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.
