Chapter 3: A King Without a Kingdom Speaks

The mediation chamber was not built for three.

It had been designed for two parties in dispute and a neutral third, which meant three chairs, a table barely wider than an outstretched arm, and a viewport the size of a man's chest through which the stars moved with the unhurried indifference of things that had witnessed everything and judged nothing. The overhead light was the dull amber of secondary power. It made everyone look like they were sitting inside an old story.

Arthur lowered himself into the chair across from Qui-Gon with the deliberate economy of a man managing pain through architecture — back straight, weight distributed, the hand that was not pressed to his side placed flat on the table where it could be seen. Excalibur he rested against the wall to his right, not setting it down so much as positioning it, the way a man places a candle where it will do the most good without being in the way. The sword settled against the bulkhead with a sound like a held breath releasing, and the hum it had been producing shifted half a register lower, almost subsiding, almost quiet.