"This entry's recording has ended. Do you wish to play the next entry, 'Tenupe, day Four. Oh, kriff.' ?"

Jagged Fel sighed and opened his eyes, removing the private audio transmitter from his jaw and placing it back on the bedside table. A faint, grim smile flashed briefly across his lips. "A few weeks" indeed. He had spent two years in that hellhole, while the galaxy spun around him. Two years surviving on nothing, avoiding so many dangers that he wasn't even sure where to begin listing them. And then there was that crazy Twi'lek to deal with.

Regardless, he was home now. Or at least, closer to it than he had been. The medical frigate had been on a peacetime exercise with a squadron of CEDF when he was discovered, and their specialized equipment was much better than the stuff on the rescue team's ship.

He had communicated with his family, of course. A call had been made to Soontir Fel before he even got off-planet, telling him the good news. Jag had been suffering from shock at the time, of course, so he hadn't spoken to him; but the ship's commander had replayed the conversation to him several times. It had been a long time since he had seen tears in his father's eyes.

Since waking, he had made several calls. His family, with half the children already gone, had been severely wounded by the presumed loss of a fourth Fel child. His father had remained strong, but something had changed about him, something indefinable. His mother, rendered temporarily helpless by the grief they all felt when the first rescue team failed (broken bodies, heaped on the jungle floor, frozen in the horror of their death) had rallied quickly, and provided his family with the touchstone they all needed while still grieving him herself. Wyn, no longer anything like a child, had at first tried to hide from the pain, withdrawing from all but a few close friends and her family. Unable to work for months, she had returned home and stayed with her father and mother. In the past year, as Soontir tried to send out rescue teams, she too had rallied and aided where she could.

Cem had returned when he could, but the need for secrecy and the CEDF's demanding schedule had kept him away. He hadn't even been able to grieve publicly, since it would not have fit with his fabricated story. But his cheerful good humor had helped the family stay together, and for that Jag was grateful.

His parole of the Wookiee Jedi Lowbacca had hurt his family grievously; he didn't know how much, but he could only imagine. The Chiss were not forgiving of failure. A Wookiee Jedi can cause a lot of damage. Especially in a snubfighter. Jaina, why did you start this war?

Setting the audio journal aside, he turned out the lights in the small room and closed his eyes, seeking the sleep that veteran pilots and military men could find anytime, anywhere.

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Foliage blurred as he raced past it, green and blue plants whipping by on both sides. Creepers and vines snatched at his ankles, tried to trip him. Death was stalking him, and it made the death on every side look merciful. A Swallower, coming from above and to the right, nearly grabbed him: but he dove, rolled, and came up on his feet, running without looking back. As long as the thing stayed on the ground, he could outrun it. If it took to the trees…no matter. What was behind him made the disgusting thing and the death it offered pale in comparison: after all, Jag wasn't worried about death. He was worried about Death.

A clawcraft soared over him, engines screaming. The distinctive clawed design gave it a menacing look, but Jag knew that it meant salvation if he could only reach it or bring it to himself. It was followed by one of those stupid-looking Stealth-X's, somehow modified with a transparent cockpit that magnified the occupant. Jaina's ship spat fire at Jag's clawcraft, and he groaned as its pilot dodged to avoid, heading away from him. The two fighters looped and rolled through the skies, first one, then the other possessing the advantage, unable to score a hit on each other. The two craft dueled in the skies while he ran, running from Death toward death.

A shrill whine was the only warning he got. From his right, the clawcraft rocketed toward him, low to the ground in an attempt to confuse sensors. The StealthX was right behind it, lasers chattering. As the clawcraft crossed his trail, ten meters up and five meters behind him, Jaina's lasers penetrated the engine, superheating the delicate metal parts and igniting the fuel lines. The clawcraft exploded above his head, sending fire and metal soaring in all directions. A shock wave from the atmospheric explosion slammed into him, launching him flying through the air with feet and arms flailing. Despair hit him, too, as he realized that he had lost his hope, lost his chance of life. He slammed into a tree, crying out involuntarily as a bead of poisonous sap stuck to his bare chest, sending fire through his body. The sap stuck, then was ripped away as he flailed and tore himself loose. He was familiar with this death; he'd seen it happen, and deduced the progression and effect from the resulting corpse. The tree had left thousands of microbial seeds within his flesh. Within seconds, those seeds would multiply. Within minutes, they would use the compounds and proteins of his body to sprout a new tree, punching up towards the sky even as he fell to the ground.

Rebounding from the tree, he felt himself falling, falling, falling. The ground rushed up to meet him, hard and rocky. He hit, but it was not the ground he hit; rather, it was a leaf larger than himself, soft and comfortable. Horror gripped him as he recognized the distinctive spiky edge. The world tilted, and he began to slide towards the mouth. Yelling, he tried to get out, but the leaf wrapped around him, conforming itself to his every twist and turn. Frantic to escape, he whipped his blaster out of the holster he had fashioned for it, firing shot after shop at the leafy yellow maw that reached for him, trying to swallow and digest him. Precious blaster bolts spat from the muzzle of his gun and were absorbed by the plant, until finally it emitted a belch of orange smoke.

He tried to hold his breath, but his lungs were burning from the exertion and he couldn't. He breathed in the smoke and immediately began retching, the noxious gas searing his brain with a gray haze intermixed with flashes of pink fire.

With a convulsive twist, the plant flipped him out of its embrace. Blind, he thrust out his right arm to break his fall, and felt a bolt of lightning punch through his wrist, the pain traveling up his arm until it exploded in his brain, adding blue bursts of agony to the haze and fire floating through his brain.

Through fog- and smoke-blurred eyes, he saw the Tenupian wasber crawling away, its deadly work done and its venom expended. Feeling the liquid lava traveling through his veins, he tried to pull his vibroblade, trying to cut off his arm before the deadly poison traveled too far. Halfway to his vibroblade, his hand was caught and seized by another hand, which expertly trapped his fingers in a Kim'dswi pattern, controlling his weak motions with ease. Curled on his side, limbs twitching, body convulsing, dying in three different ways at the same time, he looked up. And saw Death.

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With a jerk, he woke, lashing out at the figure from his nightmare, trying to snap its neck. He stopped his hand a centimeter from its target, staring up at the pretty young orderly bending over him, eyes filled with concern and fear. She was human. Her skin was not the color of Death; it was a healthy tan. She held his left hand grasped in her own right hand, fingers arranged in a Kim'dswi pattern, trying to stop her delirious patient's thrashing without injuring him.

Soft tan walls surrounded him, and a hard, stone-colored floor laced with purple-and-black veins supported his weight. He was lying on his side, curled into a ball, sheets tangled around him. He could see his bed, designed to offer comfort in any position, rising above him, and could see the broken line of the intravenous drip, with pain-numbing and tranquilizing drugs dripping out of the end. The broken needle was still embedded in the skin of his right arm, oozing blood. A sensor patch trailed over the side of his bed, with the sticky adhesive patch still blinking, sending its warning signal to the nurse's station down the hall.

Humans were rare in these parts, but more common than when he had left. The Empire of the Hand operated under different rules than the CEDF, but that didn't stop them from collaborating and working together. He met the eyes of the pretty orderly, noting the brown color of her eyes and hair. He read the concern on her face, the sadness in her gentle smile, the pity in her brown eyes. His racing heart slowed, and he let his head fall back against the wall with a thump. A long sigh escaped his mouth, and his green eyes closed. He felt the fingers controlling his hand relax, then arrange themselves in a different manner, offering comfort and reassurance rather than tense control.

. A male orderly, his blue skin and red eyes contrasting oddly with his lavender physicians gown, was just entering the room at a dead run, with a medical droid right behind.

The long road of recovery stretched ahead of Jagged Fel. He hoped he would reach the end.

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"So, how are we feeling today?"

Jag repressed a moody comeback about royal doctors in a perpetual good mood. He owed a lot to these people. His body, wiry and strong from two years of survivalist living, had not received the nutrients it needed, and his condition had been worsened by the variety of diseases he had suffered after his medical supplies ran low. He had been mildly surprised to discover that no less than three fatal diseases had been quietly simmering in his organs. Tenupe was a hard planet. Medicine and bacta were taken care of everything his body needed, but he had needed the living presence of the staff to truly realize that he was no longer a castaway.

"I'm feeling well, doctor, considering."

"Yes, well, if you consider all you've been through, I don't care if you're well or not. I'm just amazed you're alive." Glowing red eyes did not express humor well, but Jag could have sworn he saw a twinkle in his eye. "After trying for years to maintain an inverse relationship between my large appetite and my stomach, I think I've finally found the solution. Simply crash-land on a jungle planet and live on your wits for two years. I could write a self-help book, and make trillions. In the GFFA, all of the rich folks would jump at the idea."

"But they would want to take along their serving staff and landspeeders while they were at it."

The doctor sighed. "Yes, well, that's why I would only write one book. After the fad passed, I would be shunned and rejected for the failure of my system. I would be rich by that point, so it wouldn't matter, and I could retire to some jungle planet and live my life out there before dropping dead of malnutrition and disease."

Jag winced. That came a bit close to his experiences in the jungle. He had seen men die before, of course, and was no stranger to the possibility of his own death; but something about the brutality of it all had disturbed him. He had traversed the stars, been part of a group of people who literally saved the galaxy. And wild animals had nearly eaten him. They would have, if that recovery team hadn't shown up earlier. There was irony in there somewhere.

The doctor, catching the slight expression, stopped talking and conducted his examination with professionalism and speed. When they finished, he took Jag for a walk around the medical center. The slash along his ribs was healing nicely; nobody would ever be able to tell that the jagged metal that inflicted the cut had left him lying in the middle of the road with his spleen hanging out. Some of the scars had even disappeared, thanks to the bacta treatment. Plenty remained, both old and new, but most of them weren't visible while he was wearing normal dress anyway.

As Jag made his way back toward his room, the doctor spoke again. "Larin's night report says you ripped your IV and sensors out. She found you on the floor." Larin hadn't included the fact that he had almost tried to kill her, apparently. "What happened?"

Jag focused on making his strides even and steady, feeling ridiculous and unmanly in the absurd hospital gown. "Nightmare."

"Tenupe?"

"What else?"

"Good point." He was silent for a moment. "Would therapy or counseling help?"

"No drugs. I don't want drugs. And no shrunken heads, either. If I need psychobabble, I'll turn on the HoloNet."

"Fair enough. What can we do to help you?"

"Find me my family." He thought for a moment. "And something to do."

The blue-skinned arm provided rock steady support all the way to the lounge, where he sank gratefully into one of the chairs. He was Chiss enough to recognize that he was weakened by that last wound, and in need of rest. But he was Corellian enough that it irritated him – and the Corellian part was rapidly outpacing the Chiss part.

For a half hour or so he relaxed there, enjoying the fact that he was still alive, and back in civilization. No longer did he have to spend every minute wondering where the next threat to his life was; no longer did he have to keep a wary eye on every aspect of his surroundings.

He smiled. That is, until I meet a Solo or Jedi again.

Larin, the brown-eyed night shift nurse, was back on duty when he limped his way over to the nurses station. She flashed him a bright smile, and said, "How is your arm?"

Jag looked down at the bacta patches covering the needle puncture. "Next time, I'll have someone who knows what they're doing extract it."

"There's a reason medical school is so expensive."

"No kidding?"

"They do more there than teach us bad handwriting, believe it or not. After six years of training, I graduated. I got a job with a groundside medical facility, filled with old and grumpy staff members, and young interns who kept trying to attract my attention. About the only thing they thought I could do was put on bacta patches and make squealy noises."

He laughed. "Sounds like the first time I flew combat missions with an older squadron."

Studying him, she said, "Now see, that is interesting. Only half of them said you were a pilot; the others guessed commando."

Wondering if this was really a mental hospital and he was worse off than he had thought, he said, "I beg your pardon?"

She laughed, a musical sound that reminded him of his mother's best holodramas. "Do you have any idea of the rumors that are going around about you?"

Startled, he said, "What rumors?"

"The ones that have been flying through the medical staff and patients since the day you arrived here, as blue as a Chiss, half your side ripped open, scars all over your body, and looking like you'd lived for a decade undercover in a war zone."

"Ummm…I'm afraid I haven't heard them."

"Let's see." She ticked them off one by one on her fingers, counting. "You're the prince of a small star system, where all the women are beautiful and all the men spend their time hunting wild creatures and training for war."

"Sounds like Hapes."

A second finger went up. "Speaking of Hapes, there's also a rumor that the Queen Mother there kept you as her personal…slave…against your will. You escaped her evil clutches, and trekked through the forests of her home planet, fighting rancors and Nightsisters the whole way, until you reached an abandoned airfield and cobbled together a vehicle."

"I don't think Tenel Ka ever showed that much interest in me. And wasn't Dathomir Vongformed?" He realized his mistake and cursed inwardly.

Her eyes widened slightly. "You know the Hapan Queen?" It was not a question; it was a statement of disbelief and awe. And it meant trouble for him.

Mentally scolding himself, he said, "Friend of a friend. She was always interested in Jacen anyways, even if he didn't realize it." Jaina had told him that much…and he belatedly realized that he'd once more said too much. What had being stranded done to his brain?

"Jacen. Right. Of course." She gave him a flat, disbelieving look. "Have you ever been on the HoloNet?"

"Er….no."

She raised a third finger. "So much for the girl who thought you were that star on the show about the folks who lived through the particle storm. Though I swear, you look just like him."

Once again, he found himself not understanding a word she said. "Girl? What girl?"

"Which girl is more like it. Even the Chiss females are talking about you now." She gave a mischievous smile. "It got so bad that while you were unconscious, they had full-fledged battles over who got to bathe you."

"WHAT?" His ears flamed red, and he stared at her, appalled.

"Oh yes. Blasters and all. It was quite a day or two. You won't need to bathe for another month or two, given the amount of scrubbings you got."

He clawed for an excuse to change the subject, but came up empty. Enjoying his embarrassment, she said, "There's also the rumor that you fell in love with a Jedi, and that she stranded you on the planet to test you, see if you were worthy of…"

Her words faded from his hearing. Love. Jedi. Stranded. Test. Worthy. Jaina. His face turned to stone without realizing it, and Larin stopped midsentence. "Jag?"

It was nothing like that, of course. But still, he had loved a Jedi…and even though it wasn't her fault, he had ended up stranded on the planet. The damage she inflicted on his craft had made sure of that. "Jag?"

He'd had no chance of evading Leia Organa Solo. It would have been difficult enough in an undamaged craft, but if he'd lived through the fire of the woman he loved and that cretin Zekk, he could have done it. War was a terrible thing. "Jag?"

With a start, he came back to the present. "Sorry. Drifted off for a second there, thinking about something else." He thanked the Force for the distraction when her console beeped, and turned to go back to his room. He made it no more than a few strides when he heard his name. "Jag, wait."

He paused in the hallway until Larin caught up. "I'm sorry if I said something to offend you. Really, I was just joking around, and didn't mean to -"

"Don't worry about it."

"Are you sure? I feel terrible, and I wouldn't want you -"

"I'm sure."

"All right." She bit her lip, considering.

"Anything stopping me from going back and getting some sleep?"

"Yeah. That message that just came in was about you."

"All prisoners to be terminated immediately?"

"Shut up, you." She grinned and punched him on the shoulder. He winced when her light tap hit a half-healed scar, but she didn't notice. "Someone's coming to see you. Two someone's, in fact. Left at the same time, but from different places. A fellow named Cem is due here tomorrow morning, and someone named Wynssa that afternoon."

He smiled, his first genuine smile in…how long? "Cem and Wyn both? Wonderful! Larin, you have no idea how much that excites me!"

She studied him. "Is Wyn the one?"

He blinked. "What?"

"Is Wyn your girlfriend?"

Warily, he asked, "Why?"

Sensing his apprehension, she laughed again and hit him on the shoulder – in exactly the same place. "Just curious. When you were unconscious, before the blasters came out…" she paused to enjoy his blush. "Before the blasters came out, I was the one assigned to take care of you. And afterwards, I got to see you in the grip of nightmares, being tormented by whatever you've lived through that put you in here. When your face just lit up, I hoped that this Wynssa would be the woman who can pull you through."

"Oh." Cem had always understood girls. So why was Jag the one who found himself in these situations? He would never figure out women. "She's my sister."

"Oh. And what about the girl? Is there one?"

His grin faded. Soberly, he said, "I don't know. There was one, but I don't know if she wants the job."

"Why?"

"It's a long story. I haven't spoken to her much in….years." He wasn't even counting their few conversations during the Dark Nest Crisis. His last true conversation with her had been long before that, when she had told him that it wasn't working out.

"Would she listen to you if you did talk to her?"

That was almost funny. The last time he saw her, she had tried to kill him –and had come very, very close to succeeding. "Maybe."

She didn't say anything, but Jag had the feeling that the conversation wasn't over yet. He was right, but not in the way he anticipated.

"How did you get that scar that looks like a large hook with a slash across it?"

He frowned, trying to figure out which of his many scars she was talking about. He had so many scars on his body that it was sometimes hard to remember where he had gotten them, how he had gotten them, or even where they were on his body…flames danced across his cheeks. His ears felt like he had just stuck them in a Star Destroyer's reactor core, and he was sure all his hair was standing up on end. He had just remembered where that particular scar was located.

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Jag woke, gasping. Tenupe had been blurry and faded, the feelings of panic dulled; but it had nonetheless returned to his dreams once more, along with its thousands of dangers. Worse than the myriad native threats, though, had been the alien ones. Not all of Tenupe's terrors were native to the planet; Death had been pursuing him, cold and terrible, and he had been unable to defend himself. His only recourse was to run, for he was not stalking Death; Death was stalking him. Death had clasped his arm.

Jag hated to lose control of his mind. It was his final bastion, his refuge. Wild fear like he experienced nightly in his dreams unnerved him, because it testified to the hurt he had suffered on Tenupe. Struggling against disorientation, fighting the flood of adrenaline coursing through his body, he looked up, expecting an orderly or nurse.

The figure seated on the edge of his bed was anything but. He was built like a commando, with short blond hair and a tanned face. He wore the uniform of the Chiss military, but somehow managed to make it look casual and comfortable, even though his back was perfectly straight and he appeared poised on the edge of action. His right hand clasped Jag's right forearm, and his left held a partially-assembled blaster with a noise suppressor. Jag had never been happier to see anyone in his life.

"Cem!" Jag's throat closed, and the words stopped. Cem dropped the blaster he was cleaning and clasped Jag's other forearm tightly, the way they had greeted each other as teenagers.

"I know, Jag. I'm here." Cem frowned as he looked Jag over. "You look bloody awful."

"What are you doing here? Larin said you weren't coming in until tomorrow morning!"

Cem chuckled softly. "It's more than halfway through the day, Jag. Larin waited until you were asleep, then pumped your intravenous drip full of sleeping meds." He held up his arm before Jag could protest, and said, "They're no worse than the stuff you used to keep yourself awake while you were piloting. She assured me that they were safe, and even said that she'd used weaker ones than she wanted."

"I hate the idea of relying on some pill or shot or something to keep me happy."

"Yeah, I know. But trust me, this stuff won't hurt ya." Light sparked in his green eyes, and he broke out into the grin that marked him as Corellian. Not for the first time, Jag thought of Han Solo. "Larin is pretty cute. Is she taken already, or do I have a chance?"

Jag laughed, trying to sit up. "Why don't you ask her that yourself?"

Cem frowned at him severely. "There is no rushing charm. It doesn't work that way."

"Like you'd know."

Cem punched him on the shoulder, managing to hit the same spot Larin had. Not noticing Jag's wince, he said, "C'mon. Get outta bed and get dressed. Wyn is only a few hours out, and you know that she's going to monopolize you once she gets in. We won't have a single minute to talk. Don't play the wounded invalid; you're not that bad. I've seen you lots worse than this, lotsa times. Remember the time you 'borrowed' Dad's snowspeeder?"

"Didn't you hear that they've got a mechanical kidney, spleen, liver and stomach in there keeping me alive while new ones are growing?"

Cem dismissed this with a wave of his hand. "Trifles. You've been gone for two years, and it's been longer than that since we talked. So get up, 'cause it's not comfortable in here."

Jag rose unsteadily, supported by Cem's strong arm. He noticed some new scars; Cem, apparently, was still the same reckless fun-seeker he'd always been. "Where are we going to go?"

"How should I know? There's gotta be some place with a comfy chair. Hospitals don't think to put them in the patient's room."

"Two comfy chairs. And I get the recliner."

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For hours they talked, reminiscing about old times, recounting adventures and escapades, and catching Jag up on the news of his family, adopted people, and home galaxy. Syal and Soontir were living more simply, and Soontir had a lot more time to spend with his family. An investigative team had, using hundreds of videos and gathered Intelligence reports, determined which of the Jedi StealthX's had been flown by the Wookiee Jedi Lowbacca during the attack on Supply Depot Thrago. They had tracked the damage that craft had caused, tallied up the numbers, and presented Soontir Fel with the bill.

The figures made Jag sick. Because of his error in judgment, his entire family had suffered. Soontir and Syal Fel had spent a lifetime among the Chiss, battled their way into the trust and respect of the demanding society, and worked to save their fortune.

Now, because of him, much of that fortune was gone, and his family was in disgrace. Jag hoped that his reappearance would take some of the pressure off his family…but he had lived among the Chiss for too long. Their memory was long, and their clemency almost nonexistent.

Cem sensed Jag's depression and moved off that topic as quickly as he could. Much had happened to their family in the past few years, not the least of which was that Wyn was in love. Again. To Jag's relief, the object of her affections was a human member of the Empire of the Hand, whom she had met while visiting the library there. Her occasional infatuations with Chiss males had been painful, as Jag could personally attest. He had nearly broken his ribs laughing.

Before Jag realized it, hours had passed and their conversation was interrupted by Wyn. She had the same good looks and blond hair as her mother, and looking at her, Jag couldn't even remember the slightly awkward teenager she had once been. Squealing with delight, she dropped her bags and rushed to him. Not slowing, she leapt onto the couch next to him –well, not entirely next to him; she had landed quite solidly on that bruise that everyone kept hitting, and several others as well – and threw her arms around him. Jag barely noticed the pain as he hugged her as tightly as he could, marveling at the fact that he was alive to greet his family like this. For the first time in years, the surviving children of the Fel family were together, and Jag was at peace.

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Days passed, and the three of them gathered at every opportunity. Either Cem or Wynssa was at Jag's side, even during the twenty-five minute surgery where his newly re-grown vital organs were inserted into his body. Jag felt nothing, of course, and was mildly amused at the whole procedure. It was probably a good thing that he couldn't see anything; he spent the entire time looking through a visor at a virtual reality game, piloting a clawcraft over wide stretches of Csilla's beautiful surface. No enemies appeared to bother him, and he reveled in the long-lost feel of the responsive clawcraft. Several intriguing features caught his attention, upgrades that hadn't even been in development when he crashed, but he left them alone. He had no idea how 'real' a crash was in this VR, and he had no desire to find out.

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Jag went planetside for the first time three days after the surgery. The medical frigate was orbiting an ocean world, deep inside Consortium territory, and Jag reveled in the blueness of it all, in the open freedom of the world. Only two other worlds that Jag could think of would have been more different than green, steamy, overgrown Tenupe; and Jag had no desire to see prewar Coruscant. Csilla might be nice, but it was cold; this planet was warm without being sweltering, wet without being humid, and pleasant without being green or mountainous. Jag and Wynssa spent an idyllic afternoon on the beach watching Cem and Larin flirt outrageously: when she had met them at the airlock, it was evident that she took the words on Cem's shirt to be a request, which she granted with enthusiasm. Jag couldn't even begin to imagine where in the Chiss Ascendancy Cem had acquired a shirt that said, "Kiss me, I'm Corellian.'

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They made fun of Jag that night at dinner, tormenting him with their ability to eat whatever they wished. He tried to eat his prescribed meal with the appearance of enjoyment, but they didn't buy it. One of the downfalls of having a recently inserted digestive system was that for a period of time, one could only eat certain types of food. 'Good tasting' was apparently one of the forbidden attributes.

The days passed slowly, with every moment an enjoyment. Jag slept without a single nightmare on the fourth day after his surgery, and woke feeling better than he had in a long time. The doctors had managed to restore his stamina and energy by that time, so he joined the other three in swimming and turbosurfing. Larin introduced them to a horrifyingly primitive one-man vehicle called a 'glider' and made them all try it. Though Jag could corkscrew through the sky without fear while in a snubfighter, the thought of flying unassisted by repulsors, thrusters, or mechanical aid of any kind made a thrill of delicious apprehension run through him. He thoroughly enjoyed his flight, uneventful and straight as it was, and they all took turns flying the things. Predictably, Cem and Larin were the first to try a tandem fly, and almost broke their necks. Serves Cem right for not watching where he was going. Though I understand why he was distracted….

All was well, until the day a call came through for Jagged Fel, Commander, CEDF, summoning him to appear before a court investigating the attack on Supply Depot Thrago as soon as possible. Jag wanted to face the panel of inquisitors immediately, but Larin refused to release him from the hospital, urged on by Cem and Wyn. He saw the wisdom of that, with time, but during the five weeks of recovery, while they made hurried preparations and tried to come up with a defense, the shadow of that summons hung over their heads like a dark angry cloud.