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Sparring with Callista was in some ways easier than sparring with Luke, though the lost Jedi was of a height with her brother and no less exacting a teacher. Still, Callista understood the differences in technique required of Leia’s lesser height and lighter weight, knew the finer points with the instincts of one who has been rigorously coached for many years, and was far more conscious of distance and timing than any man Leia had ever worked with. As when she worked with Luke, Leia had no sense of danger whatever, no fear of the softly humming laser blades that could slide through flesh like a hot silver wire through cheese; only a strange exhilaration, a sense of freedom that she mistrusted instinctively because it felt so utterly right.

“Footwork,” said Callista dispassionately, searing a tiny curl of smoke from the rock a centimeter from Leia’s much-taped golden boot. “Footwork. Don’t be afraid of your spirit. Don’t always be watching yourself.”

Leia stepped back, the blade whispering, shedding pale azure light over her sweating face, the long tendrils of her cinnamon hair hanging down in her eyes. “If I don’t watch myself I’m afraid I’ll do something wrong.”

“I know,” said Callista. “You’ve watched yourself like that all your life. What are you afraid you’ll do?”

“Hurt someone,” said Leia, and knew it for the truth from the bottom of her soul. They weren’t talking about combat now. They both knew that.

“You’ll know when the time is to strike,” said Callista. “And when to step away. The only way to learn it is to do more of this, not less.”

“I don’t want to be another …” The words froze in her throat.

“Another Palpatine?” asked Callista. “Another Vader? You aren’t. You’re not even another Bail Organa. You’re Leia.”

Leia was silent, regarding the soft-shining blue light of the blade, the paler glow of Callista’s just beyond. Those two heatless beacons illuminated the darkness around them, isolated the two women in the heart of an ember fire, statesman and warrior, thinker and feeling heart.

“Haven’t you seen that yet?” asked Callista, her voice more quiet still. “Luke has.”

Leia’s panting breath steadied. The weapon felt more stable in her hands, more a part of herself. For the first time ever when she had held the lightsaber, she smiled. And smiling, signed to the younger woman and stepped into the fray again.

It was Callista who gestured to stop. Leia lowered her weapon. Callista turned her head, listening, her dark, level brows drawn together. A moment later Bé came into the circle of torchlight, his scarred, thin face intent in the braided frame of his long hair.

“They’re moving on the gun station,” he said. “From Ruby Gulch, dozens of them. On other gun stations as well.”

“How did he know that?” Leia asked, as she and Callista followed the others to the caves where the cu-pas and speeders were hidden. She climbed onto the back of a repulsor-lift sled with three other cultists; Callista swung into the saddle of a pale golden cu-pa, wrapped the gray veiling close around her face, and settled her rifle and grenades over her shoulder.

“Voices tell them, they say. Voices that speak in their minds if they sleep in certain places, far back in the hills, or drink preparations of certain herbs—as far as I can tell, that suppress left-brain linear activity. Bé is a Healer, strong in the Force. Many of the other Listeners are, too.”

She tossed Leia a rifle and a bow. There were arrows in the back of the sled, being passed among those who clustered there, men and women alike, as the vehicles and animals began their swift trek through the icy darkness of predawn, flowing like water down the silent canyons.

“The Force is so strong here,” she said softly, her gloved hand steady, easy on the cu-pa’s rein. “I’d heard the rumor of it from Djinn, my Master. There was a story about two young Jedi who came here centuries ago seeking gifts and strength in the Force that they themselves lacked. Nothing further was known of them, but one of them supposedly was