MASTERS

Obi-Wan sat beside Mace Windu while they watched Yoda scan the report. Here in Yoda’s simple living space within the Jedi Temple, every softly curving pod chair and knurled organi-form table hummed with gentle, comforting power: the same warm strength that Obi-Wan remembered enfolding him even as an infant. These chambers had been Yoda’s home for more than eight hundred years. Everything within them echoed with the harmonic resonance of Yoda’s calm wisdom, tuned through centuries of his touch. To sit within Yoda’s chambers was to inhale serenity; to Obi-Wan, this was a great gift in these troubled times.

But when Yoda looked at them through the translucent shimmer of the holoprojected report on the contents of the latest amendment to the Security Act, his eyes were anything but calm: they had gone narrow and cold, and his ears had flattened back along his skull.

“This report—from where does it come?”

“The Jedi still have friends in the Senate,” Mace Windu replied in his grim monotone, “for now.”

“When presented this amendment is, passed it will be?”

Mace nodded. “My source expects passage by acclamation. Overwhelming passage. Perhaps as early as this afternoon.”

“The Chancellor’s goal in this—unclear to me it is,” Yoda said slowly. “Though nominally in command of the Council, the Senate may place him, the Jedi he cannot control. Moral, our authority has always been; much more than merely legal. Simply follow orders, Jedi do not!”

“I don’t think he intends to control the Jedi,” Mace said. “By placing the Jedi Council under the control of the Office of the Supreme Chancellor, this amendment will give him the constitutional authority to disband the Order itself.”

“Surely you cannot believe this is his intention.”

“His intention?” Mace said darkly. “Perhaps not. But his intentions are irrelevant; all that matters now is the intent of the Sith Lord who has our government in his grip. And the Jedi Order may be all that stands between him and galactic domination. What do you think he will do?”

“Authority to disband the Jedi, the Senate would never grant.”

“The Senate will vote to grant exactly that. This afternoon.”

“The implications of this, they must not comprehend!”

“It no longer matters what they comprehend,” Mace said. “They know where the power is.”

“But even disbanded, even without legal authority, still Jedi we would be. Jedi Knights served the Force long before there was a Galactic Republic, and serve it we will when this Republic is but dust.”

“Master Yoda, that day may be coming sooner than any of us think. That day may be today.” Mace shot a frustrated look at Obi-Wan, who picked up his cue smoothly.

“We don’t know what the Sith Lord’s plans may be,” Obi-Wan said, “but we can be certain that Palpatine is not to be trusted. Not anymore. This draft resolution is not the product of some overzealous Senator; we may be sure Palpatine wrote it himself and passed it along to someone he controls—to make it look like the Senate is once more ‘forcing him to reluctantly accept extra powers in the name of security.’ We are afraid that they will continue to do so until one day he’s ‘forced to reluctantly accept’ dictatorship for life.”

“I am convinced this is the next step in a plot aimed directly at the heart of the Jedi,” Mace said. “This is a move toward our destruction. The dark side of the Force surrounds the Chancellor.”

Obi-Wan added, “As it has surrounded and cloaked the Separatists since even before the war began. If the Chancellor is being influenced through the dark side, this whole war may have been, from the beginning, a plot by the Sith to destroy the Jedi Order.”

“Speculation!” Yoda thumped the floor with his gimer stick, making his hoverchair bob gently. “On theories such as these we cannot rely. Proof we need. Proof!”

“Proof may be a luxury we cannot afford.” A dangerous light had entered Mace Windu’s eyes. “We must be ready to act.”

“Act?” Obi-Wan asked mildly.

“He cannot be allowed to move against the Order. He cannot be allowed to prolong the war needlessly. Too many Jedi have died already. He is dismantling the Republic itself! I have seen life outside the Republic; so have you, Obi-Wan. Slavery. Torture. Endless war.”

Mace’s face darkened with the same distant, haunted shadow Obi-Wan had seen him wear the day before. “I have seen it in Nar Shaddaa, and I saw it on Haruun Kal. I saw what it did to Depa, and to Sora Bulq. Whatever its flaws, the Republic is our sole hope for justice, and for peace. It is our only defense against the dark. Palpatine may be about to do what the Separatists cannot: bring down the Republic. If he tries, he must be removed from office.”

“Removed?” Obi-Wan said. “You mean, arrested?”

Yoda shook his head. “To a dark place, this line of thought will lead us. Great care, we must take.”

“The Republic is civilization. It’s the only one we have.” Mace looked deeply into Yoda’s eyes, and into Obi-Wan’s, and Obi-Wan could feel the heat in the Korun Master’s gaze. “We must be prepared for radical action. It is our duty.”

“But,” Obi-Wan protested numbly, “you’re talking about treason …”

“I’m not afraid of words, Obi-Wan! If it’s treason, then so be it. I would do this right now, if I had the Council’s support. The real treason,” Mace said, “would be failure to act.”

“Such an act, destroy the Jedi Order it could,” Yoda said. “Lost the trust of the public, we have already—”

“No disrespect, Master Yoda,” Mace interrupted, “but that’s a politician’s argument. We can’t let public opinion stop us from doing what’s right.”

“Convinced it is right, I am not,” Yoda said severely. “Working behind the scenes we should be, to uncover Lord Sidious! To move against Palpatine while the Sith still exist—this may be part of the Sith plan itself, to turn the Senate and the public against the Jedi! So that we are not only disbanded, but outlawed.”

Mace was half out of his pod. “To wait gives the Sith the advantage—”

“Have the advantage already, they do!” Yoda jabbed at him with his gimer stick. “Increase their advantage we will, if in haste we act!”

“Masters, Masters, please,” Obi-Wan said. He looked from one to the other and inclined his head respectfully. “Perhaps there is a middle way.”

“Ah, of course: Kenobi the Negotiator.” Mace Windu settled back into his seating pod. “I should have guessed. That is why you asked for this meeting, isn’t it? To mediate our differences. If you can.”

“So sure of your skills you are?” Yoda folded his fists around the head of his stick. “Easy to negotiate, this matter is not!”

Obi-Wan kept his head down. “It seems to me,” he said carefully, “that Palpatine himself has given us an opening. He has said—both to you, Master Windu, and in the HoloNet address he gave following his rescue—that General Grievous is the true obstacle to peace. Let us forget about the rest of the Separatist leadership, for now. Let Nute Gunray and San Hill and the rest run wherever they like, while we put every available Jedi and all of our agents—the whole of Republic Intelligence, if we can—to work on locating Grievous himself. This will force the hand of the Sith Lord; he will know that Grievous cannot elude our full efforts for long, once we devote ourselves exclusively to his capture. It will draw Sidious out; he will have to make some sort of move, if he wishes the war to continue.”

“If?” Mace said. “The war has been a Sith operation from the beginning, with Dooku on one side and Sidious on the other—it has always been a plot aimed at us. At the Jedi. To bleed us dry of our youngest and best. To make us into something we were never intended to be.”

He shook his head bitterly. “I had the truth in my hands years ago—back on Haruun Kal, in the first months of the war. I had it, but I did not understand how right I was.”

“Seen glimpses of this truth, we all have,” Yoda said sadly. “Our arrogance it is, which has stopped us from fully opening our eyes.”

“Until now,” Obi-Wan put in gently. “We understand now the goal of the Sith Lord, we know his tactics, and we know where to look for him. His actions will reveal him. He cannot escape us. He will not escape us.”

Yoda and Mace frowned at each other for one long moment, then both of them turned to Obi-Wan and inclined their heads in mirrors of his respectful bow.

“Seen to the heart of the matter, young Kenobi has.”

Mace nodded. “Yoda and I will remain on Coruscant, monitoring Palpatine’s advisers and lackeys; we’ll move against Sidious the instant he is revealed. But who will capture Grievous? I have fought him blade-to-blade. He is more than a match for most Jedi.”

“We’ll worry about that once we find him,” Obi-Wan said. A slight, wistful smile crept over his face. “If I listen hard enough, I can almost hear Qui-Gon reminding me that until the possible becomes actual, it is only a distraction.”

General Grievous stood wide-legged, hands folded behind him, as he stared out through the reinforced viewport at the towering sphere of the Geonosian Dreadnaught. The immense ship looked small, though, against the scale of the vast sinkhole that rose around it.

This was Utapau, a remote backworld on the fringe of the Outer Rim. At ground level—far above where Grievous stood now—the planet appeared to be a featureless ball of barren rock, scoured flat by endless hyperwinds. From orbit, though, its cities and factories and spaceports could be seen as the planet’s rotation brought its cavernous sinkholes one at a time into view. These sinkholes were the size of inverted mountains, and every available square meter of their interior walls was packed with city. And every square meter of every city was under the guns of Separatist war droids, making sure that the Utapauns behaved themselves.

Utapau had no interest in the Clone Wars; it had never been a member of the Republic, and had carefully maintained a stance of quiet neutrality.

Right up until Grievous had conquered it.

Neutrality, in these times, was a joke; a planet was neutral only so long as neither the Republic nor the Confederacy wanted it. If Grievous could laugh, he would have.

The members of the Separatist leadership scurried across the permacrete landing platform like the alley rats they were—scampering for the ship that would take them to the safety of the newly constructed base on Mustafar.

But one alley rat was missing from the scuttle.

Grievous shifted his gaze fractionally and found the reflection of Nute Gunray in the transparisteel. The Neimoidian viceroy stood dithering in the control center’s doorway. Grievous regarded the reflection of the bulbous, cold-blooded eyes below the tall peaked miter.

“Gunray.” He made no other motion. “Why are you still here?”

“Some things should be said privately, General.” The viceroy’s reflection cast glances either way along the hallway beyond the door. “I am disturbed by this new move. You told us that Utapau would be safe for us. Why is the Leadership Council being moved now to Mustafar?”

Grievous sighed. He had no time for lengthy explanations; he was expecting a secret transmission from Sidious himself. He could not take the transmission with Gunray in the room, nor could he follow his natural inclinations and boot the Neimoidian viceroy so high he’d burn up on reentry. Grievous still hoped, every day, that Lord Sidious would give him leave to smash the skulls of Gunray and his toady, Rune Haako. Repulsive sniveling grub-greedy scum, both of them. And the rest of the Separatist leadership was every bit as vile.

But for now, a pretense of cordiality had to be maintained.

“Utapau,” Grievous said slowly, as though explaining to a child, “is a hostile planet under military occupation. It was never intended to be more than a stopgap, while the defenses of the base on Mustafar were completed. Now that they are, Mustafar is the most secure planet in the galaxy. The stronghold prepared for you can withstand the entire Republic Navy.”

“It should,” Gunray muttered. “Construction nearly bankrupted the Trade Federation!”

“Don’t whine to me about money, Viceroy. I have no interest in it.”

“You had better, General. It’s my money that finances this entire war! It’s my money that pays for that body you wear, and for those insanely expensive MagnaGuards of yours! It’s my money—”

Grievous moved so swiftly that he seemed to teleport from the window to half a meter in front of Gunray. “How much use is your money,” he said, flexing his hand of jointed duranium in the Neimoidian’s face, “against this?”

Gunray flinched and backed away. “I was only—I have some concerns about your ability to keep us safe, General, that’s all. I—we—the Trade Federation cannot work in a climate of fear. What about the Jedi?”

“Forget the Jedi. They do not enter into this equation.”

“They will be entering into that base soon enough!”

“The base is secure. It can stand against a thousand Jedi. Ten thousand.”

“Do you hear yourself? Are you mad?”

“What I am,” Grievous replied evenly, “is unaccustomed to having my orders challenged.”

“We are the Leadership Council! You cannot give us orders! We give the orders here!”

“Are you certain of that? Would you care to wager?” Grievous leaned close enough that he could see the reflection of his mask in Gunray’s rose-colored eyes. “Shall we, say, bet your life on it?”

Gunray kept on backing away. “You tell us we’ll be safe on Mustafar—but you also told us you would deliver Palpatine as a hostage, and he managed to escape your grip!”

“Be thankful, Viceroy,” Grievous said, admiring the smooth flexion of his finger joints as though his hand were some species of exotic predator, “that you have not found yourself in my grip.”

He went back to the viewport and reassumed his original position, legs wide, hands clasped behind his back. To look on the sickly pink in Gunray’s pale green cheeks for one second longer was to risk forgetting his orders and splattering the viceroy’s brains from here to Ord Mantell.

“Your ship is waiting.”

His auditory sensors clearly picked up the slither of Gunray’s sandals retreating along the corridor, and not a second too soon: his sensors were also registering the whine of the control center’s holocomm warming up. He turned to face the disk, and when the enunciator chimed to indicate the incoming transmission, he pressed the ACCEPT key and knelt.

Head down, he could see only the scanned image of the hem of the great Lord’s robes, but that was all he needed to see.

“Yes, Lord Sidious.”

“Have you moved the Separatist Council to Mustafar?”

“Yes, Master.” He risked a glance out the viewport. Most of the council had reached the starship. Gunray should be joining them any second; Grievous had seen firsthand how fast the viceroy could run, given proper motivation. “The ship will lift off within moments.”

“Well done, my general. Now you must turn your hand to preparing our trap there on Utapau. The Jedi hunt you personally at last; you must be ready for their attack.”

“Yes, Master.”

“I am arranging matters to give you a second chance to do my bidding, Grievous. Expect that the Jedi sent to capture you will be Obi-Wan Kenobi.”

“Kenobi?” Grievous’s fists clenched hard enough that his carpal electrodrivers whined in protest. “And Skywalker?”

“I believe Skywalker will be … otherwise engaged.”

Grievous dropped his head even lower. “I will not fail you again, my Master. Kenobi will die.”

“See to it.”

“Master? If I may trouble you with boldness—why did you not let me kill Chancellor Palpatine? We may never get a better chance.”

“The time was not yet ripe. Patience, my general. The end of the war is near, and victory is certain.”

“Even with the loss of Count Dooku?”

“Dooku was not lost, he was sacrificed—a strategic sacrifice, as one offers up a piece in dejarik: to draw the opponent into a fatal blunder.”

“I was never much the dejarik player, my Master. I prefer real war.”

“And you shall have your fill, I promise you.”

“This fatal blunder you speak of—if I may once again trouble you with boldness …”

“You will come to understand soon enough.”

Grievous could hear the smile in his Master’s voice.

“All will be clear, once you meet my new apprentice.”

Anakin finger-combed his hair as he trotted out across the restricted landing deck atop the Temple ziggurat near the base of the High Council Tower. Far across the expanse of deck stood the Supreme Chancellor’s shuttle. Anakin squinted at it, and at the two tall red-robed guards that stood flanking its open access ramp.

And coming toward him from the direction of the shuttle, shielding his eyes and leaning against the morning wind that whipped across the unprotected field—was that Obi-Wan?

“Finally,” Anakin muttered. He’d scoured the Temple for his former Master; he’d nearly giving up hope of finding him when a passing Padawan had mentioned that he’d seen Obi-Wan on his way out to the landing deck to meet Palpatine’s shuttle. He hoped Obi-Wan wouldn’t notice he hadn’t changed his clothes.

It wasn’t like he could explain.

Though his secret couldn’t last, he wasn’t ready for it to come out just yet. He and Padmé had agreed last night that they would keep it as long as they could. He wasn’t ready to leave the Jedi Order. Not while she was still in danger.

Padmé had said that his nightmare must be only a metaphor, but he knew better. He knew that Force prophecy was not absolute—but his had never been wrong. Not in the slightest detail. He had known as a boy that he would be chosen by the Jedi. He had known his adventures would span the galaxy. As a mere nine-year-old, long before he even understood what love was, he had looked upon Padmé Amidala’s flawless face and seen there that she would love him, and that they would someday marry.

There had been no metaphor in his dreams of his mother. Screaming in pain. Tortured to death.

I knew you would come to me, Annie … I missed you so much.

He could have saved her.

Maybe.

It had always seemed so obvious to him—that if he had only returned to Tatooine a day earlier, an hour, he could have found his mother and she would still be alive. And yet—

And yet the great prophets of the Jedi had always taught that the gravest danger in trying to prevent a vision of the future from coming to pass is that in doing so, a Jedi can actually bring it to pass—as though if he’d run away in time to save his mother, he might have made himself somehow responsible for her death.

As though if he tried to save Padmé, he could end up—blankly impossible though it was—killing her himself …

But to do nothing … to simply wait for Padmé to die …

Could something be more than impossible?

When a Jedi had a question about the deepest subtleties of the Force, there was one source to whom he could always turn; and so, first thing that morning, without even taking time to stop by his own quarters for a change of clothing, Anakin had gone to Yoda for advice.

He’d been surprised by how graciously the ancient Jedi Master had invited him into his quarters, and by how patiently Yoda had listened to his stumbling attempts to explain his question without giving away his secret; Yoda had never made any attempt to conceal what had always seemed to Anakin to be a gruff disapproval of Anakin’s very existence.

But this morning, despite clearly having other things on his mind—even Anakin’s Force perceptions, far from the most subtle, had detected echoes of conflict and worry within the Master’s chamber—Yoda had simply offered Anakin a place on one of the softly rounded pod seats and suggested that they meditate together.

He hadn’t even asked for details.

Anakin had been so grateful—and so relieved, and so unexpectedly hopeful—that he’d found tears welling into his eyes, and some few minutes had been required for him to compose himself into proper Jedi serenity.

After a time, Yoda’s eyes had slowly opened and the deep furrows on his ancient brow had deepened further. “Premonitions … premonitions … deep questions they are. Sense the future, once all Jedi could; now few alone have this skill. Visions … gifts from the Force, and curses. Signposts and snares. These visions of yours …”

“They are of pain,” Anakin had said. “Of suffering.”

He had barely been able to make himself add: “And death.”

“In these troubled times, no surprise this is. Yourself you see, or someone you know?”

Anakin had not trusted himself to answer.

“Someone close to you?” Yoda had prompted gently.

“Yes,” Anakin had replied, eyes turned away from Yoda’s too-wise stare. Let him think he was talking about Obi-Wan. It was close enough.

Yoda’s voice was still gentle, and understanding. “The fear of loss is a path to the dark side, young one.”

“I won’t let my visions come true, Master. I won’t.”

“Rejoice for those who transform into the Force. Mourn them not. Miss them not.”

“Then why do we fight at all, Master? Why save anybody?”

“Speaking of anybody, we are not,” Yoda had said sternly. “Speaking of you, and your vision, and your fear, we are. The shadow of greed, attachment is. What you fear to lose, train yourself to release. Let go of fear, and loss cannot harm you.”

Which was when Anakin had realized Yoda wasn’t going to be any help at all. The greatest sage of the Jedi Order had nothing better to offer him than more pious babble about Letting Things Pass Out Of His Life.

Like he hadn’t heard that a million times already.

Easy for him—who had Yoda ever cared about? Really cared about? Of one thing Anakin was certain: the ancient Master had never been in love.

Or he would have known better than to expect Anakin to just fold his hands and close his eyes and settle in to meditate while what was left of Padmé’s life evaporated like the ghost-mist of dew in a Tatooine winter dawn …

So all that had been left for him was to find some way to respectfully extricate himself.

And then go find Obi-Wan.

Because he wasn’t about to give up. Not in this millennium.

The Jedi Temple was the greatest nexus of Force energy in the Republic; its ziggurat design focused the Force the way a lightsaber’s gemstone focused its energy stream. With the thousands of Jedi and Padawans within it every day contemplating peace, seeking knowledge, and meditating on justice and surrender to the will of the Force, the Temple was a fountain of the light.

Just being on its rooftop landing deck sent a surge of power through Anakin’s whole body; if the Force was ever to show him a way to change the dark future of his nightmares, it would do so here.

The Jedi Temple also contained the archives, the vast library that encompassed the Order’s entire twenty-five millennia of existence: everything from the widest-ranging cosmographical surveys to the intimate journals of a billion Jedi Knights. It was there Anakin hoped to find everything that was known about prophetic dreams—and everything that was known about preventing these prophecies from coming to pass.

His only problem was that the deepest secrets of the greatest Masters of the Force were stored in restricted holocrons; since the Lorian Nod affair, some seventy standard years before, access to these holocrons was denied to all but Jedi Masters.

And he couldn’t exactly explain to the archives Master why he wanted them.

But now here was Obi-Wan—Obi-Wan would help him, Anakin knew he would—if only Anakin could figure out the right way to ask …

While he was still hunting for words, Obi-Wan reached him. “You missed the report on the Outer Rim sieges.”

“I—was held up,” Anakin said. “I have no excuse.”

That, at least, was true.

“Is Palpatine here?” Anakin asked. It was a convenient-enough way to change the subject. “Has something happened?”

“Quite the opposite,” Obi-Wan said. “That shuttle did not bring the Chancellor. It is waiting to bring you to him.”

“Waiting? For me?” Anakin frowned. Worries and lack of sleep had his head full of fog; he couldn’t make this make sense. He patted his robes vacantly. “But—my beacon hasn’t gone off. If the Council wanted me, why didn’t they—”

“The Council,” Obi-Wan said, “has not been consulted.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Nor do I.” Obi-Wan stepped close, nodding minutely back toward the shuttle. “They simply arrived, some time ago. When the deck-duty Padawans questioned them, they said the Chancellor has requested your presence.”

“Why wouldn’t he go through the Council?”

“Perhaps he has some reason to believe,” Obi-Wan said carefully, “that the Council might have resisted sending you. Perhaps he did not wish to reveal his reason for this summons. Relations between the Council and the Chancellor are … stressed.”

A queasy knot began to tie itself behind Anakin’s ribs. “Obi-Wan, what’s going on? Something’s wrong, isn’t it? You know something, I can tell.”

“Know? No: only suspect. Which is not at all the same thing.”

Anakin remembered what he’d said to Padmé about exactly that last night. The queasy knot tightened. “And?”

“And that’s why I am out here, Anakin. So I can talk to you. Privately. Not as a member of the Jedi Council—in fact, if the Council were to find out about this conversation … well, let’s say, I’d rather they didn’t.”

“What conversation? I still don’t know what’s going on!”

“None of us does. Not really.” Obi-Wan put a hand on Anakin’s shoulder and frowned deeply into his eyes. “Anakin, you know I am your friend.”

“Of course you are—”

“No. No of courses, Anakin. Nothing is of course anymore. I am your friend, and as your friend, I am asking you: be wary of Palpatine.”

“What do you mean?”

“I know you are his friend. I am concerned that he may not be yours. Be careful of him, Anakin. And be careful of your own feelings.”

“Careful? Don’t you mean, mindful?”

Obi-Wan’s frown deepened. “No. I don’t. The Force grows ever darker around us, and we are all affected by it, even as we affect it. This is a dangerous time to be a Jedi. Please, Anakin—please be careful.”

Anakin tried for his old rakish smile. “You worry too much.”

“I have to—”

“—because I don’t worry at all, right?” Anakin finished for him.

Obi-Wan’s frown softened toward a smile. “How did you know I was going to say that?”

“You’re wrong, you know.” Anakin stared off through the morning haze toward the shuttle, past the shuttle—

Toward 500 Republica, and Padmé’s apartment.

He said, “I worry plenty.”

The ride to Palpatine’s office was quietly tense. Anakin had tried making conversation with the two tall helmet-masked figures in the red robes, but they weren’t exactly chatty.

Anakin’s discomfort only increased when he arrived at Palpatine’s office. He had been here so often that he didn’t even really see it, most times: the deep red runner that matched the softly curving walls, the long comfortable couches, the huge arc of window behind Palpatine’s desk—these were all so familiar that they were usually almost invisible, but today—

Today, with Obi-Wan’s voice whispering be wary of Palpatine in the back of his head, everything looked different. New. And not in a good way.

Some indefinable gloom shrouded everything, as though the orbital mirrors that focused the light of Coruscant’s distant sun into bright daylight had somehow been damaged, or smudged with the brown haze of smoke that still shrouded the cityscape. The light of the Chancellor’s lampdisks seemed brighter than usual, almost harsh, but somehow that only deepened the gloom. He discovered now an odd, accidental echo of memory, a new harmonic resonance inside his head, when he looked at the curving view wall that threw into silhouette the Chancellor’s single large chair.

Palpatine’s office reminded him of the General’s Quarters on Invisible Hand.

And it struck him as unaccountably sinister that the robes worn by the Chancellor’s cadre of bodyguards were the exact color of Palpatine’s carpet.

Palpatine himself stood at the view wall, hands clasped behind him, gazing out upon the smoke-hazed morning.

“Anakin.” He must have seen Anakin’s reflection in the curve of transparisteel; he had not moved. “Join me.”

Anakin came up beside him, mirroring his stance. Endless cityscape stretched away before them. Here and there, the remains of shattered buildings still smoldered. Space lane traffic was beginning to return to normal, and rivers of gnat-like speeders and air taxis and repulsor buses crisscrossed the city. In the near distance, the vast dome of the Galactic Senate squatted like a gigantic gray mushroom sprung from the duracrete plain that was Republic Plaza. Farther, dim in the brown haze, he could pick out the quintuple spires that topped the ziggurat of the Jedi Temple.

“Do you see, Anakin?” Palpatine’s voice was soft, hoarse with emotion. “Do you see what they have done to our magnificent city? This war must end. We cannot allow such … such …”

His voice trailed away, and he shook his head. Gently, Anakin laid a hand on Palpatine’s shoulder, and a hint of frown fleeted over his face at how frail seemed the flesh and bone beneath the robe. “You know you have my best efforts, and those of every Jedi,” he said.

Palpatine nodded, lowering his head. “I know I have yours, Anakin. The rest of the Jedi …” He sighed. He looked even more exhausted than he had yesterday. Perhaps he had passed a sleepless night as well.

“I have asked you here,” he said slowly, “because I need your help on a matter of extreme delicacy. I hope I can depend upon your discretion, Anakin.”

Anakin went still for a moment, then he very slowly lifted his hand from the Chancellor’s shoulder.

Be wary of Palpatine

“As a Jedi, there are … limits … to my discretion, Chancellor.”

“Oh, of course. Don’t worry, my boy.” A flash of his familiar fatherly smile forced its way into his eyes. “Anakin, in all the years we have been friends, have I ever asked you to do anything even the slightest bit against your conscience?”

“Well—”

“And I never will. I am very proud of your accomplishments as a Jedi, Anakin. You have won many battles the Jedi Council insisted to me were already lost—and you saved my life. It’s frankly appalling that they still keep you off the Council yourself.”

“My time will come … when I am older. And, I suppose, wiser.” He didn’t want to get into this with Palpatine; talking with the Chancellor like this—seriously, man-to-man—made him feel good, feel strong, despite Obi-Wan’s warning. He certainly didn’t want to start whining about being passed over for Mastery like some preadolescent Padawan who hadn’t been chosen for a scramball team.

“Nonsense. Age is no measure of wisdom. They keep you off the Council because it is the last hold they have on you, Anakin; it is how they control you. Once you’re a Master, as you deserve, how will they make you do their bidding?”

“Well …” Anakin gave him a half-sheepish smile. “They can’t exactly make me, even now.”

“I know, my boy. I know. That is precisely the point. You are not like them. You are younger. Stronger. Better. If they cannot control you now, what will happen once you are a Master in your own right? How will they keep your toes on their political line? You may become more powerful than all of them together. That is why they keep you down. They fear your power. They fear you.”

Anakin looked down. This had struck a little close to the bone. “I have sensed … something like that.”

“I have asked you here today, Anakin, because I have fears of my own.” He turned, waiting, until Anakin met his eye, and on Palpatine’s face was something approaching bleak despair. “I am coming to fear the Jedi themselves.”

“Oh, Chancellor—” Anakin broke into a smile of disbelief. “There is no one more loyal than the Jedi, sir—surely, after all this time—”

But Palpatine had already turned away. He lowered himself into the chair behind his desk and kept his head down as though he was ashamed to say this directly to Anakin’s face. “The Council keeps pushing for more control. More autonomy. They have lost all respect for the rule of law. They have become more concerned with avoiding the oversight of the Senate than with winning the war.”

“With respect, sir, many on the Council would say the same of you.” He thought of Obi-Wan, and he had to stop himself from wincing. Had he betrayed a confidence just now?

Or had Obi-Wan been doing the Council’s bidding after all? … Be wary of Palpatine, he’d said, and be careful of your feelings …

Were these honest warnings, out of concern for him? Or had they been calculated: seeds of doubt planted to hedge Anakin away from the one man who really understood him?

The one man he could really trust …

“Oh, I have no doubt of it,” Palpatine was saying. “Many of the Jedi on your Council would prefer I was out of office altogether—because they know I’m on to them, now. They’re shrouded in secrecy, obsessed with covert action against mysteriously faceless enemies—”

“Well, the Sith are hardly faceless, are they? I mean, Dooku himself—”

“Was he truly a Lord of the Sith? Or was he just another in your string of fallen Jedi, posturing with a red lightsaber to intimidate you?”

“I …” Anakin frowned. How could he be sure? “But Sidious …”

“Ah, yes, the mysterious Lord Sidious. ‘The Sith infiltrator in the highest levels of government.’ Doesn’t that sound a little overly familiar to you, Anakin? A little overly convenient? How do you know this Sidious even exists? How do you know he is not a fiction, a fiction created by the Jedi Council, to give them an excuse to harass their political enemies?”

“The Jedi are not political—”

“In a democracy, everything is political, Anakin. And everyone. This imaginary Sith Lord of theirs—even if he does exist, is he anyone to be feared? To be hunted down and exterminated without trial?”

“The Sith are the definition of evil—”

“Or so you have been trained to believe. I have been reading about the history of the Sith for some years now, Anakin. Ever since the Council saw fit to finally reveal to me their … assertion … that these millennium-dead sorcerers had supposedly sprung back to life. Not every tale about them is sequestered in your conveniently secret Temple archives. From what I have read, they were not so different from Jedi; seeking power, to be sure, but so does your Council.”

“The dark side—”

“Oh, yes, yes, certainly, the dark side. Listen to me: if this ‘Darth Sidious’ of yours were to walk through that door right now—and I could somehow stop you from killing him on the spot—do you know what I would do?”

Palpatine rose, and his voice rose with him. “I would ask him to sit down, and I would ask him if he has any power he could use to end this war!”

“You would—you would—” Anakin couldn’t quite make himself believe what he was hearing. The blood-red rug beneath his feet seemed to shift under him, and his head was starting to spin.

“And if he said he did, I’d bloody well offer him a brandy and talk it out!”

“You—Chancellor, you can’t be serious—”

“Well, not entirely.” Palpatine sighed, and shrugged, and lowered himself once more into his chair. “It’s only an example, Anakin. I would do anything to return peace to the galaxy, do you understand? That’s all I mean. After all—” He offered a tired, sadly ironic smile. “—what are the chances of an actual Sith Lord ever walking through that door?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Anakin said feelingly, “but I do know that you probably shouldn’t use that … example … in front of the Jedi Council.”

“Oh, yes.” Palpatine chuckled. “Yes, quite right. They might take it as an excuse to accuse me.”

“I’m sure they’d never do that—”

“I am not. I am no longer sure they’ll stop at anything, Anakin. That’s actually the reason I asked you here today.” He leaned forward intently, resting his elbows on the desk. “You may have heard that this afternoon, the Senate will call upon this office to assume direct control of the Jedi Council.”

Anakin’s frown deepened. “The Jedi will no longer report to the Senate?”

“They will report to me. Personally. The Senate is too unfocused to conduct this war; we’ve seen this for years. Now that this office will be the single authority to direct the prosecution of the war, we’ll bring a quick end to things.”

Anakin nodded. “I can see how that will help, sir, but the Council probably won’t. I can tell you that they are in no mood for further constitutional amendments.”

“Yes, thank you, my friend. But in this case, I have no choice. This war must be won.”

“Everyone agrees on that.”

“I hope they do, my boy. I hope they do.”

Inside his head, he heard the echo of Obi-Wan, murmuring relations between the Council and the Chancellor are … stressed. What had been going on, here in the capital?

Weren’t they all on the same side?

“I can assure you,” he said firmly, “that the Jedi are absolutely dedicated to the core values of the Republic.”

One of Palpatine’s eyebrows arched. “Their actions will speak more loudly than their words—as long as someone keeps an eye on them. And that, my boy, is exactly the favor I must ask of you.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Anakin, I am asking you—as a personal favor to me, in respect for our long friendship—to accept a post as my personal representative on the Jedi Council.”

Anakin blinked.

He blinked again.

He said, “Me?”

“Who else?” Palpatine spread his hands in a melancholy shrug. “You are the only Jedi I know, truly know, that I can trust. I need you, my boy. There is no one else who can do this job: to be the eyes and ears—and the voice—of the Republic on the Jedi Council.”

“On the Council …,” Anakin murmured.

He could see himself seated in one of the low, curving chairs, opposite Mace Windu. Opposite Yoda. He might sit next to Ki-Adi-Mundi, or Plo Koon—or even beside Obi-Wan! And he could not quite ignore the quiet whisper, from down within the furnace doors that sealed his heart, that he was about to become the youngest Master in the twenty-five-thousand-year history of the Jedi Order …

But none of that really mattered.

Palpatine had somehow seen into his secret heart, and had chosen to offer him the one thing he most desired in all the galaxy. He didn’t care about the Council, not really—that was a childish dream. He didn’t need the Council. He didn’t need recognition, and he didn’t need respect. What he needed was the rank itself.

All that mattered was Mastery.

All that mattered was Padmé.

This was a gift beyond gifts: as a Master, he could access those forbidden holocrons in the restricted vault.

He could find a way to save her from his dream …

He shook himself back to the present. “I … am overwhelmed, sir. But the Council elects its own members. They will never accept this.”

“I promise you they will,” Palpatine murmured imperturbably. He swung his chair around to gaze out the window toward the distant spires of the Temple. “They need you more than they realize. All it will take is for someone to properly …”

He waved a hand expressively.

“… explain it to them.”