choice.”
“The question is, is the Harbinger’s news for us, or Abeloth?” mused Vol.
There were two Tuash’aa of Alanciar in Keshiri folklore, a Dark One and a Bright One. The Tuash’aa were giant birds, believed to bring messages about the coming of the Destructors. The Bright Tuash brought word that the Destructors had either been defeated, or else had chosen not to trouble a world. The Dark Tuash—
“I imagine,” drawled Workan, “we will find out. And look—his lovely lady is not far behind him.”
Workan did not refer to Lahka. He referred to Abeloth. Vol sighed.
“She does like to make an entrance,” Vol said, not without a trace of admiration.
Abeloth did not simply make an entrance. She made the perfect entrance. The doors were flung open, and wind rushed in, quite literally ruffling Khai’s cape feathers and disturbing the costumes of several other Sith in the immediate vicinity. The “wind” took on form and color, swirling until it took the shape of a woman seemingly made of ice and air, glittering and beautiful, larger than an ordinary human female, regal and commanding. Her hair was gold, her gown silver, her mask the purest, glistening, icy white.
She hovered for a minute, acknowledging the applause, and floated gently as a feather to the stone floor.
“Fallanassi illusion,” Vol said at once.
“She learns,” Ivaar Workan replied in his pleasant voice. His face was calm, benevolent appearing as the two Sith watched Abeloth.
“She does. But then, so do I. Come,” he said, rising. “Let us go greet our honored guest.”
And so it was, when the hour came to welcome Abeloth to the masquerade, Lord Darish Vol, leader of the Lost Tribe of Sith, greeted Abeloth in long, plain brown and tan robes, with only a black mask imperfectly hiding his recognizable features.
The crowd parted, murmuring uncertainly at first as they recognized his ensemble, then breaking into appreciative laughter and applause that swelled until the entire room was cheering. Vol turned, waving and smiling slightly, giving them a bow.
“Lord Vol,” said Abeloth, her voice artificially warm. “What an amusing costume … though no one would ever mistake you for a Jedi.”
Nor would anyone mistake you for an ally, Vol thought, but he kept his musings flawlessly concealed. He smiled amiably, quirked a finger, and a goblet of something purple and rich-smelling floated into his hand.
“I trust you find it as amusing as I do. When you reach my age, amusement is a precious and rare