Star Wars_ The Approaching Storm - Alan Dean Foster [32]
Fortunately, the heretofore guileless Bulgan was now in a cerebral position to do so.
“She fixed me,” he informed his companion simply and straightforwardly, tapping the side of his head. “Fixed me here. She can fix you, too.”
“No promises,” Barriss warned them both.
“Fix what?” Kyakhta had already taken a wary step backward. “I not broken. What do you mean, fix me?”
“Up here.” Once more, the mentally mended Bulgan touched hand to head. “I have no more pain in my mind. I know you suffer from the same syndrome, my good friend. Let her work her Jedi healing on you.”
Another step back. The door was within reach. Easy to dart back out into the hallway, slam the barrier shut, and seal the lock. But—what had happened to Bulgan in his absence? Kyakhta wondered. He hadn’t been gone very long. Only a few minutes, and now his good, honest, dumb companion in mutual exile and disgrace was talking like an infernal city councilor! No, he corrected himself. Not like a councilor.
Like a true Alwari nomad: independent, confident, and free.
Three fingers hovered in the vicinity of the door. The Jedi made no move to stop him, though he sensed she might have done so. “What this nonsense about ‘Jedi healing’?”
“She worked it on me. Fixed my head, my mind. It doesn’t hurt anymore, Kyakhta! I can think clearly again. My thoughts haven’t been this free since I was a child and was thrown from that suubatar.” His voice lowered. “That was the same throw, the bad dismount, that broke my back and stole my eye—and damaged my mind.”
“But I …” Kyakhta was at a loss for words. In the face of the evidence, in the face of his friend’s face, he was forced to accept a seemingly inconceivable reality.
There was another reality that would have to be faced, and quickly. Unbound hands outstretched, the Jedi was advancing slowly toward him.
“Let me help you, Kyakhta. I give you the same promise I made to Bulgan. Whether I can help you or not, I am still your prisoner.”
That was true, Kyakhta realized. Dissolved bonds notwithstanding, he and his friend were still the ones in control here. Only they knew the way out of the building in which the cell was located. Only they could get her past the outer guards and security checkpoints. Of course, a Jedi Knight would probably make short work of such minor obstacles, but a Padawan still in training …
Unarguably, she had worked a marvel with Bulgan. Could she take away the similar pain that had afflicted him all his adult life; remove the regular, pounding waves of agony that daily stabbed through his brain? Wasn’t it worth, if nothing else, a try?
“Go ahead,” he told her, adding by way of warning, “if this a trick, the bossban may not receive you undamaged.”
Paying no attention to the threat, she reached out and up to put her hands on the sides of his head and draw it toward her. Her fingers were cool against his skull, he realized, and there were too many of them, but otherwise her touch was inoffensive. Calming, even.
Several moments later, he was blinking back at her with the same awed realization that had not long before nearly overcome his companion. Unlike Bulgan, he did not throw his arms wildly in the air and dance small circles. Instead, he bowed. As performed by an Ansionian, it was a particularly graceful and supple gesture.
“I owe you my sanity, Padawan. For had you not interceded, I see surely now that the pain I have been living with would have led all too soon to utter madness, and eventually to death.” Turning from her, he embraced his old companion-in-despair, long arms wrapping around Bulgan’s broad shoulders, maned and bald head bobbing together in