Rule of Two

by Drew Karpyshyn

  He had fine gray hair, cropped very short. He had a long, pointed nose, and his pale blue eyes seemed small and too close together. There was a cruel tilt to his thin lips that made it almost appear as if he was sneering. As they entered, he leaned forward in his seat and clutched at the arms of his oversized throne; he looked hunched, sinister.

  Although he was not conventionally attractive or physically imposing, there was an undeniable air of importance about him. Zannah suspected it was a natural confidence born of wealth and privilege, but as she was marched down the red carpet toward him, she realized it was something far more impressive: Hetton radiated with the power of the dark side!

  They approached until they were ten meters from the steps leading up to Hetton’s seat, then stopped at a signal from one of the guards flanking the throne. Their escort stepped to the side, leaving Zannah, Paak, and Cyndra alone before Hetton.

  “And who are you, my dear?” Hetton asked, his words sharp and clipped as they echoed thinly off the walls of the great room.

  “My name is Rainah,” Zannah answered. “I am—I was—a friend of Kel’s.”

  “Of course,” Hetton said with a knowing smirk. “Kelad’den had many female friends.”

  “She’s the one who betrayed us to the Republic!” Cyndra said angrily, shaking the still-cuffed Zannah by her elbow as she spoke.

  “I didn’t betray anyone,” Zannah protested, stalling for time as she tried to gauge Hetton’s power.

  During the war between the Brotherhood of Darkness and the Army of Light, both sides had actively sought to recruit those with power into their ranks. But it would have been a simple enough matter for a family as obviously rich and powerful as Hetton’s to shield one of their own from both the Jedi and the Sith.

  “You knew every detail of our plan,” Cyndra insisted. “Who else could it have been?”

  “You and Paak seem to have survived somehow,” Zannah remarked, letting the unspoken accusation hang in the air as she continued her subtle probing of Hetton.

  His power didn’t have the raw, untamed feel of one who had never been trained. Was it possible he’d once had a tutor or mentor? Had someone knowledgeable in the Force taught him the ways of the dark side, then abandoned him to follow Kaan? Or was there some other explanation?

  “I am not a traitor!” the Chiss shouted angrily.

  “Calm down, Cyndra,” Hetton said, sardonically amused at her outrage. “Chancellor Valorum had a Jedi Knight with him. Your mission was doomed to failure from the start.

  “And even if you had succeeded,” he added, his voice dropping to a low and dangerous whisper, “you still would have brought the wrath of the Great Houses crashing down on us.

  “What were you thinking?” he demanded with a sudden shout that made both Paak and Cyndra jump. Zannah could feel the air crackle as the small man called upon the Force, gathering the energies of the dark side. His power was undeniable, yet as she felt it building she was confident his abilities would be no match for hers.

  “Hetton, wait!” Paak shouted, sensing the peril they were in. “We’ve got something for you.”

  He held up Zannah’s lightsaber, waving it above his head so Hetton would be sure to see it. The effect was immediate and instantaneous; the building power of the dark side vanished as Hetton froze, his eyes riveted on the hilt. After a moment he seemed to regain his composure and sat back down, signaling for one of his guards to bring the treasure to him.

  When it was placed in his hand he studied it carefully for a full minute before setting it reverently in his lap.

  “Where did you find this?” he asked softly, though there was a dangerous undercurrent in his voice.

  “On her,” Paak said. “She wouldn’t tell us how she got it.”

  “Is that a fact?” Hetton muttered, suddenly staring at Zannah with renewed interest, running the fingers of one hand idly over the lightsaber’s handle. “I would be most interested to learn how she acquired this particular specimen.”

  “Give me five minutes alone with her,” Cyndra said. “I’ll get her to talk.”

  Zannah decided that the game had gone on long enough. It would have been a simple matter to snatch the lightsaber back to her shackled hands using the Force, but she had other weapons at her disposal …

  “The Force manifests itself in many different ways,” Darth Bane told her. “Every individual has strengths and weaknesses—talents they excel at and others that are more difficult.”

  The twelve-year-old Zannah nodded. Several months before, Bane had unlocked a new data bank of information in Freedon Nadd’s Holocron. Though he wouldn’t tell her what he had uncovered, he had added a new element to her training shortly after his discovery. Every two or three days he would put her through a series of rigorous tests and challenges designed to evaluate her command of different aspects of the Force.

  Until today he had refused to discuss the results of his experiments with her, and Zannah was beginning to fear she had somehow failed him.

  “Some possess raw elemental power; they can unleash storms of lightning from their fingertips, or move mountains with their mere thoughts. Others are more gifted in the subtle intricacies of the Force, blessed with the ability to affect the minds of friend and foe alike through the arts of persuasion or battle meditation.”

  He paused and fixed her with a long stare, as if considering whether to say more.

  “A rare few have a natural affinity for the dark side itself. They can delve into the depths of the Force and summon arcane energies to twist and warp the world around them. They can invoke the ancient rituals of the Sith; they can conjure power and unleash terrible spells and dark magics.”

  “Is that my gift?” Zannah asked, barely able to contain her excitement. “Am I a Sith sorcerer?”

  “You have the potential,” Bane told her. From inside his robes he produced a thin leather-bound manuscript. “Hidden deep inside the Holocron, I discovered a list of powerful spells. I transcribed them into this tome. They will help you focus and channel your power for maximum effect … but only if you study them carefully.”

  “I will, Master,” Zannah promised, her eyes gleaming as she reached out to take the book from his hands.

  “My ability to guide and teach you in the ways of sorcery are limited,” Bane warned her. “My talents lie in another direction. To unleash your full potential you will have to do much of the study and research on your own. It will be … perilous.”

  The thought of exploring the dark and dangerous secrets of Sith sorcery alone filled her with dread, but the chance to achieve a power beyond the abilities of her Master to comprehend was a temptation she could not resist.

  “I will not disappoint you, Master,” she vowed, clutching the tome tightly against her chest.

  “And if you ever try to use one of your spells against me,” Bane added as a final caution, “I will destroy you.”

  Zannah shook her elbow free of Cyndra’s grasp and raised her shackled hands before her face. Weaving her fingers in a complex pattern in the air, she reached out with the Force and plunged deep inside the Chiss woman’s mind to find her secret, most primal fears. Buried in her subconscious were nameless horrors: abominations and creatures of nightmare never meant to see the light of day. Drawing on the power of Sith sorcery, Zannah plucked them out and brought them to life one by one.

  The entire process took less than a second. In that time Cyndra had drawn her weapon, but instead of pointing it at Zannah she suddenly screamed and aimed it high in the air above her, firing wildly at demons conjured from her own mind that only she could see.

  The illusions grew more real and more terrifying the longer the spell continued, but Zannah had no intention of ending it yet. The Chiss shrieked and threw her weapon to the ground. She flung her head wildly from side to side, covering it with her arms and screaming “No!” over and over before collapsing on the floor. Weeping and sobbing, she curled up into a tight little ball, still muttering “No, no, n
o …”

  Everyone else in the room was staring at her in horror and bewilderment. Some of the guards took a step back, afraid they might somehow become infected by her madness.

  Zannah could have ended it then, dispelling the illusion and allowing Cyndra to fall into unconsciousness. She would wake hours later with only the most basic recollection of what had happened, her mind instinctively recoiling from the memories of what it had witnessed. Or Zannah could push the illusion even farther, driving her victim to the edge of insanity and beyond. An image of the Chiss romantically entangled with Kel sprang unbidden to her mind—and Zannah pushed.

  Cyndra’s cries of terror became animal howls as her sanity was ripped apart by the ghastly visions. Her hands scratched and clawed at her own eyes, tearing them out. Blood poured down her cheeks, but even blindness couldn’t save her from the nightmares crawling through what was left of her mind.

  Her howls stopped as her body went into seizure; her mouth foamed as her limbs convulsed wildly on the floor. Then, with a final bloodcurdling shriek, she fell suddenly limp and lay still. Her conscious mind completely and irrevocably obliterated, her catatonic body was now nothing more than an empty shell.

  The body shivered once, and Zannah knew that somewhere in the deepest core of Cyndra’s subconscious a small part of her still existed, silently screaming, trapped forever with the horrors inside her own mind.

  Though everyone had borne witness to the Chiss’s gruesome and terrifying end, Zannah was the only one who knew what had really happened. Yet even she was never quite certain just what her victims saw. Based on their reactions she figured it was probably better not to know. She coolly regarded Cyndra’s body on the floor, still trembling occasionally, then glanced up to see Hetton staring at her intently.

  She turned away when she heard Paak shouting at her from across the room.

  “You did this!” He pointed an accusing finger at her. “Stop her or she’ll kill us all!” he cried.

  Several of the guards took a step toward her, only to pull up at a slight shake of the head from Hetton.

  “She’s not dead,” Zannah announced. “Though whatever’s left of her mind surely begs for death.”

  The answer did nothing to calm Paak’s mounting hysteria. Reaching into his boot, he pulled out a short vibroblade and rushed at Zannah with a scream.

  The spell she had unleashed on Cyndra was powerful but exhausting. Zannah doubted she’d be able to effect a similar reaction in Paak before he ran her through with his blade. So instead of sorcery, she turned to more conventional means to dispatch him.

  Extending her shackled hands, she used the Force to draw the lightsaber from Hetton’s lap, sending it flying across the room and into her waiting palm. As the blades ignited she casually snapped her restraints with a single thought.

  Paak had come in expecting to skewer a helpless prisoner; he wasn’t ready to face an armed foe. She could have slain him right then and there, but she noticed that Hetton was still sitting passively in his seat, observing the action. Zannah decided she’d give him a show.

  Instead of decapitating her overmatched opponent, she simply toyed with him, twirling and spinning the lightsaber through intricate, hypnotic patterns as she easily parried his ham-fisted blows. Paak was a brawler, all muscle and no technique, making it ridiculously simple for her to repulse his attacks. He came at her three times, hacking and slashing as he tried to bowl her over. Each time she would nimbly skip to one side and redirect his blade with her own, turning their combat into a dance where she was most definitely taking the lead.

  After three failed passes, the tattooed man threw his blade down in frustration and scooped up Cyndra’s fallen blaster. He took aim and fired twice from point-blank range, but Zannah didn’t even flinch.

  Using the precognitive awareness of the Force, she was easily able to anticipate the incoming shots and intercept them with the crackling crimson blades of her lightsaber. The first bolt ricocheted harmlessly up into the ceiling; the second she sent back at Paak.

  It struck him square between the eyes, leaving a smoking hole in his forehead. His body went rigid, then toppled over backward.

  Still twirling her weapon, Zannah turned to face Hetton again. He had not moved from his throne; nor had he made any signal to his guards. As she stared at him he rose slowly to his feet and walked down the stairs of the dais until he was standing only a few meters in front of her. Then he dropped to his knees before her and bowed his head.

  In a trembling voice he whispered, “I have been waiting for someone like you my entire life.”

  14

  Johun walked with long, quick strides down the dormitory corridors of the great Jedi Temple. He passed halls and staircases leading to the various wings that had been constructed to house the Jedi Knights and Padawans who chose to dwell here on Coruscant, making his way toward the base of the Spire of the High Council and the private chambers reserved for the Masters-in-residence.

  He nodded curtly to those who waved or called out to him as he marched briskly past, but Johun had no time to stop and exchange pleasantries. He had received a summons from Valenthyne Farfalla immediately after landing, and Johun had a pretty good idea what his old Master wanted to talk to him about.

  When he arrived at his destination he was surprised to find the door to Farfalla’s private quarters standing open, the Jedi Master seated at a desk inside, deep in study.

  “You wanted to see me?” Johun said by way of greeting, stepping inside and closing the door behind him.

  The room was decorated much as Farfalla’s private cabin had been aboard the Fairwind, the flagship of the now disbanded Jedi fleet. Fine art adorned the walls, and expensive rugs covered the floor. In one corner sat the four-poster bed depicting the key stages of Valenthyne’s rise to the rank of Jedi Master.

  “Johun,” Farfalla said with mild surprise. “I did not expect to see you so soon.” He turned in his seat and motioned to one of the other chairs in the room, indicating that his guest should sit.

  “Your summons sounded urgent,” Johun answered. He spread his feet and stood stiffly, refusing the offer of a chair.

  “I need to speak with you,” Farfalla said with a weary sigh.

  “As my friend, my Master, or a representative of the Jedi Council?”

  “That depends on what you have to say,” Farfalla answered, ever the diplomat. “I have heard that Chancellor Valorum intends to petition the Senate for funds to create a memorial to Hoth and the other Jedi who fell on Ruusan.”

  “No doubt he believes this to be a fitting tribute to the people who gave their lives to keep the Republic safe,” Johun remarked. “A tribute some would say is long overdue.”

  Farfalla raised an eyebrow. “So you had nothing to do with this request? Valorum came up with this idea on his own?”

  “I never said that,” the Jedi Knight replied. The truth, as both he and Valenthyne were well aware, was that Valorum had agreed to do this to show his gratitude toward Johun for saving him during the attack on Serenno.

  “As I suspected,” the Master said with another sigh. “The Jedi Council does not approve of this, Johun. They see it as an act of pride and arrogance.”

  “Is it arrogant to honor those who made the ultimate sacrifice?” Johun asked, staying calm. He was a Jedi Knight now; the Padawan who would fly off the handle at the slightest provocation was long gone.

  “Requesting a memorial to honor your former Master smacks of vanity,” Farfalla explained. “In elevating the man who first trained you, you in effect elevate yourself.”

  “This is not vanity, Master,” Johun explained patiently. “A memorial on Ruusan will serve as a reminder of how one hundred beings willingly marched off to face certain death so that the rest of the galaxy might live in peace. It will be a powerful symbol to inspire others.”

  “The Jedi do not need symbols to inspire them,” Farfalla reminded him.

  “But the rest of the Republic does,” Johun cou
ntered. “Symbols give power to ideas, they speak to the hearts and minds of the average person, they help transform abstract values and beliefs into reality.

  “This monument glorifies the victory on Ruusan: a victory that came not through the strength of our army, but through the courage, conviction, and sacrifice of Hoth and those who perished with him. It will serve as a shining example to guide the citizens of the Republic in their thoughts and actions.”

  “I see Valorum’s flair for speeches has rubbed off on you,” Valenthyne said with a rueful smile, recognizing that he would not be able to convince Johun to change his position.

  “It was you who chose to assign me to the Chancellor’s side,” Johun reminded him. “And I have learned many things in my years of service.”

  Farfalla rose from his seat and began to pace the room.

  “Your arguments are eloquent, Johun. But surely you know they will not sway the Jedi Council.”

  “This matter falls outside the Council’s authority,” Johun reminded him. “If the Senate approves funding for Valorum’s request, construction on Ruusan will begin within the month.”

  “The Senate will never refuse Valorum anything.”

  Farfalla snorted. He stopped pacing and turned toward Johun. “And what will your role be in this project?”

  “That, too, is for the Senate to decide,” Johun answered evasively. However, after a moment he relented and told Farfalla the truth. “The Chancellor has agreed to travel with a full security complement on future diplomatic missions so that I will be free to go to Ruusan and oversee construction of the memorial.”

  Farfalla sighed and sat back down in his chair.

  “I understand why you are doing this, Johun. I do not fully approve, but neither I nor the Jedi Council will stand in your way.” After a moment he added, “I doubt we could stop you now even if we tried.”