The man in assassin black attacked the girl in red silk. Twice her weight, his reach longer, he gave her no slack. His thrusts, coming close enough to kill, flashed toward her in fury. Still, she matched him block for thrust. Each time his knife came close, she kept his blows from connecting to vulnerable places like her neck, chest and face. He watched as her eyes took in each flicker of movement.
The band at her brow held her damp, braided curls away from her eyes. The red silk that flew around her tossed droplets of sweat. He hoped to push past her barrier, to bloody his knife on her smooth skin. Only one other person had done so, years ago. She killed him.
Her knife caught a stripe of white hair at his temple, tearing it loose from its binding. Why go for my hair and not my neck, he wondered? Why give me this advantage?
The lock of hair swung across his face. He refused to let it distract him.
The next instant he slashed his knife in return, aiming not for the hair at her temple, but for the sweet, young flesh of her neck.
An exchange of red and black silk blurred as they battled faster than Normal eyes could follow.
“Enough!” The man smoothed the lock of hair back into the knot at the nape of his neck, his chest rising and falling with exertion.
The girl did not lower her guard until he bowed. Then she returned the bow, student to master.
“You possess the ability to best me, Chalatta,” he said. “But you always hold back. You never go for the kill. Why is that?”
“Am I supposed to want to kill you?” She took deep breaths.
Sweat ran in little rivulets down her neck and back, sticking the red silk to her skin, showing that she still possessed the figure of a child, even at nineteen. According to her mother, she had not yet come into her womanhood. This bothered him. Being a child, she needed protection from what would come this day, or learn to protect herself, neither of which seemed likely.
He laughed at her question. “I hope not, Chalatta, but the thrust that loosened my hair should have nicked the skin of my neck. Why aim for my hair?”
“I… Father, I can’t…”
“Yes. I know. My question is why?”
“The Krindarwee don’t kill.” She said. “You pose no danger to me. Even if you suddenly became irrational with rage, I would still have trouble harming you.”
“So you’ve mentioned before.” He stared at the curved scar beneath her cheekbone, given to her by her mother’s brother, just before little twelve-year-old Chalatta killed him. Next, she destroyed the Moloch who once dominated his mind. She never demonstrated her incredible Talent afterward, not in all these years.
She returned his stare in question.
“Let me ask you. What if your enemy came at you in smiles, with charm and persuasion? What if this person wanted, not your death, but your subversion?” He laced his words with energy to make sure she never forgot them.
She opened her mouth, but no words came. In that moment, she looked so childlike, so innocent, it took all his resolve not to whisk her away into hiding, no matter the consequences.
“At least I know you have no restrictions against killing your enemies, although that hasn’t been tested since you were a child,” he said instead.
“That one time,” she said. “I showed you what it meant for me to be Krindarwee.” And you rejected it, he heard her mind echo.
Maybe so, he thought from behind his shield. Instead, he tried to replace her heritage with his own, to keep her safe, not to reject her identity. The militant faction, strong in Sector One, would have destroyed her years ago if they had seen what she did that night. A part of her understood that, but now she struggled.
Her abilities soared beyond anyone he ever knew. He wanted to see it again, so each time they practiced, he pushed her as hard as possible. She always defended herself well, but she never attacked.
“Besides, you’re Nevian.”
“Nevian! I am your father! When will you get past that ridiculous restriction?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “My Krindarwee father placed the restriction so long ago, when it was dangerous for the Krindarwee to show Nevians our abilities.”
He paused, recognizing the truth in her statement. “It still is, except here in Sector Five. However, as you said yourself, I’m not dangerous to you, yet you still refuse to press forward in your attacks. I do not understand.”
“Even after all this time you still don’t know me?”
He watched her eyes flash in uncharacteristic anger. She followed her ire with something even more uncharacteristic. She sang the Song to him.
He knew the Song existed. Before taking the assignment here in Sector Five, he lived in Sector One. The Sector One slaves sang it daily. From all reports, they still did. It vibrated like an undercurrent throughout the whole Sector, all day and all night. Never free from it, some abandoned their holdings rather than listen to the incessant humming.
His daughter, who lived her whole life in this northwestern-most Sector, who never once stepped foot in the tropics of Sector One, sang it to perfection as if she lived it. Her voice, clear and sweet, rang with more than the words. She pulled in the scents of flowers, the melodies of birds, even the heat and humidity of her Krindarwee father’s southeastern forest home, even though his was a land she had never experienced. She allowed him to feel their longing to live in free exercise of how they once lived, and the constant caution within which all of them now existed. She made him ache with sadness.
We are Krindarwee.
The Krindarwee are peaceful.
The Krindarwee do not kill others created for Life.
We do not kill.
We do not wage war.
We never let the Enemy know how powerful we really are.
We hide our threads from them.
We never direct the full thrust of ambigah to harm others.
We obey the First Rule.
We never force our will on another.
We obey the Second Rule.
We are Krindarwee.
Stunned, General A’nden stared at the girl he adopted. His eyes fell again to the scar beneath her cheekbone. No matter her mood, its curve gave the impression she smiled. Right now, when he searched the surface of her mind, he felt her frustration with him. This, too, she had never shared with him.
“Shower and dress,” he said instead of voicing his rising alarm. “Your mother waits to breakfast with you.”
He watched her rush toward the showers, wondering how that one young girl amazed him so often. He realized that even after all these years he understood almost as little as on the day of her adoption. Since the adoption, he helped her conform to her new culture, his Nevian heritage. She learned everything he taught her, but she remained Krindarwee, not safe at all.
The Intergalactic Faj, unable to understand her inability to harm them except as a defense, would notice that her Talent refused to conform to the Discipline. If they attacked, she would then defend herself with deadly force. He had watched her do it once. He had not seen her become dangerous since.
He wondered how to keep her unharmed. Representatives from the Faj ate breakfast in the formal dining hall at this very moment.
Not just representatives, as if their new guests carried diplomatic charters, but Xantis Tey, relatives of the High Emperor himself. A’nden stared at the door to the lockers and sighed in defeat. He wished for one last action to save her.
General A’nden’s shoulder brushed against Prince Salettin’s as the general exited the men’s side of the locker room.
The prince bowed. A’nden returned it, a deep bow reserved for royalty. “Your Majesty.”
“You trained her well. I’m impressed.”
A’nden nodded, keeping his face neutral, hiding his hatred for the man’s species. They not only conquered those aro
und them, they Absorbed them. Eventually, no other culture would remain on this planet. All the people groups, including his own, would be Xantis Tey, enslaved, or dead.
As for Chalatta’s skill, it took very little to train the girl. Her time on the streets, with her biological father’s instruction in self-defense, left only refinement. She told him Snake started teaching her soon after she turned seven. By the time A’nden adopted her, she excelled. He wished her new enemies were as easy to identify as the Blades she had killed as a child.
“Thank you,” he said, “but she needed very little from me.”
Salettin nodded, a gesture of dismissal, and walked away.
A’nden stood still, deep in thought, no match for the authority-backed smiles of the invading enemy. We were promised our own planet, he thought, but on a whim, the High Emperor sent his cousin to rule us. The General knew, and taught, skill in battle, but none of his training prepared him for this kind of an onslaught.
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