The shadow of the broken dome fell upon the forgotten graves, falling trails of snow floating down through the cracks.
Shrouded in the white haze of snow, a figure cloaked in dark fabric walked briskly along the cracked roads that linked the mausoleum with the capital city of the planet. Behind it were two smaller figures, huddled against the driving wind.
The trio were some distance from the dome, following the markerlights that stood where a heated, paved road once was. Stepping through the drifts, the figure in the lead held a box close to heart. It was drudgery- but necessary.
Presently, they stood at the edge of the shadow of the broken dome- the exterior of what was once the ancestral tomb of House Calimondra- once hegemons of the Sector, bane of the Old Republic and champions of the Sith.
Words blowing on the wind, Issan Sturm thought bitterly, looking back down. Even with the Sith Order’s takeover of the planet, the tombs had been largely ignored and forgotten. The planetary governor was an incompetent wastrel, assigned to this backwater after… after…
Issan continued into the shadow of the dome, pulling her cloak tighter around her. The outer shell had cracked and fallen, but some of the chambers were still protected from the elements. Here and there in nooks and crannies were signs of habitation- the thought of vagrants squatting in the once proud mausoleum did not fill Issan with as much disgust as she ought to, but a flash of disdain etched itself on her face.
At the far end of the main corridor, Issan saw light- obscured by the driving snow and darkness that enveloped it. There was movement, and Issan held up a hand, and she and her attendants stopped.
From the shadow of the grave came three people- encased in a protective enviro-suit etched with Sith runes, unholy talismans and bright red silk trailing in the snow behind them. Gravekeepers of the tomb.
“Tranquil day, Lady Sturm,” the leader of the three, hunched and slow, intoned, his electronic voice hollow and crackling as it warbled out the speakers along the cheeks of his see-through helm. He extended his arms in greeting.
“Chief Keeper Daro- you look well.” Issan reciprocated the gesture, handing over the box to her attendant and clasping the older man’s arms, feeling the warmth from inside the suit emanating through the leatherplast surface against her skin.
“Forgive us our oversight- many a traveller has set up temporary -koff- accommodations in here.”
Issan bit down the annoyance at the reminder as she let go of his arm.
“Yes, I see. Has there been trouble maintaining this place?” A loaded question- what the hell have they been doing in the past year?
“Your donations were much needed and appreciated, Lady Sturm, but -koff- I fear there is only so much my Keepers can do to keep this place falling apart with -koff- without heavy assistance from the city government.”
“If they are so over burdened they cannot maintain the perimeter, I would be glad to provide droid labour and more able hands.” She shot a glance at the other two keepers, their helmets more tinted than the old man’s, their faces obscured. They knew better than to speak at this juncture.
“It is not so bad as it looks- appearances are only skin-deep. And ultimately, it is out of our hands- unless the Governor deigns to care about the legacy he has been placed in charge of, decay is the order of things.” The wind had died down, but Issan could hear it still howling through the holes of the dome, and the soft drip, drip of melting snow along the edges of the warmed, sealed chambers.
“Perhaps one day I will grant him the mercy of relieving him of the burden of this place…”
“Ah, but the maintenance of this tomb is not your real interest today, I surmise? For few are those who visit graves to inspect their state- memories are a precious gift to be savoured rarely, hmm? So I would ask that you grant these old ears- who have little energy to listen to preamble and pleasantries- the mercy to speak to what you wish heard.” In other words: get to the point.
The two junior Keepers shifted uncomfortably. Likely they had never heard or seen anyone speak so directly to a Sith in their entire lives- and gotten away with it unscathed. Issan’s own attendants moved slowly to their weapons, preparing a show of force at the drop of a pin.
Inwardly, the Regent sighed in exasperation. What was the point of all this? Threatening gravediggers over protocol? Ridiculous.
She signalled, and her attendants withdrew a step.
“Very well. I would visit… my lord’s resting place.” Daro mumbled something, unhearable through his mask, and motioned for her to follow him. The group made it to the end of the hall- where a thick blast door crowned with an arch of the Calimondra family sigils awaited.
“Wait here.” Issan took the box from her attendants, who waited with the junior keepers, under the small comfort of a heatlamp while Issan and Daro descended into the tomb.
“Forgive my candor but, not that we're away from them- it is good to see you safe again, my lady,” Daro said, keeping his lantern away and stopping the lift at the correct floor. His cough was gone. Another small deception.
“Yes, well- I, too, am pleased that I have survived these past few years.” Though the pain of returning here, to see him again…
“You really should tell me if you need assistance. I-”
Daro waved his hand slowly, as he led the way out of the lift. The mausoleum corridor here was straight-cut, high ceilings and dressed walls with engravings of the glory of what was, and what could be. Its edges blended upward into an off-white glowing ceiling, blending into clear crystal that shone a soft, changing light. Austere and grandiose all at once
“In truth, there is little you can do. Time has not been kind to the Keepers and the tombs.” Issan detected the faint scent of incense, heady and low, as they turned the corner. Soft clanging came from down this way- construction sounds, almost.
“Damned governor…” she hissed, pulling her cloak around here. It was always so damnably cold on Syned. “Anywhere else, the Order would have his head for neglecting a place of historical gravity as this. Either refurbish it or loot it, and be done with.” Daro had been a distant friend of the House- elsewhere it would be unthinkable to Issan to display such improper speech in front of another. Yet another shackle in her newly 'elevated' position.
Daro turned slightly and looked up at her.
“Oh, there has been some attention turned here. Offers to demolish it, or completely change it. Few and far between, but the governor has been in contact. Even had independent buy-out offers from…” he trailed off, stopping in front of a smooth panel-door, its metallic facade giving off a diffuse glow.
“A moment.” The door slid open, showing long data panels in the room, monitoring the air condition of the place. Issan narrowed her eyes. The old man was almost about to say-
“Just to check the, hum, storage condition, yes?” Daro emerged from the room and continued forth without nary a look backward. Issan wondered if Daro knew the cold up here was unsatisfactory. Something ate away at her mind, and she involuntarily drummed the box,
“I trust he is in good condition?”
“Hm? Oh, yes, very much so. The… damage has not spread much in the past year, keeping with projections.” There was definitely a thumping sound now, as they turned again. Ahead, were wide walls and a corridor that stretched into infinity, a dozen Keepers painstakingly restoring the carvings on the walls.
“The Hall of the Inheritors.” She whispered. It had been in disrepair the last time she’d seen it, but evidently the Keepers had been hard at work. The friezes and carvings had been cleaned up, the holo-slates restored. Down this hall was a hundred metres of muted but exalted celebration of House Calimondra- of the legacy of the dark Lady Vilia and her house.
“Yes, we’ve had some work done. As I said the exterior does not bely the full story of this place- the donations have been put to good use,” Daro said, a hint of pride warbling out of his mask-speaker.
Issan read again the words of those that came before. And their actions. How valiant, how cunning, how full of energy and vitality they were! Too much, perhaps, that war between kin was always breaking out. But they had brought the Republic to its knees, hegemon of the Sith for a good few centuries.
The Sith felt the weight of the legacy on her shoulders- a pressure in her mind. A legacy she was not born into, yet never truly chose either. Then again, blood and inheritance law never was much of a concern for the scions of Vilia, she thought, slowly walking down the Hall.
“You said donations? I doubt my contribution was enough to pay for half of this, if factoring in maintenance costs and-”
“Ah, well, you see, there have been other groups who feel kinship with this place. Yours is not the only branch, yes?”
The hair along her neck raised in instinct. Daro rarely interrupted his betters. And that was unmistakably a taste of- apprehension.
She gave a short, sharp laugh.
“Ah, Daro, it is not my place to be displeased that you took charity from others- as you said, I can hardly pay for it all, and it’s not like I own this place.”
“Ah, I am glad you understand, my lady.” Daro was picking up the pace. He wanted them out of here to the final lift down into the crypts.
“I just thought it would be nice if you’d mentioned them earlier. Who knows, maybe together, we could raise our lot in life…” Even among the Sith, some ties bound tighter than others.
“A wise view.”
Issan stopped, looking up at a carved bas-relief depicting the fratricidal war between Lords Damian and Odion. Inlaid lights and Kyber crystals threw the relief in sharp contrasting shadows, metallic shells over certain parts catching the light and glowing with life.
“Would this happen to be some of the people who offered to buy out this place, as you were going to mention?”
Issan did not turn to look, but heard Daro ambling back.
“Well, a group of them, yes. Nothing was confirmed, then, but it was a very pricey offer.”
“Can’t imagine the Mausoleum is worth that much, monetarily or sentimentally.”
“Well, you’d be surprised.”
“Oh? How so?” Issan turned on her heel and looked Daro directly in his visor, her face a mask of genuine inquiry.
Daro, to his credit, did not flinch.
“There are a great many things in the bones of these unholy halls. Most are of speculative value, and some… are not. It was a deal that I had a hard time talking the other Keepers down from- at least for the time being.”
Issan smiled, a wolfish grin of amusement.
“And that’s why I trust you with the safe keeping of that which I value above almost all else,” she said, before continuing down the hall.
A few more relics, a few more bas-reliefs. Issan had not appreciated it before, but the past few years had given her some… perspective, on life. It was interesting to see how little sentimentality the successful Sith of yore placed on tradition and name and bloodline. The Dark Side was, if nothing else, an open and honest master-and-slave rolled into one: pursue power, dominance, victory by any and all means, and it would be a powerful tool. Again Issan’s thoughts darkened, thinking on the present state of the Sith Order. So wrapped up in procedure and slavish commitment to the God-Emperor (two of them, in some ways). She did not fault the Emperor and King for their ways- though she wondered if the Sith would be more pure, more powerful without them. No, they were simply being prudent and, to an extent rational. But Issan held special disdain for everyone else, who willingly bound themselves to the rapidly growing and, inevitably, ossifying structures of imperial rule.
But was I any better? she wondered, walking past a statue of Arkadia Calimondra, firstborn of Chagras, and propagator of her own unique ideology of empire-building that utilised central control of her subjects, cross-trained over their lives to as many roles as possible, cogs in the machine.
Issan was no more than one such cog. The Sith Empire that had fallen decades ago was one such machine, one she had been born into and moulded by, into an assassin, a commander, a diplomat, an executive- whatever the House needed, she was, even…
They had reached the end of the hall. The elevator to the crypt opened slowly, its ornate doors creaking, warm air exhaled like the breath of a great beast.
“Next stop: The Tomb of Lord Anthysius.”
The name struck her like a hammer blow. Feeling the sorrow inside, Issan fell into her thoughts again as the pair stepped in. The present Order was the inheritor of the Empire in more than one way. And here she was, to commune with her lord, so that she may make use of his name and blood, to gather strength to seize Syned, or one of the worlds of the Order, and join the Assembly. It would go a long way to regaining- nay, surpassing- the power the House had had in the past decades. A great honour, something permanent, all by her hand, a lowborn street rat.
So why did she feel such trepidation?
The elevator doors clacked shut, and Issan went down, down, into the frozen heart of this world, to meet the half-living vessel of her lord and master... and unknowing father of her child.
