Star Wars_ Fate of the Jedi 04_ Backlash - Aaron Allston [38]
She was out there, at a greater distance than before, in the densest part of the Raining Leaves crowd.
A man moved through the crowd toward them, distinct from the others because of his height—he stood eye-to-eye with Han—and his features, which were exceptionally handsome, ideally suited to the stage or to holodramas. Some of the Raining Leaves women before him moved out of his path only grudgingly, resentfully. As he came close, Luke could make out blond hair, eyes the same blue as Redgill Lake when they had first spotted it a couple of hours ago, and garments that were an odd mix of Dathomiri hide vest and boots combined with offworld trousers in a distinctly civilized shade of purple.
Luke extended a hand. “Tasander Dest, I assume.”
“Master Skywalker.” Dest’s voice was flavored with the refined accent of the Hapan noble families. “A pleasure to meet you at last.” His attention wandered to the speeder hood, where Kaminne now told of the scrap between the Witches and the offworlders in the pass. Her tone made it sound as though the exchange had been a romp rather than a potential tragedy.
“Kaminne told us what this gathering was for.” Luke gestured across the group. “You have some interesting challenges ahead of you.”
“So do you, if you’re here for anything other than watching tribal customs. The clans have not changed their ways much since you first came to this planet.”
Luke shrugged. “So how do we get them to open up?”
Dest smiled, an expression that exposed what seemed to be a broad panorama of perfect teeth. “The Games start tomorrow. Win some of them. You gain respect, others will talk to you. I’ll be competing. Beat me at something … if you can.” The good cheer in his manner seemed to rob that statement of all the arrogance that should have come with it.
Half an hour later, once Luke’s party was settled down at a new camp-fire of its own, Kaminne led Luke and Ben across the campgrounds to a dark patch of ground near a stand of trees.
“Nice place for an ambush,” Ben told her.
Luke gave his son an admonishing look, but Kaminne merely smiled. “I only plan one ambush a day. And today’s was not so successful.”
With the mood eased, Ben changed the subject. “I know this is your family business, but it also relates to what my father and I are doing here, so I was sort of hoping to ask a question.”
Kaminne’s expression went from amused to neutral, unreadable. “Go ahead.”
“Why has your sister taken such a stong interest in the Sith girl? She’s known her for, what, a day or two and is already considering adopting her?”
Kaminne didn’t answer immediately. Clearly she was considering her answer, deliberating how much to tell, how much to withhold. “A few months ago, Olianne’s only child, Sesara—she was eight—died of a fever. When Vestara stumbled out of the forest, helpless, nearly in a state of collapse, into the midst of Olianne’s hunting party, and all but fell into Olianne’s arms, something about her plight touched my sister’s heart. It is as simple as that.”
Luke exchanged a look with his son. Ben’s thoughts were so easy to read at this moment, no skill in the Force was called for. What an interesting coincidence that Vestara should first find the clan member who might be most sympathetic to her situation. But was that a matter of luck … or foreknowledge?
From ahead, they could hear conversation—just the rise and fall of speech, two female voices, resolving within moments into comprehensible words. The first voice was recognizable as Olianne’s: “… not have to speak with them.”
The second voice was lighter, younger. “I want to.”
“You were running from them before.”
“I was alone before. Now I am among family.”
The voices stopped. Luke knew that neither he, Ben, nor Kaminne had