Chapter 23
Time check: 4 days, 13 hours, 37 minutes, 12 seconds before the Triumph
For the first time in ages, my slumber is peaceful. There are no images of mutilated bodies or the screams of scared children from Courvaine. I relive pleasant memories, of my homeworld's sweeping green pastures, the camaraderie of initiates before ascension. I relieve my first kiss under candlelight, Celeste's shy smile as she helped me out of my robe.
The dreams fade and I awake to the sound of a low crackling fire. My bed is a hard stone slab matted with thick fur pelts. The chamber is strange, possessing the quality of some chieftain's hall. More pelts drape the walls as well as framed parchments written in Mand'oa scripture. Knotted string ornaments hang from the ceiling and I can smell smoke, herbs and preserved meat. There is a more pungent odour, of wet fur and the hot, musky smell of animals sleeping in their dens.
"Noctua," I mutter. Amarinthe was right. Her elder sister never left her past behind. She clings to it like a lifeline, even as the Order tried to instill her with its own ideals.
Sitting up, I see a hearth to my left. Its lingering embers bathes the room in dull red glow. An oaken table sits in front of the hearth, stacked with grimoires thicker than my arm. My companions are with me. To my right, I see Mysteel looking back with a wane smile. She is sitting next to Revan's bed, one hand on his. My brother slumbers, his breathing barely perceptible.
"How are you feeling, sleepyhead?"
Gingerly, I test the movement of my body. To my surprise, there is no pain. Only a hint of scar tissue remains on my torn abdomen. Even the muscle ache I've had for weeks has subsided. "Perfect," I admit. "You?"
"A few crushed bones. You wouldn't know it though." She purses her lips. "Say what you will about their shitty recruitment methods, Keepers know how to patch people up."
I nod towards Revan's bed. "How is he?" A riot of needles and nutrient tubes criss cross my brother's neck and chest. Next to his bedside, machines whir as they adjust coagulants and anti coagulants shunted into his body. I feel a flash of trepidation, not for his wellbeing, but at the thought he might recuperate. Then for a wretched moment, I have the urge to snap his neck so the bleak future that monster showed me cannot come to pass.
He risked his life for yours. I chastise myself. How can you even entertain such thoughts?
"Amarinthe said he had the worst of it," Mysteel replies softly. She brushes his hair affectionately. "But he'll make it. He always does."
"Did you really need to take his shirt off?"
"Oh, why do you ask such silly questions?" Mysteel huffs. She dips her hand into some nearby ointment and rubs vigorously. "Trust me, this is uh...medicinal."
Despite my misgivings, that earns a chuckle. I turn away and approach the table. The symbols on the grimoires are illegible to me but I recognize the script as an ancient form of the Mand'oa dialect. An argot specific to Noctua's clan perhaps. Before I can flip through one, a low hiss spins me around. That is when I notice a dark reptilian shape peeking through the shadows behind my bed. Golden eyes stare back at me, slit and nakedly predatory.
A Basiliskan, the preferred Mandalorian mount though not a mature specimen. How in the hells did one end up here?
"Yeah, don't touch anything," Mysteel warns. "Spookums nearly took my head off when I tried to pet it."
"Wonderful." I raise my hands in a non threatening gesture. The Basiliskan gestures with a flick of its head, towards a lintel doorway. Curious, I head through.
The adjoining room is more elaborate than the first. There are wolf-headed posts and panelling decorated with entwined beasts devouring prey with fanged mouths. I see pristine axes and spears mounted proudly on weapon racks.
An armoury. Even equipped with the pinnacle of Order weaponry, Noctua has kept her ancestral relics close. For all these violent motifs, there are subtler decorations as well. Mossy rocks in bubbling pools of water, bunches of dried herbs tied up in bundles hanging from the ceiling. Birds I cannot identify flit from oaken branches jutting from the walls.
One item above all else catches my eye. Centred in the chamber is an armour rack bearing a complete set of Mandalorian armor. Even with my limited knowledge of metallurgy, I can tell it is made from beskar, that most priceless of resources. Her clan symbol, a snarling beast with three talons underneath is etched into the breastplate. Its power supply and cabling are cunningly hidden under stylized metal plates, fashioned to resemble a vengeful armoured Taung yet supple enough for full freedom of movement. It is nothing less than a complete mastery of craftsmanship.
The helmet is the most exquisite piece, polished to a crimson sheen that I can see my reflection in. Detailed Mand'oa tracery is inscribed along its rims, and I see micro circuitry running beneath its interface ports. The glassteel T visor stares at me, giving me the strange feeling of being watched by an ancient presence. Gingerly, I reach out to touch its surface. As soon as my fingers brush metal, the helmet begins humming with feral menace. Red targeting reticules flash onto the visor making me step back in alarm.
"Do you like it, vod?"
I spin around, surprised. Noctua is in front of me, a crooked grin on her face. Despite her physical disability, she can be quite stealthy when desired.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to disturb anything," I say, chagrined.
Noctua waves the excuse away. She ambles by and deactivates the targeting system with a deft touch behind the helmet.
"Is this-?"
"My beskar'gan," Noctua says proudly. "Passed down from each generation within my clan. When it came to me, I marked it red to honour my parents."
"Only some are painted," I remark, noticing the left gauntlet and chest piece remain dull gunmetal.
"I had not earned the right to wear all the pieces. Perhaps one day."
Before I can ask more, she gestures for me to sit in a corner chair. I obey, watching as she limps to the second one. Her pain seems more pronounced than usual. I wonder what wound could have prevented our healing arts to intervene.
When we are seated, she stares at me in silence for a moment. My sister is appraising me, judging my soul for the slightest hint of contamination. I wonder what Noctua would do if she found it.
"What you saw during the Harrowing..." she begins. "You must never speak of it outside the Citadel."
"Sister, surely-" I protest.
"Never," Noctua stresses, and I feel my blood run cold at the command. "Not even your closest confidants. You saw how so many of our Order failed. We sit on a foundation of madness and to let even a sliver out is to invite catastrophe. The galaxy is not ready to know these truths and it likely never will be."
"I saw things," I whisper bleakly and the memories of atrocity come rushing back. "Dire portents that must be heeded."
"I'm sure you did," she replies. "All of us see things in the wastes. Of loved ones lost. Terrible betrayals. Apocalyptic ends."
"These were no mere illusions. The Queen..." I trail off. Just the mention of her makes my hands tremble
A flicker of worry passes over her face. "Ah, you crossed paths with her did you? When Amarinthe lost track of your progress, she feared the worst."
So we were being pursued in the wastes. My brother was right on that count as well.
"What...what is she sister?" I ask hoarsely. "Her power was...inconceivable. Did she truly cause this ancient downfall?"
Noctua purses her lips. "Have you heard the phrase, knowledge is power? Well, knowledge is a double edged sword as well. There is virtue in being ignorant. Believe me, vod. I learned that the hard way."
"You said you cherished history above all others."
"I do, but there are some things that should not be delved into. She is one of them." The Keeper sighs and leans back. "The so called Queen is an aberration, one of the last remnants of a species that should remain buried in the past. We have spent millennia containing her and the worst aspects of the Force from contaminating the galaxy. It is why our circle exists. Let that be enough."
I shake my head vehemently. "She showed me things. I was in a future where the galaxy was in flames and our Order killed by...by..." I cannot bring myself to say it.
Noctua does not look impressed. "Do you believe everything you're shown?" she retorts. "I have seen similar fates during my prognostications. I have also seen a galaxy at peace, where our Order stands triumphant over our ancient enemy."
She holds up a finger. "But none of these futures are true. Or perhaps it is better to say they only have the potential to be true. The future isn't fixed vod. That is why seers are more often wrong than not. The Primordial Predators may claim to know your fate but they only know how to cleave onto our worst natures. An act of bravery, a single innocuous event can derail a foretold prophecy. Remember that."
It is as much a challenge as a statement of truth The intensity of her stare stings and I bow my head in contrition. "Revan said the same thing."
Noctua nods. "He is ever the insightful one. And why I need his strength more than ever."
Her choice of words is curious. Before I can ask her intent, Revan shambles through the lintel doorway as Mysteel fusses over him. He looks gaunt, his corpse skin blotchy from the tubes he ripped out but his expression is as inscrutable as ever. There is a a slight hitch in his gait, all cumulative indications that he had just undergone hell. I should be happy he has the strength to stand. Instead a cold sense of dread grips my heart and I look away.
"Rev, you shouldn't be up yet," Mysteel scolds. "I didn't even get to apply all the ointment yet!"
Revan grips her shoulder and pats it as a sign of thanks. By his standards, that is positively dramatic. Mysteel blushes and falls silent. Revan steps up before Noctua and bows low.
"I am in your debt again, sister."
"Oh, stop it," Noctua growls, standing abruptly. "The Grandmaster may bow to me. Atris may lick the shit off my boots. But we are equals now. You and your companions no longer have anything to prove."
She cocks her head and sniffs. Her eyes narrow. "But enough of that. It appears we have whelps nipping at our heels." Noctua hobbles towards the chamber exit and passes through. We follow behind.
The hallways are dark, lit by votive candles. I can hear voices and foot shuffling from the chamber doors and meditation cells lining either side. This arrangement is not dissimilar to other enclave dormitories though Noctua's is more spacious than most. A mark of rank most likely. Walking to the end the corridor, I see Amarinthe speaking to the troupe of Knights who challenged us upon arrival. There is a note of tension that is impossible to miss.
"Their minds must be scoured," the leader declares.
Amarinthe shakes her head. "No more, Hadrian," she replies. "They passed the Harrowing and that makes them worthy to share our burdens."
"The Nameless One did," agrees the one called Hadrian. "He dragged his companions through the Wastes. But that does not make him one of us."
"Do you doubt his honour?" Amarinthe counters. "His name rises higher every day in the circles."
"Order politics are not my concern. I do not know him."
"But I do and I say that his reputation is beyond reproach." She gives her peer a stern look. "While under our aegis, they will remain untouched. Master Helian has decreed it."
Hadrian's expression does not change. He seems utterly incapable of emotion. With the sound of our approach, they turn. Amarinthe offers a nod but Hadrian merely maintains his pitiless stare.
"Gnawing at the bone as always," Noctua grumbles to Hadrian. "You are worse than my ulik."
"It is my duty."
"You're duty is to remain vigilant for corruption," Noctua challenges. Her voice is a soft burr, the kind an alpha predator uses to challenge a trespasser. "On your honour, do you sense any here?"
Hadrian's steely gaze bores over us. "Corruption takes many forms. Sometimes even the victim is unaware that the seed has taken root." For a moment, his eyes fix on me and I feel the pressure of his probing. "And it cannot always be seen, even by the vigilante," he continues tonelessly. "Too many times we thought kin beyond reproach only to discover their character fell so far below the mark."
"Is that a no?" Noctua cuts in sharply.
Hadrian says nothing.
"As I thought. Return to your duties."
The Keeper waits three heartbeats before turning and signalling for his troupe to leave. "Forgive Hadrian," Amarinthe says when her counterparts are gone. "He is a superb Hataeron Guard but his devotion to duty makes him inflexible."
"It is to his credit," says Revan. That is the diplomatic thing to say but I doubt my brother means it.
"I trust everything is in order? Noctua and I oversaw to your convalescences personally."
Revan nods. When I do not follow his example, Amarinthe's eyes fall on me. "I sense you are angry with me, brother."
"Do you need your gifts to sense that?" I grunt.
"I regret the deception," Amarinthe admits. "When I was thrown to the wolves, I was just as furious, if not more. But no one has ever stepped through the Citadel's gates without undergoing the Harrowing."
"Ner'vod speaks truthfully," Noctua agrees. "Do you think that cruel?"
I give her a cold look. "I saw what happened out there, what this place does to our kin. Your trial is barbaric."
The accusation is tantamount to suicide, I know that. Despite their dark reputation, the Keepers have always enjoyed a blind eye from the Order's upper echelons. But having suffered their machinations first hand, I find myself much less willing to keep silent.
And had either taken offence, I would be a smear on the floor. But Noctua merely shrugs.
"It is barbaric, monstrously so. But we have learned to be cautious. You know our remit, the indescribable power held within our vaults. It cannot be allowed to fall into the wrong hands. The Harrowing is the only way to separate the worthy from the chaff."
My sister and I share dubious looks, not even close to being convinced. Revan steps in to break the tension. "I assure you, sister we bear you no grudge. After discovering the Celestials' folly, I can appreciate your need to keep secrets."
"You learned about them did you?" Amarinthe smiles thinly. "Then you know we bear the burden of keeping their mistakes in check. For this is one of their last bastions, a remnant that survived their fall. It takes every iota of our power to preserve it."
"Can we explore the Citadel then?" Mysteel asks. She seems eager to witness its majesty once more. As do we all. Just the memory of its golden spires stirs my heart. "I'm guessing we'll never get another chance."
"Of course," says Amarinthe. "I will-"
"There will be time enough for that." Noctua cuts in. She begins hobbling away, waving us to follow. "Come, my Master awaits, vod."
Time check: 4 days, 13 hours, 15 minutes, 53 seconds before the Triumph
The Impossible Citadel.
As a child, I looked up at the sun and thought that was as far as existence could reach. My ignorance was peeled away upon leaving the homeworld and I realized there was so much more to see. I travelled to the ocean vistas of Manaan, bore witness to the acid bathed hellscape of Octis VI and despaired at the crumbling glory of the Throneworld. My career has taken me through jungles, swamps, deserts, the sea and the void. And after experiencing hundreds of ecosystems, even the most outlandish world became mundane.
But the Impossible Citadel has always been a source of curiosity for it was as intangible as its rumours, limited only by the scope of my imagination. Knights speculated the Keeper's enclave was as black as their secrets, made from the charred bones of our ancient enemies. Some believed it was an underground labyrinth, stacked with lifetimes of lost lore and the bones of their authors. Skeptics thought it was simply another temple that followed the reserved Order template and that the Keeper's reputation was simply conflated.
None of these theories do justice to the truth. The Citadel was made, like everything else here, so far in the past that its origins were now little more than myth. It was conceived by minds possessing infinite imagination and mastery over matter itself. The Citadel's very existence defies mortal limitation, meant to surpass every pinnacle of creation.
After much bickering, Noctua allows Amarinthe to guide us through an extended circuit of their marble highways. So we bask in the Keeper's many golden wonders, taking our time before reaching the appointed audience. Setting foot into the open sky, I realize the Citadel is first and foremost a fortress. Spires are erected around their boundaries like cardinal points of a compass, with a central tower in the middle. Marble roads criss cross these nodes like finely spun silk highways.
Rimmed around its borders are the concentric circles of golden walls. Each are hundred metres high cliff-edges, their swirling parapets spiked with kilometre long gun-lines and giant anathema crystals. Overlapping shield arrays hum with energies so potent, their overspill flares in the sky as inky blotches. Knights man these defence rings, their vigilant gaze turned towards a horizon filled with strange lights and aural phenomena that sends shivers down my spine, as mournful as whale calls.
There is not a speck of dirt or erosion in this place. The walls and hallways are as pristine as the day they were laid. At first, I thought this an illusion. But then those strange amoebas float by, just like those from the ruined city, buoyed by electromagnetic force fields. Their role seems to be that of the caretaker, sucking up dust and polishing the gleaming ramparts with gentle golden rays.
As much as the Impossible Citadel was designed as a bastion of war, it is also an object of beauty. Every surface of this behemoth is adorned in strange alien hieroglyphics, drawn from an older, more intricate dialect not uttered in millennia. The spire hallways are filled with high windows, leaded and mullioned, each offering glimpses of the immensity beyond – parapets rearing above parapets, glare-white from the mountain air. And above us, narrow panes of stained glass slowly burn with variegated colour as the dawn sunlight pierced the clouds, throwing bars of gold over a thick crimson carpet.
Nestled on top of their highest spire is a giant aviary. Even miles away, I catch glimpses of majestic birds swirling amidst blood leafed trees, their multi hued wings dazzling and larger than most mercantile class ships. There are many other things I cannot describe. Not for a lack of words but because some secrets simply cannot be revealed. To have witnessed them is a privilege and to be allowed such knowledge is a trust few Keepers extend. But it is clear the Celestials created their artefacts for eternity, imbuing them with both strength and elegance, perhaps as a defiant cry against the impermanence that had destroyed them. I had thought the heretic stronghold on Courvaine to be extravagant. Now that memory seems positively drab.
As we make our trek, I notice sodalities of Keepers performing their duties. Squads patrol the grounds with blades unsheathed, vigilant even in the most secure sections of their bastion. Like Hadrian, these appear to be the Hataeron Guard, the Keeper's Chamber Militant. Smaller groups carry sheafs of tomes, conferring in hushed whispers. All of them stare at us with stony expressions as we pass by.
"Do not be offended by my kin," Amarinthe offers. "Guest right has never been extended and that makes them curious."
"We are honoured, truly," Revan remarks.
"You earned that honour, brother," Amarinthe replies with surprising sincerity. I notice her attitude towards us has shifted since speaking on the Theoneworld. Where once there was an unmistakable haughtiness in her voice, now I only hear genuine respect. "And with it the right to learn our secrets. Within reason of course."
"What can you share with us?"
"That we are squatters in a King's court." Her voice becomes flushed with genuine regret. "None of these creations are ours. This fortress was wrought by beings superior to us in every way. We toil in their archives, trying to decipher scraps in the hopes our limited minds can comprehend something. But in truth, most of their treasure trove of knowledge will remain untapped."
"Why?"
"Because it is all tainted," Noctua cuts in. She gives her counterpart a warning look. "My vod may espouse the Celestial's virtues, but I have never forgotten their final failure. Power corrupts. And although so much else has been forgotten, we know that was their downfall. As I have said, there is virtue in knowing your limits."
"Better to have flown too near the sun than remain a savage," Amarinthe retorts. There is a bitterness in her voice that suggests this argument has been ongoing. Having learned something of Amarinthe's disposition, I can recognize why . Every time she looks at her counterpart, it is a reminder to a past that she considers shameful. Noctua's flinty eyes narrow further and she growls a Mand'oa insult too filthy to repeat. Amarinthe's cheeks flush and her outline grows hazy with pent up energy. For just a moment, I see her icy facade slip, revealing a bestial aspect smothered for decades. This could get ugly.
"You know, their tastes are a lot like ours," Mysteel muses. She leans against a railing, interposing herself between the sisters. An innocuous motion, but designed to distract Amarinthe from the source of her ire. That has always Mysteel's greatest gift, her ability to subtly diffuse tension.
"No, little sister. They weren't." Amarinthe turns to address her. "The Celestials created many marvels that we cannot even begin to decipher. But we know this about the Citadel. They made it from a material that possesses psychosensitivity with the Force. It obeys the will of its master, reforming itself to their designs. And with enough research we were able to rework its appearance to our blueprint."
To prove her point she points to the wall blocking our path. It shimmers and realigns like liquid to present a path. Mysteel gasps. Even I am taken aback but perhaps I should not be. Every stone and glass here is suffused with the Force. The air hums with its infinite potential, like a soft current that works to sustain the Citadel's operations.
I have perceived many auras in my career. I have felt the calm oasis of my brothers and sisters, suffered the roaring tide of hate erupting from the Sith. I even endured the Wastes, which felt like drowning in a polluted ocean. But the harmonics in this place simply defy classification. They are too complex, more akin to a genetic sequence rather than rivers of emotion. It should be impossible, this melding of the technological and the metaphysical, but the Celestials have mastered it.
The new path leads to an art gallery filled with hundred foot tall murals. The walls are a harmony of silver leaf tracery, piled on top of itself in ever greater profusions of baroque exuberance. Astrological devices clustered about images of Jedi, soldiers and countless citizens set amid fabulous landscapes, on and on for the two hundred metres of the gallery's length – a frieze that would have taken the finest Throneworld masons decades to complete. Like the walls, the frieze seems to possess a life of its own, its players moving lazily like water trickling down a stream.
Such perfection. Such harmony of function melded with artistic flair. "This is beautiful," I find myself admitting.
"I am surprised to hear you admit that," Amarinthe remarks. Perhaps I am as well. Or perhaps I am surprised to learn that beneath their dourness and secrets, Keepers still have the soul of a Jedi. Our hopes and dreams are in this stonework, raw material rendered into cathedrals of the mind and the soul. To a promise of Unity that would last for eternity.
I want to ask how they came to discover the Citadel but I doubt Amarinthe would provide a truthful answer. An undeniable fact is that the Order has existed in one state or another for over a million years. It is not difficult to imagine intrepid explorers discovering artifacts of this mightiest of empires. And after exhaustive research, I suppose it is plausible our ancestors could decipher locations like the Citadel and the means of ingress. A hypothesis worth exploring, given the opportunity.
In time, we walk into a courtyard. Some of the the banners and aesthetics are unmistakably from the Order but they are largely spartan. Here I see robed acolytes - children really - honing their gifts in training exercises. I hear strange rituals being chanted as they practice, words of power steeped in the mysteries of the Force.
Some lift giant marble pillars, maneuvering them deftly between pre built obstacles. Others summon torrents of power to shear apart flying droids or giant barricades. A group seem to be engaged in a seance, peering deep beyond the veil and into the darkest pits of eternity, their outlines hazy with pent up Force. And around them, Keepers watch their wards, vigilant and ready to discipline them for the slightest slip in control.
Further down, older initiates undergo more rigorous training. They practice similar mental exercises, but the pace is more frenetic and Keepers actively try to distract their concentration with cattle prods and harsh condemnations. One of the student's focus slips, and the boulder she was levitating crashes in mid course. Her instructor, a ratchet faced hag punishes the girl with a mental jab that leaves her coughing blood and tears in her face.
"Pick yourself up!" snaps the instructor. "Stop crying, you are a Keeper supplicant, not a lost waif. Do the course ten more times! I don't care if you can barely stand. Fail to perfect this technique by the next cycle and I will feed you to the furnaces myself! Needless to say, there will be no supper tonight."
I grimace. This is a merciless training regime, far more strenuous and dangerous than what the Exemplar Host would countenance. Yet it is this exactitude that gives the Keepers their terrifying power and greatest honour among the Jedi. For since their circle's inception, it is rumoured not one of their members have ever succumbed to the Dark Side of the Force. Weighed against the many millennia of corruption plaguing the Order, that is not merely improbable but simply a miracle.
They do not take any joy or pride with this lofty accolade. By and large, the Keepers are a grim breed, perfecting their craft to ridiculous heights but unable to take pleasure in their achievements. Having seen the terrible powers they contest on a daily basis, I can empathize with their burden.
But then a commotion catches my attention. Nearby, two Keepers are dragging a struggling boy towards a tunnel by his arms. The youth looks scrawny, barely older than sixteen and his expression is steeped in dread. He bucks and kicks like an untamed beast, animal terror writ large.
"No, please!" he screams. "I will try harder next time! I beg you, don't take me to the Soul Engines! Please!"
The scene unsettles me. Rarely have I seen such naked fear in an expression. And that term - Soul Engine. I recall Halden using it as well.
Fuel for the Soul Engines.
"What was that about?" Mysteel asks just as surprised.
"It's nothing," Amarinthe says dismissively. "He-,"
"No lies," Noctua cuts in. "You said it yourself ner'vod, they earned the right to know our secrets."
She gives Mysteel a stern look. "Do you really want to know?"
Mysteel hesitates but nods.
"There are machines beneath our foundations, some of the foulest creations in existence," Noctua says calmly. "And every day we feed failed initiates to their furnaces."
The words are like a blunt hammer to the skull. For a moment, I think this is another of Noctua's ill conceived jokes. But no, she is deadly serious. Say what you will about her unusual behaviour and traditions, Noctua's doesn't lie. And Halden was not being hyperbolic.
"How-How could you?" I realize my hand has involuntarily gripped the hilt of my lightsaber. Not that it would make the slightest bit of difference.
Amarinthe gives Noctua a sour look, then sighs. "Because the Soul Engines create the dead zone that no Primordial Predator can cross," she answers reluctantly. "Without it our bastion would be overrun. Yet it is maintained only at a cost of countless souls. While we burn those too weak to ascend, hunters like Hadrian scour the galaxy for fallen kin and Sith to help fill the quota."
She gives a mirthless smile.
"And when our time comes, we will join them in communal agony as a machine we don't understand leeches away our life force. You think dying out in the Wastes is foul? It is a kindness compared to what awaits the Knights of our circle."
"Then you should not maintain this Citadel at all," I growl, barely able to keep my outrage from bursting. "Abandon it. Let these atrocities end."
Noctua gives a disdainful snort. "Do not be dense, vod. Do you think that hasn't been considered? The Citadel is a cardinal node...a stabilizer. Without it, the tides of the Force would become unbalanced on a apocalyptic scale and the calamity you saw out in the Wastes would spill into the greater Republic. Polluting the Unknown Regions and beyond as well. Can you imagine it? That hell on a galactic scale?"
I swallow, shaking my head in denial. What she tells seems utterly impossible. But then, I have seen enough impossibilities for several lifetimes now. The true nature of the Force has always been poorly understood. And the deeper we delve into its secrets, the less I truly want to know.
"We do monstrous things because we know of no better way." Amarinthe says. There is a resignation in her voice I did not detect before. "But it not all hopeless. Despite the sinister aspect underpinning all Celestial creations, no other race came close to matching their knowledge. And throughout the millennia, our circle has disseminated their lore, shared what we consider safe to the Order and stored aspects which are too dangerous to know."
Noctua nods in agreement. "Without this Citadel, the Jedi would be ignorant children, stumbling in an endless sea of predators," she continues in a low voice. "So we protect this, hoping each generation can learn a little more from the creator's mistakes. But we limit ourselves. We take only what is needed and never drinking too deeply from their foul chalice. You should know by now, it takes a lot of willpower to learn that restraint."
I don't know what to say to that. I consider myself a jaded soul. And I have always known that the Order was built on darker truths. No institution survives eons without culling their enemies. Yet even then, there are some boundaries I thought the Order could never cross. Why else would the Great Sundering have occurred if not to expunge this kind of sin?
Suddenly, the majesty of the Citadel seems hallow, its glamour nothing more than a cheap skin for a foundation of ashes. Mysteel's enthusiasm has also melted away. She had anticipated biting into a sweet roll only to find it filled with bile.
Only Revan does not seem appalled by the Keeper's admission. Perhaps he had some inkling of these horrors but I doubt it. Rather, I believe he has lost the capacity to be outraged by these revelations. Our Order has harboured so many shameful secrets over the millennia, accumulating like mothballs. Some of them, my brother uncovered during his exile, enough to understand that our slow slide into extinction isn't undeserved.
"I've seen enough," I mutter. "Let us see your Master and be done with this place."
Noctua and Amarinthe exchange looks but do not contest my demand. They guide us through the courtyard, into the central spire itself. There are more golden passages and stairs here, each containing their own marvels of eternity. But I detect a subtle shift, a presence in the Force that grows with each step. I had never sensed this aura before, but it felt reassuring, solid as the roots of an ancient tree. In my bones, I know this was this presence that Revan had fought and dragged us through the abyss to see.
And eventually we came to the heart of it. Through more gilded hallways, we finally come face to face with a giant set of silver doors. This is the largest yet, a gothic arch of banded basalt columns marked with the Order symbol. A dozen Hataeron Guard guard this threshold, cowled and silent.
As the sisters approach, they stand aside. Amarinthe places one hand on the doors, pauses and looks at Revan.
"You may find her...different than what the records depict," Amarinthe says hesitantly. "Do not be surprised for she has sacrificed more than any of us."
My brother nods but says nothing.
With that the doors swing inward. Golden light, thick as milk, spills out of the doorway like a tarnished sunrise. When my eyes focus, I can see a large chamber. Ranks of columns supported a high coffered ceiling, the panels decorated with the now familiar Celestial emblems. Porcelain vases stand on brass-topped tables. A basalt sculpture of an humanoid grappling with a writhing serpent dominated the centre of the space, under which a high dome had been raised, inlaid with a mosaic depicting famed events in Jedi history.
That is all insignificant however. Only the occupant of this room deserves any attention for she is a legend I never dreamed of having the privilege to meet. The five of us walk into the chamber, heads bowed, each step weighed with reverence. Even Mysteel makes sure to observe the proper rituals. When we are ten paces from the living legend, Revan drops to one knee. The rest of us follow suite.
"Conciliator," Revan says, using the Master's honourific.
The figure approaches slowly, weighed down by age and burden. I see palsied green hands reach down and raise Revan back to his feet.
"Conciliator," repeats a withered voice."Now that is a name I have not heard in a long time. A long time."
Her shadow falls on top of me and I feel a touch on my shoulder. Just the contact sends a flood of warmth through my body.
"But enough of that. You and your companions did not risk life and soul for a history lesson."
Slowly, I rise and my eyes settle on a Jedi Master who hasn't been seen in decades and whose name is spoken with nothing less than solemn reverence. I see an ancient Mirialan, older than Vandar, older than any mortal has a right to be. An impossibly decrepit vessel trying to harbour a soul steeped deeper in the Force than any save the Queen.
"Come," says Helian Pretanova with a smile. "Let us speak on more important matters."
Authors Notes:
Sorry for the wait. It's been a busy few months but I always chip away at this story when I have the time. Hopefully everyone found the glimpse into the Impossible Citadel interesting. The next chapter will finally reveal why Revan has been so insistent about travelling here and meeting this mysterious master.
Thanks again to all my readers. I would love to read any feedback you might have. Please leave a fav if you like the story so far. Thanks!
Responses to reviews:
RevJohn1171 chapter 22. March 18, 2020
I'm glad you like these insight snippets! Glad you liked the escape chapter as well. The Queen can't be done yet. I haven't even shown everything she can do!
Maugle chapter 22 . Feb 5, 2020
Thanks! I hope you find this story continuously interesting!
LeonCaboose chapter 22 . Jan 18, 2020
Thanks! I enjoy using this new format to explore Revan's mind and use of tactics.
R4t0rian chapter 22. Nov 26, 2019
Thanks for all the pointers! I'm glad you liked the entire escape sequence!
