Inheritance
21.
The fruitless deliberations in the Feorian longhouse continued until nearly noon-hour, at which time the amassed forces of the media and the local bureaucracy beat a hasty, if disappointed, retreat. The Feorian elders and their chieftain have now dispersed into the village to partake of the communal midday meal. I politely declined the invitation to join them. I have to admit that I don't quite have the stomach for it, after four hours' confinement in their smoke filled meeting house.
The freezing temperature outdoors is a welcome refreshment, however. A vigorous walk about the perimeter should serve to clear my head, dispelling any small lingering effects of the Feorians' pipeweed, and purging away some of the irritation inevitably associated with such an unproductive and quarrelsome convocation. Old Yoda is not here to take a whack at my shins, so I'll say what I would not dare so much as think privately in Council: there are times when diplomacy is for droids.
And here, emerging from the guest house where we sheltered last night, is Kenobi. He alters course when he spots me, and heads in my direction at a brisk clip. He's cloakless, I notice. Probably cast aside his robe and forgot to retrieve it afterwards, an ingrained habit he should long ago have outgrown. I forbear from making any comment. Let the icy air play the mentor's role for me. The Force teaches its own lessons, more often than not.
"I take it your Padawan will recover?" I inquire when he draws nigh.
"He'll live," Kenobi affirms with a wry twist of the mouth. His gaze drops to the frost-strewn rock between our boots. "I apologize for his breach of conduct, master. Clearly, I have not –"
"Obi-Wan."
He glances up, startled by the familiarity.
"I'm here on leave," I point out. "Let's not mar the perfection of the trip by inserting another unpleasant Council session into its midst."
For a long moment, blue eyes study my face with a guarded intensity, as though suspicious the humor might be some kind of trap, the sort of thing Yoda might employ to catch a student off guard.
Frankly, that's not my style.
"So…" he cautiously responds, exhaling a small opaque white cloud, "We should find another means of settling the disciplinary issue?"
I shrug. "If that's how you insist upon framing it." There is a small patch of level ground not far from here, the perfect place. I nod meaningfully in its general direction. "Besides, it might help warm your blood."
He bows, a graceful concession to my superior rank; but when his eyes meet mine again the careful, self-deprecating softness has fled, to be replaced by a spark of combative mischief. Kenobi loves saber-play like a drunk loves his drink. He's completely powerless to resist any invitation to spar.
I chuckle. He must have kept old Qui-Gon light on his feet, that much is certain.
I toss my own cloak over a jutting corner of glacial rock as we cross over to our chosen arena. Fierfek! It's cold out here. I rub a hand over my smooth pate, perhaps a trifle ruefully. But it's no matter. I have a sparring match to win, and something tells me it won't be a disappointing one. I unclip my saber and smile at the way the violet blade growls low, a shimmering corona of mist forming along the edges where the plasma evaporates ambient moisture. Kenobi's saber thrums an octave higher, as he sweeps it round in an ostentatious triple salute and ends high, in the Soresu aggressive opening stance. Oh yes – I've made a wise choice of traveling partners. If only there weren't trouble brewing here on Outer Gola, we two could spend a good deal of our time here in such sober and studious pursuits.
"Very well," I instruct. "Let's see how that Soresu variant of yours measures up to Vapaad."
If I expected some kind of humble brush aside, I was mistaken. This man is a different being once the gauntlet has been thrown down. I might have to rethink my plans to send him to the Chandrilan Unity Convention. The matriarchs there are staunch pacifists who abhor all manifestations of violence - and as Kenobi launches into his first blistering offensive, I have to admit that although Jedi do not love violence per se, my young friend here is clearly willing to make a pointed exception on behalf of certain forms of it.
For Force's sake, did he almost land a strike on my sword arm?
Something will have to be done about that.
Vapaad is something I have spent decades perfecting. It is more than art. It is meditation, and vital discipline. I do not share it with many, even in play, for it is a dangerous flirtation with the edge of darkness, and I have sworn to always respect this fact. Every one of us, I learned long ago, and in great anguish, carries a seed of darkness within. There is no expunging it utterly. There is no escaping it. And there is no denying it, without bitter consequence. Mine I have faced, and this is its taming. Vapaad is the subjection of the Dark, its chaining and servitude, its defeat and bondage. Vapaad is Darkness turned outward against itself, brought to its knees and transformed to the wrath of Light.
Some of the other masters of the Order do not like it. I know this. Yan Dooku holds it in contempt, and he is a peerless swordsman.
They are entitled to their own wisdom.
I am entitled to mine.
Now, as I unleash it against Kenobi, I have a chance to observe the first beginnings of his own unique style, his own saber-meditation. He'll never admit that there is such a thing, but that is not pure Soresu. I see Ataru holdovers, and a bit of seemingly extraneous showmanship. I might be tempted to criticize him for such a waste of energy – but I'll admit that his first near-hit was a result of my own distraction. That flashy, adder-fast flourish, that unnecessary reverse-grip… it's all an elaborate deception, a lightning storm of illusion and irony, a veil over his true intentions. The actual strike came fast, and clean, almost before I anticipated it. Clever. Beautiful.
If I had to describe his style, I would say it is Soresu evolving into an expression of the individual. Soresu with an attitude. Defense with deadly intent. The eye of the storm, indeed – an eye glinting with defiance, a laughing taunt in the face of darkness.
I almost laugh myself.
Then I win, and decisively. After all, I have thirty years' superior experience on my side. And Kenobi is not quite a match for Vapaad.
At least, not yet. And I would not say that of many.
My blade snaps back into its hilt, and I offer my vanquished opponent a hand up, summoning his fallen saber into my hand at the same time. I return it to its owner with a bow. That was an excellent match, a true pleasure.
Kenobi dusts himself off with a small, ironic grin, the ferocious, wicked delectation muted now, smoothed back into proper Jedi calm, as though the battle never occurred. "Lesson learned, " he says, returning the courtesy.
"Now you can pass the lesson on to your own Padawan," I advise. "It's good to have a few such tricks up your sleeve at any time."
We head back to the village at a measured pace. The air does not seem so frigid. The frost crunches under our boots in even rhythm. "Speaking of Anakin," he begins, squinting in the glare beneath the featureless grey sky, "He has done some investigating of his own. Besides the longhouse debacle."
"Oh?" So the imp has weaseled his way into a useful alliance… perhaps with that young Feorian scamp I found hiding with him. "And..?"
"Well," Kenobi informs me. "I think we should allow him to… continue."
And he fills me in on the details as we make our way back to the village, and our waiting hosts.
