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He saw ahead that the exit door to the exterior platform was open.
Someone must be leaving or arriving. He walked out. The clouds had gone and the night was crystal clear. The stars hung close and glittered so hard and bright it felt as though they could cut pieces in the sky.
He wasn't alone. Lorian stood on the platform, looking out over Coruscant.
"You've heard," he said.
"I'm sorry," Dooku said.
"Are you?" Lorian asked the question softly. "I hear no sorrow in your voice."
"I am sorry," Dooku said, "but you have to admit that you got yourself into this mess."
Lorian turned. His eyes glittered like the stars above, and Dooku realized there were tears in them. "A mess? Is that what you call it?
How typical of you. Nothing touches you, Dooku. My life is over. I'm never going to be a Jedi! Can you imagine how that feels?"
"Why do you keep asking me to feel what you feel?" Dooku burst out. "I can't do that. I'm not you!"
"No, you're not me. But I know you better than anyone. I've seen more of what's inside you than anyone." Lorian took a step toward him.
"I've seen your heart, and I know how empty it is. I've seen your anger, and I know how deep it is. I've seen your ambition, and I know how ruthless it is. And all of that will ultimately destroy you."
"You don't know what you're talking about," Dooku said. "You wanted me to lie to protect you. Do you think you're better than me?"
"No, that was never what it was about," Lorian said. "It was about friendship."
"That's exactly what it was about! You've always been jealous of me!
That's why you wanted to destroy me. Instead," Dooku said, "you've destroyed yourself."
Lorian shook his head. He walked past Dooku, back toward the darkness of the hangar. "I know one thing," he said, his voice trailing behind him, but clear and even. "I will never be a Jedi, it's true. But neither will you. You will never, never be a great Jedi Master."
Lorian and his words were swallowed up by the darkness. Dooku's cheeks burned despite the coolness of the air. Words crowded in his throat, threatening to break free. Then he decided he would let Lorian have the last word. Why not? He had the career. Lorian had nothing.
Lorian had been wrong. Dooku's heart hadn't been empty. He had loved his friend.
But he had changed. Lorian had betrayed him. He would never believe in friendship again. If his heart was now empty of love, so be it. The Jedi did not believe in attachments. He would fill his heart with nobility and passion and commitment. He would become a great Jedi Master.
Dooku looked up at a sky that glittered with stars and hummed with planets. So much to see, so much to do. So many beings to fight and to fight for. And yet he would take away from his time at the Temple one lesson, the most important one of all: In the midst of a galaxy crowded with life-forms, he was alone.
Dooku was blindfolded and playing with a seeker when he felt a presence enter the room. He knew it was Yoda. He could feel the way the Force gathered in the room. He continued to play with the seeker, swinging his lightsaber so the wind batted it gently, teasing it. He circled, listening and moving, knowing he could slice the seeker in two whenever he wanted.
Yoda had not spoken to him since Lorian had left the Temple. Dooku passed the time waiting for Thame to return, performing classic Jedi training exercises, wanting to impress the Council with his commitment.
"Of your ability, sure you are," Yoda said mildly. "Yet between sureness and pride, a small step it is."
Dooku stopped for a moment. He had wanted to impress Yoda, not provoke a rebuke. The seeker buzzed around his head like an angry insect.
"Fitting it is that blindfolded you are," Yoda continued. "Pride it is that blinds you. Your flaw, pride is. Great are your gifts, Dooku.
Mindful of the talents you do not possess as well as the ones you do you must be."
Dooku heard only the slightest whisper of the fabric of Yoda's robe as the Jedi Master retreated. The Force drained from the room.
Dooku was not used to criticism. He was the gifted one. He was the one the teachers always pointed to as an example. He hated to be corrected. Coolly, he struck out with his lightsaber and severed the seeker in two.
Thirteen Years Later
Dooku and Qui-Gon Ji
Chapter 7
Over the years, Dooku had thought of Yoda's words often. They were more a legacy than a lesson, for they were with him still.
He thought of them, but he did not accept them. He had not yet encountered a situation where his pride was his downfall. He did not think of it as pride, anyway. It was assurance. Assurance of his abilities merely grew with each mission, as it should. Yoda had mistaken sureness for pride, which is exactly what he had warned Dooku not to do.
And if it was pride for Dooku to think of himself as wiser than Yoda in this instance, Dooku wasn't concerned. Yoda was not always right.
Dooku was not as great a Jedi as Yoda — not yet. But he would be one day. If he could not believe that, what was he working for?
Dooku had learned much from Thame Cerulian. Now he was a Master with an apprentice. Qui-Gon Ji
Luxury did not impress Dooku, but he did appreciate elegance. Senator Blix A
He could tell that Qui-Gon was dazzled by the plush seating, the brushed durasteel facings on the instrument panels, and the silky, soft bedding in the quarters. Qui-Gon was only sixteen and what he'd seen of the galaxy so far had not shown him the luxurious side of life. Their missions lately had been on dreary planets or isolated outposts in the Outer Rim.
Dooku had been glad when they had been summoned back to Coruscant, although under normal circumstances he would consider this mission beneath him. He was simply an escort, a mission any Jedi could do.