Inheritance


6.

We choose the Room of a Thousand Fountains. Given my druthers, it would be the ordered geometry of the outside gardens, not the unbridled riot of the arboretum. But the industrial sectors of the City have a scheduled burn tonight – the ashes of their waste and debris settling like a pall over everything in a hundred-kilometer radius, and carried even further by the diurnal winds. Don't' let anyone tell you Coruscant is beautiful; the glitter and pomp seen from orbit is tawdry make-up applied on a syphilitic face.

Except the Temple. We have kept the heart of the galaxy pure, or pure enough. For now. And while I live, it will not succumb to the mantle of the Dark, the clinging grit that settles in nooks and crannies, and accumulates in to a hard enamel of indifference and compromise.

The Jedi Order will not come to that. Unlike the Senate.

Obi-Wan is an easy man with whom to walk in silence. He makes no demands, and his own self-sufficient quietude would be a balm to any restless spirit. We could likely enough traverse these well-worn paths several times over before either of us broke the wordless peace; but I know that the first breach will have to be of my making, for I have seniority and he won't act contrary to protocol so soon again.

Not after telling Yoda that he would train the Skywallker boy without the Council's approval, if he must. I heard about that. We all did. Yoda was the only one who found it in any degree amusing, but there is not a soul living who can truly fathom the ancient one's sense of humor. After all these years, I can predict it; but understanding remains elusive. I sometimes thinks he laughs when the Force laughs. It takes eight and a half centuries to be able to know when the cosmic joke is being played upon one's self.

My companion stirs when we reach the yarbanna grotto, with its dappled roof of red-gold leaves. "Master Windu," he says – against all expectation – "What was it you wished to discuss? I am at your disposal, of course… but , if you will forgive me, I am loathe to leave my Padawan unattended for extended periods of time."

I would wager he isn't. And that is part and parcel of the difficulty. A master should not be tethered so closely to his fractious young charge; Anakin is far too young to be apprenticed, and far too old to be inducted into the ranks of initiates. The Council decided against his acceptance into the Order; and then, in the wake of his astounding feats on Naboo, we decided to remand our own careful deliberations – on one condition. By permitting Kenobi to take on the boy's training, we relieved ourselves and the clan-masters of the primary burden of making the impossible possible. We thrust an unprecedented burden onto the only shoulders willing to bear it.

That wasn't wise. I see that now.

"I've been watching you the last six months," I tell him. Another man might be less forthright. I am not another man.

He stiffens.

"I think you've earned a bit of leave. The negotiations on Rallax were grueling, I have no doubt." I know the place and its obstreperous Committee for Public Safety well. Too well. That was another assignment delegated, by unspoken mutual consent, to whomever was most capable and possessed the least seniority: Obi-Wan again. I'm told the obnoxious Rallaxi Overseer actually expressed his gratitude and admiration to the Supreme Chancellor. "You're the first diplomat he's taken a liking to in twenty years. We all wonder how you managed it."

One eyebrow lifts upward. "I drank him under the table. After that, the negotiations were considerably easier."

I know better than to believe that bit of nonsense, but I also know that Kenobi deploys humor like a smokescreen, and this self-deprecating tale is a way to avoid congratulation. I wonder if his allergy to praise stems from a belief that he does not deserve it; that his perceived failures outweigh any good he might have accomplished, thus rendering the latter null and void. I'm sure Qui-Gon could have answered that query, but he is with the Force.

"I've also applied for a short respite from duty. I was wondering if you would accompany me on a trip to Outer Gola."

He takes this proposition in stride, at least outwardly. But it is nearly thirty seconds before he speaks, so I know that caught him off guard.

"Outer Gola…? To visit the Feorian Cultural Reservation?" he inquires, neatly divining the motive for such a visit. He was involved in the mission which originally saved the last remnant of the Feorian race from slavery – years ago now. The whole debacle was of that scoundrel Jinn's making; but it turned out well in the end, and did some good. It is natural for those of us who were instrumental in liberating this unique people to wish to see their progress toward true freedom. Sadly, merely casting off physical shackles is seldom enough to free the heart. Not after so many generations.

"Yes."

"I would be honored, master…but, my Padawan-"

"According to you, he can't be left behind. So he won't be," I sigh. Besides, my ulterior motive for this journey is one which demands the boy's presence, as troublesome as he might be. "Unless you have some objection."

Obi-Wan falls silent again. We round a bend in the path, and set off down a new branch in the meandering footways. "He may struggle a bit with their history," he admits. "Slavery still has great emotional resonance for him."

He sounds apologetic. Neither I, nor any of the Council, expects the boy to eradicate the memory of his past; to accept is not the same as to forget, to suppress. Clearly there has been a degree of misunderstanding cultivated here. I sigh – another unwitting scar left by inexperience on one hand, and a communal silence on the other.

"Then it will be a good learning experience for him," I say.

"Of course, master." Nobody else could suffuse gracious deference with so much doubt and irony. And yet I take no offense. He's quite right. We will simply have to deal with the storms and squalls as they come. And I quite frankly want to observe the fallout; I have a feeling that a more seasoned perspective might ease their shared path.

This should have been Qui-Gon's role. But I was – am – his friend. I will have to suffice.