The Price of Knighthood

1,391 BBY

The humidity soaked up the stink of decay and mildew, turning it into a physical presence that clung to robes and latched onto skin, to be inhaled in every breath like a virus. The fetid air was warm, too, and Tirien Kal-Di's brow was bathed in a sheen of sweat; he chafed his sword hand against the fabric of his tunic to keep it dry in case he needed to fight, but the tunic was getting clammy too. His Quarren master, Suwo Tolp, seemed perfectly at ease with the climate, but Tirien had rolled up his sleeves to the elbows and thanked the Force that, apart from his Padawan braid, his purple hair was cropped short. Why the Sith couldn't have set up shop on Hoth or Ando Prime or even Tirien's native Pantora, he would never know. He could have fought them for hours among the snow drifts quite literally without breaking a sweat.

Then again, perhaps the caves through which Tirien and Suwo slunk were apropos; the place felt like a laboratory for disease even without the Sith meddling.

"Close ahead now," Suwo rumbled in his gargling voice and his native tongue.

Tirien stretched out with the Force; a complex cave structure like this was home to innumerable native life forms, but he could perceive the sharper focus of sentients somewhere ahead.

"How many?" he replied in Quarren as well. Though both were fluent in Basic and conversational in Huttese, Suwo found his native tongue easiest to speak, and he was the master.

Suwo paused for a few heartbeats, and Tirien glanced around them automatically. There was a hazy glow ahead, but otherwise the only light came from bioluminescent fungi, and Tirien had to lean on the Force to fill in the gaps. Finally, the Quarren replied, "Many."

And he moved on. Though Pantorans were not renowned for being the galaxy's chattiest species to begin with, in his ten years as Suwo's Padawan Tirien had picked up more than a little of his master's laconic nature. At times he felt wrong-footed making small talk with his fellow Jedi, but he had learned the value of silence and nonverbal cues. He often thought it helped him see past the surface even without bringing the Force to bear.

The haze above resolved itself into a crack in the cave wall, and as they approached Tirien heard the ever-present hums and groans of the subterranean cave system focus into voices. He pressed himself to the crack in the wall and saw a small army packaging canisters into crates. There were Devaronians and Hiitians mingled among more familiar species, including the ubiquitous Humans. If those familiar species from the other side's ranks weren't enough, Tirien could sense the dark side in the female Askajian bellowing orders.

Looking at his master, Tirien tapped the area around the crack and raised an eyebrow. The Quarren replied with a shake of his head and moved on. Tirien frowned, looking at the bandoleer of grenades Suwo wore, but ultimately followed without complaint.

A collapse here seemed like it might bring half the cave down on the whole operation, but for all he had learned of sabotage the past decade, his master's knowledge and experience vastly eclipsed his own, and though he could appreciate the value of the sneaky approach, it had never appealed to him personally. Even a decade on he still wondered from time to time why Suwo Tolp, among the best saboteurs and spies in the ranks of the Jedi Sentinels, had chosen him as a Padawan learner. Tolp could bring down a fortress with a fusion cutter, space tape, and a little luck; Tirien had heard other Sentinels joke that, to equal the Warrior Masters and Sage Masters of the Jedi Guardians and Consulars, their Quarren comrade should be called "Demolition Master".

Not often, though. Running into another Jedi Sentinel was a rarity in itself, and since the catastrophe at Mizra some seventy-five years before, it had apparently become a rarity for Jedi to laugh about much of anything.

They crept onward, and now Tirien could see more clearly with every step. They emerged from their tunnel into a larger room, faint light from a crevice above reflected and amplified by a few clusters of naturally growing crystals. Wondering idly whether they might be used for lightsabers, Tirien watched Suwo slink over to a rock wall, prodding it experimentally with his clawed hands; one of the prehensile tentacles around his mouth reached up to tug on one of Suwo's fangs in a way Tirien had come to associate with thoughtfulness. He finally sprayed adhesive on the wall and attached a grenade, setting its code frequency to his wrist communicator before leading the way down another tunnel.

The stones were slick with moss, and eventually Suwo dropped to crawl on his hands and feet rather than risk slipping and making a sound. Years ago, Tirien reflected as he crouched to imitate his master, he might have found that odd. They slunk along like two more cave-dwellers for almost a hundred meters before Suwo slowed his momentum to a gentle stop. Trained well enough not to jerk abruptly to a halt either, Tirien drifted to pause and spotted the silhouettes of two sentries down the tunnel.

Neither had seen them, but both were facing their way; a Human and a Zygerrian. Suwo pointed with one tentacle, and Tirien reached out a hand. He could sense the guards' boredom, a mix of hoping for something to do and doubting the opportunity would present itself. His mind whispered a suggestion into the Force, a hint of sound like scrabbling claws and the croaking Tirien himself had heard in the tunnels behind them.

Both guards turned, raising their blaster rifles expectantly, and Suwo crawled up behind them. Just as Tirien could sense their sudden attention fading, the Quarren rose, calmly reaching around the Zygerrian to grab his chin with one hand and his shoulder with the other, wrenching them opposite ways and snapping his neck with a muted crack. The Human turned, startled, but before he could cry out Suwo struck him in the throat with one clawed hand. His windpipe collapsed on itself, the Human dropped his rifle and reflexively clutched at his neck; rather than let him slowly suffocate, as the guard doubled over Suwo reached down and broke his neck too.

Tirien wondered whether there had been another way, but Suwo was already moving, and he crept along to keep up. As he closed the gap, he decided that no, there had not. The guards had been eager for a distraction, but he doubted he could've mind tricked them enough to get them off their post completely. And besides, Suwo was a career Jedi Knight; he would not kill just because it was more efficient.

They emerged in the processing plant, and Suwo paused to don a breath mask over his mouth and smaller, specialized filtration devices for the air holes on his neck. Tirien donned his own breath mask, taking a moment to still his instinctive fear. The Candorian Plague was fatal to Humans; while no case studies had documented its effects on the Near-Human Pantorans, even Tirien's Jedi desire to spread knowledge for the galaxy did not inspire him to become patient zero.

But even more, he would not stand by while the Sith sent the dreaded disease off to decimate even more Republic worlds.

Suwo crept forward, taking another grenade from his bandoleer, and now Tirien reached for the lightsaber hilt on his belt. He could sense the dark sider nearby, but the dark side of the Force cast a mental humidity of its own, and she was hard to place precisely. He had first feared the deaths of the two sentries might alert her to their presence, but perhaps this place was so soured by the reek of mortality that she had missed them.

Joining his master, Tirien saw they were only meters from a repulsorpad on which several crates were already stacked. Trying to remember the layout the facility, Tirien touched the Force to race back through his memory. A grenade might take out those closest, and the one Suwo had planted before would collapse the wall from the other side, but that would still leave a mass of workers in the middle. Even if it could be considered the Jedi way to simply mow them all down with lightsabers, Tirien wasn't sure they could kill them fast enough to prevent the release of the Plague.

He was still trying to outline the best approach when Suwo tapped his wrist comm.

The far wall blew immediately, the roar deafening even from this distance, thundering through the packaging cavern even as it echoed from the tunnel through which the Jedi had infiltrated. Tirien took his lightsaber in hand, but Suwo stilled him with a gesture. Tirien could feel the surviving workers fleeing from the wall even as the Askajian bellowed at them and headed toward it to investigate.

Suwo waited until the Sith collaborators were packed together, close to the exit, then rolled in his grenade.

Tirien winced when the grenade blew, indifferent to the noise and heat but struck by the sudden extermination of dozens of lives in the Force. But Suwo was on his feet, and Tirien rose to join him as the Quarren ignited his yellow blade and strode into the room.

The first worker, caked in soot and reeling in obvious panic, died before he even saw Suwo coming. A second had time to bellow an alert before the yellow blade parted his head from his neck. A third got off a shot, which the Quarren deflected back into his face. Beyond them, Tirien saw the Askajian pushing herself to her feet, her back scratched by shrapnel and bleeding, but very much alive.

Then he was in the thick of it too, wielding his green blade single-handed. Like many Jedi in the six centuries since Darth Ruin had risen and the New Sith Wars had begun, Tirien specialized in Makashi, the lightsaber combat style dedicated to lightsaber dueling. But he was also Suwo Tolp's apprentice, and he moved among the surviving Sith agents with ease, striking off hands, deflecting blasterfire into the ceiling or into his enemies, risking a full lunge through the heart when he had a clear second.

"Tirien!" Suwo called.

The Pantoran glanced to see his master pointing down a corridor; behind him, the Askajian had found her feet, and apparently her voice too, for she roared a challenge and drew her red blade. But the more immediate problem was the Devaronian racing down the hall with a Plague canister.

Tirien was after him in a second, dodging trickles of dust and rock shards from the cracked ceiling, vaulting over the charred remains of Plague canisters and crates. The Devaronian was taller and powerfully built, but Tirien's lithe build lent him speed, and the Force added to his momentum until it seemed the horned alien had slowed to a casual stroll. Tirien leaped into a two-handed shiak and speared the Devaronian through the back of the head. He crumpled, dead before he hit the ground.

Tirien had stooped to retrieve the Plague canister—still sealed, thank the Force—when a series of interwoven booms and the distinctive roar of fire echoed from the packaging cavern. He was nearly back when he saw Suwo Tolp plod toward him.

"The Askajian?" he asked, his voice a little robotic through the mask.

"Dead."

"What about the Plague?"

"The canisters burn."

"Here," Tirien said, offering his own. "One more for the pyre."

Suwo nodded, but merely gestured, and Tirien ran the rest of the way down the tunnel. The bonfire was still burning, and he threw the canister into the flames. When he returned, he was surprised Suwo had waited for him, but his yellow eyes narrowed as he saw his master lean hard on the rock wall.

"Master?" he asked.

"A scratch," the Quarren said, forcing himself upright. "Come. They'll have heard us."

He jogged off, though he seemed winded, and Tirien kept up easily. He could feel the darkness in the Force ahead of them, and wondered how many other Sith were here. Their intelligence had been spotty, but Thisspias was in the gray zone where neither the Sith warlords nor what remained of the Republic exerted any real control; these days, any intelligence was considered, and the Candorian Plague couldn't be ignored.

They emerged into a docking bay, the slimy cave rock giving way to corroded metal walkways with such suddenness that both of their steps clanged hollowly before they thought to stop. Before them, a freighter's engine trail disappeared through the mouth of the dock into the night beyond. Suwo cursed.

Three dark-garbed figures stood on a flat stretch of platform: a tall Trandoshan, a corpulent Swokes Swokes, and a Mirialan woman with red hair. All three had turned at the sound of their approach, and the Mirialan and the Swokes Swokes reached for the lightsabers at their belts. But the Trandoshan snarled, and they both fell back, looking sulky and resentful.

"The Jedi are mine!" he rasped. "Get the ship ready."

The two junior Sith yielded and retreated toward a sleeker craft at the back of the dock, though the Mirialan cast Tirien a spiteful look on the run. Drawing his lightsaber again, Suwo said, "Stop them, Padawan. Leave this one to me."

Tirien made to obey, circling wide around the Trandoshan, but the tall reptilian laughed coldly.

"Even both of you together can't beat me, Jedi," he snarled.

"I know that," Tirien was startled to hear his master reply. "But you filth will not escape this place to inflict your evil elsewhere."

The Trandoshan hissed, but as Tirien started on a sprint past him, he raised a hand. Tirien flew off his feet, hanging in the hair as an invisible noose constricted around his neck. Black spots appeared before his eyes and he clutched his neck on reflex, but Suwo charged the Trandoshan, who had to split his focus to defend himself. As he ignited a scarlet blade, the Force choke weakened slightly. Forcing himself to concentrate, Tirien reached for the railing behind the Trandoshan.

It quivered, then groaned, then finally wrenched free, a piece of pipe sailing at the Sith Lord's back hard enough to break ribs. The Trandoshan battered Suwo away and turned to catch the pipe, but lost his focus entirely in the process. Tirien dropped to his feet, sucking in a lungful of air and coughing even as he pulled his lightsaber from his belt and ignited the green blade.

The Trandoshan returned his lightsaber hilt to his belt and turned to Tirien contemptuously.

"You're powerful, little Jedi," he hissed, bending the railing into a circle with his bare hands. "I bet you'll taste good."

He threw the makeshift discus, but Tirien deflected it with a wave of his hand. As Suwo struggled to his feet, they closed on the Trandoshan from either side. The alien was head and shoulders taller than either of them, and his blows sent shudders up Tirien's arms when they caught his own blade. But Tirien was faster and more agile, and even as he gave ground under the Sith's Form V onslaught, his Form II strikes kept checking the alien's momentum. The Trandoshan growled aloud in frustration, his eyes so vivid yellow they almost glowed.

Suwo Tolp came at the Sith from the other side, but his strikes were neither as powerful as the Trandoshan's nor as precise as his apprentice's. When the Trandoshan closed with Tirien abruptly and the Pantoran caught a two-handed swing in a straight block, it blew him right off his feet, and as he rolled he saw the Trandoshan close with Suwo alone. The Jedi Knight had made a career of stealth, sabotage, and espionage, and he was a master of his trade. He could deflect blasterfire and clear a room of thugs effortlessly. But he had never cared for lightsaber combat except when it was absolutely necessary, and preferred to let Tirien spar with other Jedi in the Temple on Coruscant. Over the past years Tirien had slowly but surely edged his master out with a blade. He had thought it was simply because Makashi was a superior dueling style.

Now Tirien could see the real truth—for all his gifts, Suwo was a Jedi Sentinel at heart, and not a man for direct combat. He had faltered against the Askajian, and as the Trandoshan slapped him around the dock with casual ease, Suwo let in first a glancing blow on his left biceps, then a stab that amputated one of his facial tentacles.

Careening to his feet, suddenly afraid for his master, Tirien crossed the dock at a run, stabbing at the small of the Trandoshan's back. The Sith Lord deflected the blow and turned, trying to keep them both in front of him where his greater height gave him the advantage of range, rather than getting caught between them. Tirien moderated his breathing, stabbing at the Trandoshan's wrists and lightsaber hilt, but Suwo insisted on deeper strikes that would kill if successful but put him dangerously close if they failed.

Patience, Master! Tirien wanted to shout, but he had to stay focused. He managed to nick the Trandoshan's smallest clawed digit; when the alien roared and swung at his head, Tirien ducked and got in a light stab to the gut, too. The Sith Lord kicked him; leaning back saved Tirien from broken ribs, but the blow still knocked him back off his feet and tugged the breath mask hose so it ripped the mask from his face. He rolled in time to see his master commit to a diagonal sai tok, but the Trandoshan just dodged, letting the yellow blade scorch through nothing but air. As Suwo tried to reverse, the Sith brought down an overhand blow that took off both the Quarren's hands.

Suwo sank to his knees, howling in agony, and the Trandoshan took one hand off his lightsaber to reach past Suwo's fangs into his mouth. As the Jedi Knight choked, the Sith Lord latched on with his claws and tore off the top of Suwo's head.

"NO!" Tirien bellowed, pushing up, but it was too late. Suwo's lifeless corpse collapsed sideways in a pool of blood as the Sith laughed and tossed the scalp aside, the three remaining tentacles waving pathetically in the air until the whole mess collapsed to the deckplates.

There is no emotion, there is peace, Tirien tried to tell himself as he closed with the Trandoshan for battle, but he found the tenet lacking. He was feeling a cascade of emotions; he was certainly not feeling much in the way of peace. He had seen a good deal of death while serving beside his master, trying to cleanse at least small pockets of the galaxy of the Sith infestation; he had caused a good deal of death himself. Always Suwo had treated it dispassionately, not something to be done without cause but also not something to be dwelled on endlessly; when death was necessary, it was best to be done with it quickly and mercifully, then move on. Tirien had seen Jedi die before, but it was different now, when his master's mutilated corpse lay at his feet and his blood slicked the deckplates on which he fought.

The Trandoshan came in hard, but Tirien pressed him, glowering up at the enormous Sith, his green blade flashing in and out like snake strikes. The Sith was much stronger, and a single blow would be fatal, but Tirien's speed had him stymied, and as he swatted aside lunges at his chest and face, he left himself vulnerable to nicks and scratches on his wrists, sides, and legs. The Sith roared in increasing annoyance, but had to retreat as Tirien nearly took one of his fangs off.

"Die, dammit!" the Trandoshan barked, stomping on the deckplates so hard the whole dock wobbled for ten meters in every direction; Suwo's corpse flopped. The Force wave threw Tirien off balance, and he had to retreat to steady himself. In those precious seconds of disorientation, the Trandoshan closed on him with a series of power blows. The Pantoran Padawan managed to deflect the first few, but the Trandoshan was so close now Tirien could smell his sour breath, and he had to fall back on a two-handed defense. He tried to move around, but the Sith chivvied him toward a corner.

Finally, Tirien tried a lunge out of desperation rather than calculation. It sizzled past the Trandoshan's neck, and as Tirien tried to withdraw, the Sith swung upwards. Horrified, Tirien saw the scarlet blade flash toward his wrist. In desperation he released his lightsaber hilt and wrenched his hand back, and the Sith's cut just missed his fingers. But the Trandoshan caught the falling hilt in his free hand and casually cut the emitter off.

He showed Tirien a hellish grin and wound up for a bisecting strike, and Tirien gave a roar of his own, thrusting out with the Force. The push blew the Trandoshan back so hard he dented the railing, but the Sith simply thrust out a clawed hand and threw Tirien with a Force push of his own. Tirien flew across the dock, past his dead master, tumbling over the ledge through the hole he himself had made earlier. He managed to catch himself, the metal grinding into his chest through the fabric of his tunic, and hauled himself back up, but the Force caught him again, flipping him up and back down to slam on his back into the metal.

The wind was driven from his lungs, and he gasped for breath. He heard laughter from behind him, a high pitch and a bizarrely low one, and though he dared not look, he could feel the two junior Sith had emerged to watch the show. Panting, struggling up to one knee, Tirien looked to find the Trandoshan advancing on him. He forced himself to his feet.

The Sith sneered and extended a claw, but this time it was no Force push. Blue-white tendrils of lightning burned through the air, and Tirien threw himself aside. The lightning ground itself on the railing, and a bolt sparked off to zap Tirien in the small of his back. He hissed in pain, gritting his teeth as the Sith launched more lightning at him.

He could not explain why he did it. His lightsaber was destroyed, and everything Suwo had ever told him said that Force lightning could kill. But the Force told Tirien to stand his ground, and he willed a shield before himself as he raised a hand.

A tendril of electricity snaked right through, hitting him in the chest over his sternum. The glancing rebound had stung, but this direct strike burned; Tirien cried out in pain, feeling like his ribs had superheated and were burning his heart and lungs. He dropped to a knee, clutching his chest, and only then saw the scorch marks all around him, lightning scars burned into the metal on either side of him where he had deflected them.

He looked up and realized the Mirialan and the Swokes Swokes had stopped laughing. The Trandoshan was frozen halfway across the deck, standing in Suwo's blood, and he stared at Tirien blankly. Eyes narrowing, he demanded, "Who are you, Jedi?!"

"I'm Tirien Kal-Di," the Pantoran responded. Then, willed by an impulse deep inside and speaking with a confidence his conscious mind was far from feeling, he added, "And you'll never leave this dock alive."

The Trandoshan blinked, then bellowed, dropped his lightsaber, and unleashed lightning with both hands. Tirien willed the Force to protect him again, but this time there was no contest. The bolts struck him full on, and every cell in his body seemed to catch fire. The backs of his eyes were being dipped in acid. His innards were being slashed apart by swallowed glass. Every muscle seized at once, his body a wave of agony. He barely heard himself scream, barely felt the impact of his face against the deck.

The lightning stopped, and for the first second all Tirien could understand was the absence of present agony. Then the afterpain hit, and he doubled up on the ground, curled into the fetal position and retching. His confident retort seemed laughable as he cringed. Then the second burst of lightning struck him, and he twisted and contorted into unnatural positions, the marrow in his bones heating, burning from the inside. As he twitched one way, he saw, just for a second, the bones of his hand through his skin.

It stopped again, and now the Trandoshan was laughing. "Big talk for a little Jedi, but you die just the same!"

Tirien looked over, saw the Sith gloating in a puddle of his master's remains. Struggling to focus, fighting against the temptation to lay down and embrace the painless relief of death, he forced himself onto an elbow. Suwo had never taught him how to fight an enemy this strong, or protect himself against lightning without a lightsaber, or overcome the death of the Jedi to whom he was closest.

But the Quarren had taught him to improvise…

As the Trandoshan cracked his knuckles, Tirien held out his shaking free hand. "Wait…please…"

"HA! Beg, little Jedi!"

"It doesn't have…to be…this way…" Tirien panted, struggling to hold his grip on the Force.

"Gotta beg better than that!"

Tirien sensed, across the dock, a flash of shock from the sharp-eyed Mirialan.

"Lord Zygro!" she cried, but it was too late.

As the Sith Lord turned at the sound of her voice, Tirien flicked his hand and snapped his fingers. And behind the Trandoshan, where it had levitated at his command, Suwo's lightsaber snap-hissed to life, swinging in one circle before it dropped back to the deck.

The Trandoshan blinked, opening his mouth, but no sound came out, and eventually a dribble of blood started between two of his fangs. He patted his stomach in an absent, dazed way, then looked at Tirien, seeming perplexed, as if he hoped Tirien could explain. The Sith extended a hand again, but the motion off-balanced him, and the top of his body pitched forward.

The bottom of it fell the other way.

Tirien clambered to his feet, trying to sooth away his aches with the Force, to let his pain vanish in its comforting embrace. He failed for the most part; every muscle ached, his vision was blurring, and he suspected Force lightning was not shrugged off as easily as a cut or bruise. But he managed to stand, and the Force brought Suwo's lightsaber hilt to his hand. It gave him the Trandoshan's weapon too; the hilt was too big for his grip, but he called forth the red blade to join the yellow anyway.

The Swokes Swokes and the Mirialan stood where he had last seen them, staring from the entrance ramp of their ship, aghast, but they rallied after a moment. The Mirialan's face contorted in fury; Swokes Swokes were hard to read—Tirien thought they always looked hostile—but he certainly was not looking conciliatory. As the Sith drew their blades, Tirien thought, ''Why not? Cross the deck and end them both. Make them suffer for Suwo's death, and the Plague they're sending out, and…''

He heard in the thought the whisper of the dark side, and though it hinted at strength that could surge through his limbs, wipe away his fatigue, and help him butcher both Sith like shaaks, it also made the lightning scorch over his heart ache anew. No passion, he heard in Suwo's voice. Tranquility.

He wanted to pay the Sith back for Suwo's death, but he needed to warn the Republic and avert as much of the Plague damage as possible. So he reached out with the Force, not to strike the Sith, but to rip at the deckplates at their feet.

One wrenched free with a squeal of tortured metal and toppled into the abyss. The Mirialan scampered back. The Swokes Swokes was not built for scampering, but he managed to catch the railing, wobbling awkwardly. Tirien tore down another deckplate, his face cool and dispassionate, widening the chasm between them.

"Leave him!" the Mirialan spat. She glared at Tirien, but turned back to her ship.

"We can jump it!" the Swokes Swokes croaked. Tirien used the Force to wobble the railing he was leaning on, and the Sith nearly fell. Evidently deciding it wasn't worth jumping it after all, he pitched back as the ship started to lift off. "Wait for me!"

He managed to leap through the hatch as it closed, and the ship rocketed off into the night. Tirien collapsed, kneeling on the scorched and blood-slicked durasteel, both lightsabers tumbling from his shaking hands. He knelt there for a long time, panting and hurting, the last living sentient in a cave that had become the tomb of so many beings.

The tomb of his master.

He could not bear to look at the bloody ruins that had been Suwo Tolp. And he knew, as he closed his eyes and tried to meditate some soothing energy into his spasming limbs and aching internal organs, that the pieces of corpse were not really Suwo anyway. His master's spirit had passed into the Force.

Realizing the remains were not Suwo helped with the subsequent realization that Tirien would never be able to muster the strength to haul not only himself but also the Quarren's body from this miserable place. It pained him to show such little respect to his master's body, but as he thought, Tirien had an idea. He could not risk returning through the caverns; his breath mask was damaged beyond repair, and if any Plague cells remained after the fire, he could not risk bearing them back to Coruscant. But he gingerly retrieved the bandoleer of grenades from around Suwo's torso, slinging it over his own before depositing one fire grenade between the amputated hands. Controlling his urge to vomit, begging the Force to help him remain steady, he levitated the maimed head over and deposited it roughly where it should have been.

"Rest in the peace of the Force, Master," he managed, then turned away from the carnage.

As it turned out, the Swokes Swokes had been right; the gap between deckplates was jumpable, though Tirien's legs still ached and he nearly fell himself on the landing. Clambering over the rocks that led to the dock entrance was slow going; evidently the dock had been built from the inside out, not the outside in, and loose and mossy rocks threatened to send him toppling down into the deep caverns with a single misstep. His arms and legs were trembling by the time he finally found firm footing beyond the cave; his boots sank into Thisspia's mud, but at least it didn't swallow him.

He looked back once at the cave entrance, then tapped his wrist comm. As a roared echoed through the rocks and creatures nesting inside squeaked in agitation, Tirien gave one last moment to his master's memory, then turned to the long, mucky slog back to their ship.

******************************************************************

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

Three days after the mission to Thisspia, 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 Thisspia—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."