Lineage VI

Chapter 21

Yan Dooku leaned over the observation balcony, intrigued by the salle's present occupants.

"Whoa-ho-ho," Jedi Knight Feld Spruu chortled, flourishing his 'saber in a lazy spin. "It's my favorite upstart junior Padawan."

Obi-Wan's brows furrowed together fractionally as he made a great show of adjusting his own weapon's power setting to the acceptable maximum for a friendly sparring match. The Force rippled with an unfulfilled need.

The tall Twi'Lek Jedi strolled across the polished boards of the dojo floor, pausing a moment to study his visitor carefully. "Just breezing in here without an invitation, are we? Getting above yourself, Obi-Kenobi."

It earned him a swift upward glance, one tight with defensive tension. It smoothed quickly into deflective wit. "If you are too intimidated to practice with me, Master Spruu, I can return to the lower level salles to find a challenging opponent."

"Oh you cheeky little barve, you must badly want a lesson today." Feld's wide smile illumined the very air… but not the dark place occupied invisibly by the younger Jedi.

They fell into position in the spacious salon's center. "I just want to fight," the Padawan replied, the jest hollow with unresolved anger.

Feld Spruu's demeanor sobered. "A man who comes armed with passion, begs for a serious lesson, my little friend."

"Then teach me," the Padawan retorted, eyes narrowing, blade singing in a high flourish, the Force tensing with the absolute focus of battle.

Above, quietly observing the spectacle from the observation balcony, Yan Dooku's mouth curved upward at the corners, delighted at the clash of Spruu's acrobatic Ataru style with a gorgeous, flawlessly executed Makashi counterattack. He watched the duel appraisingly, pleased to note that none of the private instruction he had imparted to the younger contestant in years past had been forgotten. Indeed, there had been sufficient improvement to suggest that the young Jedi had found time – possibly covertly – to practice on his own. Not only this, but there was something there now that he had not before noticed – the very spine of Dooku's chosen saber form, its essence: the boy was fighting to win, to secure a decisive victory and not merely to embody defensive patience.

He had discovered one of the galaxy's hard truths, then: honor alone was not sufficient to ensure peace, or to forestall suffering.

"I am still waiting for my lesson, Master Spruu."

The young blue-complected Knight performed a dazzling aerial maneuver, lekku sailing behind him like double comet-tails. The brilliant defensive was met with a tight, almost furious Makashi parry and feint, a swift lunge and then – ah, perfect – a disarming strike. Really, Dooku reflected, the blow should have ended with a simple reverse cut to take off the opponent's hand at the wrist. But the boy was needlessly emotional… he wanted to keep fighting, not end the contest.

The Twi'Lek said something under his breath – likely an obscenity, judging by the Padawan's flippant smirk. And they set to again, this time ferociously and equally matched in Ataru, a mere circus-performers' lark compared to the austere beauty of Makashi. Dooku sniffed dismissively, far less interested in this display than the previous.

Anoon Bondara strolled into the balcony and leaned over the parapet, offering a nod of greeting. "Ah. Thank the Force. Maybe Feld can wear him out."

"Unlikely, I should say, judging by the pace of this match."

The swordsmaster frowned down upon the fireworks display below. "Star's end," he muttered. "Kenobi was in the junior practice rooms at dawn, and he's been at it straight ever since." He shook his head and withdrew again, pacing unhurriedly into the adjoining corridor abreast of Dooku . "And Jinn's doing the same thing in the senior dojo. A pair of holy terrors, those two."

"Indeed," Dooku concurred, parting ways with Bondara at the next intersection.

Completely wrung out by six hours' uninterrupted saber-play, and back in proper Jedi tunics at long last, Obi-Wan retreated to the Archives' east-facing wing, where midday light streamed down upon the reading alcoves from high skylights. He secluded himself in one of the remote nooks and knelt in a pool of radiance, laying aside the datapad respectfully delivered to his keeping by Docent Vann upon his exit from the salles.

It contained a most disturbing message.

Closing his eyes, he exhaled, grounding his meditation in a favored childhood visual anchor: he imagined himself one of the dust motes floating in the sunbeam's effulgence, his troubles and aspirations as inconsequential and weightless as the tiny speck that drifted – careless, perpetually uplifted – within the superabundance of Light.

Within this safe harbor of clarity, the unexpected message did not loom so grotesquely before him, stark and dreadful in its implications. It faded to mere words, some historian's note in the biography of a minor character. "… option to transfer apprenticeship to another master approved by the Council….without censure or blame attached to either….acknowledges the right to free choice in the final disposition of this matter…. according to the will of the Force."

One corner of his mouth twitched. Bureaucracy and mysticism were, perhaps, uneasy bedmates. He was certain he could have phrased it better – but such a thought was arrogant, and he quashed it, scolding himself for his presumption and for even daring to notice that the Council's formulary stood in dire need of stylistic improvements.

Had Qui-Gon been able to hear the prideful thought, the tall master would have instantly assigned a brutally lengthy essay on, say, the futility of all ratiocinative schema as explicated in the ancient Lotus-of-Force-Awakening sutra. And then, having received the dutifully completed penalty under whatever grueling deadline his whim dictated, he would have set it aside without so much as glancing at its contents. After all, Padawan, the Living Force demands not our eloquence but rather our humility and compassion.

"Yes, master," he whispered.

The sun's diurnal motion had carried it past the angle of the skylights; the cubicle was abruptly devoid of luminance, plunged into veiling murk. He waved a hand, activating the glow-lamp on its small table. Shadows sprang up against the walls, clothing the sepulture cell in sinuous curves and lines, a tapestry of overlapping forms. Warmth fled with the rays of fire, and the Unifying Force flooded inward, revelatory and obscure at once.

The vision rose out of the silhouettes on the wall: watching, he saw them with his inner eye, and they flickered., blown on the invisible wind of premonition.

Moving shadows cast by a funeral pyre. The flames, licking at mortal flesh, the gross matter no longer housing a spirit. Qui-Gon, crumbling to grey dust amidst the consuming tongues of flame.

A hand rested on his shoulder, and he looked up, into the cowled future.

"What will become of me now?" he asked, his own chest hollowed by grief-fueled fire, reduced to glowing embers and ash.

"You will become a great Jedi. I promise."

He gasped, trepidation rendering the shadows into morbid sentinels… into a leering audience, a Council of shades. He surged to his feet, heart pounding, hand tight about his saber's blade, ready to fend off the congregation of illusions and dark susurration.

"…Obi-Wan?"

He spun in place, to face the apparition upon the threshold, haloed in purest gold by the light beyond, clad in pristine white, solid and warm and reassuringly present. The trance broke and dissolved, appearances falling back into place over realities, until all was safely veiled again. "Siri."

"Oh. It is you, Kenobi. I didn't recognize you underneath the personal vanity."

He blinked. Siri Tachi's thin brows rose. "Your hair.. you look like a cheap harlot."

It was a deliberately provocative barb. He grinned wickedly. "I've been expanding my horizons lately. Undercover work, you know."

It was Siri Tachi's turn to blink. She drew in a sharp breath. "I- um – Garen and I have been looking for you. He took the arboretum and I came here. Reeft wouldn't help – he's already in the refectory."

"Oh." A shared meal would mean questions, conversation, scrutinizing looks. "I'm not hungry. Thank you – maybe later."

Siri shut off the lamp with a flick of her wrist. "Maybe now. Let's go – I'm not returning empty-handed." She summoned his datapad into her hand and idly flipped it on, perusing its contents.

"Siri-"

But too late; she had already seen the damning message. Her blue eyes widened, rising to meet his appalled gaze in swift apology. "I – I'm sorry, I didn't – "

The 'pad flew out of her grasp into his own. His torrent of protesting words compacted into an incoherent jumble, striking him mute. Siri looked away first, backing awkwardly out of his space.

"Siri," he managed, but no other sound came.

"I'll.. I'll tell Garen I couldn't find you," she promised, dipping her head.

He nodded, gratitude burning in his throat, and watched the glimmer of her pale tunics disappear into the dim Archives beyond.

He stood in the dark for a long while after she had gone.

"It makes no sense," Tahl frowned, stars and nebulae passing over her honeyed skin in slow procession as she strolled unseeing along the projection's periphery.

Qui-Gon smiled at the sight; she seemed to tread the heavens, to gather a hundredfold points of light in a single peerless constellation. "Uvainis Major," he murmured.

"Pay attention," Tahl snapped. "I'm not throwing my pearls of wisdom before swine, am I? This whole sector –" she waved an arm vaguely about her –" is nothing but a backwater in the Rims. It's not central enough to be a key strategic possession for anyone."

Her companion rose and joined her in the shining center of the Xolinthi sector, his eyes darting from star system to star system, tracing the network of shipping routes and population centers. There was nothing central to the Repblic's vitality here; nothing of outstanding value for any principality to claim; no obvious advantage to be afforded in the orchestration of some dark conspiracy. He sighed, running a hand through the most familiar star. The projector enlarged the view automatically, displaying the noxious asteroid field, the fetid ring of dead rock which had so recently been prison and place of torment. But there were no answers there, either; only the residual ache of impossible choice, excruciating decision.

"Was I wrong?" he asked.

"What?"

"Was I wrong – to evacuate the prisoners? We could easily have escaped without them; but Obi-Wan wished to rescue innocents first. Should I have insisted on the primary role, as Beju? Should I have declined the mission in the first place? I told Plo that Obi-Wan was too young for such an assignment."

The motion of Tahl's arm as she reached out for him triggered the enlargement program again; the computer again magnified the view, encircling them in a hazy ring of asteroids, a lazy dance of light about their melancholy center. "You want to blame this on lack of foresight," she observed astutely. "But it's a matter of attachment, not bad planning."

His face twisted. "I know what another would do in my place."

Tahl drew closer, both hands pressed against his face. "You are not Dooku; he is not you. I would never expect you to leave him in the hands of the Force. But Qui… you must own your true motives."

"The situation was unspeakably precarious. I did it to save him."

She shook her head. "You did it to save yourself from losing him."

He closed his fingers about hers, quelling their now persistent subliminal tremor. "If so, I have failed in any case."

Tahl pulled away. "You've truly botched it if you let that boy go without telling him, Qui."

The asteroids rotated slowly, a sanguine and rhythmless procession. "We are Jedi," he protested. "I am charged with teaching him… such feelings are to be disavowed. You know this!"

She snorted. "Says the most diligent violator of the precepts ever to grace the Temple's halls. When did your courage desert you, Qui-Gon Jinn? You ask your Padawan to trust you while you torture him – but you cannot offer even barest honesty in return. Perhaps he would be better off with Dooku after all."

"Tahl!"

But she moved further away, a shooting star falling from his inner heaven. "I'll speak to you again when you have regained the right to call yourself master."

And when she had departed, he obliterated the bright image of the galaxy, and stood alone in the utter void of space.

"Master Dooku!"

"Ah. There you are, Kenobi. Come this way. I've something to show you."

He fell into step a pace behind the tall Sentinel, fascinated by the elegant coiling of the elder Jedi's dark cloak hem. It felt natural to once again take up the position traditionally occupied by a faithful student… though Dooku did not look back even once as they traversed the Temple corridors, much less offer teasing conversation or insight veiled as humor.

Their destination was a private communications annex. Dooku ushered him into the dim chamber, with its central projection plate. "Someone you should meet, I think."

Obi-Wan nodded, eyes tracing over the beam of undifferentiated blue in the room's center. The signal focused and integrated, coalescing into a flickering effigy of Yarriss Moll, the stern-faced Iktotchi Sentinel. The horned Jedi acknowledged the Padawan's presence at the conference with a small, sober nod of his chiseled head.

"And how is our mutual acquaintance today?" Dooku inquired.

Moll's yellow eyes rolled upward. "His Royal Highness wishes to submit a message to the Jedi Council."

The silver-haired man chuckled softly. "Tell him I shall convey his message. We will speak directly."

The Iktotchi Shadow grunted, then shifted, bringing a new person to the forefront of the camera's range, propelling him forward with one massive hand.

Obi-Wan's eyes widened in amusement. The real Prince's costume was – if possible- worse than that he had appropriated for the cause of impersonation.

"Master Dooku!" the Galan snarled, drawing himself up. "My continued detainment is an intolerable offense. A perverse and tyrannical usurpation of my sovereignty and a – who is that?'

Dooku quirked a brow at his younger companion.

The young Jedi stepped forward and bowed. "Your double… unfortunately."

"Is that supposed to be me?" Beju sniffed. "You Jedi make poor excuses for Thespians. Could you not have found somebody.." he waved a languid hand about, searching for words- "…well ….more imposing?"

Obi-Wan bristled, but Dooku's hand on his shoulder restrained his pawky wit.

"You are to be released from our sanctions today," the Sentinel informed the Prince. "However, I must warn you that the situation on your home planet is destabilized. Assassination attempts were made upon you, in absentia, and the Home Rule Party has been informed of your attempted alliance with the Mercantile Cooperative. We strongly suggest that you opt to extend your stay under the Republic's protective custody."

Beju yawned. "You bore me."

Dooku shrugged. "The choice is yours, of course."

"I should think so," the Prince snapped. "You Jedi take too many liberties. You are servants of the Republic, I might remind you."

"We are servants of the Force," the Sentinel corrected him, icily, as Moll pulled the sulking Galan aristocrat away from the holo-cam again.

When the two Jedi had exchange a few terse parting remarks, the transmission ended. Obi-Wan stood thoughtfully in the now empty chamber.

"The difference between a Prince and a Jedi is a slight one," Dooku informed him. "Both inherit power; both by right ought to dedicate it to the common good; both must submerge personality for the sake of duty. But what is it that separates them?"

The Padawan hesitated, unsure of the question's purpose. "The Force," he replied. It was a safe answer, if not a scintillating one. "…Or maybe clothes?"

A soft chuckle. And then an enigmatic silence.

"You have received the Council's message, I am confident," Dooku said after a long pause.

Obi-Wan glanced up, startled. He had supposed the contents of that missive to be… confidential. And then another thought struck him. He stared at Qui-Gon's former mentor, staggered by the unspoken offer.

Dooku's grey eyes glinted. Mutual understanding invisibly bound them, a cold promise made over the ashes of a smoldering pyre.

"The choice is yours, of course," the Sentinel repeated.

"Come here."

Tahl's word was law.. at least in the confines of her private quarters, and certainly when spicy djo was on the line. Obi-Wan grudgingly obeyed.

She traced a hand over his face, seeking answers beneath the tangible. "Don't think you're fooling me. You haven't spoken to him, have you?"

He shifted churlishly. "No, master."

"I should withhold food until you come to your senses."

The Padawan pulled back out of reach. "I'll do without."

Tahl held the door shut against his Force-push, the conflicting impulses nearly shorting the circuits. The lights flickered, and the Padawan guiltily desisted. "Master, I –"

"You will sit down, and eat this meal, and then you will go find Qui-Gon and for Force's sake, child, you will speak to your master. Or at the very least, you will listen with an open mind. Are you a surly, spoiled Prince or a Jedi?"

Obi-Wan cringed. "Forgive me."

Tahl placed food upon her low table, not looking at him. "A bargain: forgiveness shall be granted to those who bestow it in their turn."

He sat, momentarily torn between melancholic contemplation of profound mysteries and the alluring aroma of spicy djo with fava beans… and then settled the inner dispute in favor of the food, with shameless adolescent pragmatism.

"I'll take that as a promise," Tahl quipped.

Seek and evade exercises were one thing, but seeking out one's Padawan when the latter person did not wish to be found was quite another. Qui-Gon muttered a familiar Malastarian curse under his breath and set about the task with all the tenacity of a hunting gundark during famine season. Only his apprentice could attain to such a rarefied condition of aloof belligerence as to disappear entirely when he was most wanted, his Force presence battened down beneath impenetrable shields, his footsteps carrying him instinctively away whenever he so much as subconsciously felt the tall man's approach.

"Blast it, Obi-Wan."

He collected his wits. Where would the boy have gone? He was in none of his favorite haunts: dojo, Archives, their shared quarters, Ali Alaan's crèche, meditation rooms on level six - nor classroom, comm center, outdoor gardens, refectory, or the hangars, or the workshops adjacent, or apparently anywhere here in the Room of a Thousand Fountains.

"I haven't gone out to the red light district to pursue enlightenment," a young and sarcastically lilting voice accosted him. A razor's edge thrummed beneath the jest, a dry allusion turned slightly rancid .

Qui-Gon swiveled on the spot and stood. "Obi-Wan. Will you walk with me?" Absurd, perhaps, for the master to proffer invitation when he could issue stern mandate… but the tall man did not wish to instigate another bitter exchange, and he sensed the tenuous nature of their accord.

The Padawan scowled. studying the graveled pathway, then the drooping fronds of the topoloi bushes, and then the bench's intricate scrollwork before finally meeting the older Jedi's gaze. "Yes." A concession to some inner debate, but an affirmative nonetheless.

It was a fragile armistice, but as an experienced diplomat, he had dealt with worse. They set off down the footway, boots crunching the pebbles underfoot, Qui-Gon unconsciously adjusting his stride to match that of his smaller companion. Somewhere nearby, water burbled. By tacit consent, they avoided the branching path that led to the waterfall, site of painful memory; by force of long habit, they fell into single file where the path narrowed around a jutting boulder; without thought, they climbed the terraced stairs that wound above the yarbanna grotto, to a sheltered summit warmed by the last evening cycle of the massive overhead light banks..

Silence.

The gathering mist frolicked about their heels, dusted their hair with a thousand droplets. "You haven't cut off that mess yet," Qui-Gon observed.

Obi-Wan ran a hand through Beju's disorderly mop. "No." he offered no explanation.

More silence.

"I … the Council has communicated their decision to me," the Padawan said at last.

Qui-Gon nodded. "I know. I respect their edict, in this case. And the choice is yours."

His Padawan looked out over the canopy of colorful yarbanna leaves, hands thrust deep within opposite sleeves, mirroring the older man's posture.

Another heavy stretch of seconds.

"I spoke with Beju this afternoon. By hologram," Obi-Wan offered, at length.

"Oh? And what is your impression?"

"He bores me." The young Jedi's mouth thinned dangerously. "He deserves a royal whipping." The words dripped corrosive irony, subtle and cutting. Obi-Wan turned his face away.

Qui-Gon exhaled, slowly. "Padawan. I would like to …explain. To speak with you about the mission."

His apprentice feigned polite interest. "I've been thinking about the Xolinth sector, too. It's of no strategic value to anyone… and yet clearly much trouble and planning has gone into the secessionist movement there."

"Yes?"

"It's a trial run, master."

The tall man looked in amazement upon his perceptive young charge. A trial run. An experiment. A testing ground. Of course. But… for what?

Obi-Wan did not offer further insight. The mist thickened into obscuring fog. They pulled their cloaks tighter in unison.

"I wished to speak about the other aspect of our mission," the Jedi master persisted.

"I don't wish to speak about it," the Padawan growled.

Qui-Gon turned to face him, reining in his flare of resentment. "Then you will do me the courtesy of listening."

The young Jedi let his guard slip the merest fraction, again losing some inner battle. He sighed. "…I'm listening."

Aware that he had but one chance to land a hit, Qui-Gon ignored the curt parry and lunged in, a Makashi strike of his own. "This is about personal feelings, Padawan."

The boy's face hardened to passionless stone.

That signaled a deep cut, cauterizing an open wound. Qui-Gon winced, pushing onward.. "My actions were motivated by attachment," he continued, "And they led to suffering. Let my failure be a lesson, for both of us. Even if it is the last lesson I have the privilege of teaching you."

Obi-Wan's brows beetled together, and he bowed his head, making no answer.

The tall man waited another minute, while the fog settled in a cold mantle over them both. He took a tentative step toward the head of the stairs, then hesitated. "Will you come in person to tell me of your final decision?" he asked.

A gentle nod.

"Thank you." And Qui-Gon descended the time-worn steps alone, leaving at least half his heart behind, as night settled upon the artificial paradise.