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With slow plodding steps he crossed the room and opened the door leading back out to the hall. The three Jedi who had escorted them there were all sitting cross-legged on the ground, silently meditating. They scrambled to their feet upon seeing the Ithorian emerge.

“You may return to your regular duties,” he informed them.

“Yes, Master,” they replied, bowing in unison. Dismissed, the Jedi headed up the stairs to whatever tasks awaited them in the higher floors of the tower.

Moving at a pace so languid it bordered on maddening, Obba led the way back down to the base of the tower and out into the gardens where, at long last, he stopped.

They stood before one of the many monuments raised in the garden. This particular one was a white block of stone a meter and a half high and nearly twice as wide. The handles of five lightsabers were inlaid on the face of the stone; beneath each was a small engraved portrait—presumably an image of the lightsaber’s owner. Beneath this, in larger letters, was the following:

In honor of those who fell beneath the blade of

the last Dark Lord of the Sith.

May their memories live on, to remind us of what is lost.

There is no emotion; there is peace;

There is no death; there is the Force.

Jedi Master Valenthyne Farfalla

Jedi Master Raskta Lsu

Jedi Master Worror Dowmat

Jedi Knight Johun Othone

Jedi Knight Sarro Xaj

Caleb of Ambria

When her eyes fell upon the last name of the list, Serra felt her knees grow weak. Speechless, she could only stare at the monument, her mind unable to make sense of what she was seeing.

“What is this?” Lucia asked, echoing her mistress’s confusion. “Why’d you bring us here?”

“Ten years ago, Master Valenthyne Farfalla learned that a Dark Lord of the Sith had somehow survived the thought bomb on Ruusan. Acting on a tip, he quickly assembled the team of Jedi you see honored on this monument to try to apprehend the Dark Lord. They followed him into the Deep Core and confronted him on the world of Tython. None of the Jedi survived.”

“Did you know them well?” Lucia wondered aloud, still following Serra’s instructions to ask questions at every opportunity.

“I knew Master Worror and Master Valenthyne back when we were all Padawans. We served together in Lord Hoth’s Army of Light during the war against Lord Kaan’s Brotherhood of Darkness.”

For several seconds there was silence, Obba lost in his memories and Serra still too stunned to speak. It was Lucia who broke the spell, asking yet another question.

“The last name, Caleb of Ambria—I remember hearing it back during the war. He was a healer, wasn’t he?”

“He was. In the battle against the Jedi on Tython, the Dark Lord was grievously injured. He went to Ambria in search of the one man with the knowledge to heal his wounds. But Caleb refused to help him.”

In her mind’s eye, everything became clear to Serra. As her father had predicted, the man in black armor had returned. As before, he had come to try to compel Caleb to work his art. As before, Caleb had resisted. This time, however, her father had the upper hand. Having sent his daughter away, there was nothing the Sith could do to compel him to cooperate.

“What happened when the healer refused?” she whispered, her eyes still transfixed on her father’s name etched into the base of the stone.

“Nobody knows for certain. What we do know is that shortly after the Dark Lord arrived, Caleb sent out a message alerting the Jedi Council. He told them the last of the Sith was at his camp on Ambria, injured and virtually helpless. He wanted the Jedi to come capture him.”

“Why would he do that?” Lucia wondered. “I seem to remember hearing that Caleb refused to take sides in the war. Didn’t have much use for the Jedi or the Sith.”

“He did not always agree with the philosophies of our Order,” Obba admitted. “But he was a good and moral man. The war was long over by this point, and his conscience would not suffer evil to endure without taking action. He knew if he let the Sith leave,