They weren’t special.
The result was swiftly seen. The cities of Kesh had been crumbling. Now they burned. All of them, from what little word had come in from the rest of the con- tinent. Today was the regularly scheduled Testament Day. It had only taken eight days for the cancerous truth to reach every place humans lived.
They weren’t anything.
Hilts peered out onto the nighttime streets from Jaye’s hejarbo-shoot hut. The dwelling had survived the first firestorm, but the arsonists were in motion again, and it likely wouldn’t be around for long. Everywhere, Keshiri watched from hiding, both fearing for their lives and fascinated by the convulsions their masters were putting themselves through. Anger flowed freely as an entire race tried to commit suicide.
They didn’t deserve to be anything.
«This is the end of times, Master Hilts,» Jaye said, huddling beside him in the doorway. The frightened Keshiri looked up at the cloud of crazed uvak, circling the flames.
Hilts simply nodded. He’d told his aide about the contents of the recording. It didn’t really matter, now. The human population of Kesh was already down to a few thousand from all the infighting. How many could be left? He hadn’t seen any of the faction leaders since the riots broke out — not even Iliana, who’d seemed confident the danger was past. How wrong she was. It wouldn’t be long now.
And yet…
…Korsin had said something else. «The true poweris behind the throne,» he had said. It was a strange statement. Hilts had heard of a Keshiri idiom where that referred to the contributions of a spouse. But the husband of Seelah couldn’t mean that. He’d met Iliana, her spiritual descendant. Hilts wouldn’t have trusted her not to rob his corpse. No Sith trusted a lover — least of all one like Seelah.
Hilts stood in the doorway. «Caretaker, the rioters will see you!»
The gray-haired human paid no mind, looking, instead, up toward the palace. They’d evacuated when the mob turned ugly. But it wasn’t what was there that was on his mind now. It was what had never been there.
A throne.
Cape billowing behind him, Hilts bolted into the street. Alarmed, Jaye followed, careful not to step on — or look at — any of his dead neighbors. «Caretaker, what is it?»
«It’s the throne, Jaye. The throne!»
The Keshiri knew the term. Elders in the Neshtovar used to fashion them for themselves. «But Korsin had no throne.»
«Not in the palace, my boy. Look!» Grabbing his aide’s shoulders, he pointed the Keshiri to the west— and the cloud-enshrouded peaks of the Takara Mountains. Suddenly rejuvenated, Hilts recited the lines he’d memorized decades earlier. «There are secrets you must always keep. The true power is behind the throne. Should disaster befall — remember that!» Squinting through the smoke, he looked at the forbid- den place. «Korsin’s throne was his seat from Omen— and that’s up there!»
«I–I don’t understand,» Jaye stammered.
«We weren’t meant to see the message from Sadow— but that’s not Yaru Korsin’s legacy. There’s something else — something he mentioned in the Testament. Something that might save the Tribe from itself!»
Hilts breathed deeply, as excited as he had been in years. For his entire life, he thought he’d known all the history there was, all that Korsin had to say. Could he really have left… a postscript?
«There’s only one thing to do,» Hilts said, cinching up his cape and walking confidently into the chaos. «We’re going to unseal the temple. We’re going aboard Omen!»