The Price of Knighthood/Epilogue

"Quite a tale, Padawan Kal-Di," Ogan Broze observed. "And yet I sense truth in every word."

Three days after the mission to Thisspias, Tirien stood on the rosette at the center of the Jedi Council Room, before the High Councillors. Not all twelve seats were filled; some of the Council members were away on missions, Tirien was given to understand, and some had died and not yet been replaced. But elderly Ogan Broze, the Human Master of the Order, was there, and Tem-Fol-Rytil, the Cerean Jedi Master of whom Suwo Tolp had spoken so highly. Tirien knew a handful of the others by name, though he could not match all the names to faces; among the perils of being apprenticed to a Jedi Sentinel was being out of the loop on Coruscant, and the ravages of the New Sith Empire made changes in the Council a disturbingly common occurrence.

He nodded to Broze's observation, and Tem-Fol-Rytil chuckled wistfully. "You have your master's flair for words, Padawan Kal-Di."

Tirien sensed no mockery in the comment, and after a moment he said, "My master says…" He took a deep breath. "…said that words are like blasters, because anyone can use one, but actions are like lightsabers, because so few can use them skillfully, and they make a much greater difference."

"And how does that philosophy sit with a budding Jedi Consular?" a Bith Jedi Master asked.

Tirien thought of his lost, green-bladed lightsaber. "I respect that the right words can do more good—and the wrong ones more harm—than any weapon," he replied slowly. "But I think I'm better rounded for his…different perspective."

"As were all who knew him well," Tem-Fol-Rytil observed softly.

Tirien did not have the right words for that, and did not want to offer the wrong ones, so he merely nodded again. After a moment, a Twi'lek Jedi Tirien was almost sure was called Elata Cazars said, "The Candorian Plague."

Even Tirien could sense the ripple of tension that passed through the room.

"Something will have to be done about these shipments," the Bith Jedi noted. "Suwo Tolp and Padawan Kal-Di did well in destroying many of them, but if some escaped, we'll need to hunt them down before the Sith can do more damage."

"We'll have to lean harder on our intelligence sources in the Sith worlds."

"They're strained as it is; strain them any more and they may break."

"It's a risk we'll have to—"

"A moment, my friends," Tem-Fol-Rytil interrupted. When the Council had grown silent, he nodded his domed head. "We'll need to deal with the Plague, but we can not neglect this young Jedi. He has shown remarkable resourcefulness in defeating a dangerous adversary."

"And great spirit in resisting the lure of the dark side," Elata Cazars observed.

"We need Jedi like this in the field!" a Gand thundered through his rebreather.

Tirien had slept relatively little since Thisspias—even his time in a bacta tank to recover from Zygro's Force lightning had been spent in a semiconscious meditative trance—and he simply looked around as the Council members nodded to one another. Eventually Ogan Broze said, "It seems agreed, then. I'm sorry the whole Council can not be here, Tirien, but I think your master of all beings wouldn't have wanted you to stand on ceremony when there's work to be done."

"Master?" Tirien asked, but his question was answered as the Council members rose to their feet, frail Ogan Broze rising last and slowest, and all ignited their lightsabers. When Broze gestured to a spot at his feet, Tirien swallowed hard, realizing at last what was happening and reflecting on what it had cost. He knelt slowly, knees still aching a bit, and lowered his head, remembering Suwo Tolp and the Knight he had been, and the Knight he had tried to help Tirien become.

"Tirien Kal-Di," Broze said, his voice quavering but resolute as he brought his blue blade first to Tirien's right shoulder, then his left, and back again, "by the right of the Council, by the will of the Force, I dub thee Jedi…"

The blue blade flashed, and Tirien's purple braid fell away.

"…Knight of the Republic."