Free Dynasty of Evil by Drew Karpyshyn Page A

Twi’lek opened the door, then stepped to the side with another bow. Serra entered the room, Lucia following a single step behind. Their escorts stayed outside, closing the door.
    At first glance, the interior of the room might have been mistaken for a greenhouse. A single large window on the far wall allowed sunlight to stream through, making it exceedingly bright and overly warm. Potted plants of at least a dozen different species lined the walls; another half a dozen grew from boxes along the windowsill, while still more hung from planters affixed to the ceiling. There were no chairs, no table, and no desk. It was only when she noticed a small, straw-woven sleeping mat rolled up in the corner that Lucia realized this was the Jedi Master’s personal chambers.
    “Welcome, Your Highness. You honor us with your visit.”
    Master Obba, an Ithorian, was standing with his back to them looking out the window. In the elongated fingers of one hand he held a watering can. Setting it down on the floor, he turned to face them.
    Like all Ithorians, he was taller than the averagehuman—easily over two meters in height. His rough, brown skin looked almost like bark, and his long neck curved down and forward before looping up again, making it seem as if he was leaning toward them. Looking at the eyes bulging out from either side at the top of his tall, flat head made it easy to see why the nickname Hammerhead was often applied to the species.
    “This is my adviser, Lucia,” Serra told him, sticking with their planned cover story. “Thank you for agreeing to meet with us, Master Obba.”
    “It was the least I could do, given your circumstances,” the Ithorian explained, his voice deep and resonant. “My condolences on your husband. His death was a terrible tragedy.”
    Lucia was no expert in the subtleties of politics, and she couldn’t tell if Obba was simply a compassionate soul expressing real sympathy, or an expert negotiator trying to put the princess emotionally off balance by mentioning Gerran.
    “My tragedy is mirrored by your own,” Serra replied in the formal tone of a practiced diplomat. Whatever the Jedi’s intentions, his words had no visible effect on her demeanor. “Allow me to apologize on behalf of the royal family for the unfortunate passing of Medd Tandar.”
    The Ithorian’s head dipped in acknowledgment. “I grieve for his death. And it is of critical importance that we learn the identity of the person or persons responsible.”
    Lucia felt her heart skip a beat, though she gave no outward sign of her anxiety.
    “I understand,” Serra assured him. “The authorities on my world are doing everything in their power to bring those responsible to justice.”
    “I want to believe you,” Obba replied, “but you can understand if I have my reservations. Medd was killedduring an attack on your enemies. There are some who believe your father-in-law was behind the attack.”
    “That makes no sense,” Serra objected. “The king wants to improve our relationship with your revered Order. That was why he agreed to let Medd come to our world in the first place.”
    “There are some who believe the king used Medd to help find his enemies,” Obba countered. “They claim that was his plan all along.”
    “Medd’s death was a tragic coincidence, not a part of some devious plot to exploit the Jedi,” the princess insisted. “He was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. As for the king, he had no knowledge of the assassination whatsoever. I give you my word.”
    “Unfortunately, your word will not be proof enough to allay the fears of those in my Order.”
    “Then let them use logic,” Serra argued. “My father-in-law is not a fool. If he wanted to use the Jedi to seek revenge, he would have been smart enough to cover his tracks. He would have waited until after Medd had left before ordering the attack.”
    “Sometimes when we are blinded by grief, we aren’t able to look past our immediate