Weary as they were, the boys fought until they could hardly move. By the time they crept from the training room, both boys were badly burned and bruised.

Neither had won, and both had lost.

As Obi-Wan headed to his chamber, Bruck took a lift to the upper rooms of the Temple, where the healers practiced their arts. He limped into the medic’s chambers, pretending to be more hurt than he was. His clothes were slashed and singed from the practice sabers, and blood ran from his nose.

When the medic saw him, their first question was, “What happened?”

Bruck gasped, “Obi-Wan Kenobi…“ and then pretended to faint.

One of the healers looked at him, then said brusquely to a droid, “Go notify the Masters.”

Obi-Wan Kenobi was bandaging his burns in his room when he got the bad news. He was trying to imagine ways to impress Qui-Gon in the morning. He considered ways to improve his fighting skills — anything he might say or do to convince the Knight that he was worthy to become a Jedi’s Padawan Learner. But then Docent Vant brought a data pad and showed him his orders.

Suddenly all his plans and dreams were shattered.

“Here now, it isn’t that horrible.” Docent Vant said. She was a tall blue-skinned woman with an elegant headtail that twitched nervously.

Obi-Wan stared at the orders in shock. The data pad told him that he would ship out of the Temple in the morning. He needed to pack his bags.

He was to report to the world of Bandomeer — some planet he’d never even heard of, out on the Galactic Rim. There he would join the Agricultural Corps.

“But I don’t understand,” he said numbly. “I still have four weeks until my birthday.”

“I know,” Docent Vant said. “But your ship, the Monument, leaves tomorrow, with a thousand miners aboard. It can’t wait just because you have a birthday.”

In shock, Obi-Wan looked around at his room. Overhead, three model Verpine fighters droned near the ceiling. He’d made them himself. Repulsorlift fields held them aloft, and their running lights flashed purple and green as they hummed about. Miniature insectoid pilots swiveled their heads, as if to look around. Books and charts were piled on his study table. His lightsaber hung in its usual place on the wall. He couldn’t imagine leaving here. It was his home. But he would leave it all gladly for the hard life of an apprentice. Not a farmer!

He would never be a Knight now. Bruck had been right, Obi-Wan thought bitterly. Yoda had been trying to make him feel better.

The shock and despair made him feel sick He raised his gaze to Docent Vant. “I could still be a Jedi Knight.”

Docent Vant touched Obi-Wan’s hand tenderly. She smiled, revealing pointed teeth. She shook her head. “Not every one is meant to be a warrior. The Republic needs healers and farmers, too. With your Force skills, you will be able to treat sick crops. Your talent will help feed whole worlds.”

“But —“ Obi-Wan wanted to say that he felt cheated. He deserved four more weeks. “It’s a job for rejects, initiates too weak to be knights. Besides, tomorrow Qui-Gon Jinn will be looking for a Padawan. Master Yoda said that I should fight for him.”

Docent Vant shook her head. “That was before the Masters heard of the beating you gave initiate Bruck. Did you really think the healers would not tell what you had done?"

In dawning horror, Obi-Wan realized what had happened. Bruck had set the trap, and he had walked straight into it. He wanted to protest, to say that he was innocent. It had been a fair fight. And healers? Surely Bruck had not needed healers — except to back up whatever story he had told.

“This is not the first time you have let your anger get the best of you,” Docent Vant said. “But let us hope it is the last.” She nodded briskly. “Now, try not to look so sad. You will need to pack your bags and say good-bye to your friends tonight. The galaxy is a big place. They will want to see you before you go.”

She left, closing the door softly behind her. Obi-Wan was left alone with only the sound of the model fighter flying overhead.

There was nothing else to do but pack his bags. Obi-Wan felt to devastated and ashamed to say good-bye. Not to Garen Muln or Reeft, or even to his best friend, Bant. They would feel angry and hurt if he left quietly, but he couldn’t face them. His friends would want to know where he was going. Once he had told them that he had been ordered to report to the Agricultural Corps, word would get around. He could imagine how some of the others would laugh, There was nothing he could say or do to clear his name.

Because the truth was that if Bruck had set the trap, he had walked into it willingly. Blindly and without though, perhaps. But it was his own will that led him there. What kind of Jedi would he make if he could fall for the tricks of a bully like Bruck?

Obi-Wan threw himself back on his sleep-couch. He had let Master Yoda down. He had thrown away his one last chance by letting anger cloud his mind. Now his worst fear had come true. After all his years of training, he was not good enough to be a Jedi Knight.

Yoda had always told him that anger and fear drove him too hard, that if he didn’t learn to control them, they would lead him down a path he didn’t want to follow. “Befriend them, you should,” Yoda had advised. “Look them in the eye without blinking. Use faults as teachers, you should. Then, rule you, they will not. Rule them, you shall.”

Yoda’s wisdom was engraved on his heart. How could he have failed to follow it?

Outside his door, he heard the rest of the initiates prepare for sleep. Goodnights were exchanged, shouted from chamber to chamber. Finally, the lights powered down, and the halls were silent.

Obi-Wan felt surrounded by the peaceful energy of the sleeping students. It did not sooth his raging heart. His fellow initiates could rest. They did not have thoughts that tormented them. Obi-Wan tossed and turned, unable to stop imagining the sight of Bruck’s triumphant face when he learned of Obi-Wan’s fate.

There was a soft knock at his door. Hesitantly, Obi-Wan rose and opened it. Bant stood, not saying a word, just looking at him. The young Calamarian girl wore a green robe that set off her salmon colored skin. Her clothes smelled moist and salty, for she’d just come from her room, which was always kept as steamy as the air off a warm sea. She was small for her ten years of age, and she watched him steadily with her huge silver eyes.

She took in his bruises and burns, all with an expression that said, You’ve been fighting again. Then she looked past him, to his bags packed on the floor.

“You weren’t going to say goodbye?” she asked, blinking back huge tears. “You were just going to leave?”