Before the Throne

Chapter 6

"This may not be the time to ask - but were you and the Duchess ever…?"

"I fail to see what relevance that has to the situation at hand!"

-Anakin Skywalker and Obi Wan Kenobi

Obi Wan released a breath of bitter laughter and pulled against his bonds again. Of course there was almost no point in this exercise; he had attempted to break the hard metallic bands with brute strength and the Force's gentle persuasion at least a dozen times, to no avail. But simply waiting here – presumably for his execution – seemed a pathetic waste of what little time he had left.

Besides, he was quite uncomfortable. Hands wrenched up high over his head, ankles firmly secured to some grill or grating in the floor, he judged that the arrangement had been hastily contrived for a man at least a hand's-span taller than he. The cell, such as it was, appeared to be a basement or warehouse level belonging to some much larger building. He knew the general layout of their new location; although their captors had blindfolded him during the lengthy transit, the Force had softly depicted to him the form of a ruined protective dome, and the dilapidated ghost town which huddled beneath its fragmented shell. It was a much smaller city than the capitol; and here in its center the insurgents had established a makeshift base, a hideout and a fortress against their enemies. In the face of the people's uprising, they had fled here to regroup and plan their next attack. The bombing of the Halls and the assault on the Duchess and her Guard had been the first strike in the new plan of attack; the Force shimmered hot with their desire to press their advantage, regain their hold over the main city and thereby the system.

This was a fine mess. Satine was also a captive in this same building. He could feel her tightly controlled panic, like a shiv thrust between his ribs. He had tried to block it out, but his every effort to escape the sickening awareness of her fear was confounded. Her fear was his fear; his fear was hers to command, to summon into existence. It was a novelty to him – and not a pleasant one. He gritted his teeth, resenting the vulnerability, the strange sensation of a foreign power playing havoc with his heart and mind. Attachment leads to the fear of loss…

What if they killed her? What if they hurt her first? What if Kevvla, that traitorous Force-forsaken son of a scabrous akk, had his way with her? With a furious snarl, he thrashed against the bonds again, managing only to draw blood from the already chafed skin around his wrists. He froze, his heart hammering against his ribs in horror. Fear leads to anger… How steep and treacherous that slope was. He must not allow himself such thoughts again. Anger leads to hatred, hatred leads to suffering. Beware the Dark side, Jedi.

What was he doing? He knew better than this. He had been a prisoner before. He had waited for his own execution before – more than once. It was a sort of hobby, really. He had been in similar situations, with other lives dependent on him. He could almost hear Qui Gon Jinn's voice, soothing his thirteen-year-old self with a hand on the shoulder and a few calming words. Do not fret, Padawan. A solution will present itself. The Force is our ally.

But the memory of Qui Gon brought a flood of fresh pain. Was Qui Gon alive? The bombing had targeted the Halls of Honor. With a choking cry, he realized that his last exchange with his master had been one of anger and resentment. They had parted on the most strained of terms, a world apart, their harmony broken. It was not the ending he would have chosen. Indeed, now, drinking the acrid, stinging dregs of the cup fate had given him, he felt immense shame at having ignored the tall man's warnings. There had been a traitor. His actions had been premature….and yet he had been so sure that the Force spoke to him, that the moment was right. The raw and painful truth was this: he still had much to learn.

"Master," he sighed, regret mingling with the ever-present throb of Satine's fear, in a potent and paralyzing blend of unwelcome emotion.

He had to get out of here.

Qui Gon Jinn knelt, in a corner of the subterranean bunker, calling upon the living Force for insight, for strength and calm. The members of the Mandalorian court sat hunched, despondent, all around him. They were dispirited by the bombing, by the stark evidence of treason in their ranks. Suspicion tainted their thoughts, cast a pall of silence over the bedraggled gathering. Which one among them was the traitor, the would-be killer?

The Force ebbed and flowed, a vast ocean in which this stifling, hard-walled room was nothing but a tiny bubble, a single speck of froth on an immense sea of waves. Their troubles were nothing, insignificant, in comparison to the Force's depth and ageless power. If they were meant to live, they would. Qui Gon felt no fear regarding the outcome. But he did feel something else – a distinct flash of unrest, of distress, appearing and reappearing in the solemn depths like some fleet creature diving in the murky waters below. It was…familiar.

Accepting the invitation, he sank deeper, beneath the waves, to a realm where distances no longer mattered, seeking that elusive presence. To his inward eye, a ruptured dome appeared, outlined against a line of jagged hills. Mandalore's dull sky stretched overhead. Within the city, a ruined building, crumbling to rubble. Within the building, a darkened room…empty, spacious. Within the room, hurting and tightly shackled, his Padawan.

A breath of remorse, of sorrow, fluttered against Qui Gon's mind. His heart twisted – his last words to Obi Wan had been condemning, curt. It was not the ending he ever would have chosen. And yet he had chosen it. He nudged at the young Jedi's mind, surprised and relieved that the Force had granted them this moment of connection. He felt a wavering response, a faint beam of light questing against his own thoughts, tentative and stained with an unwonted anxiety.

Oh, Padawan, he sighed, invisibly, within the Force's depths.

There was a tiny spark of acknowledgement, and of regret. My fault.

The moment dissolved, the image spinning out into unarticulated wholeness again, and Qui Gon found himself once again in the dimly lit confines of the bomb shelter, buried beneath countless tons of rock. The court still sat despairing around him, their hard faces fixed in expressions of resignation and bitterness. He had to find a way out of here.

"I hope you are comfortable, my lady."

Satine Kryze wheeled about, to face the intruder. Besh Kevvla stood in the tiny room's doorframe, his helmet tucked neatly beneath one arm, his uniform of the Guard exchanged for the traditional beskar. His grey eyes traveled over her in a predatory fashion, coming to rest upon the hollow of her throat, where her pulse swelled visibly, frantic with fear and outrage.

"You are the most beautiful thing our world has ever produced," Kevvla remarked, stepping into the confines of the cell and allowing the door to hiss shut behind him. He set his helmet down upon the inset shelf, the only furnishing besides a narrow cot set in the opposite wall.

"And you are the most vile and repulsive worm our people have ever produced," she retorted, stepping back as he advanced, smiling coldly, his eyes never leaving her throat, the place where her white skin stretched delicately above a high collarbone.

Kevvla merely chuckled. "Such fire and spirit," he purred. "You are a true Mandalorian, my lady. I wonder why you would keep company with a low-born whelp like Kenobi?"

She twisted her back toward him, but one gauntleted fist seized her arm and slewed her back around, holding her in place with a painful pressure. He bored into her eyes, not caring that they watered with pain.

"What have you done with him?" she demanded, regretting the question, the revelation of her weakness. But Kevvla knew already…what did it matter now?

"Nothing, yet," he said indifferently. "I am far more concerned for your welfare, Duchess. My brother – the leader of our revolution – wishes to have you executed for treason. It is only at my pleading that you have been spared this long."

"Spare yourself the trouble," Satine snarled. "I do not need your pity."

Kevvla's lips curled upward in a chilling smile. He leaned closer, puling her towards himself until his breath wafted hot against her ear. "Aurrick is a fool. With you by my side, we could overthrow him. The men are loyal to me, and will be to you. Be my consort, Satine – and the throne is restored to you."

She pushed against him, but he tightened his grip, held her fast against his hard, battle-scarred breastplate. She could see every scratch and burn upon its boldly painted surface. "I would rather die."

He shoved her away then, and she stumbled backward, collapsing upon the low cot. Kevvla loomed over her, hungrily. "That can be arranged." He stood, waiting for a response. Receiving only her disdainful silence in reply, he stepped closer and took her chin between his fingers, digging in hard. "And that is certainly what I have planned for your pet Jedi."

She scowled at him, offering only furious indignation and bottomless contempt, until he relented and left her abandoned once more to her own dark musings. But when he had disappeared form view, she sank upon the comfortless cot's mattress and wept, despairing.

Governor Almeck's face was grave. He spoke in a low tone. "Yes, there is an emergency drill – this bunker was built as a precaution against aerial bombing. It was anticipated that the survivors might have to dig themselves out. But Master Jinn, it is possible the entire city is occupied."

Qui Gon nodded. "It is possible," he agreed. "But I do not think so. The Force tells me that the capitol is still in chaos, but I do not sense the presence of your foes. They have retreated."

The tall Mandalorian was dubious. He ran a thoughtful hand over his bearded chin. "In the aftermath of such a victory? That is not the way of our people, Master Jinn. They will press their advantage, especially if they have killed the Duchess."

Qui Gon shifted. "Then there is nothing to be gained by waiting here," he insisted. "There may still be hope of thwarting whatever they have in mind. Whether or not the Duchess lives, your world deserves its chance at peace. That must be your role, if there is no other to take it."

Almeck considered him for a moment longer, grim approval in his eyes. "Yes," he said finally. "I will do whatever I must for Mandalore. The others will listen to me – I have some influence and respect among them."

The tall Jedi waited while the governor spoke with the remainder of the court. Time slipped by, too fast; in the Force he could feel possibilities drifting by on a swift current – flotsam in the river of destiny, opportunities which must be seized before they passed. Every moment of delay carried them past his reach forever. Since when were the leaders of this world grown so timid, so used to hiding and waiting? It was an omen – an indication of the power and terror wielded by the insurgency.

But the court did not disappoint in the end. The oldest among them, a silver haired councilor named Fel Celot, declared their resolution. "We will use the drill to free ourselves, Master Jinn. If death waits for us above, then we go to it willingly. We shall perish standing against our foes, not skulking in this hole."

Within a quarter hour, the emergency drill had been unpacked from its storage bin and set into motion. Pressure and density sensors spat out readings on the rock surrounding them. They selected a spot on the west end of the bunker, where the ground seemed most stable, and set the machine to work. Operated by primitive droid programming, it edged itself forward, grinding through the bunker's wall and then into living stone, spewing a choking cloud of dust and grit behind it. Gasping, holding cloth over their faces, the court drew back as far as possible from the widening hole. When the drill had progressed – painstakingly slowly – a few meters into the darkness, Qui Gon entered the narrow cylindrical tunnel, treading in its wake.

The machine whirred and grumbled, deafeningly, chewing through stone and compressed rubble, occasionally stalling as it hit some harder substance. As they moved forward, he once again felt the Force nudging him, urging him to turn their path aside. He adjusted the drill's controls, aiming downward, to the east. The machine grumbled, spewed out a cascade of choking dust, continued to push deep into the earth. Sloping downwards, they made slow progress; soon the power cell readings were flashing a warning. Qui Gon set his jaw. He would not forsake the Living Force…though any sane observer would have shouted at him to stop before it was too late, before the machine ran down, stranding him and the entire court beneath the city forever.

In a matter of minutes, the worst did occur; the drill thrummed to a creaking halt, the last gritty remnants of hard stone tumbling to rest beside its massive durasteel bit. The control panel dimmed and the tractors which pushed it forward screeched to a standstill. Qui Gon also stopped, drawing in a deep breath, and promptly coughing up the dust-saturated air. He was puzzled. The Force still urged him onward, its command almost frantic, a thundering pressure behind his every breath. Was he supposed to go through the wall?

With a grim twist of the mouth, he pulled the dead machine out of the way and pressed a shoulder to the place where it had gouged deeply into the red-veined mineral. He pushed – and to his utter astonishment, the stone gave way beneath his effort and collapsed, sending him tumbling over one shoulder onto the polished flagstone floor of another tunnel.

Death and danger hung in the air like the foul reek of a swamp; the echo of a battle stil rang in the Force. Qui Gon stood, reeling a little in childlike wonder and in dread at once. The Force had brought him here, as surely as it had saved his life a dozen other times…and yet, all about him, sprawled upon the harsh stone, were the bodies of the royal Guard. This then was the tunnel from the Halls to the Palace. And this was the end result of his Padawan's foolhardy attempt to escort the Duchess safely back to her people.

"Master….Jedi…" a hoarse voice croaked in the darkness.

Obi Wan had just reached the conclusion that he had been left here to die of starvation or ennui – whichever killed him first – when the door hissed open at last, spilling a cold finger of white light across the threshold. A long shadow clawed its way across the luminous swath, followed by a tall silhouette clad in Mandalorian armor.

The newcomer paced slowly into the darkened room and stopped just short of the prisoner. Besh Kevvla removed his helmet and leered at his Jedi captive with undisguised scorn. His eyes narrowed, and the Force tautened with malice.

"Traitor!" Obi Wan exclaimed, outrage and dread exploding within him. What had this monster done with Satine? "Where is the Duchess?"

"Safe for now," Kevvla told him, his arms folded calmly behind his back. The half-cape draped elegantly over one shoulder, partially obscuring the grotesque insignia upon his breastplate, the symbol of the Mandalorian elite. "But she is no longer your concern."

Kevvla paced in a circle, appraisingly, saying nothing for a long while. Obi Wan watched him, suppressing a shudder as the Force carried the Mandalorian's simmering hatred on a cresting wave.

"What do you want, Kevvla? You won't get any help from me."

But the platinum-headed warrior smiled at his assertion. He stopped his pacing. "Oh, I think you would do anything I asked, Jedi. I think you would grovel before me like a slave if I commanded it."

"Then you suffer under a delusion," Obi Wan scoffed.

Kevvla smirked. "Really? What if decided to kill the Duchess unless you complied with my wishes, hm?"

Eviscerating fear clawed at his innards. Would he grovel? He didn't want to know the answer. His insides were groveling already, his unruly heart begging, pleading, suing for leniency. But he was a Jedi, and well trained. His will held fast. "You would kill her anyway," he answered, steadily. "You cannot manipulate me."

Kevvla's mouth formed a hard, unremitting line. "True. Her fate is not in your hands. Indeed, your own fate is not in your hands. I presume you are intelligent enough to realize you will die."

The young Jedi managed a half-sneer. "Well, you're certainly taking your time about it. The wait is growing quite tedious."

The Mandalorian's temper snapped. "We have unfinished business first, Kenobi. I told you not to touch the Duchess again."

Obi Wan had to admit that this was problematic. He regarded Kevvla with renewed fury.

"You killed two of my men," Kevvla continued. "Impressive. That makes you a warrior. If you were native-bred, I would be obliged to fight you hand-to-hand in an honor duel. But thankfully I need not waste energy on such a contest. We have a different custom for disciplining wayward servants and dogs."

"You bore them to death with dramatic speeches?"

Kevvla slammed an armored fist into his gut, effectively silencing him. "I would have your sharp tongue cut out of your head, if I did not wish to hear you scream for mercy," the Mandalorian snarled. "Show respect to your superiors."

Diaphragm still spasmed tight, Obi Wan was unable to make a decent reply. He forced a breath into his lungs and grunted out his displeasure and contempt for the Mandalorian's haughty words. Kevvla's face twisted, and he withdrew an electro-whip from his belt. He hefted the implement in his hand, eyes glittering.

"She is not yours, and never was, and never will be, you gretching Jedi scum." He drew the whip backward, its razor-thin coils sizzling faintly against the floor.

Obi Wan tensed, pulling against the unyielding bonds, and braced himself for the inevitable. Was this to be his death? Looking into Kevvla's hate-glazed eyes, he saw that it might very well be. The Mandalorian's thin lips curved into a feral grin of satisfaction, anticipation of the savage punishment to come. As a warrior of the ancient Mando'a tradition, he knew his sacred duty.

He showed no mercy to his foe.

"Master…Jinn."

It was the man called Kubrec. Qui Gon found him, propped him against the cold wall, where he sat taking painful shuddering breaths. Blood already trickled from his ears, his nose, the corners of his mouth.

"What happened?" Qui Gon asked, wrapping the Force about the dying man's mind, trying to ease some of the pain.

Kubrec slumped against the wall, gasping. "Ah….Kevvla," he groaned. "Traitor. Trap. The Duchess…." He sighed and coughed up more red liquid. Qui Gon held his face.

"Kubrec," he said softly. "Where is Kevvla now? The others? Are they in the city?"

The Guradsman shook his head , a tiny motion. "No. Retreat to Belsaac, he said. Blow up….city….danger ….tell Duchess…"

"Kubrec," Qui Gon prompted him. "Tell me."

But Kubrec spoke no more. Qui Gon laid the body down, and closed the sightless grey eyes. He looked up and down the corridor, where the ghostly phosphus beads illumined a grisly battlefield. Among the fallen were two in beskar. The rest were all loyal to the throne…loyal unto death. There was no time to honor them properly now. His thoughts raced. The insurgency had fled the city, to a place called Belsaac. He did not recognize the name. Why would they depart – as Almeck had pointed out, they had the advantage. And what had Kubrec's final warning meant?

He sank to his knees. The Force would guide him, again. It would have to. He opened himself to its bright presence, reached through its radiance for an answer. An image of the capitol swam before his inner eye – the protective dome cracked, the citadel beneath it crumbling, collapsing into a widening pit, spouts of fire erupting below and around, as though the hells had opened up to swallow the city whole. Alarmed, he pulled away- but the Force, it seemed, had more to show him. The image of destruction faded to a sightless dark, in which vibrant crimson pain flashed like sudden lightning, an endless storm of wrath. He felt Obi Wan clearly – felt the young Jedi writhing beneath the merciless onslaught, felt his silent call for aid.

But the entire capitol, and all those who dwelt therein, were in Qui Gon's hands. He had a sacred duty to defend and protect the innocent. He held onto his Padawan's presence a moment longer.

I cannot help you, he sighed, invisibly, within the Force.

There was a pause, and then a soundless reply, a clear farewell. I'm sorry, master.

Qui Gon suppressed a cry of sorrow and hurried up the tunnel, toward the palace. The city was in grave peril. He would do his duty, whatever the cost.