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ISBN 978-1-368-06325-8
Design by Leigh Zieske
Cover illustration by Tara Phillips
Visit the official Star Wars website at: www.starwars.com.
CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Strength
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Cunning
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Distraction
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Bravery
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Determination
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Acknowledgments
About the Author
To Bria and Rachel and Katherine, who, mercifully, did not ask questions I couldn’t answer
The girl in the white dress had her mother’s brain and her father’s heart, and a spark that was entirely her own. Brilliance and direction and compassion as bright as the stars. But now she was alone, and no one could help her. Whatever happened next, however it was recorded and remembered, she was entirely on her own.
From the time she was small, she had wanted to help. Her father had taken her offworld. She stepped foot on dying planets and tried to hold back the inevitable. Sometimes, it hadn’t been enough, but she had always volunteered to try again.
Eventually, she had turned her attention to her own planet. There were no great trials to be faced on Naboo. The sector was at peace, the planet prospering. Yet there was work to be done, work she felt that she could do. And she wanted to do it.
It wasn’t enough to settle for her parents’ dreams. She wanted to know that she had gone as high as she could, done as much as she was able. And for a girl on Naboo, that meant being elected queen. She was younger than most, but she wasn’t about to let that stop her.
The more she looked into it, the more she realized that ruling the planet would be more of a challenge than she thought. The galaxy was a big place, and Naboo was a pretty world without much in the way of defense. The current queen had ignored their neighbors. Their senator was strong, but their list of allies was thin. She knew she was up to the challenge.
And now she waited alone, in a small room in the lower levels of the palace. The campaign was done, the votes were cast. Soon the results would be publicized, and then she would know. But in her heart, she knew already. She always had. She had made herself to serve, and she would do so from the highest possible position.
The door hissed open, and a familiar outline blocked the light. The buzz of a hovering droid filled her ears. The girl straightened. She always acted as though she was being watched. Her appearance was her first line of defense, and she planned to muster it as deliberately as possible.
“Your Highness,” Quarsh Panaka said, the faintest ghost of a smile upon his lips. Her captain was still getting to know her, but she trusted his intentions. “The election is over. Your work has begun.”
The girl in the white dress was going to be Queen, and she was ready.
This was not the customary way to receive exam results. The Theed Conservatory attracted students from all over the planet, even though it was hardly the only music school on Naboo. It wasn’t even, in public opinion, the best one. Set in an old building, far from any of the main hubs of the city’s entertainment, the conservatory was known for its traditions. That was why families sent their children there. A musician trained there was consistent. Steady. Reliable. Ready to pass traditions on to a new generation of listeners and students alike, whether anyone wanted it or not.
Tsabin had hated almost every moment of it.
There had never been any question about where she would be sent. There hadn’t even been any question about what instrument she’d play. Her brothers had forged the path ahead of her, and all she had to do was follow along. There was never any question of her doing something so bold as leading. She simply didn’t have the talent for it. She was good enough, and offworld she might even make a living as a soloist somewhere that didn’t know any better, but Tsabin had known for her entire life that she was never going to be in the front row of any orchestra.
And now she waited in a small room, staring down an empty chair across an unremarkable table. She had been sent there by the proctor droid, barely thinking about the unfamiliar room number, expecting to find out how she’d done on her finals. Instead: a dark room and an endless-seeming wait.
Tsabin had made it as far as she had by hiding her true feelings from everyone, and she wasn’t about to crack now, not even for outdated bureaucracy.
The door finally opened—really swinging on real hinges, because that was the sort of place the Theed Conservatory was—and Tsabin straightened in the chair. Even if it was only the droid, it was important to be ready. Conservatory droids were known to monitor students’ posture and bearing, keeping track of who was the best at looking like a musician, as well as performing mundane tasks. But the person in the doorway was not a droid. Tsabin took a deep breath without giving any appearance of doing so, another benefit of a conservatory education.
He was taller than she was, which wasn’t saying a lot. It was a place to start, though. He wore the blue and maroon of the Naboo Royal Security Forces, his hat tucked under his arm since he was inside. He had short-cropped hair and dark brown skin, and his eyes were almost warm, except that something around the edge of him prevented that measure of relaxation. He took the other seat without introducing himself, and placed the hat on the table between them.
If the security officer were hoping to rattle her, he’d picked the wrong day for it. Exams were over, and Tsabin had gotten a full night’s sleep for the first time in weeks. Her family had all been in touch with her that morning. Her brothers had reassured her that everything would be fine, and her parents had let her know where they could be reached when her results were in. She knew she hadn’t done anything to merit this visit, so it must be a curiosity. It must be something he wanted from her. So Tsabin looked at him calmly, every wall she’d ever built shielding her from him.
After several long minutes, the ghost of a smile appeared on his lips, and he stretched a hand across the table toward her, palm up.
“Quarsh Panaka,” he said. “Royal Security Forces. But I assume you could tell that for yourself.”
“Tsabin,” she replied, politely shaking his hand. “Yes.”
He let her go, and she returned her hands to her lap. He folded his on the table and looked at her.
“How do you feel about the election?” he asked.
Tsabin raised an eyebrow in spite of herself. She had not expected that question.
“I am not required to tell you,” she replied.
“That’s true,” he said, and almost laughed. “You will at least confirm that you are aware of the candidates?”
“Of course,” she said. “Th
is is the first year I get to vote.”
“You’re thirteen,” he said. He leaned back in his chair without losing any sense of being on guard.
“I’ll be fourteen by then,” she told him. “You must have at least discovered my birthday before you came in here.”
“I did,” he said. He tapped his fingers on the tabletop.
Tsabin was starting to get annoyed. Yes, it was the first day of the rest of her life—at least in theory, given that her formal education was all but finished—and she didn’t exactly have plans, but she also didn’t want to waste the day in this room with this man.
“Your teachers say you are diligent,” Panaka said. “You are never late. You are scrupulous when it comes to performing your part, and your conduct is near perfect at all times.”
Tsabin waited for the other shoe to drop, as it always did.
“And yet you are always second best,” Panaka continued. “At everything you have ever tried.”
Almost fourteen years of hard-fought control snapped through Tsabin’s entire body. She would not give him the satisfaction of seeing how much it hurt. She would never, ever give that to anyone. Her stomach clenched, but she didn’t blink or even tighten her jaw at his words. They were, after all, only the truth: her brothers were better musicians than she was, and no matter what she did at the conservatory, there was always someone else who did it better than she.
Panaka stood and picked his hat up off the table.
“I can’t say anything officially, of course,” he said. “But I would request that you not accept any apprenticeship offers until after the election. I will be in touch.”
With those words, he left. Tsabin was free to go. But she reached into her pocket for her screen and pulled up the list of candidates running for Queen of Naboo. She had read their names and their platforms before, but this time, she made herself really look at them. At her.
Amidala, she called herself. They could be twins, almost. Two girls with the same face. And a security officer had come all the way here to talk to a girl who was always second.
Tsabin stayed in the room until the droid came looking for her, her mind awake to the possibilities.
The morning of the election, Quarsh Panaka let his tea get cold. His wife, Mariek, fresh off her shift in the palace, suffered no such hesitation, and drank it for him when it became apparent he wasn’t going to tear himself away from the screen for anything so mundane as breakfast. She sniped the fresh fruit off his plate as well.
“It’s too early to be checking,” she pointed out, her mouth full.
“I’m not checking for results,” he said.
There hadn’t been a true scandal during a Naboo election in decades, but Panaka was not about to let that record be broken on his watch. As a captain in the Royal Security Forces, it was his privilege to ensure that everything went without a hitch. This time it was even more important: the candidate whose protection had been assigned to him was favored to win. Panaka was going to be ready for anything. There were crowds to monitor, and while the Security Forces were more than capable of that, he was curious about what the holonews might catch. It was always best to have as many eyes as possible.
“I’m going to bed,” Mariek said.
Panaka did look up at that. She stood, and he took her hand in his. They’d been on opposite shifts ever since he was reassigned to electoral detail in anticipation of what a new monarch might require, and he missed her.
“Sleep well, love,” he said.
“Please eat something,” she replied, and left him to it.
Panaka dutifully ate three bites off his plate, and he had just decided that maybe he was hungry after all when his private comm sounded.
“Panaka,” he said, holding the device in the flat of his palm. The image wavered, and a familiar form appeared in his hand. He straightened. “Senator Palpatine?”
“Good morning, Captain,” the senator said.
Usually the Naboo senator returned home to vote, a demonstration to his people and to the Republic that he took all of his roles within the democratic system seriously, but this time he had been kept away by serious business. To be honest, Panaka had missed him. Everything seemed to go more smoothly when the senator was around and always had, even when Panaka was still a clerk in the legislative office and Palpatine’s star was on the rise. It was handy to have reliable colleagues.
“I’m sorry to make contact so early,” Palpatine continued. “There’s a vote later that I can’t afford to miss, but I wanted to check in with you today, and I’m afraid that with the time differences, by the time my Senate business dies down, it will be too late.”
“It’s not a problem, Senator,” Panaka replied. “Everything here is going well. The lines are orderly, and the polls open in less than half an hour. All signs point to a smooth election.”
“Do they point to a result yet?” Palpatine asked.
Panaka hesitated. Technically, as government officials, they were supposed to discourage speculation. As concerned citizens, however, they were free to discuss their thoughts. Panaka was always careful to keep his work and his private life separate. It was one of the reasons his marriage was so successful.
“Not officially, of course,” he said. He picked up his teacup, forgetting Mariek had drained it earlier. “But it appears your hunch was correct. It won’t be a scandal if she doesn’t win, but it will be a surprise.”
As a rule, Naboo queens kept their office for two full terms. However, when Queen Réillata had retired after only one, the planet had to elect a replacement for her before they expected to. There were wonderful candidates, of course—Naboo tradition allowed for nothing else—but the populace had been more fractured in voting than they usually were. Sanandrassa wasn’t a bad queen, but she didn’t have the support a ruling monarch should expect. Her reelection was, at best, a long shot.
“Good, good,” Palpatine said. His gaze flickered away from Panaka’s. Something on Coruscant must have drawn his attention. “I look forward to seeing this through, Captain. In the meantime, I do apologize, but the new taxation bills have finally been transmitted and they require my attention.”
“Of course, Senator,” Panaka replied. “Thank you for calling.”
Palpatine disconnected without any further comment, and Panaka flipped his holo back to the news screens. It was always like that with them: work first. Panaka found it comforting. There was never any doubt about where he stood.
His chronometer chimed, indicating that it was later than he’d thought. Mariek had voted early, and Panaka had gone with her but hadn’t cast his own ballot yet. He loved Election Day, and his duties didn’t start until midafternoon, so he was free to vote at a regular poll. Whistling happily—a song that had been stuck in his head since he left the conservatory—he put his dishes in the cleaner, made sure he had the proper identification in his pocket, found his boots, and headed out to make a difference.
Ruwee Naberrie brushed the sawdust off his vest and wondered where in his life he had gone wrong. Usually he would take a moment to watch the falling wood shavings, evidence of a job done in perfect detail, but today there was no time for that. Today, despite his best efforts, his daughter didn’t need him.
She was gone. He hadn’t seen her in a few days, except on the holos as she gave last-minute campaign speeches, and then again this morning when she and the other candidates had cast their ballots live for the whole planet to see. It was strange to think about, his youngest trying to be queen of the planet, and he couldn’t acknowledge her as such.
People knew, of course. It was impossible to achieve complete anonymity, even with the practiced wheels of Naboo’s democratic machine. But no one was going to blow Amidala’s cover. Later, if she was successful and if her reign was favorable, her family and friends would explode with pride, but that was for when her term was done. Now Naboo needed a queen.
Ruwee pulled his thoughts back before they could run too far ahead into the future. She m
ight not win the election. She had done very well during the campaign, but that wasn’t always an indication of success. Ruwee had left politics behind a long time ago, save when some cause pulled him back in and he made use of his extensive contacts offworld, and he was no stranger to its workings. Things could always turn out unexpectedly.
And, if he was forced to be honest with himself, he almost hoped they would. If she lost, then she could still be herself, without the eyes of hundreds on her every move. Ruwee didn’t doubt for a moment that his daughter genuinely wanted to be queen, but it wasn’t the hope he’d had for her. He wanted his daughters to be happy, first, and to provide their service to the planet outside of that happiness. Being elected might make her happy, but it would always be tied to something else.
He was still going to vote for her, obviously.
“Ruwee, it’s time to go!” Jobal called from inside their well-appointed house.
Unlike her husband, Jobal Naberrie had very few doubts about how this day was going to go, nor did she feel his reluctance at the probable outcome. Their daughter was young, and with the screen around her public life that Naboo tradition would maintain for her, there was no reason at all why she couldn’t move on when her time was up. Jobal was deeply proud, of course, and also wildly curious about what her daughter would do. It was a strange feeling, one Ruwee didn’t understand at all, but Jobal couldn’t seem to shake it entirely. It was, she thought, at the very least a good balance for his reservations.
A family holo caught her eye, and Jobal stared at it for a long moment. The image captured Padmé and her sister in the garden as toddlers, carefully weeding ordered rows of vegetables. Padmé had insisted on a kitchen garden and done most of the work herself, sure that the food she produced could be given to people who needed it. Even in a semi-frozen moment in the past, Padmé was a force to be reckoned with. Jobal had known that. She’d seen it from the time the girls were little. To have that potential tapped so early in Padmé’s life was a gift, and Jobal knew her daughter wouldn’t squander it.
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