The Knight, Death, and the Devil

Chapter 24: A Long Time Coming

Far away from the forests and mountains of Tython, Isatryn Sol sat dreaming. She was a young child again, fleeing through scrub and brush that scraped at her exposed hands and face as she ran. Tears and dirt stained her face, and the bruises under her robe throbbed with a dull ache. The scar running across the front of her throat hummed its sharp song, though that wound was far older than any the other Jedi Padawans had inflicted.

She ran headlong into a stone wall and stopped, grimacing in pain as she turned around and slid down to the grass with her back against the wall. With her head tucked between her knees she rocked back and forth, listening to the growing shouts and jeers of the children chasing her. The teachers might chase them off again, but that wouldn't put an end to it—it never did.

Mixed in with the raucous yells she heard another, more earnest voice, calling out her name. Not awful epithets—her real name. Only one other Padawan used her true name.

Not that 'Isatryn' was the only thing he called her. 'Sister,' he had said once. Isatryn had never known her family, and neither child had ever had someone to call sibling. So, they had made an agreement. To her it was the first—and last—bond she had ever formed. Some might not call it a real family, but to her it felt more real than the genuine article.

The bushes in front of her rustled, and someone trod across the grass towards her.

"Isatryn?" he said.

She could hardly hear him over the shouts of the other Padawans, their cries becoming a roar that filled her head. Why wouldn't they leave them alone? Why wouldn't they leave her alone?

"Are you alright—"

Her head snapped up and she looked at Torin, his brow furrowed in concern and caution as he pulled his outstretched hand away from her.

"Kill them," she said in a low, harsh voice. "Kill them all!"

She opened her eyes and awakened to the same courtyard as in her dream. The boy in front of her was gone, and the once-pristine gardens were burnt and dead. Only the stubborn vines snaking their way across cracked stone remained, as did the burnt-out husk of a massive tree sticking defiantly up into the air in the center of the plaza. The bodies of dozens of mens lay around Isatryn, scavengers who had ventured into the temple in hopes of finding something to salvage.

But there was nothing of value there. Only corpses, remnants, and painful reminders of a time that could never be reclaimed.

The Falleen pulled down the hood of her ragged black robe and looked up into the sky. Lines of cruisers zoomed by overhead, a noisy reminder that despite the deathly stillness around her, the city of Coruscant surrounding the sanctuary teemed with life and activity. That was not where her attention was directed, though. She let her awareness drift past the traffic, off of the planet, and through the blackness of space as she honed in on an all-too-familiar presence.

"Yes," she said. "I hear you."

___

Torin sat outside the Jedi council chambers, drumming his fingers on his knees and casting surreptitious glances at the men and women passing by, most of whom returned curious looks. He wasn't dressed as a Jedi, and must have looked enormously out of place in the sacred temple. His entrance with Ziare had drawn quite a few stares and hushed whispers. The woman had sat him down on a bench and told him to wait while she relayed his story to the other assembled Masters. Without being able to hear what was being said past the polished wood doors, he could only guess in what light his name had been cast.

Servant of the Sith? Imperial turncoat, and savior of the Republic? Hapless victim who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time?

Or perhaps they didn't know what to think, and their attempts to untangle his bizarre tale was why Ziare had been in there for over an hour.