Fable shrieked, slapping hysterically at the mutilated corpse cradled in her lap; but there was nothing there. Frantically craning her neck to get a full view of the outside canopy, she saw nothing but the brilliant lines and colors of hyperspace, as they began to retract into the tell-tale pinpoints of distant planets and stars. Reeling from the traumatic nightmare, she collapsed against the acceleration chair.
The emerald-gold face of Trulalis emerged before her as the X-wing materialized from hyperspace. Quickly engaging the engines, she braced for the atmospheric entry. Scanning her sensors, Fable checked the data screens, which were inundated with immediate life sign readings. The sensors began tracing the ion signature, automatically pinpointing the trace of a light shuttle. Setting a similar course, she eventually landed outside the perimeter of a small settlement.
From the ground, Trulalis was breathtaking and majestic. Fable found herself captivated by the noble black trees whose leaves radiated a green hue when struck by direct sunlight. With massive, arching branches, the trees formed a shaded corridor above the overgrown trail. Enjoying the quiet walk, Fable rechecked her sensor information, confirming that the life signs she had received were mostly animal in nature. The settlement structures the computer had uncovered were void of any life. As she came closer, it was apparent why.
Strewn about the outskirts of the common, she found the remains of stormtrooper armor. There were no bodies inside, but the unmistakable blast scoring across the chests were disturbing evidence of a failed retaliation against the Empire, as were the skeletal remains of their victims, which were half-buried in the loose top soil nearby. At the settlement gates, she stared into the desolate streets where wreckage and debris were scattered from one end of the broad avenue to the next.
The body of a small bantha lay in the doorway of a narrow shelter. Shrunken and thin, its thick hide had been preserved by the nurturing Trulalis soil. Manicured gardens had gone to seed, spreading erratically over the front lawns and the dilapidated remains of the abandoned cottages. In one shelter, Fable found the transport shuttle, which had been assigned to Jaalib — she knew she was on the right track.
The only true survivor of the Imperial onslaught sat in the center of the settlement. Its shadow stood over her in silent testament of its endurance. Fable stared up and up, until her eyes could take in the enormity of the ancient theater. Blast scoring had scarred the pristine limestone obelisk, leaving a blemish of tragedy etched into the elaborate design. Hemmed in by stone fences and gates, the gardens were immaculately trimmed and manicured, tapered back from the winding garden paths, which wound and curved into the enormous entrance. Two stone pillars framed the central portal, casting grotesque, disembodied shadows over the archway.
Mustering her courage, she stepped into the immense antechamber. Her eyes took in the magnificence of tapestries and display cases, each showing the relics of prop swords, ornate jewelry, and costumes used in the various stage productions. She heard voices echoing from the right wing and followed instinctively, attuned to the familiar strength of Jaalib’s voice.
“You are a thief, a liar, and a pawn!” Jaalib spat in a frantic voice. Fable hesitated in the doorway, staring across the darkened auditorium.
“A thief? A liar? A pawn?” another voice commented. “Are these not the greatest virtues of any good king?”
“Virtue — ” Jaalib broke off, his face contorted in an uncharacteristic mask of rage.
“Your concentration is off,” the stranger whispered. “Perhaps we’re moving too quickly.”
“No, it’s me!” The despondent sound of his voice echoed in the dusty spaces above the stage. “I keep seeing you, hearing you play the part and then,” he stumbled, “I see my own clumsy attempts.” Anxiously brushing a hand through his dark hair, he managed a weak smile. “Perfection is never easy, Father, especially when it’s your perfection.”
From his throne, in the shadowed backset of the stage, Adalric Brandl chuckled softly. The rustling of his cumbersome, black robes sent whispering vibrations over the front rows as he stepped down from the raised dais. “Of all the tragedies ever conceived. Uhl Eharl Khoehng is the greatest.” Brandi said with conviction. “The role of the Edjian-Prince is the most difficult and the actor who plays it,” he paused, “is assured greatness.”
“How old were you? The first time you performed it?”
“I was nearly 30 before Otias would even permit me to read for the part.” Brandl snorted with warm pleasure. “You are a young man, Jaalib.” Placing a comforting hand on Jaalib’s shoulders, he whispered, “You were born for this part. Give yourself time to grow into it.”
Recognizing Brandl’s profile, Fable slowly walked down the center aisle toward the stage. Hands crossed shamefully in front of her, she met Brandl’s curious eyes as his gaze fell over her. “Lord Brandi ... ” she faltered, staring into the shadows.
“Fable!” Jaalib hissed. Jumping down from the platform, he charged her, robes billowing from his shoulders. “What are you doing here?”
Fable could hear his voice, but only distantly. She could feel the harsh pinch of his fingers on her wrists, but felt no pain. Caught in Brandl’s intense gaze, she could not move. His presence was overpowering and Fable found herself deeply intrigued by the somber charm and magnificence of this strange man, himself a tragic hero, trapped in the torrent of some inconceivable drama.
Her eyes cautiously traced the noble angle of his forehead and brow, noting the gentle curvature of his nose, his mouth, and the regal set of his chin. Faint laugh lines framed thin, pale lips, fading into the surrounding tautness of his cheekbones. Waves of black hair betrayed streaks of silver running through the closely cropped sides, shadowing Brandl’s solemn face. At his right temple, obtuse veins of scar tissue erupted from the otherwise smooth skin, winding a cruel path around the outer edges of his eye. Severely traumatized, the eye itself was damaged, sheathed in the pupilless, irisless remains of a clear, yellowed orb.
“Fable!” Jaalib shouted, shaking her.
“Jaalib,” Brandl whispered, “mind your manners. An audience, even an audience of one, is always to be treasured and respected.”
Glaring at her, Jaalib hissed, “You shouldn’t have come here!”
Fable glanced at him briefly and then moved away, refusing to acknowledge that she agreed with him.
“An admirer, Jaalib?”
“Yes, Father, but she was just leaving.” Before Jaalib could herd her back up the aisle, he felt the light restraint of his father’s hands.
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 sh
ort 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 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 earth 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.” Brandi 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 1 have seen this.”
“So I’ll win, right?”
Brandi 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 10.”
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, listenin
g 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!”
Star Wars - Uhl Eharl Khoehng Page 2