“Of course. I didn’t mean any disrespect.” His face had paled, which made the freckles on his nose and cheeks stand out. Jora liked it when humans had some face markings of their own. “I only meant that I’ve been working as an archivist, trying to be a good one, and it doesn’t seem like the frontier would need many of those.”
She tilted her head, considering. “You might be surprised. But I intend for you to be more than an archivist, Reath.” More gently, Jora added, “You prefer to concentrate on those areas where you believe effort counts more than talent. But you have more than enough talent for anything you set your mind to—and effort always counts. For any task, in any place.”
“Doesn’t it count more here? Where it does the most good?”
Jora shook her head in fond disbelief. “My first Padawan craved endless adventure. My second one would happily avoid it. What both of you actually needed was the same thing: balance. I found it for him, and I’ve found it for you.”
(At least, she hoped she’d helped Dez find it. Sometimes, hearing of his exploits on Zeitooine and Christophsis, she wondered.)
The depth of Reath’s dismay would’ve been comical if it hadn’t been so heartfelt. That was one thing they never told you about being a master—that sometimes teaching a hard lesson hurt more than learning it. She said, “Tell me, Reath, why can you not cross the Kyber Arch by yourself?”
Reath frowned. “Do I need to?”
Jora didn’t reply. The Kyber Arch stood within one of the vast meditation chambers of the Coruscant temple. Each crystal in the arch was a kyber crystal, one retrieved from the damaged lightsaber of a Jedi fallen in battle. As beautifully as it sparkled in the light, it was a reminder of the price their fellow Jedi had paid in the pursuit of justice over the past millennia. Thick at the bases, the very topmost curve of the arch had deliberately been left extremely narrow, as a representation of the perils the fallen had faced.
Scaling and crossing the Kyber Arch was an advanced meditation technique. Most Jedi never attempted it—only those who felt called to do so by the Force. So if Reath insisted on taking her question literally, he would never have an answer.
Literal he remained. “I mean, I think I could cross it. We’ve made our way across ropes and tethers skinnier than that. Do you want me to try?” Reath looked hopeful again. “If I make it alone, does that mean we don’t have to go to the frontier?”
“Neither you nor any other Jedi has ever crossed the Kyber Arch alone,” Jora said. “Nor will anyone ever do so. When you know the answer why, I believe you’ll understand why we’re headed to the frontier.”
Reath sighed. Frustration practically radiated from him, but he maintained control admirably. He managed to ask, “Where are we going? Specifically, I mean.”
Jora raised her head and looked into the sky as if she could see the stars beyond the sunset. “To the beacon of the Republic,” she said. “To Starlight.”
Reath Silas was about to leave the Jedi Temple on Coruscant for his impressive new assignment on the frontier, and he was miserable about it.
“Cheer up!” Kym insisted, clapping him on the shoulder and nearly making him spill the contents of his cup. Her face was flushed with the excitement of the farewell party that percolated around them. “You’re about to have an amazing adventure!”
“‘Adventure’ is usually a euphemism for ‘going places that have lots of bugs,’” Reath said. “I mean, I know bugs have their place in the Force and are living beings in their own right…but that doesn’t mean I want them in my socks.”
Kym laughed at him. A couple of the colorful streamers decorating the Padawans’ common area had gotten snagged on her lethorns. “You realize at least half of the apprentices here would do almost anything for a placement on the frontier, right?”
In Reath’s opinion, “frontier” was usually a euphemism for “the middle of nowhere.” But he didn’t have the heart to debate with Kym any longer. It was hard enough pretending to be grateful for the big goodbye party his friends were throwing him.
No. He was grateful. It could never be a bad thing to know that others cared about you and would miss you when you were gone. But Reath was in no mood for a party when all he felt was melancholy and the absolute certainty that he was being taken from the best place in the galaxy to one of the worst.
Coruscant was the center of the known galaxy, literally and figuratively. Reath had always been grateful that was the temple he’d been sent to, that he’d had the privilege of growing up there, of learning directly from the members of the Jedi Council. His luck had continued when he’d been chosen as the Padawan of Jora Malli, one of the most renowned Knights of the age and a Council member herself. This meant Reath had served on a handful of the most significant missions of the past few years. What he lacked in natural strength in the Force (which he’d been keenly aware of since he was hardly more than a toddler) he made up for by working hard, being trustworthy, and taking responsibility. The majority of apprentices were still hoping for a measure of independence when they turned twenty; at only seventeen, Reath had already been trusted with tasks that his master said would’ve proved a challenge for even a full Jedi.
But most of all—best of all—he’d had access to the Jedi Archives.
Reath loved stories. He loved histories. He loved digging through records, learning what people had thought, said, and done in ages gone by. While the other Padawans were practicing their acrobatics or dueling with lightsabers, he’d been sitting up late with his digital texts.
This made him the odd one out, most of the time. Rather than conform, Reath embraced his bookish ways. He didn’t see why anybody should think he was weird; really, it was weird of them to expect that every youngling would turn out to have the same personality. When the searchers went around looking for Force-sensitive infants, they only checked for potential ability. Not temperament, and certainly not preferences. Nobody ever asked the younglings, “Would you like to become a swashbuckling heroic Knight? Or would you rather stay at home and read?” Some people—however courageous and capable they might be—still preferred reading stories to living them, and Reath was among that number.
Until recently, Master Jora had been more than understanding. She’d always said the Order needed academics as much as it needed adventurers, and there were usually too many candidates for the latter, not enough for the former. She said she found it refreshing that Reath went against the grain. So his assignments had always included plenty of time in the Archives. Other Jedi based on Coruscant had even begun to leave open a particular carrel, with the silent understanding that it was Reath’s spot.
Then, when no one ever would have expected it, Master Jora took an assignment in the middle of nowhere.
He’d protested. Respectfully, of course—but he’d made his feelings known, not that it did any good. “It will be healthy for you to stretch,” Master Jora had said with a smile, “to test your abilities in other ways.”
But Reath had tested himself. He’d pushed himself to excel in every field, not just his favorites. Who was always near the top of the lightsaber duelist rankings, Padawan class, despite not liking dueling much at all? Reath Silas. Who had aced every single one of his exams, except that time when he’d been sick to his stomach? Also Reath. Who was the only apprentice in decades to master Gatalentan meditation practices before his twentieth year?