Chapter 6

Chapter 6

‘Living in Kos at the foot of Mount Karth is a hollow-boned curse and tar-feathered blessing.’

Sana’a glanced up at the summit looming over the hovering black marble city.

The mountain formed a hook-like peninsula between the vast Kizum Gulf and the Karilan Sea.

Set halfway to heaven and level to some distant peaks, the metropolis pulsed with life and energy, a true marvel to behold.

The elevated urban spread shone like an obsidian diamond.

Its walls reached towards the sky and blended into the heavens that threatened to swallow it whole.

The twin rivers snaking through Kos flowed from the great massif range, forming the city’s canals.

Despite the tranquillity, the dark ranges of the sable pinnacles that loomed even higher radiated with an ominous glow.

Its snowy summit was hidden from sight by cloud, mist, and fog, and the occasional flare of red-hot lava and ash enshrouded them.

‘You’d think the home of our grand ancestor, Khiron the Krested Eagle, father of many of our Katánian heroes, would be less violent.’

‘Indeed,’ Sana’a muttered to the vendor from whom she bought a delicious-smelling dzo steak roll.

The bun was warm, buttery, and fragrant, and the dark, roasted meat inside was smothered in rich sauces. The scent had Sana’a salivating.

The merchant frowned at the glowing ebony and ice peaks as he wrapped it up for her. ‘Ay, Kos will need to raise its cloak soon so the imminent outburst of the volcano doesn’t destroy large parts of the city like it did last time. On the other hand, the volcanic ashes yield fertile soil suited for my vines, wheat and rye growth. Which have enriched my humble stall and that of my fellow merchants to feed the eyries of this vast land.’

‘I see nothing good in the cursed summit,’ the merchant’s wife cried out from behind her flaming stove. ‘Crazy ksa weather we’re having because of it. Freakin’ snow in the mornings, hot sweltering afternoons, and icy chilly nights that make my feathers shake all day.’

‘Sucks to be you,’ her partner called back.

‘Y’know what stinks?’ The shopkeeper grumbled as he stuffed the snack into a thin papyrus bag. ‘It’s those poor Klós souls hovering over the city during this spell, day and night, through heat and sleet to keep us safe.’

After paying, Sana’a left them to their bickering, walking away with a smirk.

Couples like the merchant and his wife only cemented her resolution never to marry. She had rejected any notions that such a union brought honour to one’s existence.

The only dignity she sought was exacting revenge for her loved ones.

Her oath would be fulfilled regardless of any interference.

Including any funny bizna from Katánē’s sentries, and there was a myriad of them hovering over Kos.

Biting into her delicious meaty parcel, Sana’a glanced at the azure expanse above, where the phalanx of silhouettes stood out against the skyline.

She’d evaded the midair cordon by infiltrating the urban centre via one of the two principal arterials that ran from the mountains beyond the black marble city.

Following it from a distant lower massif where she’d parked her ship stealthed between two wide crevasses, leaving Sika in charge and on standby.

Now, she strolled along the clear, diamond-like river that surfaced at one single point south of the main square in a fountain that gushed twenty feet in the air.

She used it to navigate, on occasion referencing her neural node to project a map towards the blinking location marker, calling her to itself.

As she strode through Kos, she couldn’t help but note its grandeur; most buildings were carved from slabs of veiny ebony marble, and columns were monolithic stone blocks. This was the colour of Empire, for black onyx was rare and sought after all over Pegasi.

The intricate details of each structure glistened like stars in the moonless night, while the gold threads through the surfaces glimmered like spirited secrets waiting to be unleashed.

It appeared like this place was alive, a seductress alluring in its contradiction of dark and light, rough and smooth, decadent and regal.

While the cobbled stones of the avenues were solid under her feet, a faint sense of mystical weightlessness was in the atmosphere.

This was the kätu present throughout the ancient burg and the entire planet.

It pulsed through its walls.

It ran in rivulets along the streets and, at times, burst into life in dazzling luminous displays.

Sometimes, it sprouted into spontaneous iridescent plant growth at random points and hidden corners.

The golden tendrils perfumed the air with unfamiliar, wild, blossom-like scents she couldn’t quite identify.

They mingled with the aroma of burning incense, sweet oils wafting from the city’s open windows and ornate gardens.

Creating a pleasant and almost otherworldly fragrance.

The savage beauty of Kos was also reflected in its residents, proud, tall beings with lithe, lean bodies and eagle eyes.

The byways hummed with the chatter, bizna, spellworking, and fluttering of wings of the magnificent creatures that called the city home.

Their hair and nape quills were their crowning glory, with wild styles worn in large krests aloft their craniums.

Others, however, chose to keep their neck feathers—the koya, as she’d come to learn—hanging over their shoulders, keeping their locks short. Some also wound their quills into a mohawk style, but the latter mode was rare.

In time, she noted the subtle differences between the locals.

The wealthy wore the most outlandish clothes, expressing their love for pomp and pantomime through their krested diamonds, soaring plumed chokers, and silken bow ties. She also spotted individuals strutting in varicoloured jackets with a distinct drollness that featured frilly collars, plus a plethora of top hats and wrist-length gloves.

The middle bracket was less ostentatious in simple embellished outfits, whereas the poor were evident in threadbare vestments and faded feathers.

Flying to the planet’s forsaken steppes on the far side of Pegasi had taken a few weeks. So, she’d used the downtime of her long flight to ramp up her knowledge of the place.

Mirage had supplied plenty of holos explaining the class system on Katánē.

They showcased how individual Katánian aeries were identifiable by their morphology and the design and colour of one’s krest.

Licking her fingers and flicking her papyrus carrier into a waiting rubbish receptacle, Sana’a walked along, trying to identify the various kəsts.

The most obvious were the packs of Känˌdôr thugs who prowled the city in gangs, moving in a slow hover through the expansive streets.

The outer plains’ tall, burly, vulture-like avifauna sported fulvous krests in wild tawny and butterscotch hues.

Twas clear they were not a disciplined force of peacemakers. Instead, they were hired goons of the rich. She gave them a wide berth, unwilling to get anywhere near their snarling beaks, vain swagger and shimmering koyas on show, glinting in the sunlight.

She took special note that their eyes burned with malicious intent when they tracked higher to the silent cordon of fierce, half-transmuted eagles in the sky above.

There was bad blood here, Sana’a thought to herself.

She strolled past a cafe spilling out onto the pavement where groups of affluent Katánians sat.

Also known as the high-born Kəˈnerē, the aristocracy, they were identified by their sarcoline wings, pale skin tones, and blue and yellow quills. Their plume kätu, their inbuilt íkantation, was focused on protecting their close-knit families at all costs.

The shops that lined the high street were owned and staffed by the Kírkos. They were the merchant bourgeoisie, the business owners, investors, and entrepreneurs whose gold plumage and íkan signified new projects, plans and beginnings.

Sana’a’s eyes tracked to a krest of purple and lavender quills that bobbed three feet into the air above a nobleman passing by.

He was likely a kôrmərənt, one of the planet’s efficient and expert administrators. Their rachís conveyed dignity and seriousness and came in various hues of skobeloff, a dark, muted cyan, which conjured up images of abyssal coastal waters and deep-blue zaffre.

While the locals looked fierce and raptor-like, gazing around her, the shikari was confident no Katánian could rattle her—except one man.

Sana’a shook her head, trying to shake off thoughts of the silver-haired rogue who’d haunted her for days.

His essence trailed after her.

It had never left her, not since Eden II, frustrating her no end.

She had an oath to complete.

She didn’t need to lust for anything more.

So lost in thought was she that she almost bumped into a group of adolescent Katánians of mixed kəsts. The youngsters dashed past with banners and flower crowns, chanting, ‘Death to the OktoKíríga, long live the Usurper!’

Sana’a raised her brows, her eyes tracking them.

One of them, a teenager, pulled at her arm. ‘Hey, xkénos, can you tell us where the new king is hiding?’

She was about to twist his hand behind him when she noticed his open, hopeful grin. It was charming enough to elicit an upturn in Sana’a’s lips.

‘I’d love to know too,’ the shikari said. ‘When you find out, let me know.’

‘Now, move along,’ a fruit seller chimed in, waving the youthful Katánian off.

Sana’a turned to the rosy-cheeked woman, an emerald-krested Kíkāra wearing bright robes of the same hue. ‘Is what they say true? That Katánians want the new, unseen, and unknown King to rule?’

‘It’s all we can talk about,’ the woman chirped. ‘The scandal of the secret consort is enthralling and spicy. Can you believe that an obscure, humble man whose veins run with royal blood is about to upset the proverbial Kəˈnerē cart? We love that the threat of his takeover stirs up the eyries of the rich and powerful. It gives us regular folk some inspiration and hope that he’ll be different from the previous Kíríga.

‘Why’s that?’ Sana’a asked, her interest piqued.

The woman sighed. ‘The Okto Kíríga was old, weary, mired in the past, maybe even lost to senility. Twas evident he was going mad with his beserking, his blatant refusal to listen to the lower kəsts, and his selfish spending of our hard-earned taxes. We all threw a party when news came of his death on Devansi.’

The trader spat on the ground and turned lightning fast to offer Sana’a a plump, ripe peach, ‘Fresh from Kisolde.’

‘From your farm?’ Sana’a clarified, still pondering the merchant’s words.

‘Indeed.’ The Kíkāra stood prouder, her krest shimmering as the shikari took her first bite, and her eyes widened at the exquisite flavour.

‘Delicious! Sante!’

Sana’a wandered off with a smile and nod, mouth working around the sweet, peachy goodness.

Inspecting her commtab, she isolated her destination on the holo map.

It was up ahead across the river.

She came to a slow stop and stared.

A series of black marble facade columns loomed from an island at the centre of the waterway.

They floated above the mist, dancing on the water’s surface.

That made up the face of Kos’ immense central amphitheatre, which dominated the horizon.

A pair of twenty-foot giant sābər koya sculptures loomed over its entrance.

They intersected over each other, forming an arch under which a stream of Katánians rushed.

The sculpted chrome feathers, so thin they fluttered in the wind, were stunning, reflecting the prismatic light of Kos.

Calling, entreating, and welcoming while at the same time warning of the lethal beauty that infused every aspect of this wild, savage land.