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Ben frowned and prepared to give chase, but Luke gestured for him to stand down. “That’s not our real enemy. Look for a Force-user.”

“That woman? Who was she?”

Luke shrugged. “A Dathomiri Witch, I expect.”

They cast about in the Force, but the woman was not to be found. They could feel teeming rain-forest life in the Force, could detect the lumbering rancor moving away from them at high speed, and Luke could still feel, distantly, his own blood the Sith girl was carrying, but there was no pulse to suggest that anyone was using the Force.

Ben sighed. “What was that all about?”

“Somebody did not want us to proceed.” Luke reignited his lightsaber. It came on, but its snap-hiss of ignition was more faltering, more unsteady than usual, and the weapon remained lit only a few seconds. Its energy blade retracted from view. “Try yours.”

Ben did so. The blade did not ignite. “Stang.” He scowled, then checked his comlink and datapad in turn. “Fried, Dad.”

“Mine, too.”

“How is it that your hand’s still working?”

Luke looked at his right hand—the prosthetic one. He had lost the original when he was only a few years older than Ben. “The artificial skin offers a fair amount of insulation.” He balled his hand into a fist, felt no indication that it was damaged. “Come on, let’s get out of the immediate vicinity—in case our enemies return—and then see if we can get any of these electronics working again. A Jedi without a lightsaber—”

“Is a lot less dashing to the girls.”

“Not what I was going to say, but probably true.”

JEDI TEMPLE, CORUSCANT

Master Cilghal—who, like all the Mon Calamari, possessed a stocky, powerful body and bulbous head, with protruding eyes that routinely moved independently in their sockets—left Master Hamner’s quarters at a fast walk, this unaccustomed speed causing her Jedi robes to swirl around her.

Jaina Solo, Jedi Knight and daughter of Han and Leia, dressed in ordinary robes like a scaled-down version of Cilghal’s, saw her emerge. Jaina hurried to catch up and walked beside the Master Jedi. A tiny woman and a delicate beauty, had Jaina not been famous because of her parents and her own exploits, she might have been mistaken for the sort of athlete who won fame for some sports victory, then spent the rest of her professional career fulfilling lucrative product endorsement contracts. In truth, she cared little about her looks or money; her continued service to the Jedi was proof enough of the latter. She waved to catch Cilghal’s attention. “I take it that something’s up.”

Cilghal nodded. “Something is very, very up. I just had a message from your cousin.” Cilghal’s voice was the sort of resonant, gravelly rumble common to the Mon Calamari. Hers was usually a trifle softer, as befit a healer, but now it was as hard as that of any member of her species.

“From Ben? Is Luke all right?”

“He is hurt and tired, but he will recover.”

“Well?” Not as diplomatically adept as her mother, Jaina did not bother keeping impatience out of her voice.

“Jedi Skywalker has informed us—and I point out that, because it comes from young Ben, it is no violation of the Grand Master’s terms of exile—”

“You’re splitting hairs.”

“I have no hairs to split. Young Ben informs us that the dark side of the Force is powerfully represented in the Maw cluster, and the Sith are at large again in the galaxy.”

“What?”

“Sith. Your uncle and cousin fought them. But these do not follow the Sith Rule of Two. They apparently follow a Sith rule of However Many They Need. The Grand Master is pursuing one to try to find her planet of origin.”

Jaina was silent until the two of them reached the end of the marbled corridor and the turbolift. It opened before them, and they stepped in. “What’s Master Hamner’s response? To assume that Ben is wrong and ignore the problem?”

“The Master is no fool. Medcenter, please.” The turbolift doors closed and the lift plummeted. Unmoved by the lift’s heart-stopping speed, Cilghal continued, “He knows no Jedi Knight would lie about such a thing