Chapter II: The Lady of the Desert

Once, a very long time ago on Tatooine, there lived a beautiful woman and her young daughter. The woman was sad, because she and her daughter were slaves in the household of the Hutt, and she knew that the new child she was about to bear would also be a slave. She would have given almost anything for her children to be free, but she had nothing to give, and her daughter would often hear her crying late at night. The other slaves called her foolish to waste her tears—in the desert, water is dearly bought indeed. They told her she must accept her lot, and not spend what little wealth she had in weeping.

The time came for the woman to give birth to her second child, but she was very weak because of the hard labor she was forced to perform each day. And so, as the baby's life grew stronger, the mother's grew weaker, and when at last the child was born, she was dead.

The child was a boy, and because he had been born from the death of his mother, the other slaves named him Talmar, which means the ill-fated one. He grew up in the slave quarters of the Hutt's palace, and he had only his sister to love. She raised him and took care of him, and when he was old enough, he made it his duty to take care of her. And for a while they were happy, in the way that only those born into brokenness can be happy.

Talmar grew stronger each day, and he learned whatever the other slaves would teach him. He had a special love for animals, even the great monstrous creatures the Hutt kept for executions, and he soon found himself working as assistant beast-keeper in the lower dungeons of the Hutt's palace. The first time he saw an execution, he had to hide in the storage room with the animal feed, and even when he came out again, it was difficult to disguise his trembling. But he learned how to look away, and how not to see what was right in front of his eyes, and he never told his sister what he had seen.


"Granddad?" the boy asked, his eyes wide with horror. "Your mom really told you this story? Like this, I mean?"

The spirit favored him with a look that was impossible to describe. He thought, perhaps, that it was some combination of sorrow, amusement, and an old, old pain that had never quite healed. But there was something else to it, too—an ineffable quality that made him shiver, though not from fear.

"Yes," his grandfather said, softly. "She did. But it's not like what you're thinking. It was horrible, yes, but we saw things like that. Even a child couldn't be really innocent on Tatooine." To the boy's surprise, the spirit's eyes twinkled, and he even managed a small smile. "Well, not as a slave anyway. I'm told your Uncle Luke managed it quite well."

The boy laughed softly, but his eyes were still questioning.

"I'm sorry, Ani." His grandfather's voice was very gentle, with a certain brokenness to it that made his eyes sting the way they did when he was about to cry. "I didn't mean to upset you. I know some lighter stories, if you'd like one of them instead."

"No," he said, suddenly very determined. "No, I want to hear this one. I don't think you would have started it if it wasn't good." He put a special emphasis on that last word, wanting his grandfather to know that he remembered what the spirit had said before he began his story. "And besides," he added, managing a genuine smile this time, "I'm curious now."

His grandfather laughed at that and reached over to ruffle his hair. "Well, all right then, squirt. Now, let's see…"


Then one day the Hutt called Talmar's sister before him, and he ordered her to dance for him. The girl was terrified, because she knew what would happen to her if she displeased the Hutt, but she was even more frightened because Talmar was there, and she did not want him to see whatever happened. But there was nothing else she could do, and so she swallowed her fear, and she began to dance.

Talmar's sister was a beautiful dancer.

The Hutt demanded that she dance closer, and when she would not, he ordered her fed to the beasts.

Talmar was devastated. In all the world, his sister was the only person he truly loved, and now she was gone. The other slaves kept apart from him—a man who has lost one he loves carries ill-fortune about him like a cloak.

They called him Abidoon, for the look on his face spoke of death.

He took to brooding in the darkness, and he spoke less and less to those around him. His sleep was filled with tortured dreams, and his waking with the ache of solitude. And in his brooding, he remembered the ancient tales of Tatooine, the ones which parents told in brief to frighten their disobedient children, and in full to frighten one another.

He remembered the tales of the Lady of the Desert.

She was said to be a goddess of the Tuskens, fickle and cruel as the desert itself, and just as deadly. It was whispered that the Tuskens sacrificed prisoners to her, though no one had ever proven such a thing. And the darkest legends said that she would grant a man whatever he asked for, in exchange for his soul.

Talmar knew that it was only a legend, but there was a part of him that could not help wondering if it might be true. And so, late one night, he snuck out of the Hutt's palace. He knew that if he were caught, he would be killed, but he did not much care. And he was not caught.

He wandered out into the desert for three days, and when his water ran out and he lay at the point of death in the sand, the Lady of the Desert came to him.

She offered to save his life in exchange for the price that she always asked, but he just laughed at her. He told the Lady that he did not much care for his life, and she would have to promise him something better. He wanted his sister back.

The Lady seemed to grow cold, as the desert does at night—a deep, piercing cold that speaks of fear, and of deadlier things. Talmar shook, but he made no attempt to escape. The Lady spoke again, and her voice was rough as a sand storm that strips the skin from the bones.

"There can be no return to life for that wretched girl," the Lady said coldly. "There can be only vengeance."

Memory boiled up within Talmar like a pitch, and he said, "Then grant me vengeance."

And he asked the Lady to grant him power over all who had ever hurt him, all whom he hated. He asked, and she laughed. And she named her price.

Talmar felt a chill wind at his back, like the sigh of the ghosts that call in the desert, but he was angry, and his heart was broken, and he paid them no mind. With burning eyes he said to the Lady, "I will do whatever you ask."


The spirit fell silent, gazing out over the city with dark, haunted eyes. His grandson felt the weight of the past as a thick darkness in the room, bleak and almost physically painful. He shivered and reached for the spirit's hand.

"Granddad?" he whispered, his voice muffled in the dark. When the spirit did not move, he squeezed the hand he held between his own two small hands. It seemed, of a sudden, much colder than usual. "Granddad, what is it?" he asked, with just a twinge of fear in his voice.

But the twinge was enough. His grandfather's haunted eyes snapped away from the brightly lit skyline of Coruscant's night and turned to him, warm and apologetic. "I'm sorry, Ani," the spirit said for the second time that night. His eyes were very sad, and the boy found himself wondering if spirits could cry. "I didn't mean to frighten you. I was just…remembering."

"I know," the boy said, giving his grandfather's hand another squeeze. "But you went to someplace very dark just now, Granddad." He favored the spirit with a gentle smile and added, very softly, "You don't belong there, you know."

His grandfather swallowed thickly and shook his head, banishing the memory of darkness. "Yes," he said softly, reaching out with a shaking hand to ruffle the boy's hair and offering a warm, sad smile. "Thank you."

He smiled eagerly in return, lunging toward his grandfather with an impulsive hug. The spirit laughed, catching him up in arms of solid light and soon tickling him into submission. The boy's laughter rang out clear and bright in response, and when he could breathe again, he said, "See Granddad? It's not so dark after all."

His grandfather actually grinned at him. "No, Ani, it's not." The spirit regarded him very intently and added, in a voice both softer and deeper than usual, "Always remember that."

"I will," he said, still smiling, but with an edge of determination to his words. When his grandfather used that voice, it was always something important.

The spirit let out a long, slow sigh, as though he were relishing the simple act of breathing. The boy considered asking for a different story—he did not want to hurt his grandfather—but he thought that now, perhaps, the story needed to be told, for both their sakes. He did not want to leave Talmar in darkness.

So he bit his lip and said very softly, "Granddad, can we finish the story now?"

And the spirit bowed his head in silent assent.