In Love and War - Part Seventeen

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Diomis grunted as he settled himself into his seat. He looked around. The arena where the challenge was to be held was one of the smaller ones located within the capital. Used mainly for less important athletic contests, it could hold only about 5,000 spectators. But there were nowhere near that number in attendance on this warm, sunny morning.

Only the members of the Assembly, about 500 of them, were seated within the stands, and they were all clustered in the shaded seats just under the huge canvas awning. Diomis sat there also, along with his wife, Jonica. Nearby sat Ryjasts Lorus Savon and Jamor Kiet, along with a number of other Assembly members whom Diomis was acquainted with. Ryjast Lorus leaned closer, his thin face gazing curiously at Diomis and Jonica.

"Where is your brother?" he asked. "Wasn't he invited?"

A grimace cramped Diomis' face. "My brother is ill, Ryjast Lorus. Something sudden, or so he says." He looked over at Jonica. "My wife tells me he regrets missing the challenge, but he is sure Gend will be victorious."

"Ah, a pity," Lorus said. "It's too bad the challenge will not be broadcast. He could have watched it from home."

Ryjast Jamor, who was sitting on the other side of Lorus, shook his huge head. "I'm glad the idea was voted down. It was barbaric, to say the least."

Lorus smiled thinly. "You have to admit, Jamor, the reasoning behind it was quite sound."

Jamor snorted, his broad face creased with a disapproving frown. "It most certainly was not. Distracting the people from Ahjane's economic woes and the current political instability in the galaxy by watching two men fight to the death _is_ barbaric. No matter the reasoning behind it."

Lorus only shrugged, smiling over at Diomis as if to say one must excuse Ryjast Jamor. But Diomis agreed with the rotund Ryjast. There was no need for the general populace to witness what was going to happen here today. It was between his family and Onara.

And, as he thought of her, he watched as three doors at the far end of the arena opened. The Assembly members, who had all been talking amongst themselves, instantly quieted. Jonica, who had been unusually silent since her arrival at the capital, stiffened. Diomis looked over at her, but her face was a mask. He looked back at the arena floor.

From the three doors, Gend, the Jedi, and Onara walked out separately and into the bright sunlight. Onara was between them and, as Diomis watched her walk towards where the crowd was seated, he felt his throat tighten. He had not seen her since her return to Ahjane. Her intermediary had appeared at the tribunal session. Diomis had attended her wedding to Dalan, but that was nearly four years ago.

Now, as she drew nearer, he found himself staring at her. Onara was dressed, according to tradition, in an old-style Ahjanese gown. The linen chiton she wore left her right shoulder bare and was girdled about her slim waist with a gold belt.

The gown was of a deep, lush red, symbolizing not only the blood that would be spilled today, but the passion of the men who fought for her. Her thick, black hair hung loosely about her shoulders, its darkness in sharp contrast to her pale golden skin. Stopping before the seats in which the Assembly waited, Onara bowed. Then she raised her head and spoke the ancient words, her voice ringing clearly in the sun-drenched air.

"I present myself this day, willingly and knowingly, and whomsoever emerges victorious, I will be his."

Diomis swallowed heavily as he gazed at Onara. In the four years since he had last seen her, she had matured, and her beauty and her presence reminded him so much of his mother. Although it had been years since her death, Diomis still felt it deep in his heart. His mother had been a honorable and gracious woman, given in marriage to a man who had never loved her, a man who had flagrantly and shamelessly cuckolded her at every opportunity until she had finally died from heartache.

The last thing his mother had whispered to him before she passed on was a promise from Diomis not to be like his father, to be a just and honorable man, but he had not lived up to that promise as fully as he had hoped to. He was faithful to Jonica, though she had betrayed him over the years with her lovers. He tried to be fair to some degree with those he dealt with, though he also couldn't stand not getting his way.

But, at least when it came to how he acquired whatever he desired, he tried to obtain such things as honorably as possible, He was an ambitious man, and he craved power the way his wife craved money, and was not above lying or cheating to get what he wanted, but deep inside he longed to be honorable, longed to be something of what his mother had wanted him to be.

Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, Diomis looked at the two men who would now fight to the death for the right to marry Onara. Both Gend and Kenobi were also dressed in traditional clothing for the challenge, which went back thousands of years in Ahjanese history.

They wore short, white woolen tunics, girdled about their waists with a narrow black belt. Both also wore strip-armor around their left shoulders and arms, sandals on their feet, and they carried the weapons which had been approved for the challenge; swords and shields.

As Diomis examined Gend and Kenobi, he saw Gend had both the weight and height advantage over the Jedi. His son was taller and more heavily muscled. The Jedi, however, the sun shining on his red-gold hair, was in excellent shape. His muscle tone was good and, although he wasn't as heavy or tall as Gend, Diomis suspected he was probably nimble and quick.

Onara turned and faced Gend. It was the custom for the woman to present herself to the challengers for her hand. Gend leered at her, his dark gaze sweeping familiarly over her body. Diomis frowned at his son. There was no need for that. The boy could at least conduct himself with some dignity. Onara, however, gazed coolly back at Gend, her dark eyes betraying nothing.

Then she turned, and, as she looked over at Obi-Wan, Diomis felt his heart lurch in his chest. Gend was both right and wrong regarding Onara's beauty. She was indeed one of the most beautiful women on Ahjane, but, as she gazed at the Jedi, her eyes filled with love, her face shining with it, it was not Jonica who, according to Gend, was the most beautiful woman on their world. It was Onara.

Diomis glanced over at Jonica, at her artificially maintained face. She was beautiful, too, but it was the beauty of a statue, hard and cold. It had not always been so. When he and Jonica had first married, he had thought her kind and considerate. But, and he supposed it was his fault, she had changed over the years and become nothing more than a heartless, greedy harridan who cared for no one but Gend and for nothing but money.

Diomis released a heavy sigh as he looked back at Onara and Kenobi. They were still staring at each other, the Jedi's strangely colored eyes seeming to drink her in and, despite the fact they were standing on the floor of an arena, with hundreds of pairs of eyes upon them, it was apparent that, at least for that breathless moment, nothing existed for them but the other.

Then Kenobi gave Onara a small smile. She returned it, and Diomis saw her hand moving as if she longed to reach out and touch him, but, according to the ritual, it was not allowed. She could show no favor to either of the men who were to fight for her. Then, reluctantly tearing her gaze from the Jedi, Onara turned towards the seated Assembly members. She bowed again, then walked forward. Diomis knew she was entering the corridors that led from the arena floor and up to the seats.

Everyone waited until Onara reappeared again, this time just a few rows away from where Diomis sat. She seated herself next to her major-domo, Simtro. Her two alien companions were also there: the four-armed woman and the furry beast. Once she was seated, Onara happened to look in Diomis' direction. They exchanged a glance, then Onara turned away and looked down at the floor of the arena. Diomis also turned his attention back to the two combatants.

Both men raised their swords in salute to the Assembly and to each other. Then, with a short blow of a horn, the fight began. Diomis leaned forward, as did Jonica. It was apparent the two were evenly matched. As their swords clanged against each other or beat on the shields, Diomis saw that what the Jedi lacked in height and girth he made up for in speed and agility. He frowned, wondering whether the Jedi was using his powers.

He glanced down at the gray-faced alien who sat in the front row. It just so happened the alien was on Ahjane on business, an acquaintance of Ryjast Jamor's. He was a Plezour and, according to Jamor, had the ability to detect when the Force was being used. He, along with an Ahjanese arbiter, were to observe the fight and make sure both Gend and Kenobi followed the rules. Diomis saw no indication on the alien's face that the Jedi was taking unfair advantage of Gend. He settled back, confident Gend would be victorious.

Then. as the Jedi quickly parried a number of swift advances by Gend, Diomis sensed his wife was very agitated. He looked at her and was shocked to see Jonica was gnawing on her fingernails. She seemed oblivious to what she was doing as she was also glancing nervously around the arena. Diomis frowned. He could understand her being concerned for Gend's safety, but this was something different. This was more than just concern. This was almost a hysterical anxiety.

Then, noting her husband's eyes on her, Jonica quickly lowered her hand. She gave him a weak smile, but her eyes soon went back to their frantic darting about the arena. Diomis followed her gaze, but was unable to discern anything unusual.

He turned back to the fight. The two men exchanged bone-shattering blows, their swords ringing in the air, the sunlight shimmering on the blades. Both of their bodies shone with sweat, Gend's bald head, except for its long black braid, glimmering in the sun. The Jedi's red-gold hair was sticking to his forehead, but both men were still breathing easy.

Then Diomis frowned darkly as the Jedi delivered a particularly expert series of attacks which Gend barely parried. The two danced away from each other, eyes narrowed as they assessed their opponent. Then with a loud, wild cry, Gend rushed at Kenobi, his sword swinging. Again, the two exchanged blow after blow, the dust rising and falling about their shifting feet. And, once again, the Jedi managed to get inside Gend's defenses, but, instead of delivering the killer stroke, he moved away.

What was the Jedi doing? Diomis thought angrily. Playing with Gend? Because, even without the Force, it was apparent the Jedi was the superior swordsman, and he was going to win. Gend must have sensed it too, for his sword strokes were becoming more wild, fueled by his growing anger and frustration. Then, Diomis almost rose out of his seat. Again, the Jedi had had an opportunity to sink his sword into Gend, but, again, did not take it.

Then it finally came to Diomis what was happening. The Jedi did not want to kill Gend. He was defending himself admirably, and, offensively, was clearly skilled enough to have ended this fight long ago. But he did not want to kill Gend. Diomis could not understand this.

All Kenobi had to do was kill Gend, which it was apparent he could easily do. He would then win the challenge and Onara and all she owned would be his. But he was risking all that because he could not bring himself to kill his opponent. A man who wanted nothing more than to spill his blood upon the sand and claim the woman he loved as his own.

Diomis looked around. By the looks on the faces of the Assembly members, he saw they had also discerned what was going on. He looked over at Onara. She was clinging to the arm of the huge, furry beast, but her gaze was fixed on the floor of the arena, her dark eyes wide. And he saw on her face both fear and love for Kenobi. She too knew what he was doing.

Diomis turned back to the arena. Both men were becoming tired, but Kenobi still had the advantage. Then, he heard his wife hiss sharply. He looked over at her. She was no longer looking at the floor of the arena. Her hands were fisted in her lap, and her head was whipping around as if she were looking for someone.

Suddenly, Gend roared, throwing himself recklessly at the Jedi, his strokes now wild and careless. The Jedi easily parried them, his sword a blur, his shield rising and falling to deflect every blow. Then, for years afterward, Diomis would play over and over in his mind what happened next.

As the Jedi advanced on Gend, his sword swinging, Jonica kept looking around the arena. Then, suddenly, the Jedi froze, a look of surprise on his face. He was motionless only for a second, but it was enough. Gend, who had been desperately parrying the Jedi's attack, stared at him, then, a wide smile on his face, thrust his sword deep into Kenobi's chest.

Two screams ripped through the air. One was Jonica's as she leapt from her seat, but his wife's scream was one of triumph as Gend jerked his sword out of the Jedi's chest, blood spurting from the wound.

The other scream was of despair and horror, and it came from Onara who was struggling as both the beast and the four-armed woman tried to restrain her for it looked as if she meant to throw herself from her seat and onto the floor to where the Jedi, having now collapsed to his knees, his sword and shield falling from his hands, gazed up at her, his light-colored eyes seeming to blaze within his face.

As for Diomis, he could only stare in shock at the Jedi, the blood pouring from his chest as he gazed longingly up at Onara. No, a voice inside him insisted. This was not the way it should have happened. Something is wrong. Something is terribly wrong. The Jedi would not have been so foolish as to leave himself open like that. The Jedi should have won. Something had happened to him. But what?

Then, like the pieces of a puzzle finally falling into place, it all clicked together in Diomis' mind; his half-brother's absence, Jonica's worried, searching looks around the arena, the Jedi's mysterious moment of paralysis. And, as Diomis watched Gend prepare to take Kenobi's head, something he had bragged about doing just that morning, as Onara wailed and screamed as if she were going to die of heartbreak---like his mother had all those years ago----as Jonica stared down, looking more like some carrion creature, her gaze ravenous, waiting for the final blow that would ensure she would live the rest of life in hedonistic pleasure, Diomis was never really sure why he did what he did at that moment. Maybe, he later reflected, he had done it for his mother.

Just as Gend grabbed the Jedi's hair, exposing Kenobi's throat so he could cut off his head, Diomis leapt to his feet.

"Kindai!" he shouted.

The ancient Ahjanese word, which meant surrender in the old tongue, rang around the arena. Gend's head snapped up at his father's voice, his eyes burning with both bloodlust and surprise. Jonica gasped, then grabbed his arm, shaking him.

"What are you doing?" she screeched.

Diomis shook off her arm and glared down at her. "What did you do, Jonica?"

"What you should have done if you'd had the stomach for it," she hissed, speaking loud enough for only for him to hear her. "But you and your pathetic sense of honor," she sneered. "Now, we've lost it all. And it's because of you. You weak idiot!"

Diomis struggled to hold in his rage, because all he wanted to do was put his hands around Jonica's neck and strangle her.

"My brother had something to do with this, didn't he? The two of you disgust me!"

Jonica's face twisted into a paroxysm of rage. "You fool! You utter fool!"

"Silence!" Diomis roared.

He looked over at Lorus and Jamor. Lorus was staring at him, his black eyes wide with shock, but, Diomis thought he saw a hint of approval on Jamor's face as the stout Ryjast looked back at him. Diomis turned back to the arena floor.

Gend still had Kenobi by the hair and only his hold on him was keeping the Jedi upright. He was losing a lot of blood, his face now as white as the sands upon which he had fought so valiantly, so nobly.

"Does the Lenor family concede?" the arbiter called out from where he sat, gazing up at Diomis.

Diomis nodded, unable to say the words. The arbiter turned and gestured for Gend to step away from Kenobi. Diomis watched as his son wavered, the arm with the sword in it trembling with its need to strike. He still wanted the Jedi's head, but it was over now. It was over.

"Release him!" the arbiter cried out.

Gend stared up at his father, then angrily threw down his sword and released the Jedi who tumbled to the ground. Without a backward look, Gend stalked from the arena and exited through one of the doors. As for Jonica, she looked as if she now wanted her husband's head instead of the Jedi's. Diomis glared down at her. Let her try, he thought. Let her try.

Then he turned and looked back at the arena floor. Onara had made her way down there and was now cradling the Jedi's head in her lap, his blood soaking her red dress, her black hair a curtain about his pale face. Simtro was with her, as were her two alien companions. Then he saw healers dashing across the sand, an anti-grav stretcher between them.

Even as the healers gently lifted Kenobi off the ground and onto the stretcher, Onara tried to keep her hand on him, but Simtro and the four- armed woman eased her away, their arms about her. She walked between them, sobbing hysterically as they quickly followed the stretcher out of the arena.

The Assembly members began to move from their seats, and, as their voices rose into the now sweltering late morning air, Diomis knew they were discussing what had just happened. Jonica gave him one last angry look, then turned and left him, pushing her way through the Assembly members who were exiting the arena.

Soon, only Diomis was left and, as he stared at the pool of the Jedi's blood on the white sand, he contemplated what he had lost and what Onara had lost. There was no way the Jedi would survive. The wound was clearly a fatal one. If Diomis had kept silent, Gend would now be the winner and Onara would be his, along with all her possessions.

But, Diomis had lost all that because of the promise he had made to a woman long dead. A promise he had found difficult to keep, until, strangely enough, this day. Then he shrugged. He would find another way to get the resources he needed to achieve his goals. Onara, however, could never replace what she had lost. He turned and left the arena.

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Far away, thousands of parsecs from Ahjane, Anakin Skywalker was standing behind his master, trying not to look bored as Nygee droned on to the Legate of Harkit about treaties and accords and contracts. His robe was heavy and hot on his shoulders as it was very warm in the reception hall. Then, suddenly, he felt both a disturbance in the Force and a sharp pain in his chest.

He cried out. Nygee whipped around, irritation on his long, green-skinned face. But it soon turned to concern as Anakin doubled over.

"Padawan, what is it?" Nygee cried.

Anakin looked up, aware the Legate and his advisors were also gazing worriedly at him.

"Master Obi-Wan," Anakin gasped, tears welling in his eyes. "Master Obi- Wan."

To be continued...