Chapter Forty: Going for Broke

-x-x-x-x-x-

The newer spy was punctual, which Isra liked. It gave this horrible, dangerous meeting a little less room for disaster. Isra heard the other woman coming, too, but only because she was expecting her. Otherwise, the approach was unobtrusive, peripheral—normal and expected sounds of a palace. This spy was only an observer, a normal woman—just as Isra had expected.

And this one hadn't been sent to kill Isra, either. She had to be more sensible than Dara.

Isra waited until the door had closed behind the woman before she raised her eyes. This room had been one of Alon's secret tryst rooms until, Isra assumed, his lover had complained of the cramped quarters—before Alon, it had been a storage closet. Alon had bowed to his lover's pleas, but Isra found it quite useful. Everyone knew better than to snoop in this part of the palace.

If the new woman had a problem with the cramped room, she didn't show it. Isra swept a critical eye over Geneva's new spy. She was tall, dark-haired, and hardened. Isra could respect that.

"You weren't followed?" Isra checked.

The other woman shook her head. "No. I pulled every trick I know."

"Do you know many of these tricks?" Isra asked tartly. She tightened her stone-coloured scarf, thinking of the person who had taught her every trick.

"I wasn't followed." The woman's voice was firm. Not sharp, though—Isra might have to modify her description of "hardened," whatever the eyes and stance said.

"Fine." Isra paused for a moment, then launched into a brief explanation. "I can never slip away for long, but it's better that I'm missing and in the castle, than missing and outside the Holy City. Even if something important comes across my path. That's why you have another place to be today." Isra smiled thinly. "Mujir willing, I won't take up too much of your time after this week, but until then, you will be busy." She would be seeing a lot of this one; Isra really ought to learn the other woman's name. They were all going for broke, anyway.

"What do you need me to do?"

Isra thought of the gift Gaffil had given her before his death, and she smiled. "I have some presents for our shared mother. We ran out of time when last we spoke."

-x-x-x-x-x-

Dejah looked up and blinked, surprised by the unfamiliar face. "I don't know you."

The other woman sat across from Dejah at the briefing table. She looked tired. "No, we have not met before."

"I suppose it doesn't benefit the Resistance to have recognizable spies," Dejah acknowledged, regaining control. "I am Dejah Salin. If you want to stay on our leader's good side, you will profess to find me a religious fool after this. Until then, no one else with the proper clearance level can be spared to brief you."

A frown. "My information is quite important."

"You're new. The information will be passed along, I assure you, whatever my relationship with our great leader. But we would rather your intel be spread more quickly than with more attention to your ego."

"I want Rafintair and Pucijir's Order destroyed as much as any of you." The dark eyes were clear, but Dejah recognized tragedy—a fresh one—in this sister-fighter's eyes.

"What did your primary contact tell you?" Dejah took out her stylus and held it over her few sheets of paper.

"It turns out Gaffil wanted his half-brother dead as much as we do."

Dejah raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

The spy smiled, her eyes dancing with suppressed glee. "He left our contact a copy of a key—to the Holy of Holies chamber."

"He—what?" Dejah's eyes were wide, disbelieving. "To the chamber itself? I didn't think there were any copies. That was the point."

But the spy wasn't finished. "And Rafintair is planning to be in the chamber for the entire night of 777—with no contact with his outside troops."

"Thinking, of course, that he is safe." Dejah felt hope push out against her rib cage, making it hard to breathe. "Mujir, we would be unlucky if he had ten Holy Brothers with him."

"You see why I thought our leader might want the details herself."

Dejah nodded slowly, still stunned. "O-of course, one moment." Standing, Dejah gave the spy a thin smile. Moving briskly, she stepped out of the briefing room. One guard waited by the door. "Contact Geneva and any possibly available strategy mistresses. They need to hear this as soon as absolutely possible." When the guard went to relay the message, Dejah grabbed her arm. "They need this information. I don't care what Geneva is doing—it'll probably change once she hears this woman speak." The guard left a little quicker that time—but perhaps just to get away from Dejah.

Sighing, Dejah closed the door and returned to her spot across the table. "Was there anything else?" she asked, more attentively this time.

The spy leaned forward with her elbows on the table. "General information—Rafintair's schedules, particularly blasphemous monuments being built for the anniversary, plans for 777… I can write those up in my report." Her expression hardened. "Something else, too—not about the attack, exactly, but Rafintair's plans. I'm not sure how much the Resistance will care."

Dejah paused. "What is it?"

"Rafintair has struck a deal with outsiders—he's exporting the holy water to the rest of the galaxy."

"I see." Geneva wouldn't care about the outsiders; Rafintair's plans would hopefully die with him, and whatever damage he had done to an alien planet, the outsiders ought to deal with it. "No, it is not really the Resistance's concern—"

"It's our responsibility," the other woman insisted.

Mentally rewinding their conversation, Dejah's eyes narrowed slightly. More interesting than the outsiders' fate, right now, was that this woman cared about them. It wasn't the Na'Lein way. "Your accent is off," she realized. "Who are you?"

"I am Na'Lein, just as you are," the woman said defensively. "I—I escaped for a few years, when I…"

She trailed off, and Dejah thought, A fresh tragedy. "Why did you return?"

"I left when I was married to…to a wonderful man, the love of my life, but an outsider. We returned to help—and he was murdered." Her expression was stone cold and all the bleaker for it. "Perhaps you don't understand it, but I grieve nothing more in my life than my widowhood. I have a very good reason, a renewed one, for wanting this empire destroyed."

"But you still feel loyalty to the rest of the galaxy," Dejah noted.

"My husband, Mujir save him, was a foreigner, a khalan," the widow stated. "And for the duration of my marriage, it was my home just as it was his. How could I ignore it?"

Dejah's mind flitted briefly to Braun and his absolute devotion, shifted from his wife to all that remained—her memory and her homeworld. "Rafintair's plans, Mujir willing, will be destroyed with him," she said when she had moved past her thoughts. "Tell Geneva, if you must, though she won't spare a moment's thought for it—we are on the eve of our revolution."

Dejah considered the widow's tight expression before continuing. "However, I do know the group that will be sent to fight Rafintair." The fighter smiled grimly, then remembered how she and Sanar were supposed to be spreading the word. "As a khalan himself, I am sure that the Kavishka will keep Rafintair's plans in mind."

The widow was very quiet for several moments. More than once, she began to speak, but each time she stopped herself. "Thank you," she said finally, hoarsely.

The fighter smiled, but inwardly raged that even this half-foreigner, this grieving beloved widow, could easily trust what Dejah could not. "Please," she said. "Do not mention it. You are back amongst sisters, after all."

"Yes, I had almost forgotten," the woman said. She didn't meet Dejah's eyes.

"What is your name?" Dejah asked, although she really shouldn't. Spies didn't live long; it was never good to become attached to them. Only another day, though, Dejah thought. May as well go for broke.

The widow inhaled deeply, and seemed to come out of her memories. "I—"

Quite suddenly, the door was thrown open, cutting off the spy's answer. "So, Malek, why am I being dragged to your presence?"

Dejah turned around to see Cerile, the now retired spy who had once (a very long time ago) befriended a then young and wide-eyed Geneva Tal. "Madame," Dejah greeted Geneva's favoured strategist. Briefly, she turned back to the spy. "'Malek'?" she murmured. It was a common Na'Lein surname.

"My parents' name," the widow explained.

Dejah nodded slowly. Of course, the spy couldn't use her foreign husband's name. "Well, Cerile, Malek brings you some very good news."

Cerile only grumbled, completely unimpressed. "How is that, when she only does the simple chores? I am very busy, you two, and too old to be running around this oversized, please-find-us-Rafintair building."

Dejah cleared her throat, suppressing her amusement. Older and more experienced as she was, Cerile could have had Geneva's position; that she was not spoke volumes for the woman's gruff, impersonal manner—and for Geneva's charisma and ambition. How these two had ever become friends…. But Dejah had Teigra, so of course the fighter couldn't talk.

"Well?" the elderly woman demanded when Dejah seemed content to waste her time thinking.

Cheeks flushing, Dejah pushed aside her musings for later. "Malek has information worthy of you, Madame, because she is Isra's new courier. And Gaffil Jir gave Isra the key to Rafintair's destruction."

Cerile's eyes narrowed, but Isra's discoveries, at least, had earned the old woman's respect. "And what might that be?" she asked suspiciously.

"Is Geneva coming?" Dejah demanded.

Cerile stared at her shrewdly. "Tell me something. If it worth her while, I will call for Geneva."

"Rafintair's location and itinerary throughout our attack," Dejah stated plainly. "And a particular key, if we understand each other."

Cerile's eyes gleamed. "I will retrieve our fearless leader myself."

-x-x-x-x-x-

Sanar rose from the bed, sharing a small grin with Kyp, who still lay back. "If you ever want this to be more than a one-time thing," she told him, "you won't mention Geneva again." He laughed at her. "I mean it," she insisted. "I don't care if she'll probably kill us once she finds out what we've been up to. Talk about a—" But then everything was screaming and falling and

—and then nothing.

For a moment, Sanar couldn't breathe.

Nothing.

"Sanar?" Fingers wrapped around her left forearm. A familiar face, creased with concern and wariness, swam before her. Familiar, she should know it, she should, but she didn't.

Nothing.

She couldn't breathe, but it didn't seem important. There was just—

"Sanar, are you alright?"

Kyp.

She snapped out of it, gasping, and turned away. Oh. What? "I—I'm—"

And part of her wanted to tell him, wanted to expel whatever she had experienced, but already it was leaving her—only a flash, blinding and not lasting.

Familiar, her brain noted fuzzily. Old and familiar.

"I'm fine," she told Durron. They had been about to leave for lunch; neither had eaten since that—

traitor

—night before. Sanar's eyes squeezed shut. No. Whatever had just happened, it was bringing the memories back. She couldn't do this. What had happened? And how was she going to pick up the pieces this time? She was running out of room to run.

"You're sure?" Durron asked, briefly piercing the confused haze she had been left in. He probably knew she was lying; if she could feel him through the Force, it had to go both ways.

So liar and a traitor. At least the first one isn't new. "Yes, I'm sure," she said. It sounded too much like a gasp, and she looked around his room for distraction. She had been a liar for most of her life; this was the first time she had been a traitor. "You know, I should probably—I was supposed to meet up with Dejah, keep spreading the word." Sanar patted her hair almost self-consciously, and wondered if everyone would be able to tell.

"You still haven't eaten, though," Kyp pointed out. When she looked at him, she recognized the wariness in his eyes. He knew something was wrong.

"Yeah, um, I'm not actually that hungry. But I'll—I'll grab something quick while I'm looking for Dejah."

"Do you want me to come with you?"

Uncomfortable with the weight of his gaze, Sanar turned away. Grabbing her outer robe, she jerkily pulled it on. "No, you should really be looking for Geneva. Talk about tactics. That sort of thing. Geneva and Dejah will be on opposite sides of this building, if they can." The inner-MR rift was turning out to be quite convenient for Sanar.

"Probably," Kyp allowed. She heard him sigh, then take a few steps. Gently—but defiantly, just through the action itself—he kissed her neck.

She jumped—the wrong move. Her heart skipped a beat, and she knew that had been the wrong-right move. Swallowing, she faced him. His expression was—

Quickly, she kissed him. Sorry. She tried to ignore how very wrong this was in favour of remember how right it felt. She was moderately successful—all she needed to be, to reassure Durron before she ran.

"I have to go," she said when she had pulled back (retreated). She evaded his attempt to catch her. Before he could reply, she had walked out the door.

Something sparked there, and she could feel his frustration—anger and worry and Sanar, come back here. She walked faster. The morning had come; she could see and feel everything and now with—what had happened, anyway?

Familiar, her brain reminded her.

"Sanar!" Durron sounded angry and…hurt, she realized with a twinge of messy guilt. She had kissed him and brushed him off. Had she thought about any of this ahead of time, she wouldn't have expected anything less. But part of her had thought—hoped?—that he would back off, recognizing how wrong this all was.

Already, this morning's careless kisses and soft words seemed years away. She never should have started it, not when she couldn't finish it.

By the time she rounded the corner, Sanar had forgotten her waking nightmare in favour of her tangled love life. Operation Distraction: successful.

And then Clayra brought it all back.

-x-x-x-x-x-

Clayra rounded the corner determined that she was far too busy to track down her sister. That little khalan girl couldn't have anything relevant to tell Sanar, after all, so the message would just have to wait. She had it in her pocket, of course, just in case, but Clayra was quite sure that neither she nor Gantik would have a free moment. Not for Sanar, not with Geneva's plans for Gantik.

And then Sanar had the gall to round the same corner, bringing Gantik and Clayra up short.

Clayra might have forgotten, and Sanar might have charged past them anyway, but Gantik caught Clayra's clearly distressed sister by the arm. "Sanar, just who we were looking for."

Sanar jerked her arm out of his grasp. "I'm really not in the mood, Gantik." She glanced over her shoulder quickly. She really looked rather strange somehow, but Clayra dismissed the concern. Sanar always looked strange these days.

"No, it will just take a minute," Gantik insisted, undeterred. Clayra hated how easily he put up with Sanar's moods. "Clayra, where did you put it? You have mail," he explained to Sanar.

Clayra was just handing over the data holder when the Kavishka appeared from the same corner that Sanar had. "Sanar, we need to—" He cut himself off upon seeing the Whilems. "Is something the matter?" he asked, visibly subduing himself.

Sanar took the data holder and flipped the screen open. "Apparently, my junk mail tracked me down through Clayra's comm, the persistent little kriffers." She glanced up quickly at Kyp Durron, then averted her eyes.

Gantik made a small, garbled sound. Clayra gave him an uncertain look. "So sorry for interrupting," her husband said, not sounding sorry at all. He was scowling at the Kavishka.

Sanar inhaled sharply, distracting Kyp from replying to Gantik. Sanar had started reading while they were speaking, and in the meantime her face had turned white. "What's wrong?" Kyp asked, trying to read over her shoulder.

Immediately, Sanar tipped the screen against her breast. She fixed her stunned eyes on Clayra. "Where did you get this?"

Clayra shrugged uncomfortably. "One of Nichyn's friends sent it. I have not read it—she said it was for your eyes only."

"What?" Sanar's expression showed her disbelief. "But Clayra, this is—"

"I know nothing else," Clayra protested. "The rest of her message was only to express the importance and danger, and her 'best wishes.'" Clayra sniffed. "It was a waste of time, just as this is." Her eyes widened briefly, as if she couldn't quite believe her own boldness. "We have to go now—we have to meet with Geneva."

Clayra, with Gantik in tow, made her escape before Sanar could stop them. Sanar didn't try; instead, she re-read the message.

Kyp, still watching, became concerned. "What does it say?"

Sanar's expression, which had previously been so telling, smoothed into an unreadable look. "'Dear Sir-slash-Madame, I am the widowed Queen of Nar Shaddaa, blah, blah, blah…give me your money, you poor sucker.'"

He frowned at her sarcasm. "Sanar—"

"I still have to go," she said suddenly, and darted away from him for the second time that afternoon.

"Kriff," he muttered, and wondered how bad this was. He could only imagine that he should take the hint and forget everything that had happened since last night. Sanar had probably realized her mistake, or at least that she couldn't reconcile their truths with—whatever dream they had shared last night and early this morning. Already he could feel it returning—the resignation of loving Sanar Klis for years with only her existence as encouragement, the condemning voices of his Carida victims, and now the Sildar's whispers as well.

But no, he reminded himself. He couldn't do that anymore. Last night had happened—it had carried on over to this morning, even. That had been real. If Sanar wanted to change her mind, she would just have to tell Kyp her own damn self.

His determination renewed, Kyp was settled on following Sanar again when still another person turned into the hallway. "What is it with that corner?" he demanded.

Dejah waved away the crazy hero's ruminations. "There you are," she said. "We know where Rafintair is going to be during the attack. Come—the spy had to leave already, but she and I compiled the information. Geneva sent me to find you."

He sent a frustrated look down the hallway where Sanar had disappeared. For a supposedly prophesied love story, this wasn't going very smoothly. Even just a few less interruptions could be helpful. Scowling, he focused on Dejah. "You know, Sanar is looking for you."

"I don't know why," Dejah replied, raising an eyebrow. "She told me last night that she would probably be out of touch all day."

"I guess she changed her mind." This, at least, was encouraging. It supported the idea that something specific had scared Sanar off—quite probably whatever had caused her to freeze earlier in his (their?) room. He saved that thought for later.

"I'm sure she'll find something to do until you two meet up." Kyp gave Dejah a grim smile. "Until then, which way to my information?"

-x-x-x-x-x-

It was time to mend bridges. Past time, really, and Lera could admit it. Since Nichyn had found out about Devnos, everything had been awkward. Although they remained friends, she could sense his distance and restraint. He couldn't agree with the risks, even for his aunt; Lera couldn't imagine not taking the risks to save a woman—even for a relative stranger.

As Jolesp and the others began packing up for the night, however, Lera's mind was a little lighter. The holo-film was winding down; the last scenes were finally written, and slated to be recorded over the next few days. Jolesp had his meaningful sacrifice-ending. Force willing, Sanar Klis would not.

The practice session had ended at Jolesp's house tonight, with all the actors going through their final scenes. Lera had already explained what she expected from the ending, and had given the actors some room since then. Instead of sitting in on the first official reading, she had spent time going through what had already been recorded. It had been a productive day, a good one, despite the strain between herself and Nichyn. She could almost fall asleep right here, if only she didn't feel so…adrift. She had jumped into Prophecy, discovered its dirty laundry and done her best to help, but now there was nothing else she could do.

When he sat across from her, she smiled but didn't look up. "Hey."

Nichyn sighed and took one of her hands. "Hey," he echoed dutifully. He had been on Gallinore for nearly a year now; she hardly ever had to help him anymore. Perhaps he would leave her soon—not because of Devnos, but because he no longer needed her. No, she chastised herself. That wasn't fair.

"Long day," she said, guessing his concern.

He squeezed her hand. "Was it?"

She grinned. "We didn't talk all day, Nichyn. You sure know how to feed a girl's ego." It had been a productive day, but a lonely one, surrounded by friends but estranged from one of her dearest in the group.

"We talked some."

"Not really." She lifted her eyes to meet his. "How are you?"

He searched her face, his own expression solemn. "It depends on how you are."

"Oh." His confession made her blush and care for him even more than before. He always seemed to stumble upon just the right thing to say. She wondered what he sounded like in his native language. "I'm fine."

"Well, I am worried." Earnest brown eyes pierced hers.

"Nichyn—" She didn't want to fight. Not again.

"No, I am not—I'm not trying to change your mind," he interrupted quickly. "I don't like it at all, you know I don't. I hate the risks, and am certain the consequences of this will be weightier than you imagine. I cannot see what one person—even two people—can accomplish against a foe like Prophecy. But I hate even more the idea of you going through this alone. That is something I cannot allow."

She bit her lip and rooted through her pocket with a clumsy hand. "I borrowed your com-link," she admitted, holding it out to him. "To send the message to your mother."

He took it, staring at the comm. before returning his gaze to her face. "So it is over?"

She shrugged. "One way or another, at least on my end. Hopefully, your mother and your aunt will be together, or have a way of contacting each other and…" She smiled weakly. "Tomorrow is 777, isn't it?"

Nichyn was quiet for a moment. "Yes."

"Good. I can't take much more of this waiting."

Standing, Nichyn tugged her up with him. "Come. We missed the transport by now. We'll have to walk."

She smiled when he slid an arm around her shoulder. "You going to keep me safe on the big, bad, Crala streets?" she teased.

He squeezed her shoulder. "Something like that."

Walking home, neither spoke again of what the next day would bring, but neither's thoughts were far away from it.

They—Lera, Nichyn, and Devnos—waited.

-x-x-x-x-x-

Sanar stayed "busy" until late in the night, later even than Geneva and Durron's strategy talks. She reminded herself that, guilt and confusion and Durron aside, it was supposed to be that way. She hadn't had to look far to find work, after all.

She slept in her own room, and tried not to think about how this no longer felt right. She tried not to miss a familiar embrace, or sleepy-content hazel eyes, or a way of saying her name like it was absolution. She even tried to ignore her brain's insistence that she recognized something about her earlier panic attack. She tried.

The nightmares were expected by now, and she closed her eyes resigned to opening them again in just a few hours.

It didn't quite work that way.

In the early dawn hours, Sanar stopped breathing for a moment—then gasped awake.

Nothing.

Empty.

She knew now what she had felt, though she had thought the gift long dead.

The Strings. And a warning.

Void.