MEMBERS OF THE WEDDING
by ardavenport
- - - Part 4
Qui-Gon took in a long, slow breath and let it out. "A Jedi never seeks to kill, your Grace. Never." There were always distasteful rumors that the Republic used the Jedi as assassins and he wanted to definitely refute that idea, if that was what she was thinking. "The Jedi Code demands that we use the powers of the Force for the good of others. We train in the Jedi arts to do so from a very young age. And while those arts include diplomacy and the powers of the mind, they also include fighting. We do not exclude violence from our methods, because it is not the act that leads to the Dark Side; it is the intention."
The Archbishop's expression slowly turned more rigidly critical, but Qui-Gon could not really sense any of her thoughts at all; they were a gray wall.
"So, Master Qui-Gon, when you are going about doing good for others, what sort of circumstances must occur for you to decide that someone else must die for the greater good?"
"None, your Grace. Unless that person is myself. My own life is the only one that I may decide to forfeit. But in a conflict, my hand is guided by the Force. And if another person dies or lives, at my hand, then it is through the will of the Force."
"The will of the Force? Oh, well that's a handy excuse," she muttered, her gaze lowering. "I'm sure that the people who die are greatly comforted to know that you did not intend to kill them. Tell me, Master Qui-Gon, if the Force is in a particularly peevish mood that morning, does that mean you're allowed a higher body count?"
Qui-Gon frowned at her flippancy. "The Force does not have 'moods'. It is the life force that binds the universe together, its power infinite, its purposes is unknowable."
"Really? Well, then if you don't know what the Force is up to, then how do you even know if you're on the Light Side at all? Especially with you chopping people up and all that."
A corner of his mouth quirked upward. "We know we serve the Light because we know that we do not know if the Force truly has a will; its nature is unknowable."
The Archbishop stared back, her mouth a tight horizontal line. He smiled back, but her thoughts were still as blank as stone to him. The courtyard brightened, corroded oranges and reds accented with withered tans and browns. Something buzzed among the plants in the growing warmth.
The Steward cleared his throat. The Archbishop remained motionless, but her eyes shifted toward him.
"So," the Archbishop sat back, folding her arms before her, "let me see if I've got this. The Jedi believe that if you start acquiring, say, teacups, you will fall into a spiral of dark and destructive teacup attachment that will inevitably lead to death and galactic woe for yourself and everyone around you. But not if you actually kill another person. Is that right?"
Pressing his lips together, Qui-Gon paused before answering.
"Yes."
No other words came to him. There wasn't much else for hm to add. The Archbishop had made a valid point even if she used a ridiculous example.
"Well . . . . your point about knowing that you don't know the unknowable could have come right out of the Book of Zlattni. In fact, it did. But I assume that the Jedi did not intentionally plagiarize it. But the people-chopping really is a problem . . . . "
"Your Grace - - " The Steward's complexion was looking a little splotchy on the cheeks and forehead. Nealdine held up a hand.
"But." She aimed the word back at the Steward. Huffing, she sat her large bulk up straighter on her block.
"I appreciate your honesty, Master Qui-Gon. That, along with your serving others while not knowing the unknown, I think just puts you over the top on the third point. And . . . . the more liberally traditional branches of our Order," she pronounced this a little dismissively, "do allow for a bit of violence in extreme stress – like needing to bump off heretics like meeeeee . . . and . . . . as Supreme Archbishop of the whole Zembu priesthood, I am endowed with the power of forgiveness."
She pushed herself up from the table. Qui-Gon stood.
"So," she held up one hand, index and middle fingers raised. "I forgive and absolve you," her fingers made a circle, "for your life of mayhem and people-chopping. Try not to do it again." Beside them, the Steward audibly sighed. Looking amused, Obi-Wan stood as well.
Qui-Gon inclined his head. "Thank-you, your Grace. Is that all?"
"Oh, no, now we have to do the investiture. We've got to make this official." She gestured. "Stand before me, over here."
They moved away from the table to an intersection of paths in the courtyard. The air had warmed noticeably and more things were buzzing amidst the stunted, hardy shrubbery. The archive droid, humming and beeping, its sensors still glowing, rolled to position itself beside them.
A cheerful green skin-tone wiped away her gray complexion so quickly that Qui-Gon's eyes widened. She wiggled her brows back at him. "Now, I think that we can dispense with the three days of fasting and chanting, the three deeds of heroism, the three trials - - did I mention how hung up tradition seems to be on threes?" She waved that aside. "Because of our very tight time constraints, and so the Steward won't burst right here and now, I think we can just cut right to the oath."
Dirchard sighed again. "Thank-you, your Grace."
Nealdine raised her hands.
"Please, lower your head."
Qui-Gon inclined his head to her.
"Where I can reach it."
"Oh."
He bowed very low to the short woman. She laid her small hands on the top of his head.
"Do you, Qui-Gon Jinn, vow to uphold all that is sacred to the Zembu, to be honest, thoughtful, sympathetic, empathetic and practical, to lend your strength to those in need of it, to be honest to others as well as to yourself, and to not chop people up with your light sword?"
"I do your Grace."
"Stand and face me."
He did so.
"I appoint you Priest of the Zembu and High Vicar of Wutah and Holder of the Keys of the Vaults of Balstule."
Qui-Gon tilted his head. "High Vicar/"
"Well, I've got to give you some kind of rank to do this wedding. Don't worry, the High Vicar died last year. I just haven't found a good replacement because no one wants to live in a drafty old fort on Wutah at the pole. She pointed at the Steward. "But we've got to get him a set of keys for the ceremony. Make sure they look good."
The Steward bowed. "I shall see to it immediately."
"Oooooooooohhhhhh! Deenee, Deenee, Deenee!"
They all startled and turned toward the sudden outburst.
A woman of medium height came at them, enormous sleeves fluttering behind her. A taller woman, with even taller slate colored hair followed. The Archbishop grimaced, her cheeks passing though multiple shades of pale pink as the woman came at her, seizing her in a hug and kissing her cheeks.
"Oooooooh, I am soooooooo sorry this has happened to you! This is terrible, terrible! I just heard that old Swiggy has canceled!" Kiss, kiss. "How could he be so thoughtless! There's just no loyalty in the clergy these days! I had to come right away to comfort you, my little sister, in this moment of terrible disgrace for you! Teeeerrrrible!"
The Archbishop, her consort and the Steward coldly remained unaffected by the theatrics, their faces gray, but their thoughts obvious. They had been hoping to avoid this person. Qui-Gon exchanged a look with his Padawan. They had met her the night before at the reception.
She was Trahina Croton, the hereditary Mistress of Protocol of the Zembu Order. Her companion was Vossi Oto, though she did not seem to have any official title. They had made themselves memorable to the Jedi at the reception by loudly criticizing them for being far too under-dressed to represent Coruscant. Now, no longer wearing her huge jeweled headdress, collar and robes, she waved her arms and insincerely bemoaned the Archbishop's misfortune.
"But really Deenee, this is a sign! It's a sign! You really don't need to relinquish all your lovely powers to usurp the government on a whim. Really, they need to have their backsides kicked out from under them every now and then anyway." She muttered the last part, her face, neck and hands striped in alternating orange and green. She wore a white flowing kaftan and pants with edges decorated with abstract multicolored shapes. A blue and red beaded scarf was wrapped around her middle under a roll of fat and fabric; the fringe on it clicked whenever she moved. Though Trahina Croton was nowhere near as rotund as her sister, she was stout in the body and almost a head taller.
"Terrible shame, absolutely terrible that the wedding will have to be canceled," Vossi Oto said with tight-lipped glee, her cheeks practically glowing with green triumph, her eyes and lips painted with precise and sharp black lines. The rest of her exposed skin matched her face. As far as Qui-Gon could tell, she wore the same shiny metallic blue boots, skimpy short skirt and half-shirt that she had on the previous night. He arms were covered, but her shirt clung to her low on her chest, exposing the top rounds of her breasts and part of her torso under that.
"We've got a replacement," Nealdine stated under Trahina's frantic babble.
Almost falling forward over the Archbishop, Trahina Croton kept going, "We'll just have to call the whole thing off - - "
Trahina froze.
"What?" The colors froze and went pale on Trahina Croton's face. "What? What do you mean? What, what, did you say? A replacement? A replacement? What, what, what does that mean?" She looked from Archbishop to Steward and all around. Vossi visibly paled.
"We have a replacement," Nealdine enunciated. She extended a hand to the Jedi. "Master Qui-Gon has graciously offered his services. So, the wedding will proceed as scheduled."
Trahina drew back. Both she and Vossi looked appalled, their skin going pale pink. Then Trahina seemed to recover, her face tinting into bright orange.
"What? What? You CAN'T use them! They're JEDI. They don't have any authority to marry anyone on this planet!"
"Too late. I've already invested them. Master Qui-Gon here is now the High Vicar of Wutah. At least today he is. At least as long as it takes for my son and his bride to get married."
Trahina patted her chest; her head and frazzled hair wobbled dramatically, as if this announcement might injure her somehow.
"How, how, how, how could you DO THAT?" She ran around in little panicked circles. "I can't believe it. I cannot BELIEVE that my sister, my OWN SISTER would bring in these - - these - - these COMMONERS into the Order!"
"Well, you're always telling me how I need to exercise my absolute powers more often. I've decided to take your advice. Today, at least," Nealdine answered casually.
Trahina huffed inarticulately, flapping her arms, turning in circles as if looking for an escape. Obi-Wan raised his eyebrows, but Qui-Gon minimally shook his head. This was obviously a family matter, nothing they needed to involve themselves with. But Trahina didn't seem to agree; she pointed an accusing finger at them.
"You absolutely CAN'T have them perform the service! Not looking like THAT anyway! I mean really? Look at them!" She bared her teeth in distaste. "It's absolutely unbelievable. Unbelievable! How could these two possible be sent as representatives of Coruscant?" The volume of her rant rose as she solidified her complaint. "They're BROWN! Two big, blobby, shapeless pillars of BROWN! A whole city-planet full of people walking around at the height, the pinnacle of fashion, just dripping with class and OOZING with the latest style, and what do we get?"
She straightened triumphantly, the robust criticism invigorating her. Both Jedi folded their arms before them, tucking their arms into the large opposite sleeves of their robes.
"The scrapings from the bottom of the Jedi Temple, I'd say! One fuzzy-headed, little brown minion," she spat toward Obi-Wan, "and one huge, towering brown load of long, limp-haired, sickly, mono-colored excreta!" She darted forward and grabbed a handful of Qui-Gon's robe; he remained perfectly still.
"Sacks! Sacks! They're wearing sacks!" She let go as if she had touched something slimy. "Uuuuuuhhhhh! Brown, ugly sacks!" She whirled on her frowning, gray-faced sister, who was as motionless as Qui-Gon. "We cannot have it! I am still Mistress of Protocol around here! I still have a say in this and I absolutely forbid it! He cannot marry my nephew to that sniping little witch and that's final!" She stamped her foot.
A bright orange tinge crept up the Archbishop's stout neck. And stopped. It faded into a pale blue over her whole face, a sly look in her eyes. Trahina took a step back away from her sister.
"That is true, my dear. You are the Hereditary Mistress of Protocol and this kind of problem is within your authority."
Her face and hand going pale magenta, Trahina nodded back uncertainly. "Well, yes. . . . of course I am," she replied with little confidence. Vossi frowned as well with a grayer shade of pale magenta.
"Yes. And I am the Supreme Archbishop of the Zembu. And as such, I command that YOU make them presentable for the ceremony."
Next to her, the Steward's face went bright magenta for a second before he seemed to shift it back toward gray again. "Ah, you Grace - -"
Without even looking at him, Nealdine held up a hand to silence him. Her eyes stayed on Trahina, who had gone bright pink, her mouth open.
"What, what, what?" She looked trapped again. "What? You-you must be joking? Make THESE TWO presentable? I can't - - "
"You can if I command it."
"But – but – but - - " Trahina looked at Qui-Gon as if he were a disease, "they're utterly unsuitable, they're rough and common and they're completely BROWN!"
*The Steward was looking a bit brown on the cheeks. "Your Grace . . . "
Nealdine sighed, her shoulders dropping. "Well, if you're not up to the task . . . I suppose I could have someone else help. Of course, it won't have any of your style. I was just hoping for something . . . . worthy of the occasion, but I suppose we'll have to do with whatever the droids can come up with."
"Worthy?" Trahina suddenly went dark, grayish magenta. "Style? Really? Style? Me? I hadn't thought you'd noticed."
"Of course, I've noticed, Trahina. You're my older sister." The Archbishop beamed bright green. "You've done so many . . . . amazing things. You arranged last night's reception didn't you? Ordered the decorations for the ceremony? I'm sure that if you personally see to the dressing of the new High Vicar of Wutah and his acolyte for their sacred duty today that your service will be entered into the Annals of the Zembu."
"The Annals, really? Do you think so?" Trahina's eyes looked a bit unfocused. But Vossi's face flared orange.
"You can't, Hina! You can't! You oppose this wedding and everything it will do! Don't forget the traditions trodden into the dirt of modernity!"
Trahina turned on her. "Oh, shut up, Vossi! We're talking about the Annals!"
Nealdine clapped her hands together with a big smile. "Well, then that's settled. You just go to your studio and get whatever you need ready and I'll send Master Qui-Gon and . . . " There was the briefest of pauses that told Qui-Gon that the Archbishop had forgotten Obi-Wan's name. ". . . his apprentice to you. But you'd better hurry, we don't have much time."
Trahina grimaced up at Qui-Gon, but she agreed. She left, dragging Vossi who complained the whole way.
The Archbishop exhaled a big sigh as soon as her sister was out of sight. But the Steward remained concerned.
"Your Grace, is it really wise to give her ANYthing this major to do with the wedding?"
"No it isn't." She folded her arms before her. "But it will keep her out of the way and unfortunately she's right; she has the authority to dictate what our new Vicar wears to the ceremony."
Her face went dark gray, like a storm cloud. "Master Qui-Gon, let us not pretend we don't know what your new purpose is." She paced before him, the orange gravel crunching underfoot, the Iron Garden warming in the brightening daylight.
"Ever since I announced that I would renounce my son's claim of succession with his marriage today, thus ending the hereditary line of Archbishops, I have been under a succession death threats. Nasty notes, bombs, poisoned boxes of candy, droid versions of me being thrown over cliffs. Any transport that I even look at develops mechanical problems. The hereditary Captain of the Guard swears that that it's just a coincidence that all his target practice holos look like me. My own Council has a betting pool on my life-expectancy. Because if I die before my son is properly disinherited, he would automatically become Archbishop-presumptive until he completes his training for the position. And as wonderful and sweet and thoughtful a person as he is, unlike my daughter, he is dumb enough to take the job. And stupid enough to become the pawn of the factions who think that the Zembu should go back to being absolute rulers, like back in the old days." She paused thoughtfully before turning to Qui-Gon.
"Why is it that people harken back to these old days, when everyone is supposed to have been been somehow smarter, prettier and overall better than they are now? If those people actually put as much energy into themselves as they do their nostalgic fantasies then they really might be smarter, prettier and better than they are now." Standing before him, close enough to touch, she put her hands on her hips.
"So, I have ordained that the old days are over. An Archbishop hasn't taken over the government in over six-hundred years anyway. And it took decades to clean up the mess old Flammu made of it, too. So, there will be no more Zembu dictators." She pointed sternly at him.
"My son is getting married today, Master Qui-Gon, and you are going to make sure it happens."
- - - End Part 4