Cowering near his master, Jaye squeaked. «But there are thousands of people out there!»
«If that’s how it has to be.»
«It doesn’t have to be this way!» Hilts yelled. Remembering the recording device, he raised it into the air. «You’re here for the reading. We could do it now!» Iliana glared at him. «You said it only activated on Testament Day!»
Hilts looked back at her and shrugged. «I’m Sith. I lied.»
«The League will not accept a reading of the Testament on any day besides the anniversary,» Bentado said, golden eyes glaring under bushy black brows. «Would you be branded a heretic, Caretaker, like these others?» The line began to move again behind him. «We’ll hear the founder in eight days—alone!»
Seeing the combatants surge forward, Hilts felt Jaye clinging tightly to him. In a flash he made a connection.
Eight days.
«Jaye! Your calculations!» Pulling the Keshiri’s head from his chest, Hilts yelled urgently. «Your calculations about the Sandpipes!»
The aide looked up, tears of panic flowing freely. «Now? But you said no one would be interested in—»
«Now, Jaye!» he rasped. «Tellthem!»
Quaking in terror, the little Keshiri released his mas- ter and addressed the assemblage. «Begging your Lordships’ pardons—»
«We’re not all Lords, Keshiri!»
Jaye nearly fell over at Neera’s response. His humongous black eyes darted back to Hilts, who mouthed urgently: Say it!
«Begging your pardons, but when the Protectors landed, they brought their Standard Calendar, which we Keshiri adopted, regardless of our different length of day and year—»
Another lightsaber ignited in the crowd.
«— and we calibrated our Sandpipes to your magical chrono, aboard Omen. When the mountain temple was sealed and Omen abandoned, bearers brought the Sandpipes here, still keeping time—»
Two more lightsabers, and more movement.
«— but we found years ago that the sand didn’t flow through the pipes at the same speed on the mainland as up on the mountain.» Red energy shining in his face, Jaye swallowed. «It runs slower.»
Bentado raised his weapon — and an eyebrow. «How much slower?»
«One second slower,» Jaye said, voice creaking. «Your Standard Day is really a second shorter than what we’ve been using all this time.»
Neera and the 57s rumbled with impatience. «What the blazes difference does that make?»
Hilts clenched his fists and looked at Jaye. «Tell them!»
«Over two thousand years? It makes eight days’ difference. Which means—»
«Which means,» Hilts said, stepping beside his quivering aide, «that by our founders’ true timekeeping, Testament Day is today.And the Festival of Nida’s Rise really begins today, as well.» He looked to Iliana and lowered his voice. «But Yaru’s day is the important one.»
Bentado stomped toward the pair and raged. «This is preposterous!» He grabbed Jaye by the wrist. «You’re telling me this Keshiri fool counted all the seconds since practically when Omen landed? That must be ten million—»
«The word in your language is billion,» Jaye croaked. «And it’s more than sixty.»
Iliana stepped forward — and lowered her lightsaber. «He’s telling the truth,» she said. «I don’t see any deception in him. Nor much of anything else.»
Bentado looked back to his allies, who nodded in silence. Even the wretched 57s had paused.
Hilts looked at the Keshiri and marveled. Welldone. Now shut up!
«The reading is on,» Hilts said. «I declare the Pantheon’s Peace.» Holding the recording device aloft, he looked from one of the faction leaders to another. «Deactivate your weapons — and call in any of your rival leaders from outside,» he said. «I can’t tell you people how to run your affairs. Maybe Yaru Korsin can.»
Chapter Four
«…when we landed, we were few. Our survival wasnot guaranteed. The Tribe — what we have become — was the necessary mechanism. Once we knew Keshheld no dangers for us, the only threat came from our-selves…»
The starship captain sat in his command chair, facing death — and, unbeknownst to him, several of his remote descendants, separated by time. The image of Yaru Korsin flickered in midair, casting eerie shadows through the darkened atrium. It was neither the robust Korsin of the later paintings nor the bug-eyed deity of the Keshiri sculpture who appeared; it was simply a man. A spent warrior-king, clutching his chest and speaking his last.
«…and just as I had you trained in secret, Nida,there are secrets you must always keep. The true poweris behind the throne. Should disaster befall — rememberthat…»
Platitudes passed from a ruler to his child, both long dead. Hilts had studied the words for so many years, they had lost their magic for him. True, that first sight long ago of Yaru Korsin, animated, had excited his imagination. But this time was different. Standing behind the device and its projection, he found himself looking not at the ancient figure, but through him, at the gathered listeners. The atrium had been cleared of dead bodies and living warriors that afternoon; now, as darkness fell, only the faction leaders remained, including a dozen-plus brought in from outside. Hilts searched from face to face. Some had that same look of wonder he’d once had; humility was a new concept for most Sith. Others seemed untouched.
Hilts focused again on Korsin. He’d been dying when he recorded this; bleeding in the seat that had once been the captain’s chair from Omen,he’d hurriedly recorded a message to his daughter, who was busy finishing off the rebels elsewhere on the mountain. Between coughs, the spectral Korsin spoke of the Tribe’s hierarchy, and how the structure should be managed to prevent uprisings like the one that ultimately killed him. He’d just spoken the segment about killing dead Grand Lord’s spouses and banishing Seelah; Hilts could still feel the rage coming from Iliana.
«…that should hold the Tribe for the long term, butyou’ll want to begin bringing your own people in at theLord level. I have a few suggestions, depending on whosurvives…»
«This is the boring part,» Iliana snapped. Hilts looked to his shoes. She was right. For all the regard placed on the document, he knew it included a lot of logistical detail. Several of the leaders paid rapt attention, listening to Korsin speak of their adopted intellectual forebears, but for the others it was tedium.
Looking at the restive members, Hilts wondered about his next move. He was alone now; Jaye had been kicked outside along with his fellow workers before the reading began. That was good for them, for the moment. But the Pantheon’s Peace would conclude when the recording did — and it didn’t look like the words were leading any toward a settlement. How could he stay alive — much less protect his staff and position — if this solved nothing? Never mind the Tribe’s future, Hilts thought. What about mine?
After several minutes, Korsin’s speech slowed. The mortal wound taking its toll, the words turned personal. Hilts looked up again, newly fascinated by the momentary connection with a man two thousand years old.