Chapter 8

Chapter 8

Kaniz led Sana’a through another labyrinth of galleries and passageways.

Into a large, long, well-lit hall.

Its four walls were packed with rows of hooks hanging bladed daggers of all shapes and sizes.

A few fighters stood around, none of them locals. Sana’a spotted several burly Iccythrians, a quartet of lean, hungry-looking Falasians and a stern-faced Edenite.

‘This is where the non-Katánian kavaliers, the xkénoskəthi, select their weapon of choice,’ Kaniz explained, gesturing towards the weapons. ‘Choose one that speaks to you.’

Sana’a hesitated for a moment. She strode to one wall, scanning the implements with a keen eye. Her gaze stopped on a long curved blade that glinted in the low light.

Her eyes widened as she recognised it as a shotel.

Reaching out, she took it from its resting place, playing with its weight in her grasp.

‘Good pick,’ Kaniz drawled.

‘The only one,’ Sana’a murmured. ‘Can’t be a Shotelai if I don’t favour the damn things.’

‘It’s a difficult weapon to master,’ Kaniz shot back.

‘Deadly in the hands of someone who knows how to wield it,’ Sana’a retorted.

Yet, no match for her secret and far superior blades hidden in the folds against her back.

Still, she gave nothing away of their existence.

Instead, she ran her fingers over the shotel’s curved, semicircular shape, sliding a finger over its flat, double-edged surface and diamond cross-section.

She spent the next few moments practising with it. Sensing how it moved and inclining her ear to its low whistling sound as it sliced through the air.

Although its hilt was not as well sculpted as she preferred, and its edge needed sharpening, it was good for now.

It wasn’t the blade; it was how you drew it.She jolted as her father’s voice echoed in her mind.

As she threw, thrust and wielded the curved cutlass, taking it through its paces, she sensed the eyes of the other fighters on her. Studying her every move.

Some were open with their hostility, others just curious.

But she ignored them all, focused on the task at hand.

Kaniz interrupted her flow. ‘Your people’s reputation with blades precedes you. Now I see why your Shotelai warriors garner great praise and veneration throughout Pegasi.’

‘Huh,’ was all Sana’a murmured.

The kəthi master studied Sana’a play with the shotel some more. ‘I sense I should not underestimate you and that you’re no bleeder,’ Kaniz murmured.

The Shotelai woman jerked her chin. ‘Remains to be seen.’

When she was finished, she rotated it in her hand. ‘This will suffice.’

‘It’ll need to stand up against the koya,’ Kaniz warned.

Sana’a had a thought. ‘May I see, perhaps even touch one of them, please?’

Kaniz nodded. ‘I’ll show you mine.’

From the krest of her mohawk, she withdrew a long, transparent feather.

She tossed it into the air, where it surged with lustrous energy.

Before their eyes, it transformed into a sword of shining brilliance with a crystalline structure.

Sana’a’s eyes fell onto a diamond-like core running through the blade’s centre, and the exquisite calligraphy was etched on it. ‘What’s that?’ she asked, pointing.

‘The k’ago,’ Kaniz replied, twisting and turning the glowing weapon in her hands. It’s a signature inscription mark that includes my name, the kəthi I belong to, and the wars I have fought in. It also contains a íkan spell cast imbued with the knowledge of the ages and a protection íkantation.’

‘Impressive,’ Sana’a admitted.

‘It is not enough to cherish the beauty of a koya,’ Kaniz countered. ‘Tis a blade with which one entrusts one’s life. It is drawn to the battlefield, where I must wield it with the intent to kill if necessary. If I fall, so too does my koya. It lives or dies with me. For the real might of it is found in the essence of my íkan and how I manipulate it.’

It struck Sana’a just how much the koya’s features were similar to those of the SHärd blades. Except for the vapour synth abilities, the same idea of kätu, íkantation, and even an inscription remained true.

‘Talk to me about the power you refer to,’ she requested.

Kaniz smiled. ‘Fokkin’ íkan. It’s complex, temperamental, yet so personal.’

‘Give me the scaled-down version,’ Sana’a murmured.

‘It is a semi-sentient element, and we of Katánē believe we have at least three different threads running through us. They replace the concept of good or evil in other cultures. Kemí, meaning ‘breath’, is the vital force that keeps Katánians alive and resides in the heart and lungs. It also refers to the intimate essence shared between lovers that joins them for eternity. Kσχύς íkan is our spirit in flight that is fed by the wind and gives us and our koya strength in battle. Kíza is the shadow of our soul that follows us, waiting for our return to Keleda, the spirit world in the sky when we die. It’s said the master witchers and the Kíríga, the Sābər King and wearer of the hawkstone, can call down on more powerful forms of íkan, but that’s all rumours and whispers. For the hawkstone is lost, and the arokí are just wishful warlocks drunk on power.’

‘Ah,’ Sana’a murmured, perceiving otherwise but keeping silent.

Kaniz led Sana’a to the storage shelf.

The shikari placed the shotelto its mount on the wall and turned to her companion. ‘What’s next?’

The older woman smiled. ‘Eat and sleep. Tomorrow, you’ll face one of our in-training masters so I can assess you.’

Sana’a hesitated. ‘How soon can I get into the arena to prove my mettle?’

Kaniz raised her brow. ‘Like a real bout?’

‘Naam, when do I get rostered in?’

Kaniz gave a slight laugh. ‘Slow your roll, Shotelai. We don’t advise soaring before you can walk. There are rules we follow, starting with an assessment. The way we battle with koya is very different to most. So we also insist on xkénos learning our ways first. That way, you don’t embarrass yourself, just like Kiho mentioned, before the kä’avi, the spectators and the hordes who flock in from far away for these matches.’

Kaniz misread Sana’a’s impatience for unease because she laid a reassuring hand on her shoulder. ‘Don’t worry. We’ll start you off with a small match—just enough to test your skills and tag what you’re capable of. Only then will I make my evaluation.’

Sana’a sighed, giving in to the traditions and rules far beyond her control.

Without another protest, she followed Kaniz out of the room.

They headed towards the mess hall, where the kavaliers were already ploughing through heaped plates of food.

Even when seated with her food, Sana’a’s eyes wandered.

She picked at her plate and focused on how fast she could work through the arena’s circuit.

After a while, she gave up speculating.

She’d know what she was up against when she faced her first training match the following day.

Meanwhile, she scrutinised Kaniz as she worked the room. The kəthi master was popular, with her sharp wit and even sharper tongue.

Kaniz moved from fighter to fighter, bending down for a quick chat. Her face was earnest as she shared advice, soothed hurting egos, and placated angry souls.

The Shotelai woman sensed she was masterful indeed and a fierce protector with a great depth of care for her crew.

For a moment, Sana’a longed to be a part of Kaniz’s close world, wrapped in belonging.

For most of her life, she had not enjoyed the constancy of friends or companions apart from her mother and sisters.

Her life as a shikari was solitary and quiet, with echoes of loss reverberating through the empty spaces of her once-busy family life.

She was a lone wanderer and introverted figure who’d traversed Pegasi’s vast and desolate edges for years; her soul weighed down by her oath and vengeance for her people’s tragedy.

The sudden reminder of her plight overwhelmed her. With a curse, she rose with an abrupt pushback of her chair and strode away, her face closed off.

Missing the pensive glance that Kaniz shot her way as she swept out of the grand hall.

Sana’a meandered through the ancient city’s winding streets, taking in the sights and clamour of its bustling nightlife.

For much of her recent existence, most days had been brimful with silence. The only sounds were those made by herself or the soft clinking of her scabbard, the shuffle of her footsteps, and the whispers from Sika.

Now, the vibrant chatter and mesmerising songs rising from every street corner filled her ears.

It was a welcome shift from the haunting and deafening quiet she’d become used to.

The scent of spices and cooking meat wafted through the air.

Her still-empty tummy growled in response.

She’d eschewed the meal at the íkhara, but now her appetite surged.

She followed her nose to a small food stall, ordering a plate of steaming-hot beef skewers and a sweet, sticky pastry for dessert.

As she ate, she wandered the canals where kondolars sailed by, packed with the city’s diversity.

Most, however, were working-class locals.

The Katánians were lively, many with ready smiles for her, which warmed her.

They also took care of each other,she thought.

She spotted shopkeepers emerging from the doorways handing urchins free food, drink, and produce packages they ran off into the night with, presumably taking the leftover fresh fare home.

She strolled past large groups of close-knit families eating out together. Others sat by the canals enjoying impromptu picnics or dessert.

Even more surprising were entire families gliding hand in hand, with only their wings transmuted. Slow-tracking through the sky in multi-generational mid-air gatherings.

Still, she noted that individual kəsts kept to themselves.

Other than the younger flocks. Who, like in most societies, clustered around the stalls, singing dens, and watering holes of Kos, sharing backgrounds as rich and diverse as the wild-hued krests on their heads.

She passed by a few Iccythrians and Edenites seated at a Ccyth cafe.

They nodded at each other, and she welcomed their shared sense of kinship, for she, too, was an outsider in this strange new world.

After finishing her snacks, Sana’a turned her ear towards a faint, soft, melodic tune from a busker.

She followed the sound until she came across the vocalist standing beside a small fountain in a square.

Sana’a stopped to listen to their song.

The soloist’s voice was like honey, sweet and velvety. Sana’a couldn’t help but be drawn in by the haunting tune. She closed her eyes and let the music wash over her, the day’s weight lifting off her shoulders.

When the melody ended, the shikari opened her eyes and found the singer smiling at her. She was a woman of exquisite beauty with tall, luminescent caramel and gold plumes speckled with creamy white spots.

‘Sante for listening,’ she said, her utterance soft and gentle.

Sana’a smiled back. ‘Sante for singing. It was beautiful.’

The songstress’ smile widened. ‘Are you new to the city?’ she asked, eyes sparkling with curiosity.

Sana’a assented. ‘I am. I’m still figuring things out.’

The singer cocked her head to the side. ‘Well, if you need help, don’t hesitate to ask. My name is Kamilla, and I’m this street corner’s koel.’

When Sana’a gave her a puzzled look, she laughed. ‘The resident songbird. There’s one on every intersection, and you can always find me at this one most nights.’

Sana’a smiled again, nodded, thanked her, and took off.

‘Hey,’ Kamilla called out as she turned the corner.

Sana’a paused. ‘Yes?’

‘You’re about to enter the Ketoniá district. It’s rough and ready, so take care.’

‘Sante,’ Sana’a said with a small smile.

Hit with the need to sleep and forewarned, she decided to return to the Sābər íkhara.

Without her metsai suit, her body was flagging after a day of intense readiness.

She winced as her muscle aches ratcheted. ‘Done for the day,’ she whispered to herself.

As she backtracked, the hairs on her neck rose with sudden wariness.

She whipped around as she caught the rush of wind behind her, but nothing other than air greeted her.

However, she thought she spotted a cold and lifeless presence in the shadows.

It was draped in ice-white robes and crowned with an aether-encrusted crown.

Drifting in the surrounding darkness, its likeness was that of a lost king seeking his throne.

After a beat, the wraithlike wight disappeared into the mist of the street.

‘Leave me be,’ she breathed. ‘I will fulfil my promise, but you can’t keep showing up this way.’

Silence was her only companion, and with a sigh, she forced herself to move.

Still, she kept alert all the way to the íkhara, senses quivering and blades clutched close in her hands.

Nothing and no one disturbed her lonely walk.

Yet, as she slipped into her narrow room minutes later, she was haunted by the sensation of eyes burning into her back.

Sana’a settled into bed after taking a dose of tikό.

She soon drifted off to sleep and began to dream.

In her vision, one so vivid and real, she was walking through Kos again, the sounds of the bustling streets echoing in her ears.

But this time, the avenues were different.

The colours were muted, the shadows lengthened, and the air was thick with a sense of foreboding.

Footsteps sounded behind her, but when she twisted, she saw nothing.

She quickened her pace, her heart pounding, but the chase grew louder and faster.

Now, at a full run, her breath came in short gasps. She raced down alleyways and darted around corners, but her stalker followed her in a relentless pursuit.

A hand closed on her wrist, pulling her back.

She whirled to see a silver-haired, chisel-jawed colossus.

He sported glittering argent eyes and a sardonic smile on his full lips as he loomed over her.

Her pulse lurched as she snarled at him. You.

He smirked back. Me. What brings you, SHärd blader, to Katánē?

You do.

Still with that shit?

His gentle hold on her hand fell as he stepped away.

With no warning, he transmuted into a winged beast, an eagle of great magnificence that she gasped.

He leapt into the heavens and hovered, challenging her with a smirk. Then, unleashing one of his koya feathers, he twirled it, waiting.

With a growl, she, too, launched into the air and withdrew her blades, flinging them at him. They whistled through the wind with such extreme force that her arms vibrated.

He dodged them with ease, the lift of his lips infuriating her.

Her weapons thudded back into her grasp as he flew in close. He captured her shoulders, immobilising her.

His head lowered towards her as if to capture her lips.

The jewel between his head glowed with luminous brilliance.

She lifted a hand to shield herself from it. Still, its light burst through her skin and sinew.

Suffusing her with a searing fervour and an energy surge.

She called out, jerking awake.

To the sun burning down on her through the open window of her chamber. And the heat of her blades, phasing in and out of their translucent matter state in her hand.

She twisted upright in bed, chest heaving, heart pounding. ‘Fokk you, Killen Sable.’