Lost Tribe of the Sith 05 - Star Wars Purgatory

Self-denial. Discovery by Jedi would be a cruel fate, indeed.
    But the worst thing about the passage of time had been the realization that, in their attempts to get off-world, those same pioneers of legend from a millennium earlier had squandered most of the resources that could have helped the Tribe now. Plenty of Lignan crystals from
Omen
’s hold circulated, but they were good for lightsabers and little else. And any understanding of how
Omen
worked had faded; it was now the province of scholars who no longer had access to the vessel. Only the Grand Lord could reverse Korsin’s ban and return the Tribe’s eyes to space.
    It wouldn’t be
this
Grand Lord, the biggest nothing ever to hold the position. Ori seethed as she looked across to the withered crone in her ornately decorated stall. Lillia Venn rocked in her throne, her palsied hand moving completely out of time with the tempo of the musicians playing below. Grand Lord Venn had been a compromise candidate a year earlier, when the other six High Lords had been unable to agree on a new leader. The oldest High Lord by twenty years, Venn was past fearing; no one had imagined she would last. The rival political parties, distinguished by the red and gold sashes they wore, swore fealty to the woman while continuing to plot their next steps. This Grand Lord was a corpse-in-waiting.
    “Don’t forget to salute, darling.”
    Ori looked back into the dark eyes of Candra Kitai. Vibrant for her fifty years, the newest High Lord approached the railing, turned primly toward the royalbooth, and bowed. When the Grand Lord did not respond, Candra’s face drew so tight Ori feared it might crack wide open.
    “Easy, Mom,” Ori said. “Like you told me, it’s our big day.” Months earlier, Ori’s mother had taken Venn’s place among the seven High Lords, instantly becoming the second most important person in the Tribe. By keeping her preferences regarding the rival factions private, Candra had become the tiebreaker: the one ultimately to select the aged leader’s successor.
    Recognizing Candra’s new importance, Venn had given her the section nearby, in range of even her feeble eyes. If treated well, Candra could keep the other High Lords stalemated indefinitely, fending off all challenges.
    And then?
Who knows
, Ori thought.
By next Donellan’s Day, we might be in the royal box
.
    Her own rivals among the Saber leadership, the Luzo brothers, flanked the Grand Lord. The barrel-chested pair glared back at Ori, barely concealing their disdain. Probably annoyed, she thought, because this was the one moment when they wouldn’t be able to sabotage her. They’d been watching her for months, eager to profit from any slip. With any luck, the end of Venn would be the end of the Luzos, too.
    “Easy, dear,” Candra prompted, catching her thought. “We’re all friends today.” The newest High Lord turned and nodded to the leaders of the two rival factions, seated in their customary red and gold boxes. High Lords Dernas and Pallima were as important to her as the Grand Lord was—and she, to them.
    “Friends. Right.” Ori rolled her eyes.
    “But our booth looks lovely. A fine job, again.”
    Reminded, Ori turned her gaze to something more pleasing—the dalsa flowers, fresh and vibrant on the balcony. Jelph of Marisota might never appear here, but at least some part of him had made the trip.
    Thunder came from below. Ori looked down to see the riders, wearing the ancient garb of Nida Korsin’s Skyborn Rangers, entering the field with their crippled uvak. Harshest of all bloodsports on Kesh, rake-riding even began with gore. The wing muscles of uvak hatchlings were cut, permanently grounding them while preserving some range of movement. With glass prongs screwed into their tough wing edges, the fully grown creatures stalked around, their flopping wings transformed into dangerous weapons.
    Squinting, Ori tried to identify the riders. Dernas and his Reds had their favorites out there, as did Pallima and the Golds. Venn had two entries, promoted by the Luzo brothers. The last to enter the field, however, was the one Ori cared about: Campion Dey, uvak wrangler from the southlands that Candra represented. Dey saluted Ori and her mother.
    “He’ll do well, I think,” Ori commented.
    “He’ll die,” Candra said.
    Ori looked back, surprised. Candra settled into her comfortable chair, indifferent to the drums beating below. Searching her mother’s face, Ori realized the