The Lord of the Slaves

Book 2

Dashvara Trilogy

Kaoseto

Website:

https://kaosfantasy.tuxfamily.org/index-en.html

Work under a Creative Commons By license.

2021-2022, Marina Fernández de Retana alias “Kaoseto”.

mail: kaoseto AT bardinflor P perso P aquilenet P fr

Redaction achieved using frundis and Vim. Books of the trilogy: The Prince Of The Sand (nº1) The Lord Of The Slaves (nº2) The Eternal Bird (nº3).

Text translated from Spanish into English. Original title: El señor de los esclavos.

Characters

Doomed of the Tower of Compassion:

Zorvun patrollers (65 years): Morzif (51), Maef (37), Ged (58), Orafe (32), Taw (64), Shurta (43)

Sashava’s patrollers (71 years): Sedrios (83), Boron (34), Kaldaka (40), Pik (40), Atok (33), Maltagwa (61)

Lumon Patrollers (36 years): Dashvara (23), Makarva (25), Arvara (39), Miflin (20), Kodarah (20), Zamoy (20), Alta (35), Tsu (42 years)

Sajits: Sajits (a group of twenty humanoid races) live an average of 120 years.

Measurements: One Diumcilian mile is equivalent to 1.5 kilometers. One step is equal to 0.7 meter. One foot equals 0.3 meter.

1 The swamps of Ariltuan

A miry jungle marks the border between Diumcili and the swamps of Ariltuan. All along, for miles, are palisades punctuated by twelve towers inhabited by border patrols. The Diumcilians call these “Doomed”, for the simple reason that these warriors are trapped in the mud all day long without any possibility of getting out. These towers are named after the Eleven Graces praised by the Federation: Courtesy, Discretion, Constance, Patience, Sacrifice, Dignity, Compassion, Sympathy, Humility, Serenity, and Bravery, plus Reward, the tower located to the north, near the city of Suhugan and the Hab River. According to some, being transferred to Reward is the only possible salvation for a Doomed. Fortunately, this is not entirely true.

The task of the Doomed is simple: to repel all the dangerous creatures that come out of the swamps. Adrièges, milfids, brizzias, borwergs… Until you see with your own eyes what kind of beasts live in these swamps, it is difficult, if not impossible, to imagine them.

Most of the towers are not made of stone but of wood. They are simple watchtowers from which one watches the silhouettes that move between the mists of the swamp. Oddly, no one dares to look much at the other side, towards the meadows of the Cantons, perhaps because it always reminds us that beyond, there is a civilization that has forced us here. This is painful, just as it is painful to see a man feasting at a banquet when you are starving.

There is a saying among the Doomed that he who looks away from Ariltuan has his days numbered. Well, we spent our days scouring the swamps with our weapons at hand. One of the good things was that we had complete freedom to do whatever we wanted, as long as we patrolled the area properly and didn’t let any monsters through. We were Xalya warriors from the steppe, from a distant land, more dry than wet, hot in summer and cold in winter. Sent to the Border by the Council of Titiaka after a foiled attempt at an uprising, we had had to adapt to the mists and torrential rains, to the cold winds that swept through the Communes and made the tower sway. At night, the cries of the beasts were unleashed. And that was when the hunt usually began.

Time was running out. Three years had passed since the Dungeon of Xalya was destroyed by three clans from the Rocdinfer steppe. Three years since my father ordered me to kill the leaders responsible for the massacre. I had only killed one, and he was already Doomed by disease, but it had been a long time since revenge had any meaning for me. The truth is that, at the Border, there was no stronger desire than to be alive the next day.

The Council of Titiaka had placed us on death row, between the sharp teeth of the swamp orcs and the threatening spikes of the federal army. Still, strange as it may seem, we lived relatively happily. In three years, we had had time to adapt and accept our situation with patience. Six times we had tried to abandon the tower. To tell the truth, this was a rather respectable number compared to the other Doomed. The first attempt was a few weeks after the two federates who had been with us in the barracks for five months had been sent to another tower. The captain had tried his luck north, along the border, hoping that the other Doomed would be complacent and not turn us in. We had quickly learned that the majority of the Doomed not only lack the courage to try to escape but also do not let others try. The other neighboring patrols do not have the same family spirit that we have. They haven’t known each other since childhood, they didn’t grow up together, and many of them are there because they were given the choice between the Arena and a Doomed life and they preferred a slow death to a quick one. There is no real friendship between criminals. Some become even more ferocious animals than the orcs. As Makarva says, our tower is a haven of peace surrounded by hells.

The last escape had taken place a year ago. The captain had taken us straight through the swamps, planning to cross them to the Hab River and from there to the Bladhy Desert. We didn’t even last a week. No sooner had we repelled an orc attack than the milfids appeared, followed by a huge, raging brizzia that crushed Sashava’s right leg. We had returned to the tower with three men badly wounded and one crippled for life, and since then the captain seemed to have given up on any other major undertaking. I myself had no doubt that going anywhere else was preferable to the Border… anywhere else but the swamps of Ariltuan. On that point, we all agreed. Even the captain.

We had to admit it: his resignation relieved us more than it discouraged us. At least for the moment. I, at least, was more than tired of so many failures. Besides, having to explain our little escapades to the border inspector was not a particularly pleasant task; the last time I had to ask Boron to receive him because the mere sight of him made me gag. The man in the white uniform was a fussy man, making sure we had everything we needed to keep us alive, checking that we were doing our job, and threatening to take us to the Council whenever we grumbled about any of his recommendations. Then he would leave us alone for three months.

No, I don’t think we will ever return to the Rocdinfer steppe. The savages stole our land from us, and sometimes you have to accept defeat and make a new start. Even some of my companions who still have family somewhere in Hareka are beginning to lose hope of ever seeing their children, wives, or parents again. I myself have given up on seeing my sister Fayrah. I had left her in Dazbon, with two pieces of silver and two friends, and on the fifth attempt to escape, I had come to the conclusion that if she was still alive and happy, I would not help matters by entering her life again anyway. Sometimes you have to end your dreams to keep from going crazy. At least that’s what I had to do. If I am lucky enough to find my sister, I will rejoice in due course; but there is no point in dwelling on a wish that may never be fulfilled. It is as useless as if a child, wishing to be an old man, wasted his time waiting for the years to pass without having the certainty that he will not die before realizing his dream. Inventing fables is a good thing, we all do it, but only a hero or a fool would feed the same vain hopes by seeing them fail one after the other. It’s a bit like trying to flap your arms and hoping you’ll fly away.

However, I have not stopped longing for freedom, on the contrary. I yearn for it every day and I enjoy all the freedom that is granted to me. A man can lose his dignity if forced too much, he can betray his allies as I did, but there is one thing a man of the Eternal Bird never gives up: to rise again, no matter how many times he is knocked down.

Freedom is a wonderful reality, and I wish everyone could enjoy it. I enjoyed it fully for twenty years, so I feel lucky when I see Doomed who have been slaves all their lives. Like Tsu, for example. The drow was born a slave and served free federate families for over thirty years. Then, who knows how, he had managed to convince his last master, Arviyag, to sell him and let him go to the Border as a doctor; this, I must admit, had been a godsend for us, even just from a practical point of view, since none of the Xalyas had enough knowledge to treat serious wounds. Finally, Tsu, who had not known friendship in the civilized Titiaka, had found it in the worst place we could imagine: in the Border. He had become for us a kind of holy savior who worked miracles whenever we came home injured or when a cursed illness prevented us from even getting up.

Of the twenty-four who had arrived at the tower, only one had abandoned us, a Xalya named Kadayra, Orafe’s brother, whom I did not know personally. During the second year, he had caught fulgurating fevers that even Tsu had not been able to cure. According to the drow, the disease had been caused by an insect; but even if we had spent our whole lives trying to find out which one, we probably wouldn’t have succeeded: our home was a nest of insects of every possible variety and color. We could only hope that the bug wouldn’t have the idea to attack us again.

All of us would much rather face large creatures like brizzias or milfids than insects. The former are half-bipedal monsters about fifteen feet tall, as dumb as can be, and surrounded by dizzying energy. They have a habit of going out to sunbathe on the prairie, especially in the summer, and then they swallow everything that crosses their path. They are very friendly creatures. Normally they are herbivores, but not always: I guess their lack of palate doesn’t help them to distinguish their food very well. They have a thick, rock-hard skin, and swords can hardly kill them. When we found ourselves facing a brizzia, we always opted for complicated maneuvers so that it would return to its swamps and leave us in peace.

With the milfids, it was different. They were perhaps the most bloodthirsty creatures on the entire Ariltuan Border, far more so than the orcs of the swamps. Here, there are no red nadres or scale-nefarious or, obviously, red snakes: everything is too wet and muddy for them. Milfids, on the other hand, love humidity, and the worst thing is that they are intelligent. They act in gangs and always attack at night; they take advantage of the darkness to deceive the guard of the Doomed, evade the ditches, destroy the palisades, and go directly to the livestock of the border peoples. As the captain once said: they are innocent creatures who only want a little blood, nothing more…

That being said, it is not like we were constantly fighting. The truth is, days and even weeks went by without us having to draw our weapons. The federates had equipped us well: spears, swords, explosive material… we had enough to protect ourselves. They paid us to feed and satisfy our little whims, and in return we killed monsters. We would have been perfect mercenaries if only we, the Xalyas, had given any importance to money. We don’t use money between family members. Obviously, what kept us on the Border was not gold, but pressure from the federal forces.

It is not easy to maintain discipline among bored men, and on some occasions, I do not envy Captain Zorvun’s responsibility at all. Sometimes he had to make somewhat radical decisions and punish misbehavior in an exemplary manner: Maef and Shurta had provoked a fight in the village of Rayorah over matters of ‘Xalya pride’, Miflin, unable to pay at the brothel, had been about to force himself on a young girl… ‘I am a man’, my cousin had stammered at the terrible look on the captain’s face. Yes, you are a man, Miflin, we all are, but if we start to slip, it’s the gallows that awaits us, not just a whip. The captain ordered fifteen lashes and forbade the boy to return to Rayorah. Since then, Miflin had become a poet. Human nature holds surprising mysteries.

We have all changed. We would have had to turn to stone not to. Even so, we remembered our origins and principles vividly… and our Eternal Bird; we clung to it as a man clings to his sword when hungry beasts surround him. As the captain says, a Xalya without an Eternal Bird is like a strongbox without a door: without it, ruthless souls rob it. For me, a soul is not strong if it is destroyed by being turned into a rock; it is strong if, in spite of adversity, it manages to remain the same in its essence. And I believe that in this, all of us have more or less triumphed. We have even come to feel responsible for the safety of the citizens of Rayorah. They feared us and some despised us—we were, after all, only Doomed—but many were honest people whose minds were simply not used to being kind to strangers. A bit like the Xalyas. Nevertheless, deep down, we knew that the Rayorahs were grateful for our protection. They were all aware that we were protecting them much better than the previous Doomed. And we were defending them as we had once defended the Xalya lands against the red nadres and other monsters. To tell the truth, our life itself had not changed much. We had only exchanged the steppe for a huge, gigantic, disgusting quagmire… It is comforting to know that wherever you are, you can try to do good deeds. Even after having made terrible mistakes.

Well… three years to go and I’m raving like a wise fool. But, as I once said to Makarva, that doesn’t stop me from having a high opinion of myself. Hey, who doesn’t value the life that is given to them, right? Even the most foolish or desperate person is attached to life. But attachment is not enough: you have to love life from the inside, you have to appreciate it like you appreciate the touch of a breeze or the song of a bird in the morning. This is more or less what I explain to my brothers when one of them has a moment of depression; Pik, Atok, and Zamoy immediately laugh at me, calling me Philosopher: which proves that my technique works.

At the Border, I understood what it was to be happy; maybe because I learned not to ask too much of life, I don’t know. But what the hell! How could I not feel happy when I have twenty-two brothers around me, even though we are surrounded by twenty thousand hells?

Fortunately, things don’t always turn out the way we expected. We could have spent our lives in the Tower of Compassion. I could have grown old, taken Sashava’s cane, and entered the swamp to die, old, white-haired, and full of memories. It wouldn’t have been so horrible, and all things considered, it might have been better. Who knows. Fate is not carved in stone, and it is a consolation to know that. What good would time do if we knew its mysteries? A wise steppeman said that the world spins like a crazy top, that we never know where it will lead us, but that as long as we see it spinning, as long as we live, it will always find a way to surprise us. Or to hurt us. Or to make us laugh. In the end, it always finds a way to kill us. It’s a fact: eternity has never been of interest except to those who cannot enjoy it. Every being has a limited life and does what he can with it. I do what I can with mine.

2 Compassion

His eyes widened, the corners of his mouth turned up sharply, and a feeling of intense satisfaction came over him. The sun was out.

No sooner had he observed the fact than Dashvara stepped away from the open door of the barracks, took a small table and a chair, and set both outside on the wooden boards that surrounded the building. Immediately afterwards, he took a knife and a piece of wood he had salvaged from a felled tree and sat down comfortably, placing his bare feet on the table and rolling up his pants. Immediately he felt the warm rays of the sun on his skin. He looked up at the sky, just above his head. It revealed an incredibly, wonderfully blue hole.

How wonderful life is, huh? he thought, still smiling.

After many long minutes of enjoyment, he heard footsteps in the barracks. Arvara, Lumon, Alta, and the Triplets were still sound asleep after spending the night on patrol. Makarva was in the tower, alone, because it was daytime after all, and in the daytime, there is not as much danger.

Dashvara glanced back and saw Tsu appearing through the door, properly dressed in his dark blue uniform and white Doomed belt. Of course, he was holding his flute in his hand. Smiling, Dashvara greeted him with a nod, and as the drow settled down, sitting on the floor against the wall of the shack, he began to use his knife to blow splinters from his piece of wood. Soon after, Tsu began to play his flute. According to Sashava, he played horribly. Dashvara didn’t think it was so bad. In any case, he liked to hear his music.

He continued to scrape the wood, his eyes riveted on the mist that still floated on the tops of the twisted swamp trees. A small slope of about fifty paces separated the barracks from the tower and the palisade, and a hundred separated them from an inextricable mass of vegetation that stretched endlessly toward the east. The meadows of the Communes died there as if the border had been cut with an axe, abruptly, more or less clearly. Of course, the Doomed took care of clearing the edge by pulling up any sprout or bush. To let the swamp invade meant to let death invade.

The cawing of a crow sounded. Dashvara saw the black bird land on the high branch of a tree. Not very graceful, those birds, he thought. And he looked down at his piece of wood. The melody of the flute was cheerful and fast, but Tsu could have blown as hard as he could into his instrument and neither Arvara the Giant, nor Alta, nor Lumon, nor the Triplets would have woken up. It would have taken a real alarm to rouse a Doomed man from his sleep.

Dashvara glanced north. The captain had left with his patrol a few hours ago to clear a section of the edge. Sashava was about to return with his. And Pik and Kaldaka had gone to Rayorah to buy supplies with the donkey.

A little peace and quietness never hurt, Dashvara rejoiced.

Then he heard the buzzing of a fly, and he squinted, trying to look for the cursed one with his eyes. A few minutes later, however, his attention was distracted by the distant thud of hooves. He frowned and Tsu paused his music for a moment in anticipation. Finally, they saw a rider appear to the west, riding quietly down the gentle slope toward the marshes. The horse was pristine white and what came on it looked like an official. He was heading towards the barracks.

“What do you say, Tsu?” Dashvara said, his voice bored.

The drow shrugged his shoulders. His expressiveness had not improved much over the years.

“That you’ll be the one talking to him,” he simply replied before picking up his flute again.

Dashvara sighed but nodded.

He waved to Makarva in the tower to let him know that he had already seen the rider, and without removing his feet from the table, he continued to carve his piece of wood. He would have never imagined, three years ago, that he would one day overcome his lack of patience in carving figures. The Border could work miracles.

Soon the rider stopped near the wooden platform. Dashvara did not look up. Demons, let him introduce himself first. The visitor did so.

“Hello. I’m the new border inspector,” he said in a sonorous voice. “I’m here to see if everything is all right at Compassion.”

Dashvara raised an eyebrow and finally looked up to detail the individual. He was young, with a plump stomach, blond hair, and a white inspector’s uniform. Yes, there was no doubt about it, he was telling the truth.

“Good morning,” he replied at last, after a silence that had made the pale eyebrows of the official frown. “Don’t worry: everything is fine at Compassion.”

He looked down at his piece of wood and continued to carve it. The inspector put his foot down and said in a slightly more strained voice:

“I have orders to review all of you. A decree was signed a few weeks ago that says…” he paused when he saw that Dashvara didn’t seem to be listening to him, but he continued, “that says that from now on you will receive visits every two weeks.”

What? Every two weeks? Dashvara looked down at the floor when he saw that the official had dared to climb onto the platform with his muddy boots. He sighed. And continued carving.

“Where is your boss?” the inspector asked after a silence. His voice no longer reflected tension.

“The captain is on patrol,” Dashvara replied, looking up.

“Captain?” the inspector repeated. There were no captains among the Doomed. But there are among the Xalyas, federate, Dashvara smiled inwardly.

Tsu continued to play the flute softly. Out of the corner of his eye, Dashvara saw that the inspector was fidgeting, nervous again.

“Could you stop carving that?” he asked after a silence. Dashvara did not answer. “What are you carving?” he added. He seemed more sympathetic than the previous inspector, Dashvara considered. The previous inspector, the Persnickety, would never have bothered to ask what he was carving. He scanned him before smiling.

“What do you think?” he said.

The inspector shook his head.

“It doesn’t have a concrete form yet, I can’t guess.”

Dashvara, this time, smiled broadly. This reminded him very much of a conversation he had had with an old Shalussi sage long ago.

“What does concrete mean?” he asked.

The inspector arched an eyebrow, and to Dashvara’s astonishment, reached into his bag, and pulled out a book.

“I’ll read you the definition, soldier,” he announced, half arrogant and half amused because he knew his reaction had surprised him. He flipped through a few pages and cleared his throat before reading: “«Concrete. Adjective that designates what is real, tangible, and perceptible. Antonym: abstract». Satisfied?” he asked with a small condescending smile.

Dashvara huffed. Indeed, he doesn’t look like the previous inspector.

“Satisfied,” Dashvara agreed. Then he heard the fly again. Damn fly… He saw it, lying on his little table.

The inspector opened his mouth.

“Listen, maybe I can start working without your boss. How many of you are in the barrack…?”

He let out a small scream of terror as Dashvara, thrusting his arm at lightning speed, stabbed his dagger into the table. He almost laughed: he had killed it! It was the first time he had ever done it. He withdrew the tip of the knife from the wood and rejected the fly’s corpse in the manner of one who does this every day. He resumed his carving.

“Were you saying something, Inspector?”

The person concerned was pale. A flute blast sounded, and Dashvara guessed that Tsu was having trouble holding back the laughter.

“I…” The inspector swallowed. He was still holding the dictionary in his hand. Then he said, “It’s rude to put your feet on the table.”

Dashvara looked at him for a few seconds, stunned; then he laughed, frankly amused. The inspector paled even more.

“You’re not from this region, are you?” inquired Dashvara.

The inspector put on a hardened face, but he could no longer fool Dashvara: he was beginning to realize that they had been sent a new inspector who was much less strict than the Persnickety. One could not ask for more.

“I’m not from here, no,” replied the inspector. “I come from Dazbon, soldier. And I studied at the best school in the world: the Citadel. And now, tell me, are you two the only ones guarding the tower, or what?”

Dashvara watched him with interest.

“No,” he answered, laconically. “My companions are sleeping.”

“Wake them up.”

“No way. We spent all night tracking orcs and couldn’t even find them. Wake them up yourself if you want to go back to Rayorah with your tail between your legs.”

The Inspector became flushed.

“Don’t disrespect me, soldier!” he burst out.

Dashvara shrugged.

“That was not my intention, Inspector. I only said that it would also be disrespectful to my companions if I woke them up right away. The only consolation they would have would be to be able to see those blessed rays of sunshine.”

As if his blessing had been heard by the underworld, clouds obscured the star at that moment. Dashvara sank back and took his feet off the table.

“Is it better this way?”

The inspector calmed down.

“Mmph. Where are your boots?”

“Inside. Shiny as obsidian, Inspector. All of us here place great importance on hygiene, don’t we, Tsu?”

The drow had stopped playing, although he did not move from his seat. He nodded silently: he didn’t like talking in front of the federates. Dashvara smiled at the inspector.

“Our captain is worse than a housewife. You’ll see that everything is in order here. Even the animals, we keep them at bay. In three years, there has not been a single complaint from anyone in Rayorah about this.”

“By the way,” the inspector pointed out, putting his dictionary away. “I was told that, in this tower, some men come from the steppe of Rocdinfer.”

“Some?” Dashvara smiled. “We all come from the steppe. We are Xalya Doomed. And we’re the best Doomed there ever were on the Border, don’t you doubt it, Inspector.”

The chubby blonde rubbed his freshly shaved cheek, unimpressed. Of course, how was he going to be impressed? To him, surely, being the best Doomed more or less meant being the best scoundrels in the Federal State.

The inspector scanned him with a rather successful haughty look.

“What’s your name?” he finally asked. A ray of sunlight reappeared between the clouds.

“Dash,” he replied. “And this is Tsu.”

“I swear he’s not a Xalya,” the inspector observed.

Dashvara ran his hand through his beard, pretending to be thoughtful.

“Well, you’d swear wrong. Tsu is a Xalya like all of us. He’s adopted, that’s right. But he is a Xalya of the Eternal Bird.” He smiled at the drow with all his teeth and the drow smiled back, mockingly.

“Mm. Listen…” The inspector cleared his throat. “Right away I come from the south, from the Tower of Dignity. And over there, they’ve been practically begging me to send them workers to fix their barracks. And what about you? Don’t you have any urgent needs that I can notify? In the end, I came mainly for that.”

Dashvara shook his head as he saw him pull out a notebook and pencil. Definitely, he was much more considerate than the previous inspector.

“Well, you see,” he said, “our building is in perfect condition. We rebuilt it last fall with our own hands and with wood from the swamps. Because we Xalyas don’t need help from the federates and we don’t get lazy like the people in the Tower of Dignity. But, if you really want a more thorough answer, I invite you to come back here in a few hours. The captain will be back.”

The inspector scoffed.

“I see. However, I don’t think you get your food out of the swamp, do you? You buy it in Rayorah, with the money the Council gives you. Am I wrong?”

Dashvara frowned.

“No.”

The inspector smiled and Dashvara went back to carving his piece of wood. Suddenly, an exclamation was heard.

“Oh, burning sun that illuminates my senses!”

Seeing the inspector’s puzzled face, Dashvara let out a loud laugh and turned to Miflin. Motionless in the doorway, the triplet was speechless as he spotted the visitor.

“Let me introduce the Poet to you,” Dashvara said, very amused. “Miflin, be careful your head doesn’t light up too much, eh? This is the new inspector,” he added, answering his young companion’s silent question. “If you need anything, just ask him before he leaves.”

“Your companion is right,” the inspector interjected. “I’ll write down what you need in this notebook and…”

He fell silent as he heard voices inside the barracks. Soon Lumon and Alta came out. Arvara the Giant followed them, bowing his head slightly so he could pass through the door. All three were shirtless and bootless, and Lumon scratched his head vigorously while Alta stretched like a lazy cat. Dashvara suppressed a smile. The first impression left by the three Xalyas was not particularly flattering.

“The sun is out!” Alta said loudly without even looking down for a moment.

“What?” came Zamoy’s voice from inside. “Kodarah! Help me get the laundry out. Come on, wake up, brother! We have to hang it up. Eternal Bird, help me before the sun goes away!”

“It won’t dry,” Arvara breathed from his six-foot height. He stepped away from the door, however, when Zamoy came out backwards dragging a large basket of laundry.

“But it will dry, Arvara. Dammit, help me!” complained Zamoy. “Kodarah has a sleep deeper than a well. Look! The sun is heating up. It’s summertime, guys. It will dry in a few minutes.”

“In a few minutes, huh?” Arvara laughed, but he helped him carry the basket anyway.

In the face of so much commotion, the inspector seemed relieved.

“Wait! I have a few questions to ask you…”

“What were we waiting for?” Zamoy replied, huffing and puffing and pausing for a moment. “Look, Inspector, if the clothes don’t dry, I’ll catch a cold again, and if I wait just one more minute, I may—just may—get buried in the mud because of you. Let’s go, Arvara. Let’s hang out the laundry. The sun won’t wait.”

The two Xalyas walked away to the other side of the shack without leaving the platform. Dashvara rolled his eyes. Zamoy was an exalted man.

“So you’ve come to see if we’re still alive, Inspector,” Lumon said, walking over to the table. Dashvara was still sitting in the chair. Lumon the Archer gave the official his usual serene, mysterious look. “Is the other inspector dead?”

“No!” assured the federate. “He’s been transferred elsewhere. Are you the one responsible for all these people?”

Lumon winced, looked at Dashvara, then at Miflin and Alta. He shrugged.

“In a way,” he said. “I’m the oldest.”

Then the inspector renewed his explanation of his presence at the Tower of Compassion. Lumon put on a meditative face.

“Guys,” he said suddenly. “Do we need anything? Do you have any ideas?”

There was a thoughtful silence and then suddenly:

“A horse!” Miflin said.

“That’s right,” Dashvara observed, surprised that he hadn’t thought of it earlier.

“You are only allowed one,” the inspector objected.

“Well, that’s fine,” Lumon smiled. “We don’t have any.”

The inspector looked surprised.

“I can’t believe it. How do you carry the food from Rayorah to here then? On the back of a man?”

“We have a donkey,” Dashvara said proudly. They had had her for a year, and in exchange for the Xalyas’ cuddling and caressing, she gave them excellent milk.

The inspector shook his head in disbelief.

“And what did you do with the horse? Normally, all towers have one.”

Dashvara and Lumon exchanged a glance.

“He’s gone,” Lumon replied laconically.

“Oh.” The inspector grimaced as he glanced nervously toward the swamp. “He was attacked by those…?”

Alta huffed; Alta was an animal lover. In the steppe of Rocdinfer, it was always him who took care of the horses.

“No, Inspector. He is not dead. He’s gone because we let him go.”

“We gave him back the freedom we don’t have,” Miflin embellished, leaning against the wall.

Seeing the incomprehension on the inspector’s face, Dashvara felt it necessary to clarify the matter:

“A year ago, we tried to escape through the swamps and we chased the horse to the meadows. That’s why we’ve been using the donkey for a year.”

“Oh,” was the blonde’s simple reply.

“A horse would be welcome, Inspector,” Lumon added calmly. “Frankly, I don’t know what else. How about you?”

Dashvara shrugged. He was reluctant to ask anything of a federal official.

“Well,” said the inspector after a silence. He had noted the horse in his notebook. “I’m going to go into the barracks to take a look. And, please, dress properly as soldiers. Where are your white belts?”

“Inside,” Lumon replied.

“What about your weapons?”

“Inside.”

“What if the milfids or orcs suddenly attack?” the inspector added with an increasingly accusatory tone.

Lumon, Alta, and Dashvara sighed.

“You’re an inspector, not a soldier, right?” Lumon asked with a cold little smile. “Right, well, you do your job, we’ll do ours.”

“Where we come from,” Dashvara interjected, “there is a saying that goes like this: don’t fear the red snake unless it comes, and when it comes, prepare and strike. Don’t stress us, Inspector,” he added in a mocking tone. “I assure you, if a milfid comes right away, we’ll get it out of your way… like a fly,” he smiled, putting the dagger away on his belt.

The inspector became confused, and shaking his head, entered the barracks. Lumon scratched his head again.

“He doesn’t look bad,” he commented in a low voice.

“Quite tender,” Dashvara agreed.

“A little green all the same, it shows,” Alta assessed.

“Eternal Bird! It’s not a broccoli dish, after all,” Miflin replied, stepping away from the wall.

Dashvara smiled broadly as Alta huffed like a disgusted horse and said:

“Don’t talk to me about broccoli now, Poet. My stomach is churning just thinking about it…”

A scream of pure terror rang out inside the shack and all three entered, intrigued, followed by Tsu. Kodarah was awake and Dashvara felt that being alone in the shack with an unknown being in a white uniform was reason enough to scream. The Hairy had jumped to his feet and even started to draw his sword before thinking. A little pale, the inspector was introducing himself. Where had the Persnickety been transferred to? In reality, it did not matter to Dashvara as long as he was far, far away from Compassion.

A fly landed on his arm. There were others. The buzzing was constant. Dashvara hissed at them and closed the door.

“Bah! Go to hell,” he muttered. He whipped the air with his hand.

“Are you talking to the flies now, Dash?” Miflin mocked.

“What do you expect, Poet. They don’t stop talking to me, so I answer them. Just being polite.”

“Gosh,” Miflin muttered, as if he had discovered a sudden truth. “I have not yet composed any poems about flies—”

“Go get dressed, come on,” Lumon cut him off. As for him, he had already put on his shirt and was fastening his Doomed belt.

The inspector was walking around the barracks taking notes in his notebook. Never had the Persnickety bothered to really look at things before criticizing them. Dashvara approached him, curious.

“What are you looking for, if we may ask?”

“Nothing. I’m taking an inventory and making assessments,” the inspector explained, absorbed in his notebook.

He stopped in front of the large table that they used for cooking as well as playing cards and katutas. Dashvara followed him. Over his shoulder, he could read in Sagipsian script: «Moldy pallets. Old and cracked bowls. Not enough chairs for the number of occupants»… And why on earth would they need a chair each? These inspectors… Dashvara shook his head, uneasy.

“And what do you do next with these appreciations?” he inquired.

For a moment, the inspector suspended his gestures to look at him. He pouted and continued to write as he replied:

“I give them to a secretary of the Titiaka Council.”

“Oh.” Dashvara scratched his head. “That explains the delay.”

“The delay?”

“Yes. It has been three years since we asked the Council of Titiaka to free us from our condition of slaves and we still have not received the answer.” Dashvara smiled, mockingly. “But it will come eventually.”

The inspector had started to look at him with a strange expression on his face. Dashvara glanced at the notebook again. This time it said: «Insufficient cleaning: skinny men with lice, wet and muddy clothes». Dashvara pouted with disdain. This inspector was going to prove to be more meticulous and dangerous than the other one. He looked up again at the fat man and said caustically:

“Try staying in this hole for three years and then come tell me stories about lice and mud, huh?”

The federate squinted.

“I’m writing this for the Council to see, soldier.”

Dashvara shook his head, not understanding.

“To make them realize what? That we don’t live in a palace? I think that everyone knows that already, federate.”

“Inspector,” he corrected him in a harsh tone. This time he sounded really angry.

Dashvara shrugged and repeated formally:

“Inspector. By the way,” he said, crossing his arms, “a fly landed on your head. You should add it to your inventory, unless you want me to get rid of it first.”

The inspector glared at him.

“That’s enough. Your threats are bordering on the acceptable, soldier.”

Dashvara uncrossed his arms and took a step back, nodding.

“Then I’ll keep my mouth shut. Let me just give you a warning: at Sympathy, they’ll skin you alive. They’re not whiners like the ones at Dignity. And they certainly aren’t like us. I wouldn’t like to be in your shoes…” he looked him in the eye before adding, “Inspector.”

He walked away. At least the tender inspector was warned. Those in the Tower of Sympathy were going to pounce on him like hungry wolves. Metaphorically, of course: you could pressure an inspector if he let you, but you couldn’t physically abuse him. The Tower of Humility, located even further north than Sympathy, had already been subjected to harsh retaliation because of a bunch of Doomed who lost their temper with an ‘overly fussy’ inspector. It is true that this was the version of the Doomed. Dashvara would never hear the other side of the story, since the inspectors, for professional reasons, did not answer questions.

He put on his boots, went out again, and after a careful look to the north, east, and south, he decided to go and help Zamoy and Arvara hang the laundry. If only the sun could last a little longer…

Zamoy was bustling around like a dianka dancer, hanging all the laundry on the ropes. Arvara was moving more heavily; he seemed convinced that in a few minutes they would have to pick up all the laundry at full speed before the rain soaked it again.

“Oh, no!” Zamoy exclaimed as clouds obscured the sun again.

“Ah. Look. The wind is picking up,” Arvara remarked as if to say ‘I told you so, boy’.

“Let him get up,” growled Zamoy. “Let him get up and go.”

Dashvara turned his eyes to the south. Those clouds… don’t look good, he sighed. Zamoy waved a threatening fist at the sky.

“This time, you will not come closer, clouds!” he proclaimed. Since his brother Miflin became a poet, he had discovered a prophetic streak.

“No,” Arvara affirmed. “They won’t come any closer. As a matter of fact, they are forming over us. Right on top of the laundry. What do you bet?”

“His hair, of course,” Dashvara observed.

Zamoy the Baldy put on an annoyed face, and as the sky began to grow darker, he groaned.

“It’s not fair!”

Dashvara smiled and they began to refill the basket as fast as they could. A few minutes later, they saw the inspector appear at the corner of the platform that surrounded the shack. They saw him walking heavily, as if testing the steadiness of the floor. Dashvara shook his head.

“We built the platform,” he said, raising his voice. “It’s not going to break. Unless you keep kicking it,” he grumbled, irritated, as he saw that the inspector had just driven a rotten board.

“I got a drop,” Arvara suddenly said.

“Hurry up!” Zamoy said, throwing the last of the pants into the basket. Between the three of them, they lifted the basket and walked quickly into the barracks. No sooner had they closed the door than it began to rain in earnest. The drops crashed on the roof as if fists were trying to break it.

“Ephemeral as a soap bubble,” sighed Miflin. He didn’t look so “enlightened” anymore, Dashvara scoffed inwardly.

The inspector, looking glum, applied himself to asking them questions. One could see that he was not very worried about the fate of his white horse, which was soaking in the rain.

“What is your daily diet?” he asked, sitting at the table with his notebook and pencil.

Lumon had never been very talkative, especially with strangers, and the inspector, having mistaken him for the ‘leader’ of the little group, was greatly disappointed to receive terse, if cordial, answers. Lumon was always affable and never lost his nerve. In this he was a bit like Boron the Placid; well, Boron the Placid spoke even less.

“What do you do when one of you gets sick?” the inspector continued to question.

Dashvara lay on his pallet and played solitaire with his sailor cards. They were a mess, faded and damaged, but they were still usable.

“We call Tsu,” Lumon replied, looking deathly bored. “He’s our doctor.”

The drow, sitting on his own pallet, had begun to mend his shirt. Dashvara had always admired his skill with the needle.

“Ahmhm…” the inspector mumbled, scribbling in his notebook. “And…?”

And we didn’t know what he was going to ask next because, at that moment, the door suddenly opened. From the crash of the rain came four figures dripping with water and exhausted. It was Sashava’s patrol. Immediately, everyone in the barracks left their occupations to help them get rid of their soaked clothes. It was not cold, rather the opposite, it was summer, but the rainwater was usually icy. This was due to a matter of darsic energies, according to Tsu.

“Are you the leader of Compassion?” the inspector asked. Dashvara was trying to twist one of the capes over a large basin they had at the entrance. He turned his head to see who he was asking. The inspector was looking at Sedrios the Old. His white hair must have induced him to address him.

Sedrios smiled. But he did not answer. He liked to pretend he was dumb in front of the federates. The thump of a stick sounded against the wood and Sashava cleared his throat, dragging his useless leg to stand by the table. Despite his mangled leg, he still wanted to work with the others, and everyone respected him for it. His patrol was going slower, of course, but demons, why run?

“The captain is in the other patrol,” he snarled at last, as he detailed the visitor with wary eyes. He looked tired, but Dashvara knew that Sashava would never admit to any weakness in front of a federate. He stood straight and dignified. “Lumon, who is this man?” he asked.

Lumon gestured to the inspector, inviting him to introduce himself. As they spoke, Dashvara noticed that Maltagwa the Gardener was casting concerned glances toward the shack’s only window, which overlooked the vegetable garden.

“They will drown, they will rot…” he murmured softly.

He was talking about the sarees he had planted a few days ago. Dashvara saw Boron give him a soothing pat on the shoulder.

“It’s not me you should be comforting, but these plants, my son,” Maltagwa sighed.

Although he didn’t look it from his rather thin appearance, Maltagwa was the father of the Placid. To him, vegetables were like his children. The same as flowers to Zaadma. Beautiful, dark, mocking eyes suddenly assaulted Dashvara’s mind. He caught himself smiling like an idiot and shook his head, but since the conversation between Sashava and the inspector was not very exciting, his thoughts turned back to her. To Zaadma. He had met the Dazbonian in a Shalussi village, slept at her place for a week, and was saved by her gifts as a healer, and then by her lantern as a thief. From the beginning, he had felt attracted to her, hadn’t he? He didn’t remember much about it, but what he did know was that for the past three years he had fantasized as a young boy, wishing he could see her again. In his imagination, she had turned into a kind of goddess. Sometimes her eyes would turn golden, like those of that Supreme of the Brotherhood of the Pearl. When this happened, he tried to think of something else, orcs, rain, mud. Anything else. The Supreme, Sheroda, sometimes invaded his nights like a beneficent harpy capable of tearing the soul to pieces to extract its weaknesses. On the other hand, Zaadma simply smiled, she caressed the flowers gently, loving even their flaws, and her black eyes, her smiling eyes, sparkled with love all over the place.

But yes, Dash, you are in love with a goddess, and all your Xalya brothers know it only too well. Three years of thinking about the same eyes over and over again. Three years of remembering them and forgetting them and remembering them again. And without seeing them, mind you, that’s the most amazing thing. So keep dreaming.

Dashvara breathed in, and letting the clothes finish dripping on the ropes, he sat down next to Tsu. The drow’s red eyes wandered over the Xalyas’ faces. When his gaze fell on Dashvara’s, he looked at him as if he could read his thoughts.

Finally, the downpour subsided and the inspector stood up.

“Inspector, don’t forget the horse,” Miflin said, sitting between his two brothers.

“I will inform the administration of Rayorah,” the inspector promised. “And in two weeks, when I return, I hope to meet your boss. In theory, he shouldn’t leave the tower.”

“In theory, as long as the monsters don’t get through, we can do as we please,” Sashava retorted. His conversation with the inspector had put him in a dark mood.

The inspector must have thought that the reply did not merit a response because he walked away and opened the door in silence. A ray of sunlight illuminated his face. He turned and looked at each of them, one by one, as if he was trying to preserve a frozen image of that moment for some mysterious reason. Though it seemed strange, Dashvara thought he saw compassion in his eyes. And how could he not feel compassion in the Tower of Compassion? he thought wryly. Then the federate nodded slightly and said in a firm voice:

“Long live the Federation!”

Only the cawing of a crow answered him outside. So did thirteen pairs of dark eyes. Dashvara could not believe his ears. Long live what? To our oppressor? he wanted to reply. But silence can be even sharper than words, so he kept his mouth shut.

Perhaps realizing that he had just blurted out the greatest enormity of his life, the inspector turned pale. He looked away and was about to leave when Sashava broke the sepulchral silence:

“Wish us long life, federate. I think we need it more.”

The inspector did not answer. A few seconds later, the horse’s hooves were heard wading through the mud and heading west. Crunching his cane on the ground, Sashava finally sat down at the table. He grunted:

“Well, since he doesn’t say it, I will say it: long live the Xalyas!”

Dashvara and his companions smiled and shook their heads. While Sashava, Boron, Maltagwa, and Sedrios ate and then lay down exhausted on their straw mattresses, Dashvara rose to collect the basket of laundry. He added the soaked uniforms of Sashava’s patrol, and with the help of Arvara the Giant and Zamoy, went back out to spread it out. This time the sun would stay longer. It had to. Outside, the rays of light once again illuminated the meadow and even tried to seep through the swamp mist. The leaves of the trees twinkled like golden stars. Dashvara felt his heart vibrate inside him. The vision was damnably beautiful.

“Who would say that so many scumbags live in there,” he muttered.

“Daaash…” Zamoy shouted at him, dragging the huge basket. “Did you come to help or to philosophize?”

“I wasn’t philosophizing,” Dashvara defended himself, while helping him lift the load.

“Yes, well, stop trying to be cute, because my brother is a thousand times better at this stuff than you are, cousin. Come on, patrolmen, let’s hang out the laundry!” he teased.

A buzzing sound passed by Dashvara at high speed. As he walked toward the clotheslines, the Xalya hissed through his teeth, eyes squinting.

“Long live the flies.”

3 Green cloud

“What is it?” whispered Makarva, his voice strained.

Motionless, close to the palisade, they could hear loud footsteps, splashings, and thunderous breathing in the middle of the night silence. A… brizzia, perhaps? Dashvara preferred not to think about it. There were only six of them. It was not at all clear that they would be able to send a large, mucky golem back into the swamp. Before nightfall was complete, Alta, who was on guard at the tower, had warned them that he had noticed movement to the south. Lumon’s patrol had gone to check what was going on. But if the creature turned out to be a brizzia… If it’s a brizzia, we’ll run like hell and go back to Compassion for reinforcements. That much Dashvara was sure of.

“The noise is getting away,” Arvara the Giant observed.

Zamoy and Miflin were fidgeting, worried. Kodarah had stayed in the barracks because he had twisted his ankle; of the three, there was always one that broke something: it was almost a custom. Dashvara knew that the captain didn’t like to leave the three of them in the same patrol… but there are some things you just can’t avoid. Of the twenty-three Xalyas, the Triplets were the youngest, twenty years old, and while they were good warriors, everyone, including Dashvara, considered them to be… well, the kids of the Tower of Compassion.

Dashvara squinted. Arvara was right: the footsteps were moving south. But there were other ominous sounds. And those, too, were moving away. He scanned the shadows and tried to see something in the dense swamp vegetation. He thought he saw movement, but he couldn’t have sworn it. That’s what I hate most: not being able to see the enemy lurking around.

Dashvara continued to scan the shadows as he and the others moved south, following the footsteps. They had turned off the torches, and he wasn’t sure if that was a good idea. It had been over a week since they had needed to draw their weapons, since the morning before Inspector Chubby had left promising them a horse that had not yet arrived. They had enjoyed a blessed peace and even some sunshine. And now he had a sad feeling that things were about to get worse.

They had been wading through the mud and darkness for two hours when they heard screams, followed by a roar. As if the swamps themselves were suddenly about to conquer the meadows, a great four-legged, horned mass sprang up a hundred paces to the south. It left behind it a heap of broken and crushed rushes and trunks. Dashvara stopped and sighed again, this time with relief. This was not a brizzia, this was a…

“BORWERG!” Lumon cried. “He’s going straight for the palisade!”

The Xalya took off running towards the creature, and Dashvara, Arvara, Makarva, and the two Triplets followed. They ran along the fence, glancing fearfully toward the edge of the swamp. The borwerg was now running at full speed as if it were running away from something. And what might frighten a borwerg was likely to frighten them too.

The animal reached the palisade long before they could catch it. It hit it hard, like a battering ram, bent the stakes… and knocked them down in one blow. Dashvara swore through his teeth as he ran. The Border wall was a damned decoy: he felt it served only to discourage the prairie people from foraging plants or hunting illegally. It wasn’t there for borwergs, nor for brizzias, nor for… A fierce scream ripped through the night air. Dashvara blushed and added mentally: nor for the twisted minds of the milfids.

When they reached the gap, the borwerg was already far away, running towards the meadows.

“Hell and damnation!” Lumon lamented. In three years of patrolling, there had been few times when creatures had passed by, and they had always managed to track them down and kill them before they reached a village or a barn. But, this time, that borwerg was running like crazy, and the milfids kept yelping in the swamps.

“Don’t panic, it could have been worse,” Makarva assured, “It could have been a brizzia…”

Dashvara, who was scanning the swamp trying to catch his breath, gulped the air and roared:

“They are coming to us!”

No one asked who was coming: it was all too obvious. The bipedal figures had just emerged from the trees and were rushing towards them, shouting like filthy beasts. Did they intend to recover their lost prey? Well, they were going to have to do without it for their dinner.

Dashvara unsheathed his sabers; Arvara gripped his axe with both hands—he had become quite skilled with it; Lumon was drawing his bow, looking for an easy target.

“How many?” Makarva asked.

Dashvara tried to assess them in the darkness. It was not easy. Normally, milfids carried sticks and even spears. This time would be no exception.

“Nine,” Lumon then estimated.

He shot the arrow. A muffled scream echoed between the angry hisses of the creatures, and there was a brief flash of light. Dashvara had always marveled at Lumon’s skill; it was almost as if he didn’t need to see to hit his target. Zamoy let out a vengeful chuckle.

“Eight,” Lumon corrected.

“We can handle it,” Arvara said.

They were almost on top of them and they didn’t seem to want to slow down. Lumon fired another arrow, but he obviously missed because there was no cry of pain.

“Let’s get it over with quickly,” he threw out his sabers: “then we’ll go after the borwerg.”

They approved. And the milfids fell on them.

Dashvara finished with the first one in a jiffy, he dodged the spear of another, disarmed this one, avoided its fangs, but not its claws, which would have torn his whole forearm to the bone if he hadn’t had a chain mail under his uniform. He raged. Damned milfid, you’ll see what a Doomed man’s steel is worth…! He needed only a few seconds to stick a sword between its ribs. The milfid’s blue skin sparkled slightly before fading away. They always sparkled before they died. A matter of darsic energies, according to Tsu.

In a few minutes, silence returned, interrupted only by hurried breaths.

“Well, that’s it,” Miflin panted, cleaning his blade on his sleeve.

“May the Eternal Bird guard me!” Makarva growled. “What are you doing cleaning that on your shirt, Miflin?”

The Poet shrugged.

“It’s good to throw away anyway. It has so many holes that it’s barely got any fabric left.”

“Are you talking about your head, brother?” Zamoy asked in a biting tone.

The two Triplets gave each other mocking shoves. Dashvara shook his head and glanced back at the meadows. The borwerg had not been swallowed up by the milfids but by the shadows. Did Lumon really want to pursue it? As if guessing his thoughts, Lumon sighed.

“Let’s fix this mess,” he said, lifting a stake from the palisade. At least the trunks hadn’t broken: they’d just been uprooted. Yeah, Dashvara had never doubted it: that fence was indeed a damned decoy.

They lit torches and immediately began to raise the stakes and replant them in the furrow. It took them about an hour, and they ended up muddier than mud itself. Zamoy went over to the other side to backfill the ditch with earth.

“Hey, there are only seven here,” Arvara observed. His huge figure leaning over the corpses straightened. “It’s rather odd, isn’t it?”

Nobody had counted them? Dashvara couldn’t believe it. He himself had forgotten to do so. He glanced around apprehensively and snatched up a torch he had stuck in the ground. Milfids were more treacherous than demons. Only two stakes remained to be replaced, and Dashvara poked a concerned head through the gap.

“Zamoy! Be on your guard. Arvara says there might still be a milfid left alive.”

“What?” the Baldy gasped. He was raising one of the last two missing stakes.

“Miflin, go with him, will you?” Lumon said. The Archer’s eyes scanned the swamp. They still heard the occasional shout, but it was more distant. Perhaps a clash between milfids and orcs, Dashvara ventured.

The Poet, being as thin as a stick, had no trouble slipping through the fence. They decided that the two Triplets would return to Compassion on the other side, and they replaced the two remaining stakes, securing them as best they could.

Then they heard another crash, further south, in the palisade. Makarva whistled.

“What the hell…?”

“The borwerg!” Zamoy shouted from the other side. “It’s passed by again. Rather far away from here.”

The palisade curved slightly, and Dashvara could not see where it had been, but a few seconds later, with the help of a faint Gem beam, he could see a large shadow in the distance, speeding into the swamp. The poor beast was more terrified than they were.

A scream of horror rose over all this, and Dashvara felt the blood run cold through his veins. The one who just screamed was Zamoy.

Lumon, Makarva, and he shouted his name, and Arvara rushed to dig up one of the trunks.

“I’m fine, I’m fine!” Zamoy cried out. “It was the milfid. We finished it off.”

Arvara stopped, breathing a loud breath of relief. Tense, Dashvara spied the edge of the swamp again as Lumon ordered over the fence:

“Go back to Compassion!”

“What about the other breach in the palisade?” Zamoy inquired.

In silence, the four Xalyas on the swamp side looked at each other. Dashvara understood that they were all thinking the same thing.

“The border with the Dignity sector is right here,” Lumon answered loudly. “That breach must be theirs. Not ours.” He paused, and when Zamoy did not respond, he added, “Let’s go!”

Dashvara looked north with undeniable relief. They had repaired their palisade, and the borwerg had returned to the swamp… Everything was in order.

Lumon went to retrieve his arrows. He found one, the one that had been stuck in his victim’s throat, but no matter how many times he passed the torch between the grass and the mud, he could not find the other one. Dashvara and Makarva exchanged impatient glances when they saw that the Archer was still looking.

“Lumon…” Dashvara said with a clearing of his throat. “There’s no shortage of arrows, you know?”

The Archer sighed, nodded, and they finally set off.

It took them almost two hours to return to Compassion. They walked heavily, they were tired, and they continued to scan the vegetation from time to time, without stopping. At one point, it began to drizzle, then the blue rays of the Gem glowed in the sky and disappeared again. Finally, they saw the light of the tower and unconsciously quickened their pace. Footsteps could be heard on the other side of the stakes, and Dashvara wondered what the hell Zamoy and Miflin had been doing to let the rest catch up with them despite the fact Lumon had taken some time searching for his arrows. They had about a hundred more steps to go before they reached the gate of Compassion’s palisade under the tower when Zamoy’s voice rang out from the other side.

“A race to the barracks, brother!”

“Are you crazy?” Miflin replied with a tired grunt.

Dashvara’s face lit up. All his fatigue vanished.

“Up to the tower, I’m in!”

“Ah! That’s good, cousin!” Zamoy rejoiced.

“Pff, I’m going to beat you both up, you’ll see!” Makarva said.

“You bunch of fools,” Miflin muttered.

“Would it do any good to remind you that you’re in chain mail and wear weapons?” Lumon intervened in a calm tone.

Dashvara just smiled broadly at him.

“One!” Zamoy said.

The Baldy must be at about the same distance, Dashvara estimated.

“Two!” continued Zamoy’s count. “Will you join us, brother?”

“No way,” the Poet replied.

“And three!”

Zamoy shouted, and they took off running. Their boots sank into the mud with every step. Makarva went ahead of Dashvara, and Dashvara tried to catch up, but that cursed man was still better at running than he was. The hurried footsteps on the other side indicated that Zamoy was ahead of him too. Mmph.

Makarva had only a few steps left to reach the door when it opened and Zamoy came out looking triumphant. Makarva almost bumped into him, and the Baldy had to take him by the arm to stop him. They laughed. A few steps back, Dashvara grunted and stopped running, gasping for breath.

“Come on, cousin, don’t stop!” Zamoy encouraged.

Dashvara hid his cough with a throat clearing and ignored the taste of blood. This often happened when he was running or when he felt nervous. Tsu said his condition was not curing because of the climate; the drow had tried to make him completely well, but it had been two years since Dashvara had asked him for a miracle cure. Don’t worry, I think you lost more blood fighting than coughing, he thought. He finally walked through the door and muttered:

“Bah. I let you win. What did you think? In Compassion I live and with compassion I act.”

Makarva greeted his assertion with a skeptical clearing of the throat, and Zamoy assured:

“I don’t believe a word of it, cousin.” He struck a proud pose. “Admit it, Mak, come on, who’s the red snake now, huh?”

As Makarva rolled his eyes, Dashvara looked up at the watchtower. He saw a figure leaning against the edge, with his back to the lantern, but he couldn’t identify it. It was probably Pik or Kaldaka. Normally, it was their turn to be on guard. As if the grip of fatigue had suddenly seized them, an attack of yawns took them by surprise. They climbed the slope in silence to the barracks, wishing to get rid of the mud, crawl under the covers, and sleep soundly for the rest of the night. This was one of the best moments of the Doomed’s lives. Cradled in the arms of Sleep, they were suddenly free of all chains, and their spirits soared away from the Ariltuan Border, free as the Eternal Bird.

Free as we should be.

Dashvara took off his helmet as he walked forward and scratched his head. Sometimes he almost envied Zamoy and his baldness. Eventually, he would have to shave his head to get rid of the lice.

Boron was sitting at the entrance on the platform. When he saw the expression on his face, Dashvara was immediately alarmed. Something had happened: Boron the Placid was not placid.

“What’s going on, Boron?” Dashvara worried.

Boron gestured vaguely to the north.

“The captain’s patrol,” he explained, concisely. “They’re back. Something strange happened to them.”

“Something strange?” Zamoy repeated, taking off his helmet.

“Is it about the ones from Sympathy?” Dashvara asked immediately. They had always had a bad relationship with the northern Doomed…

Boron shook his head negatively.

“They have monster diarrhea. Tsu says it could be from the water. But the captain says it was a strange green smoke cloud. He says it took a few hours for it to affect them. But they are not sure where this cloud came from.”

A cloud of green smoke that produced diarrhea? Dashvara had never heard of such a thing. Meanwhile, Lumon, Arvara, and Miflin arrived.

“They’re inside,” Boron added after repeating the story. “Tsu is overwhelmed.”

“Who’s in the tower?” Lumon asked; he moved toward the entrance while the Placid answered:

“Pik and Kaldaka.”

The Archer pushed open the door, and they entered what at first seemed to Dashvara a den of dead rats. It stank like hell. Don’t worry, Lumon, I don’t think even the milfids would be able to get in here…, he thought, horrified.

The scene before his eyes was awe-inspiring. Pale as specters, eight Xalyas lay prostrate on their pallets while Tsu ran from side to side with bowls of boiled water.

“Make sure everyone keeps drinking!” the doctor repeated.

Dashvara had never seen him so distraught. Alta, Maltagwa, Atok, and Kodarah were busy giving drinks to the sick and emptying pots. With a complexion as gray as that of a sibilian, Sedrios the Elder and Sashava were watching the commotion from the table; the latter looked up with exhausted eyes at the patrol that had just arrived.

“What a night,” he let out in a whisper.

You said that… Dashvara looked around the pallid faces for the captain’s face. He was groaning and grumbling, bending over in his stomach as if trying to hold in his entrails. Morzif, Maef, Ged, and Orafe did not look much better. Taw and his nephew, Shurta, were calmer, leaning against a wall, but Tsu kept insisting that they keep drinking. It wasn’t the first time they’d caught an illness like this, but Dashvara had to admit that none had ever been so… acute.

Little by little, Shurta told what had happened.

“We were near the edge of Sympathy,” he said. “The green smoke cloud formed around us almost at once. Then it disappeared, but when Ged started complaining of a stomachache, the captain suspected something, and fortunately, we turned back. The last hour before we got here was abominable,” he admitted in a hushed voice.

Dashvara would have liked to do more than empty pots and give water, but that was all he did for the next few hours. The sky was already beginning to turn blue when, dead tired, he dropped to the ground. He had had some horrible nights, but this one surpassed them all. Or at least that was the impression he had at that moment.

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” Alta despaired, slumping into a chair.

Now the eight unfortunate people were sleeping, thanks to a drink Tsu had given them to bring down their fever. Dashvara suspected, however, that they would soon wake up. Unless they died first. In fact, the captain looked more dead than alive. And Dashvara felt himself dying with him.

Eternal Bird, don’t let any of them die, okay?

He knew that it was useless to address such wishes to an Eternal Bird. It was not a god, it was not a superior being capable of performing miracles. The Eternal Bird was limited to what a man could do. And a man could not perform miracles.

“Maltagwa,” Tsu said suddenly, staggering forward between the straw mattresses. His drow face, naturally rigid, was the vivid image of Death.

Dashvara saw him, trembling, resting both hands on the table. He feared he would collapse at any moment. You don’t, Tsu. You never collapse, do you? As the drow did not add anything else, Maltagwa the Gardener, encouraged him:

“Yes, Tsu?”

This one shook his head to revive himself.

“You and Boron go to Rayorah,” he croaked. “Get a doctor.”

Dashvara thought he heard his own heart breaking into a thousand pieces.

“A doctor?” he stammered. “But you are a doctor, Tsu.”

The drow gave him a dark look.

“Maltagwa, do as he asks,” Sashava interjected, opening his eyes. “Go with Boron. Sedrios, Alta, replace Pik and Kaldaka in the tower. Atok and Kodarah, stand guard outside. And the rest of you,” he added, addressing Dashvara’s patrol, “sleep as much as you can. You don’t look much better than the captain.”

Neither do you, Dashvara sighed mentally, but he didn’t protest. Even if he had wanted to stay awake longer, he couldn’t anyway. He and Makarva staggered back to their pallets, and already half asleep, patted each other on the shoulder to say good night. Dashvara didn’t even think about his goddess’ beautiful eyes. As soon as he had pulled his blankets over him, he fell asleep like an anvil.

* * *

He woke up a few hours later when a doctor from Rayorah arrived. He came alone because, naturally, he came on horseback whilst Maltagwa and Boron came on foot. From the look on his face, he had moved reluctantly, and for a moment, Dashvara feared that the smell of the barracks would deter him completely from helping them.

“For Serenity’s sake…” the doctor gasped. He recovered, however, with commendable speed.

When Dashvara saw that Tsu was fast asleep on his pallet, he sat up and woke him up with a few shakes.

“What…?” the drow groaned.

“The doctor, Tsu.”

“Mm?”

“The doctor!” Dashvara repeated, louder.

The red eyes appeared, fully awake.

“Oh…” he said. And he got up at once. A few minutes later, the doctor and the drow were talking over a patient, their expression very concentrated. The patients didn’t seem to be getting any better, but they were all still alive. Dashvara felt a little relieved. Being treated by two doctors, how were they not going to make it?

The first thing he did after drinking water from his goatskin was to get out of that hellhole. Although the door and window were open, the air in the barracks would have scared off even a red nadre. He found the Hairy and Atok playing cards on the platform… They were bathed in sunlight. Dashvara let out an exclamation of jubilation. He couldn’t believe it:

“The sky is blue!”

Kodarah smiled despite the fatigue, looking away from his cards.

“It’s been blue for a few hours.”

Dashvara shook his head in disbelief.

“But it’s blue!”

This time, Kodarah let out a soft laugh.

“It is, cousin. It is. Tell me, Dash, this smoke thing, what do you think?”

He and Atok looked at him curiously, perhaps thinking he had a clever answer to give. Dashvara shrugged.

“Since we’ve been here, I’ve never heard anything like this.” He looked at Kodarah’s cards and cleared his throat. “A terrible game, cousin. How’s your ankle?”

“Better,” the Hairy assured. “Even though Tsu asked me not to move for a week.”

His voice sounded relieved. Kodarah wanted a vacation, Dashvara observed, amused. He teased him:

“So you’ll be in charge of the kitchen, will you?” He clasped his hands together briskly despite Kodarah’s plaintive sigh. “Oh, come on, did I ever tell you that you cook much better than Zamoy?”

“As if it was an achievement…”

Dashvara smiled but stopped joking.

“You’d better go to sleep,” he advised them. “I’ll take over.”

Both of them stood up with obvious relief. As soon as he was alone, Dashvara sat down on the chair and moved it forward to enjoy the sun and the fresh air. Only the joyful chirping of birds in the swamp and murmurs of voices in the barracks could be heard. A few minutes later, he heard a noise in the watchtower. It was about sixty feet high and the wood of the ladder was getting really old. Dashvara wondered if Titiaka’s Council cared at all. Well, I’m just a bad mouth, aren’t I? I’d even bet that these gentlemen think about us every day. They even put a new and very nice federal flag on top of the watchtower. Out of Compassion, surely. They love us like their own sons and dress us in their uniforms. What the hell! I can hear their praise of our honorable work from here. He wiped away his crooked smile as he watched Alta and Sedrios climb down the tower and up the muddy grassy hill to the barracks. Someone should take their place. The Old Man went straight into the shack to sleep, while Alta took a detour to the shed to check on the donkey, Grumble. As he passed by the platform, Dashvara asked him the ritual question:

“Is Grumble okay?”

“She grumbles,” Alta smiled. Looking wearily at the swamp, he added, “How I wish I could fly out of this abyss. Wouldn’t you, Dash?”

He didn’t even wait for him to answer: Alta patted him on the shoulder, and shuffling along, disappeared inside the shack. Dashvara sighed.

Fly away, huh? If only the feathers of the Eternal Bird could be real feathers. If only we could have wings.

After a few moments, he came to a conclusion again:

So much monotony is beginning to make us lose hope. We’ll have to think of a new plan to escape from this place. He shook his head. But which one?

It was ironic to think of this just when an entire patrol found itself unable to take four steps without emptying its bowels. Right now, we’re not exactly in any condition to run anywhere, he sighed.

“Why are you sighing?” Makarva asked. He had just leaned against the wall behind him to escape the stench.

“Did I sigh?”

“You sighed,” Makarva confirmed. He picked up the broom and began to clean the platform. “Ah,” he smiled, “you just sighed again.”

Dashvara returned his smile.

“I was thinking about the escape. That is, the seventh escape.”

Makarva stopped, leaning on his broom.

“I’ve thought about it too,” he admitted. “To tell you the truth, we all have, probably. You know? We should think about the eighth. The federates say that the number seven brings bad luck.”

Dashvara laughed, astonished.

“Are you superstitious now, Mak?”

“Me?” His dark eyes twinkled. “A professional katuta player is never superstitious.”

Dashvara rolled his eyes, and as Makarva resumed his sweep with an amused pout, he rested his gaze on the treetops far below. A sudden thought brought a mocking smile to his face.

“Mak, have you thought that the day we leave this place, we might miss it?”

Makarva gave one, two more sweeps before turning to him, frankly surprised.

“Miss it?” he repeated. “You mean, the mud, the orcs, the milfids, and the diarrhea?” Dashvara had crossed his arms, absorbed in his thoughts. Makarva laughed. “That was one of your philosophical questions, wasn’t it?”

Dashvara stood up and looked at the swamps. Yes, they were beautiful, impressive, magnificent, gigantic. And disgusting.

“Think about it,” he said, however. “Life is full of mysteries. We have learned a lot in these three years. If once we were brothers, now we are almost like one man. We all bear with each other with impressive ease. Have you noticed that I no longer complain when you fool around while playing?”

“Because you play games fooling around too.”

“Oh. Really?” Dashvara laughed. “But I am speaking seriously. Despite all the bad things that can happen, the good things are always more important, and therefore, they should hold our attention more. That’s why, when we leave, I’ll think of the swamps of Ariltuan, remembering our conversations, our races, our games, our—Damn flies!” he exclaimed; he slapped his hand on his forehead.

Makarva laughed loudly.

“You’ll probably remember the flies. And I’ll remember how you learned to slap yourself,” he commented.

They heard the characteristic sound of Sashava’s cane and fell silent. In a situation like this, Dashvara could clearly guess Sashava’s thoughts: one should not laugh when eight brothers are in critical condition. The man had just stopped in the doorway. His eyebrows were furrowed. And when Sashava’s eyebrows were furrowed like that, it didn’t bode well. He looked at both of them with a piercing gaze.

“All of them have one foot in the grave,” he growled. “The doctor says it’s the food’s fault. The strange thing is that it only affected Zorvun’s patrol. I ate the same thing, and yet…” His bony shoulders heaved. “Tell me, you two were on guard duty when we dined with the others, weren’t you? Afterwards, did you taste the soup?”

Dashvara turned pale. Makarva swallowed his saliva.

“Are you asking if… if we tasted the soup?” Dashvara stammered.

Sashava closed his eyes briefly and sighed.

“If it hasn’t affected us yet, hopefully it won’t affect us now. Go to the shed and bring some wood. We’ll boil all the water we have left. Maybe it’s coming from there. It could also be Maltagwa’s vegetables, but…” He cleared his throat without finishing the sentence. “No one has replaced Sedrios and Alta?”

“No one,” Dashvara confirmed, growing more and more nervous. “Do you really think it was the soup, Sashava? But, what about the cloud of green smoke?”

Sashava’s eyes were on the palisade.

“No idea,” he replied.

Dashvara would have preferred a clearer answer, but Sashava had his head elsewhere. Finally, he said:

“I’ll wake up Miflin and Zamoy. You go get the wood.”

As soon as they were in the shed, Makarva let out a groan and Dashvara worried:

“Do you already hurt?”

“It’s my soul that hurts,” Makarva breathed out, taking a log.

Dashvara shook his head.

“I drank a whole bowl—”

“And I’ve finished everything that was left,” Makarva communicated in a suddenly relaxed tone. “Dash, keep your spirits up. You know that Compassion and Solidarity have always been very close. We weren’t going to let the captain suffer without suffering too, were we?”

Dashvara just looked at him and sighed. If they started to have more sick than healthy patrolmen… this could be the beginning of a disaster. Before leaving the shed, he called out to the donkey:

“Hello, Grumble. Let’s hope you don’t end up out here all alone with no patrolmen to look after you, eh?”

The donkey returned his gaze with intelligent and affable eyes. Good donkey, Dashvara smiled. But his smile faded when, glancing up at the sky, he saw it that sunny. The day was so beautiful… and they were enjoying it so little.

In the barracks, the doctor from Rayorah had the patients chew herbs. A few minutes later, he made them drink boiled water and advised them to throw away the water from one of the barrels where he had found a dead bug. He had a sorry expression.

“I don’t understand how these things don’t happen to you more often. This is a pigsty.”

Leaning in close to the captain, Dashvara frowned and suppressed a hiss. Sashava huffed from the table.

“A pigsty? We clean the place every week, doctor. And the water we have is perfectly clean rainwater.” Sashava paused for a moment, perhaps realizing that he was making a statement that was obviously not very true. “So they’re going to be okay, right?”

The doctor shook his head, standing between the patients.

“I couldn’t say for sure, but I would say it’s very possible… if you keep giving them water regularly. They must not get dehydrated, that’s the biggest danger they face now. Hopefully, they’ll be up and about in a few days.”

“What about the cloud of green smoke?” Shurta inquired in a hushed voice.

The doctor pondered.

“Maybe it was a hallucination. I don’t know,” he added, seeing that several of the patients were coming out of their torpor to protest. “I’m sorry, there’s nothing more I can do for you. I’ll leave you to your doctor. Let them continue chewing the leaves I gave you. And call me if things get worse.”

Sedrios the Elder stood up and gave him a cordial greeting.

“Thank you, doctor. If there is anything we can do for you, all you have to do is ask.”

Several Xalyas echoed his thanks, and the doctor smiled forcibly; his eyes were shining. Dashvara didn’t know if it was because of the emotion or the smell. In any case, he was anxious to get out of there.

“Just stay alive,” he replied simply.

He nodded eloquently to Tsu and left the barracks. No sooner had he left than a movement by the captain caught Dashvara’s attention. Zorvun’s skin was greenish and his eyes were dry but bright with fever. He had just pushed the water bowl aside and grabbed his hand, as if to ask him not to move away. Dashvara stayed by his side, struggling with concern.

“And you, my boy, why didn’t you thank him?” murmured Zorvun.

Dashvara raised an eyebrow, understanding that he was talking about the doctor. He knew from experience that when one was ill, the importance one gave to things was quite random. Of course, it was only a step from there to delusion. He sighed and was about to reply that there was no need to shower people with thanks, but he thought better of it.

“Well, Captain. I think it’s because the first official doctor I knew didn’t leave me a very good impression,” he mused. He smiled as he remembered how, in Dazbon, he had expelled Dr. Exipadas from that ternian’s house to prevent him from bleeding him.

The captain smiled. He knew the story. Everyone knew the story.

“Keep drinking,” Dashvara advised him, bringing the bowl closer.

Very slowly, the captain opened his mouth.

“Drink,” Dashvara insisted. He sighed with relief when he saw him drink it up.

“My boy,” Zorvun croaked, as he lay back down. “I wanted to tell you two things. Two important things.”

Dashvara scanned him, uneasy.

“I don’t like your tone, Captain. You don’t intend to tell me your last wishes, do you?”

Captain Zorvun grunted and ignored him.

“The first is a promise.”

“That’s what I was afraid of.”

“Shut up and listen.” His voice was so weak that Dashvara had to bow further. He felt his heart grow cold. “Listen,” Zorvun repeated. “I want you to promise me that if I die, you will accept to be the new captain.”

Dashvara repressed the urge to look up at the ceiling. Captain? he thought. What the hell, Zorvun: you’re not going to die and you know it. And you also know that I don’t have enough charisma to be a captain. Half of my companions should be before me. I’m the youngest after the Triplets and it doesn’t matter now if I’m the heir of Lord Vifkan. But whatever, keep raving if you feel like it.

The captain insisted:

“Will you promise me?”

Dashvara shrugged.

“If my promise is so important to you, I promise. But I warn you that I too have drunk of this soup. If you die, I will die like you. Probably.”

Zorvun looked him in the eye, and for a moment, Dashvara felt that he was probing him as if he were gutting a rabbit. Then he gently shook his head and said:

“I also wanted to tell you, Dash, that I am proud of you.”

Dashvara gasped. He had not expected this.

“Proud of me? And why should you be, Captain?”

Zorvun smiled and replied:

“Because you’re a good guy and because I know you’re going to make it out of Compassion with all the Xalyas alive.”

He closed his eyes, and Dashvara looked at him, horrified, thinking he had died suddenly, just like that, cruelly abandoning him. Then he saw that his chest continued to rise with his breathing, and he calmed down.

Your trust honors me, Zorvun, he thought, as he rose heavily to his feet. But the shaard Maloven once told me that I was going to save the Xalya lands from a terrible storm, and obviously, his foresight left much to be desired. He staggered toward the exit and passed Boron and Maltagwa on their way back from Rayorah. He simply gave them a shaky smile before exiting. Was he already starting to feel the effects of the contaminated soup? He collapsed into the chair in the hallway, and after a few moments of not knowing whether what he was feeling was discomfort or just nervousness, he thought with complete certainty, I will do everything I can to get out of here alive with my brothers, Zorvun. But you will come with us.

A dark hand appeared before his eyes with moon-shaped leaves in its palm. Dashvara looked up and met Tsu’s sympathetic gaze.

“Chew.”

“I’m not sick, Tsu.”

“It’s good for the intestinal flora anyway,” the drow assured.

Dashvara did as he asked. The taste was particularly unpleasant and he winced but continued to chew.

“Don’t swallow it,” Tsu advised. “It’s a dorcho leaf. The doctor was very generous in leaving us all the ones he brought. This plant is expensive. It comes from the south, from the mountains.”

“From the mountains of Duhaden? The place your ancestors come from?”

The drow nodded, and Dashvara looked at him. Tsu was exhausted, but he was still healthy and on his feet. Obviously, he was even more indestructible than Captain Zorvun.

“You don’t chew dorcho leaves, Tsu?” he asked.

A white smile appeared on his friend’s face.

“I am a drow. I’m more resistant to these kinds of infections. Besides,” he added, more seriously, “I’m not so sure now that it’s from the food. It’s strange that only Zorvun’s patrol felt the effects. This green cloud… could be more than a hallucination.”

Dashvara frowned and stopped chewing.

“You think a creature we don’t know…?”

“It could be.”

“Or maybe the ones from Sympathy,” grumbled Dashvara.

“It could also be.”

Dashvara raised an eyebrow in surprise.

“Really?”

“Well. Technically yes. Toxic smoke magaras exist. But I don’t see why the Sympathetics would do that. They may be bullies, and they’ve done quite a bit of bad stuff to us before, but it’s not in their best interest to be without neighbors to protect their flanks.”

“It is enough if one of these fools is capable of doing it,” Dashvara sighed.

Tsu was right. The smoke cloud was too strange a coincidence to believe. And if eight Xalyas said it wasn’t a hallucination, then it wasn’t. Whatever Rayorah’s doctor thought, the soup from the night before was most likely in perfect condition. If he put aside the tension that was eating away at him inside, he himself felt great. He breathed in and out calmly for a long minute, and Tsu was about to go back inside when a sound of a bell from the tower stopped him. Four or more blasts indicated an attack on the barracks. Three blows indicated an attack to the south, and two indicated an attack to the north. A single knock meant a visit. Intrigued, Dashvara turned to the meadows and stroked his beard as a mixture of curiosity and annoyance washed over him.

Three horsemen dressed in black cloaks were riding towards Compassion.

4 A rhyme

This time, Dashvara didn’t think twice before entering the barrack to make sure everyone had heard the alarm.

“Wait, wait,” Lumon said as everyone, including the sick ones that were awake, stirred. “You said three horsemen in black cloaks? Are they envoys from the Council?”

Dashvara shrugged.

“I think it won’t be long before we find out.”

For a few seconds, they stood in suspense, and several of them turned to the captain’s lying body. He had fallen into a deep sleep. For once, he looked a little less moribund…

Nobody woke him up. Sashava stood up with his cane and said:

“Take care of your outfit, and let’s go welcome them. Pik, Arvara, by all means, put on your boots, demons!”

Seven of them came out: Maltagwa, Kaldaka, and Tsu stayed with the sick. The riders were already on their way, and Dashvara could see them in more detail. They were dressed in impeccable clothes; one was red-haired, the second was blond, the other had elf ears. They wore bronze masks over their faces, in the manner of high officials, and behind them, rode a riderless horse. Our horse, perhaps? Dashvara chanced, amazed. It had been more than a year since he had seen anyone but the inspector, the Doomed of Dignity and Sympathy, and the people of Rayorah. To Dashvara, the federal forces in Titiaka Canton had been a mere threat all this time, remaining hidden like a snake. It was invigorating to have, for once, the real enemy in front of you.

“They’re officials from Titiaka!” Pik gasped. He was more agitated than a flea. His brother Kaldaka didn’t call him the Nervous One for nothing.

“Calm down, Pik,” Arvara the Giant whispered to him. “Maybe they’re just leaving the horse with us.”

Three high officials coming all the way from Titiaka to leave us a horse? Dashvara continued to chew the dorcho leaf, skeptical.

A minute later, the three horsemen stopped a few steps from the platform, inscrutable under their bronze masks. It was as if the Federation itself, with all its power, had stopped to contemplate the Doomed of the Border that day. It was not a very comforting sight. Dashvara exchanged a quizzical look with Makarva and turned back to the federates when the blond one in the middle spoke in a clear voice.

“The Federation salutes you, Doomed of Compassion.”

“The Doomed of Compassion salute the Federation,” Sashava replied with a growl that expressed his deep love for the Federation.

The blond man ceremoniously bowed his head, welcoming the greeting with great solemnity. A few seconds of awkward silence passed before he resumed:

“We come here on behalf of a member of the Council to inform you that a new platoon of Doomed will come to Compassion in a few days.”

Several Xalyas, including Dashvara, literally jumped. Protests began to rain down on the visitors.

“There are already twenty-three of us!” Sashava protested amidst the commotion. “There is no room here for more people. What do you take us for?”

“Enough!” the blond man shouted. “There will be room because you people are going to leave the premises.”

A silence of amazement fell among the Xalyas. Is this a joke? Dashvara breathed mentally. Sashava choked.

“What? What do you mean, we’re going to leave the premises? If you’re going to send us to another tower, I’m warning you that we’re not going to move from here,” he burst out. “We are Xalyas, and Xalyas’ patience is limited when it comes to putting up with your nonsense. You’re not going to bother us any more, you damned bastards…”

Sedrios the Old elbowed Sashava and hissed through his teeth:

“Be careful what you say.”

Dashvara was grateful to Sedrios for his caution: one should not insult a high official of Titiaka if one wanted to avoid problems. Lumon intervened calmly:

“Where do you intend to take us then, and to what end?”

The blond man made a slight movement to the left, towards the elf, but he immediately turned back towards them.

“I hear that you are experienced warriors. Tell me, are you really all Xalya in this tower?”

The Xalyas just nodded in silence. The blond shook his head and suddenly put his foot down.

“Everybody get out and line up. I have to carry out a review. Where is the tower leader?”

Dashvara felt himself turn pale. Sedrios objected calmly:

“We have eight patients who cannot move. The captain included.”

The three officials were already climbing onto the platform, but they stopped when they heard him.

“Eight patients? Out of twenty-three?” The blond man paused for a moment. “Show them to me.”

Dashvara let out a low, ironic laugh as the senior officials made their way to the door of the barrack. He whispered to Makarva:

“What do you bet they don’t last ten seconds inside?”

Makarva looked pensive.

“I bet a hundred thousand hairs they last more,” he said boldly.

“Yours or the Baldy’s?” laughed Dashvara.

Makarva’s eyes twinkled, and he whispered back:

“What do you bet the seventh is close?”

Dashvara didn’t need him to tell him which seventh he was talking about: if they were really going to get out of the tower, that meant there would be new opportunities to escape the clutches of the federates. But he still couldn’t believe they were going to get them out. Maybe they were just pretending to send them to another tower. If they were, Dashvara hoped it would be to Courtesy. It was the southernmost tower near the city of Pearl, and it was said that some of the Doomed made it through the Black Rocks to the Duhaden Mountains.

Putting his thoughts aside, he began to count the seconds.

“Seven,” Makarva whispered. “Eight. Nine.”

A mocking smile played on his lips, and Dashvara sighed.

“Okay. I lost.”

“You’re the one who started betting,” smiled Makarva. “So? That hair?”

“Just try to touch it! Also, you know, the ten seconds thing was just a figure of speech. You always take bets literally, Mak. You’ll end up cutting the Baldy’s hair one of these days.”

Makarva huffed, amused. They had stayed outside with Boron; the others were all inside.

“Speaking of the devil,” Makarva said suddenly, “here comes Zamoy. I guess he couldn’t resist the curiosity.”

Dashvara saw the Baldy land on the ground at the bottom of the ladder and run away from the tower. Up there, Miflin was leaning on one of the edges, and Dashvara bet he was composing some ode… He mentally growled. Demons, I’m hopeless, why do I always end up making bets?

Zamoy reached the podium just as one of the masked federates emerged from the barrack. It was the redhead.

“What’s going on? What’s going on?” Zamoy asked. He froze when he saw the official and added in a whisper: “Eh, Dash? Who is it?”

Dashvara spat the dorcho leaf into the mud and replied:

“They’re going to kick us out of Compassion.”

Unexpectedly, the redhead let out a small squeaky laugh.

“Yes. We’re going to expel you, yes.”

Dashvara frowned darkly as Zamoy looked at them all, gaping.

“It would be nice to know where you’re trying to take us,” Makarva remarked.

“I confirm,” Dashvara seconded, trying to keep his composure. “It would be nice to know.”

The redhead laughed. His laughter was that of a madman.

“Demons,” a female voice called out from inside. “Wait a minute, will you? First, let’s talk to the captain.” A black-gloved hand came out and pulled the redhead inside. Dashvara watched the movement, puzzled… and then he thought he understood. The redhead and his laughter reminded him so much of Axef, the mad mage! And that female voice… didn’t it sound a bit like Azune’s? And the blond could be Rowyn. Yes, yes, it could be. Dashvara let out a huge laugh.

“What’s wrong with you?” Makarva said.

Dashvara shook his head without ceasing to laugh lowly like a madman.

“I’m completely crazy, Mak. That’s what’s happening to me. I’m starting to see ghosts.”

“Ow…” Makarva exchanged a thoughtful look with Boron. “I see. Let’s go in and see what they’re saying,” he suggested.

Dashvara shook his head.

“Come in, you. I think I need some peace and quiet. I’ll keep Miflin company. You tell me later what the hell those federates are saying.”

Makarva raised an eyebrow, genuinely surprised. It was true that normally whenever something happened, Dashvara loved being there. However, now Dashvara felt as if he had seen an illusion and believed it for a moment. Such a feeling, when you are used to having a cold and clear mind, was downright disturbing.

Dashvara walked down the slope to the tower, and after looking back and seeing that everyone had entered the barracks, he began to climb the ladder. We’ll definitely have to warn the men in the next platoon to be careful when they come up here, he thought. The wood used was good, but obviously not strong enough for the swamps of Ariltuan. Some of the bars had even begun to break because of how rotten the wood was.

He found Miflin upstairs, arranging seeds on the edge of the tower for the birds to eat. He filled him in on what he knew, and seeing that Miflin took the news with relative indifference, he asked:

“So? That red bird, did it finally come?”

Miflin had been trying to domesticate a large scarlet-feathered bird for several weeks.

“No. Scarlet comes when it feels like it,” the Poet replied. “But the best time to see it is in the evening. Because the sky, as it turns purple, becomes a mirror of its beauty.”

“Hmm. That is, if the sky is not covered with clouds,” Dashvara objected.

Miflin smiled.

“Right.” He sat down, looking north. Perhaps he was seeing the steppe through his poet’s eyes, Dashvara thought as he approached the railing. A breeze was blowing, chasing away the mist and cooling the hot, humid air. That day, whole miles of the edge could be seen with clarity; the tower of Sympathy and even the tower of Humility could be seen. “Dash?” Miflin said suddenly.

“Mm?”

The Poet had started to carve something on the railing with his dagger. There was little space left for him to write his fantasies. His dreamy eyes glowed softly like those of a man absorbed in wise thoughts. Sometimes his eyes seem older than Sedrios’, Dashvara observed. And yet he is only twenty. What kind of person Miflin would have been if the dungeon of Xalya had not been attacked? What kind of people all of them would have been? These questions—he knew it—held more venom than a red snake. Still, he couldn’t help but ask them from time to time.

“If we move to another tower,” Miflin said at last, “Maltagwa will have to leave his garden.”

Dashvara shrugged.

“He’ll make another one.”

Miflin nodded and stopped writing on the wood to look out over the swamps, where endless trees and rushes emerged here and there on wooded hills.

“I guess it won’t change us much,” the Poet concluded.

“I guess so. But on the bright side, you’ll have a new tower to carve in,” Dashvara smiled.

Miflin smiled too, resuming his work.

“That is, if no poet has passed through there before me.”

Dashvara’s smile widened as his gaze turned to the south. All was quiet. The Tower of Dignity stood, much more dignified than its inhabitants. And the Tower of Sacrifice, one of the few that was built of stone, could be seen after a curve in the edge, poking its head between the treetops. Who knows where they were going to be sent now… To Patience? It was said that there they had suffered many losses in the last year. Perhaps they needed reinforcements that were a little more durable than average.

Dashvara sighed and looked down at the railing. There, between his hands, was written in the Common Tongue: «When the compass does not work, one can always go up or down. It doesn’t matter if there is no destination: the Eternal Bird always flaps its wings». Dashvara smiled. Miflin must have added that a little while ago because he didn’t remember reading it before.

“Hey, are you taking my role as a philosopher, cousin?” he said, indicating the railing.

The Poet frowned, remembered what he had written there without even glancing at it, and put on an amused face.

“You could have written it down before me, but you didn’t.”

“Well, it’s as if I did. You probably copied one of my sentences. I’m sure I’ve seen it before.”

“Impossible, I don’t copy!” Miflin protested cheerfully.

“Really? Ah, that’s right,” Dashvara smiled. “You don’t copy, you are inspired, right? But then again, we all do. We inherit traditions and learn from our sages. We imitate each other as the colt imitates the horse.”

“There’s a big difference between imitation and inspiration,” Miflin said. He blew on the railing to clear away the sawdust and explained, “Inspiration is done with the head. Imitation… not necessarily.”

Dashvara grinned, amused.

“You’d have to ask Chubby to give us the exact definition.” He caressed the southern railing with his hand and added: “How many wars have been declared for lack of a dictionary?”

“For lack of common sense, rather, I guess,” Miflin smiled, as he continued to write.

“Today, you are definitely more philosophical than I am,” Dashvara agreed.

“And you’re more of a poet than I am,” replied Miflin. He pointed to his unfinished sentence with an exasperated gesture. “I can’t find the rhyme. I say here,” he cleared his throat, “‘A sweet melody wakes me in the morning. It’s Scarlet saying: you haven’t sung yet.’ Terrible, isn’t it? And besides the ‘yet’ should rhyme properly with ‘morning’. It’s awful. I’m not inspired at all today.”

His annoyance was obvious. Dashvara commented with a laugh:

“And yet, today the sun should light up your ideas, cousin.”

Suddenly, a voice was heard below. Dashvara looked up. It was Zamoy.

“Get down, Dash, get down!” he shouted. He was overexcited.

“Was he stung by a saravy or what?” Miflin asked, approaching the western railing.

Saravies were insects whose bites caused impressive nerve spasms. Dashvara watched Zamoy for a few moments and concluded:

“It looks like it. He makes me nervous even from here.” He paused for a moment. “I’d better get down there, or your brother’s gonna have a stroke. Good luck with your rhyme.”

He began to descend, and despite Zamoy’s urgent cries, he progressed carefully. Finally, he landed in the mud and asked:

“Are these your first attempts at being a bard, Zamoy? Let me guess, you were taught by a milfid, right?”

The triplet grunted and grabbed him by the sleeve to drag him toward the shack.

“Come on. You’re not going to believe this. These three people, these officials… they know you!” He let out a high-pitched guttural sound. “They’re looking for you, Dash. And I believe they have good intentions. They’re the ones you told us about. The ones you…” he fell silent and turned pale.

Dashvara had no trouble completing his sentence and did so in a dying voice:

“The ones I betrayed.”

Zamoy sighed loudly as he saw him stop.

“Come on, Dash. I assure you they didn’t come to Compassion to get back at you. That would be too ridiculous. I think they have a plan to get us out of here, but they won’t tell us. Daaash,” he repeated, exasperated, this time pulling him by his white belt. “Will you get moving now?”

Dashvara had the impression that a band of specters had just appeared around him and was pulling him cruelly apart. This feeling, this horrible feeling of guilt that had oppressed him for days, three years ago, had just seized him again like a thirsty leech, like a deadly wave, like a…

“Damn it, Dash!”

“No, Zamoy,” Dashvara stammered. “I’m not ready. They must hate me. Can you believe it, Zamoy?” He riveted a desperate look into his cousin’s eyes. “That day, I told the slavers everything. I told them their names… Eternal Bird, I thought they were dead. I really thought they were.”

“Would you rather they were dead?” Zamoy growled, giving up on dragging him along. “Dashvara of Xalya,” he said. He pouted and commented, “You’re losing your nerve.”

Dashvara huffed and tried to contain his tremors.

“You would lose it, too, if you found yourself face to face with three people you had betrayed and thought you had sentenced to death. Imagine twenty milfids, can you imagine them, Zamoy? Well, now imagine that they are inside you. Imagine them,” Dashvara insisted, words tumbling out of his mouth.

Zamoy looked at him, his eyes wide.

“Now that’s disgusting!” he exclaimed. “Dash, stop rambling. I already told you that this is Miflin’s job. And now just…”

Dashvara thought he was going to die when he saw the three masked men coming out of the shack. Zamoy paused.

“Come on,” he said, giving him a friendly pat on the back.

Dashvara shook his head, took a step forward, and sighed.

“I thought I was over it.”

“Stop mumbling and move on,” Zamoy advised him.

Dashvara sighed again, this time to finish calming his nerves. He was the first to say that losing one’s temper was never helpful, wasn’t he? All he needed to do was to take his own advice.

He went to the platform with the terrible conviction that, if one of the three claimed revenge, he would not defend himself. After all, he was not like those Shalussis, Akinoas, or Essimeans. He knew how to recognize his mistakes, and he knew when he deserved to be punished.

“For the White Dragon’s sake,” one of them whispered.

One by one, they removed their masks. First, it was Rowyn. Then Axef. Then Azune. The Duke looked at him, a deep crease on his forehead, the mage did so with a small mocking smile, and Azune, Azune the Poisoned, pierced him with her rock-hard eyes. They remained silent like that for many seconds. Dashvara could think of nothing to say. A creak of wood made him turn his head, and he met Sashava’s vigilant eyes.

“This time, my boy,” the latter said in Oy’vat, “you will be able to fix your mistake.”

Inwardly, Dashvara had always suspected that his weakness in the face of torture had always inspired more contempt than compassion in Sashava. He was not bad people, but he was as dignified and honorable as Lord Vifkan, and his conscience would not allow him to forgive the Xalyas’ missteps. And even less those of a steppe lord’s son.

Dashvara nodded without hesitation and cleared his throat.

“Axef… Azune… Duke.” He struck his own heart with his fist and bowed decisively. “My life belongs to you.”

After a silence, he looked up and saw Rowyn approaching with apparent shyness. The kampraw reached out his arm, and when he put his hand on his shoulder, Dashvara noticed that he was trembling slightly. His blue eyes glowed with emotion.

“I missed you, steppeman.”

His voice was warm, kind, and peaceful as it had been in the past. Dashvara smiled, his eyes moist.

“You’re going to make me cry, Republican.”

Rowyn smiled back, and Dashvara realized that many of his fellow Xalyas were looking at them with small smiles. He flushed.

“Uh… Well. Tell me, what in the world are you doing with masks of high officials from Titiaka?”

Azune and Rowyn exchanged a teasing look. The former crossed her arms and replied in a much more cordial voice than Dashvara had expected:

“Well, we’ve actually been Titiaka officials for a year, though not as important as you seem to think. We are secretaries of the federal police. And we’ve come to visit you.” She gave him an inquisitive look before adding, “You’re going to get out of here, steppeman, you and your people.”

Dashvara looked at the three Dazbonians, his eyebrows raised. He smiled and suddenly laughed. He patted Rowyn on the shoulder.

“To be honest with you, Diumcili is the last place I would have expected to find you. I thought you didn’t precisely hold slavers in your heart.” He perceived their pouts and mused that precisely the choice to settle in the Federation must not be foreign to their activities as Brothers of the Pearl. He shrugged and said cheerfully, “I’m awfully glad to see you again. And bless you if you can get us out of here. How did you get a Diumcilian to give you this job?”

“We’ll get you all out,” the Duke assured without answering the question. “But…” he put his bronze mask back on as he spoke, “for now, I just need you to follow the instructions you’ll be given without doing anything on your own. Prepare yourself for a week from now. We will take you to Rayorah. I can’t tell you any more than that. Officially, we’re only here to make sure you’re all alive and relatively well…” he cleared his throat. “Probably, a Rayorah guard or an inspector will notify you of the transfer as well.”

A wave of frustration swept over Dashvara, and he tried to quell it, to no avail. He pursued the three Brothers of the Pearl as they mounted their horses.

“Wait,” he protested. “It’s not like a bunch of trolls are chasing you! Where are you taking us? To Titiaka?”

He perceived Rowyn’s embarrassed sigh and heard Azune’s reserved reply:

“Trust us and everything will be fine.”

When he saw them pulling on their reins, Dashvara could not contain himself: he snorted and interposed himself in their path.

“Just a minute, republicans! What about Fayrah? What about Lessi and Aligra and the other Xalyas? Aren’t you even going to tell me if you’ve heard from them?”

“We’ve told the others. All are well,” Rowyn hastened to reply. “So are Rokuish and Zaadma, for that matter. They are all in Titiaka. I assure you, you’re in for a pleasant surprise when… we get you where we need to get you.” He cleared his throat and justified himself, “You see, Dash, you don’t tell a slave where he’s going. The less you know, the less you have to hide.”

His answer was like a stab in the heart. But he deserved it. After all, how could Rowyn trust him when he had betrayed them, huh? He took a deep breath.

“It’s okay. Whatever your plan is, I’ll follow your instructions.”

Rowyn nodded his head in approval.

“Thank you. Don’t worry, there’s no reason why everything can’t go well as long as you play our game and don’t lose your cool. In less than two weeks, we’ll see each other again, I promise.”

His tone sounded like he was trying to console an abandoned child. Rowyn waved at him, and Dashvara watched him pace the horse, his soul darker than the night. To his left, a joking voice rang out:

“Trust a mad mage and you will get your freedom.”

He turned his gaze towards the redhead. Axef had raised his mask to give him one of his sly smiles. Really, it looked like he was laughing at him. Dashvara huffed in exasperation and simply replied:

“There’s a piece of your orange tunic sticking out from under the uniform, mage.” And seeing that the three were walking away, he shouted to them, “Thank you for not forgetting us!”

They truly deserved his gratitude: who would go to the trouble of saving twenty-three virtually unknown Xalyas except for heroes? Dashvara watched the three horsemen ride away to the west, and a pout of disappointment gradually distorted his face.

Wonderful. Three years without news from the outside world, and suddenly, the heroes arrive, emerging from the void like specters, and they promise to get us out of the Border as if by magic. Apparently, they don’t feel it necessary to explain the details to the friendly steppeman who betrayed them. They didn’t even tell me where they are planning to send my people now…

At the Border, Dashvara had learned to be patient. To carve figures. Not to bear with three republicans putting on airs of mystery.

He growled; hissed between his teeth; then exhaled loudly.

Well, calm down, Dash. Look at the bright side: they left us a horse.

Strictly speaking, they had left Compassion with much more than that. As Dashvara grabbed the reins of the brown horse, he could clearly feel a deep hope of freedom blossom in the hearts of all the Xalyas. Not that after three years they had resigned themselves to being slaves, never, but… Well. It wasn’t always easy to constantly desire something that the more you wished for it the farther it seemed to be. Dashvara smiled, his eyes fixed on the west. Makarva was right: the seventh escape had arrived. And this time, hopefully, they wouldn’t need an eighth.

5 The Doomed

When the riders disappeared from their sight, Dashvara turned to the barracks. Most of the Xalyas had returned to tend to the sick, but Makarva and Zamoy were sitting on the platform talking animatedly. Dashvara could tell by their expressions that they were ranting about the possible doings of the Pearl Brotherhood. As long as they were a little more effective than they had been in Dazbon…

A questioning snort brought him out of his thoughts, and he remembered that he was holding the horse by the bridle. He patted the horse on the neck and smiled when he saw that the animal responded in a friendly manner. He had long since come to the conclusion at the Border that horses were much friendlier than sajits. At least among the Doomed.

“Do you know what I’m going to call you?” he whispered to it, stroking its forehead. “I’ll call you Latish. Because you took a year to arrive and now we’re going to part ways without almost knowing each other. It’s a shame.”

The horse snorted again. Its black eyes contemplated him with a discreet curiosity.

“Come on, Latish.”

He pulled on the reins and led him to the shed. After a moment’s hesitation, he went to get the saddle. He was a steppeman, and it had been more than a year since he had ridden. Wasn’t that unthinkable! He smiled.

“This must be remedied, Latish, don’t you think?”

He had trouble finding the saddle: it was stuck under the wood store. Finally, he pulled it out and removed a rope from the horse that he was carrying with two bags attached to the ends. He paused for a moment. Two bags? he repeated to himself. He looked at it. Was it… food, maybe? With curiosity, he opened one that seemed almost empty and stood in suspense. There, inside, was… Yes. The proud wooden figurine that old Bashak had given him. He took it in the palm of his hand, smiling, remembering the wrinkled and serene face of the wise Shalussi. Ah, damn good memories, he thought cheerfully. Then he wrinkled his forehead. There, on the underside, was a kind of plug that wasn’t there before. He pulled on it, more and more intrigued, he shook the sculpture, and a rolled-up leaf came off.

“Eternal Bird,” he whispered.

With trembling hands, he unfolded the parchment, convinced that, if there was anything written, bad luck must have erased it… But no. There were two clear sentences that said in Oy’vat: Brother, if you are still alive, let me repeat something you once told me: no matter how much the wind blows, don’t give up the fight.

Dashvara blinked. The writing was clear, elegant. It was Fayrah’s handwriting, no mistake about that. He would have recognized it among a thousand. So that meant that his sister was really okay…

Mmph. Did you think the Duke would lie to you?

She had used otter flower ink to write. Like the one Maloven used in the dungeon. He rolled up the message again, and shrugging, gave it to the horse, which ate it. Immediately, Latish’s eyes widened in surprise as he realized that it did not taste like grass. Dashvara chuckled.

“Words feed the mind, Latish.”

He took the other bag. This one was chunkier, but it weighed curiously less.

‘Don’t panic,’ an insecure voice suddenly warned him.

Dashvara exhaled sharply and opened the bag. Inside, there was nothing but darkness. He couldn’t believe it…

“Tahisran?”

The shadow stuck its head out.

‘In person,’ he confirmed cheerfully. ‘You don’t know how many things has happened to me. I probably would have come sooner if I hadn’t been locked up in a box for twenty thousand years.’

Dashvara stared at him, stunned. Wait a second… Did Rowyn bring the shadow to me? Had he done it on purpose or was it Fayrah who had introduced it there without him noticing? It didn’t matter: the case was that the shadow was there, in front of him, with an obvious apologetic pout on its tenebrous face.

“I’m not panicking,” he assured with a huff. Latish imitated him. “Tell me, Tahisran, does Rowyn know that you…? I mean, did he send you? I mean… what’s all this about a crate?”

‘I’ll explain,’ the shadow sighed as he pulled out the bag. ‘When you boarded for Titiaka, I didn’t get there in time to catch the boat, so I decided to take the next one.’ He paused for a moment and continued, ‘I’ll tell you how it happened. You see, I took the next boat after advising Fayrah, Lessi, and Aligra not to part with that Shalussi… that Rokuish. Because he’s a friend of yours, right?’

Dashvara nodded, expectantly.

‘Well,’ the shadow cleared its throat mentally. ‘So here’s the thing, the ship I was on was a commercial ship. Some pirates boarded it, stole the ship and changed course, and headed for an island. I… I was very upset. And I showed up in front of the captain of the ship to tell him my story and ask him to at least let me stay on the coast of Titiaka. I almost scared him to death.’

Dashvara suppressed the urge to cover his mouth.

“Tahisran, I have already told you that sajits are not used to seeing shadows.”

‘I am a sajit,’ Tahisran replied patiently. ‘And I am well aware of the effect I have on people. You don’t need to remind me of that.’ He sat down on a log, glanced puzzledly at the horse and donkey, and continued, ‘It turns out that on this island they are not afraid of shadows. Quite the opposite, actually. Those pirates thought I was a saint, a kind of ancestral spirit. I managed to escape once and went all over the island looking for a ship to steal. I thought that, if pirates were stealing boats, I could steal one from them too, right? But… well, I don’t know how to sail. So, finally, I tried to sneak into a ship that was already occupied. They discovered me in the middle of the sea and locked me in a metal box about thirty inches wide. I spent all that time hanging from a mast answering the pirates’ ridiculous questions: is there going to be a storm, does this woman really love me, will I really go to hell when I die… At first, I didn’t answer, but then I got so bored that I even looked forward to the next stupidity that those sailors would come up with. If you had seen how excited they got when I answered…’

He clasped his hands together in his lap, sighing.

‘Finally, not long ago, they landed me in Titiaka, and for some reason, a certain Atasiag freed me and led me to Fayrah. You see. All this journey for nothing.’

Dashvara shook his head in amazement.

“So you were looking for me.”

The shadow smiled.

‘Yes. You asked me not to abandon you, and I’m not abandoning you. How are you? You are thinner than before. You should eat more. You don’t want to become a shadow like me, do you?’

Dashvara breathed in and out several times before letting go:

“Tell me, Tahisran, since you’re here, you’re going to tell me everything you know, aren’t you? You’re not a pain like the republicans, are you?”

Tahisran tilted his head to one side.

‘I remind you that I am from the Fire Republic. I too was born a republican.’

Dashvara glared at him.

‘All right,’ the shadow sighed. ‘I’ll tell you everything I know. But it’s not much.’

Dashvara gave him a grateful smile and stood up energetically.

“So get back in your bag. Latish, you and I are going out for a walk.”

‘Great, I love walks!’ the shadow enthused.

A few minutes later, Dashvara came out of the shed riding Latish. Makarva and Zamoy looked up from the podium.

“Dash!” Makarva exclaimed. “Where are you going?”

“To warn those of Dignity that they have a breach in their palisade,” Dashvara replied. He had no intention of hiding the shadow’s presence from his brothers, but he had not yet asked Tahisran’s permission. He pointed to Latish as he completed, “And show our new companion around. Can you do me a favor? Can you bring me the swords, just in case?”

“I’d be surprised if Dignity’s people hadn’t seen the damage yet,” Makarva commented, standing up. “I’ll bring you the swords right away.”

He ran into the barracks, and Zamoy said:

“You see, cousin? It wasn’t so bad, right? These people may be foreigners but they look quite friendly. And Makarva and I have come to the conclusion that, even if they don’t manage to free us, maybe they will lead us to a nicer place from which we can escape more easily. The Eternal Bird is favorable to us, Dash.”

Dashvara huffed, amused.

“The Eternal Bird is favorable to whoever wishes it, cousin. But the Eternal Bird has nothing to do with luck.”

Makarva arrived with the swords, and Dashvara secured them with the strap.

“You make me envious with the horse,” his friend confessed. “Be careful!”

“I usually am,” Dashvara replied, spurring Latish on. He drew away from Compassion, listening with undeniable pleasure to the thud of hooves against the earth.

After riding south for a while, he found himself smiling. If he just looked west, he could almost believe he was on the steppe. Almost. He put the horse into a walk while glancing toward the swampy jungle. Finally, he broke the silence:

“Tahisran? Can you hear me?”

‘I hear you, Dash. But, truth be told, I’d rather be out there. Can I?’

Dashvara opened one eye wider then shook his head.

“Are you asking for my permission? If you want to go out, go out, shadow. You’re free to do what you want.”

The shadow struggled a bit, pulled out a hand, and opened the bag. When it sat astride behind him, Dashvara laughed quietly.

‘What is it?’ Tahisran asked, intrigued.

“Nothing,” he assured, without stopping to smile. “It’s nothing.”

‘Well,’ the shadow whispered. ‘It’s been years since I’ve seen the swamps of Ariltuan.’

Dashvara arched an eyebrow in disbelief.

“Have you ever been in there?”

‘Me? Ha. No. I once travelled along them, but I’ve never been inside. I cherish my life.’

Dashvara smiled again.

‘I feel like you’re laughing at me,’ Tahisran sighed. ‘But I can’t understand why. Does it seem strange to you that a shadow would value its life?’

Dashvara shook his head, looking forward.

“Not at all,” he said earnestly. “In the end, even if you are a shadow, you are still a sajit. And you still have an Eternal Bird.”

‘Mm. By the way, I would like to know what exactly this Eternal Bird means to you,’ Tahisran said.

Dashvara shrugged.

“I’ll explain it to you as soon as you’ve explained to me what the demons the Brothers of the Pearl are up to. But first, tell me, where is Fayrah?”

‘In Titiaka,’ the shadow answered immediately.

So Rowyn had really taken her to Diumcili…

“Titiaka, huh?” Dashvara sighed. “Demons, it doesn’t matter where she is as long as she’s okay. And why did they let you stuff yourself in that bag if they don’t want me to know their intentions?”

‘Simply because I can’t tell you much,’ the shadow admitted. ‘And also because I insisted that they lead me to you,’ he added with a smile. ‘Frankly, I didn’t think they had a bad heart. Except maybe Azune. I heard her say that, if it was up to her, she would have left you at the Border for a few more years. But I think she was joking. I mean, I don’t think they’re plotting anything against you and your brothers. I even think that the main objective is to get you out of this… inhospitable place. Fayrah insisted a lot to get you out of here. And, myself, I tried my best, even if you can imagine that they didn’t listen to me much. Anyway, I admit that the first thing I did, when I arrived in Titiaka, was to walk around the whole town and finally enjoy my freedom.’

Dashvara waited for a few seconds, then shook his head in frustration.

“And you know nothing else?” He breathed in. “Who is this Atasiag who freed you from your crate?”

He perceived the hesitation of the shadow.

‘A… man.’

Dashvara rolled his eyes.

“Yeah. What else?”

‘Well… I don’t know. He seemed nice, but I barely spoke with him. I think he had something to do with this plan against the slaver too. I’m sorry I can’t help you more.’ Dashvara felt Tahisran’s hand patting him on the shoulder as he added more enthusiastically, ‘Now that we are together, we will be able to work things out, you will see.’

Dashvara smiled.

“I believe you. After all, you are a saint, aren’t you?”

Tahisran answered him with a simple snort, and Dashvara completed: A sympathetic saint, at that.

He pulled on the reins so that Latish would stop eating grass, and he put the horse back into a trot. Startled, the shadow clung to his white Doomed belt—silently, because whatever a shadow did, it did it silently.

“Tahisran?”

‘Yes?’

“What was it like to be trapped in that crate?”

There was a silence, and Dashvara feared that he had awakened bad memories. Then the shadow answered:

‘In some ways, better than in the catacombs. At least, I was surrounded by the living. Although, to be honest with you…’ He hesitated. ‘I must admit that sometimes the dead are more bearable than the living. At least the dead don’t kill each other.’

Dashvara winced and glanced toward the swamp and the palisade. They were not far from the boundary between Compassion and Dignity. He noticed that at the breach, several figures of the Doomed were working to repair the damage. Lazy, but not that lazy when it comes to survival, he smiled. Dashvara turned to the shadow and could see it cautiously sliding into the bag. He pulled on the reins.

“Tahisran,” he then repeated.

‘Yes, Dash?’

“May I ask why you are following me?”

He heard a small amused laugh.

‘Does it seem so odd to you that someone would want to follow you?’

Dashvara shook his head.

“A child follows you not to get lost. A wolf does so to eat you. And a friend follows you to help you. No,” he admitted. “It doesn’t seem so strange to me. But I wonder who you are, the friend, the child, or the wolf.”

There was silence.

‘Are you kidding?’

Dashvara grinned broadly, amused.

“Hardly.”

He had just seen one of the Doomed move away from him, and he spurred his mount to approach.

“Hi, Compassive!” threw the one from Dignity. Dashvara knew his name. He was the leader of Dignity, a certain Towder, tall, sturdy, and tough: he had been at the Border, changing turns for fifteen years. One of the few who lasted that long.

“Hi,” Dashvara replied, stopping Latish. “I was just on my way to your tower to warn you that a borwerg had passed through here last night. I suppose you must have seen the bodies. We haven’t, er… taken the time to remove them yet, but we will. Is everything okay at Dignity?”

Towder’s face was devastated by a huge scar that froze it in a constant grimace of disgust. However, appearances were not to be trusted: Dashvara knew that he was one of the most treatable among the Doomed of Dignity.

“Skrat,” Towder swore. “Well, not really. We’ve got half the platoon emptying their guts.”

Dashvara’s eyes widened in alarm.

“Really? Us too.”

“What?” Towder muttered. “You too?” Both exchanged a frown. If those in Dignity had suffered the same thing, that meant those in Sympathy were not guilty. Then, most likely, the problem had to come from the swamps. “Skrat,” Towder spat. “This is weird.”

“I agree. Tell me, Towder, have you ever heard of a creature that releases green toxins that make you sick?”

The Doomed man twisted his mouth even more. He sputtered as he spoke:

“No, not creatures. But there are plants in Ariltuan that could be used.”

“By the orcs?”

“Mm. It could be. Hey!” he said suddenly, calling out to his companions. “It seems that what happened to Skif’s patrol also happened to the Compassives!” He turned back to Dashvara. “I don’t think it’s lethal. But if it’s orcs… we better be on our guard.”

Dashvara agreed.

“We will be. By the way, apparently, we, the Xalyas, are going to have to leave Compassion in a week.”

Towder didn’t budge even a bit.

“They send you to Patience?”

Dashvara shrugged.

“No idea.”

Towder uncovered his teeth.

“Then I hope the platoon that is going to replace you will be as bearable as you guys.”

Dashvara returned his smile.

“I hope so for your sake.”

He raised a hand in greeting and pulled the reins to make his horse fly. The news was rather disturbing, he thought.

Are the orcs now planning to kill us by poisoning us? Bah… Can such a plan fit inside the head of a swamp orc? He shrugged. It could, why not? But it’s not their style…

He had barely made it halfway home when he heard a flurry of alarm bells.

For a second, Dashvara felt himself die. The sound came from Compassion. Then his heart began to beat like a war drum. He spurred the horse, and it bolted north.

This time, you better not be late, Latish…

6 The Tower of Sympathy

When he arrived at Compassion, ten Xalyas were crowding the destroyed palisade and the trench, scanning the swamp. Sashava limped down the slope, and Tsu stretched his neck from the gate, not daring to leave the sick. On the broken trunks lay the body of a swamp orc, with one of Lumon’s arrows stuck in its heart.

Dashvara let out a curse and hurried to the ground.

“How many?” he asked aloud.

“About twenty,” Lumon answered without taking his eyes off the corpse. “They came, tore down the palisade by scaring a borwerg, and left.”

“And they sure did a good job tearing it down,” Zamoy sighed, irritated. “I think our wood supply is going to go through the roof. Tell me, how are we going to repair all this damage?”

They had no more trunks left. But they weren’t going to leave a gap right in front of the barracks. Sashava was still several steps short of joining them when he began to rant:

“Cut the broken stakes, sharpen them, and plant them between the two outer trenches. Zamoy, Makarva, Boron: take down a piece of the platform. We’ll use it as a defensive wall. Alta,” he barked. “Get on the horse and ride to Rayorah. Tell the federates we need more logs.”

All of them became active, and Dashvara approached Sashava. A dangerous glint shone in his eyes, and Dashvara guessed that this was the typical situation where the Grumpy’s mood became almost as black as the bottom of a well.

“I spoke with Dignity’s people,” he informed him calmly. “Apparently, the same thing happened to one of their patrols as to the captain’s. This green cloud could be caused by plants. And, obviously, the orcs are…”

He paused when he heard Latish’s hoofbeats receding; Alta, who must not have slept much, was riding hard to the west. Dashvara looked at the bag hanging behind the saddle, and as he had feared, saw that it was still bulging. He closed his eyes briefly and sighed. He could only hope that Tahisran wouldn’t have the idea to talk to Alta… otherwise, he was in for quite a shock, and he could already imagine him falling off his horse.

“They are preparing an assault,” Sashava murmured, completing Dashvara’s sentence. “I knew it. That cloud of smoke had to be provoked. Damn orcs,” he growled. “I don’t know if that means they’re getting smarter or dumber. Hey, Dashvara,” he said suddenly, as Dashvara was already walking away to get an axe. “Go to Sympathy. Ask them if the same thing happened to them.”

Dashvara opened his mouth to protest: those from Sympathy were real nutcases. Approaching their tower was more or less like entering a camp of sanfurient wolves…

Sashava hissed.

“Dash?” he growled, “Go.”

Dashvara sighed but nodded, biting his lips.

“I’ll go put on the chain mail.”

Half an hour later, he was walking briskly north across the meadow. Normally, they never strayed from the barracks alone. But given the situation…

On the way, he was relieved to see that the northern palisade was still in good condition within the perimeter of Compassion. He would have liked to meet a patrol before he reached the Sympathy tower, but it was daylight, and in daylight, the only ones watching were those who stood guard in the watchtower and barracks. He jerked up when he heard a cry in the swamp, then realized it was a bird. He huffed, laughing at himself.

All you need is to die a week before you get out of this pit. What could be more typical: you get excited about a near future that is more attractive than your present, and you distract yourself to such an extent that the future ends up being darker than the night.

He approached the barracks without the tower watchman giving any warning. Obviously, the Sympathetics were not worried about visitors from the west of the palisade.

I’m walking into a nest of vipers. Thanks, Sashava…

Gathering courage, Dashvara continued forward, and finally, a man leaning against a wall of the shack saw him. Dashvara hurried to greet him.

“Compassion greets Sympathy,” he said in a firm voice.

The Doomed man carried a spear. He laid it back on the ground and bowed, squinting, as if the sunlight did not allow him to see his visitor well. He’s acting like an orc, Dashvara thought with a shudder.

“Sympathy,” the Doomed man replied in an apathetic voice, “greets Compassion. What do you want?” he added more sharply.

“I’m here to ask if any of you have suffered any illnesses lately.”

The Doomed man was chewing on something and did not answer immediately. Then he gave him a devilish smile.

“A disease, huh? Maybe. Are your comrades sick?”

“A few,” Dashvara replied. It wasn’t wise to specify how many: the Sympathetics were capable of taking advantage of the opportunity to try something crazy. They had known the Xalyas had a donkey for a long time, and it… bothered them.

The silence dragged on. Dashvara huffed, impatient.

“As a matter of fact, we suspect that the swamp orcs are using a new weapon to attack us, by making us fall ill… with toxic green clouds.”

The Sympathetic nodded slowly.

“I see. Yeah, we suspect that too.”

“Is that so…” Dashvara cleared his throat. It was clear that Sympathy had also suffered the consequences of this mysterious plant, and obviously, they had suffered quite a bit because, if there had only been one or two cases, this Doomed would not have been so reserved.

He tried to listen for sounds coming from the shack, but a more hostile look from the Sympathetic alerted him.

“Well,” he said. “So, let’s hope nobody decides to attack us now, huh?”

“Is that a threat?” the Doomed immediately snapped.

Dashvara rolled his eyes, increasingly alarmed. He would have liked to have run into a slightly more subtle Doomed, but was there even a Sympathetic who could carry on a normal conversation with a sajit?

“No way,” he assured. “The threat here is the orcs. The danger comes from there,” he added, pointing east. “Let’s not forget that, eh?” He greeted him. “Good day to you, friend.”

“’Day,” the Doomed man replied.

Dashvara was tempted to go backwards so as not to lose sight of him, but that would have been too obvious a way of showing that not only did he not trust him but that he feared him. But who doesn’t fear an unpredictable beast? He turned to walk away.

No sooner had he taken a step than the alarm sounded in the Sympathy Tower, sudden, frantic… appalling.

Dashvara turned abruptly to the palisade. The watchman on the watchtower shouted:

“ORCS! And a borwerg!”

The Doomed of Sympathy let out a roar of alarm and flung open the door of the shack. A foul odor wafted out and hit Dashvara like the breath of a sick dragon. It smelled like death. How many dead bodies were in there? Horror flashed across Dashvara’s face as the watchtower alarm continued to sound.

But what kind of alarm was that? Dashvara snarled, exasperated. Orcs were coming, all right, but how many?

What does it matter as long as you’re away from here when they arrive? he thought.

He was about to walk away when the Spear Doomed came out, his expression reflecting genuine despair.

“Compassive! Help me get them up.”

Dashvara stared at him for a few seconds.

“All of them?” he stammered, his throat tight.

“Not all are doing so bad,” the Sympathetic assured. The alarm seemed to have loosened him up a bit.

A small, depressed voice in Dashvara’s head translated his answer as “not all of them are dead”.

Oh, boy, this is taking quite a turn…

He shook his head but rushed inside the shack. What he saw there was far more terrifying than he had imagined. Men huddled in total prostration amidst several unmoving bodies… With his heart suddenly revolted and on fire, he went back out to return what little he still had in his stomach. He didn’t think he would ever see a more horrible scene than this.

The Sympathetic’s hand shook him.

“Compassive! By all the demons, if you don’t help me, maybe we’ll all die,” he growled.

Dashvara passed a hand over his mouth in a daze.

“Think about it, Doomed,” he breathed. “If they can’t stand up on their own, how will they fight?” He paused for a moment. “Where’s your horse?”

The Sympathetic spat eastward, eyes glued to the palisade.

“The horse is gone,” he answered. “We sent Grimi for the doctor. But he didn’t come back. If I catch him, I kill him.”

“I see,” Dashvara murmured. He tried to hide his tremors, but to no avail.

The shouts of the orcs and the footsteps of the borwerg could already be heard clearly. They were going to use the same technique they used at Compassion, Dashvara realized. But this was going to be different. He could feel it. At Compassion, they had run into ten armed and healthy Xalyas. If they saw that there were only three men left standing at Sympathy…

The tower watchman had decided to stay where he was. Maybe he wasn’t even able to move. In any case, they had no chance of getting out of there alive by fighting.

“Why don’t you run away?” Dashvara asked.

The Doomed man frowned.

“I’ll ask you again. I have friends here, Compassive. You run, if you dare.”

Dashvara raised an eyebrow. After all, the Sympathetics weren’t as unsympathetic as he thought. They could die among their own kind. Even among the most brutal of them, some had a shred of honor.

Dashvara took a deep breath and exhaled:

“Good luck, Doomed.”

He ran straight west, but then the Doomed of Sympathy blocked his path. He was indignant.

“I thought you were better than us!” he protested. “You’re going to abandon us? If Sympathy falls, Compassion will fall.”

Dashvara watched the tip of the spear a span from his chest, cursed the Sympathetic with all the fervor he could muster, and finally, a wave of cold anger overcame him.

Thank you so much, Sashava. You have sent me to my death.

He looked the Doomed man in the eye just as the borwerg was tearing down the fence. They both looked back and saw how the orcs were scaring the beast into destroying the trunks. A dozen of them advanced directly towards them. It was no longer time to run.

“Thank you, Sympathetic,” Dashvara grunted.

“You’re welcome, Compassive,” the other replied.

One had to admit it: the Doomed of Sympathy was not trembling. He was standing in front of the door with the spear. Dashvara saw him pull out an explosive ball and light it. His eyes were as round as plates, and he looked at the ground a few feet in front of the orcs: the Doomed had placed a good amount of explosive material there.

“Can you do it?” Dashvara gasped, drawing the swords.

“I can,” the Doomed man nodded.

As soon as the first orcs passed by, the Sympathetic threw his projectile. And it hit its target. The explosion was sudden and tore Dashvara’s eardrums. Five orcs were dead and two were injured…

Effective, Doomed. You have earned my esteem a bit.

Amidst the screams and smoke from the explosion, Dashvara rushed toward the three remaining orcs. He wrestled with one of them while his companion impaled another with his spear. While the swamp orcs carried more sophisticated weapons than the milfids, they were not as strong, though still as fast. Their weapons were, for the most part, stolen from the corpses of the Doomed. Once disarmed, orcs were no less deadly: their feet had huge claws, their mouths had sharp teeth, and a slimy, sleepy substance enveloped their hands, allowing them to climb anywhere… or to incapacitate their prey.

He got rid of the creature as quickly as he could, and together, he and the Sympathetic beat down the third orc and finished off the wounded. Immediately afterwards, Dashvara squinted to try to see through the smoke. The palisade was completely destroyed. The borwerg and the remaining orcs were running… towards the swamp.

Eventually, a sepulchral silence fell over Sympathy. Dashvara exchanged glances with Sympathy, turned his eyes to the palisade, and then lowered them to the bodies.

“Did you use all the explosives?”

Not answering, the Sympathetic only grinned and went directly to the barracks.

“Everything is in order!” he announced, his voice hoarse. “Sympathy is still resisting.”

Dashvara felt genuine compassion for this man who seemed so determined not to abandon his companions. At that very moment, the tower watchman landed on the ground and ran towards them. He was only a kid… he couldn’t have been more than eighteen. Dashvara gritted his teeth in indignation. Who the hell would send an eighteen-year-old to the Border?

Well, on second thought, Dash, the Triplets have been here since they were seventeen…

“Sympathetic,” Dashvara said to the older man, before the watchman joined them. “Don’t you think someone should go warn about what’s going on here?”

The Sympathetic shrugged.

“I guess I was a fool to trust Grimi. Elf!” he exclaimed, calling out to the watchman who came huffing and puffing. “Go to Rayorah and tell the federates to send a doctor and more reinforcements if they don’t want to lose a whole platoon of Doomed. Tell them to hurry up. Tell them we can’t hold on anymore.”

It couldn’t be more true. Unfortunately, it was already evening, and Dashvara bet that when the young elf arrived at Rayorah, the federates would simply tell him they would go the next day… if they bothered to come at all. Dashvara predicted a hellish night in the Tower of Sympathy. He sighed and approached the palisade. The trunks had been crushed even more than at Compassion. With what was left, you couldn’t even make a two-foot fence.

“Now you can run away, Compassive,” a voice behind him said.

Leaning against a log, Dashvara did not even bother to turn around. A muffled groan drew his attention, and he saw, on the other side of the palisade, an orc’s body dragging itself eastward. He was injured, probably from the borwerg, and his companions had abandoned him.

As soon as he saw the Sympathetic rush out, Dashvara hurried after him. The orc had a large splinter of wood stuck in his side.

“Wait!” Dashvara growled as he saw that the other Doomed was about to finish him off with his sword.

“Wait? What for?” he replied, surprised.

Dashvara kicked the orc, turned him around, and stepped back, just in case.

“You, orc,” he said, pointing his sword at him. “You speak the Common Tongue?”

The orc’s eyes were dilated, and his teeth were showing.

“No,” he replied.

“No? Then how did you understand me, you idiot?” Dashvara laughed with a grimace.

The blue orc’s lips stretched further, but he did not answer.

“Tell me, orc,” Dashvara resumed as the Sympathetic glared at him in confusion. “You are not behaving as you normally do. You don’t normally attack towers. Why are you doing it now?”

The creature growled.

“We kill you.”

“Yes, we understood that. But I thought you preferred cow meat to sajit meat.”

“We kill you,” the orc repeated. “And reward us. Me speak Common Tongue, so you not kill me, eh?”

Dashvara looked at the Sympathetic out of the corner of his eye. He looked as puzzled as he was.

“Reward?” the Doomed of Sympathy repeated in a bark. “What reward, vermin? Answer, or I’ll gouge your eyes out before I kill you!”

The orc stirred.

“You not kill me,” he insisted. It was not easy to guess some expressions on such a strange face, but there was no doubt about it: he was scared to death.

Dashvara sighed.

“You have to be more delicate, Sympathetic. Let me ask the questions, will you? Let’s see, orc. What’s your name?”

Keeping his lips closed, the orc looked at him.

“Uh… Well, I’ll just keep calling you orc, then,” Dashvara decided as the Sympathetic snorted. “We get that you want to kill us. But, you know, the Federation has no shortage of slaves or criminals. You can kill a Doomed man: another will come to replace him. So your reward is nothing more than a fleeting ray of sunshine in the middle of your foggy, disgusting swamps. Well, I don’t know, how about you leave us alone for a while and go hunt borwergs, what do you think?”

“Borwergs bad,” the orc spat. “Borwergs just for stinky…” There he uttered a word that Dashvara did not understand, but he assumed, by deduction, that he was talking about milfids.

He took on a sympathetic look.

“I know, it must be very hard to live with these monsters. But you people are swamp orcs. You don’t want to get out. So why bother us, uh?”

“Reward,” the orc said as if he was talking to a fool.

“Yes, but who might give you the reward?” Dashvara muttered. He was beginning to wonder if he shouldn’t just run away from Sympathy at once and go home. However, what the orc said next left him stunned:

“Naskrah.” He spat. “Them tell us, the orcs, kill you. Then we free. For that, we kill you in towers. Why else? We don’t like to kill like…” He spoke the unpronounceable name of the milfids again and continued in the Common Tongue: “And you don’t either, eh?”

“You free?” Dashvara echoed. He shook his head vigorously. This was unimaginable. “So someone is threatening you? Someone who is not an orc?”

“Not an orc, no. We kill you for eating grass eaters. But not today. Not an orc,” he repeated. “Naskrah. You not kill me?”

Dashvara stood for a few seconds staring into the eyes of the wounded orc. It was a repulsive creature that did not hesitate to kill any being that crossed its path to get food. Some said they were sajits, others classified them as monsters. At the moment, Dashvara didn’t find him much less sympathetic than the Doomed next to him. He shrugged his shoulders.

“Keep crawling,” he advised him.

“Not kill?”

“Not kill,” he confirmed. He put his sword away and took a step back. “Just one more question. What is that plant that makes green smoke?”

The orc’s eyes sparkled, mischievous.

“Naskrah smoke kills. They set traps. We do not.”

“Who are these Naskrahs?”

The orc had started to crawl down. He simply repeated:

“Naskrah.”

It’s okay. Naskrah. And now I’d better get back… Dashvara turned his back on the creature and walked back to the fence. No sooner had he taken a few steps than he turned with lightning speed and roared:

“Sympathetic! Stay away from him.”

The Doomed was preparing to kill the orc. He wasn’t going to stop, Dashvara realized.

“If you kill him, I’ll kill you, I swear,” he warned him coldly. “I told him we weren’t going to kill him, and we’re not going to kill him. Back off, Doomed.”

The Sympathetic did not back down, but at least he stopped.

“You’re totally nuts.”

Dashvara felt a devious smile stretch his lips.

“I am Compassive,” he replied. “Come on, don’t waste any more time and get busy fixing the palisade as much as you can. This time, I’m leaving for good.” He paused and gave the Doomed man a cold look. “Unless you intend to stop me.”

The Sympathetic shrugged his shoulders.

“Clear out, Compassive.”

Dashvara took a few steps back, nodding, sabers still in hand.

“If you kill the orc before he reaches the edge, I will kill you,” he warns him.

He had moved about twenty paces away from the palisade. He sheathed his sabers and suddenly felt a great weariness come over him like a sinister wave. He added aloud:

“Good luck, Sympathetic. Give boiled water to those who are still alive. And if they all die… come to Compassion with the elf.”

He didn’t wait for his answer. He took off running southwest, away from the fence and toward his home. Soon after, he had a coughing fit and swore through his teeth, forcing himself to keep walking. He would get there at night. The sun would soon disappear. As long as the milfids don’t get the idea to go out too early tonight…

This story about a reward obsessed his thoughts all the way home. Who were these Naskrahs? They must be intelligent creatures to have been able to communicate with the orcs. And they must be powerful creatures, or even numerous enough to force the orcs to do what they wanted… Didn’t that orc say that its folks were being held prisoner by them in some way? But how? And why? What were these Naskrahs looking for on the Border? Did they intend to take it over?

Well, go ahead, you can take it, but please wait a week, just one damn week before you do it… Dashvara sighed. If they really did die before the Brothers of the Pearl got them out of there, he was going to spend the last few seconds of his life cursing the swamps like never before.

The sky darkened, dusk passed, and night fell on him, accompanied by the usual night cries and distant howls of borwergs. He continued to walk in the dark. At least there were no clouds to hide the stars, and he could still see a little where he was walking. Soon he saw the light of the Tower of Compassion, and he moved toward it the same way a frightened rabbit moves toward its burrow. There were no sounds of bells. Good. Maybe that meant everything was in order. Just maybe.

He was barely fifteen minutes away from arriving when he saw a torch shining not far from the fence. He squinted, trying to make out the face in the bright light. When he did, he relaxed suddenly. It was Makarva. With Boron. Had they gone out to look for him?

He felt exhausted, but that didn’t stop him from running to his companions. The latter finally saw him and hurriedly approached him.

“Dash!” Makarva whispered, horrified. “Eternal Bird, you are covered in blood?”

“It’s not mine,” Dashvara appeased him. “What are you doing here?”

Makarva opened his mouth and confessed:

“We were watching for your return. Was there an attack in Sympathy?”

Dashvara rolled his eyes.

“Take a guess.”

Makarva tilted his head to one side.

“Bad news, huh?”

“Particularly bad. Let’s get back home. I’ll explain it to you all in the barracks. How are the captain and the others?”

Makarva and Boron exchanged gloomy looks.

“The same as before,” the first said.

Dashvara breathed in without answering and started walking toward the barracks next to Makarva and the Placid. The latter was unusually dark, but who wasn’t on that damned night?

When they arrived at Compassion, Dashvara found that the palisade had been repaired quite effectively. At least to stop the orcs, of course; not the borwergs or the brizzias. Maltagwa, Lumon, and Arvara were outside on the platform. The first two were hiding their nervousness well, but the Giant kept closing and opening his fists and didn’t even seem to realize it.

“We dug another ditch over there,” Makarva told him as he walked forward, “between the palisade and the shack. It’s not much use, but it’s better than nothing.”

“Yes, it’s better than nothing,” Dashvara agreed, his voice muted.

If he had not seen Rowyn that morning, he would probably not have felt so discouraged. His annoyance almost outweighed the fear he felt.

He greeted the three Xalyas standing guard and entered the barracks. No one was asleep, he noticed. The only one with his eyes closed was Sashava, but when he entered, the Grumpy opened his eyes as if he had not slept a wink. He looked at Dashvara for a few seconds.

“So?” he finally asked.

Dashvara grasped his goatskin and took a long sip. Finally, sensing the growing impatience, he took a deep breath and said:

“Brothers, we have a problem: it is likely that we will die tonight.”

His eyes raised to the shocked faces of the Xalyas then turned to the mournful expression of the captain; in a firmer voice than he would have thought himself capable of at that moment, he told of the hecatomb of the Sympathy Tower.

7 The Eye of Death

They were smaller figures than the swamp orcs, dressed in dark cloaks and boots—an outfit that coincided perfectly with that of the sajits.

So it’s like this, we are attacked by strangers from the Eternal Bird knows where…

“Do you see them?” Lumon asked.

Dashvara nodded, leaning against the tower railing.

“I do.”

The Gem kindly illuminated the area between the swamp and the palisade. Three Naskrahs had emerged from the vegetation, but they were moving so stealthily that it was clear their purpose was to act without being seen. For this very reason, neither Lumon nor Dashvara raised the alarm.

“Go down and warn the others, Lumon,” Dashvara said. “I think they have already seen me.”

Lumon, lurking in the shadows, nodded.

“Don’t forget to watch the north and the south too,” he murmured.

The Archer stepped aside and began to descend the tower as quietly as possible.

Tonight there would be no patrols: all the Xalyas were in the barracks, preparing for what might be a deadly battle. With tired eyes, Dashvara scanned the shadows to the north and south before turning his attention back to the Naskrahs. He had trouble finding them: they were moving forward, perfectly camouflaged.

Feigning tranquility, Dashvara leaned against one of the watchtower beams and counted the arrows in his quiver while watching the Naskrahs from the corner of his eye. He was not as good an archer as Lumon, but he had been a patrolman on the steppe for six years: like Makarva and the Triplets, he had trained under Captain Zorvun and had taken part in the Xalyas’ defensive attacks against the red nadres and other wild creatures. Certainly, on the Border, they could not use the same retreat tactics, but more than once, they had driven back bands of orcs under threatening arrows.

Sometimes Dashvara was appalled to think how ridiculous it was to defend the territory of the very people who kept him enslaved. It was more or less like being surrounded by poisonous snakes and choosing to serve the one with the slowest venom.

A snake that offers us a slow death in exchange for working arms that know how to handle a weapon… Dashvara could not imagine a more repulsive behavior. It wasn’t just that slave master and the Titiaka Council that needed to be condemned: it was the entire Federation.

Are you trying to console yourself by whining in your last hours of life, Dash? he scoffed. Stop looking for guilt: you’d better focus on what these Naskrahs are doing.

The three Naskrahs continued to crawl toward the palisade. They seemed to be following a specific tactic, but Dashvara couldn’t figure out what it was. They couldn’t have been planning to attack them: there were only three of them, and that day, they had clearly seen that at least ten Xalyas were still up and about. Surely they were up to something.

Dashvara frowned as a cloud passed in front of the Gem. The sky was clouding over, and he guessed it would soon rain.

The first drops were just beginning to fall when Lumon came back.

“Anything new?” he asked in a whisper.

Dashvara shrugged.

“They’re still moving at a snail’s pace. You know what I think, Lumon?” he added as Lumon peeked between the boards of the railing. “I think they’re setting a trap for us. Something like the green smoke cloud. These Naskrahs seem rather prone to trickery. They remind me of the Essimeans,” he muttered with a grimace of distaste.

“How can they think we can’t see them?” Lumon breathed out after a silence.

“Mmph. Maybe they think we have the same vision as the orcs.”

Lumon glanced north toward the Tower of Sympathy before inquiring:

“What about the shadow?”

Dashvara swallowed. After returning from Rayorah with Alta and Latish, Tahisran had hidden in the shed, but upon hearing Dashvara’s voice in the barracks, he had finally showed himself to the Xalyas. Dashvara had already told them about it, but he knew that hearing a story is not living it, and seeing a bunch of shadows in the form of a sajit talking through one’s mind was bound to… scare some people. Everyone was left in shock. Including Sashava. Dashvara had even caught Pik making the federate holy sign and mumbling something about “bad omens”. Guessing that the shadow’s presence would undermine their morale more than boost it, he had convinced Tahisran to go to Sympathy to check if the only two healthy ones were still alive; Tsu had given him some dorcho leaves for the sick, but Dashvara guessed that, if Tahisran really did show up in front of those in Sympathy, more than a few would not dare chew on anything from a shadow spirit anyway.

He silently cleared his throat, and without losing sight of the Naskrahs, he replied:

“It hasn’t come back yet.” After a long silence, he continued: “Look. They are moving forward as if they’re pulling something.”

Lumon looked away from the north and back at the Naskrahs.

“A rope?” he ventured.

What the hell were they doing pulling a rope in front of a fence? No, it didn’t make sense. Nor did it make sense that they were pulling it from the swamp, all unfolded. Dashvara gave up speculating. Now the three Naskrahs were barely twenty paces from the stakes. They were well within the range of an archer.

Reckless fools…

Dashvara grabbed his bow and an arrow.

“Are we going to kill them?” he muttered. If they did well, they could kill two out of three. All three, if they did very well. And if we do very badly, none, Dashvara growled inwardly.

Lumon did not answer immediately. His face, shrouded in shadows, looked almost like Tahisran’s.

“The captain says no rushing,” he said at last.

Dashvara almost jumped.

“The captain?” he repeated hopefully.

“He seems a little more lucid,” Lumon informed him. “He says that, if they are sajits, we may be able to reach an agreement.”

Dashvara stared at him for a few moments. Then he considered Zorvun’s proposal. What possibility was there that these Naskrahs would agree to negotiate and accept Compassion’s surrender?

The rain had doubled, and the wind was pushing the drops into the tower. If Dashvara moved away from the edge, he would lose sight of the Naskrahs, so he simply put on his hood.

Soon after, the Naskrahs began to retreat. It was not easy to follow their movements. Their cloaks concealed them pretty well.

“I don’t think they intend to parley, Lumon,” he sighed at last. “Besides, if we parley with them, we’re dead men to the federates.”

Lumon did not argue with that statement: it was obvious to any Doomed. Dashvara scratched his beard thoughtfully. Perhaps the Naskrahs were not planning to attack tonight. Unless some murderous spirits came out of that rope, capable of flying or crossing the wood to stab them in their sleep. A sardonic smile stretched his lips. Sometimes his imagination terrified him more than anything.

The Naskrahs were quicker to retreat, as if in a hurry to return to the swamp. Finally, the edge of the forest became deserted again, whipped by the wind and icy rain. Dashvara stepped away from the railing just as Lumon hissed:

“The North!”

He turned abruptly and squinted. It was raining so hard, how could Lumon see anything?

“What’s going on up north?” he replied.

“I don’t know,” Lumon admitted. “I saw a light. But I couldn’t swear to it.”

Dashvara tensed up. If the Naskrahs had broken through the palisade further north, their trenches and repairs were not going to do them much good.

At last, he saw a light. No, not just one light. Dozens of them. Several dozen. The water did not seem to affect them. Standing on the watchtower, Dashvara felt as if the stars had fallen from the sky along with the rain. For a few seconds, he was unable to speak, and he saw that Lumon was also slow to respond.

“We sound the alarm?” the Archer finally asked in a hoarse voice.

Dashvara looked at him without knowing what to say. Lumon was supposed to be the patrol leader, not him.

“What do you say we ring a few bells?” he said at last. “After all, if they come with so much light, it’s because they want us to see them.” He paused for a moment. “I’m going down. How many lights are you counting?”

Lumon’s answer came as a dying whisper:

“A lot.” Then after a few seconds: “Too many.”

Dashvara’s hands were sweating feverishly. He tried to dry them on his clothes, but they were already soaked with rain.

“Well,” he said with a voice from beyond the grave. “At least we have a horse. Maybe we can get the Triplets on it. They don’t weigh much.” He swallowed hard. Try to force them on and they’ll wring your neck, Dash. You know them: they won’t want to leave. He glanced toward the swamps. Those were strangely silent. They must have put up some kind of rope to make sure we don’t retreat to the trees. A magic rope or something. The federates had equipped them to defend against orcs and milfids. Not against wizards. Not against an army. Suddenly he felt the urgency to do something. “I’m going down,” he repeated. “Sound two strikes and warn us in case they attack from the east or south as well.”

“What for, Dash?” Lumon said as Dashvara began to descend.

“What?”

Lumon explained:

“I mean, why should I warn you? If we’re attacked by this even from just one side, we’re already going to be slaughtered anyway.” He had regained his calm tone, and a deep resignation now vibrated in his voice. He saw no way out.

“Bah,” Dashvara said. He thought for a few seconds and repeated, “Bah. You’re right. Come down if you want. That way you won’t miss the final battle of the Xalyas.”

Sounds very solemn, the way I say it, doesn’t it? He smiled wryly as he continued to climb down.

One week… They had spent three years in this hole and for one week, one little week, they would have to die away from the steppe and be eaten by milfids, flies, and crows. What a feat.

Do you still feel proud of me, Captain? I guess you do. Of me and all of us. We survived the siege of the dungeon, reluctantly choosing life over death, we lived as long as we could, and now, as the Essimeans would say, Death is calling its lost sheep back to the fold. Things are what they are. I feel sorry for you, Rowyn. I have the unfortunate impression that the Pearl Brotherhood only saved corpses. But, well, all things considered, the Doomed were always doomed to die. Good luck with your work, whatever it is, Duke.

Two alarm bells rang. Grumbling, Dashvara chased away his farewell requiem like a pesky fly. When he landed downstairs, his companions were already coming out of the barracks, armed to the teeth. He even saw most of the sick on their feet. Zorvun was sitting on a chair on the platform in the pouring rain, white as a marble statue.

“They are coming from the north!” Dashvara shouted as soon as he rounded the trench. “There are more than a hundred of them. Perhaps many more. They are probably not orcs. They carry blue lights. Lots of them. They must be lanterns because they don’t go out with the rain.”

The captain nodded. He looked like he was about to faint.

“Sedrios?” he called. “You know what you have to do.”

The old man nodded, and Dashvara saw him enter the barracks again. He came out immediately with a white cloth attached to a spear. Dashvara’s eyes widened. White was the color of war for the Xalyas, but for the federates it was the color of peace. Who knows what white means to these Naskrahs… But they may not even notice the color of the flag.

Well, in any case, there was nothing to lose by trying to talk, even if the other side only answered with war cries, arrows, and axe blows. The Xalyas would behave in a civilized way and try to negotiate.

Dashvara smiled and felt his nerves relax, his heart calm down… Typical symptoms of a man who sees the fatality falling on him.

He reached Tsu and saw him standing there, unmoved except for a slight tremor in his hand as he gripped the sword. He shook his head. The drow did not know how to fight. In fact, the doctor had even assured him that he would never think of grabbing a sword unless it was absolutely necessary. He patted the drow on the shoulder, realizing how lucky he had been to have known such a kind-hearted torturer physician.

“So, Tsu? How do you feel in the dawn of your first battle?”

The drow remained inexpressive.

“It’s dark, Dash,” Makarva interjected, faking a casual tone. “The sun won’t rise for several hours.”

And we won’t see it again, Mak, that’s what you mean, right?

Dashvara gazed at the faces of his brothers, grave and troubled, rippling with the fire of the torches. Zamoy the Baldy, usually so talkative and exalted, clutched his swords with the calmness of a veteran fighter; Miflin had his eyes almost closed and was moving his lips, perhaps reciting his last poem; Makarva, who was always attentive to what the others were feeling, who was so good at fooling them all when they were playing, was now shaking his head, meditative, perhaps searching for a meaning in all this. Dashvara turned his gaze to the rain curtain.

It’s too late to look for meaning in anything, Mak. Perhaps it has always been so.

He thought of them all, of their years of patrolling the steppe, of their years on the Border… Of the twenty-two brothers who surrounded him, all without exception were worthy Xalyas of the Eternal Bird. All of them, with their faults and virtues, had behind those beards and hard eyes a radiant spirit. Suddenly Dashvara felt his heart swell with pride. A sudden impulse made him speak up.

“Men of Xalya!” he said in a loud voice. He drew surprised eyes from everyone. “Since our chances of getting out alive are practically non-existent, I would like to say something to you all.” He cleared his throat. “For the sake of variety, I’ll start with the obvious. We are Xalyas. That means we are brothers, not by blood, but by our ideas and by our affection for each other. We are brothers because we have faith in ourselves, and we are Xalyas because we have faith in our feather and in our Eternal Bird. Having said this, I wanted to tell you that, even though logic tells me that we should be terribly desperate, I feel happy,” he smiled. “Have you ever felt so happy that you came to think absurdly: ‘Well, if I die now, my life will have been complete’? That’s how I feel right now. I feel that, considering our destiny, I could not have found a better way to die than to die on a pile of mud with twenty-two brothers and a flag dirtier than white.” He laughed softly. “I feel that everything I’ve been through, the good things as well as the bad ones, I wouldn’t change them for a long life as a federate. That doesn’t mean I won’t regret many things, but I do it in the way of an old man who gives up his existence knowing that his duty is to give it up, for the sake of natural laws. And I wanted to tell you, with all that, that I love you all in such a way that there is no word in Inspector Chubby’s dictionary to describe it and—” He lost his breath, coughed, and swallowed blood. “Demons, brothers, if it is true that there is an afterlife as the republicans claim, be happy.”

He breathed in loudly, and he was not the only one, far from it. Makarva and Zamoy were more expressive and had to wipe off their tears. The captain blinked. Miflin murmured a verse that only the rain heard. Sashava let out a roar.

“Eternal Bird, my boy!” he growled. “We’re not dead yet.”

Dashvara swallowed his saliva mixed with salt water. He couldn’t feel ashamed of what he had said because it was true, and besides, they were going to die.

“If we were, Sashava, I could not have made my Philosopher’s speech.”

Several of them let out a laugh. And they weren’t nervous laughters: now all the Xalyas were sitting up straight, even the sick ones, and confidence sparkled in their eyes. The confidence of knowing that, even if they died, no one would take away what they had already lived.

What a great consolation, Dashvara thought wryly.

But that was all the lord of the steppe could give them that night.

Then, softly, Alta started to sing a song Dashvara had not heard for a very long time, since the fall of the Dungeon, when the Xalya soldiers had sworn before Lord Vifkan not to surrender and to fight until the last descendant of the old clans died. Ironically, those who were singing the anthem again were the only ones who had not kept their oath. Soon, almost everyone joined in the singing.

Ride, brother, ride,
Let the sun shine on your path
And open the closed doors
To your Eternal Bird in its bosom.
In your heart and in your land
Make your own destiny
Honor your clan with love
And strength of spirit.
Ride, brother, ride
Toward the cruel enemy.
If he wills to steal my soul
My swords shall be my cry
For freedom we fight,
For our family we die.
Neither out of fear or cowardice
Nor before evilness do we surrender.
Our Eternal Bird
Does not consent to selfishness.
We are Xalyas, we are warriors.
We are the heirs of the Wise.
We fierce souls of the steppe,
The descendants of the Ancients,
Will tear the life
From the barbarians and murderers.
For the peace of the family,
Let us ride with dignity to the end!

A few seconds after the last note of the Xalyas died in Compassion, Dashvara realized that the rain had almost let up. Then he heard the unmistakable sound of hooves hitting the wet earth. The light of two lanterns emerged from the darkness.

“Horses,” Maltagwa murmured.

“Four,” Lumon counted. “And one banner.”

The riders appeared in front of them before they had time to fully understand what was going on.

“Captain Faag salutes the Doomed of Compassion!” cried the herald carrying the banner in a powerful voice.

The twenty-three Xalyas stared at him in amazement. Dashvara could have sworn that the Grace of Compassion herself had come to rescue them.

8 A captain’s pride

More than three hundred federal soldiers camped that night in the Compassion sector. They were not regular Rayorah forces: they were a company that had just arrived from the border with the Shjak lands in the south of the Federation, and according to the herald of the vanguard, had been sent north to ‘take a rest’. Several Xalyas, including Dashvara, had been unable to suppress wry smiles upon hearing this.

“Does taking a rest mean being sanctioned in federal jargon?” Zorvun inquired in a voice that denoted pure linguistic interest.

The captain of the Xalyas was still sitting in his chair on the platform, pale but conscious. He said the night air had invigorated him, but like everyone else, his clothes were soaked, and he was chattering his teeth, freezing. Damned big-head,, Dashvara sighed. He and Makarva had already insisted twice on taking him inside and making him change his clothes… However, even though he didn’t look it, of the twenty-three Compassives, the captain was the most stubborn of them all, and he wanted to learn what was going on in person.

The federal herald was a human, but he was as inexpressive as Tsu, if not even more.

“Not at all,” he replied. “I assure you that the border with Shjak is a living hell. We have just won a crushing victory against the drows.”

Dashvara raised an eyebrow. Was he trying to impress them? He looked at Tsu out of the corner of his eye, but he couldn’t read any feeling in his face: the drow, in any case, assured that he didn’t belong to any of his race. He had always lived in the Federation. He had always been a slave. Now, in addition to being a slave, he was also a Xalya; Dashvara smiled.

A boy was approaching at a run. He braked, skated through the mud, and Arvara the Giant held out a hand to keep him from falling. The young federate stammered and stuttered:

“Thank you. Captain Faag wants to speak with the leader of this tower.”

Without waiting for an answer, he turned his back on them and ran off again; these federates were always in a hurry. With impenetrable gravity, the herald waved.

“You’re the leader, aren’t you?” he asked Zorvun. This one nodded extremely slowly, like a ghost. “Then get up. I will take you to the captain.”

Zorvun nodded again and stood up without help… He staggered but pushed Sedrios’ hands away when he tried to support him. Exasperated, Dashvara boldly intervened:

“Wait a moment. Our captain also needs a break. Give him a few minutes, will you?”

Zorvun had frowned, but the herald merely gave his consent.

“All right, you have ten minutes.”

“Incorrigible, Dash,” the captain sighed in Oy’vat as the herald walked away.

“You’re going to change those clothes,” Dashvara replied, opening the door to the barracks. “You don’t want to look like a wet dog in front of an enemy. But honestly, you’d better appoint a spokesman to go and talk to this Faag. You can’t even walk.”

“Of course I can walk,” Zorvun replied. He entered the barracks with the help of Arvara and Makarva; they all followed him. They hurriedly removed his soaked cloak and dressed him from top to bottom without his protesting. When Dashvara fastened his white belt, Zorvun muttered, “I feel like you guys are pampering me like a five-year-old.”

Dashvara smiled broadly at him.

“It’s just that sometimes you do look a bit like one,” he scoffed.

Far from being offended, the captain uncovered his teeth, amused.

“By the way, my boy. Your Philosopher’s speech wasn’t as elaborate as other times, you know?”

Dashvara rolled his eyes, barely concealing his blushing.

“Well, just as they say the first arrow never hits its target, the last one usually isn’t glorious either.”

Zorvun patted him lightly on the shoulder, his eyes smiling.

“That arrow was not the last one, Dashvara. I’m sure the last one will be the best. And now, change yourself, too. You will accompany me.”

Dashvara opened his eyes wide but made no comment. He hurried to change with the others and was putting on his muddy boots when the herald appeared through the door. Zorvun and Dashvara came out, the former supported discreetly by the latter. Dashvara could clearly see that the captain was about to collapse with every step.

“Pride will kill you,” Dashvara whispered as they walked between the tents and lanterns.

“You’re one to talk,” Zorvun replied in a low voice.

Dashvara looked at him, surprised. It had been a long time since his own pride had been consumed like tinder and pierced by many a dagger. What did Zorvun mean by that ‘you’re one to talk’? Certainly, as time heals physical wounds, so it heals spiritual wounds, and as the eternal feather rises, so pride can have its wounds healed. But these wounds always leave a scar. Perhaps, in the past, he would have acted like Zorvun, pushing away illness to remain haughty, but now, that attitude seemed relatively foolish. Of course, he wasn’t going to tell the captain: a Xalya’s pride is sacred, and everyone had the right to see life as they pleased. Besides, he suspected that, in Zorvun’s case, a wound to his pride could be more serious than any other wound.

He stopped rambling on about the captain’s behavior when they arrived in front of the tall red canvas pavilion.

“Your weapons,” said one of the soldiers guarding the entrance. “You must leave them before entering.”

Dashvara nodded silently and cautiously let go of Zorvun; Zorvun stood very straight, and Dashvara disarmed him himself, guessing that if the captain stooped to pull the dagger out of his boot, he was quite capable of sprawling all over. Immediately afterwards, he removed the strap with the swords, the dagger hanging from his belt, and his own dagger.

“Only one of you can enter—” the guard began to say. But an energetic voice inside cut him off:

“Let them both in.”

Dashvara raised an eyebrow when he saw Zorvun move first. He followed with some trepidation on a floor that seemed to be made of waterproof material. He was almost chagrined to get it dirty with his boots.

The interior was intensely illuminated by the lanterns and Dashvara blinked for a few seconds, blinded. The pavilion was simple, with a table, seats, a cot, and a large closed trunk. A man in a red uniform with a square human face faced them. He had blue eyes, and his skin was as black as the Akinoas.

“Captain Faag, of the Compassive Company,” he introduced himself in an affable voice. “Yes, we bear the same Grace as a name,” he confirmed. “That is why I am deeply curious to know you.”

He looked at them, eloquent, waiting for the usual introductions. Zorvun croaked proudly:

“I am Captain Zorvun of Xalya.”

Dashvara blushed. He would have felt the same way if Zorvun had told the Federate that he was thinking of running away and rebelling against Diumcili.

“Captain…” he whispered through his teeth. Then Captain Zorvun’s pride reached its limit, and the man collapsed. Dashvara rushed to support him before he fell completely. “Damn you, big-head. I told you so,” he muttered as he knelt on the tent floor. If your intention is to die, you’re on the right track with your behavior, Captain…

Faag’s voice rang out in surprise and concern behind him.

“Did he pass out?”

Without taking his eyes off Zorvun, Dashvara nodded. He put a hand on his carotid artery, searching for his pulse. It was still beating. He sighed, calmer, and when he looked up, he was paralyzed for a few seconds as he saw that Faag had crouched beside them.

“He looks bad,” he observed. “Help me lay him on the bed.”

It was only when they had settled him on the mattress that Dashvara thought the federate’s attitude was most strange. Who the hell would want to lay a Doomed on a bed?

“I’m guessing it’s the same disease that decimated those in the Tower of Sympathy,” Faag surmised. “Please sit down. I’ll call the doctor.”

Dashvara wasn’t particularly happy about having to replace the captain as spokesperson, but… it couldn’t be helped.

“Don’t bother, Captain Faag,” he assured. “We have our own doctor. The captain just fainted. I’ll call some companions and we’ll take him back to the barracks…” Faag’s white smile made him forget what he wanted to add.

“Sit down,” the federate repeated. “I’m going to ask you a few quick questions, then you can take your… captain home,” he said.

Dashvara did not falter. After all, what did the federates care about the titles they gave each other, huh? Zorvun was his captain, always had been; and, to him, the word “captain” was almost synonymous with “father”.

He inhaled and sat down on a stool in front of the table. He noticed that another person was in the tent, sitting behind a folding screen. Probably a guard, he assumed. Captain Faag, without sitting down, crossed his arms and looked thoughtful.

“Well,” he said after a silence. “The informants told me that your platoon will leave in a week. Is that true?”

“It is,” Dashvara replied.

“And where are they taking you?”

“We don’t know that.”

“Mm.” He gestured as if disinterested in the subject. “I’ve also been told that one of your people questioned a swamp orc this afternoon and that the swamp orc told him of beings called Malkraths who are said to be planning to break down the defensive line of the Doomed.”

“Naskrah,” Dashvara corrected him. “The orc said Naskrah. I questioned him,” he explained. He added to himself, a little relieved, that if this federate knew about the orc, it meant that the Doomed of Sympathy had survived.

For some reason, Captain Faag’s face was filled with intense satisfaction. On the other side of the screen, the figure had moved a little. Then Faag sat down on the other side of the table, clasped his gloved hands together, and took a suave tone:

“Are you sure he said Naskrah?”

Dashvara nodded calmly and stifled a yawn.

“Sure. He said it several times. Apparently, these Naskrahs have found a way to pressure the orcs into attacking us. And they’re using traps.”

“Ropes of smoke?” Faag asked.

Dashvara brightened up, alarmed. Clearly, Faag knew more about the subject than he did.

“Ropes?” he repeated. “We don’t know. In any case, a cloud of green smoke caused the illness of eight of our people last night. Another attacked those in Sympathy and another in Dignity. I don’t know about the other towers.” He squinted his eyes. “Last night, three Naskrahs approached the palisade pulling something. Maybe it was one of those ropes. Who are the Naskrahs, Captain?”

Captain Faag had remained meditative and replied absentmindedly:

“That’s what the swamp orcs call the drows.”

Dashvara raised an eyebrow. So the Naskrahs were drows. But what were drows doing in Ariltuan? Didn’t they live in the south, in the lands of Shjak and the mountains of Duhaden?

Then Faag stood up and repeated as if he didn’t remember answering before:

“Naskrahs are drow. Thank you, soldier. One last question.” He paused for a moment as Dashvara got to his feet. “If you believed that those marching against you were the drows, what were you doing in front of the barracks with a white flag?”

Dashvara quietly swallowed his saliva.

“White is the color of war for the Xalyas,” he replied in a neutral voice.

Faag smiled at him again, which made Dashvara shiver.

“The color of war, huh? Another question, if it’s not too much to ask,” the Federal captain scoffed. “Who the hell are the Xalyas?”

Had he been asked that three years ago, Dashvara would have thought he was being mocked. But three years on the Border had taught him that the Xalyas were on the verge of oblivion throughout Hareka.

“You’ve never heard of the Xalyas of the Rocdinfer steppe?” he asked, however, feigning surprise. “We people of Compassion come from there. We are the descendants of the Ancient Kings. An alliance of clans destroyed us, we were taken prisoner and sold into slavery.”

Faag looked thoughtful but still smiled, and Dashvara wondered if he had ever heard of the Ancient Kings.

“I see. How funny. To console you, I’ll tell you that you’re not the only steppe people in the Diumcili lands. Even in my company, I have a… Shalussi,” he articulated carefully as if it were a terribly exotic word. “Maybe you know a few personally.”

Dashvara shrugged.

“I don’t think so, Captain Faag. The steppe is large.”

“I have a Namurek among the sappers,” Faag observed after a little thought. “Do you know him?”

Dashvara shook his head. It would have been a great coincidence if I had known him, federate.

“I have never known any Namurek,” he replied. “In any case, we, Xalyas, have never had very good relations with the Shalussi clan.”

In fact, since the fall of the penultimate lord of the steppe, the Xalyas had no good relations with anyone…

“You are a slave,” the figure behind the screen suddenly said in a vibrant voice. “But you can stop being one.”

The voice was strange, though unmistakably female. Dashvara blinked in bewilderment whilst Faag breathed in as if to be patient.

“Saazi,” he said. “Sometimes you could change your tune a little, you know?”

Dashvara scanned the screen and suppressed the urge to point out to that woman that ceasing to be a slave was not such an easy task. Suddenly, he saw a glowing light behind the panel, followed by a crackling, the sound of chains, and a hiss of frustration. He met Captain Faag’s blue eyes just as Saazi said in a squeaky voice:

“The Federation will fall and be crushed by the people of Shaazra, who is the true queen of these lands—”

“Enough,” Faag interrupted her, exasperated.

But the woman continued fervently:

“And then the slaves will be expelled, and the citizens imprisoned—”

“I said, that’s enough!” Faag thundered. “Soldier, try to wake up your companion. If he doesn’t wake up, I’ll send for a stretcher.”

His tone was cold and tense. It’s time to get out of here, Dashvara thought. However, he could not help but glance curiously at the screen before approaching Captain Zorvun. Just then, Captain Zorvun stirred and came to his senses with a grunt of pain; he raised his head and his eyes shone like two wounded lanterns.

“Did I faint? Where the hell are we, Dash? What the…?” He blinked and seemed to remember. Dashvara helped him to his feet as the captain cleared his throat and said with great dignity, “Eternal Bird. I beg your pardon, Captain…”

“Faag,” completed the federate, more quietly. “Don’t worry, Doomed. It caused me no inconvenience. Your companion answered my questions as if you had dictated the answers,” he exaggerated. “My men will stay here until you all get well. The truth is, they have orders to patrol these lands for at least a few weeks. I think we got here in time to avoid a massacre at the Border. Wouldn’t you like a stretcher so we can bring you back…?” He paused under Zorvun’s glare and smiled, “Good night, and thank you for your time.”

This captain was definitely courteous, Dashvara observed. Was he a special case, or had the lord of the steppe just gotten too used to the gruff treatment of the neighboring Doomed?

They greeted him with a brief nod, and as they left the pavilion, Dashvara relaxed a little. It wasn’t Captain Faag that had made him so nervous, but this mysterious woman and her prophetic threat against the Federation. She had spoken of a queen. But what queen? He shook his head. What did it matter? It was almost funny that she had wanted to remind him that his condition as a slave was enforced, not intrinsic. As if I didn’t already know that…

They retrieved their weapons and returned to the barracks step by step.

“What did that federate say to you?” Zorvun asked calmly as they approached the platform.

“Nothing important,” Dashvara admitted. “But…” he smiled, “now I can assure you that we’re going to get out of this alive, Captain. And you first.”

Zorvun sighed.

“Yes, it looks like it. You know, Dash? I think the day death comes to take us for good, we won’t see it coming.”

Dashvara huffed, amused.

“A few days ago, I got up with a question in mind,” he revealed to him: “What good would time do if we knew its mysteries? I even engraved the question on the table in the barracks, didn’t you see it? A wise man from the steppe said that one of the worst things a person can do in life is to foresee his own death. And he also said that the awareness we have of death makes us more alive. Of course, this statement depends on—”

“Dash,” Zorvun interrupted him.

Dashvara flushed. Sometimes you’re worse than the Triplets, he chided himself.

“Yes, Captain?”

“Don’t tell the others about what happened in the tent, is that clear?”

Dashvara shook his head. Like a five-year-old, a small voice mentally confirmed. However, he simply assured him with mocking solemnity:

“It’s very clear, Captain. Not a word, I swear.”

He yawned, and Zorvun sighed.

“I’m under the impression you use the word ‘captain’ more than usual.”

Dashvara smiled broadly and patted him affectionately on the shoulder.

“It’s because you are the captain. And you’re going to be for many years to come, you can be sure of that.”

9 The Eternal Bird

The federates seemed to have brought the good weather with them. Sitting on the platform in the sun, Dashvara was carving a piece of wood, listening distractedly to Tsu’s flute and ignoring the buzzing of flies. He didn’t know yet what shape to give his new creature, he hadn’t thought about it, but as Maltagwa often said: ‘Every plant needs time to grow’. With ideas, it was the same thing. That didn’t stop him from blowing up splinters with his dagger.

He had been there for three hours, idle. To speak the truth, they had been in the barracks for four days doing nothing. They were surrounded by tents and Federal soldiers who came and went regularly. Captain Faag had even sent patrols into the swamps, and a team of experts had spent a whole day working to remove the rope of smoke deposited by the drows.

“Six and six!” Makarva shouted with a big triumphant laugh.

The young Xalya was sitting a little further away, playing katutas with Zamoy, Boron, and Lumon. Miflin was a spectator, but his eyes had wandered to the white clouds gliding across the sky. Many of the other Xalyas were sitting on the platform, enjoying the sun. No one liked to see the comings and goings of so many federates, but they all preferred it to being cooped up for a week in a dark barrack.

The patients were getting better. They were still weak, but they were already beginning to eat something other than mashed carrots and chew something other than dorcho leaves. However, when Zorvun had asked for some of Grumble’s milk, Tsu had flatly forbidden it; he said it was not suitable for them. His refusal made Zorvun grumble for a long time: everyone knew that the captain loved milk.

Dashvara smiled. His eyes followed the ponderous gait of a squadron of soldiers as they passed, sinking into the mud. He heard them grunt something in the Diumcili dialect and thought he understood that they were missing the lands of Shjak.

The federates were surprisingly respectful: they did not take away the barracks, the donkey, or the horse. And they gave them no work to do.

“Isn’t it wonderful, Tahisran?” he murmured, looking down at his sculpture again.

The shadow was hidden in the bag next to him. It spent its nights snooping around the camp and its days hidden in that bag. The Xalyas had begun to get used to it.

‘What is wonderful, Dash?’ Tahisran asked. The shadow had only been with the Xalyas for a few days, and it was already able to understand Oy’vat. Who knows how many languages he had learned in his wanderings.

Dashvara tackled a knot in the wood, his eyebrows furrowed.

“I don’t know, Tah, I don’t know why I said that.”

There was a small mental laugh.

‘Well. So, now you call me Tah?’

Dashvara smiled.

“You call me Dash. Besides, I’m used to shortening names. But if you want, I’ll give you a nickname.”

There was a thoughtful silence and then a refusal.

‘No, thank you. I like Tahisran as a name.’

“It sounds majestic,” Dashvara agreed.

‘It sounds the way it does,’ the shadow replied. ‘In Caeldric, the ancient language of the eastern lands, it means Rain of Light. If you called me Tah, you would only call me Light.’

Dashvara’s smile widened.

“It suits you perfectly, Tah. After all, there is no shadow without light.”

Zamoy let out a roar as his dice gave him two ones.

“Cheaters!” he lamented.

“Are you talking to the dice, Baldy?” Makarva inquired curiously.

“Dash talks with a shadow, that’s not any better,” Zamoy replied.

“Right,” Makarva conceded, and turning to Dashvara, asked, “By the way, has Tahisran learned anything about this mysterious woman you are so passionate about, Dash?”

Dashvara pouted. He had wanted to ask the shadow, but not in front of everyone. He was still wondering about what had happened in Faag’s pavilion and about that strange, magical glow that had enveloped Saazi for a brief moment before disappearing. Sashava had commented something about hallucinogenic effects caused by fatigue and nerves, which was not surprising considering that Grumpy despised magic more than any other Xalya. Dashvara, however, knew what he had seen: Saazi had tried to cast a spell, and something—probably those chains she wore—had stopped her. In any case, the strangest thing was that Captain Faag would consent to have a prisoner in his tent who spoke so boldly against the system he and his men were defending.

“Nonsense,” he said aloud after further meditation. And although Makarva had refocused on the game, he questioned, “Tahisran?”

‘I don’t know…’ the shadow said, hesitantly. ‘I heard voices. And I heard a conversation about drows. That woman sounds like a slave, Dash. And I think she has something to do with the drows. Let’s say she could be a drow,’ he explained.

Nothing that Dashvara hadn’t already assumed. He glanced at Tsu, sitting with his flute. On the first day, some federates had “mistaken” the drow for an enemy and threatened to kill him. Luckily, they stopped in time when a dozen Xalyas got in their way. No one had attacked Tsu again, but Dashvara was not reassured by the suspicious looks the federates were giving as they passed.

Bah, he thought. They are suspicious of us all, not just Tsu. After all, we are Doomed, and among the Doomed, there are often criminals. But aren’t these soldiers criminals too? Aren’t we all? I killed swamp orcs to keep them from killing cattle, and I killed them to keep the federates from killing me. It’s an absurd circle I’d be happy to get out of if I could.

The words of the drow in Faag’s pavilion came to mind: ‘You are a slave, but you can stop being one’. Was there a more obvious statement? Dashvara stabbed the dagger into the wood. Yes, I could kill myself right here and stop being a slave to anyone. I would even stop being a slave to myself. But the solution leaves much to be desired.

He felt compassion for this drow. She seemed to be so lonely…

He suddenly frowned. And what about those Naskrahs, those drows? Maybe they were there for a reason. Maybe their intention wasn’t to conquer Atria Canton but to get one of their own back. That would explain why they had appeared shortly before the arrival of the Compassive Company.

Dashvara shook his head.

There you go again, making things up. Besides, what do you care about what’s really going on? That drow is not the only slave in Diumcili, and in two days, you will be gone. You’re not going to waste the first serious opportunity to escape in a year by doing absurd things, are you?

The idea of going to spy on Faag’s pavilion himself had taken shape in his mind… He rejected it abruptly. He’d better save his curiosity for more relevant occasions.

“Oh,” Boron said suddenly.

His tone of voice drew Dashvara’s attention, and they all followed the Placid’s gaze. Between the tents, a white horse was moving forward, guided by a blond man who walked in front. Dashvara had just caught sight of him when Zamoy let out a soft laugh:

“It’s Chubby!” he said under his breath.

Lumon immediately turned to Miflin.

“Has it been fifteen days already?” he asked.

It was the Poet who took care of counting the days. Miflin ran a hand over his bald head and nodded.

“Fifteen days exactly.”

Makarva and Dashvara exchanged a mischievous smile.

“What word do we ask him to look up this time?” the former asked.

They had gone over the strangest words they knew, but they still hadn’t agreed.

“I think ilawatelk would not be bad,” Dashvara insisted.

While Makarva bit his lip, not quite convinced, Tsu stopped playing the flute.

“Ilawatelk?” he inquired, curious. “What’s that?”

“A steppe animal,” Dashvara explained. “It’s a kind of gazelle, but smaller. The bigger ones are barely two feet long. Come on, Mak, here it comes. If you can’t think of a better word than ilawatelk…”

“Well, he won’t even bother to look it up in his dictionary,” Makarva objected.

Dashvara waited patiently for him to suggest a better word, and finally, Makarva grumbled.

“Go for ilawatelk,” he yielded as the captain rose to greet the inspector.

Chubby had changed a lot. He had lost weight, his appearance was less neat, and his eyes were darkened by deep dark circles. Dashvara bit his lip in sympathy. His first tour of the Border didn’t seem to have gone very well.

Demons, Dash, have you always been this compassionate or is the tower rubbing off on you?

“Good morning, Inspector,” the captain said in an affable tone.

“Hello,” the inspector said, stopping.

Concentrating again on his piece of wood, Dashvara listened half-heartedly to the conversation that both of them engaged in, but then the words of the Chubby suddenly caught his attention:

“I have also come to say goodbye to you, since from tomorrow I will cease to be a border inspector. Another inspector has been appointed, of course, but in any case, you will not see him if it is true that you are sent to Titiaka.”

Everyone jerked up.

“To Titiaka?” the captain repeated. “How do you know we are going to Titiaka, Inspector?”

Chubby opened his mouth and then closed it again.

“Well,” he hesitated and lowered his voice like a schemer, “at least that’s what I’ve been told. It seems that you have attracted the attention of a powerful merchant in the capital. A certain Atasiag Peykat. As I understand it, the Council owed him a favor, and they offered him a personal guard. I’m sure some people think Atasiag’s choice is risky, but I think he got a good deal. All in all, you have a very good reputation among the Doomed.”

He paused, perhaps realizing that he was violating the inspectors’ professional silence. Atasiag, Dashvara thought, surprised. Wasn’t this the same man who had saved Tahisran from the pirate ship?

“I see,” Captain Zorvun said. “Thank you for the information. Well, do you want to inspect the place in more detail or did you just come to say goodbye?” he asked.

In the last few days, they had taken advantage of their free time to do a thorough cleaning of the shack. The inspector would be impressed, Dashvara smiled. However, the Chubby nodded.

“No. I trust you to keep this place in good shape until the other platoon arrives. I don’t want to linger.”

The captain nodded.

“And I don’t want to seem like I’m interfering, but… did your resignation have anything to do with the welcome they gave you in the other towers?” he asked affably.

Chubby stiffened a little.

“Certainly, I think this job is not for me,” he simply replied. “I wish you a safe journey to Titiaka, soldiers.”

“And I wish you the best of luck in finding your true calling, federate,” the captain said frankly.

Dashvara smiled, and seeing that the Chubby was pulling the horse’s bridle away between the tents, he turned to the bag.

“Tah, can you give me the sculpture inside?” He saw the bag jiggle and open a little to reveal Bashak’s sculpture. Dashvara sighed. “No, not that one, the one I finished a few days ago.”

‘Oh,’ the shadow said, searching. ‘This one?’

Dashvara smiled when he saw a wooden figure in the shape of an eagle appear.

“Thank you, Tah.”

With the sculpture in one hand, he ran towards the Chubby under the astonished eyes of the Xalyas and the federates. He had almost reached him when he called out:

“Hey, Inspector!”

Chubby turned around and stopped, surprised.

“Yes?”

Dashvara gave him a friendly smile.

“I think you’re forgetting something. Remember that figurine I was carving last time?”

Chubby arched an eyebrow.

“I do remember it. Have you finished it already?”

Dashvara nodded firmly and handed him the eagle.

“When I started it, I didn’t know what shape to give it, but when you appeared you gave me an idea. And I carved this for you, Inspector.”

The federate looked genuinely amazed and took the gift in his free hand. He examined it before looking up.

“Is that an eagle?”

Dashvara shrugged, smiling.

“What do you think?”

“It looks like it. It’s very well done.” He glanced at the sculpture, became confused, and cleared his throat. “Do you really want to give it to me?”

He looked incredulous. Dashvara raised his eyebrows briefly.

“Does it seem so strange to you that someone would offer you something, Inspector?”

Chubby looked him in the eye for a few seconds, and a light smile stretched his lips.

“Thanks, Dash.”

Dashvara repressed a gasp. So the Chubby remembered his name…

“You’re welcome,” he replied casually. “By the way, what you have in your hand is much more than an eagle, Inspector. It is the mirror of your Eternal Bird. When you look at the sculpture, only you will be able to see the reflection, and I hope that it will guide your steps as did for me the sculpture that a wise old man once gave me.”

Chubby was obviously moved. A good man, Dashvara decided.

“Thank you,” the federate repeated. “I heard about this Eternal Bird once when I was studying at the Dazbon Citadel and… I think I know what you mean.” He paused for a moment and suddenly put the sculpture in his pocket and pulled the famous dictionary from his bag. “I know it’s not the same to give something that was made with your own hands as it is to give something that was bought, but… I would like you to keep it. My grandmother used to say that it’s always good to have a dictionary on hand. She was a translator.”

Dashvara smiled with all his teeth and took the dictionary almost reverently.

“If you insist, I’ll keep it. Thank you, Inspector.”

They exchanged a look of mutual recognition, and the Chubby bowed his head.

“Good luck, soldier.”

“Good luck!” Dashvara wished him.

He watched the federate as he pulled the horse’s bridle again. When he lost sight of him, he turned his attention to the cover of the book. It was made of old, worn leather, but the pages, made of lamitril paper, were in good condition. This dictionary must have been worth several dragons, Dashvara thought. Hopefully, no one would steal it.

Well, today I gave a piece of wood to a federate and told him about the Eternal Bird. He smiled mockingly. I always knew that one day the lord of the steppe would perform some feat worth telling.

When he returned to the barracks, Makarva immediately looked up from the checkerboard of katutas.

“You’re a romantic, Dash,” he taunted. “Did you ask him about the ilawatelk?”

Dashvara brandished the dictionary with a broad smile.

“No, but I have something better. And, now that I think about it, I have another word to look up.” He cleared his throat, opened the dictionary at random, and read: “Mischief: a ploy invented by Makarva of Xalya to fool his opponents, especially his brothers. Synonym: makarvary. Antonym…”

Makarva rushed at him with a loud laugh and took the dictionary from his hands.

“Don’t be a makarver!” he warned him. “So Chubby gave you this?”

“Antonym?” Zamoy inquired, with intense curiosity. “What can be the antonym of a makarvary?”

As he sat back down on the platform next to Tahisran, Dashvara thought about it.

“A boronery, perhaps? Boron, you never play any tricks on us, do you?”

The innocent eyes of Boron the Placid shone, mocking.

“I’m not so sure, Dash,” he admitted.

“What?” Makarva exclaimed indignantly, “Have you been deceiving us all this time?”

The katuta players protested, feigning deep disappointment. Miflin interrupted them by reciting:

Placidly the Placid confesses
Without mischief, the game is of little interest.

Makarva, Dashvara, and Zamoy cleared their throats and exchanged meaningful looks. The first one flipped through the dictionary painstakingly.

“Let’s see… Poet’s trouble,” he searched, passing the pages. “No, it’s not there. At poetic dementia, perhaps?”

“Look for miflinism,” Zamoy advised him.

At the irrepressible smiles of his companions, Miflin sighed as he commented:

By looking up imaginary words in dictionaries,
you can only, my brothers, do makarvaries.

They burst out laughing, including the Poet. As he picked up his piece of wood and his dagger, Dashvara saw Captain Zorvun’s mocking expression. He shook his head, laughing inwardly.

If the captain behaves like a five-year-old… what about us? But, as a wise man once said, a man must reject the bad from childhood and keep the good. He who rejects everything is dull and he who keeps everything… well, he ends up a hypocritical scoundrel like so many others.

After a few minutes, Dashvara blew on his piece of wood to clear away the sawdust and looked up at the twisted treetops of the swamps. The mist never left completely in Ariltuan.

“Tahisran?” he asked suddenly.

‘Mm?’

He was slow to speak and forgot what he wanted to ask. He shrugged.

“How old are you?”

The silence continued. Dashvara was beginning to think that the question was perhaps a little indiscreet when Tah replied:

‘I don’t know, Dash. A good number of years. I stopped counting them a long time ago. I don’t get old anyway.’

Dashvara’s eyes widened.

“Are you immortal?”

He perceived a mental smile.

‘No,’ the shadow admitted quietly. ‘I like to think that nothing is immortal. Yet, if you ask me if I am capable of dying of old age, I would be unable to answer you. I don’t know the answer. To be honest with you, it’s a question I try not to think about too much. When time has no limits, it has no meaning. And there’s nothing more disconcerting than something that doesn’t make sense.’

Dashvara stood still for a moment. What the shadow said was sobering. Who could be afraid of immortality? Not a mortal, anyway, but which fear was more terrible, a mortal’s fear of death or an immortal’s fear of eternity? He smiled, bewildered by his own thoughts.

In the end, you’re not the real philosopher of the group, Dash: the shadow beats you by a lot.

He left his dagger on a board to scratch his neck. His hand found a kind of lump, and Dashvara gasped in alarm.

“Tsu!” he cried. “I think I have another tick.”

The drow stopped playing the flute and nodded without wavering.

“Let’s go in. I’ll take it off for you.”

With the arrival of the inspector, the Xalyas had all gone outside, and now, the shack was completely deserted. In no time at all, Tsu took the cursed parasite away from him.

“What would we do without you, Tsu?” Dashvara smiled. “Sometimes I envy you,” he admitted while pouring himself a bowl of water. “Parasites don’t affect you. And in three years, you’ve never been sick.”

“I had a cold last winter,” the doctor reminded him with a small drow smile. “The heat makes me tired, but the worst thing is the cold.”

He paused, and his red eyes watched Dashvara as he drank. The water was pleasantly cool: they had collected it that very night, during a rain shower.

“Dash,” Tsu said suddenly. “I wanted to talk to you about something.”

The low, hesitant tone alarmed Dashvara and intrigued him. He saw the drow sitting at the table, fiddling with his flute. He was nervous, and this was rather unusual. Dashvara sat down in front of him, attentive.

“What is it about?”

Tsu was slow to answer, but this was not so unusual: the drow had always been someone who tried to order his sentences before speaking them. Outside, the voices of the Xalyas could be heard, as well as the more distant rumble of the federate camp. A fly landed inches from Dashvara’s hand, but he sat quietly and waited patiently. Then, Tsu left his flute on the table, chasing the fly away.

“I know this is going to sound like madness to you,” he said, “but, in all my life as a slave, I have never known a free drow, and I wanted to let you know that I am going to try to talk with one of these Naskrahs tonight.”

Dashvara was left speechless. Tsu twisted his mouth into an apologetic smile.

“I thought I should let you know,” he insisted. “At least you.”

Dashvara tried to compose himself.

“Tsu,” he breathed in a low voice. “The whole palisade is guarded by federates. How will you get through without them seeing you? And even if you do, who’s to say the drows will welcome you with open arms? On the steppe, we were all humans, and look how we always fought against each other. Just because you’re a drow doesn’t mean that all the drows will welcome you like a…” he paused, realizing he was drifting off. You’re giving him stupid arguments because you’re afraid of losing him, aren’t you? You don’t want to help him find his freedom. What you want is for him to stay with you so he can continue to play his flute and remove your ticks. Face it, Dash. You’re being selfish. For once, Tsu finds the opportunity to run away and return with his people, and all you do is trying to convince him not to go. You can’t be more vile.

He sighed.

“Sorry, Tsu. You are right. You should give it a try. These drows will welcome you very well, surely. This is the chance of a lifetime. You mustn’t let it pass.” He met his red eyes and held them resolutely. “Do you have a plan?”

10 A choice

The sun was still shining in the sky when Dashvara and Tsu walked towards the gate of the palisade.

First and foremost, both of them had resolved that whatever Tsu was going to do, it must not harm any of the Xalyas. So the first thing they both decided was not to say a word to them about the escape. Then they thought that, since Tsu could not easily deceive the vigilance of the federal patrols, the best thing to do was to make up a credible story and try to get out through the front door. If it worked, it worked. If it didn’t, Tsu promised he would settle for just imagining that he had spoken with these drows. Imagination was sometimes a pretty safe substitute for rash actions.

The Xalyas, of course, suspected something. Dashvara had told them that he was going to the swamps to pick up one last piece of good wood to carve once he got to Titiaka and that he would be back before nightfall. He had not lied to them: that was exactly what he thought he would do. But when Makarva had worriedly offered to go with them, Dashvara had refused, and his refusal had confirmed everyone’s suspicions. By mutual agreement, he and the drow had abandoned the barracks before anyone really started asking questions. Zorvun had merely frowned. Who knows what he thought of all this…

Dashvara sighed silently as they walked the last few steps to the newly repaired door. He reached out a hand and opened it without anyone calling out to him. Two federates standing guard on the other side jumped when they saw them come out with a quiet but firm step.

“Hello, federates,” Dashvara said. “Is there any movement at the edge?”

The guards consulted each other, disconcerted.

“Are you going out?” one asked.

Dashvara raised an eyebrow.

“I remind you that we are the Doomed of Compassion. Before you came, we went out patrolling every day.”

He and Tsu took a few steps forward on the grass, but the guards didn’t hold them back. Great. Dashvara turned to add:

“By the way, you didn’t answer me. Did you perceive any movement at the edge? In the barracks, we don’t know anything about what’s going on in the swamps lately. Are those Naskrahs finally gone?”

“Those what?” one of the guards repeated, nervously.

The other shrugged.

“These last four days have been very quiet, Doomed. I don’t think you’re in any danger if you don’t stray too far from the edge. Are you going to get firewood?”

Dashvara rolled his eyes.

“Wood for carving, federate. Trying to make fire with the wood of these trees is more or less like trying to make fire with water. Farewell, federate.”

“Farewell, Doomed.” Faced with his companion’s quizzical look, the guard murmured, “Surely they know what they are doing.”

Following Tsu, Dashvara walked down to the edge, wondering why on earth they thought the federates were going to stop them from getting out. After all, Compassion was their sector, and in theory, it was the only place where they could move freely.

Well, he sighed. We’ve done the easy part; now to the hard part: finding those damned drows without them killing us first.

They entered the swamps. They had been there countless times over the past three years, and Dashvara doubted that many of the Doomed had spent more than a week wandering through Ariltuan as they had. Both of them knew the area well, but that didn’t stop them from turning grim as their boots sank a yard deep into the mire. The dense vegetation soon hid them from Compassion. They walked for a while, wading through the swamp while listening to the irregular whistling of birds and insects. A large, red-feathered bird flapped its wings noisily, fluttering over the treetops, and Dashvara smiled, thinking that it might be Scarlet, Miflin’s bird. At one point, he thought he heard suspicious footsteps and splashing. He stopped for a moment and raised his hand to one of his swords in concern. Normally, milfids didn’t venture this close to the edge until after dark. But this could very well be an orc expedition.

“If these drows are from Shjak, they must be delighted with this land,” Dashvara commented wryly, and resumed walking. The land of Shjak was said to be a pine-forested area with relatively dry soil.

“As much as us, I guess,” Tsu agreed. Finally, they came to a small clearing, and the drow stopped, “Dash, I think you’ve gone far enough.”

Dashvara shook his head, confused.

“No, Tsu. I can’t let you go on alone.”

The drow’s bloody eyes riveted into his.

“I’m not going to let you take any more risks for me. It’s bad enough that you’ve accompanied me here. Now, please, cut that damn piece of wood and go back to Compassion. Say you’ve lost sight of me.”

Dashvara gestured exasperatedly to the sword Tsu wore at his belt.

“You don’t even know how to handle it. What if a milfid attacks you before you find the drows?”

“I will defend myself,” Tsu replied, stone-faced. “Dash, remember that the drows of Shjak are at war with Diumcili. If they see you with me, they will kill you.” They glared at each other, and the drow muttered, “I’ve seen you suffer enough as it is.”

Dashvara knew exactly what he was talking about. Of the two, he felt that Tsu was the one who had been more traumatized by the endless hours of torture he had subjected him to under Arviyag’s orders three years ago. He sighed, giving him a gloomy look.

“If you don’t find them, come back to Compassion,” he said at last, with a heavy heart. He couldn’t believe he was abandoning the drow in the middle of this carnivorous nest…

Tsu smiled.

“If I don’t find them, the last thing I’d think of would be to stay here and spend the night with the orcs.” He hesitated. “Dash, if we don’t meet again…”

He did not continue; knowing that it was difficult for the drow to talk about feelings, Dashvara completed:

“If we don’t meet again, we will miss each other like two old friends. I hope you can finally enjoy freedom, Tsu.”

The drow bowed his head, and his eyes sparkled with emotion.

“I hope that you will find it soon, my friend.”

Smiling, Dashvara gave him a brotherly hug in farewell. The drow was small, even smaller than Shurta, and unlike Shurta, he was not even stout. He almost looked like a child. But, of course, Dashvara knew perfectly well that he was far from being one. He put on a more serene expression before stepping aside and solemnly saying:

“May the Eternal Bird guide you, brother.”

The drow smiled frankly, and without another word, he walked away, crossed the clearing, and slipped through the vines, trees, and mud. Dashvara watched him disappear, unmoving, feeling almost guilty about what he was about to do. Almost.

As soon as he lost sight of Tsu, he followed him. His friend intended to get to his people’s camp alive, and Dashvara was going to make sure that he did. And if they caught him… he would deal with it in time.

It was not easy to follow a person through a swamp without being seen. The orcs were able to do it easily because they climbed trees and their hands held on tightly so they wouldn’t fall, even though the trunks were wet and slippery. Dashvara simply walked through the mud as stealthily as possible.

You’re a man of the steppe, and you try to be sneaky by wading through the mud… What do you bet Tsu finds out about you eventually?

However, the drow seemed absorbed in his thoughts. Would he even notice if a milfid stood in his way? Dashvara suppressed an incredulous sigh when he saw that Tsu was slowing down. Suddenly, the drow stopped in the middle of shrubs with huge leaves; he shook his head. Was he plunged into some inner monologue? It seemed so.

‘Are you spying on a friend, Dash?’

Dashvara almost let out a grunt of surprise. He controlled himself and glanced at Tahisran, who was lurking beside him. How had he managed to follow their trail? Dashvara knew that tracks disappeared quickly in this mire… but perhaps the murky water had guided him, he thought.

Of course, he did not answer his question: a drow’s hearing is finer than a human’s, and he could not be sure if Tsu could have heard a whisper. So he simply pointed to his sabers with his thumb, made a vague gesture around, and indicated his eyes and then Tsu. The shadow seemed to understand and remained motionless, expectant.

Are you going to stay here and not move until the milfids wake up, drow? Dashvara growled inwardly.

Almost immediately, Tsu resumed his walk. Only to stop again about twenty steps further on. What the hell was happening to him now?

‘He looks indecisive,’ Tahisran observed.

It was obvious, but Dashvara couldn’t figure out why. Was there something he couldn’t see from his position? It was likely, since he was tucked in between the bushes and couldn’t see much.

Tsu had just taken another step when he let out a muffled cry of surprise, drew his sword, then… let out a nervous chuckle. He muttered something to himself, as if to calm down, and took a breath of air. Then, to Dashvara’s astonishment, he turned around and started walking briskly. The Xalya exchanged a disconcerted look with Tahisran. Was there any logic to what the drow was doing, or had he lost his mind?

It was at this moment that Dashvara heard the characteristic clank of a weapon being drawn from its scabbard. A slender, hooded drow with a less severe face than Tsu’s stepped in his way, his head cocked to one side.

“Can we know where the hell you came from?” he asked him in Common Tongue. The voice was reminiscent of a surprised child. However, the size of that being was not that of a child but rather that of a teenager.

Dashvara remained as still as a stone. If there was a drow there… there must be others around. He glanced around discreetly, and despite his efforts to keep a cool head, he thought he saw suspicious figures everywhere.

‘Don’t worry, I’ll warn you if they attack you from behind,’ Tahisran promised.

Dashvara nodded very slightly as Tsu, who looked no less tense than he did, replied:

“My name is Tsu. I come from the Tower of Compassion, and I have been a slave since I was born. I have come to…”

He paused as the other drow sheathed his sword and removed his hood, revealing long, smooth white hair. Dashvara couldn’t quite make out his expression, but it didn’t seem hostile. However, Tsu had flinched, and Dashvara became concerned.

“You have come to know your people,” the white-haired drow completed. His voice grew deeper and more serene.

Tsu, on the other hand, seemed to be getting more and more altered. He ran a hand over his forehead, as if to wipe away the sweat.

“You are…?” he stammered. “You’re a Hakassu?”

“Yes,” the Naskrah smiled. “That should not surprise you, my son. I suppose you already know the purpose for which my people have come here.”

He added something in an unfamiliar language, and after a moment’s hesitation, Tsu nodded and answered him, pronouncing each syllable indecisively. Dashvara held back an annoyed sigh. What could they possibly be saying to each other now?

Well, who cares as long as they get along? he thought. Let’s hope those two get away from here soon. It’s high time we got back to Compassion. Especially since the light was already beginning to get very dim in the undergrowth, and if night caught him halfway, he preferred not to think about what might happen.

Huddled by the shrub, he barely dared to blink. He heard a splashing sound and saw an amphibian approaching him out of the corner of his eye. It was a satriton, he noted while relaxing. It was not dangerous as long as one did not touch its stinging skin. The satriton passed within a few feet of him without paying attention and dove into the mud like a mole. Soon the mosquitoes began to buzz in his ears, and he ran out of patience. As if this was the ideal place for a meeting, really… Couldn’t these two go to where the drows had settled?

The sounds of the night were awakening, mournful, and ominous as omens of death. Dashvara shivered as he looked for the shadow, but could not find it. Tahisran could have gone without him noticing, but his intuition told him that it was still sitting near him. And he confirmed it when the shadow commented:

‘It’s a shame I never got interested in this language. The truth is that I was never very good at the languages of the Underground. And yet I studied quite a few of them at the School of Gon.’

He paused as the whispers of the drows could still be heard. They had moved away, and with the increasing darkness, their voices had been reduced to mere whispers. And they were still talking…

‘This is the language of the drows of Shjak,’ Tahisran observed. ‘Tell me, Dash, do you know who the Hakassu are? No? Really?’ Dashvara wondered how the shadow saw him shaking his head in that darkness. ‘Well, I do,’ Tahisran confessed in a modest tone. ‘The Hakassu are the royal family that once ruled the lands of Shjak. I passed through there years ago, long before I even locked myself in that tower in the Underground, but when I passed through there again looking for the girl’s parents, the Hakassu no longer ruled and had become a sort of sacred royal family. So this white-haired drow is a member of this sacred family. What I wonder is how many of them there are. Maybe a lot more. I’ve known places where the families had hundreds of members. That is, they were families with fifth cousins and that sort of things…’ he smiled mentally. ‘I hope I’m not boring you. Anyway, you don’t have much to do except listen to me, do you? It’s a bit like me when I was in that crate: I couldn’t move, and I had no choice but to listen to the pirates’ chatter. There’s nothing worse than being confused with something sacred, believe me. These Hakassu must be tired of being idols to their people.’

He paused for another long moment. Then he informed him:

‘They’re gone.’

Dashvara’s eyes widened. He couldn’t see anything. He wanted to ask him, “Are you sure?” But he didn’t even dare to sigh. Even so, he couldn’t stay there any longer: his legs were shaking with fatigue, and he felt that, if he stayed there any longer, his ears would start pouring out mud.

He stood up slowly, coming out of his hiding place, and his boots made a sucking sound as he pulled himself out of the muck like a mold.

“I can’t see, Tah,” he muttered.

‘Give me your hand. I will guide you.’

Dashvara held back a burst of incredulous laughter. Eternal Bird, is he serious?

‘Dash? Did you hear me?’ the shadow asked, worried.

Dashvara smiled in the dark and had no better idea than to follow Tahisran’s advice. He reached out blindly and felt the shadow take his hand with its own, cold but firm.

In silence, they began to advance. A cry of milfid could be heard in the distance. It was replaced by the closer croaking of frogs. Dashvara stifled another nervous laugh.

“Tah… This is crazy. Can you really see anything in this darkness?”

‘Strictly speaking, I can’t, not really. But I am a perceptist,’ he said, as if that explained everything.

Dashvara knew from Tsu that perceptism was a celmist art that allowed to check the surroundings with spells. What he didn’t know was how reliable those were.

Bah, he thought. Trust Tah and just keep it quiet.

A few moments later, as if an evil spirit had tried to upset him, his chest constricted, and a hacking cough shook him. Tah stopped pulling him.

‘Gee,’ he murmured, saddened. ‘You’re still sick, after all this time.’

“It’s these swamps,” Dashvara explained, catching his breath. “Tsu says it doesn’t do me any good. It was much worse during the sixth escape, believe me. If Tsu hadn’t been there with his potion, I probably wouldn’t have survived.”

‘Dash…’ Tahisran cleared its throat.

“Don’t worry, I suppose I’ll get better in Titiaka,” Dashvara said. “If only we can get out of here.”

‘Dash,’ the shadow repeated.

Then Dashvara noticed the troubled tone that vibrated in Tahisran’s mental voice, and he broke out in a cold sweat.

“What?”

‘We are surrounded.’

Of course, nobody can say that I was especially discreet coughing like a maniac… A strange resignation overcame Dashvara, which didn’t stop his heart from beating like a runaway horse.

“Then run, Tah,” he whispered. “At worst, I’ll join you in the grave.”

Several hurried splashes and a grunt were heard.

“Dash, what the hell are you doing here?”

He almost choked on his saliva when he recognized Tsu’s voice. Relief rendered him speechless for a few seconds.

“Tsu!” He knew that drows had strange night vision, and he would have bet that the doctor could see him. He hissed through his teeth, his voice unsure. “What am I doing here, you say? Well, hey, you see: I’m cutting up pieces of wood.”

A hand grabbed him by the arm, and he stiffened.

“Is that you, Tsu?”

“Yes, it’s me,” the drow muttered. “You followed me?”

“I followed you,” Dashvara confirmed.

He heard him speak words in the language of Shjak. With no doubt, this meant that, as Tahisran had said, there were other drows surrounding them. When Tsu fell silent, another voice answered him. And another, from the opposite side, intervened. It sounded like a choir.

Tahisran no longer held his hand, and Dashvara wondered where he had gone. Perhaps a shadow could live for many years, but he doubted he would survive if a drow ran him through with a sword. When Tsu spoke again, he seemed calm, and Dashvara decided that, if the drow was calm, he could be calm too. So he relaxed, and when the drow fell silent, he asked:

“Tell me, Tsu, since you have some friends here with you, could you ask them to give me a lantern to go back to Compassion? Unless they intend to kill me, of course. In that case, I’d just as soon they not light any lanterns.”

“We’re not coming back with any lanterns, Dash. We went without, we’ll come back without.”

Dashvara gasped.

“We?” he repeated, confused. Tsu was already pulling him by the arm. “Wait a moment, Tsu. Will you come back with me?”

“I’ll come back with you,” the drow confirmed. “Come on, don’t worry. We have an escort, nothing will happen to us.”

Dashvara followed him, totally lost. As he hurried along, he heard murmurs of very light footsteps and splattering. For some reason, the drows were going to let him live. He really couldn’t understand why. Eternal Bird, how he longed to get out of this swamp!

“Tsu… I don’t understand,” he murmured. “Didn’t you want to be a free man?”

“Yes. But some things are more important. Stop talking and move on.”

Dashvara raised an eyebrow and kept moving, hoping Tahisran wouldn’t get lost. They were almost to the edge when they began to hear voices.

“Dash!” a voice thundered.

“Tsu!” another shouted.

They were the Xalyas. Dashvara saw the lights of several lanterns between the twisted trunks and blushed with shame. Tsu whispered:

“Good. Take this.” He placed an irregular block in his hand. It was a piece of wood, hard and resistant. Where the hell did Tsu get it? “I’ll give you the official version,” the drow resumed: “while you were cutting your piece of wood, I wandered off to look for medicinal plants. I got lost and came across an orc who gave me a private message from the drows to Captain Faag and… you found me, and that was it. We didn’t see any drows, did we?”

Dashvara didn’t hesitate for a second before nodding. Whatever agreement Tsu had reached with the Naskrahs, he didn’t want to hear it right now.

“Your freedom was short-lived, Tsu. This is the last time I’ll say goodbye to you if it means you’ll be back so soon.” He gave him a mocking grin and huffed impatiently, “Let’s get out of here.”

He headed straight for the lights, dragging boots heavier than two anvils.

“Dash,” Tsu said, holding him back. His voice trembled a little. “You saw me turn back? You saw me, didn’t you?”

The Gem was slowly seeping through the branches, and Dashvara saw an intense glint in the drow’s red eyes. He understood that, in his question, him “turning back” had a deeper meaning. He smiled.

“I saw you, Tsu. And, although I may be acting like a selfish person by saying this, I’m glad you’re coming back with us.”

“Yes…” the drow murmured, following him. “Me too.”

Dashvara heard a long, silent sigh, but he wasn’t sure how to interpret it.

Don’t worry, brother. Decisions like this are neither good nor bad… They just are.

11 Farewell, flies and swamps

Despite the Xalyas’ questions, Tsu would not reveal what he had told Captain Faag that night. Nor would he tell the truth about what had happened. He only repeated that he was anxious to leave Compassion, to travel to Titiaka, and to know this new master who had appeared out of the blue. When Tsu put on a stony expression, as on this occasion, even Makarva had learned to leave him alone. The drow then reminded them all that, although he considered them his brothers, he had had a previous life in which silence had been one of his greatest occupations.

How many secrets did you have to keep after torturing your victims, Tsu?

Dashvara himself did not insist on getting anything out of him, basically for two reasons. On one hand, if Tsu didn’t want to talk, he had every right in the world to remain silent; that, for the Xalyas, was almost a lemma. On the other hand, he was afraid that, if he insisted on knowing what this Hakassu had told him, Tsu would end up telling him. And Dashvara wasn’t sure he wanted to learn anything about it. He considered the matter closed and began to think about Atasiag and the journey ahead of them.

Soon you will be free, Dashvara of Xalya.

This thought made him exultant inside. Especially because he was going to see Fayrah, the Brothers of the Pearl… and maybe Zaadma again. Now that the possibility of actually seeing his goddess again was not so far away, Dashvara had begun to laugh at himself and his fantasies. More than once, in those two days of anxious waiting, he remembered one of the phrases of the shaard Maloven: ‘If a person mocks his fantasies, it is because he fears that disappointment will hurt his soul when he discovers that they are false.’ Well… Dashvara was almost certain that these fantasies could be nothing more than that, fantasies. All in all, he had fed them out of an excess of free time and lack of freedom. What value could a feeling born out of boredom have?

When the new platoon of Doomed arrived at the barracks, much of Faag’s company had retreated to Rayorah. Clearly, they no longer feared drow attacks, and for the past two days, the federates had only fought milfids. They had also let a borwerg through, and the Xalyas could not help but laugh at them amiably, diplomatically pointing out that in three years there had never been such a slack job at Compassion. The borwerg, apparently, had hit a barn, completely demolished a fence, and sent a whole herd of panicked cattle fleeing to the meadows.

“What will happen to Compassion without us?” Dashvara sighed, amused.

He was sitting on the platform, Tahisran’s bulging bag beside him and some maps of Hadriks in his hand. While they all waited for the imminent arrival of some envoy from Atasiag, the captain, already almost fully recovered, was busy giving advice to the new platoon leader. The new platoon leader didn’t seem very receptive; in fact, he had the face of one who sees death coming at a slow pace, much like all his fellow Doomed, actually. Dashvara shook his head with compassion.

“This will become one more hell of the Border, I suppose,” Lumon finally replied, throwing down a card.

“Do you guys think these men are all criminals?” Kodarah the Hairy inquired with a concentrated grimace: he was repairing a hole in his left boot, and so far, the result left a lot to be desired.

“Not all of them,” Lumon assured. “Just a moment ago, I spoke with one of the federates who brought them. Apparently, among these twenty-five recruits, there are two slaves from the Desert of Bladhy, an elf guy who seduced an important financier from Titiaka—”

“What?” both Makarva and Zamoy exclaimed.

“No, sorry,” Lumon corrected with a big laugh. “I mean that he seduced the daughter of a financier from Titiaka. The financier, otherwise, would not have sent him to the Border!” They laughed. “And then there’s a dwarf who won I don’t know how many thousands of dragons in a casino in the capital by cheating. Didn’t you see him? I don’t even think the poor guy knows how to handle a weapon… Ah!” he exclaimed abruptly, showing his cards. “Straight of Senators!”

The Archer seemed enthusiastic. In fact, they all did. They were leaving twenty-five unfortunate people at Compassion, and they were leaving for the unknown. Well, that wasn’t quite true: they had already traveled once from Titiaka to Rayorah, on foot and in the heavy autumn rains. This time, Dashvara hoped that the trip would be a little more clement. And that, once they arrived in Titiaka, the man named Atasiag would soon set them free. After all, if the Brothers of the Pearl knew the trader in question, it was possible that he shared their honorable opinion of slavery, right?

“He’s coming, he’s coming!” Pik shouted suddenly, running to the platform. He was so nervous that he was shaking all over.

Everyone threw away their cards, and Dashvara quickly picked them up before putting them in the bag with Tahisran.

‘Are you still going to put a lot of stuff in there?’ the shadow sighed.

“This was the last thing,” Dashvara assured him. He had already put in Bashak’s figurine, his bowl, and the piece of swamp wood, as well as Chubby’s dictionary and a sanfurient wolf sculpture that he had done particularly well; he had left the rest of his works with the new Doomed as compensation for their valiant sacrifice.

He slung his bag over his shoulder with one of the straps he had used for his swords. Weapons, of course, were for the replacements, and Dashvara suspected that they would need them more than they did in the near future anyway. He only regretted not being able to take a dagger with him to carve his piece of wood, but the rules were clear: no Doomed were allowed to take sharp objects out of the Border.

He stepped down from the platform, glancing around with emotion. The barracks were as tumultuous as ever, with the old Doomed eager to get out of there, the new Doomed bustling about, glancing nervously at their future home, and the federal soldiers watching the commotion with interest… So much excitement was invigorating, he thought.

When he joined the Xalyas’ troop and looked west, he saw a rider approaching with exasperating slowness in the distance.

“Ah, here comes Alta too,” Lumon said, turning to the south.

The Xalya arrived at a trot with Latish. He had left with Grumble before the new pack arrived and had handed the donkey over to Dignity’s people. Obviously, he couldn’t trust the new guys to treat Grumble with the respect she deserved. Dashvara smiled as Alta stopped Latish in front of them.

“Looks like I’m just in time,” Alta noticed good-humoredly as he saw the rider to the west.

“Well?” Arvara the Giant inquired. “Is Grumble well?”

Alta rolled his eyes.

“She grumbles. Towder promised me he’d take care of her like his own daughter.”

Makarva huffed, mocking.

“Towder has a daughter?”

“Mmph. No idea, but I trust Towder to take good care of the donkey. He better be worthy of my trust.”

“Worthy, that he is, since he is from Dignity,” Miflin joked.

“Yeah. Anyway, the whole Dignity crew wishes us a safe trip, and Towder asked me to tell the captain that we’re the best neighbors he’s ever had in his whole damn life as a Doomed.”

“Of course, we even bring them a donkey, why would they complain?” Dashvara smiled.

Alta went to leave Latish in the shed, and when he came out, Dashvara saw him walking towards the new Doomed to give them lessons on how to care for a horse.

“I’m a groom,” a man muttered, looking weary. “I know how to take care of a horse.”

A mixture of distrust and relief appeared on Alta’s face. Near Dashvara, Lumon commented in a low voice:

“If I recall correctly, that guy was a horse thief.”

They exchanged eloquent looks and cleared their throats.

“You’d better not tell Alta,” Zamoy concluded, cautiously.

All agreed, and Sashava called the captain, exasperated that he was still talking to the new chief. He impatiently waved one of the crutches that Dashvara had carved for him since that damned brizzia crushed his leg.

“He’s coming, Captain!” he bellowed.

“I’m coming, I’m coming!” Zorvun replied. He said a few more words to the Doomed man, greeted him, and finally joined the Xalyas. He looked at the rider with a radiant expression that was rarely seen in him. Dashvara half-suppressed an impatient gasp.

“You can tell he’s in a hurry to get here,” he commented. The damned horseman was moving as fast as a hedgehog on two legs. However, everything that moves forward eventually gets somewhere, and the rider finally reached Compassion.

“Do you know him?” the captain asked in a low voice.

Dashvara said no with a disappointed gesture. His face did not look familiar. The man was young, with an emerging beard, brown eyes, and an old hat. He stopped his horse in front of them.

“Are you the Xalyas of Compassion?” he asked.

The captain stepped forward in confirmation, and after a quick glance at the area, the federate waved his hand.

“Get moving. We will review you at Rayorah.”

Dashvara glanced questioningly at Makarva before heading west with the others. Obviously, the bipedal hedgehog was in a hurry all of a sudden. He noticed that his gaze fell on each face as they passed him. He’s counting us, he realized. Was he an envoy from Atasiag, or just an employee who handled the slave convoys? Not knowing, they could not risk asking prying questions.

They were already a hundred steps from the barracks when the rider asked, surprised:

“Is the drow also a Xalya?”

“He is a Xalya,” Captain Zorvun assured.

The federate looked skeptical but made no further comment during the trip to Rayorah. Sashava led the way with Sedrios the Elder, wielding his crutches with energy. The day was not warm, the sky was cloudy, and the morale of the Xalyas was high, so they took much less than three hours to arrive. Before the Ariltuan swamps disappeared behind a rise in the terrain, Dashvara took a quick look at them. Inexplicably, he wondered if leaving this shack was really a good thing. But, of course, you should stay: what sick mind could possibly have the idea of abandoning such a bucolic and pleasant place?

Dashvara smiled.

“Are you already thinking about the flies you left behind, Dash?” Makarva mocked. He walked beside him. The other Xalyas chatted animatedly while the rider supervised their progress.

Dashvara shrugged casually.

“The truth is, I didn’t leave them behind. The flies follow me. What do you bet that in Titiaka they reappear?”

Makarva smiled.

“The same ones?”

“Well, prove to me that they are not the same,” Dashvara challenged him, amused.

Rayorah was a walled city of about two thousand inhabitants. It was the least populated of the Communes, followed by Pearl, Suhugan, and Akres. Of the three cantons in the Federation, Atria was the least friendly to the Council. Ruhuvah had been waging an eternal war against the Shjak drows for eight years, and Titiaka was getting rich as a magic treasure by trading with the entire coast of the Pilgrim Ocean. Almost everything Dashvara knew about Diumcili he had learned it from talking with Tsu and the Doomed of Dignity, since the people of Rayorah avoided talking to them whenever possible.

They did not get very far into the city: the federate led them through the wall, directly to the adjacent barracks. Several guards watched them pass with wary expressions. Surely, it was not every day that twenty-three hardened Doomed were seen together in Rayorah. Normally, the rules of the Doomed forbade them to enter more than three at a time.

They passed through the gates of the barracks, and Dashvara reached out to catch the lively rumble of the city. There was the screeching of wheels and the distant voice of a crier. And over those, the sound of Xalyas’ boots echoed against the pavement. The federate in the hat waved them into a courtyard and asked them to leave their bags in a corner. When Dashvara dropped his, he whispered:

“If I were you, I wouldn’t stay in the bag, Tah. They’ll control everything.”

The shadow did not answer but stirred slightly.

“Line up, warriors!”

Dashvara turned around, surprised at the powerful flash, and almost gasped when he saw a human with a pair of large black glasses enter the courtyard on a wheelchair. He recognized him well.

It was Kroon, the dragon-monk of Dazbon.

12 The Red Dragon

“Line up, warriors!”

Kroon’s black glasses stood out on his face. Obviously, the dragon-monk had found a solution to be able to see and keep the light from bothering him. His appearance had not changed much… nor his gruff character, he sensed.

Exchanging glances, the Xalyas eagerly lined up. The captain managed to get in line next to Dashvara.

“What about that one? Do you know him?” he asked in a whisper.

Dashvara nodded.

“This is—”

“Silence in the row!” Kroon bellowed, moving forward on his wheelchair.

Bloody monk…, Dashvara thought with a clear throat.

“You, stand up straight,” the monk barked at Zamoy.

Several disgruntled sighs were clearly heard. They all knew that, as slaves, they could only expect to be treated as what they were—mere traded goods—but, as Doomed, they had never had to deal directly with the masters who kept them on the Border. Blessed are we the Doomed, Dashvara laughed to himself.

The arrival of the Xalyas had attracted a number of idle guards who had settled on the other side of the courtyard to watch them. Dashvara gave them a weary look. Had they nothing better to do?

“Look straight ahead, soldier,” Kroon croaked.

Since there was no way to tell which way the monk was looking, Dashvara had trouble understanding that he was addressing him. He sighed, complying with his command, and the Dazbonian began to quickly question each of them in a particularly affable, biting tone. He was insufferable.

“Sashava, huh?” Kroon hurled toward the beginning of the row. “Straighten up like a man and be glad you still have the other leg.”

Dashvara gasped, and as he saw the old Xalya clench his fists on his crutches and his face turn crimson with anger, he feared the worst. Control yourself, Sashava… Luckily, a few whispered words from Lumon calmed him down. Dashvara breathed out. Good. Just out of curiosity, how long do you think you’ll keep the session going, you old grump? Until someone jumps on your neck and strangles you, maybe?

When he had reprimanded Makarva on the deplorable state of his uniform, the dragon-monk passed to Dashvara and said:

“You don’t look any better. What’s your name?”

Without being able to see his eyes, it was difficult to guess his expression.

“Dashvara of Xalya,” he replied with a scowl. Any joy he might have felt when Kroon appeared had vanished after hearing him spew so much venom in just a few minutes.

The monk pouted.

“His Eminence Atasiag Peykat has entrusted me to choose his new slaves. Don’t you see my badge? I am an officer and administrative secretary. Call me secretary.”

Dashvara glanced at his badge, which depicted a golden scale. He sighed again and gave him a warning look before saying:

“Yes, Secretary.”

“I don’t like your face,” Kroon growled. “Consider yourself lucky that Atasiag Peykat saved you from a Doomed life. You feel grateful, soldier, don’t you?”

One part of Dashvara would have gladly punched that damned “secretary” in the face. But the other part advised him not to. He repeated firmly:

“Yes, Secretary.”

“Good, good. Good barbarian,” Kroon said with a smile, and then turned his attention to the captain.

This time, Zorvun was careful not to add the title of “captain” in front of his name. When he had finished his pernicious questions, Kroon said to the federate in the hat:

“Boy! Take them out to be marked.”

“The drow too, secretary?” the young man hesitated.

Kroon did not answer immediately, and Dashvara understood that he was trying to find out if Tsu was part of the lot. Dashvara nodded quietly, and the monk followed suit briskly.

“The drow too.”

As the young federate led them in line to a door in the courtyard, Makarva hissed through his teeth.

“Mark us?” he complained in a low voice. “They too are going to mark us?”

“All masters own a mark,” Tsu whispered.

“Quiet!” the youth in the hat shouted. “Roll up your shirt sleeves and come in.”

Dashvara rolled up the sleeve of his right arm, where the black beetle of the Doomed already appeared. Next to it was an almost invisible identification rune that allowed some celmist inspectors to identify each slave individually. And just below the beetle were the numbers 547, the year the seal was applied according to the Cili calendar. As Tsu rolled up his sleeve, Dashvara saw Kroon’s eyebrows appear above his glasses. The truth was, no matter how many times he had seen them, he never ceased to be impressed by the number of marks the drow had on his arm. As a kid, he had served on a country estate, then he had been bought by a middle-class man who had sent him to study in Titiaka with his own son to “help” the latter in his studies—as Tsu had confessed, during the six years of his service, he had done all the homework for his young master—; later, he had been bought by a rich doctor, then by a mercenary chief, before falling into the hands of Arviyag. In all, he had five marks surrounded by the counter-seal of the “loyal serf”. For a skilled doctor like Tsu, what wouldn’t a rich merchant give? Once, Dashvara had asked Tsu how he had managed to force Arviyag to give him up. The drow had shrugged and looked at him with an amused glint in his red eyes. As he walked behind Makarva, Dashvara smiled. If anyone had taught him to respect the secrets of others, that was Tsu.

The windows of the room they entered let in a dim light. Two men were waiting for them there, each holding a large ornate seal in their hands. Dashvara knew that slaves were branded with red-hot branding iron in some places. The Essimeans did it on the steppe. However, as the man who had branded them with the black beetle seal had pointed out back in Titiaka, the federates were more advanced in the field: they used colored products that seeped deep under the skin like parasites. They were impossible to remove. Dashvara had tried many times and concluded that, to get rid of the mark of the Doomed, he would have had to cut off his forearm. In the long run, he had even come to appreciate the beetle, for if there was one thing the Diumcilians had to be credited with, it was artistic taste: when it came to the coats of arms and marks of the slaves, they were true experts.

While one of the men began to apply a counter-seal to the black beetle, the other passed in front of all the former Doomed, scrutinizing them intently. When he met Dashvara’s gaze, he turned white as a shroud, and the Xalya recognized him immediately.

“Dash?” Rokuish murmured. Dashvara nodded imperceptibly with a small knowing smile. The Shalussi swallowed hard, and realizing that if the Rayorah guards caught him recognizing a slave, things could get ugly, he immediately looked away and went straight to the front of the line. The other had already affixed four seals. “Hold out your arm,” he asked Sedrios the Old.

The Shalussi’s voice was not very authoritative, but precisely, this brought obvious relief between the Xalyas. Kroon’s behavior had made them doubt that they were really on the road to freedom, but Rokuish’s kind and expressive eyes reflected all the truth they needed to keep moving forward.

“The Shalussi?” Captain Zorvun inquired in a whisper.

Dashvara nodded without taking his eyes off Rokuish.

“Himself.”

The young steppeman had not changed much since the last time he had seen him. Clean-shaven and elegantly dressed. No matter how hard he tried to hide his nervousness and emotion, all his movements betrayed him.

Brave Shalussi, what the hell are you doing in Diumcili?

Dashvara wiped the smile off his face as the Rayorah man came before him with his seal. He held out his arm, and with efficiency, the guard applied the mold with the product. He held it there for thirty seconds, and Dashvara felt the cold, abrasive touch of the liquid. When the federate withdrew the mold, a black circle of thorns and intricately intertwined vines surrounded the beetle.

I’ll end up becoming a walking work of art, Dashvara thought, looking away from the mark.

The Rayorah guard was done well before Rokuish, and without waiting for him to finish, he walked away, leaving them alone. Immediately, the murmurs rose.

“Is this a real mark?” Zamoy asked to the Shalussi.

Rokuish became flushed.

“Well… I think so.”

“So we’re still slaves?” Sashava muttered.

Rokuish stirred, uneasy.

“Look, there’s no other way—”

“Shalussi,” a threatening voice suddenly cut him off. Everyone jumped, and Dashvara saw Kroon enter on his chair, alone. The dragon-monk stared at Rokuish through his dark glasses as he said, “Get back to work. And the rest of you, shut up.”

Rokuish cleared his throat, nodded, and continued to apply his mold. When he reached Makarva, Dashvara looked curiously at the red mark: it was an intricate scarlet and silver seal with the elongated body of a dragon curving through it.

Impressive. How long did they have to spend making this wonder? We may be slaves, but they do decorate us well.

When Rokuish approached the seal on Dashvara’s arm, his hand was trembling.

“Don’t worry, Rok,” Dashvara smiled. “I’m not nearly as tattooed as the Essimean priests. You still have enough room to draw on my arm. Go ahead.”

The Shalussi’s eyes expressed all the emotion of their reunion, and Dashvara’s smile widened. I, too, am happy to see you again, Shalussi…

Kroon whistled quietly:

“Barbarians, cooperate a little! Save the feelings for later.”

Dashvara recovered a half-seriousness, and more calmly, Rokuish pressed the seal against his skin. Under the effect of the product, he felt his muscles contract, but afterwards, he was only left with an annoying itch. He remembered that, three years ago, this sensation had lasted a whole week, so the first thing he did was to get used to it and ignore the burning of the two seals.

“He looks like a nice boy,” the captain murmured as Rokuish was already attending to Alta, the last in line.

Dashvara gave him a wry pout and completed Zorvun’s thought:

“For a Shalussi. That’s what you just thought, right, Captain?”

Zorvun rolled his eyes but did not deny it.

“Anyway,” Dashvara added, “our required level of sympathy for others has dropped significantly in the last three years, don’t you think, Captain? I even managed to feel sympathy for an orc who was coming to kill me.”

Zorvun smiled, but it disappeared immediately.

“What about this cripple?” he whispered.

Dashvara shrugged.

“A good man,” he assured. “Although he has a drinking problem.”

Kroon grunted, and Dashvara paled as he realized that they had been speaking in Common Tongue.

“You are mistaken, barbarian. I haven’t had a drop of wine in three years,” he revealed.

Dashvara raised an eyebrow and was about to declare that such a feat should be celebrated with a bottle of wine when the young man with the hat who had led them to Rayorah entered the room; the dragon monk let out a roar.

“Straighten up, soldiers! Now you belong to a new master named Atasiag Peykat. You will travel to Titiaka, and there you will be informed of your new occupations. You, my boy, take them to the dining hall, let them eat something. Then send them to the baths, they stink like the canals of Dazbon. Once that’s done, get them into the wagons before the bells ring twice, got it? I want them to get to Akres tonight.”

The young man with the hat nodded energetically and did his duty efficiently: Dashvara came out of the dining hall full and left the baths scrubbed and soaped. When the young man came out of the baths and handed them new boots and newly washed and dried tunics and pants, Zamoy chuckled.

“Say, being a slave is starting to look less terrible to me,” he confessed to his two brothers.

“I’m even going to have boots without holes!” Kodarah rejoiced.

“That’s what I was saying,” Dashvara confirmed aloud while tying the laces of a boot: “send a man into a dark well, and he will rejoice in one small ray of light.”

“Well, that’s just it,” Miflin said, sitting on a pallet. “The one who lives continuously able to see the sun does not enjoy it as much as the one who can see it only rarely.”

Dashvara looked up at the ceiling with a skeptical expression.

“Following your reasoning, someone could not enjoy his freedom if he had not lost it before. Or at least he wouldn’t enjoy it as much. Is that what you want to explain to me?”

Miflin nodded his head vigorously as his brothers and Makarva huffed, amused.

“Obviously, yes. A slave who regains his freedom can really appreciate it.”

“So you mean that everyone should be enslaved and then freed,” Dashvara reasoned with a small smile. “And everyone should die and then live. That way we’d all be much happier, rejoicing in all that we’ve lost and gained. Sorry, Poet, but your reasoning doesn’t convince me. It is not necessary to have suffered to rejoice. For me, it is enough to know that I can lose the little freedom I have left to appreciate it. And I even consciously enjoy the freedom of thought, even though I know that, that one, I will keep it until my death.”

He finished tying his bootlaces while Miflin nodded. Makarva, Kodarah, and Zamoy had been watching the exchange like perfect spectators, but they soon burst out laughing when Dashvara fell silent. Makarva cleared his throat.

“This time, the one who started ranting was Dash, didn’t you get that impression, Zamoy?”

“The impression, yes,” the latter agreed. “But, as Dash would say, an impression does not necessarily reflect reality.”

As his friends laughed, Dashvara shrugged, sighing and feigning resignation. He noticed that the young man in the old hat was watching them curiously from the bathhouse door. He couldn’t have understood what they said, they were speaking in Oy’vat, but perhaps he was just surprised to see the Doomed so happy.

“Hurry up, soldiers!” he barked.

Dashvara exchanged a weary look with the captain, but imitating the others, he hurriedly left all the old clothes in a large basket, and since no belts had been brought to them and the clothes were very loose, he put his white Doomed belt back on before following the official into the corridors of the barracks. He snorted inwardly. Seeing familiar faces had made him deeply happy, but even so, he had the uneasy feeling that neither Rokuish nor Kroon had a very clear idea of what lay ahead for the Xalyas. They were involved in the transfer, that’s true, but they were not the ones who initiated it. The one who really held the strings of this transfer seemed to be this Atasiag Peykat. A slave buyer and a stranger who, for some reason, had chosen them.

13 The Journey of Peace

After marking them and making them presentable, Rokuish and Kroon left them in the hands of the federal guards who handled the slave transfers. From Rayorah to Akres, they traveled in two covered wagons, accompanied by a patrol of guards returning to the canton capital. As the wagon made good time on the paved road, Dashvara began to think about Atasiag Peykat. He must be pretty damn rich to have the luxury of maintaining twenty-three personal guards. But hadn’t Kroon called him “His Eminence”? From what Inspector Chubby had told him, the handing over of the Xalyas to Atasiag Peykat was due to a favor from the Council… Dashvara shook his head.

Bah. Why make conjectures that lead nowhere? I’ll see what it’s all about soon enough, in Titiaka. And if Rowyn and Azune ever think I can do something for them, I suppose they’ll explain.

Since it was not raining and not too hot either, the driver of the wagon had offered to remove the canvas roof, and now, vast fields of grain and pastures interrupted by scattered groves spread before Dashvara’s eyes. There were no milfids or brizzias or orcs… This was a garden of peace and harmony. He grinned and then noticed that Makarva was smiling too. He met his eyes, their smiles widened, and suddenly they both began to laugh, and their laughter intensified and spread to the Triplets.

“What the hell is wrong with you guys?” Alta articulated, perplexed.

Dashvara shook his head, unable to stop laughing. He couldn’t even stop to explain this sudden outburst. The driver of the wagon gave them a frightened look, and Atok snorted:

“Have our young people gone mad?”

“Looks like it,” Lumon agreed, scratching his nose. “Well, maybe they already were.”

Makarva snorted, trying to control himself. Dashvara was wiping away his tears when, recovering, Miflin said:

“Really, you are not very sensitive to your surroundings. Lumon, look around you! Tell me what you see.”

The Archer arched an eyebrow and exchanged a mocking look with Alta. Then Miflin recited in a curiously deep voice:

Peace whispers in each blooming flower,
Sings to life like a choral of fairies,
And in the happy and laughing breeze,
Emerges a… a…

He whistled.

“Emerges a three-syllable thing from a bag of flour,” he growled. “Why is it that in such a moment of life’s explosion I must lack inspiration? To hell with poetry.”

The others huffed, amused, knowing full well that Miflin would not have sent poetry to hell for a whole herd of horses. Dashvara finally caught his breath, feeling much better. He felt as if the laughter had freed him from the hellish chains he had been wearing for three years. Still, he knew that what awaited him in Titiaka was neither flowers nor poems about peace, but… at least he wouldn’t have to spend the nights patrolling in the mud. If it was true that a free man could appreciate freedom as much as a freed slave, it was also true that a slave hungry for freedom learned to be optimistic when the wind blew in his favor.

They arrived at Akres when the sun was already disappearing on the horizon, and instead of hearing the cries of milfids and night birds, Dashvara heard the muffled rumble of a city of more than ten thousand inhabitants. Akres was also called Silo City, simply because from there, many carts loaded with cereals, vegetables, meat, wool, skins, and an infinity of products left for Ruhuvah and Titiaka. If Titiaka was the home of gambling and maritime trade, Atria was the granary of the Federation. The Atrians were proud to be the hardest workers of the three cantons and mocked the people of Titiaka by calling them tunic polishers: according to them, they could do nothing but pull on the tunics of the rich and worship them without producing anything useful in their lives. The Titiakas, in turn, had elaborated a wide repertoire for naming the inhabitants of the Communes: the provincials, the harvesters, the earthy ones, the clog-draggers… Even among the Doomed, they noted the different origins. But no matter how much they insulted each other, the trade between the three cantons was a continuous flow of money and goods.

As soon as they entered the Akres barracks, an official greeted them and sent them one by one to a doctor to “make sure they were in good health”. While he waited his turn, Dashvara informed Tahisran that he could go out without fear, since the dormitory where they had been brought in was lit only by the outside light of the lanterns in the courtyard. The shadow left his bag, stretching as if his muscles were numb.

“Tired of being stuffed into a bag?” Dashvara asked as he sat down on a straw mattress.

He thought he saw Tahisran shrug.

‘I slept all afternoon. If it weren’t for this dictionary, I’d be like a prince in there, I assure you.’

Dashvara smiled. He still found it strange that Tahisran had decided to follow him, but the truth was that he was beginning to accept it: why try to make sense of a shadow’s actions? He was more troubled by the sympathy he felt for this creature. Even in his wildest dreams, he would never have imagined that one day he would consider a bunch of shadows as a friend. And yet here they were, both sitting next to each other, deep in thought. Dashvara smoothed his beard, a smile lingering on his lips. He couldn’t quite figure out why, but Tahisran’s presence in the Akres barracks beside a group of Xalya slaves put him in a good mood.

Yet, when Arvara the Giant returned first from the medical examination, a dull fear began to drum in Dashvara’s heart. Zamoy hastened to ask:

“What did he tell you?”

“Bah.” Arvara smiled. “That I should brush my teeth more often and that, otherwise, I was in great shape.”

Dashvara fidgeted as the Xalyas came through the door, and his nervousness reached its peak when his turn came. He knew it was pointless to feel so nervous, but he couldn’t help it. He entered the adjoining office tenser than if he were charging at a bunch of orcs. Don’t throw any bowls at that one, eh? a small mocking voice in his head warned him.

The doctor was a dark-haired hobbit with an affable face. He greeted him kindly and asked him to undress and lie down. The visit was quick. He examined him, his ears, eyes, and mouth, and finally said cheerfully:

“Well, everything is more or less in order, young man. Nothing special to report? Tell me, don’t you sometimes feel difficulty in breathing?”

“No,” Dashvara replied.

He knew that when he was nervous, his chest sometimes constricted, and coughing fits came more easily, so he tried to relax and buckled his belt. The hobbit refrained from putting on a skeptical face: he simply handed him a small leather bag.

“These are belsadia leaves. Chew one or two a day, no more than two. It will do you good.”

Dashvara raised his eyebrows, but he took the bag without protest. The hobbit smiled approvingly.

“If there is a cure, it would be absurd not to take it, don’t you think?”

Dashvara replied with a reserved chuckle.

“Absolutely, doctor.”

He returned to the dormitory with a belsadia between his teeth. The taste was unpleasant, and for a moment, he was tempted to throw the small bag through the bars of a window overlooking the guard’s yard. However, he changed his mind and continued to chew the leaf, heading straight for the drow.

“Tell me, Tsu, do you know what belsadia is?” The latter frowned and nodded silently. “The doctor gave me these leaves,” he explained, embarrassed, handing him the bag. “That hobbit isn’t going to poison me, is he?”

Tsu gave a slight smile.

“Don’t worry, not all doctors poison their patients. Taking one belsadia leaf a day can do you a lot of good.”

Dashvara stopped chewing, suspicious.

“But you told me that there were no plants that could cure me.”

“There are some plants that only licentiates can buy, and belsadia is one of them,” Tsu explained. “Anyway, that won’t cure you; rest and a better climate will. The belsadia will simply speed up the healing perhaps. It is a powerful depressant.”

Dashvara breathed in through his nose.

“Save me the trouble of looking up the word in the dictionary. A depressant?”

“A drug that calms the nerves, basically. In this case, a sleeping pill.”

Dashvara gasped.

“You mean I’m on drugs?”

“In a way,” Tsu nodded calmly. “Belsadia also helps balance energies… Dash,” he exasperated, “don’t spit the leaf,” he warned him as he saw him about to pull it out of his mouth. Dashvara had the sudden impression that this damned plant was already having an effect on him. With an amused face, Tsu stood up and patted him on the shoulder. “Keep chewing. Anyway, we still have two days of travel by wagon. You can sleep without worrying about a borwerg breaking through the fence. I think it’s my turn to go talk to the doctor,” he added.

Dashvara followed the drow with his eyes as he left the room. A deep numbness invaded him like a swarm of silent mosquitoes. He staggered back to his pallet.

“Are you going to sleep without dinner, Dash?” Makarva wondered as he approached. “Is that plant affecting you that much?”

Dashvara simply spat out the belsadia and said:

“I’ll tell you one thing, Mak. The only thing I regret is that the slaver who threw that poison dart at me didn’t suffer all that a man can suffer before he dies.”

A few seconds later, his mind was already floating on a sea of darkness.

* * *

The next day he felt great. He had dreamed that he was talking to orcs who were much nicer than the real ones; they were all smiling at each other, satisfied, and Makarva ended up offering to play a game of katutas as a peace ceremony. Dashvara opened his eyes and laughed out loud. He had not slept so well in a long time. He ate his breakfast and told Makarva, Boron, Lumon, and the Triplets about his crazy dream.

Zamoy proclaimed in an oratorical voice:

“And then Makarva cheated, and the famous War of the Katutas against the orcs was unleashed all over Hareka.”

They guffawed, Makarva choked with laughter, and Dashvara took the opportunity to give him some good blows on the back.

“You’ll kill him, Zamoy. Every time you make him laugh, he chokes.”

“That’s because he’s laughing with his mouth full. Look, he spilled the beans.”

“Got some spit bread over here,” Kodarah informed.

Dashvara stopped hitting his friend when he began to protest.

“Thank you, Mak. My hand was getting tired,” he teased.

As soon as they had eaten breakfast, the guards loaded them into two new wagons, this time escorted by a patrol from Ruhuvah Canton. At Tsu’s insistence, Dashvara continued to chew the belsadia and spent the rest of the morning dozing with Tahisran. When he woke up, the wagon had stopped, and he realized that they had just arrived in Swadix. It was a small village with a guardhouse whose tower stood above the cliff to the east of the misty territory of the Whispers. Even there, the mist reached them.

“Halt!” ordered the leader of the Ruhuvah patrol that was leading them. “Half an hour’s break. Frilk, see that the boys are fed. Don’t let them out of your sight. We’ll resume the march afterwards. I want to be in Melex before nightfall.” Dashvara caught his strained grimace before seeing him rub his back and walk away toward the tavern, followed by two other men. His expression seemed to say “demons, I’m getting old for this kind of trot…”. If only they could all think the same, Dashvara mused.

Before dismounting from the wagon, he glanced warily to the west. There, under the mists, the Whispers’ trail stretched about forty miles from west to east. It would take two days to walk through it, so most travelers preferred to use stagecoaches. No one wanted to be caught there at night. According to some of the Doomed, in the Whispers, the mists were alive and stuck to your body like leeches. They said that one should not open one’s mouth, because whoever absorbed the mists would go mad. Three years ago, when he had walked through it, Dashvara had not found it so impressive. On this day, however, he noticed that the mist was swirling in an odd way: it was rising with its grayish claws clutching the rocks, as if it wanted to get out of the depression and invade the Atria Canton. The precipice must have been more than a hundred feet high, and yet the mist overflowed from the abyss, swirling and playing on the grass like spectral lava.

Dashvara growled inwardly, shook off his worries, and stretched his legs. All those stories about the mist spirits were just legends, he thought. Nothing but legends.

Both the Xalyas and the patrollers ate cold garfias that day. The Ruhuvahs did not part with Dashvara and his companions; they obviously took their job as slave couriers seriously. They knew their business. It was not uncommon for one of the slaves to try to run away during the transfers, Dashvara knew. And he also knew that very few succeeded. In any case, running away in this area was unthinkable: whether the stories about the mists were superstitions or not, the Whispers led nowhere; Atria was full of barns and patrols; as for the south… Well, there lay the territory of the Claws, a wasteland full of steep rocks and huge holes. According to the religious belief of Diumcili, these holes were formed after a rain of gigantic steel arrows launched by the Grace of Bravery against the mythical City of the Fallen. Towder, the leader of the Tower of Dignity, had been on an expedition to the Claws twenty years ago, when he was still a federation soldier, and Dashvara had heard his stories. He said the area looked like a huge, dried-out, treacherous clay pond into which a bunch of brizzias would have jumped and danced one frenzied night. ‘Skrat,’ the old Doomed had spat. ‘A land as cursed as Ariltuan.’ Knowing Towder’s nerves of steel, Dashvara had quickly come to the conclusion that the Claws were rather a place to avoid.

Don’t worry, federates, we are not going to act rashly: I gave Rowyn my word of honor that I would follow his instructions, and I will follow them. We will go to Titiaka as good slaves, and it will be better for the Brothers of the Pearl if they did not deceive us about the intentions of this Atasiag.

Dashvara didn’t know why, but he had a dark vision of the future. Perhaps it was the effects of the belsadia. He couldn’t believe that Tsu approved the recommendation of this hobbit doctor from Akres. Did he really think his cough would go away in his sleep?

The leader of the Ruhuvah patrol soon ordered the descent: he did not want the night to catch them in the middle of the Whispers.

“Foreigners,” he barked at the Xalyas as they settled back into the wagons. “If I hear one word, even whispered, I will gag you all, is that clear?”

They just nodded in silence. Dashvara caught the exchange of mischievous glances between Zamoy and Makarva and gave them both a warning look. This was no time to play tricks on the Ruhuvahs. Keeping quiet in the Whispers was a very serious matter for them.

Soon they were riding through the fog on a path that was barely visible. Wisps of mist swirled around the patrol riders and the Xalyas. Even Makarva’s face, sitting right in front of Dashvara, became diffused.

There was a deadly silence. According to a Doomed man in the Tower of Dignity, when the whispers fell silent, it was precisely when to tremble. Dashvara rolled his eyes. How could the federates believe that mere mists were capable of clouding their minds? Demons, dozens of carts passed through this path every day! If it had been a truly dangerous passage and many had lost their minds, Dashvara suspected that more than a few would have chosen to go up the Hab River and back down from Suhugan instead of through the Whispers… Anyway, the Doomed loved to convince themselves that there were more dangerous and horrible places than the swamps of Ariltuan: it gave them comfort.

After a long scan of the mist, he got bored, and imitating the others, tried to go back to sleep; however, although the belsadia still made him a little dizzy, he felt tense. Three years ago on the way out, pushed by the slave conveyors, he had been busier putting one foot in front of the other, and he could hardly remember the night he had spent there, in a small lookout post in the middle of the mists; now, however, he had all the time in the world to listen to the deep silence, interrupted only by the creaking of the wheels, the hooves of the horses and several dozen breaths. A few murmurs were heard from time to time. Perhaps it was only the breeze between the leaves of the trees that he couldn’t see… But there’s no breeze, Dash, haven’t you noticed? As a matter of fact, the air was totally stagnant, and inexplicably, the mists continued to twist around the carts.

It took him a good two hours for his apprehensions to subside. Letting his thoughts wander away from the mists, he found himself remembering the little he had seen of Titiaka, three years ago. What had impressed him the most was the huge bridge that flew over the city, connecting Mount Serene to Mount Courteous. Then he remembered thinking that in Titiaka, he had not perceived that stench that was floating over Dazbon. And yet, according to Tsu, the federal capital had as many inhabitants as the republican capital, but it was whipped by the winds of the Pilgrim Ocean almost every day.

He yawned, mouth wide open, and smiled as he thought of the mists. We Xalyas may believe a lot of nonsense, but the federates don’t do any better. The mists were now circling the horses’ heads like dark flying snakes. The murmurs had died down again.

‘They are close,’ Tahisran said suddenly. His voice sounded worried.

“Who?” Dashvara asked in a whisper. He stiffened as one of the riders glared at him. He looked away to his bag at his feet.

‘I think they are mirror-specters,’ the shadow replied. ‘You’ve never heard of them? They are the most frightful creatures. I came across one of them once, in the Underground. It’s a miracle I was able to get away before it riddled me with energy. As you must know, we shadows do not have much resistance against energy attacks, and it just happens these beings are pure energy. They are not carnivorous, they eat minerals,’ he clarified, as if anticipating a question from Dashvara, ‘but that does not prevent them from being very dangerous. At the School of Gon, I once read that they take pleasure in tormenting those who enter their territory until they lose their minds completely. Oh,’ he murmured then. ‘I think one of them is coming.’

Dashvara glanced around nervously. Makarva, Zamoy, Miflin, and Lumon seemed to have heard the shadow’s words because they too became agitated and worried.

Mirror-specters, Dashvara repeated to himself with a shudder. Maybe the creatures that lived in Ariltuan weren’t so bad, after all. At least when they attacked, it was because they were hungry…

Suddenly, Zamoy sneezed violently.

The sneeze echoed throughout the abyss and continued. It sounded as if the mist had resumed its echo…

14 A diner among brothers

The reaction of the Ruhuvahs was noteworthy.

As the Baldy’s sneeze reverberated across the mist of the Whispers and faded, the federates turned as white as shrouds, and their horses began to buck as if in panic. One man gestured rudely to the Baldy, and Dashvara glared at the triplet in case he thought of getting angry. But the young Xalya didn’t even notice: he was too busy preventing another sneeze. Demons, if I start coughing now, that would be the icing on the cake… Suddenly, Dashvara discerned a movement in the middle of the mists. Then… he thought he saw himself. He blinked, confused, and was sure he saw the wagons and horses reflected in the mist before the vision faded. He gasped.

Oh, demons… Now I understand. Mirror-specters are like walking mirrors, aren’t they?

He did not ask Tahisran, of course; he just pursed his lips and stared around. As the shadow had said a few days ago, there was nothing more disconcerting than something that didn’t make sense. And to Dashvara, these magical creatures lurking behind the mists made no sense. Magic, he spat mentally. The tension in his nerves flared, and he was barely relieved when he saw Zamoy silently controlling himself.

Later, Tahisran announced that he could no longer perceive the creatures. Dashvara relaxed as best he could and wondered how the hell simple perception spells could allow the shadow to know so much without even needing to get out of his bag.

It was already getting dark when they reached the western cliff of the Whispers, but the Ruhuvahs did not light the torches until they began to climb the slope. They were already almost at the top when one of the patrolmen intoned:

Hey, hey, hey! Silence is my name.
Hey, hey! I’m the most talkative man in the region.
Hey, hey…!

Dashvara could not remember ever hearing anyone sing so badly. The Ruhuvah continued to shout while his companions laughed at the sudden outburst. After a few long seconds of comical dissonance, the patrol leader intervened:

“Silence!”

“Yes, sir?” the soldier replied with a small innocent smile.

The chief sighed.

“Don’t torture us any further, will you? My hearing is the little I have left in good condition.”

Some of the patrolmen finished the sentence at the same time as he did, as if it wasn’t the first time he had said it. There was some mocking laughter. After a silence, another one said:

“Are we going to take a break at Melex?”

Melex was Swadix’s twin village, but on the west side. The chief shook his head.

“No, in two hours we will arrive at Seraldia, I do not want to linger. The boys must arrive at Titiaka tomorrow according to what I was told.”

Apparently, the Ruhuvah used to call the slaves “boys”, Dashvara observed. He smiled. Of the twenty-three Xalyas, only twelve were under forty. He would have liked to know what Sashava thought of such a name.

They passed through Melex without stopping to greet a patrol of guards. They entered the lands of Ruhuvah as the moon was already rising in the sky, and the first glowing rays of the Candle were pointing north.

“Eternal Bird,” Zamoy muttered in Common Tongue, fidgeting on his pallet. He tried to stretch his legs, and Miflin grunted.

“Stop moving, brother. Did a saravy sting you or what?”

“Worse. It was fourteen hours sitting that stung me,” the Baldy grumbled. “I feel like I’ve got four milfids biting my butt and a brizzia crushing my back,” he declared in a dramatic tone.

He tried to stand up to stretch, but the movement of the wagon made him lose his balance, and Dashvara and Miflin held him down, forcing him to sit down with a grunt.

“If you want some belsadia, just tell me,” Dashvara muttered.

“Well, keep your remedies to yourself. The doctor at Akres told me that I was in perfect health. And yet, I told him about my colds.”

Dashvara rolled his eyes and massaged his neck. Everyone was fidgeting in the wagon, anxious to finally leave those pallets behind. Even Tahisran began to complain and reminisce about his years in his crate on the pirate ship. His comments did nothing to calm the nerves of the nearest Xalyas who heard him. Miflin began to rant and rave, Kodarah uttered a series of curses when Atok moved his bag, and a silly argument ensued that Lumon ended with a simple “enough”. Makarva and Dashvara had just pulled out the sailor cards when the Archer quietly added:

“You’d better calm down a bit. We’re almost there.”

However, the “almost” took longer than Dashvara would have liked. The moon had time to rise a few degrees before they saw the lights of Seraldia in the darkness. Most of the city was on the south bank of the Satil River. The northern part, however, was full of activity even at night. Seraldia had become a commercial meeting place and was thriving day by day; it didn’t seem to be disrupted in any way by the endless war against the drow of Shjak. Dashvara looked up as they passed through the gate of the thick wall, then down to observe the faces of the people of Seraldia as they walked down the avenue. Both the Xalyas and the Ruhuvah patrolmen were exhausted, but Dashvara guessed that they were nonetheless keeping a close eye on their charges.

As soon as the wagon stopped in the barracks yard, fatigue fell on them like an anvil. Instead of getting out in a rush, as they probably would have done two hours ago, they set foot on the ground slowly, their muscles aching and numb. I almost wish I had traveled on foot, Dashvara grumbled inwardly, as an official led them inside.

“Please,” the man said, pointing to an open door in a wide hallway.

He ushered them into a large, noisy dining hall crowded with guards eating. When they settled down at the designated table, Makarva sat down next to Dashvara and commented:

“I feel like they’re nicer than last time. Don’t you think so too?”

With a crooked pout, Dashvara watched the soldiers eating at the other tables. He seemed to recognize some of the faces from their previous visit.

“Last time, we weren’t so docile, if you remember,” he replied.

Quite the opposite: we almost all got hanged, remember, Mak?

Makarva cleared his throat. Yes, Dashvara thought with a chuckle. How could his friend not remember the altercation: he was with the ones who started it, along with Maef, Atok, Shurta, and Orafe. The Triplets had been quick to join in the fight, of course, and Dashvara would surely have joined in out of solidarity if Captain Zorvun hadn’t had the presence of mind to calm things down.

“Right,” Makarva murmured, “there are some faces that look familiar. Look, over there, they seem to be laughing at us,” he pointed to a table and frowned.

Dashvara followed the direction and found that indeed a group of three guards were looking at them brazenly. One of them, with a crooked nose, was smiling as he spoke; another was chewing on something, and the third was running a thoughtful hand over his beard as he examined the Xalyas. Suddenly, the first one stood up.

“Oh, oh…” Dashvara muttered. Three guards weren’t going to take on twenty-three Xalyas, were they? He saw them approaching their table, and he and Makarva exchanged an indefinable look.

“Dash! Wake up,” Zamoy exasperated. Sitting across from him, with his back to the Ruhuvahs, he handed him the ladle to help himself to his share of soup from the pot. Dashvara had not even taken out his bowl yet. He took the ladle and leaned under the table, whispering:

“Tah? My bowl, please.”

The shadow gave it to him at once. He knew his house by heart, Dashvara smiled.

‘You’re worried,’ he observed. ‘Trouble?’

“Could be.”

Dashvara raised his head and quietly began to help himself. It wasn’t that he was really nervous: he was just afraid that one of his more spirited brothers would lose his temper again. Makarva wasn’t usually especially touchy, and Shurta wouldn’t get upset unless he was insulted directly, but Maef… He glanced at the Xalya, who was gobbling down his soup. The man was special, sympathetic in his own way, judging people by labeling them “good” or “bad”, and acting accordingly without skimping on the punches. In the end, Maef was as self-controlled as a feather in the wind. That’s precisely why Captain Zorvun had taken him on his own patrol in Compassion, along with that grumpy fellow, Orafe.

The three Ruhuvahs stood at their table as Dashvara tasted his first spoonful. The conversations died on the lips of the Xalyas.

“Hey, Xalyas. Don’t you remember us?” asked the one with the crooked nose. His voice clearly indicated that he was looking for a fight.

Dashvara hissed through his teeth.

“Zamoy, pass me the salt, will you?”

Baldy passed it to him without looking at the salt shaker and almost spilled it. Dashvara grunted as he picked it up and waved it over his bowl while Arvara, who was closest to the Ruhuvahs, replied:

“To tell you the truth, I don’t remember. Should I?”

The Giant gave them one of his thoughtful, mocking expressions. Dashvara hissed again.

“Dammit…”

He had put too much salt. The soup was going to be undrinkable. He tasted it and made a disgusted face, but nevertheless continued to drink it while the one with the crooked nose said:

“You, maybe not, northerner. But the bald one, there, for sure. He only has to see how he broke my nose.”

Zamoy turned to Miflin, but then realized he was talking to him. He gave a casual pout.

“Are you sure it was me? Well, you know, it looks good on you.”

Dashvara nearly spat out his soup. Surprisingly, the Ruhuvah just smiled.

“My fiancée feels the same way. How did it go during those years at the Border?”

“Edifying,” Zamoy replied.

“Very didactic,” Makarva supported.

Dashvara laughed, and the other two Ruhuvahs were puzzled, but the one with the broken nose just put his hands in his pockets.

“I almost envy you. I spent two years in the front row fighting drows. There were damned skirmishes all the time with twisted traps. By the way, I see you still have your doctor.”

His voice became disdainful. Tsu, sitting next to Boron, did not look up from his bowl. The captain intervened:

“The war has been going on for eight years on your land. Don’t you ever think you’ll reach an agreement?”

The Ruhuvah snorted.

“Ha! Are you asking me? No idea. Yes, there are rumors that there will be negotiations, but they are always negotiating anyway. I don’t care about that anymore: now I have a permanent position in the city guard. And you? Where are you going now?”

“To Titiaka,” Zorvun answered.

“And what are you going to do there? Sweep the Bridge?” he smiled.

The captain swallowed a spoonful before answering.

“Probably serve as bodyguards.”

“Wow.” Ruhuvah hissed through his teeth. “Sounds interesting. Still, I wouldn’t go myself to that crazy town even if they gave me a lifetime salary. Good luck, northerners. Especially to the bald guy, who made me so attractive. What’s your name, anyway?”

Dashvara couldn’t believe it. This Ruhuvah was treating them as if they were old friends. Obviously, the beating had messed with his head. The Baldy ran a hand over his neck, as surprised as the others.

“My name, huh? Um. Zamoy.”

The Ruhuvah held out his hand.

“I am Mithan. Nice to meet you.”

After a brief hesitation, Zamoy shook his hand warily as if he feared that this man named Mithan would return the blow on his nose, but he did not.

“Uh… Likewise.”

Mithan rolled his eyes at the surprised expressions of the Xalyas. He saluted everyone before walking away with his two companions.

“A curious fellow,” Zamoy pondered. “I smash his face in, and he shakes my hand. If only the orcs would do the same thing at the Border. Anyway… have you tasted the soup? It’s undrinkable compared to the one I make, isn’t it?”

“Taste mine,” Dashvara growled. “I put more salt in it than I put in the pork. I could eat dirt, I wouldn’t know the difference.”

Zamoy seemed to think, “That’s not a bad idea”, and asked for the salt. After shaking the salt shaker a few times, he took a sip and spat out what he had swallowed without any elegance, raising laughter and protests from the whole table.

“Eternal Bird!” Alta muttered. “What are you doing?”

“A strategic approach,” Zamoy replied in an expert tone. He raised his bowl and threw the entire contents into the pot. He stirred it all together and poured himself a second helping. “Exquisite,” he agreed.

Dashvara raised an eyebrow and imitated him, helping himself again. If the soup was still salty, at least it was drinkable.

“Demons! It’s impossible to eat with you at the table,” Alta sighed. “Hey, brother!” he suddenly exclaimed. “Is that bread you’re eating?”

Arvara the Giant looked up in surprise.

“Well, yes. A boy passed by, and he left a whole loaf of bread.”

“A loaf of bread for twenty-three?” Taw said indignantly. Shurta’s uncle did not speak often, but when he did, it was almost in a shouting voice: he was half deaf.

“Well, go and ask for more, foreigner,” replied a soldier from a nearby table. “Nothing is given to those who ask for nothing.”

This left all the Xalyas both confused and hopeful. A few minutes later, Pik and Kaldaka returned from the kitchen with three loaves of bread.

“We can’t get any more,” Pikava apologized.

No one protested this time, and everyone was skipping their bowls with the last crumbs of bread when an elf in a red hat and guard uniform stopped in front of their table and announced that he had orders to take them to the dormitories. It was late, and the dining hall was already almost empty. They washed their bowls and put them in their bags before following the elf to the same room where they had slept three years ago. Nothing had changed, Dashvara noted.

“We have company,” Lumon observed.

Indeed, several slaves were already sleeping in bunk beds at the back of the room. Without waking them, they settled down, and as soon as he had taken off his boots, Dashvara patted Tahisran’s bag and murmured:

“Be careful if you go out.”

A mental smile answered him.

‘I’ve been training to be inconspicuous for years, don’t worry.’ He slipped out of the bag. Dashvara could barely make him out: the guide had gone out, locking the key to the entrance, and he had left them in the dark. ‘I’m going to visit the city. I’ll probably find some interesting things.’

“What kind of interesting things?” questioned Dashvara.

The shadow was already moving away towards the small barred window at the back of the room. Dashvara perceived a shrug of the shoulders.

‘Things.’

Mmph. Dashvara did not insist and lay down. The Triplets were talking on their nearby couches, and since they were unable to whisper, Dashvara was almost surprised that the men who were asleep didn’t wake up. Makarva clicked his tongue on the top bunk.

“Hey, Dash, we’re not done with the game yet,” he reminded him.

Dashvara had his cards in one of his pockets. Makarva had kept the rest.

“It’s too dark to see anything,” Dashvara objected.

Makarva gave a soft laugh.

“So what? All the cards are marked, anyway.”

Dashvara rolled his eyes.

“Whose turn was it?”

“Yours.”

Dashvara checked his cards by touch and tried to remember the last card played.

“Blue Dragon?” he asked.

“Yep. And I bet on the Stewards.”

Dashvara grunted as he went over his cards and the bets they had already made. The sound of a key snapped him out of his thoughts. Soon a lantern lit up his cards. He closed them like a fan and blinked into the light. It was the elf.

“Excuse me for disturbing you,” he whispered. “Who is Dashvara of Xalya?”

Dashvara felt his stomach churn. Seeing that he didn’t respond, Makarva pointed out:

“That’s him.”

“What do you want with him?” Captain Zorvun inquired, sitting down on his bed with a tired sigh.

“A lady wants to see him. From what she said, Dashvara of Xalya is your chief.”

Dashvara suppressed a hiccup of surprise that turned into a small sarcastic laugh.

“The chief, eh?” he repeated.

Zorvun had frowned.

“Put on your boots, Dashvara. Don’t keep that lady waiting.”

Dashvara reluctantly obeyed even though, as he got dressed, the prospect of finally getting an answer to his questions animated him a little.

“Forward, lord of the steppe,” Makarva laughed in Oy’vat.

Dashvara glared at him and muttered:

“Don’t take this opportunity to touch the cards, eh? I remember every hand.” Makarva smiled at him: for some mysterious reason, his companions smiled every time they remembered that Dashvara was the son of Vifkan, lord of the Xalyas of the Rocdinfer steppe. Well, let’s say that they smiled because they could see that Dashvara was not at all pleased to be called that.

“I would not dare to make makarvaries with you, my lord,” that cursed brigand whispered.

“Go to hell,” Dashvara growled.

He fastened his belt and followed the elf outside. As soon as the elf closed the door behind him, a thought flashed through him. Who could this lady be? For a moment, he thought it might be Azune. Or Fayrah. Or someone unknown. Or Zaadma. Eyes as black as the beetle on his arm came to mind, and he shook his head, laughing at himself. How about he stopped imagining things and just followed the elf to see who it was? Remember, sometimes being a philosopher means stopping thinking. So he stopped thinking until the elf invited him into a room that looked like an administrative office with a lot of papers, drawers, and files. Sitting behind a large table, he saw a figure with a bronze mask. Azune, he realized. He felt strangely relieved.

“Thank you, Falfir,” the half-elf said firmly. “You may withdraw.”

The elf bowed and left. Without coming closer, Dashvara looked at the mask. It looked like Azune, but he couldn’t be sure unless she… The official took off her mask and revealed the face of the Sister of the Pearl. Her brown eyes studied him in turn, then she said:

“Sit down, steppeman.”

15 A slave contract

“Sit down, steppeman,” Azune asked him.

Was she talking to him like a slave or was it just his imagination? Nevertheless, Dashvara sat down in front of the desk, and instead of besieging the half-elf with questions, he waited in serene silence. As Sashava often said, sometimes silence is better than any question.

Azune squinted.

“The interview will be brief, don’t worry. You can quickly go back to sleep with the others after I’m done talking. I suppose you’d like to know a few details about Atasiag Peykat.”

Drumming with his fingers, Dashvara adopted an expression that more or less meant “since you’re offering it, speak up”. Azune wrinkled her nose.

“Good. What I’m about to tell you, you’ll have to keep to yourself. Don’t tell your companions. Atasiag Peykat is none other than Cobra. I thought it best to warn you. Atasiag is not to be identified in any way as the leader of the Dream Brotherhood.”

Baffled, Dashvara stopped drumming and raised an eyebrow. Cobra, eh? The Dazbon thief who had given him two denarii after sending him to retrieve a dagger from a filthy canal? Ah. Fantastic. Wonderful. The Xalyas had found a damned thief as their new master. He finally broke the silence.

“What does Cobra have to do with the Pearl Brotherhood?”

“He is our new patron. We founded an alliance between the two brotherhoods a few days after you embarked in Dazbon. It was the Supreme who decided this.” Azune remained inexpressive as she spoke these words. This alliance did not seem to fully satisfy her, Dashvara guessed.

He leaned against the back of his chair, which was quite comfortable, by the way.

“Hmm. An interesting alliance considering that the Brothers of the Pearl have good principles, unlike Cobra.”

“You are wrong about that,” Azune contradicted him. “Atasiag is also fighting the slave trade.”

“He’s a thief.”

Azune didn’t argue. After a few seconds of silence, she stood up.

“You see, steppeman. It so happens that Cobra and we have common interests: we act against the traffic of the Master, who is the one who owns all the slave trade on the whole eastern coast of the Pilgrim Ocean.”

“Mm. Really? This ‘Master’ is that powerful?”

Azune’s eyes turned cold, staring at an invisible point that Dashvara could not see.

“He is powerful, to a certain extent. At the moment, he has the official support of most of the Councilors, but some of the big families have been standing in his way for years now, and now the wind is starting to blow in our favor.” She paused for a moment and admitted, “Although, not just in our favor. At first glance, Titiaka seems to be the most united and stable city in the entire Federation, but in reality, it is far from it. There are divergent movements on all sides. The Unitarians, the Federates, the Indulgents… I myself am still a little confused after two years in the heart of the administration.”

Dashvara shrugged.

“Okay, and you’ve been chasing this man for three years and haven’t managed to kill him?”

He saw her smile almost imperceptibly.

“Before anything else, I would like to make it clear to you, Dash: you are not in the steppe here. The Master is surrounded by a few friends and subjects who are quite capable of replacing him and acting like him. Killing him would not solve anything. Our idea is to find all possible documents that prove the illegal activity of these slavers in Dazbon. With these documents, the Dazbon Senate will no longer be able to turn a blind eye.”

Dashvara shrugged.

“I understand. Why are you telling me all this, Azune? You want me to help you with your business, is that it?”

“Mmph.” Azune grinned mirthlessly and sat down with the agility of a feline. “No, steppeman. We are investigators, and you are a warrior. For now, we do not need your help. You are workers of Atasiag. And Atasiag Peykat is a citizen of Titiaka, and despite our common goals, he does not have the same… view on slavery as we do. You can count yourself lucky that we were able to convince him to take care of you.”

Dashvara suppressed a smile. That a republican who fought against injustice would use the term “workers” to refer to slaves left him with an odd aftertaste.

“Well,” he said in a casual tone. “To talk about more… personal matters, well, since you seem to be more talkative tonight, I’d like to ask you more about what’s been going on for the past three years. I’m talking about my people,” he explained. “I know that other Xalyas survived the attack on the Dungeon. So either the survivors are still in the steppe, or they were sold into slavery like us. What happened to them?”

Azune’s face darkened.

“Some were sold,” she admitted. “Several children and an old man. We didn’t track them in time. We learned too late that the children had been adopted, and from then on, it was impossible to locate them. The old man was taken by the University of Titiaka. From what Fayrah explained to me, he was a kind of spiritual master of your people.”

The shaard Maloven, Dashvara understood in shock. He didn’t know if he should be relieved to know that he was still alive or if he should cry when he realized how close to the abyss the Xalyas people were. And how long has it been, Dash, how long? Our people have been shrinking for generations. A century ago, there were more than two thousand of us. Then we were barely more than five hundred. And today less than fifty still survive. Here are your people, lord of the steppe. Now perform a miracle and resurrect them.

Azune shook her head, looking pained.

“We don’t know if there are others. As for the ten Xalya women you saved in those catacombs… Two are gone. And five were captured again by Arviyag at the home of a man named Shizur. We didn’t have time to go looking for them… He got ahead of us.” A flash of guilt passed through her eyes. “Some pirates rescued them. Now they live on Matswad Island. As far as I know, they are all fine. And, as you know, Aligra, Fayrah, and Lessi are with us.”

The news of the five Xalyas sold and lost on an island of pirates left Dashvara speechless for long seconds, his throat constricted. Of the seven, two were Alta’s cousins, one was Boron’s younger sister, another was Ged’s daughter… All were sisters of the Xalyas. And he, their lord, had betrayed them and Shizur. He had saved them and betrayed them. He didn’t even remember doing it. His heart choked with shame, he exhaled slowly and said:

“Thank you for taking care of Aligra, Fayrah, and Lessi.”

Azune’s expression flickered.

“Actually, I didn’t take much care of them,” she admitted. “Aligra belongs to the Brotherhood of the Pearl. Sheroda likes her a lot.” She cleared her throat and continued, “Fayrah and Lessi, on the other hand, are now wards of Atasiag Peykat. He has adopted them as his daughters.”

Dashvara bolted on his chair.

“What?!”

Azune gave him a warning look.

“Keep your voice down, Dash.” She straightened in her chair. “Remember that you are going to live in Titiaka as a worker, not a free man, much less a citizen. Your status is infinitely inferior to that of Fayrah and Lessi. Your own sister asked me to tell you that you should be patient and not let your… Xalya dignity get the better of you,” she smiled mockingly, but then she put on a stern expression when she added: “I will repeat it as many times as it takes: Atasiag Peykat is a landlord, and you and your people are under his control. You are not yet free, but you will be. And the only thing you have to do is do your job without deviating from it one inch. No deviations that might damage the prestige of your master. No scandal of any kind. Otherwise, Atasiag Peykat will send you back to the Border, understand? No escape attempts,” she added. “And no treason. Otherwise, you can dream of your freedom until you die. Rowyn and I may have forgiven you for what you did, Dash, but neither Sheroda nor Atasiag are so understanding. This time you cannot betray us.”

Dashvara felt his Eternal Bird quiver. He was unable to hold Azune’s gaze. He shrugged.

“I said that my life belonged to you: I will do whatever you tell me until you consider that I have paid my fault. I do not answer for my brothers.”

“Yes, you do,” Azune replied sharply. “You are their lord, right? And you know that it is right for them to help us. We have helped their people, and if they are patient, they will get their freedom when Atasiag deems it feasible. Tell them so.”

She put some papers on the table. Dashvara shook his head without answering. As if he was anyone’s lord. To force his brothers to give up running away was to behave like a slave driver in his turn. In any case, he had no power over them to force them to do anything.

“Put a cross in each box.”

The voice of the half-elf drew him out of his dark thoughts. He glanced curiously at the sheet of paper she was holding out to him.

“What is it?”

“The essential rules that you will have to respect. This is a contract. Atasiag asked me to give it to you. He wants to make sure that you will cooperate voluntarily as a worker. He has some… apprehensions about introducing steppian warriors into his home.”

Dashvara let out a breath filled with sarcasm.

“This is ridiculous. I’m already marked. Whether I like it or not, I am his slave, and if I run away, the entire Federal Guard will be after me.”

“No, Dash. If you run away, I assure you that the greatest danger will not be the Federal Guard.” Azune’s eyes clearly reflected her threat. Dashvara shrugged again.

“I’m not surprised.”

“Put a cross in each box,” Azune insisted. “But first, read what it says and memorize it well. You will recite the contract to the others so that they learn it by heart as well. Orders from Atasiag.”

Dashvara glanced at the paper. There were four sentences. The first one said, «I voluntarily lend my services to the man who hires me, and I swear never to act against his wishes.» He huffed.

“I gave my life to the Pearl Brotherhood, not to that snake who—”

“Things are what they are,” Azune interrupted him. She sounded more and more exasperated. “Don’t be stubborn, steppeman. The two brotherhoods are allies, and we don’t have the power to afford twenty-three Xalyas. Atasiag does.”

“I wonder how he got so much power,” Dashvara quipped. He looked away from Azune’s glaring eyes and read the next sentence.

«I will not betray my master or my master’s allies, and I will treat anyone I come in contact with strictly according to social conditions, whether that person is known to me or not.»

“More or less the same tune,” he sighed. He continued to read:

«In case of treason, fault, or negligence on my part or on the part of one of my companions, I ask and demand that the due punishment be applied, whatever its nature, and I swear not to try to evade the aforementioned nor to interfere in the case where the fault is not mine.»

The last sentence was the crowning glory:

«I acknowledge that I am not acting under any coercion, blackmail, or pressure in agreeing to this contract».

Dashvara let out a nervous laugh.

“This snake is crazy. Not only does he take us as slaves, but he wants us to give him our consent.”

“Nonsense,” the half-elf replied. “He is only taking precautions and letting you know how things work. He fears that you will become more of a nuisance than a support, which could seriously harm our interests. We are walking on wires, Dash. There are secrets that could destroy us. For example, that Atasiag Peykat and Cobra are the same person.” She glared at him. “So… when you get up from that seat, I want you to start acting like a slave warrior going to Titiaka to join a master he doesn’t know. After all, that’s the plain truth.” She pointed to a quill near an inkwell. “The crosses.”

Dashvara watched her for a few seconds. Tension shone in her eyes. It was clear that these three years had not been good for her nerves. Come to think of it, what was more nerve-wracking, fighting monsters with clear intentions to protect innocent people, or fighting greedy slavers who waged wars up and down the coast to buy prisoners and enslave them?

And when I think that my sister is involved in this whole thing… As Cobra’s daughter, no less. Dashvara exhaled loudly and took the pen, hating himself for that, but what else could he do?

“Just curious… What if I refuse to put these crosses on?” he inquired.

She replied without hesitation:

“Then we’ll send you back to the Border, most likely. Atasiag needs a group of loyal mercenaries, not a group of insurgents.”

“Mercenaries, huh? And where’s the gold in that?”

Azune rolled his eyes.

“You will want for nothing. A mercenary works for a reward. The reward, in this case, will be freedom. You can count yourself lucky that we got you out of the Border. Besides,” she added, perhaps seeing that Dashvara was still hesitating, “what sense would it make to turn against an ally, Dash? I bet he only wrote that contract to ease his conscience in case of betrayal. I believe he makes a similar contract with all the members of his Dream Brotherhood. I assure you that, when the time comes, he will not refuse to give you your freedom. You choose: the Contract or the Border.”

Dashvara was already writing crosses before she had finished her last sentence. He left the quill on the desk like a burning firebrand. When he looked up, Azune was smiling, and on her previously tense face, there was now an expression of relief. He saw her stand up, walk around the desk, and bow to him, whispering:

“I’ll add one more clause just for you: since you’re going to live with Atasiag, I want you to observe his actions and let me know if you see anything suspicious. Just in case.”

Dashvara nodded. So the Poisoned-woman didn’t trust the snake. It was predictable.

“Make sure all your companions know the contract like the back of their hand,” the half-elf added. “A grave error could be your doom. And both Rowyn and I would be deeply saddened if that were to happen.”

Dashvara gave her a thoughtful look. Her threats puzzled him more than they frightened him.

“I believe you,” he said. “Can I ask you a question? What happened to that caustic humor you used to have? Did you lose it in some Dazbon canal?”

Azune raised an eyebrow.

“Do you miss it?”

“Well, yes,” Dashvara admitted.

Azune smiled, and her brown eyes twinkled teasingly.

“I assure you I didn’t lose it. You know? I admit that, at first, I wasn’t very convinced to get you out of the Border. You almost got us all killed and…” she breathed in, and her face darkened. “That cursed day, Arviyag’s acolytes killed the Supreme’s two most trusted friends and came close to killing her, too.” She turned a bright gaze toward him. “I’m warning you that I’m not going to give you another chance. I have a good heart, but I am who I am. I don’t forgive easily either. And if there’s one thing I dislike as much as assassins, it’s traitors.”

Dashvara shook his head in disbelief.

“Do you really think that, if you had been in my place, you wouldn’t have spilled the beans?”

Azune’s slanted eyes narrowed to mere slits. Her voice sounded very cold as she hissed:

“I wouldn’t even if my eyes had been gouged out, steppeman.”

Hmm. Valiant Republican. Say that again when your whole body is convulsing under the torture thimbles… Dashvara concealed his skepticism and abandoned his seat.

“I guess you told me everything you wanted to tell me.”

Azune opened her mouth, and suddenly her mask of coldness broke.

“Dash, I would like to…” She bit her lip, and to Dashvara’s surprise, she murmured quietly, “Sorry. Rowyn is right. It’s not fair that I blame you for everything. It’s just that sometimes I… Demons, whatever.” She paused with a grunt and made a curt hand gesture under Dashvara’s perplexed gaze. Before he had time to answer, she resumed firmly: “Just one more question, steppeman, and I’ll leave you alone. Who is this drow that accompanies you?”

Dashvara stared at her. Was the question casual or did she know who Tsu was? He bet on the first option: it didn’t make sense for Azune to know the role that Tsu had played in Dazbon. So he simply answered:

“He’s a friend.”

“Reliable?”

Dashvara gave a half-smile.

“I would put my heart in his hands.”

“Oh.” Azune took an amused look. “Then, fine. Don’t let him get lost either.” She put the bronze mask back on and pointed to the door with an authoritative police secretary’s gesture: “Falfir will show you out. Good night, soldier.”

Dashvara bowed his head curtly.

“Good night.”

“Your Honor,” Azune said in a suave tone. Dashvara huffed but repeated civilly:

“Good night, Your Honor.”

He was already heading for the door when Azune observed candidly:

“You should be a little more servile. It’ll save you some trouble.”

Dashvara hissed without turning around.

“A Xalya is only servile when he wants to be. Your Honor.”

He opened the door and found Falfir leaning against the wall at the end of the hall. The elf seemed to be an acquaintance of Azune’s, and seemingly, he had not given in to the temptation to eavesdrop. He led him back to the dormitories without a word, and as soon as Dashvara reached his bed, he left him in the dark again. Dashvara began to undress with slow movements. No sooner had he laid down than Zorvun slipped out of bed and approached.

“Well?” he murmured in Oy’vat.

Dashvara had seen that most of the Xalyas were fast asleep, but of course, the captain could not resist and wanted to stay awake until he returned. Pulling up the covers, he leaned his head against the pillow, and tired, closed his eyes.

“Well, Captain, the lord of the steppe has just willingly accepted his own slavery.”

There was silence.

“Who was the lady?”

“The official. Don’t say her name,” he warned, opening his eyes. “From now on, she is called ‘Your Honor’,” he spat in Common Tongue.

Kneeling by the bed, Zorvun shook his head in the darkness.

“So they don’t intend to free us?”

“Of course they do. But, as in any contract worthy of the worst snakes in this world, it’s not specified.”

“Mmph. What does this contract say?”

Zorvun’s voice betrayed his concern. Dashvara raised a hand and patted him on the shoulder.

“There’s nothing we don’t already know. I’ll tell you all tomorrow at lunch. That way you’ll sleep more peacefully.”

The captain ground his teeth dully.

“To hell with peace and quiet. What does this contract say?”

You wish… Dashvara exhaled softly, summed up the encounter, and repeated the four sentences, translating them into Oy’vat. He felt as if he had etched them into his retina. Zorvun was silent for a full minute. What could he be thinking?

“Well,” he then whispered. “The question is, what does Atasiag intend to do with us, and what does he want us to do to gain that damned freedom? We’ll be back on the steppe, Dash. I can feel it. I feel that we will come back. And we’ll get even with those damned murderers,” he muttered. “We are already only a handful of Xalyas lost in Hareka. But we still have dignity, son. We can still do justice.”

Dashvara felt chilled. After three years of wondering if Captain Zorvun knew about Vifkan’s revenge, Zorvun himself had just confirmed it. Or at least it sounded like confirmation.

He reached out to listen to the steady breathing in the room. Some of them were not sleeping.

Do justice, Zorvun? Who knows if you’re not just like my father after all. He breathed in and out.

“You may be right, Captain,” he admitted. “We just have to hope that Atasiag won’t ask us to lift a mountain to earn our freedom.”

“Well, don’t be pessimistic,” the captain laughed quietly. “Even if he asked us to lift a mountain, the Xalyas are capable of anything. Don’t doubt it.”

Dashvara nodded and smiled.

“I don’t doubt it, Captain. I just tend to be suspicious of strangers and their promises.”

“Mm.” It seemed to him that the captain was smiling back. “You do well to be wary, son. As that old shaard said, trust a savage more than a civilized man. The savage attacks you from the front, and the civilized from the back.”

Dashvara smiled.

“Maloven is in Titiaka, Zorvun. He was sold as a slave and is now at the University of Titiaka.”

Zorvun raised his head.

“Really?”

“Yes, really.”

The captain shook his head, laughing softly.

“This old shaard. More than once I thought he was dead, he’s so old. He’s almost twice my age,” he muttered to himself. “He must be over a hundred and thirty, if I’m not mistaken.”

“One hundred and thirty-one,” Dashvara asserted. “He came back from Dazbon at one hundred and eight. The year I was born.”

“And he was already teaching me when I was a kid,” laughed Zorvun. “That man will bury us all.”

He almost did it already, Dashvara thought. He smiled grimly. And maybe he will.

The captain patted him on the shoulder before returning to his bed. He heard someone clearing their throat and turning over on their mattress. It was Zamoy. After a silence, Dashvara thought about the half-finished card game. If it hadn’t been so interesting, they probably would have forgotten about it, but with bets so well placed… He smiled. Tomorrow they would finish it, he thought.

A small treacherous voice then infiltrated his head and whispered to him: I voluntarily lend my services… I will not betray my master or my master’s allies… In case of treason, fault, or negligence… I ask and demand that the due punishment… He laughed internally. This pantomime was one of the most comical and absurd things he had seen in his life. Did Cobra really need to ask for his consent to do whatever he wanted with his life? He had done it to ease his conscience, according to Azune. Oh, come on. But what conscience could a thief have?

Of course, Cobra was also fighting against slavery. Or at least against the trafficking of prisoners of war. But he missed something in this story. All the bandits he had known in the steppe, in addition to being thieves, did not hesitate to kill if necessary, and in any case, they would never have had the idea to participate in a project as altruistic as that of putting an end to a slavery scoundrel. Either he is not as much of a bandit as it seemed to me, or he is deceiving us all for some reason, he concluded.

After several hours of turning over the same thoughts in his head, he got tired, sat up, picked up the belt he had dropped on the floor, took out some belsadia leaves, and started to chew them. A few minutes later, he fell asleep like an old dog.

16 Arrival: Atasiag’s villa

When he opened his eyes, he did so, shaken by a whole troop of arms and scolded by exasperated exclamations.

“Get up, Dash!” Zamoy shouted.

“Huh?” Dashvara replied confusedly.

“He’s completely out of it,” another voice said.

They had to get him out of bed to wake him up from his deep sleep. Dashvara realized this when he found himself lying there on the floor, wrapped in his blanket.

“Eternal Bird,” he murmured, massaging his head; it was numb as if he had drunk an entire bottle of wine.

Finally, he straightened up, and seeing Zamoy coming with a bowl of water, he leaped to his feet and exclaimed, holding out a hand:

“I’m awake!”

The Baldy threw the water at him anyway. Dashvara spat, considered for a second the possibility of rushing at his cousin, then sighed when he realized that the coward had already run away.

“Poor me. Miflin, how do you stand him?”

The Poet replied wisely:

“O sovereign foolishness! Unhealthy brain, wordy in vain: listening to his madness is not worth the pain.”

Dashvara blew out several breaths as he picked up his clothes. Zorvun was explaining the whole story of the contract to the others.

“But who does this man think he is?” Sashava was indignant. He was red as if he had been stung by a pitcher. Sedrios the Old was running a hand through his white beard, looking gloomy, Maef and Orafe were in a bad mood… The morning was promising.

As Dashvara fastened his belt, he frowned.

“Where is my belsadia?”

Nobody listened to him, except Tsu. The drow approached him, explaining:

“I took it from you. One thing is that you chew a leaf a day, and another is that you binge on belsadia.”

Dashvara’s face flushed.

“The doctor in Akres said—”

“The doctor in Akres is a Diumcilian. And anyway, I doubt he told you to chew several leaves at once. The effect is amplified. Five or six of these leaves together can put a man into eternal lethargy.”

Dashvara took a deep breath. He hadn’t even bothered to count how many he had taken. He assumed no more than two, but…

“You can’t mess with remedies,” Tsu concluded harshly.

When he stared at him with those unyielding eyes, he looked like he was scolding a little child. Dashvara cleared his throat.

“It’s okay. Get rid of it. I don’t need plants to heal anyway, I just need time.”

The iron glint in Tsu’s eyes faded.

“Of course. So… does this Atasiag really claim to be freeing us?”

Dashvara glanced at the other Xalyas. They had been brought a whole bag of bread for breakfast, probably in order to save time. This meant that, in just a few minutes, they would be on their way again, and if he didn’t hurry, he would be left without a loaf of bread.

“He will set us free,” he finally said, trying to sound convinced.

The answer drew a grin from Tsu, and Dashvara smiled back before hurrying off to grab one of the last remaining rolls. Chewing, he returned to his bed where he found his bouncy bag.

“How did it go in town, Tah?”

The shadow laughed mentally.

‘Superbly! You don’t know how interesting a nightly round in Seraldia can be. Too bad I missed your conversation with Azune. Sounds like it was interesting, too.’

Dashvara rolled his eyes.

“As interesting as signing a contract can be.”

He noticed that one of the slaves at the back of the room was watching him in amazement. You think I’m talking to myself, good man? Dashvara smiled and snatched another bite of his bread.

He had to finish swallowing the rest while walking to the wagons. The sun had not been up for more than two hours, but carts were already coming in and out of the northern city gate. Titiaka’s road ran northwest along the Satil River for hours and then away through the Crystal Forest toward the Great Wall. They had just left Seraldia when the captain asked one of Titiaka’s couriers who was driving them how many hours it would take to reach the capital by cart.

“Between eight and nine theoretically, if we maintain a good pace,” the Titiaka answered. “But with the break at the Great Wall and the traffic, we must calculate about twelve hours. We will arrive at sunset.”

These soldiers were very different from those of the day before: they dressed in uniforms with the elegance of heralds, wore sword scabbards on their belts covered with embellishments, and several of them displayed other very artistic crests on their tabards in addition to the insignia of the conveyors. Intrigued, Dashvara showed it to Tsu.

“These belong to more than one guard group at a time?”

The drow shrugged his shoulders.

“These are coats of arms of the powerful houses of Titiaka who have their own personal guard. They like to send some of their men on patrols from time to time to show off their wealth.” A smile flitted across his face. “Don’t try to understand them: it’s useless.”

“Foreigners,” Zamoy muttered with a sigh.

The wagons were moving slower than between Akres and Seraldia because they kept passing other carts, horsemen, and people on foot. Makarva and Dashvara had resumed their famous card game. Finally, the first one let out a little mischievous laugh and showed his hand:

“I’ve been wanting to do this for over twelve hours.”

Dashvara examined the cards with a horrified expression. He had a straight of Senators!

“Let me see yours,” Makarva said triumphantly.

“Wait, wait, wait,” he waved. He scanned his cards, then looked at his friend with the face of a wary adversary, and finally showed his cards and proclaimed, “The hand is mine!”

Makarva lamented while Dashvara laughed. He wasn’t winning the game, but neither was Makarva. In principle, one could not draw when playing republicans, but they were not exactly playing republicans, but a variant that had been perfected over the years and had been unanimously given the name Xalyans.

Dashvara boasted for a moment about his game, and Makarva grumbled.

“You’d think he won the game.”

“Didn’t I?” Dashvara replied cheerfully.

“You didn’t.”

“Bah. That’s the great thing about Xalyans: both opponents can win. Isn’t that wonderful?” He gestured enthusiastically. “If only there were no losers in this world. If only we could—”

“Aaaarh!” Zamoy interjected, with an air of martyr. “Don’t ramble, cousin, I know you.”

“You’re overreacting.”

“Oh no, not at all.” He smiled mischievously and elbowed Makarva in the arm. “Hey, Mak, how do you put up with him?”

The latter seemed to be trying to remember something and finally said:

“O sovereign stupidity: listening to his madness is not worth the pain.”

Dashvara laughed softly and elbowed Miflin, who was sitting next to him.

“What a pair of parrots, huh?”

The Poet’s spirit descended from the stars; he muttered between his teeth.

“This is like a curse! How to find inspiration in such company. I was in one of those states that only happen from time to time.”

“Again?” Dashvara inquired. “You said the same thing a few days ago.”

“Mmph. Time does not work the same way for a poet, Dash. I think I already explained that to you.”

Dashvara rolled his eyes and suggested another game of Xalyans. Zamoy joined them, and they played several quick games as the sun began to beat down on their heads with increasing force. At one point, Tahisran thoughtfully intervened:

‘Sometimes I think it’s a shame to be a perceptist. I could never play like you.’

Dashvara raised an eyebrow in disbelief.

“You mean you would know the cards without looking at them?” He perceived his assent and exchanged a wide, impressed smile with Makarva. “Demons. You should become a professional gambler then. You could become rich. They say that in Titiaka a lot of money circulates in the gambling houses.”

‘Mmph. No, thanks, Dash. The truth is, I prefer katutas. There’s no mystery with cards.’

“I’ll tell you another game,” Miflin interjected in the same low tone he used to take when he was going to throw out one of his great phrases: “It’s called the game of poetry. To play it, you need syllables, rhymes, and strong emotion.”

“Oh my! Watch out, Tah,” Zamoy said quickly. “Miflin can be more persuasive than an Essimean priest. Don’t fall for his inspiration or the wildest rhymes will follow you for the rest of your life. I’m telling you, believe me, I’ve known the individual since before he was born. It is said that when our mother gave birth to us, the Poet made his first cries in verse, counting syllables to eight. And it rhymed: Waaaaaah! Waaaaaah!” The Baldy shouted with such mastery that, taken by surprise, Makarva and Dashvara burst into laughter.

“Bah!” Miflin protested. “Have brothers and they’ll slander you,” he grumbled.

Dashvara heard quick hooves against the pavement of the road, and his smile faded as he saw a figure in a bronze mask gallop past them, past the carts, and quickly away toward Titiaka. Silence fell in the wagon.

“Was it her, Dash?” Lumon asked.

Dashvara cleared his throat and sighed.

“It was her,” he confirmed.

It took them over five hours to reach the Crystal Forest. It was the largest forest Dashvara had ever seen in his life, and he remembered being impressed three years ago when he had walked through it. In any case, it was far less intimidating than the inextricable tangle of the Ariltuan swamps. The sparse undergrowth was covered with moss, and vines of crystallized sap fell from the trees, glistening softly in the sunlight. As soon as the path turned north, Dashvara saw the Great Wall, but it took the wagons another hour to reach it. The wall was about ten steps thick and fifty feet high. It was one of the Five Great Sacrifices of Titiaka, built more than a century ago when Diumcili was still a kingdom and the three Cantons had not joined in a federation. As they approached the imposing structure, Dashvara noticed Tsu’s sullen face and asked him about it.

“I was thinking of all the slaves who died building this,” the drow explained. “We’re talking thousands of deaths.”

Dashvara shuddered and looked back at the Great Wall, suddenly feeling much less fascinated.

Outside the gates, guards stopped them and made them all get off the wagons, grunting like foremen used to dealing with all kinds of people. They led them to a courtyard on the other side of the walls, and while a scribe checked their arm marks, one of the Titiaka patrolmen distributed the meal. In the area, there was a constant flow of people. Dozens of carts stopped in the courtyards, near the taverns that lined the road. Travelers were entering and leaving the establishments, groups of guards were lazing between the carts, and some thrifty merchants, having brought their own meals, were sitting on the grass and low walls that surrounded the large courtyard. Dashvara had just sat down with his bowl of garfias when he saw a family with five girls getting off a stagecoach dressed as if they were going to a ball. When two of them chuckled quietly, he realized that he was looking at them brazenly and turned his attention back to his garfias. He coughed:

“Makarva.”

“Mm?” this one said. Sitting with the forgotten bowl in his hands, his friend smiled at the girls, giving them his most seductive smile. Dashvara stifled a teasing laugh.

“Your garfias will get cold.”

Makarva looked down at his bowl and rolled his eyes.

“They were already cold when they were served to us.” He resumed his contemplation without breaking his smile. “Ah, Dash! What a beautiful day, don’t you think?”

Dashvara did not respond immediately. He watched the five girls as they entered a tavern, laughing and chattering like parakeets. Dashvara smiled. Hell, it seemed like millennia had passed since he had gazed upon such innocent expressions as these. The milfids were spiritually twenty miles away from these happy young girls. A beautiful day, Makarva had said…

“Quite magnificent,” he agreed vivaciously.

He was distracted by a contained laugh and noticed that Lumon, Alta, Boron, and Tsu were looking at them with mocking expressions. He snorted.

“What’s wrong with them?” Makarva grumbled.

Dashvara shrugged.

“Bah, let them. As Miflin says: sovereign stupidity, listening to it is not worth it.”

They had more time than the day before to stretch their legs, and by the time they got back into the wagons, they felt ready for the remaining five hours of travel. The sun was beating down hard, and the drivers set up the hood before resuming their journey. From then on, it was all barns, groves, streams, and hills. From time to time, they saw large houses and castles. Sitting in the back of the wagon this time, Dashvara observed the landscape. Most of the fields were covered with vines and vegetables, and he guessed that the people growing them were most likely “workers”: he had been in Diumcili long enough to know that the economy of the entire Federation was based on slaves.

With the canvas, an asphyxiating heat soon built up in the wagon, and Dashvara began to cook like a garfia in the boiling water. His skin, where the mark of the red dragon had been applied, began to burn to the point where he could have sworn that an entire nest of saravies was treacherously attacking him. He soon realized that his companions were facing the same problem and that, like him, they were about to melt, especially Tsu. Dashvara became concerned when he saw the sweat dripping off the drow’s forehead; normally he only sweated when he was at his wit’s end. Twice a patrol handed out water bottles, and twice they gave Tsu two full bottles, dousing him with one and making sure he drank. At one point, the drow mumbled something about hyperthermia and added incomprehensible terms; Dashvara feared he was starting to get delirious.

However, his fears vanished when, after three hours of travel, a fresh breeze came up, sweeping the air of the oven in which they were. It was like a liberation. They went from a heat-induced daze to a state of drowsiness. Within minutes, Miflin and Kodarah found themselves leaning against each other, sharing their dreams. Arvara the Giant was about to crush Lumon under his weight, and Boron sat placidly asleep with his chin pressed against his chest. More asleep than awake, Dashvara absorbed himself in contemplating the path they were leaving behind. At one point, he met the dark eyes of a passerby and almost jumped up, thinking it was Zaadma. Then he called himself a fool when he saw that the woman’s face bore no resemblance to hers. May the Eternal Bird restore my sanity, he sighed, regaining his composure.

The East was already darkening when Atok woke him up from his torpor.

“Tell me, Dash, this contract. How do you feel about it?”

Dashvara raised an eyebrow at the Xalya’s calm, emaciated face. He didn’t know why, but Atok had always valued his opinions; perhaps because, after becoming orphan at the age of ten, he had been taken in by Lord Vifkan and had developed a kind of hereditary respect for his son. Dashvara did not know exactly the reason.

“How do I feel about the contract?” He shrugged and yawned. “That it’s a good joke. This new master must have a good sense of humor.”

“A good sense of humor?” Atok repeated, without understanding.

Dashvara smiled.

“Well, yes. Think about it. What humorless person could ask his slave to recognize that he is signing a contract voluntarily? You’re absolutely right, Atok,” he added, although he didn’t say anything. “It’s sick humor, but it’s humor.”

Atok remained silent for a moment and finally shook his head gently.

“If you say so. Do you know if this new master belongs to the Brotherhood of the Pearl?”

Dashvara winced. At Azune’s request, he had not revealed Cobra’s identity to his brothers.

“No, I don’t know,” he lied. “But I don’t think so. Atasiag is a Diumcilian name. He probably has his own organization. I have a feeling he’s a much more powerful man than the Brotherhood of the Pearl.”

He crossed his legs over the edge of the cart, trying to find a more comfortable position. Only then did he realize that everyone who was still awake was paying attention to what he was saying. Did they think he knew more about the subject than they did? No, maybe they don’t, but they still want to hear you say something comforting, like that Atasiag is really an ally. To reveal to them that he is a thief would completely undermine their morale. He sighed inwardly and added gently:

“We are doing the right thing, brothers. Atasiag will set us free. Do not doubt it.”

Or, at least, doubt in silence, he added to himself.

They arrived at Titiaka when the sky was already turning a dark blue. They passed what Tsu called the Black Fortress and headed for the gates of Ashagod. The fortifications of Titiaka would have impressed an army of dragons: they consisted of double walls surrounded by a ditch of about thirty paces. Even back in the steppe, people had heard about the defenses of the federal capital. Dashvara glimpsed the many towers over the heads of his companions, and the only thought he had was: If it comes to it, we may have a harder time escaping from here than from the Border…

When they entered, he could not see the bridge that joined the two mountains, Mount Serene and Mount Courteous: he could only see an infinite flow of busy or idle people zigzagging nimbly along a wide crowded avenue. They turned left, away from the avenue, and entered a courtyard surrounded by an elegant white-walled building. For a moment, Dashvara thought it was Atasiag’s house, but one of the patrolmen disabused them of their suspicion when, as the wagons stopped, he forbade them to set foot on the ground.

“Stay there,” the Titiaka said. “The city guard will come to take care of you soon.”

As soon as the patrolman walked away, Zamoy sighed and commented through his teeth:

“We’ll end up knowing the federal barracks courtyards inside and out.”

Dashvara could almost feel the tension in the air. Logically, everyone was anxious to know what the hell was going to be done with their lives now in the middle of this monstrous city.

‘Hey, Dash,’ Tahisran’s voice said suddenly. ‘I almost left without saying good night. I’m going to take a walk around the city,’ he informed him.

Dashvara looked down uselessly at his bag to see that the shadow was already gone. He scanned his surroundings and shook his head. It was useless to look for a shadow in the dark. He had the impression that Tahisran was already far away when he whispered:

“Good night, Tah.”

A few minutes later, the carts left the barracks. They passed through silent streets, and finally, after more than thirty hours of travel in the cart, they reached the home of Atasiag Peykat.

“Get off,” a voice called out to them as the carts stopped.

Dashvara was the first to get down with his bag on his back, and while the others descended, he examined the surroundings. The house was large, and he bet that if he had seen it in daylight, it would have looked sumptuous. The back building had an upper floor, the courtyard was surrounded by a corridor with columns, and a small fountain stood in the center, illuminated by a soft light that seemed to emerge from nothing.

And why does a thief keep stealing if he already has all this? Dashvara wondered, bewildered.

He heard the drivers spurring the horses and turned to see the city guards riding away with the carts. They left behind a courtyard with twenty-two Xalyas from the steppe, a drow, and a small group of Atasiag’s men. Dashvara scanned the latter with curiosity. There were four of them, and they carried only a staff on their belts. They seemed quite relaxed, as if they hadn’t even imagined that the Xalyas might try to rebel. He didn’t know any of them, and he wondered if they were members of the Dream Brotherhood. Thieves, perhaps. Spies. Or who knows?

“Come in here,” one of them said in a softer voice than Dashvara had expected. He was human, and his hair was even darker than the Xalyas’. His quiet demeanor and slight gait reminded Dashvara of a lone old wolf.

Expectantly, the Xalyas did not even murmur. They simply followed their new guides.

17 Twenty-three princes from the Border

The Xalyas were led to a large room full of lined-up straw mattresses. At the far end was a window with an openwork stone plaque worthy of the best Diumcili craftsmen. Dashvara gazed at it with the impression of entering a small palace.

“This will be your dormitory,” the human informed with a vague gesture. His Titiaka accent was so thick that Dashvara had to strain to understand him. “The kitchens are on the other side of the courtyard, and you may eat there at any time of the day as long as there is something to grab. We, the housekeepers, sleep right outside this door,” he said, “If you have any doubts, just come by and ask. One of us is usually always around. The cook and his daughter sleep in the kitchen. You don’t have free access to the other rooms. And… let’s just say that’s it.” He gave them an inquisitive look. “Any questions?”

Several exhalations were heard. Dashvara suppressed a nervous laugh. He was asking if they had any questions…! Captain Zorvun replied in a calm tone:

“Indeed, we may have quite a few questions. But first, thank you for your welcome. I am Zorvun of Xalya. May I ask your names?”

The human nodded quietly with a slight smile.

“Of course. My name is Wassag. And these are Yorlen and Dafys,” he pointed to an elf with purple hair and then to a sibilian with a face as gray as stone and deep blue eyes. “The belarch, old Leoshu, has gone to close the gate. Please, can you roll up your sleeves? We need to check that you are all marked.”

Several sighs were heard, but no one protested. When the three guardians had reviewed them, the captain asked:

“Well, Wassag, what does our new job involve?”

Wassag raised an eyebrow, and his gray eyes twinkled.

“Let’s just say we weren’t told. I suppose, as soon as His Eminence is back from his trip, you will know.”

“His Eminence?” Zamoy muttered with a wrinkled nose.

“Trip?” Zorvun repeated with a puzzled look. “Atasiag is not in Titiaka?”

Wassag pouted as if trying to suppress a smile.

“Let’s just say he’s not here,” he admitted. “But he’ll most likely be back the day after tomorrow.”

Sashava growled, and Zorvun gave him a warning look.

“It’s all right,” the captain said. “Then we’ll wait for his return.”

“Yes. What else could you do, anyway, right?” Wassag smiled broadly this time. “Ah, get used to calling him His Eminence,” he added more seriously. “Atasiag Peykat is a magistrate, and he is a candidate for the Council. He is a citizen of prestige, and we, his workers, are the first ones who should honor him.”

His comment generated expressions of mockery and exasperation that were difficult to contain. Dashvara thought he saw a mixture of confusion and curiosity in the guardian’s silver eyes.

“I guess that’s part of the contract,” Zorvun sighed at last.

Wassag looked at his two companions out of the corner of his eye before stating:

“I suggest you leave your bags here. I’ll guide you to the kitchens. You must be hungry, I suppose.”

All the faces lit up, especially those of Maef, Shurta, and Arvara. Dashvara smiled. Between the three of them, they could have eaten an entire cow.

Outside, a cold, damp wind had risen, blowing from the sea. They hurried through the portico to the kitchens. There, a tall elfocan, dressed entirely in white, was humming a song in Diumcilian as he arranged spoons on the table.

“Serl,” Wassag said with obvious affection, “you don’t have to pamper us like we’re children. Let’s just say we know where to find the spoons. How’s the broth?”

“Ah, Ah!” the cook exclaimed. “Don’t touch it, Wass. Sit down with the others. Ah,” he smiled with all his teeth. “How nice to have a full table again. Hi, everyone. My name is Serlag. I’ll bring you the broth and bread right away. And, after that, I have a surprise!”

As the man named Serl walked away, Dashvara sat down next to Makarva and whispered:

“They took us for a delegation of princes, didn’t they?”

Makarva twirled his spoon. Imitating Wassag’s way of speaking, he admitted in a low tone:

“Let’s just say that’s the impression it gives.”

Dashvara half-stifled a laugh, and when he met Wassag’s gaze, he gave him an apologetic pout: the very discreet Makarva had spoken in Common Tongue.

“Mak,” he sighed patiently, “how many times have I told you that you shouldn’t make fun of people until you’ve assessed their susceptibility?”

“Mm,” Makarva reflected, “I guess you didn’t tell me that yet.”

“You always need an explanation for everything,” Dashvara scoffed teasingly.

Wassag raised his eyebrows and sat down in front of the captain, surrounded by the purple-haired elf and the sibilian. They had not yet spoken a word.

“Is it true that you are from the Border?” the dark-haired man asked.

Zorvun nodded.

“We’re coming from there.”

A glint of curiosity passed through Wassag’s eyes.

“Well, you were lucky to get out. Here, they say that a Doomed seldom reaches the day of his release.”

“No wonder,” Orafe laughed sarcastically. “They’re almost all sentenced to life.”

Of all the Xalyas, Orafe had the stoniest and most scarred face. That’s why Dashvara wasn’t surprised when Wassag stared at him for a few seconds before grimacing quietly.

“I see. Let’s just say that, around here, we don’t know much about the Cantons. I only know that the swamps of Ariltuan are inhabited by dangerous creatures. Orcs, some say.”

“Orcs,” Shurta confirmed.

“And milfids,” Zamoy added casually. “Bipedal creatures with sharp teeth, bluish skin, and claws that skin you alive just by grazing you. Look what one of them did to me,” he added as he rolled up the sleeve of his left arm: a long, scarred groove ran from his shoulder to his elbow. Wassag looked impressed; Yorlen and Dafys remained unperturbed. Zamoy smiled evilly. “Dashvara and Lumon tore that damned beast apart with their swords.”

“For Serenity’s sake…” Wassag whispered.

“There are also adrieges,” observed Pik with one of his usual nervous tics. “Beasts that you don’t know if they walk or crawl and that blend in with the mud. They’re like huge snakes with arms. My brother Kaldaka and I came across an adriege one day when we were weeding shrubs near the edge. It threw one of its venomous spittoons at us, and if Arvara hadn’t been there to take us back to the barracks and Tsu hadn’t treated us with his concoctions, we’d have become real zombies. Look at this,” he added, pulling the collar of his shirt to show a piece of coal-black skin. “Necrosis, that’s what Tsu calls it. My brother has the same thing on his shoulder.”

“Wassag murmured; now he didn’t look so fascinated, but rather frightened. Yorlen, on the other hand, had tilted his head with sudden interest.”

Dashvara intervened:

“And then there are the brizzias. They’re like big stone golems covered with moss. They’re about fifteen feet tall. Just so you get an idea, if they reach out their hand, they can touch the roof of this house. If they punch you in the face, they send you all the way to the desert.”

“Really?” Wassag cleared his throat. A glint of disbelief passed through his eyes.

Really, federate, Dashvara smiled.

“One of them crushed Sashava’s leg with his fist,” Atok said. “And Dashvara broke two ribs attacking it from behind.”

“He headbutted me,” Dashvara said. “And I almost stuck my spear in his eye, but you see? I didn’t do it. If I had, we wouldn’t be sitting here but rather rotting in the mud in the middle of Ariltuan.”

“Did you enter the swamp?” Wassag inquired.

“Yes, we did,” Sashava laughed. Dashvara smiled to see him in such a good mood. “You see, Federate: we’ve walked for miles in the mud.”

“Then the brizzia came, we had enough, and turned back,” Dashvara added, amused.

“Well, the brizzias aren’t the worst,” Alta assured. “The creatures that terrify the Doomed the most are the small ones, the ones you can hardly see. Do you guys know what saravies are?” Wassag and Yorlen nodded. “They are insects that attack you to suck your blood. These bugs inject you with a liquid that makes you jump for hours.”

“No, no, no. It’s more like you collapse on the floor, all twitchy,” Zamoy nuanced. The Triplets were experts in the field: for some reason, the saravies particularly liked their blood.

Makarva cleared his throat and interjected:

“It really takes a whole swarm of saravies to die. On the other hand, with an anfiworm bite, in a few minutes, you are already good for feeding milfids and crows. It is a snake with a very transparent skin,” he explained to the three hosts. “It burrows into the mud, it runs at lightning speed, and you only see it when it falls on you.”

Zorvun muttered, amused:

“You’re scaring them, guys.”

“Scare us? Not at all,” replied Dafys, the sibilian. The sound of his voice was hoarse, like two stones scraping against each other. He wandered his blue eyes over the Xalyas as the cook approached with the broth. “I don’t buy all these stories,” he affirmed. “If these anfiworms are so dangerous, if there are so many horrible monsters, how do you explain that you are still alive?”

His question drew smiles and soft laughs from everyone.

“Because we were lucky, perhaps?” Kodarah the Hairy proposed.

“Because the eyes of Lumon warn us of all dangers,” Miflin interjected.

“Because we have the best captain in the world,” Makarva exulted, holding up his spoon.

“What a pair of adulators,” Zamoy snorted.

“Because we are Xalyas.” Sashava’s statement was emphatic. It might have sounded like a joke coming from anyone else, but coming from him, that was not possible: Sashava did not joke about the Xalyas’ honor. Zorvun cleared his throat.

“And because we were only there for three years.”

Wassag huffed.

“Only three years, you say?”

The captain smiled.

“I know a Doomed who has been there for over fifteen years.” He was talking about Towder, the Tower of Dignity. “Obviously, many don’t survive the first year,” he muttered, and Dashvara guessed he was thinking of Kadayra, Orafe’s brother who had died in the first few months. The captain shook his head. “In practice, if you leave out the diseases, milfids are the greatest danger. They don’t just look for livestock like the orcs: if they come across you on their way, they’ll eat you. And they will stop at nothing, not even steel. In those three years, I haven’t seen a single milfid run for its life.”

For some reason, Zorvun had always been fascinated by the behavior of milfids; Dashvara sometimes wondered if it wasn’t because they possessed the same stubbornness as his friend Lord Vifkan. He smiled and half stood up his turn came to help himself to the broth. This one was composed of an incredible variety of ingredients. He was only able to recognize the carrots and the onion. Near the table, Serl proclaimed with obvious satisfaction:

“Octopus broth, cereals, onions, garlic, thyme, and other ingredients, Uncle Serl’s secret. Eat before it gets cold and stop your macabre tales. Here, in my kitchen, we talk about the good life and joy, not about disgusting monsters. Eat up!”

Pleasantly surprised, Dashvara joined the others in conveying his thanks, and Uncle Serl blushed with pleasure before walking away to tend to his kitchen.

The broth was excellent. He couldn’t remember eating a dish that good since… well, since never, really. In the Dungeon of Xalya, they had never had ingredients to properly season meals, and in the Border, they ate garfias every day, and Rayorah’s guard only provided them with good meat once a year, for the winter feast; and it wasn’t especially fun to go into town in the middle of the snow to get it.

Bah, he said to himself, gobbling up. That’s all in the past, Dash: now the good life awaits you.

He smiled again, amused. At that moment, he would have remained seated with his broth even if he had been offered the freedom to leave. Where would he go anyway? To kill Shalussi leaders? As soon as he had sauced his bowl, he joined in the “ladle parade”, as the inventive Zamoy called it, and helped himself to a second portion. Maef and Arvara were already on their third bowl.

Ah. Cobra doesn’t know who he’s taken under his roof. If they continue to treat us so well, we’ll empty his pantry in a week.

He was swallowing his last spoonful when he saw Makarva leaning against the back of his chair and sighing with deep satisfaction.

“Eternal Bird, do you think they will look at me sideways if I hug Uncle Serl?” His eyes shone with gratitude.

Dashvara laughed.

“Not a chance. Actually, if you hug him, I will hug him too.”

“Great. Where did he go?” Makarva asked. The others were deep in conversation, making more racket than a bunch of drunkards. Even Orafe the Grouch and Sashava the Grumpy were in a good mood. Dafys, the sibilian, had slipped away, but Wassag and Yorlen were still there, one talking with the captain and the other as silent as a grave. For a few seconds, Dashvara stared at his brothers, fascinated. There were few things in life more beautiful than to see one’s loved ones happy and carefree, satiated and with the wonderful conviction that they would never return to the Border… He blinked.

Whoa, whoa, whoa! Careful, Dash. You’re getting sentimental.

Arvara the Giant’s stentorian laughter drew him from his thoughts. Makarva was still looking for the cook when Dashvara saw the elfocan enter through an inner door. He was carrying a bag over his shoulder, which was making glass noises.

“What is it you’re carrying there, Serl?” Wassag inquired, getting up to help him put his bag on the table.

The cook put on a huge smile.

“An old wine from Atalbella, boys,” he announced. “The best wine on the entire east coast of the Pilgrim Ocean. A gift from His Eminence.”

Amazement gave way to enthusiasm. With a wolfish smile, Makarva murmured:

“I’ll hug him twice!”

“Be careful, Mak,” Dashvara warned him. “One more eminent gift and this whole thing could degenerate into an orgy.”

Orafe protested that he would have preferred to drink the wine with the broth, but Serl was adamant that a wine of this class should be drunk as dessert. They were each given a single glass, and Makarva muttered in disappointment that one glass of wine couldn’t possibly degenerate into anything, anyway. Dashvara drank his glass in one gulp and watched the cook as he very delicately took a sip of his.

“Feel the texture,” he said, exultant. “It’s like a strawberry that’s fallen into an amber well.”

A strawberry what? Dashvara exchanged glances with Makarva, and they both cleared their throats quietly while the cook continued to rave and spout nonsense about his wine. Each sentence was more extravagant than the previous.

“Blazing with light,” Dashvara echoed, huffing. “Unless he means the candelabra…”

“Blessed by the Grace of Humility,” Makarva chuckled. “Demons, when I think I drank it unknowingly.”

Zamoy gave Miflin an eloquent nudge.

“Hurry up, or he’ll beat you to the punch, Poet,” he teased.

When Uncle Serl stopped talking, all the Xalyas had finished their drinks and were watching the imposing elfocan with amused and bewildered expressions.

“Serl,” Wassag said, patting him on the shoulder. “Drink up, come on. You’ll end up dropping your drink. Hey, all of you, I guess you must be exhausted, so I’ll wish you a good night. And like I said, if you need anything, feel free to knock on our door.”

Zorvun stood up, and everyone followed him. An army of chairs screeched back.

“Thank you very much for everything, for the welcome and for the wine,” the captain thanked. He seemed a little intoxicated, as if one glass of wine had altered his reflexes. He didn’t have Kroon’s stamina, Dashvara smiled. As he left the kitchen with his brothers, he confirmed for himself:

“Like I said: they took us for a delegation of princes.”

18 The Lord of the Slaves

Dashvara awoke to the sound of hooves in the courtyard. He went back to sleep and dreamed that he was a child again, running through the grass, away from the Dungeon with his sister Fayrah and brother Showag. It was a winter day with a gray, windless sky. Feathery snowflakes were sliding to the ground, and for fun, Dashvara asked Fayrah to sing a traditional song to keep the snow falling. Maloven’s voice reprimanded him: ‘You must be the worthy son of your father, Dashvara of Xalya. Xalyas do not walk: they ride.’ He emerged from the dream with these absurd words in his head.

“He arrived earlier than expected,” a voice whispered. “Is it him?”

A hand gently shook his shoulder. Dashvara opened his eyes and saw silver eyes. He was startled for a second, since he didn’t recognize them. Then he sighed with relief as he remembered where he was.

“Wassag?”

“Get up, young man,” he murmured. “His Eminence wants to see you.”

A shiver ran through Dashvara.

“Me?”

Wassag shrugged.

“Yes, you. You are Dashvara of Xalya, aren’t you?”

Dashvara met the amused gaze of the captain, sitting on his pallet. He guessed that it was him who had “denounced” him. He suppressed a grunt and dressed with slow movements: he had no desire to see this thief. Really no desire at all… He saw an impatient glint in Wassag’s eyes but did not hurry. Let His Eminence be patient. Let’s just say it’s not right to snap a man out of his dreams so abruptly, Wass. He smiled, finally finished buckling his belt, and followed the guard outside. The sky was already beginning to turn blue.

“Wasn’t he supposed to arrive tomorrow?” he asked.

Wassag shrugged again.

“Let’s say that’s what I was told, but His Eminence’s business doesn’t always last that long.”

Dashvara wondered if Wassag knew more about that “business”. Maybe Atasiag wasn’t keeping his guardians informed. Maybe they didn’t even know he was a member of the Dream Brotherhood. Dashvara couldn’t find out without betraying himself by asking prying questions.

Wassag led him to the main door and into a stately living room with sofas, a fireplace, and carpets. He led him to a set of wide stairs, but he didn’t climb them: he stopped at a large door nearby and knocked a few times. Several seconds passed before he heard a loud knock followed by a clearing of the throat.

“Come in.”

This room was unmistakably a library: the shelves were full of books, notebooks, scrolls, and scattered pieces of paper. At a desk near a lit candelabra, a medium-sized human with an ordinary face was carefully rolling up a scroll. He looked up when Dashvara and Wassag stopped a few steps away. His brown eyes sparkled.

“Perfect. Wassag, can you take this to Legitimate Shaag Yordark?”

The dark-haired man hastened to take the paper scroll.

“He must be getting ready to go to the Council,” Cobra added. “Today there is a special meeting. Hurry up. And get Yorlen here.”

“Yes, Eminence,” Wassag answered. And he left the library with haste.

Dashvara thought he saw approval in the thief’s eyes and barely concealed his revulsion. If Cobra really expected him to behave as slavishly as Wassag, he could always dream on. Atasiag Peykat stood up. He was dressed in a purple sash and a long white tunic with pleats and gold embroidery. He reminded him a bit of Nanda with his necklaces, but more refined.

“It’s been a long time, hasn’t it, Philosopher?” the snake whispered.

Dashvara shuddered: it felt strange to hear the nickname his brothers gave him in this man’s mouth. The man’s lips were not smiling, but his eyes were. He clasped his hands behind his back.

“Why are you still wearing the Doomed belt?”

Dashvara raised an eyebrow as he looked down at his white belt.

“We weren’t given new belts.”

“Mm. You will all receive uniforms wearing the insignia of my house,” Cobra promised. “Come closer.”

Dashvara frowned and took two steps forward. He had dozens of questions he was burning to ask, but he couldn’t figure out which one was the most pressing until he finally asked:

“Where is my sister?”

Atasiag raised an eyebrow.

“I think,” he sighed, “that you haven’t quite figured out how things work here yet. The Contract, Philosopher: the Contract. Tell me about it.”

Dashvara scanned him for a few seconds before exhaling and muttering:

“I voluntarily lend my services to the man who hires me, and I swear never to act against his wishes. Have I acted against your wishes by asking you about my sister, snake?”

A dangerous glint passed through Atasiag Peykat’s eyes.

“Continue.”

Dashvara stiffened even more, but he continued, thinking that perhaps it was a test:

“I will not betray my master or my master’s allies, and I will treat anyone I come in contact with strictly according to social conditions, whether that person is known to me or not—”

“Here we are,” Atasiag interrupted him. “Strictly according to social conditions. Who am I to you, Philosopher? The Contract says it.”

Dashvara finally understood what this viper was up to. He hesitated, and Cobra stared him down.

“Pride aside, Philosopher. Who am I to you?”

Dashvara made a throaty sound before letting out:

“My master.”

He wished he could see satisfaction in Atasiag’s expression so that he could despise him more, but Atasiag simply nodded calmly.

“Well. Since I am your master, either you call me ‘Master’ or you call me ‘Eminence’. And, above all, you speak to me with respect. An unsubmissive slave loses much of his value on the market, Philosopher. And this does not suit you or me. Forget how you used to live at the Border: in Titiaka, we don’t allow slaves to break discipline. And with a troop of Xalya warriors like yours, I must suppress them more than anyone else,” he murmured eloquently. “Is that clear?”

He understood Atasiag’s cautious reasons, but they did not seem any less aberrant.

“Yes, master.” That he was his master was a fact, but from there to calling him Eminence was a big difference.

Atasiag smiled and crossed his arms.

“Continue with the Contract.”

Dashvara breathed in and continued:

“In case of treason, fault, or negligence on my part or on the part of one of my companions, I ask and demand that the due punishment be applied and I swear not to try—”

Atasiag clicked his tongue.

“I ask and demand that the due punishment be applied, whatever its nature,” he corrected him. “You have not learned it well. Repeat it.”

Dashvara felt that his head was beginning to heat up like boiling water. He repeated and finished:

“And I swear not to try to evade the aforementioned nor to interfere in the case where the fault is not mine. Which, I suppose, means that, if you claim to kill me, I must stay put to make it easy for you, right?”

Atasiag sighed patiently.

“Right. In case you don’t know, any boss has the right of life and death over his workers. Now, everything depends on you. If you fulfill my wishes, I won’t be your killer but your benefactor.” He smiled. “Come on, don’t take it so personally. In Titiaka, the workers live better than many free men. I will take care of you like little kings. Now you are part of the family of this house, and I will trust you and your people if you, in turn, show me respect and devotion. Review the Contract regularly so you don’t forget it, mm?”

Dashvara muttered through his teeth and felt the greatest amazement of his life when Atasiag grabbed him by the beard and pulled on it to lower his head.

“Get rid of that pride, Philosopher, or I will have to tame you as others do with rebels.”

He let go of him. Dashvara had been about to rush on him to strangle him. He barely managed to stop himself.

“You’re not making it easy for me, Eminent Snake,” he growled. “If you pull on my beard again, I’ll gouge out your eyes.”

“Keep it up, and in a few days, you’ll all be back at the Border. Is this what you want?” Dashvara did not answer. “Be patient, Philosopher. Don’t choke on your dignity. Around here, the more rebellious the worker is, the more he suffocates. And the more loyal he is, the better he lives. I am a merchant and a magistrate, not an enlightened person like your friends Rowyn and Azune. I am a landlord, and things being what they are, that seems right to me. Think about it, the Diumcili system is less hypocritical and healthier than that of the Dazbonians, who enslave their people without telling them they are slaves and without even taking care of them like we do here. I ask only for loyalty and good behavior, and in return, I pledge, as any master would, to take care of you and your people.” He smiled and added, “If you want freedom, Philosopher, you’re going to have to earn it the hard way.”

Dashvara pulled himself together.

“Okay, Eminence. Let’s make peace. I’ll treat you as Wassag does, and you explain to me what my brothers and I should do. What is the plan?”

Atasiag raised an eyebrow.

“The plan? Your plan is simple: follow my orders. The idea of taking you did not come from me, but since you are here, you owe me the same obedience as any other slave. For the time being, you will perform various tasks, depending on my needs. Perhaps some… domestic tasks.”

Dashvara didn’t know if he should feel relieved or disappointed.

“Are we going to clean your house, Eminence?”

Atasiag smiled, and his eyes turned to a spot behind Dashvara. Dashvara realized that Yorlen, the purple-haired elf, was near the door. He had probably been there for quite some time.

“You are not going to clean my house,” Atasiag Peykat replied, “but that of some of my friends. Figuratively speaking, of course.”

Dashvara was not sure how to interpret those words.

“You mean we have to liquidate them?”

Atasiag laughed.

“No! You savage, you. When I say they’re friends, I mean they’re friends, allies, or people whose support can be useful. But don’t worry about that right now. Today you have the day off. Yorlen,” he called. “Get the tailor to come. I want every Xalya to have two uniforms. An official one and a more discreet one, for everyday life,” he explained to Dashvara. As the elf nodded silently, Atasiag smiled, “I want you to wear the Red Dragon with pride. And I want this to be your only pride.” He ignored Dashvara’s sigh. “Yorlen, send them to the baths as soon as the tailor is done. And have the barber come by, too. After eating, pick four of them, including this man, and give them a little tour around the city, mm? Then you’ll do the same with four others, and so on.”

Yorlen nodded, and Dashvara understood that Atasiag was sending them away. He protested:

“Eminence, since we are here, I would like to—”

“The tone is improving,” Atasiag interrupted him approvingly. “And now withdraw, Philosopher. I’ll call on you again one of these days. With me, people learn to be patient. In the meantime, get to know Titiaka, behave yourself, and don’t cause me any trouble, understand?” His smile wrung a pout of contempt from Dashvara. Damn walking snake…

He strode out of the library in front of Yorlen and didn’t turn back to him until he got to the kitchen, where the Xalyas were all already having lunch.

“Hey, Yorlen,” he said. “You don’t call him Eminence, and he doesn’t seem to mind. How come?”

The purple-haired elf gave a half-smile and suddenly opened his mouth, showing his severed tongue. Dashvara swallowed.

“Oh. I understand now. Did Atasiag do this to you?”

Yorlen shook his head energetically and walked away; he silently greeted Uncle Serl, and after giving Dashvara a friendly smile, he came out of the kitchen with a warm bun in his teeth. He most likely left to find the tailor.

So that this one adorns us even more…

Dashvara sat down at the table with a sigh. The racket was almost as great as it had been the day before. His brothers had never been known for their discretion, especially Makarva and the Triplets: Zamoy was commenting on the new poem Miflin was reciting, and Miflin was indignant at the inhuman autopsy the Baldy was performing on his creation. Dashvara smiled when Makarva stepped in as a fake mediator: they had sometimes suggested that he be called the Diplomatic Jester, but he refused to take on the role, arguing that it was too much responsibility for a sensitive man like him.

He looked at Lumon, then at Sashava, then at Zorvun. And he addressed them all with an expression that meant something like: “It went better than I expected”. Honestly, it had gone nor well nor badly. Atasiag had merely clarified the status of the Xalyas once and for all. They agreed to serve him as slaves in exchange for a promise of freedom. Like any other slave, in the end.

Trying to calm down, Dashvara helped himself to breakfast with a grim certainty: by leaving Compassion, the Xalyas’ overall situation had not changed in the least. They were still locked in a cage with deadly nails, except that this time the federates were surrounding them much more closely.

“I can’t believe it!” Makarva suddenly exclaimed. “Dashvara has a fly on his toast and he hasn’t even realized it yet.”

Dashvara chased the fly away.

“See?” he growled. “I told you they would follow us.”

“They love you, Dash. They would follow you to the farthest reaches of the Pilgrim Ocean. You are their spiritual guide.”

“Yes, I think they have already proclaimed me Lord of the Flies. The problem is that they don’t even obey me when I order them to go away.”

Makarva shook his head with a smile and commented in Oy’vat more seriously:

“You’re not just the lord of the flies, Dash. Remember?”

Dashvara huffed.

“Right. I am also the lord of twenty-two slaves. Is that what you want to tell me, Mak? What a wonderful lord who takes such good care of his people.” His friend frowned at his bitter tone. Dashvara chuckled. “Bah, nonsense! Except for the Triplets, I’m the youngest of you all. How can you still think I have more right to call myself lord of the steppe than you?”

Several Xalyas had fallen silent, and Zorvun was listening to the conversation, looking grim. Makarva gave a shrug, and Dashvara perceived a deep sincerity when, despite a discreet mocking smile on his lips, he answered:

“Well, I mean it, Dash. I mean it.”

Dashvara didn’t know whether to feel flattered or exasperated. It made no sense that his friend, who knew him so well, would think that…

“I think so too, Dash,” Atok interjected.

“So do I!” Zamoy supported.

Stunned, Dashvara saw most of them confirm out loud or with simple nods; even Tsu gave his approval. When he noticed the mysterious smiles on Lumon’s and the captain’s faces, he suppressed the roar rising in his throat. He felt as if his best friends had suddenly dropped all their bags on his shoulders. He glanced at the whole table, swallowed, and didn’t know how to respond to this strange show of loyalty that he hadn’t earned.

Hooray, just what you needed. Now you’re going to feel even more responsible if Atasiag doesn’t get us out of here before we all get gray hair. But, anyway, you were already feeling responsible, admit it.

Makarva pulled him out of his thoughts.

“What do you think, Dash? Are you going to accept once and for all and without grumbling that you are the lord of the Xalyas? We’ll be more loyal than your flies,” he promised.

Dashvara stared at him, turned to the captain, and shrugged.

“All right, you asked for it. Personally, I think it’s ridiculous.”

“Our lord said we were ridiculous!” Makarva translated for the whole table. “And if he says so, then we are.”

“We’ll live with it,” Zamoy assured. “Anyway, I’ve got no shame anymore. And Miflin even less. Kodarah?”

“I just said farewell to it,” the Hairy swore.

They laughed, and Dashvara shook his head, smiling. Damn Xalyas. They always got what they wanted. He swatted away a fly and continued eating.

He was finishing his second slice of bread when Zorvun walked around the table and put a hand on his shoulder.

“I still feel the same way, son: I’m proud of you.”

Dashvara rolled his eyes.

“You’re the real lord here, Captain,” he mumbled. “Or tell me it wasn’t you who asked Makarva to bring up the subject, huh?”

An amused glint danced in Captain Zorvun’s dark eyes.

“I assure you I didn’t say anything to him. But, obviously, I wasn’t the only one who thought it was time for you to understand. You were raised to be a lord, Dashvara, and you will be,” he whispered. “Even if your people are only a handful of slaves, as you say.”

The captain walked away, and Dashvara followed him with his eyes, both moved and frustrated. Inwardly, he still couldn’t see the logic: okay, he had been raised to be a lord. And a certain arrogance inside him told him that this committed him to do his duty without protest. The words that Maloven had spoken in his dream came back to him: ‘You must be the worthy son of your father, Dashvara of Xalya. Xalyas do not walk: they ride.’ That was wonderful, but… did the captain realize how distressing it was to be proclaimed lord of the Xalyas in such a precarious situation as theirs? What the hell, of course he did. It was simply a strategic move to raise the morale of the Xalyas. Dashvara smiled inwardly. There were times when Captain Zorvun could be more of a makarver than Makarva.

19 Legitimates and workers

The morning passed in the blink of an eye. The tailor, a small man with a long, grim face, arrived with a troop of assistants and dressed the Xalyas in a black uniform with an impressive red dragon embroidered on the chest and back. He made a few alterations and adjustments so that they would all be impeccable and then switched to the daily uniform, which consisted of a simple dark tunic with no ornaments and quite ordinary pants. Finally, the tailor gave them all purple belts with a red dragon pin. Makarva was commenting something about Atasiag’s questionable taste when Tsu intervened and explained:

“Purple is the color of the Grace of courtesy and respect. Normally, this belt is worn when the master wishes to highlight that he is willing to hire his workers to help other citizens. It is more symbolic than anything else. He uses it mostly to increase his prestige and show off his wealth.” He made a pout that was akin to a smile as he added, “After all, not everyone has as many workers as Atasiag Peykat.”

Dashvara pouted back and sighed as one of the tailor’s apprentices asked him to raise one of his arms. To tell the truth, the more he thought about it, the more he realized that Atasiag Peykat was far from being just a petty leader in a Brotherhood of Thieves. But, then, who was he? A merchant and a thief at the same time? Certainly, one did not preclude the other, but why would a federal citizen want to destroy a slave trader who brought a steady stream of wealth to his homeland? Azune and Rowyn may have been acting on principle, but Cobra? Well, in all seriousness, he didn’t know the man. Perhaps he was a benevolent person. Actually, he didn’t seem to be a bad person in essence. However, his instincts prevented him from trusting him.

That’s also because you’ve always had trouble trusting foreigners, Dash. But, anyway, what does it matter? Whoever Atasiag Peykat is, as long as he doesn’t treat us wrongly, we’ll be at peace and we’ll riddle him with ‘eminences’ if that’s what he wants.

The tailor had just left when the barber arrived. When the barber offered to shave them completely, Orafe made an outcry and almost scared him off. The captain intervened, calmed the grunt, and after a brief discussion with the federate, he set to work without respite, trimming all the beards without shaving them completely. Only Miflin, Zamoy, and Tsu escaped the ordeal: they were the only ones without a hair on their chins. Finally, the barber set them free, and Yorlen led them outside to the public baths, which were located near the court and a huge esplanade called the Homage Square. According to Tsu, in Titiaka, people went to the baths regularly, including slaves: it was considered an essential activity in daily life to maintain good health. When they arrived, the place was already crowded and even the Triplets were not noticed in this den of thunderous voices. Immersed in pools of hot water, they soon found themselves dozing under a cloud of steam and animated conversations that were flying in all directions. Some spoke in Common Tongue, some in Diumcilian, and some even used a very strange language that Dashvara had never heard. When he asked Tsu about it, Tsu simply replied:

“It is the language of Ryscodra.”

Dashvara shook his head with a quizzical expression.

“Ryscodra, huh?”

The drow smiled, perhaps remembering that none of the Xalyas were very familiar with the geography beyond the Rocdinfer steppe. Dashvara rolled his eyes. And what do you expect, Tsu, no Old King would have ever imagined that one day the Xalyas would find themselves exiled so far from their home.

“It is a large island to the west, in the Pilgrim Ocean,” the drow explained, “It is part of the Golden Heart Islands, where the great Principality of Agoskura is also located. I think I told you about it. A few years ago, they were at war with Ryscodra and the Federation.”

Dashvara nodded: he didn’t remember Tsu telling him much about Agoskura, but he did remember hearing a Sympathetic once say that at the Tower of Serenity there were several prisoners of war from those lands. For the next few minutes, he tried to listen to the language of Ryscodra. He could not understand a single word. Obviously, Ryscodranese was as different from the Common Tongue as Oy’vat was.

He looked around for Yorlen, growing bored. How long did he want them to stay there? Until their skin wrinkled as much as old Maloven’s? When he saw the Mute sitting on a marble bench near the pools, he hurried to join him, but he slowed down when he saw the mark of the Red Dragon on his arm.

“How long have you been serving him?” he said, sitting down next to Yorlen.

The elf arched one eyebrow. He pointed to the date on his arm and held up four fingers.

“Four years?” Dashvara frowned as the mute guard nodded. That meant Cobra already had slaves even before he knew him. Well… not that it was surprising. “What about the others? Wassag, Dafys, and Leoshu… Are they slaves too?”

Yorlen pouted and nodded silently.

“Mm,” he mused. “I guess that was to be expected. What about Uncle Serl?”

Yorlen nodded. Dashvara smiled. The purple-haired elf spoke as much as a stone, but he liked him. He reminded him of a nomadic sage, sometimes smiling and attentive to his surroundings, sometimes absorbed in mystical thoughts.

After a few minutes, he asked:

“Tell me, Yorlen, how long do we have to stay here?”

The Mute shrugged and gestured toward the exit, indicating that they could leave whenever they wanted. Sashava, who had just sat beside them with his crutches, stood up as if bitten by a snake.

“Liadirlá, you should have said it before!” he muttered and called: “Xalyas! Come out of these wells. You will end up being more cooked than the garfias. Oh, oh, Captain, wake up!”

Dashvara smiled broadly at Zorvun’s satisfied expression as he appeared amid the wisps of steam; he looked as if he had enjoyed the baths more than anyone else. Getting used to the luxurious life of Atasiag’s slaves, Captain?

They all left the baths wrinkled but ravenously hungry. Back at Atasiag’s house, they went straight to Uncle Serl’s table and ate like rednecks. They left no sauce in their bowls. The cook laughed, blushing, when they thanked him and asked Miflin to compose an ode in his honor. For once, the Poet found his rhymes on the first try:

Oh, you, king of the garfias,
Serl, friend of the Xalyas!
You shared with us your blessed meals,
Your gracious and delicious food,
Receive in turn with all our zeal
Our humble gratitude:
We will do your will.
Ask and we’ll fulfill.

Zamoy howled with laughter:

“Eternal Bird, brother, now you’ve impressed me!”

As the Xalyas cheered the serenade amidst laughter, Serl welcomed the verses, moved and as red as a garfia. Smiling, Miflin whispered to Dashvara:

“Flatter the cook and you’ll never go hungry.”

Dashvara rolled his eyes and then noticed Wassag’s bewildered face. He assumed that, before the Xalyas arrived, the meals must not have been so… messy. Well of course, how would they get messy with a mute, a sibilian with a face more impenetrable than Tsu’s, and a pale human more quiet than a docile horse? The belarch, old Leoshu, seemed to be the only one willing to talk about his life: from what he told, he had been a peasant worker for more than sixty years, until the day when his owner, ruined, had to sell everything at auction five years ago.

“And after a lot of twists and turns, here I am,” Leoshu concluded.

Afterwards, the belarch began talking about plants and vegetables with Maltagwa, and the conversations scattered along the table. Half-drowsy, Dashvara was following a card game between Miflin, Atok, Orafe, and Boron when he felt Yorlen tugging at his sleeve. He frowned, and only then did he remember that Atasiag had asked the Mute to take them in groups of four to visit the area. Before Yorlen could choose anyone, he stood up and said:

“Makarva, Tsu, Zamoy: come with me. Yorlen wants us to visit the city.”

All three of them stood up without protesting, and Dashvara suddenly realized that he had adopted the same authoritative tone he used to take in the dungeon. He would have meditated more on this phenomenon if Yorlen had not already been leaving the room. He hurried to follow him.

“Where is he taking us?” Makarva asked.

“No idea,” Dashvara admitted.

“And why don’t you ask him?” Zamoy suggested. “Maybe he’s coming out of his silence now that he knows us better.”

“Or maybe not,” Makarva smiled.

Dashvara looked at Baldy out of the corner of his eye.

“He wouldn’t be able to answer me. His tongue has been cut out.”

“Oh,” Zamoy stammered, shocked. “I didn’t know.”

The walk through Titiaka was not very exciting. Zamoy and Makarva were quite impressed to see so many people, but Dashvara had already been through Dazbon, and although he didn’t feel comfortable in these crowded streets, he didn’t feel that confused anymore.

He couldn’t quite understand why Atasiag had assigned them a mute as a guide. He could not explain anything to them, only draw their attention by gestures to some monuments, unusual arches, important buildings… Dashvara had the impression that he was showing them these places for a precise reason, but obviously, Yorlen could not explain what it was. Given the circumstances, it was Tsu who served as their guide. After all, the drow had lived in Titiaka for many years and knew the city well. Dashvara took advantage of his knowledge and pressed him with questions: since they were going to have to survive in this labyrinth of houses, it was better to know it thoroughly.

The fortified part of Titiaka was divided into three areas, separated in turn by walls: Sacrifice, the central one, over which the great aerial Bridge passed; Sibaskin, the western one, which overlooked the port of Xendag; and Passerines, the eastern one, whose houses were clustered around Mount Courteous. Sacrifice was the main district, through which the Wise River flowed; here were most of the official buildings, the Council, the Arena, the Hippodrome, the Chamber of Commerce, and the great port of Alfodyn, as well as the gigantic Homage Square. It also included Mount Serene, where the Federal Palace stood, a complex of sumptuous mansions and forts inhabited by Legitimates and other aristocrats and by the prestigious Ragail Guard and its Commander.

“I told you before that Titiaka society basically consists of four spheres,” Tsu said on their way back to Atasiag’s home. “The Legitimates are the most powerful aristocrats. Some also call them the Eleven Wise Men… though they have little wisdom,” he muttered quietly. “In the social scale, just after the Legitimates come the Citizens. When I studied at Passerines University—we’re talking about almost twenty years ago—out of the sixty thousand inhabitants that there were in the city back then, about twenty thousand were citizens, ten thousand were free men and freedmen, and thirty thousand were slaves. In twenty years, the proportion of slaves has increased a lot. Just imagine, three years ago there were more than one hundred thousand slaves in the whole canton of Titiaka. The increase is mainly due to the wars. When I was young, I used to see them arrive in a continuous flow. Many of the prisoners came from the Blue Country, the Bladhy Desert, and from…” the drow shook his head, his face cold, “other regions.”

Like drow slaves from Shjak, Dashvara added, guessing Tsu’s thoughts. He moistened his lips but kept silent.

This was not the first time Tsu had explained to him how the Federation worked. However, hearing about this society was not the same as observing it with his own eyes, and as they walked along the long Promenade that bordered the Wise River, he was surprised to see so many people chatting in small groups and strolling leisurely. Beside him passed busy men and women displaying colorful belts, fastened with the brooch of the family to which they belonged. Compared to some of the farm slaves Dashvara had seen near Rayorah, these seemed to have a relatively peaceful and happy life. He turned to two workers who were cutting the grass on the boardwalk, and as he saw them laughing and joking, he made a pensive pout. Would they change their lives if their masters granted them freedom? This thought would have seemed absurd to him a few years ago, in the steppe of Rocdinfer; however, during these last years, he had learned that not all sajits had an Eternal Bird like that of the Xalyas, and that, besides, they did not have to have one. As Maloven said: ‘Everyone is walking towards the destiny he has chosen, and the duty of everyone is not to hinder it.’ Dashvara smiled sardonically. Right, Shaard. If only everyone would follow your advice: it would have saved us from wars, slavery, and who knows how many other silly things.

They passed by a small temple dedicated to Serenity, and seeing a crowd of excited children coming out, they hurried to avoid it.

“Damn it!” Zamoy swore.

Dashvara turned around to see that the Baldy had remained trapped among the little Titiakas. He smiled.

“You playing with the children now, Baldy?” Makarva mocked when Zamoy joined them. Zamoy swore at the kids without any finesse, and for greater expressiveness, he did it in the Common Tongue, drawing frowns from several passers-by. Yorlen waved his index finger, disapproving of the Triplet’s attitude, but the latter merely cursed again and commented:

“Who knows what they teach these ill-bred people in the Temples of Serenity.”

Dashvara looked up to the sky and resumed walking.

“You’re going to end up being more grumpy than Orafe and Sashava combined. Going back to what you were saying, Tsu; in the Council, are they all Legitimates?”

“And who cares if they are?” Zamoy grumbled. “We’re not going to talk to them anyway. Okay, okay: I’ll shut up now,” he added when Dashvara and Makarva looked at him with eloquent faces.

Tsu nodded.

“No, not all of them are, but all eleven Legitimate families are represented. Of the one hundred and fifty members, more than eighty belong to Legitimate lines. The rest are wealthy citizens. At least, that’s how it was three years ago. Perhaps that has changed. Titiaka is like a loose sail in a storm: it changes direction all the time.”

The drow was unusually talkative. This happened either when he was in a very good mood or when he was especially agitated. Surely, seeing a home where he had lived for a good part of his life must have brought back a lot of memories… and he chased them away by talking. Like a good Compassive, Dashvara lent him a hand.

“What about the Castle of Mount Courteous?” he inquired, glancing at the distant, dark structure that rose to the northwest. “Is that an official place too?”

“Not exactly. The castle belongs to the Legitimate Yordark family. They are the most powerful family in Titiaka. Though not the richest,” he observed.

“Hey, Dash,” Zamoy interjected. “Don’t tell me you’re thinking of relating with this kind of people?”

“The Eternal Bird forbid, no,” Dashvara assured. “But, as my father would say, a good warrior must know the terrain before he goes into battle.”

“I wonder what a battle would be like in the middle of all these houses,” Zamoy muttered. “A butchery, surely.”

“I was speaking figuratively, Baldy.”

The triplet rolled his eyes.

“I know that, Philosopher. I was only imagining.”

They were walking along the bank of the Wise River on a long tree-lined embankment when they saw Dafys, the sibilian guard, appear. He greeted them from afar and approached, running between two imposing carriages.

“I’ve been looking for you,” he gasped. “Come. His Eminence has a job for you.”

Dashvara raised an eyebrow. That fast? Clearly, the “day off” Atasiag had given them lasted as long as he wanted.

“His Eminence seems to be in a hurry,” he observed. “What is it about?”

Dafys shook his head, and as he started walking again, an inscrutable expression appeared on his strange stony face.

“Wassag will explain it to you. His Eminence has appointed him to be responsible for your actions.”

Obviously, he didn’t like this. Perhaps he would have preferred to be in charge? Unless he was upset that his friend had such a heavy responsibility. Dashvara shrugged and did not try to understand. He still didn’t know exactly to what point some sajit races reasoned like humans. In all honesty, you can’t even understand how humans reason, Dash. So how are you supposed to understand sibilians…

As soon as they entered the gate of Atasiag’s house, Wassag approached him.

“You’re here at last,” he sighed. “His Eminence has an urgent job, and he wants you to do it. Choose two companions. You will meet Licentiate Nitakrios.”

“Licentiate what?” Dashvara echoed, a bit shaken. “Wait, Wassag. What is this about?”

The guard’s pale face reflected impatience.

“Let’s say that, in principle, you should not be speaking, Dashvara of Xalya, but rather picking two of your men. I don’t know what Licentiate Nitakrios wants from you. But I will take you to him. Understand?”

Dashvara looked at him for two seconds before nodding.

“I guess.”

To the surprise of Makarva and Zamoy, he did not choose them. He went into the kitchen and called Zorvun and Lumon. Both of them already knew about the mysterious task and immediately went out into the yard.

“Ready,” he declared and whispered, “Sorry, Mak.”

His friend smiled.

“You are our lord, and right now, I see that you are acting like one. Congratulations, Dash.”

Dashvara huffed, exasperated, and followed Wassag, the captain, and the Archer out of the house. What urgent work could the snake have suddenly found for them? Cleaning at a friend’s house, maybe.

They crossed the Wise River by a bridge without leaving Sacrifice, but still came very close to the gates that led to Passerines. They did not stray from the avenue: Wassag stopped in front of a multi-story house and beckoned the Xalyas forward.

“So, that’s it,” the guardian murmured. “The only thing His Eminence told me was that you should come in here to see Licentiate Nitakrios, do what he asks, and call him Licentiate. He is a friend of His Eminence and a great scholar. Now go upstairs. As far as I know, he lives on the top floor. His Eminence told me that the rest is your business, so I’ll leave you here.”

Wassag waited anxiously for the doorman to let them in before walking away. While Zorvun assured him that it was not necessary for him to guide them upstairs, Dashvara looked around the hallway without seeing him. Curiosity gnawed at his insides, and at the same time, he felt uneasy because… well, he was about to begin his actual service as a henchman under Atasiag. No, he corrected himself. As a henchman for a friend of Atasiag. He shrugged. What did it matter, anyway?

Go upstairs, listen and obey, Dash. Right now, that’s the best you can do.

He, Zorvun, and Lumon walked up the stairs in silence. Dashvara felt that he was the only one who was nervous, and this irritated him a little. He tried to calm down. After all, he was supposed to be the lord of the steppe, wasn’t he? When they got to the top, neither Lumon nor the captain came forward to knock on the door, and Dashvara sighed: they were obviously waiting for him to do it.

How convenient to have a lord, eh, Captain?

He knocked twice against the door. It soon opened to reveal a tall, emaciated human figure. The individual was dressed in a long, all-black tunic that reached to his heels. He detailed them with eyes of ilawatelk at bay.

“Are you the Xalyas of Atasiag?” he asked point-blank.

Dashvara nodded.

“Yes. And you are Licentiate Nitakrios, I suppose.”

Nitakrios’ face oscillated between relief and nervousness. He nodded in turn.

“Come in. I have to explain everything to you. I’ll give you the names.”

Dashvara raised an eyebrow and silently asked Zorvun, “The names?”. The captain, of course, could only shrug.

20 Tasks

Nitakrios turned out to be one of those men who, having spent their lives learning the Scholasticism of the Graces and imbibing erudition, nevertheless continued to make one of the most serious mistakes that one can make in the federal capital: frequenting the Bright-Casino.

Sitting on a first-class sofa, he quickly explained the case to them, giving them a count of his debts. He almost cried, swearing to them that he had always been a patient lender with his debtors and that he did not understand the threats he received from a certain Licentiate Roniego to pay him back an exorbitant sum of no less than one hundred and eighty-three denarii and four dettas.

“He’s coming at six o’clock with his brothers, he told me,” he sighed, dejectedly. “I can’t pay that much. Atasiag offered to give me an advance, but by Dignity!” he said, “you don’t ask a friend for money. I am a man of principle. So I have no other option than to tighten the screws on my debtors. I have a stubborn tavernkeeper who owes me almost a hundred denarii. I think you can get sixty from him, at least. There’s another one who’s a shoemaker, and I think this summer his business has been doing very well, but the last time I went to see him he wouldn’t pay his debt, and I told him that, well, he’d pay me another time, because he’s a nice guy. You see, I am the most disastrous lender in Titiaka! As for you, please, don’t have any scruples: take everything he owes me up to now. Here are their names and addresses. His Eminence told me that you knew how to read… You do, right? Start with these two at the top of the list. The others have small debts.”

Dashvara’s hands were sweaty as he grasped the scroll. So this is what we’re playing, Cobra? He stifled a grunt.

“You are asking us, Licentiate, to force these people to pay your debt, is that it?”

Licentiate Nitakrios did not seem to perceive the reservations in his voice.

“I think you understand. I must pay this debt and Atasiag advised me not to go into debt with just anyone to pay it. Your master gives very wise advice, and I usually listen to him but… Licentiate Roniego is a crazy fool. If he comes here with his brothers and I don’t have eighteen crowns…”

In the Federation, gold coins were called crowns, and from what Dashvara understood, they were the same weight and value as Republican dragons. He ran his hand over his forehead in confusion. How on earth had this man gotten himself so far into debt? The captain intervened:

“What time is it?”

“Past four o’clock, I think,” Nitakrios answered in a dying tone. Then suddenly, he came back to life and jumped up from his sofa. “Four o’clock, by Dignity! You must hurry. I don’t want you to come back here without getting at least fifteen crowns. I might be able to cover the rest. Above all, don’t lose this parchment. It’s confidential information.”

He was already kicking them out.

“What if we don’t get those fifteen crowns?” Dashvara protested, on the threshold.

The Licentiate pretended not to hear him: he shut the door in their faces. Wonderful… Dashvara grumbled. He felt like breaking down the door, and perhaps he would have done so if Lumon hadn’t grabbed him by the arm and pulled him toward the stairs.

“Great,” Dashvara muttered once on the street. “And now?”

“Now let’s get those fifteen crowns,” Zorvun growled. Although he was in as bad a mood as Dashvara was, he had visibly come to the evident conclusion before the young Xalya did, that is: they had no choice but to help the stupid scholar.

“And that’s why Atasiag needs Xalya warriors?” Dashvara croaked grumpily.

Neither the Archer nor the captain answered, and Dashvara looked away to scan the street. He didn’t see Wassag and assumed he had left to do other work.

“The tavernkeeper…” Zorvun mused, consulting the parchment. “He is a certain Sotag, owner of the Iron Tornado. Avenue of Sacrifice…”

“We have to cross the bridge again,” Dashvara sighed.

With faces like a funeral, they set off, passing perhaps five taverns before they reached the right one. The door was open, and they entered the Iron Tornado without saying a word. Dashvara immediately wrinkled his nose in disgust.

“It smells like the White Hand in Nanda’s village,” he commented.

“Diumcilian herbs?” Zorvun inquired, scowling.

Dashvara nodded.

“But it’s not so bad here. Try not to breathe too much, though.”

They nodded, and the three of them headed straight for the counter. With some sixth sense of divination, several gamblers and drinkers looked away from their tables to see them pass. Dashvara sensed that the mood subtly changed. The tavernkeeper—a small, plump, smiling, friendly-looking man—was pouring a drink for a customer. With a heavy heart, Dashvara leaned on the counter.

“What does your Eternal Bird tell you guys?” he whispered in Oy’vat.

Somber, Lumon replied in a hoarse voice:

“That we shouldn’t be here.”

Captain Zorvun shook his head.

“Better be foreknowing, sons. If we start misbehaving from the beginning, Atasiag will take us to task and eventually convince us anyway. Remember the Contract.”

Dashvara was surprised by Zorvun’s coolness. He was right, of course, but that didn’t stop Dashvara from wishing things were different.

“If only he looked like a scoundrel,” he sighed, his gaze fixed on the tavernkeeper.

The little man approached them.

“Who will be talking to him?” Dashvara whispered through his teeth.

The captain merely replied with a mischievous smile. Damn him…

“Good morning, gentlemen,” the tavernkeeper said in a jovial tone. “What would you like to drink?”

Dashvara breathed in.

“Nothing, good man. Licentiate Nitakrios sends us. He considers it time for you to give him back some of his money.”

The transformation that took place on the tavernkeeper’s face was memorable: his smile disappeared, his cheekbones slowly sagged, and his eyes began to flicker like an alarm lantern.

“Senshag!” he suddenly exclaimed. “Come and take care of the counter for me. Gentlemen,” he whispered, “follow me, please.”

Dashvara saw him nervously rubbing his hands on his apron and leaving the charge of the tavern to a teenager who, given the resemblance, must have been his son. This was confirmed when the boy whispered to him:

“Any problems, Dad?”

The tavernkeeper merely patted his shoulder with a smile and led the three Xalyas out of the tavern, down a hallway into a small, dimly lit room.

“Well,” the tavernkeeper said, “here’s the sum I owed for a long time…” He took out ten denarii from a small bag. “But if… I mean, if you let me have it a little longer, maybe—”

Dashvara grabbed the coins.

“We need more, Sotag. You owe Licentiate Nitakrios ten crowns. And he considers that you can pay him six.”

The tavernkeeper turned crimson.

“S-six?” he choked. “Oh… By the Eleven Graces, are you kidding?”

Dashvara shrugged.

“I’d like to. But no, I’m not kidding.”

“Who are you?” the tavernkeeper protested, glancing at the pins on their belts. “Did Nitakrios hire you?”

“Not exactly. We are workers of His Eminence Atasiag Peykat, and we help his friend Licentiate to solve his problems.”

The tavernkeeper turned livid, and Dashvara feared he might faint. So the snake was famous… Unless it was just the title that impressed him.

“Sixty denarii is too much,” Sotag stammered. “I don’t know if I can—”

“Do you have them?” Dashvara cut him off.

“I don’t…” He took a deep breath. “Yes, I think I have them. But it’s almost half of my savings, and I owe other people money too…” his voice broke, and Dashvara thought he heard his own heart break with it.

He threw in Oy’vat:

“Captain, I can’t do this.”

“Oh yes, you can,” Zorvun replied as the tavernkeeper looked at them in turn, puzzled. “This man needs to be taught a lesson. Next time, maybe he won’t take the risk of going into debt without thinking. And next time, maybe he won’t talk about fake ‘savings’ when in reality he’s living off other people’s money.”

Dashvara looked at him with disbelief.

“Don’t you feel any pity for him?”

The captain shrugged.

“Think of him as an outsider, Dash. He’s not one of us, and given the situation, we can’t be good to everyone. Let’s do something for our family, shall we?”

Dashvara breathed inwardly. You surprise me, Captain. I don’t think I’ll ever understand how your Eternal Bird works. Sometimes you’re as proud as a dragon, and other times… He rested his gaze on the tavernkeeper, his heart frozen.

“Fifty denarii are missing, Sotag. We don’t have all day. Licentiate Nitakrios is in a hurry.”

Then the tavernkeeper resorted to a predictable trick: he began to cry and beg, talking about his family, his children, the studies he had to pay, the taxes, and some dangerous creditor to whom he owed ten crowns. After a few minutes, Dashvara thought he was looking at the most unfortunate and abused man in the world.

“You can’t do this to me,” he sobbed. “You would be merciless, and the Graces punish cruelty. Please,” he said, literally kneeling before Dashvara. “My wife is ill. And I have a blind nephew to support. You can’t do this to me,” he repeated.

For a moment, Dashvara was about to start crying with him. Then he thought, met the captain’s eyes, and sighed. Fine… He seized the tavernkeeper by the collar of his shirt and lifted him by force.

“Don’t make things difficult for us, Sotag. We came for sixty denarii, and you’re going to give them to us, willingly or not. And now go get it,” he growled, letting go of him.

This time, the tavernkeeper put on a sincere look of dejection. Perhaps guessing that they were new to the business, he insisted:

“I’ll give you twenty-five more. With thirty-five maybe it will be enough, won’t it? Twenty-five,” he repeated pleadingly. “Please.”

Dashvara let out a series of grunts and hisses, then turned to Lumon and the captain. The damned cowards were watching the scene as mere spectators. He hissed and gave in:

“It’s okay. Give me those twenty-five denarii.”

“Dash!” Zorvun gasped, as the tavernkeeper rushed out of the room to get the money. He muttered in Oy’vat, “With that, we’d be a hundred and fifteen denarii short. According to the parchment, the cobbler owes seventy. Assuming we take those seventy, where are we going to get the other forty-five from? The others have debts of no more than ten denarii, and we don’t have all afternoon. Eternal Bird, draw sixty. Shake it up a bit. Put your principles aside for a moment.”

Dashvara exhaled as if he had been punched in the stomach. I can’t believe my ears. Leaving my principles behind?

“Thousand thunderclaps, Captain,” he muttered. “Principles are constant: you don’t ‘put them aside for a moment’, or they lose all their value. What in the world is the matter with you?”

“I ask you the same question. We are Xalyas, Dashvara. To me, this debt thing is so ridiculous that I’d like to slap that man across the face a few times to teach him not to make the same mistakes. Money,” he spat. “If his wife is sick, I’ll go and treat her myself if I have to, but stop with your senseless qualms. Atasiag wants us to help his allies, and we will help them. Think that we are acting to obtain what we came for: our freedom. And now, son, take these six crowns from him.”

For a few seconds, Dashvara felt like a shepherd lost in the middle of a mountain full of absurd paths. Then he erased all his thoughts, nodded, and as soon as Sotag returned, he grabbed him again by the shirt collar and pushed him against a wall.

“Where are the twenty-five denarii?” he croaked.

“They’re here, they’re here!” shouted the tavernkeeper, terrified.

Lumon grabbed the bag in his hand and emptied it to count the coins. Finally, the Archer made a small affirmative sign. Dashvara insisted:

“The remaining twenty-five denarii?”

“What?” Sotag said indignantly. “But you said…!”

He let out a frightened dog whimper as Dashvara shook him.

“Twenty-five more, Sotag. Go get them.”

This time the tavernkeeper did not cry or beg; he simply left the room, his legs wobbling. He was slow to return, and Dashvara feared for a moment that he had run away. In which case, they would have a hard time gathering fifteen dragons in just over an hour… Finally, the door opened again, and Sotag entered, escorted by his son, who looked like he was looking for a fight.

“Here are the twenty-five denarii,” the tavernkeeper coughed, more dignified.

Dashvara took them with relief.

“Thank you, Sotag. Just think, now you are only forty short of paying off your debt to Licentiate Nitakrios. And, as a friend, let me inform you that your savings are not real savings if you are a man in debt. You will live much happier when you have paid all your debts.”

The tavernkeeper raised a trembling eyebrow at Dashvara’s suddenly friendly tone. His son curtly jumped in:

“Well, now that you have the money, get outta here, and you better not mess with my dad again, scoundrels!”

Dashvara made a vague gesture.

“Of course. We’ll leave right away.”

As he passed by them, he thought for a moment that the son was going to try to hit him or pull out that dagger he wore on his belt, but the boy held back. A cautious boy.

The three of them walked out of the tavern followed by wary eyes and walked in silence for several minutes without even looking at each other. Finally, Dashvara let out an annoyed gasp.

“If Atasiag wants us to do this kind of work for the next few months, I will relinquish my position as lord of the Xalyas.”

“What does one thing have to do with the other?” the captain replied, pulling out the Licentiate’s parchment.

“What does that have to do with it, you ask?” Dashvara hissed. “Both of you let me do the dirty work. That tavernkeeper, now, will have trouble paying his other debts, and I will feel responsible.”

“You shouldn’t,” the captain sighed. “Come on, think optimistically as you usually do. They’ll give him a good thrashing, then his feather will rise again with perhaps a little more wisdom.”

“They will plunge him into misery.”

“All he has to do is go to Atasiag. I myself will ask our master to have mercy on him and welcome him into our brotherly worker status.”

Dashvara let out an exasperated exclamation.

“I see that today is one of those days when your humor is darker than Sashava’s.”

“It’s not dark humor, Dash.” He paused and riveted his gaze into his. “I just want you to understand that our situation hasn’t changed much since we’ve been here, compared to Compassion…”

“I realized that.”

“I would even say that, in a way, it has become worse. Before, we were at the foot of the dragon, and now, we are under its fangs.”

“I know,” Dashvara sighed.

“And correct me if I’m wrong, but Atasiag Peykat, this man you seem to like so much, will not hesitate to get rid of us if he starts to doubt our usefulness. Am I wrong?”

Dashvara looked away to nowhere. And he surrendered.

“Not at all. You are right, Captain. I don’t only have to fight for my Eternal Bird but also for the Eternal Bird of each of you. Therefore, taking that into account and considering that the goal of the majority is to stay alive, I have come to a brilliant conclusion: we are nothing but miserable slaves.”

Lumon smiled, and the captain coughed to stifle a mocking laugh.

“I am glad to see that, after three years, you realize it at last, son. I always knew that one day we would have the most insightful and intelligent steppe lord of all the steppe clans.”

Dashvara rolled his eyes.

“Tell me, Captain, did Makarva or one of the Triplets lend you his tongue this morning?”

Zorvun shook his head.

“I don’t borrow anything. Well, Rejoice Street,” he declared. “The cobbler’s name is Foshag.”

“Always these ‘ag’ everywhere,” Dashvara muttered as he started walking. “Let’s go to Rejoice, then. We went through it with Yorlen before: it’s in the north, near the Gobbler Avenue. The streets have quite funny names, too,” he sighed thoughtfully. “In any case, the cobbler is not going to be as rejoicing as his street, I’m afraid. Unless we’re lucky and he runs to give us the seventy denarii without complaint. It must be nearly five o’clock already,” he muttered. “The Licentiate must be more nervous than Pik. Also, we still have two or three visits left, don’t we?” He closed his mouth and suddenly became flushed. “Sorry. Am I talking too much?”

Lumon smiled again, with that mysterious, cryptic smile of his. What could the Archer be thinking of all this? Knowing him, his Eternal Bird must surely be suffering in silence.

“Don’t worry, don’t worry, Dash. Just keep talking, go on,” he said.

“You can also think of the most effective way to get the seventy denarii from the cobbler,” the captain suggested. Dashvara glared at him and added, “Not a bad technique. If you look at him like that, maybe he’ll give in on the first try and not make the same scene as the other guy.”

“We’ll play the thugs,” Dashvara agreed.

“We already look like ones,” the captain assured. “You just have to know how to take advantage of it and not look at people with a compassionate expression.”

“Bah. Everyone knows that the Border Towers rub off on the character of the Doomed, Captain. There’s nothing we can do about it.”

“Oh yeah, I always knew that, deep down, the Sympathetic were sympathetic,” the captain smiled.

“Lumon, don’t you think he’s in a particularly good mood?” Dashvara teased. “Anyone would think he likes to empty people’s purses.”

“If only I could empty them all,” Zorvun said meditatively. “Think about it: what is the basis for the existence of money? These are mere precious metals that don’t even serve to feed a scale-nefarious. And for these metals, a merry tavernkeeper is able to kneel down and cry like a doomed man…” He shook his head. “Anyone who does not see this as a serious problem is blind.” Dashvara saw him watching two guards passing through the Avenue of Sacrifice. The captain added, “It seems that, for a handful of coins, civilized people will accept anything.”

Dashvara smiled.

“And the most worrying thing is that we are becoming more and more like them,” he observed. “You know? You talk even more than I do, Captain. Is it by any chance the impending encounter with the cobbler that’s making you nervous? Because it wouldn’t make sense: all things considered, I suppose I’m the one who’s going to have the privilege of talking to this Foshag,” he quipped.

Zorvun just mumbled something under his breath. When they reached Rejoice Street, it took them a while to find the right shoe shop. The man was a small elf who immediately came to greet them, talking about soles, the latest model of shoes, and the best boots he had in his store. Dashvara looked at him for a moment, amazed. Had he mistaken them for wealthy customers? Zorvun cleared his throat quietly, inviting Dashvara to intervene. Here comes the lord of the slaves to bleed the poor… Interrupting the elf, Dashvara explained his presence and spoke of Licentiate Nitakrios. Foshag immediately became more reserved, but he did not react hysterically like Sotag.

“How is the Licentiate?” the cobbler asked. “Is he well?”

“He’s doing just fine,” Dashvara assured him. “Excuse our haste, but we have to give him the money right away.”

“Of course,” Foshag said. “Of course.”

Promptly, he went to close the store and asked them to wait a moment:

“I’ll be right back.”

When Dashvara saw him disappear into the back room, he drummed his fingers on his elbows in concern.

“What if he runs away and keeps us waiting forever?”

“He won’t run away,” Zorvun reassured him. “I think he understood that we were willing to do anything to make him pay.”

Dashvara raised an eyebrow.

“Anything, Captain?”

Zorvun hesitated and shrugged his shoulders.

“Anything that can be effective without damaging the image of Atasiag.”

“His Eminence’s,” Dashvara mockingly corrected.

The captain sighed loudly.

“Right.”

Eternal Bird, has someone taken over the captain’s soul during the night? Dashvara looked at him in disbelief.

“I can’t believe my ears. How do you take it so well, Zorvun? Where’s your pride?”

“My pride? Where it has always been, my son. Listen,” he continued. He leaned on the counter of the cobbler’s shop, and while absentmindedly examining a strange metal machine that sat there, he continued: “I’m going to tell you both something that I don’t think I’ve ever told anyone. My father, who was captain before me, once told me: son, as a captain, always put pragmatism before pride and always, always, stay loyal to your clan. You ask me where my pride is, Dash? Well, right now, it’s being trampled on by pragmatism and loyalty.”

Dashvara felt moved, yet it took him a few seconds to fully believe these words. Zorvun was such a proud man… How could he accept his helplessness so easily? A simple answer finally came to him. The captain was a stubborn man, but not inflexible like Lord Vifkan. As Dashvara had seen over the past three years, the Captain put the survival of the Xalyas ahead of his own self-respect. Though it was true that, as soon as his clan was not in danger, he turned into an impregnable wall of pride.

That’s also why I like you more, Captain, Dashvara smiled mentally. There’s nothing more frightening than a man without flaws.

Curiously, at this moment, he noticed that the dark hair of the Xalya was sprinkled with white streaks. How old could the captain be? He had lived more than half his life, certainly, but he was not as old as Sedrios. And yet he had visibly aged. The last few years had not been kind to him.

“I’ll try to follow the advice, Captain,” he promised.

“Oh. You already are,” Zorvun assured, amused.

Some footsteps made Dashvara turn to see the cobbler returning with the seventy denarii.

“Here they are!” Foshag said. “I can’t deny that this takes a good chunk out of my savings, but it’s always a pleasure to pay one’s last debt. I’ll feel like a completely free man the day they affix the counter-seal,” he added, patting his arm.

Dashvara raised an eyebrow as he collected and counted the denarii, dettas, and sildettas.

“So you’re not a free man?”

Foshag smiled.

“No. But I’m working hard to become one. From now on, I’ll try to save enough to buy my freedom. See,” he said. Rolling up his sleeve, he showed the mark of a blue eagle surrounded by small runes. “I am three special services short of completing the circle. When I complete it, the Master will set me free.”

Dashvara thought he had swallowed a block of ice.

“That eagle…?” he stuttered. “I mean… By master, you only mean your boss, right?”

Foshag raised an eyebrow.

“Sir Dikaksunora,” he said. “Everyone calls him the Master. You’re new to the city, aren’t you?” He glanced at Dashvara’s slightly exposed arm and frowned imperceptibly. “I don’t recognize that black mark. Are you from another canton?”

“Yes. From the Border,” Dashvara specified, showing him the beetle.

Instead of expressing admiration or fear, the elf looked sympathetic.

“So you must feel happy to be back in Titiaka, despite…”

He fell silent, and Dashvara finished the sentence for him:

“Despite our honorable work?” He shrugged. “Let’s just say it’s different.” He glanced thoughtfully at the blue eagle. Ironically, this one looked a lot like the depictions of the Eternal Bird that appeared in some of the books in the Xalya Dungeon. He cleared his throat to hide his troubled face. “Good. Thank you for your time, Foshag. Have a good day.”

“Likewise,” the elf replied, smiling.

They left the cobbler’s shop with one hundred and thirty denarii. Dashvara dragged his feet on the cobblestones of Rejoice Street.

“Well,” he sighed. “If only everyone were so cooperative. We’re twenty denarii short. Who’s next on the list?”

The captain consulted the scroll and read:

“Rushek. Twelve denarii and one detta. Fortin of Mastrabor. Mercenary militiaman. Rushek,” he repeated as if he were chewing pork. “Isn’t that a Shalussi name?”

Dashvara nodded, his eyebrows furrowed.

“It is.”

Zorvun smiled, and Dashvara shook his head in exasperation.

“Just because he’s a Shalussi doesn’t mean he’s any less deserving of our compassion,” he declared solemnly.

The captain made an incredulous pout.

“Of course not. I will be compassionate and won’t run him through with my sword… because I don’t have one.”

Zorvun’s eyes sparkled. Dashvara swallowed.

“Who’s next on the list?”

The captain laughed quietly.

“Dash, let’s go see this Rushek. I won’t do anything to him, rest assured.”

“No, Captain. I don’t want you to go berserk and spoil everything.”

“I’m not an idiot. I’m not going to go berserk.”

Dashvara glared at him.

“I am the lord of the Xalyas, remember? And I don’t want any trouble like that. Who’s next on the list?”

21 Xalya crisis

The next on the list was an apprentice upholsterer, whom they had to shake moderately to get twelve denarii out of him. They were only eight short, and the impatience of the three Xalyas was beginning to be palpable. Dashvara could think of nothing but the relief he would feel when the Licentiate finally received his fifteen crowns.

The next name was that of a seamstress, and by unspoken agreement, the captain and Dashvara crossed out the line mentally: shaking a man was one thing, but a woman… Dashvara already felt too disgusted by what they were doing this afternoon to make his self-esteem fall even deeper.

“The next one is a fisherman,” the captain said wearily.

They headed for the port of Alfodyn and found the fisherman on the list, alone, soaked in alcohol, and slumped in a musty armchair that must have seen better times. The captain and Lumon had to push Dashvara into the house, which stank like a piece of meat left out in the sun for a week. Once inside, Dashvara decided that he had not made the effort to go in there in vain, and despite the drunkard’s near-zero response, he threatened him as much as he could. He only succeeded in getting some lame imprecations and a few weak punches that he half-dodged, too disappointed to pay attention.

“Guys like this one, I would put them on a horse with several bags of water and let them roam the steppe for a month,” he growled. “The next one?”

“He is an official of the Chamber of Commerce,” the captain said. He didn’t even need to look at the list: all three of them were beginning to know it by heart.

“Oh, no,” Dashvara muttered, annoyed. “This is totally south of the city, and it’s already almost six o’clock…”

“Perhaps with one hundred and forty-two denarii it will be enough,” Lumon ventured.

Dashvara glanced at the dazed alcoholic with a half-painful, half-disgusted look: he had fallen deeply asleep. Eternal bird, he thought. Who in the world could have the idea of lending this man a single detta? The great scholar Licentiate Nitakrios, of course. What was most disturbing was that Atasiag considered him a friend.

“Sweet dreams,” he sighed, patting the sleeping man on the shoulder. “May you see better days.”

They left the fisherman in peace and abandoned the port. The sky had become overcast, and a cold wind was whipping through Titiaka. Dashvara was wondering if Atasiag had thought to buy them a cloak before autumn set in altogether when a mental voice startled him.

‘Dash!’ Tahisran cried happily. ‘What are you doing around here?’

Dashvara stopped dead in his tracks and glanced around him inquisitively. All he could see were carriages and hooded figures striding down the Gobbler Avenue. As Lumon and the captain turned to him in surprise, Dashvara realized they had not heard the shadow.

“Where the hell are you?” he whispered.

‘In the alley, on your right.’

His voice had an enthusiastic tone. Who knows what he had been doing all this time.

Nodding to the Captain and the Archer, Dashvara headed down the alley.

“Dash,” Zorvun became impatient. “What are you doing? I don’t think we have much more than ten minutes before six o’clock…”

Dashvara silenced him with a gesture. He had just seen the shadow standing in the corner.

“Tah, we’re in a hurry,” he murmured, apologetically. “We’re working, right now.”

‘Gosh,’ the shadow wondered. ‘Already?’

“Already,” Dashvara confirmed. “Do you know where Atasiag’s house is?”

‘Yes, I was thinking specifically about coming back tonight. I was wondering how everything went for you.’

“Great.” He smiled awkwardly. “Tell me, Tah, you wouldn’t happen to have eight denarii on you, would you?”

The shadow mentally arched his eyebrows.

‘You mean the big silver coins? Well… no. Do you need them?’

A figure glanced at them curiously from the Gobbler before moving on. Dashvara twitched.

“In a way, yes,” he muttered through his teeth. “Tell me, could you get them in record time?”

There was a silence, and Dashvara thought for a moment that he had offended Tah. Well, yes, what did he expect? He knew that the shadow had some principles. He was about to tell him to forget about it and that they would meet again at Atasiag’s, when Tahisran said:

‘I can. Wait for me in front of the Bright-Casino. In this establishment, dragons flow freely. I’ll be back in a few minutes.’

Blessed are you, Dashvara thought. He quickly walked out of the alley, and only then did he notice the strange expression the captain had adopted.

“What is it?”

Zorvun shrugged.

“Is he going to commit a theft?” He spoke in Oy’vat, but he whispered anyway.

Dashvara raised an eyebrow and smiled sarcastically.

“Silver,” he growled with theatrical contempt. “These are mere precious metals that don’t even serve to feed a scale-nefarious. Come on, Captain,” he said more seriously, “I want to get this first job done right. We’re not going to leave it at that when we can get fifteen crowns. Besides, we’ll do the fisherman a favor: cross him off the list.”

The captain did not reply, and a little farther down the avenue, the three of them sat down on one of the benches in front of the large building of the Bright-Casino. People were constantly walking up and down the stoop that led to the entrance. They were all elegantly dressed, with their extravagant wigs and hats. Some, including the ladies, were holding batons, and many were wearing colorful masks. Dashvara’s eyes widened when he also saw two officials hiding under their bronze masks. When I think that all these people are here to earn money by gambling… He did not try to make sense of such behavior: he had long since given up trying to understand civilized people.

Seconds and minutes passed. The captain cleared his throat several times, obviously convinced that Tahisran would not succeed in stealing a crown in such a short time. Dashvara ignored him. Finally, it was Lumon who lost his patience.

“It’s almost six o’clock, Dash. Someone should at least bring the fourteen crowns.”

Dashvara pouted with concern and was about to approve the idea when he suddenly felt something cold in the palm of his hand. Jumping with fright, he almost crushed the shadow.

“Th-Thank you, Tah,” he stammered. The shadow had not brought the eight denarii, but a glittering golden dragon, with the image of the great Shikah, representative of the Cilian Faith, on one side, and the eleven-branched tree of the Federation on the other.

He heard a sigh. Tahisran had moved away between the shadows of the houses.

‘I wonder if it was the right thing for me to do,’ he simply replied before walking away for good.

Dashvara swallowed hard while keeping the stolen coin in the purse. You asked too much of him, Dash, a small accusatory voice whispered in his head. You made a friend a thief. I guess you’re proud of yourself.

The most worrying thing was that, despite everything, he couldn’t feel guilty.

“Demons,” he hissed. “Do you realize that? The shadow is more honest than we are.”

“Speak for yourself,” the captain replied, rising to his feet. “And now run, or you will be late. I am too old for that, I will follow you two from afar.”

Ha. Too old. I don’t buy it, Dashvara scoffed skeptically. Without hesitation, he took the two extra denarii out of the purse and put them in a pocket. If he was sure of anything, it was that, as long as he was a slave, he wasn’t going to give more than he was asked for. Finally, he looked at Lumon and nodded. Without another word, they both took a street that led to the riverbank and started running. Licentiate Nitakrios must have already bitten off all his nails and started to devour his fingers.

They were walking along the Wise River when the sun reappeared through the clouds. Just a few steps further, without his expecting it, Dashvara felt his lungs convulse, his breathing stopped, and a particularly violent coughing fit almost literally threw him to the ground.

Oh, no, Dash. Not now…

Lumon bent down beside him, and trying to catch his breath between convulsions, Dashvara untied the silver purse and handed it to him. He was unable to speak, and when Lumon hesitated, he glared at him and finally managed to croak:

“Go without me.”

The bells of the Happy Temple struck six. The Archer sighed darkly but left Dashvara to his fate. After all, his lord was ordering him to go, wasn’t he?

It took Dashvara several minutes to recover enough to calm his breathing. He noticed a passerby who seemed about to offer him help, and like a wounded wolf, he gave him a fierce look of warning before pulling away and sitting on a bench, clearing his throat and spitting blood.

He growled inwardly. A little rest and a better climate, eh? You were wrong, Tsu: the climate doesn’t help. I’m almost in the same pathetic state as when Rowyn and Azune found me in Rocavita.

He took a deep breath and had to acknowledge:

Not that pathetic. But, demons, it’s been three years. Three years! It’s almost a miracle I survived the Border. How many times have my brothers had to protect me in the middle of battle because of one of those stupid coughing fits?

“O great lord of the steppe,” he muttered, “you are a wreck.”

He vigorously scratched the Red Dragon mark, leaving it even more gleaming, and he swore low as the tattoo began to burn him. He crossed his arms.

Come on, come on, you’re feeling sorry for yourself now. It’s not enough for you to feel sorry for others, you have to lament your own illness. Remember that all your brothers have their little problems too. Zamoy with his colds, Miflin with his asthma, Sashava with his leg, and Taw, who is half deaf… You can be happy that you are still alive and well. No one said you must have perfect health to live.

He cleared his throat again, looked at the murky waters of the Wise River… and jumped to his feet, irritated with himself. What was he doing lazing around now? Lumon must have arrived at the Licentiate’s house a while ago.

He walked south, directly toward the bridge. The sun was shining on Mount Serene, but a dark cloud hung over the rest of the city, accompanied by a relentless wind that blew leaves from trees all along the walk. A loose shutter banged rhythmically against a wall, and Dashvara looked up just as a sturdy woman grabbed the shutter to close it. The wind seemed to have driven people away, and the few passersby walked the Promenade with quick, silent steps. Dashvara had reached the bridge when a fine rain that smelled of dust began to fall. He was surprised to feel the warmth of it and smiled: he had already gotten too used to the cold rain of Compassion.

In the relative silence that the rain had left in the streets, he suddenly heard someone shouting his name.

“Daaaash!”

It was Zamoy. Dashvara turned around in the middle of the bridge to see him running toward it, along with Yorlen and Boron. He frowned, concerned, as he saw their troubled faces.

“What’s going on?” he asked when the triplet joined him.

“Oh, Dash,” Zamoy croaked, “it’s Morzif. He and Boron and Sashava were visiting the city with Yorlen, and I went with them, pretending to be Miflin, because the slacker wouldn’t budge.” Yorlen opened his eyes wide in amazement and stared at the triplet as the latter continued, “We were already on our way back when the Blacksmith yelled something, just like that, all of a sudden, and he ran off. We don’t know where he went.”

Dashvara thought he hit a gong and took a few seconds to react.

“Morzif?” he repeated in an incredulous whisper.

It wasn’t that he knew Zif inside out; he didn’t talk to him often. The Blacksmith was one of the more reserved among the Xalyas, and except for Ged, the master weaponsmith, no one could get him to speak more than a few sentences a day. He had been a blacksmith in the Dungeon of Xalya and had taught him some techniques when he was a young boy… He was a straight man, somewhat insecure and sensitive at times, but he was far from stupid. He couldn’t have run away, Dashvara decided.

He glanced at Boron and Zamoy and saw their attentive expressions. He finally reacted.

“How long has he been missing?”

Baldy laid down his arms with a sigh.

“An hour?” he estimated. “We’ve scouted the entire area.”

“We must find him,” Dashvara muttered. “There’s no way Morzif could have escaped.”

“That’s what we explained to Dafys,” Zamoy grumbled, “But he said that, if he doesn’t appear in two hours, he will call the guard.”

Dashvara gasped.

“Damn sibilian…!” he swore. He breathed in to calm himself. “He disappeared in this area?” All three nodded. “And you’re all looking for him?”

Yorlen winced, and Zamoy made a guttural noise.

“No,” he replied. “Dafys has forbidden the others to leave the house, threatening to tell His Eminence if they do. That’s pretty stupid. He allowed only Boron and me to keep looking for him.”

That didn’t bode well. If Morzif didn’t show up before two hours, it would give Atasiag good reason to send them all back to the Border. The stay in Titiaka was off to a good start.

“Keep looking,” he ordered. “I’ll be right with you. I’ll get the Archer. Boron, Zamoy,” he added in Oy’vat as they were already walking away. “If he really ran away and you find him, make the Mute think he didn’t, okay? I don’t know, make up a credible reason. You’re usually pretty good at that kind of thing,” he said to Zamoy. The Baldy smiled, and without answering, he stomped away; Yorlen gave Dashvara a puzzled look before turning and following the two Xalyas like the silent guardian he was.

As soon as Dashvara lost sight of them, he sighed loudly. He tried to put Morzif’s disappearance into perspective, and he was about to turn to go look for Lumon when he saw the captain on the Promenade. He stopped. Sheltered under the trees, Zorvun walked slowly, like an old man. He didn’t seem to realize that it had stopped raining. Dashvara looked up at the sky.

It seems that since my appointment you have aged quite a bit, captain…

A sound of footsteps echoed against the cobblestones, and Dashvara turned around.

“Archer,” he sighed. Lumon waved at him, and they both stepped aside on the edge of the bridge to let a cart pass. “Did everything go well with the Licentiate?”

“I got there just in time,” he confessed. “I ran into the henchmen on my way back down the stairs. The Licentiate gave me this,” he said, showing him a thin iron bracelet he wore on his wrist. “As he said, he’s a man of principle, and he believes that even workers should receive rewards for their efforts.” A sardonic smile crossed his face as he handed him two more chains. “Here. According to him, we have earned his trust. The insignia of his house hangs on it. Flattering, isn’t it?”

Dashvara huffed.

“Fantastic,” he grumbled. He barely glanced at the small blue wooden owl hanging from the chain before putting it in his pocket.

“Here comes the captain,” Lumon observed. He looked at Dashvara out of the corner of his eye. “How do you feel, Dash?”

The Lord of the Steppe snorted again.

“Wonderful, Lumon.” The Archer did not insist, and Dashvara was grateful for his tact. “Here you go, Captain,” he said when Zorvun was a few steps away. He handed him the third bracelet. “Gift of the Licentiate. And now, news that will delight you both: we have lost Morzif. Zamoy, Boron, and the Mute are looking for him. I just met them.”

The captain’s face darkened.

“Impossible,” he hissed.

“Don’t jump to conclusions,” Dashvara advised him. “He must have gotten lost, that’s all.”

At least, that will be the official version if all goes well. He started walking towards the west bank of the river, following the street that Yorlen, Zamoy, and Boron had taken. The captain snorted behind him.

“It doesn’t make any sense. He couldn’t have walked away without a reason.”

“Apparently he yelled something before he ran off,” Dashvara detailed as they walked down a deserted alley.

After a few minutes of fruitless searching, they decided to return to Atasiag’s, where Dafys greeted them on the threshold, a terrible expression on his sibilian face.

“Come in,” he said. “We’ve just caught your companion.”

Dashvara opened his eyes wide and rushed into the courtyard, where he found the entire party of Xalyas, along with Wassag and Leoshu. The sky had cleared up, and sunlight was shining on the cobblestones.

“Where is Morzif?” Dashvara asked, addressing no one in particular.

“What the hell happened?” the captain demanded to know in an angry tone.

Several Xalyas stepped aside, and Dashvara’s next question stuck in his throat. Morzif stood, hands bound, at the far end of the courtyard. Only a few feet away stood two armed men with the embroidered design of a white wheel on their black uniforms.

“Men from the Shyurd House,” Tsu murmured, slipping in beside Dashvara. “They’re talking with Atasiag’s right-hand man. Look, he’s wearing a silver triangle pendant. It’s the badge of stewards and foremen.” The person in question, a human in a deep blue tunic wearing a gray wig, was smiling at the two Shyurd agents and conversing with a relaxed air, completely ignoring the Xalyas. A huge black dog sat at his feet, tongue hanging out.

“What happened?” Dashvara whispered.

“I don’t know the details,” Tsu admitted. “But I believe that Morzif entered the Shyurd mansion looking for his son.”

For a moment, Dashvara did not understand. His son? What son? How did…? Then his heart quickened. Of course he did. Morzif had a son. Well, before, in the Dungeon of Xalya, he had had a son. And, according to Azune, some Xalya children had been adopted by Diumcilian families… He felt the blood run cold through his veins.

“Oh, demons,” he croaked. “Oh, demons…”

A stick hit him lightly on the chest.

“Silence,” Wassag said. His pleading eyes—more than his command—convinced him to be quiet: the poor Diumcilian seemed terribly distressed by what was happening. With a tense pout, Dashvara turned to Morzif: from his pitiful appearance, he deduced that the Xalya must have resisted before being caught. Now he was staring at his feet, and his face was extremely pale. Who knows what was most upsetting to him, if the consequences of his actions or the fate of his son, who had been adopted by the federates.

“It can’t be his son,” Alta muttered. “He was three years old when they attacked the Dungeon. How could he have recognized him?”

The Xalya fell silent under Wassag’s pleading gaze. Soon after, the foreman stepped aside from Shyurd’s agents and shouted an order. Wassag and Dafys freed Zif’s hands, stripped him of his tunic and pushed him against a column before tying him to it.

“Wassag, settle down the Xalyas,” the foreman ordered, signaling the courtyard with a broad gesture.

Wassag made them sit down about ten steps away from Morzif. Under the sun’s rays, the ground was already almost dry. Dashvara crossed his legs, feeling a very cold air run through his body. If I was already in a bad mood this afternoon, taking money from people, now I don’t know how I should feel… He stifled a growl. Relieved, perhaps, to know that we haven’t lost Morzif?

Then he noticed that Zamoy, Boron, and Yorlen had just arrived. The former sat down next to him, breathing heavily.

“What are they going to do, Dash?” he stammered, apprehensive.

Dashvara ran his tongue over his dry lips before answering:

“Whip him, I guess.”

Behind the Xalyas, the two men from the Shyurd House were watching the scene, looking satisfied. Dashvara met the eyes of one of them, wrinkled his nose, and turned to see that the foreman, followed by his dog, had just taken up position near the column; the federate’s expression was much less affable than before.

“Soldiers!” he shouted at them in the tone of one who is used to being listened to. “I think you don’t know me yet. My name is Loxarios Ardel. I am Atasiag Peykat’s foreman, and from this very moment, I will take care of your integration in this house.” His deep green eyes fell on Morzif, and his face hardened, “I have been informed that this man has forced his way onto the Shyurd estate, attacked three of their guards, and attempted to kidnap the son of Lord Adifag Shyurd.” He paused, displaying a grimace of pure revulsion. “The offense is unforgivable and deserves to be punished by death.”

Loxarios’ words faded in the courtyard. For an instant, Dashvara’s mind stopped working.

Wait… Did Morzif just get sentenced to death?!

22 Punishments

‘The offense is unforgivable and deserves to be punished by death,’ Atasiag’s foreman had said.

Dashvara tensed up like a bowstring; his thoughts began to spin frantically. If this madman was sentencing Morzif to death, he was quite certain that more than one person would not be able to stay put, including himself. He assessed the possibilities. The two men from the Shyurd House were armed with swords; Wassag and Dafys had short staffs, and the foreman had a huge dog. There were six of them against twenty-three Xalyas whose only weapons were their fists… and two wooden crutches. Of course we can defeat them, Dash, but what then? You will die, and your brothers with you. The federates will crush you like an ant before you take ten steps.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Zorvun pull Sashava by the sleeve and whisper something in his ear. Both of their eyes shone with restrained rage.

“Order,” Loxarios Ardel then resumed, after quickly noting the atmosphere, “is an essential principle in this house. A serious breach of discipline is treason, and the punishment for such a breach is death.”

He crossed his arms.

“Loyalty is fundamental in this house. The punishment for serious insubordination is death.”

His eyes scanned all the Xalyas again before looking beyond them to Shyurd’s men.

“However, Adifag Shyurd asked me to be merciful this time. Since he is the offended one, his concern deserves Atasiag Peykat’s consideration, and he has decided to commute the death penalty to forty lashes. Wassag!” he thundered.

The guard shuddered as if he had been hit.

“Yes, sir?”

“Bring the whip.”

Dashvara could clearly hear the sighs of relief from the Xalyas; however, several of them would have needed only a little push to rush at the foreman and strangle him. Forty lashes was savagery.

Foreman Lox stood straight, looking at the Xalyas as if observing a shipment of merchandise of dubious quality. His skin is made-up like a Diumcilian woman’s, Dashvara hissed. When he met his emerald gaze, he held it, wanting to make him understand by his attitude how much he appreciated his person. Loxarios remained totally impassive, but his black hound growled dully.

When Wassag returned with the whip, he was paler than a white sail. Without uncrossing his arms, Lox nodded.

“Get on with it, Wassag.”

The guard unfolded the whip, his hands trembling. Dashvara felt a mixture of fear, anger, and frustration. This federate was going to whip a Xalya, and he was going to accept it so placidly?

I’d rather die, he rumbled.

Before he even realized what he was doing, he stood up abruptly and said aloud:

“As lord of the Xalyas, I claim the right to punish this man myself. Sir,” he added, hoping that a hint of submission might repair his glare somewhat.

Only a slight movement of the eyebrows informed him that Loxarios had heard and listened to his words. After a few seconds of tense silence, Wassag hissed nervously.

“Sit down, Dashvara of Xalya.”

Dashvara did not sit down nor look away from the foreman. Slowly, Lox nodded.

“Interesting proposal. Wassag? Give him the whip and count the strokes. Then give him five lashes for his insolence. In this house, soldier, the only lord is His Eminence. As for you, you are nothing but a servant.”

Dashvara swallowed, surprised, not so much by the announcement of the five lashes as because the foreman had granted his wish.

Satisfied? he laughed as Wassag gave him the whip. He knew in the back of his mind that he was doing the right thing: if anyone was going to enforce justice among Xalyas, it had to be another Xalya, as it had always been, and not a stranger; however, even so, it cost him to have to chastise a man whose only crime had been to believe he recognized his son and to try to get him back.

But Morzif knew that, for the sake of his brothers, he should not act impulsively, Dashvara reasoned. Come to think of it, the sooner the Xalyas understand that Atasiag is not going to treat us any better than they treat slaves, the less trouble we will have. That snake will not hesitate to punish us as he sees fit if he believes we are endangering his interests.

Of course, Dashvara would have preferred to lecture him than to give him forty lashes. Sighing inwardly, he turned his head to the captain, who responded with an imperceptible nod of approval. Are we delegating the dirty work again, Captain?

With a gloomy face, he took a few steps forward and approached Morzif. The Xalya’s teeth were clenched, and his eyes were red from crying.

“I am sorry, my lord,” the Blacksmith stammered. “I lost my mind.”

Dashvara didn’t need him to explain why he was sorry: everyone was aware that his little escapade had left the Xalyas in a critical position. He patted him on the shoulder.

“Are you going to be brave, brother?” he asked in Common Tongue.

Morzif looked at him out of the corner of his eye, and then he smiled, and his eyes sparkled with life.

“By the Eternal Bird, I will,” he promised.

“Try not to faint,” Dashvara added, his voice trembling. He cleared his throat and took a step back.

He waved the whip. It was lighter than the one he had used against the bandits on the steppe, but the strap was no less stiff. Without even glancing at the foreman, who had gathered with Shyurd’s men, he raised his whip, tried it once, twice against the ground, and finally, he clapped in Oy’vat:

“Brothers! Let’s not let these dogs tamper with our Eternal Bird. Now, survival is our priority, but I swear to you that I will do everything I can to save our pride, in addition to our lives.” He took a deep breath and prepared to deliver the first lash. “Be sure that at least I will try.”

The slamming sound clapped against Morzif’s bare skin without drawing out any screams. Dashvara counted the blows, giving the Xalya a few seconds’ respite between each impact. He had rarely felt so angry, and he was careful not to look up at the foreman; otherwise, the whip hand might well have deflected inadvertently.

The sky darkened and brightened again. Dashvara gasped, and Morzif leaned his head against the column, struggling to stay conscious.

Twenty-four.

He kept striking, trying not to hit the same spot too many times, but it was starting to become relatively impossible: Zif’s back was already all bloody, and it was hard to know where he could whip to inflict the least possible damage. Tsu was going to have his work cut out for him to repair this damage. Dashvara gave another lash, blinked, and looked back at Morzif. His heart sank.

“Eternal Bird, what am I doing?” he whispered. His words were lost, choked in his throat.

He was at thirty-one when he heard a sound of hooves and a screeching of wheels. Dazed, Dashvara turned his head to see a carriage with a blue circle drawn on one of the doors enter the courtyard. Only then did he see that Shyurd’s men and the foreman had already left. At least they weren’t so sadistic as to stay and watch, he thought to himself. He was about to continue with his obligation when he saw Atasiag leave the house, followed by Loxarios. The snake headed straight for the carriage, where old Leoshu was already helping down a beautiful young Diumcilian woman adorned in the most sophisticated dress Dashvara had ever seen in his life. He immediately felt contempt for such a display of wealth and coldly turned his back on her.

Let’s get this over with.

Dashvara raised the whip. A sudden horrified scream made him stop dead in his tracks.

“My dear daughters!” Atasiag cried out. “Excuse this unseemly reception. There have been some disciplinary problems, that’s all. Come on in. Come in, both of you. I wasn’t expecting you until tomorrow. Don’t tell me Lanamiag Korfu kicked you out of his country house?” he joked.

Slowly snapping out of his stupor, Dashvara turned his head and looked back at the girl. There were two of them, both made-up and dressed as luxuriously as the daughters of a king. Without a doubt, he knew he would never recognize them. Fayrah and Lessi had become two women of incredible beauty. The only thing he was able to think was: they look healthy.

Dashvara swallowed as Atasiag took each of them by the arm and led them inside. Despite a certain stiffness, both walked with the natural elegance of ladies accustomed to the mundane. Neither turned to look at them.

“Hey, you,” the foreman Loxarios suddenly said. “Go on with your work.”

Dashvara looked away from his sister almost with relief: he wasn’t sure how to interpret the flash of fear he thought he recognized in her eyes. Had Morzif’s condition frightened her? It could be: as far as he knew, in the Xalya Dungeon, Fayrah had never attended the corrections for serious offenses. Dashvara growled inwardly. He never imagined he would see Fayrah again under such dire circumstances. As Atasiag disappeared with his daughters, he raised the whip and unconsciously struck with more force. Morzif let out a muffled groan.

Eternal Bird… are you stupid, Dash? Now you just have to take it out on your brothers.

He breathed in and whispered:

“Thirty-two.”

At least he now had the assurance that Fayrah and Lessi were okay. Thirty-three. He had to admit that Atasiag seemed to treat them as they deserved. Thirty-four. But, on the other hand, he feared that Fayrah had changed in those three years. What if she wore all that finery out of sheer pleasure? Such a display of luxury repulsed him. To him, the daughters of Atasiag were a vivid image of the deep and bloody gap between the social classes within the Federation.

He was at thirty-eight. Courage, Morzif. Two more and I’ll leave you in peace. Two more and then it’s my turn. A vindictive voice added in his head: And one day, your turn will come, Atasiag Peykat. Your cruelty may be justified, but your turn will come.

He gave another lash, clearly not as strong as the previous one, but the kind-hearted Wassag made no comment. Dashvara gave the last blow and let the whip fall to the ground like one who releases a snake. In the middle of a deathly silence, he breathed without energy:

“I’ve never felt so ridiculous. Or rather,” he corrected, turning with a wobble to the Xalyas, “I’ve never felt so unfair.”

None of his brothers responded. He hurried to free Morzif. The Blacksmith was still conscious, but just barely.

“Arvara, Maef: help me carry him inside,” Dashvara said. “Wassag, give Tsu what he needs to fix this.”

Arvara and Maef quickly got up to help him, and step by step, they moved forward until they deposited Morzif in the dormitory.

“How do you feel, Blacksmith?” Maef asked, his voice hoarse.

Morzif was shaking, and his back was still bleeding profusely.

“He was my son,” he muttered to himself. “He was my son.”

Dashvara knelt down heavily next to the Xalya.

“I’m sorry too, Morzif,” he whispered in Oy’vat. “But you can’t save your son by forcing him out of a federate house. If it were really him—”

“It was him,” Morzif said weakly.

Dashvara nodded sadly.

“Then I’ll help you get him out, Morzif. But not now. First, we must earn our freedom.”

Morzif’s eyes opened with lucidity.

“Freedom is not earned, my lord: freedom is something you take.”

Dashvara almost thought he heard Maloven giving him a moral lesson. He felt moved.

“You’re right.” He straightened up. “You are absolutely right. But, before we take it, we must make sure that neither you nor any of our brothers will die in the process.”

Maef blew through his nose.

“If the Shyurd had not intervened, they would have tried to kill Morzif. What would you have done then, lord of the Xalyas?”

Dashvara met his bitter gaze, ignored the doubt shining in his eyes, and shook his head.

“I probably would have sent the Contract flying over the oceans and slit the throat of that Loxarios.”

Maef raised an eyebrow as he scrutinized him.

“Probably?”

A wild smile stretched Dashvara’s lips.

“Well, let’s just say I would have hesitated between that and slicing Atasiag’s.”

Maef answered him with the same animal smile: there was nothing better than a very categorical answer to win the esteem of this Xalya. Dashvara’s smile turned more human.

“The matter is closed,” he concluded. “In the future, you’d better not enter any foreign houses, eh, Blacksmith?”

Tsu arrived with all the necessary medical supplies, and while the drow was busy working with that impassive expression he adopted in such circumstances, Dashvara saw Wassag pass his hand over his forehead several times. He approached.

“Are you okay, Wassag?”

The Diumcilian huffed, altered, and finally looked away from Morzif’s back.

“Let’s just say I haven’t seen this punishment in a long time,” he explained in a whisper.

Dashvara looked at him eloquently.

“Well, you’re going to have to do more than see. You owe me five lashes, remember? I was insolent,” he reminded him with an amused smile.

Wassag looked at him as if he had gone mad.

“You say it as if you wanted to get your punishment,” he observed.

Dashvara rolled his eyes.

“I dream every night that I am being whipped for insolence. It’s recreational. Come on, Wassag,” he resumed more seriously, seeing that the guard was only half catching the irony. “I assure you, if I could avoid it by reasonable means, I would. But it’s only five lashes. In a few minutes, you’ll be done.”

A strange gleam passed through Wassag’s eyes.

“Then rejoice,” he said, “the foreman has ordered me to cancel your punishment. Orders from His Eminence.”

Dashvara did not know how to react to this. He opened his mouth, closed it, blew out his breath, and left the dormitory to go to dinner with the others. This dinner was much less cheerful than the previous night’s, and also much shorter: after taking leave of Uncle Serl, they returned to the dormitory, anxious to know how Morzif was doing. They found Tsu bandaging his wounds.

“He will keep scars,” he informed under a confused shower of questions. “But he’ll get better.”

The atmosphere improved considerably. In any case, the old Compassives were too used to hard knocks to stay long with dark thoughts. Showing all his teeth, Orafe the Grouch remarked:

“The Blacksmith was the only one who had almost no scars. Now he will feel less alone.”

Several people gave him doubtful looks, but there was no further comment on the subject. The captain simply added:

“From now on, we know who we are dealing with, guys. Let’s get used to the idea that Atasiag Peykat is just a slaver who acts like one.”

“Well, I almost preferred Compassion,” Sashava muttered, leaving his crutches behind and sitting on his pallet.

Dashvara, in turn, sat down next to Morzif and watched Tsu’s work with interest for a few seconds. Just seeing the efficiency with which the drow worked was enough to know that this was not the first time he had treated wounds caused by the whip. Then Dashvara put the bowl of soup he had filled in the kitchen next to him.

“You haven’t had dinner yet, Tsu. I brought this for you.”

The drow shook his head.

“I’m almost done.”

Dashvara frowned as he recognized one of the bags the drow had placed next to the injured man. It was the small bag of belsadia that the Akres doctor had given him three days ago. So Tsu had not thrown the leaves away and had given one to Morzif; that explained why Morzif’s face seemed relatively placid despite his condition.

With a sigh, Dashvara leaned against the wall and suddenly felt exhausted. For a long time, he remained totally unaware of everything that was happening around him. Absurdly, he suddenly found himself thinking about the quiet life of the Shalussis in Nanda’s village. About the peaceful life on the steppe. About the herds of ilawatelks that crossed the steppe freely from south to north and from north to south, roaming the horizons. Then his thoughts swirled chaotically: he remembered the lessons of the ancient sages, he remembered all that the lords of the steppe and their subjects had fought for. Dignity, trust, and fraternity, this was the lemma of the true clans of the steppe. At that moment, the precepts of the Eternal Bird made more sense to him than ever.

It was Tahisran who drew him out of his nostalgia.

‘Dash? What are you thinking?’

Dashvara noticed that the shadow was sitting next to him. He looked around. Tsu was nowhere to be seen, Makarva and the Triplets were playing katutas more quietly than usual, and Zorvun was speculating with others about Lessi’s and Fayrah’s role in Atasiag Peykat’s plans and in the Brotherhood of the Pearl.

“What am I thinking?” Dashvara repeated a little belatedly. He shrugged. “I don’t know, Tah. I’m afraid today my Eternal Bird is too tired to think.”

Tahisran swayed gently.

‘I think I understand you,’ he admitted.

Dashvara raised an eyebrow.

“Really? Have you ever whipped a brother unfairly, Tah?”

The shadow did not answer. Obviously, he hadn’t. Dashvara let out a sigh.

“You know what I fear most, Tahisran?” he whispered. “It is to receive one of those blows that prevent you from getting up. To see my brothers’ Eternal Birds defeated and not be able to do anything to save them.” A sardonic smile played on his lips. “And I am afraid of myself, Tah. I think of my principles and wonder if I am capable of living up to them, and at the same time, I fear that some of those principles are wrong and lead me to commit folly out of sheer obstinacy.” He hesitated. “I’m confusing you, aren’t I?”

Tahisran smiled mentally.

‘A little,’ he confessed. ‘What principles are you talking about?’

Dashvara breathed in.

“About fundamental principles, that’s the main problem. I wonder to what extent one can give up one’s honor to keep one’s life. I know that, unlike Lord Vifkan, I would give up everything to save the life of one of my brothers. But I don’t know to what extent a lord of Xalyas can or should give up his dignity to save his own life. And yet, my arrogance asks me to save it for the sake of my brothers. As if I could save them better than they could save themselves. Ah. Sometimes I am prouder than my lord father.” He smiled. “You see, it seems that those forty lashes have messed with my head. I’m asking myself stupid questions instead of making decisions. I should go to Atasiag and demand that he explain to me what his true intentions are. He’s fighting slavery, supposedly. What kind of person can fight slavery and have slaves? This is absurd behavior. Yes,” he said in a whisper. “I should go and ask him for an explanation right away. I’m ready to beg him to give it to me. And if anything like today happens again, I will ask him to punish me and only me for not keeping my men in check.”

Without waiting for Tahisran’s answer, he stood up and walked towards the door with determination.

“Where are you going, Dash?” Makarva asked.

“To set things straight with the snake,” Dashvara replied from the threshold.

He left before anyone could say anything. The sky had already darkened, and lights had been turned on at the main entrance to the house. In the courtyard, he saw Lumon and Tsu whispering.

“Dash?” the Archer called to him, stepping away from the drow, eyebrows raised. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing for now,” Dashvara assured without stopping.

He headed for the main door that led to the great hall of Atasiag. A few steps separated him from the columns when, suddenly, a small hooded figure stood in his way. Dashvara stopped dead in his tracks, startled. Eternal Bird, where did that one come from?

“Back off, Xalya,” a female voice said. “You may not enter here unless His Eminence summons you.”

Dashvara looked the figure up and down without losing his composure.

“I see. Out of curiosity, how many people work for Atasiag Peykat?” he asked.

The hooded woman remained silent.

“Are you a slave?” She didn’t answer either. Dashvara scanned her again. “You are a woman, aren’t you? Can I see your face? You see, it’s disturbing to talk to a hooded person.” He closed his mouth and opened it again. “Well, I said talk, but it’s not quite that. I feel like I’m talking to myself in front of a wall.”

The silence of the hooded woman began to exasperate him.

“Listen, Federate. This rarely happens to me, but today, I’m in a terrible mood. I want to see His Eminence. I need to talk to him about something important.”

He heard a sound like a gasp of amazement.

“Who the hell do you think you are?” the figure snapped. “You are a worker. You can’t ask His Eminence to speak with you. Turn around and go back to your dormitory at once if you want me to forget your words.”

Dashvara was wondering what punishment would be in store for him if he disabled the guard and forced his way into Atasiag’s chambers when Lumon’s soft voice sounded behind him.

“Do what she says, Dash. Atasiag will call you in someday for sure, and then, you can tell him what you want to tell him, but for now, let’s go back to the dorm.”

Dashvara let out a roar.

“Okay. Tell me, woman, are you always watching that door?”

“Speak to me with more respect, Xalya, and perhaps I will answer you,” the hooded woman hissed.

Dashvara raised an eyebrow.

“I speak with all the respect of which I am capable, given the circumstances. Good night.”

He turned his back on her and walked with Tsu and Lumon back to the dorms in silence. Zamoy had poked his head out to spy on them, and Dashvara pushed him fraternally inside.

“You’re nosier than a cat, Baldy.”

“I see you’ve made things clear with our master,” Zamoy smiled mockingly.

Dashvara sighed and paced back and forth in the dormitory, absorbed in his thoughts, before realizing that more than one Xalya was watching his comings and goings with an amused eye. He abruptly sat down, and his fingers began to drum against the wooden floor.

“You’re in a bad mood, boy,” Sashava observed.

Dashvara met the old Xalya’s inquisitive gaze and confirmed:

“I’m in a bad mood.”

“Well, go to sleep,” Maltagwa the Gardener advised him wisely. “Today has been too busy. I think we all deserve a good rest.”

Dashvara nodded heavily and shuffled over to his pallet before uttering:

“May the Eternal Bird watch over your dreams, brothers.”

They disorderly wished each other a good night, Atok turned off the candelabra, and the room went dark. Almost immediately Zamoy sneezed violently and mumbled something about colds and his impending death… Miflin and Kodarah grunted in response, and Dashvara smiled. Closing his eyes, he could almost believe he was back in the barracks of Compassion. Surrounded by grass and swamps, with no master on the horizon and almost free to do as they pleased… Even before the last murmurs died, Dashvara fell asleep.

He woke up in the middle of the night thinking he was emerging from some nightmare, but a second later, he couldn’t remember a thing. To tell the truth, he didn’t try to remember. Half sleepwalking, he got up to check Morzif’s pulse. It was beating.

Hmph. Of course it’s beating, Dash, he scoffed patiently. Tsu healed him, and Morzif is not a fragile kid. He’s over fifty years old, and he’s a tough Xalya. A sturdy blacksmith who has spent more than half his life beating steel. Go back to sleep, now, and stop worrying.

He was about to return to his pallet, but something pushed him towards the door, and he went out silently into the night without knowing very well why. He walked around the paved courtyard for a few minutes, scanning the shadows of the columns and then the bars of the gate. There was no one there, or at least he could see no one. He resumed his walk in circles, not like a wolf in a cage, but a bit like Maloven did when he was deep in thought. The difference was that Dashvara, unlike the shaard, did not come to any definite conclusions.

Haha, he laughed mentally with sarcasm. You mean Maloven was coming to decisive conclusions? But, come on, this old man is the most doubtful man you’ve ever known in your life!

The sky was clear, and the stars twinkled softly, lonely in their bottomless pit. The Moon was barely visible, and the Candle showed a faint glowing arc to the north; only half a Gem managed to light up the night a little. It was quite comforting to think that the sky was always the same, whether one was at the Border, in Titiaka, or on the steppe. Only a few hundred miles separated him from his former home. His old home that was destroyed by the savages.

Demons, Dash, today you are particularly nostalgic. Didn’t you think the steppe was lost for years already?

Moved by an indefinable feeling, he sat down in the middle of the courtyard, near the fountain, and lay down to look at the stars. There, slightly to the north, was the Scorpion constellation. According to Towder, the leader of Dignity, when the last star in the tail aligned with the others, the world as the sajits knew it would end. Who knows if that was true or not: he probably wouldn’t be able to verify it in this lifetime anyway. In any case, Towder believed unconditionally in the omens of the Holy Book. He was the son of a priestess of Cili and believed in the Eleven Graces with the same firmness with which the Xalyas defended their Eternal Bird. It was funny to see how, for some people, the intensity of a belief increased in proportion to the hardships endured.

Sometimes I wish I had my Eternal Bird written like the Diumcilians in their Sacred Book, Dashvara mused, hands behind his head. It would be easier to follow it. Of course, in that case, I wouldn’t read my real Eternal Bird, but someone else’s. He frowned, frustrated. But why so much hesitation, all of a sudden? In the old days, on the steppe, I didn’t use to doubt so much, and I don’t remember ever doing anything wrong. Perhaps so many time on the Border has made me more indecisive?

He was slow to hear the murmur of approaching footsteps. When he saw the hooded figure appear in his field of vision, he did not move.

“You’ve been here for over half an hour looking at who knows what,” the hooded woman observed. “Can I know what you’re doing?”

She seemed intrigued. Dashvara smiled.

“I look at the stars,” he answered calmly.

There was a silence. The hooded woman stood a few steps to his right, stiff as a raven. She didn’t seem inclined to speak, but she didn’t go away either. At least, she had felt curious enough to approach. Dashvara cleared his throat.

“I’m sorry I was a little abrupt just earlier. I didn’t mean to offend you. My name is Dashvara,” he introduced himself.

He waited patiently, and his patience was rewarded with a brief but satisfying answer:

“I am Yira.”

Dashvara turned his head back to the hooded woman, surprised at the almost shy note he heard in her voice.

“Nice to meet you,” he murmured in a sincere tone.

He looked up at the stars again, thinking that Yira might eventually say something, but she just stood there, as still as the columns that surrounded the courtyard. Finally, Dashvara decided to break the silence again.

“On the steppe, some people think that the stars are the eyes of the Eternal Bird.” He paused for a moment. “Do you know what the Eternal Bird is, Yira?”

She gave a slight shrug, and Dashvara continued:

“It is one of the pillars of the philosophy of the Ancient Sages. It is more than two thousand years old, and we, the Xalyas, have defended it for centuries. You see, the Eternal Bird is what keeps the consciousness united with the acts. It maintains our cohesion. The sum of my brothers’ Eternal Birds keeps my clan united. All respect each other, as the feathers of the same bird respect each other. The Xalya Eternal Bird is our Dahars. It is what guides us in our actions and our thinking. As you Diumcilians would say, it is the compass that shows us the right path.”

To his surprise, Yira bent down and crouched on the cobblestone floor only a few steps away. She clasped her gloved hands together in her lap before whispering:

“But an evil person can keep his conscience united with his deeds by acting wrongly. According to what you explain, this person also respects his Eternal Bird, right?”

Dashvara raised an eyebrow. Apart from the Chubby, he hadn’t spoken about the Eternal Bird to anyone but his brothers in a long time, and even then, few of them were willing to have big conversations about it. What on earth are you doing rambling on about the Eternal Bird to an unknown federate? He smiled, amused. She must think you’re mad as hell… But whatever. He drew a deep breath and said:

“Everybody has an Eternal Bird. Even foreigners. A Xalya who, for some reason, would be perverse and act wrongly would be consistent with his Eternal Bird, but not with that of his clan. Therefore, he would be an outcast and would cease to be a Xalya.”

Yira plucked a grass that was growing between the stones before glancing up at the sky. Dashvara thought he caught a glimpse of her eyes before the hooded woman lowered them.

“You whipped one of your own and left him half dead.”

Dashvara heard a slight hesitation in her voice, as if she was afraid to anger him with her comment and end the conversation. He looked at the Scorpion stars before answering firmly:

“I respected his dignity and the dignity of the Xalyas. And I saved Wassag the trouble of going through it. However,” he added after a silence, “I confess that Atasiag is succeeding in swaying my Eternal Bird as it has never done in three years.”

He closed his eyes and listened to Titiaka’s nightly rumble. The breeze had picked up and was gently swirling in the courtyard. For some reason, he couldn’t feel tense in the company of this foreigner. He was half asleep when Yira suddenly said:

“I’m not a worker.”

Dashvara flinched slightly and opened his eyes to see that the hooded woman had not moved.

“I was,” she said, “but I am not anymore. His Eminence set me free two years ago.”

Dashvara frowned, uncrossed and recrossed his legs. The pavement of the courtyard was not particularly comfortable.

“So you were a slave of Atasiag.”

“He took me in when I was a child.”

“Oh,” he quipped. “So it took quite a few years for His Eminence to decide to set you free.”

“Freedom would have been useless to me,” the hooded woman replied without altering. “Besides, His Eminence took care of me like a father.”

“A father, eh? And why do you call him Eminence, then?” As soon as he asked that, Dashvara thought that, all things considered, he often called his father “my lord,” like the other Xalyas. He spoke again before Yira replied, “Well, if you are like a daughter to him, you should be able to answer some questions I have in mind. Unless you are forbidden to?”

“Mm. I may be like his daughter, but I don’t know all of His Eminence’s secrets.” Yira hesitated and sighed, “What do you want to know?”

Dashvara turned to her in amazement. He immediately came to life.

“Are you really going to answer me?” he said.

He sat down, and for a second, he feared that the hooded woman would fly away like a bird, but despite a slight recoil, she stayed in her place. Good.

“First, do all the people in this house know who Atasiag Peykat actually is?”

Yira made a sound like a contained laugh.

“Atasiag Peykat has always been Atasiag Peykat. Be careful with your questions, Xalya. My father says that a question can betray more than any answer.”

“Your father is very wise,” Dashvara replied. “So he has always been a Titiaka citizen. And where is the rest of his family?”

It took Yira a few seconds to respond.

“I don’t know exactly,” she finally admitted. “I know he has two sons in Agoskura. Unless they are mere wards. I think one is a merchant, and the other, I don’t know for sure. He never talks about his wife or his parents, but it’s possible that they had some… some misfortune a long time ago. Uncle Serl is the only one who knows about his past. He worked for him as a spy. I think they have known each other since childhood. But I never managed to get anything out of him, and I advise you not to try, or my father will get angry. He doesn’t like people snooping into his personal life.”

Dashvara finally released the air he was holding in his lungs. The smiling and generous elfocan, a spy? Inwardly, he could only feel disappointed. Then he shook his head.

“Why are you telling me all this?”

Yira laughed softly.

“You ask me to answer your questions, and then you wonder why I answer them? Well.” She shrugged. “Why shouldn’t I tell you? After all, it’s like I already know you. You’re the brother of one of my best friends.”

Dashvara stared at the black hood, dumbfounded.

“Are you Fayrah’s friend?”

“Exactly. I think I’m the only one with Atasiag who knows about your relationship, even though officially Fayrah and Lessi are recognized as princesses of the Rocdinfer steppe. So I suppose it won’t be long before Wassag and the others realize that you come from the same clan.”

Dashvara exhaled loudly. Questions whirled in his head.

“Princesses of the steppe?” he echoed. “It’s been two hundred years since there were any kings or princes or princesses in Rocdinfer, Federate.”

Yira shrugged.

“According to Fayrah, she is heir to the lords of the Xalyas.”

“Mmph.” Dashvara rolled his eyes. “That’s different. I guess then that Atasiag doesn’t treat them the same way he treats my brothers and me.”

Although he could not see her face, he thought he perceived a movement of surprise.

“You did see her get out of the carriage, didn’t you? She lives like a perfect princess.”

He noticed a touch of affectionate mockery in her voice.

“Indeed, that’s the impression she gave me,” Dashvara admitted. “But what about the rest? I mean, is she happy? Is she really free?”

Yira tilted her head.

“Well… I haven’t talked to her for two weeks. Lanamiag Korfu invited her and Lessi to one of his mansions north of the capital for the Mask Festival. Fayrah is…” she cleared her throat. “I mean, she looks pretty happy, if you ask me. And so does Lessi. They’re as free as citizens can be. Believe me, my father is very fond of them and treats them as if they were his own daughters. To me, he has never given me such luxurious clothes, but I must said that, if he had, I would certainly have thrown them back at his face.”

Dashvara guessed her smile and smiled back. Then he shook his head, suspicious.

“If Fayrah is your friend, I can’t believe you didn’t know what the Eternal Bird was.”

The hooded woman casually dropped a handful of grass on the ground.

“Fayrah mentioned the Eternal Bird more than once,” she admitted. “But… when I wanted to know what it was, she didn’t answer me. In that, she is like my father: she does not like to talk about the past. She did, however, tell me a little about you.”

Dashvara remained disconcerted.

“The past?” he repeated. “The Eternal Bird is never in the past. I don’t understand how… Bah.” He made an impatient gesture. “Never mind. Tell me, today I learned that the Master that Atasiag is fighting is a certain Dikaksunora. He’s from a Legitimate family, isn’t he?”

Yira did not answer immediately, as if the change of subject had caught her off guard. Finally, she said:

“Menfag Dikaksunora is a powerful Legitimate. Atasiag does not fight him. That’s above his capacities. He simply negotiates and works for the interests of the Korfu and the Yordark. Listen, it’s better if you don’t ask for more details. I don’t know them, and besides, this is business for the citizens. It’s enough to work for them, don’t you think? Surely they must know what they are doing. I’m content with knowing that I have to protect His Eminence. And you should be content with that too.”

Dashvara looked at the hooded woman in amazement. Finally, he smiled.

“Good advice,” he agreed. “Tell me, Yira, do you ever think of taking off that hood?”

Yira remained motionless for a few seconds and then suddenly stood up.

“You should go back to sleep.”

Puzzled, Dashvara hurried to his feet when he saw her walk away.

“Wait!” he protested. “I didn’t mean to offend you. Please.”

Without meaning to, he used a slightly pleading tone, and the hooded woman stopped. Her pose was again as rigid as that of an animal on the prowl, ready to flee… or to attack.

Demons, and all this because I asked her to show me her face? Dashvara was astonished. He clasped his hands together and said ceremoniously:

“I don’t know when His Eminence will grant me the privilege of speaking with one of his daughters, so if you can talk to one of them, tell her that we have missed them very much, both I and Captain Zorvun, and that we are willing to be patient as long as they and especially their… father,” he cleared his throat, “are also patient with us.”

Yira nodded, and her voice was friendly when she replied:

“I’ll tell them.”

“Wait,” Dashvara insisted, seeing that her back was turned to him again. “I would also be very grateful to you if you would succeed in telling His Eminence that, from now on, he will not have to worry about the Xalyas’ discipline.”

Yira hesitated before nodding again.

“I’ll tell him. But, honestly, I don’t think he’s very worried about your discipline. My father has interests, and he will protect them, by all means. If you cause him any more trouble, he will chastise you or simply sell you out.” She paused for a moment. “It is in your interest to help him, is it not?”

Dashvara nodded curtly.

“And we will help him. But it would be easier if he gave us back our freedom.”

“Mmph.” Yira seemed amused. “Trust me, freedom is relative. With the mark of the Red Dragon, the prestige of Atasiag Peykat protects you. In Titiaka, you are much safer with it than without. Good night, Dashvara of Xalya.”

Dashvara sighed and nodded at her.

“Good night, Yira, and thank you for keeping me company. I think I’m in a slightly better mood,” he smiled.

He turned his back on her and walked back to the dormitory. Groping in the dark, he passed by Morzif and couldn’t help but check his pulse one more time… You’re getting hysterical, Dash. Like he’s going to die now, in his sleep.

When he lay down on his mat, he found that Tah was no longer in the bag. He was not surprised: after all, Tahisran was a shadow. He could roam freely in Titiaka without fear of being called out. He didn’t have to worry about food, money, or freedom if he was careful enough. For a moment, he envied him. Only for a moment.

23 Citizen Life

The first thing Dashvara did the next morning was to make a speech to all his brothers, asking them that none of them should have the idea of acting without thinking from now on.

“We gave our word, and as long as we keep it, everything will be fine,” he insisted.

Some were already starting to snort and get up from their pallets.

“Yeah, boy, everything will be fine,” Orafe growled, exasperated. “And now, let’s have lunch.” He went out, followed by a noisy troop of Xalyas.

Sedrios the Old gave Dashvara a pat on the shoulder before leaving with the others. The captain approached, shaking his head.

“Dash, I’ll give you some advice. You can’t worry about what each of your men does or stops doing. I tell you from experience: a master-at-arms trains a man and then leaves him to fight for his life, considering that he is ready to do so. Our brothers are already grown up. Most of them were already serving Lord Vifkan when you were not yet born. They know how to recognize the orders and follow them. They don’t need to be told for… fifteen minutes,” he esteemed, hiding a smile.

Dashvara’s face flushed.

“I…” He huffed and made a vague gesture. “That’s the problem with philosophers, Captain: they repeat themselves a little too much.”

Makarva laughed and threw an arm over his shoulders, dragging him towards the courtyard while the captain continued to shake his head with a smiling pout.

“Come on, Philosopher,” his friend said. “Let’s let Tsu work with the Blacksmith and let’s go have lunch. You’re the first to say that a hungry mind is more likely to rave than a well-fed one.”

They left the drow to change Morzif’s bandage and joined the others in the kitchen. Uncle Serl seemed relieved to see that the Xalyas had recovered their good humor. Sitting across from Makarva, Dashvara was holding his fourth piece of toast in his right hand, watching the checkerboard of katutas and thinking about his next move, when Dafys, Yorlen, and Wassag entered. The Wolf, as Zamoy had nicknamed the latter, went straight to the captain and spoke in a low voice. News, Dashvara guessed. He moved a piece on the board without taking his eyes off Zorvun. The captain shook his head several times in different directions before standing up abruptly. Immediately, the conversation died down.

“Listen up everyone. Today, Foreman Loxarios has several tasks for us. I want ten volunteers to follow Yorlen to the docks in Alfodyn. I believe you will be unloading cargo.” He waited barely a second before listing, “Maef, Shurta, Lumon, Pik, Kaldaka, Ged, Maltagwa, Kodarah, Orafe, and Zamoy. You are volunteers. Stand up.”

The ten stood up amidst muffled grunts but headed for the door without further protest. Dashvara raised an eyebrow but couldn’t help noticing that the captain had singled out all the Xalyas who had some tendency to get excited, except for Lumon and Kaldaka. This gave him a bad feeling about the “task” that Foreman Lox had set for the others.

“What about the rest of you?” Nervous Pik asked, stopping in the doorway.

The captain made a guttural noise, and Pikava hurried out with the others without asking any more questions.

“Two more people to go see Foreman Loxarios. Makarva, leave this part and follow Dafys. You too, Taw. Did you hear me?”

The half-deaf Xalya nodded. With a hopeful pout, Makarva rolled the dice. Double two. He let out a sigh and stood up.

“This is what happens when you play in a hurry. But I would have won the game anyway.”

Dashvara smiled.

“Luck has nothing to do with patience or haste, Mak.”

As Makarva and Taw left, the captain returned to his seat and took another piece of toast. Dashvara glanced at the abandoned checkerboard of katutas before turning to Zorvun with an inquisitive expression. What now, Captain?

It was Sashava who finally asked:

“What about us, Zorvun?”

The captain looked around the half-empty table while chewing his teeth. There were only nine of them left: Atok, Alta, Boron, Miflin, Arvara, Sedrios, Sashava, the captain, and himself. After swallowing the last bite of his toast, Zorvun gave Wassag an inquiring look. The Wolf shrugged.

“It’s almost the Hour of Constance,” he said. “His Eminence probably wants to show you to his followers. Let’s go out into the courtyard.”

“What is the Hour of Constance?” the captain inquired as everyone stood up.

Wassag explained:

“Every day in the morning, those who seek the favors of a rich man go to his house to receive a denarius or a half-denarius, and in exchange, they owe him respect and support and they escort him to the Homage Square when he wishes it. Have you really never heard of the Hour of Constance?”

Zorvun huffed.

“Never, Wassag. In the Border, we don’t even know what time it is. To be honest with you, I have no idea how things work in this crazy town. I don’t care much about that, either,” he added to himself in a whisper.

The captain’s words were like a detonator for Wassag. As they sat near the outer corridor adjoining the dormitory, the Wolf began to talk about the daily life of the wealthy citizens of Titiaka, the long conversations that Atasiag Peykat used to have with his acquaintances in the Homage Square, and the business acumen of His Eminence.

“He is a great merchant,” he said with obvious respect. “He owns a merchant ship and rents two others from the Korfu. He has very good relations with the Golden Heart Islands, and Legitimate Rayeshag Korfu considers him his trade representative in Agoskura.”

Dashvara raised an eyebrow. According to what Yira had said, Fayrah and Lessi had stayed for two weeks in the country house of a certain Lanamiag Korfu, right?

“So the Korfu are a Legitimate family?” he asked.

“Absolutely. And a family very friendly to our master. The Korfu have always been a very honorable lineage. The High Priest of Titiaka is a Korfu. And Rayeshag Korfu’s sister is a prominent poetess at the University.”

Wassag continued to perorate about the Korfu family’s excellence for several minutes. He was silent only when he saw Dafys coming out of a side door, followed by Makarva, Taw, and a radiant elfocan with golden hair. Dashvara guessed that she was Uncle Serl’s daughter. If he remembered correctly, her name was Norgana. Advancing in front of the elfocan, the two Xalyas carried two long sticks with a large board attached to it with several empty baskets. Makarva turned to Dashvara, vigorously pulling his load, Tawrrus behind him. He was grinning from ear to ear.

“We’re going shopping,” he announced. It seemed that the idea amused him immensely. “Dafys has a whole list of items. I don’t know what half of them mean, but I have a feeling Atasiag is going to prepare a banquet.”

Wassag smiled.

“Let’s say it’s not just an impression. Today is Sursyn. It’s the last day of the week. We always celebrate parties on the last night of every week. And this time it’s His Eminence’s turn to entertain.”

Dashvara arched an eyebrow and exchanged a puzzled look with Makarva.

“To each people its customs,” the captain smiled, with mocking tolerance. “We in Xalya used to have parties when the flowers bloomed in the dungeon gardens.”

“And when we nailed the heads of our enemies to spikes,” Dashvara observed casually. “Afterwards, my mother would get the skulls back.”

He smiled at the horrified expressions of Wassag and Norgana. Dafys wrinkled his nose and ended the conversation by prodding his troop.

“Come on, move it. We don’t have all day.”

Dashvara wished Taw and Makarva a good walk through the big market, and seeing that Wassag continued to scrutinize him, he gave him a quizzical pout. The Wolf swallowed.

“Is what you said true?”

“About the heads? Absolutely,” Dashvara confirmed.

Sashava and the captain half-suppressed mocking smiles. Dashvara smiled broadly. Eternal Bird, we are but cursed savages. We laugh at a man who is frightened by violence, as if we were not horrified by it too. Come to think of it, Dash, the cursed savage is you. Who talked about skulls to scare the federate, eh?

Miflin rolled his eyes.

“We are not as barbaric as you think, Wassag,” the Poet assured with the voice of a wise man. “For twenty years we were the only clan to survive that was heir to the ancient kings. Our neighbors were only waiting for the right day to annihilate every last one of us. In such circumstances, our best weapon was the horror we could cause our enemies.”

“It worked for a while,” Sedrios said, his eyes lost in the distance.

Arvara shook his head darkly.

“But, in the end, it was useless.”

“Yeah, it was useless,” Atok muttered.

Sashava and the captain were no longer smiling. Disturbed, Wassag opened his mouth, and Dashvara gave him a discreet pout to let him know that it was better not to ask questions. In three years, the Xalyas had had time to overcome the trauma of the fall of the Dungeon, but it was one thing to overcome it and another to forget it. As Lumon had said in Compassion one day when he was in one of his rare melancholy states: ‘We came out of it alive, but we’re not living anymore. Not quite.’

Suddenly, the door to the Xalya dormitory opened, and Tsu stepped out into the courtyard. Immediately, the past flew away from Dashvara’s consciousness.

“How is Zif?” the captain asked.

The drow shrugged his shoulders.

“I gave him belsadia, and now he’s sleeping like a lazy bodun.”

Dashvara smiled. It was rather uncommon to hear a drow use steppe expressions; not to say unique.

“Let me guess,” Tsu added, sitting down. “You’re waiting for the Hour of Constance, right? Where are the others?”

“At the docks, with Yorlen,” Dashvara replied. “Looks like today is a day of great deployment.” He watched him curiously: the drow looked agitated. “Aren’t you going to eat anything?”

Tsu shrugged his shoulders without answering, but after a few seconds, he got up and went to the kitchen to get a piece of toast. He was just returning when the light sound of a small bell tinkled at the entrance. It was probably Leoshu who had rung it: the old belarch was still guarding the gate.

Dashvara soon saw a human with a wig and a white tunic appear in the courtyard. It took him a few seconds to realize that he knew him: it was no less than Licentiate Nitakrios. On the opposite side, the main door opened and Atasiag Peykat came out, alone, also wearing a wig, and carrying a black baton under his arm.

Dashvara then witnessed the strangest ritual he had ever seen. First, the guest crossed the courtyard, bowed his head respectfully, and greeted Atasiag in the Diumcilian language, calling him Eminence and using convoluted formulas to which Atasiag responded with the same verbosity. Finally, the Licentiate looked around the courtyard with concern before muttering something quietly. Atasiag smiled.

“It was a pleasure to help you, Nitakrios. I only hope that from now on you’ll be more careful with your accounts. Oh, here comes Dafosag,” he added.

In the next few minutes, other citizens arrived, half a dozen in all. All of them followed the same rites, and then they began to talk, paying careful attention to Atasiag Peykat’s words every time he spoke. They were about to head for the living room when one of them called out:

“Eminence, on my way here, I came across the Doomed that were brought to you. I assure you that, just by seeing them, I thought: His Eminence could not have chosen better. They look robust.”

Atasiag’s face lit up with a smile.

“Yes, I sent a trusted man to Rayorah to personally ensure that they were all in good health.” He gestured toward the Xalyas, asking them to come closer. Puzzled, Dashvara stood up with the others, stepped forward, and as soon as Atasiag raised a hand to halt them, he obediently stopped. The look of approval in his eyes crushed his heart like a hammer blow.

“One of them is a cripple!” one of the citizens, the one called Dafosag, exclaimed and covered his mouth, as if repenting for having spoken impulsively. As Sashava’s face hardened, Atasiag nodded calmly.

“Yes, from what I was told, it was a brizzia that crushed his leg.”

Dashvara frowned for half a second. There was only one way Atasiag could have learned about that: he must have questioned the guards or his former spy, Uncle Serl.

“The advantage,” Atasiag said, “is that he can read and write. I wasn’t going to abandon him. They all come from the same village, and it would have been cruel to separate them,” he reasoned in the tone of one who knows he is immensely generous.

“This is an attitude worthy of a Blessed One, Eminence,” bowed the citizen who had made the remark.

Another one pointed at Arvara the Giant with enthusiasm.

“Some coaches in the Arena would fight to get this one!”

Atasiag smiled as he looked at the big Xalya. One of his followers even dared to reach out to feel Arvara’s muscles, and taken by surprise, the Giant did not react. In an approving voice, the Titiaka commented:

“All they need is a little weight. As soon as they get a little stronger, the whole Council will envy you, Eminence,” he exaggerated.

“They’re adorable!” a hobbit babbled with a huge smile.

“When I get rich, I’ll buy a Border Doomed,” a freckled human added with a smile.

He stopped in front of Dashvara and patted his shoulder as if he were stroking the side of a horse. Dashvara was thunderstruck by what was going on. Out of the corner of his eye, he looked at Atasiag; His Eminence welcomed the shower of praise with a thin, satisfied smile. Mmph. You’ve surrounded yourself with a bunch of fools, snake…

He was patient. At least no one approached the captain or Sashava; otherwise, who knows how they would have reacted.

“Come, let’s go in,” Atasiag said. “We’ll be out in a moment. Today I have business at Homage Square. I will bring two Xalyas to make a good impression. Legitimate Korfu has expressed his desire to see them.”

“Take the big one, Eminence,” suggested the one that got so excited about Arvara.

Atasiag hesitated with a mocking smile.

“I wouldn’t want to scare the passersby, Dafosag.”

Many laughed and begged him to bring Arvara along. Finally, Atasiag gave in as a little king gives in to the whims of little children.

Pathetic.

When they had entered the living room, probably to retrieve that famous half-denarius that was the prize of so many adulations, Dashvara sat down with the others on the edge of the courtyard. A movement on the second-floor balcony suddenly caught his attention, and after scanning the blinds, he was sure that Fayrah and Lessi had spied the scene. He shook his head several times and finally let out a sarcastic laugh.

“I can’t believe it. Who could possibly enjoy playing such a comedy every day?”

“Surround yourself with fools and you will become one,” Sashava muttered.

“Well, to each people its customs,” the captain relativized again.

“Yes, and they enslave themselves with them,” Sedrios the Old meditated.

Miflin declaimed:

“O supreme eminence in grand display, shameless comedian every day.”

Dashvara and Arvara smiled and looked up in surprise as Wassag leaped to his feet. The Wolf looked angry.

“That’s enough!” he protested. “I will not allow you to mock His Eminence. Don’t you Xalyas respect anything?” He huffed indignantly at their puzzled looks. “You would do well to learn not to oppose the one who feeds and houses you. Atasiag is a benevolent man.”

He was serious. After a surprised silence, Dashvara shook his head.

“Wassag. Your Eminence forced me to give forty lashes to one of my brothers who did not deserve them. He can’t be such a benevolent man as that.”

The Wolf squinted.

“That brother of yours tried to kidnap the son of a citizen,” he replied. “The Shyurd would have had good reason to kill him on the spot. Fortunately, the Shyurds are friends of Atasiag Peykat.”

Dashvara looked up to the sky.

“Morzif didn’t try to kidnap anyone, Federate. He simply wanted his son back.”

Wassag shook his head as if he had just thought he was talking to a moron.

“He’s a citizen’s son,” he repeated, obstinately. “And even if your brother was not crazy and had really seen his son, it would not change that fact. As workers, we have no rights over our lives or our children’s lives.” He sighed and continued more gently, “I understand that you are not yet used to this. I understand that, for you, accepting to lose something you have always had is hard. But believe me, of all the masters I have known, Atasiag Peykat is the most permissive and generous of all. I have served him for eight years and have only been whipped once, and I deserved it: I tried to run away six years ago. He could have killed me, but he didn’t. Four years ago, his trading company went bankrupt. The associated traders sold almost all their slaves. Atasiag sold none. Instead, he cut back on his own consumption, sold his house and land, and rented us out to the Yordarks with a promise to take us back. Then he left on his boat to get back what he had lost, and when he returned, he kept his promise. Believe me,” he persisted, looking at the nine Xalyas, “His Eminence does not deserve your contempt, but your deepest respect.”

Dashvara remained impressed by Wassag’s vehement apology, but he couldn’t help but feel a certain disgust for his role as a loyal dog. How could he feel loyalty to a master simply because he had not killed him? Simply because, instead of selling him, he had only “rented” him? The guardian’s arguments were beyond his comprehension.

The captain coughed gently.

“It’s okay, Wassag. We won’t joke about His Eminence in your presence anymore. Satisfied?”

Wassag hesitated but finally nodded. Before sitting down again, he simply added:

“His Eminence rescued you from death and adopted you. Now we are a family. And he is the father of us all. That’s the way things work.”

No one answered. Dashvara looked at Tsu out of the corner of his eye: the drow’s expression was darker than ever. On his deep blue and rough face, only a bitter glint in his eyes betrayed his thoughts. Wassag’s devotion surprises you, doesn’t it, Tsu? After all, you have hated all your masters. Though it’s true that you didn’t have much luck with them. Dashvara met his gaze, and uneasy, he averted his toward the main door. Several minutes passed before Atasiag and his followers reappeared. At the hobbit’s request, in addition to Arvara, they wanted to take Miflin. When they called for him, the Poet reluctantly rose to his feet.

“May the Liadirlá give me strength to endure them all,” he murmured in Oy’vat.

The hobbit frowned, and with polite interest, the freckled human asked Atasiag:

“What did he say?”

Atasiag shook his head.

“It’s their native language. Answer the question, soldier.”

Miflin blushed, probably cursing himself for opening his mouth. He glanced quickly at the captain before replying in a hesitant Diumcilian:

“It was only a prayer from my homeland.” A little late, he added: “Eminence.”

“A prayer from your homeland?” the hobbit echoed, interested. “Does that mean they are still pagans, Eminence?”

Dashvara saw an impatient glint in Atasiag’s eyes.

“Unfortunately, they may still be,” the snake admitted. “They still need to be educated and integrated. There are no miracles with workers, my friends. One thing at a time. And now let’s move on, or we’ll never get there.”

“Oh!” the hobbit exclaimed. “Of course, of course. You’ll have to excuse me, Eminence, but I’m a sucker for barbaric beliefs.”

“Wassag,” Atasiag said, resuming his walk. He motioned with his baton to the eight remaining Xalyas. “Give them something to do. I don’t want to see them idle. It’s a habit that easily sticks and is hard to get rid of.”

As soon as Atasiag and his escort disappeared, Dashvara turned to the second-floor balcony. Everything was still, but he could have sworn that behind those blinds his sister was watching them. Why wasn’t she coming down now that Atasiag was gone? And why don’t you go upstairs? he asked himself.

“Dash?” Atok said, surprised.

Only then did Dashvara realize that he had gotten up and taken a few steps toward the main door. He met Wassag’s frowning gaze and stopped with a sigh.

“All right, Wassag,” the captain growled, rising to his feet. “Tell us what we’ve got to do now.”

24 The most hated enemy

They spent three hours sweeping the courtyard and polishing the marble in the gallery. ‘You are not going to clean my house,’ Atasiag had said. Ah! First lie.

Dashvara was wringing a rag over a bucket when foreman Loxarios came through the gate, followed by his faithful hound. The federate took a few steps forward, hands behind his back, walked around the yard, and finally stared at him with his green eyes. Dashvara held his gaze for a few seconds, until he thought he saw a dangerous grimace form in his face. He looked down at his bucket again. There was no point in being impertinent for no reason.

After all, everyone in this house is your family, added a small, joking voice in his mind. Uncle Serl, Uncle Lox, and our kind father, Atasiag.

Damn them.

He continued to scrub the floor for several minutes before foreman Loxarios suddenly barked:

“You, the one with the crutches, stand up.” Everyone stopped their movements to see Sashava leave his rag and stand up with the pride of a Xalya. “What is your name?”

“Sashava of Xalya.”

His tone was clearly hostile, and Dashvara sighed inwardly: diplomacy had never fitted well with Sashava’s mind. The foreman Loxarios beckoned him forward, and the old Xalya moved forward on his crutches; when he stopped in front of him, he had to look up: the federate was a head taller than him.

“His Eminence has found you a position as secretary,” he said. “I will accompany you to the registrar’s office to have your qualifications certified. I am told that all of you here can read and write. Good. Wassag,” he barked, “go to the docks and see that the other Xalyas return early. That is, get them back right away. They should be back by now.” The guardian nodded and ran out. The foreman added, “You guys keep working until they get back. I want you to be ready to go out in an hour. Sashava, this way.”

Sashava opened his mouth, and to Dashvara’s astonishment, closed it again without a single complaint. He followed Loxarios and his dog out of the house with a grimace on his face and flashing eyes. Dashvara could easily guess his thoughts: was he, who had been a warrior all his life, going now to fight with quills and papers?

If only we all fought with quills, old man.

The courtyard was suddenly very empty. When Dashvara noticed this, he felt his heart beat faster. All the foreigners were gone. Wassag was no longer watching them, and Lox would not be back for an hour. There was nothing to stop him from entering Atasiag’s house to talk with his sister. Nervously impatient, he stood up… and met the eyes of old Leoshu, sitting in the doorway. He let out a grunt. That damned belarch… Upset, he knelt again with his rag and resumed his cleaning task. Discreetly, he moved little by little towards the end of the corridor.

As he passed by Boron, the Placid rolled his eyes to the sky.

“Dash, the belarch is watching you.”

Dashvara squeezed the cloth with his fist.

“Oh, well, demons, I don’t care,” he said suddenly.

He stood up and walked straight to the main door. An exclamation of surprise sounded behind him. He ignored it. He reached the staircase, arrived at the door, and reached for the handle, imagining Fayrah already running towards him to hug him… Then, out of nowhere, the blade of a black saber forced him to stop. He watched the blade for two seconds, the time to half stifle his frustration, and before even turning, he sighed:

“Yira…”

He finally turned his head and came upon two slanted eyes, black as night. They were surrounded by skin almost as pale as the moon. That was the only thing he could see of her face, the rest was completely hidden by a black scarf.

“Okay.” Dashvara moved his hand away from the handle but did not back away. “Still hiding your face, huh?”

“And you, you still want to enter a forbidden place,” Yira replied.

“At least now I can see your eyes,” Dashvara rejoiced.

“At least now you’re in a better mood,” she said.

Dashvara smiled.

“Is that what you think?”

“Otherwise, you wouldn’t be smiling.”

Dashvara shrugged.

“I am capable of smiling in the most unlikely circumstances,” he said. “My brothers are witnesses to that.” He met her eyes again and hesitated. “Funny, I would have expected you to kick me out of the front door.”

“Should I?” Yira’s eyes smiled.

Dashvara lowered his eyes to the towel he still held in his hand.

“Actually, no,” he admitted. “I was just cleaning the floor. You don’t need to threaten me with your strange sword.”

A glint passed through Yira’s eyes. Sadness? Disappointment? Dashvara couldn’t tell. In any case, she sheathed her weapon and gestured to the ground.

“It’s all yours.”

Dashvara raised an eyebrow, and surprising himself, went to get the bucket and began to clean the floor outside the door. Yira had disappeared. He scanned the columns, puzzled. Had she really left? After several minutes of hesitation and observation, he wrung his rug and was about to get up and sneak out the door when he heard a sudden:

“Just because you can’t see me, it doesn’t mean I’m not close to you.”

Dashvara gasped and looked around in confusion. Where…? Finally, he saw her silhouette merging with one of the columns in the gallery. He blinked, thinking his vision had been altered as if in a dream. It was as if… as if… The next moment, her grayish clothes changed color and regained their black hue. Dashvara was stunned. Eternal Bird… Am I going crazy, or what? He stammered and spoke unintelligible words that even he did not understand. Yira laughed quietly as she approached.

“These are only harmonies, Xalya. Illusionary spells. Haven’t you ever seen one of these before?” With her back to the courtyard, she raised her hand, and in her palm appeared a column of red smoke that fluttered about before fading away.

Dashvara frowned, and taking Yira by surprise, he grabbed her gloved hand and examined it as he stood up. He could only take a quick glance at her: Yira suddenly drew back, like a frightened bird.

“Is this magic?” he asked.

Yira nodded and silently pointed to the ground. Dashvara got the message: if he wanted to continue talking with her, he should not ask her about her veiled face or touch her. With a sigh, he kneeled down on the marble and continued working.

“Harmonies are celmist arts,” Yira finally said. “One of the least expensive arts, but not the simplest. They are only illusions, but some illusions can be more effective than any other spell. The Ragail guards use them in battle.”

Dashvara merely nodded. If he remembered correctly, the Ragails were Titiaka’s elite guard and enjoyed enormous prestige. It was no wonder that in addition to being good fighters, they were mages or illusionists or something like that. There was a long silence before Yira broke it again, her voice uncertain:

“Your brothers will arrive shortly. And Atasiag won’t be long either. You should empty that bucket outside and go eat.”

Dashvara looked surprised.

“Eat? But it’s not even noon yet.”

A mocking glint passed into Yira’s eyes.

“Maybe. But we’re going out shortly after noon.”

He was taken aback by her words.

“What do you mean, we?” he repeated.

Yira crossed her arms, nodded, and pointed to the courtyard.

“Go, please. I don’t want Atasiag to see you so close to the main door.”

Dashvara snorted and stood up with the bucket.

“I love it when things are explained to me clearly.”

Yira did not answer. But an urgent voice did, behind the door.

“Dash! Dash, are you still there?”

Dashvara almost spilled the bucket with the dirty water. He clearly heard Yira’s weary sigh, but he ignored it. For a moment, he was about to rush for the door. He had to fight the demons of his instincts to control himself.

“Fayrah,” he gasped. “Yes, I’m here.”

“Dash! Oh, Dash. I missed you so much!” The door muffled her sister’s trembling voice. “I-I thought I would never see you again. When Atasiag told me you were still alive and that you were in Atria Canton, I didn’t leave him alone for a minute until he promised to get you out of there. It’s been so—”

Dashvara interrupted her impatiently.

“How are you, sister?”

The answer was slow in coming.

“I’m well. I’m doing very well. But I should ask you. These three years…”

The words died behind the door. Dashvara shook his head.

“I’m fine, sister. Don’t worry about me.”

Then he heard the sound of voices behind him.

“By the Serenity!” Yira waved nervously. “It’s Atasiag. Go away at once, Dashvara, or he’ll suspect something. I’m supposed to be watching the house.”

Dashvara turned to see that Atasiag was indeed taking leave of his followers near the gate. Ignoring Yira’s exasperated look, he approached the gate and put the bucket down.

“Sister. Since Atasiag seems to listen to you more than to me, could you ask him why he is preventing me from speaking with you? At least let him give me a clear answer.”

Fayrah did not answer, and Dashvara wondered if she had even heard his question.

“Sister?”

“She’s gone,” Yira informed him patiently. “She is more careful than you are. And now pray that Atasiag does not come after you. He saw you.”

Dashvara gave her a weary look.

“Do you think I care?”

“If you are a bit smart, you should care,” she said.

She added nothing, melted back into the columns, and Dashvara lost sight of her. Escorted by Arvara and Miflin, Atasiag had already arrived near the stoop.

“Good,” he said. “You’ve behaved very well. Once you get here, you must always wait for me to send you back. This gesture,” he raised a hand over his shoulder, “means you may withdraw.”

The Giant and the Poet hesitated for a moment, glanced curiously at Dashvara, breathed out silently, and then, finally, they walked quickly to the captain.

Let me guess: you guys had a blast in Homage Square, didn’t you?

Dashvara wiped the wry smile off his face when he met Atasiag’s thoughtful gaze. Without a word, the federate walked up the stoop past him and opened the door, which was not even locked. Only then did he turn to Dashvara.

“I don’t know why, I have the impression that you want to tell me something, Philosopher. A moral lesson, perhaps?”

Dashvara gave him a crooked smile and replied:

“A man with a dignified Eternal Bird knows how to find the moral lessons by himself. Better: he knows how to apply them to himself.”

Atasiag smiled without the falseness he used with his adulators.

“Your words are refreshing,” he admitted. “I take it you have not yet given your master’s ‘Eternal Bird’ for lost.” He twirled the baton in his hand until he seemed to make a decision. “Come back here at four o’clock. I will allow you to see the person you wish to see.” He smiled at Dashvara’s obvious satisfaction and added, “Then I will take you to see someone you may not wish to see.”

Dashvara squinted an eye, alarmed.

“Who are you talking about?”

Atasiag clicked his tongue and was about to close the door behind him when Dashvara blocked the door with his boot and insisted:

“Who are you talking about?”

Immediately, Atasiag’s face hardened. He pointed the baton at his chest.

“Moderate yourself, Philosopher. You forget who you are talking to. It seems one can’t converse with you without you forgetting your place. Do you want me to reconsider my proposal?”

Dashvara stepped back, calling himself an idiot.

“No, Eminence.”

Atasiag arched an eyebrow.

“Yira?” he called.

His pupil materialized so quickly next to Dashvara that he had to suppress a gasp of surprise.

“Yes, Father?” Yira asked.

Atasiag smiled with an amused pout.

“Abuse him as much as you can in training.”

He closed the door without waiting for Yira’s reply. Dashvara looked at the girl with the masked face with curiosity.

“Training?” he repeated. “What training?”

Yira pointed to the courtyard. The ten Xalyas who had gone to the docks had just come back. Several carried large, elongated bags. They set them down on the ground, and before they could show their curious companions what was inside, Dashvara said:

“Weapons?”

Yira nodded.

“Every Councilor has a personal guard, and as a candidate for the Council, His Eminence should be no exception. Some personal guards are purely ceremonial,” she admitted. “Not everyone can afford to train and equip them properly. Which is a shame, because, in this day and age, it’s never a bad idea to take some precautions.” His slanted eyes smiled. “Go eat with the others: as soon as Lox returns, we’ll take you to the Arena for your first training. The next few days you will go alone. Some of the guards from reputable families are going there too. I warn you, some of them are former auxiliaries of the Ragails. They are very good fighters.”

Dashvara shook his head, not feeling particularly enthusiastic. He didn’t mind training with his companions, but against foreigners?

Stifling a sigh, he walked down the stoop and across the yard. Makarva and Taw had also just arrived and were approaching, carrying their board with the baskets, all of them filled. They both huffed and puffed their way forward, and Dashvara and Arvara hurried to help them carry their load to the pantry. It looked like they were carrying bags of rocks.

“How was the big market?” Dashvara inquired.

Makarva’s eyes shone.

“Incredible. People everywhere, crazy items, girls more beautiful than fairy tale princesses, and a hurricane of noise. Even Taw thought it was noisy, didn’t you, Taw?”

The half-deaf man nodded.

“My ears are still ringing from so much screaming.”

“And we saw a fight,” Makarva added, his eyes mocking. “But the brawlers hardly came to blows.”

“Hardly?” Dashvara repeated, puzzled.

“Well,” his friend explained in a casual tone, “there were two bands of citizens. They grabbed each other by the wigs, but they didn’t draw their swords. If only you had heard them shout!” He shook his hand under his breath. “One said, ‘Damn you, Unitarian scum, I’ll gouge your eyes out, you filthy beggar, parasite’, and a long string of refined words like that. These Titiakas are pretty damn rude.”

“And what did the other one say?” Dashvara smiled, amused.

“He said, go to the… what was it, Taw?”

“To the infernal abyss of the Four Tritons,” Tawrrus helped him. “Or something like that.”

“And he sent the Federation flying to the north winds,” Makarva added playfully. “And he added something else, but I can’t repeat it without breaching decorum. Then he fell silent when a militia patrol passed by. One of his friends advised him to run with them, and the Unitarian gang started galloping faster than a steppe horse, right, Taw? As they passed, a guy in a yellow tunic, a priest, I think, said something like: may the almighty Cili send you to the flames of hell, you crazy people! What a crazy town,” he sighed. “May fortune guard us against these excited citizens.”

“You said it,” Dashvara agreed, smiling. As they walked out into the courtyard, he asked, “And you, Arvara? How did it go with His Eminence and his clever followers?”

The snort the Giant let out was enough of an answer.

“The trip there and back was boring as hell,” he admitted. “The rest of the time we talked with servants who were waiting, like us, for their masters to finish their business. You see, around the market, there are dozens of lodges with stone steps where the citizens sit to talk to each other. We sat near the entrance. We talked with a worker from the Yordark. The two men from Shyurd who brought Morzif back yesterday were also there.” Seeing Dashvara’s grim expression, he assured, “Actually, they are quite friendly. They even asked after the Blacksmith. They thought the Border had driven him mad. You could tell they were genuinely concerned.” Dashvara took on a skeptical look: Arvara saw sincerity everywhere. The giant sighed patiently. “I assure you, Dash. They were just doing their jobs. There were two Korfu workers, too,” he added. “But the Legitimate almost immediately sent them to deliver I don’t know what messages, and we could barely speak with them.”

He fell silent and shrugged his shoulders without knowing what to add. Miflin, who had approached to listen to them, said grandly:

“Furthermore, His Excellency Rayeshag Korfu told His Eminence Atasiag Peykat that he was pleased that his gift met his expectations at first glance.” His tone was halfway between mockery and relief. “If we are just asked to be an ornamental escort, I augur us a peaceful life. Maybe a little monotonous, but after the Border, a little vacation can’t hurt us.”

Dashvara gestured to the weapons the other Xalyas were now examining and replied:

“Not as monotonous as you think. A long afternoon of training awaits us.” Facing the questioning looks of his companions, he explained, “After lunch, we’re going to the Arena.”

Lumon arched an eyebrow.

“Did the hooded girl tell you that?”

Dashvara nodded, smiled, and revealed to them:

“This time I saw her eyes.”

“Oh…” Makarva smiled eloquently at him. “Were they black as night and deep as a celestial well?”

Dashvara shook his head in exasperation: his friend was repeating to him word for word what he had once said about Zaadma’s eyes. A day when he was not particularly inspired. He went straight to the kitchen door, and Makarva protested.

“Demons, Dash, don’t hold us in suspense like that. What color were they?”

Dashvara stopped in front of the door, and seeing that several Xalyas were waiting for his answer, he repressed a smile, amused.

“They’re black,” he replied. “Mak,” he warned as his friend opened his mouth, exulting. “Keep that miflinery to yourself, will ya?”

Makarva kept it for himself. In the kitchen, Uncle Serl had already prepared garfias for them. Sitting at the table, Dashvara concluded that, after a dinner of kings, Atasiag had opted to feed them in a less expensive way. However, none of his companions complained: Uncle Serl had been able to make a dish of garfias into a genuine delicacy. After they had poured their bowls, they renewed their thanks, and Miflin intoned:

Master of the great masters,
Who do wonders in his home,
Our arms, like alabasters,
Raise you to the top-flight world.

Dashvara laughed, and as Zamoy and Makarva cheered loudly, he leaned over to the Poet and whispered:

“Say, isn’t that a three-century-old stanza of the Enlightened Shilvara of Xalya?”

The Poet put on a guilty face, but it lasted only half a second. His shame vanished at once, and he took up the arguments he had made in the watchtower of Compassion when he reasoned:

“It’s not imitation when you speak in a moment of inspiration. As soon as I took the first bite of garfias, I thought of this verse.”

Mockingly, Dashvara gave him a brotherly slap and proclaimed:

“Blessed is the one who, while filling one’s belly, nourishes high thoughts.”

Miflin laughed.

Unsurprisingly, the conversations dragged on at the table, and foreman Loxarios had to enter the kitchen himself to get their attention and ask them to go out into the courtyard to select their weapons. Dashvara soon found two acceptable sabers, took them out of their scabbards, weighed them, and sheathed them again, satisfied, before turning his attention to the armor. These were made of sowna scales, resistant and lighter than he had expected. How much had they cost Atasiag Peykat? Yira then appeared to explain the best way to put them on. She introduced herself as ‘an agent of His Eminence’ and informed them that, as with the foreman Loxarios, they were to obey any order from her. More than one Xalya looked at her with curiosity, and Dashvara perceived a touch of uneasiness in the girl’s voice when she said:

“Foreman Loxarios? I think they’re ready to go.”

The foreman nodded impatiently, swept his eyes over the yard, and suddenly let out a complaint; his dog looked at him curiously as he muttered:

“What’s with the drow? What is he doing there, with his arms dangling?”

Tsu had stayed a few paces away to observe the commotion, not touching either weapons or armor. Before he could respond, the captain explained:

“Tsu is a doctor, not a warrior.”

The foreman raised an eyebrow, skeptical.

“He’s from the Border and he cannot fight?”

“You can count on one hand the times I’ve seen him with a weapon,” Zorvun assured.

Foreman Lox shrugged his shoulders.

“I’ll have to inform His Eminence…” He suddenly fell silent when he heard Tsu grunt. To everyone’s amazement, the drow ran off. “And what the hell is happening to him now?” he exhaled, exasperated.

It was Morzif. He had come out of the dormitory and was now walking straight and stiff as a spear. The drow tried to hold him back, and his red eyes flashed, annoyed, as the Blacksmith said decisively:

“I’ll go with you.”

“This is ridiculous!” Tsu said. “Your wounds will open up.”

“Never mind my wounds,” the Blacksmith replied.

Something in the tone of his voice and his expression made the drow desist. The foreman shrugged.

“Follow us if you can, but today you will not train with the others. You are not in good condition.”

Morzif did not object, and when the foreman motioned for him to follow, he walked with his brothers toward the exit without complaint. Brave Blacksmith, Dashvara thought with a small smile. He glanced at the others as they walked down the street to the north. As Maloven said, the stubbornness of us Xalyas is sometimes confused with our stupidity. But it is also our strength. The key is to find the middle ground.

By the time they passed the court, Morzif had already fallen behind by a good length, but no Xalya stopped to wait for him: that would have been an insult to his Eternal Bird, and that was even worse than letting him faint. Only Tsu remained with him, inexpressive. In three years, the drow had had time to adapt to the not always reasonable consequences of Xalya pride, but Dashvara knew he still thought Xalyas sometimes behaved like stubborn kids.

And maybe we do, Dashvara smiled.

The Arena could be seen from afar. It was a huge circular building of stone and marble filled with tunnels and arches. As soon as they entered the square surrounding the monument, the foreman took out a scroll from his pocket and walked to an entrance where several soldiers in red capes were posted. Dashvara watched curiously as they approached. He wasn’t sure why, but something about them made him feel a little… afraid.

“They are Ragails,” Yira’s voice whispered beside him.

Dashvara raised an eyebrow and studied the Ragail Guards again as Loxarios handed the scroll to a man with a golden badge on his chest.

“Good morning, Sergeant,” he said. “These are the Xalyas of His Eminence Atasiag Peykat.”

The Ragail sergeant glanced at the parchment and waved them through.

“Welcome to the arena, novices,” he said with a smile. Dashvara didn’t hear any condescension in his voice, but his smile didn’t seem exactly friendly either.

They passed through a tunnel and three iron gates before arriving on an oval esplanade no less than seventy paces in diameter. A wall of about fifteen feet separated the ground from the first tiers of seats, where some curious citizens had installed themselves with parasols. Dashvara spent only a few seconds admiring the prodigious building and its many bleachers before looking down, blinded by the sun. In the arena, two large groups of warriors were training. Some wore the eight-pointed White Star of the Legitimate Steliar family. The others wore the Blue Circle of the Korfu; they were black humans, tall and strong, and if he hadn’t been so far away from the steppe, he would have sworn that those features were… those of… Time stopped in his mind. With a heart as cold as a stone, he looked at the Korfu guards and clenched his fists around the pommels of his swords, seized by a sudden spasm.

“Akinoas,” a hoarse voice whispered. It took him some seconds to realize that it was his own.

Gasps and exclamations of disbelief rang out, but he barely heard them. His mind had blanked out, too horrified to function properly. Hundreds of miles from the steppe, he had just found those who had wiped out his people, those who had stripped him of everything three years ago. Those who had executed his father with an axe. Anger overcame him like a galloping wave and burst suddenly with Maef’s thunderous roar:

“DEATH TO MURDERERS!”

The arena suddenly turned into chaos.

“Xalyas, stop!” Captain Zorvun thundered.

Dashvara did not listen. He had already rushed toward the Akinoas, with swords drawn, and it took a few more seconds for a glimmer of sanity to seep into his fury-blinded mind. It was going to take him longer to be able to stop on his own.

25 Enraged truce

The Ragail’s response came so swiftly that it was as if they had anticipated the Xalya outburst. They surrounded the two steppe groups before the faster Xalyas even reached the Akinoas. Almost without thinking, Dashvara rushed at Maef and pulled him back to avoid impaling himself on one of the Ragail spears. He didn’t calm down, and Dashvara had to hit him on the head. The great Xalya did not faint, but he remained stunned enough to stop thinking.

“Do you want to get us all killed?” Dashvara hissed at him.

His fury was still boiling inside like an erupting volcano, but the presence of the Ragails had reminded him of an essential point he should never have forgotten: he was the lord of the Xalyas, and he could not send his brothers to their deaths in such a stupid way. He met Captain Zorvun’s dark gaze and lowered his head to the sand in shame. He cursed under his breath.

Your impulses will eventually cause your doom, Dash…

“Throw down your weapons!” the Ragail sergeant shouted.

With five dozen Ragails surrounding them, not even the craziest of them would have thought of fighting. However, the Xalyas did not obey immediately: they all turned to the last lord of the steppe, waiting for an order. Oh, yes. Of course: in the presence of his lord, a Xalya never surrendered without his consent… A stupid custom.

Dashvara rolled his eyes and dropped his sabers.

“Okay, throw down your weapons, brothers,” he said in Common Tongue.

A few seconds later, none of the Xalya were armed. The Akinoas, who had behaved much less savagely, laid their axes on the sand, and after separating the two groups by about twenty more paces, the sergeant barked:

“Soldiers! Any further attempts to kill and you will be punished by death, and this with the express consent of both Rayeshag Korfu and Atasiag Peykat. Your status as workers does not allow you to indulge in personal vengeance. Forget your past disputes, soldiers. In the Arena, we only kill by citizen consensus. You are here to train.”

He watched them all with angry dragon eyes. Dashvara would have liked to open his mouth to tell him: okay, don’t worry, it won’t happen again. But he couldn’t do it. It would have been a terrible lie.

“Do you think it will be enough?” the foreman Loxarios asked. He and Yira stood by the Ragails, tense and attentive.

The sergeant shrugged his shoulders.

“Maybe, but I don’t think so.”

They had planned it all along, Dashvara realized with a shudder. Logically, Atasiag must have already known that this Rayeshag Korfu had an Akinoa group in his possession. The scoundrels had set up an encounter on purpose. Did they hope they would make peace? Dashvara looked at the sergeant, the foreman, and Yira one by one.

Then dream on.

Finally, his gaze went to the black warriors, who were watching the scene, arms crossed. What on earth was a group of Akinoas doing in Titiaka? The most plausible explanation was that after the death of the Xalya clan, the other clans had continued to fight among themselves and had been sold as slaves to the Diumcilians. A grimace of pure disdain contorted Dashvara’s face. In two hundred years, these savages had managed to depopulate the Rocdinfer steppe a thousand times more effectively than the hated last Old King.

The Ragail sergeant ordered the Xalyas to line up and the guards withdrew.

“You’re going to stay like that for an hour,” he said. “I don’t want to hear anyone talking. Anyone who moves or opens his mouth will receive five lashes. Then you will begin training with the Steliar warriors.”

He glanced around as if to make sure everyone had understood the instructions. Satisfied, he turned around and walked away with the foreman Loxarios. Yira was the only one to remain with the Xalyas. She didn’t say anything, she just stood there, as still as they were. Well, she was even more motionless than them: Dashvara’s hands were shaking like the claws of an enraged red nadre.

Come on, Dash. You once lived in a Shalussi village, after all. Now control yourself and remember that these warriors are men of a Titiaka Legitimate that is an ally of Atasiag Peykat. You cannot touch them. You cannot kill them. And, in theory, they can’t kill you either. In theory.

The Akinoas began to train against the Steliar warriors and Dashvara closed his eyes so as not to see them. The sun was beating down on him and his thoughts, dazed, ended up replaying the same memories over and over again. The siege of the Dungeon. The last defense of the heirs of the steppe. And death. Death on all sides. The Xalyas had fallen one by one, most of them under the blows of the Akinoas and their bloodthirsty troll.

A sharp intake of breath brought him out of the macabre curses that were clouding his mind. He opened his eyes, surprised, and saw from the corner of his eye Zamoy sobbing silently. His heart sank. His first impulse was to go and give the Baldy a strong brotherly hug to console him; he held back just in time and swallowed.

Cry, cousin: crying for the past does not stain honor. It simply does not help.

He met Yira’s gaze and returned it with an expression of indifference. Then he applied himself to observe the Akinoas. They seemed to be in good shape and better fed than on the steppe. One of them had just defeated his Steliar opponent, and brandishing his axe, he addressed to the Xalyas a ferocious smile.

Go ahead, monster, keep smiling. You just proved to me again how ruthless you Akinoas are. Your remorse can be seen for miles around.

Of all the duels that Dashvara witnessed, not one was lost by the Akinoas.

Half an hour must have passed when suddenly someone collapsed in the row. Dashvara turned his head slightly to see that it was Morzif. Defying instructions, Tsu knelt down beside the blacksmith.

“Did he faint?” one of the Ragail guards asked, approaching.

“Yesterday, he received forty lashes,” Tsu explained. “And his wounds have opened up. Please, I am a doctor, let me take care of him.”

Without further questioning, the Ragail made an affirmative gesture, he called two companions, and they dragged Morzif out of the arena, followed by Tsu. Before leaving, the Ragail passed in front of all the Xalyas with penetrating eyes, as if to remind them that the punishment was not yet over. At least, these Ragails were not as harsh in their punishments as His Eminence…

Dashvara armed himself with patience, and when the Ragail sergeant finally reappeared in the arena and ordered them to pick up their abandoned weapons, he felt as if he had stood there just like a stake.

“Remember,” the sergeant said, “I don’t want any confrontations outside of training.”

He looked at Maef and then turned his eyes to Dashvara. He understood that Dashvara was someone special to the Xalyas, and he expected him to impose some order among his people. Dashvara nodded curtly as he straightened up with his sabers.

“Xalyas,” he said in Oy’vat. “Let’s not lose our cool. We can’t attack the Akinoas in front of the federates. Three years have passed, we can wait a little longer.”

“Wait for what?” Maef growled.

Dashvara winced.

“For the right time,” he answered, confused. “That is, not today.”

Zamoy muttered:

“If I could slaughter them all before these foreigners kill me, I swear by my Eternal Bird that I would.”

Dashvara looked at the Baldy, surprised by the vehemence of his words. A fire of hatred shone intensely in his eyes, suddenly awakened after three years of exile. Orafe raised his saber high and roared:

“A Xalya warrior obeys his Eternal Bird by doing justice!” With his weapon, he pointed at the Akinoas from afar, spitting in their direction. “If I die, I will at least die having shed the blood of those treacherous dogs!”

A tension mixed with aversion and fatalism seized the Xalyas. The thirst for revenge swept over them in a new wave. Maef, Ged, Shurta, and Pik stared darkly at the Akinoas; Lumon shook his head sadly… Makarva’s hands gripped the sabers and shook like those of a terrified child, but he was determined to follow his brothers to the death. The punishment imposed by the Ragails had done absolutely nothing to calm them down. Dashvara met the captain’s calm and patient gaze and understood that he was expecting something from him.

Very good, Captain. What do you want me to tell them now? That it is better to live without honor than to die for such a miserable revenge? I am not even convinced of that, Zorvun. Who knows if we’ll spend the rest of our lives serving foreigners after all. Is that a life for a Xalya? Atasiag Peykat waves his promise of freedom before our eyes like a peasant uses a handful of tasty grass to drive his donkey. But who is to say when the donkey will get its reward, Captain? It may be months, years, eons… Time will tell, no doubt, if we don’t die first.

His face hardened.

And we won’t die first, he promised himself. My Eternal Bird may waver like my brothers’, but the Eternal Bird of our clan never wavers.

A sudden burst of fire erupted from his throat.

“Xalyas, listen!” he thundered.

Under the Ragail sergeant’s curious gaze, he moved back a few steps to have all the Xalyas in front of him before declaiming like the good philosopher he was:

“Brothers, let us not act hastily. Xalyas, we are not hate-fueled animals like the Akinoas. We have the spirit of justice, we have dignity, but above all, we are brothers, and we are loyal to our Dahars. Dying now solves nothing. It didn’t solve anything in Xalya Dungeon, and it won’t solve anything here. If you endanger your life, you endanger the life of your clan. Don’t forget that.”

Captain Zorvun wiggled his eyebrows at him eloquently as if to remind him that the first one to have to apply a lesson was the one who delivered it.

You’re absolutely right, Captain.

Tense as a bowstring, Dashvara snorted loudly, turned his back on his brothers, and headed for the place where the Steliar warriors were. With some relief, he saw that everyone, including Yira, was following him. He gave her an indefinable pout and hissed through his teeth:

“If you and Atasiag give us another big surprise without warning, you can be sure that your Eminence will end up regretting it.”

Yira’s eyes sparkled.

“You’re nothing but a savage, Dashvara of Xalya,” she whispered. “Fayrah warned me that you would react like this, but I didn’t believe her until…” she shook her head, falling silent, and for a moment, Dashvara felt ashamed. How was a person supposed to feel when they saw a whole troop of beardy men rushing at other warriors, shouting like raving lunatics? Suddenly, an unsound amusement made him laugh sardonically.

“These monsters killed dozens of my clansmen with axes,” he said. “They killed my father. I saw with my own eyes the axes reduce the lord of the Xalyas to a soulless body.” He paused. “How did you expect me to react?”

Sadness had clouded Yira’s eyes.

“I don’t know,” she confessed in a hushed voice and repeated, “I don’t know.”

Dashvara raised an eyebrow, surprised to see her so troubled. He cleared his throat and looked down at the swords he was still holding.

“Well then. So His Eminence wants me to train with you?”

“Train with the Steliar warriors first. As for me… for now, I’ll watch you.”

Without waiting for his response, Yira gestured to the Steliar men and walked away toward one of the field walls. For the next few minutes, more than one Steliar warrior looked at the Xalyas with apprehension. They seemed to fear that their new opponents would suffer another bout of fury. None of the Xalyas was in the mood to calm them down.

Steliar’s men turned out to be mediocre fighters. They carried long swords and wielded them with more or less the same skill as Miflin had three years ago. Dashvara defeated his first opponent quickly. The poor Steliar men had to suffer the Xalya rage instead of the Akinoas. After two hours, not a single Xalya had lost a battle. When Dashvara got the surrender of his last opponent, he turned to the black steppemen; they were training like beasts, a good thirty paces away. He continued to watch them cautiously as he made his way to where the captain, Maef, Orafe, Kaldaka, Lumon, and Alta were already resting. None of them spoke, but Maef’s eyes burned like fires. He sat down beside them in the shadow of the wall and ran a hand over his sweaty forehead.

“Look at how they’re beating each other up,” he commented with an evil smirk. “Lord Vifkan said they’re like trolls, just a bit smaller. No wonder they’re so good at taming the worst creatures of Rocdinfer…”

He suddenly fell silent when he saw, stunned, that one of the Akinoas was separating from his comrades and heading towards them. He stiffened, suspicious.

“That face looks familiar,” Alta murmured.

Dashvara looked at him, inquisitive, and the Xalya observed in a neutral voice:

“Remember that, back in the dungeon, I used to work as a messenger as well as a groom. This Akinoa…” he paused and finished: “He looks a lot like Shiltapi, but it’s not him.”

“His son?” Lumon suggested.

Dashvara swallowed. Could this giant really be the son of the Akinoa leader? Orafe growled.

“Well, to me they all look the same. Very tall and with crazy faces.”

“He just stopped,” Kaldaka observed.

“It looks like he’s waiting for one of us to approach,” Lumon mused.

“He doesn’t intend to negotiate, does he?” Orafe grumbled.

“Ah, negotiate!” Dashvara laughed through his teeth. “That’s a good one…” He met Zorvun’s gaze and fidgeted, uneasy. “Why are you looking at me like that, Captain?”

This one shrugged.

“Maybe this individual has something interesting to say, don’t you think?”

Dashvara turned his eyes to the Akinoa waiting in the middle of the arena like an impassive rock. He wrinkled his nose.

“Are you asking me to speak with him?”

“Exactly.”

His attitude irritated Dashvara, but… well, his captain had just given him an order, hadn’t he? He stood up and muttered:

“This is all stupid. He’s not going to tell me anything interesting and you know it.”

“Probably not,” the captain admitted. “But we are Xalyas, Dashvara. We always allow anyone to speak. By the way,” he added, “if it’s not too much trouble, tell this savage that Captain Zorvun of Xalya is still alive and has gotten a lot of practice in the last three years killing monsters.”

Dashvara looked up to the sky.

“Why don’t you tell him that in person? Bah, you’re a coward, Captain.”

He began to walk away and barely managed to suppress a smile when he heard a grunt and footsteps behind him.

“A coward, eh?” the captain said as he walked beside him. “Let’s see what this little monster tells us.”

They stopped at a respectable distance from the Akinoa. The captain spoke first, switching to Common Tongue:

“We were very surprised to meet Akinoas in Titiaka. I don’t know why, I thought you would be living comfortably in our usurped dungeon.”

The Akinoa inhaled through his nose without uncrossing his muscular arms. On his right forearm, the Blue Circle of the Korfu shone. And just below, where Dashvara wore the beetle of the Doomed, appeared the white arrow of the miner slaves, with the counter-seal. It was said that the life of the miners was even more hellish than that of the Doomed… Dashvara squinted and tried, in vain, to read the numbers from where he stood: some would have told him the date each seal was applied.

The savage was slow to answer, but finally, he opened his big fleshy lips and said in a deep voice:

“Your dungeon, Xalya, has been destroyed. The Essimeans attacked it two springs ago. They left only ruins.”

His eyes scanned them. Did he hope to see grief on their faces? Neither Zorvun nor Dashvara altered. It’s not a handful of stones we care about, Akinoa, but the people inside. Perhaps you are not able to understand that.

“So, just like that, the Essimeans have become the kings of the steppe, huh?” Zorvun croaked.

The Akinoa spat on the sand.

“The Essimeans are even more treacherous than you, Xalyas.”

Dashvara smiled sarcastically.

“Than us?” he retorted. “Who allied themselves with them to annihilate us, Akinoa? Remember that the lords of the steppe were much more lenient with you than the Essimeans. They allowed you to settle on the borders of their lands. They did not enslave you, and they let you live in peace.”

The Akinoa spat again.

“Lies. You pushed us back and cornered us in the desert. You left us to starve.”

“And you killed us with your bloody axes,” Dashvara replied sharply. “You are no better than we are.”

The Akinoa squinted, scanning Dashvara’s face. Zorvun intervened.

“You are talking to the lord of the Xalyas, Akinoa. The last lord of the steppe. According to the ancient code of Rocdinfer, you owe him loyalty.”

His tone was clearly mocking. The Akinoa hissed, and for a moment, Dashvara feared that Zorvun had exacerbated the beast’s nerves.

“The last lord of the Xalyas is dead,” he growled. “My own father cut off his head and stuck it on a spike, just like you did to my great-grandfather.”

There was no doubt, this was the son of Shiltapi of Akinoa. Dashvara held his gaze, letting a cold fury filter through. His words hammered at his heart like a cascade of explosive arrows. Finally, his throat cleared, and when he answered, it was in a voice so cold that it even frightened him.

“I am the firstborn son of Lord Vifkan. And I swear to you, Raxifar, son of Shiltapi, that I will, in turn, cut off your father’s head the day I meet him.”

And then they’ll cut mine, for a change…, he thought wryly. All for the sake of preserving traditions.

The Akinoa showed his teeth with ferocity.

“You will not meet him again, Xalya rat. Shiltapi is dead. The Shalussis killed him. Now, if you want us to set a day to kill each other, go ahead. My heart will be in heaven the day I finish with you and your vile blood.”

Dashvara arched an eyebrow. He had never imagined that he would talk so long with an Akinoa.

“So you Akinoas go to a heaven when you die?” he inquired.

The savage smiled coldly.

“Your question proves your ignorance, Xalya. We serve Akinoa. We are the servants of the greatest warrior who ever lived.” He glanced down at Dashvara’s tattooed arm. “We serve only him and we die for him. All who do not serve him go to hell. You and all your kind will go to hell no matter what.”

Dashvara nodded gravely.

“I see. I regret to inform you, however, that now, you are not serving your god precisely, but a Diumcilian named Rayeshag Korfu. Akinoa must not like that very much, right? Look, I can only see one way out that will satisfy both of us. You stop serving your master, you die and go to heaven, and I’ll continue to live here as long as I can.” He gave him a detached smile. “Do you have a better idea?”

Raxifar finally uncrossed his arms, and Dashvara tried not to back down. He was at a respectable distance: he could not reach him by surprise. The Akinoa looked into his eyes. He was slow to answer, and when he did, his answer was concise:

“We are not in the steppe. Let’s work together to free ourselves, let’s steal a boat, let’s go back to Rocdinfer, and there, we’ll settle our accounts.”

Abruptly, Dashvara let out a laugh. Raxifar’s proposal was ridiculous.

“Are you kidding us?” He looked at the captain out of the corner of his eye. The captain’s face showed disbelief. “Come on, Raxifar, son of Shiltapi, who would believe that you wouldn’t betray us at the slightest opportunity? Besides, where did you get the idea that we also want to return to the steppe? According to what you say, we don’t even have a dungeon waiting for us there. And there are only twenty-two of us. With that, we can’t start a real clan anymore, Raxifar.” He held his gaze with pride. “Yes, you have succeeded, savages. You got what you wanted. You have wiped out all the clans that descended from the Old Kings. Now leave us in peace. As you hear,” he said, seeing the look of surprise in Raxifar’s eyes. “I will not try anything against you as long as you do the same. A wise Shalussi once told me: I judge men for what they are and not for what they represent. I don’t know you. I would have gladly killed Shiltapi, but I don’t see why I would kill a son for the crimes of his father. Perhaps, if I knew you better, I would change my mind. That is why I advise you not to speak to me again. If I hear an insult to one of my brothers, a serious threat, or a tasteless joke about our dead, you can be sure that I will change my mind. In the meantime, I give you my word that my brothers will not try anything against you.”

The Akinoa scanned him for a long moment before nodding slowly and crossing his arms again.

“This seems to me correct and wiser than I would have expected from a Xalya man.” As Dashvara made a curt gesture of farewell, he added, “And by the way, we people never make fun of the dead.” He smiled. “We don’t like to speak ill of the absent.”

He turned his back on them and walked away to his people. Captain Zorvun ran a hand over his sweaty neck.

“Eternal Bird, Dash. I must say, I wasn’t expecting this. I was getting ready to grab you by the neck before you lost your nerve and rushed to strangle him, and here you are offering him a peace deal. And, to top it all, the savage accepts it.”

“A truce,” Dashvara corrected, relaxing by the second. “I’m afraid it’s only a truce.” He met Zorvun’s gaze and closed his eyes briefly before adding in a low voice: “I am tired, Captain. Tired of so much war. And I think Raxifar is tired too. The Akinoas are humans, not monsters. In battle, they become animals, it’s true, but… are we any different? They were looking for land to live in without starving every year, and we were always kicking them out of our land. We would have been wiser if we had accepted them into our clan. My father would have been wiser if he had accepted the surrender during the siege. He knew that we would not resist, and in spite of everything, he persisted and led all his people to death. His pride was stronger than his loyalty to the clan.” He ran his tongue over his dry lips. “I will not make the same mistake, Captain.”

Zorvun nodded calmly and patted him on the back.

“I believe you are a good lord, Dashvara.”

The young Xalya looked at him mockingly.

“Tell me, Captain, why do you insist so much on making me the lord of the Xalyas?”

Zorvun smiled as they walked toward their brothers.

“I do not insist on making you anything you are not already, son.” He paused, and his gaze passed from the Triplets to Maef, to Lumon and the others. “Look at them, Dashvara. These are your people. Feel proud of them because they deserve it. At heart, we are not slaves. We are not even defeated men. We are still Xalyas, as we have always been. We remember the long ballads of the ancients. We share the same lessons of life. And in easy times and in hard times, we remain loyal to the Eternal Bird of our clan.” He shook his head. “But this Eternal Bird, Dash, sometimes requires a little help. I am only a master-at-arms and a captain. I only know how to bolster the morale of the soldiers before the battle and direct them so that we don’t lose too many. That’s what I’ve done all my life. The Xalyas trust me when it comes to fighting. But I am not a lord for them. You, on the other hand, represent everything they want to hold on to. You are the last descendant of the lords of the steppe. You represent the Dahars. Your orders show the right way.”

Dashvara looked at him, dumbfounded. The most incredible thing was that Zorvun seemed to be talking seriously. He suddenly felt like he was drowning in a barrel of oil.

“May the Eternal Bird guide me,” he breathed out, “my orders are the way to nothing. I know the tradition, and I know how stubborn the Xalyas can be about it. But we are far from the steppe. Things have changed. We can’t always live by keeping customs from immemorial times that no longer have a basis.”

Captain Zorvun’s eyes sparkled.

“I thought the matter was closed, son. Precisely because we no longer have a home, your duty is to help your people keep their Eternal Bird intact. You must keep the clan together and protect the Dahars and its tradition, as all the lords of the steppe should have done. And I assure you that I would not ask you to be the lord of anything if I did not know that you were capable of assuming your responsibility. You proved that you were by talking with this Akinoa.”

Dashvara did not dare to put on a doubtful face. He simply nodded softly and whispered in a hoarse voice:

“Your confidence honors me, Captain.”

Zorvun smiled and patted him on the shoulder.

“I’m just reminding you of a lesson the shaard surely taught you years ago, my lord.”

Dashvara shuddered at the name. A few minutes ago, it would have seemed like a joke to hear the captain, a man in his seventies who had given him orders all his patrolling life, call him “my lord”. Now it just seemed… strange. But justified.

Justified by the eternal and unchanging tradition, he sighed mentally.

“I think the federate girl is waiting for you,” Zorvun said suddenly.

Dashvara raised an eyebrow and turned to see Yira standing about twenty paces away with a black sword in her hand. He walked away, leaving Zorvun to fill the others in on their conversation with Raxifar of Akinoa; he drew one of his swords and stopped a few steps away from the federate woman. Her eyes were hauntingly serene.

“Can I ask you a question?” Dashvara suddenly said. “What do you think makes a man a savage?”

Yira watched him for a few moments before answering firmly:

“Lack of self-control. Unconscious cruelty. Unpredictability. A savage acts without regard to the consequences of his actions.”

Dashvara nodded thoughtfully.

“So that’s what I am to you. A savage.”

“That’s how you behaved earlier,” Yira replied calmly. “Actions are what define a person.”

Dashvara smiled sadly.

“Right. Sometimes a man stops thinking with his head and thinks with his heart. And, logically, this way, nothing very reasonable can come of it. There is nothing wilder than a heart.”

Yira shook her head, and Dashvara flushed slightly. He was too used to meditating in front of his brothers and had forgotten that not everyone might be willing to listen to his ramblings.

“Er, okay,” he said, gripping his sword tighter. “Ready?”

“You can draw your two swords,” Yira finally said.

“You have only one,” Dashvara objected.

Yira’s eyes smiled.

“The other hand is armed too, even if you can’t see it. Ready?”

Dashvara frowned but drew the other sword anyway.

“Ready.”

26 A critical encounter

Dashvara had never fought a woman seriously before, and it was hard for him to swallow his scruples. He swallowed them abruptly when Yira attacked and he had to dodge the attack… He saw her sword go through his as if it had never been there. He gasped and narrowly avoided another attack. Yira was using illusions.

His perception changed. He saw the air rip and ripple around him. Yira stood still again. She was carrying two black swords in her hands. Where had she gotten the second one from? She rushed forward, and to Dashvara’s amazement, threw one of the swords at him… and it turned into a terrible snake with huge fangs. Dashvara instinctively ducked and stepped back, his eyes bulging. He thought he had suddenly fallen into an abyss of nightmares. A horde of shadow snakes swooped down on him, shooting like deadly arrows. Dashvara raised his swords and slashed through the air as fast as he could. He didn’t know if steel could do anything against this magic. As it turned out, it didn’t: the flying reptiles flew through his weapons as if they had never existed. Oh, demons. Were these monsters really just illusions? As soon as they reached him, they vanished, and Dashvara had the horrible and absurd certainty that they had entered his body to kill him from within. His heart raced, and his lungs betrayed him. He swallowed blood but did not cough. The next second, he saw the real black blade of the sword pointed at his chest. He found himself back in a stable arena, without snakes and without illusions. The fight hadn’t even lasted two minutes.

“That’s cheating,” he croaked, lowering his weapons.

An amused glint shone in Yira’s eyes.

“It’s not cheating. These are harmonies. So? Do you surrender?”

Dashvara rolled his eyes.

“What do you think?” he replied.

Yira lowered her sword, visibly satisfied.

“You should leave. There’s less than half an hour before four. And His Eminence doesn’t like delays.”

Dashvara had not forgotten the appointment, but he did not think that time could have passed so quickly. Still dazed, he silently nodded and unconsciously walked around Yira at a careful distance. This magic stuff had given him a more than disturbing image of this woman.

As he passed by his brothers, he grumbled before any of them could comment:

“This magician is more of a makarver than you, Mak.”

“I’ve never seen you struggle so badly,” his friend mocked. “What spell did she cast on you?”

Dashvara looked at him in amazement.

“Didn’t you see the horrible snakes she threw at me?”

The Xalyas shook their heads. Zamoy confessed:

“We just saw that she was throwing some kind of shadow rays at you. Afterwards, you were paralyzed like a stone and the Faceless One approached you without you defending yourself.”

Dashvara winced.

“Argh,” he growled. “The Old Kings hated magic for a reason. Anyway, I’m leaving. His Eminence wants me to visit him now.”

More than one person looked surprised.

“It seems that Atasiag is particularly fond of you,” Alta observed.

Dashvara merely shrugged and replied:

“Mysteries of life. Listen, about the Akinoas—”

Orafe cut him off, his voice harsh:

“We know that, Dash. If you’ve given your word that we won’t attack them, I won’t attack them. But I still think this deal is inhumane. The Akinoas deserve to die.”

Dashvara nodded, accepting his opinion. He did not expect any Xalya to forgive the Akinoas for their crimes: he himself could not forgive them. Even Maloven—that overly forgiving old man—probably wouldn’t have been able to. He glanced at the faces of the Xalyas, and without answering, he waved at them, turned his back on them, and headed for the exit of the arena. There, he met the mocking faces of several Ragails who had witnessed Yira’s dazzling victory. Dashvara shrugged.

“I wasn’t going to let a lady lose,” he said casually. More than one guard smiled.

At the entrance, Dashvara found the sergeant sitting on a pallet, reading a book.

“Going somewhere, soldier?” the Ragail inquired, looking up.

“See my master,” Dashvara replied. He glanced curiously at the cover of the volume. It was entitled The Fisherman of Light. He gave a meditative pout. Technically speaking, how could anyone fish for something that could not be grasped with one’s hands? He smiled inwardly. I’ll have to ask the Poet about that.

The sergeant raised his eyebrows and observed:

“I’m not stopping you from leaving.”

Dashvara hurriedly nodded and exited the building. He crossed the square surrounding the arena, dodging elegant people wearing white tunics and wigs, colorful clothes, and gold belts. He passed through the same streets as he did on the way in. He was turning left to go to the Tribunal when a sudden vision stopped him short. There, in front of an apothecary’s store, a woman was greeting another one, throwing some retort at her with an amused face. He would have recognized her among a thousand. It was Zaadma. She was about to go back to her store, one hand resting on her pregnant belly, when a sixth sense led her to look around the street. Dashvara crossed the black eyes of his goddess, and for a moment, he was tempted to continue his way and pretend not to recognize her.

And you call the captain a coward, Dash? a small, strained voice in his head scoffed. It’s only natural that Zaadma found another man. You never told her you loved her. And, even if you had, three years have passed since you last saw her; look at her: she doesn’t even recognize you.

He approached her almost reluctantly and gave her a hesitant smile.

“It’s been a long time, cousin.”

Zaadma opened her eyes wide and let out a muffled exclamation.

“Dash? For the Divinity’s sake, for the Divinity’s sake!” she repeated, stunned, looking him up and down. “I knew you would come, but I didn’t think I’d see you so soon.”

“And I never thought I’d see you looking so radiant, Zae.” Dashvara’s smile widened, and this time it was genuine. “So now you’ve settled in Titiaka,” he observed, glancing at the small herbal shop.

Zaadma smiled, blushing.

“In Dazbon, I couldn’t feel comfortable with my father around. I have to admit that Titiaka is a much more beautiful town than Dazbon, don’t you think? The people are more talkative and open. And they love to eat all kinds of herbs. Business is going great.” She smiled mischievously, then gave him an inquisitive look. “What about you, Dash? I guess you must be happy with the change of scenery, right?”

We talk like strangers, Dashvara thought with a shudder. He nodded and pointed to his beautiful sowna scale armor.

“You see, they even dress me like a prince,” he replied. He was about to make some sarcastic comment about the Border, but he held back. Nervous, he gestured vaguely toward the street. “I’m sorry, Zaadma. I have to go. I hope I can talk to you soon.” He cleared his throat. “Can I ask you who the lucky father is?”

Zaadma’s dark eyes sparkled with happiness.

“He’s your brother, cousin.”

Dashvara raised an eyebrow and then remembered that in Rocavita, Rokuish had pretended to be his brother.

“Rok?” He laughed heartily as Zaadma nodded. “Then the third Shalussi was the right one. I’m happy for both of you. You’re not bullying him too much, I hope.”

Zaadma rolled her eyes.

“Ha! The only bully is this one,” she assured, patting her stomach. “It’s a shame you have to leave already. I’d be happy to have you come back here. You must have a lot to talk about, and so do I,” she smiled, “as always. Rok says I talk more than his mother.”

Dashvara felt a warm wind rush through his heart. No, he corrected. They weren’t talking like strangers. Zaadma was the first person in Titiaka who seemed genuinely pleased to see him.

“I’ll come back tomorrow,” he promised firmly. Then he hesitated, thinking of Atasiag. “Well, at least I’ll come back if I can.”

He laughed at himself: obviously, he wasn’t going to come back if he couldn’t. Sometimes, when he was nervous, he said such nonsense, really… He took a deep breath and pronounced the usual Xalya blessing:

“May the Eternal Bird watch over you, over Rokuish and over this little bully who is not yet born.”

Zaadma opened her mouth, feigning indignation.

“Little bully?” she repeated. “I have the right to call him a bully, because I am his mother, but no one else can. Now, go do what you have to do,” she said and smiled: “And, since we are giving blessings, may the White Dragon protect you.”

Dashvara saluted her and walked away more joyful than mortified. On the way, he dismissed all his fantasies and relegated them to the past. It’s high time you stopped dreaming about imaginary loves, Dash. Now focus on your steps and return to the real world.

He was so focused on getting back to the real world that he didn’t see the old woman in the extravagant wig and the imposing green dress, and he bumped into her. He barely managed to catch her before she fell.

“Demons!” he stammered. “My sincerest apologies, old lady, is everything alright?”

Something whistled in his ears; he received a blow from a staff in the back that made him see stars. He gave thanks to the good fortune of wearing armor; otherwise, he would have broken something for sure. He let go of the old woman, staggered, and turned around to find himself face to face with a haughty young man with an expression contracted by indignation.

“Watch where you’re going, slave!” he cried.

He almost used his baton again, but when he looked down at his belt and saw the Red Dragon, he seemed to change his mind. Dashvara then noticed that he was wearing the Blue Circle of Korfu on his truncheon.

“Lan,” the old lady intervened calmly. “I’m fine, dear. Leave him alone.”

Dashvara groaned inwardly. This young man was Lanamiag Korfu. The son of Rayeshag Korfu. Another ally of Atasiag Peykat. His mouth dry, he decided to renew his apology:

“Sagdi hatnetu.”

He had the bad idea to speak in Diumcilian like the Legitimates, and something in Lanamiag’s expression told him that he had blundered. The words of the shaard Maloven came back to his mind: ‘Never negotiate in a language you don’t know’.

“My apology?” Lanamiag was indignant. “What the hell, do you demand that I apologize to you?” he hissed and raised his staff. “I will help your master train his new workers, oh yes, I will.”

Dashvara thought for a second about drawing his swords. Then he thought of running away, and that seemed wiser. He dodged a blow, and several passers-by exclaimed in amazement. He hurriedly stepped back and ran out into the street while Lanamiag was getting hot.

“Guards, arrest him!”

You made a mistake, Dash: running away can only make things worse.

He checked as two men in militia uniforms blocked his path and pushed him backwards. Knowing that pulling out his swords might be his death warrant, he turned back to Lanamiag Korfu, his jaw clenched.

“You’re new around here, aren’t you?” one of the militiamen whispered. “You don’t run away from a citizen, and even less from a Legitimate. You’d better accept your punishment without making a scene. This is peer-to-peer advice.”

Dashvara grunted in response, but when he arrived in front of Lanamiag, he obeyed the orders without “making any scene”. He had to take off his armor ‘so as not to damage the equipment of His Eminence Atasiag Peykat’, and Lanamiag started to hit him with his commanding stick. The cursed Korfu even proved to be quite didactic as, between blow and blow, he pronounced lessons of conduct:

“A worker does not look a citizen in the eye.” Bam, bam! “He always moves out of the way.” Bam, bam! “He doesn’t leave unless he is told to.” Bam, bam! “He accepts to be punished for his bad behavior.” Bam, bam! “And he doesn’t speak unless he is asked to speak.”

He had received only ten blows. Well, the “only” was relative. Dashvara was panting on the ground listening to the words of the Legitimate like an insidious and meaningless litany. When he managed to sit up, Lanamiag Korfu had given several dettas to each militiaman and was already walking away with the grandmother.

Eternal Bird, he thought, with a heavy heart. Now I understand what we are to you, citizens. Instruments. Mere possessions that look like sajits but are not treated as such.

Cold anger seized him, and when one of the militiamen kindly helped him to his feet, he spat angrily on the ground.

“Next time you’ll know what to do,” the militiaman sighed, patting him on the arm. “Think before you act tough.”

“Eh,” his companion interjected. “He spat blood.”

Dashvara didn’t even bother to look down at the ground to check.

“Thanks for the advice, federate,” he said. And he prepared to put on the armor despite the pain.

“Wait, you’re hurt,” the militiaman said. “We have to take you to a doctor. A blow may have—”

“Don’t worry,” Dashvara cut him off. “This is perfectly normal. If you really want to help me, help me put this back.”

As Dashvara gasped with every movement, the two militiamen looked at him, puzzled. He had never felt so clumsy putting on armor.

“Putting this on will make you suffer more,” the first militiaman patiently observed.

“I don’t care,” Dashvara grumbled.

After a brief hesitation, the militiaman approached and helped him to dress. Finally, Dashvara put back his purple belt with the swords and said:

“Thank you. Have a good day, federates.”

“We are not federates,” replied the man who had helped him. “I am the son of pirates. And he comes from a nomadic family.” He glanced at his companion before adding in a low voice: “You were a Doomed, weren’t you? I saw the seal,” he explained when he saw Dashvara arch an eyebrow. “Where are you from? The Country?”

Dashvara frowned.

“From where? Oh,” he understood. “You mean the Blue Country, to the south? No, I’m from the north.”

A flash of understanding passed through the militiaman’s eyes.

“Are you from the Bladhy Desert?”

“Not either,” Dashvara smiled. “I come from the steppe of Rocdinfer.”

The militiaman’s eyes widened.

“You’re a Honyr,” he breathed out.

Dashvara gave him a puzzled look.

“A what?”

He had heard that word before, long ago. But he didn’t expect anyone in Diumcili to know it. The militiaman looked down at the swords and nodded, convinced.

“A Honyr, one of those steppe warriors who know how to fight by flying with the wind and—”

“No,” Dashvara interrupted him. “I am not a Honyr. The Honyrs are another clan. We call them the Steppe Thieves. I am a Xalya. And I don’t fight by flying with the wind,” he suppressed a smile and said, “Now I’d better go, because I don’t want to be late and get hit with more sticks.” He let out a soft laugh. “I’ve had enough for today. Damn Diumcilians.”

The militiamen smiled, and the one who had been the most talkative said:

“Good luck, Xalya. If one night you pass by the tavern of the Joyful Nadre, don’t hesitate to drop by. That’s where the headquarters are. We have a lot of fun there talking about our beloved Diumcilians.”

The militiaman gave him an eloquent smile, made a brief bow, and walked away with his companion. Dashvara watched them, pensive. The same people who had just obeyed Lanamiag Korfu so that he could beat him up were now helping him and inviting him to an establishment where citizens were criticized. Although he had known this for a long time, he couldn’t help but be surprised when he saw how contradictory the actions of a same person could be, simply out of survival instinct.

How ironic.

27 Banishment

Hurting all over, Dashvara walked the remaining streets, stiffer than a broom, and this time, he was careful to steer clear of any living thing with a wig or a baton. He had just reached Atasiag’s house when the four bells rang, but he did not hurry. Dafys and Wassag were at the entrance hanging white garlands on the gate. He greeted them.

“Already preparing for Sursyn’s night?” he questioned.

Wassag nodded and looked at him curiously.

“His Eminence said you go into the Piano Room, at the end of the courtyard, to the right. It looks like you’ve had a hard session of training.”

Dashvara grunted and tried to adopt a more relaxed pose.

“What about Morzif?” he asked.

“He arrived about two hours ago. He’s asleep. The drow went to buy some medicine.”

“Oh.” Dashvara smiled mockingly. “Surely, if we continue at this rate, we’ll need a lot of them.”

He crossed the entrance without adding anything, and instead of crossing the courtyard, he went around it by the gallery to avoid the eyes of Wassag and Dafys. It seemed to him that the pain in his back was becoming more intense.

Lanamiag, you’ll pay for it, he swore, blowing. And he smiled wryly. My lord father taught me to recite a list of culprits. Three of them are already crossed out, and you’ve just been added to it, foreigner.

He wasn’t particularly excited about having to talk to Fayrah in this state, but he wouldn’t have delayed the meeting with his sister for anything in the world.

He then noticed a melody with strange sounds. He approached the door indicated by Wassag and found it wide open. The Piano Room, as the Wolf had called it, was a spacious room with large windows, sumptuous armchairs, and a large, strange table in front of which Fayrah was waving her hands over white strips that emitted music.

Dashvara stood there for a long time, fascinated. Definitely, his sister had changed. If, before, her innocence had inspired him a deep tenderness, now her beauty and the gracefulness of her gestures made him think of a mysterious fairy capable of captivating the soul of any man who looked at her. For a moment, he forgot all about the pain and entered the room in silence. Only then did he see Atasiag sitting in one of the chairs, a sheet of parchment in his hand and his gaze absorbed and riveted on Fayrah’s face. Dashvara stiffened, alert, as the soft melody of the strange instrument continued to delight him. Finally, Atasiag noticed his presence and gave him a slight sign to wait.

Dashvara waited, behind Fayrah, until the last note died in the living room. Atasiag put down the scroll in his lap and clapped with a wide smile.

“You are a prodigy, Fayrah!”

The girl laughed softly.

“You exaggerate, Father. Lodi plays much better than I do. On the first day of the Mask Festival, she played The Tempest in front of two hundred people and even sang the words. She delighted us all. Even though Lan says that I sing better than her. But he’s even more of a flatterer than you, so I don’t trust what he says.”

“You should,” Atasiag said, amused. “I always say what I think. And Lanamiag has exquisite taste in music. He knows what he’s talking about.”

“I know. He told me about the bard school he wants to found.” She huffed, amused. “He confided in me that he sometimes wishes he could go on adventures with his lute and sing ballads in the Golden Heart Islands.”

“This young man is a bit of a lunatic,” Atasiag observed with a pout as a cold sweat gradually soaked Dashvara’s forehead. Were they talking about Lanamiag Korfu, the one who had just given him a beating in the street?

May the Liadirlá give me strength…

“He’s not a lunatic,” Fayrah protested. “He is sensitive and dreamy, that’s all. I must admit I find him quite likable.”

Atasiag smiled, and Dashvara almost let out a caustic laugh. Sensitive and dreamy? He cleared his throat on purpose, and Fayrah turned her head, startled. She stood paralyzed as if she had suddenly seen a ghost. She calls my master Father, she feels sympathy for a man who beat me up, and she dresses like a federate… But she is still my sister. Dashvara dismissed all feelings other than joy and approached, his heart happy. He took Fayrah by the chin and kissed her forehead with tenderness ignoring the pain in his back.

“Liadirlá unasháat, sîzin,” he murmured in Oy’vat. ‘May the Eternal Bird bless you, sister.’

Fayrah’s eyes filled with tears, but she didn’t answer with the formula Dashvara was waiting for. She simply took his hands, squeezed them gently, and then, in a sudden rush, she hugged him. Dashvara repressed a grimace of pain, but he responded to her embrace and placed many kisses on the top of her head. The scent of exotic flowers stunned him. Finally, he heard her whisper in Common Tongue:

“Blessed be Cili.”

At the time, he did not react. That a Xalya would name the god of the Diumcilians was… absurd. Simply absurd. However, he let it go, stepped aside, and saw that Atasiag had gone to close the door to the courtyard before settling back into his chair. Dashvara suppressed an irritated sigh. Couldn’t he leave them alone for a moment?

“Well, sister,” he said in Oy’vat. “What’s it like being a princess?”

Fayrah bit her lip, confused.

“I… Brother,” she murmured in Common Tongue. “I no longer speak the Wise Tongue.”

Dashvara stared at her.

“No Xalya renounces to speak the language of the ancient sages, Fayrah. Have you forgotten in three years how to speak in Oy’vat?”

Fayrah shook her head gently, and a deep sadness came over her face.

“I don’t feel Xalya anymore, Dashvara.”

Dashvara received this statement like a punch in the heart. Three years ago, in Rocavita, Fayrah had told him something similar. He had thought then that he had succeeded in reconciling her with the clan. He could not imagine that Fayrah was talking seriously. But now, looking into her eyes, he saw the truth. Fayrah was the daughter of Atasiag Peykat, and she no longer considered herself part of the clan. He was so stunned that he could not speak for a long time.

“Oh, come on, Dash,” his sister lamented. “I didn’t mean to upset you. Can’t we talk about something else? Tell me something. Norgana told me that you used to play katutas with the others in the kitchen. We play an even more fun variation around here. Come on, sit down and tell me about you. I missed you so much!”

Dashvara looked at her and suddenly thought he was seeing another person. It was his sister, and at the same time, she was no longer his sister. For a moment, he was tempted to sit with her, chat, and pretend that nothing she had said had hurt him, but his Eternal Bird was too outspoken to pretend to be serene when he absolutely was not.

“There’s not much to tell,” he replied in Common Tongue, refusing to sit down. “But if you want, I’ll give you a summary. My brothers and I landed in Titiaka, tried to rebel, were condemned and sent to the Border. Kadayra died, we killed many monsters, we tried to escape six times, and then…” he gave Atasiag a disdainful pout and said: “His Eminence got us out of there thanks to the insistence of a daughter of his who, for some unknown reason, continues to have affection for a savage brother, a lord of the steppe who obeys the Eternal Bird of his clan and does not understand how his own sister is able to renounce It in favor of a foreign god.”

Unconsciously, he had raised his voice as his speech turned into a sermon. He feared he had cowed her too much. However, to his astonishment, Fayrah did not cry or ask for forgiveness or try to justify herself. She only said in a neutral and calm voice:

“You may be my brother, but you are not my lord. I am free to choose my life. And I am free to give up what is dust and dead ash to me. Cili is a benevolent god. The Dahars…” she shrugged, “is only ancient history.”

Dashvara staggered backwards. Hearing the Dahars insulted like that was far worse than getting hit with a dozen sticks.

“Treason,” he stammered.

“Philosopher,” Atasiag intervened in a curt voice. He had stood up and approached Fayrah with a protective air. He was carrying his baton and was gripping it tightly when he said, “Your behavior leaves much to be desired. Fayrah is your sister, not to mention my daughter. You owe her the same respect you owe me. Remember that, without her, you would probably still be on the Border. If you raise your voice under my roof again, if I hear you call my daughter a traitor again, I will sell you for a detta and send you to the galleys. Understood?”

Dashvara recovered more quickly than he thought possible.

“Understood, Eminence. Your daughter will no longer suffer my impertinences. Let her keep her new god.” He met Fayrah’s chagrined gaze and bowed his head slightly, feeling more distressed than angry as he said, “As lord of the Xalyas, I accept your voluntary exile and release you from your obligations as a clan member.” It was needless to say that, although in essence, she still remained his sister, he could no longer treat her as such. He refrained from uttering the last words that normally accompanied an exile from the clan. They were too harsh, and Atasiag would not allow them. And besides, he didn’t think he had enough courage to say them to Fayrah.

“I want you to understand me, Dash,” her sister whispered, her voice trembling. She reached out and took his hand in hers, softer than a bird’s feathers. “I spent eighteen years on the steppe, and at no time did I manage to love it as I love Titiaka. Our father was a bloodthirsty warrior. Our mother collected skulls on her shelves. And you, the patrolmen, were always away, fighting and shedding blood. Lessi and I were afraid of you all. There was no sweetness. There was no beauty, unlike in this city. Xalya life was nonsense. When I ran away from the dungeon, I didn’t feel guilty. And today I don’t feel guilty either for abandoning your clan, brother. I have found a father that I love and respect. I have friends who have never wielded a weapon, friends who are passionate about poetry, painting, and music… They are innocent and good people who love me without lecturing me about conduct and stupid honor laws. This is my life. A quiet and happy life. This is the life I always wanted to have. Not the life of a Xalya lost in the steppe waiting for her husband and sons to come back triumphant after committing horrible crimes. If one day I have children, I don’t wish them to be Xalyas.”

If she was trying to heal his wound, she failed spectacularly. Without abruptness, Dashvara let go of her hand and declared in a hoarse voice:

“You never understood what the Eternal Bird means, then. I admit that life on the steppe was not easy. I admit that I too did not approve of all the actions of Lord Vifkan, even though I respected him. I remind you that most of the time my swords and those of my brothers were killing red nadres and scale-nefarious, not humans. Don’t come accusing us of being sadists and murderers when all we were doing was defending the dungeon and keeping the monsters from devouring our clan.” He paused for a moment and nodded firmly. “I agree with you, Fayrah: two centuries of war against the savages has made us savages too. And it would have been wonderful if everyone had gotten along well from the beginning and there had been peace between all the clans. But it has not been so.” He suddenly smiled sarcastically. “Nor does harmony reign in your beloved Titiaka, Fayrah. You only have to open your eyes to see it.”

“That’s enough,” Atasiag sighed wearily, “I thought I was making you both happy, and now you’re quarreling stupidly.”

Dashvara inhaled dismissively and continued as if Atasiag had said nothing:

“My Eternal Bird simply does not allow me to conceive that the Diumcilian system can be just. You worship a god for whom slavery is a necessity and a natural condition. What kind of—?”

“That’s enough!” Atasiag thundered. “One more word and I’ll send Wassag for the whip.”

Dashvara sealed his lips. This time there was no doubt that Atasiag’s threat was serious.

“Father!” Fayrah protested. “We were just talking.”

Atasiag Peykat frowned, and she bit her lip but held his gaze.

“My daughter,” he sighed. “You promised me you wouldn’t interfere. Is this how you keep your promises? I can’t afford to have rebels in my house, my dear.” He turned to Dashvara meditating, “Your brother can be friendly at times, but other times he is wilder than an orc.”

Dashvara glared at him. Orc yourself.

“Set me free, and I won’t cause you any more trouble.”

Atasiag shook his head.

“The fact that I was able to get you, I owe it to a favor from the Council. To give you up now would be to insult the leaders of Titiaka. Not to mention that freeing a slave officially costs money.”

“Give us a boat, and we’ll leave,” Dashvara swore.

Atasiag smiled.

“Without an escort, the slave traders will attack you and take you back. No, Philosopher. You can try to escape by any means, the Diumcilians will catch you anyway. And if you run away, I myself will sell you to the galleys. I, too, have an honor to preserve, Xalya.”

Dashvara raised an eyebrow. Good to know, snake. Finally, he assured:

“I have no intention of rowing on the galleys.”

Atasiag rolled his eyes.

“I’m glad to hear that. And now let’s get out. I don’t feel like putting up with your sententious speeches any longer. Let’s go and visit my future wife.”

Dashvara squinted in surprise.

“And in what way am I going to be useful for visiting your future wife, Eminence?”

Atasiag chuckled, and something in his laughter made him shudder.

“Let’s just say that my future wife has expressed a desire to see you.” He stopped near the open door and turned, a glint of compassion in his eyes. “Some people still haven’t forgiven your betrayal of three years ago.”

Dashvara swallowed, finally understanding. Atasiag Peykat was going to take him to Sheroda, the Supreme of the Brotherhood of the Pearl. He tried not to show his concern, in vain.

“Come on,” Atasiag added. “Don’t just stand there, and put off that armor and your weapons. I hope to be back before the first guests arrive,” he added, speaking to Fayrah.

She nodded while smiling at him, but then her smile faded when she met Dashvara’s glance. This one almost softened, wanting to kiss her again and promise to her that, despite what he had said before, he would always be her brother. But Fayrah’s words still echoed in his head.

‘I have friends who have never wielded a weapon, friends who are passionate about poetry, painting, and music… They are innocent and good people who love me without lecturing me about conduct and stupid honor laws. This is my life. A quiet and happy life.’

Fayrah obviously did not consider her brother as an innocent and good person.

Innocent, surely not, he admitted. But I am as good as I can be, sister. And it’s not always easy to be. Anyway, what the hell, every Xalya does what he thinks is right. May you be happy with your new family…

Dashvara breathed in. He could not have imagined a more catastrophic encounter. After a quick glance at her splendid dress and silver necklace, he nodded briefly before walking out of the living room behind Atasiag Peykat, as dignified as he could. He could not act less coldly.

28 Shadows of a heart

Atasiag Peykat walked through the streets of Titiaka, crossed the Avenue of Sacrifice, passed the tavern of the Joyful Nadre, turned left when he reached the headquarters, and finally arrived in front of a beautiful red stone house with a magnificent arch of white jasmines at the entrance. Only then did he turn to Dashvara and observe:

“You walk like an old man.”

Dashvara pouted and replied:

“I’m enjoying doing that while I still can, since I’m not sure I’m going to make old bones.”

Atasiag arched an eyebrow and smiled.

“Was it the Ragails?” he asked.

Dashvara immediately understood what he meant, and for a moment, he wanted to lie and nod, but his assent turned into a denial.

“Not at all. The Ragails were very well behaved. It happened on the way back,” he explained. “I ran into the Korfu’s grandmother, and the grandson jumped on me.”

Atasiag was about to knock on the door but stopped on hearing that.

“Lanamiag Korfu?” He sounded astonished. “You ran into the grandmother of the Korfu? What do you mean by that?”

“I banged into her. I was deep in thought, like any good philosopher.”

Atasiag chuckled.

“I see.”

“And then I had the great idea of running away,” Dashvara added.

Atasiag shook his head.

“I’m going to have to ask Loxarios to give you all some lessons so you can survive in Titiaka without having your backs thrashed every day. Anyway…” he sighed. He turned and knocked on the door. The door opened, and Dashvara immediately recognized the woman who appeared in the doorway. It was Aligra of Xalya. Her moody eyes had not changed. And her strange pallor had even intensified. She was wearing a simple tunic and ordinary pants. She had not followed the same path as Fayrah and Lessi at all, he observed.

“Come in,” Aligra said, opening the door wide. She closed it as soon as they crossed the threshold. “Sheroda is in the living room.”

Atasiag nodded and turned to Dashvara.

“Wait here,” he ordered. He left his staff against the wall, and pensive, Dashvara watched him disappear through a door in the hallway. Did this man really intend to marry Sheroda? Every time he remembered the face of the Supreme, Dashvara shuddered. He could imagine Atasiag being madly in love with her, but he couldn’t imagine this woman with golden eyes having such deep feelings.

Left alone, Dashvara and Aligra watched each other for a few seconds. The girl had grown up, she was nineteen now, and all traces of childhood had disappeared. Finally, Dashvara broke the silence:

“I’m glad to see you again, Aligra. How are you?”

The girl’s jaw was tensed.

“I don’t know yet if I’m happy to see you again,” she retorted. “Have you seen Fayrah and Lessi?”

Dashvara heard that old accusatory accent in her voice and wondered if she was still blaming him for the death of his brother Showag. If that was so… demons, Showag had been lucky to know in his short life a woman who loved him so much.

“I saw them,” he replied in a neutral voice.

“And?” Aligra threw out sharply. “You didn’t disown them, did you? You couldn’t do it. They are traitors,” she spat.

Dashvara raised his eyebrows and then suddenly laughed.

“Ah, Aligra! You should be leading the clan, not me. You would respect the Dahars without hesitation, and you would end up disowning the whole clan, starting with me. Eternal Bird,” he sighed. He calmed down and continued with gravity: “Of course I disowned them. Fayrah disowned us before. If she’s happy like this, with her Cili god and her dresses, I’m not going to force her to be what she doesn’t want to be. That’s her decision. She thought we were monsters, and she hurt my pride,” he confessed.

Aligra looked at him with astonishment. Her lips trembled.

“So… the Xalya clan still exists?”

Dashvara looked at her with compassion. She must have felt very lonely these last three years. Hesitantly, he offered her a friendly hand, smiled, and hoping that the girl would show a little more joy, confirmed:

“The Xalya clan still exists.”

To his surprise, Aligra responded to his gesture by backing away abruptly. Her eyes lit up.

“You are not the lord of the Xalyas,” she said. “You have betrayed your Eternal Bird.”

Dashvara cleared his throat and dropped his hand at his side. Three years had not changed anything. Aligra was still as stubborn and intransigent as ever.

“As you wish, dear.”

Aligra shook her head.

“You are not worthy. Showag would have been.”

Dashvara repressed with difficulty an exasperated snort.

“If you want, come with me and explain this to our brothers. I’m open to a vote if you run for office. Demons, Aligra,” he sighed. “One thing is to have a clear head and an Eternal Bird with good principles, and another is to maintain all that when you’re being tortured. You have every right to despise me for not doing so, but frankly, just because I betrayed allies under torture doesn’t mean my Eternal Bird is useless. That’s not true. It’s not,” he insisted. “Listen. Arikava of Xalya, the second lord of the clan, betrayed his allies to save his life, and everyone hated him for it. Then he proved to be the bravest of them all and saved several clans of the steppe at the cost of his life.” When Aligra did not answer, he shrugged. “Well, keep on thinking what you like, Aligra. I am only the lord of those who wish it.”

He fell silent, and the silence dragged on. Aligra and her quirks… He bet that at no time had it occurred to her to ask him how he was doing or how the other Xalyas were doing. Her mind was so obsessed with the Dahars that she could not see the people behind it. In a way, she was thinking a bit like his lord father.

Atasiag finally returned, and Dashvara followed him into the living room with some relief, but as soon as he crossed the threshold, a new fear came over him. The time had come to find out how guilty Sheroda considered him for the death of her two friends murdered by Arviyag and his men.

You gave them your life, Dash, he reminded himself. He tried to brace himself, determined to repeat his promise to the Supreme.

She was standing next to an extinguished fireplace, wearing a white dress. As soon as Dashvara saw her, a part of his mind confirmed that this newfound daze and fascination was due to some kind of spell. She’s not human, he thought. Then he met her golden eyes, and all thought died as he drowned in them. He lost himself in this bewitching look that attracted him like the caress of a merciful Death, and his heart was devastated. He asked himself: how could I have betrayed her? Overcome, he threw himself on his knees and realized, in surprise, how close he was to her. His words came from his mouth clearly:

“I betrayed you all and caused the death of your people. My life belongs to you. And if I have to die for you to forgive me, so be it.”

He was doing the right thing, no doubt. Any Xalya would have done the same. When he met the cold, unforgiving eyes of the Supreme again, he was not afraid. He just knew that whatever she did, Sheroda would make the right decision.

Suddenly, Sheroda pulled a dagger from her sleeve, and Dashvara swallowed, staring at the steel blade.

Uh… And now, honestly, how ready are you to die, Dash?

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Atasiag’s face turn pale, and he felt appalled. Was Sheroda really going to…? The cold touch of steel bit into his left hand but barely made him bleed. Sheroda opened her thin lips, and Dashvara was horrified to see sharp blue teeth appear.

“Lia… Liadirlá!” he stammered.

Her golden pupils split into several slits, and a white, bifid tongue caught the drop of blood on her dagger. Dashvara watched her transform, dumbfounded. These were not illusions like Yira’s. This was pure reality. Sheroda was… a monster.

He could not bear it any longer. Awkwardly, he staggered back and stood up, wishing he could fly away like the Eternal Bird to put as much distance as possible between him and this abomination. A wave of fear paralyzed him.

No, Dash, those are just spells she’s casting on you. Move. Get out of here. Or kill her. But you can’t give your life to that monster…

“I am not a monster,” Sheroda murmured softly, as if she had read his mind. “I am a shixan. So was one of the Pearl Brotherhood whose death you caused. He was my son. And you killed him.”

She had stopped in front of him, raising a face both beautiful and monstrous. Dashvara could not move. He felt surrounded by an energy that suffocated him and threatened to overwhelm him. He had no idea what a shixan was, but it was clear that they were powerful creatures. And this is what you want to marry, Atasiag Peykat? Not even for an army of horses! Eternal Bird… And now it turned out that he had killed her son.

“I… I’m sorry,” he stammered. His own words seemed hollow and offensive. He made a great effort to avert his eyes from those of Sheroda, and he could not. It was as if he had been paralyzed. Then he saw that the shixan had held out her two hands, white as milk, and that she was now putting them on his forehead. Dashvara wanted to stop her, but he could not even open his mouth.

What followed was… death. Or at least it felt like it. In his troubled mind, he saw a woman dressed in white and thought he recognized her as one of those mythical fairies of the steppe who could read hearts and bring out all the nooks and crannies of the mind. He found himself defenseless in front of an impartial judge who had just discovered his faults and was throwing them at his head without mercy. He was assailed by all his remorse, one regret after the other. It was not the shixan who was tearing them out of him to show them to him: rather, it was he who was hastening to reveal them, convinced that the sooner he admitted his mistakes, the more lenient the judge would be. Trembling, he finally opened his mouth and heard himself uttering utter foolishness.

“I killed,” he stammered. “I am guilty.”

“How many living beings did you kill?” Sheroda asked, kneeling beside him.

“I don’t know,” he croaked. “A lot. Nadres. Humans. Orcs. Milfids. I killed an old horse when I was ten. But it was to save him from the pain,” he protested to himself. Sheroda’s hands gripped his temples like hooks. He gasped. “I-I murdered a man. I killed him from behind and slit his throat. But he had sent his warriors against my people. I executed a murderer. He deserved it. He was a murderer. And also… also, I killed two other men. But they were slavers. I had to kill them. And I killed your son. But I didn’t kill him. I am not guilty.”

“You are guilty,” Sheroda said.

“I am guilty,” Dashvara repeated in terror.

“You betrayed me.”

“I betrayed you,” Dashvara confessed.

“You killed my son.”

“I killed him.”

“You have been weak.”

Dashvara nodded, his heart growing emptier.

“I have been,” he murmured.

He lost count of the accusations that Sheroda was throwing at him. At times, he repeated, “I am guilty,” and gradually, his mind was freed from the energy pressure, but it still took him a while to realize it. Sherodas’ questions began to make no sense, he became delirious, and then he began to run out of air. He heard Atasiag’s voice, but he did not understand what he was saying. He simply saw him appear between Sheroda and himself and saw his worried face. He barely heard a:

“That’s enough. You’re going to drive him crazy.”

“This man does not deserve to live,” another voice said with a sob.

“No, Sheroda!”

A heated discussion ensued. The shixan had stepped aside, but Dashvara still felt Sherodas’ insidious hands against his head. He felt empty, unworthy, and soulless. Finally, the argument ended. He had not been able to understand the words, but he understood that Atasiag was trying to save him from the clutches of the Supreme. But he can’t save me from myself, he thought, shaking. The Diumcilian’s hand gripped his shoulder firmly.

“How do you feel?”

His question came only seconds later, and in the meantime, Atasiag tried to help him up. Staggering, Dashvara was unable to interrupt the flow of words that poured from his mouth.

“I am despicable,” he stammered, horrified. “My Eternal Bird is dead. I’m going to hell. All the gods of the world will punish me.” He clutched Atasiag’s arm like a lost child. “I am guilty. I am evil!”

“That’s not true, Philosopher,” Atasiag muttered.

“Yes, it’s true,” Dashvara sobbed. “Fayrah was right. Our Dahars are poisoned. My clan is dead. My world is dead. And I did nothing to save it. And I killed. I am guilty.”

Atasiag let him cry on his shoulder for a while and patted him rhythmically on the back, gently.

“Come on, boy,” he said at last. “Let’s go home. Can you walk?”

Dashvara stepped aside, dazed, and pulled his sleeve over his eyes before looking around for Sheroda. She was not in the living room.

“She will not punish you anymore,” Atasiag assured.

Dashvara looked into his eyes. He saw concern. And an unexpected tenderness. He took a breath. Wassag was right. Atasiag is a good man.

“If you want, you can stay with Aligra until you get better,” the federate offered.

Dashvara widened his eyes and shook his head.

“No. I’m coming back with you.” He wouldn’t stay another minute in this house. “If only I really deserve to live,” he muttered.

Atasiag sighed.

“Of course you deserve to live, Philosopher. You must live. I say so, and I am your master. And now, let’s go.”

Dashvara met Aligra’s accusing gaze in the hallway and suppressed a grunt before following Atasiag out. It was like returning to the real world after spending a lifetime in the court of hell. There, on the street, people were laughing, chatting, with their own lives, their own sins and virtues. Not everything was black and white.

He ran his hands over his forehead as if to finish ridding himself of Sheroda’s spells. However, he could not get rid of his own thoughts. In his head, the terrible truth was still drumming. He was guilty. And he could never stop being guilty until the time of his death came.

Atasiag began to walk more slowly than he had on the trip out, and deep down, Dashvara thanked him for it: now, in addition to a sore back, his mind was numb, and his Eternal Bird had been shattered. After a good deal of inner reflection, which only confirmed his opinion, he said:

“To what extent is a guilty man capable of convincing himself that he is innocent?”

Atasiag glanced back and walked beside him, waving his baton gracefully.

“To unsuspected limits, believe me,” he replied. “I know several councilors who, guilty of wars and deaths, still consider themselves the saviors of Diumcili.”

Dashvara raised an eyebrow, surprised that he had even given him an answer.

“Are you talking about the Legitimate Dikaksunora?”

“About him,” Atasiag said, “and about others who support him. A crime perpetrated for survival may be justified, but crimes perpetrated for greed are never justified.”

Dashvara pouted.

“When I killed Nanda of Shalussi, I did not do it for survival,” he murmured. “I killed him for revenge, in the most infamous way.”

Atasiag sighed without answering. Dashvara smiled, looking glum.

“One of the slavers I killed wanted to surrender, and I didn’t listen to him. And then Tsu tortured me, and I wasn’t able to die with dignity like my father did. And, in spite of everything, it was enough for me to get out of the Supreme’s house to start putting things into perspective. I fear that I am too used to forgiving my faults. So much so that I might become as bad a man as the Master and still think I am obeying my Eternal Bird—”

“Tsu, the drow?” Atasiag suddenly interrupted, genuinely amazed. “The one who is now with you?”

Dashvara nodded.

“He is a doctor. Arviyag used him as a torturer. With those thimble things, you know.”

Atasiag turned pale.

“No, I don’t know, Philosopher, and I prefer not to know. Merciful Cili,” he murmured.

He said nothing more. They were crossing the Homage Square when Dashvara broke the silence again.

“You saved my life. Why?”

Atasiag raised his eyebrows.

“Because I could do it, that’s obvious, right?”

Dashvara shook his head.

“You got angry with that…” He was about to say “monster”, but he didn’t dare and simply pronounced, “With her.”

Atasiag smiled.

“I didn’t get angry with her. Sheroda is a wonderful woman. But… in this case, she was so angry with you that she was on the verge of committing a folly. I simply helped her to calm down. One day she’ll thank me for it.”

Atasiag picked up the pace a little, and Dashvara followed him, puzzled. This man had prevented Sheroda from committing a crime and then, instead of consoling her, as it should have been expected, he had consoled him.

“Do you really love her?” he asked when they were already on the last street.

Atasiag seemed not to hear the question. However, a few seconds later, he stopped.

“With all my soul,” he said. “You don’t know her. Her heart is as pure as a goddess’.”

“That’s precisely what frightens me,” Dashvara cleared his throat. In addition to the teeth and eyes, he added to himself. “She’s not human.”

Atasiag had a smiling pout.

“Not quite,” he conceded. “But I love her. And that’s why you have to show her respect.”

“Ah. I do respect her, that’s for sure,” Dashvara gasped. “After what she did to me, how could I not. It’s like my Eternal Bird Itself came to me for punishment.”

Atasiag’s smile widened.

“Respect is not only obtained by fear, Philosopher. It is also obtained by love.”

He turned his back on him and entered through the gate of the house. Dashvara followed him, struck by his words. In the courtyard, he saw that all the Xalyas had returned. Some were playing katutas on the ground, others were helping Wassag and Yorlen to beautify the columns. He hesitated, and then suddenly blurted out eagerly:

“Eminence.”

With a patient sigh, Atasiag turned around. Dashvara looked him in the eye and gave him a firm nod.

“Thank you,” he said.

The federate’s eyes studied him for a few moments and finally smiled.

Silently, His Eminence Atasiag Peykat turned his back to him again and entered his home to prepare for the Sursyn Citizens’ Party.

29 Light butterflies

He suffered a crisis of pride similar to that of Zorvun and decided to tell his brothers as little as possible about what had happened in the house of Sheroda. He also tried to conceal Lanamiag Korfu’s beating, because the image of a beaten lord was rather incompatible with Xalya dignity; however, when they returned to the dormitory after dinner and he lay on his stomach, Makarva treacherously lifted his tunic and asked:

“Atasiag?”

Dashvara glared at him, and after growling some imprecations about respect for privacy, he was obliged to tell them about what happened and to accept that Tsu apply one of the ointments he had gone to buy that afternoon. Then, so that they would stop complaining against the citizens, he thought of informing them that he had banished Fayrah from the clan, but he reconsidered and decided to wait. In his heart, he still hoped that Fayrah would rectify or at least ask for forgiveness for having thrown so much scorn on the Xalyas.

Makarva pulled him out of his thoughts.

“Are you really going to try to sleep with all the noise the citizens are making? Don’t you want to play a game of katutas? I’m sure that will put you in a better mood.”

Dashvara rolled his eyes.

“My mood is perfectly fine.” He listened to the music, the shouts and laughter coming at them from the main building of the house. Everything indicated that the citizens were having a great time. “It’s okay,” he agreed, approaching the checkerboard. “One game. But we’re playing seriously,” he warned.

“Seriously?” Makarva complained.

Dashvara laughed.

“Of course we’re not, come on, I was kidding!”

With mocking laughter, Zamoy, Boron, and Lumon took their places around the board. With five players, this was a promising game. They all rolled up their sleeves as part of the ritual to prove that they were going to play fair.

Baldy was rolling the dice when Miflin asked:

“Tell me, Dash. Can I borrow your dictionary?”

Dash nodded, raising an eyebrow.

“Looking for inspiration?”

Miflin merely smiled before sitting down by the candelabra with the volume in his lap.

“Ah,” Zamoy smiled. “He has to think about his next ode in Uncle Serl’s honor, I guess. Well, well, I rolled the dice. A five and a six. Try to do better! It’s your turn, Mak.”

Makarva got two sixes. That damned man was not only a good player, he also had the luck of a thousand demons. Zamoy grumbled for half the game, but then his face brightened up when he saw that his pawns stood up like champions. At one point, Makarva pulled one of those masterful tricks he was so good at, which was to fool them all into thinking he had only pawns in his stock of pieces. Dashvara slapped his forehead.

“But where did you get that queen, Mak!”

“Did you steal it from my storeroom?” Zamoy asked suspiciously.

Makarva gave him a wolfish smile.

“Think about it. It’s always been there. It’s just that I’ve been fooling you like two-month-old foals.”

“Foal yourself,” Dashvara grumbled; he recalculated his options. Boron ended up losing both of his horses, Dashvara lost half of his pieces and Zamoy lost half of his pieces. On the verge of defeat, Dashvara had only one horse left and the lord when Makarva sent an arrow at the horse. Dashvara put the lord in the middle.

“What are you doing? Killing yourself?” Makarva asked, surprised.

Dashvara smiled.

“Halfway. Roll the dice to see if he dies.”

He died. He had only one horse left, and after he had finished with Zamoy, Makarva devoured him without loss.

“Make an ode for me, Miflin, I won!” Makarva exulted.

Immersed in his dictionary, the Poet did not pay attention to him.

“What an idea, to let the lord be killed before a horse,” Zamoy scoffed.

“That’s a philosophical question, Baldy,” Dashvara replied. “Why must the lord always be the last to die? He should die first.”

Makarva winced, Lumon shook his head, and Zamoy rolled his eyes up to the ceiling.

“And here we are again with the Philosopher’s questions,” the latter sighed. “You want me to answer, Dash? Well, there I go. The lord mustn’t die first, because if he dies, the horses run away. It’s that simple.”

“Unless all of them are lords,” Dashvara observed with a small smile.

Makarva huffed, amused.

“Don’t play his game, Zamoy, he’ll end up messing with our heads. Miflin! How is your inspiration coming along?”

This time, the Poet looked up from his dictionary.

“Listen to this,” he said and intoned:

At the aurora, azure and abyssal,
Absent-minded and appeased,
The ascetic, aloof animal,
leaned on the amber apple tree.

Dashvara laughed with the others.

“I see you’re still on the first letter of the dictionary,” he observed.

Miflin smiled.

“Hey. You have to start somewhere.”

Makarva suggested another game, but it had been a long day and the older Xalyas grumbled and suggested they go to sleep. Dashvara glanced at his almost empty bag, and with his back still a little sore, he lay back on his stomach, thinking of Tahisran. During the last few days at Compassion, he had gotten used to exchanging words with him before going to sleep, and now he regretted not being able to do so. The shadow must have been very busy wandering around Titiaka.

That night, despite his fatigue, he slept very badly. He fell asleep right away, but he woke up abruptly shortly afterwards, thinking he could see behind his eyelids the golden, streaked eyes of Sheroda. ‘This man does not deserve to live…’, her voice whispered. Twice he woke up, and twice he found that the party in Atasiag’s house was not yet over. The third time, however, he found a silent night.

When I think that Atasiag saw me in this deplorable state, crying like a child…

He felt no shame, only embarrassment that Atasiag, a Diumcilian foreigner, had comforted him like a father after listening to the horrors he must have uttered without even remembering them now.

Now you don’t call him a snake, right? All in all, you’ll end up being another faithful dog like Wassag.

Lying in the darkness, Dashvara slowly wiped away his wry smile. Leaving his mat behind, he groped his way to the door, opened it and stepped out. The sky was overcast and dense darkness enveloped the night. Only the small lights of the fountain and some garlands hanging from the columns shone. There was no wind, and the air was relatively warm for a night that was already close to autumn. With a quiet walk, Dashvara crossed the courtyard and sat on the edge of the fountain, still trying to sort out his feelings. The day had been particularly full. First the Akinoas, then Zaadma, Lanamiag Korfu, Fayrah, and finally Sheroda. He might have thought that, after surviving the Border, he was immune to everything… but that was far from the truth.

You’re a bit lost, admit it. You thought you had forgotten about the Akinoas, and here they are under your nose. Then you meet Zaadma and Fayrah, you see them so happy, and you can’t help feeling abandoned, even if it’s absurd. And to top it all off, Sheroda, that monster with blue fangs, reproaches you for your worst actions without giving any validity to your justifications. And you, you feel like the worst criminal. Killing is killing, according to her: it doesn’t matter who. But wasn’t she about to kill me? Isn’t she exactly like me?

“You are cruel, Dashvara of Xalya,” Yira’s voice suddenly said.

Dashvara turned his head without flinching: he had heard her footsteps.

“How funny. You come to accuse me too, magician?”

The shadow of the Faceless One stopped in front of him.

“I take back what I said,” she said at last. “Because I don’t think you’re cruel. But you should know that your sister is crying right now because of you.”

Dashvara saw her sitting next to him in silence. He shook his head.

“Well, tell her to stop crying. Why on earth should she be crying? Tell her that I forgive her all her offenses against me and the other Xalyas. I’d tell her in person if I could.”

The light from the fountain was reflected in Yira’s eyes.

“It would be absurd for her to be sad now because of me,” Dashvara added.

Yira sighed and looked up at the dark sky.

“Fayrah is more sensitive than you seem to think, Xalya. She… regrets having spoken ill of your clan.”

Dashvara winced.

“Bah,” he smiled. “Those are just words. I’ve already told you that I forgive her. She is right to follow the path that makes her happier. Tell her I don’t feel insulted anymore. And also tell her…” he hesitated, “that she can always change her mind whenever she wants.”

Yira snorted, and Dashvara realized, surprised, that she was laughing.

“I’ll tell her,” she said. “But I doubt she’ll change her mind.”

Dashvara raised an eyebrow at seeing her so sure. After a quiet silence, he asked:

“How can a person be happy knowing that everything they have, they owe it to the slaves who work for them?”

Yira seemed to ponder the answer.

“I don’t think you understand Diumcili culture,” she finally whispered. “To the Titiakas, slaves are like children or pets to be cared for and ordered around. They don’t exist without their masters, and at the same time, a citizen without slaves is nothing. Still, if it makes you feel better, Fayrah and Lessi can’t quite accept this system.”

“I should hope so,” Dashvara snorted.

“Mm.” Without quite knowing how, Dashvara knew she was smiling. After a hesitation, Yira added, “It is also true that when you see happy Titiakas every day, when you see celebrations, wealth, and poetry everywhere… you stop thinking about the workers.”

And you stop thinking about the Eternal Bird, Dashvara completed.

“I guess so,” he said, clearing his throat. He looked at her curiously. “What about you, Yira? You’re almost like a daughter to Atasiag, aren’t you? Why didn’t you choose to live like my sister does?”

For a moment, he thought Yira would get up, end the conversation, and return to her guard and her illusions. She did not, but in any case, her answer was not very explicit.

“Just because,” she said.

Dashvara rubbed his nose, both intrigued and amused.

“Um… I see. That means it’s better I keep personal questions to myself, isn’t it?”

Yira clasped her hands together in front of her, as if she felt uneasy.

“It’s not that,” she protested. “It’s just that… I’m not like Fayrah or Lessi. If I lived like her, I would feel fake. You see, just before she sold me, my mother told me: always be true to who you are. I have never been a princess. I prefer to be just Yira. And nothing more.”

“Wait a minute, wait,” Dashvara cut her off, stunned. “Your mother sold you?”

“I come from an island between Ryscodra and Skasna. In that area, people live from fishing, and there is a lot of poverty,” she explained. “It’s a paradise for slavers: they don’t even have to take out their weapons. They sold me for three bags of oats when I was eight years old.” She paused for a moment, and as Dashvara listened with interest, she added, “Fortunately, this time the slavers’ business went bad for them. Pirates boarded the ship, freed us, and took us to Matswad Island. That’s where I learned to use a saber. And that’s where I met Atasiag.”

Dashvara shook his head. Makarva would have loved this story of islands, boardings, and pirates.

“You met Atasiag Peykat on a pirate island?”

Yira looked at him out of the corner of her eye.

“Does this seem so strange to you? Think about it,” she muttered. “Atasiag does slow down the Master’s imports in some way, does he not?”

Dashvara huffed, incredulous.

“He hires pirates to attack Dikaksunora ships?”

“That’s right,” Yira said. “Most of the pirates in Matswad are mercenaries and have agreements with the Dream Brotherhood. Though, you have to admit that, since his trading company went bankrupt, Atasiag has less often been using pirates to counter the Master lately. I think the Korfu have changed their tactics.”

“I see,” Dashvara said, clearing his throat. He wasn’t really interested in all this, so he asked what he thought was most important: “And what do the pirates do with the freed slaves?”

“Well, logically, they take them to Matswad,” Yira muttered. “Most of them have no place to go. A lot of them become pirates.”

Dashvara shook his head and smiled sarcastically.

“Demons, so many absurd migrations, and all in all, to become pirates. A strange liberation. I only hope that the five Xalyas they led to this island are not in trouble. I know them well enough to know how they feel about bandits and such.” His face darkened. “If only I could get them out of there… Unfortunately, we have enough problems here already.”

Yira turned to him with quizzical eyes.

“What problems are you referring to?”

Dashvara frowned, and for a moment, he didn’t know what to say. Frankly speaking, what problems was he talking about? He was sleeping in a nice house, eating well, being near his brothers, and according to Atasiag, Sheroda would not try anything against him now. Wasn’t that wonderful? Then he noticed the dull pain he still felt in his back.

“Freedom, Yira,” he said. “That’s what I miss.”

Yira tilted her head to one side and asked gently:

“And why do you want freedom, Xalya? To go where?”

Dashvara opened his mouth, closed it again, and finally answered:

“To go to a quiet place where my brothers and I can be happy without having to obey anyone except our Eternal Bird. That’s where I want to go. Maltagwa would tend the garden, Lumon and Boron would hunt, Morzif and Ged would make their own forge, Makarva would do his makarvaries, Miflin his miflineries…” he smiled. “Everyone would have an occupation.”

“And… what would be yours?” Yira asked with obvious curiosity.

Dashvara shrugged.

“Whatever goes through my mind. Woodworking. I’m pretty good at it. I could also take care of the horses with Alta…” With a sudden impulse, he said, “I want to go back to the steppe, Yira. I want to go home. Even if it is only for my clan to die there.”

He fell silent, stunned by the passion that vibrated in his voice. A gloved hand rested briefly on his.

“I hope your dream comes true, then,” Yira said gently.

Dashvara raised his eyebrows and smiled.

“Thank you.” After a silence, he smiled again and changed the subject completely. “Hey. I must admit that this afternoon, at the training, you impressed me quite a bit. Those snakes looked like they came out of a nightmare.”

“Mm,” Yira chuckled. “I noticed that, afterwards, you made a big detour to avoid me, as if I had the plague. You even looked scared.”

Dashvara smiled, frankly surprised.

“Of course I was scared. I had never seen anything like it. Is it true that the Ragails fight like you?”

“Well, they’re usually better with their weapons and a little less with harmonies,” she thought. She paused for a moment, and her eyes reflected enthusiasm as she said, “But not all harmonies are for fighting. Do you want me to show you?”

Dashvara looked at her, alarmed.

“Huh?”

Yira laughed and jumped onto the cobblestones of the courtyard. She raised her hand, and suddenly, sparks flew and turned into butterflies of light. They surrounded Yira, spiraling upwards, and without warning, shot towards Dashvara. Dashvara was amazed by the small illusions, but when he saw the spiral attack him, his hands reached for the swords he didn’t have, he panicked, threw himself backwards and lost his balance. He fell right into the fountain, splashing everything and hitting the central stone block. He emerged soaked, cursing. The moths of light were gone, replaced by the natural darkness of the night.

“Oh, by Serenity, I’m sorry,” Yira stammered as she rushed toward him. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

It had been nothing more than illusions. Damned illusions. Suddenly, Dashvara laughed and came out of the fountain, dripping with water and choking on his laughter.

“Even in front of a brizzia, I wouldn’t have reacted in such a stupid way,” he affirmed. “It’s nothing, I’m fine,” he assured, and blushing, he blew out a breath, running a hand through his soaked beard. “I’m just a little wet, that’s all. Eternal Bird. Can you do it again?”

Yira raised her eyebrows but nodded.

“If you don’t jump back into the fountain…”

Dashvara cleared his throat, amused, while wringing his tunic.

“I’ll try,” he promised.

Yira made her butterflies of light reappear, and this time, Dashvara let them flutter serenely around him. He stared at them, fascinated.

“They’re beautiful.” He raised a hand and passed through one without feeling anything but air. Then another one landed on his hand, and he felt a slight tickle. He gasped. “This one is real!”

Yira laughed and nodded.

“I’m just sending out contact waves so that you think this butterfly is material. But it’s not.”

Dashvara pouted, not quite understanding what she meant by “contact waves”. Magicians’ jargon, he thought.

Then the butterflies moved away, joined and merged into a silver circle that tilted and unraveled before disappearing completely.

“So what do you say?”

“Terrifying,” Dashvara murmured. That was the first adjective that came to mind. Then he added, “And beautiful. Much more beautiful than those horrible snakes you threw at me, that’s for sure. Who taught you to do such strange things?”

He thought he saw another smile, although he could not see it.

“His name was Taymed. I met him on Matswad Island. He was… a celmist. He was very old. My father brought him here two years ago because he too was very fond of him. He passed away last year. He was… very old,” she repeated as she sat back down by the low wall of the fountain.

Dashvara then thought of a steppian proverb and muttered:

“The Eternal Bird flies with dignity but always ends up landing.”

He thought of the shaard Maloven, installed at the University of Titiaka, and suddenly wished he could talk to him. He too was old. After such a long life, how should he feel, thinking he was dying so far away from his family?

“Thank you, Yira,” he suddenly blurted out.

“And… can I know why exactly?” she asked, amused.

Dashvara smiled and brushed the water of the fountain with his hand.

“For your company.”

“You already thanked me for that yesterday,” she observed.

“Mm. That’s true.” He gave her a mocking pout and added, “But a Xalya thanks as many times as he feels like.”

Suddenly he heard a creak of a door opening, and he turned to the dormitory, but the noise did not come from there. Yira sighed and walked towards the main door.

“Fayrah, Lessi…” she whispered. “What are you doing here?”

“I want to talk to him, Yira,” Fayrah’s muffled voice said. “I saw you from the balcony.” Hurried footsteps were heard, and Dashvara stood up to see Fayrah’s face appear in the midst of the darkness. She wore no makeup, and her long hair fell like a dark waterfall.

“You are much more beautiful without makeup, sister,” he said, smiling. He saw the tears rolling down her cheeks, but he did not wipe away his soothing smile. “Come on, don’t cry, sîzin…”

Fayrah clung to him, drenching him more than he already was, and she spoke in Oy’vat when she whispered:

“I’ve been unfair to you, Dash. I didn’t mean half the things I said. I mean, in a way I meant them, but I didn’t mean them that way.”

Dashvara raised his eyes to heaven, stifling an amused gasp.

“You’re not making things right, sister. But that’s okay. Like a good Xalya, I try to be wise and tolerant, and I understand that you may have a low opinion of all of us. I don’t feel insulted. Forgive me if I gave you that impression.”

“I don’t have a low opinion of you, Dash. I never said that.”

Wishing that she would stop wanting to explain herself, Dashvara kissed her on the forehead putting an end to the excuses, he moved away and greeted Lessi. This one looked as moved as Fayrah.

“I’ll go wake up your father, Lessi,” he said.

The girl’s eyes lit up, and Dashvara walked away, feeling that Fayrah and Lessi hadn’t changed all that much after all. Once in the dormitory, he walked between the straw mattresses and shook Zorvun, pulling him by the arm.

“Captain,” he whispered.

He felt him stir.

“What’s the matter, Dash?” he muttered softly. “Oh… Eternal Bird. It’s not even dawn yet. I hope you have a very good reason to wake me up.”

Dashvara smiled.

“Lessi is out in the yard.”

Immediately, the captain stretched his legs and went out with such haste that he almost woke up all the Xalyas. He crossed the courtyard in long strides and slowed down when he was only a few steps away from Lessi.

“Little one,” he murmured in his hoarse voice.

Father and daughter hesitated a bit before embracing. Smiling, Dashvara watched them, hands in his pockets, before turning to Fayrah.

“Well, sister. You must be exhausted after so much partying. You should go to sleep. You won’t cry anymore, will you?”

Fayrah huffed.

“I’m not crying.” Her eyes were bright. “I love you, brother.”

“And I love you too, sîzin.”

After a slight hesitation, Fayrah took a step toward the main door. She paused for a moment to say:

“I never betrayed my Eternal Bird. I simply followed the path that seemed best to me. And I don’t regret it.”

I do, but what can I do? Dashvara thought. He watched her until she disappeared through the door. Immediately after, he greeted Yira and went back to the dormitory to leave Lessi and the captain alone. He was not yet asleep when Zorvun returned. As he passed by his mat, the captain whispered to him:

“It’s clear, Dash, that our women have done better than we have. I’d always thought my daughter was not very smart, but now I find her smarter than an ilawatelk. And as beautiful as her mother,” he added in a whisper before walking away to his own pallet.

Well, Captain, Dashvara smiled as he closed his eyes. We both rejoice in the happiness of our dear Xalya ladies. Now let’s worry about ours.

30 Cheerful slaves

Dashvara had plenty of time to verify that, all things considered, life as a slave in Titiaka was undoubtedly pleasant. Compared to life on the Border, that is.

In the morning they got up early, had breakfast in Uncle Serl’s kitchen, attended the Hour of Constance, and during the rest of the morning they performed the most varied tasks. In two weeks, Dashvara placed three orders in various stores, brought a message to a port controller, a letter to a lieutenant of the Urban Militia; he helped to thoroughly clean one of Atasiag’s boats, twice accompanied His Eminence and his followers to the Homage Square and saw a dozen Legitimates there with all their pompous escorts of slaves and citizens. One morning Atasiag gave him a small job to scare a citizen who was harassing Dafosag, one of his followers, and wanted to prevent him from going to his house at the Hour of Constance.

“That fool hopes to replace him and take the denarius in his place,” Atasiag snarled. “If you have to give him a good beating, go ahead. I’ll gladly pay the compensation.”

Dashvara took Arvara and Maef to support him, and they only had to look at the individual and display the Red Dragon crest to make him understand that, from now on, it would be better for him not to disturb Atasiag’s friends.

Even so, he usually had some free time in the morning, and he took the opportunity to visit Zaadma in her herbalist shop first. He hoped to find Rokuish as well, but the Republican explained that the Shalussi normally worked as a groom in the headquarters stables and got up very early to tend to the horses. For two hours, Zaadma spoke in an almost continuous stream that she only interrupted to serve her customers. She told him about the successful sale of her moon narcissus, about the garden she was growing on her terrace, about some buyers who were sometimes very unbearable and about some special kalreas that were very annoying because they never decided to bloom. She hardly let him get a word in edgewise, and Dash walked out of the store, his ears ringing.

Definitely, Rok, keep her for a hundred years, I beg you…

He smiled to himself. When, on his way back, he passed the Iron Tornado, moved by a sudden burst of conscience, he entered the tavern to leave Sotag four sildettas in exchange for a good beer that soothed his headache. He asked about his wife’s health, and looking a little pale, the tavernkeeper assured him that she was much better. Dashvara did not doubt it. He was tempted to ask about his blind nephew, but he restrained himself. When he left the establishment, he thought that four sildettas was more than enough for a liar.

For two days, at mealtimes, the foreman Loxarios instructed them in the rules of good conduct. Then he got bored, and when he asked if they had understood his instructions, they all nodded, happy to be free of his lessons at last. Lox was not a bad guy: he let them laze around after lunch for a good hour before reminding them that they had to train and put on a good fight for the curious citizens who loved the arena.

On the first day, Dashvara refused to take the swords. It was a sudden impulse: he had decided not to shed even a drop of blood. He wanted to be a good man and live as peacefully as some of the Steppe sages whose names were beginning to get confused in his head. Imbued with the pacifist doctrines of a certain Moarvara, centuries old, he got up from the table and began to preach about good example and the power of diplomacy. Makarva and Zamoy laughed, Orafe called him an enlightened man, the captain sighed, looking at his spoon, and Atok listened with fascinated eyes. Only Miflin intervened to support him and declare:

“That’s what I’ve always said. Forget the steel, let’s breathe out peace!”

Finally, as Dashvara tried to justify his point of view to foreman Lox, Lox threatened him with the whip, and this, coupled with the reasonable comments of his brothers, finally made him give up. He girded his swords with a low growl.

Dashvara soon discovered how much the Titiakas enjoyed close combat. They didn’t always train in the arena: in two weeks they made several trips to the headquarters and were invited on two occasions to the Yordark’s special training grounds in their imposing black castle on Mount Courteous. Their personal guard was small, there were only twelve of them, but they were good wrestlers, and Dashvara, who was used to not moving more than necessary for the sake of his lungs, had to try hard not to let himself be crushed.

One day, Atasiag gathered the Xalya warriors, asked them to put on their official uniforms and led them all through the city to Mount Serene to celebrate a birth in the family of the Kondister Legitimates. The Kondister Legitimates had organized a lavish celebration in a large central courtyard, buzzing with fights, archery and other “spectacles”. Dashvara won against all his opponents, and despite the ridiculousness of the show, he felt proud when he saw the impressed looks of the citizens riveted on his clan. With an amused pout, he pushed his sword away from his last fallen opponent.

Before, you wanted to lay down your arms, and now you’re proud to wield them like a champion, huh? Well, swallow that pride, Xalya. You’d better ignore these citizens.

As he left the field to join his brothers, he saw Atasiag Peykat sitting on the stone bleachers with other citizens. He met his gaze and thought he saw a glint of apprehension in his eyes. He smiled wryly. Had he just realized that the Xalyas who served him were not an ornamental personal guard?

He knew that Fayrah and Lessi had come to attend the celebration by carriage, and he looked for them for a good while, in vain. Does that surprise you? Duels have never interested them more than a grain of sand. If only it were the case with all these citizens and we didn’t have to fool around with the swords! I’d even bet that Fayrah is talking with her artist friends. Maybe even with that Lanamiag Korfu that you like so much. He huffed and decided to leave his sarcasm out for the rest of the afternoon.

All the fighters had the privilege of congratulating the newborn by bowing to him, and the winners received three denarii each. Atasiag won a total of thirty-six denarii, and theoretically, he could have kept them for himself, but he did not: he simply advised the Xalyas not to spend it all in the taverns. With such a fortune, he said, he feared they might drown in a barrel. Dashvara bought himself a knife, a chisel, and a whetstone, and that very afternoon he began to carve the piece of wood he had brought from the Ariltuan swamps. The others also made good use of their earnings: Miflin bought a notebook with a pencil, Zamoy bought a pack of sweets, Makarva gave flowers to a young slave girl he had met at the big market, and the captain, Taw, and Sedrios bought themselves a special bath at the thermal baths with flavored water, which—they mockingly claimed on the way back—was blessed by Cili.

Finally, to spite His Eminence, Makarva, the Triplets, Atok, the Grunt, Shurta, and Dashvara decided to go to the Joyful Nadre. The tavern was crowded with militiamen. There they found Brohol, the pirates’ son who had helped Dashvara get up after the beating by Lanamiag Korfu. He was accompanied by a whole troop of fellow southerners, and after introductions, they soon became friendly as they began to poke fun at Diumcilian customs. They talked about the way of dressing, the wigs, their stupid parties, and Shurta concluded:

“They are good-for-nothing people who cannot even scratch their ears without the help of a slave. Just yesterday, when I passed by the Homage Square, I saw a citizen who dropped a key on the ground, and his servant, who was loaded like a mule, picked it up without the other stopping for a second! I was flabbergasted.”

“Well, there are worse things that will blow your mind, friend,” Brohol assured. “Listen to this, just a few months ago, I heard about a citizen family who whipped their slaves every day out of pure sadism. As a result, one of them ended up dead, and it just so happened that a neighbor found out about it, filed a complaint for wrongful punishment, and the boss had to pay a hefty fine.”

“The Shifderest,” another militiaman confirmed after resting his empty cup on the table. “They’re a family from the country. They have bad habits. These people never know where the limits are. After the fine, they sold several workers to pay debts. Now one of those is a night Watcher, right, Brohol? He walks like an old man, but he smiles all the time. Trajdra!” he suddenly exclaimed in his native tongue. “Another beer, boy!”

Always generous, Makarva offered a round of drinks, and the militiamen became even more enthusiastic and cheerful. The three denarii they had gained melted away; at least the beer was cheap, though particularly bad. Waving his cup in the air, one of the foreigners began to sing a sailor’s ballad, and in turn, the Xalyas sang several love songs and war songs from the steppe. Orafe had a baritone voice that vibrated and echoed throughout the tavern, and he played with the tonal changes so well that some of the theoretically romantic songs ended up making everyone laugh. He was yelling:

Give me the flower of your hand,
Oh my queen, my sweet love!
I will hold it in my heart.
Ho, ho, ho! I will hold it in my heart.

From the barbaric lands
I return to bring you my ardor
—Ho, ho, ho! My dearest beloved—
And news of happiness!

I fought the savage,
I return with peace,
And I come to offer you my soul
And love and freedom.

My horse, gallop, gallop,
Gallop to where my queen awaits!
Ho, ho, ho!
Gallop to where the sun’s rays
show the way!
Ho, ho, ho! Ho, ho, ho!

Orafe prolonged the last note much more than Dashvara, one hand raised and the other on his chest. All the militiamen clapped and called for another one. Clapping his hands, Makarva stood up and began to dance the dianka in front of a young girl who, perhaps ashamed of him, covered her face and walked away laughing. Makarva was not discouraged and pulled Dashvara to dance.

“Makarva!” he protested.

“Come on, brother, get up! The lord of the Xalyas orders that all Xalyas dance the dianka while singing!” Makarva exclaimed.

“What the hell…?” Dashvara laughed. “You’re my spokesman now?”

“Only when I feel like it!” Makarva observed with a big smile.

After singing along with the others to The Rider without a Horse and The Dream Weaver, Dashvara slipped away and sat down next to Brohol while his brothers put on quite a show, singing, dancing, and clapping. They liven up the whole tavern as if they’d been paid for it…, he smiled. He watched them with the impression of being back in the dungeon celebrating some particularly successful hunt.

“Cheerful fellows,” Brohol appreciated, leaning toward Dashvara so he could hear him over the din. He watched the commotion with a smile that was more sober than tipsy. “I have to admit, from what I’ve heard about you, I imagined you to be more… rough. Now I see that we’re not so different.”

Dashvara smiled at him. His head was quite numb, and an inner voice warned him not to finish the cup he had in front of him, but he finished it anyway.

“We are sajits,” he answered at last. “And we are slaves. You have a home to come back to and so do I. You are right, foreigner: we are very much alike.”

Brohol shook his head.

“It’s obvious that you haven’t been in Titiaka for a long time. True, I too have dreamed of returning to my home one day. For many years. Then I realized that, in reality, I didn’t have a home anymore. And I made another one here,” he said, gesturing vaguely to his fellow militiamen. “Consider yourself lucky to have some of your people with you, Dash. You’ll get used to this life eventually. Anyway, if you don’t, your master will send you to the mines or the countryside, and you’ll regret not listening to reason.” He smiled. “In the past, I too was proud. I received more lashes and canings the first year I was captured than all the other years until now. And so much pride has done me no good…” An explosion of laughter prevented Dashvara from hearing the next sentence, but then he heard him say, “… leave this place, of course. I’m not going to be a pirate like my parents, no way. I’m going to be an explorer. You know? Some say that beyond the Golden Heart Islands, the Pilgrim Ocean stretches endlessly. But others think that there are other lands out there. Virgin lands that are full of riches and where you don’t have to work for food. I’d like to see for myself if these legends are true.”

Dashvara smiled.

“In this, we are not alike, then. I prefer to explore the soul, as my ancestors did.”

Brohol raised his eyebrows, and after a long pause during which Dashvara began to doze, the militiaman stood up.

“Well, I’m going back to the barracks. I’m glad to have talked with you, Xalya.”

“Me too,” Dashvara said.

Brohol smiled.

“A word of advice: tell that Xalya who likes to dance so much that he shouldn’t get too used to giving away rounds of beer. Some of my companions are quite the freeloaders. And I don’t say it with malice because…” his smile widened “I’m like them.”

Dashvara thanked him for the advice, responded to his greeting, and realizing that he was dozing again, he pinched his cheek and stood up, saying:

“Xalyas, we’re going home.”

With all the commotion, no one heard him. He sighed and stumbled to Zamoy, who was closest. He grabbed him by the arm and dragged him toward the door. Then he grabbed Shurta by the arm and said:

“Help me get all these drunks out of here. It’s not like we don’t have to get up early tomorrow.”

Shurta helped him, and finally they greeted the militia, said goodbye to the tavernkeeper, and Kodarah nearly collapsed as they descended the staircase. They left the Joyful Nadre without a single sildetta in their pockets and without knowing exactly where Atasiag’s house was.

The first thing Dashvara did when they arrived at Homage Square was to stick his head in a fountain to snap out of it. The bluish light of the Gem illuminated the cobblestones and buildings that surrounded the enormous plaza. Midnight had passed, and the square was relatively deserted except for a few patrols of Watchers and foreigners who slept in their carts among the goods, horses, and donkeys. An autumnal wind swirled gently between the kiosks and their columns, rising to the stone steps and wrinkling the water in the fountains. It was laden with a strong aroma of jasmine and salt.

Humming, the Baldy stumbled over the edge, and Dashvara helped him regain his balance.

“Cheerful fellows indeed,” he laughed.

He pushed Zamoy away from the fountain to keep him from drowning, staggered, and Orafe supported him, though he too was not thinking clearly. Leaning on Kodarah, Miflin rambled on, declaiming verses:

Oh, my beautiful, lady love,
After whom so many birds sigh…
Mare of the friendly steppe,
Take me far away, my life.
Farther, farther, to the sky!

The poet finally sat down on a stone bench, and Dashvara looked at him, impressed.

“Say, cousin, did you just improvise that?”

The poet blinked.

“Huh? Oh… Maybe. I don’t know. Hell, I’m dizzy,” he complained, taking his head in his hands.

Dashvara looked up at the dark sky but lowered his eyes when he heard voices approaching. With the help of the Gem, he immediately saw the black faces and tall stature of the five men crossing the square. A wave of panic swept over him. He couldn’t have imagined a better way to get out of his daze.

“Xalyas,” he hissed.

The tone of his voice must have been explicit enough because his seven brothers seemed to understand that something was going on. Immediately afterwards, Dashvara knew he should never have alerted them.

With a roar, Zamoy charged at the Akinoas, followed by Orafe and Kodarah. As he charged, the Baldy intoned verses of the usual war song, but he did so while shouting at the top of his lungs:

We fierce souls of the steppe,
The descendants of the Ancients,
Will tear the life
From the barbarians and murderers.

Dumbfounded, Dashvara took off running behind them.

“By the Eternal Bird, stop!” he shouted. “Remember the agreement!”

By the time he reached them, the fight had already started, and incredibly, three of the Akinoas had run away. The other two were cowering on the ground, protecting their bellies. When he saw them up close, Dashvara couldn’t help it: he burst into a thunderous laugh.

“Stop it,” he gasped, laughing. “You’re such a bunch of idiots… Ha, ha, ha!” he laughed even harder. “Liadirlá, these are not the Akinoas! They are drows.”

Zamoy, Orafe, and Kodarah remained perplexed. Finally, Orafe reacted.

“Demons,” he breathed. “That’s stupid. Excuse me, friend,” he said to one of the two sajits. He helped him to his feet in a friendly manner. “We have confused you with the Akinoas of the Korfu.”

“With… the Akinoas?” the drow breathed, catching his breath. “Those colossal humans that go to the Arena? Do I look human to you?”

His high-pitched voice let his fear shine through.

“Dash, stop laughing, will you?” Zamoy growled.

Dashvara finally understood that the situation was not so funny, and he calmed down before approaching the drow. Indeed, this one was far from looking like an Akinoa: he was of average height, thin, and rather ungainly. He didn’t understand how he could have mistaken him for an Akinoa. Very easy: because you are drunk, Dash…

Zamoy helped the other drow companion to his feet, and this one spat out:

“Bloody humans.”

Dashvara patted the shoulder of the one who was obviously appalled.

“Is everything all right?” he inquired, solicitously.

The drow stammered:

“Y-yes. Can we go now?”

Dashvara nodded.

“Of course. But I wouldn’t want you to leave without receiving my most sincere apologies on behalf of those three boors who jumped down your throat. Their reflexes are not very lucid.”

The two drows seemed surprised, but understanding that the Xalyas had no intention of hitting them further, they hurriedly backed away.

“We’re really sorry!” Zamoy said as the drows were already moving away, half running and half limping.

Silence fell, interrupted only by distant music from the still full taverns. Dashvara turned to the three exalted ones with an eloquent pout, and embarrassed, Zamoy cleared his throat.

“That look means you’re congratulating us on our amazing performance, right?”

Dashvara shook his head. The incident no longer seemed amusing to him.

“You’re supposed to have some control over yourselves, Xalyas,” he commented. “Even if it had been the Akinoas, you shouldn’t have reacted that way since I gave my word to Raxifar that—”

“Yes, yes, we know,” Orafe cut him off, looking grumpy. “We’re drunk, Dash. I think it’s best we go home.”

Dashvara breathed in, then out.

“Yes, I think that will be best. It’s a good thing no Watchman saw us.”

They walked through the market caravans in silence, and a few minutes later, they arrived at the gate of the house. Logically, the gate was closed. Zamoy opened his mouth as if he was going to serenade, and Shurta hit him on the head.

“Have a little respect,” he warned him in a wise tone. “They must be sleeping.”

Atok stirred.

“Well, what do we do?” he whispered.

Dashvara shrugged, walked along the house and finally sat down against the wall, just under the window of the Xalya dormitory. The window was closed by a beautiful stone blind, full of small holes and drawings, which served only to let in air and light.

“We’ll sleep here,” he declared. “And let this punishment be a lesson to us.”

“This is the last time I’m going out with you guys,” Kodarah breathed, as he settled down.

“And the last time I’m going out with you, Hairy,” Makarva replied. “You don’t even know how to dance the dianka.”

“What do you mean, I don’t know—?”

“Shut up,” Orafe growled.

Dashvara was trying to find the least uncomfortable position possible when he heard a voice behind the window. He was startled.

“Here come our victorious youths again,” came Sashava’s whispering, sarcastic voice.

Dashvara arched an eyebrow and stood up to try to see through the holes in the stone. The light from the Gem and the muffled sound of voices told him that many of the Xalyas were still awake.

“He doesn’t seem to be with them,” Alta muttered, his nose pressed against the window.

Dashvara frowned, and Alta answered his question before he could ask:

“Tsu is missing.”

Dashvara was stunned.

“What?” he said stupidly.

“He didn’t go to the Kondister celebration,” Lumon’s calm voice completed. “And Wassag hasn’t seen him since.”

Dashvara swallowed his saliva and leaned against the wall, confused.

“I don’t understand,” he admitted. “If he had wanted to run away, he could have done so in Ariltuan. He would have stayed with those drows and that Hakassu. He wouldn’t have come to Titiaka.”

Since none of the Xalyas were aware of what had actually happened during that night in the swamp, Dashvara explained it to them through the window, finally confessing:

“I don’t know what they said to each other, that Hakassu and him, but what I do know is that Tsu decided to stay with us.”

“Which is strange, you have to admit it,” Alta reflected in a calm tone. “Tsu is sympathetic to me, he’s a good Xalya in his own way, but think about it, Dash: if he gave up his freedom, maybe he didn’t do it for us, but because this Hakassu asked him to perform a task in Titiaka.” He shook his head with absolute conviction. “Remember that Shjak and Diumcili are at war. Tsu may be acting as an undercover agent.”

Dashvara massaged his temples. After so many duels and such an evening, he couldn’t think clearly.

“It could be,” Captain Zorvun’s voice conceded. “But perhaps we are rushing to conclusions. Anyway, we’re not going to fix anything this late at night. Let us sleep, since our young people are finally back.”

Dashvara perceived a mocking accent and rolled his eyes.

“The beer was also blessed by Cili, Captain,” he said.

Amused gasps were heard. Kodarah muttered indignantly:

“Are you going to leave us out here?”

“We don’t have the keys,” Sashava replied with obvious satisfaction. “And we’re not going to wake the Wolf because of latecomers who can’t walk straight, are we, guys?”

Dashvara winced but accepted his verdict.

“Good night, secretary,” he grumbled. He added the name only to enrage him a little: everyone knew how much Sashava hated his new job. For the past two weeks, he had been serving a renowned professor at the university, who was in turn a slave of the Dikaksunora, albeit a fairly wealthy one thanks to his inventions. According to Sashava, he was a machine fanatic, and the old Xalya spent his days transcribing in a notebook all the genial or stupid ideas that passed through the inventor’s head. Frankly, Dashvara didn’t know which was more tedious: having to give fighting shows for a few citizens or having to scribble incomprehensible calculations and assessments for hours on end.

The eight Xalyas sat down again on the edge of the wide street, and exhausted, Dashvara soon fell asleep. He still had time to think that this would be the first night he would not talk to Yira. He had become accustomed to waking up in the middle of the night, tormented by ridiculous nightmares that he couldn’t shake off, and he would sit on the low wall of the fountain until Yira appeared. As long as he didn’t mention anything about her veil, the young woman was happy to engage in philosophical—or not-so-philosophical—conversations that occupied them for hours. They talked about the Eternal Bird, the steppe, pirates, and the sea; they shared stories of different cultures, and Dashvara had even learned a few words of Ryscodranese, Yira’s second childhood language. The quiet chatter was refreshing. It was as if he was in a timeless bubble in which he had no pressure to act, no one to fight, no one to obey, just enjoying the moment. Yira was a soul as dreamy as Miflin, as attentive as Makarva, and as joyful as Zamoy. And, at the same time, she had, indeed, principles at least as firm as his. From the very first days, Dashvara had felt a growing respect for her that had turned into a real affection. It had nothing to do with the idealistic feelings he had harbored at the Border to kill time. He wasn’t sure if it could be love. Nor did he think much about this riddle during the rest of the day. Sometimes both of them would be silent and gaze at the stars, musing, like two innocent, carefree steppe children. Dashvara had asked her one night if she ever slept. Yira’s eyes had smiled, and she had answered: ‘I sleep as much as I need’. Her answer had left him thinking. Yira was supposed to be a sajit, or so it seemed from the little he had seen of her. However, a new prudence advised him not to affirm it, at least until he had seen her face uncovered: he remembered Sheroda’s transformed face all too well. Half lying on the cobblestones of the street, he drifted off to sleep with the disturbing image of Yira showing sharp blue teeth.

That night he did not speak with Yira, but the nightmare came as punctually as usual. And the worst thing is that this time he did not wake up, so that, for hours, he could see the streaked eyes of the shixan and hear his own voice shouting again and again: I am unworthy! I am guilty! Suddenly, Sheroda’s golden eyes reddened and her white face darkened, replaced by Tsu’s.

“What are you doing here?”

The drow’s surprised voice pierced through Dashvara’s dream.

31 Verbal attack

“What are you doing here?”

Dashvara blinked, but it took a few more seconds to realize that the drow was not part of the nightmare. The sky was clearing, and Tsu was there, leaning next to him, as inexpressive as usual.

“Tsu!” he exclaimed, and he winced in pain as he stood up. His head was as heavy as a sack of lead. There’s a reason the sages from the Steppe have never been great drinkers, he thought. He glanced around. The Triplets, Shurta, Makarva, Orafe, and Atok were still sleeping. Finally, he said, “We celebrated our life as slaves and stayed out voluntarily to enjoy a pleasant night. And you, Tsu? Where have you been?”

The drow shrugged, looked to one side of the street, and asked:

“I hope you weren’t out looking for me, were you?”

Dashvara looked guilty.

“Well… we weren’t, actually. I didn’t even think about it. sorry. Did you have a problem?”

Tsu shook his head and smiled.

“No at all. Actually, my only concern is whether Foreman Lox or Wassag will ask prying questions.”

Dashvara raised an eyebrow and smiled back.

“Don’t worry. You’ve been partying with us, right?”

An uneasy glint passed through Tsu’s eyes.

“Thank you.” He paused for a moment. “Aren’t you going to ask me anything?”

Dashvara made an amused face as he massaged his head.

“Do you want me to ask you intrusive questions? Well, I don’t see why I should, knowing you’re not going to answer them.”

This time, Tsu clearly showed his embarrassment.

“True enough, but…”

“Mm?” Dashvara encouraged him.

The drow began to search for his words, and meanwhile, Dashvara tried to stretch his stiffened body. Finally, Tsu said:

“You are right. It’s better if you don’t know more about it, and it’s also better for me if I don’t talk about it. So just like that, Atasiag gave you money?”

“Ah, we won it with swords in hand,” Dashvara assured.

And then he began to tell him about the celebration of the Kondisters and the different kinds of duels.

“I was lucky I didn’t run into any particularly strong soldiers,” Dashvara finally admitted.

Tsu smiled.

“The truth is, such a soldier would have to be particularly strong to beat you, my friend.” The drow patted him on the shoulder before standing up. The others were beginning to awaken, and Dashvara finished waking them from their slumber by clapping his hands.

“Come on, get up, brothers!” he urged them cheerfully.

“Daaash,” Zamoy grumbled. “It’s no longer time to dance the dianka, you know?”

Dashvara smiled and headed for the portal. They didn’t have long to wait before Wassag appeared. He received them with a half-smile, half-exasperated pout.

“You could have woken me up,” he pointed out.

“You must have a good reason to wake up a sleeping man,” Dashvara replied in a solemn tone. “For us, sleep is sacred.”

Faced with this almost religious reason, Wassag found no reply and limited himself to informing:

“Yesterday, there were quite a few leftovers at dinner. We’re going to have lunch like kings.”

His assertion was confirmed when they entered the kitchen and found Uncle Serl, always anxious to please his flattering guests, laying out many leftover chicken meats on the table. Dashvara opened his eyes wide and looked at the dish as if he had never seen anything like it. The Xalyas took their seats without daring to touch the meat.

“Uh… is this really for us?” Ged the Armorer asked, looking indecisive.

Uncle Serl showed all his teeth.

“Yesterday, the eldest son of the Korfu came here as a guest, and Miss Fayrah ordered too much meat. She also ordered a lot of cakes, but there was not a single one left,” he apologized with a small smile.

“Bah, such gluttons!” Zamoy laughed, and he got up first to help himself to a chicken breast.

Within minutes, the Xalyas devoured everything. Dashvara smiled to himself when he saw the Triplets so full of energy. He had almost forgotten about his headache.

“By the way,” the captain interjected, “you people don’t know about this. Yesterday, Sashava spoke with our shaard.”

Dashvara gasped and looked expectantly at Grumpy.

“Did you see him at the University? How is he?”

Sashava nodded.

“He’s fine. He’s half blind, so he had a hard time recognizing me. But you don’t know how happy he was when he finally recognized me. I told him about our adventures. He didn’t say much. Apparently, the Akinoas almost killed him, but then they decided to sell him to the Essimeans when they found out he was a shaard. And the Essimeans sold him to the Master. This is unusual because, usually, the Essimeans have always done everything to annihilate the shaards of the other clans. They must consider that a single shaard can no longer resurrect the Eternal Bird in the steppe, who knows. Anyway, at the University they treat our old man as a wise man. He asked me to repeat some words to our last lord of the steppe,” he added with a small smile. “He said, ‘May Dashvara remember what I told him that day when he came to offer me the golden petals of a flower and did not bring me the stem.’”

Dashvara looked at him, perplexed, and faced with the curious looks of his brothers, he finally confessed:

“This may sound silly, but I don’t remember that.”

Several Xalyas laughed.

“I guess our shaard has a better memory than you, my lord!” Zamoy chuckled.

“You were giving flowers to our teacher?” Makarva teased.

Dashvara shrugged.

“Well, apparently. I don’t know, the episode rings a bell, but in any case I couldn’t have been more than six or seven. It’s hard to remember a philosophical lesson from Maloven at that age. So he’s half-blind?” he continued. “Well, as long as he’s happy and they treat him well…” he pouted and asked, “Is there any way to talk to him?”

“From what I understand, he often goes out for a walk in the afternoon,” Sashava replied. “But that just coincides with your training schedule.”

Dashvara looked disappointed, then smiled.

“Well, if you see him again, tell him that the Lord of the Steppe has a memory lapse. No,” he waved his hand, “now seriously. Tell him that I have not forgotten his wise lessons and that I am following them to the letter. More or less.”

“Shall I add this ‘more or less’?” Sashava asked mockingly.

Laughter ran through the table. Dashvara nodded without hesitation:

“One of Maloven’s lessons was: never consider a lesson as perfect, otherwise one day you will end up applying it without reason. The lessons of a shaard guide the Eternal Bird, the lessons of life shape it, but in the end, the Eternal Bird, we create it ourselves.”

Sashava smiled, and his eyes reflected approval, which was rare of him.

“If I see him again, I’ll tell him,” he promised.

A few minutes later, they emerged into the courtyard, where Atasiag’s six adulators were already waiting for the Hour of Constance. As soon as His Eminence came out, the citizens vied with each other for his attention in obsequious praise and servility. That morning, Atasiag asked Dashvara to accompany him and Boron. He was very pleased when his six loyal customers complimented him on the good image he had left the day before at Mount Serene during the dueling games. All the way to the Homage Square, the hobbit babbled about the excellent relationship Atasiag was building with the Alfodrog Legitimates and talked about a younger son who had finished his military service as an assistant to the Ragails.

“I believe that now his parents are looking for a good match to marry him,” he said. “And I have heard that the young man has good relations with your two daughters, Eminence.”

Atasiag did not lose his smile when he replied:

“Well, they’ll probably marry him off to the Terowalds’ daughter. The two houses get along wonderfully and are Legitimate houses. It is not proper to be too arrogant and greedy, is it, my friend?”

The hobbit’s face flushed.

“Of course, Eminence. Arrogance is a sin. May Cili keep us from it,” he prayed.

Dashvara suppressed a smile. As always, Atasiag was having fun teasing his followers like a puppy.

It was a summer day, and by the time they reached the boxes in the square, it was already packed with people. Several of Atasiag’s merchant associates appeared and bowed to him, making it clear that they recognized his superiority as a magistrate. Then the Legitimate Shaag Yordark arrived. He was a black human, a bit old; he wore the blue and white tunic of the Councilors, and although he wore no jewels or other pomp, his presence was imposing. This time it was Atasiag’s turn to pay his respects before everyone took their seats on the stone bleachers. Imitating the other slaves, Dashvara and Boron took their seats near the box.

“I’m afraid today’s talk is going to drag on,” Durf commented, one of the Yordark slaves. “Yesterday a whole shipment arrived, and now it’s time to divide the profits. Tempers flare quickly when there’s money involved,” he smiled.

Dashvara returned his smile, and pulling out the sailor cards, said:

“Since I was taught to be forward thinking, I brought something to keep us busy.”

This was the second time the Yordark slaves had played Xalyans, and they only needed to explain the rules to two elves who were serving a merchant from Agoskura. They came from a far away forest and barely spoke Common Tongue, but since Durf knew Agoskurian, they were able to communicate.

As Durf had predicted, the conversation in the lodge dragged on and on as the sun began to seriously blaze over their heads. At one point, the Agoskurian trader barked something at one of the elves, and that one quickly got up and walked over to a water carrier. Immediately afterwards, the others followed suit, and responding to a silent command from Atasiag, Dashvara sighed, put the cards in his pocket, walked to another water carrier, and for half a detta, borrowed a glass for His Eminence. When he handed it to him, the federate smiled:

“Thanks, Dash. How’s the game going?”

Dashvara looked comical.

“Much more interesting than your business, I suppose,” he whispered.

Atasiag rolled his eyes.

“Right away, we’re talking about nominations to the Council. I find this rather interesting. Tell me. You can ride a horse, can’t you?”

Dashvara looked at him in amazement. And what did that have to do with anything?

“All Xalyas can ride,” he replied. “Even among the old clans, we were considered the best horsemen on the steppe.”

Atasiag looked satisfied, finished his glass of water and turned to Shaag Yordark.

“Excellency, I think I have found the men you need.”

Shaag examined Dashvara briefly before nodding.

“Good. We’ll talk about that later. Now that I remember, my son Faag captured the Honyrs who fled the Shjak border. He spared their lives, so they’ll probably be part of the lot too.”

Dashvara gave Atasiag a look of incomprehension, but Atasiag did not deign to explain and waved him away with a mysterious smile. Well, surely you know what you’re doing, federate, he sighed, walking away with the empty glass.

It was only when he resumed his card game that he thought of Yordark’s words. Had he said “Faag”? Could he be referring to Captain Faag with whom he had spoken at Compassion? It was likely. In any case, except for the fact that they were both black and had blue eyes, they didn’t look much alike.

He spoke about the Honyrs, he remembered then with a shiver. If it were true that they had taken Steppe Thieves to Diumcili… He sighed. When we return to the steppe, there will be nothing left but ruins, ilawatelks, and wild horses.

Boron the Placid won the game, and Dashvara let someone else take his place to stretch his legs. He was walking along the cobblestones, hands in his pockets, strolling among the nearest market stalls, when he heard, above the usual din, an exclamation followed by more shouting. For a moment, he thought that an argument or a fight had broken out between Unitarians and Federates or who knows, but when he finally made out the words, he realized that it was not the case:

“Out, foreigners! Out, barbarian workers!” the voice shouted. “We don’t need you!”

He finally saw an old caitian with a sign hanging around his neck that said: «For a dignified Titiaka: foreign workers out!». Most of the passers-by looked at him, bewildered. Others smiled mockingly. And still others watched him with polite curiosity. Dashvara was one of the latter.

“Out, you barbarians!” the enlightened one shouted. “You are stealing the work of our workers! We don’t need foreigners! Pagans! Profiteers! Unbelievers!”

He stopped whenever he saw a slave who looked like he had been imported and pointed to him as if to put a divine curse on him. When he stopped in front of Dashvara and shouted his refrain again, Dashvara opened his mouth; he couldn’t help it.

“You want me to leave here, citizen? Nothing would please me more,” he assured with irony, “believe me, I would gladly leave my work to a slave raised in Titiaka so that he could enjoy it as much as I do. But, you know, old man, it is rather my master that you must convince, not me.”

The enlightened one looked at him with bulging eyes, but the surprised expressions of the nearest passers-by reflected rather amusement. Dashvara tilted his head mockingly and was already turning his back when the curmudgeon bellowed, his complexion flushed:

“Insolent!”

Why, in the name of the Eternal Bird, could you not hold your tongue, Dash? Dashvara sighed and returned to the lodge where his fellow slaves were shaking their heads, half in disbelief and half amused.

“One day your ingenuity will get the better of you,” Durf of the Yordarks kindly warned him.

“There always comes a day when something gets the better of us,” Dashvara replied.

In any case, the cries of the exalted one were not heard again all morning in the market.

In the afternoon, after the training, Dashvara learned that the cursed caitian had had the brilliant idea of denouncing Atasiag for verbal attack. His Eminence had to pay two denarii of compensation, and when he summoned Dashvara to his office, he only said:

“You shouldn’t pick on the citizens, Philosopher. And certainly not on those who have seen their rents collapse. Some people are only interested in picking fights and raking in money wherever they can. Next time, I trust you to be a little more… reserved.”

Perhaps he expected Dashvara to look contrite. If so, he must have been surprised when he saw him laugh.

“A verbal attack,” Dashvara guffawed. “That’s the first time I’ve heard about such a thing! Someone insults you and gets excited, you answer him kindly, and then he denounces you. Well, no, he doesn’t denounce me: he denounces you for not knowing how to train your puppies well!” He continued to laugh heartily. “You’re totally crazy, Federates. I love your society. So logical, so rationale, such sanity. Ah…” He shook his head. “There I go, rhyming like Miflin. Anyway, don’t worry, Eminence, I won’t speak to a citizen again unless he expressly asks me to. That way, I won’t have the terrible feeling of provoking the ruin of my master… by verbal attacks!” he burst out laughing.

Atasiag seemed to want to suppress a smile, but he only half succeeded. He made a vague gesture with his hand to dismiss him.

“Barbarians,” he heard him sigh, as he walked out.

32 The Honyrs’ dignity

Dashvara finally understood why Atasiag Peykat had asked him about the Xalyas’ horsemanship. As the annual civic elections approached, the Legitimates and other wealthy citizens had planned daily parties, and one of the activities the Yordarks funded was the so-called solfata game, which was basically an archery race on horseback.

“This is our specialty,” Makarva said when Yira had finished explaining the rules of solfata in the courtyard of the house. “Ride, shoot, turn around, and disappear like lightning.”

“Mm,” Orafe confirmed. “But we couldn’t always do that. With red nadres, it was more efficient to charge with spears and swords,” he explained to Yira.

“And you say only three of us are going to participate?” the captain questioned.

Yira nodded.

“The race will be in groups of three. In addition, His Eminence has rented ten of you to the Steliar for hand-to-hand combat duels. If you win, the Steliar family will take the prize, but the prestige will also be for Atasiag. And if you lose, the Steliar will have lost money, and you will lose value,” she added.

She did not ask who volunteered for the solfata or the duels: the Legitimate himself would choose. In the late afternoon, Shaag Yordark arrived at Atasiag’s house in a litter, accompanied by his escort, his steward… and his son Faag. When Dashvara saw the captain of the Compassion Company, he exchanged a thoughtful glance with Zorvun before lining up properly in the courtyard. Faag recognized them at once. Without coming closer, he gave them a small smile in greeting, to which Dashvara responded in kind. It’s almost as if this citizen has taken us for his equals, he observed with some mockery.

Shaag did not talk for long with Atasiag Peykat and quickly became interested in the Xalyas.

“Who are the most skilled with the bow?” he asked Atasiag.

His Eminence gave Yira an encouraging look.

“We’ve only been able to do an archery test once, Your Excellency,” she replied, “but in my opinion the most skilled are this one, this one, and this one,” she pointed to Lumon, then Makarva, and finally Dashvara. Dashvara raised an eyebrow in surprise. He was certainly no slouch with the bow, no Xalya patroller was, but Alta or Boron were undoubtedly more skilled than he was. Anyway, he didn’t protest: it was always a relief to know that instead of hitting warriors, he would be shooting arrows.

Shaag Yordark agreed with Yira, looked satisfied, saluted Atasiag gravely, and climbed back onto his litter. Then, unexpectedly, the steward beckoned Dashvara, Lumon, and Makarva to follow them.

“What?” Dashvara murmured. They were going to the Yordark castle at this hour? After glancing up at the darkening sky, he glanced at Atasiag, confused. Atasiag smiled at him.

“Behave yourself during training, Xalyas.”

He said no more. Without a word, Dashvara, Lumon, and Makarva followed the small procession through the Passerines and up the mountain to the Yordark’s black castle. When a still-beardless teenager pointed to a place to spend the night near the stables, Dashvara sighed and finally broke the silence.

“Tell me, boy. Do you know how many days the training will last?” he asked.

The young man shrugged his shoulders.

“The solfata races begin in a week and a half. That is, in nine days. Until then, you will stay here.”

He had a deep Bladhy desert accent. He said nothing more, and when he left, Makarva muttered:

“They didn’t even give me time to pick up the cards. They could have warned us.”

Dashvara sat down on a pile of straw and thought that the bed was more comfortable than his straw mattress at Atasiag’s. Finally he replied:

“Since when do we need cards to play cards, Mak?” He turned to Lumon. The Archer was fiddling with Licentiate Nitakrios’ iron bracelet. He seemed unusually nervous, and Dashvara became concerned. “What’s going on, Lumon?”

The Xalya shrugged his shoulders and did not answer immediately.

“I don’t know, Dash. Lately I’ve been turning my thoughts around in my head too much.”

Dashvara exchanged a puzzled look with Makarva.

“What thoughts, Lumon?” he inquired.

“Boh. Do you really want to know?” the Archer sighed.

Dashvara raised his eyebrows.

“I’m not in the habit of asking things I don’t want to know, brother,” he replied, mockingly.

Lumon made a half-smile but wiped it away when he explained:

“I was thinking about what the federates are doing to us. At the Border, we were fighting monsters. We were doing something useful. In Titiaka, we fight slaves like us. Just to entertain. What does that make us, Dash?”

Dashvara smiled wryly.

“Fairground beasts that bite to avoid being bitten?”

“It seems that way,” Lumon conceded.

Dashvara sat comfortably on the straw and put his hands behind his head.

“Well, don’t beat yourself up. The first step is to accept what we are,” he considered. “The second is to enjoy it as much as possible. And the third is to consider the seventh escape. For the moment, I am on the second step,” he informed. “And you, Lumon?”

The Archer laughed softly.

“You just put me on the second one too, Philosopher. And, by the way, I wonder if those Yordarks have a kitchen somewhere.”

Only then did Dashvara realize that he was starving after all the afternoon’s training. They came out of the small shelter and passed Durf and other slaves in the large courtyard of the castle. Thanks to them, they found the kitchens at once, where twelve guards were already finishing their meals. When his gaze fell on three unfamiliar but clearly steppian faces, Dashvara stopped for a second, went to get his portion of bread and cheese, and finally sat down facing the three men with a broad smile.

“Thieves of the Steppe,” he said. “Glad to see you in this beautiful region.”

Of the three Honyrs, only one showed surprise in his expression. The other two frowned. On their right arms they bore the clear mark of the green scorpion of the Yordarks, accompanied by the black cross of the captured and pardoned fugitives.

“Xalyas?” the one in the middle asked. His tanned face was furrowed with wrinkles, but Dashvara bet he couldn’t be much older than fifty.

“Xalyas,” he confirmed in a friendly tone. “I am Dashvara of Xalya. And these are Lumon and Makarva. Apparently the six of us are going to play solfata for the Yordarks.” He smiled. “What a glorious task, isn’t it?”

The Honyr had not yet touched his meal. His gray eyes detailed the three Xalyas, but he did not utter a word. Dashvara did not wait for them to introduce themselves by name: he knew, for he had once spoken to a Steppe Thief, that names were a sacred thing to them. No outsider to the clan should know them.

He took a bite out of his bread before adding while chewing:

“Apparently you escaped and Captain Faag captured you again. You’re lucky you’re still alive. We ran away too,” he observed. “Six times. But they didn’t have to capture us: we returned from the Border of our own accord. Some people call that a sense of honor, others call it practicality,” he joked. Then he realized that, like Zaadma, he did not let a word get in, and he added: “Out of curiosity, how many Thieves are you in Diumcili?”

“Thieves, none,” the younger man replied. “We are Honyrs.”

Dashvara nodded.

“Very true. You’re right to point it out. Forgive me if I have offended you. I have always known you as the Steppe Thieves, but from now on I will call you Honyrs. And you too,” he warned, addressing Makarva and Lumon. They shrugged and nodded as they ate.

“Dashvara of Xalya,” the third Honyr repeated. He had a huge scar on his face, and from the marks, it looked like it had been caused by an animal with fangs. His eyes studied Dashvara’s features intently before he blurted out, “You are the son of Vifkan of Xalya.”

Dashvara made a meditative pout.

“I see that my reputation precedes me. But, from the look on your face, I get the impression that it’s not very flattering.”

Honyr gave a torpid smile.

“Your father was not a very respectable man…” The old Honyr must have kicked him under the table because the scarred one gasped and fell silent. Dashvara wondered if he should feel indignant or not at the insult. In any case, there was no doubt that the Steppe Thieves knew about the fall of the Xalya clan. The old man shook his head in disbelief.

“It is no use speaking ill of the dead, Cloud.” And he pronounced: “Forgive, Xalya, the exaltation of my brother.”

Dashvara raised an eyebrow.

“Forgiven. So you give each other nicknames?”

The old man watched him with some curiosity before answering:

“That’s right. I am Hoof. This one is Sann, and the other is Cloud.” He paused. “So, in the end, the zoks let you live.”

Dashvara understood that by “zoks” he was referring to the Shalussis, Essimeans, and Akinoas. It must mean something like “savages”, in their language.

“They left me alive unwittingly,” he explained. “I pretended to be a Shalussi.”

As the Honyrs were not very talkative and seemed interested, he began to tell them about the adventures of the Xalyas, helped by Makarva. He was already swallowing down his last bite when he finished his story and asked:

“Uh… aren’t you going to eat?”

Hoof, the old man, smiled. The conversation seemed to have softened him a bit.

“We Honyrs do not eat when someone talks to us. And we do not talk with our mouths full.”

Dashvara flushed, bewildered.

“Oh.” He cleared his throat, hesitated, and finally stood up. “Then we’ll let you eat. It’s been a pleasure talking with you. We’ll see you tomorrow, I guess. Good night, Honyrs.”

“Good night, Xalyas,” old Hoof said.

“Good night, zoks,” Cloud murmured, the one with the scar, as Dashvara was already walking away.

Zok yourself, Dashvara gasped.

33 To death

Dashvara returned to the straw pile with Lumon and Makarva. That night, he fell asleep quickly and woke up the next morning feeling oddly light-hearted. It took him a few moments to understand where this lightness came from: he had not had any nightmares. Barely had he made this encouraging observation when someone threw something in his lap. It was a bow. And the person who had thrown it at him was Captain Faag. Two men wearing the uniforms of the Compassion Company were escorting him.

“Get up, sleepyheads,” the Legitimate said. “We have a long day of training ahead of us.”

Dashvara shook Makarva and stood up, grabbing the bow. It was very similar to the ones they used on the steppe. Without another word, Faag led them into the vast courtyard, where the three Honyrs were already waiting. The murderous glances they gave the captain augured a peaceful and friendly atmosphere…

“Well,” Faag said as he positioned himself in front of the six steppemen. “I think you all know me already. I am Captain Faag, son of Shaag Yordark, and since I will be staying for a few days in Titiaka, I have decided to take care of you to begin your training in solfata.” He turned to the Honyrs. “If you prove to be skilled, it is likely that, after the games, I will welcome you into my company as auxiliaries. Depending on your service, you will be able to aspire to emancipation much more quickly than by remaining in Titiaka. Therefore, it is in your interest to strive as hard as possible.” He gave them all a satisfied smile. “Put the bows down here. First of all, I want you to run four laps around the yard to warm up. Then you will place the targets over there at the back. Come on, get moving,” he encouraged them.

The Honyrs grumbled in their beards, and Dashvara gave them an amused pout.

“Try to catch me, Honyrs,” he challenged them. And he started to run, followed by Lumon and Makarva. Both of them quickly overtook him, and then the Honyrs did as well. As he passed by, Cloud gave him a mocking look before accelerating. Dashvara smiled back at him. He didn’t try very hard, and when he finished the fourth lap, he received an annoyed look from Faag.

“Next time, try harder, will you?” he recommended.

Dashvara nodded silently and picked up his bow while the others finished setting the targets. Faag himself brought a cart full of arrows and was the first to fire, hitting the center of the target.

You don’t expect us to admire your incredible abilities, federate, do you? Dashvara scoffed. He glanced at Lumon, and they all held up their bows. They fired. The six arrows went into the center of each target. They shot ten arrows in a row, and finally Dashvara saw a glimmer of respect in Faag’s eyes. I would have more respect for someone who has never shot an arrow or drawn a sword, he reasoned. You show little wisdom, good man.

They continued to pull until Faag’s two companions left for a few minutes before returning with stable boys and six beautiful white horses. Dashvara accepted the reins of one horse and stroked its forehead with a trembling hand. Its eyes were docile and of a strange bluish color.

“These are Agoskura mares,” Captain Faag said. “They are the fastest I have ever known. Come on, get on.”

The Xalyas were soon in the saddle, but the Honyrs, following their ritual, began whispering to their horses, and Faag had to intervene to cut short the introductions.

“Um, sorry, but we don’t have all day,” he said impatiently.

The Honyrs turned back, each bowed respectfully to his horse, and they climbed into the saddle.

For the next few hours they rode around the courtyard, aiming at targets and varying the speed of their mounts. When Captain Faag ordered them to dismount, he looked satisfied. He handed out large snacks of vegetables, meat and eggs, and as he settled down with the others, Dashvara was surprised to see him sit on a bench with his two soldiers and eat the same thing.

“This guy reminds me of something a militiaman said at the Joyful Nadre,” he commented suddenly. “He said more or less: there are masters who hit, masters who threaten, masters who respect and want to be like fathers, and then masters who pretend to be brothers. But, in the end, all of them are still masters.”

He then noticed that the Honyrs had stopped eating, and he rolled his eyes.

“Sorry, don’t mind me.”

The Steppe thieves continued to eat, and the Xalyas kept silent until everyone had finished their snacks.

“Thank you,” Hoof murmured, the old man, in a low tone. “You are indeed the first to respect our traditions in these lands.”

Dashvara smiled, and Makarva said:

“Well, we Xalyas have always been very tolerant. Have you seen the horses? I had never seen such strange creatures.”

“They run fast,” Hoof appreciated. “But I bet they have less stamina than the horses of the steppe.”

They spoke nostalgically of the steppe, the horses, and their old life. Dashvara listened to Hoof tell how a group of treacherous Essimeans had captured seven of their own and sold them to the Diumcilians. One had died in the arena, two had been sold to a prince of Agoskura, and the fourth had disappeared on the border with Shjak.

“I don’t think he’s still alive,” Hoof admitted. “But, considering the end of the Xalyas, I take comfort in the fact that the majority of Honyrs still live on the steppe.”

Dashvara breathed in slowly, and without answering, turned his gaze to Captain Faag. The federate was walking towards them with a quiet gait.

“We were just commenting…” he began. “Apparently, you Xalyas are as good fighters as the Honyrs. Is that true?”

Dashvara suppressed a clearing of his throat.

“I can’t say for sure. I’ve never fought against a Honyr, and I’d just as soon not have to. But I would say they have an advantage over us.”

“An advantage?”

“Well, they say they have belarch blood in their veins.” He gave the Honyrs a questioning look and saw them smile mockingly.

“There is nothing less true,” Hoof replied. “We are humans in our own right, and all our ancestors were. Historically, we too are descended from the Ancient Kings, even if it costs us to admit it,” he muttered.

His assertion did not seem to scandalize anyone; only Dashvara remained speechless.

“What?” he breathed out loudly. “Impossible. The Old Kings have always pursued you.”

“And for a good reason,” Hoof smiled with some bitterness. “According to our story, a certain Sifiara, son of kings, betrayed his brother and tried to kill him to inherit his lands. He did not succeed, but instead of being beheaded, he was banished to the north with his sons and their wives. We are the descendants of a traitor.”

Dashvara looked at him, dumbfounded. He had always believed Maloven’s theory that the Steppe Thieves were a people from the north, like the Akinoas. Finally, he observed:

“It’s surprising that you remember such an unfavorable… event in your history.”

Hoof smiled, revealing his teeth.

“We are Honyrs. And Honyrs are always true to the history and to everything that happens to them. They don’t lie, they don’t fabricate, and they don’t hide the truths. Our shameful provenance plays a sanctimonious role.”

Listening to his calm and wise voice, Dashvara felt as if he was talking to the shaard of the Steppe Thieves. Captain Faag intervened:

“This is all very interesting, but I suggest you get up and continue training. The past is the past. Come on,” he urged them.

Dashvara stood up but couldn’t help asking:

“And the Eternal Bird? Do you too—?”

“Xalya,” Faag interrupted him curtly.

The captain’s tone of voice reminded him that he was talking to a Titiaka Legitimate. He kept cautiously silent, but as he climbed back on his beautiful white horse, he continued to think about it. The Steppe Thief to whom he had left his Lusombra horse more than three years ago had spoken to him of fighting techniques, and he had told him about their philosophy and principles, but at no time had he used the words “Eternal Bird”, nor had he seemed to know anything about Oy’vat. In any case, if what Hoof said was true, it meant that the old clans were not completely dead. There were still the Honyrs.

Children of traitors, but brothers after all, he considered.

He was so moved by the news that he could not concentrate on what he was doing. He began to fire the arrows so badly that Captain Faag ordered him to stop. Dashvara, irritated, put his foot down.

“What’s the matter?”

Faag looked him in the eye.

“What’s the matter? You’re not focused, that’s the matter, soldier. First you run like a turtle, then you shoot arrows like a beginner after proving you’re a good archer. What’s up with you?” he concluded.

His question demanded an answer. Dashvara gave him none.

“By Compassion,” Faag sighed. He turned to one of his men. “Bring some sabers.”

Dashvara blanched, already imagining that he was going to be executed without Atasiag’s knowledge. Then he reasoned more logically, but he didn’t really relax until he saw the soldier handing him the two weapons. He was going to fight a duel. But against whom?

When he saw Captain Faag pick up his shield and draw his sword, he thought he felt his life ebbing away.

“Don’t make that face, Doomed,” the Yordark smiled. “I assure you, if you hurt me, I will make no complaint. You fight with two swords, don’t you? This is a fair duel. I won it over a Honyr a year ago. I’m curious to see how good fighters Xalyas are.”

Well, personally, I’m not curious, federate. But I guess my opinion doesn’t matter to you.

Faag shouted at the others to stop their horses, ordered them to sit down a few paces from where he and Dashvara were standing, and finally said:

“This time, focus, soldier.”

Dashvara gave him a weary pout and for a moment thought of saying something like “I’m sorry, but I twisted my ankle,” or “I’m sorry, I’ll be careful now, I won’t miss the target anymore”, but he understood that the first excuse was not going to be credible and the second one was not going to prevent the duel the Yordark wanted so much. With a sigh, he waited for Faag to make the first move.

They assessed each other for a while when, finally, impatient, wanting to end the fight regardless of who won, Dashvara rushed in. A few seconds later, he retreated under the blows.

He is strong, he had to admit.

This was a relief to him: if the federate had really succeeded in beating a Honyr, he didn’t see why he couldn’t lose, too.

“Focus,” Faag hissed. His blue eyes flashed with frustration. “Focus or I’ll skewer you right here and send your corpse back to your master.”

Dashvara didn’t know if he was serious, but the mere threat stopped him from trying to hasten his defeat. He moved to the left, attacked, and then retreated again, swearing through his teeth. At one point, he saw a gap, lunged and made a small cut in the federate’s arm. He might have been able to take better advantage of the attack, but he didn’t: he stepped back, pale as death. This time he had really blundered. Faag smiled.

“There, that’s good. Attack without hesitation.”

For a moment, Dashvara thought he was going to declare the duel over and without a winner, but no: the federate attacked again, and Dashvara huffed and puffed, dodging sword and shield blows, moving like the good Sand Prince that he was. However, when the Xalyas had given him that nickname, he was younger and in perfect shape. After a moment of moving like a red snake to avoid Faag’s blows, he felt his breathing stop and his lungs fill with blood. He parried another blow, feinted, bent over, knocked the federate off balance, and kicked him in the crotch just before he remembered the phrase ‘this is a fair duel’ Too late. Faag gasped, bending over, and Dashvara took a step backwards, distraught. He opened his mouth to apologize, but only let out a bloody gurgle. He tried to free his lungs, his head spun, and he staggered.

“What… the hell…?” Captain Faag breathed out. Half-recovered, he watched in amazement as his opponent spat out blood.

The coughing fit was brutal. Dashvara swore inwardly while coughing like hell. He had tried too hard. Cursed federate. He let go of the swords because with a coughing fit like that, he could have hurt himself. He slumped shakily to the ground, trying to get down slowly.

“Dash!” Makarva’s voice cried.

Dashvara saw his friend jump to his feet and Lumon wisely pulled him up by the arm to hold him down. Unlike the other times, he didn’t feel like the bleeding in his lungs was going to stop, and he was still expelling blood. A nameless fear invaded him. Even though he had experienced the imminence of death countless times, he had never stopped fearing it.

“I suppose this leaves the duel without a winner,” Captain Faag said. “Forisag, call the doctor.”

Faag leaned over to Dashvara and asked softly:

“This isn’t the first time this has happened to you, is it? That’s why you weren’t pushing yourself too hard this morning.”

Dashvara did not answer; instead, Lumon did while approaching.

“He has been ill for three years, Captain. It’s because of a dart soaked in red snake venom.”

The blood began to clot in Dashvara’s throat, and he coughed and spat again. When he recovered a little, he met the saddened gaze of the old Honyr, breathed in as much as he could, and croaked:

“Keep your word, federate, and skewer me with your sword. If killing amuses you so much, at least have a shred of compassion and kill m…”

He gasped for air, choked, and tried again to dig a space to breathe. Faag stood up, but not to skewer him, only to move aside. This time, Lumon did not hold Makarva back. The young Xalya knelt beside Dashvara, his expression distressed.

“Dash, you’re going to be fine. You’re not dying…”

His voice was shaky and unsure. Dashvara looked up at Lumon. He saw him standing there, looking grim, and he knew he wouldn’t have bet an old horse on his life expectancy either. For weeks, his health had only gotten worse. When he got his breath back, he gave them both a slight smile and patted Makarva on the shoulder without saying anything. He remembered what Captain Zorvun had said to him at Compassion: ‘That arrow was not the last, Dashvara. I’m sure the last one will be the best.’ A hell of a lot better, yeah.

“Dash,” Makarva gasped. “The doctor is coming. Don’t choke, brother. You’ll see, I’m sure you will heal.”

Even you don’t believe it.

The doctor was a huge, strong individual with a human face who lifted him like a feather and carried him in his arms like a newborn baby.

“We’re going to make you well, kid,” the giant said with a big, soothing smile.

For a moment, Dashvara felt relieved, but then he was seized with an irrational panic when he realized that he might die far from the Xalyas, from his folk, from his people. Distraught, he stirred, trying to escape.

“Brothers!” he bellowed. He let out a stream of blood, and his vision grew dim. He groaned, called out to his brothers again, and added in Oy’vat, “Father… Mother… Nandrivá…” He choked. He coughed violently and used his last remaining strength to exclaim fervently: “Liadirlá, kayástaram, aswuri fasrinur gat…! Munda, Xalya, sizana hunaskam, kay fadula dundat, Liadirlá…!”

Eternal Bird, do not abandon me, until death I will be faithful to you. You have made me lord, Xalya, and brother, and I give you my life, Liadirlá…

34 The funeral

“Master, master, master!” Dashvara cried with a wide smile. “I found the flower you told me about. The featherflower! It’s this one, isn’t it? I want you to keep it, Master.”

Maloven picked up the golden petals with a smile, but to Dashvara’s surprise and indignation, he reached over the battlements of the dungeon and threw the petals to the wind.

“The petals are only the appearance of the inner beauty, little one. It is the stem that produces them. What have you done with it, Dashvara?”

“I… I ripped it off and threw it away,” Dashvara stammered.

Maloven passed a loving hand over his disciple’s young head and whispered in his wise voice:

“You have done wrong. The Eternal Bird shows its feathers to the world by its actions. But the feathers fall, wither, change, and are reborn. What really matters is beyond these feathers, regardless of their color: you will find a star whose light only you can see, but the important thing is that you see it… Are you listening to me, Dashvara?”

* * *

He passed out soon after he spoke his own requiem, and when he regained consciousness, albeit half-heartedly, he didn’t know if he was dead or alive. He had lost a great deal of blood, and he felt empty inside, as exhausted as when the ternian Aydin Kohor had nursed him back to health in his wagon on the road to Rocavita.

The second time he woke up, he opened his eyes and saw the moon against a dark sky. From the shaking, he knew he was being carried on a litter. Or was it an open coffin? He lost consciousness with this macabre thought in his mind, with the conviction that he had ceased to exist. When he came to, he heard a muffled sob and a voice declaiming in Diumcilian:

May Patience and Serenity guide him on the path of Faith and Death.
May he present himself to Almighty Cili with Discretion, Humility, and Courtesy.
May he enter her Domains with Constance.
And may he be Worthy and Brave in the face of the Sacrifice that Life has entrusted to him.
Do, Cili, by Compassion, that this ungrateful, enslaved, and pagan soul who bore in his first life the name of Dashvara of Xalya may rise to your throne.
Do, by Sympathy, his sins be received and forgiven by your noble benevolence…

Dashvara opened his eyes in a daze. He saw, standing before him, an elf dressed in a long blue and purple tunic. He was in the living room of Atasiag Peykat.

Gradually, the elf’s words made sense in his mind, and they seemed so ridiculous that, for a moment, he did not believe them. However, as the priest continued to speak, he had to begin to contemplate the reality: incredibly, he was sitting in an open coffin, decked out with colorful clothes. He opened his rigid fists and discovered a piece of wood carved in the shape of an eagle. Dashvara recognized it at once: it was the one he had given to Inspector Chubby at Compassion. How on earth did it end up in his hands?

Then he began to seriously consider the fact that he was really dead and in some kind of heaven or something. But do dead people have such a headache in Cili’s paradise? he thought wryly. Tired of listening to the ravings of this Cilian priest, he took a breath and sat up. Or at least he tried: he only had the strength to raise one of his arms.

Immediately, a clamor of amazement rose in the room. Dashvara saw Fayrah fall unconscious. Faces surrounded him on all sides, he noticed. What were those people doing at Atasiag? I have to get out of here, he mentally muttered. But he was too tired. Too hungry and thirsty. And half dead.

He was dressed in an impeccable white tunic, he noted. Since when was a slave given such a lavish funeral? His appearance and the situation seemed so incongruous that he didn’t know how to react: should he feel horrified that he was almost buried alive or should he laugh at this madness?

The loud uproar drew the priest out of his prayers; when the elf lowered his eyes, he raised his hands to his head and shouted:

“May the Graces have mercy on us, he’s alive!”

Dashvara winced.

“Of course I’m alive,” he growled. Only a guttural sound escaped his lips.

Someone helped him out of the coffin and onto one of the living room sofas. It was Wassag. He was wearing light blue clothes, the color of death in Diumcili.

“The King is alive!” exclaimed a voice he did not recognize.

The exclamation was echoed by others who spoke of resurrections and miracles. From the sofa, Dashvara looked at them, dumbfounded.

“The King?” he repeated. This time he managed to articulate the syllables. His eyes closed with sheer fatigue.

“By Serenity,” Tsu’s trembling voice breathed out. “Make them all get out. Eminence, tell them to get out. He is alive, but he is very weak.”

Dashvara smiled inwardly. Has anyone ever seen this? A slave giving orders to his master… And, to top it all off, Atasiag addressed this entire unknown procession by saying:

“Please! A little respect. Get out or you’ll end up killing him with your screams. Please,” he repeated. “Get out. Go home. Yes, I promise you, I will inform you of his condition first thing tomorrow. And now, by the Graces of Cili, grant us some peace.”

The noise gradually subsided and the footsteps became fewer and fewer. Someone said:

“Long live his Eternal Bird!”

Dashvara opened his eyes and met the fervent gaze of a young Diumcilian wearing a blue tunic and a golden belt. What the hell was a citizen doing talking about Eternal Birds?

“Dash,” Tsu’s voice said. “Can you hear me?”

Dashvara parted his lips.

“I hear you,” he replied. “Water. Please.”

“Of course.”

Footsteps moved away and others approached.

“Yorlen, Wassag,” Atasiag’s voice called out. “Take Fayrah to her room. Lessi, go with them and take care of her. Leoshu, tell the morticians to remove the funeral carriage. Reassure them that I will pay for the transport anyway. Philosopher,” he said. He stood by the sofa, and Dashvara could see his expression. A slight smile played on his lips as he said, “You are indestructible.”

Dashvara breathed in softly.

“Not so much.”

“You were dead,” Atasiag added. “Totally dead. When Faag Yordark brought you here, your heart was no longer beating. You are incredible, Philosopher.”

Dashvara exhaled.

“Who were those people?” he asked.

“Mmph. Students,” Atasiag replied. “Admirers of that old Maloven. He told them that you were the last King of the Eternal Bird.” He sat down beside him. “He was your master, wasn’t he?”

Dashvara did not even have the strength to be surprised.

“Yes,” he confirmed in a whisper.

The water finally arrived, and Dashvara thought he felt the energy surge through his body again as he finished the first drink. He drank another, and another, until Tsu stopped him.

“That’s enough. Now go to sleep. I will give you more water when you wake up.”

Outside, a sudden commotion was heard.

“Daaash!”

“Dashvara!”

“Brother!”

It was the Xalyas. Blood pounding against his temples, Dashvara gave Atasiag a pleading look.

“Can you let them in?”

Tsu mumbled softly. Atasiag hesitated but finally agreed and got up to open the door for them. It was as if a tide of orcs had suddenly invaded the house. But they were not orcs: they were his people.

“Son!” Zorvun exclaimed, his voice trembling, falling to his knees before him. “You were dead. I really thought you were. These Diumcilians bury people at the drop of a hat. Oh, Liadirlá, how do you feel?”

Dashvara could only focus on what the captain was saying. He felt his hand grip his firmly, and he smiled.

“I feel, which is not bad. Tell me,” he added in a hushed voice, “how the hell did this get here?” He pointed to the wooden eagle he held in his fist. “I gave it to Chubby.”

Zorvun’s eyes shone.

“Oh. I think he heard about what happened to you from some student friends and he came. The Diumcilians have a custom of giving things to the dead. Listen, Dash. Now, don’t die on us, okay? You can’t play with our feelings like that.”

“Exactly,” Orafe said, his cheeks moistened with tears. “If you’re going to resurrect, resurrect for real. Don’t be a makarver.”

All without exception were crying. Even Sashava. Makarva and Zamoy had knelt down next to the captain; the former, with his emaciated face, was saying a prayer to his Eternal Bird. The others were all silent with emotion. Dashvara smiled tremulously, his heart more alive than ever.

“Weren’t you supposed to be practicing solfata, Mak?” he muttered.

Makarva smiled and inhaled sharply.

“The Yordarks sent us back with you. They declared us ‘unusable’. I couldn’t even ride a horse knowing you were dead,” he confessed.

“I am not dead,” Dashvara assured. “There is no such thing as resurrection. Maloven would tell you that.”

Makarva’s expression changed subtly. The captain sighed.

“He’s dead, Dash. Two days ago. He was the oldest man I’ve known in my entire life as a Xalya.”

Dashvara remained silent. He could not feel quite sad because, all in all, Maloven had had a relatively good and very long life. ‘The Eternal Bird flies with dignity but always ends up landing’, he thought. He only regretted not having had time to speak with the shaard to thank him. He swallowed hard. The words he had just pronounced suddenly seemed to him of a very black humor.

“I never quite understood his Eternal Bird,” he murmured at last.

He looked back at his brothers and smiled.

“I just remembered what he told me about petals. ‘It’s not the feathers that are important, but the strength that sustains them’. Something like that.” He paused, dizzy, and murmured, “May His Eternal Bird rest in peace. I will meditate on his words while I sleep.” He closed his eyes, breathed in and added, “I will try to stay alive. I promise you that.”

“Come on, get out,” Atasiag Peykat’s soft voice suggested. “I will take care of him as if he were my own son.”

Dashvara heard footsteps and then the captain’s husky voice telling His Eminence:

“The Xalyas thank you.”

When the living room fell silent, Dashvara opened his eyes and clutched the wooden eagle to his chest. Atasiag kindly covered him with a blanket, sat down in an armchair with a book, crossed his legs and gave Dashvara a slight nod.

“Sleep easy, my friend. I will watch over your dreams,” he promised him.

Dashvara closed his eyes again, exhausted. He thought of telling the federate that next time he shouldn’t bother to pay for a coffin and a Cilian priest, but he fell asleep before he could open his mouth.

When he woke up, they put him in a bed in Atasiag’s library, and for the rest of the day all Dashvara did was sleep and try to swallow water and food. Atasiag spent hours writing scrolls at his desk or reading books in his chair. Tsu came regularly to check the pulse of the Xalya and to probe him with endarsic spells; at the fifth appearance of the drow, Dashvara said to him:

“So? Am I ready to be buried?”

The drow watched him, completed his spell and shook his head.

“Not quite,” he replied. “If you keep sleeping, maybe your lungs will eventually heal. I don’t see any traces of red snake venom anymore. Hopefully, you’ve managed to get rid of it completely by losing so much blood. I don’t know, honestly: your illness is incomprehensible.”

Dashvara scanned him, and after a hesitation, he whispered:

“You always thought I would end up dead, didn’t you?”

The drow’s red eyes reflected the answer better than any words.

“I wasn’t giving you more than a few months,” he admitted. He glanced inexpressively at Atasiag Peykat, sitting at his desk, before adding, “I was waiting for your guarantee to run out so I could talk to His Eminence with the certainty that… that he wouldn’t turn you over to the Council if he found out you were sick.” He pouted. “In any case, I didn’t have much hope that other doctors could do anything for you either,” he admitted. “I had the same education as they did at the University, and from the beginning, I saw that your condition was hardly fixable. I didn’t even think to check your energies when they said you were dead. I was so… convinced. The Yordark doctor must have thought your energies were decaying naturally. I was a fool not to check them.” He gave him a soothing look as he resumed, “But, now, things may have changed. I don’t know why, but your condition doesn’t seem so critical anymore.”

Dashvara continued to look at him, trying to guess if he was being sincere with him. He thought about asking him, but restrained himself. He preferred to believe him.

“Good. Then you’ll have to put up with the Lord of the Steppe for a while longer,” he smiled.

Tsu smiled back and handed him an object.

“What is it?” Dashvara asked, curious. It looked like a silver coin, but it was not stamped with the usual Diumcilian or Dazbonian seals, but fashioned with the profile of a crowned elven woman in the center.

While helping him to put the strap around his neck, the drow explained:

“It was given to me by the Hakassu you saw in Ariltuan. It is supposed to bring good luck.”

Dashvara’s eyes widened, and he glanced at Atasiag. The federate kept examining his scroll.

“He knows everything,” Tsu informed him. “He knows I work for the Hakassu. Or… at least that I used to work for them,” he corrected as Atasiag arched an eyebrow. “Apparently, the Yordark and Korfu plan to expedite peace negotiations with Shjak. They began by delivering Saazi, the woman you saw in Captain Faag’s tent. She was a Hakassu. And finally they allowed Queen Shaazra to ‘escape’ at last. The Queen of Shjak,” he clarified in the face of Dashvara’s bewildered look. “She is the woman who appears on the medallion. Well, she’s not technically a queen, but she’s a Hakassu, and before the federal armies captured her five years ago, she had a lot of support. From what I’ve heard, at least. The thing is that Shaazra ran away the same night I slipped away, the day of the Kondister party. Apparently… um… the escape was almost aborted because two of the drows who were supposed to help her were limping. From what I hear… uh… they ran into some savages in the middle of the night, in Homage Square.” He coughed delicately, and Dashvara bit his tongue.

Although Alta had already expressed his suspicions on the subject, Dashvara had not believed until then that Tsu was involved in any story of negotiations between Diumcili and Shjak. Or rather that he had been involved, he corrected himself, glancing curiously at Atasiag. He looked again at the medallion, and the profile of the woman drow suddenly seemed too… majestic. He cleared his throat.

“Well, that’s good.” He smiled. “Now we just have to hope that this Shaazra is a little wiser than Saazi and doesn’t intend to wipe out the Federation. If she is, I guess everyone will soon be celebrating peace. Let’s hope it lasts. Well,” he yawned. “Tell me, Tsu, how many days have passed since I was… uh… dead without being dead?”

“Four,” Tsu replied calmly. “The Yordark doctor tried to feed you first. Then we all thought you were dead and…”

“And they put me in a coffin,” Dashvara concluded with a nervous chuckle. “So when Lumon said we weren’t really alive anymore, he wasn’t that far off base.”

Tsu winced. He reached out and gently touched the Xalya’s forehead before standing up.

“I won’t bother you anymore. Sleep, brother.” He bowed to Atasiag and walked out of the library.

As soon as the door closed, the federate left his quill in the inkwell, and after a few seconds of silence, he observed:

“You look like you’re doing better.” He paused for a moment before adding, “I’m glad.”

Dashvara stroked the silver locket with distracted fingers.

“Are you glad as a friend or as a slave master, Eminence?”

As he got no answer, he turned his head to Atasiag. The federate looked pensive.

“As both,” he said at last. “I’m not as narrow-minded as you seem to think I am. But put yourself in my place, Philosopher. I was born into a well-to-do citizens’ family, with five slaves, and among them a tutor who was a staunch defender of the Diumcilian system; he even refused his freedom when my father offered it to him because he considered that he should set an example. He was a bit of a fool, I admit, but… honestly, the condition of slaves has a reason to exist, don’t you think? It’s legal and natural. Some people have to create and others have to organize. What would happen to Titiaka if everyone started to organize and no one created anything? And conversely, what would happen to Titiaka if everyone created and no one organized?”

Atasiag was more talkative than usual. Dashvara smiled.

“Chaos? Ruin? Self-destruction?” He laughed softly. “An old Shalussi once told me: the child plays, the youth works, the man orders, and the elder speaks. Obviously, the Shalussi organize themselves by age, and the federates by condition and origin. We Xalyas all organize ourselves together and create what we need without having to enslave anyone or push anyone aside. If we didn’t have such belligerent neighbors, we would have done very well,” he said.

Atasiag shrugged and stood up to stretch his legs as he replied:

“There were no more than a few hundred of you. You can’t compare. Besides,” he smiled, “don’t the Xalyas have a lord they must obey? Isn’t that a form of slavery?”

Dashvara made a face.

“You have hit the nail on the head,” he admitted. “Instead of a god we have a lord who, according to tradition, plays the role of brother and ruler.”

“That is, you,” Atasiag said, sitting down on a chair by the bed.

Dashvara bit his cheek.

“That is, me,” he finally confirmed. “According to tradition,” he repeated. “But, in all seriousness, I am too young to be a lord.”

“Ah, so, in your people, there are also restrictions according to age,” Atasiag ironically said.

Dashvara raised an eyebrow.

“Do you want us to play who finds the most flaws in his clan? Very well. To begin with, your clan is conquering like the Akinoas, hypocritical and slave-owning like the Essimeans, and as warlike as the Shalussis. And, on top of that, its citizens entertain themselves with nonsense. I’m not saying that your whole society is nonsense, I’m just saying that a lot of it is.”

He fell silent, and suddenly remembering who he was speaking to, he paled a little. Atasiag, however, just looked thoughtful. Finally, he said:

“Your clan is proud like the Dikaksunora, conservative like the Korfu, and as fanatical as some of the Cilian priests. And, that is precisely why I like you so much,” he smiled.

Dashvara dropped the medallion on his chest. He wasn’t sure how to react to his last words, so he asked:

“Fanatic?”

“Mm,” Atasiag confirmed. “You Xalyas are fanatics of your Eternal Birds. You see? You’re already getting offended.”

“I don’t take offense,” Dashvara replied. “Explain to me. How am I a fanatic of my Eternal Bird?”

Atasiag crossed his arms, looking at him with smiling eyes.

“You, maybe not so much,” he admitted. “But most of your men are. I get the impression that their minds work as one. A Xalya is nothing without his brothers. That’s what Arvara told me a few days ago.” His dark eyes probed him. “You didn’t see them when they got the news of your death. I was afraid they would lose their minds and get out of hand. I even had them remove their weapons first, just in case. But, in the end, it was not necessary. They became as if petrified. I was afraid to lose them all, I swear. It was as if, without their lord, the clan was condemned to death and them with it. For three days they died with you in your coffin, Dashvara of Xalya.”

Dashvara held his gaze for a few seconds before turning it away to the ceiling of the library.

“If this is fanaticism, then I too am a fanatic, Eminence.”

“Don’t misinterpret me,” Atasiag said softly. “I admire the loyalty that exists between you. And I envy it. But your way of life is self-destructive. You Xalyas place your hopes in a person who represents your ‘Dahars’, and you are capable of losing your survival instinct and die for him.”

“They would have gotten over it,” Dashvara assured. “You’re exaggerating.”

Atasiag smiled, and a glint of affection passed through his eyes.

“I’m not exaggerating. You should have seen them. They looked like walking corpses, if you pardon the expression. Anyway, don’t think that in Titiaka we are less sensitive to the deaths of our relatives, but we are much more… individualistic. You people are like a hive of bees.”

Dashvara relaxed and smiled.

“Thank you. That’s the best compliment I’ve heard in a long time. Listen to this story, Eminence,” he said suddenly. “We used to tell it to the children in our people. One day, a lone wolf meets a pack of other wolves and learns that they are looking for a cub lost on the steppe. He is curious and follows them for a long time, until he asks them, ‘Are you never going to give up, brothers?’ An old wolf approaches him and answers, ‘we have been looking for our son for five years, but we do not give up, because our heart tells us that he is still alive, and we do not abandon our own’. Then the lone wolf understands that he is the one they were looking for. He feels moved by the constancy and love his pack has shown him, and he decides to say goodbye to his solitary life, realizing that life is much better when you do good deeds for your brothers.” He smiled and concluded, “We Xalyas give everything for our clan and our Dahars. We are brothers, we have confidence in ourselves, and we always remain dignified. Dignity, trust, and fraternity,” he murmured. “That doesn’t sound like such a self-destructive way of life to me. Maybe a little proud and stubborn. But it’s our way of being.”

Atasiag shook his head with a deeply pensive pout.

“Thank you for the tale.” He smiled, stood up, and joked, “I’d better let you sleep, or you’ll end up converting me into a Xalya.”

Dashvara snorted, amused.

“I don’t convert anyone, Eminence. I am only a philosopher.”

Atasiag surprised him when he briefly bowed his head to him. He tidied up his desk a bit and then walked out of the library with several rolls of parchment. Dashvara smiled.

I don’t know if you’ll convert into a Xalya, federate, but your Eternal Bird is probably more open than I thought. He yawned and let his eyelids close by themselves.

35 Like a wave against a reef

Dashvara stayed in the library for two days before he could stand up. When he woke up the next time, he found Fayrah and Lessi sitting by his bed. They looked like they had been there a long time. By tacit agreement, the three of them avoided talking about the near past, Fayrah told him amusing anecdotes from her evenings with the Titiakas, and she recited a poem in Diumcilian that she had written a few weeks ago and to which Dashvara found no meaning. He gasped when Fayrah tried to explain it to him, talking about analogies, metaphors, and other abstractions.

“It would be better if you explained the poem to Miflin rather than to me, sîzin. It’s more or less like speaking to me in Agoskurian.”

Fayrah received his words with an amused pout, but from then on the conversation was reduced, and Dashvara regretted having interrupted it. Of course, he didn’t understand anything about rhymes and he wasn’t particularly interested, but it was important for his sister, and this was a good enough reason to take a minimum interest. Finally, he apologized to her, and Fayrah rolled her eyes.

“Don’t lie to me, sîzan. Poetry does not interest you. I already have to put up with the hypocrisy of the Diumcilians, that’s enough. So spare me yours.”

Dashvara laughed.

“It wasn’t hypocrisy, I assure you. Besides, it’s not true that poetry doesn’t interest me. I’m not interested in understanding it, but I like to listen to it. As our shaard used to say, may he rest in peace, every Eternal Bird has its inclinations.”

Since Lessi and Fayrah had been invited to the Korfus’ dinner that night, they soon took their leave, and short afterwards, Dashvara fell asleep again and returned to his usual nightmares. He was getting tired of seeing Sheroda everywhere in his dreams. She even managed to show up when he dreamed that he was riding on the steppe or when, like that night, he dreamed that he was dying under the huge mass of a brizzia. Even in front of his corpse, the eyes of Sheroda continued to look at him, accusing. Cursed shixan.

Atasiag had forbidden visits from outside, but he came in twice with gifts. The first time, he left a pot with a beautiful tulip on a small table, a gift from Zaadma. When Atasiag came to give him a handful of horsehair with a quizzical face, Dashvara smiled without even asking him whose idea it was to give him such a gift.

“Shalussi,” he said, moved. Rokuish could not have found a better way to express his friendship.

On the second day, a letter arrived from Rowyn apologizing for not being able to talk to him earlier and promising to come as soon as he could. Azune and Axef had attached their signatures to the letter, which bore the postmark of Seraldia. It seemed that police secretaries were always traveling throughout the Federation. It’s almost a wonder they remembered me, Dashvara thought.

Finally, he got tired of lying still, and on the second night, after being awakened by one of his ridiculous nightmares, he got up. His head spun a little, but after a few seconds the room stopped swaying before his eyes. He walked out of the living room and almost stumbled against a large mass near the sofa. In the darkness, he could not guess what it was and he continued his way as discreetly as possible before going out into the yard.

He took a breath of night and autumn air. With serenity, he breathed in and savored the smell of jasmine that scented the whole air of Titiaka when the wind was not blowing. It’s not for nothing that some people call it the City of Flowers, he thought. Hadn’t Zaadma said that, in Titiaka, they sold more ornamental flowers than potions? Smiling, Dashvara rested a hand against a column and looked up at the starry sky, where the Scorpion constellation shone. Without really knowing why, a verse from a steppian sage came to mind, and he said it in a whisper:

“It’s so easy to be happy.”

A sudden movement to his left startled him. Between the columns, he saw a figure get up and turn her back hastily.

“Yira!” Dashvara said, surprised.

“Don’t… don’t come any closer!” she stammered quickly. “You caught me off guard.”

He finally saw her turn toward him with the veil and hood tightly pulled down. What could she be hiding behind that veil? The question burned his tongue, but as always, Dashvara dared not speak it. He sighed and approached.

“You are still very weak, Dash,” Yira murmured, still a little altered.

Dashvara shrugged.

“Not so much,” he assured. “I was hoping to find you here. How are you?”

Yira was tense, that was obvious.

“Fine,” she said. “I’m glad to see you up and about. Here, this is yours,” she added.

To Dashvara’s surprise, he saw her step forward and hand him something. Another gift? Dashvara took it and recognized the Chubby’s wooden eagle.

“You dropped it when they took you to the library,” Yira explained. “It’s a beautiful sculpture.”

Dashvara smiled and observed with mocking modesty:

“Thank you. Actually, I carved it. Listen, since the inspector I gave it to gave it back to me, it is yours. I already have an amulet, a present from Tsu,” he added, amused, and gestured to the silver medallion hanging around his neck.

Yira hesitated and nodded.

“I can’t accept it. I don’t like gifts.”

Dashvara raised an eyebrow in surprise.

“Oh, well—”

“Sorry,” Yira said quickly. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“Offend me?” Dashvara laughed softly. “You foreigners will take offense at anything. Why should I be offended?” He looked at the girl with a broad smile. “Can I ask you why you don’t like gifts?”

“Mm.” Dashvara guessed her smile by the glint in her eyes. “That’s a good question.” The young woman leaned against a column and turned toward the courtyard. “I guess it’s because, until now, no one has ever offered me anything material that really makes me happy.”

Dashvara cocked his head to one side.

“The most important thing is not the gift, but the way to give it, don’t you think? Look, yesterday, Rokuish, the Shalussi I told you about, gave me a handful of horsehair. And he made me happy. I don’t need much to be happy,” he admitted, amused.

Yira’s eyes smiled before becoming unusually serious.

“When you died, I felt very sad,” she whispered.

Dashvara bowed his head, moved by the sincerity in her voice.

“And when I came back to life, you felt happy, didn’t you?” he completed lightly.

Her eyes were smiling again.

“Yes.”

Dashvara sighed, and with some boldness, took Yira’s hand with all the gentleness he could muster. Surprisingly, she didn’t shy away and cuddled in his arms like a little girl seeking solace. Her body seemed very fragile and frail.

“I hate death,” Yira whispered, her face buried against his chest. “I hate it because it has separated me from so many people I have known and loved.”

Dashvara perceived more sadness than vehemence in her words.

“Hating death is like hating the air, naâsga,” he whispered to her. “Death is. But we, being what we are, must respect life more than we fear death.”

After a silence, Yira stepped back a little and looked up.

“What did you call me?”

Dashvara’s face flushed.

“Naâsga,” he repeated, however. “There is no literal translation in Common Tongue. It means ‘respectful love’ or something like that.”

Yira remained silent for a few seconds.

“You never called your brothers that.”

Dashvara could not hold back a sudden burst of laughter.

“No, by the Liadirlá!” He shook his head, amused, and cleared his throat. “I know we’ve only known each other for a few weeks, but… sometimes you can know someone for years and not know them as well as I think I know you. It’s a strange feeling,” he admitted thoughtfully. “I’ve had it since that night you showed me those butterflies of light. And it’s only gotten stronger since then.” He smiled. “There is nothing more beautiful than to see the power of love beating in your own heart. It is invigorating. Maloven used to say that every good Xalya should walk through his life to the rhythm of its song. I have given love to my parents and my brothers, to Lusombra and my other horses, to the steppe, to the sky and the stars that shine every night. I have given my love to a thousand details that make life worth living. And now I would like to give it to you.”

Yira’s eyes suddenly reflected alarm.

“Oh, no, no, no…” she whispered. She took a step back, and Dashvara looked at her, not quite sure how to take her reaction.

Admit it: you were expecting it. Yira is like a bird that sings happily when you look at it from afar and flies away when you try to catch it. But who said you were trying to catch her? You only want her to trust you.

Yira passed a hand over her eyes.

“I guess that’s normal,” she finally said.

Dashvara huffed at the brevity of her words.

“What do you mean?” he encouraged her.

“I mean… I guess it’s normal that you love me, since I love you, too. This strange feeling… I felt it too. Well, maybe I made it up. But I assure you that your… love will not last longer than a wave against a reef.”

Dashvara frowned.

“It will last as long as my life lasts,” he assured. “You speak without knowing.”

Yira let out a bitter laugh.

“I speak with full knowledge, Dashvara of Xalya. If you really saw me, you would never have fallen in love with me.”

Dashvara shook his head. In some corner of his mind he felt apprehensive, but he did not let his treacherous imagination take over. He stepped forward, and Yira stepped back.

“No, Dash,” she whispered. “You’ll have nightmares.”

“I already have nightmares,” Dashvara replied.

He took another step, but this time Yira did not back down. She simply asked:

“Why do you need to see to love?”

Dashvara stopped.

“A good question,” he acknowledged and held out a hand. “Do you really want an answer?”

Slowly, Yira looked down at her hand.

And now she’s going to make some comment to calm me down, and she’s going to disappear like the mist, what do you bet?

Dashvara almost gasped in surprise when he felt Yira’s gloved hand in his. Did this mean… she trusted him? He promised himself that whatever horror he found, he wouldn’t run away. And this time, you better keep your promise…

He raised his other hand to her hood… staggered; and instead of removing it, he drew her face close and kissed her forehead through the fabric. He thought of telling her that he didn’t care if she was as ugly as a scale-nefarious, but then he realized that if he hesitated any longer, he would make his apprehension obvious, and he finally helped her to take off the veil. He discovered a smooth and soft hair whiter than that of Sedrios the Old. Yira trembled as she herself took off the veil that covered her face. Dashvara was unable to hide his horror. He had imagined that her skin was damaged, was full of scars, burned, or whatever. He would have never imagined that on the right side of her face there was simply no skin. The bones could be seen, covered by a thin bluish halo that darkened them, almost enveloping them in a dense black smoke. The vision was unearthly and terrifying.

“Like a wave against a reef,” Yira murmured.

Tears shone in her eyes. That look made him forget everything else. Dashvara smiled and stroked her left cheek.

“No, naâsga. Like a reef against a breath of air,” he corrected her. “And now, reassure me. This is not magic, is it?”

Yira looked at him, her eyes wide open.

“Dash,” she exhaled. “Of course it’s magic. It’s mortic energy. I’m half-undead. That’s why I sleep so little. I told you about Taymed. He’s the one who taught me harmonies. He was an ancient necromancer. Six years ago, there was a fire in his house while he was giving me a lesson. I think it was provoked. Taymed saved my life, but he couldn’t fix me completely. That’s why I hate death so much.”

She spoke in fits and starts, as if she wanted to explain to Dashvara why she looked the way she did. Half of her face was still, darkened by the energies. Dashvara swallowed hard.

“Well, it’s magic, then. I…” he choked, not knowing what to say.

“I understand, Dash,” Yira said in a hushed whisper. “I understand.”

She was about to leave. Geez, you’re not going to let a light in your life slip away because of simple prejudice, Dash? He was overcome with panic and almost forcibly restrained her.

“Please, Yira. Stop drawing conclusions that aren’t true,” he gasped. “How I wish a bolt of lightning would strike the one who started the fire! And how I wish I could thank old Taymed for saving your life. I have nothing against magic or the dead,” he smiled. “After all, I too am apparently dead and risen.”

And now stop talking, Dash, and prove to her that you love her.

And stop doubting…

Follow your Eternal Bird as you have always done.

Still, he had to fight the fear of magic when his lips touched hers. He felt an electrifying touch that had nothing to do with his feelings. A nameless fear invaded him.

What if I turn into an undead?

Don’t be stupid, Dash, he chided himself. And if you really do turn into an undead, well, what can you do. Those are the risks of life. Sometimes you die. And sometimes you half-die.

Gradually, Yira responded to his kiss, and this comforted him a little.

“You’re shaking,” Yira whispered.

Dashvara laughed nervously.

“A little,” he admitted. “Uh… I’ve not recovered completely yet, that’s why.”

“Recovered from what?” Yira smiled.

Dashvara gasped. His heart was beating like a runaway horse. Without answering her, he caressed her white hair and kissed her again without feeling any apprehension. Finally, he asked:

“About the mortic energy… how does it hold?”

Yira burst out laughing and covered her mouth as she glanced guiltily around the yard.

“By Serenity,” she breathed. “Mortic energy does not hold itself, it simply is. I renew it myself from my own bones. Taymed taught me how to do it.”

Dashvara made a not entirely sincere pout of semi-comprehension.

“Ah. And… excuse my questions, but… do you feel something even though you have no skin?”

Yira smiled.

“Of course I feel something, but it’s something very different from what I feel where I have skin. That is… I feel your energy vibrations. And I can hear your heartbeat as if someone were beating a drum a span away from my ears.”

Dashvara watched her as he stroked her tenderly. He felt more relaxed and relieved to know with complete certainty that he had not made a mistake. His Eternal Bird had not lied to him, and to top it all off, this laughing, sweet, and mysterious bird had not flown away…

“Are you human?”

Yira shook her head.

“I am half human and half hobbit. Where I come from, I was called a sursha, which means ‘in the middle’. There were quite a few surshas on the island. Although I don’t remember the details very well. I was very young.”

Dashvara felt his strength draining, and without letting go, he pointed down the hallway before sitting down.

“You should go back to the library,” Yira sighed. “Tsu said you shouldn’t move.”

Dashvara knew, however, that she didn’t want him to leave. And he didn’t want to leave now either. An atmosphere of serenity enveloped them, and Dashvara suddenly thought he was back in the innocent childhood of his early years. He smiled. This was truly a resurrection.

After a meditative silence, Yira asked:

“What are you going to tell the students, Dash?”

Dashvara looked at her, puzzled.

“Students?”

“They showed up today, in front of the gate. And so they did yesterday. They named you King of the Eternal Bird. What exactly does that mean?”

Dashvara sighed. The news left him indifferent.

“Bah. It’s probably a fantasy of Maloven. Obviously, he couldn’t help preaching the Dahars, and he wanted to make me a martyr or whatever. Tomorrow I’ll tell them to go away and go plant grass in the desert.”

A mocking glint passed through Yira’s slanted eyes.

“You can’t do that. Most of them are citizens. Maybe you could tell them the same thing, but in a slightly more diplomatic way.”

Dashvara smiled broadly.

“Yes. Otherwise they’d take it as a verbal attack, wouldn’t they? Those Diumcilians,” he sighed. “Then I’ll tell them to go study at their University and leave me in peace with my naâsga, my brothers, and my Eternal Bird. Better?”

Yira shook her head, amused.

“You can always try to tell them. But I doubt it will appease their curiosity. I feel like they’re expecting something from you.”

Dashvara arched an eyebrow.

“That I die and revive once again, perhaps? Well, I’ll deal with the problem when I have these students in front of me. For now, let them keep talking nonsense about a King of the Eternal Bird. Really, what funny ideas our shaard had…”

There was a silence, and then, Yira whispered:

“Is it true that I don’t disgust you, Dash? Doesn’t it scare you to have a half-dead being next to you?”

Dashvara was surprised by the harshness with which she expressed her condition.

“You ask such strange questions,” he breathed out. “You see, disgust is totally subjective. Personally, a sajit who acts with malice disgusts me more than a scale-nefarious, to give an example. Appearance… it just takes some getting used to.”

Yira relaxed but shook her head negatively.

“It’s not just appearance, Dash. Necromantic arts are strictly forbidden in almost all sajit societies. That’s why they tried to kill Taymed on Matswad Island. If Atasiag hadn’t gotten us out of there, the islanders would have killed my master, and then they would have killed me. I have to use spells regularly to hide my mortic regeneration. If anyone found out what I am, I’d end up on the stake. And they would execute Atasiag for protecting me. Reviving the dead goes against the nature of things,” she muttered. “To ordinary people, necromancers are dangerous madmen, and their creatures are horrible monsters. I don’t think that, among your people, they are very well regarded either.”

“Uh… I’ve never given it much thought,” Dashvara admitted. “But, on the steppe, it is said that the Essimeans use spells with the dead. They worship a God of Death. Perhaps their priests are necromancers. Certainly, we Xalyas don’t have a very good opinion of them. Not to fear death is one thing, but to worship it is another.” He fell silent and felt foolish as he said, “But… you are not dead.”

Yira looked up at the starry sky, and her black eyes sparkled.

“I am. Partly.”

Half of her face was as white as the moon, and the other half, as dark as night. Dashvara gazed at her with fascination. He thought he was looking at the vivid image of Life fighting Death. But in the end, Yira was much more than Life or Death. She was much more than a necromancer.

“You are mistaken,” Dashvara said. “Nothing in you is dead. Listen, if I lost a hand, a leg or an eye, would I be more dead than alive? No, right? And if I could replace what I lost with something, even if it was forbidden, what would be wrong with that? What matters is not the feather that is seen, but the strength that sustains it.” He smiled and concluded, “There is also little point in thinking too much about what we have been or what others wish us to be.”

Yira let out a quiet laugh.

“Who would dare to contradict such arguments? Coming from another person, I would think that you are saying these words only to calm me down, but coming from a Xalya like you, with such a high Eternal Bird…” She smiled, amused, though with a certain sadness. She murmured, “It all seems like a beautiful dream ready to break into a thousand pieces at the slightest blow.”

Dashvara felt slightly offended.

“A dream?” he repeated. “I know you are a great harmonic used to practicing illusions, but that does not mean you can live only on illusions, naâsga. I, for one, don’t want this night to have been a mere illusion. It is pure reality. And if I were recovered, and we were in the steppe, I would get you on Lusombra, and we would ride together to the east, to the desert and to Mount Bakhia. We would kneel at the foot of the mountain and seal our Eternal Birds as my parents and ancestors did before them.”

A deep feeling was reflected in Yira’s eyes.

“Thank you, Dash. Your words are real enough for me. I could tell you that you’re too good and that no undead like me deserve your tenderness but… I’m too selfish for that.”

Dashvara smiled, kissed her forehead, and closed his eyes. Hell, he had slept most of the day, and despite that, he now felt terribly tired.

Suddenly, a voice in his head startled him:

‘Someone is coming!’

Worried, he stood up awkwardly, and when he saw a mass of shadows near a column, he gasped.

“Tah…”

For a second, he thought of protesting his indiscretion, but then he remembered that a shadow could hardly stop being indiscreet anyway, and he let it pass to intently scan the surroundings. He could see nothing.

‘The roof, Dash,’ Tahisran kindly helped him.

Meanwhile, Yira had fully covered herself again, and Dashvara saw that she, too, was looking up to the roof of the north wing. A figure was trying to climb down by a rope.

“Thank you, Tahisran,” the young woman whispered in the shadows. Alarmed, Dashvara saw her draw the black sword. He didn’t want to see her use a weapon for anything.

“Sheathe your sword, naâsga,” he asked her, embarrassed. “If he is a thief, perhaps we can make him see reason.”

“That’s exactly what I’m trying to do,” Yira replied.

“To make him listen to reason with words,” Dashvara said with a snort.

“Like the day you first met His Eminence in Dazbon?” Yira asked softly. There was a hint of amusement in her voice.

She raised her index finger in front of her veil, and Dashvara kept his answer to himself. Hidden now in the darkness of the hallway, they watched the intruder’s careful advance. He had almost reached the last tiles.

Tahisran came and stood next to them.

‘I always knew you two would end up getting along,’ he commented cheerfully. ‘And I’m glad, because I think you’re both very nice. I’m sorry I eavesdropped on your conversation, Dash,’ he added. ‘I’m not a meddler, but… I’ve always been very curious, and my transformation into a shadow didn’t help matters.’

Dashvara rolled his eyes and glanced at Yira. She had her eyes fixed on the thief. When that one finally stepped onto the cobblestones, Dashvara began to faint and leaned against a wall for a few seconds.

‘Dash?’ Tahisran worried. Dashvara gestured that he was okay and watched as the intruder headed straight for the main door. When he was far enough away from the rope, Yira blocked his path.

“Halt there,” she hissed. “Who are you?”

The man stopped, looking surprised. Dashvara squinted as he too approached. And suddenly he recognized him.

“Cloud?” he breathed, stunned.

It was the scar-faced Honyr with whom he had spoken in the Yordark castle. He and the Steppe Thief watched each other silently for a few moments. Then the latter said:

“I want to talk to you alone, Lord of the Xalyas.”

Dashvara frowned, and for a moment, he was tempted to tell him that he could speak in front of Yira, since now it was her naâsga. But he thought better of it and nodded.

“Okay.” He bowed respectfully to Yira, as any Xalya lord would have done to his wife under such circumstances, and walked out of the gallery to walk away with the Honyr. He stopped in front of the fountain and looked at the steppeman curiously. “I’m all ears.”

The Honyr nodded firmly.

“My name is Sirk Is Rhad, and I come on behalf of Shokr Is Set, the Great Sage of our clan, to communicate to you his most sincere expression of joy at knowing you are alive and to declare that Shokr Is Set, Atsan Is Fadul, and Sirk Is Rhad are ready to serve the lord of the Xalyas to the death if he commits himself to returning to the steppe as soon as possible, introducing himself in person to the clan of the Honyrs, and forgiving them orally for their past faults.”

Dashvara took a deep breath and struggled to hold back the “demons” and the “oh my devils” of surprise. In one sentence, the Honyr had spoken to him in a totally fluid Oy’vat, revealed his name and those of his two companions, and sworn loyalty to him.

And now what do I say to him?

Dashvara felt himself faltering again, but he held on tight and resisted the temptation to sit on the low wall of the fountain. None of the typical Xalya formulas seemed to work for him, so he let his heart guide him.

“Sirk Is Rhad,” he said. “First, thank you for coming all the way here. And thank the Great Sage for his sincere words.” The arrogance of what he was about to say next made him wince, but he would not be silent now: “As lord of the Xalyas and last lord of the steppe, I accept Shokr Is Set, Atsan Is Fadul, and Sirk Is Rhad as members of the clan of Xalya, declare them brothers and sons of the Eternal Bird, and pledge to do my utmost to return to the steppe and to forgive the clan of the Honyrs for their past wrongdoings with my own voice.”

Both bowed respectfully, and moved, Dashvara thought: There is no doubt: we are true brothers.

Sirk Is Rhad then said:

“It is an honor to belong to your clan.”

“And it is an honor for me to have three new brothers,” Dashvara smiled.

Finally, Sirk Is Rhad straightened up, opened his mouth, and hesitated before adding:

“If you’ll allow me, I’d also like to apologize for not taking good care of your horse Lusombra.”

Dashvara remained perplexed.

“What?”

“The Essimeans captured it,” Sirk Is Rhad explained.

Dashvara looked at him. It couldn’t be…

“Was it you I gave my horse to three years ago?”

Sirk Is Rhad smiled, and his horrible scar distorted his face even more.

“It was me,” he confirmed.

This time, Dashvara sat down on the ledge, feeling the fatigue invade him like a dead fire.

“Sorry,” he apologized. “My head is spinning. So, it’s you,” he murmured. He pointed to his face. “Did a wolf do this to you?”

“A dog,” Sirk Is Rhad corrected him without sitting down. “An Essimean dog.”

“Mm.” He paused for a moment. “Out of the three of you, you seemed to be the most hostile towards the Xalyas,” he observed calmly. “For what reason?”

Sirk Is Rhad lowered his head, looking ashamed.

“I… I always thought that, deep down, you Xalyas had denied the Eternal Bird. With the disappearance of the Ancient Kings and the separation of the lords of the steppe, the Dahars remained fractured, the brothers began to kill each other, and the ancient sages were forgotten. The lord of the Xalyas of whom you are the heir has proven to be—”

“The ancient sages have not been forgotten,” Dashvara interrupted him gently. “I spent my childhood reading their books and being taught by a shaard. The last shaard, as far as I know. He died a few days ago, in this very city.”

“That’s what I heard,” Sirk Is Rhad muttered. “I beg your pardon for behaving in an insulting manner.” Dashvara gestured that it was already forgotten. The Honyr added: “I realized my mistake when the Yordark doctor came and I heard you shouting those words. There, I realized that you really deserved to be a steppe lord.”

Dashvara raised an eyebrow, uneasy.

“Really?”

Sirk Is Rhad seemed surprised.

“Really. I also realized, albeit a little late, that this was an opportunity for us to make amends for our mistakes.”

“Your mistakes?” Dashvara repeated. “But you have made no mistakes. Perhaps Sifiara made one by betraying his brother, but this happened almost three centuries ago.”

“That’s true,” the Honyr acknowledged. “But that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t fix the mistakes that can be fixed. And, being brothers, as I believe we are, should we not help each other?”

Dashvara smiled and stood up to put a hand on his shoulder.

“Do not doubt it, Sirk Is Rhad. From now on, I consider all Honyrs as my brothers, and I know that I am not making a mistake in doing so if it is true that your Eternal Bird has followed the same precepts as the Xalyas. You know?” he added, crossing his arms. “I have always had great respect for you. Not because you are great fighters, but because in addition to defending your clan, you defend the steppe, as if it were also a sister.”

“And it is,” Sirk Is Rhad smiled sadly. “As the sky is the cradle of the stars, so the steppe is the cradle of the Honyrs. But perhaps we shall never see it again.”

Dashvara shook his head. The desperation in the Honyr’s voice was almost palpable.

“It’s hard to be a slave,” Dashvara murmured. “And it’s even harder for someone who hasn’t been always a slave. However, one day we will cease to be.”

And that day, I will cease to be the lord of the Xalyas, he promised himself in his heart.

“We both rode the same horse,” he added after a silence. “If Lusombra has accepted us both, it means we are brothers. And brothers never lie to each other.”

Sirk Is Rhad smiled, amused.

“A reasoning worthy of a Honyr, my lord.”

Dashvara smiled back.

“You may call me lord. But you would honor me more if you called me brother.”

He saw a glint of respect in Sirk Is Rhad’s eyes.

“Of course, sîzan.”

“And now,” Dashvara sighed, “I think I’ll go back to bed. Under any other circumstances, I’d wake up my brothers to introduce you, but… I feel like I’m going to fall apart at any moment.”

Sirk Is Rhad looked worried.

“Do you need help?”

“No, thank you,” Dashvara smiled. “I’m not so bad yet that they’ll bury me. And if they try to bury me again, my naâsga will protect me.”

The Honyr opened his eyes wide and looked at the figure of Yira who had just appeared near the columns of the main gate. She had sheathed her sword.

“Is she your wife?”

Dashvara nodded and took an unsteady step toward Yira.

“Sîzan,” Sirk Is Rhad called him. “I almost forgot. I came out of the Yordark castle with Captain Faag’s permission. He asked me to tell you that, had you been fit, you probably would have won the duel.”

Dashvara rolled his eyes.

“These federates only give importance to duels. As if life was all about fights and nonsense like that.” He looked at Sirk Is Rhad’s curious expression jeeringly. “Tell Captain Faag that, had he been fit, he probably would have won the duel. And tell him to think about the question: what does it mean to be fit?”

Sirk Is Rhad smirked and nodded. Dashvara added more seriously:

“And, if it is possible, tell the Great Sage Shokr Is Set that, even though I am the lord of the Xalyas, our clan is ruled by the Dahars, not by a lord.”

Honyr raised an eyebrow before nodding again.

“I’ll tell him.”

Then the Steppe Thief took a few steps towards Yira and bowed deeply to her, saying:

“Saana do kay ayzaez dundet.” Good fortune to you and your husband.

Dashvara had just arrived at Yira’s side, and guessing her perplexity, he gave her an amused pout. For a moment, he thought of telling the Honyr that Yira did not know how to speak Oy’vat, but he decided that he would learn it when the time came. He simply thanked him:

“Ayshat, sîzan.”

Dashvara waited for Sirk Is Rhad to reach the roof with his rope. Then he whispered to Yira:

“If the Xalya clan has not just risen from the ashes, it should be only one step away from that.”

“Yes. Well, you should get inside because I don’t want to see you rise from the ashes again,” Yira commented with a clearing of her throat. “You can tell me tomorrow what this man said to you.”

Dashvara smiled, wished her good night, and entered the living room. No sooner had he taken a few steps than he suddenly met two large, bright eyes; it was the black dog of the foreman Loxarios. He shuddered. It was the mass he had almost tripped over before.

He made a careful detour and closed the library door so hurriedly that he was surprised when, turning around, he distinguished another black pile in front of him. But that was not the dog.

‘Good night, Dash,’ Tahisran’s pleasant voice said.

Dashvara shuffled forward and lay down on his bed. He was exhausted, but he found the strength to whisper:

“I missed you, Tah. It’s been days since you’ve been around.”

‘Sorry. Time flies, and I don’t realize it,’ the shadow apologized. He hesitated, then whispered, ‘What was death like?’

“Inexistent.” Dashvara closed his eyes and thought that the adjective was quite apt given the nil memories he had of those four days of death. He breathed in. “I can’t wait to get well once and for all. And I can’t wait to stop having nightmares. It’s starting to be…” he yawned, “a real pain,” he finished.

‘Do you want me to tell you a story?’ Tahisran offered. ‘When I was little, my older sister used to tell me stories, and then I would dream of unicorns, winged horses, and beautiful princesses.’

Dashvara smiled.

“If you don’t mind… I’m not that interested in unicorns, but it must be wonderful to be a winged horse. As for the beautiful princess,” his smile widened, “I already have one.”

For the next few minutes, Tahisran began to tell him a story about black pegasuses flying over the Underground Seas. Half asleep, Dashvara didn’t understand it very well, and anyway, he lost the end; in any case, whether it was the pegasus or something else, he didn’t dream of Sheroda that night. He dreamed of Yira. He saw her, with her smiling, expressive eyes; and her light laughter rang in his ears, much sweeter than any poem of Miflin.

36 The King of the Eternal Bird

When he awoke, he felt oddly well-rested. He reached out and listened to the characteristic scratching of a quill against parchment, and the distant hubbub of an awakening city. He opened his eyes and found the library illuminated by the sun’s rays; its flames danced silently over the books on the shelves. He heard a distant bark, blinked, and sat up on the bed, rubbing his face to chase away the last fragments of sleep.

“It’s three o’clock in the afternoon,” Atasiag’s quiet voice said from his office. Dashvara turned to him and met his smiling face. “How are you, Philosopher?”

Dashvara did not answer immediately.

“In great shape,” he said at last. “Three o’clock in the afternoon, you say?”

“The third Autumn Coorsyn,” the federate added, letting a scroll fall back onto the table. “A little water?”

Dashvara nodded absently. If he counted correctly, he had been living in Titiaka for almost a month. As Tahisran said, time flew. Only when Atasiag handed him a glass of water did he realize it was rather strange to be served by his own master. Dashvara took the glass in front of the benevolent eyes of his master.

“Thank you, Eminence.”

Atasiag shook his head thoughtfully.

“I haven’t touched the meal Norgana brought me yet. And the truth is, I’m not very hungry. I’ll bring it to you.”

He set down a tray with a plate of pasties and a glass with a dark liquid. Dashvara watched the Diumcilian curiously before actually turning his attention to the meal.

“Is this wine?” he asked.

Atasiag huffed.

“No. It’s chocolate. It comes from Agoskura. It should be still warm. Enjoy,” he added, returning to his desk.

Dashvara raised an eyebrow.

“Reassure me, you didn’t take me for a king, too, Eminence?”

Atasiag sat down with a laugh.

“It would not occur to me to take you for a king, Philosopher! Now eat up.”

Dashvara didn’t need him to say it again and began to gobble down Atasiag Peykat’s meal. When he had finished his last snack, he glanced warily at the hot chocolate. He tasted it cautiously, expecting to find an earthy taste. He was pleasantly surprised. He took another more generous sip and said:

“It’s damn good, Eminence.”

Atasiag smiled and observed from his writing desk:

“I have the impression that you call me Eminence with more and more naturalness.”

Far from being offended, Dashvara replied frankly:

“It’s just that before I didn’t think of you as such. Now I still doubt, but I recognize your right to ask me to call you what you like, and based on my generous tolerance as a savage philosopher, I see no reason not to make you happy. Eminence,” he concluded, smiling.

Atasiag looked at him, half amused and half surprised.

“You’re making fun of me.”

Dashvara’s eyes rolled up to the ceiling.

“If it’s any consolation, I assure you that I make fun of myself a lot more often,” he confessed. And he finished the glass of chocolate in one gulp before repeating, “Damn good.”

Atasiag shook his head.

“I’m going to ask you a question that may seem ingenuous, but what leads a Xalya to respect another person?”

Yet another philosophical question, Federate? And you call me a philosopher?

Dashvara sighed.

“According to the Dahars, all Xalyas respect others, as long as others respect them in return. Have I ever said that I don’t respect you, Eminence? At first, I confess, I felt some contempt for you. Because you are a slave owner. Because you are a thief. And because, despite everything, you managed to get the love of two Xalya women. Now…” he hesitated and admitted: “I respect you because, all in all, you are a good person, but I can’t consider you a brother because you don’t act like one. You love your slaves like sons, but you know, one mustn’t lock up a son, nor forbid him anything, nor give him orders or tell him what to do. That’s why, because of your lack of trust, I can’t call you brother.”

Just as I could never call brother my lord father, a small voice completed in his head.

Atasiag remained silent for a long time. Finally he stood up, walked slowly into the library and said in a calm tone:

“I would like to change things. Make Titiaka a free city, with people who would only follow that thing you call Dahars. Lock up Menfag Dikaksunora and the Telv, the Nelkantas and the Kondisters. Actually, there are many more that should be locked up,” he corrected and turned to Dashvara with a sardonic smile. “But that is not feasible, my friend. Because the citizens are not willing to change their way of life and yet they are willing to take up a sword to maintain it. Because slaves fight each other to win the favor of their masters. Because mentalities simply prevent this from being possible.”

Dashvara shrugged.

“No need to lock anyone up, Eminence. I only need a ship and sailors to take my people back to the steppe.”

Atasiag made a mocking pout.

“I saw you coming, Philosopher. But I repeat my refusal. Patience will give you freedom,” he promised. “However, the Korfu hope that I will make good use of you all, and I cannot disappoint them now by releasing you. Simple politics. It may seem selfish to you, I understand, but I don’t want my house to lose what little support it has and sink into misery again. I will get married. I’m going to start a family again, and I don’t want to start off on the wrong foot.” He looked meditative as he continued, “You probably heard about the bankruptcy of my company four years ago.” He smiled. “Did you know that I recovered a bit thanks to the Dragon of Spring?” Dashvara squinted an eye, amazed. “The name rings a bell, doesn’t it? When I heard about the disappearance of that artistic gem, I thought it was a perfect opportunity. I finally tracked down the slave thieves of Rocavita and sold that gem to a prince of Agoskura. Call me a thief if you like, but don’t they say that the one who steals from a thief gets a ray of compassion from Cili? This jewel, in all seriousness, was worth far more than what the prince deigned to give me…” he murmured with a grimace. “But it is not easy to argue with an Agoskurian prince.” He shrugged. “In any case, my financial situation is not completely restored. It’s still unstable. And, to be frank, I have little hope of being elected Councilor. It’s not that I particularly want to be, but the Korfu are trying to get all their allies on the Council.” He moistened his lips and admitted, “Yes, in practice, I am a dog of the Korfu. Slavery doesn’t just exist in the registrar’s papers…” He suddenly shook his head. “Why on earth am I telling you all this, Philosopher? I bet it matters to you as much as a drop of water.”

Dashvara looked at him sadly.

“Why should it not matter to me? To use your expression, know that in the steppe, a drop of water is not a small thing.” He observed with sincerity: “Believe me, I see no reason why I should be indifferent to your life.”

Atasiag looked at him. He smiled. Then he laughed.

“You amaze me, Dashvara. Your compassion is admirable.”

Dashvara returned his smile.

“I lived in the Tower of Compassion for three years, Eminence. Besides,” he continued more seriously, “in a way, you saved my life from that… from your future wife. And that is something a Xalya does not easily forget.”

The federate shook his head thoughtfully. After a serene silence, someone knocked on the door.

“Ah!” Atasiag said. “That must be Tsu. Come in.” The drow opened the door and bowed slightly. “Rejoice, doctor. Your patient is getting better and better.”

Dashvara nodded.

“Indeed, I think I’m doing well enough to…”

He was about to get up, but Tsu forced him to sit down again.

“I’m the doctor,” he grumbled, “just lie down and we’ll see.”

His red eyes shone, firm and uncompromising. Dashvara clicked his tongue in annoyance, but he lay back down and sighed when he saw an amused glint in Atasiag Peykat’s eyes. Tsu’s diagnosis was concise: he would stay in bed at least four more days. Dashvara protested, and Atasiag settled the matter with these words:

“Tomorrow you will return to your brothers. In the meantime, you will stay here.” And he added: “Do you want me to bring you a book?”

Tsu opened his eyes wide. Dashvara acted as if he was used to being served and asked:

“You have The Adventures of Shepherd Bramanil and his Cat Mawrus the Wrecker?”

Atasiag raised an eyebrow.

“This is Lessi’s favorite reading. A recommendation from that Rowyn the Duke. Of course I have the book. Do you want it in Common Tongue, Ryscodranese, or Diumcilian?”

Dashvara huffed. Did you take me for a great polyglot, federate?

“In the Common Tongue, by the Liadirlá,” he replied. He smiled when he saw Atasiag turn his back to get the book.

* * *

Tsu was right, of course. After spending several hours with the storybook, Dashvara eventually felt tired again, and he slept through most of the night peacefully; not a nightmare came to bother him. It was perhaps two hours before dawn when he got up and went out into the yard. He found Yira sitting on the edge of the fountain, playing with a harmonic butterfly. The illusion flew to Dashvara, fluttered around him, and disappeared when he reached the fountain.

“I bet you’re the best guardian in all of Titiaka. Do you really think someone could get in to steal?” he asked her after greeting her and sitting down next to her.

Yira shrugged.

“You saw the man from yesterday: he got in without much difficulty. But usually there aren’t many thieves in Titiaka,” she admitted. “And we owe it to the head of the Militia. I suppose you’ve heard of her… Right?” Dashvara nodded. “Well, she’s made quite a name for herself. Shishina Dikaksunora cleaned up the city two years ago. She executed a major smuggler in the public square, along with his associates, and the next day she ordered the hanging of eleven thieves, so she scared the whole underworld. Since then, Titiaka has been one of the safest towns you can find on the whole eastern coast of the Pilgrim Ocean.”

Dashvara smiled.

“And they call us barbarians. Back at home, we used to whip the harmless thieves. Then we would give them enough food and chased them out of our lands.”

“And did they always diligently leave?” Yira asked in a tone of purely scientific interest.

Dashvara winced.

“If they didn’t, then either the whip was used again or the swords were used. Depending on the mood of our captain. Uh… can we change the subject, naâsga?”

“I was going to suggest it to you,” Yira replied, her eyes smiling. “Tell me, who was that man you spoke with yesterday? He was a steppeman, wasn’t he?”

Dashvara nodded and then began to tell her about his conversation with the Honyr. He joyfully stated that the Honyrs would probably join the clan and finally concluded:

“All we have to do now is wait for your father to give us our freedom.”

Yira remained silent for a while, and Dashvara wondered what she could be thinking. No, are you really wondering? You just told her you want to get away and go to the steppe, Dash. Nothing she doesn’t already know, true, but… what if she doesn’t want to leave Titiaka with you? Dashvara suppressed a sigh and added gently:

“But, at the moment, we can’t leave, so there’s no point in thinking about it until it’s time.”

Beware, lord of the steppe. You’ll end up enjoying being a slave so you’ll have an excuse to stay here…

Yira shook his hand and reasoned:

“You are right. Like Taymed said, don’t use up all the bone’s morjas before time.”

Dashvara arched an eyebrow… and he let out a sudden burst of laughter.

“Sorry,” he said, clearing his throat.

But Yira was already laughing.

“It’s my turn to ask your forgiveness,” she replied, amused. “I suppose that was a bit of a macabre remark.”

“Slightly,” Dashvara agreed. Gently, he kissed her, glanced at the Scorpion constellation, and smiled, thinking: My father loved a naâsga who collected bones. I love a woman who brings them to life.

* * *

Finally, the next morning, he returned to the dormitory with his brothers, and they welcomed him with great joy.

“It took the Eminence a long time to get you out of his library,” the captain commented when Dashvara had settled down on his pallet. “You didn’t try to read all his books, did you?”

Dashvara looked down at The Adventures of Shepherd Bramanil and his Cat Mawrus the Wrecker. He had borrowed it to finish it; since Tsu always insisted that he rest…

“Not at all,” he answered casually. “His Eminence has been entertaining me with philosophical questions, and he has not given me time to become more learned.”

Zorvun smiled.

“But, from what the very discreet Zamoy told us, you had time to sympathize quite well with one person,” he observed.

Dashvara then realized that several Xalyas, including Makarva and the Triplets, were looking at him with small, friendly smiles. He played innocent.

“With His Eminence?” He took on a meditative expression. “Well, he’s not my type, frankly. We get along well, but from there to—”

The laughter of his companions stifled his mocking words. Zamoy exclaimed:

“Oh, come on, Dash, tell us a little about her. Did you see her face?”

“Baldy, don’t be a busybody!” Miflin said, running a hand over his own bare skull. “Just as the poet makes verses in his corner, the lover enjoys his love alone.”

“Not so alone,” Makarva corrected him with his wolfish smile.

“Besides, afterwards, the poet recites his verses aloud,” Kodarah added. “Come on, Dash, we Xalyas are not selfish.”

Dashvara huffed and exchanged a look with Lumon and Captain Zorvun that more or less meant, “Ah, those kids…”.

“Listen, my friends,” he said. “The only thing I can tell you is that our Eternal Birds fly together. And now—”

“And now let’s get out,” the captain interjected with a broad smile, while Zamoy and Makarva put on falsely disappointed faces. “It’s the Hour of Constance, boys. Let’s leave our lord with his book and get to work.”

Dashvara winked at Makarva, and his friend pointed to the book:

“Are there any sea tales in there?”

Dashvara nodded.

“I’ll read one to you tonight,” he offered. “Since Tsu is going to keep me chained up all day, I must at least do something useful.”

Makarva smiled.

“Pick a good one, then.”

His friend patted him on the shoulder and walked out with the others. With a sigh, Dashvara watched them line up in the courtyard. That morning, Atasiag did not go to the Homage Square, and the adulators left early. Soon after, the foreman Loxarios appeared and led all his brothers out with a quick gait.

“Where are they going?” he asked Tsu, breaking away from the jealousy and returning to his pallet.

“To lay stones,” the drow replied. And he smiled at Dashvara’s curious look. “They are helping to build more bleachers in the Arena. Tomorrow is the opening of the games.”

Dashvara shook his head.

“What about the Shyurd? Weren’t ten of our own supposed to be training for them, normally?”

“Mm,” Tsu affirmed. “They’re going to fight for them, but let’s just say, these days, they haven’t practiced much.”

Dashvara raised his eyebrows.

“Let’s just say, huh? Tell me, my friend, you’re not by any chance taking on Wassag’s habit, are you?”

Tsu shrugged.

“I have my own habits; I don’t bother adopting those of others,” he replied; and he stood up. “Rest. And don’t force yourself to read if you’re tired.”

Dashvara rolled his eyes.

“It’s always good to try a little harder. If I hadn’t tried so hard in my coffin, I wouldn’t have moved and I would have woken up in the catacombs or wherever… It’s okay, Tsu,” he sighed at his patient look. “I won’t move from here. Where are you going?”

“Atasiag wanted me to tutor Fayrah and Lessi,” he explained. “I’m supposed to give them lessons in mathematics and celmist arts, but in practice… Mmph. They’re not very effective.”

Dashvara smiled broadly.

“Fayrah almost drove our shaard crazy with her questions. So take care, Tsu.”

The drow smiled, revealing his white teeth, before leaving the dormitory. Dashvara spent the rest of the day reading. He behaved like the best patient in the world. The Xalyas didn’t return by noon, and before he could even think of getting up to get something from the kitchen, Norgana arrived with a tray. Dashvara was surprised when he saw a glass of hot chocolate on it.

“Apparently chocolate is good for your lungs,” Uncle Serl’s daughter said, in a slightly questioning tone.

Dashvara smiled.

“I don’t doubt it for a moment.”

He thanked her, and after eating, continued to read the adventures of the shepherd Bramanil to the last sentence. Three o’clock in the afternoon had just struck. Norgana had left the door open, and a warm air ran through the room, bringing a rumble of distant voices and noises of all kinds. He was seized with a sudden inspiration. He took the piece of wood and his chisel, and forgetting his promise, he got up and went out into the courtyard. He found the old belarch Leoshu sitting on a chair near the entrance gate. He greeted him kindly, and while sitting on the ground on the opposite side, he noticed that Leoshu was repairing a strange circular wooden utensil with a kind of canvas in the middle.

“What is it?” Dashvara asked with interest.

“A sieve,” the old man replied. “It belongs to a friend. It broke, and since he doesn’t have time, I’m fixing it.”

Dashvara wrinkled his forehead.

“And what’s it for?”

Leoshu arched an eyebrow, puzzled.

“Well… you use it to separate flour from bran, for example. You throw it on the mesh, shake it up, and separate the finer particles from the coarser ones. That’s all. You’ve never seen a sieve before?”

Dashvara took on a pensive expression.

“I suppose I did. But I never bothered to find out what it was for.” Suddenly he felt a little ridiculous with his piece of wood and his little carvings that only served to look pretty. Then he remembered something Morzif the Blacksmith had said a long time ago, when he had taught him to forge his own swords: ‘Every object must be born of a need. Shovels to dig the earth. Swords for killing. Musical instruments for entertainment.’ But did this mean that every natural object was born of a need? Or did the sajits invent a need from it? He found himself smiling to himself. You’re crazy as hell, Dash. You always have to turn everything around in your head.

He took his chisel and continued to shape the wood. After a while, Leoshu asked:

“And you? What are you making?”

Dashvara twirled his piece of wood, looking thoughtful.

“The truth is, I’m not quite sure. What would you do with it?”

The old man’s face reflected a mixture of surprise and amusement.

“Well. A bowl, maybe.”

Dashvara shrugged.

“We already have dozens of bowls. Why make another one?”

As Leoshu pondered, he realized what he had just said. We have? he repeated. Did he now consider Atasiag’s property his own?

“A teetotum?” Leoshu suggested.

Dashvara looked at him without understanding.

“A what?”

“A teetotum. It’s a typical Ryscodran toy. It’s shaped like a ball or a cone balanced on a point. You spin it on top and…”

The old man then began to explain to him what a teetotum was used for, and Dashvara finally understood that it was simply a top. He thanked the old man for his advice, and excited about his new task, set to work. The six bells of the Happy Temple caught him polishing the wood. Did time go by so fast? Shortly thereafter, he heard an exclamation.

“Everyone, come, come! The King of the Eternal Bird is here!”

Dashvara saw five young men appear in the street, wearing wigs and the brown tunics of students. Five others of the same age followed them, carrying large scrolls of parchments and a bag. Their slaves, Dashvara realized.

They were all looking at him, striding closer.

“By all the demons,” he breathed out. Were those Maloven’s hot-headed disciples? Mmph. I have a bad feeling about this…

37 Children will always be children

As the young students approached, Dashvara thought about getting up and going back inside, but his annoyance stopped him. He didn’t see why he should run away from these students.

He looked down at his unfinished top and continued carving. Soon he saw shadows forming on the pavement a few feet away, but he did not budge. After a silence that seemed to Dashvara more hesitant than respectful, one of the young men announced:

“We are followers of the Eternal Bird, and we come to you, O King of the Eternal Bird, to have you tell us about it.”

“Yes, for he has taken our master to the realms of Cili,” another one completed with a small voice.

Dashvara continued to carve, and the silence dragged on. Leoshu, for some reason, did not dare to intervene. A small laugh was heard.

“Oh, oh, King of the Eternal Bird!” another exclaimed mockingly. “Your great god is deaf.”

“Shut up, Rag!” the first hissed.

“Face it, Kur,” the man named Rag laughed. “Is he the great king you were telling me about? He looks like a beggar, sitting on the ground like that.”

“Would you shut up? If you had listened to Maloven’s words—”

“My father knows His Eminence Atasiag Peykat,” Rag interrupted him. “Your king is a wild warrior and a slave, Kur. Nothing more!” he laughed.

Dashvara finally looked up. Rag, with his freckled face and mischievous eyes, couldn’t have been more than eighteen. As a matter of fact, none of them looked older than twenty. Yes, boy, I am a slave. But, you know, I’d rather be a slave of Atasiag Peykat than of my own stupidity. At least Atasiag can free me. Stupidity never lets you go. He was about to open his mouth and say these words to him, but he met Leoshu’s worried gaze and stopped himself. He took a slow breath and said:

“You heard him. I’m just a slave. So now go away.”

Against all odds, Kur smiled. He was an elf with green eyes and a serene smile. He didn’t seem like a bad guy.

“That’s all I needed,” he said. “A king who resurrects, says he’s a slave, and then gives an order. How much more mysterious can it get? The shaard Maloven told us that he was your master too. That’s true, isn’t it?”

Dashvara looked around at the students’ faces. The citizens were waiting for his answer, looking anxious, even Rag. The expectation of their fellow slaves, on the other hand, was more mixed: four of them lowered their heads, as if to better remain unnoticed by the world. Only one seemed more awake; however, his attention was not focused on Dashvara, but on a male slave who was passing in the street, carrying two large bags. He perceived a silent exchange before the young man looked away.

Now those are real slaves, Dash, he thought wryly. They don’t provoke verbal attacks, you see? They obey, submissive, with no more desires than their master’s. Take a cue, come on, you can do it.

Dashvara cleared his throat.

“That’s right,” he replied laconically.

Kur seemed as if about to let out an exclamation of triumph.

“So will you teach us? Our master told us that you were the last king of the steppe. And that you possess the truth about the meaning of self.”

Dashvara gave him an incredulous look.

“Maloven said that?”

Kur nodded energetically.

“Yes. Well, pretty much. His words were filled with wisdom.”

“Yes, they were,” Dashvara confirmed. “But it surprises me greatly that he—”

“Will you teach us?” another boy interrupted with impatient enthusiasm.

“Tell us, master!” a tiyan begged. “Maloven told us that his Eternal Bird would be protected by the Dahars and that you were the one who defined the Dahars.”

“What is your definition of Dahars?” Kur asked. “Can one be loyal to oneself, even in the face of death?”

“How can we invoke the resurrection?” Rag questioned.

Faced with such a barrage of questions, Dashvara began to get nervous. Never in his life had he felt so… overwhelmed.

“Er…” He repeated, as the most extravagant questions continued to rain down. “I… Well… Listen, young people,” he said at last when they had calmed down a bit. “I don’t define the Dahars, all the Eternal Birds in a clan do. And I am no king.” He couldn’t help but smile. “My Eternal Bird would forbid me to be.” He cleared his throat. “And now, I advise you to repeat your questions to yourself in your head, ask yourself first if they are worth answering, and if so, try to find an answer for yourself.” He paused for a moment, noted that his words had been more or less listened to, and finally added: “Maloven was my teacher, true, but I was never one, and I’m sure that with what you’ve learned from him, you’re already capable of thinking for yourselves. You are adults. You can freely define what your Eternal Bird is for you. I shall only point out to you that, at the moment, you are not giving a very fortunate picture of it.”

He tried to hide the mockery in his voice, but his words were explicit enough on their own. The citizens exchanged glances, as if unsure of how to react.

You want a summary, federates? Go plant grass in the desert.

Dashvara had just resumed his carving when he heard an exclamation:

“Hey, there he is!”

In dismay, he caught a glimpse of other citizens running toward Atasiag’s home. He looked up to the sky.

“May the Liadirlá give me strength…”

Leoshu seemed amused by the commotion. Dashvara gasped. But why on earth had Maloven gone to talk to foreigners owning slaves about the Eternal Bird? The newcomers inquired and joined the first five to resume questioning. Most of them seemed merely curious, but some were ardent admirers of Maloven. Dashvara listened with one ear, saturated, while continuing to carve the top.

“What are you carving, master?” Kur asked after a silence. A dozen citizens had sat on the cobblestones in front of the gate, including Rag, muttering among themselves, sharing their esoteric theories about the King of the Eternal Bird. Their slaves were quick to follow suit, but they kept a respectable distance, as if to say “we have nothing to do with these lunatics, we only serve them”.

Dashvara hesitated to answer the citizen. Then he said:

“Exactly what you see.”

Kur frowned.

“And what do we see?” another asked.

Dashvara smiled.

“Well, if you don’t know, my boy, you’d better learn to open your eyes first. Tell me, do you all plan on staying here long?”

Kur nodded without hesitation.

“Until you teach us something new, master.”

Dashvara raised an eyebrow.

“Oh. Well, I’ll teach you something new: I’m not your master,” he declared. “Satisfied?”

No, they were not satisfied, he sighed.

“Okay. Before I teach you anything, tell me, why do you think I can help you?”

Kur immediately replied:

“Because Cili blessed you with a resurrection and because the shaard Maloven said you would help us be who we need to be.”

Dashvara smiled. Damned shaard. What on earth did you tell that bunch of kids? Did you think you could change the minds of the Titiakas with your words? Well, obviously, he hadn’t done a bad job. But for what purpose exactly? Well, since when did Maloven need a purpose or a reason to talk about his Eternal Birds?

He glanced around at his little gathering. He was running out of ideas. The only one that really tempted him was to get up with his chisel and top, get back into the house, and let Leoshu disperse the crowd. Then his gaze went beyond the students, and a sudden relief came over him: Atasiag Peykat was walking down the street, accompanied by Wassag, Yorlen, and three of his followers. When they saw him, the students were startled and stood up hastily. Atasiag’s eyebrows were furrowed.

“Well?” he said. “What is the meaning of this invasion, gentlemen?”

As usual, he was dressed in a large white tunic, carried his black staff, and displayed the purple belt of the magistrates. Several students walked away with their slaves without a word. Those closest to Dashvara bowed slightly, and flushed, Rag said:

“We beg your pardon, Eminence.”

“My son?” Vorxag, one of the followers, snorted. “Do you hang out with these lunatics too?”

Rag blushed even more.

“I was only curious, Father—”

“Go home immediately. Shruks,” Vorxag addressed the slave who accompanied Rag. “You have disappointed me.” He pulled his ear and pushed him towards his son. The latter seemed to receive the poor Shruks’ correction as if it had been inflicted on him. “Go home,” the father repeated.

The two young people quickly disappeared from his sight. The rest of the students dispersed without even a glance at the King of the Eternal Bird. Only Kur said:

“May the Eternal Bird watch over you, master.”

Dashvara’s eyes widened as he realized that the student had spoken to him in Oy’vat. In a distorted and barely recognizable Oy’vat, but in Oy’vat. He smiled in surprise.

“Ayshat, federate. Likewise.”

Kur returned a smile, and to Dashvara’s amazement, he raised his fist to his chest and said:

“My name is Kuriag Dikaksunora.”

Dashvara raised an eyebrow and looked at Atasiag out of the corner of his eye. A Dikaksunora? Demons. He remembered the rules so well preached by foreman Loxarios and knew that in theory he should have stood and bowed to the Legitimate. But… it seemed too ridiculous.

“I am Dashvara of Xalya,” he replied. “Glad to know you.”

The student smiled, affable, bowed respectfully, and turned to Atasiag.

“It has been an honor to talk with your host, Eminence.”

Without waiting for an answer, he walked away, followed by his slave. Calmly, Atasiag Peykat took leave of his adulators and stood for a moment, with his back to his slaves, before turning around.

“I don’t like it, Dashvara,” he declared. “Don’t feed the minds of these students anymore: ignore them.” He twirled his baton as he added, “Some might think I’m starting some strange cult… Getting the attention of the Cili Priests is one of the worst things that can happen.”

Dashvara nodded in agreement and was about to tell him that he had tried to dissuade them, but the federate held him back with a weary tone:

“Not now, Philosopher. Not now.”

He stepped through the gate, giving Leoshu a distracted smile before crossing the yard and disappearing inside the house. The old belarch had frowned.

“He looks preoccupied,” Dashvara observed.

Leoshu nodded, but said nothing. Neither did the Mute, of course. Wassag, on the other hand, blurted out:

“Today has been a terrible day. Several ships in the port of Alfodyn were sabotaged last night. His Eminence’s was one of them.” He paled as he added, “And a Korfu port controller was found hanging from a mast. The assassins left a note with him that said, ‘Down with the Federation, long live the Union’.” He lowered his voice so much that Dashvara barely heard him. The Wolf looked worried. “Fortunately, the guard finally stopped those madmen, but they didn’t manage to capture them alive.”

Dashvara bit his lip, thinking. What exactly had Yira said about Titiaka’s safety and Shishina Dikaksunora’s effectiveness? Well… He had vaguely heard about the tensions between the Federalists and the Unitarians, but he had never made much effort to understand them: they were citizens’ issues. From what he knew, basically, the Unitarians were asking for lower taxes, they were protesting the conversions of freemen to citizens, and they were calling for a ban on debt slavery. In short, they were defending the interests of the average and poor citizens.

“Atasiag is a federalist, right?” he asked.

Wassag huffed.

“Of course he’s a federalist! Every good citizen is. Uniting the three cantons under one power makes no sense. The Unitarians want to restrict the rights of Ruhuvah and Atria and leave their public administration to the Titiakas. This is totally unfair! The Federation has always been the best system.”

The Wolf was unusually altered. Dashvara hesitated.

“And… are all Legitimates Federalists?” he asked.

Wassag looked at him with an embarrassed pout, but he did not answer.

“Theoretically yes,” a voice said. “But the Yim, the Steliar, and the Nelkantas are only theoretically so.”

Surprised, Dashvara turned to face the affable face of Uncle Serl, standing by the kitchen service door.

“Serl,” Wassag said, with a clearing of his throat. “You shouldn’t accuse without proof.”

“Boh. I’m not accusing. I’m just making an observation,” the cook assured.

Playing with his chisel, Dashvara asked:

“And the Dikaksunora? Which side are they on?”

“Federalists,” the elfocan said. “As much as the Korfu. The Yordarks… have a preference for a more imperial system. They’ve always been a bit particular.” He smiled. “Good. I started to prepare dinner. And since I thought you might want to dine on something special today, I made you a dish of garfias.”

Dashvara snorted, amused.

“Thanks for varying our menu, Uncle Serl. You cook them much better than the ones we used to make at the Border anyway.”

“Ah, that’s because I’m borrowing a pinch of spice from our dear magistrate… but don’t tell him,” he joked in a scheming tone. “By the way, Dash, I’m glad you’re back among the living.”

Dashvara smiled.

“So do I, Uncle Serl, and you can’t imagine how much.”

The cook nodded to him before returning to his kitchen, and with a pensive pout, Dashvara turned his attention back to his toy. He finished it before the Xalyas returned, and when he saw a slave child walking down the street, he called to him to come closer.

“What’s your name, kid?”

“Mun,” the child replied.

Dashvara smiled and gave him the top.

“It’s yours, Mun. I hope you find a good use for it.”

Stunned, the child took the gift, opened his mouth, closed it again, and suddenly smiled, nodded energetically, and ran off without saying a word. Dashvara laughed softly. No matter where they came from, free or enslaved, children were always children.

That night, he kept his promise and read a story aloud to the Xalyas. His brothers were exhausted from working like beasts of burden all day, so when Dashvara finished, he found more than one of them sound asleep. Silently, he closed the book and extinguished the candle that Uncle Serl had generously brought him.

“Good night, brothers,” he murmured.

Lying on the nearby pallet, Makarva whispered in the dark:

“Say, will you come with us tomorrow for the opening of the games, Dash?”

“Certainly,” Dashvara replied. “I’m already in great shape.”

He smiled as he heard a slight gasp from Tsu’s pallet. You know me, Tsu: patience has never been one of my virtues.

38 Betrayal

Dashvara fell asleep quickly and dreamed that he was sailing the Pilgrim Ocean with Brohol, towards infinity, without ever finding those legendary lands of which the militiaman had spoken. He did not wake up until the next day, which filled him with frustration as soon as he opened his eyes.

“Oh, Tah,” he whispered as his brothers were stretching and brightening up. The shadow was sitting by the pallet playing katutas with Zamoy.

‘What is it, Dash?’ Tahisran asked, curious.

“Nothing,” Dashvara grunted. He straightened up and finally blurted out, “Yesterday, I didn’t see Yira all day.”

The Baldy barely concealed his smile.

“She was with us, Dash. In the Arena. Didn’t she tell you last night?”

Dashvara grumbled.

“I slept like a lazy bodun.”

Makarva and Zamoy laughed at his annoyed expression, and Dashvara made a vague gesture to brush aside their mocking words of consolation, then stood up. The shadow smiled mentally.

‘Last night, I spoke with her,’ he informed him. ‘We talked about celmist arts. And we shared tips on how not to consume the energy stem too quickly.’

Dashvara raised an eyebrow, amused.

“Really? Good thing I didn’t join your conversation, then,” he commented.

He left to have lunch with his brothers, and when he put on the armor and his official uniform, Tsu just gave him a dark look. He fastened his sabers and patted the drow on the shoulder.

“After all the time you’ve been with us, Tsu, you should be used to dealing with stubborn people.”

The drow gave one of his indefinable smiles.

“I should,” he sighed.

Inwardly, Dashvara knew he was not quite recovered, but enough to follow Atasiag Peykat and his two daughters to the arena and witness what promised to be a boring inauguration. They left Dafys and Leoshu in charge of the house, and as soon as Atasiag’s followers arrived with their wives, offspring, and slaves, they began the procession to the Arena. All of Titiaka was abuzz with excitement. Children, slaves and citizens alike, ran screaming and singing past each family procession; merchants came out of their stores laden with goods in hopes of increasing their earnings at the Arena; public slaves, with baskets under their arms, scattered orange blossom petals along the main streets; and militiamen formed a long, lavish line along the Avenue of Sacrifice to ensure that the entire procession proceeded without incident.

As soon as he could, Dashvara let himself be outpaced by his brothers and kept advancing by Yira’s side, bringing up the rear of the procession. Even on this day, the sursha wore her usual black clothes, with her veil tightly fitted and her sword buckled on her belt. Her eyes smiled as she saw him approach.

“Do they always need so much pomp and circumstance for their parties?” Dashvara inquired after greeting her.

“Oh. This is nothing compared to the Cilian festivals,” Yira assured. “When the Supreme Priest comes out of his Happy Temple and goes up to the Bridge of Joy to give his sermon to the whole world, all Titiakas without exception come to hear him.”

Dashvara looked thoughtfully at the huge bridge that crossed the Sacrifice District and linked Mount Serene to Mount Courteous. So far, most of what he knew about Cili and the Eleven Graces, he had learned it from Towder, the leader of the Tower of Dignity. He wasn’t actually very curious about the subject, but he was intrigued to know why Fayrah and Lessi had adopted this religion. According to them, it taught good morals… Dashvara had deduced that its believers were not very religious.

“Is what he’s saying that interesting?” he then asked.

Yira let out an amused gasp.

“Well. Half of it are anecdotes from the Holy Book. Although I have to admit that the current High Priest has quite an imagination. He’s a good speaker. Atasiag likes him. Most people do, really. The Korfu have always had a good reputation in religious and artistic matters.”

She fell silent abruptly, and Dashvara quickly understood why when he looked up and saw two officials with golden masks standing on either side of the street. They wore the red sashes of the register celmists. When they had passed them by a good number of steps, Dashvara whispered:

“Could these mages really…?” He didn’t finish the question, but Yira understood and answered softly:

“Maybe, if they cast perceptist spells focused on me. An unlikely risk,” she admitted. “But one can never be too careful.”

Dashvara could only agree with her cautiousness.

When I think that the mere fact of removing her veil would condemn her to death… He shuddered. How could Yira muster up enough courage to even go out on the street? Dashvara tried to put himself in her shoes and concluded that he would probably have left long ago to find a more tolerant people. He smiled inwardly. But, after all, hasn’t she already found them? He wasn’t blind: he knew the fear that magic inspired in the Xalyas, and yet… he hoped that his brothers would make a small exception and overcome that fear. After all, they had already done so with Tahisran.

Finally, after a maddeningly slow advance, they reached the Arena. All the open entrances were guarded by the Ragail Guard. As far as Dashvara knew, the permanent forces numbered about six hundred men, but that day other auxiliary citizens, with their own weapons and insignia, had come to assist them. All around the imposing building, every imaginable color was blazing.

It took them a full hour to enter the Arena, even though it had many entrances. The commotion was deafening. Citizens were greeting each other, laughing, making bets, chatting and hanging out instead of moving forward. Dashvara drummed his fingers on the pommel of his swords, growing increasingly annoyed. Zamoy and Makarva were playing a new game of being the first to spot a badge of a particular color in the crowd.

“Yellow!” the Baldy cried, pointing to a troop of guards. These wore the golden clover of the Kondisters.

“Demons!” Makarva swore. “I had seen them before, and yet…”

“Frankly, no one would have guessed that you two come from the Border,” Foreman Loxarios commented as he passed them.

Far from getting flustered, both smiled.

“Precisely,” Mak replied. “We’ve been practicing the simplest possible games for three years.”

“In the swamps, we bet on which monster would die next,” Dashvara interjected. “Even in that game, Makarva almost always won…” He smiled grimly. “Oh, my brothers! Why do I always get to make the most macabre comments?”

“Because you’re twisted in the head?” Makarva offered.

Dashvara looked falsely pensive.

“And how do I differ from you then, Mak?”

His friend rolled his eyes and slightly nudged him before resuming his place in the row under the exasperated looks of Loxarios and his dog.

They entered the tunnels of the building where, to slow things down even more, Atasiag met several of his company’s traders; he then greeted the Nelkantas, the Yordarks, and finally, the Korfu. The conversations went on and on. Dashvara did not see Captain Faag and assumed that he had left with his company, perhaps to the border with Shjak. He did see Lanamiag Korfu, however, and he felt his heart clench painfully when the young Legitimate kissed Fayrah’s hand and whispered something that made her blush.

Can you really feel affection for this man, sister?

In fact, it was obvious that she felt more than just affection. And from the look of Lanamiag, it was also obvious that the feeling was sincerely reciprocated. Who knows, maybe he wasn’t such a bad person… The old Korfu woman that Dashvara had bumped into so smartly a few weeks ago then came to greet Fayrah and Lessi. Lanamiag stepped aside with a courteous bow, and distracted, his eyes quickly fell on the Xalyas. They stopped a few seconds on Dashvara, and his words suddenly resounded in the head of the Xalya with the echo of his blows:

‘A worker does not look a citizen in the eye.’

Dashvara sighed with a grimace but looked away. As he used to say: reckless if need be, imprudent never. In any case, Lanamiag’s expression made him suspect that he hadn’t even recognized him. Of course, how could he? For him, it would be like trying to identify a mouse among twenty identical mice: laborious… and useless.

He almost regretted looking away when his eyes fell irrevocably on the faces of the Akinoas, posted behind the Korfu. He exchanged a glance with Raxifar. And remained stony. This time, out of compassion for his own nerves, he turned his eyes away again and looked at Atasiag. Immediately, he sensed that something was wrong. The Diumcilian looked unusually worried and listened to Rayeshag Korfu, his expression tense. Finally, he bowed, and Dashvara heard him say:

“Of course. I understand, Excellency.”

He added something else and bowed again as the Legitimate and his retinue walked away to the upper bleachers. When Atasiag turned around and passed by the Xalyas, Dashvara gave him a quizzical pout.

“Do not separate yourselves from me,” the magistrate asked them in a dry tone. “As soon as we can, we will leave the Arena. There’s something here that I don’t like at all.”

Dashvara nodded briefly to assure him that he understood. We are warned, he thought. Although he wasn’t sure about what. Some tension with the Korfu, perhaps?

He saw Atasiag whisper something to Wassag. The Wolf nodded quickly and disappeared into the crowd. It was all getting weirder and weirder.

“Are we not going to the bleachers, Eminence?” Licentiate Nitakrios asked.

Atasiag smiled at him, but his eyes remained cold.

“Go ahead and find a seat. I’ll wait here for a while. I have an appointment with one of my right-hand men. Business,” he explained. “My daughters, accompany our friends,” he said to Fayrah and Lessi. “Yorlen, go with them. I won’t be long,” he promised.

With troubled expressions, the followers bowed and walked away with their families toward the interior of the tunnel. Escorted by the Mute, Fayrah and Lessi followed them with worried pouts, dragging their ridiculously long dresses. They left behind an Atasiag surrounded by Xalyas.

With her hand on the pommel of her sword, Yira approached him. Her eyes were reduced to mere slits.

“What’s going on, Father?” the sursha asked in a whisper.

Atasiag admitted bluntly:

“I have no idea. But something tells me that the Korfu no longer require my support. The change is subtle, but… when the Legitimates let go of you like that, it doesn’t bode well.”

Dashvara sensed his nervousness, although he had to admit that he hid it quite well.

“And what do we do?” Loxarios asked.

Atasiag glanced around the wide, crowded tunnel before saying:

“We’re waiting for Wassag.”

The Wolf took half an hour to return, and when he did, he was very pale. Even before the magistrate asked him to speak, he said in a hurried whisper:

“Eminence, they just arrested the Shiirs. The guards were masked, but… I’d swear it was the Telvs.”

Atasiag did not falter. Dashvara knew the Telvs were a Legitimate family, but… the Shiirs? He had no idea. Wassag added:

“They didn’t see me. At least, I don’t think so,” he corrected. “I suppose most of them managed to escape by boat, but…”

Dashvara couldn’t hear what he said next, and he exchanged a frown with Captain Zorvun. Inwardly, he knew it was only natural that he didn’t understand what was going on: no one had ever explained the affairs of Atasiag to them, and probably deliberately so. The magistrate shook his head.

“Their intentions are clear. For some reason, the Korfu have betrayed us,” he concluded. “Loxarios, go to the house and warn Serl, Dafys, and Leoshu. You know what you must do.”

The foreman nodded, looking grim, but Dashvara thought he recognized a glint of excitement in his eyes. He watched him leave then turned to Atasiag:

“Could we know a little bit about what’s going on?”

Atasiag suddenly seemed serene.

“Exactly what I would have liked to avoid has just happened,” he explained quietly, “the Dikaksunora and the Korfu must have come to an agreement to divide up the spoils of the colonized lands, and the Korfu no longer have as much interest in maintaining good relations with Agoskura. Nor with me. I would bet all my assets that one of the points of the agreement must be to eliminate the Dream Brotherhood. Or at least to try to subdue it.” He grinned maliciously. “The Dikaksunora must not have appreciated the scandal caused by the documents the Pearl Brotherhood sent to the Dazbon Senate. And the Shiirs’ infiltration of Titiaka must not have pleased them much either. Bah. They must have offered the Korfu some advantageous concessions. Good enough to convince the Korfu of the need to do away with our ‘band of thieves’, as they surely consider us. Wassag,” he called calmly. “Do you have paper and ink?”

The Wolf turned pale.

“No, Eminence.”

Atasiag sighed, and Miflin intervened, pulling out his notebook and pencil:

“Will this do?”

The federate smiled.

“This will do,” he said. “Thank you, Miflin.”

He sat down on a bench in the hallway and wrote a quick note. He tore off the sheet, folded it and handed it to Wassag, saying:

“Take it to the Shyurd.”

He looked down at the notebook again before the Wolf had even taken the message. He handed the next note to Yira.

“This one is for Sheroda. Wait,” he said. He scribbled a sentence. “This one is for you.”

Yira glanced at the message and shook her head.

“I can’t do it, Eminence,” her voice sounded muffled behind the veil.

“Of course you can, my daughter. Just read that sentence again when the time comes. Go,” he ordered, and as Yira walked away, he added, “Dash. Go get Fayrah and Lessi. Tell my clients that I’ve suffered a little discomfort and that I’m going home, but don’t let them worry. Try to look calm.”

Dashvara smiled sardonically.

“But I am very calm, Eminence. Why shouldn’t I be?” He paused for a moment. “Who are the Shiirs?”

Atasiag took off his wig and put it back on with a sigh. He replied:

“They’re pirates, Dash. And friends of mine for decades. And now go.”

Thoughtful, Dashvara left his brothers and walked away toward the stairs that led to the bleachers. So the Korfu had already known for a long time that Atasiag Peykat was the leader of the Dream Brotherhood. And, obviously, they had spread the word. Unless Atasiag had jumped to conclusions. The question was what did Atasiag intend to do and what would the consequences be for the Xalyas.

By the time he reached the stands, the games had already begun: a large orchestra was playing joyful music, and in the arena itself, they had unleashed about twenty swamp orcs against five sanfurient wolves. The former seemed to have trouble gripping their weapons, as if their hands were burning. They had probably been coated with something so they couldn’t even try to climb the walls. The fight was… pathetic. Dashvara watched it for a moment, his heart pounding with revulsion. They were monsters, yes, but those who were able to make a spectacle of their deaths were even worse.

Bah, Dash, stop assessing the degrees of monstrosity: they’re all foreigners. As the captain says, these are their customs. And now go get Fayrah.

With a wry pout, he lost interest in the chaotic fight interrupted by screams and bursts of applause and looked around for his sister. He had no idea where she had settled. After a few minutes of wandering through the crowded stands, he saw Licentiate Nitakrios sitting among a bunch of excited students. Dressed in his long black academic tunic, he wore a deeply bored expression.

“Licentiate,” he greeted him. “Do you know where the Peykat ladies are installed?”

Nitakrios frowned.

“They met the young Korfu again and stayed to talk with him,” he replied. “But now they may be in the eighth terrace.” He stood up. “I will accompany you. I am sorry, friends, duty calls,” he said gravely to the students. They did not even hear him.

Dashvara armed himself with patience and followed the Licentiate to the eighth tier. There he found three of Atasiag’s followers. Neither Fayrah nor Lessi were there. He took it upon himself to speak about Atasiag’s supposed discomfort, and Vorxag, without taking his usual servile tone, said:

“Gee, what bad luck! Dafosag and Lurdag too have retired home due to indisposition. Communicate to His Eminence my most sincere wishes for a speedy recovery.”

Dashvara suppressed a gasp.

Indisposition? Come on…, he laughed inwardly, growing more and more nervous. Rather, say that you two have got a nose for it and that you suspect that your friendly magistrate won’t be able to support you so easily anymore… He wondered how long it would take for the other adulators to abandon Atasiag. Parasites, he spat with disdain.

Nevertheless, he bowed and was about to walk away when the Licentiate held him back.

“Tell me, what’s going on?” he whispered to him.

Dashvara looked at him, stunned.

“Are you asking me, Licentiate?” He smirked. “Well, to be honest, I have no idea.”

“His Eminence is in trouble, isn’t he?” the citizen questioned.

Dashvara looked up to the sky.

“He’s suffered a little discomfort. I guess you could call it a problem.”

“Take me to him,” the Licentiate ordered.

Dashvara gave him an annoyed look.

“I am looking for the Peykat girls, Licentiate. I can’t do ten thousand things at the same time. His Eminence must be at home by now. But I doubt he wants to receive visitors. Good day to you.”

He turned his back on him and continued to search. The arena was packed. How on earth was he going to find Fayrah in the middle of this crowd? He was walking down an inner corridor, grumbling and ignoring the thunderous cries of the audience, when he met the person he least expected: the Duke. He was dressed in a civilian militia uniform and wore the golden mask of the officials in his hand. He was moving with rapid steps, and if Dashvara had not blocked his way, he probably would not have noticed him.

“Hey, republican,” he said. “What have you been up to?”

Rowyn stopped short and blinked as if he had just come out of a whirlwind of particularly absorbing thoughts. Then the blond man smiled.

“Steppeman.” He hesitated. “How are you?”

“I’m alive,” Dashvara said cheerfully. “And you?”

The Pearl Brother glanced around the hallway full of people before answering in a low voice:

“Well, at this very moment, I couldn’t tell you. The Supreme sent me a message asking me to look for Atasiag. Do you know where he is?”

“At home,” Dashvara said.

Rowyn huffed.

“What happened? Did they try to murder him?”

Dashvara frowned in surprise.

“No. Not that I know of. The Korfu have simply turned against him, and the whole Legitimate troop with them, I suppose. And inevitably Atasiag is scared.” He shook his head. He couldn’t manage to feel very affected by what was happening though he knew that, in practice, it could cause serious problems to all of them. “Do you really think they can try to kill him?”

Rowyn winced and fidgeted, as if he wanted to run off somewhere.

“Bad news, bad news,” he muttered.

“This is what happens when you depend on unreliable people,” Dashvara commented quietly.

The Duke looked him in the eye.

“Do realize, steppeman, that if Atasiag dies by order of the Legitimates, the situation of your people can only get worse.”

Dashvara felt irritated.

“What if Atasiag jumped to conclusions, Duke? Perhaps the Telvs only attacked these Shiirs by pure chance…”

Rowyn gasped.

“They attacked the Shiirs? By the Dragon. Now I see it clearly. Are you going to Atasiag’s now?” he asked quickly.

“No, I—”

The Republican cut him off with agitation:

“If he tries to escape, tell Atasiag not to do it through the port of Alfodyn, but through the port of Xendag. They must have commandeered all the Shiir ships. I’m going to look for Azune and Axef. This was bound to happen sometime,” he said as if to himself. “It’s time for a general retreat. We have no business here without Atasiag’s support.”

He took off down the hall almost at a run, and Dashvara watched him walk away with a frustrated sigh. It was rather exasperating to have to act knowing only the tenth part of the reasons that stimulated so much Atasiag and Rowyn. Still, he immediately started walking again and cursed his sister for not being where she was supposed to be waiting. Then he tried to calm down again, and a sudden worry came over him. The possibility that a misfortune happened to the two Xalya girls became oppressive.

Finally, he reached the highest bleachers, and the Ragail Guard blocked his way. One of them was the sergeant who always attended the trainings in the Arena.

“What are you looking for, Xalya?” Dashvara explained, and the sergeant shook his head with a sad glint in his eyes. “They came here, but they went down a while ago.”

Dashvara suppressed a grunt, thanked him, and turned his back on the Ragails. It was a mistake. Several Ragails had just drawn their swords. In the tone of one who gives an order reluctantly, the sergeant said:

“Kill him.”

Dashvara roared and made his second mistake: he tried to draw his swords. A second later, he realized that he didn’t have the time.

‘Attack instead of defend. Surprise your opponents.’

He followed Zorvun’s old advice, turned around, and charged at the sergeant with a war cry. Both fell to the ground. Dashvara leaped to his feet and ran down the hallway that led to the last bleachers. There was no way he was going to get out of there alive, he knew it, but if he had to die, at least he would die killing people who really deserved to die.

Ignoring the cries behind him, he drew his swords and went out into the daylight. He saw the Korfu, he saw the Akinoas, and he saw Lanamiag. He rushed towards them causing chaos in his path. The citizens threw themselves on the ground, shouting in terror and begging for Cili’s mercy.

Tremble, mortals, Dashvara thought. A terrible grimace appeared on his face, vaguely resembling a smile. You have pushed me to the limit.

He did not understand how he managed to get to the Korfu without any swords going through him. He leaped onto the small step that separated him from the family of Legitimates, and to the amazement of the Akinoas, he went around them. He dodged Lanamiag’s sword blow. This one shouted something. Deafened by the fury that vibrated in his heart, Dashvara did not hear him. He pushed him aside, thrust his sword into the leg of a man who stood in his way, and forgot everything but his objective. And he finally reached it. He wounded Rayeshag Korfu, that treacherous dog, in the arm, and then finished him off with another blow of his saber, and without waiting to see the result, he continued on his way to the Dikaksunora.

Morzif’s words sounded like a drum in his mind: ‘Freedom is not earned, my lord: freedom is something you take’.

He was halfway there when he received a sword blow against his armor, in the back.

Cowards without honor…, he spat mentally.

He did not turn around, and incredibly, did not receive another blow until he reached the Dikaksunora. He saw the young Kuriag, sitting paralyzed in his seat, his eyes glaring at his “King of the Eternal Bird”. And he also saw, closer, a troop of guards pointing their swords at him. He stopped, glared at them, and shouted:

“Get out of the way!” And he thundered: “Menfag Dikaksunora! You who are called the Master, show yourself! I will kill you. You will regret having enslaved my people.”

He barely flinched when he saw Raxifar standing beside him, his axe raised, brandishing it at the Dikaksunora. The Akinoa said nothing, but he let out a roar that was explicit enough. Glancing back quickly, Dashvara saw that, for some reason, the black savages had been carried away by his rage and were now fighting the Ragails.

“We’re going to die,” he muttered.

Raxifar showed him a fierce smile.

“I will die with you, Xalya. And not against you.”

Dashvara grimaced with a smile, gave a last thought to Yira, his brothers, and his Eternal Bird, and shouted:

“Death to the murderers!”

“Freedom!” Raxifar shouted.

They rushed against the guards. Not surprisingly, they soon found themselves retreating under the blows.

A few moments later, an uproar of voices erupted from the lower bleachers and grew louder. Dashvara hardly grasped what was going on, but he finally understood when he heard a citizen shout from a fairly short distance, “For the Union, down with the Legitimates, down with privilege!”. For some reason, the assault had pushed the Unionists into action, and the arena had now turned into chaos. Like a wave, the screams rose. The last tier was soon filled with excited citizens armed with their own weapons. The citizens had been so well prepared to counter the slave revolts, and why in the end? To sow destruction among themselves. Oh great united Titiaka…

Before him, a guard died choking on his own blood under Raxifar’s axe. Dashvara dodged a shield and kicked a basket in his way. He wounded the arm of the nearest soldier, took a step back and shouted:

“Raxifar, fall back! Let’s not separate ourselves from the rest.”

The “rest” were about fifteen Akinoas who caused a real carnage on their way. But they were wisely retreating towards one of the tunnels leading to the inner galleries, unlike Raxifar.

Damned reckless fool. Now that the Ragails are focusing on the Unitarians, here comes this savage to stick his neck out in the middle of the fight?

“Raxifar!” one of the Akinoas called out to him.

The idiot did not listen to him and charged again against the guards surrounding the Dikaksunora.

“He’s crazy,” Dashvara gasped. He was too far away to join the other Akinoas and make his way through the galleries with them in the middle of the fleeing crowd. The guards would have surrounded him immediately. He had no other option but to follow Raxifar and cover his back. This time we’re dead…

He lost count of the number of times he was nearly skewered by the guards. He felt that he was too slow in handling the swords. There would come a time when he would not be able to parry every attack. There would come a time when a sword would pierce him, and finally, he would die. And this time he would not be resurrected. And he would not have a coffin. He only hoped that Atasiag had planned a good escape route. And that he wouldn’t abandon his brothers to the Titiakas.

He dodged a sword strike that was headed straight for his face and charged.

Cursed, cursed life of madness…, he thought.

39 Burning path to freedom

“Wake up…”

“Wake up, Dash…”

“Wake up, by all the demons!”

Dashvara inhaled and choked on the smoke. Smoke? He shook his head to clear his mind and half-opened his eyelids. He met the captain’s two dark, intense eyes.

“I’m awake,” he muttered at last. He was hurting somewhere, and badly. His head, he realized. In a daze, he looked around the room, lit by a candelabra. Outside, in the night, one could hear cries. “Where—?”

“At Zaadma’s,” the captain replied. “You barely got out of the arena. The whole Titiaka is on fire. And now get up, son. Can you get up?”

Dashvara tried to remember what happened… and he only managed to recall half of it. He knew that he and Raxifar had fought like red snakes. He remembered at one point losing one of his swords. He had retrieved another from a guard. Then came the Ragail illusions. Hundreds of citizens had swarmed the upper bleachers, shouting “For the Union!” and “For Titiaka!”. The shouts and the fight had spread throughout the Arena. Then Raxifar, regaining an unexpected flash of sanity, had pushed him into a tunnel and shouted for him to run. Dashvara had run with him and with the ten or so Akinoas who had faithfully waited for Raxifar. Jostled from all sides, they had run, and exhausted, Dashvara had finally lost his balance on the stairs. He had rolled all the way down, taking several guards with him. He couldn’t remember anything else.

“Oh…” he groaned as the captain helped him to his feet. “I’m really going to start believing in this resurrection stuff. How come I’m still alive?”

The captain smiled.

“And you’re asking me? Well, if you really want to know, I think you owe it largely to the Akinoas.”

Dashvara saw him glance back and followed the direction of his gaze. He gasped. Raxifar was there, alive, lying on a bed just like him. He was wounded, and Zaadma was busy wrapping his arm in a bandage. Dashvara crawled over to him and saw that he was awake.

“Raxifar,” he said, his voice exhausted. His limbs were shaking with fatigue.

“He has no life-threatening injuries,” Zaadma whispered in a small voice. “He will survive… normally.”

The Dazbonian had her cheeks bathed in ashes and tears. For all answer, Dashvara just shook his head slightly in sign of gratitude.

“We have to go,” an urgent and trembling voice said. “Otherwise the ship will leave without us.”

Dashvara saw Rokuish in the doorway; the Shalussi carried a bag on his back and a sword on his belt.

“Xalya…” Raxifar whispered. Kneeling in front of his bed, Dashvara turned to the Akinoa. He was smiling. “I killed the Master. I killed him.”

Dashvara softly shook his head and smiled ruefully.

“Where are your people, Akinoa?” he whispered. He did not expect an answer, but Raxifar gave it to him anyway with a grim concision:

“Dead.”

Dead. The word entered Dashvara’s heart like a cold and absurd breath. He felt the captain help him up again. He stretched his arms towards the Akinoa.

“Get up, Raxifar.”

The man tried. But he did not succeed. He didn’t try very hard either. He sighed:

“Tell me what the point is.”

“Captain, help me,” Dashvara asked, his voice filled with desperation.

Between them, he and Zorvun pulled the giant to his feet. It was clear that the giant was doing nothing to make their job easier.

“We’ll never make it to the boat in time,” Rokuish complained.

“Where are the others?” Dashvara inquired. He could hardly articulate every syllable. “And Atasiag?”

“They left by boat,” the captain replied. At Dashvara’s curious look, he added, “I ordered them to leave. Only Arvara and I stayed, to get you out of there.”

“Well, it’s lucky you found me alive, then,” Dashvara breathed out. “Well, let’s go.” He let out a small, not entirely lucid laugh. “Are the Unitarians the ones making all that noise?”

No one answered him because at that moment someone kicked in the door of the herbalist’s shop shouting:

“Death to the Legitimates! Long live Titiaka!”

The man continued on his way, repeating his refrain. The captain cleared his throat.

“Unitarians,” he finally confirmed. “Let’s get out of here. Shalussi, leave the bag. It will only delay us.”

“That’s not what will delay us the most,” Rokuish retorted.

Leaning on each other, Dashvara and Raxifar hobbled to the exit first. Outside, in the relative darkness of the burning night, they saw an alert Arvara holding a double-axe. The Giant gave his lord a relieved pout, and Dashvara saw that he was doing his best not to look the Akinoa in the face.

Outside, it was chaos. In the distance, high flames could be seen rising from some large buildings.

“What’s the point…?” Raxifar murmured again.

Dashvara clenched his jaw.

“To live, Raxifar. Maybe there are other Akinoas left on the steppe. Maybe you can help them.”

The Akinoa shook his head. He did not answer, but as they walked behind Arvara, Dashvara felt that Raxifar was supporting him more than he was. Zaadma, despite her pregnancy, walked ahead of them at a brisk pace; Rokuish followed her with worried glances around. However, the people they passed were far too preoccupied with their own problems to bother with them. There were artisan slaves coming out of their stores with large bags, hoping to take advantage of the chaos to run away or who knows. Some citizens had blocked their gates and remained locked in their homes, waiting for all this madness to end. Perhaps they believed that peace would come with the dawn, but given the number of Unitarians who had risen up in the Arena, nothing was certain.

Suddenly, Dashvara stopped dead in his tracks. His mind was now working a little better, and he had just remembered an important detail.

“Captain!” he gasped. “I couldn’t find Fayrah and Lessi.”

He opened his mouth, closed it again, and Captain Zorvun shook his head.

“Lanamiag Korfu took them out of the arena. Yorlen guided them to the harbor, and Rowyn got them into a boat. They’re safe, Dash. Don’t worry.”

Dashvara took a deep breath.

“What about Yira?”

“She stayed at the boat that must be waiting for us. Come on, keep moving.”

Dashvara continued to move forward, unable to believe that, in the end, the majority would make it out of there alive. They were the only ones left. He looked at Zaadma and Rokuish and gritted his teeth, swearing to himself that they would not die in Titiaka. Surely, if I do get out of this alive, I’ll be laughing about it for a long time, he thought with an inner laugh.

They were not heading for the port of Alfodyn but for Xendag. They were approaching the headquarters, half running and half staggering, when they heard a loud noise of fighting. In front of the wall that separated the Sacrifice district from the Sibaskin district, dozens of citizens were fighting hand to hand against Ragail guards. The latter were totally overwhelmed by the numbers, but they resisted for a while behind their shields before starting to undeniably retreat. A few minutes later, they were attacked from the other side, by citizens from Sibaskin, and they had no choice but to flee through the wall. They ran away as the Unitarians shouted in victory. Dashvara and the others passed by them, trying to blend in, and within minutes, they were walking through Sibaskin. Raxifar let out a sarcastic laugh.

“Thank you guys for clearing the way,” he commented.

Dashvara smiled, looking grim.

“I can’t wait to get back to the steppe and leave these savages behind.”

“Savages,” Raxifar spat.

They started laughing nervously, and the captain gave them a dark look.

“Hurry up, by all means, do you want the ship to leave us stranded in this hell?”

They avoided a group of angry citizens, moved away from the Loan House, and entered the shadowy alleys of the neighborhood. There, fortunately, there was no fire. Dashvara was putting one foot in front of the other, unable to see where he was going, not because it was dark, but because his vision was blurred at times. His head felt like it was in a bubble, and the screams sounded in his ears like distant complaints from a nightmare. They reached the docks without incident, and Rokuish let out an exclamation of deep relief:

“The boat is still there!”

The port was crowded. People were running around looking for a boat to board. The port of Xendag had no large ships, most were fishing boats, and Dashvara wondered what the port of Alfodyn must be like at this very moment. Probably much worse than this one.

A citizen of imposing stature collided with Dashvara causing him to lose what little strength he had left: he collapsed. Oh… demons. Watch where you’re going, federate. Raxifar supported him on one side, and Arvara on the other, and they continued to move forward until Dashvara regained his footing. Finally, Captain Zorvun lost his patience and drew his swords, shouting:

“Calm down! Make way!”

People began to scream, and some threw themselves into the water. The captain’s ability to calm people down was admirable. The way was cleared, and they soon reached the dock where the waiting ship was moored. Yira was there on the gangway, her sword drawn and pointed at free men trying to board.

“Bitch!” one shouted. “You hurt my arm!”

Bitch yourself, Dashvara roared inwardly, outraged. Suddenly, he heard one of the sailors shouting:

“Cast off…!”

A figure silenced him, threatening him with the tip of a sword. Dashvara opened his eyes wide when he recognized him. It was the Honyr Sirk Is Rhad.

“They’re coming!” Atsan Is Fadul exclaimed from the prow.

Between the three of them, Yira, Rokuish, and the captain cleared the area, and Dashvara walked up the gangway as if in a dream. With wobbly legs, he dropped into a corner near Raxifar. He almost passed out. He breathed in the night air and glanced at the fishing boat he was on. It was full of unfamiliar people, mostly slaves who were bustling about impatiently, anxious to leave Titiaka as soon as possible. Thank you for waiting for me, foreigners… His wry smile barely managed to make it onto his face.

“This time you can, sailor,” Sirk Is Rhad growled. “Cast off.” Immediately he turned to Dashvara and leaned toward him with a sharp gaze. “Are you hurt, sîzan?”

Dashvara tried to straighten up a bit.

“No.”

“And this one?” the Honyr added, his jaw clenched. His gaze had fallen on Raxifar. Dashvara smiled wearily.

“He fought well by my side,” he replied. “And he saved my life. Lately, I feel like everyone saves my life, and I don’t save anyone’s.”

Sirk Is Rhad nodded and stepped aside as Yira approached. Dashvara took her hand. The sursha’s eyes had been paralyzed by so much cataclysm. Perhaps the fires had brought back bad memories.

“The worst is over,” Dashvara assured. “Or at least I hope so. We can still drown. I never liked boats much. I never…” He gasped, out of breath. His vision was blurring. “I’ve only been on a boat once to get here.” He blinked. “I can’t see you very well.”

He felt Yira’s gloved hand on his cheek.

“Just because you can’t see me, it doesn’t mean I’m not close to you,” she whispered.

Dashvara huffed, amused. Yira had said that very phrase the second day they met, in a totally different context. Trembling, he drew the strength to lean over and place a kiss on her veiled forehead.

“Naâsga,” he murmured softly. He was about to be dragged down by exhaustion when a sudden thought stirred him. “Tahisran!” he breathed out. “I completely forgot about—”

“He’s fine, Dash,” the captain sighed as he sat down beside them. “I already told you that everyone is fine. Well, except for Kodarah. He twisted his ankle again while running. And now stop worrying and sleep. You look like an undead.”

Dashvara pouted, and unwittingly, he looked at Yira. He let out a soft laugh. He couldn’t help it.

40 In the middle of nowhere

They left the harbor without lighting any lanterns and entered the darkness. Dashvara fell asleep shortly after they pulled away from the shore. He awoke at first light. His throat was dry, and cramps in his stomach made him wince with pain. He was aching all over. So many falls down the stairs and so many blows… it wasn’t healthy.

Took you long enough to figure that out… he scoffed. He cleared his throat, and Captain Zorvun glanced at him. The latter was eating a piece of bread. He gave him half of it, and Dashvara ate it greedily. As he chewed, he looked around the ship with a curious eye. There were about thirty people in all, huddled on the benches and on the deck. Yira was sleeping next to him, her hand on her veil. It was the first time he was seeing her sleep, and Dashvara contemplated her for a moment before looking up at the sky. It was relatively clear, and the clouds rode like galloping horses. The sails, inflated by the wind, were pulling the boat as best they could across the ocean. The pitching quickly made him annoyingly seasick.

“Where are we going?” he asked.

The three Honyrs, Arvara, and the captain sat on his right. Rokuish and Zaadma on his left. The Dazbonian seemed to take the impromptu emigration calmly, but that didn’t stop the Shalussi from giving her constant worried glances, as if he feared that at any moment she would be taken ill or who knows.

“To Matswad,” the captain replied. “Apparently, that’s where most of the freed slaves go. It’s full of pirates, I hear.”

“Great,” Dashvara smiled. “I suppose if Atasiag is there, he’ll be generous and give us a ship to Dazbon. It would be the least he could do after all I’ve done to avenge him for the Korfu’s betrayal, don’t you think?”

His sardonic smile had widened as he spoke.

“Did you really kill him?” the captain whispered.

“Rayeshag Korfu,” Dashvara confirmed. “And Raxifar son of Shiltapi killed Menfag Dikaksunora. I don’t think they’ll get up again,” he joked. “But now, let’s not think about these people and think about the steppe. About our land. Our home… Uh…” He ran a hand over his face. His head was spinning. “Sorry, I’m still a little confused.”

The captain smiled mockingly.

“It’s been happening to you for quite a few years now, don’t worry.” And he pointed out: “Since Makarva is not here, someone else had to say it.”

All smiled. Yira had opened her eyes and was now sitting up in silence; she looked around as if wondering where the hell she was. Dashvara took her hand, not sure if it was to calm her or himself. Because, although he was surrounded by brothers, he was also surrounded by water on a crowded boat that looked like it could sink at any moment; and this could be quite scary… especially when you can’t swim. After a silence, Rokuish whispered:

“Dash, do you really want to go back to the steppe? I heard that over there it’s a complete disaster. The Essimeans have enslaved the Shalussis. Those demons won’t let you settle in your dungeon again.”

The Shalussis, enslaved by the Essimeans? With a grimace, Dashvara sighed:

“There is no dungeon anymore, Rok. The Essimeans destroyed it. In the end, these worshippers of the God of Death will prove to be the worst dogs on the steppe,” he reasoned. The he suddenly wavered as he heard a voice, Sheroda’s voice, whisper a familiar litany in his ear. He added, “Unless the dogs are us. But I don’t think so.”

There was another silence. Then Zaadma murmured softly:

“You talked in your sleep, Dash. You spoke a name.”

Dashvara raised his eyebrows in concern.

“Oh, yeah? And what name?”

Zorvun cleared his throat, looking embarrassed.

“Actually, there were several names,” this one said. “Lifdor of Shalussi and Todakwa of Essimea were two of them. As far as I know, the others are dead.”

Dashvara had blinked.

“Oh,” he said. “The famous list.” He didn’t remember dreaming about it. As a matter of fact, he hadn’t dreamed about it in three years. He glanced at his companions before admitting, “Lord Vifkan asked me to kill them. By means of a vile and unworthy revenge. You were right, Sirk Is Rhad,” he added quietly. “My father had his faults.” He shrugged, thought of the treacherous attack he himself had provoked in the Arena, and gave a caustic smile. “Everyone does, after all, don’t they?”

Zaadma ran her tongue over her lips, uneasy.

“Yet you’re thinking of crossing names off this list,” she muttered.

Dashvara shook his head.

“To hell with the list. I gave my promise to the Honyrs to go to their clan, and I will. Then… we’ll see. But I’m not crazy, Zae. A few dozen Xalyas can’t fight against hundreds of Essimeans. If they won’t let us settle on the steppe, we’ll try to avoid them. I will not send my people to their deaths,” he said.

He realized that he had raised his voice and lowered his voice when he saw that several foreigners were giving him half-curious, half-apprehensive looks. The steppemen were one of the few people who carried weapons on this ship: perhaps these Titiakas feared that they would be able to use them if the need arose.

He breathed inwardly. For the Liadirlá’s sake, be at ease. It may not look like it, good people, but we are pacifists.

From his seat, Shokr Is Set, the Great Sage of the Honyrs, spoke in a calm tone.

“I believe I have not yet had the opportunity to express in person my gratitude for the honor you do us, Xalyas, by accepting us as brothers.” His eyes reflected a strange mixture of gratitude and expectation.

Thoughtfully, Dashvara bowed his head to the sage, and Captain Zorvun replied:

“And it is an honor for us to have you in our clan.”

“The honor is ours,” Arvara the Giant said with a frank smile.

Dashvara was looking for some more original answer when he felt Raxifar wake up. The Akinoa was half crushing him with his great mass, but he moved aside a little when he opened his eyes. He let out a grunt of pain. He had a wound in his arm and another in his abdomen… And his bandages were completely soaked with blood. He didn’t look good.

“Raxifar?” Dashvara asked quizzically.

The Akinoa answered him with another grunt.

“I’ll change his bandage,” Zaadma murmured.

Concerned, the Republican stood up and was about to touch the bandage on his arm when Raxifar let out a roar:

“No!”

He showed his fist to the Dazbonian, and she stepped back, eyebrows furrowed.

“Come on!” she protested, “I just wanted to take a look at the wounds—”

“Back off, foreigner,” the steppeman spat.

Dashvara placed a soothing hand on Raxifar’s chest.

“Calm down, Akinoa. It looks like these wounds have become infected. It would be stupid to let yourself die now, don’t you think?”

The Akinoa clenched his jaws. He wasn’t looking at him: his eyes were lost in the distance.

“If I heal, I live. If I die, I die.”

Dashvara winced and almost told him to stop acting like a stubborn savage, but he thought better of it. How had he reacted when his people had been slaughtered? He had wanted to die. He had wanted to fall to the ground and wait for the sun and thirst to send him to serve as food for the beasts of the steppe.

He bowed his head respectfully.

“So be it. Sit down, Zaadma.”

The young woman sat down and grumbled at the stupidity of the steppemen.

“Don’t include the Shalussis, my dear,” Rokuish asked her in a joking tone.

“You maybe not, but I include the Shalussis more than any other clan,” Zaadma replied briskly. “I’ve lived with them for many years, I think that gives me the right to give my opinion. Well,” she sighed. “The Titiakas didn’t leave a very good impression on me either. These Unitarians will destroy their own city before they can control it. We were lucky they decided to revolt just now. It looks like we hired them to create confusion so we could get away.”

Mmph. We didn’t even need to hire them, Dashvara thought, just to encourage them a little: they were already on the warpath. Then he frowned, puzzled.

“Wait, you and Rok didn’t have to run away, did you?”

Zaadma exchanged glances with Rokuish before clearing his throat.

“Well, to tell you the truth, I work for Cobra too,” she murmured. “I didn’t start my flower shop without help. Anyway, maybe we could have stayed without any harm coming to us,” she conceded. “But as Cobra says: as soon as you feel the wind change, pick up your things and set sail. I know that old pirate escaped more than one betrayal by applying this method. And I thought it was a good time to follow his advice. But I didn’t leave without a good supply of seeds,” she added, purring and looking at the big bag Rokuish had carried from their home to the port.

Dashvara could not suppress a grimace of disappointment. He had hoped that the bag contained something more… edible. But, anyway, his stomach probably wouldn’t accept anything at the moment. He closed his eyes, nauseous, and tried to doze off while his companions exchanged a few sporadic words.

After a few hours, the sun began to beat down on their heads like a merciless fire. The star was at its zenith when Raxifar of Akinoa, burning with fever, began to rave. His words were not all that comprehensible, but at one point Dashvara overheard a fervent prayer to his god Akinoa. Out of the blue, he began to scream and half stood up. Dashvara had to grab him by the shoulders and whisper soothing words to him for many minutes before he stopped fidgeting. Finally, the warrior fell back to the deck and sank into a dying silence. His outburst must have impressed the passengers because they did not dare to say a word for a long time. Finally, a child asked for water. After a moment’s hesitation, one of the sailors took a barrel out of the hold and observed:

“We only have one barrel. Don’t waste the water. One glass each, no more.”

Dashvara felt a surge of sympathy for the passengers when he saw them nodding serenely and sharing the water in peace.

Well, Dash. Most of them were slaves. They’re used to hardship. And they’re used to obeying orders. They even know how to share.

Night came, the Moon, the Gem, and the Candle rose into the starry sky and disappeared again, replaced by the rays of dawn. The day found Dashvara nauseous, hungry, and numb. The four sailors on the boat were the only ones who could move a little. One in particular climbed the mast between the sails with the agility of a swamp orc.

The wind was favorable to them until the afternoon; then it died suddenly, and the boat remained as if frozen in the middle of nothingness, in a desert of water.

Dashvara heard one of the sailors cursing in Ryscodranese. He saw him pull out a long oar and place it at the stern to move the boat forward. Captain Zorvun laughed through his teeth, nervous:

“At this rate, the ocean will dry up before we get there.”

The fisherman glared at him.

“Do you have a better idea, O great warrior?” he replied.

Zorvun did not answer, and for the next few hours, they continued to move forward at the pace of a limping mule.

The sky was already darkening and clouding over when Raxifar came out of his silence to whisper:

“Xalya.”

Dashvara looked at him and shivered. The Akinoa barely looked conscious; his eyes were bulging, and his throat made a barely audible sound. Dashvara was sure he was the only one who heard it:

“Do not let me die.”

Dashvara let out a sigh of relief; nevertheless, he could not feel quite at ease, for he was not at all certain that the Akinoa would survive. He called Zaadma, and refraining from sarcastic comments, she set to work. It turned out that one of the passengers also had some knowledge of medicine, and he kindly offered to help. The next morning, the Akinoa was doing much better than Dashvara. Dashvara had tried to eat some of the garfias that Atsan Is Fadul had brought, but he had given them all back. Pale as a shroud, he finally concluded with a drunken voice:

“Oh, ocean, curse you. Curse you a thousand times.”

With mocking eyes, Yira patted him on the shoulder.

“It’s a matter of habit,” she assured, cheerfully.

Dashvara snorted. Then snorted again.

“No, naâsga. This is the last time I lock myself in a wooden box in the middle of salt water,” he swore.

“Ah!” Rokuish laughed. “Then you will stay in Matswad forever, my friend. One cannot leave an island except by boat.”

Dashvara shook his head.

“Not at all. According to Tah, the Underground exists. I’ll go down there.”

The captain smiled, distracted. That cursed man did not seem to suffer from seasickness. Dashvara leaned against the edge of the boat and added:

“I will fly like the Eternal Bird and fly over the waters. But I swear on my life that I will not set foot on a boat again. I don’t know how Makarva can love them so much…”

In the afternoon, the water barrel ended, and as if nature had wanted to help them, a storm raged over them, piercing them to the bone. They retrieved the water, but found themselves as soggy as they had been in the Compassion barracks. They spent a terrible night, and when the sun finally came out, they were all more silent and miserable than ever. Not a wisp of wind blew the sails.

Dashvara sighed, yawned and looked around.

The three Honyrs, Arvara, and the captain were sleeping; Zaadma and Rokuish had drifted off a bit and were murmuring to each other; Raxifar, with his arms crossed, was watching his boots, listless. And Yira, sitting on an edge, kept her eyes fixed on the distance, immersed in her thoughts. If he remembered correctly, the sursha hadn’t eaten anything since they boarded. Dashvara wondered if it was because she didn’t dare remove her veil or simply because she didn’t need to eat as much. He would have to ask her as soon as they got to Matswad Island. If they ever got there. With another sigh, he laid his head against the wood and let out in a whisper:

“How long will we have to live like this?”

To his surprise, one of the sailors who was sitting not far away answered:

“About two days if we are lucky with the wind. Four if we’re unlucky.”

Dashvara raised an eyebrow, glanced at the flaccid sails, and concluded:

“Four, then.”

It didn’t take them that long. Eventually the wind picked up, and late in the afternoon, they found a caravel heading straight for them. At first, Dashvara feared they were slave traders. He was relieved when he realized they were pirates. Then he laughed inwardly at such relief, but what the hell, he was relieved. The pirates explained their friendly intentions, transferred them all to their ship, and towed the fishing boat. They immediately set course for Matswad.

“Sit there,” a hard-faced sibilian said. He wore a black cloak over his shoulders and a sword at his belt. His stony face was as unexpressive as Dafys’.

Dashvara followed the survivors to the designated area and was bitterly surprised when the pirates began to take away their belongings.

“That’s my pipe!” one of the sailors protested. “You all are nothing but thieves.”

A red-haired pirate laughed.

“Did you doubt it? Keep your pipe, my good man.” He returned the object and continued to search them. He took a dagger from an old man and said loudly, “We are not stealing anything from you. You can probably reacquire your possessions later. We’re just requisitioning them temporarily. However, we keep all the sharp weapons.”

Dashvara gave him an offended pout, but as the pirate passed him by, he willingly handed him his remaining sword.

“The armor too, friend,” the pirate said.

Dashvara looked at him, shrugged, and took it off. The captain had a harder time getting rid of his things, but when he saw that the Honyrs and Raxifar were even more reluctant, he straightened up and told them:

“This is not a surrender, steppemen. Let us lay down our weapons.”

The redhead picked them up and asked:

“Were you gladiators?”

“Mmph.” Dashvara rolled his eyes. “No. We were bodyguards.”

When the pirate reached out to Yira, she remained motionless.

“You have a sword,” the redhead pointed out.

The sursha didn’t budge and just looked him in the eye. Dashvara stiffened. What’s so special about that black sword, Yira? He thought he knew her heart as well as his own, but there was so much he didn’t know about her yet! Who knows, maybe it was a forbidden object. A necromancer’s item or… Bah. It could be anything.

The redhead was about to lose his patience when Yira, recovering her mobility, took out something from her left sleeve. A coin? In any case, the pirate turned pale when he saw it, took a step back and continued to strip the Titiakas, leaving Yira in peace.

“What’s that thing?” Dashvara questioned in a low voice as she approached.

The sursha shrugged and showed it to him.

“The badge of the Brotherhood.”

Dashvara paled as the pirate did. It was a metal disc with a crude figure engraved in the center, representing the shape of an hourglass. It was a thieves’ lantern, like the one Zaadma had lent him three years ago to enter the catacombs of Rocavita. But this one had a blue circle, and all around it were words written in a script he did not recognize.

Yira tucked the disc into her sleeve, and her eyes smiled.

“This lantern marks me as a special protégé of Cobra,” she explained. “There are only three of them in the entire Brotherhood—”

“You will burn in hell!”

Zaadma’s sudden outburst startled them both. Dashvara took one look and realized what was going on: the Dazbonian was adamant that they not take her seed bag.

“If you steal them from me now, you will spoil the result of years of work. There are very special seeds that need special attention… The White Dragon will burn you alive. You will not take my plants!” she cried sharply.

Under the worried look of Rokuish and to the exasperation of the redhead, Zaadma sat down on the bag. Probably, her pregnancy was a strong argument to convince the pirate not to force her to get up. The republican’s obstinacy seemed to amuse him, and he pronounced:

“If only everyone would defend the fruits of their labor with such tenacity! Keep your seeds, Republican. But, when you get to Matswad, promise to use them for the good of all the islanders.”

Dashvara smiled. He was beginning to find this pirate sympathetic.

Finally, claiming that they didn’t want to have so much mess on deck, they asked them to go down to the hold, and two sailors brought them food and drink. They did not eat to their hearts’ content, but they recovered some strength and Arvara declared, jovially:

“Every time life seems to be coming to an end, something comes along to pull us out of the abyss. Isn’t that wonderful? It must be fate.”

Zorvun and Dashvara looked at him with a small, mocking smile.

“Surely,” the latter said. “Fate, and damn good luck.” After a hesitation, he added in a low voice: “Yira, you… you won’t eat?”

Yira’s eyes sparkled.

“I will eat when I get to Matswad.”

Dashvara cleared his throat and smiled.

“Now I understand why you are just a bag of bones, naâsga.”

A look of surprise passed through Yira’s eyes. Far from being offended, she laughed, amused.

“Is this Xalya humor?”

Dashvara laughed quietly and brought the sursha’s gloved hand to his lips.

“Humor never killed anyone,” he said, and lovingly added, without letting go of her hand, “naâsga.”

A few hours later, when he awoke, he found Yira snuggled up to him and sound asleep. A white lock of hair had escaped from her tightly fitted hood. Dashvara caught it in his calloused fingers and it felt softer than silk. For a moment, he wanted to remain like that, motionless, embraced forever. Why did time always have to pass, why did there always have to be a beginning and an end? He smiled.

You’ve completely lost your mind, Dash. Remember what Tahisran said: when time has no limits, it stops making sense. And there is nothing more disconcerting than something that has no meaning. There you have it, O great lord. You can love as much as you want, but what good is a paralyzed love? As Maloven used to say, love is like a gust of wind: it blows like a hurricane and then dies out with life. But, as you often say yourself, think of the horse that gallops, not of the day when it will stop galloping.

Gently, he hid the white hairlock under Yira’s hood. No sooner had he straightened up than a shout rang out on deck:

“Matswad in sight!”

It was like hearing the cry of salvation. As everyone awoke, Dashvara hurried out of the hold. The Xalyas and Yira soon joined him. Outside, the sun was already shining in the east, gently shimmering the waters of the deck and illuminating the sea.

“Earth,” Dashvara murmured, his voice trembling. He felt as if he had not seen it for months.

His eyes filled with wonder, he detailed the island, its cliffs and leafy forests. He wished he could fly over the waters like a bird to reach it. Finally, he saw the port of Matswad. It was a real city. Full of people. But there were no tall buildings or straight streets: only a cluster of houses crammed on the slope between two cliffs. As soon as the boat was moored at the quay, Dashvara had to restrain himself from running off like a madman. Titiaka’s foreigners, on the other hand, looked apprehensive, as if they were suddenly afraid to discover what kind of island they were landing on.

In a town of poor pirates, folks. Of poor but free pirates.

“Onward, mates!” the red-haired pirate said. “Everyone get off. Those who don’t know anyone here can wait on the dock. People always come to help. Come on, cheer up.”

The Titiakas disembarked, and Dashvara followed them, his hands sweaty. When he stepped onto the firm stone of the dock, he took a few steps to make sure the island wasn’t rocking like the ship. Satisfied, he smiled to himself as he looked curiously at the city.

“The shepherd Bramanil didn’t like boats either,” he commented when the captain joined him. “And yet, according to the story, he was born on a boat. Ten leagues away from the coast,” he added with a broad smile. “In the middle of the land, on a mountain with sheep.”

“Mm,” Zorvun smiled. “It’s kind of like being born on a horse in the middle of the sea.”

“Kind of,” Dashvara admitted cheerfully. He looked around the crowded docks, and when he suddenly saw familiar faces, his heart leaped. “Brothers!” he exclaimed. He started to run, and when he was only a few steps away from his twenty brothers, he fell to his knees before them and cried, “May the Dahars bless your Eternal Birds for a thousand years!”

The twenty Xalyas stopped and exchanged amused looks, shining with joy.

“And why should the Dahars bless them, Dash?” Makarva asked, mockingly.

“Because you are alive,” Dashvara replied.

Makarva laughed.

“So may the Dahars also bless your Eternal Bird, Dash. And now stop kneeling before your brothers. Unless you want us all to kneel down and keep you company.”

The Xalyas laughed. With tear-filled eyes, Dashvara smiled and stood up.

“Bah, damn you,” he muttered. “You’re always mocking your lord!”

“I must say, you were asking for it, Dash,” Captain Zorvun laughed behind him.

The captain stepped forward and greeted them all with pats and hugs. At one point, Arvara the Giant stepped aside to let him pass and revealed something that amazed Dashvara: a child of about six years of age was staring curiously at the docks, sitting on the shoulders of the Blacksmith. Dashvara laughed out loud and hurried over to him.

“I can’t believe it… Is this your son?”

Morzif smiled happily.

“Yes. Hey, Shivara,” he said to his son. “Look closely at this one. You don’t remember him, do you? Well, I remember that, when you were two years old, he put you on a horse with his little brother. That’s your lord, Shivara. The lord of the Xalyas.”

Dashvara observed the child with a big smile. This one gave him a serious look. There was no doubt, he had some resemblance and steppian features… He wouldn’t have sworn by his Eternal Bird that he was really his son, but if Morzif said he was, it surely must be. Dashvara raised a hand and ruffled the child’s black hair as he uttered:

“Welcome to your people, little Shivara.”

Alta intervened, his voice trembling with emotion:

“Dash, Captain. Azune was telling the truth. The five Xalya girls are really here, in Matswad. I’ll tell them you’ve arrived. My cousins will jump for joy. They’ve always had a lot of admiration for you, Dash,” he joked.

With a light heart, Dashvara saw the Xalya run off into the crowd. Thirty-two Xalyas, he counted. There are thirty-two Xalyas on the island. He smiled widely. And then they say there is no such thing as resurrection. Then he turned to the Honyrs, who had remained slightly apart, and corrected: Thirty-five. He placed a hand on Atsan’s shoulder and drew the Xalyas’ attention before declaring:

“This is Sirk Is Rhad, Atsan Is Fadul, and the Great Sage Shokr Is Set: treat them as brothers, because that’s what they are.”

While the Xalyas greeted the new members fraternally, Dashvara turned around, surprised not to see Raxifar. He finally saw him, still near the boat, watching Matswad’s agitation, looking a little lost. He approached him with a quick step.

“Raxifar of Akinoa,” he said in a friendly tone. “You have saved my life. Now allow me to save yours. Please accompany me to my brothers. I swear to help you return to the steppe.”

The Akinoa looked at him with piercing eyes, from his giant height.

“I will never be a Xalya,” he said in a tired voice.

Dashvara smiled.

“I’m not asking you to be one.”

Raxifar took a deep breath and finally nodded.

“Then I accept your help.”

Dashvara bowed his head.

“Thank you. It will be an honor to help you, Raxifar. Uh… Just one thing: don’t be offended if, at first, my brothers look at you the wrong way.”

Raxifar’s white teeth showed.

“You, too, don’t take offense if I don’t look favorably on you, Xalya.”

The amused glint in his eyes died as quickly as it came. Dashvara felt his heart break as if it were his own, and it hurt. It hurt like hell. He would have tried to comfort him… if he hadn’t remembered all the Xalya blood spilled by that man’s savage people.

They walked away from the ship in silence. Raxifar’s encounter with the Xalyas was cold. There was no better word for it. Cold as a winter squall in Compassion.

41 Assassins

His brothers led them to one of the few stone houses in the city. Of course, His Eminence Atasiag Peykat could not live in just any slum. That would have been unthinkable, wouldn’t it? With a mocking pout, Dashvara moved forward, following Wassag down the stone corridor. The Wolf was dressed in his usual gray tunic and slave belt. He led him into a room where Atasiag was sitting at a small desk scribbling a message. Unlike Wassag, the federate was not wearing his usual white tunic and magistrate’s belt: he had dark clothes and carried two daggers on his belt. The man standing in front of him had become Cobra again, the leader of the Dream Brotherhood.

Casually, Dashvara sat down on the chair in front of him and said:

“Hello, Eminence. What’s up? How is it going?”

Cobra arched an eyebrow and finally looked up from his parchment.

“I had buried you a second time, Philosopher. Let me rejoice to see you alive again.”

Dashvara smirked.

“I let you, Eminence. And let me thank you in turn for helping my brothers to escape.”

“Oh.” Atasiag made a vague gesture. “It was only natural. We’re family, aren’t we?”

“Uh, yes, well…” Dashvara ran his tongue over his lips. “Any news from Titiaka?”

“And fresher than yours,” Atasiag said. He tapped a message on the table. “Homing pigeons are a fantastic service. Did you know? A message can travel from Titiaka to Matswad in less than six hours. Isn’t it wonderful?”

“Beautiful and admirable,” Dashvara agreed, amused. “I guess this means that not all of Titiaka has been burned to the ground.”

“Far from it,” Atasiag assured. “It took them three days, but the Ragails finally calmed the crowd. The Council was completely ravaged and looted. The Legitimates ran away like rabbits.” He smiled. “Half of them left on their ships to Dazbon, including the brave Telvs.” He huffed, as if stifling a laugh. “The other half dug in at the Federal Palace. And some of them made the unfortunate mistake of deceiving some Ragails. They told them that the Commander ordered them to protect them, instead of going out to help their companions in the city. Imagine that,” he chuckled. “When he found out, the Commander of the Ragail Guard got angry and ordered them arrested.” This time he laughed loudly. “Who could have the idea to deceive the Ragails! That must have been impressive to see. Since then, the Commander has taken the liberty of establishing a Provisional Council, headed by Captain Faag Yordark. He and his father are among the few Legitimates who have behaved as true leaders of their people.” He rose from his chair and continued, “Now they have just informed me that the imprisoned Legitimates have been released. They have confiscated the property of those who fled, and the Commander has exiled the Nelkantas for supporting the Unitarians rebellion. The Yim and Steliar must be shaking and praying that the Commander doesn’t notice them too much.” He shook his head, amused. “When the Ragails want to clean up, they don’t just pretend. They’re the ones who set up the Legitimates, ninety years ago. And now they’re the ones who put them down. Or at least part of them.”

Dashvara looked at him, bewildered. Atasiag seemed more jovial than melancholic after the turnaround in his life over the past few days. Well, it was also true that, from the little he knew of his past life, such sudden changes must have been rather familiar to him.

“What about Sheroda?” he asked.

Atasiag raised an eyebrow.

“She’s here. Under this same roof. With Aligra and the other members of the Pearl Brotherhood. Do you wish to see her?”

Dashvara swallowed hard.

“No. I was just asking. What about my sister?”

Atasiag winced.

“She is… in the east wing of the house. She is…” he repeated, “with Lessi and with other people.”

The strange look he gave him alarmed Dashvara.

“What other people?”

Atasiag stopped near a side door to a courtyard. He motioned for him to follow him, and Dashvara stood up.

“With what other people?” he insisted as he followed him out the door.

“With Lanamiag Korfu. And some other citizen who fled with him.”

His voice was quiet. Dashvara did not try to hide his annoyance.

“Lanamiag Korfu,” he repeated. “Why on earth are you harboring the son of the man who betrayed you?”

Atasiag stopped in the middle of the courtyard, and his mouth twisted into a smile, but his eyes remained serious.

“Don’t ask me. Ask Fayrah. This is the room,” he pointed. “He’s badly hurt, Dash,” he added. “Stay here. I’ll go get your sister.”

“Eminence,” Dashvara called to him, uneasy. “If she is with him, I would rather not disturb her. I’ll… I’ll talk to her at another time.”

Atasiag raised his eyebrows before nodding slowly.

“Okay.”

There was an awkward silence. A morning mist danced on the cobblestones of the courtyard. It seemed almost as alive as the mist of the Whispers.

“I killed Rayeshag Korfu,” Dashvara whispered at last. “He was your friend, wasn’t he?”

Atasiag Peykat did not answer immediately.

“Can the one who ends up betraying you really be a friend?” he asked abruptly. “No, Philosopher. He was not a friend. As I told you, he merely required my services. He respected me, more because of the Dream Brotherhood than because of my title as magistrate, but… he was a man who did not like risks. As soon as the Dikaksunora began to threaten him seriously, he switched sides. And he made a mistake.” He smiled bitterly. “He could not imagine that a steppeman would go directly to end his life. Nor that the Akinoas, the great enemies of the Xalyas, would support you.”

Dashvara looked down at his hands and pouted in disgust. His voice was hoarse as he said:

“I’ve had enough of this, Eminence. Enough of having to continually fight to stay alive. Enough of revenge. And enough of being on this island surrounded by water.”

Atasiag smiled sympathetically.

“I’ve had enough too. Except for the last point. Besides, by definition, an island is surrounded by water, Philosopher.” Dashvara rolled his eyes, and the Diumcilian added, “You can stop calling me Eminence, Dash. We are not in Titiaka.”

Dashvara gave him a mocking smile.

“But you used to like being called that. Eminence.”

Atasiag looked at him for a few seconds before sighing.

“You’re right,” he admitted. “I guess there are too many bad influences in Titiaka. Sometimes I feel like I’m half a fool.”

Dashvara laughed quietly.

“Well, that’s a good start. When you have fully confirmed your feeling, I will stop calling you Eminence. And I’ll call you brother.”

Atasiag shook his head in amusement and was about to respond when a commotion suddenly broke out in one of the corridors. His heart in shock, Dashvara ran across the courtyard toward the screams… He was just reaching the door to the hallway when it flew open and he saw a man rushing toward him, sword in hand. His eyes bulging, Dashvara narrowly dodged a lethal blow that grazed his chest. The next second, five Xalyas pounced on the assassin from behind, disarming him and slamming him to the ground.

“Don’t kill him!” Dashvara shouted.

With bated breath, he approached the man. Tsu blocked his way and took him by the arm.

“Did he hurt you?”

Dashvara shook his head.

“No,” he breathed out. He looked down at his chest and smiled, “Your amulet must have worked, Tsu.”

“Who the hell are you?” Orafe growled at the assassin. “Answer!”

He and Maef shook the man. The captain patiently intervened:

“Guys, stop shaking him, come on. How do you expect him to answer like that?”

All the Xalyas had joined the courtyard, followed by Yira, Wassag, Yorlen, Dafys, and Loxarios and his dog.

“What happened?” Yira asked, running to Dashvara.

Dashvara took her by the waist and calmed her down:

“Nothing, naâsga. That man tried to kill me, that’s all. If he can explain why…” He fell silent suddenly when Maef sat the man up and allowed them all to see his face. Dashvara recognized him right away.

It was Zefrek of Shalussi. Zefrek son of Nanda.

42 The three clans

For a moment, Dashvara thought his mind was not working properly. Finally, the evidence hit him hard, and he didn’t know what to do, whether laugh in astonishment or ask Zefrek what the hell he was doing there. He did neither. He simply remained motionless and mute.

The Shalussi gave him a murderous look and spat in his direction. He struggled, but Maef, Orafe, and Shurta held him firmly.

“Answer,” Zamoy insisted, grabbing the man by the hair. “Who ordered you to murder Dashvara of Xalya?”

“That’s if he really wanted to kill him,” the captain reflected. “Maybe his target was Atasiag.”

This one had maintained a prudent distance and seemed to wait for the lord of the Xalyas to react.

“No,” Dashvara sighed at last, breaking his silence. “This man is Zefrek, son of Nanda. I suppose he came to avenge the murder of his father.” All disdain was swept away by a wave of sadness, and feeling more pain than fear, he leaned close to the Shalussi. The latter tried to bite him, and Maef pulled him back.

“Damned savage!” Miflin exclaimed.

Dashvara looked at Zefrek. He was dressed like a Matswad sailor, like a poor, disheveled, skinny pirate. He looked up into the savage’s face and held his icy gaze. He was not crazy, he realized. He was still the proud Shalussi who had nearly killed him on the steppe. He had simply clung to the one thing that kept him alive: revenge.

“That’s ironic,” he said at last. “Sad,” he added. “And absurd.” He paused for a moment without looking away from Zefrek of Shalussi’s seething eyes. “Your father was dying, Shalussi. He was ill. And he was not a good man. I will tell you the same thing I told you the last time we saw each other: I put him out of his misery. I did it out of revenge, not compassion, that’s true.”

He remained silent, not knowing what to say. He would never be able to convince Zefrek. He couldn’t reason with him. It would have taken him years to do it.

So what, Dash? Are you going to kill him? Or are you going to let him go free so he can try, maybe, to murder you again?

Dashvara looked up at the sword Zamoy now held. And to think that Zefrek had been about to skewer him with it, he thought in disbelief. After surviving the Border, Titiaka, and the ocean, here was this madman showing up and nearly killing him just when the possibility of returning to the steppe was finally becoming real. And he was going to let him live? He hesitated. He hesitated for a long time. And suddenly something unexpected happened: Zefrek sobbed and started to cry.

“My people sold me out,” he croaked. “My own people sold me out. I didn’t do anything to deserve this. This stupid tradition… I wasn’t sick. It was my father who was sick. But my people sold me anyway. Like I was a traitor.”

Zefrek’s despair made Dashvara’s heart skip a beat. He was about to give him a typical Xalya answer and tell him that he was not surprised, that those who had betrayed him were Shalussis, that there was no honor among the Shalussis… But he wisely kept silent.

“I’m sorry, Zefrek,” he murmured. “Can I… do anything for you?”

The Shalussi nodded, dazed.

“Kill me, Xalya. You killed my father. Kill me too. My life has no meaning anymore. I’m a pirate. A thief. But even gold means nothing to me anymore. Kill me,” he repeated.

Dashvara blinked. With a dry throat, he looked up at Zorvun. Uh… What do I do now, Captain? Should I tell him to kill himself if he wants to die so badly? He saw Zefrek open his eyes wide and turn them to his left. He had just seen Raxifar and was probably wondering what an Akinoa was doing among the Xalyas. Dashvara cleared his throat.

“Zefrek of Shalussi. You are not a pirate. You’re a Shalussi. You’re a steppeman. You are not deadly wounded, and I have nothing against you. Therefore, your honor should prevent you from claiming death.” He stood up and added, “I present to you Raxifar of Akinoa. Perhaps you already know each other.” Raxifar shook his head. “Well, you know each other now. Raxifar’s father killed my father, and he died at the hands of the Shalussis. I killed your father, but I did it in the name of Vifkan of Xalya. And now…” he shook his head hopelessly, “if you give me your word that you will not try to kill me, I promise to help you return to the steppe and recover your people.”

Kneeling in front of him, Zefrek gasped in amazement. There was a long silence. Then Dashvara ordered:

“Let him free.”

Orafe and Maef hesitated.

“Dash,” the Grunt grunted, clearing his throat. “Are you sure? That man looks half-crazy.”

“He is not crazy,” Dashvara replied. “He’s just lost.”

This time, they did not argue and released the Shalussi. The man stood up, his legs trembling.

“You’re not going to kill me?”

Dashvara shook his head.

“Not unless you leave me no choice.”

Zefrek made a disdainful face.

“Cursed Xalyas. I never understood you.” His voice broke. “I have no more business in Rocdinfer.”

“Not here either,” Dashvara retorted. “Your people have been enslaved by the Essimeans, Zefrek of Shalussi: perhaps you can try to help them.” He frowned at the glint of surprise reflected in the young savage’s eyes. “Didn’t you know that?”

Zefrek shook his head and whispered:

“No.” He sighed loudly. “Damn Essimeans.”

Several Xalyas smiled, including Dashvara.

“Okay,” Zefrek said. “If you don’t kill me, I won’t kill you either. I suppose… you had a legitimate reason to kill Nanda of Shalussi.”

Dashvara felt as if he had achieved something impossible. But Zefrek had given him his word. And his instincts told him that he would keep his word. Finally, Dashvara nodded and answered:

“May we never have a legitimate reason to kill a man, Zefrek of Shalussi.”

An almost mocking glint passed through the Shalussi’s eyes. The glint intensified when he turned his head slightly and saw something that seemed to surprise him. Dashvara turned to see a young man advancing into the courtyard with a dagger in his hand. His eyes were fixed on Raxifar, and he was shaking like a bird before its first flight. It was Kuriag Dikaksunora. The young student had come out of Lanamiag Korfu’s room and behind him Fayrah and Lessi were running in, followed by Kuriag’s slave. Exasperated, Dashvara swore.

“Drop the dagger, Kur!” Fayrah cried in a high-pitched voice. “Don’t hurt him!” she begged.

Dashvara snorted. What an idea, sîzin. Of course I’m not going to hurt him.

He exchanged a look with Raxifar, who shrugged. Dashvara rolled his eyes when he saw the young Legitimate throw his dagger on the ground, towards the Akinoa warrior, with a contemptuous gesture. He heard him spit:

“I will not be a murderer like you.”

“Happy to see you again, Kuriag Dikaksunora,” Dashvara greeted him calmly.

The young citizen stepped back. His chest rose and fell frantically.

“Happy?” Kur repeated, trembling.

Dashvara met Fayrah’s gaze. Her sister had exchanged her sumptuous clothes for a simple purple tunic. Her expression reflected tension and… fear. But what was she afraid of? With a gentleness that amazed him, Lessi approached Kuriag and took his hand.

“They were fighting for their freedom, Kur,” she whispered. “They were fighting for their lives. They are not monsters.”

Kuriag took two more steps backwards until he hit one of the courtyard walls.

“My father was not threatening their lives,” he croaked. His voice choked, but the elf stood stoically.

Atasiag intervened in a calm tone:

“You are mistaken, Excellency. Menfag Dikaksunora had given the order to kill me and my guard. The Xalyas fought for their lives. The Akinoas fought for their freedom. And now, my boy,” he added patiently, “listen to me. You were unlucky enough to run into pirates. And you were lucky enough to run into me. Return the favor and stop causing more trouble. As soon as Lanamiag Korfu recovers, you, he, and your companions will return to Titiaka.”

The elf’s green eyes filled with tears of rage.

“In exchange for a ransom,” he hissed. “You’re just a bandit, Atasiag. Rayeshag Korfu should never have trusted you. Your Eternal Bird is rotten.” His eyes fixed on Dashvara’s, and he added, “So is yours.”

Dashvara shook his head. He never thought he would hear one day a foreigner lecture him about his Eternal Bird.

“So is mine,” he asserted and took a few steps toward him. “I’ll tell you one thing, Kuriag Dikaksunora. If your father had not caused wars all along the coast, if he had not indirectly caused the death of my clan and Raxifar’s clan, if he had not enslaved me and my brothers… then I assure you that he would not have died under an Akinoa’s axe, because the Akinoas would never have left the steppe, it’s as simple as that.” He stopped just a few steps away from the student and Lessi and added in an unyielding tone, “If I had to go back and return to the Arena, I would do the same thing over and over again.”

Kuriag held his gaze.

“My father may have been a criminal. I know he was. But you are one too. With your actions, you have caused the death of many people.” His lips trembled. “Your Eternal Bird is rotten,” he repeated.

Dashvara staggered. Several Xalyas groaned in indignation; Zamoy growled.

“You want me to shut him up, Dash?”

Dashvara let out a grunt.

“Listen up, Kuriag. That the shaard Maloven has deemed you worthy of his lessons… commands my respect. But you can’t tell me about my Eternal Bird without having been in my situation. Obviously, your Eternal Bird is more innocent than mine, and therefore, it is purer and less… rotten. May life bring you nothing but joy. May you not lose your whole family, nor have to carry out revenge that serves no purpose, nor be enslaved by anyone. Review your prejudices. Try to understand your culture. Try to understand mine and the reason for my actions. I have never been a King of the Eternal Bird, nor do I know if I can really consider myself a lord, but what I do know is what I am: a man of the Dahars, who protects his brothers as they protect him. I am a Xalya, Kuriag. And you are a Titiaka. We are different, but there is nothing wrong with that. It’s just that the Titiakas must let the steppemen live in their steppe and not send them to kill milfids and orcs or whatever. We’re busy enough on the steppe with the red nadres, the scale-nefarious, and the sanfurient wolves.” He closed his mouth, opened it, and closed it again in silence. He had said enough.

Kuriag Dikaksunora seemed… oddly meditative. When Dashvara finished speaking, the teenager shook his head gently. All traces of rage had disappeared from his expression, and in his eyes appeared an echo of that serene affability he had shown Dashvara in Titiaka.

“I understand,” he murmured. “I suppose that, in a way, though it pains me to admit it, your actions were…” his voice dropped to a whisper as he said: “Justified.” He raised his gaze to Dashvara with determination. “I don’t share your way of thinking, Xalya, but I understand it. Forgive me for insulting your Eternal Bird. The shaard Maloven taught me to be a benevolent person. He taught me to respect the life of all living beings. He taught me to shun intrigue, hypocrisy, and violence. I may be a coward for wanting to run away instead of fighting. But this is how I am.”

Dashvara smiled, moved.

“The shaard Maloven did not teach you to be a benevolent person,” he replied. “That is something you have to learn yourself constantly.”

Kuriag smiled, albeit a little painfully.

“Perhaps, master. Perhaps.”

That he should call him master now, after so many disasters, seemed to him much more… valuable, but it did not seem any less ridiculous. Out of the blue, Dashvara held out a hand, and Kuriag shook it, surprised.

“You’re the best student I’ve ever had,” Dashvara declared and added in a mocking tone, “It must also be said that you’re the first.”

He heard several gasps behind him.

“You’re outdoing yourself, Dash,” Makarva said as Kuriag gave a hesitant smile.

“It was to liven him up a bit,” Dashvara justified.

“Well,” Captain Zorvun interjected in a light tone. “This is all very moving. My daughter, if you are thinking of marrying this young federate, let me know so that I can give him lessons on how to be a good Xalya husband.”

Lessi flushed as the Xalyas laughed, but she did not let go of Kuriag’s hand. The young man had blushed like a garfia. Dashvara smiled as he stroke his beard. They were both so naive at heart that they would surely get along just fine.

“Well, well, well,” a thunderous voice suddenly called out from a corridor. “What a bad habit to always fill your house with barbarians, Atasiag Peykat!”

Everyone turned to see Kroon coming out into the courtyard on his wheelchair. Following him were Azune, Rowyn, Axef, Aligra, and… Sheroda. The courtyard was getting more than crowded. Smiling, Atasiag approached the dragon-monk, patted him on the shoulder and mockingly replied:

“They may be barbarians, but they sure helped you get on the boat during the escape, didn’t they?”

One couldn’t see Kroon’s eyes, of course: he was still wearing his big black glasses.

“Bah,” he said. “Useless help. I’m sure, with the urgency, I could have gotten up and run like a hare.”

Dashvara laughed along with the others. Kroon’s humor was not very different from Xalya’s, he thought. He then noticed that Zefrek of Shalussi was fidgeting uneasily, and he approached him, while the others chatted happily.

“You know you almost killed me with that damn dagger back then, Shalussi?” he said in a friendly tone.

Zefrek pouted.

“Back in the cart? Mm. I have to say, if that Rokuish kid hadn’t texted his family a few weeks later, I would have sworn you were dead. I punctured your lungs.”

“Almost,” Dashvara nuanced.

For some reason, Zefrek of Shalussi smiled, albeit with a crooked smile.

“These years have been hell,” he growled. He wasn’t feeling sorry for himself: it was a simple observation.

Dashvara gave him a gloomy smile.

“Well, I can’t promise you that the next ones won’t be, but I’m confident they’ll be better.” He patted him on the shoulder. “Nothing is lost by being optimistic, Shalussi.”

He walked away to the place where he had seen Fayrah disappear, in the room of Lanamiag Korfu. He found his sister kneeling by a bed. The Legitimate lay there, pale as death and sound asleep… unless he was dead. Dashvara hesitated. He didn’t want to interfere, but he also didn’t want to leave Fayrah alone, consumed by that young federate. Finally, he stepped inside the room, took out the small eagle statue that the Compassion inspector had given him back and put it on a trunk at the foot of the bed. He met his sister’s shining gaze and swallowed before bowing his head and murmuring:

“He will recover, sîzin. Trust him.”

He smiled reassuringly. Not only the Xalyas can resurrect, sîzin. He left her there and returned to his brothers and his naâsga.

“A game of katutas, Dash?” Makarva proposed.

“You still have the checkerboard?”

“Ha! Well, of course I do. I wouldn’t have left without it,” he joked. “By the way, I also have your dictionary. And your shadow,” he smiled.

“I’m in!” Zamoy exclaimed as he approached them. “You’re talking about the katutas, right?”

Dashvara nodded and looked at his nails.

“Say, Mak, I hope you haven’t prepared one of your makarvaries?”

Makarva let out a fake complaint of indignation.

“What do you take me for, Dashvara of Xalya? I have prepared more than one!”

Laughing, he gave him a brotherly shove, and as he followed his brothers out of the courtyard, he tried not to look in the direction of Sheroda. However, before entering the hallway, he had the bad idea to turn to her. The shixan was watching him. And her golden eyes seemed to want to pierce his to split his mind.

You may be a shixan and a pure, unblemished soul, he thought. But I am human. I am fully human. You can’t ask me to stop being human. You can’t ask me to always act right. The Eternal Bird loses feathers. It always loses feathers. The important thing is not to lose them all before you die.

Dashvara continued on his way, wondering what life would hold for them now. They still lived under the roof of Atasiag, their “master”, and they still wore his seal, his beautiful red dragon, on their arm. And they would wear it until they died. When that time would come, that remained to be seen. But that wasn’t worth thinking about either. The truth is, it was better not to think about it.

He smiled as he repeated thoughts he had been spinning in his head during the last few days at Compassion.

Fate is not carved in stone, and it is a consolation to know that. What good would time do if we knew its mysteries? A wise steppeman said that the world spins like a crazy top, that we never know where it will lead us, but that as long as we see it spinning, as long as we live, it will always find a way to surprise us. Or to hurt us. Or to make us laugh. In the end, it always finds a way to kill us. It’s a fact: eternity has never been of interest except to those who cannot enjoy it. Every being has a limited life and does what he can with it. I do what I can with mine.

Sitting around a large table in the kitchen, he picked up some dice, weighed them, and with an affable smile, handed them to Raxifar.

“It would be an honor for me if you would play with us, Raxifar of Akinoa.”

The black warrior raised his thick eyebrows, glanced indefinitely at the faces of the Xalyas, and finally, after a long hesitation, accepted the dice. And he handed them to Zefrek.

“It would be an honor for me if you would play with me, Zefrek of Shalussi.”

The Shalussi refused the dice.

“I will not play a game of the Ancient Kings.”

You know, Zefrek? I was expecting you to say that. Dashvara crossed his arms and interjected:

“This is not a game of the Ancient Kings. Katutas were invented by the Dazbonians.”

Dashvara had already explained Hadriks’ theory to them, but it had never quite convinced him. To tell the truth, Dashvara wasn’t convinced either, but this was a good time to bring it up. Zefrek’s eyes smiled for the first time.

“I must confess that when I was a kid I used to play katutas on the sly with my friends.” He hesitated. He glanced at the Akinoa’s outstretched hand, looked the Akinoa in the eye, and suddenly, casually, he took the dice. Dashvara waved him toward a chair, inviting him to join them. As if they were about to begin some important inter-clan negotiation, Zefrek and Raxifar sat down with the poise of two small kings.

Dashvara smiled.

Damn pride.

* * *

* * *

Author’s note: End of book 2. I hope you enjoyed the reading! To keep yourself up-to-date about new books, follow my blog, or see the maps, please visit my website. Have a nice day!