The Final Prophecy (12 page)

Tahiri glanced up. A tall figure had just come into the chamber. His face was a mass of unhealed scars and festering sores, his right ear missing. The sacks below his eyes were distended, yellow, and—

No, something was wrong. She looked more closely.

It’s not real
, she realized.
He’s wearing a masquer
.

“You’re Yu’shaa?” Corran asked.

“I am. It is my honor to meet the great Tahiri Veila and Corran Horn.”

Tahiri acknowledged that greeting with a curt nod.

The Prophet bowed. “This is truly a blessed day,” he said.

“Right,” Corran said. “Though for a blessed day, we’ve had some fairly unblessed setbacks. Including the fact that our ship was destroyed in coming here.”

“You were discovered?” the Prophet asked, a bit sharply.

“No. At least I don’t think so.” Tahiri watched him carefully while Corran described what had happened.

The Prophet nodded when he finished. “You are correct, Blessed One—it is unlikely that you were discovered. I suspect your firing of the plasma weapon caused some sort of malfunction in the maw luur’s reflexes. There are hundreds, if not thousands of such malfunctions every day, and I doubt this one will be closely scrutinized. As to the other, once
more we see that the universe favors our cause. The final member of our party claims to have a ship at her disposal.”

“
Final
member of the party?” Corran made it sound like,
You want me to kiss a gundark
?

“Yes. A shaper who holds the secret to our redemption.”

“I thought
you—
”

“I am the Prophet. I speak the truth and foretell what is to come. I am not myself the key to redemption—I merely
see
it.”

Corran glanced at Tahiri. “That’s interesting,” he said, “but our mission, as I understood it, was to come here and get you and take you to Zonama Sekot. Now you want us to change the mission to include someone else. In my experience, changes in the mission can lead to unpleasant results.”

“I
am
sorry,” the Prophet said. “But as you said, your mission has changed already—now we must have a ship. As to the shaper—I could not speak of her on the qahsa. She is placed very close to Shimrra—it is how she discovered Zonama Sekot in the first place.”

Corran sighed. “Explain.”

“A commander named Ekh’m Val went to Zonama Sekot,” Yu’shaa said. “He fought there and was defeated. But he returned with something of the planet, which this shaper has studied. She discovered a certain inexplicable kinship between the biology of Sekot and our own biotechnology.”

“Again, interesting, but—”

“We are from another galaxy, Jedi Horn. We crossed the starless night for age upon age. Our legends go deep, and yet nowhere is such a thing hinted at, at least not in anything I ever heard. And yet here, in this time of darkness, two things are given us. To me, a vision of Zonama Sekot as a sign of our redemption. To the shaper, the revelation that we have some prior relationship to this planet—a relationship that Shimrra fears. I do not know what these things mean, but they can hardly be coincidence. But like me, this
shaper must
see
the world of salvation with her own eyes, to know the truth—to know exactly what it all means.”

“And how do you know she isn’t betraying you?” Corran asked. “You say she’s part of Shimrra’s inner circle? I’m sure he would like to get his hands on you at least as much as on the two of us.”

“No doubt. But I believe her. Ekh’m Val was murdered upon his return from Zonama Sekot, along with all his surviving warriors. Shimrra fears even the rumor of this planet. The shaper is already as good as dead, merely for knowing what she knows. Shimrra would never allow her to leave his compound, much less travel freely to the very planet he fears.”

“So you’re saying we have to break her out of Shimrra’s compound?” Tahiri blurted, incredulous.

“Yes. I’m afraid it’s the only way.”

“Yu’shaa,” Tahiri said, “why are you wearing a masquer?”

She felt Corran’s reaction in the Force—a sudden heightening of suspicion. But he didn’t say anything, and she was watching the Prophet for his reaction.

But the Prophet showed no surprise, nor should he have—any Yuuzhan Vong would see the masquer for what it was: an organism that presented a false face to the world. “You know our ways,” he said. “I wear this masquer for my people. I have sworn not to remove it until our redemption has come. For you, I might take it off, but I have adhered it with dhur qirit. The removal process is very lengthy.”

So it was basically sutured to his face. That made sense, sort of—several Yuuzhan Vong sects in the past had habitually worn masquers as a matter of daily ritual. They had, in fact, originally been developed for that rather than as a means of disguise.

But here, in this context, Tahiri didn’t like it.

Corran obviously didn’t, either. “No offense, Yu’shaa,” he said, “but Tahiri and I need a moment to discuss this alone.”

“Of course.”

They walked a comfortable distance.

“How does this smell to you?” Corran asked.

“I don’t really like it,” Tahiri said. “But part of that might be a reflexive dislike of Shamed Ones.”

“You think that affects your read of the situation?”

“I hope not. I’m trying to fight it. But there’s something about him I don’t like, that’s for sure.”

“Well, that makes two of us. But the question isn’t whether we like him, or even whether we trust him. The question is,
Is he telling us the truth at this moment, as he knows it
?”

“I can’t say for sure,” Tahiri said. “But this all seems pretty elaborate for a trap.”

“My thought exactly. It doesn’t make any sense—if they were going to do something, why not here? No, this has the feel of a real plan, albeit a pretty shoddy one. In fact, it’s sort of reassuring.” He smiled. “Are you still game?”

“Of course. I thought you would be the one to object.”

“We’re in pretty deep already. You’ve shown me you can handle yourself. And Kenth was right to send you along—I couldn’t have made the call about the masquer. Let’s at least see what the plan is.”

“There are hidden ways into Shimrra’s palace,” Yu’shaa told them. “Some have been discovered, but there is one I am still certain of. I have been reluctant to use it, for once I do so I cannot do so again. Once within, we must make our way to the shaper compound.”

“If she has a ship, why can’t she just fly it out?” Tahiri asked.

“I don’t know,” the Prophet replied. “I know only that she requires defense of a substantial sort, or the escape will be impossible.”

“That’s not all there is to it,” Corran grunted. “She
wants it to look like a kidnapping, doesn’t she? So she can have deniability later.”

“That seems possible,” Yu’shaa agreed.

“Hmm. Do you have a diagram of this compound?”

“Yes.”

“How many warriors will we have to face?”

“My followers will help, of course,” Yu’shaa said. “They will create a nearby disturbance, which should draw warriors to another part of the palace compound. And you have friends inside the damutek, of course.”

“That’s all well and good,” Corran said, “but how many warriors will we have to face?”

“My guess is all I can give you, but I suspect no less than ten.”

“And as many as?”

“If things go wrong? A few hundred.”

“Ah,” Corran said. “Then your people, the ones creating the distraction—”

“Will likely be killed, yes. But they are willing to die.”

“But
I’m
not willing to let them die,” Corran said. “Not for me.”

“They die for their own redemption, Jedi Horn, not for you. It is only if our mission fails that they will have died in vain.”

“Still, I—hang on.”

Tahiri felt something in the Force, then, a flash of insight from Corran. He was staring at the glowing plants they’d been discussing a moment ago.

“I think I have an idea,” he said. Tahiri thought he sounded reluctant. “It might buy us the edge we need, and get fewer of your people hurt in the process.”

“The Jedi shall lead the way,” the Prophet said. “Tell me your plan.”

“I wish you wouldn’t keep saying things like that,” Corran said, “but here’s what I’m thinking …”

When they emerged from the darkened tunnels and into the light of Supreme Overlord Shimrra’s palace, Tahiri’s knees went momentarily weak at the sight. His command ship, an enormous winged sphere, was nested at the top of it, as if the whole palace were a scepter, a symbol of might.

“Pretty impressive,” even Corran admitted. “Now what?”

Yu’shaa pointed a finger toward a much more modest, star-shaped complex. “That is the shaper damutek,” he said. “Wait here for a few moments. When our ruse begins, it will be there.” He pointed to a large, hexagonal building rather low to the ground, with a roof of gabled mica. “It is an amphistaff breeding gla. The guards will think my people are raiding for weapons.”

Corran counted at least fifty warriors patrolling the vast plaza.

“Your people will be slaughtered.”

“They will not fight for long. They will flee, and your brilliant plan will make certain that most of them are not followed.”

Corran sighed. “I’m not so sure it’s brilliant.”

“They
may
escape,” Yu’shaa said. “You have given them a better chance than they had. If they do not, they will die with honor, something more than Shimrra would ever allow them. They will die knowing they have blazed the trail to redemption.”

Corran looked back at the damutek. “And we just go in the front door?”

Tahiri was staring at the damutek as well. The momentary reflex to worship she’d had at the sight of Shimrra’s palace was gone, replaced by a cold feeling that lay on the borderlands of anger and fear. Bad things had happened to her in such a place.

“Yes,” she said. “We just go in through the front door.”

“And where will we meet you?” Corran asked the Prophet.

“There is a shrine to Yun-Harla nearby. The shaper will know where it is. If I survive, I will see you there.”

“You haven’t seen whether you survive or not?” Corran asked.

The Prophet smiled. “I am confident that I will.”

“Well, good luck anyway,” Corran said.

“Yes. May the Force be with you.”

As the sounds of the Prophet’s footsteps faded, Corran opened his mouth to say something, and then stopped. He looked at Tahiri.

“Yes,” Tahiri assured him. “That was weird for me, too.”

Nom Anor continued grinning as he left the two Jedi. While nothing was certain, he did expect to survive the coming battle, because he did not intend to be in it. His followers would fight, and they would die, and he would leave by the way he had come in and make his way to the shrine. If the Jedi and the shaper died as well, then he would vanish back underground and try to think of something new.

He wasn’t particularly happy that Corran Horn had been chosen to come. While it looked good to his followers, for him it would be a continual danger. Horn was not the sort to be lulled easily out of suspicion. If he discovered the “Prophet’s” true identity, Nom Anor suspected that the appearance of present good intentions would not overshadow his actions against the Jedi in the past.

Of course, Tahiri was a problem, too. Her knowledge of Yuuzhan Vong ways made her another potential threat. She’d seemed less than entirely convinced by his explanation for the masquer.

He paused in the darkened tunnel, considering. Perhaps he shouldn’t go through with this, after all.

But, no, he had to. Since Ngaaluh’s death, Nom Anor’s influence had begun to wane. Shimrra was now extremely vigilant against spies at his court, even at the highest levels. Sweeps of the lower levels had increased, and Shamed Ones removed farther from where they might do harm. Worse, while his following hadn’t dropped off, it hadn’t grown, either, partly because too many of them were getting killed without any apparent movement toward the ultimate goal of “redemption.” The potential for an uprising that might catapult Nom Anor to power was farther away than it had ever been. He needed a new catalyst, a new source of strength. He needed, in short, new allies.

Still … He patted the pouch-creature fastened to the flesh beneath his arm. It contained the one piece of his past as a respected executor. He wasn’t even sure why he’d risked bringing it, but … if he were to deliver two Jedi, a rogue shaper, and the planet Zonama Sekot into Shimrra’s hands, it might be enough to …

No it wouldn’t. Not if even a suspicion of his role as Yu’shaa were to enter Shimrra’s mind.

No, he would have to work with what he had. It was far too late to flinch. Nor could he panic at the prospect of the trip he faced.

He did not, like his superstitious followers, believe in an ordained destiny—destiny was something created by sheer force of will, and that was something he had in abundance. So he would play the role of compassionate holy man for the Jedi. He would win them or they would die.

For Nom Anor, there could only be forward and upward, never back or down.

One moment nothing was happening; the next a yellow-green explosion blossomed from the side of the building across the square and the outer wall collapsed in sticky shards, as if it had melted. Warriors all across the square raced for the source of the explosion, but before they could reach it, a mob of Shamed Ones sprang from a pit near the buildings and fell upon the warriors with coufees, amphistaffs, batons, even pipes and rocks.

The fighting was confused by distance, but Tahiri could tell they weren’t faring very well, though they fought with absolute conviction, some impaling themselves on the amphistaffs of the warriors, immobilizing the weapons long enough for their companions to drag their foes down by sheer weight of numbers. This distraction wouldn’t last long. She tensed to run.

“Hang on,” Corran said. “Wait until—”

Even as he spoke, new actors appeared, four figures in brown cloaks bearing long glowing tubes of light.

And everywhere went up the cry of
“Jeedai,”
from warriors and Shamed Ones at once. But their tones were quite different. The Shamed Ones were exulting, while the warriors were crying out in challenge and fury—and perhaps a little fear. There were few things that could bring a warrior greater honor than bringing down a Jedi in combat—the warriors didn’t worship them as the Shamed Ones did, but they had learned respect.