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Surely it was a ploy, to distract the Jedi so that the Sith could destroy them. Once they had been dispatched or captured, she would explain everything to her father. He would be in good spirits with such a victory and—

This is not “Papa.”

This is Father. And Father has come to kill me.

With the barest fraction of an instant to spare, Vestara brought her lightsaber up and blocked what would surely have been a single, killing blow. He stared at her with loathing, his dark eyes piercing her mere centimeters from her face, and spat on her.

“You have disgraced my name!” he shouted. “Perhaps you are not even my get!”

Vestara’s mind flashed back to the theoretical discussion she’d had with Ben—what she would do if her mother had ever had an affair. Anger rushed through her at his implication. Her mother loved her father. She would never betray him.

But Vestara would.

Hadn’t she already? Was betrayal in actions, or in thoughts? Were her “letters” to a fictitious Jedi parent betrayal?

She shoved the distracting thought aside, focusing on the hot anger, channeling it and using it—as he had taught her to do. He sensed the change in her and smiled contemptuously.

“Now you listen to my lessons,” he snarled, “but it is too late for you to save yourself.”

He sprang up and leapt over her head, turning as he went to slash out with the lightsaber, attempting to carve through her skull. Vestara ducked and struck upward with her own glowing red weapon, shoving it aside so that Khai had to twist to avoid striking himself. She was surprised at how easy it was. Was she really that much better a fighter after her time with the Skywalkers?

“Very good,” he said. “Your skills have improved. But not your loyalties.”

And suddenly Vestara understood what was going on. Why he seemed so out of control; he, Saber Gavar Khai, who had prided himself on using his emotions as he saw fit, who would never surrender to them. Her own sense of outraged betrayal surged through her at the realization.

“Where does your loyalty lie, Father? Not with the Lost Tribe, I think!”

Shocked, he dropped his guard for a moment. She took advantage of the opening and charged, feinting left and then sweeping right with the glowing red blade. Lithely he dodged, recovering quickly. Their blades clashed and he twisted hard, using both the torque of the blade and the Force to nearly snap her wrist. She dropped her lightsaber and he closed in for the kill.

Her heart shaking her with its pounding, Vestara shoved one splayed hand out in Khai’s direction and extended her other hand. Her lightsaber flew toward her as her father, Force-shoved, stumbled back. He looked—surprised. A fierce grin twisted her mouth and she sprang on him, raining blows and shouting wordlessly. More surprise came from him as he was forced to use all his years of expertise to block her.

Vestara was a mixture of surging emotions. Rage, hatred, hurt, love—she gathered them to her and used them all. Her father had loved her, but still had used her for his own ends. And when she had stumbled, he had not forgiven. He had not forgiven, because he was Sith, and Sith do not make mistakes and live. She had turned her back on the Tribe, letting her heart wander to Ben, and yet she had been a dutiful daughter. All the contradictions, all the logic and illogic—she used them as fuel to the fire of her intense desire to survive.

Khai recovered quickly. “So be it,” he said, acknowledging her renewed, laser-keen intensity, volatile and violent. “I am done with you.”

No. She was done with him.

Vestara’s world constricted to this, and nothing but this: the blending of body, will, and passion, and the centimeters of space between two living beings … one of whom would be dead soon.

Ben drew more and more heavily on the Force—it was difficult here, so close to a dark-side nexus, and it took more out of him. Two of his foes were down. One was dead. The other, having nearly been cut in two, was lying thrashing on the