Read Online Star Wars: Episode III: Revenge of the Sith by Matthew Woodring Stover; George Lucas - Free Book Online
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turbolifts, anything could be up here by now. The place could be full of droidekas, for all they knew.
The lights came back on.
Anakin froze.
The dark figure in the chair-it was Chancellor Palpatine, it was, and there were no droids to be seen, and his heart should have leapt within his chest, but-Palpatine looked bad.
The Chancellor looked beyond old, looked ancient like Yoda was ancient: possessed of incomprehensible age. And exhausted, and in pain. And worse-Anakin saw in the Chancellor's face something he'd never dreamed he'd find there, and it squeezed breath from his lungs and wiped words from his brain.
Palpatine looked frightened.
Anakin didn't know what to say. He couldn't imagine what to say. All he could imagine was what Grievous and Dooku must have done to put fear on the face of this brave good man-And that imagining ignited a sizzle in his blood that drew his face tight and clouded his heart and started again the low roll of thunder in his ears: thunder from Aargonar. From Jabiim.
Thunder from the Tusken camp.
If Obi-Wan was struck by any similar distress, it was invisible. With his customary grave courtesy, the Jedi Master inclined his head. "Chancellor," he said, a calmly respectful greeting as though they had met by chance on the Grand Concourse of the Galactic Senate.
Palpatine's only response was a tight murmur. "Anakin, behind you-!"
Anakin didn't turn. He didn't have to. It wasn't just the clack of boot heels and clank of magnapeds crossing the threshold of the entrance balcony; the Force gathered within him and around him in a sudden clench like the fists of a startled man.
In the Force, he could feel the focus of Palpatine's eyes: the source of the fear that rolled off him in billows like vapor down a block of frozen air. And he could feel the even colder wave of power, colder than the frost on a mynock's mouth, that slid into the room behind him like an ice dagger into his back.
Funny, he thought. After Ventress, somehow I always expect the dark side to be hot. . .
Something unlocked in his chest. The thunder in his ears dissolved into red smoke that coiled at the base of his spine. His lightsaber found his hand, and his lips peeled off his teeth in a smile that a krayt dragon would have recognized.
That trouble he was having with talking went away.
"This," he murmured to Palpatine, and to himself, "is not a problem."
The voice that spoke from the entrance balcony was an elegant basso with undernotes of oily resonance like a kriin-oak cavernhorn.
Count Dooku's voice.
"General Kenobi. Anakin Skywalker. Gentlemen-a term I use in its loosest possible sense-you are my prisoners."
Now Anakin didn't have any troubles at all.
The entrance balcony provided an appropriate angle-far above the Jedi, looking down upon them-for Dooku to make final assessments before beginning the farce.
Like all true farce, the coming denouement would proceed with remorseless logic from its ridiculous premise: that Dooku could ever be overcome by mere Jedi. Any Jedi. What a pity his old friend Mace couldn't have joined them today; he had no doubt the Korun Master would have enjoyed the coming show.
Dooku had always preferred an educated audience.
At least Palpatine was here, shackled within the great chair at the far end of the room, the space battle whirling upon the view wall behind him as though his stark silhouette spread great wings of war. But Palpatine was less audience than he was author.
Not at all the same thing.
Skywalker gave Dooku only his back, but his blade was already out and his tall, lean frame stood frozen with anticipation: so motionless he almost seemed to shiver. Pathetic. It was an insult to call this boy a Jedi at all.
Kenobi, now-he was something else entirely: a classic of his obsolete kind. He simply stood gazing calmly up at Dooku and the super battle droids that flanked him, hands open, utterly relaxed, on his face only an expression of mild interest.
Dooku derived a certain
The lights came back on.
Anakin froze.
The dark figure in the chair-it was Chancellor Palpatine, it was, and there were no droids to be seen, and his heart should have leapt within his chest, but-Palpatine looked bad.
The Chancellor looked beyond old, looked ancient like Yoda was ancient: possessed of incomprehensible age. And exhausted, and in pain. And worse-Anakin saw in the Chancellor's face something he'd never dreamed he'd find there, and it squeezed breath from his lungs and wiped words from his brain.
Palpatine looked frightened.
Anakin didn't know what to say. He couldn't imagine what to say. All he could imagine was what Grievous and Dooku must have done to put fear on the face of this brave good man-And that imagining ignited a sizzle in his blood that drew his face tight and clouded his heart and started again the low roll of thunder in his ears: thunder from Aargonar. From Jabiim.
Thunder from the Tusken camp.
If Obi-Wan was struck by any similar distress, it was invisible. With his customary grave courtesy, the Jedi Master inclined his head. "Chancellor," he said, a calmly respectful greeting as though they had met by chance on the Grand Concourse of the Galactic Senate.
Palpatine's only response was a tight murmur. "Anakin, behind you-!"
Anakin didn't turn. He didn't have to. It wasn't just the clack of boot heels and clank of magnapeds crossing the threshold of the entrance balcony; the Force gathered within him and around him in a sudden clench like the fists of a startled man.
In the Force, he could feel the focus of Palpatine's eyes: the source of the fear that rolled off him in billows like vapor down a block of frozen air. And he could feel the even colder wave of power, colder than the frost on a mynock's mouth, that slid into the room behind him like an ice dagger into his back.
Funny, he thought. After Ventress, somehow I always expect the dark side to be hot. . .
Something unlocked in his chest. The thunder in his ears dissolved into red smoke that coiled at the base of his spine. His lightsaber found his hand, and his lips peeled off his teeth in a smile that a krayt dragon would have recognized.
That trouble he was having with talking went away.
"This," he murmured to Palpatine, and to himself, "is not a problem."
The voice that spoke from the entrance balcony was an elegant basso with undernotes of oily resonance like a kriin-oak cavernhorn.
Count Dooku's voice.
"General Kenobi. Anakin Skywalker. Gentlemen-a term I use in its loosest possible sense-you are my prisoners."
Now Anakin didn't have any troubles at all.
The entrance balcony provided an appropriate angle-far above the Jedi, looking down upon them-for Dooku to make final assessments before beginning the farce.
Like all true farce, the coming denouement would proceed with remorseless logic from its ridiculous premise: that Dooku could ever be overcome by mere Jedi. Any Jedi. What a pity his old friend Mace couldn't have joined them today; he had no doubt the Korun Master would have enjoyed the coming show.
Dooku had always preferred an educated audience.
At least Palpatine was here, shackled within the great chair at the far end of the room, the space battle whirling upon the view wall behind him as though his stark silhouette spread great wings of war. But Palpatine was less audience than he was author.
Not at all the same thing.
Skywalker gave Dooku only his back, but his blade was already out and his tall, lean frame stood frozen with anticipation: so motionless he almost seemed to shiver. Pathetic. It was an insult to call this boy a Jedi at all.
Kenobi, now-he was something else entirely: a classic of his obsolete kind. He simply stood gazing calmly up at Dooku and the super battle droids that flanked him, hands open, utterly relaxed, on his face only an expression of mild interest.
Dooku derived a certain
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