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It was a spectacular show, and one that went on for hours. Lightning descended from the clouds, mostly striking harmlessly against lightning rods and shielded antennas, but occasionally hitting the tall, leafy plants that served the Kel Dors as trees; such a strike superheated the fluids within the plant, causing it to explode and spray burning cellulose in all directions. Funnel clouds touched down at several points, twisting and dancing their way along streets or across rooftops, often damaging but not destroying the buildings; but on one occasion an especially vicious funnel swept across a large theater, grinding it into unrelated chunks of permacrete, shredding lengths of tapestries and recognizable padded seats, spraying all the debris out across the surrounding few blocks. One of the non-sage Kel Dor present said something in his own language, then, for Ben's benefit, translated: “I hope they were in their basement levels.”

Ben nodded. “Me, too.”

By midafternoon, the storm front had passed. Several injuries were reported, but no deaths. The visitors to the Baran Do temple thanked their hosts and returned to their lives.

Luke found Ben lingering in the lounge. “All done,” he said.

“You've mastered the technique?”

“And I'm making inroads into the other ‘lightning-rod’ techniques. By the way, we've been invited to Charsae Saal's farewell ceremony. Care to attend?”

“Yeah.” Ben frowned. “It was mentioned a few times here while everyone was watching the storm coverage. I got a strange sense about it.”

“What do you mean?”

“His students, like Tistura Paan, were sad about it. So were the Baran Do Masters, but it was different.”

“Of course it was. Masters tend to have a greater depth of philosophy and understanding about such things—”

“Dad, they were even sadder.”

That got Luke's attention. “What's that again?”

“I got the impression that the Masters had an even deeper regret.”

“Interesting.” Luke frowned as he thought about it. “Now I'm certain that we need to attend.”

It happened at nightfall. Behind the main temple, on a broad paved area, stood a raised hearth surrounded by a bronze-colored metal rim. On the hearth, a pyre had been built. It was not made of wood, for wood did not burn in Dorin's oxygen-free atmosphere; instead, it comprised planks made of a self-contained solid fuel already enriched with oxygen.

For the first hour, as the sun went down and Baran Do and friends gathered, Charsae Saal circulated, greeting guests. He was, by Kel Dor standards, short and burly, meaning that to Ben he looked somewhat less scrawny than the others. He might have been old by Kel Dor standards, but he moved energetically and easily; he had certainly shown considerable combat skill when working with Ben the previous day. He wore a simple draping robe in black. A hood hung partway down his back.

Drinks and tidbits of food were served. Luke and Ben, the only non-Kel Dor present, did not partake.

Eventually, Charsae Saal stood up on a benchlike platform, also made of the combustible material, and addressed those who were gathered. He spoke in the Kel Dor language, but Tistura Paan, standing near the Skywalkers, translated into Basic. “Thank you all for attending. There is no lonelier thought than the idea that you might die alone; there is no more comforting thought than that you may die gently, among friends. I now take that step, moving aside so that others may succeed me. I pray that I will be remembered fondly. I will remember all of you fondly.”

So saying, he flipped his hood up so that it shrouded his eyes. He lay down on the platform upon which he had been standing. He placed his hands together, fingers laced, over his chest.

As the others watched in silence, his breathing slowed. Ben could feel him in the Force, a strong, vital presence.

Then the Force presence that was Charsae Saal faded, became smaller. In moments, it was completely gone, though his body still lay on the platform.

Four Kel Dors approached the platform. They