Master Apprentice
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Continued from Part 2
Chapter 3
"Darkness waits.
All things come to the dark."
- The Narrows, Michael Connelly
It was early evening in the Jedi Temple, and the corridors were quiet and shadowed, which was perfectly appropriate to the mood of the slender figure who moved through them with fluid grace. Master Gallia had been careful to pull up her hood before exiting the dock area to signal her desire for privacy -- but she sensed now, as she waited for the lift that would take her to the Council chamber level, that her precautions had probably been unnecessary. The few individuals she had encountered during her journey had barely glanced at her, seeming preoccupied with thoughts of their own, and those who were accompanied by friends or associates were engaged in animated conversations, though all were careful to speak in whispers. A faint unease stirred within her consciousness; even with heavy shielding -- and full cloak -- engaged, she was not accustomed to being overlooked to the degree that no one spared her a second glance.
With a tiny sigh, she deliberately thinned her mental barriers, just enough to sample the ambiance of the Temple population; only a moment was required to confirm her suspicions.
Something was most definitely up, she realized immediately. Something strange -- unprecedented. Uplifting, but also alarming; something that would challenge established interpretations of the Jedi Code and demand a new way of looking at concepts like loyalty and honor.
For the first time in many, many years, apprehension stalked the corridors of the Jedi Temple, and many were at a loss to know how to handle it.
As the lift doors opened, she reset her shielding, suppressing another sigh. She would need to check to be sure, of course, but she was almost certain she knew the cause of the unrest.
She found that, for just a heartbeat, she wanted to be wrong -- but she didn't think so.
The return of the prodigal.
She should, she supposed, feel some nuance of joy -- of satisfaction in the achievement of a goal once deemed almost impossible.
Instead, she could only remember the bleak shadows obscuring eyes once radiant with hope and devotion, and she suddenly understand something that she wished desperately she had understood earlier. Early enough to find some way to stop it -- to refuse to allow the sacrifice of innocence in the pursuit of expediency.
The doors dilated before her, and she paused for a moment, staring into the vestibule of the great Council Chamber as she reached up and pushed back the hood of her robe, revealing the still lovely sculpture of her face, creased now with lines of worry -- and reluctant acknowledgement. For the truth, no matter how uncomfortable, could not be avoided forever. She sighed -- and accepted. In the final analysis, she HAD known; she had simply not wanted to see it, so she had allowed the Council to do what she had sub-consciously willed it to do -- to redirect the focus of the decision they had reached all those years ago. To see only the need -- the potential gain -- and think nothing of the cost. It had, after all, not been HER cost; nor that of any other member of the Council.
One knight -- newly made -- young and strong -- and willing to be sacrificed.
Not such a huge price to pay -- was it?
She felt wetness rise in her eyes and wiped them impatiently with the back of her hand.
Not such a huge price -- unless you were the one required to pay it.
With grim resolve, she moved into the shadows of the vestibule and threw open the doors to the chamber. In accordance with the request she had transmitted from her courier ship, there were only three individuals awaiting her arrival -- all members of the executive council. She had much to tell them -- much that she had only just learned, and much more that she had known for some time, but elected to keep to herself.
She still didn't know if THAT decision had been right or wrong, but it was far too late to debate the question. Instead, it was time to deal with the consequences.
The four of them gathered around the freeform conference table in the small alcove off the Council chamber, and settled themselves comfortably, each taking a moment to purge their minds of distractions. All of them had endured an eventful day.
Master Yoda, as had become more and more common of late, appeared cloaked in a heavy weariness, his ears drooping sharply and his skin touched by a waxy pallor. On his left, Mace Windu, wrapped in his customary dignity, seemed to focus on the growing darkness beyond the leaded, octagonal window that looked down on the eastern tower that housed the physical training facilities. Eeth Koth, the Zabrakian member of the Council, sat with his fingers interlaced before his face, the small shadows cast by vestigial horns that formed a crown around his head giving him a vaguely saturnine appearance.
Master Gallia glanced down at the encrypted notes on her datapad before looking up to examine each of the faces turned toward her.
She preceded her opening remark with a soft, regretful exhalation. "He knows," she said. "He's figured it out."
Both Mace Windu and Eeth Koth stirred uneasily, exchanging glances -- but Yoda merely nodded. "Expected this, we should have. Gifted in the Unifying Force, he always was."
Adi smiled. "Agreed -- but I think he had a little bit of help. Our field operatives have been very busy of late; the amount of information they've amassed is incredible, and, ordinarily, it would take weeks for our data banks to correlate and interpret the data. But . . ."
"But?" prompted Mace Windu.
"But," she replied, "Obi-Wan has developed an uncanny ability to find patterns in the chaos -- to sift out what matters from what doesn't -- and I think he got a little . . . inside information from an old acquaintance. Do you recall the incident with the Coluth's Pride that occurred off the shoals of Streyssa Mael about a year ago?"
"The passenger liner that collided with a stray meteor," answered Eeth Koth, with complete certainty.
"Right," agreed Adi, "and the ship that was first on the scene, after the disaster. In all the confusion following the accident, the identity of the members of the rescue team almost went unnoticed. Almost."
"But not entirely," said Mace Windu, obviously having leaped to the proper conclusion.
She nodded. "Unfortunately, there was someone aboard the liner who had made it a point, earlier in her life, to familiarize herself with most of the ranking members of the Jedi Order. Her name . . . was Aurra Singh."
"The bounty hunter," said Koth, grimacing as if he detested the taste of the term.
"The one and only."
"But what was the connection?" asked Master Windu. "There's an entire galaxy between Streyssa and . . ."
"Knight Garen Muln," she interrupted. "Apparently, Madame Singh got herself involved with the weapons trade, and wound up caught in one of his raids."
"And traded insider information -- for her freedom," said Master Koth coldly. "Knight Muln . . . exceeded his authority."
Adi barely avoided a smile. "I doubt he'd agree. He and Obi-Wan . . . well, let's just say that they go back all the way to the crèche -- together." The smile was suddenly no more than a memory. "And he undoubtedly believed that he had stumbled on a terrible, dastardly plot, that victimized his best friend."
For the first time, Master Yoda raised his eyes and met her gaze. "And?"
"And," she replied, refusing to flinch away from the look in his eyes, "I'm not sure he wasn't right."
"Been through this before, we have," said the eldest of all the Jedi. "Disagreed with our decision, you did -- from the beginning. But accepted it you did, when made to see there was no choice."
"True," she admitted. "But I'm ashamed to say now -- that there's more here than we knew at the time. At least, I hope there is. I hope none of us knew the full extent -- of what we did to that young man."
Mace Windu sat forward abruptly, and Adi had to steel herself to keep from recoiling from the flare of anger she read in his face. "Explain yourself, Master Gallia. While I admit that what we were compelled to do -- at the time -- was not pretty, it was not . . ."
"He saved his Master," she interrupted, speaking very softly, "by forming a soul bond -- in order to provide the energy to hold on -- to keep him from joining the Force."
The room went deathly still, as a silence settled over the group -- a silence that felt thick and smothering -- and painful.
"No," breathed Mace Windu finally. "It's not possible. It can't be."
She sighed. "You may call Mirilent Soljan to verify it if you like -- but I assure you that it's true. For over nine years, he has survived enduring the agony of a broken, bleeding bond."
"It's not possible," said Master Koth, glaring at her, daring her to dispute his conclusion. "If such a bond had formed -- and then was severed -- then he wouldn't have been the only one effected. It would have . . ."
"He would -- if the connection was never completed. If the source of the bond formed in his mind -- but was never accepted by his Master. He likened it to a water hose, through which he poured out the energy necessary to maintain Qui-Gon's life -- but the other end of the hose remained unattached, directing the life-giving energy to where it needed to go, but without ever forming the final connection."
Mace Windu clasped his hands on the table in front of him and turned to stare at his diminutive colleague. "Could it . . . be true? Is it . . . ."
Yoda blinked slowly, and his ears seemed to droop even further. "Possible -- it is. Happened in the past, it has -- though only rarely. If this . . . is true, a grave injustice we have done . . . to one of our own."
Adi Gallia drew a deep breath. "And that's not all," she said, lifting her eyes to gaze straight into the face of Master Koth. "Is it?"
He stared back -- unintimidated. "If you have something to say, my dear -- then say it."
"You were the Master of Assignments, Eeth," she replied. "I checked. You personally assumed responsibility for his mission schedule. You -- personally -- sent him out . . . to die. Didn't you?"
For a moment, she thought he wouldn't answer, but, after a pause, he surprised her with the serenity of his response. "He was the one weak link in our plan -- the one who could ruin it all. He believed himself responsible for Qui-Gon's death, and he was consumed with guilt; he wanted to die. I merely gave him the opportunity to fulfill his fondest wish."
She found then that, for a moment, she could not continue.
How very strange, she thought, to learn that those you have believed in -- those you have trusted all your life -- are really total strangers -- behind their masks.
She turned to study the face of the most respected of all the Jedi -- and was barely able to form the question. "Did you know?"
Huge, citrus eyes blinked as he refused to flinch away from the cold accusation in her glare -- but he said nothing.
Mace Windu cleared his throat abruptly -- and hurried to break the growing silence. "Unfortunate as this all is, I suppose it hardly matters now. All will be made public soon enough, so . . ."
"So they've returned," she said quickly. "I thought as much. Have they made a public appearance yet, or . . ."
"No. They're still maintaining a low profile," answered Master Koth. "But -- if you're interested -- I believe they'll be dining in the Masters' private salon this evening. In a few days, all will be revealed."
"All?" she echoed, with a cold smile. "Somehow, I doubt that. I think there are dirty little secrets that we will all carry with us -- to our graves and beyond."
"It was necessary." The Zabrakian's voice was thunderous.
She stood then -- and was amazed at the degree of her weariness. "Yes, yes. I've heard it all before, Eeth -- that only the genuine, heartbroken, inconsolable grief of the padawan would be enough to convince the Sith lord that the death of the Master -- and the Chosen One -- was real. That his suffering was a small price to pay -- to insure the security of the Master -- and the padawan that must be trained. That he was Jedi -- and he would survive. That pain and sacrifice are what make us all Jedi. Except . . . that none of us were asked to make that sacrifice. That we took what he gave us -- his devotion, his loyalty, his faith in what we are -- and we turned it into something ugly and twisted. I've heard it a thousand times -- that he would surely have given his life for his Master; that he actually TRIED to give his life -- to save his Master. That the end justifies the means."
She paused, and tried to steady hands that suddenly trembled uncontrollably. "I've heard it all -- and it still makes me sick. It still makes me wonder -- how we are any different from the Sith. They take innocence and faith -- and distort it and destroy it and use it for their own gain. How -- exactly -- is that different from what WE did -- to one of our own?"
"We -- had -- no- choice!" Master Koth spoke through clenched teeth. "We could not risk losing the boy."
She nodded, and turned to go, but she stopped and seemed lost in thought for a moment, before turning back to face them. "I don't think any of you know . . . how incredibly gifted young Kenobi has become. I begin to believe now -- that none of you wanted to know. That every time he pushed himself further out into the galaxy -- into the next high-risk mission -- all of you breathed a little easier -- knowing you wouldn't have to face him. Perhaps even -- knowing you wouldn't have to take a hard look at the wounds we inflicted. But you should know this. He's developed a network of informants and allies that is so complex, so intensely loyal to him -- and so extensive -- that I'm not sure HE even remembers it all. It's allowed him to accumulate a stunning amount of information - even more than what exists in our Temple data banks. And he's also learned to co-ordinate and evaluate that data, with incredible speed and accuracy. He's developed his own skills -- and he's augmented his abilities through the Force, which has allowed him to understand the ebb and flow of events in a way that few -- if any - ever have. He SEES things, Masters -- things that no one else can see. I think he's seen a lot more than just the treachery of the Council -- of the people to whom he once gave his heart. I think he's seen . . . a darkness that hovers over us now. I think he's seen a dark road that is opening at our feet. I think he's seen . . . the end of our existence. He spoke of these things -- and I felt the truth of it."
"Have you analyzed the data yourself?" demanded the Zabrakian Master. "Do you concur with . . ."
She shook her head. "It's not in the data," she replied softly. "It's . . . what he sees." She lifted her eyes then, to gaze out into the growing darkness. "I also found myself discomfited by what he did NOT say. Despite a wealth of information concerning covert operations, conducted by what the overly imaginative have called 'a team of Jedi ghosts', and other, even more ominous rumors, about a dim figure that keeps to shadow, with some . . . agenda that no one understands -- he mentioned nothing about it. Not even in his regular briefing reports. I think it's all coming together -- in what he sees."
"Then he must be summoned here -- to allow us to examine his visions," said Mace Windu, still looking stunned and uncertain -- a condition Adi was relatively sure he had never endured before.
She smiled. "Oh, I don't think you have to worry about that."
"Mean what, do you?" asked Yoda, eyes narrowing.
"He's coming here," she answered. "I'm not sure when -- or how -- but he's coming. I'm just not sure that HE will be the one -- providing answers."
The existence of the Masters' private dining salon was one of the few well-kept secrets within the Temple -- considered necessary for the sanity of those senior Jedi who, momentarily driven to distraction by padawan learners gripped in the throes of adolescence and sexual awakening, required sanctuary. Still, it was seldom used, as retreating into its sternly enforced serenity was considered a bit of an admission of defeat. One came to the salon -- when one simply could not cope for a single minute more.
Most Masters had taken advantage of the small chamber, at one time or another -- but few lingered any longer than necessary.
But occasionally -- very rarely -- the chamber was utilized for a different purpose, guaranteeing privacy for those who, for whatever reason, were not yet ready to confront the Temple's general population. Thus, it was, to some small degree, a place of secrets, of subterfuge -- of illusions preserved and, occasionally, shattered.
Adi Gallia made a point of arriving early, assuming -- correctly -- that the narrow little chamber with its own tiny balcony overlooking an equally tiny scent garden would be extremely crowded and abuzz with excitement. As a Council member, she was entitled to a seat at the central table, and she took it without apology, choosing a spot near the middle, with her back to the wall and an excellent view of anywhere else in the room. Off to her left, an arched doorway led to the small chef's kitchen, and the discreet clink of glassware and a low murmur of voices announced that the staff of this select area was busy preparing the small feast to celebrate this remarkable occasion.
How often, after all, did those long mourned as lost return from the dead?
Adi had opted for civilian garb, exchanging earth tones for amethyst and jade synthsilk, in the form of a braid-trimmed caftan, embellished with metallic embroidery. Beneath the unease that still gripped the Temple, there was a growing sense of festivity -- of celebration -- and she had decided that she should dress the part -- but there was no joy, no elation, in her heart.
She sipped at her goblet of mulled wine -- and waited.
In good time, the other members of the Council currently in residence at the Temple joined her, and the buzz of conversation rose steadily. Other Masters -- and a few knights widely recognized as Council favorites -- arrived and found places around the room, and the wine flowed more freely.
Master Yoda joined the group finally, and his arrival was obviously the signal for the entry of the official guests of honor.
The door -- non-descript and unmarked, in order to preserve the anonymity of the chamber -- opened briskly, and all eyes turned to witness the return of the prodigal sons, as a heavy hush fell and the room grew still.
Adi Gallia looked up -- and felt her breath catch in her throat to realize that, barring a few more strands of silver in the rich chestnut hair, he had changed hardly at all. The face was the same -- the very same face that she had last seen as a profile among the devouring flames of the funeral pyre.
She watched as he entered -- and saw the tall, graceful young man at his side -- and she remembered.
The young queen of Naboo had sent out scouts to find the Jedi, knowing that they had faced a Sith lord, and that it might be that neither had survived. And she had very nearly been correct in her fears.
The soldiers had found them in the power station, the Master curled into the younger man's lap, arms locked in an embrace that could not be broken -- both alive, but only just. They had been transported to the field hospital, still clinging to each other, and Jedi healers had been summoned to repair the damage which traditional medical procedures could not.
The extent of the Master's injuries had been obvious to all -- but the younger man seemed even closer to death than his Master, yet bore no visible wounds beyond a litany of bruises and contusions and an assortment of fractures, none of which appeared serious enough to account for his continued comatose state.
Nevertheless, the Naboo physicians had done what they could -- treating the elder Jedi's injuries by immersing his body in bacta, and marveling that the massive trauma to his chest -- the lightsaber injury -- had already been partially healed when he had been brought in for treatment. They knew nothing of Force healing, nor of the tremendous energy required to accomplish it; thus, it never occurred to them that the continuing deterioration of the younger Jedi's health was due to the outflow of Force energy which had initiated the healing in his Master's body -- and continued to encourage it, even after the two were physically separated.
Prior to the arrival of the Jedi Council and the healers they brought with them, the Master had made significant strides toward recovery, while the padawan steadily lost ground, slipping further and further into a fugue state, from which many believed he would not emerge.
The Jedi healers, of course, had recognized the nature of the problem immediately, and moved to correct it. When the connection between Master and apprentice had been blocked by external intervention, Obi-Wan had begun to stabilize -- but decisions made at that time, for reasons of expediency and political consideration that had nothing to do with his body's need for healing, had dictated that he not be allowed to awaken until the time was right.
Opportunity had presented itself, and the Jedi, ignoring any ethical misgivings, had seized it. Anakin Skywalker's actions during the battle for the control of Naboo had done what Qui-Gon Jinn's impassioned arguments could not do; the Council was convinced that the boy must be trained -- and that only a Master of Qui-Gon's strength and independent spirit could be entrusted with the task. But the Sith, it was agreed, would be watching, and must be deceived. The Chosen One MUST be protected. The solution was proposed, and accepted, and only a very few bothered to question the morality of the arrangement; the fiction of the death of both Master and Chosen One must be presented in such a way that there would be no room for doubt. Anakin, already spirited away to the secret location that would be his home during his training, could 'die' in an accident on a transport vessel, an accident which would occur during the journey to Coruscant -- and the Master would 'die' from the injuries received at the hands of the Sith. The Naboo physicians, unfamiliar with wounds and traumas specific to Force users, would be none the wiser.
For almost a full month, Obi-Wan Kenobi had been maintained in his comatose state, while arrangements for the great deception had been completed. In total secrecy, a clone body of Master Qui-Gon Jinn had been force-grown, as the Master himself had continued to heal. The Council had agreed, at Qui-Gon's urging, that the wisest course would be to knight young Kenobi, once he was wakened from his unnatural sleep, and make arrangements for him to be sent out on a series of grueling missions as soon as he was sufficiently recovered -- all in the name of distracting him from examining the facts of his Master's death too closely.
Though very young, Obi-Wan was known to be extremely bright and very gifted, and the Council felt it necessary to take extra precautions to make sure that he could not and would not question the sequence of events leading to his survival and Qui-Gon's death.
Adi Gallia had been one of only three dissenters among those who approved the final arrangements; only three who had insisted that the decision to exclude young Kenobi from participation in the plan -- to damn him to the hell of total separation from his Master and the inevitable belief that he had been responsible for Qui-Gon's death -- was cruel and vicious and unnecessary. Only three -- and Qui-Gon Jinn had not been among that number.
Two days before the young padawan was scheduled to be awakened from his unnatural slumber, Master Gallia had been taking a turn sitting with him. Because of the necessity for total secrecy, the Jedi Council members, under the supervision of the tiny number of healers who were privy to the full facts of the arrangement, had taken over all nursing duties for their wounded brothers. To her surprise, Adi had discovered that she quite enjoyed the pleasant warmth of young Kenobi's Force presence, and did not mind sitting at his bedside in the small room assigned to him in the Naboo infirmary. There was also, of course, the fact that he was quite beautiful in his slumber, so that watching him -- caring for him -- had become second nature to her, and a source of satisfaction .
She had been reading -- a book of poetry that the young queen of Naboo had provided -- when a sound at the door had drawn her attention. Looking up and recognizing the individual standing there, she had started to speak, but found her words dying in her throat.
Qui-Gon Jinn had moved into the room, still limping from his injuries, leaning heavily on a rough-hewn cane. He had, of course, known that she was there, but his eyes had been focused only on the slender figure lying so still and motionless in the narrow bed. It had been the first time -- and would prove to be the only time -- that he had seen his apprentice since that fateful day in the power station, and the look in his eyes -- a terrible look of need and hunger and desire denied -- had been one she would never forget. There had been something more, as well; something she had never been able to identify, but she had always hoped that it had been some tiny measure of regret, laced with a thread of shame. She had always hoped -- but she had never been sure.
A gentle shaft of sunlight had illuminated Obi-Wan's profile, as his Master leaned forward and braced himself on the edge of the bed, and then spent several minutes in silence -- just looking.
"So beautiful," he had whispered finally, either forgetting or - more likely - ignoring the presence of the silent witness to this moment of farewell, as he placed his hand against his padawan's cheek. "It's unfair that you should be so beautiful -- and so lodged in my heart. Someday -- you'll understand why this must be. Someday -- you'll know -- and you'll be mine again. Always -- finally -- you WILL be mine -- even if we never meet again. You will remain . . . mine."
Adi had not meant to speak -- but found, finally, that she could not remain silent. "He saved your life, you know -- and it almost cost him his own. Do you know what this will do to him?" she had demanded, unable to grasp how he could allow this, to one he professed to care for so deeply.
"It was the will of the Force -- and he is Jedi. He will understand. The Force has guided us to this moment." He had offered no other response.
He had leaned forward then -- and kissed the sweetness of the young man's lips, and then lowered his face into the soft hollow of Obi-Wan's throat, where he paused to draw deep, ragged breaths.
"Others will love you," he had murmured then, raising his head and bracing his padawan's face with his hands. "Others will make love to you -- but inside, you will always know that you are mine."
He had kissed that sweet mouth once more, long and slow and deep; then pressed his lips to each eyelid. "Mine," he had whispered again. Then he had turned and walked away.
Three days later, pale and still shaken from his ordeal, Obi-Wan Kenobi had ignited the pyre which consumed the body he believed to be that of his Master. On it, he had laid the coil of his padawan braid, sheared earlier that same day, as he had been elevated to knighthood.
Though she had known it to be foolish -- not to mention dangerous - Master Gallia had monitored the young man that first night -- had known that he slept very little, could not settle himself enough to meditate, and found it impossible to take in everything that had happened in so short a time.
That night, his nightmares had begun.
She wondered, as Qui-Gon Jinn strode into the salon, larger than life and -- as always -- master of his fate, if the nightmares had ever ended.
When he saw her, his face was wreathed with a huge smile, and he came forward with outstretched hands. "Master Gallia," he said heartily. "You grow more beautiful with every year."
"So do you," she anwered wryly, limiting her expression to a small smile as her eyes drifted to his left, to acknowledge the presence of the young man who regarded her with a speculative gaze. "So -- are we celebrating your triumphant return tonight, Master Jinn? And, of course, the coming of age of your padawan?"
The towering Master laughed, and the sound of it was rich and infectious. "He's still very young, Adi," he replied, and there was an unmistakable note of pride in his tone. "But he IS ready -- to step up and -- meet his public."
"Yes," she murmured, recognizing immediately that the pride of the Master was mirrored in the certainty in the boy's ice blue eyes. "I'll bet he is."
The meal served in the private salon for this special occasion was marginally better than that served in the Temple cafeteria -- but only marginally. Jedi philosophy did not specifically forbid the appreciation of fine foods and libations, but it did set great store in simplicity and abstinence, so refined culinary arts were not in great demand within the Order. Nevertheless, the roast nerf, with its crispy herbal crust, was succulent and flavorful, the sautéed mirelles were glazed to tart perfection, and the tanisch bread was warm and fragrant and drowning in sweet butter. The wine, of course, was merely pedestrian, as the Temple did not maintain a cellar for discriminating palates, but it was mulled with a pert blend of spices and thus, rendered eminently drinkable.
Master Gallia ate little, preferring to concentrate on the atmosphere of the room, rather than the contents of her plate. As the meal progressed, she saw that she had been correct in her initial assessment. The ambiance of the occasion grew more and more festive as the night wore on. Despite his reputation as a maverick -- which was well deserved -- Qui-Gon had always had many friends among the upper echelon of the Order, and they had turned out in force to welcome him home. Even Adi -- who had not always counted herself among the members of that group -- was forced to admit that he had been greatly missed. It was good to see him back where he belonged, amused and amusing, sharing anecdotes and laughter with those who had been intimately involved with his life since his days in the crèche.
The evening was almost perfect.
Almost.
Anakin Skywalker confined his remarks to soft-spoken responses to questions directed to him. He was polite, obviously intelligent, and good-natured -- but his eyes, thought Master Gallia, were unwarmed by the smiles that frequently touched his lips. He ate quickly, efficiently, and seemed to be indifferent to his food, consuming what was on his plate without comment. Even the caroba meringues, served with a flourish by a blushing young cook, with a sauce of flaming geiamboise, failed to elicit so much as a raised eyebrow, despite appreciative applause from other diners.
When he had finished his meal, he smiled pleasantly at his dinner companions -- and asked to be excused, pleading weariness and a need for meditation.
Only Adi Gallia, in the privacy of her thoughts, wondered why she doubted his sincerity. Then she suppressed a sigh. Because you're a bloody-minded, suspicious old witch, she admonished herself firmly.
The tall, well-built young padawan bowed with the perfect degree of decorum before making his exit -- and more than one pair of eyes followed his progress across the room.
"Ah, Qui-Gon," said Master Rimm'ka Florrsk, with a lascivious wink, "you still know how to pick 'em. Although -- to be absolutely objective -- lovely as he is, he still doesn't measure up to the -- um -- how shall I put this? -- the incredible high level on the Ogle Meter of your previous padawan. And I'm sure you understand my meaning."
Master Jinn pushed himself back from the table, having enjoyed his meal enormously, and regarded the Arkanian Master with a pleased smile. "I do, indeed, Old Friend. And you're correct. I realized long ago that the sight of my Obi-Wan, walking away across a room, was surely the fourteenth natural wonder of the universe."
The laughter that echoed around the table was good-natured -- and only slightly prurient.
"I'm sure you all remember the redoubtable Queen Scherzia, of Eloss Prime," continued Qui-Gon, still smiling. "I took Obi-Wan there when he was sixteen -- to mediate the dispute over mining rights on the planet's moons -- and the queen took one look at him, and then spent the next hour trying to eat him alive."
"Oh, he must have been mortified," remarked Mace Windu, barely refraining from laughing aloud, in the grip of a mental vision of the very large, very voluptuous, very green-haired Elossian queen -- genetically blessed with six arms -- swarming over the slender form of young Kenobi at that tender age.
Qui-Gon nodded. "He would have gladly dropped through a hole in the floor, had there been one handy. But I have to give credit where it's due. Once I'd managed to free him from her clutches, she took me aside -- and told me something that turned out to be well worth learning. She and I had known each other for a long time -- and she didn't mince words."
"So," prodded Master Yaddle, "what did she say?"
He thought for a minute, and then pitched his voice in a breathy contralto, with a faint elongation of vowels to imitate the distinctive Elossian accent. "Qui-Gon, you don't know what a treasure you've got there. Trust me, my friend, when I tell you that half the females he's ever going to meet are going to want to take him on their laps, wipe his tears -- and suckle him at their teats."
He paused to take a sip of wine. "So I nodded, and asked the logical question: 'And the other half?'."
"Her reply was classic Scherzia. 'The other half -- and a large percentage of the males in the vicinity -- are just going to want to fuck him raw'."
There was a moment of uncertain silence, as the diners considered what he'd said. "And this was valuable -- how?" It was Mace Windu who voiced the inquiry.
"Because," replied Qui-Gon, lapsing into a broad grin, "she was dead right. One of the unspoken, unwritten -- but absolutely critical -- rules for successful negotiation is to learn how to use whatever assets are available. So I did. I can't even begin to guess how many treaties, trade agreements, territorial settlements, cease fires, and brokered accords owe their existence to my ability to choose the perfect moment -- for my padawan to rise and lean across the table, to deliver a document or point out a spot on a map or engage a panel of a data screen. The sight of that delectable, fetching backside, stretched out across the conference table, provided such an elegant distraction that many objections, or simple disagreeable comments, were just . . . forgotten, in the lust of the moment."
Laughter erupted abruptly, but Adi Gallia was pointedly not amused -- and she looked across the table to meet the eyes of Master Depa Billaba, who was also not laughing.
"You know," she said softly, "that sounds just a bit like some kind of . . . visual prostitution to me. But I'm sure you'll be pleased to know -- that he's still as delectable as he always was. And he still draws every eye in a room when he walks across it."
For just a fraction of a second, all noise in the salon came to a halt, as a strange look flared in Qui-Gon's eyes -- a look she had last seen nine years before, a look she still couldn't quite categorize. "You've seen him then? I thought . . . I heard no one sees him, any more."
She nodded. "That's true, after a fashion. No one HERE sees him. He hasn't been back here, since he left on his first mission, after Naboo. But I do, occasionally, climb down out of our crystal tower -- and mingle among the great unwashed."
The towering Master was suddenly fascinated with the contents of his wine glass. "So . . . how is he?"
She opened her mouth to snap at him -- to demand to know why he thought he had any right to even ask -- but then she met his eyes, and saw it again. Saw the hunger and the need and -- for one brief moment -- something that might have been a pain of unimaginable intensity. And she could only sigh -- and answer honestly. "He's beautiful, Qui-Gon. He . . . he takes my breath away. Even you couldn't have known . . . what he would become."
"They said," he started. Then he paused, apparently looking for the right words. "They said he was . . . damaged. That he couldn't function any more."
Adi looked around at the assembled Jedi -- and wished that this conversation had occurred in a more private arena. She wasn't terribly comfortable discussing Obi-Wan in such a public venue -- but she conceded that she was probably just being silly. Obi-Wan Kenobi, despite having spent his entire career darting from one remote corner of the galaxy to another, was still a legendary figure among the Jedi; the Sith-killer; the only living member of the Order who could lay claim to that title. The details of his life were certainly common knowledge.
Still -- speaking of him so casually felt like a betrayal. "You should ask him yourself," she said finally. "But it would be a mistake to assume that he is less -- than he was. A Jedi finds ways -- to overcome obstacles. You, of all people, should remember that."
He studied her face for a moment, before nodding and returning to his inspection of his goblet. "I kept track . . . of his missions. He . . . was amazing. Wasn't he?"
Adi started to answer, started to agree, when the full meaning of his admission struck her. He had watched; he had kept track.
She closed her eyes -- and felt a horrible vertigo sweep over her, sending her into a place she did not want to be, to a knowledge she did not want to possess.
Slowly, breathlessly, she got to her feet, and looked around to find Master Eeth Koth staring at her, before lifting his eyes to exchange telling glances with Master Jinn.
She paused to collect her thoughts, before turning to confront Qui-Gon squarely. "Tell me," she said softly, "that you didn't know. Tell me -- that you didn't agree to send him out to die. Tell me . . ."
With a heavy sigh, the towering Master rose to face her. "I thought . . . I believed he wanted . . ."
Abruptly, she raised her hand, to silence him. "You were right, you know. He DID want it -- but he was better than any of us could have known. Better than even HE knew. And now -- now he'll have to know it all, won't he? How will you tell him, Qui-Gon? How will you explain -- why you sent him out to die? How you expected him to die. Was it, I wonder, because you continued to believe that, no matter what you did, he would always belong to you. That he was yours -- to do with as you pleased. Even if it meant that he must die to prove it."
"Adi, I didn't . . ."
"Don't bother," she said quickly. "I don't want to hear it."
She moved quickly toward the exit, and felt the Force swirling around her, as if it too were confused and undecided. As if it, too, were ashamed.
She hesitated at the doorway and looked back toward the group still seated at the center table, and she realized that Master Yoda had been silent throughout the evening, volunteering nothing, contributing nothing to the conversation. He sat staring at her now, meeting her gaze squarely, but she could read nothing in his eyes.
"He's right, you know," she said softly, speaking only to the diminutive Master who was the eldest -- and wisest -- of them all. "The Sith don't have to do a thing to destroy us. We've done it to ourselves."
Continued in Part 4