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“The Dark Tuash of Alanciar was my daughter’s favorite story of the Return,” Khai said.

“You dress to honor her.” Another flick of the finger, and goblets floated to both Abeloth and Khai. “I take it, then, that she is performing well for us still.”

“So well that for a short time, even I was uncertain as to which side she was on,” Khai said. Truth; Vol could sense that much. But then, those of the Khai line had always been masters of hiding their feelings.

“No longer, though?” Vol sipped the tangy beverage, quirking a white eyebrow. “Even though she murdered High Lord Taalon?”

The room seemed to become very still. Khai smiled thinly. “She did what she thought best for the Tribe,” Khai said. “Sarasu Taalon was … rapidly becoming an unfit leader. He would soon have been of no use to anyone.”

Abeloth sighed. “Such a pity.”

“We have dissolved our alliance with the Jedi”—Khai said the word as if it left a bad taste in his mouth—“and have allied with a far superior being. Vestara will bring us the Skywalkers, with the young one eating out of her hand.”

A hint of something—then it was gone. Khai was not lying, not exactly, but not all was as he painted it.

“Good, good, this pleases me, all of it,” Vol said, smiling benignly at both of them. “Abeloth—you had the pleasure of working with High Lord Sarasu Taalon, and our esteemed Saber Gavar Khai. There are others I wish to introduce to you.”

He beckoned them forward, seemingly trusting and proud of the Lords and High Lords as he introduced them: the petite and pretty Lady Sashal, the poised and distinguished Workan, and “our true host, High Lord Takaris Yur. He is the master of this Temple, in charge of guiding our younglings properly along the path of the dark side.”

Abeloth smiled beatifically at them all, though there was a flash—just the merest fraction of an instant—when Vol sensed something so alien that even he felt unnerved. “Such a pleasure. I trust, High Lord Yur, you are proud of the younglings you have trained.”

“Indeed,” Yur said, inclining his head. “We are the purest possible Sith lineage.”

“Vestara was one of your students?”

“One of my finest.”

A smile, so sweet it would drown the insect that flew to it for sustenance. “She appears to be excelling at her current assignment.”

“A teacher could hope for no more.”

“No,” Abeloth said. “To see the younglings excel … to know they are devoted to the principles one instills in them …” Again the strange flicker that sent a chill down Vol’s spine. “Well … one could die happy then, couldn’t one?”

And Vol realized that, suddenly, Yur saw what he had.

“Your timing is excellent,” Vol said, changing the subject. “The masque is just about to begin.”

She froze, turning slowly toward him. “I thought a masquerade was a sort of costume party,” she said.

“It is! But a masque itself is a play. Theater. It is all about pretending to be something you are not.” He smiled pleasantly. “If you will accompany me, I assure you I have the best seat in the house reserved for you.”

SEVERAL MOMENTS LATER VOL, ABELOTH, YUR, WORKAN, SASHAL, AND a handful of others who were no doubt patting themselves on the back at being selected for the honor sat in an elaborate box, peering down at the stage. Others took their seats, the vast room filled now with the eager murmuring of an anticipatory crowd.

The room went dark. A moment later there was a bright light on the stage, and a perfect, albeit much smaller, replica of the Omen hovered there, about to crash precariously into a perfect, albeit much smaller, representation of the Takara mountain range. Some of the most attractive Keshiri whom Vol had ever seen played their own ancestors. They exaggerated their primitiveness, wearing scandalously little in the way of clothing made of animal hides as they pointed up at the Sith vessel and exclaimed, “What is it? It is far too large for any bird or uvak!”

Vol did not watch the play. It was broad, stylized, and while the actors were likely perfectly adequate,