Lineage VIII

Chapter 28

The topmost spire of the Jedi Temple rose, majestic and tranquil, from the pyramid's center, a beam of light ossified in purest white marble, surmounted by a single chamber with transparent walls. From this high and guarded vantage, the very clouds that pastured in Coruscant's docile skies seemed a drifting sea, blanketing the city in white veils on this early morning. The peaks and towers of distant mega-structures loomed out of the swell, a scattering of serene islands in a boundless ocean of rolling mist. Lights still twinkled here and there, brighter than the pallid dawn light, so many points of starfire in an immensity tamed into civility by a thousand generations, by incalculable labors and struggles.

Peace.

Obi-Wan inhaled deeply, surrounded in spirit by a similar ocean, another immensity. The Force drew close about him, concealing more than it revealed, obscuring doubt and pain beneath the mantle of tranquility, only the peaks and towers of present stark choice rising above the rolling sea, an archipelago of certitudes and commitments.

Beyond this difficult moment, on the far horizon, daybreak's splendor shone clear, a path of pure gold cast over the undulating plain of white: this way, the supernal light directed him.

I am Jedi.

He would not forsake his vital, essential, inalienable calling. Not if it cost him his life.

And it just might. He exhaled, slowly, the full weight of grief no longer bound and muffled within him. Tattered and bloody, his heart ached for what must come, his imagination reeled in the sudden absence of what had been. How could he possibly part ways with Qui-Gon Jinn, likely never to meet again?

The sun rose higher, and the sea of white instantly was set aflame, crimson and gold radiance suffusing the quite world beneath the blue sky's dome. Fire leapt and danced, purifying the dross of emotion.

He would do what he must. At whatever cost.

Joyless, he looked upon the gloriously adorned world without. The Force bade him stay on the path, to follow its lead through the very darkest reaches of night, if need be. He kept his gaze forward on that distant and unattainable beacon, the planet's star, the terminus of the blinding path over treacherous and shifting terrain.

It will be all right in the end. It has to be. I know it.

He stood, slowly, head still bowed down by the weight of the choice to be made. Before this moment, obedience had always meant the humbling of will and intellect to some other's directive. But now, it meant much more. There was no other left. He stood orphaned and alone before the Force and knew that this was the true test.

Though salty regret trailed softly down his face, though there was none present but himself and the Light that penetrated and bound all things together, he bowed deeply, signifying his new and more profound obedience, and departed with heavy step.

The time had come.

The west residential wing had never been to his liking, but necessity bade him set foot within its hushed confines one last time. In departing from the Temple, from the sedate rhythms of its life and the harbor it symbolized, he left behind much, not all of it treasured, not all of it abandoned with regret. But there were some ties that must be recognized, whatever personal feelings might color the event.

He needed, in all honor and decency, to say farewell to his former master, the man that had raised him and set him on the Jedi path. It was only fitting.

He waved a hand over the door's inset control panel, sounding the chime.

"Ah." Dooku was clad in close-fitting tunic and trousers of black cloth, his lithe body as powerful and graceful as it had been forty years ago. His once-dark hair had bleached to purest silver, but this was the only trophy of long experience the Sentinel deigned to wear. He waved his former student into his private quarters with an ironic half-smile. "Qui-Gon. I take it you have come to say good-bye."

The rooms were fastidiously neat, asceticism transformed to a severe luxury. Dooku's collection was displayed upon the inset shelves. It had grown in size and diversity over the long decades.

"I need not explain my reasons to you," he said.

The older man circled round him once and then gestured to the cushions surrounding the low, richly engraved table. They sat. "Indeed not. I only wonder that you have delayed such foolishness till now. Of course, recent events may be catalyst to your wanderlust."

The thrust sank deep. Dooku twisted the blade slightly. "And your Padawan is due to be abandoned in favor of a new project."

"I did not abandon Xanatos… and I shall not abandon Obi-Wan."

"Ah. Then he is accompanying you after all?"

A hesitance, which betrayed much to the other man. "I have reason to hope as much."

Having driven his point home and discerned that which he wished to know, Dooku relented. "I need not tell you what a rare talent the boy possesses. Nor what a future asset to the Order he would be. Perhaps even a present one."

A guarded smile. "No, you need not."

"Such material should not be wasted upon a fool's crusade," the Sentinel observed dispassionately.

Qui-Gon idly returned the salute. "You taught me well, master. The courts' antics are a symptom of advanced decay. I have no illusions about the Republic's sanctity and integrity."

"And here I thought you had learned nothing from me," Dooku returned, casually.

"You were once fond of saying that only a fool goes down with a sinking ship, master."

The silver-haired Jedi smiled tightly. "Only a ship piloted by a fool stands at risk of sinking. It is a problem of leadership, Qui-Gon."

"Mutiny. The perennial solution."

Dooku's brows crept upwards. "Call it what you will, my friend. Your solution resembles cowardly flight."

Bristling, Qui-Gon released his annoyance on a long breath. "Call it what you will, I act as the Force bids me."

The Sentinel held out his hands pacifically. "As do we all. Your absence will be felt by many," he added. "Take care that your quest is worth the cost to others."

Another man might have mistaken this sentiment for a veiled compliment. Qui-Gon merely nodded his head. Besides, there was no cost commensurate with the price he had already paid, no sacrifice unworthy the gain to be had, for self and others.

"I am grateful to you for your guidance in past years," he told his former master. "May the Force be with you."

They stood, and exchanged a single, formal bow.

"And with you, Qui-Gon."

Dooku saw him to the door, and closed the panel quietly behind him.

Qui-Gon was not at the south docking bay, nor the vehicle requisitions station inside the hangar level. Nor did he respond to com-link summons, the system reporting that his device had been permanently disabled. But the invisible bond that connected master and apprentice held true, oblivious to fate and will, a glimmering strand leading to the heart of a labyrinth.

Obi-Wan found him in the seldom-used grand entry plaza, outside the lowest level. Here the Temple's foundation seemed to float upon inverted columns, in defiance of gravity, an architectural feat based on the dictates of symbolism rather than pragmatism. The main stairwell was flanked by its massive guardians, two for skill, two for knowledge, two for the Force. Their carven faces looked on impassively.

"Master."

The tall man turned, wrapped still in his dark cloak. His weapon's hilt still hung at his side, and there was unspeakable relief in this simple fact.

There was even more relief in Qui-Gon's face. "Obi-Wan." And then a frown, as he noted that the young Jedi bore no belongings, no travel bag. "I see."

Silence fell like a hammer blow.

A warm breeze stirred about their cloak hems. Qui-Gon stepped closer. "You are not coming."

The Padawan's voice crumbled into a dry whisper. "Master. I will not forsake the Order."

The tall man raised a hand and ran fingers down the length of his learner's braid, the exquisite knot of their path together, the binding and compacting of student, teacher, the Force. "I had hoped to someday cut this," he said, at last.

Speech failed them both.

The stone guardians of the Way watched, stern and silent, upholding a tradition and responsibility heavier than any mere mortal heart could bear.

Qui-Gon regained his voice first. "I am proud of you today. You act as a Jedi… and a man. I am only sorry it must be under such circumstances."

Obi-Wan shook his head, misery glittering in blue-green eyes.

A battered public conveyance sidled up to the docking area at the stairs' base.

"Padawan." The Jedi master stepped closer, clasping his student by both shoulders. "I would prefer – I would be honored by your company." There was an undercurrent of pleading in his tone, a harrowed thread of longing. His grip tightened. "I must do what the Force wills."

The young Jedi drew in a shuddering breath. "So must I, master."

They stood at an impasse, strengths matched in opposition, common purpose and devotion binding them to part. The air-bus driver blasted the vehicle's horn, a blaring summons to depart.

Qui-Gon leaned forward, bestowing a formal kiss upon either of his Padawan's cheeks, the ritual benediction of peace between full ranking brothers in the Order. "May the Force be with you, always."

And pulling his cloak hood over a face drawn by acute pain, and lifting his one small bag in one hand, he strode away, descending the steps of the Temple with steady gait, not looking back.

Obi Wan stood there between the Pillars of Tradition for a long while, watching the after-image of his mentor descend the main promenade stairwell, mantled shoulders and head silhouetted in light as he descended into the soulless city-grid, into the sun-scourged desert of duracrete, the wasteland of civilization - the corrupt and decaying heart of the Republic, its so called "Jewel."

Qui-Gon seemed to descend into the underworld before his very eyes, and was swallowed by the unyielding horizon of the Temple's raised foundation, the edge of its profound dais, the slab upon which it stood enthroned as sentinel above a galaxy that no longer respected it. And then he was truly gone, and there was nothing but the lingering scent of ozone as the airbus lurched away into the sky overhead, and a dull aching in his jaw and throat.

He pulled his own cloak tight about his shoulders and proceeded back up the plaza, between the massive guardians, passing into the shelter of a home that had been emptied of its comfort.

The sun's last rays streamed upward form a scarred horizon, bleeding abundant crimson fire upon the Council chamber's domed ceiling. Elongated blue shadows fell into the circle's center, fingers pointing gravely to the momentous event there unfolding.

Yan Dooku had risen from his appointed place in the ring of Councilors and now stood at the focus of their attention, Obi-Wan a respectful pace behind. The silver haired Jedi's eyes traveled around the circle of his peers, gathering their approval or permission. None opposed him, though some few exuded a sense of acceptance rather than outright approval. The Council's silent consent having been garnered, the Sentinel's grey eyes came to rest upon Mace Windu.

The Korun master spoke the words of the ceremony in a measured cadence, his deep voice undergirded by resignation. "Who shall speak for this Padawan, who has kept his oath and honor intact, and is recently bereaved of his master?"

Master Yoda's ears sagged downward, his narrow shoulders hunching as he released a heavy sigh.

Dooku lifted a single brow. "I claim the right of teaching lineage," he quietly proclaimed. "Qui-Gon Jinn was my own student. And I in turn shall speak for his former apprentice."

"So be it," Mace agreed, folding his hands. "If any harbor an objection, let it be spoken now."

But what exception could be taken to a thing done so properly, so in accord with tradition, and by a member of the Order so respected and influential? Indeed, there was little other recourse to be had; for a Padawan left behind by a known renegade was sure to come under suspicion of bad formation, a risk and liability not easily undertaken. If there was any equal to the task of guiding such a potentially scarred learner, it was one whose own reputation was above reproach. And Dooku had right of lineage.

Silence reigning in the darkening chamber, the Sentinel waved his young counterpart forward. Obi-Wan knelt before him, dark cloak pooling upon the inlaid mosaic. Dooku's elegant hands settled firmly upon his shoulders.

"With this Council and the Force as witness, I take Obi-Wan Kenobi as my Padawan learner."

"Obi-Wan," intoned Mace Windu, "Do you swear to obey, respect, protect, and learn from your master, as befits a Padawan of this Order, until you are released from this oath by death, or upon attaining the rank of Knight, or by act of this High Council?"

"I so swear."

A second silence.

"Then it is done." The young man rose to his feet, visage sober, eyes still cast downward.

"Go," Yoda grunted, waving a clawed hand at them. "May the Force guide your steps, master and apprentice upon one path. Go in peace."

Dooku executed his formal bow with his habitual consummate grace, and led the way out, his new Padawan trailing demurely in his wake, the subdued shadow of a solemn principality. Behind them, the sun sank below the ragged skyline and was swallowed in night.

"Put your things there," Dooku ordered, indicating the smaller and presently unoccupied bedroom in his quarters. "And then perhaps we should observe the obligatory rite."

Obi-Wan dropped his scant bundle of personal belongings upon the bare sleep couch in the second sleeping chamber and returned to the Sentinels' – his – quarters. Dooku waited for him, glittering eyes tracing his every movement.

"I'm ready… master."

He sank down before the older man, closing his eyes as a pair of aged but strong hands brusquely undid the ties about his braid, deftly unweaving the thin strands of chestnut, tugging the somewhat knotted hairs apart, beads and bands removed and set aside, years of cherished memory unraveled in a space of a minute.

Dooku smoothed the hair into three parts. "Teacher, student, the Force: these are one," he recited, beginning the plait anew from its very base, twisting a tight and perfect pattern, a melding of these new things, a partnership only hours old and yet years in the making, a pair of blades honed to a similar fiery edge, a rare pitch of intensity. The last marker was black, and fastened with a curt finality.

And when it was done, Dooku smiled upon his handiwork and bade his apprentice rise.

"We have much to accomplish together," he observed. "I look forward to it."

Obi-Wan bowed his head, the new braid dangling over his right shoulder, the black ribbon of bereavement a stark contrast against sun-bleached gold. They had much to accomplish, and he had nothing left to lose.

"Yes, master," he said.

END BOOK VIII