Qualify (26 page)

Why? Because he’s just too impossibly fast. . . . He moves precisely like the other Atlanteans I’ve seen so far.

If I’m wrong, I will eat my words. I mean, my thoughts. All right, screw my thoughts—they are kind of making me blush right now.

While I am gawking, more Candidates fill the classroom. Now a small crowd has gathered, watching this guy destroy the punching bag. We all stand in silent admiration.

Finally he is done.

He stops and stands back, bringing his hands down in a stance so smooth that it is worthy of a dancer. His chest rises and falls as he catches his breath. He turns around to face us.

A stone-cold handsome face of lean angles meets us. His brows are well defined and his dark brown eyes are emphasized in kohl. Oh yeah, he’s Atlantean.

But, what’s with that amazing black hair?

While he stands looking at us, woots of approval follow his performance, and many of the Candidates clap.

At the same time, our Instructor from the day before, Keruvat Ruo, comes into the Training Hall.

“Attention, Candidates!” Keruvat says, then pulls out a whistle and blows it. “Line up! Two rows facing each other! Now!”

While we scramble to form the now familiar double line, the Atlantean with the long dark hair goes casually to pick up a towel. He wipes the sweat from his chest and arms then nods casually at Keruvat.

“I see you’ve started early.” Keruvat turns to the other, with a light glance, ignoring us for the moment. “No shirt, Xel? Really?”

“Get used to it.” The raven-haired Atlantean’s voice is low and cool, and fits his icy demeanor exactly.

Keruvat shakes his head, but there’s a shadow of a smile there. “Oh, I’m used to it, I just don’t think these Candidates should have to be.”

In answer, the other only shrugs, then tosses the used towel where his uniform shirt lies. He then turns to us and speaks in a hard voice of command. “Candidates! I am Xelio Vekahat, and I will be one of your two Combat Instructors for today. Your other instructor Oalla Keigeri is teaching Combat at Red Dorm Nine in my place. As you will see in the coming days, we will switch often, so that you will have exposure to a greater variety of instructors and fighting styles from all Four Quadrants.”

He then approaches Keruvat, and the two of them walk down the line and count us in both our rows.

“First, warm up exercises! Legs apart. Begin with twenty forward stretches, fingers touching floor—”

I move my feet apart and start bending forward, hands to the floor. On either sides of me the Candidates move in unison. As I come up each time, I glance to see the two Atlanteans walking to the equipment cabinets. By the time we’re done with the first set of stretches, they return carrying the familiar equipment bag.

“Now, legs wide, lunge with a twist to your left, ten reps, followed by twist to you right, ten reps. Begin!”

As I widen my stance then lunge, feeling my poor knees wobble, I watch Keruvat and Xelio go through the contents of the bag, removing and counting cords and netting.

“Now, ten deep squats, no stopping!”

I am already breathing hard, and trying to stay on my feet, while the now familiar sensation takes over, and my body has turned to pathetic malleable putty.

A few minutes of this, and we are told to stop and stand upright, and shake out our hands and arms at our sides.

I momentarily glance to the side and note that a much smaller pile of cords is now lying in the middle of the room.

“There are exactly forty-three Candidates in this class,” Xelio says.

“And there are exactly forty-two cords and nets in this pile behind you,” Keruvat adds.

We all stare in the direction of the pile.

“When you hear the whistle,” Xelio says, “you will run and grab a cord or a net. The last person to reach for a piece will end up without one. That person will receive a demerit, and will have to face me as sparring partner for the rest of the class.”

“Trust me, you
don’t
want him for your sparring partner.” Keruvat makes a deep noise that sounds like a snort.

I feel a cold sensation of terror wash over me, while my pulse starts to race wildly. The older teen boy to my right cusses softly.

“Are you ready?” Keruvat blows the whistle.

We all burst forward. It’s a stampede.

I am bumped and shoved from all sides, as I hurl myself bodily in the direction of the pile of cords. Fortunately I am not too far away in my original spot in the line, and it’s only a few paces. But it’s a grinder of bodies in front of me. . . .

I claw and shove and end up painfully knocked in my ribs, then forced backwards, as two large girls shove themselves in front of me. I shove back, then slide between them, and go for the closest piece of netting or cord—a green woven net—clutch it with my fingers, while other pieces are being ripped in all directions by multiple hands.

I’ve got my hands firmly on the netting and I fall back, clutching it anxiously, trying to find my place back in the line.

I turn, and there’s Derek.

He bumps into me, full-body, so that I can smell the musky aftershave along his skin, and his serpent tattoo is practically in my face, looming from above, since he’s over six feet tall to my five-feet-nine. His arms widen, come around me. . . . He presses the back of my left shoulder painfully with one hand, while the other clenches my hand holding the net. He crushes my fingers until I let go. Immediately, as if nothing happened, he releases me, and steps aside, holding my hard-won net. With it, he gets back in his distant place in line.

While I stand, my mouth gaping in outrage, I see Derek wink and sneer at me. Watching him, I lose precious seconds. There’s no time to try for another piece. The pile is no more, and everyone has either a piece of cord or a net.

I’m the only person stuck with
nothing
.

My mind races wildly, fury mixing with terror. I tremble with it, while I seethe. It is
not fair!
And all of a sudden a genuinely crazy idea comes to me.

I hurry back to my spot in my row. As the two Atlantean Instructors walk down the line toward me—yes, they’ve seen me with nothing, they
know
I’m the loser about to get a demerit—I crouch down and start untying the laces of my sneakers.

My fingers move, they fly like crazy, and I pull, pull, and in ten seconds I’ve got the shoelaces out and in my hands, and my sneakers stay open-flapped.

What kind of stupid idiot am I? What is this? What did I just do?
I think, as I tie one end of one lace together with the one end of the other lace into a quick knot, so it’s a single long piece.

This is completely stupid. But now I have a “cord.” A really crappy one, but a cord nevertheless.

Xelio stops before me and looks down at me. I stand, offering him the ridiculous cord I’ve just laced together. He glances at it, and then directly into my eyes.

I shiver. . . . Up-close, I see the intense darkness of his gaze, the chiseled face with its fine aquiline nose, then glancing down, the sleek contours of his sculpted chest, his tanned skin still sleek with sweat from his pre-class workout.

“What is your name, Candidate?” he says in an unreadable voice. Standing so close to him, I almost feel the buzzing vibrations of his rich timbre along the surface of my skin. And his eyes never leave mine.

“Gwen Lark. . . .”

“Gwen Lark. What—is this?”

I cease breathing. . . . Then somehow find the ability to speak. “A cord.”

There’s a pause.

I think, for one impossible moment, I’ve rendered him speechless.

A few feet away, Keruvat makes a stifled noise. It could be another snort.

“A cord?” Xelio repeats at last, and I see him blink. “And where did you get this—
cord?
”

“I—made it. . . .”

“You made it?”

“Yes.”

The entire class of forty-two other Candidates is staring at me—and at him—in stilled intensity.

Another long pause.

And suddenly Xelio exhales and casually reaches for the shoelaces in my hand. “This is not a very good cord,” he says, examining it, fingering the material and running his thumb over the knot. “Your knot is loose, and barely adequate. It will not hold. Nor is it thick enough. But—cleverly done. For your quick thinking, you will earn no demerit today.”

I let out my breath in relief.

“However—” Xelio continues and again looks into my eyes. “You will still be my sparring partner. And next time—” He turns to look at the double line of Candidates. “Next time, none of you will attempt to be this clever again.”

Meanwhile Keruvat shakes his head at me. But I see a bright expression in his very dark eyes. “Nicely played,” he says softly, raising one brow. And then the really tall, super-black-skinned Atlantean with the short golden hair winks at me.

But I don’t have any time to catch a break, because in the very next instant Keruvat barks out a command for us to take the first fighting form stance and face the person in the row across from us.

While everyone else lines up, Xelio takes me aside, and positions me two feet across from him and his amazing shirtless chest and muscled shoulders and biceps.

“Gwen Lark,” he says. “Try not to trip over your untied shoes.”

“Okay,” I say, and already I can feel my face flushing from a combination of terror and strange excitement. In seconds I am about as red as the armband on his muscular arm.

“I want you to look directly into my eyes. Do not take your eyes away, not even for a moment. Use your peripheral vision instead to see what I am doing, and simply mirror me—follow my movements exactly, with their opposites.”

His dark eyed gaze drills into me, unblinking, and he starts to raise his hands into a floating stance.

I follow his lead, and raise my own hands, shaking slightly.

He moves one hand forward at me, fingers angled in a deceptively loose yet precise figure.

I try not to blink, not to look away from him, as I bring my own opposite hand to meet his.

“Good,” he says. Then his other hand flashes out and stops inches before my face.

I immediately counter him, with sheer panic reflex.

“And again—” Another swift movement, this time around and from the inside, with a flexing at the elbow.

I mirror him, bringing my own hand up and on the inside, and bent at the elbow, somewhat awkwardly.

“Continue to think of a mirror and its reflection,” Xelio says, as he strikes again, and I counter.

I have no idea what I’m doing, or how I am doing it. But somehow the logic of the mirror has really resonated with me.
Just to do the opposite of the other person!
Sounds ridiculously easy in theory, but in practice it requires super concentration, and the ability to anticipate the movements of the opponent.

For several minutes that feel like eternity, I move my hands up and around my face to counter the Atlantean. The world narrows into super-focus, as I try to see him begin each hand motion before it happens. I stop hearing the rest of the classroom, the clumsy lunges and strikes and occasional yelps of pain as people miss and hit each other painfully.

“Stop,” he says at last. His dark gaze continues to bore into mine.

I freeze and stand panting. By now I no longer feel my hands or my arms, as they hang limp at my sides.

“Wow . . .” I say, blinking in relief. “That was fascinating! I never thought that martial arts fighting was based on a mirror-image thing!”

“This—is not
fighting
.” Is there a shadow of sarcasm in his voice? “These are simply forms-based exercises. You haven’t even begun to know the Forms yet. You have been aping my free movements—adequately, for now. And, did I say you could look away from me, or blink?”

“Oh . . .” I say.

“Did I say you could speak?”

This time I know better than to open my mouth. Nor do I blink as I resume looking into his eyes until I can no longer tell if they are brown or black, or the color of the abyss.

A pause. . . . I can hear the rest of the class moving in exercise around me, and Keruvat Ruo’s sergeant drill commands in his deep booming voice.

But I neither move nor look around.

Xelio nods. “Good. Now you will learn the first true Form, the basic fighting stance that begins and ends all other Forms. We call it the Floating Swan. Watch carefully. And yes, now you may look away from my eyes so that you can understand and observe the details of the Form.”

I allow myself to breathe and glance away, breaking eye contact. It feels almost tangible, the sudden cessation of intensity.

Xelio takes a wide stance with his feet and then raises his hands to float at chest level, one outstretched at a 45 degree angle off to the side, the other hand pointing directly at me, hand bent at the wrist, palm vertical, thumb curving inward. He stills in the stance and I cannot help noting the beautiful definitions of his abdomen and chest, slick and bronzed, the proud lines of his shoulders, the muscles tensing in his powerful neck, and the way his long black mane of hair falls like midnight silk. . . .