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Violators passing into the protected zone incurred an automatic curse. Physical symptoms were almost instant, starting with the visible ones, boils at the joints or sores on the skin, falling feathers and pinions, all painful and frightening.
The victim would be isolated from their eyrie and k?st as soon as the hex was apparent. Again, as with most curses, the condition could be removed only by a ritualist Kaugur diviner.
Sana’a caught the distant sound of wings flapping toward her.
Slipping out one of her blades, she studied the incoming movement, sharpening her vision as a flock of fierce and delphic creatures powered towards the garden. There, they set down into six forms draped in long robes with intricate designs that shimmered in the silver moonlight.
They gathered around an altar with baskets of twigs, herbs and tingents in bottles, signifying a ritual was about to take place.
Despite the moon’s luminescence, shadows clung to every corner, shrouding the lush greenery and delicate flowers in a foreboding cloak.
A figure emerged from the grand eyrie and stepped out from under the imposing house’s eaves, tracking fast to the waiting assembly.
Sana’a curled her lip as she spotted the sharp-faced, birdlike woman with cold, dark, tiny eyes and a slash of a mouth set within a pale face.
Above her bare skull was an impressive krest of feathers belonging to only one individual.
Kalila Khensu.
The intel Sana’a had been given was paying off.
She’d received a kw?l message from Kamilla a few days ago at the kíota.
The letter, delivered by a kite runner, had warned of the event unfolding in the exquisite gardens below her now.
Given his recent attack and ongoing recovery, Kamilla had insisted Killen be not apprised of the intel.
She’d charged Sana’a with a mission one she could not complete herself.
The Shotelai woman narrowed her eyes as the waiting group welcomed Kalila with quick nods.
The four men and three women clustered in a circle at the apex of the extensive hilltop garden.
‘Let’s begin,’ the dead King’s sister urged.
Her voice, sharp and hoary, echoed around Sana’a.
The shikari jerked as one attendee stepped forward and pulled away his cowl, revealing himself.
Twas Keb, the combatant she’d first faced at the Sab?r arena.
From her hidden perch, Sana’a stared at him with a brow lifted.
‘Extend your koya,’ the kavalier called to his companions. ‘Raise them high as one. We will summon kízakan.’
A filament rose from the tip of his thin, narrow sword. It lingered for a moment.
Before streaking across the gardens, gathering energy from the mystic power embedded in the flagstones and rocks. Rising, its filaments intertwined to form the shape of a mountain.
It was then Sana’a noted the colour of the íkan.
It was not the bright gold luminescence she’d become used to.
This version was dull, murky and smoky, as if infected or peccant.
Its essence was malevolent, dense in its viciousness.
Sana’a’s brows rose as she recognised the craggy ranges of Karth and how much of it was in thrall to the sinister magic.
