Lineage III


Part 7: Dreamer


The river in the arboretum ran with blood, churned into a pink froth by the waterfall tumbling over its artificial cliff.

He looked up, squinting against the illumination banks overhead. At the summit, wreathed in painful striations, the dark silhouette of a massive gundark, a thing sinuous, cunning, nearly invisible against the blinding light behind. It fled, even as he strove to scale the slippery cliff.

The icy cascade of water pushed against him, pummeling at his head and shoulders, seeking to loose his grip on the mossy stone. He strained against the current, struggling to ascend, to reach the top, where the murderous dragon had disappeared…

But the chilling torrent turned to hot crimson, and his hands slipped in the steaming gore, and he fell headlong, onto sharp rocks below, onto death, the Force roaring in his ears.

Obi Wan woke with a start and a loud cry, drenched, shivering…but… there was no river. No rocks. His pulse evened out as the dream receded, and the painful scintillation of light in water and air dimmed to the soothing ambience of the healers's ward, where the treachery of Bant and BenTo Li held him captive overnight. He rubbed at the sticky gauze surrounding his torso and noted with a pang of irritation that the burn now itched like the blazes and felt hot to the touch. Actually, his entire body felt hot to the touch.

"Blast it." He threw off the heavy coverlet and slid to the floor. The night-shift droid thrummed into the small room, followed by Bant Eerin, her huge Mon Cal eyes blinking slowly, dispelling the vestiges of interrupted sleep.

"Do you require assistance?" the hovering robot politely inquired.

"No."

"You can go, MD5," Bant informed it.

"I'm fine. A dream. It's no cause for concern."

"Hmph." She chivvied him backward, grabbed his wrist and fixed him with a suspicious glare, one webbed hand propped on her hips in a posture of hostile dubiety. "You're a bit feverish, but that might just mean accelerated tissue regeneration. As long as the infection is still localized….. I think I'll have another look, and then put you back in a healing trance."

"No. Bant –"

The Mon Cal Padawan glowered, her bulbous eyes gleaming with a fierce light evoking her warrior ancestry. "You heard Master Li. You cooperate, or I suffer the consequences."

The absolute injustice of this ultimatum had him scowling fit to match her. They faced off for a full minute, and then he yielded. After all, given the choice between protecting the innocent and protecting the innocent, he was bound to choose the particular innocent that was not himself. But he still resented the senior healer for his treacherous and dishonorable tactics.

"Is this tender?" Bant asked, setting about her occult arts.

"Why – are you going to eat me?"

"Would you stop? Or do I have to call one of the crèche-masters in here, to hold you down?"

He grimaced at the recollection of that particular long-ago event, and noted that any healer who had known one since infancy was possessed of a truly malignant and unfair advantage. "All right, it's … a bit sensitive."

The Mon Cal girl made a note on the datapad. "Hurts like holy chisszk," she translated, dryly.

"Bant!"

"I'll be right back; I think Master Li needs to see this. Don't go anywhere."

He released a long-suffering sigh and closed his eyes, the after image of the scarlet-stained river and the shadowy beast at the waterfall's summit still burned upon his inner eye. The Force seethed with unrest, with the electric tension before an imminent storm. He shuddered. The future is always in motion. Dreams show many things: some that are, some that have been, some that may yet be. Premonition is a fickle guide; actions founded on its whim are built on shifting sand.

"Well, good morning," BenTo Li smirked, bustling in, dressed in a long night shift, his black and silver mane flowing past his shoulders. "What's this, now?" He pressed one hand against his victim's belly, and laid the other on his forehead. "Hm. Not good. No, you're right, Padawan," he addressed Bant, "That is concerning."

"I don't think-" Obi Wan began.

"No, you don't. That much is obvious. You should have been in here at least a day ago, if not before.," the healer cut him off. "Where is Master Jinn right now?"

"He's on a solo mission… Thesspar," Obi Wan informed them, dully.

"And where have you been recently?"

"Um… Halifex Minor, Yarrad 6, Ord Maglon, Terruvai, and an asteroid mining colony in the Pellegri sector. And Ilum."

Ben To snorted. "The Council certainly keeps you two running about. Did you say Ilum? The ice caves?"

Obi Wan smiled, the triumph of that moment suffusing the bothersome present with a welcome light of remembrance. His fingers seemed to brush against the saber's hilt, as though seeking the crystal nestled deep inside, the pure tone of its inaudible chiming, though the weapon lay safely to one side on a small table. "Yes."

The healer stroked his pointed beard. "Here is my best conjecture: You've picked up a microbe somewhere out there. My guess would be Terruvai; it's a slovenly pit of filth at the best of times. Then you compromise your system with a bout of hypothermia, come home and promptly get carved to pieces, spend two or three nights not sleeping properly – don't bother to deny it, your file is right here and we've been friends a long time, haven't we? – and so land yourself with a blood infection. The good news is, you'll live to be a wiser man. The bad news is, I have to deal with you in the meanwhile."

"May that be of blessedly short duration," the Padawan grumbled.

"Indeed," BenTo amicably agreed, entering notes in the datapad at a furious speed, then murmuring a suspiciously lengthy set of instructions to Bant Eerin, before taking his leave.

No sooner had he departed than Bant moved in for the kill. "And this time, no tactical evasion," she warned. "You are about to sleep for twelve hours straight, like it or not."

The ensuing battle was cutthroat, but mercifully swift. Bant Eerin emerged victorious, with the satisfaction of accomplishing what she had not been able during their first, more protracted skirmish. She tucked her sick, feverish, and decidedly oblivious friend in with an exhilarating sense of conquest, and sauntered down the corridor with a spring in her step.

Perhaps Master Li would grant her an instant promotion after all.


Qui Gon's holotransmission came through at eighteenth hour local Coruscant time the next day.

"I see you've discovered a new method of shirking odious responsibility," the tall Jedi remarked dryly, his shimmering blue effigy wavering slightly above the portable projector plate.

Obi Wan was so pleased to see the Jedi master again – even at the distance of twenty two and a half parsecs – that he neglected to make any sarcastic retort. "Is your mission nearly complete, master?"

"Nearly. I trust you can stay of trouble in the meantime?"

The Padawan's mouth twisted. "Master Li and Bant intend to leave me little choice in that regard." He rubbed at the painful, itching line of the healing burn, shifted restlessly within the confines of the med-ward bed. "They seem to think I'm a pathetic invalid."

One of Qui Gon's brows rose. "And whose fault is that? I don't think you've explained to me how you came by a saber burn in the first place; I understood your schedule was too full to admit any time for recreation in the dojo."

Accusing Master Dooku of deliberate… abuse… would be problematic. And childish. "I engaged someone much more experienced," he admitted. "It was foolish."

"I see" It was hard to read Qui Gon's expression through the medium of a blurred image; and even more disconcerting was the lack of a Force presence. Holograms were challenging that way; some said that a true master could sense an interlocutor's feelings and intentions even through such a tenuous connection, but Obi Wan had not attained to such rarefied skill. He frowned at the unfamiliar blankness between them, the ambiguity.

The miniature blue Qui Gon folded his arms. "You will of course cooperate with Ben To, and comply with all his instructions. It would be a shame to add more demands to your already taxing daily routine. Consider my authority temporarily transferred to him."

This was a miserable command, far more repugnant than the addition of further punishment would have been. The young Jedi sank into a sullen acceptance of his fate. Clearly the Force had abandoned him utterly. 'Yes, master."

The hologram Qui Gon might have almost smiled. It was difficult to tell, and Obi Wan was in no mood to bandy about pleasantries. "I am sorry to add to your burdens, master," he added, heavily. "I did not mean to distract your attention from the mission."

"You are not a burden, Padawan. May the Force be with you." And that was that. The flickering image died away, leaving him alone in the healers' clutches, and under obligation to obey them as though he were oath-sworn to do so. He collapsed backward against the pillows, and idly levitated a few small items left upon the narrow shelf across the room. One or two instruments of torture, a spare tunic, a plastoid cup half-full of water. He sank a little deeper into the Force, and began to raise the water even further, holding it suspended in tenuous droplets above the rim of the cup, thinking perhaps of gently wafting them, ever so carefully, into the grated ventilation opening above, just for fun- or what passed for amusement in the absence of anything else to occupy his nervous energy.

"Impressive," a deep, textured voice declared from the open doorway. The water droplets spattered to the floor, and the other objects clattered awkwardly as they hit the shelf. The cup bounced and rolled away, to land at the intruder's booted feet.

Yan Dooku flicked one wrist, and sent the small object sailing into its wonted place. He then pulled the chromium stool from its lurking-place in the corner and settled himself companionably upon it, casting one drape of his long, black cloak over his left shoulder with an elegant gesture.

"Master Dooku." It was impossible to bow properly from his present position. Obi Wan settled for a respectful nod.

"Ah," the Jedi master smiled, a tightening of the mouth which did not travel to his piercing grey eyes. "I foolishly thought I heard Qui Gon's voice in here. You must have been speaking with him via hologram."

"Yes, master – he wished for an update."

Dooku studied him intently. "I am sorry to find you in ill health, Padawan. I had hoped, perhaps, to continue our discussion of Makashi technique."

Obi Wan's hand rubbed absently at his middle. The Force was slippery, shifting beneath his awareness. He swallowed, raised his mental shields a trifle. "I am still learning the first lesson," he said, darkly.

The subtlest trace of humor glinted in Dooku's gaze, then shifted away, diaphanous and mutable as morning fog. "The next need not be so painful. Much depends on the disposition of the student."

"Yes, master."

"Unless you do not wish to continue? I assure you, I will take no offense if you feel Makashi is too challenging."

The words were carefully calculated; but knowing this fact did not smother the embers of resentment. He sat up straighter, locked eyes with the elder Jedi. "I don't leave my fights unfinished."

Dooku's silver eyebrows twitched upward at this display. "Your bravado is amusing," he said, with a forced chuckle. "But…ah, misplaced. There is no conflict to solve between us… your adversary is your own temperament."

"Is that the second lesson, then?"

"No," the Jedi master replied, serenely. "That is a fundamental principle of all saber-play. Indeed, of all combat, of every kind. He who masters himself masters his opponent easily, for the greater battle is already won."

"And he who doesn't?'

Dooku's penetrating gaze narrowed to a singularity. "You refer to DuCrion? Really, child, you ought to speak to the man. It would be salutary for both of you. I can't think of anyone on the entire Order with whom you have more in common."

The saber burn flared with sudden pain, and Obi Wan watched, wary and unsettled, as Dooku released a small sigh and stood, his eyes raking over the tiny room and its occupant with casual indifference. "Come see me when you have recovered," he ordered imperiously. "I shall instruct you further then."

"If my master gives his permission."

Dooku's piercing look was a saber thrust in and of itself. "Of course," he replied smoothly, the Force barely rippling about him, as though he slid through its currents like a leviathan of the deeps, a dweller in some ethereal ocean's abyss. His cloak flowed, pouring over its own length like an endless dark waterfall, as he strode away.


The next morning brought a marked improvement in conditions.

"I propose an armistice treaty." Ben To Li twirled the point of his silver-streaked beard. "I shall release you from the Halls, on condition that you do nothing strenuous whatsoever and do not leave the Temple precinct. Padawan Eerin will be in charge of supervising your case."

"Where do I sign?" The prospect of escape, even under such restrictive terms, was too appealing to pass up.

The healer fixed him with a stern eye. "Madame Nu has released you from duty, as have I. No classes or studies for a day or two. And when I say, nothing strenuous, that means you will not set foot in the dojo under penalty of my extreme displeasure."

"You'll be fine," Bant reassured him, "As long as you rest."

Ben To escorted him out the main entrance. "If you relapse, youngling, I will personally make your next stay here an occasion to remember."

Obi Wan turned a cold shoulder on both of them and took his leave with utmost dignity. There were times when no reply was the best reply. Such manifestly uncouth threats deserved no courtesy in exchange.


Doing nothing proved a very challenging task. Obi Wan walked idly through the lower levels of the Temple, glad to be on his feet again, and loathe to sit still quite yet. Meditation was undoubtedly the best thing for him at this moment, but the need to simply move about outweighed all other considerations. At last, having traversed most the wide corridors and halls at least twice, he headed for the Room of a Thousand Fountains.

At this time of morning, the arboretum was almost empty. The Temple possessed its own daily rhythm; and while the meditation gardens were a popular retreat in the early morning, and the quiet evening and night hours, the middle of the day saw them abandoned for council chamber, classroom, archives, dojo, map room, communications center, transport hangar, dining hall. He was all but alone; only a few other beings' signatures could be felt, moving slowly among the winding paths and burbling streams.

He was striding energetically along the outer edge of the gardens, upon the gravel path skirting the yarbanna grove, when Bruck Chun appeared along the same path, heading in the opposite direction. The gravel trail was too narrow to accommodate two abreast. Obi Wan drew aside, stepping onto the mossy stones lining the path, and bowed as the other youth stormed past. Bruck Chun stared at him a little as he swept by, but quickly picked up pace and moved on without a word of greeting, disappearing around the bend into green mottled shadow.

The waterfall's roar was a distant thunder.

The Force surged high in warning, in expectation, in the scattered diaspora of possible and probable.

Obi Wan's fingers drummed against his saber's hilt, then closed about the ridged handgrip, tracing over the familiar shape. Rest. He was supposed to rest. BenTo's authority was equivalent to Qui Gon's. He resolutely turned his face in the other direction and continued on his way.

For a solid minute. And then he stopped, the Force tautening, roaring behind his ears like the subliminal pounding of the falls. Light seemed to coalesce on the path before him, barricading his way. Dust motes and pollen granules swirled in the descending shaft, fluttering uneasily, circling and shivering in the beam, distraught at his hesitance.

He stood suspended between the immediate prompting of the Force and the command laid upon him by the masters….

And then he turned back, and hurried along in Bruck Chun's wake, his boots strewing small pebbles as he hastened to make up for lost time, a pressure of urgency building in his chest, chiming faintly in his mind. Go, go, go.

The path had several branches. He took a wrong one, backtracked, calmed his breathing, listened, chose another. The trail broke off and ran alongside the artificial river, heading for the base of the falls. He broke into a jog, needing to outrun premonition, to beat the future to the finish line, to forestall the inevitable. The sound of the frothing water rose to drown out the quiet; mist ballooned up in iridescent curtains, obscuring the foliage beyond, caressing his face with cold fingers. He came to the edge of the cliff, where the cascade of purified water fell endlessly onto rocks below, its shattering and dying a strange melody, the millions of droplets a stinging bath. Here the path ended; but nobody was to ber found. His heart skipped. He should have taken the last bend, the one which led to carved stairs and another trail along the top of the falls.

The Force was deafening silence; sensation momentarily fell, anchorless, tumbling into timeless awareness like the plummeting water.

He gasped, looked up, saw the dark silhouette begin to fall, a body limp and graceful, hurtling down onto rocks below.

He held out two hands, tried to stop the descent, slow the pull of gravity, nudge the twisting mass of white hair and cream tunic to the side, into the water, not the rocks…

But Bruck plunged, headfirst, into the river just beyond the jagged boulders at the falls' base. One second, two seconds…

Obi Wan dove in, the chill of the water unnoticed, and sank to the bottom. The current was a maelstrom, dragging at his limbs, pushing him down and sideways, around and around. He could see nothing but murk and angry white bubbles. He let the river push him, shove him mercilessly against its slimy, hard bottom, the channel carved for it long ago by craftsmen's tools. His hands tangled in cloth, scrabbled at warm flesh. He hauled Bruck up by the shoulders, feeling the deadweight drag at his arms. The Force gathered about them; he pushed off the bottom, strained back for the light at the surface.

They broke free, above the surging river's current, struggled and panted and squirmed for the bank. He heaved Bruck out, inelegantly, the other boy's head lolling against him, sickeningly unresponsive. Water streaming from his clothing, he knelt, turned Bruck onto his back.

And choked a little, turning his face away from the spectacle of the caved-in skull, the dead and staring eyes. Blood seeped onto the delicate moss, stained the polished stones. The Force shouted with outrage; he looked up, up to the top of the falls, where a dark silhouette was etched against the blinding light of the illumination banks overhead, blurred by the veiling mist. A predator gazing down on its fallen prey, like a gundark on the prowl.

He stood, shaking. He felt others running, approaching the scene of disaster, responding to the disturbance in the Force. The figure at the brink turned, and retreated. With a sharp cry, he bounded toward the face of the cliff, springing half way up its slick surface, climbing and leaping recklessly for the summit, in hot pursuit.