Kismet: A Game of Fates

Chapter 1 - Kahar Takes Flight

"Remember this for me," said Kahar. "I am left-handed."

She sat on the edge of a cliff, legs dangling.

"You don't think you'll remember that one?" said Luca. He was this season's brute and warm as an icicle.

She sat on her scythe's handle, keeping it steady as she sharpened. Quick, steady, and thorough; with each stroke of the whetstone, her blade sang a clear, satisfying whistle that left her to wonder at the easy rhythm of her own hand.

"You would think that," she said, ruining her tempo to face him, "but it took me two years to realize I favoured my left. I had to learn everything with both hands: swing a sword, throw a punch, wave hello– next time, I'd rather someone just tell me it is easier to win a fight when your opponent expects you to hit with your right."

He grunted. "Fine," he said. "It will be remembered."

He made a quick gesture, rolling his index around the base of his thumb and into the shape of an "O." When he flicked his finger towards his scythe's handle, a new symbol burned orange into the black staff. It read "Kahar, the left-handed one."

A small victory.

It was the most he had said today. Her most recent Double was not a conversationalist. Limited by the variety of words, Luca preferred to express himself through the ever articulate grunt, half-hearted shrug, or a handful of thoughtfully chosen, bite-sized words punctuated by the ever-clever eye roll.

She counted down the days till Solstice. Two days, and finally, she would be rid of him. She smiled, just thinking of walking into the Solstice gathering with a Double– This time, she would not be empty handed. As Luca met the other Keres and gained the memories he placed with them in his past lives, she would do the same by giving the memories she still held for her past Doubles. She prayed she would see the ones who never made it to Solstice with her.

For the curly-haired one, Kahar remembered her favourite order from the Night Market– Nightcap, dreamless sleep.

For the one who spoke in rhymes, she kept alive the memory of her favourite place and when to go– Early Spring, at the edge of the City where it meets the water. Trees bloom into shades of virgin snow and soft, pink bruises. Delightful spot, now one of Kahar's favourites, too.

For Haizon, she kept his carving knife. The blade was curved iron, shaped like a folding tongue, and palmed by a sturdy handle. With it, he taught her how to whittle small wooden figures. Her mediocre bobbles were sad replicas of the craftsmanship he made look easy. He could carve striking renditions of the souls they collected, while she struggled to carve anything recognizable.

When they would meet again, she would teach him his favourite way to pass the time. She liked Haizon. He had a way of seeing what could be, rather than what was. A rare quality for a Keres.

She prayed he would be there. Then, perhaps, she could forgive herself for his death.

"Anything for you?" Kahar said. He left her question unanswered– not even a grunt. He was too busy practicing his fighting stances to reply, swinging his weapon against invisible opponents.

For Luca, she remembered nothing.

She sighed, secretly hoping he would die. She would kill him, but the consequences of showing up without a Double to Solstice were even higher than calling a truce. Two days, thought Kahar. Just two more days.

Luckily, there was the Hunt to pass the time–and she had a perfect view of the day's entertainment. The clouds, brooding in the East, threatened to rain. She imagined cool droplets splashing across her skin. She could hear her scythe swing through the downpour. In the end, she decided the weight of the water on her wings would, above all else, make flying tedious. Across the broken road, a handful of men rushed to set camp before the rain began. It blinded them into a singular, aimless focus. Rabbits digging a nest, oblivious to the fox circling the burrow.