Tales from the New Republic (34 page)

Drawn to the innocence of the young woman’s frightened eyes, Brandl closed the distance between them. With hesitation, he caressed Fable’s smooth cheek, gently lifting her chin to raise her eyes. Astonished by the strength in her gaze, Brandl smiled pleasantly. “There is no frailty here,” he whispered with a narcissistic grin. His eyes narrowed dubiously as he took her bandaged hand, warming her cold fingers in the warmth of his touch. “The dark side beckons with the promise of easy gain, but there is always a price, always a tribute to its passion.”

Fable swallowed, struggling to find her voice. “I… I,” she stammered, “Lord Brandl, I need you… to…”

“Weigh your words carefully, young woman, do not waste time counting them.” Turning to Jaalib, he gently pressed her toward his son. “Jaalib, take our guest to a comfortable room. She will stay the night.”

Shoulders hunched in rage, Jaalib led Fable up the wide aisle, leading her out of the grand hall auditorium.

An excruciating cramp in her leg brought Fable to consciousness. She bolted frantically from the bed, scanning the shadows for signs of movement. Taking her lightsaber from beneath the pillow, she assumed the ready stance, waiting for the unseen phantom to strike. But there were no shadows to fight, except her own. “No bad dreams?” Stiff from the close quarters of the X-wing, she felt surprisingly well and rested. Snorting softly, Fable sat down on the bed. “No bad dreams!” she cheered into her pillow. Her optimism was short-lived as a knock sounded at the door. Momentarily, the latch cleared and the door parted. Pulling the blanket over her body, Fable swallowed a moment of fear, relieved when Jaalib’s brooding face peered into the chamber.

“The morning meal is ready,” he growled.

“I’ll be right there.” As the door closed, she hurried from the bed and dressed quickly. Ignoring her flight jacket, she pulled the fine linen shirt over her head and shoulders, leaving the long ends to hang over her leggings. In the darkened corridor outside her room, Jaalib was waiting. “This way.”

As the sweet aroma of sausage and boiling cereal filtered through her nostrils, Fable’s stomach rumbled appreciatively. Painfully aware of her hunger and of the young actor’s annoyance, she waited for him to sit down at the small table. A series of large flame ovens lined the back of the room behind him. Fable waited until Jaalib took the first bite, then eagerly began filling her plate with steaming broth and several links of sausage.

Hearing only the clang of her utensils, she looked up to find Jaalib glaring at her. There was a deep-seated loathing behind his eyes. Gazing about the small, crude kitchen, she realized that they were alone. “Where is Lord Brandl?” she whispered, hoping he would ignore her.

“You shouldn’t have come here!”

Piqued by his cruel tone, Fable slammed her fork against the plate. “Why don’t you just butt out of it!”

“He won’t help you,” the actor snarled. “Others have come. Like you. So why don’t you just get your things, and I’ll walk you back to your ship.”

“I said, where is he?” Fable hissed with premeditated venom.

“He’s in the Barrows,” Jaalib relented. “He’s been waiting for you.”

“The Barrows?” she questioned around a mouthful of hot broth.

“The graveyard.”

Outside in the cold dawn, storm clouds swept the sky. Wishing for her flight jacket, Fable shivered, hugging herself as the cool breeze fluttered through her hair and the thin fabric of her shirt. Trotting up the back landscape of steps and garden porches, she wandered into the rear courtyards of the theater, needing no specific direction to follow the dark presence of Lord Brandl. She followed a short path to the outskirts of Kovit, where the ground rose and fell in an irregular series of earthen mounds and grassy knolls. Up the steepest mound, she halted on the crest, finding herself surrounded by wax cylinders, hundreds of them, mounted atop slender pedestals, which were buried in the soft ground. Metallic ball bearings were precariously perched on each cylinder, giving the appearance of small, blue flames.

Across from her, on the opposite mound, Brandl stood with his back to her, at the foot of an enormous sarcophagus. The grainy image of a woman had been carved into the lid, delicately outlining the lace and fabric of the gown she was laid to rest in. “The Jedi is his own worst enemy,” Brandl declared. “The greatest conflict comes from within. Our Masters teach us, scold us,” he hesitated, “command us to follow reason, not our emotions.”

“You disagree?” Fable asked, stepping into the center of the wax cylinders.

“Where there is smoke, there is fire.” Brandl straightened, staring down his nose at her for a long moment. “Vialco is a coward. His tactics are mere illusions, prey for the weak-minded.”

Brushing off the possible insult, Fable shrugged. “But he is powerful.” Shaking her head remorsefully, she whispered, “I can’t beat him. At least, I don’t think so.”

“Losing is not an option… it’s a conscious decision. You will not know until you try.”

“Trying isn’t good enough! I have to succeed or—”

“Or he may succeed in his attempts to lure you to the dark side? How do you know that I will not turn you?”

Fable felt a tremor down her back. “I don’t.”

“The student’s greatest achievement is attained through succession,” Brandl began, “a succession which requires the destruction of the Master. This is what the dark side teaches us. But what you must always remember is that when we embrace the darkness, we are already masters in the design of fate, humbling ourselves as students.” He leaned heavily against the massive stone tomb. “When we seek the dark side, we seek our doom. Too often, we are successful.”

“So you’ll help me?”

“Vialco’s undoing is inevitable. Even I have seen this.”

“So I’ll win, right?”

Brandl gently tugged at the clasp of his robe, loosening the collar. “If you’re looking for visions, Fable, sit quietly and dwell on your past. Now prepare yourself. See the ball bearing directly ahead of you, sitting atop the wax cylinder? Draw your lightsaber and strike it. Destroy only the metal bearing. Leave the wax unharmed.”

Fable hesitated, deliberately slow in assuming the ready stance. Breathing with effort, she stared at the ball bearing, her wounded hand tingling from her last experience with the lightsaber.

“The dark side’s influence is stronger in moments of weakness. Do not let yourself be distracted. Now strike.”

Fable drew the lightsaber from her belt, concentrating on its ignition. Swinging in a wide arc, she struck at the ball bearing, elated as it evaporated into nothingness, leaving the wax cylinder slightly scorched but unharmed. She disengaged the weapon and resumed the ready stance, unable to hide the arrogant smirk etched across her features.

“When climbing great mountains, it is always best to begin at a slow pace,” Brandl remarked quietly. “Now strike for two.”

Without waiting to focus on the pedestal’s position, she ignited the lightsaber and struck two blows, swinging the blade toward the ball bearings and disintegrating them as the cylinders remained untouched. Overwhelmed with confidence, she again disengaged the weapon and resumed the ready position, eager to begin the next phase.

“No gain comes without a price. I will be your mentor and you my pupil. You will forever carry the distinguishment of my presence, as well as the taint,” he stumbled over the word, “the traits of my own Masters.”

“You mean the Emperor,” Fable whispered, “don’t you?”

“I chose the path that led me to this life,” Brandl continued, “I will lead you on a parallel course, where I will show you the glories of the light and the majesty of the dark.” He nodded, indicating the next alignment of wax cylinders. “Now strike for ten.”

Fable faltered for a moment; then fresh with the assurance of her performance, she ignited the lightsaber and charged, working her way through the line. As she reached for the fourth cylinder, she felt herself floundering. Furiously struggling to the fifth, she sliced neatly through the cylinder and knocked the ball bearing at her feet. In a failed attempt to rally for the sixth, she tripped and fell into the wet earth, taking several stands and cylinders with her.

Brandl slowly descended from the mound, stepping just inside the perimeter of the training circle. Shamefully rising to her feet, Fable flinched as he drew his lightsaber and moved toward her. With a resonating power that spread out from it in all directions, the lightsaber became a smear of brilliance as Brandl worked his way through the wax cylinders. He destroyed one ball bearing after another, leaving no perceptible mark on the wax. Fable watched in awe as the weapon danced through a score or more of ball bearings before Brandl completed the cadence and disengaged the weapon. Gawking at the craftsmanship, she turned to Brandl. “You really are a Jedi Master.”

“Only fools admire what they see,” he hissed evenly, brushing past her. “I know… for once I was a fool.” The first drops of rain began to fall, quickly covering the barrows with a slick film of water and loose earth. “You will continue this exercise until you have mastered it properly. Only then may you return to the theater.”

“And if I can’t,” Fable insisted.

“You know where your ship is docked. Don’t hesitate to go back to wherever it is you came from.” He left her alone, with no further comment.

Nearly eight hours later, Fable walked through the stormy deluge of rain, listening to the frigid drops against her shoulders. Every chafing step brought her closer to the theater and closer to a temper tantrum of monumental proportions. Jaalib was waiting for her at the door with a modest smile and a warm blanket. “He asks the impossible!” she hissed.

The actor draped the blanket over her shoulders. “Your dinner’s getting cold.”

Fable pushed through the door of her room, startled to find a heavy plasteel tub in the center of the floor, steaming with hot water. “A bath?” she whispered wearily. “Oh,” she groaned, stumbling across the floor, discarding boots, socks, and belt as she moved across the room. About to pull the muddy shirt over her arms, Fable hesitated, feeling a draft from the door, where Jaalib stood, watching her. “Do you mind?”

Flushing with embarrassment, he stepped back into the shadows. “I’ll bring your dinner later,” he stammered and closed the door behind him.

As its orbital axis began its seasonal tilt, Trulalis was thrust into a tempestuous season of torrential rainfall and thunderstorms. Dawn showers became steady downpours by the afternoon, flooding the gutted lowlands with muddy water and the persistent rumble of thunder. Above the biting autumn breeze, the hum of a lightsaber was interrupted by the rattle of falling pedestals, wax cylinders, and ball bearings as Fable blundered through the exercise.

Brandl watched with mounting dissatisfaction. As the last pedestal fell to the saturated earth, he stormed down from his high mound. “You little fool! Do it again!”

Fable braced herself against the malevolent voice, glaring at the ground, too frightened to meet Brandl’s cruel eyes. Despite a streak of improvement, she was steadily losing ground and his frustration was proof of that, as were the whispered obscenities spoken vehemently under his breath. She watched his broad, swaying shoulders as the Jedi Master started back up the mound to his stony, sarcophagus throne.

“How eager you young upstarts are to give yourself to the Force, demanding tribute from it, as if you were the source of the power. The Force does not thrive on the basis of whether you live or breathe! It exists because it has always been so! Begin again!”

Grateful to the rain for hiding her tears of humiliation, Fable tucked the lightsaber into her muddy leggings and started up the opposite mound. Defying Brandl’s command, she headed for the dark solace of the theater, where Jaalib would be waiting for her with a warm blanket and a much-needed kind word.

Enraged by her failure to comply, Brandl pursued her, throwing accusations and threats of retribution. Though Fable had seen only traces of it, she recognized the temperament and arrogance that must have been the beginning of Brandl’s descent into the Emperor’s power. And though she felt numb from the onslaught of his dreary emotions, she had transcended his mental barriers and become an admiring witness to the dedication and devotion that had kept him whole through the trial of his life. He was a man who would stop at nothing to accomplish his goals and he would kill her in an instant, if it so suited his purpose. And the time they had spent together, learning and growing, would hold no bearing on his decision. Sickened by the thought, Fable found herself in a position to admire and loathe the fallen Jedi.

Fable slowly pushed through the door of the theater. It was early and Jaalib was not there as she had expected. Emotionally spent and demoralized, she nearly collapsed right there at the threshold, desperate for the young actor’s support after yet another dismal day of training. As she stepped from the rain, Brandl was right behind her with another scathing assault. “The Force is your enemy! Turn your back on it and it will destroy you! It is your lover! Lust for it! Spurn it and it will devour you in fire. But go to it, as a child to its mother, make yourself humble before the omnipotence of its existence and it will guide you beyond the shallow confines of this mortal world!”

Alarmed by the commotion, Jaalib hurried into the antechamber, placing himself between Fable and his father. Bordering on obvious hysteria, she stumbled into his arms, dampening his shoulder with well-deserved tears. Putting the blanket over Fable’s trembling shoulders, Jaalib gently sent her off to her room. “Your bath is waiting,” he whispered quietly. “I’ll be there in a moment.”

Waiting for the girl’s shadow to dissipate in the adjoining darkness, Brandl hissed, “She’s impossible!”

“Odd,” Jaalib chuckled, handing his father a steaming cup of broth, “she said the same about you.”

“She is so charged with emotion and sentiment!” he growled, allowing his emotions to show through the aloof veneer. “It’s as if your mother never—” his voice broke off abruptly, “as if your mother never left us.”

“She didn’t leave us,” Jaalib replied matter-of-factly. “She died, defending me from stormtroopers. Stormtroopers and Jedi hunters who came looking for you.” He sniffed at the absurdity of his mother’s devotion to the man who had abandoned them, only to return eight years later, bringing the darkness of his life with him. “When they didn’t find you, they found a way to justify the cost of their visit by obliterating the village.”

“Courtesy costs little, Edjian-Prince, and discourtesy can rob even the richest man of his fortune.”

Feigning anger, Jaalib drew away from his father, recognizing the famous line. “Courtesy?” he declared impishly. “Then no more call me Edjian-Prince. Dress me in rags and let me be a poor, rude man.”

Brandl’s face brightened with the spontaneous performance. “You’ve been practicing! Excellent! You’re finding the right voice for the part. Come,” he whispered eagerly, pulling Jaalib against him, “we should use this moment to complete the final act.” Together, they vanished into the shadows of an adjoining corridor.