Lords of the past had doomed themselves to the nether realm through their attempts to conquer death by feeding off the energies of others, rather than by tapping the deepest strata of the Force and learning to speak the language of the midi-chlorians. Plagueis was finally learning to do that, and was just beginning to learn how to persuade, prompt, cajole, and coax them into action. Already he could command them to promote healing, and now he had been successful in enticing them to lower their defenses. If he could compel a murderous Yinchorri to become peaceful, could he — with a mere suggestion — accomplish the opposite by turning a peaceful being into a murderer? Would he one day be able to influence the leaders of worlds and systems to act according to his designs, however iniquitous? Would he one day conquer not only death but life, as well, by manipulating midi-chlorians to
Perhaps.
But not until the singular flame of the light side was extinguished from the galaxy. Not until the Jedi Order was stamped out.
From the start of his apprenticeship with Plagueis, his Master had demanded to know what Palpatine regarded as his greatest strength, so that he would know how best to undermine him; to know his greatest fear, so that Plagueis would know which to force Palpatine to face; to know what Palpatine cherished most, so that Plagueis could take that from him; and to know the things that Palpatine craved, so that Plagueis could deny him.
Some combination of the strictures — or perhaps recognition on Plagueis’s part for his apprentice’s unabated craving to visit Sith worlds — had landed Palpatine on scenic Dathomir. Sparsely populated and largely unexplored, Dathomir wasn’t Korriban or Ziost, but it was powerful in the Force, in part because of its fecundity, but mainly due to the presence of groups of female adepts who practiced dark side magicks.
He was meandering without clear purpose through one of Blue Desert City’s dustier quarters, far from the city center, when he became aware of a faint pulse of Force energy, the origin of which was indistinct but close at hand.
Calling more deeply on the Force, he allowed himself to be drawn toward the mysterious source, as if he were a starship surrendering to the embrace of a tractor beam. A tortuous series of turns delivered him into a market area brimming with knockoff goods, ersatz jewelry, and bits and pieces of junk that had found its way to Dathomir from who knew where, and ultimately to a small square amid the hustle and bustle, on one corner of which stood a human female, whose symmetrically blemished face was the color of burnished durasteel, and whose flamboyant clothing identified her as a visitor to the city, likely from some remote village on the planet’s far side. The hood of her crimson robe was raised, and from one shoulder hung a soft bag the size of a small suitcase.
Palpatine moved to the square’s diagonal corner to observe her. She was eyeing individuals in the passing crowd, not as if searching for someone in particular, but with a gaze more in keeping with target acquisition. She didn’t strike Palpatine as a thief or pickpocket, though she did exude a dark energy informed by equal measures of urgency and deceit. Abruptly he made himself discernible in the Force, and immediately she turned her head in his direction and began to hurry across the square in his direction.
“Good sir,” she said in Basic as she drew near.
Feigning interest in the cheap wares of an itinerant trader, he pretended to be taken by surprise when she approached him from his blind side.
“Are you addressing me?” he asked, turning to her.
“I am, sir, if you’ve a moment to indulge a being in need.”
Her oblique eyes were rimmed by dark blemishes that matched the tint of her thick lips; poking from the wide sleeves of her robe, the tapered fingers of her hands bore long, talon-like nails.
Palpatine pretended impatience. “Why single me out, among this crowd of more richly attired beings?”
“Because you’ve the look and bearing of a man of intelligence and influence.” She gestured broadly. “The rest are rabble, despite their fine cloaks and headwear.”
He made a decorous show of suppressing a yawn. “Save your adulation for the rubes, woman. But since you’ve correctly identified me as better than the rest, you’re obviously aware that I’ve no time to waste on confidence games or tricks. So if its mere credits you’re after, I suggest you widen your search for someone more charitable.”
“I don’t ask for credits,” she said, studying him openly.
“What then? Come to the point.”
“It’s a gift I offer.”
Palpatine laughed without merriment. “What could you possibly have to offer someone like me?”
“Just this.” She opened the soft shoulder bag to reveal a humanoid infant of less than a standard year in age. The infant’s hairless head was stippled with an array of short but still pliant horns, and its entire body had been garishly and ceremonially tattooed in red and black pigments.
A male Zabrak, Palpatine told himself. But not of the Iridonian sort; rather, a Dathomirian. “How do you come by this newborn? Have you stolen him?”
“You misunderstand, good sir. My own child, this one is.”
Palpatine glowered. “You say that he is a gift, and yet you dissemble. Have you had dealings that have led you into such deep debt that you would part with your own flesh and blood? Or perhaps you’re addicted to spice or some other intoxicant?”
She stiffened. “Neither. I seek only to save his life.”
Palpatine’s expression changed. “Then speak honestly. You’re a long way from your coven, Nightsister. And a practitioner of magicks more than sufficient to keep your child from harm.”
Her eyes opened wide and bored into him, in search of explanation. “How—”
“Never mind how I know, Witch,” Palpatine said sharply. “The child, whether yours or not, is a Nightbrother, conceived for the purpose of serving the sisterhood as a warrior and slave.”
She refused to avert her gaze. “You’re not a Jedi.”
“Clearly I am not, as I suspect you have already intuited. But you still haven’t answered my question. Why are trying to rid yourself of the infant?”
“To spare the one for the sake of the other,” she said after a moment. “Half a clan pair, this one is. And I want one to live freely, since the other can’t.”
“Who poses the threat?”
“Talzin is her name.”
“Who is Talzin?”
“The Nightsister Mother.”
Palpatine filed the information away. “Where is the infant’s father?”
“Dead — by tradition.”
He snorted. “Will the infant not be missed?”
“Talzin knows only of the one, not the other.”
“You delude yourself.”
Gently, she pushed the shoulder bag toward him. “Then take him. Please.”
“What would I do with him?”
“This one is strong in the Force. In the right hands, he can become a powerful asset.”
“Servitude of a different sort.”
She ignored the remark. “Take him. Save him.”
Palpatine regarded the newborn again. “Have you named him?”
“Maul, he is called.”
“Befitting the power you divine in him.”
She nodded. “Take him.”
Palpatine gazed at her and, motioning with his right hand, said, “You will forget this encounter.”
She locked eyes with him. “I will try.”
“For your own sake, I hope you do. Now, go. Before I change my mind.”
Placing the bag in his hands, she turned and hurried off, disappearing into the crowd.
Palpatine studied the bundle of life he held. That the Force was strong in the infant was reason enough not to allow him to wander about unprotected, and perhaps fall into the hands of the Jedi.
