Conspiracy, this is the specialty of the Condor mind. Conspiracy, slow and years-long, even decades long.
Conspiracy, to watch a race of man spread across another continent, to watch them sew new roots, only so that you may come and consume the head; to start again the vicious cycle of intellectual predator and intelligent prey.
Why is it that they are so delicious? Why do I participate in this plan; am I not also a Condor? Do I not also spin conspiracies of my own?
And would I not discover that there was conspiracy within conspiracy, the thousand-year plan, the paranoia of the King.
Guuenchime stood at the edge of town, staring out over to bluffs. Half of the Sollussa had stayed behind, but had settled in a valley that was difficult for the Condor to raid. They were over there, past another set of bluffs and to the west. They had begun to interbreed with another people, and their new qualities gave them certain combat advantages against the Condor, and also dulled the sweet Sollussa taste. Harder to hunt and inferior to the tongue, the Condor reduced the frequency of raids, and sought to accelerate the purge of the Overside batch.
She walked back into town, skirting the edge so she could pass by the ancient stone castle, and eavesdrop as she usually did. The windows were simply square holes, so it was not difficult to accidentally overhear discussions within; to hear conspiracy.
“She has been of some help, but still, she remains disposable. When we purge the Overside population, she will be of little use in battle due to her small stature.”
“And after? Is the seed suitable for planting?”
“I suspect; she watches them with interest.”
“Very well. Let the seed sit in water, let it sprout, and then in seven years, in the summer heat of war, plant it.”
“And then she will be no more to us.”
“She will have served her purpose, alive or dead.”
Her small stature, Gwenhime walked away slowly, repeating those words in her head. Disposable. Alive or dead. They would get rid of her. But how? When? Seven years?
Nearly home now, no one in the castle the wiser, Gwenhime mumbled to herself. “Well, they won’t kill me outright. Alive or dead. What will they do? And what is the seed? How will they plant it? Will the seed be important to what they do to me?”
She shook her head and silenced herself as she entered the sandstone building and wandered into her room, lay down, and dreamed.
The seed would indeed sprout, set, and grow. But while the Condor anticipated a bush of roses, beautiful but piercing to the touch, instead, a whole tree, an acacia would take root. The roots would set deep into its foreign soil, and soon, the land would transform into a new home, and they would never uproot her.