Prologue
From Chapter 26 of Taking the Veil
(Force vision of Lady Struct, the lover of Sith Emperor Vitiate)
The boy is tall and broad, verging on hefty, but still baby faced. He stands nervous in his ill-fitting school uniform before a trio of Lords who watch him closely.
"Ever held one of these?" the eldest Lord asks as he holds up a lightsaber hilt.
"No, Sir."
"No, my Lord," the man corrects gently. "This is not the real thing. It's a training sword. It will bruise and sting. That's all. Hold out your right hand."
The boy offers up a big paw of a hand. It is calloused from work, with the small scars and broken fingernails to prove it. The Lord swats the boy's palm with the weapon, immediately raising a big red welt. The kid doesn't so much as flinch. The two Lords looking on exchange glances.
Next, the boy is introduced to an opponent. "Son, we know you have never had any formal training. We don't expect you to win. We just want you to try. Julius here is your age. He is our top swordsman for the incoming freshman class. Spar with him a bit and see how it feels to use a sword."
"Yes, my Lord." The boy accepts the weapon. He has to be shown how to turn it on. He swings the training saber a bit to test it out. From his frown, he finds it awkward.
"Ready?"
"I guess," the boy grumbles.
His opponent flashes his own blade up in the customary salute before he attacks. It's a blistering series of advanced passes that the boy cannot begin to parry. He simply holds his weapon up in a defensive posture as he rapidly falls back.
"Again," the ranking Lord instructs. "Swing a little this time, Gaius," he encourages the boy. "Give it a try."
As directed, the opponent youth repeats his same moves. But this time, the boy has a plan. Shielding himself with his borrowed sword in his left hand, the boy opens his right palm. The opponent youth's weapon is stolen from his grip. It deactivates and lands in the boy's waiting hand with the help of the Force. But that doesn't end things. The boy now casts aside both weapons and launches himself at his far shorter, much lighter adversary. The boy starts pummeling the other kid with his fists. It takes two of the three Lords in attendance to break it up. There's not a mark on the boy, but his opponent is bruised and bloody.
"That is not how a saber duel is conducted," the disapproving senior Lord informs the boy.
"That's how we fight where I'm from," the boy answers back. "If I'm going to fight, I want to win. That means I want to fight on my terms." He looks confused at the Lord's reaction. "I won, didn't I?"
It's the first inkling of the ruthless strategist the boy will one day become. But none of the Lords in attendance are impressed. When both of the children are excused from the room, the conversation goes like this:
"I was told we have to accept him."
"By whom?"
"Azamin himself."
"What colony world is he from again?"
"Does it matter? I guess he's one of us now."
"He'll never be one of us. My Lords, war with the Republic is coming. We may need him and others like him in a few year's time. If only so we can send him to the front lines so our own sons don't get slaughtered."
"He's scrappy, I'll grant him that."
"And big for fourteen."
"Is this right? It says he was recommended for the priesthood. To be an altar boy, not an Academy recruit."
"I was told we have to accept him. Under no circumstances will he become a sorcerer."
"Is this midichlorian count correct?"
"Yes."
"I guess that explains why Azamin's involved."
Chapter 1
3681BBY
Dromund Kaas, the capital world of the Sith Empire
"Well, hello there," a familiar voice calls the very moment she slips through the gate. Darth Azamin doesn't need to see her to know that she's coming. He is incredibly strong with the Force, which accounts for his extreme longevity.
"Hello," Portia calls back as she ducks under a flowering trellis and around the corner bushes to where the benches are located. She was hoping to find Lord Azamin in his garden. Her elderly neighbor can always be counted to cheer her up. This is his favorite spot, and he often sits here in the late afternoon when he returns from the Palace. But you can never sense where the man is because he must cloak his imprint in the Force. It is a mark of great distinction for the Emperor to decide that you are so powerful that there is a risk a Jedi might sense you in meditation from the other side of the galaxy.
Lord Azamin pats the seat beside him in a silent invitation she immediately accepts. Portia flops down without ceremony. This ancient, wizened Lord might be in the inner circle of the Emperor, but she's known him since she was born and they are very casual with one another. Her great uncle—wait, maybe it was her great, great uncle—she forgets-was Darth Azamin's last Apprentice before the Emperor excused him from mentoring young Lords due to his advanced age.
Darth Azamin smiles at her now with raised eyebrows that invite explanation. "I'm surprised that you aren't busy with the party preparations."
"Hardly. I'm in the way," Portia grumbles as she slumps down to prop her chin on her fists and her elbows on her knees. "That's all I have heard all day today—how much I'm in the way."
Old Azamin starts in with his goofy grandpa charm. "Fair maiden, how fortunate for me that you were shooed away. Keep me company, my dear? My guests are late."
"Oh, you're expecting someone." She leaps to her feet. "I don't wish to intrude on Lords' talk." She knows her place.
Portia makes to leave, but Lord Azamin forestalls her. "Nonsense. Sit down. Tell me what's new next door."
That's the invitation to vent that she was hoping for. Portia plops back down, and starts in on her complaints, grateful for a listening ear. "Night and day, it's all wedding planning and trousseau shopping. You'd think Apollonia were marrying Emperor Vitiate himself instead of boring old Darth Traverse."
Lord Azamin nods. "I'm sure your mother wants everything to be perfect for your sister. And perhaps it makes her happy to have an occasion to look forward to . . . "
It's an oblique reference to her widowed mother's longtime depression that is an open secret everyone acknowledges but no one talks about.
"Yeah, I guess . . . But I can't wait for it to be over with," Portia harrumphs.
"Now, now," Lord Azamin pats at her hand. "It will be your turn soon enough. And then all the fuss will be about you."
"Oh, no. I'm never getting married."
"Never?" Her neighbor looks amused.
It eggs her on to petulance. And normally she's not this dramatic. But the household stress of Apollonia's wedding is really getting to her. Portia declares, "Absolutely never. I shall remain stubbornly unwed." She lifts her chin and dares Darth Azamin to disagree.
He just muses softly, "Lord Adraas might have something to say about that."
"My brother can send me to the Temple for all I care. I'll take the veil. Really, I will!"
"Such vehemence."
She slumps again and pokes at the grass with her slipper. "The dress is ugly. Mother likes it and she loves it, but I think it's ugly. The groom is ugly too."
"I'm told Lord Traverse is quite a catch."
"I don't see it. He still has lots of pimples and he's twenty-five."
"Looks aren't everything."
"Maybe not," she concedes, "but life isn't all M-counts and genealogy either."
"Oh, I agree." Rheumy old yellow eyes slant her way to gently chide her. "Your sister is quite a catch as well. I understand she was much sought after."
Portia doesn't want to hear more praise for Apollonia. "Does it matter how pretty she is? She's mean to me. And bossy. No one wants a mean and bossy wife."
Azamin chuckles and reminds her, "Some men would, so long as she's pretty."
"Would you?"
Her elderly neighbor leans close to confide in a stage whisper, "Lady Azamin was the bossy type."
She groans. "That's a yes."
"My Lady could be terrifying," Azamin reminisces with a wistful smile tugging at his lips. He's over five hundred years old and he has outlived everyone but Emperor Vitiate himself. But he still speaks of his long dead wife and daughters frequently. It's clear he misses them still.
Portia feels bad for sulking now. She looks over at her esteemed neighbor and tells the truth. "I can't imagine you being afraid of anyone." He's the longest serving Lord in the Empire, a man who has been on the Dark Council for centuries. Sure, he's a stooped, frail old codger now, but in his prime she suspects wily Azamin was very impressive. Under all those wrinkles and sunken skin was once a handsome Lord who was fast with a sword, she guesses.
He must be in her thoughts because he snorts, "You think I can intimidate? My dear, you never met Lady Azamin." They both laugh and Darth Azamin again pats at her hand. "It is hard to be the little sister sometimes. But your time will come. You'll be betrothed within a few months of the wedding, just you wait. As soon as you are officially eligible, the suitors will be breaking down the door besieging your brother with offers. And that's not counting the fortune hunters and the social climbers he will turn away."
"Do you really think so?" she asks. And wait, that came out a little too hopeful sounding.
Lord Azamin takes that as his cue to double down on his staunch cheerleading. "I know so," he proclaims with complete conviction. "And then, the big betrothal dinner will be for you and you can pick out the wedding dress you want."
That sounds nice, but . . . "What if no one wants me?" she asks in a small voice, putting words to the fear that nags at her late at night. She knows it's not a rational fear, but it persists all the same. For there is nothing so important in a Lady's life than her marriage. It determines everything for her future happiness and security. Make a bad match and your life is forever changed for the worse. Fail to make a match and your life is ruined.
Lord Azamin scoffs, "Don't be ridiculous. In a few years' time, you will make a beautiful bride, a gracious wife, and someday a fine mother to your Lord's children and his Apprentices." It's what counts as success for a Lady of the Sith Empire. It's also the reassurance she needs to hear right now. Something about watching her sister's transition into adulthood womanhood makes her fearful for her own future. Suddenly, 'someday' daydreams have become alarmingly real and close. All the choices coming soon bring out her insecurities.
"Mother says I should act more demure and contrive to look shorter . . . "
"Demure is not in your nature."
She giggles. "I know. Shorter is not in my nature either." She inherited her father's height, and that makes her eye to eye with her brother, which is noticeably tall for a woman. She stands a full head above the average girl. It's not freakish, but it's uncommon all the same.
Darth Azamin brushes off the point. "Be yourself and stand tall. You won't fool anyone by slouching any more than I shall fool people by standing on my tiptoes." He leans in to confide, "Lady Azamin was taller than I am. As were all of our daughters."
"Really?" She didn't know this. She just figured old Azamin's diminutive status was a feature of extreme old age.
"Indeed. So, lest you think your height is a detriment, let me assure you that it is an asset. A tall wife will give a Lord tall sons. And trust me, everyone wants to be tall. No one wants to be a midget like I was even before I got this old and shrunk even closer to the ground."
Portia smiles, grateful for his self-deprecating words of support. She repays them now with her own, murmuring, "My Lord, everyone knows that you're a giant of the Force."
"Oho! Now, you're just stroking my ego," he accuses, with a twinkle in his eye.
"It's the truth, and everyone knows it, so don't be coy," she playfully accuses back. She muses cheekily, "Now I know why the Emperor wants you as his best counselor. You always know what to say."
That makes Azamin react with a wheezy guffaw. "I don't always tell him what he wants to hear, but what he needs to hear. It is the same for you. And you, young lady, need to hear how special you are." He shoots her a serious look. "Did you get the message? Or do I need to keep saying it?"
She dimples at his mock gruffness. "Yes, my Lord. Message received." Then, she blurts out, "I'm going to miss her. Apollonia, I mean." And now, suddenly, she feels tears coming on. For her annoyance at her sister's wedding planning is only matched by her distress at Apollonia's coming departure from the house. The change is unsettling even if it is normal and expected. But it adds to her bad attitude about the whole affair.
Old Azamin's face softens. "Of course, you will miss your sister. You must take care to visit her often. Think of her marriage as enlarging your family, not diminishing it."
"I know . . ."
"You might find that you like it," Lord Azamin suggests conspiratorially. "If she is bossy and mean, as you say, then perhaps you won't mind having the house all to yourself."
"Good point," Portia decides, trying to look on the bright side.
"Change can be confusing," Azamin counsels, "even good change. And I'm afraid that there will be lots of change soon if war finally comes."
"I know . . . My brother can't stop talking about an invasion." War fever has swept the Sith capital of Dromund Kaas in recent weeks. Speculation has run rampant and, the Sith being Sith, everyone is angling for how it might advance them. For herself, Portia feels about the prospect of war much like she feels about her sister's wedding-it's a mixture of anticipation, excitement, and dread that is deeply unsettling.
"Even I don't know what the Emperor will decide," the longtime Palace insider Azamin confides, preempting the obvious question that's on her lips. "We must be ready for what lies ahead. If it's war with the Republic, it won't be like the colonial conquest campaigns you're used to. You won't just watch it in newsfeeds on the holonet. It will impact your life in meaningful ways."
Yes, that's what she's afraid off. His words sound ominous to her ears. "Mother says this bloodlust is stupid . . . that Cato will only get himself killed like Father did—"
"My Lord." They are interrupted by a servant in neat livery. The man bows from the waist as he soberly intones, "Your guests have arrived."
Time for her to leave. Portia immediately stands and curtsies low to Lord Azamin with the formality that is his due. "I will leave you to your business, my Lord," she tells him, mimicking the grave elegance of her mother. But then, she ruins it by grinning down at Darth Azamin and impulsively giving him a quick kiss on the cheek. This old man is, after all, more like family than friend. Father served with him for years on the Dark Council before the hyperspace accident killed him.
Old Azamin chuckles and beams at her gesture. It's the best part of this man—how habitually casual he can be—goofy even, at times-given how astoundingly important he is in the Empire. He never stands on ceremony, even if it's his due. In a society that can be overly concerned with formality and rank, Azamin stands out as egalitarian.
As she makes to leave, he puts a hand on her wrist to detain her. "No, don't run away, my dear. Not yet. I believe you know one of my guests."
"I do?" Portia concentrates a moment before she decides, "I do. It's Darth Vindican."
"Very good," Azamin approves as he plants his cane and hauls himself to his feet. Even standing, he only comes up to her shoulder. "Here he comes."
Portia recognizes the father of her best school chum as he walks up. Like her, Darth Vindican is what passes for a pureblood Sith in modern times, his ancestry a mix of the ancient near-human Sith race and the fully human Jedi Exiles the Republic kicked out long ago. That heritage gives them both their distinctive ruddy skin, cheek tendrils, strong brows, and angular faces. Even at a casual glance, they are obviously the genetic elite of the Dark Side. They are 'red of face, strong of Force' as the old idiom goes.
"Old friend, how good to see you." Darth Azamin reaches to greet his guest with the forearm clasp handshake that Sith Master peers prefer. They're both Navy men, so they omit the 'Salve' greeting in Old Kittat that the Army Lords favor.
Portia drops a polite curtsey to her friend's father. "My Lord Vindican." She lowers her eyes demurely, as appropriate, even as she peeks over at Darth Vindican's hulking young companion who can only be the new Apprentice she's heard about.
"Ah, Portia," Lord Vindican smiles at her genially as always. "I thought you haunted my Julia's bedroom, but not today, I see. Have you met my new Apprentice?"
"No, my Lord."
"Then meet Gaius Veradun," Darth Vindican waves his mentee forward and claps him heartily on the back. "Gaius, this is Lady Portia Metellus."
"My Lady," the Apprentice mutters obligatorily.
Is he shy? Or just surly? Portia can't tell. But she's picking up strong vibes of disdain. She nods, "Veradun," to acknowledge the introduction as her eyes roam the newcomer who is not at all what she expected. This new Lordling has not yet achieved his title. He gets introduced with his given name and a completely unfamiliar surname. Whoever he is, he's not from any family that matters. And given his appearance, that's not a surprise.
He wears the traditional black Lord's robes with the hood thrown back, like the two older men. But that's where the similarities end. This young man's face is deathly pale. It's not the pallor that comes with too much time spent indoors or in space flight, but truly ivory skin that belongs to a human colonial race, not anyone with pureblood ethnic Sith blood. All that stark white skin is a striking contrast to his flaring dark brows. This Apprentice's eyes are yellow already, she notes, but deep set and smallish. His nose is straight and slightly aquiline. His mouth is a firm, tight line that makes him look disagreeable. When you combine that visage with his completely bare, obviously shaved head, Gaius Veradun looks menacing. But it's more peevish than anything. Oh, she supposes some girls might find him exotically dashing, but she doesn't see it. Not really. His look is more colonial criminal thug than deadly Sith Lord.
It doesn't help that the guy is huge, and not in the typical way. Many Lords, especially the young ones, have hyper masculine physiques at the height of their training years. But this Apprentice is more stocky than muscled. He is noticeably bulky, like he's wearing heavy armor even though he's not. Still, she notes that his face is slim with a jawline and cheekbones that many Ladies might envy. It's an odd juxtaposition. The Apprentice has a tall, commanding height that tops hers by many inches. He sort of looms large on the periphery of the group, looking like an outsider. Socially awkward is the best way to describe him, she decides, as she silently takes in the petulant profile he presents her. He seems impatient.
And then, it dawns on her. The Apprentice feels slighted for having been introduced to her first and not to the famous confidante of Emperor Vitiate, the universally admired and beloved Darth Azamin. How prideful this Apprentice must be. Just look at that pout.
But gracious Darth Azamin is his lowkey, smooth self as he soothes over the moment. "Gaius Veradun," the old statesman croaks up at the younger man, "Welcome. I hear great things about your Academy record. I shall watch your career with great interest."
"My Lord," the Apprentice nods coolly, his eyes narrowed with skepticism. It's almost like he's trying to judge whether Azamin's comment is sincere or not.
His face settles into a scowl as the older man issues a soft command. "Entertain Lady Portia, Veradun, while your Master and I go inside to gossip. We'll just be a few minutes." With that, old Darth Azamin plods away towards his villa with Darth Vindican, leaving the Vindican's young Apprentice relegated to her.
Veradun doesn't bother to hide his annoyance at his appointed task. He watches the two older men walk away with obvious reluctance to remain behind. Then, he glances at her and sighs. "You're a Metellus. Does that make you related to Adraas?"
"He's my brother."
"We were at the Academy together. He was several years ahead."
That sounds about right. Cato has been a full-fledged Lord for two years now, although her sometimes overbearing, always protective big brother has been acting like the Lord of the house since he was fifteen when Father died.
"So . . . you know my Master's daughter, Lady Julia?"
"She's my best friend," Portia confirms. "Since we were little."
"I see. And you're Azamin's relative?" he guesses.
"Neighbor. We're related, but the connection is distant now." She points to her family's villa. "That's our compound next door." She watches as the Apprentice's eyes take in the sprawling Metellus family seat that was built long ago when the Empire was still being reestablished and there was genuine fear of another devastating seige by the Republic. Typical of homes dating from that period, it appears more fortress than domicile because, well, it is.
Portia explains, "Long ago, Darth Azamin's land and ours used to be one property. It was split between twin sons who inherited." She gestures to the south behind them. "The garden pond back there still straddles the property line. All these years later, our families still treat the garden as communally owned."
"Right," the Apprentice pretends to care.
This stilted exchange is what passes for Sith small talk. Every conversation between strangers inevitably begins with the six degrees of separation game of who knows who and how. Sith society obsessively recounts the complicated overlap of kinship and Apprenticeship relationships as status signals. Except this man cannot participate much, Portia suspects. For he is the rarest of the rare occurrences: a Sith whose Force talent is naturally occurring but not inherited. This Veradun guy, she knows from her friend, is what is called a 'random.' Usually, derisively.
So, she tries to shift the conversation. "Julia told me how excited Lady Vindican was to have a new Apprentice in the household." It's commonplace for the elite Lords to have multiple Apprentices at a time. Ladies look after their Lord's mentees while they remain unmarried, taking the young men into their homes as surrogate sons until they set up their own households. The custom creates family-like bonds and it promotes goodwill to combat the tribal tendencies of the leading clans. Officially, Apprenticeships last only a few years, but in reality, the close connections from a Lord's training years last a lifetime.
But if this random is grateful to have landed in such a sweet spot with Vindican, he doesn't show it. He sounds bored as he remarks, "She's fine. He's fine."
"Yes, they are fine people." Too fine for this dismissive upstart. Portia glares at Gaius Veradun with icy hauteur, offended on her beloved friend's family's behalf. "I've never met a random," she sniffs. "I thought your kind were only in fairytales."
It's a nasty remark that scores a hit. Veradun flushes and all that alabaster skin is now mottled pink. He sneers back, "Whereas I have met a few Ladies, and you're all the same. Spoiled, proud, and petty, no matter how pretty."
"Charmingly said," she retorts, her voice dripping with sarcasm. She bristles at his reductive indictment of elite women generally. And now, all of the angst and frustration she expressed to Darth Azamin earlier finds its focus on Gaius Veradun as target. Portia lifts her brows expectantly as she baits him. "Can I assume that your present company is excepted? Or am I spoiled, proud, and petty too?"
"From the looks of that dress, you're spoiled," the random guy drawls back. "Your expression tells me you're proud and your attitude seems plenty petty." Veradun doesn't stop there. He continues his sneering words. "And I suppose you're tolerable, but not pretty enough to tempt me."
Portia blinks at his effrontery. This Gaius Veradun fellow is exceedingly unlikeable. But she's a Metellus, and she will not stoop to the level of this boorish random. She's too good for his name-calling.
"My brother will light his sword and run you through should you aim high for me," she informs him coolly. "Watch yourself." Then, with a flick of her finger and a quick summons to the Force, she catches Veradun off guard and Force-pushes him hard into a rose bush. A very prickly rose bush. "That," she informs him with Dark relish, "is for being rude to a Lady."
Portia prances off, leaving the incredulous young Apprentice behind her. She enjoys his consternation as he picks himself up and dusts off his cloak. She's not sorry. Her violence serves him right for his impertinent rudeness. Portia pauses briefly at the garden gate and tosses her hair over one shoulder. She favors him with a bright, saucy smile that she fervently hopes is spoiled, proud, petty, and pretty all at once. Portia bids him, "Good day, Gaius," using his given name. It's a diss. Men are called by their surname or their title.
Suddenly, she's feeling better about attending her sister's betrothal dinner in a few hours. Apparently, all she needed was a chance to fight with someone. Venting emotions is good for you, she reminds herself like a true Sith.