Only then did Reath realize that Orla Jareni and Cohmac Vitus were walking toward each other, gazes locked, half smiles on their faces. “Now, see, I could’ve sworn,” Orla said, “that I once heard you say you’d never return to that patch of the galaxy again.”

“It doesn’t matter how far we run, or in what direction,” Master Cohmac replied. “In the end, we always come back to the beginning.”

Slowly, Orla nodded. “Yes. It’s time for me to bring things full circle.”

What could that mean? Reath and Dez exchanged glances that suggested they were equally curious, but equally unwilling to pry.

At that moment, Reath’s attention—and everyone else’s—was distracted by a ship flying through the spaceport, rather low, then landing squarely on the pad where their transport ought to have been. It was an unusual ship, at least to Reath: its plating was dark blue, and its cockpit and engines both rounded to the point of being bulbous. Either it had been built a very long time before, or the beings who built it didn’t bother keeping up with technological developments—which was a troubling thought. As it settled onto the pad, the Jedi all exchanged glances.

“Looks more like a transport ship than a passenger craft,” Master Cohmac said.

“Who cares? It can make hyperspace, can’t it?” Dez grinned as displaced air ruffled their hair and robes with a hiss.

Reath frowned. “Maybe?”

No sooner had the ship settled onto the platform with a heavy metallic clunk than the hatch popped open. From it emerged a young girl—possibly Reath’s age, no more than a year or two older, with tan skin. Her long brown hair hung free as she strode toward them wearing a normal pilot’s coverall, an unusually neat, pressed one, in the same distinctive shade of blue as the ship itself. On the sleeve was stitched a star-shaped crest in dark orange. She put her hands on her hips and studied them all as though disappointed. “You’re the passengers for Starlight? I thought we were picking up a bunch of monks or something. You look…normal.”

“We are your passengers, and could be called monks of a sort,” said Master Cohmac without any sign of surprise and only a slight pause before asking, “Are you the pilot?”

She grinned and pointed her thumb at the door. “Of course not. I’m the copilot, Affie Hollow. He’s the pilot.”

A teenage copilot seemed questionable to Reath, but when he looked in the direction she was pointing, all those questions vanished, replaced by far more pressing ones. Questions like: Is that man’s shirt open to the waist? Is he holding out his arms to us like he wants a group hug? Does he want a group hug? Is that guy on spice?

No—how much spice is that guy on?