Thrawn Ascendancy Book 3: Lesser Evil

In some ways, the Stybla honoring ritual reminded Thrass of all the Mitth welcoming ceremonies he’d attended over the years. The clothing was equally formal, the precise and stylized invocations and responses were all too familiar, and the overall air of solemnity could have placed the event at any homestead, stronghold, or Patriel mansion in the Ascendancy.

And yet, despite its closeness and simplicity, this ritual was far deeper than anything he’d ever experienced.

There were only eighteen people present: Thrass, Patriarch Lamiov, Senior Aide Lappincyk, Patriarch Thooraki, the thirteen Stybla Patriels who were able to travel to Naporar for the ceremony, and Thrawn himself. In addition, while Mitth welcoming ceremonies were invariably performed in Cheunh, the core section of this particular rite was carried out in Tybroic, the long-dead ancient language of the Stybla family.

It was a considerably rarer ceremony than any other that Thrass had ever heard of. He’d asked Lappincyk about it earlier, while Thrawn was off practicing his lines, and learned there’d been exactly eight other non-Stybla who’d been granted this honorific over the past five thousand years. When Lamiov had said such events were infrequent, he’d been vastly overstating the case.

It was considerably shorter than the Mitth ceremonies, too. But then, unlike any of those, there was no one here whom anyone was trying to impress.

Thrass was talking to a couple of Stybla Patriels afterward, officials who were trying hard to pretend they cared who he was, when he was thankfully rescued by Patriarch Thooraki. “Good to see you again, Syndic,” the Patriarch greeted him, taking Thrass’s arm and steering him toward an unoccupied corner of the chamber. The room, too, was smaller than the usual Mitth norm, yet somehow carried a far greater depth of age and significance. “How is your mother? I keep meaning to look in on her, but somehow never get around to it.”

“She’s fine, Your Venerante,” Thrass assured him, feeling a twinge of guilt. It had been over two months since he’d talked to her for more than five minutes himself. “I’ll tell her you asked about her.”

“Thank you.” Thooraki gestured around them. “Impressive place, isn’t it? I understand some of the tapestries and carved wood decoratives are from the original Ruling Family assembly hall.”

“Really,” Thrass said, looking around. “And they put them here on Naporar instead of in their homestead?”

“The Stybla assembly hall was impressively large,” Thooraki said drily. “They should have plenty of such mementos to spread around. I presume you’re wondering why Lamiov didn’t also grant you the odo honorific?”

“To be honest, Your Venerante, that didn’t even occur to me,” Thrass told him truthfully. “I did very little to retrieve the item.”

“Because Lamiov and I did discuss it,” Thooraki continued. “Your modesty notwithstanding, you did play a key role.”

“But you decided that having a Mitth cousin carrying a Stybla honorific might not be well accepted in the Syndicure?” Thrass hazarded.

Thooraki shrugged. “If a Mitth Patriarch can carry the honorific, I don’t think a cousin having it would be a problem.” He smiled wryly at Thrass. “Or hadn’t you noticed?”

Thrass winced in embarrassment. The Twelfth Patriarch, Mitth’omo’rossodo the Tragic. “No, I hadn’t,” he admitted. “It never even occurred to me.”

“She was the first Mitth to receive the title,” Thooraki said, a shadow of sadness creeping into his tone. “Though I doubt even such a rare honor did anything to alleviate the pain of her sons’ deaths.”

“According to Thrawn, she gave up her art shortly afterward.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Thooraki said. “But no, it wasn’t your contribution or your family status that tipped the balance. We decided that it would be best if you and Thrawn weren’t quite so obviously a team.”

Thrass frowned. “What kind of team?”

“The best kind,” Thooraki assured him. “The two of you combine impressive political and military skills, which will put the Mitth in position to influence future decisions in both the Syndicure and the Council. The kind of team that can only be achieved by people who know each other, trust each other, and can work fully in sync. A team of kin, of friends—” He gave Thrass a faint smile. “—of brothers.”

Thrass stared at him. “How did you know?”

Thooraki waved a hand. “Senior Aide Lappincyk’s report was quite thorough.”

“So this was a setup from the very beginning?” Thrass asked, the first stirrings of anger starting to weave their way through him. “You pushed Thrawn and me together, forcing us to become”—his tongue tripped over the word—“close friends?”

Thooraki snorted. “Forcing you? Please, Syndic. No one forces friendship or brotherhood on anyone. I merely noted how well you and Thrawn got along, how your interests meshed, how comfortable he was with you. As you may have noticed, he’s not particularly relaxed with many people.”