Dynasty of Evil

by Drew Karpyshyn

  This was one advantage she had over Bane. She knew she was attractive. Men in particular were drawn to her because of her looks; they wanted to help her, to please her. Zannah wasn’t above encouraging them with a soft laugh or a subtle touch—it was a small price to pay to establish a relationship that might eventually prove useful. Her Master’s appearance, on the other hand, would never inspire anything but fear in those who didn’t know him.

  Only once the porter was gone and she was alone in the cockpit of the vessel did she let the façade drop. Settling into the custom-molded seat, she punched in the navigation coordinates. Through the cockpit viewport she could see the Triumph, Bane’s personal shuttle, in the adjacent hangar.

  Like her own, it was a Cygnus Spaceworks Theta-class T-1 vessel: the latest, and most expensive, personal interplanetary transport shuttle available on the open market. Everything about their life here on Ciutric—the mansion, their clothes, even their social calendar—was a part of their disguise. They surrounded themselves with luxury and material comforts; a far cry from the austere life they had lead during their years on Ambria.

  There were times when Zannah missed the simplicity of those early days. Life on Ambria had been hard, but it had kept her strong. And she couldn’t help but wonder if the lavish lifestyle here on Ciutric had made her—and Bane—soft.

  The Victory’s engines roared to life, and the shuttle rose up a few meters off the ground. Zannah piloted by instinct while her mind continued its train of thought.

  Life was a constant struggle; the strong would survive and the weak would perish. That was the way of the universe, the natural order. It was the philosophy embraced by the Code of the Sith. But here on Ciutric it was easy to be lulled into a sense of peace.

  Peace is a lie, there is only passion. Through passion, I gain strength. Through strength, I gain power. Through power, I gain victory. Through victory, my chains are broken.

  Zannah understood that chains were not always made of iron and durasteel; they could sometimes be woven of expensive shimmersilk. The easy life they enjoyed on Ciutric was a trap as dangerous as any the Jedi could ever set for them.

  She had continued her study and training even after Bane had moved them into their magnificent estate outside the city. But the sense of urgency and the threat of danger that had spurred her on during her early years had faded, replaced by the ennui of security and contentment.

  It was time to stake her claim as Dark Lord of the Sith. She would already have challenged him by now, if not for two things.

  The first was the tremor she had noticed in his left hand several months ago. He tried to hide it from her, but she noticed it more and more. She didn’t know the cause of the tremor, but regardless, it was an obvious sign of his degenerating skills.

  Perhaps too obvious. Bane was a master manipulator. Zannah couldn’t dismiss the idea that he was faking it. What if the tremor was just a ruse meant to lure her into the confrontation before she was truly ready—one final test to see if the apprentice had learned the lesson of patience he had worked so hard to ingrain into her?

  I will strike at a time of my choosing, Zannah vowed to herself. Not his.

  But in order to make her move, she had to be ready with an apprentice of her own. Two there should be; no more, no less. One to embody the power, the other to crave it. The Rule of Two was inviolate. If she was going to seize the mantle of Master from Bane, she would need to find an apprentice. So far, despite her best efforts, she had failed to locate even a single potential candidate.

  Bane had recognized her own potential when, as a young girl, she had killed the Jedi who had mistakenly slain her friend. Now she was going to investigate the mysterious death of another Jedi. Might she find her successor the same way Bane had found her?

  But if she was thinking along these lines, it was a sure bet that Bane had thought of it, too. He was rarely caught unprepared or off guard. So … why would Bane send her on a mission that could end with her finding the individual who might become the next Sith apprentice? Did her Master want her to challenge him? Was he trying to help her? Or was he looking to replace her? Maybe he had decided she was unworthy of assuming his title. Maybe he was hoping this mission would provide him with someone new to train in the ways of the dark side, and he planned to cast her aside.

  If that’s true, Master, you might be surprised at how this ends. Underestimate me at your peril.

  A beep from the nav screen notified her as the shuttle broke Ciutric’s atmosphere. A few seconds later she felt the unmistakable surge as the ship made the leap into hyperspace.

  Zannah eased her seat back and closed her eyes. There was no point in dwelling on all the possibilities of what Bane might or might not be thinking, or what his secret motivations for sending her on the mission might be. The web of his machinations could be too impossibly tangled to unweave.

  But she knew one thing for sure: something was about to change. For twenty years she had served as his loyal apprentice, learning the ways of the Sith. Now her time as a pupil was about to end. Whatever the mission might bring, she had decided this would be the last time she answered to Darth Bane.

  5

  Coruscant was unlike anything Serra had ever seen. As a child she had known nothing but the simple isolation of her father’s camp. When he had sent her away, she’d visited dozens of other worlds before settling on Doan, but all of them had been less populated planets on the Outer Rim. Her entire life had been spent on the fringes of civilization. Here, on the planetwide metropolis that was the Republic capital, she had been hurled into the madness of the Galactic Core.

  Caleb had made sure his daughter’s education was well rounded; she had read descriptions of Coruscant, she had memorized all the relevant facts and figures. But knowing a world had a population approaching one trillion individuals and seeing it in person were entirely different.

  Serra simply stared out the window of the airspeeder, speechless as it darted and dived, fighting its way through the heavy traffic of the skylane. Below, an endless ocean of durasteel and permacrete stretched off to the horizon in all directions, shining with the permanent glow of a million lights. The effect was overwhelming: the crowds, the vehicles, the dull cacophony of sounds that could be heard over the hum of the engines—the sheer magnitude of it was almost more than her mind could grasp. It made her feel small. Insignificant.

  “There it is,” Lucia said, nodding out the window.

  In the distance Serra could just make out a massive structure that towered high above the rest of the cityscape: the Jedi Temple. The swift-moving speeder was bringing them rapidly closer, and it wasn’t long before she could make out the unique details of the Temple’s construction.

  The foundation was a pyramid of successively smaller blocks, creating a stepped or ziggurat effect. On the top of the uppermost level was a tall central spire, surrounded on each corner by smaller, secondary spires. Scattered among the spires were open plazas, wide promenades, vast natural gardens, and a number of smaller buildings that served as dorms or administrative centers.

  As the speeder dropped out of the main line of traffic toward their destination, the structure’s true scope became apparent. Everything on Coruscant was grand and magnificent, but the Temple dominated the skyline. Serra recalled that it had been built on top of a mountain. Not on a mountain, like the small settlements the nobles had constructed on the plateaus of Doan, but actually over the mountain—the stepped pyramid covered the entire surface, swallowing the mountain so completely that it was no longer visible.

  Their vehicle banked in a wide circle around the Tranquillity Spire, the tall central tower, before touching down on a landing pad in the shadow of the smaller tower on the northwest corner.

  “Let’s get this over with,” Lucia muttered, standing quickly and offering her hand to help Serra up from her seat.

  The princess realized Lucia was as uncomfortable as she was, though she suspected her bodyguard’s unease had less to do wi
th the overwhelming sights and sounds of Coruscant and more to do with her days as a soldier fighting against the Army of Light. Even after twenty years, Lucia still harbored a resentment toward both the Jedi and the Republic.

  That, and the fact that she still probably felt guilty for hiring the assassin who had killed the Jedi emissary. Serra, on the other hand, felt nothing but gratitude for what her friend had done. And she had no intention of letting anyone—not the king, and not the Jedi—find out that Lucia was responsible.

  “Remember what I told you,” she said, placing a comforting hand on her friend’s shoulder. “I have dealt with the Jedi before. I know how to handle them. I know their weaknesses. Their blind spots. We will get through this.”

  The bodyguard took a deep breath and nodded. Serra did the same, centering herself in anticipation of the coming confrontation.

  Lucia was amazed at how calm and composed the princess appeared as they prepared to leave the shuttle.

  She had always carried herself with a quiet but firm resolve. It gave her an air of confidence and authority that drew others to her. When she spoke, people gave her words careful consideration … even people like the king of Doan. But this was different. They were about to meet a Jedi Master, and Serra intended to lie right to his face.

  Lucia had no intention of letting her friend get into trouble, however. At the first sign the Jedi knew Serra was being dishonest, she intended to confess everything, no matter the consequences.

  Steadied by her decision, she was able to maintain her own exterior of composure as they disembarked. Outside the shuttle they found an escort of three Jedi waiting for them. Two were human, a man and a woman. The third was a female Twi’lek. Each wore plain brown robes with the hoods thrown back to reveal their features; their simple garb a sharp contrast with Serra and Lucia’s more formal outfits.

  The princess was wearing a long, flowing, sleeveless dress of blue silk; a finely woven gold stole covered her shoulders and upper arms. Her long black hair hung loose from beneath the elaborate golden tiara she wore, and around her neck was an elegant gold chain and a sapphire pendant signifying her station within the Doan royal family.

  Lucia was also dressed in blue and gold—the royal colors—but she wore the dress uniform of the Doan military: dark blue pants with a gold stripe running up the leg and a tight, light blue shirt covered by a short blue jacket with gold trim buttoned up to the collar. Like the three Jedi, however, her head was bare.

  The Twi’lek stepped forward with a bow. “Greetings, Your Highness. My name is Ma’ya. My companions are Pendo and Winnoa.”

  Serra returned the bow with a tilt of her head. “This is Lucia, my companion,” she returned.

  Ma’ya’s eyes flicked down to the blaster prominently displayed on Lucia’s hip, but all she said was, “Please, follow us. Master Obba is waiting to speak with you.”

  From the briefings she had reviewed during the trip to Coruscant, Lucia knew that Obba was a member of the Council of First Knowledge. As keepers of ancient Jedi lore, they often provided advice and guidance to the Jedi High Council. He had also been the Master of Medd Tandar, the Jedi who had died on Doan.

  The three robed figures led them from the landing pad through a well-tended garden, dotted by a number of memorials and statues. A small crowd of children rushed past them at one point, laughing.

  “Younglings from the trainee dorms,” Ma’ya explained. “During afternoons they are given time away from their studies to play in the gardens.”

  Serra didn’t reply, but Lucia could see the flicker of sorrow in her eyes. She knew the young couple had been trying to start a family in the weeks before Gerran’s death, and seeing the children no doubt brought back painful memories.

  They continued on in silence, the Jedi leading them to the foot of the northwest tower and then inside. They climbed up several flights of winding stairs; toward the end Lucia noticed that the princess had become short of breath, though neither she nor the Jedi had the same problem.

  And then, somewhere roughly a quarter of the way up the tower, they stopped outside a large door. Ma’ya knocked, and a deep voice from inside called out, “Come in.”

  The Twi’lek opened the door, then stepped to the side with another bow. Serra entered the room, Lucia following a single step behind. Their escorts stayed outside, closing the door.

  At first glance, the interior of the room might have been mistaken for a greenhouse. A single large window on the far wall allowed sunlight to stream through, making it exceedingly bright and overly warm. Potted plants of at least a dozen different species lined the walls; another half a dozen grew from boxes along the windowsill, while still more hung from planters affixed to the ceiling. There were no chairs, no table, and no desk. It was only when she noticed a small, straw-woven sleeping mat rolled up in the corner that Lucia realized this was the Jedi Master’s personal chambers.

  “Welcome, Your Highness. You honor us with your visit.”

  Master Obba, an Ithorian, was standing with his back to them looking out the window. In the elongated fingers of one hand he held a watering can. Setting it down on the floor, he turned to face them.

  Like all Ithorians, he was taller than the average human—easily over two meters in height. His rough, brown skin looked almost like bark, and his long neck curved down and forward before looping up again, making it seem as if he was leaning toward them. Looking at the eyes bulging out from either side at the top of his tall, flat head made it easy to see why the nickname Hammerhead was often applied to the species.

  “This is my adviser, Lucia,” Serra told him, sticking with their planned cover story. “Thank you for agreeing to meet with us, Master Obba.”

  “It was the least I could do, given your circumstances,” the Ithorian explained, his voice deep and resonant. “My condolences on your husband. His death was a terrible tragedy.”

  Lucia was no expert in the subtleties of politics, and she couldn’t tell if Obba was simply a compassionate soul expressing real sympathy, or an expert negotiator trying to put the princess emotionally off balance by mentioning Gerran.

  “My tragedy is mirrored by your own,” Serra replied in the formal tone of a practiced diplomat. Whatever the Jedi’s intentions, his words had no visible effect on her demeanor. “Allow me to apologize on behalf of the royal family for the unfortunate passing of Medd Tandar.”

  The Ithorian’s head dipped in acknowledgment. “I grieve for his death. And it is of critical importance that we learn the identity of the person or persons responsible.”

  Lucia felt her heart skip a beat, though she gave no outward sign of her anxiety.

  “I understand,” Serra assured him. “The authorities on my world are doing everything in their power to bring those responsible to justice.”

  “I want to believe you,” Obba replied, “but you can understand if I have my reservations. Medd was killed during an attack on your enemies. There are some who believe your father-in-law was behind the attack.”

  “That makes no sense,” Serra objected. “The king wants to improve our relationship with your revered Order. That was why he agreed to let Medd come to our world in the first place.”

  “There are some who believe the king used Medd to help find his enemies,” Obba countered. “They claim that was his plan all along.”

  “Medd’s death was a tragic coincidence, not a part of some devious plot to exploit the Jedi,” the princess insisted. “He was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. As for the king, he had no knowledge of the assassination whatsoever. I give you my word.”

  “Unfortunately, your word will not be proof enough to allay the fears of those in my Order.”

  “Then let them use logic,” Serra argued. “My father-in-law is not a fool. If he wanted to use the Jedi to seek revenge, he would have been smart enough to cover his tracks. He would have waited until after Medd had left before ordering the attack.”

  “Sometimes when we are blinded by grief, we
aren’t able to look past our immediate desires,” the Jedi noted.

  “Is that what you really believe, Master Obba? Or are you just looking for someone to blame for the death of your former Padawan?”

  The Ithorian sighed. “I admit my own judgment in this may be clouded by my personal feelings. That is why I must trust in the Force and allow it to guide my thoughts and actions.”

  “There is no emotion, there is peace,” the princess remarked.

  “You have studied our Code.”

  “Only informally.”

  “I should have suspected as much,” the Master told her. “I can feel the Force is strong in you.”

  Lucia’s eyes popped open in surprise, though Serra took his observation completely in stride.

  “I fear I am too old to be recruited into your Order, Master Obba,” she said with a faint smile.

  “Even so, the words of our mantra can serve you well,” he admonished her. “You must be ever wary of the temptations of the dark side.”

  “Like the talismans Medd was sent to find?” Serra countered. “That is what this is really about, isn’t it?”

  The Ithorian nodded gravely. “As much as I grieve over his death, I must put those feelings aside and focus on the purpose of his original mission.”

  Lucia was impressed. So far the encounter had gone almost exactly as Serra had predicted. During their preparations for the meeting, the princess had told her the Jedi cared more about ideology and the battle of light and dark than about living people. She had planned to exploit that knowledge to turn the conversation away from discussions of who had hired the assassin … with a little help from Lucia.