by Troy Denning
A faint shiver of danger sense alerted Luke, and he turned to see Sarasu Taalon approaching through the greasy pall of smoke. Like all native Keshiri whom Luke had met, Taalon was slender and good looking, with lavender skin and violet eyes. His long face had been etched by age lines, though just deep enough to give him a dignified appearance grimly at odds with the hostility and narcissism that permeated his Force aura.
The smoke began to billow away as Taalon drew near, and Luke realized that the Sith was using the Force to clear the air around him. This simple task would have taxed his own abilities no more than it did those of the High Lord, but the Force was a sacred thing to Luke, not some tool to be utilized for one’s personal comfort and convenience. That was the fundamental difference between Sith and Jedi, he thought: Sith believed the Force existed to serve them, and Jedi regarded themselves as servants of the Force.
Taalon stopped at Luke’s side, his nose wrinkling at the smell of charred flesh that still lingered in the air. “You have a fondness for the odor of burning Sith, Master Skywalker?”
“If you mean, do I like it better than the smell of Sith left rotting in the jungle, then yes,” Luke answered, not turning away from the column he had been studying. “Especially when they have been left in the heat for two days already.”
Taalon waved a slender hand in indifference. “Time matters little to the dead, Master Skywalker, and we had work to do,” he said. “But I apologize if the odor offended you. Given that it was only Sith you were smelling, I had thought you would find it satisfying.”
“I don’t relish anyone’s death,” Luke replied. “And I was sorry for your loss.”
This last part drew a snort of disbelief. “You can’t lie to a Sith, Master Skywalker.”
Luke turned to Taalon with a smile as confident as it was serene. “If that were true, you’d know that I’m not lying. I took no joy in the deaths of Lady Rhea and her team aboard Sinkhole Station. And I’ll take no joy in killing you and Gavar Khai—after you’ve forced me to it, of course.”
Taalon’s smirk narrowed to a thin-lipped frown. “You see, that’s where we are different, Master Skywalker. When our work together is done, I’m very much looking forward to killing you.”
Luke shrugged. “We all need a dream, Lord Taalon.” He returned his attention to the battle-scorched arcade and traced a finger down a ropy carving. It might have been a serpent climbing the column, or a vine twined around it; like all of the carvings in the temple, it was abstract and mysterious. “Until then … these reliefs obviously had some deep significance to whoever built this place. Do they mean anything to you?”
The frown departed Taalon’s face, taking with it the glimpse it had offered of the ugliness hidden beneath his flawless features. He and Luke were working together only because they both knew that nobody would learn anything if they had to spend their time fighting. So far, during the two days it had taken to clear the jungle from the ruin and reclaim the dead from the planet’s carnivorous plant life, the High Lord had been surprisingly cooperative—a sure sign that he intended to kill Luke the instant he decided his Jedi counterpart had lost his usefulness.
After a moment, Taalon said, “It could mean many different things to my people, depending on what it is. If it is a serpent, then it’s associated with cunning and sudden death. A vine would be associated with patience and slow death, a tentacle with destiny and inescapable death, a rope with bondage and disgraceful death, a root with rejuvenation and feeding off death, an entrail with instinct and death by torture—”
“Thanks, I’ve got the idea,” Luke interrupted. It had not occurred to him that the carving might represent an entrail, but he had to admit that some sections did seem to have a certain smooth, slightly flattened shape. “Do your people have any symbols not associated with death?”
“Death is what awaits us all when the Destructors return.” Taalon turned to Luke. “Do you know of the Destructors, Master Skywalker?”
“Why don’t you enlighten me?” Luke’s reply was designed to avoid a direct answer. He knew enough about Lost Tribe politics to know that Vestara would pay in blood for anything she had let slip—at least accidentally. “The name certainly sounds ominous.”
“With good reason, Master Skywalker—with very good reason.”
Taalon went on to explain what Luke already knew: that according to Keshiri legend, a species of mysterious Destructors came back every few eons to wipe out civilization and return the galaxy to its natural, primitive state. When the original Sith had crash-landed on their world more than five millennia in the past, the native Keshiri had greeted them as the legendary Protectors, who were destined to save the world when the Destructors came again—a prophecy now embraced by the Sith themselves.
Taalon pointed at the sinuous carvings on the column, then continued, “These symbols, as you call them, have always been associated with the Destructors.”
“You think Abeloth was a Destructor?” Luke asked, astounded. “And you still tried to make a prisoner of her?”
“There was no time to examine the artwork, if you’ll recall.” Taalon pointed toward the interior wall of the arcade, where a long row of three-meter doorways led into a series of cavernous habitation cells. Inside, Luke knew from their earlier explorations, were Wookiee-sized benches and stone bunks large enough to sleep rancors. “But just because Abeloth tried to hide in a ruin adorned with such artwork doesn’t mean she is a Destructor. She seems rather too small to belong in this place, would you not agree?”
Luke faced the far side of the courtyard, where Gavar Khai was simultaneously tending the funeral pyre and keeping a watchful eye over Abeloth’s corpse. Hidden beneath a blood-soaked robe being used as a death shroud, her body was about the size of a normal human woman—a bit on the tall side, perhaps, but too small to justify the huge furniture in the habitation cells.
Finally, Luke said, “At least in that form, she is.”
He turned back toward Taalon and found him facing the center of the courtyard, where the Font of Power was gurgling inside its pall of yellow steam. Luke could feel that it was imbued with the same dark Force energy he had sensed the first time he had come here, in the company of his Mind Walking guides from Sinkhole Station. Whatever the fountain’s connection to Abeloth might be, he knew that its dark power would be an irresistible temptation to Taalon.
“You may be right, Lord Taalon. This ruin wasn’t where Abeloth lived.” Luke glanced toward the top of the ridge, where her lair was located. “We might learn more by returning to her cave.”
A predatory smile twisted across Taalon’s lips. “Come now, Master Skywalker,” he said. “I can feel the fountain’s power as clearly as you can.”
“The fountain didn’t make my Jedi Knights lose touch with reality, and it’s not what we’re here to investigate.” Luke turned toward the far side of the courtyard, where Gavar Khai was struggling to keep the pyre aflame on a diet of tree ferns and club mosses. “That would be Abeloth.”
“Whose source of power was here, perhaps?” Taalon retorted. “In this fountain?”
As the High Lord spoke, Gavar Khai stepped away from the pyre, positioning himself between Luke and Abeloth to preclude any attempt to retrieve the body. A robust man with long black hair, he had a hard face with clean lines and even features, and eyes so deeply brown they seemed the color of night. Judging by his interactions with Vestara, Khai was a good enough father—a little too stern, perhaps, but also loving and proud. Luke admired him for that much, at least. He realized he and the Sith would never part ways without doing combat, but fighting Khai would be a sad duty, and Luke would regret killing him.
From behind Luke, Taalon continued, “If you are going to reveal only what is convenient, Master Skywalker, our bargain is not worth the keeping.”
Luke stopped and allowed his shoulders to slump. He had no idea what would happen if Taalon drank from the Font of Power—whether it would kill him or bestow on him the unlimited power p
romised by Luke’s guides on his first trip to the ruin—and he truly did not want to find out. Unfortunately, any attempt he made to discourage the High Lord was doomed to backfire, and so he would have to pursue another strategy.
Besides, there was clearly some connection between Abeloth and the fountain, and Luke needed to learn about it as badly as his counterparts did. He turned, but remained where he was.
“I don’t know a lot,” Luke said, “and I won’t be responsible for what you do with the information I do have.”
Taalon’s voice assumed a superior tone. “Then you have been here before.”
“In a manner of speaking, yes.” Luke crossed to the edge of the sulfurous plume, then stopped and looked back over his shoulder. “Do you agree to my terms or not?”
Taalon’s eyes grew narrow and pensive. “Interesting,” he said. “Are you trying to frighten me … or tempt me?”
“Just trying to honor our bargain,” Luke said. “And you’re the one who’s insisting.”
Taalon thought for a moment, then finally turned to Khai. “Do nothing unless the Jedi attacks.”
Khai inclined his head. “As you command, High One.”
Luke stepped into the steam. His sinuses and throat went raw after his first scorching breath, but he continued forward, using the Force to clear the fumes away from his face. As he drew nearer to the sculpted-tentacle basin, the power of the fountain itself began to pour through him, making him feel cold and queasy and vile inside. It looked much the same as it had during his first visit, a jet of dark water about as thick as his leg, rising from some well of dark side energy so deep and ancient that it felt as old as the galaxy itself.
Taalon stopped next to Luke and let out a soft breath that might have been a gasp of awe—or a hiss of fear. He stared into the column of brown water for a long time, allowing its power to wash over him, then finally stepped away from Luke and let his hand drop toward his lightsaber.
“I’ve kept my side of the bargain,” Taalon demanded. “What do you know of this place?”
Luke continued to look into the column of brown water. “Well, it’s a very powerful nexus of the dark side.”
“That much I can sense for myself.” Taalon’s voice grew menacing. “I trust you have more to offer?”
Luke nodded. “Someone tried to trick me into drinking from it.” As he spoke, a small pair of vortices appeared in the yellow steam, spinning at about head height above the basin. “They told me that if I had the courage to drink from the fountain, I would have the power to achieve anything.”
“Who is they?” Taalon demanded.
Luke could feel the cold brush of Taalon monitoring his Force aura, trying to determine whether he was lying. He ignored the sensation and continued to watch as more vortices appeared in the sulfurous steam. The first set began to slow and grow more substantial, taking on the ovoid shape of eyes.
“My patience grows short,” Taalon warned. “If you believe you can deceive me, you are mistaken.”
“It was my guides from Sinkhole Station,” Luke explained. The first set of eyes began to glow with the same golden anger he had seen on his previous visit, and he glanced away, making the movement quick and obvious. “They weren’t very trustworthy.”
“Or so you would have me believe.” As Taalon spoke, his gaze shifted toward the fountain, and he let out an audible gasp as more sets of eyes began manifest around the first. “Who are they?”
Luke could only shake his head. “Your guess is as good as mine,” he said. “Destructors? Manifestations of the dark side? More beings like Abeloth?”
“Prisoners …” Taalon said, leaping to his own conclusion. He shot Luke an angry glance. “Just as you hoped I would become.”
Luke put on an innocent face, then protested, “I wanted to go back to Abeloth’s cave.”
“A ploy,” Taalon said. “Had you shown your eagerness, I would have sensed your trap.”
“You’re too clever for me again, Lord Taalon.” As Luke spoke, he experienced the familiar jab of his son’s Force touch. Ben felt worried and seemed to be trying to warn him about something, urging him to stay alert and keep his guard up. Obviously, something must have gone wrong back aboard the Shadow—but there was no use letting Taalon know. Luke turned back to the fountain and, maintaining a deliberate air of calm, pointed at one of the more alien-looking sets of eyes. “Any idea what species those might belong to?”
“None at all.” Taalon stood gazing from one set of golden eyes to another for several moments, then gave a sudden shiver and looked away. “But their promises are not to be trusted.”
“Promises?” Luke’s surprise was as real as his alarm. The darkness in the fountain had clearly reached out to Taalon in a way that it had not to him, and whether it was promising to reveal Abeloth’s true identity or the secret of drawing on the fountain’s power, that could only mean trouble. “They’re actually speaking to you?”
Taalon turned to Luke with a sneer. “Your act grows annoying, Master Skywalker.” He spun on his heel and started away from the basin. “It was a cunning trap, but nothing in this galaxy is harder to trick than a Sith High Lord.”
When Vestara looked over her shoulder, she saw only the fern-and-fungus jungle swallowing her path. When she paused to listen, she heard only the hammering of her own heart. When she pulled the hot, humid air through her nostrils and down into her heaving lungs, she smelled only the sour taint of her own fear. But she knew Ben Skywalker was behind her, just twenty or thirty meters down the slope. She could feel him, a fierce, fiery presence in the Force, clambering up the ridge behind her, tireless and determined and unforgiving.
It was her own fault, of course. Vestara could have tossed a thermal detonator into the medbay as she locked Ben inside, or she could have taken a minute to sabotage the Shadow’s fusion core before rushing away. But she had told herself that Ben was too quick and cunning to eliminate so easily, that trying to kill him would only decrease her chances of reaching Lord Taalon with the news of Ship’s return. The truth was, she simply had not wanted, to kill Ben. She had allowed her fondness to become weakness, and Vestara detested weakness … especially in herself.
Continuing to bound up the ridge, and drawing on the Force to combat her growing exhaustion, Vestara dared to glance back. She saw no sign of Ben, only a handful of fronds still fluttering in her wake. They would be still by the time he passed, and the thick undergrowth was perfect for an ambush. All she had to do was think of a way to negate his danger sense … or to overwhelm it. If she could find a circle of paroxispore or a brake of acid-feather, Ben would not know where the true threat lay. She would be able to camouflage herself nearby and—even with one shoulder only half usable—remedy her mistake. Her father would never need to hear of her weakness … and neither would High Lord Taalon.
Resolved to find a good place for an ambush, Vestara turned her gaze up the slope again and found a large, gray-green blossom hanging in front of her. It had no stamen or pistil, just a long tubular anther filled with a fine, rust-colored pollen.
“Ah, shrak!”
Vestara planted her heels and tried to whirl away, squeezing her eyes shut, but she was too late. There was already a spasm rolling up the anther, and a cloud of crimson pollen exploded into her face, filling her eyes with bright stinging pain. Her vision blossomed into flame-colored blindness. Knowing that to remain motionless was to die—no doubt slowly and painfully—she continued her spin and Force-leapt blindly away.
Whether she had turned across the slope or down it, Vestara had no idea—and she was never going to find out. She was still in the air when she slammed into a snarl of vines and simply hung there, bouncing. Thinking she had just gotten tangled, she reached for her lightsaber—then felt a vine tighten around her wrist and pull it away from her body. She tried to jerk free, but the vine was secured to her sleeve by a potent, sweet-smelling resin. When she grabbed it with the Force, its grasp grew tighter, stretching her arm out straight, p
ulling so hard that she feared her shoulder would pop out of its joint.
Vestara tried to blink her vision clear and succeeded only in coating her eyes with resin and making them sting even worse. She pulled her other arm from its sling and began to inch her hand toward her parang, trying to move slowly enough to avoid triggering another attack.
Something woody and sinuous slid up the inside of her arm and began to apply pressure in the opposite direction. Vestara’s heart began to hammer inside her chest, her breath coming in short gasps of panic. Another vine slithered up her leg, then twined itself around her torso and began to squeeze. Her thoughts began to whirl through her mind in a wild cyclone of anger and terror. After surviving so much on this world—attacks by carnivorous plants, Abeloth’s manipulations, being marooned with no hope of rescue—the thought of returning to it had filled Vestara’s heart with dread. But she had returned, because Lord Taalon had commanded it, and here she was again, blind and bound and about to become dinner for a tree.
“I … really … hate … this planet.”
Vestara grabbed her lightsaber in the Force and slipped it off its belt hook. The last thing she needed was for Ben to find her like this, and not only because she would be at his mercy. He had a bad habit of flunking he was saving her life, which usually manifested itself in a cocky grin that suggested he expected something in return—like maybe being honest or not betraying him when the chance came. She floated her lightsaber off to the side until it was several meters away, then depressed the activation switch.
The weapon came to life, emitting the familiar drone-and-crackle of a power supply focused through one of the Lost Tribe’s efficient Lignan crystals. Directing the blade by its sound, she slashed through the vines above her head and adjacent to her. Instead of dropping to the ground, Vestara tumbled away head-over-heels and found herself hanging upside down, caught now by her ankles and one arm. She used the Force to bring the lightsaber around above her feet.
