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“Anakin, thank you.” Jaina sniffed. “I want to hope you’re right. I just . . . I need to have my heart and my head and everything sort things out.”

“Yeah, that seems like the hard part.” He nodded slowly. “I’m flying that same course myself. If you want a wing . . . sorry.”

“No, Anakin, that’s okay.” She reached out and tousled his hair. “I’m glad you’re willing to fly on my wing. We can do this together, little brother. I think that would work out just fine.”

Corran let the door to his tiny cabin slide shut behind him, then leaned back against it. A little cough shook him, reigniting the pain in his abdomen. He’d already undergone two of the three bacta treatments the Emdee droids had prescribed for his wounds, and had ample evidence that the bacta had succeeded in helping his nerves to regenerate.

He rested with his back against the door, less because of true fatigue than a reluctance to do what he had come to do. Threading his way through the Ralroost’s passageways had been draining. Dodging groups of Ithorians in the narrow corridors made the journey hard, but it was not their physical presence alone that wore him down.

Through the Force he could feel their anguish. After his wounding he’d slipped into a Jedi trance and had been transferred immediately to a bacta tank. He had been floating there, barely conscious, when the Yuuzhan Vong attacked Ithor. He could feel life on the planet being extinguished, as if something were blotting out all the stars in the sky one by one.

He’d been out of the bacta when the atmosphere ignited. The stunned shock of the Ralroost’s crew had hit him first, then the flood of grief from the distant city-ships slammed hard into him. The Mother Jungle, the living entity that had created the Ithorians, that had nurtured and sustained them, the entity they loved and dedicated their lives to preserving, had been destroyed. From their ships they saw the atmosphere burn like a solar corona around the planet, leaving in its wake a charred, sterile cinder.

That wave of horror and grief retreated, leaving every Ithorian feeling as hollow inside as Corran had when . . . He glanced at the Yuuzhan Vong shell lying on the bunk in the small cabin. He took one step toward it, then sank to his knees. He touched a finger to the latch-creature, ignoring the sting of the needle as it drew his blood.

The shell slowly opened. Bioluminescent tissue shed a pale green light that glowed softly from Elegos’ bones. It danced a bit in the gems that replaced his eyes, but in no way conveyed any of the life Corran had seen in what they imitated. Elegos’ skeleton peered down at him, and Corran fervently wished he could catch at least the hint of a smile there.

The Jedi sank back on his heels and looked up into the jeweled eyes of what had once been his friend. From inside his robe he drew the mask Shedao Shai had worn. He rubbed a sleeve over its black surface, erasing a smudge, then reverently set it in Elegos’ lap.

“Your murderer is dead.”

Corran wanted to say more, but his throat closed and the glowing image before him blurred. He covered his eyes with a hand, smearing tears against his cheeks, then swallowed hard. He wiped away more tears, then took a deep breath and set his shoulders.

“His death was supposed to save Ithor. It didn’t. I know you’d be horrified to think I killed him for you. I didn’t. I did it for Ithor.”

The gold skeleton stared down at him, cold mercilessness glinting from the gems in its eye-sockets.

Never any fooling you, was there, my friend? Corran screwed his eyes shut against more tears, then opened them again. He looked away, unable to stand Elegos’ dead gaze.

“That’s what I told myself. It was for Ithor. That’s what I told everyone. Managed to fool some of them—most of them, I think. Not Master Skywalker. I think he knew the truth, but the chance to save Ithor had to be taken.”

He glanced down at his right hand and could again feel the weight of his lightsaber in it. “I had myself convinced, I really did, until . . . There was a point in the fight. I’d turned my lightsaber