Chapter 24
Time check: 4 days, 8 hours, 26 minutes, 29 seconds before the Triumph
Miriam Aventis Pretanova.
That is a name known across all the temples, said with nothing short of hushed reverence. For as long as I have been alive, her name was a byword for the model Jedi. Even the Grandmaster might be mocked, when in wine or in anger. But to do so with the Master rewarded with the accolade of Conciliator is simply beyond imagination.
Her service record is well documented, preserved by scriveners who devote entire careers filling temple archives with the Order's most worthy exploits. Miriam's feats eclipses most in that regard. There was the prodigious Force talent of course, the natural athleticism and the possession of seemingly unlimited charisma that vaulted her into our upper echelons even at a young age.
It is not her combat record however that garners the most respect but the lack thereof. For in her decades of service, the Conciliator is reputed to have never waged a single battle with her blade.
Many would respond to that fact with derision but do not think it a sign of weakness. Jedi are martial by necessity, but many forget our ultimate vocation is that of the peacemaker, the arbiter of balance. In that role, Miriam has accomplished more with her words than a hundred thousand of us could on the field of battle.
When the rebellion of Dulan V threatened to drag entire sectors into civil war, Miriam managed to pacify the aggrieved parties quickly and without a shot fired. The Perlax Accord was formed through her negotiations, one that ripped dozens of star systems away from the Hutt's grasp and the millions of slaves destined for the flesh markets. And when Kun's insurrection threatened to tear through the Order's very foundations, it was her oratory that kept wavering enclaves firmly in the Throneworld's grasp where weaker voices would see them slip into the claws of the arch traitor.
Those are only a fraction of Miriam's exploits. It is said her speeches can move the most intransigent into compliance and whip the devoted into maniacal fervour. When the seat of Grandmaster needed to be filled, her name was pushed as the prime candidate. Indeed, several enclaves petitioned the Throneworld directly for her elevation. To everyone's surprise and horror, Miriam rejected the offer and chose to join the Keeper's Circle. There were rumours that Vandar and several venerable Knights went on their knees and begged her to take the post but she would not be dissuaded. For reasons entirely unclear, she chose the path of exile and life that knew only sacrifice.
What the Jedi needed after the cataclysm was a strong leader to rally our tattered remnants. What we got was an inexperienced figurehead, too young and distracted with personal issues to guide us through the storm. Only to be eclipsed by a zealot, whose policies has led to the Order's deplorable predicament. Now, with our slow decline into irrelevance, many Knights speculate how much damage could have been curtailed if Miriam had taken the reigns. She was supposed to be our hope for the future, the aching near perfect hero that got away.
And so, I find it hard to reconcile the legend with reality. Her cult of invincibility has been promulgated to such ludicrous heights, I was prepared for a modicum of disappointment. But even so, the figure before me is nothing like the fables pressed into the minds of initiates. I expected to see a matriarch. Perhaps with more care lines than her outdated photos but retaining a pleasant complexion nonetheless, like her statue in the Hall of the Exalted.
Instead, I look upon a withered ghoul, a living cadaver draped in heavy robes. She looks beyond ancient, older than Vandar, older than any mortal had a right to be. Her hands are thin like sticks and her face is a shrivelled, flesh-stretched canvas. What little hair she has hangs limply on her palsied scalp like dead weeds. There is barely any green pigment in her skin at all. Just a pale surface as translucent as spider's silk, dotted with liver spots and purple veins sprouting out like a kraken's tendrils.
Her movements are stiff, arthritic, and her breathing is a rattle. I can scarcely equate this near corpse to the vital woman decades before. This…this is not a natural aging process. This is the byproduct of a life laboring within the palace of eternals, fighting forces beyond imagination even as they leech and twist your body into something resembling only a parody of the living.
Still…I do see the strength. Whatever has ravaged her body has not diminished her mind or soul. Beneath the withered cataracts, there is a glint of inquisitiveness that belies a shrewd negotiator. And her aura…even dormant it is like the glare of a desert sun, heavy and all encompassing.
"Tell me," she says softy as we rise. Her voice is barely above a husk. "Do I look so old to you?"
I realize I have been staring while my companions had the good sense to look nonplussed. Guile has always been my weakest trait.
"No," I sputter. "No, of course not."
She chuckles, dry humour rattling from her throat. "Yes I do. Of course I do. Many on the Throneworld would look aghast to see me now. Children would scream and wail at my appearance. I am glad you merely look like a gaping fish."
Mysteel chuckles. Even Amarinthe raises a hand to hide a smile. I feel my face redden.
The Master tilts her head, raising her hands in a gesture of peace. "Forgive a crone's teasing. I am old and must take what amusement where I can. In truth, I simply envy those that can still walk among the living without drawing revulsion."
She is good. I think. She is very good.
Miriam gestures and the floor begins to shimmer like liquid metal. My eyes narrow as a silver table slowly takes shape and coalesces. It is oval, complete with engravings that should have taken a master artisan months to complete. More pieces break off from the floor into bubbles then stretch and solidify into chairs of similar extravagance.
Mysteel gives a startled gasp then laughs, clapping her hands in delight.
"Oh, I love all your toys!"
Miriam smiles. "These are no toys my dear, but I am glad you approve."
She gestures, shuffling to the new furniture.
"Please, sit. You have all endured much and must be famished. Let us dine and partake in each other's company."
Noctua and Amarinthe help her into the closest chair. Cautiously we move to the alien constructs. As we take our seats, several discs fly under our noses. I can swear they were never in the room moments before, nor did my senses detect anything. My suspicion is somewhat mollified when I see they are bearing scrumptious dishes. Oysters from the crystal beaches of Manaan. Poached eggs served with creamy broccoli soup. Roasted Bantha simmered in its own fat and glazed with mushroom sauce. A giant Rancor flank cooked with carrots, shallots and onions and enough wine spilling from silver goblets to slake several drunkards. Some dishes I cannot place, but all are taken from a multitude of cultures, prepared with an extravagance to rival any king's court.
I can feel my mouth watering just staring at the feast. The aroma is simply intoxicating. Mysteel is already spooning food into her plate like a child running amok in a candy factory. The Conciliator takes a cup of wine and sips appreciatively.
"So, Invictus," she says, her rheumy eyes landing on my brother. "What would you like to speak about?"
Time check: 4 days, 7 hours, 35 minutes, 16 seconds before the Triumph
The first hour is spent in polite discourse, the kind of preamble society engages in before more sensitive matters can be broached. We enquiry about Miriam's health and wax fondly of her famous exploits. In turn, the venerable Master asks after certain elders as hovering discs sweep away our dirty dishes and refill our cups. The food is simply exquisite. Bantha steaks melt in my mouth and the wine has a subtlety of flavors that dance on my tongue. Our host has spared no expense.
This show of hospitality is all part of Miriam's vaunted diplomacy of course. Wining and dining to ease negotiations is a technique Master Miriam has truly mastered. She has even written several treatises on the subject, and is standard curriculum for Throneworld initiates. When the Conciliator speaks, it is suffused with a gentle intimacy one would expect when meeting a long lost friend. And when she listens, it is with rapt attention, as if nothing is more important than what you are saying. Meaning a less cautious conversationalist may feel compelled to share spicy tidbits of information, even if it is not in their interest to do so.
Amanrinthe manners are impeccable as usual. She picks the proper utensils for each course, deftly eating and speaking with a diplomat's poise. There is a tightness to her expression though and she does not meet our gaze. She seems discomfited by this entire meeting and I cannot help but think the Keepers have more unpleasantness in store.
Noctua by contrast attacks her food like a hunter gutting a carcass. She ignores the wide array of cutlery, cutting bloody red meat with what appears to be a skinning knife. This feast is less a culinary experience to Noctua and more an act of a predator refuelling.
I have time to properly take stock of our surroundings. Like much of the Keeper's domain, the meeting room is a shrine of mysterious antiquities, its arrangement similar to the museums scattered on the Throneworld. Strange statues line the chamber walls, some old and grey, other gleaming like polished jade. There are those I recognize from the annals of our history, but the majority are mysteries, figures from an epoch that the Republic has forgotten or never knew.
Golden display cases show glimmering artifacts, labeled from different eras and from a multitude of races I have never heard of. The medallions, bracelets and rings are all unfamiliar though some items resemble those glimpsed during our exodus from hell. Of special interest to me are the lightsaber designs dating from the birth of our Order. These look like clumsy things, weighted slabs of metal without the heft and balance of a modern blade. Forged when our founders were still perfecting the craft of killing.
While I admire the Keeper's sanctum, Mysteel regales Master Miriam with largely embellished versions of our exploits.
"One time, we were on Argus Three to break up a Zygerrian black market. We had snuck into one of the factories where those bastards do their business. Well, we were about to bust the joint up when I heard noises coming from some of their storage crates. And you know what was in them? Ewoks! They were being used as slave labor and some were being skinned and sold for fur! How could anyone hurt those cute cuddly darlings? Ugh!"
"They told you that, did they?" Amarinthe interjects dryly. "Since when do you speak Ewokese? It is a pointless language."
Mysteel makes a face. "Hey, tell that to Rev. He speaks like a bazillion useless languages! Well I was having none of this child cruelty! While Shiny and Rev were complaining about 'tactical protocol', I gave those cuties some sharp sticks and pointers on how to stage a coup. In a few hours, they could make booby traps and start fires. And then, it was on – full blown revolution, baby! I'm talking about Ewok uprisings across all over the place, blowing shit up and stabbing those feline assholes while screaming 'Freedom'! You should see those Zygerrians running around in circles while an army of furballs chased them with sticks." She laughs. "Well after we sent those bastards to jail, we returned those adorable munchkins back to Endor. Maybe the slavers will think twice about messing with Ewoks now that they're so badass. I wanted to adopt some of them but Rev wouldn't let me because he's so mean."
Mysteel somehow manages to remain dignified while talking, swigging mouthfuls of wine and stuffing her mouth full of cream puffs glazed with honey, an apparent delicacy on her homeworld. But then, she could be rolling in the mud with a herd of Bantha and somehow remain dignified. Revan allows this prattle to continue, observing our host through shaded eyes. This is a common tactic he employs during negotiations. Letting our sister be a willing distraction, freeing himself to observe and formulate his own course of action.
Despite our sister's gross impropriety, Master Miriam listens intently, punctuating her side of the conversation with polite questions, her grey eyes wandering between the three of us. From time to time they fall on me, and I feel a terrible weight on my soul. Even at rest, the Force reverberates from the Master like tremors from a slumbering leviathan.
We do not discuss the Keepers affairs or the Citadel's secrets despite the thousand questions burning in my mind. Those are simply boundaries we must respect. It is after we finish desert that she makes a surprising request.
"Amarinthe, would you be so kind as fetch more wine for our guests."
That is ludicrous of course. Those discs floating behind us are more than capable of the task. It is merely a sign Master Miriam wishes to redirect the audience to more serious matters.
Revan catches Mysteel's eye and makes a casual gesture with two fingers. Go with her. He could simply project the command, but my brother has always insisted that over reliance on the Force should not be encouraged.
Mysteel springs from her seat and starts tugging Amarinthe's sleeve. "Let's go sis. I've been dying to comb that beehive on your head. Then we can powder each other's faces and..."
For a moment, Amarinthe looks like she may protest. Then she shakes her head, resigned and allows Mysteel to drag her away. "This will not work," Amarinthe calls over her shoulder. Her words are aimed at Noctua but the elder sister remains silent, staring impassively as they leave the room. When I do not follow, our hosts look at me with raised eyebrows. "What we have to say next is for you alone, vod," Noctua warns Revan.
"He stays," Revan replies simply. "He is grooming you," I remember Celeste saying. And despite my recent misgivings towards my brother, I feel a flush of pride.
Noctua lips purse but does not push the matter. She looks to her master and nods her assent.
"Amarinthe gave her report," Miriam remarks. Her bony hand nurses a silver goblet, still nearly full. "I must admit...no one has ever passed the trial in such a spectacular fashion. Truly, your reputation does not do you justice."
Revan tilts his head. "You are too kind, Conciliator."
"Miriam, just Miriam, brother. You have no need to stand on ceremony."
She reaches into her sleeve and produces a chunk of scorched metal laced with broken circuitry. Revan looks at it, eyes raised.
"You retrieved the detritus of our journey?"
"Of course, we had to watch your progress from afar," Miriam replies, setting it on the table. "Jury rigging a detonator to anathema shards and making a shrapnel grenade, thereby magnifying the nullifying effect exponentially." She gives an appreciative chuckle. "If only all our brothers and sisters were so cunning. Be assured, it shall become a new weapon in our arsenal against the enemy, Invictus."
Revan's mouth twitches into a frown. "I dislike that term."
"Oh?" Miriam asks, amusement dancing in her voice. "And why is that?"
"It implies an invulnerability that simply does not exist," Revan says flatly. "I have lost many times, Master. And I cherish those losses because there is always a lesson in it. A flawless victory is worthless but a crushing loss has a lot to recommend. Ignore the stigma of failure, for the greatest growth is achieved through defeat. That is the first maxim taught to me and it has served me well."
Miriam nods thoughtfully. "Vandar?"
"My first Master." Revan shakes his head, suddenly looking reluctant. "My apologies, I am forbidden to speak of him."
He spreads his hands.
"Nevertheless I am thankful. My request was audacious."
"It was." Miriam nibbles on a piece of finely veined blue cheese. "I have lost count how many petitions we have turned down from other circles. But when Amarinthe told me you wanted access, I was intrigued." She steeples her bony fingers and leans forward. "What could the chosen son, the Liberator of Courvaine want with me? He who could take on Atris' little posse and have them cowering behind her robes?"
She smiles at our astonishment. "Don't look so surprised, Nameless One. Even ensconced away from Republic affairs, word of your exploits reach my ears. It is good to know that the new generation has someone of your caliber."
"There are spies spying on the spies," I mutter. By the Force, I hate Throneworld politics. Miriam hides the broken grenade back in her sleeve.
"Even so, I could not simply swing open the gates and let you waltz into the Citadel. The trial had to be undertaken."
"As you say, Master Miriam," says Revan. "Your house your rules."
"And I hope you will allow me a moment of impropriety. I am suspicious of any Knight tutored by a Master as covetous as..." Miriam hesitates.
"Kreia," Revan finishes flatly.
She nods. "Yes, I heard you reserved that insult for her. The philosophical differences between you two are known, but I had to be sure. Her thralls are everywhere and if even one managed to gain another morsel of our secrets, the repercussions would be catastrophic. Yet I can see your antipathy is unfeigned, for no one who cleaved to her ideals could reach this point."
"You are right to be wary, Master," Revan says quietly. "Kreia is a threat to everyone including herself. She chases secrets like a child chases sweatmeats and one day, that will be her undoing."
His disdain is unmistakable. Yet again, I find myself struggling to understand the source of this antipathy.
"Forgive me, Master," I interrupt, drawing everyone's attention. Revan's Master is held in high esteem. "Her service record is unimpeachable, her scrolls of honour numerous. I simply cannot understand why you would all disparage her this way."
"Do you believe everything you read?" Noctua retorts. "Not everyone is who they appear to be, vod. You should have learned that lesson by now."
"Take my word, Kreia is not a morale being, brother" Revan adds gravely. "Not in the way you and I understand the concept. Many times, I have tried to end her wretched activities. Regrettably, my efforts are more often stymied than not." His expression darkens. "She is the canker in the Order's heart but unlike Atris, her poison is more insidious."
And she stole from us," Noctua growls. "In the past, there were artifacts we had marked for containment or destruction. Artifacts too dangerous for the likes of her to handle. But Kreia got to them first. She funnelled them away and used her considerable influence to keep them out of our hands."
Something about those words makes me remember the encounter within the Order's dungeons. I recall the strange companion the Master kept at her side and how unnatural it had seemed, as if horrors were lurking just beneath its tattered rags.
"There are other infractions as well, too many to count. Those who tried to stop her misdeeds are all dead." Noctua glances at Revan. "Mostly."
"You have proof of this?"
"Only indirectly," Noctua admits. "Kreia is a monster but she never swings the sword herself. Always through proxies, planting suggestions so the puppets think it was their decision. For all her flaws, the fiend is a master of camouflage. That is why she has survived so long. She has buried her tendrils so deep, uprooting her will cause more damage to the Order than it's worth.
"Indeed. And she plans more folly, which is precisely why I'm here." My brother takes out a miniature holo projector. The ghostly image of a girl appears and my blood turns to ice. She…she is-
"Bastila Shan, human standard. Blue eyes, dark brown hair. Prime age for direct apprenticeship," Revan remarks, as if rattling off a checklist. "Her raw Force aptitude has been noted as being prodigious. Early markers indicate a proficiency in crowd control techniques."
Along her static form, are side window showing different recordings of Bastila from different temple locations on different dates. One in particular catches my eye, one of her staring at a group of initiates. She seems pensive, as if longing to join the group but too afraid to approach.
Just as sad when I first saw her.
"Is this security footage from the temple?" You told Levius you didn't possess any."
"I lied," Revan says. If my brother notices my surprise or recognition of the girl, he does not show it.
The recording continues as Bastila seems to muster courage and begins approaching. Two steps in, something green and slimy strikes her across the head. The perpetrators are another group of initiates. They laugh and point at her, calling out names.
"Freak! You're only here because your own parents didn't want you!"
The recording ends as Bastila runs away, tears in her eyes.
My mouth tightens. The casual cruelty of youth.
Miriam's rheumy eyes does seem to notice the recordings. She is following the projected statistics instead, showing everything from blood type to strongest Force proficiencies. "Battle Meditation? A valuable commodity. Many Masters would jockey for the prestige of molding such as a talent."
"Kreia has staked her claim," My brother says darkly.
Miriam leans back on her chair. "Ah, so the picture is complete. You wish us to take the girl."
Revan nods. "Keepers carry the Edict of Acquisition. Your word overrides any other requests for apprenticeship."
"You know about that?" Miriam frowns. "It is an old rule and not one we have used in generations. Twisting arms does tend to sour relations." She sighs, and her care lines suddenly seem much more prominent again.
"But my mentoring days are over, Revan. Now, I fight an endless war, away from prying eyes."
She takes a sip of wine.
"The Keepers fight. We have always fought to keep the sins of our ancestors from spilling back into the Republic. There are powers shackled within our vaults that could end galaxies and it takes all our circle's resources to keep them in check."
"She is gifted," Revan persists. "Her innate abilities could be a great boon to your circle."
"We do not recruit simply on the basis of raw talent, brother," Miram says gently. "I have overseen countless souls with titanic power gestating within them, just waiting to mature into strong blades. But even after proper instruction, their character failed them. Greed, jealousy...doubt." Miriam doesn't look at me directly but every word feels like an accusation of my character. A shudder runs down my spine.
"Once seeded, it is almost impossible to expunge," Miriam continues. "And any one of these flaws is enough to unmake a Jedi in an instant. No, it takes a certain mindset to become a Keeper, a force of will that the initiate themselves must cultivate during maturation. It cannot be taught, otherwise our ranks would be overflowing. As things stand, there are barely enough of us to man the Citadel's walls."
Miriam shakes her head and deactivates the holo projector.
"This Bastila is not an ideal candidate. Her psychological profile alone is chalk full of red flags. I doubt she would survive the first phase of the harrowing."
"She is not the most suitable prospect, I understand that," Revan admits. "But you have made exceptions in the past before." He glances at Noctua. "Isn't that right, sister?"
She grins, her sharpened teeth glinting in the candlelight. "True enough, vod. I was like a wild vheh'ad in the beginning. I lashed out at my captors, tried to starve myself and nearly escaped several times." She tips her head to Miriam. "But my alor is patient. The mysteries unfolded and slowly I accepted my fate was intertwined with the Well of Infinity. Still, I was the worst kind of pupil, I admit it. It took years for her to drain the choler out of me, hammering out my imperfections and forging me into a better weapon. I doubt this Bastila could be more difficult."
"Perhaps," Miriam concedes. "But I fear time is not on my side, Invictus. Eternity beckons and soon I must make preparations to help fuel the Soul Engines. That is the fate for all Keepers. Endless toil and eventually sacrifice. Is that really what you want for this girl?"
"She will ruin her." Revan growls with uncharacteristic vehemence. Several dishes and cups crack from the aftershock of his anger. He takes a breath, controlling his outburst. "Better to have an honourable career ending in martyrdom than be a pawn in Kreia's games."
For a moment, Miriam says nothing, her left eye arched in curiosity. "This girl," she muses. "Of all potential initiates, why is it so important this one does not fall into her clutches?"
Revan hesitates. The memory of his time away from the Order still pains him. "During my exile, I met a blood kin of hers," he admits. She asked me to look after Bastila. I keep my promises."
Miriam nods slowly. She strokes her chin, and I can see her shrewd mind calculating, weighing the options presented. "I cannot teach her," she admits. "But that does not mean we cannot come to an accord. There are other suitable Masters for Bastila. And I can make arrangements to keep her away from Kreia's reach."
"Thank you, Conciliator." Revan bows low.
"But say I grant you this boon," Miriam continues. "How will you seal this compact?
The look on my brother's face becomes wary.
"State your terms, Master."
The request is blunt but I understand Revan's reasoning. Miriam is a master negotiator and any prolonged haggling would not favor my brother's position. Better to lay out the cards immediately.
"Hmm," Miriam drums her fingers for a moment. "Any arrangement we make could not be a trivial promise or an exchange of favors. I must have a guarantee."
"An oath?" Revan asks warily. Miriam nods solemnly. "Is that something you are willing to make?"
My brother frowns. "It would depend on what you are proposing. But a pledge of that magnitude is not off the table."
"And an oath from Revan is worth a galaxy's ransom," Noctua murmurs.
My brother and I turn towards her surprised. "Pardon?"
"Something said furtively on the Throneworld." Noctua swirls her cup. She has been a silent observer for most of this exchange, her dark eyes glistening like a feline waiting for the right time to pounce. Now she exchanges glances with Miriam, silently requesting permission to continue. Miriam nods.
"Tell me, vod," Noctua says slowly. "What do you make of the Mandalorian dilemma?"
Author's notes:
First off, I wish to apologize for my prolonged absence from updating. Long story short, the pandemic has thrown off my writing schedule. There was always very little time to write before, but now the window is even slimmer. So I take what time I have and chip away at it. But I wish to assure readers I haven't abandoned the story. I know its entire plotline and the major arcs I want to take it. It's just a matter of putting the ideas down into story form. And hey, I've always thought the story was more about the journey instead of the destination =).
This chapter was going to be a lot longer but I've broken it up so there's a fair chunk written for the next. I can't guarantee when the next update will be but I'll keep at it when I can. Thanks to all my readers for sticking with it and providing constructive feedback. Hope to get more of it in the future.
Responses to reviews:
Guest chapter 22. December 16, 2020
At this point of the story, he is unaware of any of this.
RevJohn1171 chapter 22. November 15, 2020
Yeah, the glamour definitely loses some appeal when you know what went into it. Still, the meeting is definitely a more pleasant experience.
baud001 chapter 22. August 28, 2020
Thanks for all the feedback. I know the story is taking a darker turn but things will go in a less scary direction for a bit.
electr0chapter 22. March 23, 2020
The tension between Exon and Revan will definitely build up to something ;). I'm glad you like the Citadel's description and the darker undertones. Thanks for all the feedback!
