32/Flametown
IT WAS A PLEASURE TO BURN.
The Neti saw it now—latched onto this simple tautology in a way that he had never grasped anything in his long life. Within moments after Scabrous had left him here with his mission, to call out to the Jedi, to summon her here, everything within his ageless wooden mind had begun to grow wonderfully, gloriously clear.
And oh, it was a pleasure, a pleasure to burn.
Clutching rows of holobooks with one long branch-hand, the librarian flung them into the rising flames. And the flames surged higher.
After the Sith Lord had bitten him, Dail’Liss had endured a brief but agonizing spasm of physical weakness and distress, the pain compounded by the brooding fear that had been growing in his mind throughout the day. This was what he’d felt outside the walls of his sanctuary. The Sickness was in here now, it had violated the barriers of safety and security, and it was inside him—running through his roots, spreading through his branches and leaves.
And the Sickness was laughing.
At first that laughter had sounded so mocking, so bitter and cold, that the Neti had only cowered before it. Even the Sith themselves couldn’t match the dark malevolence in its voice.
Old fool, it had said, foolish old creature, your life has been wasted here among your books.
The Neti had tried to respond, to tell it no, that these scrolls and texts were his life, but the Sickness hadn’t shown the slightest bit of interest in that. It had more to say, and the Neti realized that he was a captive audience.
It’s not too late, the Sickness said. I have given you new life, and a new purpose, and you will know it if you seek my face. Will you, old tree? Will you seek my face?
What is it? the Neti asked. What is your face?
Mine is the face of blood and fire.
And with those words, everything changed. Looking around now at the contents of the library, the countless scrolls and ancient texts, the holdings and stacks that he had spent his lifetime accumulating here, organizing and cataloging for a thousand years or more, he saw them for what they were.
Fuel.
The flesh is our fuel, the Sickness counseled, and its voice was like thunder now, and the books are our fuel, and this planet is our fuel, all things are fuel, they exist only so that they can be consumed by us.
Yes, yes—
They are meat for the beast.
Yes.
And the beast is you.
Yes.
From there, the Neti discovered that everything came to him with oily, gratifying ease. Giving himself up utterly to the Sickness, he had started the fire without the slightest hesitation. There were years of fuel here, plenty here to burn. Within minutes, the central wing of the library was ablaze, and the seeping, maddened grin of the Neti shone with reflected orange firelight.
Although there were no mirrors here, no means of seeing his reflection, Dail’Liss knew that the Sickness had changed him. Whole chunks of its once-proud bark had begun molting, dropping off in patches, its branches curling and blackening, dripping with thick, foul-smelling drainage that gathered around its roots. But the most profound transformation had happened within him. The Sickness had taught him. He had sought its face. And now the Neti laughed into the fire—its once-kind eyes were twisted now, tightened into knotty slits, its mouth coiled into a wide, salivating grin as it spoke out in the voice of the orchid.
Come, Hestizo Trace. Hurry. Come to the library.
More scrolls, more holobooks, tumbled into the fire. Sap boiled in the coals.
I await your arrival eagerly, I wish to see you here, I have urgent need of you—
He stopped and turned, branches whispering.
She was already on her way.