Star Wars_ The Old Republic_ Revan - Drew Karpyshyn [29]
“I haven’t spoken to her since her trial,” Atris answered through gritted teeth, and Revan knew she was telling the truth. “I do not know where she went, and I hope I never see her again. The Exile betrayed the Order, as did you.
“You’re not welcome here. Go back home to your wife.” Atris spoke the last word with such venom, she nearly choked on it.
“Uh, uh, uh,” Revan said, wagging his finger at her. “There is no emotion; there is peace.”
Her lip curled up in a snarl and she spun on her heel and stormed out of the room. Revan waited until the sound of her feet on the stairs faded, then sat slowly back down in the chair.
With Atris gone, he could let his sarcastic mask slip. Despite what he’d said to her, he couldn’t help but feel responsible for Meetra. He’d refused to give Atris the satisfaction of seeing his guilt and grief, but now that he was alone, the emotions came flooding to the surface. Most of his specific memories of Meetra were gone; he could recall only disjointed bits and pieces. But she had once been one of his closest friends, and he still felt a powerful emotional connection to her.
Slumping forward, he buried his face in his hands. He expected tears to follow, but that didn’t happen. Instead, he just felt a hollow, numbing sorrow. After several minutes, he took a deep breath to collect himself and rose to his feet. Then he headed out the Archives door and down the stairs.
He’d come to the Temple in search of an old friend and confidante, hoping she could help him understand the dreams that plagued his nights. Instead he’d found a dead end and learned the grim truth about the one they called the Exile.
“No wonder I never come here anymore,” he grumbled under his breath as he made his way across the courtyard and headed for the exit.
CHAPTER SIX
A WEEK HAD PASSED since the mission on Hallion. Daily doses of kolto had healed Scourge’s wounds; even his cracked ribs were fully mended. But his pride and confidence were still wounded. The mission had been a success, but things had gone a lot less smoothly than he would have liked. No doubt Sechel’s report to Nyriss would paint each of his mistakes in the most garish tone.
He was desperate to find some way to vent his frustrations, and today he had finally felt well enough to visit the stronghold’s exercise yard for a much-needed workout. He rarely went more than two or three days without practicing his drills, knowing that his continued survival would often depend on his martial expertise.
Though there were others in the yard, none was a worthy sparring partner. He would gain little from testing himself against any of Murtog’s soldiers. Even the guard captain himself wouldn’t present any real challenge to a fully trained Sith Lord.
Instead he performed a complex routine of drills designed to hone his reflexes, all while wearing his heavy armor. His crimson blade hummed as he cycled through the aggressive thrusts and cuts of Juyo, the seventh form of lightsaber combat. The weapon moved so fast that it was nothing but a blur, but each strike was precise and controlled.
In the middle of his routine he noticed that Nyriss’s young Twi’lek slave had entered the yard. She stood patiently off to one side, her head bowed respectfully.
Scourge put an abrupt end to the session, knowing she would be here only if Nyriss had sent her. He flicked his lightsaber off and clipped it to his belt before crossing the yard to her.
“Darth Nyriss wishes to speak to you,” the Twi’lek said softly, keeping her eyes focused on the ground.
“Will Sechel be there?” he demanded.
“I do not know, my lord,” she replied.
Scourge frowned. He had not seen or spoken with Sechel since their return.
“Take me to Nyriss.”
The slave nodded, then turned and set off. Scourge fell into step behind her.
He’d