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“If we learn any news about Set or the talismans,” the princess promised, “you have my word that we will inform you right away.”

“Thank you, Your Highness,” the Ithorian replied with a stiff bow, only now realizing how he had been outmaneuvered.

Serra gave Master Obba a curt nod as a final farewell, then quickly turned to take her leave, anxious to return to the privacy of her shuttle. Lucia immediately fell into step beside her. Neither of them spoke as they crossed the gardens to the waiting airspeeder; the silence continued as the speeder whisked them up and away, turning the buildings and swarming crowds of Coruscant into a blur beneath them. Serra was still thinking about the black-armored man from her nightmares. She knew her dreams were more than just memories or subconscious fears bubbling to the surface. Caleb had been neither Sith nor Jedi, yet he had believed in the natural power of life and the universe and had taught Serra to listen to the power within her, to draw on it when she needed wisdom, courage, or strength of spirit. Most important, he had taught her to trust her instincts.

In the same way Caleb had known that the black-armored man would return, Serra knew he was still alive. She knew he was somehow involved in her father’s murder. The Jedi who had come to Ambria had been tricked. She was certain of it. It wouldn’t have been hard; they wanted to believe the Sith were extinct. It was always easier to make people accept a lie they had hoped and wished for.

A plan began to form in Serra’s mind. For too many years, she had been tormented by the terrifying figure from her childhood. Now, with Caleb’s death as the catalyst, she was going to do something about it. She would avenge her father. She was going to find the black-armored man, and she was going to kill him.

She didn’t speak again until she and Lucia were alone on board the private shuttle that would take them back to Doan. Here she knew they were safe, that whatever was said would stay between the two of them. Even so, she wasn’t ready to confess everything. She would keep the secrets of her past—her father, her nightmares—a little longer yet.

“The assassin you hired. I need you to contact her again” was all she said. “I have another job for her.”

6

Set Harth had been on Doan for two days. He was determined not to still be here by the end of the third. In part, he wanted to be gone before any more Jedi showed up to investigate Medd’s death, or to try and claim the artifacts the Cerean had come for in the first place. But beyond that, Set was just sick of being surrounded by miners.

They were all beginning to look the same: squat and stout, their common thickness a result of generations spent at hard manual labor. Their skin was brown and weathered, not to mention caked with the dust and grime that hung over everything. They all had the same hair—short and dark—and they all wore the same clothes, drab and ratty. Even their features all looked the same: grim and sullen, despondent and broken by a lifetime of grinding in the quarries.

To say he didn’t fit in was the epitome of understatement. Set was thin and wiry, with long, silver hair flowing down over his shoulders. His skin was creamy white and unblemished by the elements; his handsome features conveyed a mischievous charm and just a touch of arrogance. And unlike the miners, Set dressed with style.

He wore a tailor-fitted combat suit, the material a shade somewhere between black and violet. The lightweight outfit gave him full mobility, yet was also durable enough to afford some protection if, as so often happened around Set, events took a violent turn. Atop this he wore a pale yellow vest; both the combat suit and vest were sleeveless to leave his arms bare. A fashionable violet band of woven veda cloth encircled each ripped bicep, and his boots, belt, and fingerless gloves were made from the finest Corellian leather.

Typically he also carried a GSI-24D disruptor pistol holstered on his