Desperate Times/Part 2

Tirien lurched back, slashing with his wooden sword to parry as Master Toldin advanced in his ethereal way. He tried to keep his wrist movements small and remain on a conservative defense, but Toldin pressed him and Tirien had to lunge just to keep himself from being backed into a wall. Every one of the old Jedi's ripostes came closer to Tirien's chest or wrists, and sweat poured down his lithe frame even though they had only been fencing fifteen minutes. It was maddening, and not least because Tirien hadn't even been Toldin's equal before.

Before Anaxes, before the catastrophe…back when he had been a Jedi.

Capitalizing on his moment of distraction, Toldin rapped Tirien smartly on the knuckles with his cane, and Tirien dropped his practice stick with a hiss, sucking on his bruised fingers. Master Toldin brought the cane back to rest with its end on the ground in a smooth sweep, resting one hand atop the other on its handle. He studied Tirien was an expression that was hard to read.

Wiping the sweat from his face with the elbow of his sleeve, Tirien shook his head and rasped, "Again."

"If you wish."

Tirien picked up his practice stick, took a deep breath, and resumed his attack. He had only realized how much he leaned on the Force to sustain him in extended combat when he no longer had it to smooth away exhaustion. Seeing Toldin's tranquil face and the slow, even rise and fall of his chest, even though he was close to three times Tirien's age, drove the Pantoran into a harder attack, but the Human swatted aside every blow. He could see the twists of the old Human's wrists and the movement of the cane, but he had no sense of where it would go next. Where once the Force would have outlined the next second or two or three, now Tirien had only his eyes for warning.

Do not trust your eyes, for the hand deceives and the eye believes Tirien had been told as a boy. But now he had nothing but his gullible eyes to rely on, and it was telling.

Finally Tirien shifted into a two-handed slash. Toldin flicked his cane underneath it, lifted it high off the mark, and struck Tirien hard in the ribs. As Tirien gasped, winded, Toldin snapped in expertly to whack him in the forehead, then struck his ankle. Tirien fell, landing on his chest, barely catching himself in time to keep himself from faceplanting. He lay there on the floor for a long time, sucking breath down a trachea that felt like a collapsed straw as his diaphragm seized, laying on the cold floor as his hands shook.

Toldin said nothing, and eventually Tirien pressed his palms to the floor, pushing himself up to his knees. Panting, he looked up at the old Jedi in defeat. "I can't. Without the Force—"

"—you still possess all the knowledge you always have," Toldin said sternly.

"But I can't sense your attacks! I have no intuition!"

"How many hours have you spent in fencing practice, hmm? Hundreds?  Thousands, now?  Do you think the Echani, or the Mandalorians, or the galaxy's other masters of warfare have no intuition for combat simply because they can not command the Force?"

Tirien shook his head. "You have no idea what it's like. Imagine trying to fence if you went blind."

Toldin leaned on his cane. "It is not your blindness in the Force that should concern you. You're frustrated, Tirien, angry and impatient.  These things would harm you even with your powers intact."

Tirien got to his feet. "Wouldn't you be frustrated, if this happened to you?"

It was a horrible prospect; Tirien would never wish it even on an enemy, let alone a teacher and friend. His face twisted in distaste, and Master Toldin studied him a moment before responding. "I can not know the burdens you bear, Tirien, but I know that you have all the training you require to persevere through them. You may not be able to command the Force, but you are still a Jedi."

The words stung more than the cane's blows; whatever Honsu Toldin might preach, however much Tirien might dress in the garb and walk the halls of the Temple like he belonged, a Jedi without the Force was nothing but a philosopher, and more than philosophy and right mindfulness were needed in a galaxy at war. The Republic needed Knights, and Tirien was a Knight disarmed.

He turned away, shaking his head. Master Toldin did not stop him, though just outside the door Tirien heard a faint rattle and glanced over his shoulder to see the old man stooping to pick up the training sword Tirien hadn't bothered to put away. Swallowing his embarrassment, Tirien walked on into the night.

He had taken to roaming the Temple at all hours, a ghost haunting its halls; it served him not at all to keep a normal schedule, mingling with other Jedi and enduring their useless suggestions and looks of pity. Climbing one marble staircase after another for the extra exercise, Tirien made his way to the roof. At the corners of the temple stood four gargantuan pylons, the base work that would someday rise to soaring towers…if the Jedi Temple still stood at the end of this war.

Few Jedi called the Temple home for any appreciable length of time these days—the Jedi had learned the lesson of Darth Malgus's raid millennia before and Lord Oltey-Kossp's rather less successful imitation a few centuries back, and a small protective force of Knights was permanently stationed within the walls, but most of the others were Temple staff or younglings—but that still amounted to hundreds of beings. Hundreds of bright lights in the Force, all of which should have shone upward as if Tirien stood looking down upon a sea of candles. Instead, he looked down and saw nothing but the hard, weathered flagstones of the Temple roof. Hundreds of billions of beings lived on Coruscant, and yet as he looked out over the city, Tirien saw only the lights of the waning night.

Coruscant's sky was bright with its endless repulsor traffic, but on the far horizon the deep blue of night was lightening to red that presaged the sunrise. Stripping off his sweat-soaked tunic and untying the sarashi wraps at his wrists, Tirien sat facing that way, feeling the cool air on his flesh and longing for the peace of meditation. He wasn't sure how long he sat, watching the red turn pink and the repulsorcraft and freighters start to gleam, but eventually he heard a cleared throat behind him. Tirien closed his eyes for two seconds, pained by his inability to sense the Jedi's approach, then took a deep breath and turned.

"I was told I might find you here," Master Tem-Fol-Rytil observed.

"Master," Tirien said, planting a hand on his knee, but the Cerean shook his conical head.

"Allow me to join you instead." He seated himself cross-legged a few meters away. "Another sleepless night."

"They're my most common kind these days," Tirien said.

Tem-Fol-Rytil arched an eyebrow, offering a wry smile. "My condolences, but I was actually speaking of myself."

Wrong-footed, Tirien frowned. "I…what's troubling you, Master?"

Tem-Fol-Rytil drew a breath, looking out over the cityscape. "I could say that the anguish tormenting one of our finest Knights wounds me as well, Tirien, and it wouldn't be a lie, but I hope you will not think me cruel that even greater concerns are at hand. The Senate must vote on a new Supreme Chancellor, and soon.  Already the Sith are pressing at every hint of weakness, to say nothing of the calamities Darth Vandak unleashes whenever he appears."

"Who will the Senate choose?"

"Whoever we choose, I expect," the Cerean said. "Which makes it essential that we choose the next Chancellor with great care."

Tirien narrowed his eyes. "Is…Master, is the Senate going to just go along with what the Council tells them?"

Tem-Fol-Rytil was quiet for a long moment. "You must understand, Tirien," he said at last, "the Senate can not win this war alone. The senators are men and women of uncommon skill and abilities, but they are not Jedi.  This war—the true war, deeper than blasters fired and planets taken or lost—is in the Force.  I think you understand that as well."

Tirien scooted a little closer, leaning his elbows on his knees. "I know we're at war with the dark side, but we'll need to take some of those planets and fire some of those blasters to win it."

"True enough, but Jedi can do that as well as any beings," Tem-Fol-Rytil countered. "See what Mali has done, or Elata, or you. But only we can perceive the whole war, mundane and metaphysical alike.  The Jedi must guide the Republic to victory, Tirien, or it will fall, and the light will be extinguished with it."

Tirien wondered how many senators saw it that way. "So who will the Council…nominate?"

The Cerean frowned. "A delicate matter. Whether by design or happenstance, Darth Saleej and Lord Aresh managed to open a dozen wounds in the body of the Republic with a single blow."

"What wounds?"

"Anaxes is still under martial law, trying to root out collaborators that may or may not still be loose. The Jedi and the Judicials are accused of conducting a purge of military officers as we try to find those who betrayed us at the Citadel, and an entire class of ensigns and senior officers are delayed entering the field, even as new classes are delayed entering the War College.  While Junior Representatives find themselves suddenly thrust into senatorial duties, some of the Republic's oldest and most influential members have delayed appointing replacement senators.  Alsakan has demanded a separate inquiry into Senator Yukorskut's death, and Senator Antilles of Alderaan has lodged a formal protest of our handling of the Anaxes affair.  King Organa has even threatened to recall Alderaan's delegation after his nephew's murder.  House Kuat is all but in civil war over Senator Falt's involvement."

"She brought a Vanguardian into the Chancellor's presence," Tirien said sharply. "I saw him at her side. So did Narasi."

"Yes, the Kuati have been informed of your testimony."

The way he said it… "And let me guess: they're disinclined to believe the word of a Zygerrian."

"They are," Tem-Fol-Rytil admitted, "but they remember your name, and the fact that their shipyards are still intact because of you, and we've persuaded them to take you at your word. However, some still believe she must have been mind-tricked, or blackmailed.  A few, I'm sure, share the late senator's sentiments.  Now the Kuati nobles are divided on who should represent Kuat in the Senate, and without Kuat's voice here, the Senate lacks a key member while the planet itself is at risk of succumbing to the call of voices elsewhere."

"And House Knylenn?"

"They're incensed that Khofin remains in custody, though he's been allowed access to lawyers and visitors. The Knylenn are accusing us of scapegoating a Kuati bureaucrat to cover the incompetence of the Jedi."

Tirien sighed, wondering for the hundredth time whether he had done the right thing in supporting Kenza's decision to detain the First Secretary. He had thought, then, that proving innocence or guilt would have been a matter of days, not weeks.

"When Corellia's senator declined the invitation to the ball, I worried what it might mean for the Core's stability," Tem-Fol-Rytil mused; he wore an expression of introspective exhaustion that matched Tirien's, although clearly for other reasons. "Now I'm glad she wasn't there. If she had been, and died, Corellia might have left the Republic completely."

Considering it all, Tirien could understand how his own concerns would seem small, but he could not help but wonder whether Master Phnyong would have thought so; he suspected not. "And the other Core Founders?"

"Largely unknown, though there is some suggestion Duro and Corellia are aligning. And so whoever rises to the Chancellor's podium must be able to balance all these concerns, heal the wounds in the body Republic, and focus our energy back against the Sith before they gain too much momentum to be stopped."

He looked at Tirien with a smile that had a gaping hole where hope should have been. "Who would you nominate, Tirien?"

Tirien's eyes widened. "Master, I'm a Consular, but I've been away from Coruscant for a while now. I haven't followed Senate politics enough to—"

"Reason it out," the Cerean interrupted. "Any idea is better than none, if only because process of elimination will expose flawed ones."

Tirien thought a moment. "Do you want the job?"

Tem-Fol-Rytil smiled dryly. "I do not. The Chancellor must lead the entire Republic, not merely the Jedi.  The Order must be focused and directed as well, kept intact…I sense I am needed more here."

Tirien considered, resting his mouth on his fists. Tem-Fol-Rytil allowed him to think while the sky lightened, and eventually Tirien said, "Master Cazars."

"And why Elata?" Seeing Tirien's hesitance, the Grand Master waved one hand. "Please, speak freely; I must have frankness to judge an idea's true merit."

"She's a Jedi Master and a Council member, so she knows the Order as well as anyone," Tirien said. "She's been here, so she's seen Coruscant's politics, but she's been out on the front lines, too, so she knows exactly what the Sith are capable of, firsthand. And because she's been out there, she has the respect of the Army and the Navy.  Khofin of Knylenn…"

He grimaced, but when Tem-Fol-Rytil nodded encouragingly, Tirien said, "I got the sense that Khofin…wanted to build more connection between the military and Master Phnyong, and that suggests to me he thought there was a lack of trust. I saw it myself now and then; something just a little wrong when a soldier or a naval officer spoke about the Jedi Chancellor.  Master Phnyong was always a diplomat, but Master Cazars is a warrior, and she's been right there with them; she knows a lot of the top brass herself.  If we're uniting the blasters and the planetary acquisition with the spiritual war in the Force, she'd be the best one to do it."

Tem-Fol-Rytil sat back, brushing his beard. "A very intriguing suggestion. Of course, assuming the podium would prevent Elata from taking the very field where she has been so successful, and built such relationships."

"But it puts her in a position to use her skills to manage the whole war—grand strategy, not just tactics," Tirien argued. "The Republic has good war leaders: Mali, Master Narfulk, Admirals Whoork and Ok-Majan… But we've lacked a Chancellor with the same mindset."

"Very intriguing indeed." Tem-Fol-Rytil studied Tirien. "And yet not a suggestion I would have expected from a young Jedi Consular. I would have more anticipated such a notion from Mali."

"Perhaps he's rubbed off on me."

"As both Jedi in a Concordance of Fealty should," the Cerean agreed. "And yet for all that bond, you've neglected to bear the outward symbol of it."

Tirien followed Tem-Fol-Rytil's green eyes to his own waist; he did not bother wearing his equipment belt most days anymore. "A lightsaber is the symbol of a Jedi Knight," Tirien answered, swallowing hard. "And I'm not a Knight now."

The Grand Master did not offer an empty platitude about how he was still a Jedi; instead, he asked, "What have you learned in your research?"

"Little." Tirien heard the frustration in his voice. "The library staff have been very kind—opening any holocron I want, helping me find references and resources. But I think most of the holocrons I need are in the Vault."

The Holocron Vault, sealed against all but Jedi Masters, held many of the most ancient holocrons recorded by the Jedi, as well as all the captured holocrons that had once belonged to the Sith. If the Jedi had an answer to a question at all, it would be found inside, but the library Jedi's kindness had a limit.

"Perhaps I can be of use in this," Tem-Fol-Rytil mused. "I'll speak to Master Robulg."

Hope stirred; Tirien beat it down mercilessly. "Thank you, Master."

The Cerean nodded. "It's the least I can do—for a brother Jedi. Besides, your political insights may be of help to the Council.  Now then, come.  Dawn approaches, and we can't be lurking on the rooftops all day."

Slipping on his sweaty tunic, which had half-dried in the breeze, Tirien kept pace with the taller man's strides. "Has there been any word from Slejux and Narasi?"

"They're returning to Coruscant," Tem-Fol-Rytil replied. "We have not yet received the report on their latest raid."

Tirien did not have his beacon transceiver any more than his lightsaber, but the last time he had checked it there had been no word. If Narasi had an answer, surely she would have called ahead. Tirien sighed; it would be good to see his apprentice and speak to Slejux about her progress, but embarrassing as well—facing his former student and a close friend as a broken Jedi, good for nothing more than whiling away the hours in the Archives while they dared all the peril for him.

His turmoil must have touched his face, for Tem-Fol-Rytil set a hand on his shoulder. "Have faith, Tirien."

"Yes Master," Tirien replied, remembering a time when he had.