Chapter Two: "I'll Go, Master!"
The duchess lay awake in the colossal, austere state chamber, which had been occupied by her father only three rotations prior. Anxiety, the sort which turns one's blood to acid and set one's mind alight with racing thoughts, had been Satine's perpetual state since the bombing which took her father's life. The event had heralded the end of her youth as she knew it: scorched landscapes could become lush again with time, houses could be rebuilt, returned to their former glory, but Adonai Kryze could never be brought back from the dead. His soul was now inextricable joined with the Manda, the over spirit into which all true Mandalorian merged upon death. On Manda'yaim, Satine mused darkly, their adversaries were almost certainly insisting otherwise, asserting that her father was dar'manda, rejoicing in the idea of his soul being reduced to dust, blowing endlessly across the dunes of Sundari.
As Satine had watched the burial shroud being lowered over her father's corpse, a great, awful sense of duty had settled like a heavy mantle on her thin shoulders. The young noblewomen knew that the day would come when she was to lead the New Mandalorians—after all, her father had seen fit to send her to Coruscant to learn diplomacy for that very reason. As the eldest daughter of Adonai Kryze and the rightful heir of both her clan and political faction, it was imperative that she comprehend—and gain mastery of—the delicate art of diplomacy. She had attended school alongside other budding politicians, hailing from worlds spanning the Core to the Outer Rim. Of course, most of these students knew that their political careers were in the distant, hazy future, and behaved accordingly. Satine felt some distinction in this regard: she knew that her day would likely arrive sooner than most, therefore fostering a maturity beyond her seventeen years.
She had not expected her day to arrive quite so soon, though. In theory, she was prepared, having spent her entire life learning and preparing for her role as the future Manda'lor. Yet, in practice, she was left floundering. How was she to convince her people that she possessed the competency to lead, despite her youth and inexperience? How was she to convince herself? Lives, New Mandalorian and otherwise, depended upon it.
Satine rolled to her side, listening to the soft swishing of her Belsavian silk skirt against the fine, snow-colored sheets on the great state bed. She had taken to sleeping in her clothing, a packed bag lying beside her, as she needed to be ready to evacuate at a moment's notice in the event of another Kyr'tsad bombing. And with the unexpected, distasteful arrival of these Jetiise, she did not want to risk being happened upon in her sleeping garments.
She conjured the two in her mind's eye, and with a soft snort of displeasure, realized you had not even learned their names. The elder of the pair was likely in his middle years, with long flaxen hair and a beard touched with gray, sporting the same sand-colored robes as his apprentice. Satine regretted reprimanding him for speaking out of turn: despite his detestable occupation, he had a kind look in his eyes. If he were not a Jetii, Satine might have perceived that he looked trustworthy. With a pang, she realized that something in his demeanor was reminiscent of her late father.
The younger Jetii, however… insolent creature! He had only spent mere minutes in her presence before insulting her—even the most barbaric Kyr'tsad warrior would have spoken to her with the respect owed to her clan. The way he had sarcastically tacked "Your Ladyship" onto the end of his tirade was unbefitting a Jetii knight, even in Satine's low opinion of the mystical order. She recalled, however, that the smug boy was not a knight at all: rather, he sported the singular plait indicative of an apprentice. This further stoked the flames of her temper—a mere student had seen fit to mock her!
With his self-assured demeanor, high cheek bones, and clear, cyan eyes, a lesser woman might have found him to be handsome. Well, Satine thought, turning to stare upwards at the ceiling once more, perhaps he is handsome, in addition to being an impertinent lout. One may be both things simultaneously. For what seemed to be the hundredth time that night, Satine longed for the company of her younger sister. Bo-Katan would have known just how to soothe her sister's slightly wounded pride, likely by mocking the arrogant boy, imitating his cocksure gait and posh Coruscanti accent. Satine's father had always said that his daughters inherited their quick, sometimes biting wit from their late mother, who had died birthing their younger brother, Korbyn.
Upon arriving from Coruscant, Satine's first agonizing decision as leader had been to order her two younger siblings and their entourage aboard a transport of Mando'ad refugees, heading for the safety and relative security of Carlac. The Ming Po government had agreed to accept a small number of displaced persons, largely thanks to negotiations facilitated by her father shortly before his death. He, however, had not sought to include two of his children among the refugees—that had been entirely her own doing.
Bo had been enraged when Satine told her, calling her everything from a despotic tyrant to a clan traitor to a di'kut. Satine was unmoved by this onslaught of unflattering epithets. Resolute in her position, she had tried to convey to her sister that it was for their own safety. The Kyr'tsad had issued a death warrant for all members of clan Kryze—even the two youngest members, fifteen and ten, respectively. Her grandmother, the dowager Lady Anya Kryze, had readily agreed with her granddaughter's decision to temporary displace her two other grandchildren.
Satine had another reason for sending Bo and Korbyn to Carlac, however, which she had not shared with her younger sister: in short, she exiled Bo to protect her from herself. When Satine had left for Coruscant to begin studying diplomacy three years prior, Bo possessed a burgeoning interest in the warrior culture of past centuries, hoarding ancient texts in her chambers. When the young duchess return to Kalevala, she found that this fascination had quickly consumed her sister, as vormur flowers were known to overtake fields of quench-gourds in the countryside. Bo had rejected the traditional style of dress for clan Kryze, swapping richly embroidered silks for a suit of beskar armor. Gone were elegant locks, woven with aruma-lillies—Bo had chopped her titian hair into a coarse bob.
More terrifying than a mere change in fashion, however, was the girl's shift in ideology: she had begun to espouse increasingly archaic positions on violence and bloodshed, sounding more like a Kyr'tsad warrior than a daughter of clan Kryze. Satine knew that her sister's viewpoints would only grow more extreme if she remained near the conflict, and thus, she was left with no choice but to exile her. She could only hope that, with time to reflect upon the bloodlust infecting their world, Bo would recognize the flaws in the brutal philosophies of old. Satine was afraid to consider the alternative.
A sickeningly familiar sound interposed Satine's anxious meditations—the deep, hollow boom of an explosion, followed by the crackling of subsequent flames. She leaped out of bed, pack hanging from her shoulder, muscles seized with the involuntary tautness of adrenaline and fear. In the dreadful, anticipatory silence, she was suddenly aware of a soft creak, and the door to her chamber slid open. "Quickly, Duchess," a voice called out, and she recognized the tones of the elder Jetii, who had elected to stand guard outside of her chamber for the night, "come with me."
She obeyed, following the man out of the state chamber and down the wide, carpeted corridor. Satine coughed, the smothering odor of smoke constricting her chest as she peered ahead, distraught: fire had consumed what remained of the great hall. Before she could react, however, another bomb shook the very foundation of the house, and the Jetii master pulled her to the floor, covering her with his own frame. When they rose again, fire crept along the tapestried walls of the corridor, staining the entire scene with incandescent copper light. Her protector now broke into a run, dragging her behind him, her feet catching in her long, silken skirts. He wheeled around a corner, where the younger Jetii waited tensely, silhouetted against a great lapis window, mined from Draboon centuries prior. It was one of the precious few in the house that remained intact.
"Ready, master?" the young man asked, a glint of excitement in his deep-set eyes, despite the dire surroundings. After a nod of affirmation, with not so much as a glance in Satine's direction, both men turned to face the window. She watched in wonder as the sinews of their arms leaped to life, as though power coursed through their veins and escaped from their fingertips, which were extended towards the panels of beveled lapis. The deeply hued crystal began to tremble, then quake, as though another bomb had just detonated. The men steadied their effort, closing their eyes. Fractures began to spread in patterns reminiscent of delicate frost, before a violent rush of shattering crystal sent a jolt of shock through Satine's weary, taxed body. She was met with yawning blackness where the window had been, cool night air rushing against her scorched cheeks. So this, she thought to herself, is the legendary Force. Terrifying, really. The two Jetiise had not so much as laid a finger on the thick, centuries-old lapis, and yet, it lay in shards at her feet.
The Jetii master turned to regard her, his voice urgent. "Go with my apprentice," he insisted, motioning to the younger man, who had already climbed onto the window seat and was now poised on the edge of the blackness, "he will bring you to safety. I'll find the others."
The apprentice extended a steady, calloused hand to her, through which awful power had flowed mere moments prior. Satine fixed him with a scrutinizing look, recalling the insolent manner in which he had spoken to her upon the Jetiise arrival. "I would rather not be left under the protection of a—" she began, but the master had already begun to sprint towards the blazing great hall.
"A what, my lady?" the younger Jetii asked wryly, the flickering light exposing a half-smile on his infuriatingly handsome features.
"Never mind," Satine said decorously, smoothing her skirts, refusing to acknowledge his flippant demeanor. She delicately placed her hand in his, with all the dignity of her station, before stepping up onto the window seat, lapis shards cracking beneath her feet. Wind from the gaping window whipped her skirts against her legs as she stared into the darkness, scanning in vain for the ground.
"It's not too far below," the Jetii spoke up, as though he had read her thoughts. Perhaps he had. "Hold onto me."
She resented taking orders from him, but she knew better than to protest. Gripping his hand with a renewed tightness, she held her breath as they leaped into the darkness. They landed on their feet, and an urgent, aching pain snaked up her calves and into her knees upon impact. She stumbled, but the Jetii held tight, pulling her forward as the sound of another aircraft reverberated through the skies above. "Come on," he urged, breaking into a sprint across the courtyard, dragging her headlong into the night.
After a moment, her booted foot caught on a thick durasteel edge, protruding from the ground. She stumbled, knees meeting cobblestones and tearing her skirt. She barely heeded the pain that washed over her lower half, though, as she flooded instead with wild relief. "The bunker!" she cried, over the roar of bombs detonating overhead, "It's here!"
The Jetii set to work immediately, forcing the heavy durasteel hatch open with his bare hands. Aided by the Force, no doubt, Satine surmised. The subterranean space was dark and cool, and it filled her nose with the pleasing scent of earth as her protector slammed the door over their heads. Now plunged into utter darkness, the Jetii fell to the ground beside her, panting.
"Does your master know where to find us?" Satine whispered, her voice cracking from smoke inhalation.
Although she could not see him, she perceived that the apprentice nodded his head. "Master Qui Gon… is aware… of the bunker," he responded, between gasping breaths. Qui Gon, she thought to herself, that is the elder man's name. Before she could ask the apprentice for his own moniker, however, the hatch was flung open, and Satine's court began to enter the dank shelter. Relief swept over her like a torrential downpour as took they huddled beside her, with Master Qui Gon bringing up the rear. He was about to pull the hatch shut when—
"Wait!" Satine cried, leaping up, nearly striking her head against the bunker's low ceiling, "Wait! My grandmother!"
"My lady," Qui Gon began, remorse evident in his voice, "your palace is little more than rubble. If she remained, she is most certainly—"
"I'll go, master," the younger Jetii exclaimed, springing to his feet. With a powerful Force push, he blew the hatch door open and bounded out into the darkness, before his master could object. Satine could sense the older man's disapproval, as she and her court waited in tense, fearful silence. Satine appealed to her ancestors, squeezing her eyes shut and biting her lip until it bled, pleading for Lady Anya's survival. The muffled sound of bombs exploding on the surface permeated the claustrophobic space, and chunks of sod rained down on their heads with every detonation. Satine had nearly lost hope when the grating sound of the hatch opening caused her stomach to drop in agony.
The Jetii appeared, firelight creating a halo around him, holding the frail form of her grandmother in his arms. "She's alive," he called triumphantly, smile evident in his voice. Dizzy, nearing hysterics, overwhelmed with relief, Satine was vaguely aware of the hatch door closing before she fainted onto the cool, dirt floor.
Mando'a Words:
dar'manda-a state of being "not Mandalorian"; not an outsider, but one who has lost his heritage, and so his identity and soul
di'kut-idiot, moron, fool
Jetii-Jedi
Jetiise-plural form of Jedi
Kyr'tsad-Death Watch; literally "Death Society"
Mand'alor-"sole ruler," leader of the Mandalorians
Manda'yaim-the planet Mandalore
Mando'ad-Mandalorian, literally "son/daughter of Mandalore"
Source: Wookieepedia