Chapter Twenty-Six: Choose Your Path
A rolling drumbeat of rain rattled the windows of Qui-Gon's seaside home—though its tempo had grown faster as the day had drawn on, the steady pace of the Jedi and her research partner had plodded on without a thought.
They worked by candlelight—the storm clouds of Aquilae's rainy season had rendered the sunlight a useless, tepid gray from the early hours of the morning. Lor San Tekka sat at the dining table, its scratched wood hardly visible beneath the stacks upon stacks of bound parchment—Jedi texts. Pages crinkled beneath his salt-stained fingers; tattered sleeves of an ocean-bleached cloak brushed against the leather book covers.
Across the room, Qui-Gon drew in a deep breath and held it there in an effort to steady her trembling fingers. The antique slate of carved glass cradled between them, no larger than a deck of sabacc cards, was irreplaceable. One wrong move and it would be little more than crystallized dust on the living room floor. The Jedi allowed herself to exhale as the slate came to rest, cradled atop a tripod in the room's center. Behind the glass, a candle flickered—beyond, on the room's largest wall, a map of the galaxy flickered with it.
"This is a map from the war with the Sith?" Lor San Tekka asked—he'd shifted in his chair, turning away from the dust-covered book that sat before him.
"Not quite," Qui-Gon said, stepping around the makeshift mounting device and into the light cast by the carved rectangular lens. Her silhouette blotted out the imprecise strokes of the Unknown Regions, but the rest of the projection was visible. Her living room had become the map chamber of the Jedi Temple in miniature. The long-forgotten glass lens carving, plucked from the Temple storeroom before she'd departed those years ago, was a far cry from a modern star chart. The stars hung in different positions, some systems bearing names that had long fallen out of popular use. "But it's close enough."
She stepped closer to the wall, feeling the texture of the cabin's wood beneath the amber light of the map with one hand as she reached into a pocket of her blastweave jacket. A small knife and a scribbled list of planetary systems emerged in her grip. Raising the knife to the wall and the list to eye level, she moved down it one by one, marking imperceptible carvings into the wall behind each planet on the scrap of paper.
"May I ask you something?" Lor asked—a glance over her shoulder revealed the man was still poring over an old Jedi text as he spoke.
"Shoot," Qui-Gon muttered, scratching another mark into the wall behind the flickering dot that represented Rhen Var.
"You are a Jedi," he began. "Your friend is not. And yet, when he called to speak to you, he knew something about this war that you didn't know." The rustling of a turning page punctuated his sentence. "Does that concern you?"
She couldn't quite manage to suppress a chuckle. "It makes more sense than you might think, actually." Setting down the knife, Qui-Gon turned to face him. Briefly squinting against the light of their makeshift map projector, she shifted her position and leaned against the marked-up wall. "He could have easily learned it from someone outside the Order. There are certain things the Jedi just don't talk about. Reminds me of trying to learn more about the Lost Twenty. Look at the monument all you want, but start asking the Masters questions and you're quickly put in your place." Pausing, she let out a long sigh. "You figure out how to look in the gaps, to learn more from what's not there than what is." A grin tugged at the edges of her mouth. "And you learn to be inquisitive around the right people."
"Like your master?"
She nodded. "Dooku was . . . a different sort. He gave you books you weren't supposed to read. Told you stories you weren't supposed to know. I don't think he believed in burying our history, even the less glamorous parts of it."
Candlelight flickered, casting long shadows across Lor San Tekka's face. "Do you think Count Dooku is the one who told your friend about the end of the war with the Sith?"
A snort escaped Qui-Gon's nose. "I seriously doubt it."
Nodding, Lor turned away from her and peered down at the old text laid out before him. The crinkle of a fingertip on the corner of tattered parchment mingled with the gentle crackle of a burning wick, radiating warmth through the Force. Qui-Gon allowed herself to bask in it for just a moment before turning back to the map wall and reaching down for the knife.
As her arm extended down toward the tool, she froze. A spike of alertness, of epiphany and discovery, was rolling off of Lor San Tekka. She whirled around to face him once again.
"You found something?" she asked, unable to contain the excitement in her voice.
At first he said nothing. He was leaning forward in his chair—the wood of the furniture creaked as he moved—a bound tome cradled in his hands. One palm planted under the front cover, the other under the back, he stared down the yellowed crevice where the pages met the spine like a marksman lining up the sights of a rifle.
"Look in the gaps," he echoed. "Learn more from what's not there, you said?"
Qui-Gon nodded—then, realizing he wasn't looking at her, said something. "Yes."
"Someone tore a page out of this journal. And the date on the page before it lines up with the end of your war."
Qui-Gon snatched up the knife, turning to face the map wall. "Does the journal mention any locations on the page before the missing one?"
"Yes. The Iliabath system."
Her eyes scanned the map, looking for the matching dot of light and the Aurebesh markings beneath it. There! She dug the knife into the wall, twisting it for good measure before pulling it away and stepping back from the projection.
When she came to a stop, Lor San Tekka was standing beside her. "Do you really think we'll find it like this?" he asked. "With an out-of-date star chart and a bunch of old Jedi journals?"
Pocketing the knife, she turned to look at him—a grin formed on her face. "No I don't." She shot a sideways glance at the map, trying to discern whether the markings she'd left on the wall had any sort of pattern to them. "But we'll get close, and that's all that matters. Once we're in the right sector, the Force will guide me the rest of the way."
"I'm sure it will."
This new voice sucked the air out of the room. Where there was once joy and excitement, hope and optimism buzzing between her and Lor San Tekka, Qui-Gon now felt only a hollow void in her chest.
"Jesmyn," she said, the name catching in a dry throat.
"Lor," the Arkanian said, not acknowledging their partner, "the storm outside is getting worse. You should head home for the night."
"Of course." The man offered Qui-Gon an awkward nod as he shuffled toward the dwelling's front door. Howling wind punctuated his exit; when the sound had died down, Qui-Gon was the first to speak.
"Jesmyn, I can explain," she said, holding out a hand in protest.
The Arkanian's pale eyes narrowed. "I thought you had decided to stay."
"Something came up, I—"
Jesmyn threw their hands in the air. "What was it this time? A dream? A premonition? Another vision from that lighthouse?"
For a moment, Qui-Gon was overwhelmed by the urge to say that yes, the Force had done this—add a weight to her decision that no one could challenge. Then, looking at Jesmyn and hating herself for the thought, she said, "No, no. A message."
"From one of your Jedi friends."
"Not exactly," Qui-Gon said, stretching out the words. "Anakin Skywalker called me. He was asking me all these questions about a piece of Jedi history. I said I'd look into it for him."
A slow shake of the head was accompanied by Jesmyn crossing their arms. "Ah yes. Skywalker." They practically spat out the name. "A paragon of good decision-making. We all know what happens when we listen to him—"
Qui-Gon's eyes grew wide. "Jesmyn, that's not fair."
"Not fair!" the Arkanian barked, throwing their head back in a humorless laugh. "You want to know what's not fair? Every time we have this conversation, every time you waffle back and forth about staying here or returning home, it never seems to occur to you that only one of us has a home to return to."
They turned away from Qui-Gon, gazing at the table covered in scrolls of parchment and dusty old books. "Oh, Lor San Tekka," they said—the name left their mouth as a pained whisper.
"What about him?" Qui-Gon asked, wincing at the defensiveness that laced her voice.
"You're a Jedi," they said, turning back toward her. "You either don't realize the power you hold over these people, or you don't care. Everyone here adores you, but Lor San Tekka hangs on your every word. He would follow you straight into the abyss." Jesmyn closed their eyes and hung their head. "You have a responsibility not to let him. If you must pursue this fool's errand, you should do it alone."
Qui-Gon clenched her jaw, grinding her teeth against themselves. She felt heat creeping up her cheeks—was it embarrassment, or was it anger? Maybe both.
"Fine," she hissed, finally managing to uproot herself from the place she'd been standing. She stomped toward the door, yanking her cloak from the coat rack as she stormed by it.
"Fine!" Jesmyn echoed. "Do what you always do, run off to that damned lighthouse to wallow in your own misery!"
"I will!" Qui-Gon shouted, slamming the cabin door behind her. Raindrops stung her cheeks and the wind tangled through her hair as she stood on the front step, pondering her next move. Now was her chance to turn back, to offer an "I'm sorry" and smooth things over.
Instead she marched forward, looking toward the edge of town and pulling her cloak tighter against the oncoming storm.
Thwum.
Energy rolled off the lighthouse beacon in measured, even pulses. Qui-Gon heard them. Saw them. Felt them—in the Force and across her body. Each wave of energy rippled across her skin and through her hair, tugging at the edges of her coat.
Thwum.
It was a guiding light, pointing to safe harbor. An antenna, tuned to a signal that bound the universe together.
Thwum.
The frequency was wrong. Not the one she needed right now. She stretched out a hand against the onslaught of rain, her fingertips trembling as another wave of energy pulsed past her.
Thwum.
Although Qui-Gon touched nothing, she felt each finger grip a piece of the beacon's inner workings. Mirrors, gears, levers and kyber crystals never meant to be touched by human hands. Operating mechanisms that required a different touch.
Thwum.
She reached out and closed her eyes. Took a deep breath. Felt the rain on her hands—the cold, icy needles of the storm. Wind howled through the lighthouse's upper structure. Her wrist moved in an almost imperceptible rotation.
The beacon moved too.
Gears began to rotate, mirrors shifting and crystal lenses angling back and forth. The pulses rolling away from the lighthouse quickened.
Tha-whum. Tha-whum.
Wind—not from the storm, but from the lighthouse itself—whipped past her face. She squeezed her eyes shut tighter.
Tha-whum. Tha-whum.
Her coat fluttered. The old stone tower vibrated beneath her feet.
Then there was silence.
The rain no longer fell. It seemed to hang in the air, a thick and ever-present blanket of moisture. Howling winds were replaced by chattering creatures—sounds of nature she'd never heard before. The smells were familiar, ones she'd come to know around Aquilae—a damp and oversaturated ground. Wood softened by water and time. And yet it was different. Denser. More alive.
She opened her eyes.
"Ah. Young Qui-Gon."
At first she said nothing, merely allowing herself to take in the sights. The space around her teemed with life, from the tufts of moss clinging to the tips of every tree branch to the serpents lurking at the bottom of the swamp water. Was this real—or another mirage? A vision of the Force, like Dooku's office had been?
Of course, she reminded herself, the vision of Dooku's office had been inspired by reality—a collection of disparate memories, places and sights from throughout the count's life. She supposed this was no different. It was either the old Jedi Master's current home, or one from long before.
"So this is it?" Qui-Gon said aloud. "I can't imagine Dooku coming to train in a place like this." She glanced down in front of her. Two fallen trees turned benches sat on opposite sides of a dying campfire—perched atop the far log was an old alien in tattered robes. Wisps of white hair scattered from his head in all directions; the diffuse light of the swamp shone through his pointy ears.
A throaty chuckle escaped the ancient Jedi's lips. "Never one to complain, he was. At least not back then." Yoda's head tilted forward as he let out a low sigh. "Changed, I'm sure that has. The Force has carried him down a different path."
Qui-Gon lowered herself onto the fallen log opposite Yoda. "That's why I'm here," she said, leaning in to feel what little warmth still radiated from the glowing pile of coals. "I need advice. I reached out to Dooku, but . . ."
She trailed off, allowing a wordless tension to hang between them. It was far from silent—the swamp was constantly alive with screeching creatures crying out in the distance. "He left the Order," she continued after it became clear that Yoda was not going to finish her thoughts for her. "You just left the Jedi Temple."
"Alike in that way, you and I are," he said.
Qui-Gon nodded. "You must believe the Force called you here. Have you ever been tempted to leave this place behind? Go somewhere else?"
Yoda's eyes fluttered closed, and the tips of his ears wilted like unwatered flowers. "I cannot help you."
"What?"
He inhaled deeply, and raised his head to gaze at Qui-Gon. "If advice you were seeking, then advice I could give. But you desire answers. Direction. For the weight of decision to be lifted off your shoulders."
Her head tilted to one side. "That's not—"
"You speak about this to anyone who will listen. To me, to Dooku, to friends, and those you love. Hoping that someone will provide the answers you want to hear."
He paused, reaching beside him to pick up a knobby wooden cane that sat against his fallen log bench. Clutching it in one claw, he poked at the dying embers with the tip of the cane. "I do not know what lies ahead for you, young Qui-Gon, but this I do know: the Force has chosen you for this moment. Not your old master, not his old master, and not your friends on Aquilae.
"Stay? Leave? Decide, you must. But bigger than that one decision, this journey is. There are many steps along the way, and the Force is your guide . . . but your own answers, you must find. No one can choose your path except you."
She shot to her feet and glared down at the old Jedi Master. "Yoda, that's not—"
Rain poured down around her again. Ripples in the Force rolled over her in measured waves. Just like that, she was back atop the lighthouse—Yoda's domain had disappeared in an instant.
"Dammit!" she shouted into the thunderstorm, turning to slam a fist into the lighthouse's stone structure.
The beacon moved again.
She turned to watch the structure shift. The gears creaked and groaned; droplets of rain sizzled as they struck the Force beacon's glowing mirrors and crystals. Had she done this? Had she spurred the clockwork structure into action with her outburst of anger?
She heard a voice speak her name.
Qui-Gon.
Another voice, a different one.
He's right.
And another.
You are on a journey.
It was a chorus of voices—each set of words coming from a different mouth, an unseen speaker. She spun around to face the source of each sentence, but could see nothing through the downpour.
The Force has chosen you.
It's time.
You have already taken your first steps.
Now trust the Force.
Take another.
Qui-Gon screamed, willing her mind to tear itself free from the unwanted hallucination. Practically leaping down the lighthouse steps, she tore through the old keeper's quarters and out the front door. She tripped over herself and stumbled through the mud, but didn't stop running until the lighthouse was out of sight.
The village felt oddly serene despite the torrential downpour—empty streets and shuttered windows were lit only by the occasional flash of lightning; electric lamps which usually brightened an evening walk had been shut down to avoid an unwanted power surge.
Qui-Gon was drenched from head to toe—the sleeves of her coat stuck to her arms, and she knew she'd have to practically peel her boots and footwraps off once she'd made it inside. Calling on the Force to strengthen her legs, she willed herself to run along the final stretch to her and Jesmyn's home.
She closed the door behind her as quickly as she opened it, then jumped in surprise when she noticed her partner standing in the entryway.
"You came back," the Arkanian said, extending a hand to offer Qui-Gon a towel—she snatched it from Jesmyn and began to dry herself off. "I thought you might just stay out there and wait out the storm," they added.
Qui-Gon shrugged, pulling off her waterlogged coat and letting it fall to the floor.
"How was the lighthouse?" Jesmyn asked.
"Haunted," Qui-Gon answered, shooting them a smirk—she could just make out a smile forming at the edge of their mouth. The pair chuckled briefly, sighing in unison as the moment faded away.
Qui-Gon inhaled, bracing herself for a difficult conversation. "Jesmyn, listen—"
She was interrupted by the sound of metal clinking against wood—Jesmyn's hand was planted against a small side table in the entryway.
"What's that?" Qui-Gon asked, pointing to the glinting bit of metal beneath their hand.
The Arkanian's eyes fell as they glared at the floor. "The keys to your ship. Repairs were nearly complete. I took it upon myself to finish them while you were gone. There's nothing holding you here now. You can go." They stepped away from the small table, gesturing at the electronic key.
Wordlessly, Qui-Gon stepped forward—not toward the keys, but to Jesmyn. She wrapped her arms around them and rested her head on their shoulder.
"I'm not going anywhere," Qui-Gon whispered in their ear, squeezing her arms even tighter.
As they embraced, Qui-Gon's eyes wandered down to the starship keys resting on the end table, then past them through the middle of the dwelling. Through one of the house's rear windows, she could just make out the ship garage—its door ajar, lights illuminating Qui-Gon's interstellar vessel.
The couple hugged for several minutes. Qui-Gon stared at her starship the whole time.
Jedi Archives: The Map Room
[excerpt from the Journals of the Whills. Book of Guidance, Chapter Twenty-Six]
And the time came to rebuild the Jedi Temple, and the Architects gathered around the Tree to seek Guidance from the Force. They were twelve in number, all Masters of the Order.
And the Force told them,
You shall construct a chamber in the Temple, a chamber to guide the Jedi across the stars. It shall be sixteen paces wide, and just as long, with floors and walls of smooth stone. Upon this stone, you shall cast maps of Light.*
And so the Architects did as instructed, the room they built according to these words. Each map they carved from slates of glass that fit upon the palms of their hands, their etchings cast by the light of the flame upon the stone.
Except the First Map, which is sacred, and carved in shards of kyber—never to be cast upon the stone.
[*Archivist's footnote: in some manuscripts, this passage is rendered as a set of instructions from the Architects to the Jedi Temple builders, rather than as instructions from the Force to the Architects. For further reading on the contemporary interpretation of the nature of the Force, see chapter twelve of "Aspects of the Force: The Light."]