by Rae Carson
© & TM 2018 Lucasfilm Ltd.
All rights reserved. Published by Disney • Lucasfilm Press, an imprint of Disney Book Group. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher.
For information address Disney • Lucasfilm Press, 1200 Grand Central Avenue, Glendale, California 91201.
ISBN 978-1-368-02573-7
Author photo by Michelle Daniel Photography
Cover illustration by Florian Nicolle
Design by Leigh Zieske
Visit the official Star Wars website at: www.starwars.com.
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
About the Author
About the Illustrator
For my fellow rebels Hannah Beil and Jacob Beil
Han was late—again. If he missed curfew one more time, there’d be hell to pay.
He ran through the maze of old sewers, thinking of ways he might be able to talk his way past Lady Proxima’s guards. A klaxon sounded, echoing through the damp, murky tunnel. The racket startled a clutch of rats, which squealed and skittered over the toe of Han’s boot, disappearing into the shadows. The klaxon meant that somewhere above him, on the dark streets of Corellia, a factory had just signaled the end of night shift. He had mere minutes to get back to the White Worm lair.
Fortunately, Han knew a shortcut. Or—perhaps—unfortunately. The quickest route would take him past Old Man Powlo’s hidey-hole. He could handle the old guy, right? Just because a few of Han’s fellow White Worms had disappeared in Powlo’s territory didn’t mean the shortcut wasn’t worth the risk. Han’s luck would hold. He was sure of it.
A grate appeared on his right, barely more than a dark impression in the stone wall. For the thousandth time, Han wished Lady Proxima would light these tunnels. But most in her gang were Grindalids, an amphibious species with near perfect nighttime vision. Mere humans didn’t warrant such accommodations.
Han crouched before the grate, grabbed it with both hands, and lifted it from its mooring. It moved easily; only a tiny clatter of crumbling mortar gave him away. Han ducked inside and replaced the grate behind him.
Now he had to choose: move quickly or quietly? He couldn’t do both.
His stomach growled. His pants were too short on his frame. Maybe he wouldn’t be so hungry if he wasn’t still growing like a weed. That’s why he was supposed to be proving himself to Lady Proxima. The position of Head had recently opened up due to the tragic disappearance of the current Head, and Han needed the promotion desperately—and the extra food ration that came with it.
“Quickly” won.
This tunnel was too low for an all-out sprint, so he hunched his shoulders and pushed forward at a fast jog. It was so dark that he risked missing his turn, so he let his fingertips slide along the wall as he went. The cold stone was slick with something squishy and damp that started to build up under his short nails. He tried not to think about it.
It was a welcome relief when his fingertips met air. He turned right, ducking his head to avoid the low overhang that he couldn’t see but knew was there. A sudden scent brought him up short.
The White Worm lair with its many entrances wasn’t exactly located in the most fragrant part of Corellia. Word on the street was you could smell a White Worm coming a klick away, thanks to the abandoned buildings and sewers they called home. Han hardly noticed anymore. He was nose-blind to the scents of rot and waste; it was rare for him to smell anything at all down here.
But this was different: sharp and bitter, with a hint of char. Old Man Powlo had found something unspeakable to burn for breakfast. Just as well. It meant that Han was less likely to become breakfast himself.
A few more steps, and a dim glow began to cut through the darkness. The tunnel walls brightened from fathomless black to sticky gray. Here, beneath the oldest part of the city of Coronet, the tunnels were made of duracrete blocks, with dark mold staining the mortar and oozing down the sides. Good thing Han wasn’t afraid of a little dirt.
Just a few meters more, and he would be beyond Powlo’s lair and home free. The tunnel ceiling became even lower, and Han had no choice but to slow his pace.
The glow sharpened. Light poured from a giant crack in the wall—large enough for an almost grown man like him to slip through. Instead, he began to tiptoe past.
Against his better judgment, Han found himself peeking inside. He’d seen Old Man Powlo before from a safe distance but never spoken with him. He couldn’t help being curious.
The crack opened into a small round cave. A fire pit ringed with cinderblocks took up the center space. Beside it crouched Powlo himself, wild gray hair sticking up at all angles, knobby knees bent practically to his ears as he held something dark to his mouth and crunched noisily. He was skinny and long limbed, clothed in tattered rags. From this distance, lit only by firelight, Powlo seemed human, but Han knew better. No one had any idea what species the old fellow was, or where in the galaxy he’d come from, but he was certainly not human.
Han crept past, toes light, breath measured and soft. The ball of his left foot dislodged a bit of gravel.
It was the slightest sound, hardly noticeable at all, but Powlo whirled, baring sharp teeth. The creature’s eyes glowed molten gold around slitted pupils, like those of a venomous snake.
Han froze. His mind told him to flee, but his instincts were commanding him to stay put, that running was the worst thing he could do. Han always trusted his instincts. They’d kept him alive more than once.
They stared at each other for the space of several breaths.
“When in doubt, brazen it out” was Han’s motto. So he forced a cheerful smile and said, “Hey, there, pal.”
The creature frowned. “Not pal,” he said. “Powlo.” His voice was raspy and thin.
Han blinked. “Right. My mistake. Um, anyway, your breakfast smells”—like rotting fish boiled in bad ale—“really delicious.”
Powlo’s glowing eyes narrowed. “Won’t share. Can’t make me.”
Han put up his hands. “No problem. I’ve got breakfast waiting for me back at the lair. Lady Proxima’s probably getting worried by now.” All lies, of course. Proxima didn’t give a rat’s whisker about him or anyone, but Powlo didn’t need to know that. “Just heard there was a fellow down here. Wanted to stop by and, uh, say hi. Introduce myself. I’m Han.”
“Han,” Powlo repeated.
“Yep, that’s me. And you’re Powlo. See? We’re friends now.”
The fire crackled while Powlo considered this. He took another bite and chewed, his eyes never leaving Han’s face.
Han peered carefully at the thing in Powlo’s hands. Whatever he was holding had legs. Lots of legs. At least it wasn’t a human body part.
“Well, I’d better be on my way,” Han said at last. “Or Proxima will come looking for me. Nice meeting you, Powlo.” He began to back away from the crack in the wall.
“Wait. Han.”
Han froze.
In a plaintive tone, the c
reature said, “You visit again?”
“Uh, sure. Of course.”
Powlo sneered, showing his pointed teeth. No, he was smiling. “See soon!” he said.
“You bet,” Han replied. He waved jauntily and fled down the corridor toward the White Worm lair. The guard at the gate seemed disappointed when Han slipped through at the last minute, just before he had a chance to lock it.
He’d been right to trust his luck.
Qi’ra reached the head of the mess line. She dipped a ladle into the giant pot and plopped the viscous sludge that passed for breakfast into her bowl. It was grayish-green with dark flecks, and it tasted like mud soaked in brine. But in all her years with the White Worms it had never made her sick, which meant that forcing herself to eat it was the sensible thing to do. Day after day after day.
Of course, if she won the promotion that had just opened up, she’d get to eat fish for a change. Even an occasional piece of fruit.
Thinking of the promotion made her glance toward the doorway. All the other scrumrats who were under consideration for the job had made it back from the night’s errands on time. All except one, that was: a human named Han. She didn’t think he’d be much competition, especially if he turned up late yet again. Lady Proxima hated tardiness. More important, she didn’t trust anyone who couldn’t keep up with her unreasonable demands.
Qi’ra took her bowl to one of the many round tables dotting the mess hall. Each one could sit six humans or Grindalids, and though the tables were made of molding wood, their thick, slightly irregular shapes reminded Qi’ra of giant lily pads. In fact, the entire White Worm den put Qi’ra in mind of a dank swamp—dark walls, wet floors, creeping algae, and even these lily pad tables.
Two others were already seated: Rebolt, a tall, broad-shouldered human boy with a perpetual frown, and Tsuulo, a green-skinned Rodian with one sagging antenna, whose cheerful disposition almost made up for the fact that Qi’ra could hardly understand a word he said.
“Han’s not back yet,” Rebolt observed while Qi’ra settled herself at the table.
“Indeed,” Qi’ra said. “Late again.”
“Good,” Rebolt said, then shoved a spoonful of sludge into his mouth.
Along with her and Han, Rebolt and Tsuulo were the most likely candidates for the promotion. Rebolt probably figured Han was his toughest competition. Qi’ra took a bite of sludge to hide her smile. He had no idea who his real competition was.
Tsuulo twittered a question in Huttese.
“They’re hounds, not dogs,” Rebolt replied, bristling. “And they’re in the kennel, getting fed.”
“Those biscuits you feed them are better than this,” Qi’ra mumbled, letting a glop of porridge fall from her spoon and back into the bowl.
Rebolt’s hounds almost never left his side. They were fierce, enormous beasts who drooled almost as much as they ate, and Qi’ra was not sad that Rebolt had come to breakfast without them this time.
Tsuulo said something else. All Qi’ra understood was “Han,” but Rebolt’s head shot up. Qi’ra followed his gaze toward the entrance, and sure enough, Han himself was barreling through. He was dirty and disheveled, with sewer mud caking his boots.
The curfew alarm pealed.
“Figures,” Rebolt grumbled. “Just in time.”
Qi’ra shared his disgust, but she kept her face emotionless. She always kept her face emotionless.
“Someone needs to find out where he goes,” Rebolt said. “Why he’s late or almost late all the time.”
Rebolt wanted dirt on him. Something that would disqualify Han for the job of Head. Qi’ra didn’t like Han any more than Rebolt did, but he’d get no help from her.
She kept an eye on Han as he hurried through the line, got his bowlful of sludge and brought it to their table. “Hey,” Han said.
“Hey,” they responded in unison.
The four of them almost always sat together. It wasn’t like they were friends or anything, but they were among the oldest in the gang and among the first accepted into the White Worms who weren’t actually Grindalids. They had survived a long time in this place. So they tended to stick together.
They ate mostly in silence. The other White Worms watched them from their own tables. Things had been tense lately. Everyone in the lair knew one of the four was most likely to get the position of Head. The Grindalids hated the idea of taking orders from a human or Rodian. It made sense, though. Grindalids needed environment suits to be on Corellia’s surface for any length of time. Their white, segmented carapaces couldn’t handle too much dry air or light. But a human or Rodian could conduct business anywhere, anytime, without an expensive suit to maintain, which was why Lady Proxima had been recruiting so many humans the past few years. Naming one of them Head was the right strategic move for her.
“So, Han,” Rebolt began, and Qi’ra winced with the sure knowledge that Rebolt was about to be clumsy and arrogant and pretty much eaten alive by the much cleverer Han.
“Rebolt,” Han said around a mouthful of sludge.
“You were almost late. Again.”
“You call it almost late, but I call it on time. I was on time. Again.”
“Where do you go all the time? What’s so important that you’d risk curfew?”
“Wow, is it just me, or is the sludge particularly fishy today?” Han said.
“Very fishy,” Qi’ra agreed. Han had a way of throwing people off guard. Rebolt was trying to be assertive, but in just a few sentences, Han would turn the tables. She used to believe it was all part of a careful strategy of Han’s, but now she knew better. There was nothing strategic about Han; everything he did was born of instinctive reflex.
Tsuulo said something, but Qi’ra only understood the word for “burn.”
“Yep,” Han agreed. “Definitely overcooked.”
Rebolt’s frown deepened. “Don’t change the subject. I want to know where you were.”
Han scraped around his bowl with his spoon. “No dogs today? Did something happen to them?”
Rebolt bristled; Tsuulo twittered something.
“Oh, right. My mistake,” Han said. “Hounds, not dogs.”
Qi’ra understood Rebolt’s desire to find out where Han went; if he was running extra errands for Lady Proxima or doing something that gave him an advantage, then Qi’ra wanted to know too. But Rebolt’s direct line of attack was always doomed to fail, and he couldn’t see it.
“I’m going to tell Lady Proxima she should have you followed,” Rebolt said.
“You do that,” Han said. “You waste Proxima’s resources like that and you’re bound to stay a scrumrat forever.”
Rebolt began to protest but Qi’ra set her bowl down loudly. The other three looked at her.
“Everyone has secrets,” she said to Rebolt. If a direct line of attack didn’t work, sometimes you had to come at things sideways instead. “As you pointed out, no one knows where Han goes after his shift.”
Han narrowed his eyes at her, not sure where she was going with this. Good, she thought.
“For another example,” she continued calmly, “no one knows why Tsuulo’s left antenna is drooping. He’s too young. Something happened to him.”
Tsuulo frowned.
“For yet another example, no one knows where your hounds came from, Rebolt, or how a poor White Worm kid like you can afford to feed and train them.”
The side of Han’s mouth turned up into a tiny half smile.
“So, I suggest you let it go,” Qi’ra said, “or someone might be tempted to ask you some uncomfortable questions.”
“Are you threatening me?” Rebolt asked.
Qi’ra tried to appear affronted. “Of course not. I’m helping you. And you’re welcome.”
Rebolt looked back and forth between her and Han, but he chose to be uncharacteristically wise and said nothing.
Han leaned toward her and said, “Does that mean you have a secret too, Qi’ra?”
His face still wore a lopsided
grin. She hated that grin. It made her want to punch him in the face.
“Everyone has secrets,” she said evenly. The trick with Han was not to let him put you on the defensive. “If I told you mine, I’d just have to go find new ones.”
His eyes did not leave her face as she turned her attention back to her bowl of sludge.
Tsuulo said something that made both boys snicker.
“What did he say?” Qi’ra demanded. “Tsuulo, what did you say?”
“He said it’s no secret that you look lovely today,” Rebolt offered. “Isn’t that right, Han?”
Han nodded. “And that you are the jewel of the White Worm lair. Also not a secret.”
“And that the Corellian sun is a dark shadow compared to your…” Rebolt began gamely. “Uh, something really bright.”
Tsuulo was laughing now.
“Fine, don’t tell me,” Qi’ra said, making sure her face displayed a slight frown. But letting them joke at her expense was a good thing. It would put them at ease. Lure them into underestimating her.
A commotion across the room got their attention. The round hatch to the inner sanctum swung open. A pair of small Grindalids entered the room and stared threateningly over the pale white beaks of their faces. They were followed by Moloch, Lady Proxima’s right-hand Worm. He was still wearing an envirosuit, a set of brown robes bleached grayish white from sewer pollutants. The robes were insulated with layers of moist air. A vaporizer rested around his neck, blowing mist up at his wrinkled white skin and long nostril slits. In one hand he carried an ivory-colored shockstaff—a staff that occasionally appeared in Qi’ra’s nightmares. From a distance it seemed beautiful, sculpted in flowing lines like flowers or vines. But up close, the vines became limbs and tentacles that swirled around the staff’s tip as though writhing in pain and horror.
Moloch must have just returned from the surface. Qi’ra wondered where he’d been and what secrets he was keeping.
“Han,” he bellowed.
Han flinched, and his bowl clattered on the table, drawing Moloch’s attention. The Grindalid strode toward them, robes dragging on the ground.
“Ha!” smirked Rebolt. “You’re in trouble for being late after all.”
