Chapter Text
Prologue:
The confession of his dark deeds on Tatooine has not been easy. But Anakin is not prepared for the wordless answer, that General A’Sharad Hett gives him. Without haste, the older Jedi removes his mask and reveals himself to be Human. Just like that.
A mixture of shame, hatred, confusion, and curiosity runs through Anakin. To focus on the Living Force, on this very moment, is not an easy task. In the blazing midday sun of Aargonar his burning eyes focus. They are drawn to the Tusken’s tattoos.
There are lines that move like snakes over hollow cheek bones, tiny spots where darkness seems to gather into a mighty force. Other lines lie still, like a predator waiting for a victim.
Those tattoos in particular remind Anakin of something, or better to say, of somebody: Asajj Ventress, one of Count Dooku’s Force-sensitive Dark Acolytes.
With a shiver Anakin, shrugs that thought away. He does not wish to be reminded of his first duel with her on Yavin 4. Nor does he intend to call an even older memory back into his mind: the Sith apprentice Darth Maul attacking Qui-Gon on Tatooine. The face and body of the Zabrak also had been tattooed with ancient symbols which gave evidence of his complete dedication to the discipline of the dark side of the Force.
Anakin sighs as bad memories that rise to the surface like a Gouka Dragon.
With wobbly legs he walks over to Hett, sits down next to him. Hetries to clear his dry throat a bit.
Despite that gruesome sound, Hett does not look in his direction at all. He seems to be lost in his own thoughts while his fingers play with a leather chain that Anakin has not seen before.
“A dark shadow skirts the edges of the Force,” Hett mutters to himself, clutching on to something that looks like an amulet.
The wind brings the stench of war. Anakin shivers.
“This token was given to my mother K’Sheek by her adoptive mother,” Hett says, barely audible. “It has been in the clan for ages. It once belonged to a warrior queen who led the Tuskeninto great glory.”
The word ’queen’ makes Anakin’s heart flutter. It reminds him of his beloved wife Padmé and all that is still good in the universe.
“We Tusken have not always been living on Tatooine, and we had a different name before that,” the Jedi Master tells him in a very soft voice. “Our people have always been warriors and herders though, living together with their flocks and respecting the ways of the desert.”
Anakin does not care for the history of the monsters that led to his mothers demise. Nor does he care for the desert and its cursed heart. “I don’t like sand,” he hears himself admitting for the second time in his life. “It’s coarse and rough and irritating and it gets everywhere.”
Soft chuckling fills the air. “Yet you are desert-born like I am.”
“I was born in the depths of space. On a slave ship. I am sure of it.”
Hett looks Anakin deep in the eyes. “And with whom was He angry for... years?” His words sound like a reverent quote. “Was it not with those who sinned, whose bodies fell in the wilderness?”
The past is a place dangerous place to visit. Anakin will not stand it for a second time today. Instead he lowers his head and concentrates more on the amulet at hand. It is a very simple yet elegant thing. Very much like the Japor snippet that he gave Padmé so many ages ago.
Hett continuous talking, but Anakin pays no heed. He gets lost in the curves of the amulet.
Time loses all meaning as he is sucked into a past that is not his own. His fingers cramp closer and closer around the amulet.
Suddenly, there is a sand dune. And standing on it a girl with a staff, all by herself.
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Chapter 1:
The dune sea is beautiful to behold at sunset. No sand dune is identical to another. Time is meaningless here and change subtle. The sand makes everything equal. Even strong individuals are humbled by it. The circle of life and death is rapid.
I hold on to my trusty bamboo staff.
My step-brother chuckles next to me. His full name is Vicomte Luçien Ankoù, but I just call him Luc.
I just love to be out in the open desert, especially here in the sanctuary of our favourite oasis. With a smile I close my eyes.
Carefully, I begin to listen to the stories that the wind carries with it.
The never-ending intrigues of the serail are very far away. So is the ducal pride, all of my five step-mothers. They are the meat-bringers, the killing machines of House Ankoù.
I open my eyes again and watch the invisible hands of the desert wind stroking over the surface of the salt lake. The feathered leaves of the date tree tremble in the evening air.
At full daylight, the L’œil du ciel mirrors the caramel coloured sky beautifully. In the weak light of the twin moons, that are already rising in the East, the lake will look more like drop of spilled lamp oil.
I lean my staff against a rock and raise my arms high above my head. A soft mewl escapes my throat as I stretch my body lustfully. Then, I dip a foot into the tepid salt water. “Are you coming?” I ask, looking around. Of course, Luc is hiding to tease me.
For many, many heartbeats I wait for a satisfying answer, but only hear the sound of the wind.
Finally, I shrug and go straight into the lake. “Well, as you wish, my brother.”
His lean body hits the water next to me. I scream out with joy and surprise. “You scoundrel!”
“Yes, my beloved desert rose?” Luc purrs.
Giggling softly, I try to hit him. But, as usual, he is too fast for me. With the lightness of a belly dancer, he whirls around me. “Be gone!” I say with a grin.
“It is very hard to please you, my sister,” Luc starts to swim around me in circles. “First you are desperate to get me into the water and now you wish me out of it again. And people call me moody!”
Full of love, pride and admiration I look at him. Even relaxed there is so much raw power emanating from him.
In height Luc towers over all other guards. He is a giant. When I stand face-to-face with him, my nose fits comfortably into the small hollow of his chest. He is broad shouldered, yet lithe and graceful. Unbound, his hair reaches until his chin. It is glossy and pure black, resembling rich silk. My fingers flex with the urge to touch it. Even in the dim moonlight, his tanned skin has a golden gleam about it.
Since the rites, Luc has to hide his face under the war mask of a gardien, a protector of the homestead. I miss his warm smile, even though it is still reflected by his impressive eyes. Their blue colour is very unusual, almost hypnotic. But it is his voice that holds the greatest power of all. Though it is as rough as the crumbled face of the hamada, the stone desert, it is more melodious than a sitar can ever be.
Playfully, I splash water into his face. “I am a woman. Therefore it is my right to change my mind quickly.”
Luc laughs out heartily, a sound that makes me tremble all over my body. “If you were a woman yet, I would have to treat you like a sacred goblet. We could not make such a night trip any more.”
It is unfair of him to remind me of the rigid rules of our people. Physical contact even between siblings is forbidden once a girl turns into a woman. I never understood why that is, even though Luc tried to explain it to me over and over again. The Holy Scriptures contain so much nonsense. Perhaps when they were written down their laws were essential to the survival of our people, but times have changed. And so have our people.
“I want my womb to be as infertile as the Outer Regions.” I smirk. “Nothing shall ever change between the two of us.”
A frown mares the space between his brows. “Never ever say something so silly again,” he states, a reprimand in his tone. “It is a blessing to be able to have children.”
I think of our common siblings and shake my head. “No, they are just loud, annoying and greedy.”
His lips tighten and he stalks forward. The frown turns into a scowl.
Instinctively, I back away. His gaze burns a path on my skin until I shiver from its intensity.
“Oh, Isabeau!” he says in a quiet, angry voice.
Most of the times Luc calls me by my given name, he is about to lecture me. I hate that. My spine stiffens.
“In the dark ages, chaos and murder ruled our world,” he scowls. “Without the Holy Scriptures, we never would have survived. Make no mistake about that.”
I do not like religious talk like this. Nor do I like Luc to be so serious. Since he has been made chef de la sécurité he has changed so much. Even his visits in the serail have become as rare as the fairy-tales he used to tell me at bedtime. It is a miracle that he is out in the open desert with me tonight.
“Please spare me!” I beg him. My nerves tingle. He can be so rigid when it comes to history and religious issues. “The silly Star Wars with the Ophidiae are over since centuries. But this is our only common night out this month.”
His gaze hardens at the name of the reptilian race of our neighbour planet. They are his sore point, always have been. If he could, he would kill them off one by one. “They are still out there, misusing the gift of the Living Force.”
The Force, that ancient energy web which holds the treats of the universe together. It is not that I doubt its existence, but it means nothing to me. I am self-sufficient and bow to no one, except to Luc who deserves my love and respect.
“Behold,” I mumble, my eyes cast down. “I give unto you power to tread on serpents and scorpions, and over all the power of the enemy: and nothing shall by any means hurt you.”
Luc loves the Holy Scripts, sees them as his sole guide line in life. My spontaneous quotation seems to please him. When I look up again a smile twitches the corners of his mouth. “At least you are not an infidel or a complete heathen, little sister.”
Very gently he reaches out for my face, takes it into his large hands. The heat from his palms is slightly irritating. It seems as if they are on fire. His scent taunts me. As usual he wears a touch of spice that is not overpowering. It complements his natural scent, gives a tantalizing hint of his virility and outdoors activity.
Lately, Luc is lethal to my senses. It is not that I am smitten by him, but he turns my world upside down for some reason. Most of the time I do not understand me or my feelings any more. That angers me. He is my big brother. Just being near him gives me a measure of comfort, of protection even. He is my touchstone, my favourite shoulder to lean on. It has always been that way.
Of course, I honour papa Alezan the way that I should. But I do not love him with all my heart.
The ducal pride and their offspring do not interest me in the least. They are shallow, dishonest creatures. Many of them would smile sweetly at you while slowly drilling a knife into your intestines. They smell wrong to me, in their perfumed robes.
In the desert you do not trust your eyes. You rely on your nose to navigate, especially during the prevailing winds at day time.
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While standing close to the flames, Luc dries me with a blanket. He neglects himself as usual. I wish he would take better care of himself. Very often I have witnessed how he fails to meet his own needs completely. He works too much, is completely absorbed in being there for others. This cannot be healthy.
His fingertips dance over my skin without really touching it. He also does not look at me, while he is busy. His expression is blank, his eyes indifferent.
“The past is never dead, Isabeau!” His eyes glitter with a fierce light that I cannot interpret. “The Tjiehenet family will pay for all the war crimes they committed.”
The Tjiehenet family. All of them children to the Plumed Serpent. Mighty Force benders, most of them. I have seen them in historical illustrations. Fierce she-warriors, dressed to kill. In military costumes, tunics made of spiny oyster shells, they trampled over cowering prisoners. I cannot help but to admire them for their efficiency, their skills in battle. It is not that I am in love with the enemy, but I respect them.
For a moment Luc simply stares at me, his eyes burning. I start to wonder what I have done to offend him so much. I am so confused by his mood and demeanour. The past seems to be a dangerous place to go to, especially in a conversation with him.
“Please get dressed now!” he bites out. “You should not get a cold. I will make a decent cup of coffee for us in the meantime.”
Quickly, I rush towards my clothing, checking it for scorpions and other unwanted invaders. Then I dress myself layer by layer.
My entire garments are wine red, my favourite colour. It is also the colour of Clan Riwalan, my mother’s people. She died when I was very young. I hardly remember her or my other blood relatives. The only memories of my early childhood, that I have, circle around Luc.
“You tend to forget these on purpose, don’t you?” he muses, interrupting my thoughts. In his hands rest a small wooden box that I knew too well. Slowly, he opens the lid.
With unhidden distaste, I stare at my jewellery set of white gold. It consists of a large number of bangles, ankle bracelets, rings, two ear plucks and a necklace with diamonds. Even though I do not care about such riches, my five step-mothers have made it quite clear to me that it is my duty to show off the wealth of the family. Yet for me all those jewels feel like restrains. They belong to a world that I dislike pretty much: the serail of the Ankoù homestead.
“Would you mind putting them on for me?” Luc begs me so nicely, that I can not resist his plea.
“If you are willing to lend me a helpful hand, I certainly can.”
His hands move with certainty and speed. Within no time I am wearing the entire jewellery set. “You look beautiful,” he compliments me.
“I usually do. Even without those… chains,” I point out.
For a brief moment, I see his face in the bright moon light, ashamed and sad, before he pulls me against him.
“Isabeau,” he murmurs, sounding choked. “These are gifts of recognition and love. You are not a household slave, that needs chaining. You are my sister, always will be.”
My voice is thick with emotion when I find the right answer. “Just because it pleases you.”
He throws his head back and laughs. A deep, throaty sound that vibrates over me, sending pleasure up my spine. I wrinkle my nose, giving my best to look miffed.
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Our two loyal pack animals are tied to a date tree at the edge of the lake. They have been bred in papa’s own stables. He has the finest eopie under the twin moons. They are as fast as the desert winds.
Gracefully, Crépuscule bends her milk-white neck down when she sees me approaching. I return that very favour and bow in recognition. Eopies are proud creatures, easily offended. Dealing with them is always a question of fine manners.
When I look up again the mare is on her knees. Now I can easily mount her. The leather of the saddle creaks slightly when I reach out for it.
I actually hate to ride Crépuscule with a full harness, but papa insists on it. He calls it a matter of security. I find it more annoying for the mare herself. Even though she has not been born under the free sky, I feel ashamed to let her carry the burden of a leather saddle and a holster.
Luc passes by casually, bends and kisses me lightly on the cheek. “Silly me, I always thought you enjoyed riding!”
At times I find his ability to spot my thoughts frightening. “What?” I gasp.
He searches me with that vivid blue gaze without touching me. “It is not the nature of your lovely face to hide what you are thinking. You should practice in front of a mirror. Our honoured mothers do and they are mistresses of deceit.”
“Bah!” I exclaim. “Mirrors are instruments of vanity and in some cases… vain. Have you ever come across a mirror in the dune sea? What need should I have for it? I cannot ride it. I cannot eat it. I cannot drink it. See, it is an unusable item after all.”
He bows courtly. “You truly belong to the desert, my wild and beautiful sister.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Beautiful. Me?”
“Well, I spot a girl of fourteen with skin like shimmering bronze. The proud way she holds herself makes her bigger than she actually is. She has a lovely face with high cheek bones and a very small nose.” A ghost of a smile touches his lips. “Amazing, as nosy as she is, this nose should definitely be as big as the snout of a eopie.”
Crépuscule makes a neighing sound as if she understood each single word that Luc just said.
“Your slanted almond eyes – set in humanoid features – show clearly that you are a Lidérc with a trace of human blood. There is no white in those eyes and your pupils are almost round due to night time. Your hair has the colour of a chestnut tree. Normally it falls down your back in soft waves, yet at present it is towered up with the clasps I gave you as a birthday present.”
Argent, the brother of my own mount, suddenly moves behind him. The dark-grey animal pushes Luc slightly forward with his entire head. The impatience of the hot blooded stallion does not seem to bother my step-brother too much. He moves on with a casual tone.
“And there is a bindu on your forehead – a red crescent moon – showing that you have a very high position in the ducal homestead.” His mouth twists ruefully. “This very high position also comes with a lot of duties. Duties which you dislike as much as your hair dislikes to be held up by clasps. Yes, you should indeed waste no time in front of the mirror to look like a presentable lady. It is pointless.”
Before I can blink, Luc is in his saddle and strides past me like some sand devil.
With a raised fist I get my bamboo staff, quickly fasten it to the saddle and mount Crépuscule. “You will regret your words, brother. Wait until I get hold of you!”
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When I had been but a wee kitten, Luc had told me that the slow love making of the sun and the wind created the hamada. That was of course long before any pure blooded Lidérc ever set his paw on Sapuhru. Some of those giant rocks are more than three hundred feet high. Pink and lilac sandstone have mixed with countless shades of brown. But at present nothing can be spotted of this stunning beauty. Only the starlight and the face of Sodalith herself guide us and our steeds home.
When we reach the small tunnel like canyon that leads into Montségur, I let out a little hiss. This blasted tunnel makes me claustrophobic each time Luc and I return from the dune sea. It is not that I fear the tunnel itself, but all what lies behind. Only Luc’s earlier jest makes me ride on.
The fifty feet high façade of Montségur suddenly rises out of the semi darkness. Symmetric ornaments, mostly squares and concentric circles, have been carved into the stones in the time of the foundation. Hundreds of salt crystal lamps, as big as my clenched fists, produce a homely orange glow on the monument. The crystals, nested in niches, get their energy from the sun reflectors that surround the city.
Nomads never leave a trace on their journeys; if they do, they want to mislead their enemies. They would ride behind one another in order to hide their true number. City folk is by far too eager to leave proof of their existence behind. I believe that which you do not need will kill you and that luxury begins with a Lidérc wearing a robe.
My fingers play with the bridle.
During day time, an energetic defence shield guards the entrance. But at this time of night, only two gardien of the Night Watch are present. They greet me and Crépuscule politely. I bow back graciously, wondering over the unmistakeable hint of fear in the air.
Why was it that people are always afraid of my noble and clever step-brother? His fame for being a merciless teaser and a boring lecturer must have spread throughout the city.
I ride into the widely stretched marketplace of Montségur that is overcrowded with citizens.
Argent stands at the edge of the plaza all by himself with no Luc in sight.
I am about to dismount Crépuscule when a gloved hand presents a salt rose to me.
“If you want to be a good huntress, you need to be faster and have better instincts,” Luc sniggers. “Your prey might escape you otherwise. Or even worse, outwit you.”
I grip his left wrist as hard as I can. “And I feel like making you swallow this present.”
“That’s the spirit.” He grins, carefree. “But if you could let go of me for now, the people are watching.”
Actually everybody is trying to avoid looking in our direction, but before I am able to point that out to Luc breaks off the physical contact between us. He mounts Argent again.
Respectfully, folk make way for us, bowing as deeply as they can. Luc nods here and there, and greets some folk by name.
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After a while the odours and sounds of the market lie behind us. We steer our eopie mounts through the nightly Montségur. Not talking we ride along windowless façades of rock apartments which are nestled close to one another. Most buildings in the city have three stories linked to one another with staircases.
Being trapped in a stone cage with thick iron doors is not the life I am born for. Especially not with the doubtful luxury of foreign words, the ducal pride around me. I can feel the truth of it deep inside me. There is this echo in my bones, from a life spent outdoors so long ago.
“By Sodalith and Calme, I hate them!” I mutter behind clenched teeth. “I hate the lot of them.”
“You are as jumpy as a young eopie that learns to walk.” Luc chuckles behind his war mask. I bet his azure eyes are alight with amusement. “Hum, must be the traces of salt on your skin. You should definitely have a bath in bantha milk when we come back.”
It is a profane thought for me. The morning milk of a fully grown bantha cow is enough to feed a desert tribe of about twenty people. I will never understand how the ducal pride can bathe in it. What is wrong with smelling of the desert?
“You sound like your mother Flor,” I complain. “I bet she will make quite a scene, when I enter the serial. She always finds something to criticise about me.
There it is again, this sad and forlorn look that I cannot explain. This is not the first time that I ask myself if there is something amiss between him and his mother. An old pain that poisons their relationship. “Then let maman scold me, too, for I smell of salt and old water as well,” he replies.
Suddenly, a stench basically explodes in my nostrils. I sniff around, inhaling the air as much as I can. What is that strange sensation?
“Might I lend you a handkerchief, sister?” winks at me. “It seems that you might have caught a cold tonight.”
Perhaps he is right and I just have a cold coming on. My blood roars through my skull with unexpected force. I never get ill. Perhaps this is why my body acts so crazy.
Without warning a hooded figure steps straight into my way.
A wild sound escapes my throat.
Alarmed, Crépuscule rises and attacks the stranger with her hoofs.
My fingernails turn into sharp claws within a few heart beats.