Lineage XI
Chapter 25
Obi-Wan ascended to the sacred Tranquillity Spire's summit, weaponless – for he had left his 'saber in Master Yoda's keeping at the foot of the long spiral stairway – and in meditative silence, the glimmering cloak of the Ieng'lis swishing gently on each step as he climbed upward. Qui-Gon's lavish gift, pressed upon its recipient with earnest and insistent affection, seemed to harbor an innate light, the threads of its weave faintly luminous, outshining even the pure white of his tunics. Upward he proceeded, at a steady gait, one perpetual right-hand turning, the path of unity, his way lit by the pale radiance of his own garment, the tiny glowrod in his hand unused and unneeded, the river stone against his breastbone pulsing with a joyful warmth. His right hand trailed along the inner column, along the inscribed carving there, the words of the Code etched in the script of a thousand languages, as though every world in the Republic had lent a tongue to this chorus. Upward and ever upward - until at last he reached the pinnacle, and the graced sanctuary there, the eyrie high above Coruscant's splendor, from which vantage point the planet's horizon appeared a light-spangled disc, as though the galaxy itself spun in majesty below. The Force swelled, radiant, full of welcome.
He knelt, the white mantle pooling about him in soft folds, and began a vigil he had waited ten, or perhaps twenty years to keep, past and future meeting together in one blessed conjugation, yearning and realization at last met in a kiss of peace, the end of this path its own beginning, a circle complete unto itself.
The Nubian Senator's apparel was far less gauche upon this, the occasion of their second meeting – but the presence of the Coruscant Opera House's newly invested general manager, a boorish profiteer whose devotion to the arts extended only as far as profitability would permit, and which had therefore already permitted several garish popular entertainments from the Rims to grace the formerly cultured stage of his venue – was a distinct black mark against the man in Dooku's exacting estimation.
But it would never do to be rude to a potential ally, especially one whom he suspected of great intelligence despite his obvious lack of real breeding. In times such as these, leadership must recruit from the rank and file.
He bowed to the departing theater manager as though to a near equal, grimacing only slightly when the insufferable lout offered to comp him tickets to the present disgraceful installation of The Pirates of Penzz'Antia, and breathed a small sigh of relief when he was at last closeted alone with Palpatine in the latter's small legislative office.
The politician clapped his hands together in satisfaction. "Now then," he addressed the Sentinel. "And I do appreciate your willingness to spare me a sliver of your time, Master Jedi – I have some news of interest to us both."
"Indeed?"
"Yes. Yes: I have been able- through a judicious deployment of contacts and circumstances evolving within the rotunda – I shall not bore you with details – to see the Republic Defense Fund dismantled. A reformed sub-committtee is in the works, naturally, but I think we may easily expect five years' delay. The legislature is so lamentably inefficient. We need not be troubled by further seditious stirrings on that front."
Dooku smothered his flare of vexation. The idiot! He had not wanted the perfidious company of corrupt administrators dissolved – he had wanted names and locations. The Senator was clearly not cut out for espionage at all; his was a focus all too singularly trained upon results. "That is good news." He covered his dismay easily, mental shields impeccable.
Palpatine was delighted with his own cleverness. "And I wanted to say, Master Dooku, that your, ah… information… was of inestimable benefit to the republic's true good. Had we gone through the ordinary channels and procedures… well." A morose sigh. "There would be no hope of reform. Sometimes those who are in a position to do good must work sub rosa, as it were."
Ah. Perhaps not such an idiot after all. Dooku bowed. "An insight shared by the privileged few."
"If there is ever any other way I may be of assistance to you, please do not hesitate to call upon me. My humble resources are at your disposal."
The silver-haired man nodded his gratitude.
"After all," the Nubian senator reasoned, "Our walks of life may be quite different… but do we not both serve the same great Purpose?"
"But why?" Mace mused, his fingers steepled togther, his ebony features stilled into a pensive gravity. "To punish or eradicate traces of failure, or to eliminate an unwanted rival?"
Beside him, the only other one present in the now empty Council chamber, Yoda traced a quite pattern in the air, gimer stick's blunt haft wavering through the imaginary knot he scribed upon an impalpable canvas. "Know why, we may not. Dark, Sifo-Dyas embraced. Attract other Dark powers he did, as friend or foe. More than this, we need not ask."
"Master." The Korun leaned forward. "You cannot be serious when you say that Moll's guess was correct. Surely there are other explanations. The Night brothers… some more obscure sect.."
"No." Yoda's gravelly tone was emphatic. "The balance: shifting has it been for long years. Felt it I have. Right, was Yarris Moll."
"They have been extinct for a millenium."
But the ancient one merely closed his eyes, lips pursed and ears drooping. "Nonetheless," he grunted, after a moment's silence. "Lurk they do, somewhere, waiting to rise again. Vigilant must we be, Master Windu. Take us off guard, they must not."
Mace bowed his head. "To think that in our lifetime, we might see the resurgence of the Sith."
"In motion is the future," Yoda replied, voice lightening. "In time of darkness, new champions does the Light raise to its defense. Still strong enough, are the Jedi. And yet untried, our newest strength. Hope is there, always."
Just before dawn, when night still blanketed the world - and the high chamber atop the Temple's central spire - in endless tranquility, a grave procession of more than a dozen climbed the stairwell in single file, cloaked and cowled, bearing the sacred emblem of their Order, of their life's service, each 'saber hilt a burnished work of art, a fit vessel for the pure tongues of flame that kindled, hidden, within its heart.
They filed into the darkened chamber and took up their places in a wide circle about its perimeter: Ali Alaan, Troon Palo, Qui-Gon Jinn, Yan Dooku, Adi Gallia, Mace Windu, and all the Council presently on planet. The Grand Master followed last, hobbling with creaking step into the dim central space. He halted before the kneeling Knight elect, raising one clawed hand in signal. The circle was suffused with sudden radiance, a consonant thrumming of one mantra in harmonic tones.
Ommmmm. The burning saber blades were raised, peerless torches casting emerald, sapphire and violet fire upon the pale dome above, lights in the darkness, heralds of new dawn. Rarest incense spiraled in the Force, purificatory.
Yoda's ancient voice rasped and chuckled over the words, a lively stream smoothing the stones of meaning with each succeeding generation, burbling over the riverbed of tradition, ever changing, ever the same. "Obi-Wan Kenobi, initiate of this Order, former padawan to Master Qui-Gon Jinn, former padawan to Master Yan Dooku, elect of the Light."
The young man raised his head, eyes all but level with the diminutive Grand Master, utter certainty in their depths. The ancient one smiled, then, mirroring his joy, encircling them all in the timeless moment, in the ebb and flow of Light upon mortal shores, the cadence of a liturgy more ancient than the Temple's foundation.
The words flowed, wove together, the unmaking of a braid, the fashioning of a pure white mantle, the unwinding of all paths into one. Together, and separately they spoke their parts, things learned by heart but not by rote, prescribed formula filled to overflowing by inner truth. And then, at last, in strength tempered by humility, the words of the solemn vow:
"I , Obi-Wan Kenobi, do commit myself without reservation, mind body and heart, to the service and will of the Light, in obedience to the Jedi Order, for the protection of the Republic, to the succor and benefit of all sentient beings. Thus I swear by that which is Life within me, and do cleave to this oath now unto my death and even beyond."
And when the words had spilled from him, he had no others, his whole soul having been thus poured out in adoration.
Yoda stumped forward another pace, the glint of the ritual knife in his hand. Somewhere in the circle, Qui-Gon Jinn stirred, a bittersweet longing wafting in the Force. But he stayed where he was, witness and participant, teacher and guide, but not – in this last moment- the chosen hand of destiny. Acceptance settled like morning rain; without, the sun's first ray's gilded the far horizon, illumination to the calligraphy of this rite.
Obi-Wan started when the knife was pressed into his own hand. Yoda nodded, imperious and compassionate at once. And he understood.
With a small tremor, he closed his fingers about the blade's handle, pulling the dangling braid taut with his left hand, raising the honed edge of the knife to the plait's base. A single thrust, and it fell away, coiling upon the floor, chestnut and sun bleached gold, adorned with threads and beads, the long record of a winding upward journey.
His eyes met Qui-Gon's, and there was only pride and a strange welling of something softer, undefined in the tall man's gaze.
The snap of Yoda's green blade brought him back to the central rite. The thrumming emerald line hovered near his right shoulder, his left, and then above his head, to be raised in a sharp salute. "By right of the Council, by will of the Force, I dub thee Knight of the Republic."
As romantic backdrop to nuptial ceremonies, the Coruscant Southsector Intergalactic Spaceport was certainly an unconventional choice. Droid baggage porters skimmed along the concourses, pushing hover-trolleys laden with precarious luggage towers; harried commuters grumbled and squeezed their way along the pedestrian swift tubes; blaring announcements of arrivals and departures echoed off the vast girders above the terminal boarding area.
Obi-Wan ran the gauntlet of crowds and moving vehicles, arriving at the pre-arranged rendezvous only seven minutes before the Republic Service Corps passenger freighter was scheduled to depart. Only Cerasi and Nield, and a handful of their comrades remained behind, obstinately refusing to embark until they had finished their last piece of business.
"Forgive my tardiness," the young Jedi panted. A cataclysmic traffic jam in the free-fly lanes, a detour due to construction, and – he was loathe to admit – his own absorption in the congratulatory enthusiasm of friends and colleagues after the Knighting ceremony – had conspired to ruin any hope of arriving punctually for this appointment.
"I thought you were bringing Qui-Gon," Nield said, peering over his shoulder as though expecting the tall Jedi master to materialize from the crowd.
"He's docking the air car," Obi-Wan explained. He had simply leapt over the passenger side onto the sky-dome's arcade roof, as a time saving measure. "And we'd better make haste." Even as he spoke another warning chime sounded. Droids slammed hatches and chivvied stragglers on board. Maintenance bots swarmed the freighter's hull. Guide lights flashed on the still-open ramp.
"Right," Neild shoved the data-pad into his hands. "Short version." He seized Cerasi's hands between his own. "We filed the papers via holonet; just need an imprimatur."
A good diplomat could cut to the heart of a matter with great speed and acuity. The new Knight skimmed the contract terms, reading it as a treaty or an armistice agreement, seeking the most essential elements of truce. The formulary was florid and redundant, and needlessly sentimental. He decided to improvise.
"Do you Cerasi, and you Nield, commit yourselves without reservation, mind body and heart, to the service and mutual good of the other, in obedience to your conscience, for the protection of your honor and love, to the succor and benefit of those under your care - swearing this by that which is Life within you, from now unto your deaths?"
The bride and groom had no prior experience with wedding ceremonies, and so accepted his radical innovation without a blink. "Yes," they chorused, casting the other an apologetic grimace, a mutual smile in which was embedded two decades of shared suffering and textured private meanings.
Good enough. The Droid steward was shrieking at them to embark. Obi-Wan hastily made a conclusion, in the same extemporaneous style. "I hereby declare you man and wife. May the Force be with you."
There was no time for the customary niceties. Nield got a quick peck on the cheek before he hustled off, shepherding their witnesses up the ramp ahead of him. Obi-Wan swiftly appended his thumbprint, signature and – with an absurd swell of pleasure – rank and title – to the holodoc and shoved the 'pad into Cerasi's hands.
"Thank you," she whispered. "For everything." And sealed it with a very tender and unexpected salutation. "Good bye. If you're ever in our sector, drop by."
She dashed up the ramp behind her people, red hair swinging over one shoulder, boots echoing loudly on the hard deck plates. The hatch creaked closed, the droids released the magnetic anchors, and the massive hulk drifted off toward the tarmac and the safe-launch zone.
"Well," Qui-Gon's mellow voice remarked, behind him. "Generally, it is the groom and not the officiant who receives the kiss, - but besides that, your performance was quite inspired. You might consider moonlighting."
He turned, swallowing down a hard lump for not the first time that day, and feeling suddenly glad for company. "Thank you. But I'll keep the day job."
"When's the reception?" the tall man inquired as they turned back to the crowded councourse.
"Whenever we manage to pay a visit, I think." He cast a longing look at the caff vendor's cart just across the way.
"No, no," Qui-Gon said, taking his arm. "I have tea in quarters."
"Quarters?" Obi-Wan repeated, bemused. "I'd entirely forgotten to request new ones."
"You still have much to learn. Fortunately. I did not."
"Of course, you are under no obligation, should you prefer your own space."
Obi-Wan gaped at the familiar spectacle. Worn furnishings, greenery peeking from every nook, table stained and scarred by decades of abuse, meditation cushions, and the balcony doors flung wide to admit a warm evening breeze. "How…. How did you secure these rooms again.?"
"I must preserve the confidentiality of my contacts," Qui-Gon smugly replied. "What do you think?"
"It's…perfect. I am impressed." He was irrationally pleased.
"I've already claimed the smaller bedroom, and I will brook no opposition from the younger generation."
"Master-"
"Ah." Qui-Gon held up a hand, quelling all protest. "I have seniority. The debate is closed. Now: are you still in dire need of tea?"
Obi-Wan allowed the slow smile to spread from eyes to lips and thence through the Force to the very walls of the quiet chamber. "Perhaps not. Let's watch the sun set."
They passed in silent accord onto the balcony, and leaned against its rail. Below, the city-planet hustled and bustled in the trammels of its glittering pomp. Above, the stars wheeled in their ordained paths, passionless and perfect. Between the tawdry lights of the metropolis and the distant beacons of the heavens, a glorious star blazed in splendor, filling the dome of Coruscant's skies with melting color, supernal glory.
Qui-Gon laid a hand upon his former student's shoulder, and they looked on- in hope and wonder and a simple, radiant contentment.
END BOOK XI
END of LINEAGE series
Author's note: But the end is the beginning, from a certain point of view. The sequel series to this story will be titled Legacy, to be posted at a future date on this site. -rb