2

It could have been worse.

The queen had been polite. Even friendly, on the surface at least. Her regret had been sincere, as had her formal offer of assistance with the funeral rites, which Cara accepted. There was a small needle though –she was evidently a little put out at having an attractive girl of similar age in the court. She was certainly beautiful, the sheet of silver-blonde hair that cascaded to the small of her back contrasted vividly with her amethyst eyes, while her figure was alluring.

The meal had been reasonably simple and the mood calm enough. She had been able to assess the dozen or so who had attended. Nine or ten seemed sound, while she put a question mark on two, who evidently had too much fondness for power. Possibly three? She had not been able to get much of a read on one. Jarl Salkeld had not been present, and she had not asked. There had been a light touch of foils between the queen and herself on that subject before they had sat down. It had not been territorial –probably. There was something there though. Some kind of relationship, but exactly what was harder to say. Familial? Lovers?

'You survived then my lady?' Brigid had bolted the door, as she had done a few hours earlier, and sat her at the dressing table.

She smiled tiredly. 'More or less.' The light was soft; a single candle only, which had a faint scent of lavender. The girl had set out a toothbrush and water for her to use, and while she did, busied herself in turning the bed down. She was glad to see the knife the old woman had given her on a low table. There was some comfort in the memories, and also having a quality weapon close to hand.

'Your friend left the castle again straight after bringing you here.'

Cara turned in the chair to look at Brigid. 'He wasn't invited.'

'No. He isn't part of the Council. They know he's loyal to the queen –but that isn't always convenient for some of them. And they're afraid of him too.'

'I noticed. Does he have much influence?'

'He and the queen were close as children. I think he knows her a little too well, for her comfort and the council's.'

Which made sense. 'They both have purple eyes –are they related, or is that common here?'

'Not very. They're second or third cousins I believe.' Which would mean second. Brigid, she had already decided, didn't make many mistakes. There had been a hint too that the relationship had perhaps been a little more than simple friendship. She closed her eyes. All in all, she was about finished. Standing, she allowed the girl to loosen the clasps of the dress. 'Nobody will disturb you my lady –I've given instructions that you should be left to rest.'

'The best servants always run things. And so you should.'

'Personal maids do, sometimes.' Brigid smiled, helped Cara undress, then gently blew out the candle, which sat in a small recess in the wall beside the bed, plunging the room into almost-darkness. 'I have a small chamber beside this my lady. I've made sure the main door, and the one to the servant's corridor are both fast. If you need me, you only have to call.'

Thank you.' She slipped gratefully into the bed, watching the shadowy figure hanging the dress on a hook near the dresser. 'Good night Brigid.' On an impulse she held out an arm, and when the girl moved over briefly squeezed her fingers by way of thanks. It was rare for Cara to make friends with people her own age –she knew she was respected, and to an extent admired by some of her fellow Padawans, but there were few that she was close to. Brigid was different. For a moment, she reached out through the force –there was nothing. The small suite was at the end of the cloister, and other than Brigid there was nobody close, nor any feeling of threat. Still. She picked up the knife, sliding it under the sheets, her right hand resting lightly on the grip. It worked, after a fashion –she felt more comfortable. Sleep was harder to find. Over and over, for an hour or more she ran through the descent into the narrow valley, her pause on the bridge, the slight ruffle of wind; the deep hum of the bowstring. The blood filling her master's mouth. And the yellow eyes; the rough grey of the falchion. The gleam of saliva across the exposed canine teeth and dark, snarling lips.

She gave up and lit the candle again from the small tinder box that sat beside it. The room was empty of course, as she already knew, but light was company of a kind. It helped change the perspective of her memories. There was nothing she could have done. Sitting back against the pillows, she watched the shadows dancing on the furthest wall. The patterns, the life of the candle and faint aroma of the scented wax had a soothing effect.

Outside, the temperature had dropped –there would be a thick frost. She could feel it, the ice forming on the grass like a crisp fur, the faintest crackle and hiss of a vixen returning through a shrubbery to its den, the glimmer on the tree-branches like the flicker of diamonds –and the carpet of stars high above: a hundred-thousand points of white in the hard-frozen sky. A tiny fraction of the four hundred billion that made up the galaxy. And one, too far away to see, the centre of the Coruscant system. Her home, such as it was. She pulled the blankets further up, hugging the covers and her knees.

'Are you all right my lady?' Brigid was standing in the doorway. She had felt her move of course; she had been asleep, but with the perception of the best servants, she had somehow known her guest was awake, and roused herself.

'Just thinking, Brigid. I'm sorry I woke you; you didn't have to come through.'

'I wanted to look in.' The girl gazed at her for a moment, then vanished back through the doorway, returning with a silver flask. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she poured a little of the colourless fluid into a matching cup, which she passed to Cara. It was cool, but somehow golden, like the flowers touched by a spring dawn. 'I thought you might need something, so I asked the herbalists for one of their draughts. They said it would balance the humors and help a calm sleep. I don't know whether that's really true –they say a lot of things, and all their draughts seem to be based on elderflower wine. I can't remember the last time I got anything from them that wasn't.'

Cara smiled tiredly and closed her eyes. The image of a sword ripping through tendons made her open them again. 'You mean elderflower gin, don't you?'

'It's a little strong. But yesterday was a bad time for you.'

'I'm not supposed to think like that.' Her voice sounded spent, even to her.

'Forgive me my lady, I'm just a servant. But I don't see any shame in you missing someone you were close to.'

'Nor do I. But it's not about shame. It's just emotions. They're dangerous.'

'All of them? I can see why acting on some of them could be. But isn't that just life?'

'Sometimes. My Order –we're supposed to let go of all those things. Attachment. Anger. Love. All of them.'

Brigid, watched her for a moment, then shrugged. 'That sounds a sad way to live.'

'We're servants.'

'So am I. But I still think life is a gift, and we should enjoy it. It's not always easy, but nobody ever said it was. We just do what we can. If what you say is true –why would you serve? What purpose would there be?'

Cara stared at the blankets, tight across her knees, trying to decide what to say. The truth was –difficult. 'We're supposed to. Give ourselves over. That's the ideal. Very few can reach that. So yes, we feel. I feel. We all do. It's not all that different from what you said though –it's what we do with them, or not do with them, that counts. It's self-discipline, mostly.' Not that she had been doing especially well for the past few hours on that front. And what would they have thought of her now, back in the Temple? One of the most promising apprentices for years? She knew that was her reputation, that she was highly thought of. If this was her great test, she was failing.

The girl digested her words for a few moments. 'My lady?' Cara wordlessly murmured an indication that she should carry on, while trying to force her mind into some semblance of order. 'Your own home –your own land? What's it like?'

'That might take all night. And a lot more, if you really wanted to know.' Brigid brushed a strand of hair out of her eyes and looked inquiringly at her. Cara finished the drink, passed the cup back, and waited for Brigid to curl up on the bed, leaning against her knees. 'It's –different. And the same. You know my home is a long way from here?'

Brigid nodded, the barest tilt of her chin. 'I know. You're from somewhere else. Somewhere we can't get to ourselves.'

'If I said you were right, would that bother you?'

'No. I don't understand, but I'd like to hear a little.'

'All right.' She thought for a few seconds about how best to explain. Somewhere, something in the back of her mind flickered briefly, but sleep was finally starting to draw at her. Still, she owed her new friend something. 'There are many lands, Brigid. And many peoples. Some are the same as us –and we are the same, the two of us. I don't have green blood, or anything like that. I'm just a girl. Others do look different. Very different. But that doesn't matter; most have similar ideas and wishes. It's only our technologies that separate us –ours is more advanced, but only because we had a head-start. I grew up on one of those lands. The Order I belong to are a type of –guardian I suppose. We're brought there as infants; we're trained as we grow up, in classes at first, then with a master of our own. That's changed over the years, but it's what happens now. We're not special –well, we are in a way, but we don't think of ourselves as superior. That isn't what it's about. We can feel the Force. Silly name really. It's like energy, in everything, around everything. Not everyone can. Some feel it more than others. Some places are stronger in it than others too.'

'Like ours?'

'Yes. That's why my order takes an interest. We try not to interfere, but we do watch, because we want to learn, and help if we can.'

Brigid sat still for perhaps a minute, digesting her words. 'Do we feel it?'

'Some. Most don't, and they're probably better off. It's wonderful, but it can be dangerous. Have you ever stood outside, before a thunderstorm arrives, and felt the charge in the air –like when you rub a piece of silk, and it moves hair, or gives you a little shock, like a needle?' The ideas weren't quite exact, but they would serve.

'Sometimes. And some of the massage techniques we're taught are a little like that –we don't always touch the skin, but we can feel it.'

'I know. You're good at that. Oh yes, you're one, Brigid. Your queen is too. And Jarl Salkeld of course.'

The girl shivered suddenly. 'I know. About him. And I'm not surprised about the queen. Are you sure about me though my lady? I'm not one from one of the noble families.'

'That doesn't make any difference. And I don't have to be sure. It just is.'

'And the Jarl?'

'What can you tell me about him?' She heard her voice, but it seemed distant, the accent more pronounced, as it usually became when she was tired. Her mind was calming too –if she slept, she would be mostly recovered by the morning.

'I don't know. Yes I do –in a way. He doesn't hold much land. Some. He has a small estate the Queen granted him. And Lindanburh, as I said before. His father was Jarl of that land before him, and his before that. They don't amount to much, but he loves them. He can't command armies of course –he's too young, he doesn't have enough holdings, can't raise enough men. He doesn't try to either. But he's frightening. When he fights. I haven't seen that, but I've heard of it. His sword is strange.'

'It didn't look unusual to me –apart from those ivory grips, it seemed quite plain.'

'That's why it's strange. One of the reasons. Other swords are supposed to break against it.' Brigid was staring at the candle flame as it flickered in its alcove. 'There are stories about it –that it was forged by the ghost of an ancient smith in the dead of winter. That there's some kind of magic in the blade. Just stories. Just stories.' Her voice tailed away.

A suspicion was dawning in Cara's mind, but it and her limbs were now feeling as though they were moving through treacle. Brigid saw the heaviness in her eyelids, smiled gravely, rose and carefully snuffed the candle. 'Sleep well my lady.' Her voice was the barest whisper. Then she was gone, and Cara sank gratefully into the rising, velvet tide of oblivion.

The room was still in darkness when she woke. Her head ached slightly from the barbiturate Brigid had obviously added to her drink, but otherwise she felt far better. Enough, at least, to reckon the time as slightly before dawn. She was composed once again, her mind calmed by the few hours rest. What then had wakened her? There was nothing in the room; everything was the same. But it had been something –and her hand had again instinctively grasped the haft of the knife. Cara listened to her instincts; they had served her well, saved her life once, in the office of a charming executive whose legitimate business disguised an uglier traffic in human organs –none from willing donors. What then? A sight? A scent? A noise? A feeling? She lay still, waiting.

A flicker of silent movement. Brigid. The girl was standing beside her; through the darkness she looked like a wraith. Cara raised a warning hand, then slipped it around her waist. The other hand pulled the knife free. Neither spoke, Brigid had suppressed her breathing just as Cara had. For perhaps five minutes they remained motionless, the only movement a caress of Cara's fingers when she felt the other girl tense, letting her know to remain still. Nothing. But –more than nothing. There was something, and she could recognise it: the ghostly outline of the menace she had felt the previous afternoon. She glanced at Brigid, her outline now more visible in the pre-dawn. Their eyes locked –confirmation, of a kind.

Cara silently pushed the blankets aside, rose and just as quietly walked across the room. The gown she had worn the previous evening was there –so was a simpler white dress, with matching linen scarf –attractive enough, though not pretentious. It would fall a few inches below her knees and be easy to move in. She took a quick glance at herself in the mirror as she fastened the row of buttons –her eyes were calm. Her master was gone now, and she had had her few moments of grief. That was as it should be, and there was no shame. Brigid had been quite right about that. The death of a friend deserved tears, and she had saved them for a moment when they did not cause any distraction. Now she would honour her master the best way she knew how –by being herself. She had been taught well. And they would meet again. She would see the old woman again too. But not today.

In the mirror, she saw Brigid watching her with a similar calm. With a slight nod she indicated the other girl should get dressed. Her friend vanished just as silently as she had arrived, leaving Cara alone with her thoughts. The feeling was slightly more pronounced, like the lightest touch of icy fingers on her skin. She pulled on a pair of lightweight, flat-soled shoes and glanced at the door, willing Brigid to hurry. She needn't have worried; the girl appeared almost immediately, wearing rough cotton trousers, shirt and cloak. She had also twisted her hair back into a simple pony tail. Cara nodded approvingly; thought for a moment. A light stab of ice between her shoulder blades made her decide. 'The servant's corridor?' She kept her voice the lightest of whispers.

The other girl tilted her head, turned and quickly led Cara through the washroom and into a small bedroom that was clearly her own. She glanced around for the briefest moment, then looked into Cara's eyes. Seeing confirmation that this would be a goodbye, either of her new friend, or of her previous life, she stepped forward, kissed Cara's cheek, turned and silently slid back the handle on a narrow door, releasing the heavy bolts. Carefully opening it a crack and glancing through, she eased it open and slipped through into a corridor beyond.

It was dark. A little of the grey pre-dawn filtered through a handful of slit windows; on the wall opposite each was a torch, now burned out, held in simple wooden brackets. Brigid led the way swiftly along the corridor, down a short flight of steps, then paused before another ironwood door. Her fingers reached toward the sliding handle, then stopped, her fingers frozen an inch away from the metal. Cara felt the same jolt in the force, dispassionately questioned it, and swung back against the stone wall. A slight flick of her hand, and the iron frames that held the bolts silently squeezed together, the metal of bolt and frame biting, locking the door permanently shut. Brigid hadn't moved, her own fingers still suspended in place. The softest of scratches, as of a nail along wood, filtered through the door. Then silence.

Neither girl moved. Cara could feel it –a shadow, slowly filling the room beyond. She forced her breathing to be as slow and shallow as possible. Brigid seemed frozen, unwilling to lower her hand.

The shadow grew. A slow billow, like a cloud, pressing against the other side of the wall; the door. Still she didn't move. Her gaze, fixed upon Brigid's, urged her friend to remain still. Her mind stealthily began to close the connections to the force –hers, and Brigid's. The corridor was empty, the door disused. The pressure on the other side surged –a velvet covered hammer. She closed still more. Hardly breathing now.

The shriek that erupted from the room on the opposite side of the door sounded like all the lost daemons in hell. Not loud, but all the more menacing. Dry, with a glassy edge. A crash followed, the rending of wood, and the thin, crisp patter of feet or –paws? Then silence.

'Brigid?' Cara kept her voice to whisper-level. It broke the spell. Her friend seemed to lift up, out of a dream, and signalled that they should go back along the corridor. Half-way up the steps she grasped a large iron staple driven into the wall, and forced open a low door that was hidden in the shadow of an alcove. Ducking through, she helped Cara in her less-practical dress out onto a narrow walkway that ran along the rear of the cloister. Somehow, after a few yards, they found themselves running. A wooden spiral staircase, in the lee of a large conifer, led down to the rear of a large kitchen-garden. Darting along the narrow, gravel paths, Cara saw their objective –a postern door that clearly led out onto the landscaped grounds outside the castle walls. She did not look back. Something was tracking them; had been since they had entered the garden. The soft rattle of the gravel and thump of the weight behind it was coming up fast; faster.

The door was there, and Brigid was through. She snapped herself sideways, barely slipping through the gap. The door slammed and she heard the heavy impact against the inner face, a black leg briefly slashing through the gap forced open, and the girl struggling with all her weight to force it shut. She risked a force push –too much would be unhealthy on this world– which helped. The heavy door closed and the spring-loaded catch locked it in place. Another quick burst of energy crushed the mechanism in place, as before, and they were free. A long, slow scrape dragged across the opposite wooden face –and the soft crunch of gravel, sporadic, then regular, fading. She let out a breath. She hadn't realised she had been holding it. And to the east, a flush of red heralded the new dawn.