With slow plodding steps he crossed the room and opened the door leading back out to the hall. The three Jedi who had escorted them there were all sitting cross-legged on the ground, silently meditating. They scrambled to their feet upon seeing the Ithorian emerge.
"You may return to your regular duties," he informed them.
"Yes, Master," they replied, bowing in unison. Dismissed, the Jedi headed up the stairs to whatever tasks awaited them in the higher floors of the tower.
Moving at a pace so languid it bordered on maddening, Obba led the way back down to the base of the tower and out into the gardens where, at long last, he stopped.
They stood before one of the many monuments raised in the garden. This particular one was a white block of stone a meter and a half high and nearly twice as wide. The handles of five lightsabers were inlaid on the face of the stone; beneath each was a small engraved portrait-presumably an image of the lightsaber's owner. Beneath this, in larger letters, was the following:
In honor of those who fell beneath the blade of the last Dark Lord of the Sith. May their memories live on, to remind us of what is lost. There is no emotion; there is peace; There is no death; there is the Force. Jedi Master Valenthyne Farfalla Jedi Master Raskta Lsu Jedi Master Worror Dowmat Jedi Knight lohun Othone Jedi Knight Sarro Xaj Caleb of Ambria
When her eyes fell upon the last name of the list, Serra felt her knees grow weak. Speechless, she could only stare at the monument, her mind unable to make sense of what she was seeing.
"What is this?" Lucia asked, echoing her mistress's confusion. "Why'd you bring us here?"
"Ten years ago, Master Valenthyne Farfalla learned that a Dark Lord of the Sith had somehow survived the thought bomb on Ruusan. Acting on a tip, he quickly assembled the team of Jedi you see honored on this monument to try to apprehend the Dark Lord. They followed him into the Deep Core and confronted him on the world of Tython. None of the Jedi survived."
"Did you know them well?" Lucia wondered aloud, still following Serra's instructions to ask questions at every opportunity.
"I knew Master Worror and Master Valenthyne back when we were all Padawans. We served together in Lord Hoth's Army of Light during the war against Lord Kaan's Brotherhood of Darkness."
For several seconds there was silence, Obba lost in his memories and Serra still too stunned to speak. It was Lucia who broke the spell, asking yet another question.
"The last name, Caleb of Ambria-I remember hearing it back during the war. He was a healer, wasn't he?"
"He was. In the battle against the Jedi on Tython, the Dark Lord was grievously injured. He went to Ambria in search of the one man with the knowledge to heal his wounds. But Caleb refused to help him."
In her mind's eye, everything became clear to Serra. As her father had predicted, the man in black armor had returned. As before, he had come to try to compel Caleb to work his art. As before, Caleb had resisted. This time, however, her father had the upper hand. Having sent his daughter away, there was nothing the Sith could do to compel him to cooperate.
"What happened when the healer refused?" she whispered, her eyes still transfixed on her father's name etched into the base of the stone.
"Nobody knows for certain. What we do know is that shortly after the Dark Lord arrived, Caleb sent out a message alerting the Jedi Council. He told them the last of the Sith was at his camp on Ambria, injured and virtually helpless. He wanted the Jedi to come capture him."
"Why would he do that?" Lucia wondered. "I seem to remember hearing that Caleb refused to take sides in the war. Didn't have much use for the Jedi or the Sith."
"He did not always agree with the philosophies of our Order," Obba admitted. "But he was a good and moral man. The war was long over by this point, and his conscience would not suffer evil to endure without taking action. He knew if he let the Sith leave, sooner or later more innocents would suffer.
"Upon receiving the message, the Council sent a team led by Master Tho'natu out to Ambria. I was one of the Jedi chosen to accompany him. Unfortunately, by the time we arrived at the camp, Caleb was dead."
"How?" Serra asked, her voice low and devoid of all emotion.
"The Dark Lord learned about the message. Driven mad by Caleb's betrayal, his injuries, and the corruption of the dark side, he butchered the healer, hewing him limb from limb.
"By the time we arrived, the Dark Lord had gone completely insane. He was still lurking around the camp and he rushed out to attack us, one man against an army of Jedi. Master Tho'natu was forced to cut him down to protect his own life."
Serra's father had been right. He had known the black-armored man would return. He had sensed the danger, and he had sent his daughter away. He had saved her life, at the cost of his own. And in so doing, he had helped destroy the man Serra feared more than any other.
A flood of emotions swept through her. Relief. Guilt. Sorrow. Shame. But drowning them all out was a fierce, primal anger. More than anything she wanted revenge. She wanted to strike out at the monster who had terrorized her as a child and then, years later, killed her father. Yet that was impossible. The Jedi had stolen that from her.
"What was he like?" Lucia asked. "The last Sith, I mean."
"He was a tragic, pathetic figure," Obba answered. "Thin. Frail. You could see the madness in him when he charged us. His eyes were as dark and wild as his hair."
No, Serra thought. That's not right. "He had hair?" The black-armored man's head was shaved.
"Yes. Hair like an animal's. Long. Unkempt. Matted with blood."
An unthinkable suspicion was worming its way into Serra's brain.
"Was he a big man?" she demanded, straining to keep the urgency from her voice. "Tall, I mean?"
The Ithorian shook his head. "No, not overly so. Not for a human."
The dark-armored man was a giant. At least as tall as you, Master Obba.
Oblivious to Serra's inner turmoil, the Ithorian continued his tale. "The lightsabers of the fallen Jedi were found in Caleb's camp; the Dark Lord had kept them as trophies. Master Tho'natu brought them back, along with the healer's remains, so they could be laid to rest in a place of honor.
"This monument represents one of the greatest triumphs of the Jedi Order, but also one of its grimmest chapters. The Sith are no more, but only at the cost of many lives that will be sorely missed. This was the price we had to pay to rid the galaxy of the Sith forever."
Serra's mind was churning, trying to put all the pieces together. She needed time to think, to figure it out. But she couldn't do that here-not with her father's name staring up at her from the stone. She needed to leave before she said or did something that would expose her secret and reveal her true identity.
"You have given us a lot to think about, Master Obba," Serra said stiffly. "I will be sure to relay all of this to the king."
Master Obba cleared his throat apologetically. "I have every confidence you will do so, but I would still like to send one of my own people to investigate and see if the talismans are still there."
When Serra hesitated before answering, Lucia came to her rescue.
"What would be the point of that? I mean, if you're right about Set Harth being the killer, wouldn't he be long gone by now? He's not going to hang around after he gets his hands on those talismans, right?"
"You are probably correct," the Jedi admitted after considering her words.
"Then I see no reason for the Jedi to follow up on this matter," Serra said, collecting herself enough to seize the opportunity Lucia's quick thinking had provided her. "Given the delicate political situation on Doan, it would probably be best for all concerned if the investigations were conducted by the local authorities."
She could see the Ithorian wasn't pleased with the arrangement, but he had been backed into a corner. Caught in the web of galactic politics, he was now helpless to take action without turning this into an official diplomatic incident-something the Senate would not look kindly on.
"If we learn
any news about Set or the talismans," the princess promised, "you have my word that we will inform you right away."
"Thank you, Your Highness," the Ithorian replied with a stiff bow, only now realizing how he had been outmaneuvered.
Serra gave Master Obba a curt nod as a final farewell, then quickly turned to take her leave, anxious to return to the privacy of her shuttle. Lucia immediately fell into step beside her. Neither of them spoke as they crossed the gardens to the waiting airspeeder; the silence continued as the speeder whisked them up and away, turning the buildings and swarming crowds of Coruscant into a blur beneath them. Serra was still thinking about the black-armored man from her nightmares. She knew her dreams were more than just memories or subconscious fears bubbling to the surface. Caleb had been neither Sith nor Jedi, yet he had believed in the natural power of life and the universe and had taught Serra to listen to the power within her, to draw on it when she needed wisdom, courage, or strength of spirit. Most important, he had taught her to trust her instincts.
In the same way Caleb had known that the black-armored man would return, Serra knew he was still alive. She knew he was somehow involved in her father's murder. The Jedi who had come to Ambria had been tricked. She was certain of it. It wouldn't have been hard; they wanted to believe the Sith were extinct. It was always easier to make people accept a lie they had hoped and wished for.
A plan began to form in Serra's mind. For too many years, she had been tormented by the terrifying figure from her childhood. Now, with Caleb's death as the catalyst, she was going to do something about it. She would avenge her father. She was going to find the black-armored man, and she was going to kill him. She didn't speak again until she and Lucia were alone on board the private shuttle that would take them back to Doan. Here she knew they were safe, that whatever was said would stay between the two of them. Even so, she wasn't ready to confess everything. She would keep the secrets of her past-her father, her nightmares-a little longer yet.
"The assassin you hired. I need you to contact her again" was all she said. "I have another job for her."
CHAPTER SIX
Set Harth had been on Doan for two days. He was determined not to still be here by the end of the third. In part, he wanted to be gone before any more Jedi showed up to investigate Medd's death, or to try and claim the artifacts the Cerean had come for in the first place. But beyond that, Set was just sick of being surrounded by miners.
They were all beginning to look the same: squat and stout, their common thickness a result of generations spent at hard manual labor. Their skin was brown and weathered, not to mention caked with the dust and grime that hung over everything. They all had the same hair-short and dark-and they all wore the same clothes, drab and ratty. Even their features all looked the same: grim and sullen, despondent and broken by a lifetime of grinding in the quarries.
To say he didn't fit in was the epitome of understatement. Set was thin and wiry, with long, silver hair flowing down over his shoulders. His skin was creamy white and unblemished by the elements; his handsome features conveyed a mischievous charm and just a touch of arrogance. And, unlike the miners, Set dressed with style.
He wore a tailor-fitted combat suit, the material a shade somewhere between black and violet. The lightweight outfit gave him full mobility, yet was also durable enough to afford some protection if, as so often happened around Set, events took a violent turn. Atop this he wore a pale yellow vest; both the combat suit and vest were sleeveless to leave his arms bare. A fashionable violet band of woven veda cloth encircled each ripped bicep, and his boots, belt, and fingerless gloves were made from the finest Corellian leather.
Typically he also carried a GSI-24D disruptor pistol holstered on his right thigh and a conventional blaster strapped to his left. Here on Doan, however, disruptors were banned, so he had tucked both weapons-along with his lightsaber-into the various pockets lining the inside of his vest.
It was obvious he didn't belong with the rest of the crowd in the cantina, but Set wasn't trying to blend in. It was common knowledge that mercenaries could find high-paying jobs here on Doan. Set figured anyone who saw him would assume he was just one more soldier-of-fortune hoping to cash in on the escalating violence between the rebels and the nobility.
They'd be wrong, of course. Set was here hoping to cash in, but it had nothing to do with Doan's inevitable civil war. Less than a week ago his former colleague Medd Tandar had been on this world, and there was only one reason he would ever come to a pit like this.
Master Obba sent you here to find some dark side talisman, didn't he? Only you got more than you bargained for. Always suspected you were soft.
Whatever Medd had come in search of, he had died before retrieving it. That meant the item was still here, just waiting for someone to claim it. Someone like Set.
For the past two days he had traveled the scarred surface of Doan, moving from one cantina, barracks, or work site to another. At each stop he asked questions, trying to find someone-anyone-who knew something about the Cerean who had been killed along with the rebel leaders. More importantly, he needed to find someone who knew what Medd had been looking for.
To anyone who asked, he explained that he was interested because he was a collector of rare artifacts. But the people here were wary. Some of them suspected he was working for the royal family. It wasn't easy to get the answers he needed. Still, over the years Set had learned that everyone had their price:or their breaking point.
His investigations had led him here, to this nameless cantina owned by a Rodian bartender named Quano, one of only a handful of nonhumans who chose to try to make a living on Doan.
Eager to get away from the blowing dust clouds rolling across the surface, Set pushed open the door and entered the cantina. He immediately began to regret his decision. It was clear that the crowd in this particular establishment comprised the lowest dregs of Doan mining society. Most of the people here were bent and twisted; the hard-timers, hunchbacked and half crippled by a lifetime of digging up ore for the profit of others. Their clothes weren't just shabby, but filthy, and the acrid stench of sweat and unwashed bodies nearly brought tears to his eyes. Exactly the kind of people Set would expect to find in a Rodian's bar.
The furniture was as wretched and broken-down as the clientele: glasses disfigured by chips and cracks; discolored tabletops tottering on three rickety legs; rusting stools that looked as if they would crumble if given one good kick. Against the far wall was a long, wide bar covered by a slap-dash coat of peeling paint that did little to hide the rotting wood beneath. The row of bottles perched on the shelf behind the bar were covered in a thick layer of dirt and grime, but Set didn't need to read the labels to guess they were all brands that readily sacrificed quality for price.
He noticed two heavyset thugs loitering on either side of the door and quickly sized them up: typical goons-big, strong, and stupid. He could tell from the awkward way they stood that each had a small pistol jammed down the front of his respective belt.
Leaning against the wall behind the bar was the green-skinned proprietor himself, his arms crossed in front of his chest. His insect-like eyes glared at Set from across the room, his tapir-like snout twisted into what the former Jedi could only assume was meant to be a sneer.
Ignoring the uninviting greeting, Set made his way slowly toward the Rodian. Two dozen eyes gave him the once-over as he passed the bar, their collective gaze cold, appraising, and ultimately uncaring as the owners turned their attention back to the brackish sludge swirling around in their mugs.
"Bar for miners only," Quano muttered in heavily accented Galactic Basic once Set was close enough to rest an elbow on the bar. "You not drink. Go away."
Set reached out and casually dropped a pair of hundred-credit chips on the counter. The Rodian tried to act nonchalant, but Set could sense that he was suddenly holding his breath.
"I was hoping we could have a little chat," Set told him, getting right to the point. "Alone."
Darth Bane - Dynasty of Evil Page 8
