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“As you would say it, yes. It must be this way, for in competitions between those with the Arts and those without, those with the Arts almost always win.” Firen gestured, not toward the fields, but toward a bare patch of lakeside beach where wood for a large fire was being placed. “There is where the riddling and other competitions will take place. Those are among the few where those with the Arts and those without can compete with each other.”

“It seems very well thought out.” Luke, sitting cross-legged on the speeder hood, was doing some final adjustments on the hilt of his lightsaber. “I suppose there would especially be a lot of talk if I don’t compete.”

“Oh, yes.” Firen sounded sure. “All will wonder if you have grown feeble, or if you merely scorn our traditions.”

“Guess I’d better compete, then, so they’ll know neither is true.” Luke gave his brother-in-law a look. “You, too, Han.”

“But I am feeble.”

Leia snorted. “Right. You mean lazy.”

Han looked at Firen, an appeal for help. “Tell me that there’s a wine-tasting competition.”

“No.”

“Solving navigation problems?”

“No.”

“Bragging?”

Firen sighed. She turned away and headed back toward the Raining Leaves encampment.

When the call went up for the first competition of the morning, the short footrace for those with the Arts, Luke went out to join the competitors, and most of the offworlders went out to cheer him on.

Ben did not. He stayed in the shadow of the cargo speeder and began dealing with items he had traded for or borrowed in the earliest hour as the camp was rousing.

A green Broken Columns cloak, suitable in these temperate foothill elevations, went over his black garments, and a brown hood hid his too-visible reddish hair. He slid the clip for his lightsaber to the back of his belt and put a large sheath knife, borrowed from Carrack, where the other weapon normally hung. Now anyone looking at him would still, in moments, be able to discern that he did not belong to the Raining Leaves or Broken Columns, but he was not instantly obvious as an offworlder or Jedi.

As he was putting on his impromptu disguise, he sneaked the occasional look at the athletic field, specifically at the crowd around the competitors. Olianne was there, and, as Ben and his father had guessed she might, she was keeping a close eye on the offworlders.

Vestara was near Olianne, but not always; she drifted along the edges of the crowd. Ben got up and moved as nonchalantly as he could toward the race’s audience.

As he walked, a woman of the Raining Leaves bellowed the rules. All competitors were to race the length of the field, round a marker post, keeping it to their left side, and return to the starting line. Afterward, a longer race would be run, eight laps. Then the two races would be repeated by those with no Arts.

As the recitation of rules came to an end, Ben found himself at the back of a press of onlookers. Three meters ahead of him, at the front of the crowd, was Vestara. Olianne stood a dozen meters to the right of Vestara, separated from her by onlookers.

A blaster fired into the sky was the signal for the race’s start. Ben saw his father and three others, two Dathomiri women and one man, draw out to an early lead. Luke did not move to the front; the Raining Leaves trainer of scouts, Halliava Vurse, was ahead of him. Ben doubted she’d remain there; Luke, ever strategic, was doubtless pacing himself.

Vestara withdrew a couple of steps into the crowd, which put her directly in front of Ben. Then she turned to look at him. She showed no surprise at finding him there. “Good morning.”

“If you say so.”

“You don’t think it is?”

He frowned. “Whether it’s good or not isn’t relevant.”

“It’s always relevant. Will your morning be worse if your father loses?”

“He won’t lose.”

Over Vestara’s shoulder, Ben saw the racers as they returned to the starting line. Luke was clearly drawing on the Force and gaining ground—but so was Halliava. The Dathomiri woman stayed a good two meters ahead of Luke and crossed the finish line first. The audience