Star Wars_ The New Jedi Order 11_ Dark Journey - Elaine Cunningham [1]
The priest swept a three-fingered hand toward the scene below. “Dawn: bright death of mortal night,” he recited.
Harrar’s words followed the well-worn path of proverb, but there was genuine reverence in his eyes as he gazed upon the distant world. The young warrior touched two fingers to his forehead in a pious gesture, but his attention was absorbed less by the glowing vision of Myrkr than by the battle raging above it.
Silhouetted against the green world was a fist-sized lump of black yorik coral. This, an aging worldship housing hundreds of Yuuzhan Vong and their slaves and creature-servants, looked to be nothing more than lifeless rock. But as Harrar’s priestship drew closer, he could make out signs of battle—tiny coral fliers buzzing and stinging like fire gnats, plasma bolts surging in a frantic, erratic pulse. If life was pain, then the worldship was very much alive.
“Our arrival is timely,” the priest observed, glancing at the young warrior. “These young Jeedai seem determined to prove themselves a worthy sacrifice!”
“As you say, Eminence.”
The words were polite, but distracted, as if the warrior gave scant attention. Harrar turned a measuring gaze upon his companion. Discord between the priest and warrior castes was growing more common, but he could discern nothing amiss in Khalee Lah.
The son of Warmaster Tsavong Lah stood tall among the Yuuzhan Vong. His skin’s original gray hue was visible only in the faint strips and whorls separating numerous black scars and tattoos. A cloak of command flowed from hooks embedded in his shoulders. Other implants added spikes to his elbows and to the knuckles on his hands. A single short, thick horn thrust out from the center of his forehead—a difficult implant, and the mark of a truly worthy host.
Harrar knew himself honored when this promising warrior was assigned to his military escort, but he was also wary and more than a little intrigued. Like any true priest of Yun-Harla, goddess of trickery, Harrar relished games of deception and strategy. His old friend Tsavong Lah was a master of the multilayered agenda, and Harrar expected nothing less from the young commander.
Khalee turned to meet the priest’s scrutiny. His gaze was respectful, but direct. “May I speak freely, Eminence?”
Harrar began to suspect Tsavong Lah’s purpose in sending his son to a Trickster priest. Candor was a weakness—a potentially fatal one.
“In this matter, consider the warmaster’s judgment,” he advised, hiding words of caution in seeming assent.
The young male nodded solemnly. “Tsavong Lah entrusted you with the sacrifice of the twin Jeedai. The success of his latest implant is still in the hands of the gods, and you are his chosen intercessor. What the warmaster honors, I reverence.” He concluded his words by dropping to one knee and lowering his head in a respectful bow.
This was hardly the message Harrar intended to send, but Khalee Lah seemed content with their exchange. He rose and directed his attention back to the worldship.
“In plain speech, then. It appears the battle is not going as well as anticipated. Perhaps not even as well as Nom Anor reported.”
Harrar’s scarred forehead creased in a scowl. He himself held a dubious opinion of the Yuuzhan Vong spy. But Nom Anor enjoyed the rank of executor and was not to be lightly criticized.
“Such words veer dangerously close to treason, my young friend.”
“Truth is never treason,” Khalee Lah stated.
The priest carefully weighed these words. To the priesthood of Yun-Harla and among certain other factions, this proverb was an ironic jest, but there was no mistaking the ringing sincerity in the younger male’s tones.
Harrar schooled his face to match the warrior’s earnest expression. “Explain.”
Khalee Lah pointed