The Eternal Bird

Book 3

Dashvara Trilogy

Kaoseto

Website:

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

Work under a Creative Commons By license.

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 Ave Eterna.

Characters

Zorvun (65 yo), Morzif (51), Maef (37), Ged (58), Orafe (32), Taw (64), Shurta (43), Sashava (71), Sedrios (83), Boron (34), Kaldaka (40), Pik (40), Atok (33), Maltagwa (61), Lumon (36), Dashvara (23), Makarva (25), Arvara (39), Miflin (20), Kodarah (20), Zamoy (20), Alta (35), Tsu (42 ans), Atsan Is Fadul (22), Sirk Is Rhad (30), Shokr Is Set (53), Sinta, Alta’s cousin (18), Myhraïn, Alta’s cousin (19), Watsy, Boron’s sister (17), Shkarah, Ged’s daughter (23), Dwin, Sashava’s granddaughter (20), Aligra (19), Shivara (6), Yira (20), Raxifar d’Akinoa (28), Zefrek de Shalussi (22)

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 Pirate Island

A knife scraped the wood in the afternoon silence. By the stone parapet from which the whole pirate city could be seen, the Xalyas were lazing about after a day of working with the islanders. Arvara and the captain lay on their backs on the grass, enjoying the last rays of sunlight as they slept. Sitting at the foot of an oak tree, Shkarah, Ged’s daughter, was teaching Shivara to tie sailor’s knots, and Makarva had come over to listen to the lessons with obvious interest. Settled on the steps of Atasiag’s house, Lumon was chatting quietly with the Great Sage Shokr Is Set.

Dashvara smiled as he continued to carve. In just two days, the Great Sage had become the new clan shaard by unanimous consent. He was not as learned as Maloven in some matters, but he certainly knew how to tell stories and it was invigorating to hear him quote sayings of the ancient steppian sages. When he listened to his words, Dashvara felt transported back to the steppe, and for a moment, he forgot everything.

“Dash,” Tsu said suddenly.

The drow was sitting next to him, on the parapet. His eyes were lost on the horizon. The clouds blazed like fire swords in the sunset and made his reddish eyes shine. After a silence, Dashvara raised an eyebrow.

“What is it, Tsu?”

“I was just thinking,” he murmured without taking his eyes off the ocean. “Do you think I’m the first Xalya drow in history?”

A smile had appeared on his face. Dashvara laughed softly.

“It’s likely. Just as I am the first Xalya lord in history to have an entire clan confined to an island lost in the middle of the Pilgrim Ocean.”

Tsu gave him an amused look.

“I suppose, then, that my uniqueness can be accepted without problems.”

Dashvara sensed a slight doubt in his voice and looked at him with surprise.

“Of course it is accepted. You know well one of our Dahars’ maxims: as long as you accept our Eternal Birds, then we accept yours. Whether one is a drow, a baldy, or an idiot, it does not matter.”

“Of course,” Tsu muttered. Serenity reflected on his usually inexpressive face as he resumed his contemplation of the darkening clouds.

Dashvara shook his head and returned to his piece of wood. After a moment, he made a final touch and said:

“Shivara!”

The boy leapt to his feet and left Shkarah in the middle of explaining a knot.

“Go on, please,” Makarva said, pleading with the girl. “It’s fascinating.”

With a small, half-joking, half-mocking smile, Shkarah continued as Shivara ran towards Dashvara.

“Did you finish it? Did you finish it?” Shivara asked, jumping up and down.

Dashvara raised a hand.

“Patience, little Xalya. You should have thanked Shkarah for her lessons before you ran off like an ilawatelk.”

Shivara opened his mouth and blushed.

“So… you’re not going to give me the top?”

Dashvara smiled.

“What the hell did I make it for if not to give it to you, you little demon?”

He handed him the toy, and Shivara’s eyes widened with excitement. He examined it for a moment before taking a few steps away. He set it on the parapet and spun it around. Very bad idea, Dashvara growled as he rushed over. He reacted too late: the top went over the edge. Shivara was left speechless and pale.

“S-Sorry,” he stammered.

“Shivara!” Morzif barked, flabbergasted, from a few feet away.

Shivara wanted to climb the parapet to see where the top had fallen, and Dashvara caught him with a grunt.

“It’s one thing to throw a top, kid, and another to throw yourself with it.” He glanced down and grimaced, “Demons, I think you sent it right over.”

“Right over what, Dash?” Zamoy inquired, curious. He was sitting with his brothers and with Alta’s cousins a little further away, but obviously they had all noticed the foolishness Shivara had just done.

Dashvara met the eyes of a man in dark clothes walking up the ramp. He winced again and finally replied:

“Atasiag’s head.”

In fact, the federate was massaging his head. He really hadn’t had any luck. Dashvara spoke aloud:

“Are you all right, Eminence?”

He was accompanied by Yira as well as Zaon and Len, two of his most loyal thieves. The twins looked at the Xalyas with annoyed eyes. Without answering, Atasiag continued forward, and Dashvara pulled Shivara by the hand to approach the top of the ramp. When he reached the plaza of his home, the Titiaka wore a stern expression.

“Attempting to murder me with a spinning top, Philosopher?”

“Me? Bah. The kid was just practicing. I mean, practicing playing with the top,” he clarified. “Hmm. Did it hurt?”

Atasiag rolled his eyes and handed the toy to the child.

“I do hope that’s the last time you practice spinning top throwing, boy.”

Shivara took up his spinning top, red as a garfia. Before he walked away, Dashvara held him back.

“Hey, kid. Don’t walk away from us. Say sorry.”

Shivara swallowed.

“Sorry, Eminence,” he threw out hastily. “I didn’t mean to throw the top at you. It got away from me. Sorry.”

He looked genuinely contrite. Atasiag smiled and ruffled his hair.

“Forgiven. As long as it doesn’t happen again.”

Shivara smiled ear to ear, nodded, and ran off to a safer place to spin his top.

“How was the day, Eminence?” Dashvara asked.

Atasiag shrugged.

“Pretty quiet. The meetings with the pirates are even more boring than the Council meetings. Aside from some dagger stuck in the table for show and some conversation that has little to do with business… it’s all idealistic blather. The only time they become reasonable is when they talk about stuff actually related to Matswad. Whether to expand the wharf, whether to improve the defenses, whether the hunting permits aren’t strict enough… The worst part is that they never agree, so I always come away from those meetings feeling like I didn’t do anything. But who cares, after all, it’s their island. Let them do what they want with it. I’ve already warned them that as long as they only attack slave ships, the Dream Brotherhood will continue to support them. Deep down, they are good people. So, Philosopher? Aren’t you going to ask me the question?”

Dashvara looked at him, bewildered. Then he remembered that, lately, whenever Atasiag came back from the harbor, he’d ask him if he knew when they were finally going to leave the island and sail for Dazbon. He huffed.

“Frankly, why ask? I already know the answer. One day, Philosopher, one day. Or: Patience, Philosopher. Don’t pester me, philosopher. Enough, Philosopher. You’re a pain in the ass, philosopher…”

Atasiag laughed, Yira’s eyes smiled, and Dashvara fell silent, half-amused and half-exasperated.

“You can be quite a pest sometimes, Philosopher,” Atasiag admitted. “But I assure you, if you were to ask me the question today, the answer would be a little different.”

Dashvara felt his heart skip a beat. He glanced at his people before looking at Atasiag with anxious eyes.

“Really? So… when are we leaving the island?”

“You’ll sail for Dazbon the day after tomorrow, Philosopher.”

Dashvara hissed through his teeth, and immediately, a smile lit up his face. A Xalya echoed the response, and soon everyone heard the news.

“Demons, Eminence. And… are we all going together? I mean, are you coming with us?”

Atasiag smiled.

“What if I did?”

Dashvara raised an eyebrow.

“Well… I’d be glad, of course. And I’d enjoy it even more if you’d come with us to the steppe. Really,” he insisted casually, “it would do you good to gallop across the plains and leave your stuff about slaves and thieves and pirates behind for a while…”

Atasiag’s serene laughter interrupted him.

“I’m afraid that’s not possible. I have too much business to attend to. Among other things, returning to Titiaka as soon as Lanamiag has recovered enough, and returning all these young people to their families. I only hope the trip to Dazbon doesn’t make Lan’s condition worse.”

Dashvara looked embarrassed.

“Is he better?” he asked. He didn’t know much about the two young Legitimates: both lived in the north wing of the house with their companions, and they never came out. Atasiag had warned them that they were on a pirate island and that pirates didn’t take kindly to Titiaka citizens. According to Lessi, Kuriag Dikaksunora spent his days reading books lent to him by his generous host. As for Fayrah, she watched over Lanamiag Korfu day and night without ever leaving his room.

“Better, I think,” Atasiag replied. “But he still hasn’t gotten up. Anyway, can you warn Kuriag? I need to get a number of things in order before we board. If anything happens or if Kuriag has any questions, tell him I’ll be in my office.”

He walked away towards the house, and Shokr Is Set and Lumon stepped aside to let him and his two thieves pass. Dashvara turned to Yira. He guessed that she too was looking forward to leaving this island, though perhaps not for the same reasons: Matswad was where she had spent her childhood, but it was also where she and her necromancer master had been on the verge of death in a fire.

“I knew that, if I pushed a little, your father would eventually make his mind,” he commented. Yira’s eyes smiled. Gently, he took the little sursha by the waist and turned to his people. The Xalyas were in high spirits, even Aligra was smiling, and Zamoy’s excitement had managed to rouse the captain from his torpor.

“Hey, Miflin!” the Baldy cried. “Don’t forget to compose an ode about the epic departure of the Xalyas.”

“Ah, yes!” Makarva nodded from the oak tree, and in a pompous voice, he declaimed, “And so did the Xalyas all set sail together in a fabulous three-masted ship.”

“It doesn’t rhyme, Mak,” the Poet observed. He was sitting with the Chubby’s dictionary: it looked like he was trying to learn it by heart. He was already halfway through it.

“It sure doesn’t rhyme, Mak,” Zamoy scoffed, “Say, brother, how’s that ode to the most beautiful princesses of the steppe coming along?”

“It’s coming along,” Miflin replied with a clearing of his throat. And he smiled. “I’ll recite it to you this very night.”

“You’d better do!” Myhrain joked.

As they continued to chat and look forward to their departure, Dashvara walked away with Yira towards the house to go and warn Kuriag of the upcoming trip. Who knows why Atasiag had asked him to do so. He hadn’t spoken with the young man since he had disembarked in Matswad a month earlier.

“Dash!” the captain’s voice came suddenly. Dashvara turned and saw him approaching the steps of the house. “Did you ask him about the horses yet?”

Dashvara rubbed his beard and shook his head.

“I should, shouldn’t I?”

“Well… we don’t lose anything by asking, right? And, if he won’t help us buy them, we’ll do without. As the Akinoa says, we can always wait for the winter to pass then walk the steppe, praying that the Essimeans don’t capture us on the way. If it turns out that the Honyr Clan is willing to accept us, we won’t spend much time without mounts,” he smiled, “according to Cloud, they have the best horses on the steppe.”

“Our young companion tends to exaggerate a bit,” Shokr Is Set interjected, approaching along with Lumon. A joking smile lit up the Great Sage’s face as he added, “But, in this case, he has a point.”

Dashvara glanced towards the Xalyas, looking for Sirk Is Rhad. The Honyr was sitting next to Boron the Placid. Oddly enough, he seemed to be able to rouse the Placid from its peaceful silence more than anyone else. Dashvara smiled and promised:

“I’ll ask Atasiag about the horses, Captain. But just once. I don’t want to push it, or he’ll end up thinking I’m more of a pain in the ass than his adulators,” he joked.

He entered the house with Yira and left the warm air of dusk behind. Normally, it was barely a month before winter, but in Matswad, it seemed the seasons didn’t affect him as much. Yira said it was because the earth and rock gave off natural energies that warmed the air. Surely the pirates couldn’t have chosen a better place to live. The only thing that bothered Dashvara was knowing that Matswad was an island and that to get out of it… he had no other way but to get on a boat.

“So, how boring was the meeting?” he asked as they walked down a hallway.

“Boring,” Yira gasped. “It’s a good thing I brought your sea cards with me. Len and I played a good ten games of xalyans. His brother Zaon, however, didn’t want to. I’m afraid he doesn’t like the new rules you’ve imposed on the Republican game.”

“Hey, a conservative, eh?” Dashvara scoffed. “Well, let’s send him to the Border for a few years and I’m sure he’ll eventually change his mind…”

Voices in the kitchen silenced him.

“Aldek? Are you kidding or what?” Zaadma cried.

“You’re the one who asked me to suggest a name,” Rokuish’s voice protested. “Aldek is not so bad.”

They entered the kitchen and found Zaadma kneeling before her flowerpots while Rokuish sat at the table helping Uncle Serl, Wassag, and Yorlen chop vegetables for dinner.

“Oh!” Zaadma gasped as she saw them enter. “Dashvara, tell Rok that he should stop trying to give my son a Shalussi name. Now he wants to call him Aldek! That’s awful! I have nothing against Shalussi names. Rokuish is nice. But Aldek, Odek, Walek, Fushek… just hearing them makes my teeth grind.”

Rokuish shrugged and gave Dashvara a smile.

“She wants to call him Meliskren. Like her alchemy teacher… But I personally think it’s horrible. And Wassag too, don’t you?”

“Let’s just say it sounds very Republican,” the Wolf smiled, his eyes shining, as he chopped an onion.

“You see, Dash,” Rokuish continued. “I only hope that our son, or daughter, will be understanding the day we explain to him why he doesn’t have a name…”

“He’ll have to be even more understanding the day we explain that he was born on a pirate island,” Zaadma cut him off. She stroked her round belly with an annoyed pout.

“That we may be able to avoid,” Dashvara intervened in a light tone. “Haven’t you heard? Atasiag says we sail the day after tomorrow.”

For a second, everyone was stunned. Then Zaadma burst out in joy, knocked over a pot, screamed in horror, and hurried to pick up the dirt…

“The day after tomorrow?” the Republican repeated. “Oh—by the Divinity! And what shall I do with my plants?”

“The ones you can’t take with you, we’ll take to old Sharas tomorrow,” Yira assured in a serene tone. “Don’t worry about that. He’s a great botanist. You said so yourself. He’ll know how to take care of them as well as you do.”

“Did I say he was a botanist? He’s a former pirate!” Zaadma protested.

The Republican was even more elated than usual, Dashvara observed with a gasp. When he saw Yira trying to calm her down, he admired her patience and gave her a quiet bow before hurrying across the room and down another corridor. He exited into the inner courtyard and crossed it, passing by the closed door of Lanamiag’s room before entering the north wing. No sooner had he entered than he heard rumors of voices coming from a room.

“Almost, but that’s not it,” said the quiet voice of young Kuriag Dikaksunora. “You see, you forgot to multiply. The loss of energy is much greater. That’s why the summoning spell is so dangerous: because it merges energies and remodels them. You need to be very well trained, otherwise any fusion could consume your energy stem to the point of risking apathy.”

“Boof.” Dashvara smiled as he recognized Lessi’s voice. “Don’t tell me you would be able to summon something?”

“Me? No… I tried it in the University, but summoning has never really appealed to me. Nonetheless, the theory is exciting.” There was a silence. “Hmm. We were calculating, Lessi.”

Dashvara hesitated before approaching the open door. He found the two youths lying on a carpet, with a notebook and several books in front of them. Zraliprat, Kuriag’s slave, was sitting in the corner, dozing. Seeing the Legitimate press his lips to the steppian’s, he hurriedly knocked on the door, and they jerked up.

“Excuse me for interrupting you,” he cleared his throat. “I only came to tell you that we’ll be sailing for Dazbon the day after tomorrow. And from there you will travel to Titiaka. Atasiag asked me to inform you. He’s in his office.”

As Kuriag and Lessi kept looking at him, mute, Dashvara nodded nervously in greeting and was about to leave when the Legitimate stood up and called out:

“Wait, don’t go.”

Dashvara stopped and waited, one eyebrow arched. After a silence, Kuriag observed:

“You are still wearing Atasiag Peykat’s uniform. I thought he was going to free you.”

Dashvara glanced at his tunic and his elegant red embroidered dragon. He shrugged.

“He will free us in Dazbon. Atasiag left the counter-seal in Titiaka,” he explained with a small wry smile.

The young Legitimate nodded, meditative. After another silence, Dashvara sighed, Are you going to keep me here waiting until tomorrow, foreigner? He was about to wish him goodnight when Kuriag said softly:

“So… are you going back to the steppe with your people?”

With some surprise, Dashvara thought he saw a glint in his eyes, a mixture of joy and disappointment.

“Certainly,” he answered firmly.

Kuriag hesitated.

“Good. I hope you find a peaceful and happy home with the Honyrs.”

Dashvara stared at him, dumbfounded.

“Thank you.”

“Good,” Kuriag repeated. He cleared his throat. “You can go.”

Dashvara smiled mockingly at his authoritative tone, and Kuriag flushed.

“I mean—”

“Yes,” Dashvara cut him off. “Thank you for giving me permission to withdraw, Excellency.”

He bowed his head mockingly and walked away, leaving the Legitimate with a confused expression. These citizens, he sighed. He headed straight for Atasiag’s office, albeit with little hope. He found the twins chatting outside the door and greeted them.

“Can I get in?” he asked.

“Cobra is rather busy,” Zaon replied. “But, if it’s urgent, you can always knock.”

After a brief hesitation, Dashvara knocked, and when he heard Atasiag’s voice, he pushed open the door. The Titiaka was sitting at his desk, writing a letter.

“What is it, Philosopher?” he questioned, hardly looking up.

Dashvara closed the door and leaned his hands on the back of a chair, embarrassed. He didn’t like to ask Atasiag for more favors but…

“Well, there you go, Eminence,” he began. “When we get to Dazbon, my people are going to be without a penny, and therefore, we won’t have money to buy weapons, food, or… horses. And you see, Eminence,” he continued, growing more and more uneasy. “I have heard from Titiaka that, when masters free their slaves, they make sure that the slaves will not… be left with nothing.”

Atasiag was now watching him with a deeply amused pout.

“And you want me to buy you horses and weapons and food so your people won’t be left ’with nothing’, is that it?”

Dashvara flushed and cursed the captain. Why did he always have to do all the dirty work?

“We’d be… very grateful,” he replied. “And, if you want us to do something in return, we will. We just don’t feel like spending ten years working in Dazbon to buy steppe horses. They’re expensive.”

“Damn expensive,” Atasiag commented, putting down his pen. “A good horse doesn’t sell for less than seventy crowns. I’ll make a confession to you, Philosopher. I expected that one day you would come to me with this matter. Unfortunately, I haven’t come up with any solutions yet, so… for now, I suggest you continue to serve as my personal guards for a while, and I will continue to maintain you until I have an idea to fix it. Are we agreed?”

There could hardly be a more vague agreement, but at least, Atasiag had not refused the proposal. Dashvara nodded.

“We are. What I don’t understand is how we’re going to continue to serve you as personal guards in Dazbon. Normally, there are no slaves in the Republic.”

“Nonsense,” Atasiag retorted as he dipped the quill into the inkwell. “What is not tolerated is for a Republican to have slaves. I, for one, have been a Titiaka all my life. I will leave you in the service of Lanamiag, Kuriag, and the other two students. You will protect them until I return them to their families. What do you think?”

“That suits me just fine. Are you going to ransom them?”

“No. Of course not.” Cobra flashed a slightly guilty smile. “I’m taking them to Dazbon at their request: they fear their families will oppose their chosen partner, and I’m going to help them get married quietly in a Cilian temple. I think Kuriag is beginning to see me as a benefactor. He is the heir to the Dikaksunora. I’m not going to spoil such a promising relationship for a few thousand crowns.”

A few thousand crowns that could pay for our horses… Dashvara kept the thought to himself and nodded.

“So, you think you can go back to Titiaka without the Council pouncing on you?”

“I believe so,” Atasiag affirmed cheerfully. “As I told you, Faag Yordark is now the provisional governor of Titiaka, and he has the full support of the Ragail Guard. And the Yordarks know that I have always remained loyal to them. They’ll make sure the little privateer leader doesn’t slip through their hands. And now go, Philosopher. I’m writing an urgent letter. Hold on a second,” he added as Dashvara reached a hand towards the handle.

“Yes, Eminence?”

Atasiag looked at him thoughtfully.

“How did you like the stay in Matswad?”

Dashvara gave him a bewildered look. Why did he ask?

“The stay… well. Pleasant,” he admitted. “The pirates are less pirates than I thought. And they have a lifestyle quite similar to that of the Xalyas… though more peaceful, of course: they don’t have to fight off attacks from the red nadres or the scale-nefarious.”

A slight smile stretched Atasiag’s lips.

“I’m glad you found it enjoyable. Now you have a whole clan, Philosopher. Six Xalya women have joined you. A little spinning top thrower… And, besides, everything seems to indicate that you intend to take my daughter away.”

Dashvara’s eyes widened. And he smiled wryly.

“You took away my sister,” he replied.

Atasiag arched his eyebrows in amusement.

“Well, all in all, we’re a family.”

Dashvara gave him a mocking look.

“Demons. If you go on like that, I’ll end up believing you. But, you’re not fooling me: a real father would have paid for the horses and supplies and… I’m kidding, Eminence,” he laughed at his exasperated expression. “I promise not to bring up the subject again for a reasonable time. After all, Shokr Is Set says that the more pressure you put on a donkey, the slower it goes.”

“Well, keep listening to your Great Sage and leave me alone, Philosopher. The letter is really urgent.”

“Good night, Eminence.”

“Good night.”

Dashvara opened the door and went out into the hallway with the slight hope that the Xalyas would return to the steppe on horseback.

Len and Zaon sat at a small table in the wide corridor, and a lighted candelabra lit up their pale faces. One was sharpening his daggers; the other was sewing an inner pocket to a tunic. The two ternians were so similar that Dashvara could hardly tell them apart when he saw them from a distance. As he passed by them, he asked in a friendly tone:

“Is it true that you don’t like xalyans, Zaon?”

The thief passed the needle through the fabric before explaining:

“I’m committed to tradition.”

“We, Xalyas, are too, but we accumulate traditions,” Dashvara joked. He hesitated before inquiring, “Why don’t you ever come to dinner with us? Are my brothers and I too loud?”

They both smiled.

“A little,” Len acknowledged. “But that’s not why. We prefer to eat alone.”

“We are committed to tradition,” Zaon repeated with a small smirk.

Dashvara arched an eyebrow and shrugged.

“Okay. But just so you know, if you feel like going through the kitchen, we’re not going to throw tops at your head. Good night.”

They wished him goodnight too, and Dashvara was already heading for the kitchen when a loud sneeze sounded from the kitchen, followed by thunderous laughter and a:

“Thousand thunderclaps, Baldy, that was my plate!”

“Come on, Hairy, don’t get mad! If you think we can control this sort of thing,” Zamoy protested.

“I want to hear Miflin’s ode!” Myhrain and Sinta demanded in chorus.

“We want the ode! We want the ode!” loud voices thundered.

Dashvara laughed inwardly as he pushed open the door. By the Liadirlá, we are noisy indeed…

* * *

They left Matswad after many farewells. The Xalya women parted from their friends with grand gestures and light jokes. They had spent the three years in Matswad much better than the Xalya men: they had learned to make fishing nets, to clean fish, to hunt… and they confessed that some pirates had even taught them how to fight. But, to everyone’s relief, they swore that they had never been involved in piracy.

The only one to come directly on board was Aligra. This month spent with her clan had positively transformed the girl: she still had her slightly moody air, but she smiled with more ease, and her vindictive Eternal Bird seemed to have calmed down with the good weather of Matswad. What’s more, she hadn’t thrown any accusations back at Dashvara, and she seemed to have accepted him as her lord.

I’m even beginning to accept myself as such, Dashvara smiled. He stepped onto the dock and shook hands with a tall, smiling islander he’d been working with, building houses for the new refugees.

“Glad to have known you, Skansh,” he told him.

“Likewise,” the other one grinned widely. “I hope you can return to your land, Xalyas.”

“Thank you. Aren’t you going back to yours?”

Skansh was from a southern tribe. The caitian shook his head.

“What’s the point? There’s nothing left for me there. The Diumcilians have ravaged everything, and my son works in the mines, in Titiaka.” He shrugged. “Damn life. I decided to become a pirate. You know that. To take justice into my own hands, like you did in the Arena.”

Dashvara felt some sorrow as he imagined this brave man attacking ships, but he understood his decision. He nodded.

“I wish you luck, my friend.”

He shook hands with several other islanders before boarding the ship with his brothers. As Atasiag’s boat started, Dashvara watched the beautiful island slip away with a mixture of longing and relief. It was curious to note how much it cost him to leave a place, no matter where it was. Even when he had left the Border. He smiled wryly. Just two months ago, he and his brothers were still deep in the mud, surrounded by milfids, borwergs, and orcs, and now… He glanced out at the deep, mysterious ocean, and his face darkened. Now they were surrounded by water.

Leaning against the rail next to Makarva, he glanced at the bag he had placed at his feet.

“Well, Tah?” he murmured. “Glad to be off the island of evil pirates?”

Tahisran huffed mentally.

‘Sorta,’ he admitted. ‘You may have found them sympathetic, but they didn’t lock you in a crate for two years and ask you to tell them about the future.’

Dashvara grimaced sympathetically. The poor shadow had spent most of the last month in Atasiag’s house without daring to go out. Once, he’d taken a walk in the nearby woods and, stumbling upon a hunter, he’d been so frightened that he’d fled to the other end of the island and taken two days to return. He really looked traumatized by his past experience.

“Well, Tah. Be happy. In Dazbon, you’ll have all the freedom in the world again to resume your nightly walks.”

‘Oh, but I am happy,’ Tahisran replied. ‘I just hope I never have to get back into a boat.’

Dashvara looked at the treacherous waters with dread.

“Me too,” he admitted. He glanced mockingly at Makarva, “I suppose you, on the other hand, will miss the sea, eh, Mak?”

The latter was looking at the island as the ship was moving away. He shrugged his shoulders.

“Not as much as you think. All things considered, I’m not a sailor. I’m a steppian,” he smiled, and added, looking thoughtful, “Do you know what my new dream is?”

Dashvara rolled his eyes.

“You and your dreams. You’re worse than the Dream King. So? What’s your new dream?”

Makarva looked up at the blue sky with a slight smile.

“Riding again. To have a horse and know it as I knew Dancer.”

Dashvara nodded, moved, and thought of his own mare Lusombra who had fallen to the Essimeans.

“It’s a dream any good Xalya can understand.”

Makarva gave him a curious look.

“What about you, Dash? What’s your dream?”

Dashvara thought for a moment. What was his dream? To return to the steppe and found the Xalyas clan again? That was one of the many dreams he had, yes. But not the main one.

“My dream, Mak?” he said finally. “Nothing more simple: my dream is to fulfill the dreams of my clan.”

Makarva seemed to be seized.

“Well…” He shook his head and suddenly put on a wolfish smile. “Then we’ll have to make a list with all our dreams and wait to see if the Lord of the Xalyas manages to make them come true.”

“Don’t make fun of me,” Dashvara protested, amused.

“I’m not making fun of you,” Makarva assured, more seriously. “It just seems to me that your dream… we all have it a little, don’t we? We’re a clan, Dash. We all want each other’s dreams to come true. So, be honest. What’s the one dream you really want to see fulfilled right now?”

Dashvara gave him a weary look, and after another moment’s reflection, he answered the truth:

“Get to Dazbon. I don’t want to end up drowning at the bottom of the sea.”

His friend huffed and patted him on the arm, smiling.

“You have such ideas, Dash. I give you my word that, in seven days, we’ll go ashore and set foot on land.”

“Yes. But, what if the boat sank right now, what would you do?” Dashvara replied. “There aren’t enough canoes for all of us. And down there, the water must be a lot of feet deep, with monsters of all kinds wandering around. To die drowned is a dreadful death…” Makarva gave him a grunt with an exasperated growl, and Dashvara chuckled, “Okay, I’ll shut up. But, it’s still disturbing, don’t you think?”

“Your imagination is disturbing,” Makarva retorted, leaning back against the rail. After a silence, he added, “Look. Raxifar is talking with the captain.”

Dashvara turned to see the tall Akinoa near the bow. Captain Zorvun was one of the few Xalyas who had made a small effort to communicate with Raxifar and Zefrek… in fact, the only one besides Dashvara, Lumon, and Shokr Is Set. He saw the Shalussi, alone, leaning against the railing of the quarterdeck. His gaze was lost, focused on the north.

Dashvara frowned.

“Frankly, the Xalyas are stubborn. We too have killed Akinoa and Shalussi warriors. We killed Raxifar’s grandfather. And yet, this man saved my life. And our brothers still look at him as if he were the world’s worst assassin. By the Liadirlá,” he shook his head, “is it so hard to leave the past behind?”

Makarva pouted. He scratched his neck. And he didn’t answer.

Stubborn as a mule, Dashvara sighed.

2 Dignity, Trust, and Fraternity

At first the boat trip was terrible. Half the Xalyas were seasick, including Dashvara, and he spent the first three days nauseous and pale as snow, convinced that the Xalya clan would eventually die at the bottom of the sea. On the third day, it was pouring rain outside, and he was huddled in his hammock, trying in vain to sleep, when suddenly Rokuish appeared in the cabin shouting:

“Tsu! Tsu! Zaadma is about to… Zaadma is about to… Tsu!”

The poor Shalussi was scared to death, and Dashvara smiled as he saw the drow take his kit and run out to another cabin. As Dashvara later learned, they moved the Republican into Atasiag’s cabin. Her screams could be heard throughout the ship. Shkarah and Dwin went to help her, and the Xalyas remained tense and anxious. The wait was interminable, but when a newborn cry was heard, everyone began to smile. After a while of hearing cries, they began to snort. Orafe croaked:

“We are going to have the most peaceful trip…”

They had already had more than enough of hearing the newborn when Rokuish reappeared in the cabin, red with joy.

“Three foals!” he cried. “For my mother’s sake, three! They are girls. Girls!”

The unbelievable news drew loud laughter. Striving to ignore the seasickness, Dashvara stepped out of his hammock and gave the Shalussi a strong brotherly hug, bellowing:

“Triplets, demons, Rok. Now you’re really going to have a problem with names! There wouldn’t happen to be two bald ones and a hairy one, would there?”

Rokuish shook his head.

“Not at all. They’re beautiful…”

“How is Zaadma?”

“She is outraged. Matswad’s doctor said there was only one baby. And that it would be born in several weeks. But she’s happy. I think she is. I, at least, am,” he laughed. “Hell yes, I’m happy. I’m going back to her.”

Dashvara nodded with a broad smile as the young Shalussi ran back to Atasiag’s cabin. It was a joy to see his old friend so happy. When he turned and noticed the smiling faces of Raxifar and Zefrek, he concluded that there were certain events that any clan could understand.

“Well,” he exhaled good-humoredly. “This has all been more exhausting than chasing a bunch of orclings.”

“We still have a lot left to endure,” Ged threw in with a slight smile. “These newborns aren’t going to let us sleep for the whole trip.”

The master weaponsmith knew what he was talking about: he had been the father of four children. Of these, only the young Dwin was still alive. As he returned to his hammock, Dashvara remembered the image of the other three sons fighting with Lord Vifkan. He had seen them die. He also remembered that years earlier, after his own son had died on patrol, Zorvun had chosen the eldest of the three to train as captain. So many dreams had died that day…

Why don’t you stop thinking about the past, Dash, he chided himself patiently. It’s no use.

Ged’s prediction was fulfilled: the three newborns did not stop bawling for the next few days, and Rokuish came by once to apologize and complain, saying that the real foals did not make as much noise.

“Looks like they’re going to get as chatty as my wife,” he huffed before walking away to the three rowdies.

It took them days to agree on the names, and finally, to the amazement of the Xalyas, they decided to ask them for their opinion. It was clear that Rokuish had had more than enough of the subject. Alta’s cousins immediately got inspired and proposed to name them after three former princesses of the Ancient Kings. The parents liked the idea, and the triplets were finally named Rahilma, Aodorma, and Sizinma, which in Oy’vat meant “Dignity”, “Trust”, and “Fraternity” respectively. Having three little Republican Shalussis with the Xalya Dahars motto as their name gave many pause. In the afternoon, as all the Xalyas sat on the prow to enjoy the sunshine, they began to comment on the affair, and the Great Sage Shokr Is Set pronounced:

“Myhrain and Sinta had a good idea. Perhaps this is a symbolic step towards steppe peace. I’ve been watching this young Shalussi. He is a good and upright man. He is not a savage or a zok,” he said, glancing eloquently at Sirk Is Rhad. “I think you should invite him into our clan, Dashvara.”

The Lord of the Xalyas let out a breath of air, as stunned as the others.

“What?”

The Honyr smiled, and his face rippled even more.

“It’s just a suggestion. You all, what do you think?”

Dashvara watched the faces of his brothers with curiosity and gradually understood the Honyr’s strategy. The main objective was not to bring Rokuish into the clan but to make the Xalyas accept that a Shalussi could be worthy of the Dahars. Surely, in some matters, the new shaard was more skilled than the previous one. The captain spoke first in a quiet voice:

“He’s a man I’d call a brother without hesitation.”

Dashvara saw several Xalyas nodding their heads. Maef, who was always sharp in his decisions, nodded:

“I’m for it.”

“Me too,” Lumon pressed.

“Demons, so I am,” Zamoy smiled, “I would be very happy to have triplets sisters.”

They smiled, and soon all agreed. Finally, they turned to Dashvara, expectantly.

“And you, sîzan?” Atsan Is Fadul asked.

Dashvara raised his hands, smiling.

“I’ve been calling him brother for a long time now. I am ready to ask him,” he declared. “But I sincerely doubt he will accept. I don’t think Zaadma wants to go back to the steppe.”

“Ask him anyway,” Zorvun replied. “Maybe one day he’ll change his mind.”

Suddenly, the Xalyas looked anxious to know what Rokuish would say. Dashvara barely concealed a smile and stood up. He bowed respectfully to his naâsga, who had been watching the scene with curiosity, and walked away, crossing the deck. Atasiag’s cabin was open, and he found the Shalussi sitting on the floor, cradling two of his daughters while Zaadma nursed the third. Sitting at his desk, Atasiag was writing in a notebook, absorbed. Dashvara smiled slightly when he saw him look up. The poor Titiaka’s face was weary and dark.

“Good morning, Eminence. Good morning, Zaadma. Good morning, Rokuish. I hope Rahilma, Aodorma, and Sizinma are well.”

Zaadma huffed without answering, showing her fatigue.

“At least now they’re quiet,” Rokuish whispered.

Dashvara watched the little newborns for a few seconds before saying:

“Can I talk to you for a moment?”

The Shalussi arched an eyebrow, but nodded and stood up. They stepped out onto the deck and approached a rail so as not to disturb the sailors. Dashvara opened his mouth, hesitated, and when he saw that Rokuish was looking at him, increasingly puzzled, he decided to get straight to the point.

“Well, here’s the thing, Rok. We’ve been thinking about it and, my brothers and I, we’d like it if… well, I mean, it would be an honor for us if… demons, I mean I’d be very happy if you agreed to be part of our clan.”

Rokuish’s mouth opened little by little until it was gaping.

“Me?” he pronounced. As Dashvara nodded, the Shalussi huffed and scratched his head, dumbfounded. “Wow. Are you serious? For my mother’s sake,” he muttered. “I don’t know what to say. I feel… very honored.”

Dashvara saw the refusal coming and tried to soften things up:

“You can perfectly well say no without offending anyone, Rok. I would understand that. Zaadma is a Republican. You are a Shalussi. It may seem strange, under these circumstances, that we Xalyas want to adopt you. We simply… consider your Eternal Birds to be brothers to our own. And whether you accept or refuse, it will not change. But… I would be very happy if you accepted… We all would.”

Rokuish looked down, silent. Finally, he broke the silence.

“Zaadma wants to open another herbal shop in Dazbon. Since her father died a few months ago… she no longer fears that he will make her life difficult.”

Dashvara nodded, and although the answer did not surprise him, he could not avoid feeling some disappointment. He concealed it.

“Then I wish you and your family all the luck in the world.”

“Thank you,” the Shalussi murmured. “Don’t misinterpret me. Your brothers are very nice. Well, some more than others,” he smiled. “But I respect them all. I wouldn’t want them to take it the wrong way—”

“They won’t take it badly,” Dashvara assured. “Really, don’t worry about it.” He patted his arm lightly. “I’ll miss you when we leave for the steppe, brother.”

Rokuish became confused.

“If it hadn’t been for Zaadma and my foals… I would have gone with you,” he asserted. “I would have tried to help Zefrek and free my mother and brothers. But… I am not even a warrior.”

“We’ll set them free,” Dashvara said in a sudden rush. He smiled at the stunned face of the Shalussi. “It’s true that I’d rather fight the red nadres than the sajits, but… having the Essimeans enslave their neighbors doesn’t appeal to me any more than it does to you. I promise you that, if they are still alive, Menara, Andrek, your mother, and your other brothers will be freed. I don’t know when, but they will be.”

Rokuish grabbed him by the sleeve, his brow furrowed.

“Listen to me, Dash, don’t make any heroic promises. You’re not going to go into Essimean territory to free them, are you?”

“I’ll have no choice but to enter their territory anyway,” Dashvara replied. “If it is true that the Essimean have enslaved the Shalussi villages, the whole southern part of the steppe is now Essimean territory.”

Rokuish turned pale.

“True. Truthfully, I don’t know why you want to go back there, Dash. Why not stay in Dazbon? Maltagwa could help Zaadma with gathering herbs. She says he’s a good herbalist. And Alta and I could work in the stables. And you could start a carpentry shop or—”

“Rok,” Dashvara laughed, interrupting him. “Do you really see us Xalyas living in a city like Dazbon? We are steppe people. We know how to ride on the steppe. We know how to kill monsters. But we don’t know anything about money, nor about republican laws, and we don’t want to know about them. We are ignorant of civilization and proud of it,” he joked.

The Shalussi sighed and seemed resigned.

“North of the steppe, you won’t have much wood to carve,” he commented. “They say it’s all plains and meadows.”

Dashvara smiled with all his teeth.

“True enough. Then I’ll carve the bones of the Essimeans.”

Rokuish looked disgusted. At that moment, a bellowing sound came from Atasiag’s cabin, followed by another. And another. Soon there was a chorus of weeping, and Zaadma despaired:

“May the White Dragon gag you three!”

“For my mother’s sake,” Rokuish moaned.

Dashvara saw him run off towards the cabin and laughed out loud. He was making his way to the prow when a sailor’s voice drowned out the bellowing of Dignity, Trust, and Fraternity:

“Land ho!”

All of the Xalyas rose and crowded around the rail to try to see what was slowly turning into cliffs. Dashvara leaned over with Yira, squinting. In the distance, he saw two white lines shining in the sun. One must have been the Great Cascade of Dazbon. And the other the Stairs. Land, Dashvara smiled. Finally. And the best part was that this time he had the happy feeling that he would never leave it again.

“He turned it down, didn’t he?” Zamoy asked suddenly, to his left.

Dashvara observed the watchful eyes of his brothers before answering:

“Well. He’s already got his little clan that’s on track to be louder than ours…” He smiled, mockingly. “I’m afraid he’s already got enough on his plate with his Dignity, Trust, and Fraternity. If we added the Triplets, Makarva’s makarvaries, and my philosophies, he’d go mad. Let’s accept his decision with understanding, brothers, and wish him well.”

He felt the approval of the Xalyas, and he relaxed, Eventually, at this rate, they’ll come to accept Zefrek and Raxifar, and even, who knows, ask that they become Xalyas as well. He smiled and a wave of affection for his people washed over him.

* * *

They disembarked along the dock of the Dazbon harbor amidst a hubbub of voices from sailors, fishermen, and Republican passersby. The Xalyas waited on deck impatiently for the sailors to set up the gangplank, and they began to make their way ashore. Most had their bags almost empty. But all had hearts full of hope, Dashvara smiled.

“Philosopher.”

Dashvara had just stepped onto the dock, and a little dazed, he turned toward the ship to see Atasiag crossing the gangplank just behind him. He was dressed as a Titiaka citizen, with a baton in his hand. From what he had explained to him, he would be acting as a simple Titiaka merchant, since, all things considered, that was what he was, and he would be staying with all of his servants at the inn of The White Pearl in the Autumn District. Since his term as magistrate had ended, and he had not attended any elections in Titiaka, he had insisted since the beginning of the trip that Dashvara should get used to calling him something other than “Eminence”. Dashvara had finally admitted to him that once he got into a habit, he had a hard time correcting it… Atasiag’s venomous look had made him reconsider.

“Wait here with the others,” Atasiag said at last after glancing around the busy harbor. “I’m going to go pay the harbormaster. Serl, will you come with me? Then, Philosopher, you will unload the wine barrels at the warehouse.”

“What warehouse?” Dashvara gasped.

“The warehouse I’m going to rent for the wine,” Atasiag explained calmly. “And don’t shake the barrels too much—they’re delicate.”

Dashvara raised an eyebrow and watched him and Uncle Serl walk away to a small building from which a huge caitian in extravagant clothes emerged at that very moment. He saw him raise his hands in an exaggerated manner and give Atasiag a vigorous handshake. Clearly they knew each other.

They waited for perhaps half an hour, sitting between fishing nets and barrels, before Uncle Serl returned alone and gave them instructions to go and unload the fifty barrels in the boat. They were all devilishly heavy, but some of them did not seem to contain any wine, and Dashvara, seeing no trace of the twelve Dream Brothers who had travelled with them, eventually figured out where they had gone. The trick amused more than one Xalya, and Dafys, the sibilian guardian, sternly asked them to restrain themselves a bit. They rolled the barrels down the street as gently as they could and put them in a small warehouse. Uncle Serl told them exactly where to put them, and when they were all placed, he locked the warehouse, smiled broadly at the Xalyas and pointed to the ship.

“Now all you have to do is to take out His Eminence’s—I mean, Atasiag Peykat’s and the others’ possessions: carriages will carry them to the inn. I will stay here. The port inspectorate must come by to check the goods.”

Dashvara exchanged an alarmed look with the captain. Hopefully, the port inspector wouldn’t be as picky as Inspector Persnickety from the Border… Unless, of course, he was also a member of the Dream Brotherhood. He shrugged and walked back with the others near Atasiag’s ship where the Xalya women were waiting with little Shivara, Sedrios, and Sashava. He was about to join them, when suddenly a mass stood in his way and a deep voice uttered:

“Dashvara of Xalya.”

The Xalya looked up at Raxifar with a questioning pout. The Akinoa looked embarrassed.

“I’m leaving.”

Dashvara looked at him, dumbfounded.

“What?”

“I’m off to the steppe.”

“I, too, am leaving,” Zefrek threw in as he approached. “I don’t have to put up with this Titiaka citizen’s nonsense any longer. I am not his slave.”

Dashvara huffed and looked at the Akinoa and the Shalussi, annoyed.

“You don’t even have money to buy weapons,” he objected. “Please don’t go. He’ll buy us horses. You don’t have to work for him. We will. I owe you a huge favor, Raxifar. And you, Zefrek, do you pretend to enter the steppe on foot so that the Essimeans can catch you and enslave you like the others? Do not go,” he insisted. “I beg of you.”

Raxifar arched his eyebrows. Zefrek furrowed his brow.

“Your people don’t want us to stay,” the latter said. “And I don’t want to stay either.”

Dashvara grunted and turned to the Xalyas, who were listening to the conversation at a cautious distance. He declared:

“Xalyas. I wish Raxifar and Zefrek to stay with us. We will help them as our brothers. Does anyone have an objection?”

Only the loud rumour of the harbor could be heard. Dashvara sighed.

“Good. Well, problem solved. I promise you, Raxifar and Zefrek, that you will return to the steppe to your people with horses and weapons.”

“To what is so much generosity due?” Zefrek inquired with a mixture of mockery and distrust.

Dashvara looked at young Shalussi’s face. Now he was better dressed than when he had rushed to murder him at Matswad, and even without the gold necklaces that Nanda wore, he looked disturbingly like his father.

“This is not about generosity,” he said at last, “but about justice. You, too, deserve to return to the steppe alive after all we have been through. And, on your own, you won’t make it. So will you stay?”

After a hesitation, Zefrek nodded.

“I’ll stay,” he agreed, as if making a concession. “For now.”

Raxifar’s eyes were locked on Dashvara’s as he nodded affirmatively. Dashvara smiled at them both.

“You don’t know how happy I am about that. Good.” He caught the Xalyas’ eye, “We’re going back aboard, brothers. We need to get the chests out of the cabins.”

He walked up the gangway, hoping that the problem with Raxifar and Zefrek was more or less settled… for now.

3 Cili’s blessing

They emptied Atasiag’s cabin—in the meantime, Rokuish and Zaadma came down to the dock with their sleeping newborns. When the Xalyas entered the captain’s cabin, they found Fayrah giving Lanamiag Korfu a syrup. Kuriag was there too, with his two companions, folding a worn bandage. A glint of concern shone in his eyes, and Dashvara worried. Was the young Korfu’s wound having trouble healing? It was the first time since last month that he had seen Lanamiag, and his appearance did not seem very encouraging. As far as he knew, one of the Unitarians had stuck a sword in his stomach. Fortunately, Kuriag and his two friends were medical students, and they had taken care of him very quickly, managing to stave off death with spells and poultices. But this last trip, obviously, had done him no good. And neither had Fayrah, Dashvara observed with a sinking heart. His sister had lost weight, and her pallor frightened him a little. I’ll end up having to take her by force to get some fresh air and forget about so much worry, he thought. When he met her questioning gaze, he realized that he had been standing by the door. He brightened up and explained:

“We’ve come for your things.”

They set to work without getting an answer. Lanamiag’s eyes had been closed when they entered, but unfortunately, he opened them just as Dashvara passed by the bed to pick up a box of books that Kuriag had wanted to take from Matswad. The expression that twisted his face then alarmed them all.

“Lan!” Fayrah whispered as she leaned towards him.

“This… savage,” Lanamiag articulated.

Dashvara sighed. Under Fayrah’s pleading gaze, he hurried to lift the box and leave the cabin. He found Atasiag on the platform, near two large carriages and saw that the Xalyas were helping the two coachmen hoist all the luggage onto the roof of one of the vehicles. His eyes were instantly drawn to the horses. They were sturdy, well bred… but they were not steppian.

And what does it matter whether they are or not, Dash? They’re not the ones Atasiag’s going to buy you.

He saw that the huge caitian, Atasiag’s acquaintance, was still chatting with Atasiag near the gangway. He was very smiling and loud and making great gestures. As they passed by, Dashvara noticed that they were not speaking in the Common Tongue. Nor was it Ryscodranese. Nor Diumcilian.

“Philosopher!” Atasiag called suddenly. “Come here. I present to you Asmoan of Gravia. From Agoskura,” he specified. “He is an old friend of mine and a great scholar. Meeting him here was one of those pleasant surprises that rarely happen.”

“As they say in my country, surprises are life’s gifts!” Asmoan exclaimed, beaming. He had a horrible accent.

Atasiag smiled.

“Asmoan is researching the pagan beliefs of the north. He would like to learn more about your Eternal Bird, and since he so generously invited me to the theater tonight, I promised him that tomorrow three of you would be available to answer his questions. Choose them and send them to the Great Library at ten in the morning. Did you hear me?”

Swallowing his surprise with difficulty, Dashvara replied:

“Yes.”

He watched the Agoskurian curiously. He was wearing tight blue pants, a bright green shirt with an elegant white collar, and a black hat with pearls on it. From his ears hung blue curls that were anything but discreet.

“You don’t look at people like that, Philosopher,” Atasiag muttered, his eyebrows furrowing. “Finally. I think I’m going to need a good nap to get me in shape tonight,” he added, addressing Asmoan in a light tone.

The scholar let out a loud laugh.

“This time you won’t fall asleep, my friend! The Srad Andal troupe is excellent.”

“The Ryscodrans are renowned for their artistic gifts,” Atasiag acknowledged. “I look forward to seeing their prowess.”

“Believe me, you’ll like them,” Asmoan assured, “So, I’ll see you tonight. I think I’ll follow your lead and take a nap. You don’t know how glad I am that I got to meet you!”

Laughing happily, he patted him on the shoulder in a friendly manner. Dashvara saw the two friends greet each other warmly before the tall Agoskurian walked away in a hurry and melted into the crowd that came and went on the wide dock.

“Well, well,” Atasiag sighed with a satisfied smile. “One other thing, Philosopher. Unfortunately, my weapons license does not extend to my servants. I would have to buy one for each of you… and that would be expensive. So I only bought one for you. And one for Yira,” he added, gesturing with his chin. Dashvara gasped as the sursha pulled up beside them. With an amused glint in her slanted eyes, she handed him two swords in their scabbards. Dashvara recognized them as he took them: they were the ones the Xalyas had used at Titiaka. As soon as he had fastened them to his belt, Atasiag handed him a paper. “This is a copy of the license. Keep it safe.” He then turned to the others and called, “Wassag, Dafys, Boron, Arvara. Come along. You will carry the injured youth to the carriage.”

The transfer was made quickly. They took Lanamiag on a litter and installed him as gently as possible on the benches of the car. Fortunately, the syrup seemed to have put the Legitimate into a deep sleep. Meanwhile, Zaadma and Rokuish climbed into the other carriage, and the former announced cheerfully through the window:

“For now, we’ll stay at the Golden Dragon. Feel free to drop by there. And be careful that Atasiag doesn’t overstep his bounds. I know how insufferable he can be sometimes. He may be a good man, but he’s a Titiaka to the core, and he gives orders like a damn Shalussi chief,” she smiled.

She and Rokuish greeted them, and the Xalyas responded in a friendly manner.

“Take care of our little sisters!” Miflin exclaimed with a broad smile.

“Yes; and let them keep bawling verses like the Poet, they’re doing pretty well,” Zamoy joked.

The coachman spurred the horses on, and the carriage pulled away down the harbor street. After exchanging a brief conversation with the ship’s captain, Atasiag climbed into the other carriage with his daughters and the young Titiakas, and finally they too set off, followed by the steppians.

The blue afternoon sky had become overcast, and a cold wind had risen. All the passers-by were bundled up in their capes and their faces were barely visible under the wide-brimmed republican hats. In a corner of his mind, Dashvara found himself missing the warm winds of Matswad.

Ha. Well, you’ll have to get used to the cold, steppe lord, because, if you remember, your home isn’t precisely warm in winter…

After making sure all the Xalyas followed the carriage, he began to look around the Republican capital. It hadn’t changed much in three years: it smelled bad, the main streets were crowded with people of all kinds, and the buildings were still as imposing as he remembered. Dazbon breathed a freedom one couldn’t find in Titiaka, but at the same time, there was more poverty than in the federal capital. As the carriage drove down a street in the Autumn District, Dashvara saw two street musicians playing guitars and singing in the open air while a girl collected coins. Later, he saw a group of men sitting in a square, looking as if they hadn’t eaten a bite in days. When he recognized one of them, he almost stopped dead in his tracks. They were Titiaka’s slaves, he realized, stunned. He didn’t know them personally, but he had seen them more than once near the Arena Square, cleaning the cobblestones. They were public slaves of the Council and, presumably, had fled during the Unitary Rebellion. At the moment, they didn’t look very happy with their lot.

The inn at The White Pearl was at the end of a wide street that led directly to the Stairs. They entered a large courtyard full of carts just as it began to rain. The regularity of the late afternoon thunderstorms hadn’t changed either, Dashvara deduced with a grimace.

The place at where Atasiag Peykat intended to be staying was not exactly cheap. The building looked like a real castle. The main entrance had an imperial stoop with two lion statues and two guards posted on either side of the door. When Dashvara followed the whole party inside with the trunks, he found himself in a huge reception room with splendid vases, hangings, and carpets.

That damned snake could have saved up to buy us a horse instead of getting us into an inn for kings, Dashvara grumbled. The Xalyas fidgeted, worried at such a display of wealth.

While Atasiag chatted with the owner of The White Pearl, an employee kindly led the others upstairs and into a spacious lounge.

“Here are your chambers,” he declared in a jovial voice. “Come, carry the patient through here. This is the hallway that leads to the rooms.”

As Wassag, Dafys, Boron, and Arvara walked behind with the litter, followed by the Titiakas, the Xalyas who remained behind put down all the trunks and exchanged looks of pure amazement. The living room was majestic. There were several screens, magnificent paintings, sofas, armchairs and two enormous fireplaces… The captain whistled.

“Damn master.”

Several laughed in their beards. The employee returned after a few minutes.

“Say, good man,” the captain challenged him. “What about us, where do we put ourselves?”

The employee smiled. He seemed to be taking life in stride.

“You are Atasiag Peykat’s servants, are you not? Normally, servants are not so numerous, and they sleep in the hallway, but… in your case, I thought it would be best if you moved here, into the living room. The pile of mats is over there. Place them as you like, and if there are any missing, ask for more. We’ll put the screens in front, so that if your master has visitors, they won’t mind.”

Dashvara looked at him in amazement.

“Are there many Titiakas staying here?”

The employee huffed as he nodded.

“Quite a lot, yes. To tell the truth, the majority of Titiaka traders stay at our inn.” He clapped both his hands together. “I’ll let you get settled in. If your master needs anything, feel free to come down to the front desk and ask for me or a colleague. My name is Dilen. Good afternoon.”

They greeted him, and as soon as he left, they began to set up the straw mattresses and screens. They were in the midst of setting up when Atasiag arrived, whistling a merry tune. He passed by under their surprised looks, and as he came near the corridor of rooms, he turned round.

“What do you think of your new home, Xalyas?”

He asked the question in a light voice. He was in a good mood. Dashvara cleared his throat.

“Pretty big. You seem to be in a good mood.”

Atasiag smiled.

“Really? Well. I have several reasons to be in a good mood, after all. First, I ran into an old friend I hadn’t seen in almost ten years. Then, at The White Pearl, I ran into a messenger from the Yordarks who gave me more than one piece of good news… And, on top of that, I got a note from Sheroda saying that she agrees to come with me to the theater tonight. Yes, Philosopher. I am in a very good mood. Settle down for the night. Yira will accompany me to the theatre. Will you come, Philosopher?”

Dashvara gave him a mocking look.

“Are you asking for my opinion?”

Atasiag shrugged, smiling.

“Actually, I’d like you to come. That way you can give me your impressions of the Srad Andal troupe. They’re very famous artists. It would be a shame if you missed their performance.”

Dashvara looked meditative.

“Oh, in that case, if you really want me to, I’ll go, Eminen… master,” he corrected with a weary sigh.

“You’d better get used to it once and for all,” Atasiag scoffed. “For you to call me Eminence when I’m no longer a magistrate might be considered… a lack of humility on my part. And the Republicans would be able to mistake me for a Legitimate or who knows. At the stroke of eight, wake me up. We leave at nine. The show starts at ten, and I have to pick up Sheroda at her house. I already wish you all a very good night.”

He smiled broadly at them before whistling away down the hall. Dashvara shook his head in bewilderment. Despite his sixty-something years, Atasiag looked more like a young lover eager for new adventures than a leader of thieves or a slave master.

Well… I guess after so much tension and hassle in getting us out of Titiaka and restoring his reputation, our generous father deserved a little rest.

With a half-ironic, half-amused smile, Dashvara sat down on one of the comfortable sofas and placed Tahisran’s bag beside him.

“Are you going out tonight?” he asked him.

The shadow smiled mentally.

‘Sure! I’m so sick of the boat I could walk for days without stopping,’ he replied.

Dashvara had to admit that the same thing was happening to him: he still had the impression that the room was pitching like a ship.

They spent the afternoon playing katutas, and the innkeepers even cooked dinner for them. The garfias were not nearly as good as Uncle Serl’s, but, used as they were to eating them cold and unseasoned, the Condemned did not protest. The Xalya women were less understanding, and the Honyrs, as usual, waited until everyone had eaten before taking their turn at dinner in respectful silence.

When Wassag went to wake Atasiag at eight o’clock, he was already awake and ready to go. The problem was that there were still two hours left for the show, but he said he wanted to take a walk around Dazbon, and when Dashvara and Yira saw him leave without waiting for them, they girded their swords again and followed him out of The White Pearl.

Outside, it was no longer raining. It had long since darkened, and the Stairs, almost deserted, were lit by a line of lanterns. Dashvara laughed softly as they walked several paces behind Atasiag.

“He’s happy as a colt,” he commented. “Have you ever seen him like this?”

Yira laughed quietly.

“He was the same the last time we were in Dazbon. I think deep down he feels more free, and he likes it. Even though he’s a Titiaka, he has more of a Republican soul.”

“What are you whispering about back there?” Atasiag said. He let himself be caught up and added, “Have you seen the Temple of the Eye? It’s wonderful at night, with all the lights. In fact,” he said, “I’d like to see Dazbon from above. It’s been three years since I’ve seen it.”

He turned back to the Stairs and began to climb. Dashvara huffed but followed him. They passed The White Pearl again. A few steps up, Atasiag stopped.

“I wish Sheroda were with me to see this. But of course,” he thought aloud, “it’s not polite to drop in on her too early. And I don’t think she wants to climb all those stairs.”

After his reflections, he continued to climb, and Dashvara chuckled.

“You wouldn’t be laughing at me, Philosopher, would you?” Atasiag asked in a quiet tone, without stopping.

“Not at all. I want to see Dazbon from above, too,” he admitted.

“Ha. Of course you do: the view is beautiful.”

He climbed faster, and his energy impressed Dashvara. Halfway up the Stairs, they were both panting, but Atasiag barely slowed down. The little sursha seemed to be keeping up effortlessly, though once they reached the top, Dashvara heard her gasp with them. When he finally turned back to the city, he was left speechless. Dazbon was like a sea of lights and rooftops descending to the ocean. A Gem half visible between the clouds illuminated the waters of the canals amidst the darkness. Leaning his baton on the last step, Atasiag stood facing the city as if he had come to conquer it.

“Behold the republican capital,” he pronounced. “It is not so orderly nor so perfect as Titiaka, but it is beautiful in its disorder.”

He sank into a contemplative silence, and Dashvara dared not interrupt him. The crashing of the water of the Great Cascade sounded not far from where they were. When he saw Yira shivering under the cold currents of the wind, he reached out to embrace her, and her eyes smiled. At that moment, Dashvara regretted not being able to send Atasiag away to protect himself. He wanted to spend the night with his naâsga. Remembering their happy walks in the woods near the pirate city, his heart quickened. If only they could finally be completely free… Suddenly, Atasiag turned around. Dashvara couldn’t make out his expression in the darkness. After a moment, the Federate broke the silence.

“Have you ever seen the Great Cascade up close, Philosopher? Come along,” he said, without waiting for their reply.

At the top of the Stairs was a long, completely deserted cobbled walkway, and they had only to follow it eastward to approach the waterfall. They soon came upon a stone balustrade which continued through a narrow crevice, passing behind the curtain of water. The passage seemed to continue across the river, but Atasiag went no further, and Dashvara leaned on the parapet to peek cautiously down. By the light of the Gem he could see how the water came down and down, thundering like a distant brizzia smashing trunks.

“It’s… impressive,” Dashvara admitted. It even makes you dizzy, he completed inwardly.

He was admiring the curtain of water when, suddenly, Yira jumped up and pulled away from the edge.

“By the Serenity, father… what are you up to?”

His voice showed exasperation. Dashvara turned as a faint ray of light flashed in Atasiag’s hand. He had taken out his thieves’ lantern. And in his other hand, he held some sort of red ribbon. Dashvara frowned.

“What are you doing, Eminence?” he asked, suspiciously.

Atasiag handed the ribbon to Yira and replied in a serene voice:

“Don’t look at me like that, Philosopher. I’ll just marry you off.”

For a moment, Dashvara thought he had misheard. The crash of the waterfall must have distorted his words, he decided. Atasiag disabused him of his suspicions when he said:

“I will marry you according to the Titiaka tradition, with Cili’s blessing.”

“Cili’s bless…?” Dashvara huffed, pulling himself together. “Tell me, Eminence, are you joking? We’ve already been married for a month—”

“According to your tradition,” he cut him off, “not according to Yira’s tradition. She is Cilian. Bodily union proves nothing before Cili.”

The sursha cleared her throat.

“I—”

“You are a Cilian,” Atasiag repeated sharply. “And, sorry if this sounds like religious nonsense, but I’m a good Cilian, and it seems important to me that my daughter be married according to rules that I feel are valid.”

“So the fact that our Eternal Birds fly together, to you, is not valid,” Dashvara concluded with some irritation.

“It’s not enough.”

Dashvara looked annoyed. Atasiag continued:

“I know that, in principle, a worker cannot marry, but I am willing to make an exception and perform a basic ceremony myself. And now stop protesting, Philosopher, and take this.”

Dashvara shrugged and accepted the black ribbon that Atasiag handed him. The situation seemed ridiculous to him, but as a good Xalya, he tried to understand it and came to the conclusion that it probably wouldn’t seem so ridiculous if he believed that, without Cili’s blessing, the couple was doomed to failure. As if I didn’t have enough with Xalya traditions already, he snorted inwardly. But he made no complaint when Atasiag asked them to tie the ribbons around one hand. Yira chose to remove the glove from her left hand, for the other was pure bone and mortic energy and, as Dashvara had ascertained, it took a good five minutes to undo all the knots that held the glove in place. Atasiag himself finished tying the bonds with the agility of a Cilian priest and said:

“Yira. Take off your veil.”

The sursha sighed but withdrew it with her free hand. Her long white hair swirled in the wind, and in the dim light of the thieves’ lantern, her undead self glowed, wrapped in energy. Faced with an embarrassed smile that more or less seemed to say “the idea didn’t come from me,” Dashvara rolled his eyes and opened his mouth.

“Shut up, Philosopher.”

Dashvara closed his mouth without making a sound.

With a solemn expression, Atasiag placed a hand over their knotted ones and began to recite a religious poem in Diumcilian that spoke of faith, trust, and happiness. When he finished, he stepped back to the railing and leaned over, reaching out an arm to touch the water.

“Is jumping into the waterfall a custom, too?” Dashvara growled.

Yira laughed quietly, but Atasiag returned safely and sprinkled their foreheads and hands before declaring still in Diumcilian:

“Cili blesses your union, Yira Peykat and Dashvara of Xalya. As long as you truly love each other, Cili will make you both happy in Hareka and eternal in her kingdom.”

He smiled, extinguished the thief’s lantern and declared in the Common Tongue:

“I have to admit that, at first, I had some reservations, but now I know that Cili created you for each other.” Though he was turning his back to the Gem’s light, Dashvara guessed his broad smile. “Well, young people, now you are officially married. I hope you enjoyed the view. Let’s go to Sheroda’s. We wouldn’t want to be late after getting out so early.”

The Titiaka stepped out from behind the waterfall and walked away down the boardwalk, between the shadows, whistling happily. Dashvara shook his head with a smile.

“Your father never ceases to amaze me. But, you know, I’m glad he did.”

“Really?” Yira gasped. “But you are not Cilian.”

“No,” Dashvara admitted. “But it wasn’t really Cili’s blessing that he gave us, naâsga—but his own.” He paused and observed, “Of course, I would have preferred it if he had blessed us with forty horses.”

Yira laughed, and smiling, Dashvara helped her put her veil back on. Then they put the matrimonial ribbons in their pockets and hurried to follow Atasiag, because after all, they were his bodyguards and they were supposed to be there to protect him.

4 The Republican Theatre

Coming face to face with Sheroda was not as unpleasant as Dashvara had feared. When they arrived at the entrance to her new home, the Supreme barely glanced at him and Yira before accepting Atasiag’s arm and setting off towards the theater with a queenly gait. It was disconcerting to think that in reality, this woman was not quite a sajit but a shixan who could transform into a monster with sharp blue teeth and monstrous eyes… Nervously, Dashvara tried to push this disturbing image from his mind and followed the couple, casting cautious glances around. As soon as they arrived in the Dragon District, the streets filled with people, and people were coming in and out of the noisy taverns in a continuous flow.

As Atasiag had explained, the Theatre was just in front of the Great Library and close to the Hospital. When they reached the front of the tall building, Dashvara could not suppress a worried grimace. Surely, if someone wanted to murder another person in the midst of the crowd that was gathering here, they had a rather easy task.

What are you afraid of, Dash? That Atasiag will die? Or are you more afraid of saying goodbye to your forty horses? He abruptly dismissed the question and forced himself to calm down. Either way, who the hell in Dazbon would want to kill Atasiag Peykat?

“Asmoan!” the Titiaka suddenly exclaimed, raising his commanding staff.

The great Agoskurian caitian stood by the door and greeted his friend with a wave of his hand. It took them a while to get to him.

“I didn’t know Republicans were so assiduous at the theater!” he grinned broadly, as he shook Atasiag’s hand. “I hope you’re going to introduce me to the beautiful lady you’re with.”

“Of course,” Atasiag laughed. “This is Sheroda. Sheroda, this is Asmoan of Gravia.”

Over the din, Dashvara failed to hear Sheroda’s whispered response. He arched an eyebrow at the admiring glint that lit up Asmoan’s eyes.

“Mawer, the pleasure is all mine!” he pronounced. “Just being with you, my friends, is worth the best show. But let’s go in; we’ll be more at ease in the balconies.”

Dashvara looked at him, stunned. Was he dreaming or had the Agoskurian fellow just uttered a curse in Oy’vat? He shook his head, shaking off his perplexity, and set about following Atasiag into the theater. A militiaman stopped them briefly, asking them to show the weapons license, but they soon ascended the stairs to a small interior balcony that overlooked a huge room with benches and a large stage at the back.

Atasiag, Sheroda, and Asmoan took their places in the dressing room, and the two friends began to chat animatedly. They jumped from one topic to another quickly. They talked about life in Agoskura and the Republic of Dazbon. Asmoan enthused about how well organized the Great Library was, and Dashvara learned that he had already been in Dazbon for two weeks, hosted by the Republican Library Archivist himself, and was planning to stay all winter until spring.

“And you, my friend!” the Agoskurian suddenly boomed. “So you say your house in Titiaka did not burn down?”

“No, it just scorched a little, but nothing irreparable,” Atasiag assured. “My foreman has already initiated the rehabilitation.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” the scientist smiled. “You don’t know how frightened I was when I heard about this Rebellion thing. And tell me, are you going back there?”

“As soon as one of my guests is healed. When we left Titiaka, a poor boy was injured. But he is already out of danger. And as soon as we return, Sheroda and I are to be married. The Yordarks have offered me an excellent position in Titiaka. If all goes well, I’ll be Administrator of the Council’s Treasury before the year is out,” he announced with obvious satisfaction.

Asmoan clapped his hands several times as if he was going to start dancing the dianka.

“Wonderful! So, I hope to see you often in the coming days. I spend hours, locked in the library. I trust you to get me out of my mountain of books.”

“I give you my word!” Atasiag proclaimed. “You will not leave Dazbon without knowing all its wonders. What do you say if you drop in tomorrow at The White Pearl at dinner time?”

“That would sound fantastic to me. If your bride doesn’t mind,” Asmoan observed.

“Not at all,” Sheroda smiled. “I’m not staying at The White Pearl. And, tomorrow, I shall be very busy with other business.”

Asmoan had suddenly adopted a fascinated expression.

“Of course. I understand it perfectly. I hope, however, to see you again soon. I didn’t know there were… such beautiful women in Dazbon.”

“Asmoan!” Atasiag warned, half-offended and half-satisfied.

“What?” the Agoskurian casually smiled. “Oh, I know you Titiakas go through terrible metaphors to praise beauties. Excuse my lack of finesse, my queen. By the way, Atasiag, I haven’t visited our family yet. Are you planning to go?”

Atasiag winced, as if the subject bothered him.

“It’s been a good three years since I’ve stopped by to see our relatives,” he confessed. “Our relationship is pretty… cold.”

“Really?” Asmoan gasped.

“Really.” And leaning back in his seat casually, he said in a low voice, “You know them. Conservative and not very open. And I’m more sajit than they’d like. I’m even Cilian. For them, that is already a serious sign of decadence. I assure you. Sarga once laughed out loud at me when she saw me coming out of a Cilian temple in Dazbon. As if they weren’t as much ridiculous with their praise of Life and the Sreda. We are demons and proud of it, they say. Ow, come on. They think they’re above the sajits when in reality, we demons are just like them…”

He frowned, hissed through his teeth, and turned suddenly to Dashvara. The latter had been listening to the conversation, increasingly perplexed. Whose relatives were they talking about? And what was this about demons? He met Atasiag’s eyes, and a glint in them sent a shiver down his spine.

“Philosopher,” he muttered. “You didn’t hear anything, did you?”

Dashvara saw Asmoan and Sheroda looking at him too, and his heart began to drum in his chest.

Careful, Dash. I think you listened to something you shouldn’t have. If you take what Atasiag said at face value, he and Asmoan are demons. Who knows what that means, but clearly, if Sheroda is a monster, why shouldn’t Atasiag be too, right? Oh, devils… And why should he be? Oh, devils. This must be a bad joke. Am I rambling or…

“Philosopher,” Atasiag repeated, rising from his seat. Dashvara turned to him an apprehensive look. “I ran my mouth off a bit too much. Please repeat only these words: I heard nothing, master. Repeat them.”

Dashvara glanced at Yira and saw her tense but not surprised. Feeling a sudden threat hanging over him, he nodded without further ado.

“I heard nothing, master. Nothing at all.”

“Good.” Atasiag sat back down and sighed. “I’m so used to saying anything in front of my workers that I blurt out nonsense when I less expect it. Unless it’s due to old age. Or to my natural stupidity. Sorry, Asmoan. This is the first time I’ve ever made such a blunder.”

Asmoan still looked at Dashvara with a slight flicker of suspicion, but he regained his smile and assured:

“He seems like a good kid. I think he’ll keep his mouth shut. Don’t worry, I trust you blindly, Atasiag. I won’t send anyone to kill him. Besides, I have a feeling that his companion already knew something about it… Come on, don’t worry! Anyone can make a mistake. Forget about it for now. Ah!” he exclaimed happily. “The show’s starting.”

Dashvara was livid. He felt Yira’s quiet hand on his arm, but it barely soothed him. He was tempted to ask her if what he had heard was true, but then he remembered that he had heard nothing and tried to clear his mind. He failed. Absurd, terrifying thoughts swirled in his head. That two such normal guys as Atasiag and Asmoan could not be sajits was sobering. Who knows, maybe Dazbon was full of demons and shixans wandering its streets… He smiled, sarcastically.

I have a feeling you’re going to have nightmares tonight, Dash.

Musicians near the stage began to play, and the theatre gradually fell silent. Dashvara barely watched the beginning of the show with the dancers, and then, he couldn’t concentrate on the words of the actors. People were laughing, but he didn’t know why. Asmoan, Sheroda, and Atasiag commented on the performance from time to time. Finally, Dashvara got tired of standing and sat down on the floor between the shadows of the dressing room.

“To hell with the Srad Andal troupe,” he growled low.

“Dash,” Yira whispered, leaning in. Her eyes shone with concern. “Are you okay?”

“Not quite.”

His head hurt, maybe from thinking he had three monsters sitting in their seats before him. And that Fayrah and Lessi had a demon father. And that he and his people served him and… and…

“Oh, naâsga,” he sighed, taking her hand. “I’m all right. I’m fine,” he repeated. “It’s only that—but what does it matter. Let’s just say that, as long as he gives me the forty horses, I might even serve a dragon, right? Or a milfid. Or… Bah.” He took a deep breath to calm himself. “I’m perfectly fine, naâsga. Perfectly fine.”

He kissed her on the forehead and stood up with her. He caught a glimpse of Sheroda’s intense gaze before she turned back to the actors. At that moment, echoing the audience, Asmoan let out a loud laugh. Dashvara sighed.

“And you… Have you known this for a long time?” he muttered.

Yira shrugged.

“For years. But it’s not important.”

“Nooo,” Dashvara conceded mockingly. “Of course it’s not important. It’s a detail. I don’t know why I got so upset. As the years go by, I get more and more sensitive…”

Yira gave him a light shake, stifling a laugh.

“Dash, I’m not kidding. For us, it doesn’t matter.”

Between the shadows of the box, Dashvara looked into her dark eyes and smiled. He suddenly felt almost peaceful. Almost.

“You are right. With you, naâsga, I could be surrounded by monsters and I wouldn’t care.”

“Because I’m the worst of them all, right?” Yira scoffed.

Dashvara huffed.

“I was trying to be romantic, Yira. Bah. This theater is getting dull. How long before the actors shut up?”

“How long before you shut up, Philosopher?” Atasiag retorted, shooting him a half-mocking, half-exasperated look from his seat.

Dashvara winced as he realized that they were no longer speaking so quietly and he wisely kept quiet. After a long time, the first act was over, and Asmoan and Atasiag began to comment on the art of the actors while Sheroda looked bored to death. Shortly afterwards, a theatre employee passed by with a cart full of bottles.

“Would you like something to drink?” he asked them.

“Of course,” Atasiag nodded. “Have you ever tasted sigria liquor, Asmoan? No? Well, tonight you shall taste it: it is one of Dazbon’s wonders. My treat. What about you, Sheroda? Nothing? Nothing? Well… Well, that’ll be two liqueurs of sigria.”

“That makes one detta, sir,” the waiter said.

Atasiag handed the coin to Dashvara, and like the good slave he was, Dashvara handed it to the Republican, took the glasses, and handed them to the Titiaka and the Agoskurian. When Asmoan accepted his, Dashvara felt a sudden discharge and jumped back, his heart racing and his eyes widening. He had said he wasn’t going to kill him… Yeah, sure.

“Asmoan,” Atasiag growled. “What the hell are you doing?”

An amused and guilty glint shone in the scientist’s eyes.

“Tell me, have you never experimented?” he inquired.

Atasiag frowned.

“No.”

“Really? Never, ever? I thought not. Still, having them around like that, the temptation must be strong—”

“It would be, for you, perhaps. But, I’m not a scientist, and I don’t feel any temptation,” Atasiag assured in a sharp voice.

Asmoan shrugged; he didn’t press the issue and concentrated on the second act that had just begun. Dashvara stepped back onto the balcony as much as he could.

“What did he do to you?” Yira asked in a whisper. She sounded worried.

“I don’t know,” Dashvara admitted. “It was like… a discharge. They’re celmists, aren’t they?”

Yira shook her head.

“I have no idea what they are. I just know that—”

“That it is not important,” Dashvara completed wryly.

“No. I meant I’ve only seen his true appearance once,” she whispered so low that Dashvara barely heard her.

He felt a chill run through him.

“So, they do transform.”

Yira did not answer. When Dashvara followed the direction of her gaze and saw Atasiag glaring at them, he silently cleared his throat and decided to keep quiet for the rest of the evening. All in all, he felt he had already learned too much that day. Far too much.

The vigil seemed interminable. When he finally heard the audience applaud the third act, he yawned and wished he had taken a nap like Atasiag in the afternoon. The audience rose from their seats, and Dashvara emerged from his immobility feeling as if he had been crushed by a brizzia.

“Philosopher, are you listening to me?”

Dashvara gasped and realized that the three creatures had risen and approached the exit of the box. Atasiag watched him patiently.

“I asked you how you found the show.”

Dashvara huffed.

“Long.”

Atasiag arched an eyebrow and waited a few more seconds before saying, looking disappointed:

“Is that all?”

Dashvara grimaced.

“Yes. Well… it’s just that I wasn’t paying attention. Something about a kingdom, two ugly princesses, and an idiot who wants to get married to inherit.” He shrugged and observed, “I did enjoy the music during the breaks.”

Atasiag rolled his eyes, Asmoan laughed, and Sheroda’s lips curled.

“I hope,” Atasiag smiled, “that whoever is going to write in the Dazbon Gazette about this show has a little more favorable opinion. Come on, let’s get out of here. Sheroda,” he added as they headed for the stairs, “you’ve been very quiet tonight. Didn’t you enjoy the theatre?”

“In a way, I think my opinion is a little like the steppian’s, Atasiag,” the Supreme admitted. “But I agree that the actors were very good. And if I’m a little quiet, it’s simply because I’m tired.”

“Then I’ll walk you straight home. Do you want me to send for a carriage?”

Sheroda laughed quietly.

“My house is barely a ten-minute walk away, darling. Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Yes… I understand. By the way, do you really not want me to leave Wassag and Yorlen to take care of you? They are very helpful boys and—”

“I don’t need anyone to take care of me, Atasiag,” Sheroda cut him off gently. “And I don’t need slaves. When in the world are you going to get that through your head.”

The Titiaka flushed slightly.

“Of course. I’m sorry if I insulted you, dear.”

“Don’t worry, I’m getting used to your fixations,” Sheroda laughed. “But please get used to mines too.”

Dashvara caught Asmoan of Gravia’s very amused smile as they walked out. Outside, a cold wind blew away his fatigue and brightened him up at once.

“Well, my friends,” the Agoskurian said. “From here, I go straight to the Great Library to sleep between my books. It has been a pleasure—no, even a joy—to spend this evening with you. Let’s meet tomorrow, Atasiag.”

As his friend answered, Dashvara looked around. It was already very late, and almost all the taverns in the square were closed. Most of the spectators were already leaving, scattering through the streets in a cold, dense mist. The light of the Hospital could barely be seen.

As the tall figure of Asmoan walked away towards the Great Library, Atasiag and Sheroda made their way back.

“Ha. Have you seen old Naskag Nelkantas, my dear?” the federate said in a light tone. “He’s aged: perhaps you didn’t recognize him. He was sitting a few boxes away. He tried to greet me. That treacherous dog.” He laughed softly. “He must be desperate in his exile. Everyone knows he hates Republicans. Well, if he thinks I’m going to do him any favors, he can cool his heels.”

Dashvara remembered that the Legitimate Nelkantas had been exiled for helping the Unitarians rise up. As Atasiag continued to speak, he stopped listening: he wasn’t interested in his intrigues one bit.

They were reaching the Temple of the Eye when, without warning, Yira stopped and staggered. Stunned, Dashvara reached out a hand… and barely recovered her as she was about to slump. Terror swept over him like a petrifying wave.

“Yira? Yira!”

5 The mysterious cave

“Yira!” Dashvara cried, appalled. Before she collapsed to the ground, he took her in his arms, panicked. The little sursha’s eyes were closed.

Atasiag crouched beside him, his face darkened.

“She has overused her energy. Don’t take the veil off her, you idiot.”

“I didn’t take it away from her. What do you mean by ‘overused her energy’?”

“She was using spells to hide from Asmoan that she is… well, you know what. I told her it was unlikely he’d notice anything, but… Well, she just wore herself out. One day she’ll scare me to death. Let’s keep moving.”

Trembling slightly, Dashvara lifted the sursha and followed Atasiag and Sheroda through the streets of the Dragon District, eager to return to his brothers. This day would surpass the most troubling of his life. He’d spent all morning on a boat, half sick, he’d struggled to unload barrels with thieves in them, he’d gotten married, he’d found out his master was a demon, and now Yira just fainted…

“And what would happen if he found out?” he asked suddenly. “All in all, if you and he are what I haven’t heard, it shouldn’t scare him too much to see her.”

They were already entering the street of Sheroda’s, near the canal. Atasiag stopped and looked at him, his face dark.

“You are mistaken. I am not like the ones of my kind. In general, we are staunch detractors of… this energy,” he muttered, indicating Yira. “If they were to discover it… I’d rather not think about what would happen. Let’s move on.”

He turned his back, and Dashvara looked at him, his eyes wide.

“Oh, devils,” he swore. And he resumed walking.

They arrived at the gate, Sheroda opened it, and Atasiag raised a hand to ask Dashvara to wait outside. Dashvara grunted and sat down on the threshold without letting go of Yira. Who knows what that demon was up to now. It took him forever to open the door again, and when he did, he was dressed in dark republican clothes and wore a tight black scarf around his head.

“Give her to me. I’ll take her to a room, and Sheroda will take care of her. Don’t worry, by morning, she’ll be back on her feet,” he promised.

Reluctantly, Dashvara gave him Yira, and Atasiag disappeared through a door in the hallway. He quickly reappeared, exited, and closed behind him.

“Follow me.”

Dashvara frowned but followed him.

“Where do we go from here?”

Atasiag did not answer, and apprehension began to stir in Dashvara’s heart. He remembered very clearly Asmoan’s words, ‘I won’t send anyone to kill him’. He had said it with such calmness… But it was absurd to think that Atasiag could want to kill him because of what he had heard: all things considered, he also knew that Sheroda was a shixan, and he had taken it for granted that Dashvara would not speak of it. And, of course, Dashvara had kept the secret. Besides, he was armed with two swords while Atasiag must have had little more than a concealed dagger. Of course, if they were magicians, perhaps he had other techniques to defend himself…

Honestly, Dash, stop thinking nonsense. You know Atasiag. Whether or not he’s a demon, you know he wouldn’t dare to kill you.

As they entered a completely deserted alley, Dashvara began to worry. He broke the silence.

“Damn it, Eminence. Will you finally tell me where we’re going?”

Atasiag turned his head slightly and shrugged.

“I want to show you something.”

Dashvara stopped, nervous.

“Very well. But first tell me what you want to show me.”

Atasiag turned into the narrow street. What little he could see of his face was shrouded in shadow.

“You’re scared.”

His voice sounded disappointed. Dashvara winced.

“No. I just have my doubts. It’s kind of natural.”

“It isn’t. I’m your master: you should trust me,” Atasiag retorted. Dashvara hardly repressed a sarcastic laugh. After a silence, the Titiaka added: “And now, you don’t trust me. You surprise me, Philosopher.”

Dashvara laughed through his teeth.

“You surprised me more tonight, Eminence. If I doubt, it is simply because I have no idea what it is like to be a… you know what. Perhaps what I was taught about these creatures in the steppe was all lies, but the word itself is not very flattering in any case.”

He sensed Atasiag approaching and took a step back. The Titiaka stopped.

“That’s ridiculous, Philosopher. I’m still the same. You want to see what I really am? Well, so be it. Come closer. I’ll show you. It’s nothing extraordinary. The physical changes are minimal. Come closer,” he ordered.

Dashvara took a deep breath, swallowed his apprehensions and approached. Atasiag lighted his lantern ever so slightly, and Dashvara could suddenly see his blood-red eyes and black pupils reduced to slits. With one hand, the demon pulled the black scarf away from his face and marks darker than night appeared, clear on his human face.

“Satisfied?” he asked briskly.

Dashvara saw his teeth sharpened, but he did not back down. Atasiag’s tone betrayed a clear irritation. And there was also a hint of expectation and fear. And how could he not be afraid: what he had just shown Dashvara would probably have condemned him to death in a sajit town. He doubted that in Dazbon, monsters who transformed like that were well accepted. Even if he thought the changes were “minimal”, his master’s appearance was quite terrifying. But used as you are to seeing strange things, Dash, you shouldn’t be frightened. He swallowed.

“Satisfied,” he murmured. “Excuse me, Eminence.”

Atasiag arched an eyebrow. His marks disappeared, and his eyes, fixed on Dashvara’s, turned dark brown again. He turned off the thieves’ lantern.

“So, do you trust me?”

Dashvara nodded without hesitation.

“Yes.”

“Good,” Atasiag sighed. He looked relieved.

“So… what did you want to show me?”

“Don’t be impatient.” Dashvara perceived a clear change of tone in his voice: it had become more cheerful and light again. “Follow me and you will see.”

He followed him, unable to avoid asking himself a disturbing question: what would Atasiag have done if he had run away or if he had drawn the swords? He remembered that, when he saw the transformed Shixan, his first instinct had been to reach for his weapons. Then he had tried to run, but the shixan’s spell had prevented him from doing so… Perhaps Atasiag had similar powers and only used them in extreme need. Who knows? Sincerely, Dashvara preferred never to have to find out.

He dismissed his ramblings as Atasiag stopped near a wall, almost at the end of the dead end. He saw him reach down and pull something, but in the darkness he was unable to guess what.

“Come in,” the thief whispered.

Dashvara leaned close to him and discovered that he was now standing in front of a small open tunnel. It emanated an unsavoury smell. But Dashvara crawled into it anyway, down a ramp. He found himself in complete darkness. With some relief, he felt that Atasiag was following him. The Titiaka closed the door before turning on the thieves’ lantern and dimly illuminating the tunnel. It was narrow, but after a few steps the ceiling rose, allowing them to stand. They came to a crossroads, and Dashvara stopped, questioning.

“This way,” Atasiag whispered.

He walked past, picking out a narrowing tunnel, and ducked again. Dashvara crawled behind him, increasingly puzzled. Where the hell was this snake leading him?

After a long time, he began to hear a steady noise that made him frown. They came to some old wooden stairs going up. They were covered with dust. Once they reached the top, they found themselves facing a small door. Atasiag ran a hand over the lock and seemed to concentrate before pushing it open.

What he discovered left Dashvara even more disconcerted. They were outside again, in… a cave? That loud rumor was the ocean, he realized. Atasiag closed the door behind them, intensified the light of his lantern and said with a broad smile:

“This is the Cave of Black Song. We are on the Bones Cliffs.”

A solemn echo sounded in the cave. Dashvara silently cleared his throat.

“And?” he asked.

“This cave has saved my life more than once,” Atasiag admitted. He motioned for Dashvara to follow him. “Just be careful. There are rock jellyfish that live around here. If you step on them, you’ll slip. They’ll also grab your feet.”

“Fantastic,” Dashvara replied while following him with great care. “Tell me, Eminence, you didn’t bring me here simply to see a damned cave with jellyfish, did you?”

“What if I did?” He turned and smiled when he saw Dashvara’s grim face. “Actually, I brought you here to give you something that will interest you.”

Dashvara snorted. As they walked between stalagmites of rock, he noticed that they were encrusted with many small stones that gave off a soft light. He found himself staring at them, fascinated.

“Does Yira know this place?” he asked.

Atasiag shook his head.

“No. I used to use this cave more. It’s been a good five years since I’ve been in here. I hope nothing has changed.” He took a few steps and leaned over a broken stalagmite. To Dashvara’s astonishment, he inserted his hand into a hole in the center and pulled out an object. A bottle. Dashvara laughed.

“Tonight you keep surprising me, Eminence. First, your Cilian fit, then your blunder, and now the bottle… Frankly, you amaze me.”

“Take it and stop talking.”

Dashvara took it. The glass was icy cold. He also accepted the lantern and shone it on Atasiag as the federate continued to work, searching the hole in the stalagmite. He took out a small box and put it in his pocket. Then he walked away to another stalagmite and bent down near a cavity in the wall to pick up something that looked like it was made of wood.

“Help me get this out, Philosopher,” he panted.

Dashvara put the bottle and lantern on the floor and struggled with him, growing more and more curious. They made a terrible racket throughout the cave. When they finally removed the chest, he hissed through his teeth.

“Don’t tell me you put this here by yourself?”

“Lisag helped me. My youngest son,” he explained.

Dashvara studied his face in amazement as Atasiag ran a hand over his sweaty forehead. He hesitated before observing:

“You never talk about your sons.”

Atasiag looked up abruptly, and Dashvara flushed as he realized that he was intruding on what was none of his business. He pointed to the trunk and was about to ask if it contained any dead beech-shells when suddenly the light from the lantern went out. Atasiag hissed.

“Where the hell did you leave the lantern?”

“On the floor. It’s gotta be over there…”

“A thieves’ lantern never goes out so fast by itself. Did you sit on it?”

“No,” Dashvara muttered. “Damn it, I can’t find it.” He tensed. “I hear noises.”

In fact, there was some strange banging and whistling going on nearby. Atasiag grunted.

“These are not jellyfish.”

Dashvara heard him rise, and his eyes widened in the darkness. The light from the small stones did not shine brightly enough to see anything beyond the stalagmites themselves.

“Hey, Eminence, be careful,” he croaked. “You might hit yourself…” He heard a diffuse but high-pitched sound that didn’t sound good to him. “What was that?”

He stood up slowly, raising his hands to avoid hitting the rock of the wall. Then he drew a sword. He heard Atasiag’s hurried steps. How the hell was he running in this darkness?

“Philosopher. Help me carry the trunk. We’re leaving.”

“What is it?” Dashvara inquired as he sheathed the sword.

“Kraokdals. Something must have driven them up to the lower tunnels. Normally they live in the Underground. They must have moved in recently. By the Serenity, get moving. You wouldn’t want to run into them, believe me.”

“What about the lantern?”

“A rock jellyfish had taken it. Those damn thieves,” he muttered and huffed under his breath as they lifted the chest.

“If you have… the… lantern,” Dashvara gasped, “why don’t you turn it on?”

There was a silence, then Atasiag said:

“Very true. Anyway, the kraokdals are blind, so I don’t think it’ll attract them. I’ll put the trunk down for a moment.”

They put the chest down again, and soon the light of the lantern shone back into the cave. In a second Dashvara saw three details: first, that Atasiag had turned back into a demon; second, that several deformed masses of brilliant green were gliding across the rocky floor; and, finally, that a large greenish semi-bipedal creature had just appeared from a tunnel some twenty paces away. The growl it emitted did not frighten him as much as its enormous claws and fangs.

The next moment Dashvara had the swords in his hands.

“Forget the trunk, Eminence!” he growled. “Let’s get out of here.”

Atasiag shook his head.

“Then let’s put it back in the hole. The jellyfish would be able to steal what’s inside.”

For an instant, Dashvara stared at him, his eyes open wide. Suddenly, the kraokdal struck the rock and rushed towards them. They were blind, he said. My foot they are! Dashvara abruptly moved away from the wall. When he saw Atasiag hesitate, he shouted:

“Back off, you damn fool!”

Without further thought, he returned to Atasiag’s side and dashed past him towards the beast. He narrowly avoided a clawed blow thanks to a small stalagmite: the rock emitted a clatter when it burst into a thousand pieces. It was only a matter of time before the cave collapsed on them. He was about to receive another attack from the beast when, to his astonishment, the kraokdal stopped and turned its head towards Atasiag. It had no eyes: only a huge mouth with teeth and hair. And such claws! Dashvara took advantage of its hesitation and, without further ado, plunged the swords into the monster’s throat. He avoided another clawed blow and backed away hastily as the kraokdal screamed while choking and trying to attack him. After a strangled bellow, the beast collapsed. The rock jellyfish moved aside at once to avoid being crushed. From the tunnel where the creature had emerged, new growls were heard.

“Hey, Eminence!” Dashvara shouted, “this time we’re getting out of here for good.”

Atasiag’s red eyes looked into his.

“We’ve got time. Let’s get the chest out of here.”

Dashvara hissed, annoyed, and was about to protest, but Atasiag insisted:

“Come on, hurry up!”

Dashvara mentally cursed him, but he obeyed: he sheathed the swords, took one end of the chest, and the two of them began to stagger forward into the cave. The growling was getting louder, and Dashvara feared that they would find themselves surrounded by these creatures at any moment. If so, he got the feeling their chances of getting out of there would be slim. This madman was frankly stubborn with his crate…

They reached the door and set the chest down. Atasiag pressed his hands against the wooden door, and Dashvara guessed he was doing a magic trick. Couldn’t he have just left it open? he thought. Suddenly, the kraokdals began to scream. They must have heard their companion’s cries of pain.

“Quickly,” Atasiag said, pulling the door open at last.

“It’s no use,” Dashvara stammered as he lifted the chest again. The kraokdals were already almost upon them, and with his back to them to carry the damned chest, he wasn’t even going to be able to look death in the face…

“Down!” Atasiag roared suddenly.

Dashvara dropped the chest and rolled on the rock floor. A large stone crashed against the open door. Now they were throwing projectiles at them? That was all they needed! He tried to pull out his swords, when a cursed jellyfish grabbed his chest and another one his leg. He could not get rid of it, so he got up, and when he saw a kraokdal coming at him, he said goodbye to life. By a happy coincidence, the beast slipped on a mass of jellyfish and spread out in front of Dashvara. Dashvara finished drawing one of the swords and struck a deadly blow to its head before dashing for the door. He reached Atasiag just as another creature appeared between the shadows of two stalagmites, running towards them. He didn’t believe it when he saw the Titiaka, on his knees, on the threshold, struggling to pull the chest out of the cave.

He’s completely crazy…

Several jellyfish were climbing up his legs, but he ignored them and left his swords on the landing before grabbing the handle to join Atasiag’s effort. He pulled with all his might.

And then the trunk moved at last: it tipped over and fell down the stairs with a hellish noise. The lantern went out, but anyway, Dashvara hurriedly closed the door on the kraokdal. There was a loud bang on the other side of the door. The kraokdal was going to shoot him, he lamented.

“Oh, Liadirlá,” he growled. He picked up his swords in the dark, “Eminence, turn the lantern back on, will you?” He frowned and turned his head slightly. “Eminence?”

Then he understood that His Eminence had fallen down the stairs with the chest.

6 Demons and embassies

“Ph-Philosopher. Oh… merciful Cili. I hurt all over.”

After sheathing his swords mechanically in the darkness and descending the stairs cautiously, Dashvara finally reached the bottom and heard Atasiag’s ragged breathing. The kraokdal had stopped banging on the door.

“Of course you hurt all over,” Dashvara muttered. “It’s a wonder you’re still alive after a fall like that. How can you risk our lives for a damned chest, Eminence… Where’s the lantern?” he asked.

At last the light illuminated the hallway. Atasiag was sitting on the trunk, massaging his shoulder and head. It was bleeding.

“You look terrible,” Dashvara gasped.

“Speak for yourself. With those jellyfish, you look like you came straight from the monster bestiary.”

And you’re one to talk, Dashvara thought, looking at Atasiag’s reddened eyes and glowing marks. Come to think of it, it was a miracle Atasiag wasn’t in worse shape after rolling down those stairs.

“Demon skin is tougher than a sajit’s,” Atasiag explained, as if guessing at his thoughts.

Dashvara let out an indefinable guttural sound, and after making sure that Atasiag’s wound was superficial, he proceeded to dispose of his jellyfish. One by one, he tossed them up the stairs. Perhaps they would be able to get under the door to return to their home.

“It’s much better this way,” Dashvara sighed, relieved. “I hope your trunk was worth it. We should get away before the kraokdals come back and break the door down.”

Atasiag shook his head.

“The door is enchanted: the kraokdals will not be able to destroy it. Or at least I hope not. Anyway, we can carry the contents and leave the chest here for now. It will be quicker. I’ll send my men to get it one of these days.” He stood up. “Open the lid. Here’s the key.”

Dashvara took the key and opened the trunk. There were three bags. After glancing at the first one, he huffed, stunned.

“I risked my life for some bloody books.”

“These are precious books,” Atasiag retorted. “Some are unique copies, and the cheapest one is worth no less than a hundred dragons. Perhaps you will be interested to know that one of them was written by an Ancient King of the Steppe.” Hearing this, Dashvara widened his eyes in amazement. “As you can hear it. See that sword there?” he added.

Dashvara bent down to pick up the weapon from its sheath. In fact, it was a saber. And as he could verify, the blade was as black as coal.

“It is like Yira’s sword,” he remarked, surprised.

“Black steel,” Atasiag agreed. “It is an unusual metal, as light and strong as the mythical sethrag steel. Both sabers belonged to the same king. If you look closely, his family motto is inscribed on the pommel, as well as his name, Siranaga, who was—”

“I know who he was,” Dashvara cut him off in disbelief. “Siranaga the Adventurer. He was an Ancient King who decided to go off in search of a myth and didn’t return. Does this chest belong to him?”

“No, it doesn’t. The chest was given to me by friends in Agoskura when I left there. Since then, I’ve been using it to put precious items I don’t need,” he grinned. “I acquired the swords from a cash-strapped merchant who sold them to me for a pittance. He was Agoskurian, and he did not recognize the name Siranaga engraved on the blades. He didn’t understand that he had just sold me a real relic.” His eyes sparkled. “I got his diary for the same price. It’s written in Oy’vat, so, I could never read it properly. Here it is,” he said, pulling an old notebook out from between the books. “It’s in relatively good condition. The Ancient Kings of your steppe used quality paper.”

He handed it to Dashvara who, putting down the black sword, accepted the diary with a mixture of respect and unease. By the light of the lantern, he could read the handwritten title: Meditations Of A Steppian. It was signed “Siranaga of Rorsy”.

“Why did you buy it?”

“I find the diary of a king and you expect me to leave it in the hands of a merchant who doesn’t even know what he’s selling?” Atasiag laughed. “I’m not a scholar or scientist like Asmoan, but I can recognize the value of an item. I could sell it back to a museum in Dazbon for over two-hundred dragons. At first, I had thought of giving this book to Asmoan… but I think there is someone who has more right to read it than he does.” He paused, and Dashvara looked up from the diary to see that the Titiaka was watching him with a small smile. “From now on, this sword and this diary belong to you, Dashvara of Xalya. Do with them as you see fit.”

Dashvara did not know what to say. He already had swords, and he’d read a lot of books about the Ancient Kings, but the mere fact that Atasiag had thought to give him such a gift meant a lot to him. It was almost as if, at that moment, he recognized that he was more a Xalya than a slave. He bowed as any Xalya would have done under such circumstances.

“I accept the gift and thank you, Atasiag Peykat.”

Titiaka shook his head gently, smiling.

“Thanks to you, son. I only wish I could get some horses out of the trunk.”

Dashvara laughed, because he had just thought the exact same thing.

“They wouldn’t fit in those tunnels,” he joked and pointed to the three bags. “What’s inside?”

A teasing glint gleamed in Atasiag’s eyes.

“Things of my own. I’ll take them to Sheroda’s. I don’t put a single bit of trust in those employees of The White Pearl.”

Dashvara shrugged and took the first two bags. Atasiag hung the other one on his belt, letting out a grunt of pain as he straightened up.

“Damn kraokdals…”

* * *

The next day, the first thing Dashvara wanted to do was to go to Sheroda’s house and make sure Yira was okay. However, Atasiag had other plans. First, Dashvara had to send three volunteers to speak with Asmoan of Gravia, as promised: in the end, it was Miflin, Lumon, and Sedrios the Old who went. He didn’t like the idea of sending his people to speak with a demon without even warning them, but he couldn’t find a way to refuse without complicating things. Then he escorted Atasiag to the Merchant House, a sort of luxurious tavern where merchants gathered to sell and buy items. There, Atasiag greeted several acquaintances and sat down at a table with a Republican, who Dashvara understood to be the brother of a prominent patrician.

After some questions and courtesies, they began to talk about prices. Leaning against a wall, Dashvara listened with one ear and occasionally let his gaze wander over the distant tables of the room.

“It’s Blue Country wine, my friend!” Atasiag Peykat protested. “The finest wine on the whole west coast. I don’t know if you know that in Titiaka such a treasure sells for thirty dragons a barrel, at the very least! I know a rather impulsive fellow countryman who had a slave beheaded on the spot for spilling a glass of this wine. In Dazbon, when accounting for taxes, thirty-two for a barrel is an excellent deal. I’ll give you an even better deal: all the goods, including the bags of herbs, for one thousand two hundred. That’s a more than generous price.”

The patrician gently shook his wine glass and surprisingly stopped haggling:

“So be it! I’ll buy you everything. My brother will surely be pleased.”

Atasiag smiled.

“He’ll know how to appreciate wine and herbs, if he’s a fine connoisseur as I’ve heard.”

Both were satisfied. The patrician invited him to the Festival of the Constitution the following week, Atasiag accepted, they signed papers and said goodbye. The rest of the morning, the Xalyas spent loading and transporting barrels of wine to the Parvels’ house in the Beau Quartier. When they returned to The White Pearl Inn, they were exhausted. Miflin, Lumon and Sedrios had already returned, as had Yira, Dashvara noted with relief. The sursha was in the middle of a conversation with Alta’s cousins, and Dashvara thought he heard the words “cut and thrust” before the noisy arrival of Xalyas’ troop drowned out the other conversations.

“You got lucky, Poet!” Zamoy exclaimed, giving his brother a pat on the head. “We’ve suffered more than the donkeys of Symjablas!”

“Well, I would have preferred to be with you guys,” Miflin replied. “That Agoskurian got on my nerves. He’s been riddling us with questions. I can’t understand how a guy who comes from so far away can be so interested in our culture.”

“What did he want to know so badly?” the captain inquired.

“Things about the Eternal Bird, mostly,” Lumon replied. “And about how the Ancient Kings fell.” He smiled mockingly. “He asked us if the Tower of the Eternal Bird existed.”

Several gasped, and the captain let out a small laugh.

“And what did you say to him?”

“That we had seen it from a distance,” Miflin said. “We had to explain to him that the Essimeans were scoundrels and wouldn’t let us pass to go and see it up close. The damn fool says he intends to go and see it.”

Dashvara choked on his saliva.

“He wants to go to the steppe?”

“Yeah,” the Poet affirmed with a big smile. “He said he was willing to pay for an escort. But, when we told him yes, yes, and that we’d need about forty horses, weapons and supplies, he said he’d think about it. Truth be said, I’m afraid he doesn’t have enough money for all that.”

Dashvara couldn’t help but smile.

“If only we could find three or four more Asmoans, we’d be on the steppe in less than a week.”

His statement drew many smiles. The captain rolled his eyes.

“It’s not easy to find two fools who want to go to the same place,” he considered. “But, if Asmoan wants to see that tower, maybe Atasiag will give him a hand…”

The Xalyas’ hopes had soared. Dashvara felt sure that they would not take as long as he had expected to leave Dazbon. They would find a way, whatever it was.

In the afternoon, Atasiag reappeared from who knows where and asked Dashvara to accompany him to the Titiaka embassy. The embassy was in the Dragon District, on the seashore. When they arrived, the gate was guarded by three Ragail guards.

“Atasiag Peykat,” the Titiaka introduced himself. “I have received this invitation from the great ambassador.”

One of the Ragails glanced at the document, handed it to another, who examined it carefully and nodded.

“You may pass, Sir Peykat,” the former said. “I regret to inform you that weapons are not allowed in the compound without prior permission. The guard accompanying you will have to leave his weapons or wait outside.”

Atasiag frowned.

“He’ll wait here,” he decided.

Dashvara saw the Titiaka disappear as the gate closed behind them. After looking at the Ragails with a patient pout, he crossed the street and sat on the third step of the stairs of a house. It was a long wait. Fortunately, he still had Siranaga’s diary under his uniform.

In reality, as he could tell from the first few pages, it was not a diary but a memoir. The Ancient King was beginning to talk about his early years and his first impressions of the royal family. Although he had read a lot of books from that time, Dashvara was surprised by the crude style with which Siranaga explained the family conflicts. The prince deplored the moral decay of the kingdom’s capital and the increasingly frequent betrayals between the royal family’s cousins. He described his rise to the throne with more irony than illusion, wondering at all times whom he could trust.

«The family lost its cohesion,» he wrote. «It was dying slowly and continued to die during my reign. I could do nothing to ease the strife, and I could not discover a cure for our curse. When my fifth son, Shaotara, was born in the third year of the Falcon, I hoped that the Eternal Bird would rise from the ashes, and with it, our kingdom. Of the twelve sons I had, only he was born awake and blessed by the Liadirlá. I educated him from childhood and brought the most competent shaards from the four corners of the steppe. I sent him to study for three years in the Republic of Dazbon, and then he traveled to distant Agoskura. I thought he would never come back, but he did, and he is as loyal to our family as ever. I soon found that my son Shaotara had grown into a confident and independent man, ready to lead. I appointed him captain of my western armies, and he effectively crushed the revolts of the Essimeans and Shalussis. I rewarded him with land and allowed his marriage to Princess Aodorma. Just two months later, Captain Shaotara obtained the surrender of the Amystorb and the Xalyas when they tried to betray us. All the peoples of the steppe celebrated his name. At no time did he come to me to claim the crown, a great proof of his loyalty to the Eternal Bird of the family! I decided to make him king three years after the birth of his first son, whose Liadirlá also beat awake. Shaotara assumed his new position with greater skill than I had ever done. The barbarians were again expelled or subdued, and trade with the Republic flourished daily. People came from all over the world to buy salt from our saltworks, salbronix, silver and gold from our mines, tools from our factories. Rocdinfer was once again a happy kingdom. And now my own children dare to turn against a brother! Odlokara, my first-born son, has not only sought the support of several lords of the steppe, but has also allied himself with the Essimeans. May you, reader, never feel the desire to murder one of your own sons as I felt in those days! Odlokara had sworn to kill all the blessed of our family. The Essimeans converted him to their religion of Death, and like them, he called us demons…»

Dashvara shuddered. With each page he read, he felt more confused. According to the other versions he had read, Shaotara was a tyrant, and Odlokara the Bloody had taken advantage of the hostility of the steppe lords to stir them up against his brother. Odlokara had died in battle, and it was said that Shaotara had managed to flee with his wife and children. However, according to Siranaga, Shaotara had been imprisoned and beheaded by one of his own brothers. There followed pages explaining how Siranaga had decided to leave the steppe with his youngest children. The lord of the Amystorb had succeeded in taking him prisoner, killed his offspring, and demanded a ransom for Siranaga. Princess Aodorma had paid the amount, and both had been able to leave the steppe. The end of the book spoke of how he and his daughter-in-law had settled in Agoskura, and he continued with various meditations on the real suicide that his sons and the lords of the steppe had perpetrated. He would end with a bitter exclamation, «May the Eternal Bird watch over you, poor beloved steppe that I had to see die!»

Dashvara breathed in and came back to reality. How many hours had he spent sitting on that stairstep, absorbed in his reading? He put the book away and looked up at the embassy gate. The three guards were still there, talking to each other from time to time, eating fried garfias and following passers-by with their eyes.

When the six bells rang, Dashvara began to worry seriously. He saw three more guards coming out of the embassy to relieve the previous ones. Something must have happened to him, he thought. Who knows, maybe the ambassador was a Dikaksunora or a Korfu or just an enemy of Atasiag Peykat and…

Suddenly, the gate opened, and Atasiag Peykat came out, carrying a good deal of paperwork, his baton under his arm. Dashvara leapt to his feet and crossed the street.

“I was beginning to think they’d kidnapped you,” he threw at him.

Atasiag placed the papers in his hands as he replied:

“We haven’t finished our tour yet.”

Dashvara followed him with a grunt.

“What have you been up to so long at the embassy, if I may ask?”

“Sending letters, negotiating with the ambassador, and other things that would bore you to tears if I told you about them. This way,” he said, indicating a street with his baton.

They had to stop by the bank and an acquaintance of Atasiag’s before they could finally return to the inn. When they arrived, Asmoan of Gravia was already there, deep in animated conversation with Kuriag Dikaksunora and Lessi. They had settled down at a table and looked as if they were waiting for Atasiag Peykat to start dinner. Atasiag smiled as Asmoan stood up to greet him.

“My friend! I had forgotten the Titiakas’ schedule and came at the Agoskurian meal time. I hope you won’t mind.”

“Not at all,” Atasiag assured. “It is I who should apologize. I’m glad you got to know young Dikaksunora.”

“So am I!” the Agoskurian laughed. “Guess what: he’s a fan of northern cultures like me. I feel that we already get along wonderfully.”

Kuriag put on a very courteous expression.

“I can’t deny that your friend’s conversation is fascinating, Atasiag.”

“Then proceed, gentlemen, I wouldn’t want to interrupt,” Atasiag clamored as he sat down at the table.

The Xalyas were silent behind the screens. Most were dozing after an afternoon of sightseeing. Yira was sitting next to Zamoy and Lumon, playing katutas. After glancing at the game, Dashvara frowned and flicked one of the Baldy’s pieces, which threatened the Cricket, Yira’s most vulnerable piece.

“It’s much better this way,” he considered as Zamoy and Lumon protested. “What, what’s the matter? It’s not proper to attack my naâsga, brothers.”

“That’s not playing fair,” Yira reproached him, amused.

“Boh,” Dashvara minimized, mockingly.

“Real life,” Zamoy said, putting the coin back in its place, “is cruel and unforgiving. Say goodbye to your Cricket, Princess of the Xalyas.”

Yira held up two fingers in an eternal salute. Dashvara rolled his eyes, and after watching the game for a while, began to reread bits of Siranaga’s memoirs. There was something about the book that bothered him. In particular, the frequency with which the words «blessed,» and «demons,» appeared. If he hadn’t met two demons in real life the day before, he probably would have attributed it to a metaphorical style. But, now, he wasn’t so sure. Obviously, the mere thought that the Ancient Steppe Kings might have been demons seemed ridiculous to him… Because that meant that the Xalyas were descended from monsters.

Come to think of it, that might be a reason why Asmoan of Gravia is so interested in us… Dashvara pouted, Nonsense, Dash. The Ancient Kings were not demons. If they had been, we would have known about it. The Essimean may call us demons, but that means nothing. He bet that these sons of the God of Death were capable of calling anyone who didn’t worship their god a demon.

With that certainty in mind, he reached out and listened to the conversation of the foreigners behind the screens. Fayrah had joined them, and they were now talking about the Titiaka Rebellion and Lanamiag Korfu’s injury. From what her sister said, this afternoon the young Korfu was doing much better.

“Just this afternoon I received a message from the High Priest,” Atasiag said. “He gives you his blessing, and he says he will send a priest from Cili with all speed to consecrate your union. It will be celebrated within a week. Here is the guest list. What do you think?”

“Long,” Kuriag breathed out. “I thought this was going to be a private ceremony.”

“And it will be. But it would be a diplomatic mistake for us not to invite our allies.”

“Our allies,” the Legitimate repeated. He cleared his throat and observed in an amused tone, “I see you didn’t invite the Nelkantas.”

“Should I have?” Atasiag laughed.

“Mm… One of the Nelkantas’ sons is a good friend of mine.”

“Excellent, you can always invite him,” Atasiag offered. “What’s his name?”

Dashvara stopped listening to them when little Shivara came up to him and whispered in his ear:

“Can I ask you something?”

Dashvara arched his eyebrows, smiling.

“Sure, kid, ask away.”

The child bit his lip before leaning back into Dashvara’s ear.

“Is it true they whipped my father?”

Dashvara huffed.

“Yes.” Shivara opened his mouth, but Dashvara beat him to it: “You just have to see his scars to believe it, right? Tell me, kid. Do you like this town?”

Little Xalya pouted.

“I don’t know. Maybe. Why did they whip my—?”

“Would you like to go for a walk?” Dashvara interrupted, rising to his feet. “I know a great place to play spinning top.”

The child immediately became enthusiastic, and under the amused gaze of the Xalyas, they both walked out. Dashvara completely ignored Atasiag Peykat’s silent question as they passed by the table.

This is a matter of Xalyas, federate. Don’t meddle.

7 Enemies that are no longer enemies

“You’re going to tell me the story, aren’t you?” Shivara asked, as they already descended the Stairs. The little one was hopping around, clutching the top in his hand.

Dashvara glanced at him with mild reproach.

“You are a little demon, Shivara. Come down carefully, it wouldn’t do for you to fall and for me to bring you back to your father in five pieces.”

He took him by the hand, and they continued down the Stairs to the Dragon District. Even though he’d spent all day roaming the city, staying cooped up at the inn with Titiakas chattering incessantly didn’t appeal to him much. Besides, he had thought of visiting several people. However, first he had to explain some things to Shivara. When they arrived at Liberty Square, he sat down on the edge of an unoccupied fountain. Despite the many groups sitting on the steps of the square and at the other fountains, it was quiet. For once, the sky was still relatively clear and the evening sun was still shining.

“Sit down, kid.”

Shivara sat beside him, very quietly. He was a quiet child, but he wasn’t always very attentive. That’s why Dashvara was amused when he met his eager eyes.

“Let’s see. Has anyone ever told you the story of the Xalyas?”

The child shrugged as he shuffled his feet.

“The shaard tells many stories.”

“Yes, but not much on the Xalyas. Shokr Is Set was a Honyr before he was a Xalya. He knows very old stories about the Ancient Kings and the lords of the steppe. But I want to talk about our recent history. Do you know why we Xalyas have lived off the steppe for three years? Do you know why we are so few in number?”

When he saw the curiosity on Shivara’s face, he knew that Morzif had not explained anything to him. No doubt the Blacksmith thought that such things were not to be told to a six year old. Dashvara did not share his opinion. So he decided to tell him in order the events of the last few years, insisting that if they had abandoned the steppe, it had been against their will, and that if his father had been whipped, it had been the fault of the Titiaka slavers. He was impressed by the seriousness with which Shivara listened to him.

“Soon we’ll be back on the steppe,” Dashvara concluded. “You’ll love it. Hard times lie ahead, but we’ll survive. And no doubt we’ll live happier there than in these wilds,” he smiled. “You’ll see.”

Shivara nodded, looking convinced. Suddenly, behind them, a mocking voice called out:

“You’ll never make it through Essimean territory.”

Surprised, Dashvara turned to see a burly man with a shaggy beard and a steppian face. He wore the uniform of the Dazbon Fire Department. His expression was a wall of marble. Dashvara rose slowly from the fountain. He recognized him, he realized, stunned.

“Walek of Shalussi,” he articulated. “The last time we saw each other, you had proclaimed yourself chief of your village.”

The Shalussi nodded half-heartedly.

“The last time I saw you, you were one step away from death,” he replied.

“I have greeted death very closely these past few years,” Dashvara assured. “So the Essimeans attacked your village.”

Walek spat on the cobblestones of the square.

“Those dogs made us all slaves. They put us in their crop fields to the west. I escaped, but just barely. I thought I would go to Dazbon and gather some Shalussis to free our clan. But there are no real Shalussis in that damned city. They’re all cowards.”

His voice vibrated with contempt. Dashvara rolled his eyes. How could Walek expect Shalussis who had lived in Dazbon for perhaps generations to risk their lives against the Essimeans? The little Shivara let out:

“Father says all Shalussis are wimps.”

Dashvara huffed, barely suppressing a smile.

“Hey, kid. Your father is generalizing. Look at Rokuish. He’s a good guy.”

“Well, my father says Rokuish is a wimp,” Shivara insisted. “And so is Zefrek. He says that, if he had any guts, he wouldn’t have become a pira—”

Quick as the wind, Dashvara gave him a knock on the head.

“Shut up, boy.”

“Zefrek?” Walek repeated, with a strange twinkle in his eye. The little Xalya’s words did not seem to have offended him. “Zefrek of Shalussi is in Dazbon?”

“He is,” Dashvara asserted. “And, if I were you, I would not go near him after what you have done to him. Now you’ll have to excuse me, but this young boy and I must be going. Good evening.”

After a half hostile, half indifferent exchange of glances, Dashvara took Shivara’s hand, and they walked away towards the south. Meeting Walek again had darkened his mood.

“Who was it?” Shivara asked.

“He is, or rather was, a Shalussi warrior,” Dashvara explained. “He attacked our dungeon.”

The child inhaled sharply.

“He’s an enemy!”

“He is no longer. He no longer has a leader to obey. And he no longer has a people. Maybe I’m being unfair in saying this, but… he brought it on himself,” Dashvara muttered.

“Where are we going now?”

“Greeting an old acquaintance. I hope he still lives in the same place.”

When he arrived in front of Aydin Kohor’s house, there was light in the windows. It was almost dark already and the streets were filled with shadows. He knocked on the door, and a young ternian in a long black tunic came to open it. His face was paler than death to the point it was eerie to see.

“Yes?”

Dashvara cleared his throat.

“Does a certain Aydin Kohor still live here?”

The youth nodded slowly as he scrutinized him.

“He’s having dinner. Who are you?”

“Dashvara of Xalya. I wouldn’t want to intrude. I’d just like you to give him this from me.” He held out a white wooden figurine of a dragon: he had spent a whole month perfecting it, and it was by far his most successful piece of art to date.

The foreigner looked at the figure, but he did not take it. He moved away from the door.

“Come in. My father has told us about you. I’m sure he’ll be happy to receive this item from your own hands. I am Traolgan.”

Dashvara entered, shook his hand, and shivered again as he felt the coldness of his skin. Suddenly there was a thud against the floorboards and Dashvara saw the top roll to the ternian’s feet. Shivara looked fearful and grabbed Dashvara’s sleeve as Traolgan bent down to pick up the toy.

“I believe this is yours,” he said to the child, handing it to him.

The child took the top without a word. He seemed to have become speechless. Dashvara cleared his throat.

“You should say thank you, Shivara.”

The child nodded, as if that was enough to repeat the word. Under Dashvara’s exasperated gaze, he stammered:

“Thank you.”

The ternian smiled slightly before leading them into the living room. There sat Aydin Kohor with his wife and old Tildrin. The two ternians had not changed, except perhaps for a few less strands in the old thief’s hair. Dashvara bowed to them.

“Sorry to interrupt your dinner. I just wanted to—”

“Dashvara of Xalya!” the healer exclaimed, dumbfounded. “By the White Dragon! Now that’s a surprise.”

He stood up and, smiling, walked around the table to shake his hand. Dashvara handed him the carved dragon.

“I know your wife would have done it a lot better, but… well, I thought you’d like it anyway.”

Aydin was in good spirits, and Tildrin, who confirmed he was the healer’s father, was smiling with all his remaining teeth. The wife, a great beauty despite being a ternian, greeted the two Xalyas cheerfully, praising the carved figure, and offered to join them for dinner. Only then did Dashvara realize that he had not yet had dinner.

“That’s very kind of you, but I wouldn’t want to disturb you—”

“You are not disturbing us at all!” Aydin assured. “You will reward us with a story.”

“A… story?”

“Your story,” the ternian clarified. “Knowing all that happened to you in Dazbon in a matter of days, I suppose that, in three years, you must have met the White Dragon himself and killed ten thousand enemies.”

Dashvara laughed.

“If you count the anthills we took out in the Border barracks, maybe… Okay, I accept. But I’m not going to be able to stay very long.”

He and Shivara sat down, and while wolfing down a plate of delicious soup with appetite, Dashvara summarized his adventures in the Diumcili Federation, leaving out the more unpleasant parts so as not to upset their digestion.

“What about the Brothers of the Pearl?” Tildrin asked, anxiously. “Are they still in Titiaka?”

“As far as I know, they arrived in Dazbon a few weeks ago.”

The repentant thief sighed.

“They don’t even visit me anymore.”

“They must be busy,” Dashvara excused them, though he did think they could have bothered to stop by and say hello to their former companion. “They’ll probably come over as soon as they can. Who knows what band of mischief-makers they’re after now.” He noticed that Shivara had fallen deeply asleep in his chair. “What about Hadriks?” he asked. “Did he get into the Bastion?”

“Uh…” Aydin’s grimace made him raise an eyebrow. “Hadriks.” He shook his head with a sigh. “Yes, he went to the Bastion’s first year of study. But they didn’t renew his scholarship, and yet the boy had a good level. You know how impulsive that kid can be: he got on the bad side of a patrician son, and little by little, things got ugly. He stopped going to school. When I found out, I warned him that he might lose the scholarship, but he didn’t listen to me. He went to the final exams and failed. You can imagine how he felt after that.” He shrugged. “He decided to make himself a sailor, just like that, overnight. The issue was, he was already too old to start as a ship’s boy. He didn’t last three months. Well, since then, he’s been doing one job after another here and there. The last time I saw him was when he came by here to tell me he was going to Rocavita for the harvest. That was two months ago. Poor boy.”

It was clear that Aydin was not very happy with the boy’s actions. Dashvara, on the other hand, didn’t think it was such a tragic life. Between spending several years surrounded by crazy wizards and spending them in a series of jobs, he preferred the second option. Unless it meant being a sailor on a ship, he added to himself. However, when he voiced his opinion, Aydin argued that Hadriks was “better than that” and that his experience at the Bastion had discouraged him and changed him into an unstable boy.

“If he changes jobs, it’s because he gets fired, mostly,” the ternian explained. “He was even in jail for a month, for taking part in the port workers’ revolt a year ago. I don’t know what happened to that boy. I tried to convince him to at least stay with me to continue making magaras. But he said he’d never make another magara in his life. Well,” he sighed. “I guess in time he’ll get more thoughtful.”

Dashvara nodded and said:

“May the Eternal Bird watch over this boy. And on all of you,” he added. “It is already very late, and Shivara should already be on his pallet. It will be better if we go home.”

After greeting them all, he took Shivara in his arms and went out into the night without the child even opening his eyes. The streets were covered with fog, but at least there was no storm tonight.

He was already near the Temple of the Eye when Tahisran’s voice entered his mind like a flash:

‘I find you at last! The captain sent me to find you. He asked me to tell you that they have arrested Atasiag Peykat.’

Dashvara stopped dead in his tracks.

“What?”

8 A jailed pirate and a wandering Lord

Dashvara turned into the small, deserted square, looking for the shadow between the shadows, in vain. Tahisran repeated more slowly:

‘Atasiag Peykat has been arrested.’

“I understood that,” Dashvara replied. “But by whom?”

‘By the Republican militia!’ the shadow explained in a light tone. ‘There’s a certain Grand Master, a big, fat human, who came, surrounded by crossbowmen, and they asked him to go with them. They put him in jail. I saw it with my own eyes. They left Atasiag in a cell, near a torture chamber.’

“Eternal Bird,” Dashvara gasped.

The shadow continued, overexcited:

‘Atasiag asked me that we try to find out what he was accused of, because apparently the judges don’t explain anything to the accused, and he also wants you to take a packet of blue letters from his room tomorrow morning and carry them to Number Twelve Olive Street. He said you should just say that the package is from Atasiag and that you shouldn’t go into the house for anything. I think that’s all,’ he concluded after a hesitation.

Holding Shivara tightly, Dashvara began to walk faster, crossed a bridge, climbed the Stairs, and soon crossed the threshold of The White Pearl.

‘Ah!’ Tahisran said behind him. ‘Oh yeah, I remember now, he also said that in his room there was a small bag of money to keep paying for lodging. And, hell, I almost forgot: he said that there’re several items in his room, under the third board from the back, and that you have to take them and hide them in Sheroda’s house. A bag full of white powder. And an energigamometer, I think he said. Some kind of trap detector. Apparently, it’s illegal in Dazbon.’

Dashvara shook his head patiently, greeted the employee of the fancy inn, and went up the stairs. In the lounge, the Xalyas were worried. The captain greeted him with a fatalistic look:

“That’s all we needed! Did Tah tell you everything?”

Nodding silently, Dashvara went to carefully place the child on his pallet.

“Where did you take him?” Morzif asked.

“We walked around the city, and I took the opportunity to give him a history lesson,” Dashvara smiled.

The blacksmith winced but did not reply. With a broad gesture, Sashava muttered:

“Well, you’ve done something more productive than those: they haven’t stopped despairing because they think that, without His Eminence, we’re unable to find horses. Where is the Xalya dignity?” he bellowed.

Several Xalyas grumbled under their breath, others rolled their eyes, and Aligra interjected:

“We can’t leave Atasiag in jail after what he did for us.”

Coming from Aligra, such a statement gave them food for thought: she was not precisely inclined to recognize the qualities of foreigners. Dashvara was the first to nod.

“Aligra is right, of course. We will get Atasiag out of this prison, one way or another.”

“That Titiaka has enslaved your Eternal Bird,” Sashava snarled. “Your father would have chopped off the head of anyone who dared to give him an order, except his wife’s.”

Dashvara armed himself with patience; he was more than accustomed to the Grumpy’s outbursts. Captain Zorvun said to the old man in a diplomatic voice:

“My friend, I understand that you are in a hurry to get to the steppe: we all are. But you still can’t deny that ‘that Titiaka’, as you say, lodged and fed us for a month on his island, took us to Dazbon in his own boat, and now accommodated us all in here, all that for very little in exchange.”

“Not to mention that he is Yira’s adoptive father,” Dashvara observed. “We owe him respect and more than that.” Sashava the Grumpy shrugged, seemingly not in the mood to answer. Then Dashvara frowned. “By the way, where is Yira?”

“Kuriag Dikaksunora has gone to the Titiaka embassy,” the captain informed him. “And Yira and Wassag went with him. The young man said he would not rest until he had solved Atasiag’s problem. I don’t think he’ll be able to do much at this hour, but I’m glad to see that at least my son-in-law is stubborn,” he appreciated.

Dashvara smiled.

“What about the Agoskurian?”

“He left at the same time, but to his library. He said he’d drop by here tomorrow to check on you.” His dark eyes smiled. “One advantage with this issue is that Atasiag won’t be able to send us hauling barrels all over town,” he joked and added good-humoredly, “Come on, let’s go to bed, Xalyas.”

Dashvara followed the other Xalyas and sat down on his pallet. He could think of any number of reasons why Atasiag might have been arrested. For theft, for smuggling, for association with pirates… What was surprising was that Atasiag had been caught. He was still awake when he heard the sound of the door opening, whispers, and light footsteps. A few seconds later, Yira was lying next to him. Dashvara brushed her hand with his lips before hugging her and whispering:

“Did the Legitimate get anything?”

“Not much,” the sursha admitted. “But he says that, tomorrow, he’s going straight to court.” After a silence, she added quietly, “Tahisran said he would look after him.”

Dashvara understood that she was talking about Atasiag.

“He’ll be all right,” he muttered. “That snake always gets away with it.”

“Mmph,” Yira sighed doubtfully. “Good night, Dash.”

“Good night, naâsga.”

* * *

That night, Dashvara dreamed of kraokdals with red, demonic eyes. He walked between them, praying that they would not pay attention to him. And suddenly one of them stood in his way, brandishing two black swords and growling, The steppe is dead because of you. You, the lords of the steppe, have destroyed my family. You are the traitors. I, Siranaga of Rorsy, King of Rocdinfer, Prince of the Sand, sentence you to death, Dashvara of Xalya! Dashvara was trying to bring the king to his senses, but all was proving futile: the demon was rushing at him. He then pulled out his own sabers, which shone like the sand of Bladhy under the sun, and the fight began. At one point, Dashvara almost died, but a small, exasperated voice refused to accept this end. With a sharp blow, Dashvara decapitated the Ancient King and muttered, The culprits are the Essimeans. It’s the Essimeans…

He repeated this several times until he realized that he was awake. He opened his eyes and met the unfathomable gaze of Sirk Is Rhad, sitting by a screen. Dashvara stood up, stretching. He didn’t see Yira anywhere, but he wasn’t surprised: the sursha barely needed more than a few hours of sleep. He and the Honyr went out to lunch.

“A nightmare?” Sirk Is Rhad asked.

Dashvara shrugged.

“I killed an Ancient King that had turned into a monster. Well, it’s because of that book I read yesterday. The one written by Siranaga. It’s so different from the books I read in the Dungeon…”

“Really?” the Honyr inquired. “In what way does it stand out?”

While they served each other breakfast, Dashvara began to summarize the contents. He didn’t mention his theories about demons: they were probably wrong, and in any case, he had come to the conclusion that it didn’t matter if they were true or not. Finally, the Honyr shrugged and began to eat his lunch. He swallowed, paused, and concluded:

“As my grandfather used to say, every man tells it his way. Who knows what really happened.”

Dashvara decided to follow Sirk Is Rhad’s example and forget the book. When he heard a melody of flutes outside, he left the Honyr and went out into the yard of the inn. He found Tsu sitting on a low wall, playing his instrument. When he sat down next to him, the drow nodded his head without stopping playing. The fresh morning wind carried the notes up the stairs. The sun had just risen, but there already were craftsmen, workers, messengers and porters with huge bags passing by. Teenagers in simple student uniforms were climbing the steps, heading sleepily towards the Citadel. Yet, despite all the activity in the city, a strange serenity came over Dashvara. A serenity that vanished when he remembered that he had things to do.

“I’d give my Eternal Bird to be on the steppe,” he blurted out.

Tsu parted his lips from his flute. His expression, as usual, reflected very little.

“The closer you get to home, the more you want it,” he said softly.

Dashvara gave him a thoughtful look.

“Right,” he agreed, and rose energetically to his feet. “For now, let us concern ourselves with what is pressing. I must go and deliver some letters. Even in prison, Atasiag makes me work,” he lamented, smiling.

Tsu offered to accompany him, and the two of them returned to the inn to fetch the package of blue letters and the illegal items from Atasiag’s room. The interior of the room was neat and tidy, and they soon found what they were looking for. What Dashvara did not find was the small silver purse Tahisran had told him about. Had Atasiag made a mistake, or was it he who was not looking properly?

Deciding that they would worry about that later, he and Tsu went out, and after explaining where they were going to the Xalyas who had woken up, they headed first to Sheroda’s house to leave the bag of white powder and the energigamometer—if that was the name of that strange object. It was not the shixan who opened the door, but Azune. Seeing the half-elf appear on the threshold, Dashvara flinched slightly.

“Surprised to see me, steppeman?” Azune smiled. The Republican was wearing an elegant green dress that didn’t fit her. No, actually, it did fit her; it was just that, until then, Dashvara had always seen her in dark, simple clothes.

“A little,” he admitted. “I don’t know if you know about—”

“Yes,” Azune cut him off, “Atasiag. We returned yesterday from Twach. We learned of it tonight. An unfortunate event,” she nodded, but the way she said it seemed contradictory, as if Atasiag’s miseries amused her.

Dashvara frowned.

“Do you know what he is accused of?”

“No idea. But I’m afraid we can’t help him much. By the way, if you were looking for Sheroda, that’s going to be difficult. She doesn’t want to see anyone. She’s in a dark mood.”

Dashvara arched an eyebrow at her mocking tone.

“We came to deliver some things at her place. Things that could compromise Atasiag if the militia found them in his room.”

“And you want to leave them at Sheroda’s?” Azune took on an incredulous look. “They might harm her too, didn’t Atasiag think of that?”

Dashvara half-stifled an exasperated sigh.

“Don’t make it difficult for me. I’m just the middleman.”

The Republican rolled her eyes.

“Okay. Give me that. I’ll hide it.”

She took the bag and the magara hidden under a cloth. Dashvara observed in a detached tone:

“You seem to be rather pleased that Atasiag has been arrested, Republican.”

Azune shrugged.

“I’m not happy about it, but, what do you know, he doesn’t inspire much compassion in me either. The man is a thief, a liar, and a damned miser. A little jail time can’t hurt him…” She paused and looked at them both curiously. “And you, what will you do now?”

Dashvara huffed. Go on living, what about you? he thought. He didn’t like Azune’s lack of gratitude. All in all, with Atasiag’s help, the Brothers of the Pearl had managed to accomplish their dream, that is, to end the Republic’s largest slave trade and send important people involved to prison. Of course, to do that, they’d probably had to do more than one job for Atasiag, but…

“We don’t know that yet,” he replied at last. “By the way, yesterday I stopped by Aydin’s. Tildrin was wondering where you were.”

The Republican woman looked guilty.

“I’ll try to stop by and say hello this afternoon.”

“Are the Brothers of the Pearl so busy?” Dashvara asked.

The Republican made a reserved pout.

“We have a new patron.”

So that’s why she doesn’t care about the future of her previous patron, Dashvara coughed mentally.

“Actually,” Azune resumed, even quieter, “the Brotherhood of the Pearl has been disbanded. Rowyn and I have joined another… organization.”

Dashvara looked at her curiously.

“When you put it that way, it sounds pretty mysterious.”

Azune smiled.

“It’s nothing illegal,” she assured. “But I’d rather not talk about it.”

“You said Rowyn and you. What about Kroon?”

“Oh.” Azune smiled broadly this time. “He decided to end the big lie of his life and tell his family that he was still alive. His parents and brothers live in the country,” she explained. “Kroon always feared they would reject him because…well, because he couldn’t walk anymore.”

“What nonsense,” Dashvara let out in disbelief.

“He was always a little traumatized, but Rowyn finally convinced him to visit his people. The three of us went. When he saw him, his father called him an idiot for taking so long to come back,” she laughed.

Dashvara could only rejoice at the news: this dragon-monk might be even more insufferable than Sashava, but he found him likeable at heart. After wishing Azune good luck in her mysterious new job, he and Tsu set off for Number Twelve Olive Street. First, they had to ask a militiaman where the street was located, to which the militiaman kindly replied that it was in the Kwata District, near the Temple of Salvation and the Great Cascade. Eventually, they found the house and the door, in a large courtyard at the top of a staircase. The number twelve had been carved carelessly into the wood. Anyone would have sworn that the house was uninhabited. After exchanging an inscrutable look with the drow, Dashvara stepped forward and knocked on the thick door.

They heard no sound. They waited a long time before Dashvara knocked again. Just as he was beginning to wonder if Atasiag or Tahisran had got the wrong number, there was a metallic clanking of chains.

The door opened, and Dashvara peered into the darkness. He saw a thin, dark-haired human boy leaning against the door frame and looking him up and down cheekily.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” he threw out casually. “I regret to say that there is a great chance that you have come to the wrong door.”

“It shouldn’t be the case,” Dashvara retorted. “This is indeed number twelve in the Olive Street, isn’t it?” He lifted the packet of blue letters. “I was sent to deliver this.”

The teenager’s eyes glinted with curiosity.

9 Eternal death oath

The boy of Number Twelve reached out and took the package.

“From…?”

“Atasiag Peykat.”

The boy sighed and opened his mouth to call:

“Sarga!” He cocked his head to one side, straining his ear, and rolled his eyes. “Sarga! Do you know a guy named Atasiag Peykat? I’m new around here,” he explained to them in a normal tone.

Footsteps were heard, and finally, a hobbit, dressed like the typical greengrocer, appeared beside the boy, a hand on her hip and a frown on her face.

“What’s up? Who are these people?”

“They brought a bunch of letters from a man named Atasiag Peykat,” the boy summarized.

“Give it to me,” Sarga growled, snatching the package from her hands. With squinted eyes, she stared at Dashvara and Tsu. As they started to leave, she held them back, “Wait a second! Do you know where that damned Atasiag lives?”

Dashvara gave her a wry smile.

“In prison.”

Sarga’s eyes widened.

“Oh my devils.”

“This Atasiag,” the dark-haired boy interjected in a quiet tone, “isn’t he, by any chance, that Titiaka-Agoskurian slaver you told me about?”

Sarga waved a hand to silence him and pointed to Dashvara with her index finger:

“You! Don’t go away. Who are you? Your names.”

Dashvara had already descended the steps into the courtyard. The hobbit’s imperative tone invited him to leave without a word rather than answer. He looked at Tsu before saying:

“We are servants of Atasiag Peykat.”

“Mmph. Your names,” Sarga insisted.

Dashvara shrugged.

“Dashvara and Tsu. From Xalya. We’re from the steppe.”

“A pleasure!” the dark-haired boy said, bowing in a strange way. “I’m Api. And she’s Sarga—Ouch!” he protested when the hobbit gave him a slap on the back of the neck. “What? If they introduce themselves, it’s only normal that we introduce ourselves too, isn’t it, or did I miss something?”

“They are them and we are us,” Sarga emphasized through her teeth.

“That’s true,” Api agreed, energetically.

“Shut up.”

Api smiled mockingly. It was only then that Dashvara remembered where he had heard the name Sarga before. From Atasiag’s own mouth, when he had blundered into talking about demons. Oh, devils… Suddenly, he felt an urgent desire to leave.

“Pleased to meet you, Api and Sarga. Have a good day,” he hastily tossed to them. He bowed and turned his back on them.

“Likewise!” the boy replied.

“And what is Atasiag doing in prison?” Sarga asked, raising her voice.

Dashvara half turned, shrugging his shoulders.

“They arrested him last night. We don’t know why yet.”

They left them there and returned to the inn. When they arrived, they learned that Kuriag Dikaksunora had already gone to face the judges bravely. The Xalyas were sitting outside in the courtyard, enjoying the sunshine and listening with obvious pleasure to the words of Shokr Is Set. The Great Sage was telling them a traditional tale that even barbarians probably knew, but this Honyr had a gift for storytelling, and Dashvara was soon captivated by his tale of falling stars, brave steppians, and wise philosophers.

Around noon, as they were settling down to eat in the kitchens, the man named Dilen who had greeted them at the inn the first day came to find them. He approached them, looking embarrassed.

“Excuse me, but the owner sent me to tell you that your master has not yet paid for the last three nights’ accommodation and would like to receive at least a promissory note.”

The weary looks he received made him even more nervous. Captain Zorvun rose from his seat, replying solemnly:

“Well, tell the owner not to worry, that Atasiag Peykat will pay handsomely. He is a citizen of Titiaka, and a great one. He will know how to reward your master for taking care of his slaves. And now, let us not be bothered with any more of these stories.”

Dilen nodded. As soon as he left the kitchen, the Xalyas burst out laughing.

“Let’s toast to our captain!” Zamoy exclaimed, raising his glass of water.

They praised Zorvun’s ingenuity and even went so far as to convince a cook to join them with a good cheese and a few bottles of wine to celebrate the birthday of the Triplets, who were not born on that day and had never celebrated their birthday in their lives, but who cares: as Makarva said, it was a matter of adapting to Republican customs.

Back in their quarters, Dashvara tried again to look for the purse in Atasiag’s room, but it was in vain. Fortunately, the captain seemed to have convinced the owner to leave them alone. It wasn’t until he returned to the living room that he realized there was a steppeman he hadn’t seen that morning: Zefrek of Shalussi. Strange, right? He turned to Raxifar. The great Akinoa had taken a nap after his meal, following the example of most Xalyas. Seeing Lumon sitting in a chair, lost in thought, he sat down beside him and said:

“Hey, Archer. Have you seen Zefrek this morning?”

The Archer frowned, thought, and shook his head.

“No.”

“I saw him!” Shivara interjected cheerfully, sitting on the floor with his top.

“Really? He went out?”

The child nodded.

“I woke up at night because I was thirsty, and I saw him go out.”

“He went straight out?”

Shivara bit his lips, as if trying to remember.

“No, first, he went around in circles,” he said at last. He pointed the hallway. “He went that way like a zomnambulist. My daddy was a zomnambulist—my foster father,” he corrected at once. His gaze shifted, and he resumed his game, spinning his top.

Dashvara let out a muffled hiss, and Lumon looked at him curiously.

“You didn’t find the money in Atasiag’s room… Do you think the Shalussi took it?”

Dashvara sighed.

“I’d like to believe he didn’t. I doubt if there was enough in that purse to buy himself a horse, a sword, and supplies. If he stole it, he’s a fool.”

“He’s a Shalussi,” Lumon replied with a small joking smile.

Dashvara smiled back at him.

“Devils. In the end, Rokuish may be the only honest Shalussi. But let’s not accuse rashly,” he decided.

He went to take a nap with the others, then he played katutas with Lumon and the Triplets. Neither Zefrek, Kuriag, nor Yira showed up. They were in the fifth game when they heard footsteps in the hallway. When they saw Lanamiag Korfu enter the living room, they were stunned. More than a human, he looked like a ghost standing the devils know how.

The Legitimate’s gaze fell on each Xalya with obvious contempt. His eyes flashed as he recognized Dashvara as his father’s killer. However, he did not move towards him but towards his former slave: Raxifar. The Akinoa stood before him, arms crossed. It was hard to tell which of the two had a more disdainful look.

“You wretched traitor,” the Korfu said with surprising firmness. “If I had a sword, I would behead you right here.”

Dashvara exhaled in surprise. He wondered to what extent the Legitimate realized how ridiculous his statement was. He could barely stand on his feet, and he was surrounded by steppian warriors. His pride as a Titiaka citizen, instead of inspiring respect, made him grimace.

“Lan!” a voice cried. With an expression that was both incensed and exasperated, Fayrah rushed down the hallway and joined the Korfu. “Merciful Cili, stop talking nonsense and come back and lie down.”

Lanamiag slowly shook his head and turned this time to Dashvara. The Xalya held his gaze, impassive.

“Lan…” Fayrah whispered, increasingly altered.

“I swear,” Lanamiag said vigorously, “I swear on the honor of my family that I will finish your people. Savage. I swear it before Cili and before my ancestors.”

Dashvara caught Fayrah’s pleading look and tried not to get carried away.

“Tell me that again when you’re in a condition to wield a sword… and string two rational thoughts together. Excellency,” he scoffed.

Red patches appeared on Lanamiag’s pale skin, and Dashvara made a pout under Fayrah’s glare.

“Don’t provoke him,” his sister snapped at him, “he’s still very weak.”

“I’m well,” the Legitimate replied brusquely. “And, if I weren’t surrounded by these barbarians, I’d get well a lot faster. Where is that Dikaksunora?”

“He went to the Tribunal, Excellency,” Wassag replied in his usual humble tone.

“So, Atasiag Peykat was really sent to prison?”

“Let’s just say I’m afraid it’s true, Excellency.”

“Do we now know the motive?”

“Not yet, Excellency.”

“Mmph. Go get me some paper and ink!” he ordered. “I must write to the embassy.”

With this, he lost interest in the steppians and returned to his room, guided by Fayrah. Fayrah’s face was marked with concern and determination.

“He’s a funny number,” Zamoy commented, “If he’d told me what he told you, Dash, I’d have given him a good kicking.”

“I will not stoop to beating a sick man,” Dashvara replied calmly. Remembering that Lanamiag Korfu had once caned him when he was sick himself, he smiled wryly and advanced a piece on the checkerboard.

Kuriag and Yira eventually returned in the middle of the seventh game of katutas. Faced with the questioning looks of the Xalyas, Kuriag shook his head and said in an insecure voice:

“The case is moving forward.”

That was all. After wishing them a good afternoon, he locked himself in his room. Glancing at the captain with amusement, Dashvara commented:

“Your son-in-law explains himself like an open book.”

“Perhaps your naâsga can enlighten us,” Zorvun answered back, turning to Yira.

The sursha shrugged.

“He’s doing something. But I’m not sure what. He’s been to the Embassy, the Court, the prison and the Great Library. He spoke for three hours with Atasiag and as much with Asmoan of Gravia. At least, he seems to have some ideas.”

“And, you, where have you been?” Dashvara inquired. “You left before Kuriag. In fact, before anyone else.”

“Not before everyone else,” the sursha corrected him.

Dashvara nodded, understanding.

“Zefrek,” he whispered. “You followed him?”

Yira’s eyes narrowed to a thin slit.

“I couldn’t help it. He was acting strange. He was nervous. I saw him go into Atasiag’s room.”

“What a thief!” Zamoy cried.

“Damn Shalussis,” Dashvara growled.

“And why didn’t you wake us up?” the captain asked.

“Because I wanted to know where he was going,” the sursha answered simply. “I was surprised when I saw that someone was waiting for him downstairs in the courtyard of the inn. At first it looked like they were going to jump up and bite each other. But then they started talking at length. I couldn’t hear what they were saying. After a while, I saw the other one kneel before Zefrek.”

“A Shalussi tradition,” Orafe the Grunt spat. “You should have slit his throat when he tried to kill you, Dash.”

Dashvara had been left speechless.

“Walek,” he thought aloud. “It must be him. We met him last night, Shivara and I. But I can’t explain how that smug barbarian could have accepted Zefrek as his leader… Do you know what they did next?” he asked Yira.

The sursha looked embarrassed.

“No, I don’t know. At that moment, I showed myself and told Zefrek to return the stolen money.”

“Did he give it back?”

“Yes. He even apologized for leaving without warning and asked me to tell you that he will never forget the Xalyas’ help. He said that he was going to reunite his people, and for that, he needed money. So I decided to give him half of what was in the purse. Twenty dragons.”

“Our lady of the steppe is generous,” Orafe observed, mockingly.

Dashvara glared at him, and the Grunt raised his hands, looking innocent.

“It’s a change of pace from the last one; I’m not saying anything,” he defended himself.

“And what the hell does that Shalussi think he’s doing with twenty dragons?” Alta interjected. “At most, he buys himself an ordinary sword.”

Kodarah let out a wry laugh and said:

“He can use it to eliminate Walek when Walek tries to sell him back to the civilized.”

The Xalyas began to comment on the matter all at once, and Dashvara shook his head, deep in thought. He understood Zefrek’s action, but…

“He could have explained it to me in person,” he growled. “I would have even given him the other half of the purse if he had convinced me of his intentions.”

Raxifar intervened in a deep voice:

“That he is grateful to you does not mean that he trusts you. Mistrust between our clans seems to be an incurable disease.”

Dashvara understood that he was not only saying this for Zefrek, but also for the Xalyas.

“Things can change,” he replied.

Raxifar glanced around at the steppes in the lounge. Some of them were looking at him with unfriendly expressions. He shook his head and, without answering, walked out of the room.

“This Akinoa thinks he’s better than us,” Zamoy grumbled.

“And perhaps he is,” Shokr Is Set interjected.

A few Xalyas gave him confused looks. Without daring to agree with him, Dashvara concentrated again on the game of katutas.

10 The Tower of The Eternal Bird

That same afternoon, a Titiaka diplomatic agent came to the inn, escorted by Ragail guards, to accompany Lanamiag Korfu’s litter to the embassy. Seeing so many armed Titiakas enter, the Xalyas stepped aside at the other end of the lounge with dull fear. They were in the Republic, sure, but Dashvara doubted the militia would intervene if the Ragails felt like taking them to the embassy by force: after all, officially, they were still marked, they were the property of a Titiaka trader, and they were the Federation’s property.

Lanamiag Korfu left, but Fayrah did not. When the diplomatic agent and his soldiers left, Kuriag Dikaksunora seemed excited. When Dashvara asked him the reason for his change in mood, the young Legitimate grew flushed and explained:

“Atasiag will be out soon. I am confident. I’ll… explain it to you later.”

Dashvara shrugged.

“As long as he’s freed, I don’t care about the details.”

Kuriag nodded and headed back to the rooms. Fayrah, on the other hand, sat at the table with a glum look on her face. Noticing her brother looking at her questioningly, she let out an uncommon grunt of exasperation.

“It’s Lan,” she said. “Sometimes he can be a great person. And other times, he’s dumber than a troll. I’ve tried to convince him to forget the past. But he won’t listen to me. And what’s worse, I can understand why he wants to get even. After all, you did the same thing with Nanda of Shalussi.”

Dashvara did not answer. Myhrain, Alta’s older cousin, intervened sarcastically:

“So, if this foreigner killed your brother, you would ‘understand’, is that it?”

“No!” Fayrah replied, upset. “Of course not.”

“Well, he did threaten to kill us all,” Sinta pointed out,

“He’s sick, he didn’t mean what he said—”

“I assure you he meant it,” Dashvara replied calmly. “But that’s all right. As long as he goes back to Titiaka and us to our steppe, there will be no bloodshed.” He hesitated, “Remember you can still change your mind if—”

“No,” Fayrah retorted in an emphatic tone. And she stood up, “I’m going to go to the embassy.”

Dashvara swallowed a sigh and nodded.

“I’ll go with you.”

He accompanied her, and within an hour, he was on his way back, walking alone through the streets of the Dragon. The sky was covered in grey clouds, and a cold drizzle was beginning to soak him all over. To say goodbye, Fayrah had just said ‘I’m sorry,’ an apology that Dashvara couldn’t quite understand. So, without knowing exactly what to say, he had simply given her a strong brotherly hug and handed her the bag with her belongings. He wished with all his heart that Fayrah was not making a terrible mistake.

“Well, well, well,” a voice on his right suddenly said. “Any more letters being delivered for Sir Peykat?”

Dashvara turned and saw the dark-haired boy, Api, from number twelve Olive Street. He was wearing a long black cloak, but he hadn’t put the hood on, and his wet locks were glued to his face. A demon, Dashvara thought with a shudder. He greeted him, not responding to the joke.

“So, it seems that you’re not a Republican either?” he asked her.

“Me? No. I’m from the east. In fact, I’ve only been in Dazbon for two weeks.”

“Are you travelling alone?” Dashvara gasped. For all the confidence with which he spoke, the boy could not have been more than fifteen.

“Does it seem so strange to you? Tell me,” he added, as they resumed walking down the street, “how did you end up serving Atasiag Peykat?”

Dashvara did not hesitate to answer:

“The barbarians captured us, and the Titiakas enslaved us. That was three years ago.”

“So, Atasiag bought you?”

The idea seemed to amuse him. Dashvara nuanced it:

“We were a gift from the Council of Titiaka. But, thanks to the Rebellion, we escaped and, now, we will return to the steppe.”

“Then, for you, it’s convenient that Atasiag was imprisoned as soon as he arrived in Dazbon,” Api observed mockingly.

Dashvara frowned.

“Not so convenient. We had agreed that he would buy us horses if we continued to serve him for a while. Anyway, it looks like he’ll be out soon.”

“Oh?” A thoughtful twinkle flitted through Api’s eyes. “So they accused him unjustly?”

“No idea. You didn’t even know him before, so why are you so interested in this man’s fate?”

“Out of curiosity,” the boy answered simply. “By the way, a man named Asmoan came to Sarga’s house this noon. You know him, don’t you?”

Dashvara felt a chill run through his body, and as he met the boy’s intelligent gaze, he remembered what sort of creature he was talking to.

“I know him,” the Xalya nodded.

“Mm. He kept telling us about your people all through the meal,” Api continued. “And he told us about the wonders of your Eternal Bird. He said you had a Tower… so to speak, divine.”

Dashvara rolled his eyes.

“You’re talking about the Tower of the Eternal Bird, aren’t you? That tower was never ours. It belonged to the Ancient Kings. And it has been in Essimean territory for many decades.”

“It belonged to your ancestors,” Api replied. “Ancestors who shared similarities with Asmoan.”

Dashvara stopped in the rain. Similarities, he repeated to himself. Similarities like being demons like him? He glared at Api.

“What’s your point, kid?”

Api shoved his hands into his cloak pockets.

“Asmoan wants to go see this tower.”

“I know that. And we told him that if he was willing to pay us for the trip, we would take him to it. He said he’d think about it.”

“He’s already thought it through,” Api smiled.

Dashvara looked at him, his heart suddenly beating faster.

“And?” he growled.

The young demon put on his hood with an exasperating calmness.

“He’ll pay,” he then said. “That is, he will pay his share. The Titiaka will pay the other.”

Dashvara let out a hiss of disbelief.

“Is Atasiag going to pay us for the horses?”

“No,” Api replied. “Not him. The other one. The elf.”

Amazement gave way to complete perplexity.

“Kuriag Dikaksunora?” Dashvara muttered. “And… why would he do that?”

A smile broke out on Api’s half-concealed face.

“Ask the elf not me.”

With these words, the demon bowed deeply and walked away with quick steps down another street.

11 Transactions

It took Kuriag Dikaksunora three more days to tell them what he was up to. When they finally learned, they did not from Kuriag but from Asmoan, who came to eat and suddenly let out a:

“But when did you decide to leave, Excellency?”

The elf barely concealed a grimace.

“I don’t know yet. A week, perhaps. Tomorrow Atasiag will be released from prison and the wedding will take place. Cili’s priest is due to arrive this very evening. I’ve reserved the best room in this inn for him.”

“Have you already… made the purchase?” the Agoskurian asked with a knowing look.

The Legitimate cleared his throat and looked at Lessi before nodding.

“Yes. Tomorrow, I’ll send the Xalyas to pick out the horses. I think they’ll do a better job than anyone else.”

Everyone was listening, and the words suddenly made more than one person sit up and take notice. Dashvara stood up slowly.

“Uh… Excuse me a moment. Who’s gonna give us the money to buy these horses?”

The Legitimate looked at him defiantly.

“I will.”

Dashvara nodded. This was consistent with what Api had said.

“What do you ask for in return?”

This time, the Dikaksunora flushed and looked away before fixing his eyes back on the Xalyas lord.

“Your service,” he replied.

Dashvara arched an eyebrow.

“That’s a vague answer.”

Slowly, the elf left his spoon in the empty plate.

“Can I talk to you in private?”

“Of course.”

After sharing a puzzled look with his companions, Dashvara followed the Legitimate into his room. The bed was covered with books. He closed the door behind him and crossed his arms, waiting for an explanation.

Kuriag seemed to regain his confidence as he walked across the room to the window. He said in a firm voice:

“Atasiag promised to free you and buy you whatever was necessary to get you safely to your home, but he himself confessed to me in prison that, at present, he could not afford to spend such a sum of money. His business, as you might expect, is under attack from all sides, even from within. He has been accused of being involved in an illegal trading organization, and according to him, the evidence presented could only have come from prominent members of the Dream Brotherhood. His best escape is to return to Titiaka. The Yordarks are on his side. And so am I. I promised him that, if he returned to Titiaka, I would lend him my vote on the Council for a year. And I offered to pay his bail so he could return to the Federation. Once there, whatever the Republican judges decide, they can’t do anything to him, at most forbid him from entering Dazbon.”

Dashvara listened from beginning to end and said:

“You post bail for Atasiag Peykat. And you fulfill his promise with your own money. I don’t know whether to be suspicious of such generosity or to kneel down and thank you.”

Kuriag Dikaksunora stirred.

“You won’t have to kneel. With the bail… I bought all of you, too.”

For a moment, Dashvara thought he had misheard. Then, he didn’t know whether to take it seriously or to laugh at such a joke.

“I will release you,” Kuriag hastened to say, before Dashvara could reply. “Actually, right now, I don’t want to go back to Titiaka. Not with everything that’s happened. I need time to think and… I thought a trip to the steppe would take my mind off things. I will know the land of my… of my naâsga,” he smiled shyly, “and, in exchange for your protection, you will get not only horses and weapons but also my support from Titiaka… when I return.”

“A trip to Rocdinfer to take your mind off things,” Dashvara repeated, and he laughed. “I must admit you surprised me. Why on earth did you buy us from Atasiag? Just by paying us for the horses and swords, you would have earned our protection for the trip.”

Kuriag sighed slightly.

“In fact, it is mainly a political matter. If I went to the steppe without an official escort, I would create a scandal in Titiaka. A Legitimate travels with his servants. I couldn’t leave just like that. It would be—”

“A scandal,” Dashvara completed, thoughtfully.

“Yes.”

“And, tell me, wouldn’t it cause more of a scandal if it got out that you bought the slave who killed Rayeshag Korfu?”

Kuriag shrugged.

“No at all. From what I understood, you were only defending your master. As a matter of fact, your value as a guard has increased since the events in the Arena. Gowel Alfodrog, the ambassador, told me that Rishag Kondister had offered to buy you from Atasiag for six hundred crowns. And Faag Yordark raised the price to a thousand.”

Dashvara gasped; he couldn’t believe his ears. Had he missed something?

“These Titiakas are crazy.”

Kuriag Dikaksunora smiled.

“Officially, I bought you for one thousand five hundred. But, the others, I only bought them for three-hundred. Except the Honyrs: Faag Yordark wouldn’t sell them for less than five-hundred each. And Raxifar… well, Raxifar, I bought him for much more,” he coughed. “In any case, it is a perfectly reasonable expense, given my family’s wealth.” His smile widened at Dashvara’s overwhelmed expression. “All things considered, you are the Resurrected One and the last King of the Eternal Bird.”

And I suppose you’re looking forward to being the master of such an illustrious character, Dashvara muttered inwardly.

“Awesome,” he said. “So, in short, we take you for a walk on the steppe and pray that the Essimeans don’t fall on us, then we bring you back. And that’s it, isn’t it?”

“Right.”

Dashvara nodded.

“Then I agree.”

“Just one more thing,” Kuriag observed, his voice indecisive. “You’re going to have to stop by the embassy… this afternoon, for example… to formalize the sale.”

Dashvara stared at him.

“Now I don’t agree,” he grumbled. “Are you going to mark us?”

Kuriag looked away nervously.

“It is necessary, as you must understand—”

“To hell with that,” Dashvara cut him off sharply. “Figure out how to make the sale official any way you want, but not with those marks.”

Irritated, he opened the door and left the room. Asmoan had already left, and Lessi blinked when she saw Dashvara’s expression. She knew everything, he realized. His irritation suddenly dropped like a sack of lead. He sat down at the table and said:

“The Dikaksunora promises us horses and weapons if we escort him across the steppe.”

Everyone looked at him curiously.

“That sounds like good news,” the captain commented, in the tone of one who is already prepared to listen to the problematic side of the case.

“It is.”

“Yes. Then why do you look as if you’d run into a bunch of Essimeans, boy?”

Dashvara sighed and glanced down the hall. Kuriag Dikaksunora had closed the door. No: he had left it ajar. He rolled his eyes and let go:

“In order to make this trip, your son-in-law needs, or thinks he needs, to tell everyone that we, his escort, are his slaves. Which he did without consulting us, of course. He bought us from Atasiag in exchange for his freedom on bail. And wait, there’s more, because he also bought the Honyrs from the Yordark and Raxifar from the Korfu. To celebrate, he now wants to brand us at the embassy.”

A long silence followed his words. Makarva let out an incredulous laugh. And others followed suit. Orafe roared:

“He can go brand his mother! I’d rather die than go into that embassy.”

The captain rose from the sofa, calmly rolling up the sleeves of his uniform.

“I think it’s time to have another good talk with my son-in-law.”

Dashvara saw him walk away down the hall and knock softly on the ajar door. A few seconds later, it closed behind him.

“I can’t believe it,” Zamoy said after a silence. “This guy isn’t even my age. And he now wants us to call him master?”

“Nooo, just ‘Excellency’ will do,” Dashvara laughed sarcastically.

They waited with some trepidation for the captain to return. It took him an eternity, but he finally came out with Kuriag Dikaksunora. The latter had an indecisive expression; the captain, on the other hand, seemed fully satisfied. He approached and said:

“Xalyas, it’s not a damned mark that’s going to separate us from the steppe.” He laid a fatherly hand on the Legitimate’s shoulder. “A little mark on the arm in exchange for the steppe. It’s not a bad deal. Let us all go to the embassy.”

Dashvara stood petrified. Okay, Kuriag wasn’t a bad guy, he had a respectable Eternal Bird, and he would surely keep his word, but… hell, he was a Dikaksunora, a Titiaka, and the son of the Slave Master. As Sashava would have said, where was the Xalya dignity?

Repeating the order, the captain got the other Xalyas to stand up with a grunt. Dashvara did not move an inch.

“Dashvara,” the captain called out to him patiently from the front door. “Kuriag will not betray us. It is my Eternal Bird that tells me so. Come on, what does a damned mark matter?”

Dashvara met Yira’s eyes. Seeing her nod imperceptibly, as if to encourage him, he sighed and stood up.

“Raxifar, it will be better if we go.”

Akinoa had not moved either.

“A small brand,” Dashvara insisted. “We already have two. One more won’t kill us.”

After a few seconds, without a word and with an inscrutable face, the tall black man straightened up. Good. Dashvara took one last look at the Xalya women before following his brothers and Kuriag.

Outside, it was raining hard. By the time they got through the Dragon District and into the embassy, their uniforms were sticking to their bodies and their boots were squeaking. Kuriag, of course, was well protected under an umbrella, a gift, he said, from the ambassador.

After a brief glance at the document the Legitimate handed them, the Ragail opened the portal and the steppians stepped inside. Dashvara immediately felt like he was back in Titiaka. The large white building with glass windows, the two fountains and the gardens were strongly reminiscent of the Diumcilian capital. The presence of the Ragail made him nervous. There were at least twenty of them in the covered part of the courtyard. The worried glint in the captain’s eyes did not reassure him either. Of all the steppians here, Dashvara was the only one with a weapon.

“This way,” a Ragail pointed to them.

They passed through a small side door into an empty room where, after waiting a moment, three officials appeared, one with the long-awaited counter-seal of Atasiag Peykat, another with that of the Korfu, and yet another with that of the Yordark. They lined up and the officials placed the counter-seal before another arrived and imprinted the Dikaksunora seal on their arm: a blue bird that ironically reminded Dashvara of the Eternal Bird.

When the product was introduced under his skin, he felt in addition to the usual tingling a strange discharge that caused an itch in his arm. That was all they needed now, that they had been poisoned or who knows what, he thought, worried.

“Whatever you’re feeling is normal,” the official said, looking satisfied as he noticed the steppians’ surprise. “When it comes to this kind of technology, the Dikaksunora have always been ahead of the other Legitimate families. They use multifunctional seals.”

He didn’t elaborate on these “functions” and hearing him talk about them was the last thing Dashvara wanted at that moment. Finally, they took them to another room, where two young Ragail brought them a pile of uniforms in the blue and white colors of the Dikaksunora. Three tailors were busy cutting them up and fitting them all. That really reinforced Dashvara’s worrying feeling that he had gone back months and was back in Titiaka. When all this transformation was over and they went out into the courtyard, it was no longer raining, and the puddles were shining under the timid rays of the sun.

“Are they really as good a warrior as you say?” a voice asked.

Standing on the main stoop of the embassy, an obese man with long curly hair gazed at the steppians with that typical appraising look of Titiaka citizens that Dashvara was more than used to. Next to that mastodon, Kuriag Dikaksunora looked like a child.

“They are very good,” the elf affirmed, “and I could not wish for better guides to escort me across the steppe.”

“Ah, you were born with an adventurous spirit, young man. But I understand you perfectly. If I were younger, I probably would have gone with you. Travelling opens the mind. But I fear you have not chosen the safest place for your first great journey.”

“This is not my first great journey,” Kuriag assured. “I have traveled to Ryscodra before. In the capital, you can’t walk down the street without a good escort, if you don’t want to be attacked and killed by purse snatchers.”

“By the Serenity!” the ambassador gasped, though he should probably already know all this. “But I am not going to detain you any longer. I wouldn’t want to delay the preparations for the wedding.”

“Indeed, I must still give the priest a welcome.” Kuriag bowed to the ambassador. “I can only be grateful to you for facilitating my use of your carrier pigeons and servants.”

“And, I, for one, feel honored to have had the opportunity to help you, Excellency.”

With such a body, he could hardly bow, but he tried anyway. After a few more formalities, Kuriag Dikaksunora walked down the stoop and past his new servants with the poise of a young Legitimate. After a moment’s hesitation, the steppians followed him to the gate. It was only when they passed through that Dashvara began to relax. They were back in Republican territory. At last.

12 The wings of a Xalya

“This one has a damaged hoof,” Alta observed.

“Ah, no, really, that’s not it!” the salesman protested. “That’s the usual form of this breed. With those hooves, they run faster than the wind.”

“The wind is very fickle,” Alta replied. “Sometimes it gallops, sometimes it stops. So, no, we’re not taking this one.”

Dashvara supported the refusal by silently nodding his head. The salesman sighed. He was beginning to understand that Alta was picking up on the slightest flaws.

He put the bad horse back in its compartment and headed for the back of the stables. Lumon came running up behind them. He informed them:

“We’re still six horses short. And you, how are you doing?”

“We’re ten short,” Dashvara replied.

“Alta is worse than the Persnickety,” Miflin explained, smiling.

“Well, Sirk Is Rhad is no better,” Lumon smiled. “He and Atsan don’t just have to talk with the salesman to make up their minds: they have to talk with the horse too.”

Dashvara and the Triplets laughed kindly, but Alta reasoned:

“You don’t just pick a horse any old way. I doubt we have time to pick them all today.”

“Especially if we have to go to this wedding,” Dashvara sighed.

“He said it wouldn’t be necessary for all of us to go,” Miflin recalled in an eloquent tone.

Dashvara looked at the Poet with a mocking pout.

“I thought you liked parties, Poet. Besides, the ones getting married are the captain’s daughter and your lord’s sister. Surely you don’t want to miss the event?”

Miflin was looking for some argument to evade when Alta interrupted them, exclaiming:

“This one looks much better!”

The horse dealer’s face showed relief. When Dashvara laid eyes on the new horse, he cocked his head to one side with a strange sense of knowing him. After examining the animal from top to bottom, Alta said:

“This horse is ours.”

“A wonderful choice, gentlemen!” the salesman rejoiced.

“Yes…” Alta cleared his throat and turned to his brothers. “I meant that this horse belonged to us. Back in Xalya. The barbarians must have sold it.”

Surprised, Dashvara approached the horse, and at last, he recognized it. It was Radiant, Boron’s horse. It looked healthy. The trader’s expression now reflected concentration, as if he were trying to figure out if this could raise the price of the sale.

“He used to look better,” Alta let out. “He’s malnourished.”

“Malnourished!” the vendor cried, indignantly. “I tend these beasts night and day and give them the best oats—!”

“Tell me,” Alta cut him off. “Where did you buy that horse?”

The Republican immediately calmed down.

“It was a patrician who sold it to me,” he boasted. “It’s a steppian horse of the best breed, strong and tough as a mountain. It can stand very long journeys and hardly tires.”

“I know the qualities of steppe horses,” Alta assured. “Do you have any more of this type?”

“Three more, sir. And a few other steppies no less incredible. Would you like to see them?”

He disappeared around a corner in his vast stables and returned with five horses and three stable boys. Dashvara recognized only the mare, with her distinctive coat: she had belonged to an officer of his father. After examining the steppian horses carefully, Alta seemed satisfied with all of them, and finally accepted four more horses that were half steppian. Then came the haggling, and Alta did well: in total, they paid less than eight hundred dragons for the ten horses and took them to the stables of the inn. Sirk Is Rhad’s party had just arrived with the last seven horses and the place was getting crowded. Boron recognized Radiant at once, and his placidity was mingled with a strong emotion that brought tears to his eyes. Dashvara and his companions patted him on the shoulder, rejoicing in his good fortune. While he was busy trying on and adjusting a newly acquired saddle on a chestnut mare, Dashvara kept thinking about Lusombra. Realizing this, he whispered an apology in his new mount’s ear and added:

“I will call you Sunrise. We will go together to the steppe. And I will tell you about Lusombra. I’m sure the two of you would get along just fine.”

Looking around and seeing his people taking care of so many steppian horses, Dashvara’s heart swelled with joy. The business was going more than well.

A familiar voice outside the building drew a smile from him and, stepping away from Sunrise, he poked his head through the large open door. There, in the courtyard of the inn, Atasiag Peykat stood, forming a circle with other Titiakas, his staff of command in hand and an expression of great serenity on his face. Among those present was, of course, Kuriag Dikaksunora, still dressed in his usual white tunic. His face reflected an intense happiness. The other Titiakas were throwing jokes at him in Diumcilian, all traditional jokes to the future husband.

“And, what’s more, you’re going on your honeymoon to the steppe!” a youth cried in an enthusiastic tone.

“The bride is nothing less than a steppian princess, after all,” another interjected, bowing to the Dikaksunora. “And rumors say she is a great beauty.”

“Her heart is even greater,” Kuriag replied firmly, and he flushed when several laughed.

“I already bode you well in your life, Excellency,” said another who wore the symbol of the Yordark. “I am not sure if I have commented to you that my older brother, Faag, holds you in high regard.”

“Uh… yes, I think you did, thank you,” Kuriag smiled, slightly uncomfortably.

“Oh. And how long do you think you’ll make your honeymoon last?” the Yordark asked.

“I have not yet decided,” Kuriag Dikaksunora admitted. “But I will never be entirely absent from the Council, since I will leave Atasiag Peykat as my representative in my position for as long as my trip lasts.”

“You’ve already gone through the inheritance formalities?” a member of the Shoveda said, surprised.

“Absolutely all of them,” Kuriag nodded. “I must say, I could not have done it without the help of the Alfodrog and Yordark, as well as my mother.”

A young redhead hesitated before commenting:

“It’s a shame that none of your immediate family can attend your wedding, unless I’m mistaken…?”

“My mother gave me her blessing by letter,” Kuriag assured. “But the grief that still weighs on us has kept her from taking the ship. Besides, my younger brothers need moral support to… get over our loss.”

Faces were covered with understanding and commiseration.

“A great loss to the entire Federation,” the Shoveda pronounced solemnly.

“A terrible shock,” the redhead agreed. “We can never praise your father’s deeds enough, Excellency. They have grown our homeland.”

Kuriag Dikaksunora looked away, and Dashvara saw his tight lips, which could indicate sadness as well as tension.

“For Cili’s sake!” Atasiag exclaimed. “Let us not grieve on this festive day. Our young friend’s happiness will, with no doubt, gladden his father’s spirit, wherever he may be.”

“I can’t agree more, Sir Peykat,” the young Yordark hastened to say.

“And perhaps we should give His Excellency a little respite before the big event.”

“Quite so!” the Shoveda approved.

“We’ll see you at the temple, Excellency,” the redhead greeted.

They soon moved away, and only Atasiag Peykat and Kuriag Dikaksunora remained in the courtyard. Dashvara finally dared to approach.

“We got the forty-five horses, as promised,” he announced. “All sound and steppian in various degrees.” He greeted Atasiag with a gesture. “How was the stay in prison, Eminence?”

Atasiag smiled, studying him with attentive eyes.

“Exhausting. I kept getting ‘exceptional’ visits, since visits are not usually allowed. In addition to Tahisran’s visits, of course.”

Dashvara arched an eyebrow in surprise as he heard him speak of the shadow in the presence of the Dikaksunora. However, the latter seemed to know who they were talking about. He shrugged.

“Even locked up, you’ve continued to do business, I see.”

Atasiag nodded calmly.

“And more than you think. I hope you treat your new master as well as you treated me,” he added, half mockingly and half sincerely.

His gaze rose, further behind Dashvara, and he noticed that, one by one, the Xalyas had emerged from the stables.

“We’ll treat him as he deserves,” Dashvara replied.

“That seems right to me,” Kuriag interjected, before Atasiag could make any further remarks. “Thank you for taking care of the horses: you were efficient. Morzif and Ged arrived with the weapons about two hours ago. They say they’re not the best in the world, but they’ll do.”

Dashvara nodded. Atok had already told him all this, and more: apparently they were going to leave armed to the teeth, with swords, spears, bows, full quivers, and even leather armor. In a burst of honesty, he handed Kuriag the silver purse he had given him in the morning.

“We have a hundred and some dragons left,” he explained.

The elf smiled.

“Keep the money. For your whims. I still have other administrative matters to attend to, and we won’t be leaving for another week. I’m sure you’ll find some good use for it. If you have no questions, I’ll go change for the wedding.”

He bowed his head slightly, and Dashvara bowed as well, though more brusquely, perhaps because the Dikaksunora’s prodigality was beginning to embarrass him. He followed the Legitimate with his gaze as he walked up the stoop and into the inn.

“Well, Philosopher,” Atasiag said. “You have your horses and weapons at last. I guess you’re satisfied.”

Dashvara smiled but replied:

“I shall be even more satisfied when we leave Dazbon. I guess you’ll miss us,” he added lightly.

Atasiag looked mockingly thoughtful.

“Mm… Maybe,” he admitted. He took a quick look at the Xalyas’ faces before adding, “I’ll be boarding the ship this very afternoon for Titiaka, after the ceremony. I need to make sure everything is in order at the Council before Kuriag leaves to hunt legends. So our paths part here.”

Dashvara nodded, and with a moved heart, he stepped forward and gave the Titiaka a strong hug.

You’re hugging a demon, Dash, he thought suddenly, dumbfounded.

But what of it? All in all, Atasiag had helped his people.

“Yes,” Atasiag coughed as Dashvara stepped aside. “I think I’m going to miss you.”

His eyes glowed a little. He shook his head softly and took a step back before bowing.

“It was nice knowing you, lord of the Xalyas. Take care of Yira, eh?” He paused as Dashvara nodded, and he added in a wary tone, “By the way… if you don’t mind, could you do me one last favor? I have a number of possessions I’d like to take on the boat. Some of them quite heavy. Like the… famous trunk.”

Dashvara smiled, and after giving his companions a questioning look and seeing their amused expressions, nodded.

“Leave it to us, Eminence.”

* * *

In the end, only ten Xalyas attended the wedding, and at Kuriag’s urging, Dashvara was one of them. The temple of Cili where the ceremony took place was located in the embassy. He wasn’t thrilled with the idea of returning to that place, but… he who pays, commands, right?

The first thing that struck him was the number of Titiakas that Kuriag Dikaksunora had managed to gather in such a short time. Or rather the number of Titiakas who had invited themselves to the party, so to speak, with the clear intention of making friends with the new head of the Dikaksunora family. He recognized some of the faces, but most of them were unknown to him.

The ceremony itself was not much different from the one Atasiag Peykat had performed when he and Yira got married. The problem was that it was much longer than the latter. Standing at the back of the room, Dashvara listened to the interminable sermon of the priest of Cili, sighing impatiently. He could have sworn that the priest had recited the entire Holy Book before sprinkling the bonds of the two couples with pure water. Lanamiag Korfu was still a little pale, but he held himself more energetically and behaved to Fayrah like a perfect gentleman, winding the ribbons, then kneeling and kissing his wife’s hand as if he had repeated the gesture a thousand times. Beside him, Kuriag looked younger and more inexperienced. When the ceremony was over, the musicians began to play joyful songs, and the guests moved into the large courtyard of the embassy to enjoy the banquet. Dashvara refrained from moving during the entire festivity, wanting to avoid any conflict with Lanamiag Korfu. The Titiaka was immersed in his world of happiness and did not even seem to see him as he passed by. Atasiag soon bid Lessi and Yira a fond farewell and boarded a boat with Lanamiag and Fayrah on loan from the embassy that would take them directly to their personal ship and from there they would anchor for Titiaka. Fayrah embraced Lessi, but she didn’t seem to remember the Xalya guards clustered near the dock. It wasn’t until the boat was already moving away that her sister looked up, half-stretched out an arm… and straightened, causing the canoe to rock.

“May the Eternal Bird protect you, sîzan!” she cried.

Smiling, Dashvara nodded and waved her off. He didn’t know why, at that moment, memories of his childhood came back to him, when he was still a kid and ran in the grass with Fayrah and his little brother Showag or roamed the secret passages of the Dungeon… The canoe was already far away when he whispered:

“You will always be a Xalya, sîzin.”

Or at least he hoped so.

13 The orcs’ orphan

With the preparations for the trip, the next week passed like a flash. Since Kuriag Dikaksunora was busy writing and answering letters and attending invitations from Titiakas and city Republicans, the Xalyas took care of everything, so to speak. In any case, they knew better than anyone else what was needed to travel the steppe.

To get in shape, they resumed intensive training in the courtyard of the inn, wielding swords, bows, and spears. When Kuriag offered to train with the Ragails from the embassy, they refused outright. These warrior-mages brought back very bad memories of the Rebellion to Dashvara.

On the eve of departure, Dashvara, the Triplets, Lumon, Boron, and Makarva visited Zaadma and Rokuish at the Golden Dragon to leave them the hundred or so dragons they had left, and while they were at it, to see how Rahilma, Aodorma, and Sizinma were growing. Neither Zaadma nor Rokuish protested much before accepting the money, and even less when Dashvara assured them that, out on the steppe, they would not need it.

“Our cousins seem to have calmed down since last time,” Zamoy observed, as he approached the large crib where the three newborns slept.

“Rahilma and Aodorma, yes,” Zaadma said, “But Sizinma is still insufferable.”

“It must be the reincarnation of Miflin,” the Baldy concluded. The Poet elbowed him right in the ribs. “Ouch!”

“How’s the herbalist shop project going?” Makarva inquired.

Zaadma sighed loudly.

“Boo! This town is going to hell. Now it turns out that you have to have a degree from the Citadel to open a herbalist shop. We’re thinking of moving to Twach. There, at least, they let people live without needing a degree. It’s half a day’s ride from here by cart, so it wouldn’t be too much of a fuss. And with that money you brought us, I’m sure now that we’ll get by, even with those three little devils,” she smiled.

They dined with them in the tavern room, and as they left, Dashvara thought it appropriate to renew his offer to the couple.

“If one day you feel like returning to the steppe, our clan will receive you with great joy,” he told them.

Rokuish smiled, touched, and stood up to shake his hand.

“Thank you, brother. You as well: if any of you decide to travel to the Republic, please don’t forget to stop by.” He patted him on the shoulder, his expression deeply moved. “Be careful and may luck smile upon you.”

Dashvara almost felt as if he were saying goodbye to him forever. And maybe that was true. Especially if the Essimeans caught them on their way. Brushing these thoughts aside, he walked out of the tavern with his brothers and glanced darkly at the stormy sky before putting on the hood of his new cloak and walking down the street in the downpour. They were walking in silence through the streets of Dazbon when suddenly Zamoy shouted:

“Brothers!”

Everyone jumped and looked at him in alarm.

“What’s the matter?” they asked him.

Under his dark blue hood, Zamoy smiled with all his teeth and exclaimed:

“Tomorrow, we’re going home!”

He gave a shout of victory and took off running with the Hairy towards The White Pearl. Dashvara exchanged a smile with his companions and they resumed their walk in the rain. They were going home, yes, but inwardly, he couldn’t stop thinking about the Essimeans. They would run into them on the way for sure.

But that doesn’t mean we won’t be able to get through, he thought as he moved forward. The Death worshippers don’t have to know that those steppian guards wearing Titiaka uniforms are Xalyas… do they? He grinned crookedly. Not until we shout it in their faces.

* * *

The next morning, when the steppians mounted their horses and left the inn, following Kuriag Dikaksunora, their hearts were filled with joy. They were leaving loaded with provisions, weapons, and above all, hope. Their enthusiasm cooled a little when, already leaving the city, they saw twelve Ragails approaching the group. For a moment, Dashvara feared they might bring trouble, but Kuriag merely greeted them as if he was waiting for them and trotted off. Sensing the captain’s questioning glance, Dashvara sighed and spurred Sunrise to join the Legitimate. He cleared his throat.

“Excellency.”

The young elf turned his head slightly. He wasn’t a bad rider, but anyone could tell he wasn’t a seasoned one.

“Yes?” he replied with some tension.

Dashvara smiled.

“You don’t need to hold the reins so much. Just relax. No one likes having a worried monkey on their back.”

Kuriag pressed his lips together, but instead of taking offense and sending him off to plant grass in the desert, he listened. He tried to justify himself:

“In Titiaka, I barely rode.”

“It shows,” Dashvara assured with undisguised mockery. He received an annoyed glance from the Legitimate and smiled at him before making a grimace and asking, “Why did you hire Ragails?”

Kuriag frowned. He did not answer immediately.

“I didn’t hire them,” he said at last. “Faag Yordark sent them to me for protection. I could not refuse.”

Really? Dashvara thought. Or are you afraid that we Xalyas will let you down?

But he kept his doubts to himself. Besides, Kuriag’s answer could be true. All things considered, the Yordark had no interest in the new Dikaksunora leader being lost forever in the Rocdinfer steppe.

And remember, Dash, neither do we have any interest in Kuriag being suspicious of us Xalyas…

With a hint of exasperation, Kuriag added:

“Djamin is one of the best Ragail captains in Diumcili, and he has volunteered to accompany us. It is an honor to have him with us… I hope that no unnecessary arguments will arise.”

Dashvara rolled his eyes, and as the said Ragail captain approached in turn on his mount, he assured:

“I’ll see to controlling my own temper, Excellency.”

And he let himself be left behind to give way to Djamin. The Ragail captain did not make a bad impression on him. He was a middle-aged human, with a tan complexion like the steppians, and if he hadn’t had blue eyes, he could have been mistaken for a Xalya. He exchanged a curt nod with him before riding away. He continued to watch him talk with Kuriag for a few moments, then returned to Zorvun, who was eager for news. He explained the presence of the Ragails, and the Captain nodded thoughtfully.

“I guess their company was only to be expected,” he commented.

They were already reaching the Dragon Road, and noticing that the pace was slowing, Dashvara craned his neck. He saw two sajits waiting at the side of the road with a mount. He immediately recognized the tall figure of the caitian. It was Asmoan, the Agoskurian scientist, the Eternal Bird enthusiast… and the demon. Beside him, laden with two well-bounced bags, with an expression that alternated between impatience and mockery, stood Api, the dark-haired boy. Dashvara arched an eyebrow, suppressing a sigh. Well, in the end, they would have to travel not only with twelve Ragails but also with not one but two demons.

“Hello!” Asmoan called out, “Forgive me for the delay, I have a little problem: my horse is already overloaded, and I don’t know where to put the heaviest load!” He laid an eloquent hand on the boy’s shoulder. “This is Api, my assistant.”

Kuriag promptly solved the problem of the bags the boy was carrying by having them loaded onto another mount. Then turning his attention to the assistant, he asked:

“Someone willing to take him?”

He would have finished sooner by ordering. The Xalyas looked at each other. The Ragails scratched their heads or pretended they hadn’t heard. And Dashvara cleared his throat.

“He will come with me.”

He would rather do that than having Kuriag put the demon on the mount of any other Xalya. The youngster bared his teeth and bowed.

“I’ll be very happy to travel with you. By the way,” he added, as Dashvara grabbed him by the arm to help him up, “I rode a dragon once, but I’ve never ridden a hors—Demons!” he gasped. “We’re higher than I thought.”

“Hang on tight,” Dashvara replied.

The boy clung to him, and they soon resumed their march, at a rather slow pace. Passing Republicans stopped to watch the parade of horses with curiosity. Api asked:

“So, these are the famous steppe horses?”

Dashvara grunted in agreement. Api continued:

“Asmoan says that in a few days we will already be in the steppe, but we will have to go through tunnels. The tunnels of Aïgstia. A true labyrinth, he said. From what he’s been told, of course, because he doesn’t know the area. I hope you know where you’re going, because I don’t trust this scientist’s maps one bit.”

Sitting in front of him, Dashvara suppressed a sigh.

“We’ll try not to get lost,” he assured.

There was a silence, then a cheerful:

“Well, great. Gosh, I’m not going to miss Dazbon,” he opined. “Though the empty plains aren’t my favorite place either, but between that and the Ariltuan swamps, I think I like the plains just as much.”

Dashvara arched an eyebrow.

“You’ve been to Ariltuan?”

“Yes, why?” the boy replied with natural vivacity.

Dashvara shook his head.

“My brothers and I guarded the borders of Diumcili along the swamps for three years,” he explained.

“Oh my,” Api let out, taken aback.

Dashvara moistened his lips.

“Can I ask you how you got out of there alive?”

“Oh. Well, that’s easy,” the boy replied. “My foster mother said, ‘’Get out of here or I’ll wring your neck, you little demon.’ And I took off running before she could wring my neck.”

Zamoy, who was riding alongside, whistled through his teeth.

“Nice foster mother!”

“She was!” Api assured, laughing. “I, on the other hand, am a true demon. That I am. The orcs took me in as their son, and all I did was annoy them. I couldn’t even climb a tree without falling half a dozen times a day! So when I was nine years old, my mother told me to go away and seek my fortune in the big wide world. Six years have passed and I’m still looking for it,” he joked.

Wondering how true his story was, Dashvara exchanged an amused look with Zamoy; the Baldy coughed:

“You mean, you were raised by orcs.”

“Yep,” Api confirmed naturally. “Actually, they were swamp orcs.”

He said no more, and Dashvara breathed out, more quietly. He’d been afraid the boy would be bugging him the whole trip with made-up stories. Or maybe they weren’t, who knows. But then the boy said:

“I will always remember Shifi. He was my best friend. And he was the best tree climber.”

When no one answered, hidden in his bag, Tahisran intervened:

‘Dash, ask him where he went after he left the swamps. I’m curious to know.’

Dashvara sighed but asked anyway. He guessed Api’s shrug.

“A little at random,” he replied. “I went towards the east and found myself in a town called Ied. It took me a whole week to dare to enter it, because I had never seen anything like it. So many houses and so many strange people. The ones who scared me the most were the ones with white skin. Imagine the fright I had the first time I washed and saw myself in a mirror!” he laughed. “Finally,” he continued, “over there I got to know a guy who taught me the common western language and a bunch of other stuff. He was from the Bladhy Desert,” he explained, “and he told me wonders about the desert and the steppe, so I thought, one day I’ll go west. And here I am.”

Dashvara shook his head slowly.

“You know, my boy? You haven’t chosen the best time to travel the steppe. It is infested with Essimeans.”

“But… they’re sajits, aren’t they?” the boy asked, confused.

Dashvara smiled wickedly.

“In theory.”

There was silence.

“In short, what are they like, these Essimeans?” the boy inquired.

“Despicable scum,” Zamoy replied at once.

“Fiends!” Makarva added in the rear.

“Traitors like snakes,” Aligra spat.

Atsan Is Fadul added calmly:

“The Essimeans worship Death and Science.”

To Dashvara’s exasperation, the young demon stirred on the mount to turn to those who were answering. Atsan’s words caused him to flinch slightly, and Dashvara felt his arms cling a little tighter to his waist. However, his tone was light when he said:

“I see. But isn’t the Tower of the Eternal Bird surrounded by Essimeans?”

“It is,” Dashvara confirmed calmly.

He waited for the next question, which he imagined to be a: but then, how do you expect to escort the scientist and the Legitimate there without them slaughtering you? But the question did not come. The boy must have been lost in thought.

As they moved away from the City of Dazbon, they quickened their pace. Although it was a sunny day, a cold, persistent wind whipped at them. One of the drawbacks of having that young demon on his horse was that Dashvara didn’t dare approach Yira anymore. Atasiag was probably right when he said that it was unlikely that anyone would perceive the mortic energy of his naâsga, but since he didn’t know what demons were capable of, the doubt kept him away.

They arrived in Rocavita before noon. The mere sight of the town on the high hill reminded Dashvara of the endless night he had spent there three years ago to rescue the Xalya women, passing through catacombs and sewers… To tell the truth, he had kept a dark memory of Rocavita, but on seeing it again, he had to admit that those white houses clustered together and surrounded by vines had their charm.

Still, when they reached the main square of the town and Kuriag ordered a short break, Dashvara held back an impatient sigh. If they started taking breaks every two hours, they wouldn’t reach the steppe before spring… As the Legitimate and his wife headed to a tavern with Asmoan and the Ragail captain, Dashvara ordered Atok to follow them as a bodyguard. It wouldn’t do to have something happen to Kuriag before he left the Republic. The others waited in the square and took the opportunity to eat. They barely spoke a word, not only out of respect for the Honyrs, but also because of the presence of the eleven elite Titiaka warriors nearby. The two groups did not speak to each other, but exchanged appraising glances, not hostile, but clearly distrustful. On one side the oppressive guards, on the other the slaves who were returning to their steppe…

“The journey promises to be busy,” Dashvara murmured.

Api gave him a curious look. Lying on the cobblestones of the square, looking very relaxed, the young demon had pulled out several elongated figs and was chewing them energetically. He had barely spoken a word since his story about the orcs. He had a strange way of looking at everyone cheekily and with a mocking glare, as if he was amused by the smallest detail.

“What’s the name of the one in the bag?” he asked suddenly.

Dashvara swore inwardly. Devils. Had the shadow spoken too loudly? He glanced sharply at the Ragails, hoping they hadn’t heard the question…

“This one?” a little voice said. “That’s Tah.”

Dashvara turned his head again to see little Shivara approaching, spinning top in hand. He sighed loudly, and he was not the only one.

“Tah,” Api repeated.

“Tah,” the child confirmed, and he paused, looking at the fig, puzzled, before asking, “What is it?”

The demon smiled.

“This? My mentor called them amulikas,” he replied. “It’s a fruit from the east. Some call it the fruit of the two Roses. Too bad I’m almost out of them. Would you like one?”

He gave the kid one, and Shivara crouched beside him, putting the fruit between his teeth.

“It’s hard!”

“Of course, it’s a dry fruit. You have to chew. Do you like it?”

Shivara pondered for a few moments before nodding. Dashvara sensed the slight tension in Morzif, who was sitting a little further away, and he gave a not entirely peaceful smile.

If you knew, good Blacksmith, that the boy was not only raised by orcs but is also a demon, you would not let your son near him.

However, despite his strange behavior and even foreign origins, Api didn’t look like a bad boy.

Careful, Dash. You’ll end up becoming more trusting than Arvara, and you’ll believe that even Todakwa of Essimea can be a nice person.

The thought troubled him. How many times had he dreamed and repeated Todakwa’s name in his head? How many times had he sworn to kill him and Lifdor of Shalussi? As far as he knew, those two were the only tribal leaders left alive.

But remember you no longer seek revenge, he reminded himself. What matters now is that your clan accepts the Honyrs and rises from the ashes.

By the time he stopped spinning his plans in his head, little Shivara had already swallowed two amulikas. Now the demon was telling him stories of fairies and castles, and more than one Xalya was listening.

“Yet people dare say legends aren’t true,” he snorted. “Fairies do exist! The proof is that this ternian I knew saved one in the Underground, one almost as young as you. She wore a dress whiter than foam and lived in a tower without ever having seen the sun or spoken to anyone. Can you imagine? And, suddenly, one day…”

Abruptly, Api stopped and straightened up on the cobblestones.

“Ah, I think the journey continues,” he declared, excitedly.

In fact, the foreigners had just left the tavern with Lessi. Finally. The Xalyas rose impatiently, and Dashvara was already grabbing the reins of Sunrise, preparing to mount her, when Kuriag called to him. He sighed and joined the Federate, pulling his mount behind him.

“I would like to formally introduce you to Captain Djamin,” Kuriag explained. “This is Dashvara, the lord of the Xalyas. And this is Zorvun, their captain… and my father-in-law,” he added with a half-amused, half-awkward smile.

The Ragail captain and the two Xalyas exchanged polite greetings as they stared at each other.

“My men and I,” the Ragail said, “will join our effort with yours to secure the protection of the Legitimate Dikaksunora and his wife in these wild lands.”

Dashvara nodded wordlessly, and Zorvun replied:

“It will be an honor for us to… uh… travel with the elite Diumcilian Guard.”

Yes, what an honor…

Dashvara nodded curtly in agreement, and there ended the first exchange. It was a little cold, but it could have been worse. They mounted their horses again and soon left Rocavita behind. They rode along the field-lined path for a while before they saw the black opening that led to the tunnels of Aïgstia. Theoretically, because of the detours and the dim light of the lanterns, even if they took shortcuts where the carts couldn’t go, it would take them three whole days to get through these tunnels. That is, if all went well. And then, who knows what they would find.

14 Running away

The journey through the tunnels of Aïgstia was a dark one for all of them, and it managed to exasperate the most impatient Xalyas. The darkness, the claustrophobic feeling, and the unavoidable proximity to the Ragails caused tense and worried expressions and imposed a silence only interrupted by the horses’ hooves, the warriors’ boots, and rare comments. The only ones to speak animatedly were Kuriag and Asmoan. During breaks, and even while walking, they would engage in long conversations. According to Lessi, they talked about various things, but the Eternal Bird and the Ancient Kings were recurring topics.

“I feel like I married a shaard,” Lessi snorted, amused, on the second day.

So, taking the opportunity, Zorvun offered his daughter to travel with them, and Lessi was able to listen to Api’s wild stories. On the third day, as they all walked through an uneven tunnel, taking care that the horses did not stumble, Dashvara asked:

“Tell me, kid. That story about you riding a dragon, is it true?”

Api was walking a few steps back and had been silent for a while, looking thoughtful. He looked up and smiled.

“Sure is. And it was a big one.”

Dashvara gave him a skeptical pout and turned around to take a good look at where he was walking. Then Api said cheerfully:

“He was in the middle of Ied, actually near the docks, where the Abandoned Palaces are. It was a beautiful dragon, covered in horns and blue scales. I rode it many times. Mostly because you could jump from its nostrils and dive straight into the sea. It was fun.” He paused. “Did I mention it was made of stone?”

Dashvara stifled a big laugh.

“No, but I was beginning to suspect it,” he assured.

He rolled his eyes, and they kept walking in silence. Soon they reached the end of the shortcut and came out onto the main road. Here the tunnel was wider, higher, and, above all, it was much better maintained. They turned right. From there, according to Asmoan’s map, they were only about half an hour away from the exit and the sun. Dashvara unconsciously quickened his pace and slowed down whenever he got too close to the two Ragails who led the way with their lanterns. He suddenly squinted. Was that… sunlight or a reflection of the lanterns?

Before he could determine, a shadow passed before his eyes…

‘Dash!’ Tahisran cried in a horrified voice. ‘There’s a cart out of the tunnel! And I heard a scream. I didn’t dare approach. There’s too much light.’

Dashvara stopped short and ordered with a roar:

“Halt!”

As the two Ragails at the head of the line turned around in surprise, he explained:

“The exit is close. We should send sentries to see if the area is safe. There could be trouble.”

Both Ragails exchanged glances and shrugged their shoulders. One of them offered:

“I can go.”

“I’ll go with you,” Dashvara decided. “Lumon, take your bow and come with me. The rest of you, keep moving slowly and stay alert.”

“I’m going with you,” Makarva interjected from the rear. “I know you’re able to resurrect and all, Dash, but if anything happens to you, my Eternal Bird will die of shame.”

Dashvara didn’t protest: he left the reins of Sunrise to Zamoy, and he, the Ragail, the Archer, and Mak moved quickly away down the tunnel, followed discreetly by the shadow.

‘Didn’t seem to me to hear any sword strikes,’ Tah added.

He said no more, probably because he had no other details to give. The light grew brighter and brighter, and finally, they emerged from the tunnel. Dashvara’s first sensation was one of release. The second was horror. That was because he had just seen an overturned cart and a scaly bipedal creature that was trying to reach a stunned sajit, hoisted on a stone projection of the deep rocky canyon. The woman did not even see the four figures coming out of the tunnel: her eyes were feverishly searching for a hold to continue climbing the rock.

“Red nadres,” Makarva spat, drawing his sabers.

Dashvara looked around and was relieved to see no other nadres. Grabbing his own swords, he called out:

“Let’s draw it away from the tunnel. If it explodes, it could damage it. Ragail, don’t move from here.”

The three Xalyas moved quickly away, bypassing the cart. In front of it, they could see the lifeless body of another woman, an unloaded crossbow at her side. The horse must have broken free and galloped away… probably pursued by the rest of the nadre herd, Dashvara realized with a shudder.

As soon as they were far enough down the rocky corridor, Lumon fired an arrow. It hit the monster’s scaly neck, and though it didn’t pierce through it, the creature was distracted and turned its attention away from the steppewoman on her rock. The Xalyas moved away from each other. If only they’d had some cold oil to keep the nadre from exploding once it was dead… Maltagwa had made enough to fill a wineskin, but they didn’t have it precisely on hand right now. There was still the option of trying to distract the creature until one of the three returned with the wineskin, of course, but the easiest way was to kill it and take it down where the passage was wider.

“Come on, little dragon!” Dashvara said waving his black sword at the beast. “Don’t be a coward.”

It was half cowardly. Seeing itself surrounded on three sides, the red nadre gave a mighty roar and rushed at Makarva, who was in the middle of the path leading out of the defile. The red nadres were monsters not distinguished by intelligence, but in that case, its instinct of survival and its isolation from the herd prevailed.

“Move aside!” Dashvara shouted.

Makarva stepped aside suddenly, but the red nadre, instead of running away, backed away, roaring repeatedly to call its pack. Dashvara shook his head, at a loss. The little dragon should have run off to join its herd. Unless… When the nadre turned and ran this time towards the Ragail and the tunnel entrance, Dashvara felt the blood run cold in his veins.

“By the Liadirlá, the herd is in the main tunnel!” he bellowed.

And this time he dashed forward, no longer to distract the beast so that it would go away, but to stop it before it reached the tunnel. It would still be less of a problem if it exploded in the gorge than in the tunnel. Before he had time to think much, he was already digging his swords into the scales of the beast. He fell, dragged down by the weight and swore, pulling his sabers out and plunging them back into the paws and claws. It was sad, but the nadre would have to wait a while before it died. Leaving the bruised creature, useless and roaring, Dashvara released his sabers and rushed toward the tunnel, shouting:

“Everybody out! Hurry!”

The first Xalyas soon came out, on horseback. Api was mounted on Tsu’s horse.

“We have red nadres behind!” Orafe informed.

“And one in front,” Dashvara replied, indicating it.

“Are they close?” Lumon inquired.

“On our heels!” the Grumpy croaked. “We should have heard them coming, but nothing. I can’t explain it to myself, these tunnels must be bewitched.”

“The lionrock muffles the noise,” Tsu commented.

Many looked at him with surprise. They always forgot that the drow had not always been a Xalya, far from it, and that he had been at the university of Titiaka for years. The Hairy breathed out loudly:

“In any case, the Ragails are on the front line!”

Dashvara smiled wickedly.

“Well, we’ll see if their magic tricks work against the nadres.”

“Oh, guys: let’s get out of the canyon,” Sashava urged them.

Dashvara nodded, took Sunrise’s reins, mounted, and stood between the dying nadre and the expedition, so that the latter had to pass to the left of the cart. Roars from the tunnel reached him, and when he saw Kuriag emerge with Asmoan, wide-eyed, he suppressed a crooked smile. Welcome to the steppe, Excellency… The elf stopped his horse and asked:

“Who is this woman?”

Dashvara arched an eyebrow. Gosh. He had completely forgotten about the steppeswoman perched on the rocks. He looked up at her and saw her as appalled as she had been a few minutes earlier. She was in her thirties, with steppian features, colorful clothes… Shalussi clothes, Dashvara judged. He brought his mount closer to the rock wall.

“Don’t be afraid!” he called out to her. “You can come down from there now.”

The Shalussi hesitated. Dashvara insisted, impatient:

“There are other red nadres in the area: you shouldn’t stay here. You and the other woman were headed for Dazbon, weren’t you?” He had deduced this from the position of the cart. He shook his head. “We’re going the opposite way, but anyway, with that band of red nadres in the tunnels, I wouldn’t advise you to go that way. Uh… Are you going to stay up there?”

Without a word, the steppe woman began to climb down the rock face. At a glance, Dashvara saw that Kuriag had just stood there looking at her, and he huffed.

“Keep going, Excellency. Don’t stop. I’ll take care of her.”

The young elf swallowed but nodded and walked away through the canyon. By the time the Shalussi finally landed on the ground, Dashvara had already lifted the dead woman and passed her to Arvara. The Shalussi smoothed her clothes with a nervous hand, and her eyes slid to her companion. Dashvara cleared his throat.

“I regret that we were too late for her. I suppose you’ll want to give her a proper burial. Is there anything of value in your cart, Shalussi woman?”

The steppian frowned. She shook her head.

“No,” she sighed. “Except…” She bit her lip, and climbing into the cart, lifted a cloth and discovered a little girl of about four years old who had been hiding there. She took her in her arms. Dashvara nodded, pleased that they had at least arrived in time to save two souls.

“Boron,” he called out. “Take them on.”

The Placid nodded and helped mother and daughter onto his horse. Dashvara sighed loudly and turned his mount. More than one Xalya had stayed behind to help the Ragails cover the retreat, including Zorvun, of course. The problem was that fighting in a tunnel was not practical. And even less so when…

An explosion was heard, and Dashvara turned pale. Devils, devils, devils. He turned his head sharply, but the dying nadre was still alive. The explosion came from the tunnel. He entered it with Sunrise. The roar of roars mingled with the bellowing of the warriors. The lionrock muffled the noise, Tsu said… Well, fortunately. Dashvara shouted:

“Get back! Don’t kill them!”

But he knew it was difficult to ask such a thing when the red nadres were charging ferociously. Another explosion shook the tunnel, and a shower of dust blinded them. Then Djamin’s voice thundered:

“Back!”

It’s about time…

Dashvara stepped out of the tunnel again so as not to block the way and trotted away, followed closely by the others. A roar of explosions sent Sunrise into a gallop, and Dashvara had to control its momentum. By the Eternal Bird! If the tunnel held after that, he would eat his boots.

The canyon was not very long, and they soon came out on to the steppe. Before him lay endless plains covered with grass. Emotion began to overcome him, but almost immediately, his joy was replaced by the duty of the moment: at a glance, he made sure that all were safe and sound, he made Sunrise turn, and heard Zorvun mutter:

“What a bunch of idiots…”

Dashvara bet he was talking about the Ragails. He saw them form up in front of the defile.

A lot of discipline and a lot of magic, but then they’re not able to run when they need to.

The Ragail captain’s horse trotted up to Kuriag, and Dashvara approached with Zorvun. The young Legitimate nodded, looking grim. Joining them, Dashvara commented calmly:

“Let me guess: the tunnel collapsed.”

Djamin cleared his throat.

“It’s possible,” he admitted.

Dashvara smiled mockingly.

“The merchants can’t complain: we are leaving behind a solid and safe path. Not even a troll will dare to pass through such a well-guarded path.”

He saw the Ragail captain grit his teeth and Kuriag look at him with a mixture of embarrassment and disbelief. Dashvara bet that, if it had been the Xalyas and not the Ragails who had caused the accident, they would not have been so understanding. In their defense, it had to be said that there were no red nadres in Diumcili. With forced patience, Djamin retorted:

“It won’t be hard to get the road open again. For now, let’s just be glad we’re all still alive.”

Dashvara looked at him mockingly, but he merely replied:

“We’d better get away from here before it gets dark.”

It wasn’t until he was heeling his horse that he thought of Tah, and, suddenly worried, questioned his brothers. It was Api who answered, patting his bulging pack:

“Everything is in order.”

Dashvara arched an eyebrow at the shadow’s amused mental confirmation. Well, he sighed. It hadn’t been the quiet arrival he’d hoped for, but they were finally on the steppe. He glanced around. Many of the Xalyas had their eyes fixed on the horizon. Some were looking northwest, directly at Xalya.

How strange, isn’t it, brothers? he muttered to himself, straightening up on Sunrise. We are returning to a steppe where we have spent most of our lives, and it almost seems as if we have not seen it for twenty years. Only three years have passed. Three years, and so much has changed.

But we came back.

He smiled, looking out over the distant plains and hills. Horse hooves were heard nearby. Yira stopped on his right. Above her veil, her dark eyes watched him intently.

“So this is your steppe, Dashvara of Xalya.”

Dashvara smiled, took her gloved left hand and kissed it gently.

“She is as much mine as yours, naâsga,” he murmured. He turned his gaze back to the plains and shook his head. “Perhaps it will seem a little empty to you at first, but it encloses much more than meets the eye. The steppe,” he gestured widely, “you have to feel it.”

Yira’s eyes smiled and then turned to the vast horizon. She commented:

“It’s like an ocean. Except instead of waves, there are hills, and, instead of boats, there are horses.”

Dashvara choked as he heard her compare his steppe to the sea.

“But horses do not sink, naâsga. They ride on solid ground. The steppe is plain and simple. If you take away, of course, the red snakes, the nadres, the scale-nefarious, the Essimeans…” he listed. Yira huffed, amused, and Dashvara added, “But I’m glad it reminds you of an ocean if… if it makes you feel more at home.”

Yira tilted her head to the side, and her eyes sparkled, smiling again.

“I am a nomadic spirit. My home is where my heart goes.”

Dashvara swallowed, moved, and nodded, knowing that no words could express his joy at having his naâsga by his side, at home, on his steppe. He was turning towards her again, dreamy, when a voice called:

“Dash!”

Dashvara turned to see Zamoy approaching at a trot. The Baldy stopped and explained:

“The Shalussi woman says she is a runaway slave from Essimea. When we told her we were Xalyas, she almost fainted. What do we do with her?”

Dashvara shrugged.

“Tell her that the rest of us, unlike her people, are not in the habit of killing innocent people and that—”

“Dash,” Yira protested.

“And that the lady of the Xalyas will decide her fate,” Dashvara finished with a small smile.

The sursha looked at him, eyes squinting, snorted, and said:

“I think that, at the moment, it is more up to Kuriag Dikaksunora to decide.”

Dashvara arched an eyebrow.

“Devils, that’s true. I’ll go ask our master what he thinks.”

It turned out, however, that Kuriag was precisely talking with the Shalussi, and when Dashvara arrived, he heard the Legitimate declare:

“Under my protection, the Essimeans will not dare to lay a hand on you.”

“I’ll lend you some clothes,” Lessi interjected in a soft voice. “No one will be able to mistake you for a slave. What do you say?”

The Shalussi woman looked at them with an expression of pure amazement. Letting go of her daughter’s hand, she knelt before them saying:

“You saved my daughter’s life and mine. I have been a slave for many years, but I have never served a master who deserved it. If I can be of use to you in any way, I, Hezae, will do so.”

Kuriag nodded, not knowing what to say. Lessi smiled.

“It will be a pleasure to have you by my side.”

As the steppe woman stood up, Dashvara interjected:

“Can I ask you a question, Hezae? What area of Essimea are you from?”

The Shalussi turned her head towards him, and her expression became fearful.

“I lived in Aralika, the Tower City, for a long time. But two years ago, they moved my sister and I further south. Where the ancient people of Lifdor used to be.”

So Lifdor had also fallen into the nets of the Essimeans, Dashvara deduced. The whole steppe had fallen. It was to be hoped that the Honyrs had not. He commented:

“Two years. That means you were still in the main village of Todakwa when the Xalya dungeon fell.”

Hezae nodded, and before the attentive ear of the Xalyas, she said:

“I saw the Xalya slaves arrive. Most were children and women. Some… were sacrificed to their god.”

A wave of hatred and horror swept over Dashvara at the thought of the Essimeans sacrificing Xalya children to their stupid God of Death. His right fist clenched hard on the pommel of his sword.

“But they left the others alive,” Alta interjected with a touch of hope.

Hezae nodded slightly.

“Yes. But I can’t tell you how many there were. I only saw a handful. I worked on a farm, you understand: I rarely went into town.”

Town, Dashvara repeated to himself. How many people were there in that “town” called Aralika? He remembered that the shaard Maloven had told him that the Essimean lands were the most populated place on the steppe, since they also had the richest, most arable land. Five years ago, Xalya officers estimated that two thousand souls lived there. But that was without counting the slaves who had been torn from their homes since then.

The conversation with the Shalussi made them all gloomy, and when they started to walk away from the canyon, they hardly exchanged a few words. It was soon dark, and the Ragail captain soon gave the order to stop. As they set up camp and lit torches, other Xalyas dug the grave for Hezae’s sister. They dug it quickly and quietly, and Dashvara bet that more than one person thought: did the Shalussis even dig a grave for our fallen brothers in Xalya? No, they certainly had not. But it was also true that this Shalussi who had been a slave for years was not responsible.

When the task was done, they did not linger, and from the other end of the camp, Dashvara saw the figures of his brothers moving swiftly away, leaving Hezae to grieve her loss alone. He breathed in the cold night air and with a gentle hand stroked Sunrise’s forehead. The mare breathed softly in pleasure. The encounter with the red nadres had made her nervous for a long time, but now that Dashvara was tending her like a queen, she had regained complete serenity. He smiled and continued to brush her, saying:

“I would never let one of those beasts hurt you, daâra. You must not fear them. Lusombra did not fear them: she looked them in the eye. She flapped about like a bird. And I never let them hurt her.”

And so, alone with his thoughts and his mare, he was whispering sweet nothings to her when he noticed a tall, stout figure approaching. It was Raxifar. His face was barely visible in the darkness. The Akinoa stopped a few steps away.

“Xalya,” he greeted him in a deep voice.

Dashvara nodded politely while still brushing his horse.

“Raxifar.”

From where they stood, the muffled voices of the Xalyas could be heard, wrapped in their blankets, unusually pensive. Taking advantage of the space, the Ragails had set up camp a little further away. The tents of the Ragail captain, Kuriag and Asmoan stood between the two groups. The first had the red colors of the Titiaka guard, the second was white, adorned with the blue design of the Dikaksunora bird, and the third, that of the Agoskurian, was a bright orange. With such discretion, I can see us greeting the Essimeans tomorrow at dawn…

“I’m going to leave,” the Akinoa declared after a silence.

Dashvara stopped his task, but calmly, and let Sunrise slowly move away to graze the grass. He nodded.

“I know. Did you tell the Titiaka?”

The light from a nearby torch lit up Raxifar’s mocking smile. No, he hadn’t told him. Dashvara rolled his eyes.

“We will give you food and what you need,” he promised. “And we’ll cover your departure so no Ragail will see you.”

Raxifar bowed his head slightly.

“If I manage to find my people, Xalya, you can count on me to free yours from the Essimean clutches.”

Dashvara smiled, moved.

“Thank you, Raxifar. Right now, I’m not sure how we’re going to do it. But we will. Believe me, I will also do everything I can to help all of your people who have fallen into the hands of the Essimeans. It’s just… I owe it to myself to return the favor to Kuriag Dikaksunora before I devote myself fully to it.”

Raxifar nodded thoughtfully.

“I understand. That foreigner doesn’t have a bad heart. But he can never truly forgive what I did to his father. I can’t understand how he hasn’t chopped my head off yet.”

They exchanged grim smiles. Dashvara spoke solemnly.

“Ayshat, Raxifar of Akinoa. Thank you for traveling with us here… and for saving my life. I don’t know if our people will ever manage to live together after all that has happened, but… without a doubt, you have earned the respect of the Xalyas. Especially mine.”

Raxifar smiled.

“Akinoa respects the souls who stand for his values; so I can only respond with the same respect,” he replied.

Dashvara huffed and joked:

“If only the Essimeans could follow the same example.”

Both returned to the camp and, trying not to attract the attention of the Ragails, managed to fill a bag of food and two wineskins. Since it was likely that the Ragails would decide to pursue the Akinoa when they discovered his disappearance, they made sure that Raxifar’s horse was in good condition to support the escape. The majority of the Xalyas did not go so far as to say goodbye to the black steppeman in person, but the hostility had disappeared. With time, they were beginning to be tolerant, Dashvara smiled.

The Gem had already covered a good part of the sky and they had just changed the watch when Raxifar stood up and Dashvara did the same. There was only a sepulchral silence in the camp. They walked away to the Akinoa’s horse, and both shook hands vigorously. That farewell said more than a thousand words. Dashvara whispered to him:

“May the Eternal Bird guide you.”

“May Akinoa give you and your people strength,” Raxifar replied in an equally low voice.

He pulled the horse’s reins and rode away, past Sirk Is Rhad, who stood guard to the east of the camp. The Akinoa was already getting lost in the darkness of the night when the Honyr murmured:

“Do you think he will find his people free, sîzan?”

Dashvara shook his head slightly with a glimmer of hope in his heart.

“I don’t know,” he replied. “But, if the Akinoas have also been subdued, that means the Essimeans have everything. Absolutely everything.”

“Except the northern lands,” Sirk Is Rhad observed.

Dashvara nodded silently. Except the northern lands, where the Honyrs lived. These lands, adjacent to the Xalyas, were almost as barren as the Bladhy Desert. But it was still the steppe.

And probably, this will become your home for the next few years, if you manage to honorably get rid of the Legitimate.

But first, he had to listen to the Dikaksunora, satisfy his and Asmoan’s curiosity… Dashvara only hoped he wouldn’t regret not doing what Raxifar had done that night and sneaking away with his brothers and the Xalya women. Time would tell.

15 Lamasta

Not long before the sunrise, it was discovered that the great black head of the Akinoa was missing among the Xalyas. The Ragails were nervous; Djamin, irritated. The Xalyas could not help but smile mockingly. They were already preparing to leave, waiting for Kuriag’s order, when the Ragail captain approached, saying:

“His Excellency would like to speak to you in his tent, Dashvara of Xalya.”

Dashvara winced but nodded.

“I’ll be right there.”

He finished fitting Sunrise’s saddle, stroked her forehead, and saw the angry glint in Djamin’s eyes. Dashvara knew that, had he been in Titiaka, he would have received a beating for lack of diligence. But here on the steppe, the Ragail captain did not dare treat him like the slave he was. Could it be you’re be afraid of thirty steppe savages, foreigner? Dashvara scoffed mentally. And, giving him a curt salute, he walked away towards the tent. To his annoyance, Djamin followed him. Lessi was out, and inside were only Kuriag and Zraliprat, his childhood slave. Sitting on a cushion, the Legitimate did not look happy.

“Ah,” he said, seeing him enter. “Please, captain. Leave us alone.”

“Are you sure, Excellency?” Djamin hesitated.

Kuriag nodded firmly, and when the Ragail captain reluctantly left, he put aside the book he had in his lap and stood up.

“I don’t know how to take it,” he admitted, altered. “I let him live, I bought him a horse, I allowed him to travel with me to the steppe—and that’s how Raxifar pays it back? By running away like a rat? Is this how steppe honor works?”

Dashvara watched him. The young elf was more upset than angry. He shook his head, sighing.

“Listen, Excellency—”

“No, you listen to me,” the Legitimate interrupted sharply. “I know that you and your people helped him escape. I’m not going after him. Because, if I were to capture him, I could do nothing but sentence him to death. Understand that. I don’t want to hurt anyone. But after all I’ve done for you… I expected a little more respect and recognition.”

Dashvara nodded silently. Kuriag was right. From his point of view, he had bought them at a high price, he had helped them reach the steppe armed and on horseback, something the Xalyas would not have achieved without breaking their backs for years in Dazbon; in the end, he had given them a huge gift in exchange for supposedly temporal… but absolute loyalty.

Dashvara looked down at his right arm, where the mark of the Dikaksunora bird was hidden. He nodded again and said:

“You are quite right, Excellency. My apologies. Raxifar felt that given his past actions, it was best for him to go alone in search of his people. To warn you would have been to betray him as well. And he saved my life in Titiaka. As you see, the Eternal Bird cannot fly to two different places at once. But now he has turned to you again, Kuriag Dikaksunora. If you think I deserve punishment for my silence, I will accept it.”

Kuriag gave him a troubled look. He made a nervous gesture.

“I’m not going to punish you.”

Dashvara smiled slightly.

“And you deserve my respect more for that, Excellency.”

“Really?” the young Legitimate retorted. “Enough respect not to think next night, ‘since the novice master won’t punish us, we’re leaving too’?”

Dashvara’s smile widened.

“Enough,” he assured. “Which doesn’t mean I can’t have reservations about the destination of your trip. You want us to enter Essimean territory. Perhaps you believe that your mere presence will prevent the Essimeans from jumping us. I’m not so sure.”

Kuriag shrugged.

“The Essimeans have made more than one agreement with my father, and they are still trading with my family. They will not dare to ‘jump us’. You are under my protection. I know a little about how the Essimeans think. As long as you are my guards, they won’t dare touch you.”

“Assuming that,” Dashvara coughed, “what about our women? They don’t bear the mark. I’d be a lot safer if we left them in a safe place.”

Kuriag frowned.

“In a safe place? Where?”

Dashvara hesitated and then said:

“To the north. With the Honyrs. As soon as we pass through Essimean territory, it would be enough for a few of us to accompany them. And it would hardly delay the journey.”

Kuriag’s face had darkened.

“To bypass Essimea in this way would attract suspicion,” he objected. He paused and uttered: “I will consider your proposal, Dashvara of Xalya. You may go.”

“Go to the Honyrs?” Dashvara replied in a light tone. And he chuckled at the Legitimate’s alarmed expression. “It was a joke, Excellency. I won’t run away, don’t worry.”

He bowed his head briefly and left the tent. Outside, his brothers greeted him with questioning looks, Zorvun scrutinized him, and Dashvara shrugged with amusement.

“I fear that now the Ragails will not let us out of their sight.”

Several gasped. Orafe growled:

“Nothing new under the sun.”

Dashvara wasn’t so sure: it was clear that the Ragail captain hadn’t appreciated being deceived. Having observed him during the trip through the tunnels, Dashvara had a picture of him similar to that of Faag Yordark: a pragmatic, reasonable, strict man… and Titiaka to the core. He resented the freedom the Xalyas enjoyed under Kuriag’s tutelage because it simply went against tradition. Until now, he had just ignored them. But Dashvara could tell by looking at his brothers that returning to the steppe made them feel freer than ever… At some point, they would forget that they were still slaves, they would see the Ragails as intruders, an altercation would arise… and Dashvara preferred not to imagine the outcome.

They were about to pack up Kuriag’s tent when Zorvun stopped him.

“Dash. Did you tell him about the Honyrs and…?” Seeing Dashvara give a nod, the captain paused and inquired, anxious to know, “So?”

Dashvara cleared his throat.

“I don’t know if this was the best time to talk about it,” he admitted, “but he said he’d consider it.”

Zorvun winced and shook his head in annoyance.

“To consider it is not enough. I’ll talk to him,” he decided.

Dashvara smiled as he moved away to help his brothers. There was an advantage to having the new master as the captain’s son-in-law: now, the captain didn’t insist on using Dashvara as a messenger like he did when he wanted to communicate with Atasiag. He thought he had some influence over Kuriag. And maybe he did. The problem was that the Ragail captain had some too.

So, as they set off, the steppemen saw with concern that they were heading north, towards the village of Lifdor. Under the leaden sky, a cold, persistent wind swept across the grass and through the clothes and armor of the Xalyas. Winter was at the gates of the steppe.

They crossed a river and entered an area of slightly higher hills. There was not a single tree in all that vast expanse of almost barren land. They passed by a band of wild horses, and about noon, they saw a cottage and a flock of sheep led by a Shalussi girl. From the top of the hill, the child stared at the advancing line of horsemen. The sky was now completely clear, but the wind was still blowing as insistently as ever.

It was still an hour before they reached the village of Lifdor, according to Asmoan, when they saw three warriors on horseback standing on the other side of a wide, shallow river. This was the Bakhia River, which originated in the mountain of the same name in Xalya land and flowed into the Pilgrim Ocean. It flowed through all the Shalussi lands. Or at least, what was left of it, Dashvara corrected.

The warriors were, presumably, Essimean: unlike the Shalussis or Akinoas, they wore a uniform, a dark blue and black uniform. According to their culture, black symbolized death and blue the immortality of their god. Dashvara immediately felt the tension rising in the group, among the Ragails, but especially among the Xalyas.

Let us stay calm, my brothers, he thought, his heart glooming. The time has not come to fight.

They stopped at a distance, and the three Essimean horsemen crossed the river. Before Kuriag spoke, the one who was going in the middle saluted:

“Welcome to Essimea, Kuriag Dikaksunora.”

He addressed the Legitimate directly, without hesitation. He had even said his name. Dashvara frowned. Certainly, the young elf’s rather refined attire made him stand out among so many warriors with armor, and the Essimeans knew the crest of the renowned Master, but… even so, the welcome seemed no less strange. It seemed as if they already knew of the Legitimate’s coming. And perhaps that was the case, he thought. After all, it seemed logical to inform Todakwa of the visit of the heir to Menfag Dikaksunora in person.

Surrounded on one side by the Xalyas and on the other by the Ragails, Kuriag Dikaksunora nodded courteously.

“Thank you.”

The Essimean introduced himself:

“My name is Ashiwa of Essimea, brother of Todakwa of Essimea. My brother and lord feels honored by your visit to our lands, and he has ordered that we, his subjects, do all we can to make you and your wife feel at ease.”

Dashvara turned pale. So, this man in soldier’s livery was none other than a younger brother of Todakwa. He gritted his teeth quietly and for a moment met the Essimean’s eyes. It was only for a moment, a mere second, but Dashvara was sure he saw a glint of fear in Ashiwa’s eyes. No wonder, for all Xalyas must have been looking at him with criminal eyes at the same time. Dashvara did not envy him.

“Thank you,” Kuriag repeated.

Ashiwa of Essimea swallowed.

“If it suits you, I will escort you to Lamasta, the nearest town to our land. Until recently, it belonged to a savage named Lifdor. Any merchant can assure you that in a few short years, the entire area has changed greatly, and for the better. Thanks in part to your father’s help,” he observed, flatteringly.

Kuriag bowed his head again, and the procession resumed. Dashvara’s Eternal Bird was boiling inside. The affability of Ashiwa of Essimea seemed a cruel illusion to him.

You know what Essimeans are like, Dash: they’re worse than red snakes. They smile at you and betray you. They betrayed us by joining with the savages to wipe out our people. They have swept away the shaards of the steppe and with them the wisdom of the ancient kings. If they decided not to exterminate us, it was not out of mercy: it was because they thought we were no longer a threat. And truthfully… are we?

His doubts soared when they saw the town of Lamasta. It was not a city like Titiaka, but it was more than a steppe village. There, built along the river and even on the small hill nearby, were perhaps a hundred buildings. There were huts, but also stone houses, and on the hill, stood a small Essimean temple with a clearly Titiaka architecture. Lamasta was alive with activity. Dashvara’s heart ached with confusion.

Come on, he said to himself as the procession moved towards the town, did you think the steppe was dying? Well, look, Dash, what do your eyes see now? Life, peace, and wealth. Frightening, isn’t it? You who thought you were arriving with your brothers to devastated and empty lands, behold the power of the Essimeans!

As Siranaga would have said, in his memoirs: Rocdinfer was a happy kingdom again. Or at least, that was how it looked. And, strangely enough, noticing this made Dashvara feel stunned, intimidated, and indignant all at once.

Several times he felt that Kuriag was giving him and his brothers worried looks. Was he perhaps afraid they would lose their temper? Well. He could stay reassured for the moment: they were all too stunned by the Essimean grandeur. If Lamasta was like this, what was Aralika, the City of the Tower, supposed to be like?

All this was built by slaves, he thought. Perhaps even the Xalyas who had survived had worked here. Dashvara glared at the houses and people of Lamasta. The Essimeans had achieved nothing wonderful: their kingdom floated on a sea of blood. Like that of Shaotara and Siranaga. Like that of the Ancient Kings.

History repeats itself. Except that now, there were no more lords of the steppe, the savages were subdued, the Honyrs lived isolated in the north…

And the rest of us are only thirty-five Xalya slaves of Diumcili, Dashvara’s dark mind finished. Twenty-three warriors. Five female pirates. One fanatic of the Eternal Bird. A Titiaka wife. A cripple. A physician. And a steppe lord with his naâsga and his shadow. His lips twitched as he added, And a six-year-old. Face it, Dash: right now, little Shivara has as much chance of rescuing the trapped Xalyas and getting out alive as we do.

His gaze had fallen on a group of Essimean guards patrolling the outskirts of the city. He could hear the Xalyas breathing heavily. Maef was snorting like a horse. So much so that he looked like he was going to suffocate. Zorvun reached out to squeeze his shoulder and whispered something to him. Perhaps because of this, Maef did not burst, but his eyes kept flashing with fury. Api watched him from the corner of his eye, not with his usual mockery but with a mixture of admiration and apprehension.

After riding along the main street they stopped before a stone building, probably built from some earlier structure of the steppe lords. The Ragail captain gave the order to dismount. Dashvara dismounted. And his brothers after him, reluctantly. It was clear that they all wanted to spur their horses and ride away from there. It was either that or draw their swords to vent their rage. However, they had not come all this way to die foolishly. So they held back their impulses.

Ashiwa of Essimea invited Kuriag, Lessi, and Asmoan into the building, and he let Djamin and two other Ragails in, as well as Api and a Hezae in Titiaka clothing… but that was all. As Dashvara approached the door, one of the Essimean guards stepped in and said:

“The stables are behind the building.”

Dashvara glared at him. The Essimean was taller than he was, but younger: he couldn’t hold the Xalya’s gaze, looked away, became agitated… Then, from within, Kuriag intervened:

“I’ll be safe within these four walls, don’t worry. Follow the instructions, and there will be no problem.”

Dashvara remained unperturbed. There would be no problem, he said? Oh then, hell, why worry? He gave a curt nod, turned around, and took over the reins of Sunrise. If Kuriag trusted the Essimeans, if he believed they would not betray them, it was up to him. It was bad enough that they had followed him into an Essimean city and had been greeted by none other than a brother of the new kinglet of the steppe. Now, the only thing Dashvara could do was to make sure that, if the Essimeans pulled out the swords, the Xalyas would be ready. And, for the moment, they were more than ready.

They went to the so-called stables, which were in reality simple paddocks without shelter. No sooner had they entered one of them than Orafe gave a grunt to a helpful stable boy who had approached his horse. From then on, no boy dared disturb them. When they had finished tending to the animals, they sat down by the fence to eat as well, scanning their surroundings with careful eyes. The three Honyrs continued to whisper to their horses. Leaning against the fence, Dashvara watched the figures moving on the roof of the nearby temple. The pounding of hammers could be heard from there. Were there Xalyas among these workers? Were there Xalyas among the distant voices heard in the city?

You won’t know if you stay here.

He glanced at the Ragails. They had left their horses in the other paddock and were on the alert, but they spoke with greater calm than usual, as if the Xalyas’ concern at being surrounded by Essimeans made them feel more at ease.

‘Dash? You’re here, aren’t you?’, Tahisran suddenly asked.

The shadow was still in Api’s bag. Dashvara approached quietly.

“You can’t get out,” he whispered to him. “There are eyes everywhere.”

‘I know,’ Tahisran replied cheerfully. ‘Anyway, I can’t technically get out: this bag isn’t like yours, it’s tied with a loop. And the worst thing is that it’s all full of stuff… If you knew… I’d swear there’s even some food left over from months ago. Good thing I don’t mind bad smells… Say, Dash.’

“Mm?” Dashvara answered.

He had turned to lean against the fence next to Sandcup, Tsu’s horse. That day, the young demon had traveled with the drow. A curious choice, considering that Tsu was not one to talk for hours on end with a talkative boy like Api. He noticed Tahisran’s excitement and arched an eyebrow, intrigued, before reaching out and stroking the forehead of Tsu’s horse.

“Is something the matter, Tah?” he asked.

‘You’re not going to believe this,’ the shadow smiled. ‘Do you remember what Api said in Rocavita? That story about the little girl lost in a tower in the Underground? At first, I thought it couldn’t possibly be her, but… yesterday I overcame my fears and had a long talk with Api in Asmoan’s tent. He didn’t know her personally, but… now I’m sure it’s her!’

Dashvara felt confused.

“Her? Wait a minute, who is ‘her’?” Before Tahisran could explain, he remembered and huffed: “Gosh. I remember now.”

For sure, he remembered. The first day he’d met him, in Rocavita, Tahisran had told him that, years ago, he’d known a little girl who’d been lost far away from here, he’d traveled in vain to find her parents, and when he’d returned, the girl was nowhere to be seen, and he had thought her dead. Apparently, Api had convinced him that she was still alive. Dashvara shook his head and met the horse’s soft, dark eyes.

“This kid tells a lot of stories, Tah. How can you be sure he didn’t make it all up?”

He perceived the abrupt negation of the shadow.

‘That’s impossible. He gave too many details. The girl survived,’ he said.

His joy was obvious, and Dashvara smiled.

“Well, I’m happy for you then, Tah. Really.”

He could see the curiosity in the horse’s eyes. The horse couldn’t quite understand why he was calling him Tah when its name had always been Sandcup. His smile widened, he patted its forehead, and he was about to ask Tah what he thought of Api and Asmoan, to find out, if anything, if he was aware that both were demons when he suddenly heard a roar:

“Yodara!”

There was a stunned silence. Dashvara turned around, his hands clutching the pommels of his swords. What the…?

What he saw left him paralyzed. A warrior in Essimean uniform had stopped several paces away, eyes wide. An Essimean warrior, yes, he was an Essimean warrior. But he was also a Xalya.

And a former officer of my father’s lord, Dashvara remembered, dumbfounded.

He did not know how to react to such an encounter. The truth is that, for a few moments, neither of his brothers was able to speak. When Ged stood up, Dashvara remembered that he and Yodara were blood brothers.

“B-Brother?” the master weaponsmith gasped, approaching in disbelief.

The Xalya officer was livid, but when Ged broke the silence, he stammered:

“Eternal Bird. Am I dreaming?”

Ged huffed, smiled, and they both laughed and hugged each other tightly under the frown of the Ragails and the happy smiles of the Xalya. It wasn’t every day that one met again a good Xalya officer, though the mere thought that he was now working for the Essimean twisted Dashvara’s smile into a hesitant pout.

And what did you want him to do? a small, sarcastic voice replied. Take his own life, perhaps? Resist to the death as your lord father did? That would not have helped matters.

As the Xalya troop rose to greet the officer, Dashvara stepped out of the paddock, and Yira joined him, a puzzled expression on her face. As he approached, he heard Ged say in Oy’vat:

“We’re back at last, brother. Not as free as we would like, but we will be soon.”

“My old friend!” Zorvun exclaimed, laughing serenely.

Yodara widened his already moist eyes and breathed out in disbelief:

“Captain Zorvun!”

The Xalyas stepped aside to let the captain pass, and both shook hands vigorously.

“That uniform looks really bad on you,” the captain scoffed.

“Yours doesn’t look much better on you,” Yodara replied, smiling, but his smile faded when he added, altered, “It’s like a dream. More than once in these three years I’ve thought I was going crazy. And I think maybe I’m hallucinating… And little Shkarah,” he added, moved, taking his niece’s hand with an astonished expression. “It’s so strange and so good at the same time to see you again. You will be glad to know, Shkarah, that your cousins are still alive. They are working in Aralika with Maeya. At least, that was true three years ago. I haven’t seen them since…” He shook his head sadly. “Sometimes I think my Eternal Bird has lost all hope. It’s flying low to the ground. If it even flies at all,” he sighed. “If the lord of the Xalyas saw me now, he’d chop my head off for treason.”

“Don’t be so sure,” Dashvara interjected loudly.

Arvara stepped aside, and Yodara frowned; he blinked, and his complexion turned pale again.

“Eternal Bird,” he articulated. “Dashvara?”

The lord of the Xalyas smiled and nodded, indicating his people with a vague gesture.

“They made me a lord, so I try to be one.”

“He’s more than trying,” Zorvun assured, his eyes sparkling with amusement.

Yodara watched him intently. He’s sizing me up, Dashvara realized. If he expected to find a replica of Lord Vifkan, he was in for a big disappointment… He cleared his throat.

“I am glad to see you, Yodara. I remember my father holding you in high regard.”

Yodara bowed his head.

“We didn’t always share the same vision, but he always listened to my opinion and that of the other officers before making a decision.”

A decision that sometimes went against all wisdom, Dashvara added mentally. He cracked a small smile.

“In that regard, I will try to do as he did. So,” he went on, “the Essimeans have separated the families.”

“They’ve done more than keep us apart,” Yodara considered, taking a more practical tone. “They enslaved us to the point of insanity. From what I know, they sent most of us to do domestic chores or tend to the livestock in Aralika. I think I’m the only one they decided to use as a guard. Still, they won’t let me carry swords. Nor speak in Oy’vat,” he added in the Wise Tongue with a crooked smile that twisted even more when he said, “Anyway, you’re the first Xalyas I’ve spoken to in three years. If only I could get away. But, if I did, they would sacrifice a member of my family. If I disobey, they will punish them. The Essimeans know the hearts of the Xalyas,” he admitted bitterly. “They are black mages. They know how to handle us.”

He met Dashvara’s eyes again and nervously lowered his head, showing for the first time the shame that was eating him up inside. Dashvara was looking for something to say in response to ease his torment when Yodara blurted out in a choked voice:

“I know that, if I ever see my sons again, I will not dare to look them in the face.”

Ged sighed and comforted him with a pat. Dashvara calmly acknowledged:

“It’s been a tough three years for all of us. But now there is hope.”

“Really?” Yodara retorted with some vivacity. “What hope? My brother says you are also slaves. There are about thirty of you. The Essimean warriors are hundreds. And, aside from you, I’d wager there are no more than fifteen Xalya men on the steppe. The clan is dead. I mean no disrespect, Dashvara of Xalya. I was one of the first to admire your father’s steadfastness and persistence. But you have to be realistic. The Essimeans would laugh their heads off if you drew your swords now to free your people, my lord. I’m only saying what I think.”

Dashvara heard several of them gasp. Zamoy grunted:

“If we start being this optimistic, we’re not going anywhere.”

Voices rose, but more than one, instead of supporting or refuting Yodara’s assertion, anxiously asked him about this or that family member, and whether he had seen them alive in Aralika before leaving for Lamasta… Yodara was trying to answer the flood of questions as best he could when suddenly a dry voice was heard, ripping through the air. The Xalyas all turned to see an Essimean patrol approaching between the paddocks. The patrol leader had just barked something in the Galka language, the Essimean dialect. Dashvara had learned it as a child from Maloven, but according to the shaard, his level left much to be desired. Nevertheless, it was obvious that the Essimean guard had just issued an order to Yodara. By then, all that could be heard was the wind and the distant pounding of hammers on the temple roof.

The Essimean’s face contorted, and he repeated the order. This time Dashvara understood a “come closer”, followed by what was probably a rather contemptuous appellation. With concern, Ged took Yodara by the arm, but Yodara broke free, gave a clear signal to his brothers not to interfere, and approached the patrol leader. The latter shouted something in his face, and the Xalya officer clenched his fists and lowered his head, muttering words in Galka… Interrupting him, the Essimean warrior pushed him and hissed something. Yodara nodded promptly and moved away from there. He glanced back only once. And that look was directed at Dashvara, half fierce, half pleading, as if to say, “Don’t send my sons to the grave like your father would have done”. The helplessness had been crushing him for three years. It was not surprising, then, that his morale had hit rock bottom and that he was ready to defend the little he had left: the lives of his sons, even if they were in the hands of the Essimeans. And yet, when Yodara looked away, Dashvara thought he saw a glimmer of hope in his eyes.

Captain Zorvun raised a hand to urge the Xalyas to back off and let the Essimean patrol pass. They glared at them so murderously that even the chief sped up to get away as quickly as possible. Near the opposite paddock, the Ragails, unexpressive, did not miss a bit of the scene. Dashvara sighed, and Zorvun echoed him, stopping beside him.

“Sounds like life on the steppe was more devastating than life on the Border,” he muttered in a husky voice.

Dashvara reached out a hand to Yira and gently squeezed hers as he replied to Zorvun:

“Perhaps, Captain. But an Eternal Bird can recover. At least a little.”

Zorvun shook his head sadly.

“Maybe, son. The day it stops getting battered…” He nodded, a confused look on his face. “Maybe a little.”

16 The Heart of the Steppe

The first light of the next day caught the Xalyas fast asleep by the fence of the paddock. The Essimeans had offered to spend the night in various houses in the city, but they had refused the offer. It was much better to sleep on the ground with their horses and brothers than divided up in Essimean houses, even if they had “stoves”, and everything else they wanted. The Ragails had spent the night on the veranda of the building, only a few dozen steps away.

Dashvara yawned as he sat up. Sirk Is Rhad was chewing his lunch while keeping a keen eye on his surroundings. He joined him, rubbing his icy hands. If only they could have brought back those strange warm energies that populated the island of Matswad!

His brothers were already stretching, and the little camp was alive with voices. Makarva and Zamoy took advantage of the free time to play a quick game of xalyans, Miflin was dreamily consulting his dictionary and occasionally wandering his eyes over the steppe landscape, Lumon was sharpening daggers… Everyone was busy there as they were at the Border, and yet nothing could hide the general inner turmoil.

When Captain Djamin appeared, they were all ready to set out, that is if they were to go anywhere that day. The Ragail confirmed it by saying:

“His Excellency will resume the journey in one hour. Be ready.”

“We already are,” Dashvara assured, stepping out of the paddock. “So we’re going straight to Aralika?”

Djamin nodded.

“If we keep up our pace, we’ll get there by nightfall.” He glanced critically at the steppian warriors and added, “By the way, I heard the Aïgstia tunnel didn’t collapse. The Essimeans have already sent workers to clear the area. As you can see, it hasn’t been that catastrophic, lord of the Xalyas.”

Amusement was in his voice. Dashvara rolled his eyes without answering, and turning his back on him, the Ragail captain walked away to his men. When they resumed their journey, an hour and a half later, they were escorted by a patrol of Essimean warriors, among whom was Ashiwa of Essimea. They were beginning to be a large group, and dangerously divided. Dashvara bet that more than one Xalya imagined himself flying his horse and galloping off to the north-east. But they couldn’t, because they owed Kuriag a favor, because the other warriors would have killed more than one during the escape, and because their lord hadn’t ordered them to flee.

The steppe in this region was covered with green grass, and about noon, they began to see more huts, more herds, more shepherds. A storm passed to the north, but it did not affect them: the black clouds moved away, swiftly, towards the north-east. They left, however, a muddy land which the riders reached when the sun was already tilting noticeably to the west. Dashvara doubted that they could reach Aralika before the sun disappeared.

A strange mist enveloped them now, and with the increasing darkness, it gave the advance of the party an unearthly touch. Not a whisper could be heard, only the hoofs of the horses, their breaths, and the breathing of some sixty souls.

“It smells like death,” Api said suddenly.

That day, he was traveling on his own mount, a horse loaned by Ashiwa, fortunately quite peaceful, as the young demon had no idea how to steer a horse.

A slight shiver ran through Dashvara’s body as he heard this. Asmoan repeated:

“Death?”

The boy confirmed, swallowing:

“Death.”

Dashvara perceived nothing but a strong smell of wet earth and horses. He exchanged a worried glance with Makarva and heard Zamoy muttering behind him in Oy’vat:

“It must be the Essimeans. They stink.”

Night fell, and they lit lanterns, but those barely shone through the mist. At last, they heard halt! in front of the procession, they stopped their horses, and Zorvun went quickly to inquire. He returned saying:

“We stop here for the night. We still have about three hours of riding to get to Aralika. So says this Essimean snake.”

“We could be two-hundred paces from the city, and we wouldn’t know it,” Sashava growled, digging his crutches into the mud as he scanned the dense shadows. “They could kill us like dogs if they wanted.”

“And all because the Titiaka wants to see a damn tower,” Orafe the Grumpy grumbled, in a bad mood.

They set up for the night. It was not an easy task to set up the tents in the foggy darkness, and even less to find a place where they would not get completely bogged down. They took advantage of the excuse of the mud to move their camp a few steps further away from the Ragails’. A relative silence reigned. And Dashvara, lying on his long cloak, was meditating.

There were three hours left to reach Aralika, and three days to reach the lands of the Honyrs at a good pace. Most of the horses had steppe blood, they were robust, they had unbeatable stamina, and even after a day’s journey, they could have continued for hours.

Kuriag had ignored his proposal to put the most vulnerable Xalyas out of the Essimean’s reach. If he had at least summoned him to his tent to ease his concerns, if he had at least given him arguments, but no: the Legitimate was too busy talking with Ashiwa of Essimea and Asmoan of Gravia to pay him any attention. Too busy, or afraid to confront Dashvara and his stepfather? Both, perhaps.

In any case, Kuriag’s silence and Aralika’s proximity heightened Dashvara’s doubts. He mentally replayed his options: he could stand up and demand to speak with the Legitimate, he could betray him and flee with his brothers, he could remain loyal and enter the city of Todakwa praying that no harm would come. Or he could also do a combination of these three options.

Restless, his heart beating faster than usual, he muttered:

“Tah?”

The shadow was back in his bag. He looked over. In the darkness, even from a few feet away, Dashvara could barely make him out.

‘What is it, Dash?’ Tah asked.

Dashvara moistened his lips.

“Could you get a message to my brothers without anyone noticing?” he whispered.

Tahisran hissed low.

‘Of course!’ he assured, puzzled. ‘What message?’

Dashvara breathed in and said in a whisper:

“This one: stay calm, keep acting natural. Halfway through the first watch, will leave here heading east, then north,” he breathed in and listed, “Sinta, Myhrain, Watsy, Shkarah, Dwin, Aligra, Maef, Zamoy, Atok, Morzif, Shivara, Atsan Is Fadul and Shokr Is Set. If anyone protests, tell them it’s an order.”

For a moment, the shadow remained silent, taken aback.

‘Do you think it’s safe?’ he asked at last.

Dashvara sighed.

“I don’t know. But, anyway, we are so few in number that a few more or less warriors… What difference does it make? We just need to make sure the Ragails don’t notice anything until dawn.”

Tahisran nodded mentally, hesitating.

‘What about the Titiaka? He’ll get angry.’

Dashvara winced.

“I will deal with that when the time comes.”

And so they did as he said. Tahisran was the hero of the escape. He spread the word, sedated the Ragails’ horses, and within two hours the imminent escape seemed to be well underway. The fact that Zorvun had made no objection had comforted Dashvara more than he would have admitted. He knew the escape would have consequences, it would degrade their relationship with the Legitimate, and it would put the remaining Xalyas in a bad position… Still, it seemed preferable to him than bringing the entire clan into the middle of Aralika without even informing the Honyrs that their two peoples shared the same Eternal Bird.

Finally, the long-awaited hour arrived, and yet Dashvara did not give the order. It must have been close to midnight, and Yira still did not appear. He had seen her enter Kuriag and Lessi’s tent to have dinner with them. Dashvara hadn’t been surprised, as she and Lessi were good friends and often chatted with each other. However, her absence was spoiling his plans. He had planned to ask her to leave too. Nervously, he whispered:

“Tah, can you go see what she’s doing?”

The shadow didn’t need him to explain who he was talking about: it moved away, invisible in the shadows. And after a moment, he returned, whispering mentally:

‘She’s coming.’

Indeed, the sursha soon appeared and lay down beside Dashvara, whispering in good humor:

“What are you up to?”

Dashvara cleared his throat quietly and explained. Despite the almost complete darkness, he felt his naâsga’s small body tense up in his arms. She replied:

“No way. I’m staying. And I don’t know if I’m quite convinced by this escape. You yourself once said that dividing the clan was never a good idea.”

“This time, it’s about splitting it up to unite with the Honyrs, naâsga,” Dashvara argued. There was a silence, and he admitted, “I would feel much calmer if you went with them. It would only be a few days. Don’t worry, the Mark of Kuriag will protect us in Aralika. No one will dare to come after us. I just can’t abandon the Titiaka like this. If I stay, he will see my willingness to return his favor, I am sure of it. You yourself know him, and you know Lessi.” As he heard the sursha’s umpteenth sigh, he assured, “Really, naâsga, I will do nothing absurd. You know me.”

Yira breathed out softly.

“Precisely.”

Dashvara kissed her forehead. Everything was so dark that he dared to remove her veil. For a moment, Yira responded to his hug without saying a word. Then she drew back slightly and whispered:

“Are you sure you want me to go, Dash?”

Dashvara felt his heart clench, and he hugged his naâsga more tightly before whispering:

“Yes. Please. The Honyrs are our only hope. Tell them that Dashvara of Xalya forgives their past sins. You are the lady of the Xalyas. They will listen to you.”

Yira sighed.

“If you say so…”

For a long silence, neither of them made any move to pull away of each other. Finally, Yira put her veil back on and whispered:

“Do you… do you think Todakwa is holding a grudge against you because of who you are?”

Dashvara rolled his eyes.

“I have far more reason to hate him, but fear not, naâsga: I am not going to throw myself into the lion’s mouth. I’m only going to get a closer look at him, and, as I’m well leashed, that snake won’t bother to bite me.” His bantering tone broke, and he swallowed as he confessed, “Oh, Liadirlá, I don’t want you to go.”

He was already revising his plan when, with a serene voice, Yira whispered:

“Our Eternal Birds fly together… but you’re right. Maybe I can help more by going to the Honyrs. I’ll help the others hide with my spells and…” The sursha fell silent and ran a gentle hand over Dashvara’s bearded cheek, whispering, “Don’t you dare die, lord of the steppe.”

Dashvara smiled.

“I will dare some day, I guess. But not for a hundred years, if that is possible,” he joked. He kissed her hand and added in a whisper, “Take care, naâsga. Know that my Eternal Bird is with you. We will meet again soon,” he promised.

His naâsga stepped aside gently, and for a moment, they both listened to the silence of the camp. Then he gave the signal, Tahisran transmitted the order, and the flight began. With an anxious heart, Dashvara saw confused figures rise and move away one by one. He closed his eyes and listened. Even the horses were quiet, thanks in part to Tahisran and Yira who helped muffle the noise with harmonic spells. A few minutes later, when Dashvara could hear nothing, he opened his eyes again. He saw almost complete darkness, interrupted only by the faint lights of lanterns in the mist. No one raised the alarm. He smiled. In the end, the Xalyas may be as silent and treacherous as the Essimeans.

He closed his eyes, letting all the air out of his lungs. He spent a long time calculating how far the fugitives could travel before the sun rose. Would they have time to leave the Essimean lands? Would they find the Honyrs? Would they run into a band of hungry red nadres before then? Finally, exhausted, he lectured himself, chastising himself for needlessly rehashing the same concerns, he focused on his breathing and drifted into a restless sleep. He dreamed. He was back in Titiaka, Faag Yordark’s black face appeared, and he was challenging him to a duel. Exasperated, without taking out his two swords, Dashvara turned his back to the Titiaka and discovered with amazement a huge and massive creature standing in front of him. He roared: Brizziaaa! Immediately, he felt dizzy and sweaty. The earth danced before his eyes. He lost his balance. His naâsga helped him to get back on his feet, she cast a spell full of butterflies of light, and the brizzia became smaller and smaller until it became a simple little monster the size of a cat. Dashvara smiled dreamily. Thank you, naâsga…

A sharp pain in his side woke him up.

“Get up!” a voice barked.

Dashvara blinked and instinctively put his hands up to protect himself. It was no use. Several figures shook him and dragged him to the ground before he even vaguely understood that what was happening was no longer a dream.

When the Ragails stopped dragging him, he found himself before Kuriag Dikaksunora’s tent, unarmed and muddy, with the Legitimate looking down at him in dismay.

In my opinion, Dash, you should have run too…

He tried to sit up, but the firm hand gripping his neck prevented him from rising. He cleared his throat.

“If you will let me explain, Excellency…”

He received a blow on the head from one of the Ragails. He fell silent. Kuriag’s expression had now closed and expressed only disdain.

“There’s nothing to explain,” he replied in a dry, slightly shaky voice. “You didn’t keep your word, Dashvara of Xalya. My father would have beheaded you right here without hesitation.” He paused. “Which of you drugged the Ragail mounts?” The other Xalyas boiled inwardly, surrounded by both the Titiaka guards and the Essimeans. None answered. Watched by all, Kuriag tried not to lose his temper and ordered in a firm voice, “Bind the hands of this warrior.” And as he saw that Dashvara opened his mouth, he added, “And gag him.”

The mist had lifted, and the sky was filled with golden and pink hues. Dashvara sighed but did not resist when the Ragails tied his hands and gagged him without regard. Kuriag was talking heatedly with Captain Djamin. They had drifted apart a bit, but Dashvara could tell that Kuriag was blaming Djamin for the lack of vigilance of his men. How on earth could fourteen people and their respective mounts have left the camp without being seen or heard by the sentries? Djamin was confused, trying to explain himself… Dashvara smiled behind his gag. The great Ragail Captain, fooled by savage slaves! Who would have imagined it? But his smile quickly turned into a strained grimace. He hoped that Kuriag would realize that, if twenty Xalyas had remained in the camp, it was because they still intended to serve him until they had paid their debt. He hadn’t broken his word. Or at least not completely, Dashvara corrected honestly.

To his indignation, Kuriag sent four Ragails after the fugitives, borrowing the horses from the Xalyas. They stole Sunrise and left him, bound and gagged, on a numbed horse. They resumed the march towards Aralika. It was a sunny day, and Dashvara estimated that Yira and the others were already more than thirty miles away. He doubted that the Ragails would find the fugitives, even with the help of the Essimeans. But one never knew…

They saw the tip of the Tower of the Eternal Bird long before they reached Aralika, which lay at the end of an endless grassy slope. Here and there grew a few shrubs, and in the distance, scattered trees could be seen on the banks of the Fadul River, the longest river in the steppe. It was the same river that passed near the Xalya Dungeon, except that in Essimea it got wider, and in summer, it did not dry up almost completely as in Xalya.

The city awakened a sense of wonder in Dashvara. As a patrolman on the steppe, he had never travelled beyond his own land. That was why he had been amazed when he first saw Rocavita. Dazbon had struck him with its size and labyrinthine streets, Titiaka with its organization and beauty. Aralika impressed him with its arrogance.

Everything was made of white stone from the mountains of Padria, and so was the Feather, the Tower of the Eternal Bird, which stood wise and elegant, dominating the city with its centuries-old stones.

Kark Is Set, Dashvara muttered inwardly, fascinated. The Heart of the Steppe. That was the name the Ancient Kings had given to their main city. It was said that the Feather that stood there had been built over the remains of Nabakaji, the first shaard and the one who had theoretically spoken first of the Eternal Bird. Inside, centuries of knowledge had been accumulated, and from the top of the needle, according to the books, one could see the entire steppe. Dashvara suddenly felt like checking it out.

Let Kuriag sentence me to death if he will, but not until I have seen that tower. Liadirlá! I must see with my own eyes what the Ancient Kings saw!

Emotion overwhelmed him. He had almost forgotten that he was bound, gagged and watched by several Ragails.

The closer they got, the more it seemed to him that the city was growing in size. There were huge paddocks with steppe horses, patrols on the outskirts, busy slaves, vegetable gardens, cobbled paths, and even a busy market. They walked around the market under the curious eyes of the inhabitants and arrived in front of a sumptuous building, decorated with columns and statues. A whole procession had come out to welcome the Legitimate of Titiaka. A man wrapped in a large dark blue cloak stood at the top of the staircase that led to the small palace. Dashvara’s gaze remained riveted on this tattooed face. He had never seen him, but it was easy to guess that this pale man between the ages was Todakwa. The King of Death.

A hymn rose in the Galka language to welcome the illustrious guest. Todakwa came down the steps with a broad smile, and as Kuriag came to the ground, he greeted him with apparent joy. His voice was soft, and Dashvara, standing almost at the back of the procession, could only catch a few scattered words.

So this is what you’ve made of Kark Is Set, Dashvara muttered inwardly, surveying the surroundings. A modern, active, trading city. I’d congratulate you, Essimean snake, if I didn’t know you’d achieved it at the cost of blood and freedom of innocent people.

Kuriag eventually followed Todakwa inside the palace, along with Lessi, two Ragails, and… surprisingly, he also asked Zorvun and Arvara to accompany him. They promptly moved the others into an adjoining building. More than one Essimean servant glanced curiously at Dashvara as he walked, surrounded by Ragails, to a spacious room filled with straw mattresses. They did not remove the gag, and Dashvara made no attempt to remove it: he sat quietly on one of the straw mattresses and could not help but give Captain Djamin a mocking look. Captain Djamin shook his head in exasperation but made no comment: he simply ordered that no one move from there and left the building. Dashvara smiled behind his gag. He was beginning to find this Ragail sympathetic, after all. He could have chastised him personally, and Kuriag could only have approved. But, for some reason, Djamin preferred not to interfere any more than necessary.

Dashvara lay back, drumming his fingers, and his brothers saw him so still that they must have thought he was in control of the situation. If only that were true, he sighed.

Time passed. Alta helped him free his hands, but when he tried to remove the gag, Dashvara refused. He did so not so much to comply with Kuriag’s order as to avoid having to speak with his brothers about the matter. When he refused, they all exchanged knowing looks. Lumon cleared his throat.

“Are you going to stay like that all afternoon?”

Dashvara shrugged. Makarva shook his head and, rolling his eyes, said:

“Don’t be ridiculous, Dash. Come on, let me take the gag off.”

Dashvara refused again with a curt gesture, but his friend insisted, and finally, between them, Miflin and Makarva managed to take it off him.

“Come on, open your mouth, cousin!” the Poet encouraged, amused.

They tried to force the rag out of his mouth like a stick out of a dog’s mouth. Dashvara glared at them. He huffed and spat out the cloth.

“Okay,” he growled. “What do you want me to say? I did what I thought was right.”

Makarva smiled.

“We know that, Dash. And all of us here think you did the right thing, don’t we, brothers? I assure you, if the Titiaka dares to lay a hand on you, we are not going to let him.”

He patted him on the shoulder. Dashvara sighed.

“Unless I tell you to let him, I hope.”

Makarva winced, and he wasn’t the only one. Ged confessed:

“That’s asking too much of us, boy. We’re not going to let them punish you like a common thief.”

Dashvara rolled his eyes and replied:

“In Titiaka, Lanamiag Korfu once gave me a beating.”

They huffed.

“It’s not the same thing,” Shurta interjected. “Back in Titiaka, we didn’t even have the hope of escape. Here, we have it.”

The Xalyas agreed. Dashvara observed:

“We still owe that Titiaka, I remind you.”

“Bah,” Orafe growled. “If it weren’t for his father, we’d never have found ourselves off the steppe. I see his generosity more as compensation.”

His words generated smiles and a wave of approval. Dashvara shook his head, unconvinced. It wasn’t Kuriag’s fault that his father had been the greatest slaver on the Pilgrim Ocean coast.

Three Ragails were left in the room, and they kept glancing at them with frowns, annoyed that they didn’t understand what they were saying. Dashvara ignored them for the rest of the afternoon. He tried to take a nap, since he had hardly slept last night. When he awoke, he joined Makarva, Miflin and Kodarah in playing katutas. The return of Captain Zorvun and Arvara surprised them in the midst of their celebration: Makarva had lost.

“Well, well!” Zorvun said, as he advanced into the room. “I see our young people have made good use of their time.”

“Like children,” Sedrios the Old assured with a mocking smile from a corner of the room.

“So?” Dashvara said, ceasing to tease Mak. “I take it you already chopped off Todakwa’s head, right?”

The captain rolled his eyes.

“I’ll leave that honor to you, I think. I’m sure you’ll do better than me. I bring good news,” he declared, “the Ragails have not found our brothers and sisters, and I believe that at this time they have a good chance of getting out of Essimean lands safely.”

Sighs of relief were heard, but Dashvara restrained himself from singing victory too soon. The captain added:

“By the way, Dash, my son-in-law wants to see you.” Nodding, Dashvara rose to his feet. Before he left, Zorvun stopped him for a moment. His eyes shone as he whispered, “Kuriag is on our side, son. But he’s a Titiaka. He has a reputation to uphold. Show him that you are still loyal to him and hopefully this story won’t go much further.”

But it’ll go a little further, Dashvara understood. He nodded again.

“I guess he’s still in a bad mood.”

Zorvun grimaced as he rubbed his beard.

“That boy seems incapable of getting angry for good. He’s rather depressed, I’d say. But the idea of visiting the Tower tomorrow has lifted his spirits a bit. He looks more Xalya than we do,” he joked, and he encouraged him, “Go on, go see him.”

Dashvara went out, and an Essimean servant led him to Kuriag’s chambers: they were just next door. Before knocking on the door, the servant hesitated and asked, with eager eyes:

“Is it true that you are Dashvara of Xalya, the last lord of the steppe?”

Dashvara looked at him. The servant was an eastern steppian. A Shalussi, perhaps. He couldn’t have been more than sixteen. He pouted.

“With any luck, I won’t be the last,” he replied.

He knocked firmly on the door himself. There was silence. And then a voice said:

“Come in.”

Dashvara entered and closed behind him before glancing around the room. It was luxurious. Nothing like the rooms in the Xalya Dungeon. From a nearby room, Lessi and Hezae’s voices could be heard. With his usual peaceful and humble expression, Zraliprat moved silently around the living room tidying up his master’s things. Dashvara sometimes wondered if the boy had ever thought of quitting being a slave. He couldn’t remember ever hearing him say more than a few words in a row. He met the boy’s dark eyes and thought he detected a glint of reproach. “My master is in this state because of you,” he seemed to say. Dashvara turned his head towards Kuriag. Sitting on a couch in front of a large, lit fireplace, the elf was watching the fire, looking absorbed. He looked even younger than he was, Dashvara thought.

He approached, hesitantly, in silence. His boots soiled the carpet, and he made an apologetic pout. Gosh. He stopped. Kuriag still said nothing. Clearly, Dashvara was going to have to break the silence. He opened his mouth, still thinking of what he could say to him. Then he saw on a small table his belt with the two swords the Ragails had taken from him. He reached out a hand and took the scabbard of Siranaga’s black sword. Kuriag gasped and widened his eyes in fright. Perhaps fearing the Xalya lord had gone mad, Zraliprat prepared to scream, but Kuriag raised a hand to stop him. Suppressing a smile, Dashvara toyed with the weapon, saying with deep respect:

“This sword belonged to Siranaga, the last Ancient King of the Steppe. And it’s still in as good condition as if it had been forged yesterday,” he muttered, half-drawing it. He sheathed it again with a sharp gesture. “On its blade, it is inscribed ‘atsan is fadul’, Life Saver. A strange name for a weapon, isn’t it?”

He met Kuriag Dikaksunora’s intense gaze, and after another silence during which only the crackling of the fire could be heard, he cleared his throat, left the sword, and went to crouch by the fireplace. A pleasant warmth gradually enveloped him. He breathed in.

“I assure you that my brothers and I will pay our debt far more efficiently knowing that some of our people are now safe, riding to the lands of the Honyrs. I did as my Eternal Bird dictated. I suppose it was a mistake not to tell you before. I assure you I did not mean to mock you, and I am sorry I betrayed your trust. I have damaged your reputation. The Essimeans probably laughed behind your back when they saw that you had such poor control of your slaves.” He gave a sarcastic pout and concluded truthfully, “I am willing to restore your reputation by any means necessary. I’d even be willing to do a lot more if… you helped me, Kuriag Dikaksunora.”

The firelight danced across the young elf’s startled face. He turned his head to the black sword on the small table and articulately repeated:

“Help you? Isn’t that what I’ve been doing since I bought you, Dashvara of Xalya?”

Dashvara’s face flushed. Liadirlá, this foreigner was telling the truth. He exhaled loudly.

“You did help us,” he admitted. “However… my people are still slaves to Todakwa. Essimea’s wealth is based on trade with Diumcili, mainly on trade relations with your family, right? You have influence. And, I, for one, would be willing to do anything to get my people free and safe away from here again.” He had raised his voice fervently, and he controlled it when he added, “We can reach an agreement. Is that too much to ask?”

Kuriag had wrinkled his forehead slightly, puzzled. He shook his head.

“Assuming I am able to convince Todakwa to free your people, what would you give me in return? Your loyalty?”

His voice was full of irony and disillusionment. Dashvara watched him for a moment and answered with a question:

“Tell me, why are you so interested in the Eternal Bird?”

Kuriag blinked and adopted a pensive expression.

“Well… I suppose that, if it weren’t for Maloven, I would never have taken such an interest in It.” He bit his lip and confessed, “I feel that my life has always been dictated by absurd goals. I am a slave to the Titiaka tradition, and sometimes that is little better than being a worker. Especially when one is not drawn to parties, business, gambling…” He shrugged, and his eyes sparkled. “When I got to know the shaard Maloven, I realized that the world was a much better place than I thought. Every time I went to the University and passed people on the street, I thought: every person has a life, thoughts, character, dreams… And I thought that some people poorer than me, or even slaves, managed to be happier. And others were less happy. And I wanted to help them. To ask them what a poor fool like me could do to make their dreams come true.” He rolled his eyes. “But I always ended up giving up. Out of cowardice, I guess. And also because there probably wasn’t much I could do for them anyway. And maybe I was wrong.” He paused and nodded to himself, “That’s what stuck with me the most from Maloven’s teachings. I learned to join my own aspirations with those of others. The Eternal Bird… is a set of concepts. A mold that adapts so that a group of sajits can live together. And that is also what I admire about your people, Dashvara of Xalya. Its diversity and its unity. Its tolerance. Its trust. That’s why I’ve decided to help you. I want your people, the people of Maloven, to be free. I want all people to be free.”

Dashvara stood looking at him, deeply impressed. Kuriag swallowed and blushed.

“When you put it that way, it sounds idealistic and conceited, doesn’t it? Maloven was capable of setting a much more solemn tone to his…”

He fell silent suddenly when he saw the steppe lord quickly pass a hand over his eyes. At the stunned expression of the Legitimate, Dashvara huffed, made a sudden gesture and stood up.

“May the Liadirlá bless you, Kuriag,” he uttered in a husky voice. “If there’s anything I can… do to keep you from thinking I’m an ungrateful savage, you only have to ask.”

The young Titiaka hesitated, opened his mouth, closed it again, then stood up in turn, nervous.

“How about…uh…how about, for starters, you let me know what your decisions are first?”

Dashvara smiled and bowed.

“By my Eternal Bird and that of my people, I swear it. Whenever it’s possible.”

Kuriag nodded and said, as if to justify himself:

“This morning, you put me in an awkward position with the Ragails. I tried not to give away many details, but… I bet Garag has already sent a carrier pigeon to my mother to explain everything.”

Dashvara arched an eyebrow.

“Garag?”

“Oh. A distant cousin,” the Titiaka explained. “He’s settled as a diplomat in the port of Ergaika. That’s about seventy miles from here, and he decided to travel to Aralika to welcome and congratulate me. It has been years since I last saw him. You wouldn’t like him,” he observed with a half-embarrassed, half-amused pout.

Dashvara felt a chill. Ergaika? He remembered hearing the name, but he thought it was just a coastal village in the southwest, not an actual port. He cleared his throat.

“And I suppose he came with more Ragails.”

Kuriag rolled his eyes.

“Actually, no. Garag hires his own men. They’re Ryscodran mercenaries, for the most part.”

He fell silent then continued in a hesitant tone:

“Tomorrow, I’m going to visit the Tower with Asmoan and… I’d like you to come with me.”

Dashvara nodded and tried to conceal his keen impatience with a friendly yet mocking pout.

“As you wish, Excellency,” he replied.

He bowed and moved to retrieve the swords, but to his surprise, Kuriag beat him to it and examined Siranaga’s sword curiously. Dashvara waited patiently. Then the elf returned the weapons to him.

“Where did you get it?”

Dashvara smiled.

“It was Atasiag who gave it to me. His Eminence always surprises.”

Kuriag had frowned. Meditatively, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a large golden key. He shook his head.

“Do you know what this is?”

Dashvara shrugged.

“A key.”

The Legitimate smiled broadly.

“And a very special one. It’s a relic. An enchanted object. Asmoan lent it to me to examine. It has inscriptions in Oy’vat. Asmoan believes Siranaga fled to Agoskura with it two hundred years ago, and he believes the door is in the Tower. We haven’t mentioned anything about it to the Essimean leader yet. Perhaps I should.”

Dashvara stood there staring at the key in fascination. He hesitated and held out a hand.

“May I?”

Kuriag left him the key, and Dashvara examined it. It was particularly large, with a round ring full of patterns and inscriptions. There was a strong energy inside.

“Lessi says the signs are ancient Oy’vat,” Kuriag interjected after a silence. “Asmoan deciphered it. Apparently, it says…” He reached into his other pocket, unfolded a sheet and read, “Key to the Chamber of the Eternal Bird. Then come single words: Knowledge, Death, Love, Star, and Shadow. Asmoan says this could refer to the legend of the Five Lost Shaards.”

Dashvara looked up abruptly, more and more amazed. It was said that these five shaards had gone to look for a star and had never returned, but…

“How the devil does Asmoan know of this legend? Is there a library in Agoskura dedicated to the Ancient Kings?”

The very idea seemed absurd to him. Why would Agoskurians be interested in the history of a distant people who had disappeared two centuries ago?

“I don’t know,” Kuriag admitted. “Asmoan said he had books that talked about the subject. But he didn’t bring them on the trip.”

Dashvara began to half understand. If the Ancient Kings had been demons and if they were a small community, it was logical to assume that their history had been picked up by others of their kind, whether or not they were descendants. Hence the interest of Asmoan. That is, if one considered that the Ancient Kings had truly been demons.

He shook his head in confusion and handed the key back to the Legitimate.

“You know, Excellency? I think it would be safer not to tell Todakwa about this. It would surprise me if he allowed a secret chamber to be opened in the presence of foreigners.”

Kuriag nodded.

“You’re right.”

There was silence. Dashvara cleared his throat.

“Since I said I’d consult with you first… I’d feel more comfortable if we posted two Xalyas outside your door. I suppose Todakwa has no interest in anything happening to you, but… just in case, you get what I mean. Never turn your back on an Essimean,” he quoted in a wise tone.

Kuriag smiled and nodded, accepting the proposal. With it, implicitly, he accepted the Xalyas’ loyalty once again. Dashvara bowed with genuine respect.

“Good evening, Excellency.”

He went out, and when he came back into the great room and saw his brothers turning to him anxiously, he smiled. Did they expect him to come back half-fainted and with a bloody back? He said:

“Forty lashes and not a scratch.”

His lie drew wide smiles. Sitting down on his pallet, he added cheerfully to Zorvun:

“Your daughter has married a true Xalya, Captain. Our good master is determined to help us free our people.” He yawned and concluded, “And, hopefully, thanks to him, the lord of the steppe will be able to continue lazing around and philosophizing.” He smiled, “Long live the foreigners.”

17 The Feather

The next morning Dashvara awoke from a deep sleep, shaken by Makarva.

“Wake up, Daaaash! You’ll miss the tower.”

The tower, he repeated to himself, half asleep. The tower? For a moment, he thought Mak was talking about the rook piece in the game of katutas. Then he remembered and sat up suddenly.

“The tower!” he cried.

He stood up and hurriedly buckled his belt and put on his guard’s cloak. His brothers were also preparing themselves, for, although they were not all allowed to enter the tower, they were supposed to protect the Titiaka. He was about to make a quick exit from the room with the entire crew when he noticed Sedrios, Sashava, Taw, and Zorvun acting lazy. He arched an eyebrow, and the latter explained:

“Go on without us. I don’t think Kuriag will miss four old men.”

Dashvara gave him a mocking glance.

Old men, my foot, Captain, he thought. What you want is to have some free time to look for Xalyas in town.

He did not linger: he greeted the old men and left the building. The sun had been up for perhaps an hour, and the street was alive with busy slaves and curious inhabitants. Guided by the Essimeans, Kuriag Dikaksunora was already walking away towards the tower, along with Asmoan, Lessi, Api, and six Ragails. Dashvara winced. No one could really say he was late, right? As he started to run to catch up with the Legitimate, the Xalyas followed him. He received a half-reproving, half-mocking look from the Ragail captain, as well as a cheerful “hello” from Api. Dashvara smiled at the latter and caught his breath.

The procession was ridiculously large. Kuriag walked between Todakwa and a man in Titiaka clothing who must be Garag, his cousin the diplomat. That man’s Ryscodran mercenaries were following them, as well as a good troop of Essimean soldiers. The closer they got to the Tower of the Eternal Bird, the more imposing it seemed to Dashvara. At one point, he thought he saw Todakwa glance at the Xalyas and stop his gaze on him. However, when Dashvara turned around, the Essimean leader had returned to smiling and was talking cheerfully to Kuriag in a light, quiet voice.

Every time is the same, he thought darkly. Every time you think you find a devil, this one looks less devilish than he is—and, yet, Todakwa must be one of the worst murderers on the steppe.

His heart cried out for justice, but his reason forced him to restrain himself.

At last they reached the foot of the tower. Guards opened one of the large doors, and Dashvara stepped forward, leaving his brothers behind. A small staircase led him to a platform and from there to the door. Kuriag greeted him with a nod and whispered:

“Todakwa says that there are no rooms in the tower, that there is only one main room below with the stairs.”

Dashvara arched an eyebrow and, crossing the threshold, wondered if it was Todakwa who was lying or if it was the books in the Xalya Dungeon that were making up stories. For, according to the books, there was indeed a chamber: the crypt of Nabakaji, buried beneath the tower. Dashvara had always believed that it existed. And that Todakwa had not heard of it, even though it was within his reach, seemed unlikely.

“Impressive,” Kuriag muttered in wonder.

It was, Dashvara thought as he contemplated the place. What was impressive was that the tower was still standing, even though the Essimeans had always shown a deep contempt for anything to do with the Eternal Bird. What had not survived, however, was the rest: the supposed shelves with hundreds of books and precious objects, the famous triangular table, the stacks of scrolls the stories spoke of… Of all that, nothing remained. The empty hall was a simple circular room, covered with worn mosaics and surrounded by small, dilapidated statues. Except for the path that led to the stairs, it seemed as if no one had been there for years.

“Skâra does not forgive,” Todakwa commented in the Common Tongue. “Even sacred buildings become dust with the passage of time.”

The Essimean had remained near the entrance, arms crossed. He was taller than Dashvara, but noticeably thinner, as if by worshipping his God of Death, he had been rewarded with a skeletal figure.

You’ll turn to dust long before the Feather, Essimean, Dashvara mentally challenged him.

He wasn’t particularly interested in the faded drawings and deteriorating statuettes, but he took advantage of the fact that Kuriag was going to admire them to move away from Todakwa. He recognized more than one scene on the walls, and Lessi explained some of them to Kuriag. Dashvara had to explain others to them, but he did so absent-mindedly and without ever losing sight of the Essimean.

“And those, who are they?” Kuriag asked, pointing to a line of figures, a sword in one hand, a scroll in the other.

Dashvara barely glanced at them before answering:

“The sixteen lords of the steppe who swore loyalty to some king centuries ago.”

He heard Kuriag cough slightly.

“Could you be more specific?”

Dashvara blinked and snorted, trying to remember.

“Marbugara the Wise. About five hundred years ago. The classic story: there was a war, a betrayal, a peace treaty… I’ve always had trouble remembering things like that,” he admitted.

At that moment, Asmoan let out an exclamation of wonder, and Kuriag hurried to see the new find. Dashvara sighed. To tell the truth, the only thing that interested him about this tower was the part from above: he wanted to check if the whole steppe could really be seen from the tip of the Feather. So when Kuriag asked who was going up, it was with relief and excitement that he headed for the stairs. It was a long climb. The tower was about two hundred feet high and the steps were not all in good condition. Dashvara was the first to arrive. And what he saw left him fascinated. In fact, he could see the steppe, but it was even more impressive from above. Or, at least, different, as if one had suddenly turned into a bird and was paralyzed in flight. He approached the white stone edge and looked down at what had once been the domains of the Ancient Kings. He heard voices behind him but did not turn around. His eyes remained fixed on one direction: the Dungeon of Xalya. The vast expanse of green grassland grew more and more scorched and impoverished the further east one went from Essimea. The gentle hills made it impossible to see beyond forty miles.

“Books lie,” he muttered.

The steppe could not be seen in its entirety. That made sense: from Xalya, you couldn’t see the Tower either unless you traveled to the far west on a clear day. Dashvara had almost always patrolled the eastern side, where the bands of red nadres came from, and he could count on the fingers of his hand the times he had seen the tip of the Feather. Once, when he was but ten winters old, his lord father had taken him to the edge of the land and pointed to it, saying in a deep voice, ‘Behold, son, the tower that gave life to our Dahars.’ And, uttering these words, Vifkan had turned upon his mount and looked up to the southeast, to Mount Bakhia. Dashvara remembered that, at that moment, he had wondered, confused, which tower his father was talking about: that white needle that could barely be seen on the horizon, or that massive mountain that stood between the steppe and the Bladhy desert? With some surprise, standing near the edge of the tower, Dashvara thought he could make out the top of the mountain in the distance. The ancient peoples of the steppe said that Mount Bakhia was the pillar of hope. Suddenly, he had a strange intuition that if he could lead his people to this mountain, they would be free forever.

“The lands you see are the ones that are really worth it,” a quiet voice suddenly said.

Dashvara brusquely came back to reality and stiffened. He turned slightly. They were all on the opposite side, gazing at the mountains to the north and west. All except Todakwa. The Essimean, surrounded by two guards, had stopped a few paces away and was looking at him with a glint of curiosity and caution, as one looks at an unpredictable ferocious beast. Jaw clenched, Dashvara hesitated to answer, then asked abruptly:

“Then why? Why did you slaughter us if our land wasn’t worth it?”

He could not quite suppress the bitterness and anger in his voice. Todakwa’s pale face showed a poised smile.

“The lords of the steppe were poison to Rocdinfer. With them, the steppe died. With me, it is reborn, great and modern.”

Dashvara returned his gaze impassively. He speaks as if I am not the son and heir of Vifkan of Xalya, he realized. As if the last lord of the steppe died three years ago. He gave a sarcastic pout.

“Modern? What is modern to you, Todakwa of Essimea? A people with slaves?” He smiled, sardonically. “There is no more abject modernity.”

A mocking glint shone in Todakwa’s eyes.

“My system is similar to that of the Diumcilians,” he replied. “And, unlike them, here, we have only barbarian slaves.” Dashvara glared at him. Todakwa smiled. “I understand you’ve made quite a name for yourself avenging your former master of a betrayal in Titiaka. I, in your place, would not aspire to much more, young Xalya. Serve Kuriag Dikaksunora well and forget the past. You wouldn’t wish your people to suffer more than they have already.”

Todakwa fiddled with a necklace of bones and, considering the conversation closed, walked away casually. For a moment, Dashvara did not react. Then he began to suffocate inside, badly repressing the urge to throw himself at this devil. He gripped the pommel of his sabers tightly, met the watchful eyes of the two Essimean guards, and growled:

“May the wind blow you away and rush you from this tower, Todakwa. It would be the first and last time your Eternal Bird would fly a bit.”

He had spoken loudly and everyone in the tower heard his words. He noticed the alarmed expressions of Kuriag and Lessi, the icy features of Garag, the mocking face of Todakwa… The only one who did not seem to hear him was Api, who was looking north, dreamy. Captain Djamin intervened, calling out to him in a warning tone:

“Drop those swords, warrior!”

Dashvara dropped them. He hadn’t even drawn them, but the gesture had made a very bad impression, he realized. Kuriag stepped forward nervously, protesting in a reproachful tone:

“Calm yourself, Dashvara. My apologies, Todakwa. My guard will be chastised for his words as soon as we descend the tower. I know he did not intend to use his weapons.”

Todakwa nodded thoughtfully.

“I understand that, according to Diumcilian custom, the offended party may propose a punishment, may they not?”

Kuriag opened his mouth, dumbfounded.

“Indeed, it is the custom. Do you have… er… a suggestion perhaps?”

Todakwa pondered. Dashvara cursed himself a thousand times for opening his mouth. Brilliant, Dash. If it weren’t for Kuriag, Todakwa would have beheaded you by now, you know? Now go figure out how your master manages to save you along with his image. The Essimean finally thought aloud.

“Your slave wished me dead. That is a serious offence, I think we can both agree on that. With all due respect, Excellency, I know you are having some difficulty controlling your new guard. I would like to help you. And, to that end, I think it would be desirable if you would allow me to have this savage entirely at my disposal for a few days.”

Kuriag moistened his lips, pale.

“At your disposal,” he repeated. “Oh. I understand. As long as he doesn’t suffer irreparable physical damage, it seems correct to me.”

Dashvara looked at him in disbelief. Correct? Correct? The night before, he had been on the verge of considering the Legitimate as a brother, and now the Legitimate was agreeing to leave him in the hands of his worst enemy? Todakwa bowed his head.

“Thank you for your confidence, Excellency. You will not regret it.”

Oh, dammit, dammit, dammit… They left the top of the tower and climbed down the stairs; Captain Djamin stayed close to Dashvara, and Dashvara did not loosen his lips the whole way down. When they reached the bottom and crossed the threshold, a big crowd of onlookers awaited them, for it was not every day that a Legitimate from Titiaka came to visit them. As such, one could see the inhabitants dressed in long traditional Essimean tunics, mostly white, stretching their necks to see the rich foreigner. There were also people with faces covered with tattoos and dressed in black and blue tunics: those were the death-priests, the servants of Skâra. It was said that they had powers over Death and that by putting on this tunic, they ceased to be completely alive. When Dashvara saw them, he twitched and laughed to himself. Didn’t he have a half-undead naâsga? These magicians were nothing more than flesh-and-blood sajits.

He looked away and met the eyes of his brothers. They were clustered near the wall of the tower. He took a step towards them and… the Ragail captain’s hand grasped him firmly by the arm. Dashvara sighed and with a simple expression let the Xalyas know that something had happened, but that they need not worry.

It was then that he saw the mare. He would have recognized her anywhere. Her black coat, her eyes, her nostrils, everything told him it was her. His heart beating faster, he murmured in an upset gasp:

“Lusombra.”

She looked healthy. A woman in a black tunic was riding her. She was a middle-aged woman already, but she was beautiful and exuded a strong sense of confidence. When he saw her dismount and bow her head to Kuriag Dikaksunora, he knew from the words he could hear that she was Todakwa’s wife. So Lusombra was now being taken care of by an Essimean. Well, it could have been worse. She could have been in the hands of Todakwa himself.

“On second thought,” Todakwa said suddenly as the crowd grew thicker, “for now, your slave will remain in this square. In front of the Tower of the Eternal Bird. We will tie him to the Pillar of Skâra. Before we can train him, we must tame him, Excellency. And there is no better method of taming a proud savage than to give him a good dose of humility.”

He made a gesture, and Dashvara saw Kuriag about to protest… But then Garag whispered something in his ear, and his young cousin swallowed his objections. Perhaps because he was afraid of damaging his family’s business or appearing too compassionate. And perhaps because he preferred to leave Todakwa in charge of this matter. In any case, under the increasingly fiery gaze of the Xalyas, Kuriag gave his approval, the Ragails disarmed Dashvara, and he was led to a sort of stone obelisk. They took off his cloak, tied him with a shackle around his neck, and the steppe lord remained there, chained to the Pillar of Death and riddled with a thousand curious eyes.

Todakwa did not say a word, but Dashvara heard people murmuring: he is the son of Vifkan of Xalya! They did not say it with respect but rather with mockery. Dashvara returned them all a firm, detached look, and noticing that Makarva had managed to approach despite the Essimean guards, he lightly told him:

“It’s all right, sîzan. I just need to be tamed a bit.”

The Xalyas were pushed back, Orafe roared something, and several brothers had to quiet him. Dashvara sighed. He was already beginning to regret not running away with his naâsga the other night.

Kuriag and Todakwa soon moved away with the guards, leaving only two soldiers to watch the pillar to make sure nothing untoward happened. And instead of following the personalities, many of those present remained in the square, including many slaves. Clearly, Vifkan’s son was attracting more interest.

“You cowardly murderer!” a Shalussi woman shouted sharply. “You murdered Nanda by attacking him treacherously!”

“Kill him!” another woman cried out.

There followed condemnations, blasphemies of the Eternal Bird, and mockery of the Xalyas, which escalated when someone threw a stone that struck Dashvara’s armor head-on. He let out a snort and muttered:

“Damn you, savages…”

“Enough!” a soldier bellowed. “Stop throwing stones!”

The two soldiers had to bravely step in between the stoned man and the exalted crowd and draw their swords to finally enforce order. More than sore from the stones, Dashvara felt perplexed. Where did this attack of rage come from? Well, he had killed Nanda of Shalussi treacherously, and he understood that those who had known him wanted revenge. He also understood that they despised him for everything he represented, the past, the expulsions, the Ancient Kings… However, hadn’t the Essimeans acted in the same way, or worse, by enslaving them? Didn’t they see that, in practice, he was nothing more than a chained warrior who hadn’t seen the steppe for three years and who had never ruled anything in Xalya?

Gradually, the people in the square dispersed, calm returned, and the two Essimean guards, more tranquil, went to sit on a stone bench, a little further away. A few children remained, staring curiously at the chained man. Massaging a sore arm, Dashvara sat down on a ledge of the Pillar of Skâra, as comfortably as the iron collar around his neck and the rather short chain would allow. The whole obelisk, including the lower part, was covered with engraved Galka signs. One of the phrases read: Death is master of our lives, hand of justice and balance of time. Dashvara read the words curiously. To tell the truth, he had never been interested in the Essimean religion. It had always seemed to him unhealthy, gloomy and dangerous; what sane mind could worship death instead of life? Yet, from what he read on that obelisk, it seemed almost as if Skâra, Death, was the cause of life, the one who regulated it and watched over it. This did not seem any less absurd to him, but he had to admit that worshipping Skâra from this point of view was less disturbing.

A puppy interrupted his thoughts when he came up to sniff him, wagging his tail excitedly. Amused, Dashvara reached out a hand to his long sandy colored fur and commented:

“Sometimes I wonder why sajits make life so complicated. When life is so easy, huh?” he grinned at the pup.

“Narak!” said suddenly one of the children who had remained in the square.

The puppy turned towards him but did not move. Narak meant Sand in Galka, Dashvara remembered. The dog’s little master came closer and called again in the Galka language:

“Sand, come on!”

This time Narak darted towards the child, but the child, instead of moving away, looked at the Xalya intently. When he said nothing and did not go away, Dashvara asked in the Essimean language:

“How many months old is he?”

The Essimean child glanced at his companions who had stayed a little behind before answering:

“Five. And I’m eight.”

Dashvara smiled.

“Eight years old, I guess.”

The child nodded seriously.

“I live there, in that house,” he said, pointing to it. “I’m the oldest of my brothers. But I don’t work because I’m an Essimean. My best friend, Adrara, is ten years old and he works. He too was tied to a pillar once because he let some sheep escape. Did you lose sheep too?”

Dashvara arched his eyebrows, feeling both amusement and suppressed sadness. Because Adrara was a Xalya name, and he knew that one of Yodara’s sons was called that.

“And a good number of them, I’m afraid,” he answered in the Common Tongue. “You can speak the Common Tongue, can’t you?” The child nodded, and Dashvara smiled, “Good. Tell me, young one,” he continued. “This friend of yours… did they hurt him?”

The child nodded.

“They beat him, but he said it didn’t hurt. He says Xalyas never hurt. Hey, it looks like Narak likes you,” he smiled as the pup sat on Dashvara’s boots. “My father gave him to me. He’s from Titiaka. Because my father works at the port, and every time he comes back, he brings lots of presents.”

His four young companions had come closer and were now listening to the conversation with interest. One little girl asked:

“Does it hurt?”

She was talking about the necklace. Dashvara smiled faintly.

“No. Apparently Xalyas never hurt. By the way, kid,” he added, addressing the boy. “If you see Adrara again, could you tell him that his lord sends his regards to him and his family, and that his father is in good health?” As the boy nodded, intrigued by the commission, he added, “And that hope is the best of all weapons. That’s important.”

He doubted he would repeat his words accurately, but he had no better messenger on hand. He would have liked to ask him more questions to find out approximately how many Xalyas were still living in the steppe, but unfortunately one of the Essimean warriors had finally stood up and scattered the kids, calling out:

“Come on, kids, don’t stay here. We don’t talk to the people on the Pillar.”

The little ones said goodbye, the older one took the puppy in his arms, and Dashvara was left alone again. No one came back to speak to him all morning. He saw steppians, foreigners, breeders, merchants, dogs, and… he even saw an ilawatelk. When he saw the little deer obediently following a young Essimean woman, he was fascinated. He had never thought that ilawatelks could be domesticated.

In the middle of the afternoon came a group of Essimeans led by Ashiwa. Todakwa’s younger brother paused for a moment to observe him from a distance before ordering:

“Set him free.”

Puzzled, Dashvara looked at the warrior who was approaching to remove the shackle. Was the punishment really over already?

“My brother and lord wants to talk to you,” Ashiwa explained.

Dashvara was tempted to reply that no, thank you, that he preferred to stay at the Pillar of Death. But he wisely remained silent. They pushed him through the square and led him to the small palace of Todakwa.

The place was bustling with death-priests, red-clad novices, guards, and servants. They passed through the wide entrance, through an inner courtyard, and then into a garden covered with winter flowers. All were blue, except for the roses, which were black. The colors, the statues, the symbols on the ground… Everything in this palace was a reminder of Skâra’s presence.

Walking forward surrounded by the Essimean guards, Dashvara spotted Todakwa sitting in a chair along with Kuriag, Garag, and several unfamiliar steppian faces. They seemed to have settled in for a snack, enjoying the rather mild day. They were deep in conversation, and Todakwa let out a clear laugh before following the direction of Kuriag’s gaze. His smile did not fade, on the contrary.

“Ah! There’s the slave lord. I hope you enjoyed your day at the Pillar.”

Dashvara swallowed a biting retort and turned to Kuriag. The Legitimate’s hesitant expression did not look good. Todakwa continued.

“You will be pleased to know that His Excellency and his wife have convinced me to sell your people to them in order to free them.”

Dashvara’s heart leapt. He held his breath and tried to remain unperturbed, aware that two tens of eyes were watching him. When he said nothing, Todakwa continued:

“At the moment, His Excellency has not made up his mind to accept my terms. One hundred and eighty slaves, though many are very young, would cost nearly twenty thousand dragons.”

Dashvara could not contain a choked gasp. One hundred and eighty? Liadirlá, had he heard right? Was it true that “one hundred and eighty” Xalyas had survived? True, more than half of them had died in the dungeon, but… just the thought that there were so many Xalyas alive made his spirits soar. Then the second part of the sentence came to him, and he grimaced. Twenty thousand dragons was a lot. He met Kuriag’s gaze and saw how Kuriag looked away, uncomfortable. Dashvara confirmed for himself, glumly: twenty thousand dragons was too much.

“I’m sure His Excellency could pay that amount,” Todakwa commented with a respectful smile towards the Legitimate. “However, I have offered to lower the price to five thousand dragons. I see no harm in letting your people go.”

Dashvara could only look at him in disbelief. He shook his head, cautious.

“What are you up to, Todakwa? Are you going to let one hundred and eighty children of the Eternal Bird go, just like that, without cutting off their heads first?”

Todakwa gave a pale smile, and Kuriag cleared his throat, standing up.

“I would like to speak with Dashvara privately for a moment, if you will excuse me.”

Like a civilized and courteous Titiaka, Todakwa stood up at the same time as Garag. Kuriag walked away, pointing to a white stone path lined with blue flowers. Dashvara promptly followed him. As soon as they were out of range of the others, he muttered:

“If these one hundred and eighty Xalyas were warriors, I wouldn’t hesitate for a second: we’d be leaving here in force. But they are not,” he reasoned. “If there is a way to give them back their freedom and dignity without bloodshed… I know that five thousand dragons is a lot. But I’m willing to give them back to you even if I have to spend my whole life there,” he vowed.

Kuriag shook his head gently.

“Don’t worry about the money. I can pay that amount,” he assured. “That’s not the problem.”

Dashvara arched an eyebrow.

“It’s not?”

“No,” the young elf sighed. He glanced nervously at his cousin, who had not lost sight of him from his seat, and cleared his throat. “Listen. I don’t trust Todakwa.”

Dashvara smiled broadly.

“Congratulations, Excellency.”

Kuriag rolled his eyes and explained:

“If I bought your people now, I would have to take them by boat. To Titiaka. According to the agreement, I cannot release you to the steppe. So… if you leave before then, the Essimeans and… my cousin and the Ragails will consider you to have run away. Once you’re off the steppe, Todakwa promises not to retaliate for the past. But you cannot return to the steppe.”

He glanced apologetically at Dashvara, and to his surprise, the Xalya snorted wryly.

“And that’s what the agreement says, right? Todakwa is freeing my people to be sent to the slave capital. Perhaps he thinks that once in Titiaka, your mother will bring you to your senses and convince you to sell us all,” he ventured. “Then, yes, you would have made a good deal, Excellency. One hundred and eighty slaves for five thousand dragons—a very good deal. To tell you the truth, I can’t quite figure out why Todakwa lowered the price so much.”

Under his questioning gaze, Kuriag pouted and started walking down the path, moving further into the garden.

“Actually, he lowered the price in exchange for trade deals and… not only that,” he admitted, nervously. “Actually, in exchange for your people, Todakwa would like to… um… to buy you.”

Dashvara blinked in astonishment.

“Buy me,” he repeated.

Kuriag had turned red.

“Yes… That’s why I haven’t accepted yet. Among other reasons. Todakwa says he’ll be compassionate, and he seems sincere, but… well. I don’t know if I should refuse and see if I can remove this condition or… I don’t know. I’m not very good at business, and Garag is not being particularly helpful,” he admitted. “Everyone thinks I’m a fool who lets himself being manipulated by his slaves.”

The look on his face was clear: he was asking Dashvara for advice. The Xalya became agitated. What the hell was he supposed to tell him now? That he wasn’t very good at business either? He stroked his beard, meditatively. Then he smiled.

“I’m going to say something stupid. But, if you agree, Todakwa will think the matter is closed, and we will have more time to plan the escape.”

Kuriag looked at him, hesitant.

“You mean… your people wouldn’t leave the steppe?”

Dashvara huffed.

“No. The steppe is large. If we went north, with the Honyrs, Todakwa would leave us in peace. Not to mention that we’d save him quite a few invasions by red nadres and scale-nefarious.”

Kuriag pouted, unconvinced.

“What about you? Todakwa won’t let you get away that easily.”

“I am willing to sacrifice my freedom and my life for my people, Kuriag,” Dashvara smiled. And as a glint of sadness passed through the Legitimate’s eyes, he added, “I do not know what Todakwa intends to do with me. Perhaps he only wishes to sacrifice me to his god.”

“Only?” Kuriag repeated in a choked voice.

Dashvara shrugged quietly.

“From what I’ve heard, the Essimeans take weeks to prepare for one of these ceremonies. That would give me time to try something. Tahisran could help me. No one knows he’s here. Well, before I can think of that, my people must escape without the Essimeans bringing them back into the fold. There’s no point in anticipating.”

Kuriag nodded, concerned. Dashvara was trying to think of a way to get one hundred and eighty Xalyas out of Essimea efficiently without the Essimean guards immediately surrounding them. At the moment, he was out of ideas.

Your lord father would have come up with a solution by now, he urged himself, racking his brain. Maybe not the best one, but he, at least, didn’t hesitate so much, Dash. You, on the contrary, think too much. So much philosophizing in the Border made you lose your confidence…

The Legitimate coughed, pulling him out of his thoughts.

“So… I accept?”

Dashvara pondered. The more days passed, the more possibilities there were that Shokr Is Set and Yira had reached an agreement with the Honyrs. And, if so, they could perhaps count on the support of over a hundred Steppe Thieves who would help the Xalya slaves reach the north safely.

He nodded to himself and was about to reply that, if possible, he waited a few days before accepting, when a figure suddenly appeared from behind a small building, with a bandaged bow and an arrow ready to fire. Dashvara reacted with lightning speed. Without even thinking about it, he covered Kuriag just as the assassin fired. A sharp pain hit him, but in his sudden fury, he ignored it and took off running after the archer. The attacker had dropped his bow and was now rushing towards the small wall with the obvious intention of jumping over it towards the street. He jumped, and Dashvara followed as best he could. It delayed him, but he did not lose sight of the hooded man, and as he landed on the street, he darted towards the distant figure ready to turn the corner. He spotted a Ragail coming out of the stables only a few paces from the assassin, and he roared:

“Stop that man!”

Though surprised, the Ragail tried anyway, but the cursed man slipped through his hands and continued to run down a street that led directly into the noisy market square, full of animals, stalls, and caravans. Eternal Bird… If the archer managed to blend in with the crowd, they were going to have a hard time finding him… Dashvara whistled and redoubled his efforts with the Ragail. They had a stroke of luck, for several Xalyas were standing precisely at the entrance of the street with curious eyes, not daring to enter the market place completely… Dashvara thundered:

“Brothers!”

He was still a long way off for them to hear him clearly, but he pointed eloquently to the fugitive, and Arvara, who was nearest, managed to get between the assassin and his way out. The pursued man tried to escape to the left, saw that he could not, turned round, passed between the legs of a donkey, Captain Zorvun blocked his way, and, seeing himself completely cornered, the assassin began to climb the gutter of a house. He had some guts. Dashvara reached him before Zorvun and Arvara. He grabbed him by one leg, threw him to the ground, dodged a dagger blow, disarmed him, and was about to hit his head against the stone of the wall when, suddenly, as in a nightmare, the implacable eyes of Sheroda came to his mind.

You have killed, they said. You are guilty!

Dashvara gave the assassin a swift but precise blow to the head, and he collapsed, unconscious; the hood slipped off, revealing the face of a young steppian woman. Young but a killer anyway, he snorted. And he gasped.

“What the hell.”

He turned his gaze to the arrow. It had stuck in his right arm, which was shaking violently. The Xalyas were rushing towards him.

“Damn her,” Zorvun hissed. “Was it that savage who shot the arrow at you?”

Dashvara pouted, without answering.

“Dashvara!”

The cry came to him from afar, as in a dream. He turned, and between the din of voices and the approaching white and black coats, he saw Kuriag’s face distorted in horror. The Legitimate ran towards him, surrounded by Ragails.

“Merciful Cili… Are you okay?”

Dashvara nodded.

“Yes.” He propped up his right arm, and with a grunt, glared at the unconscious assassin. “A steppian,” he said, almost in a surprised tone. “Why on earth would a steppian want to kill you?”

Kuriag looked totally bewildered. His eyes landed on the woman and did not waver, as if hypnotized. A whole troop of guards, Xalyas, Ragails, and Essimeans were already crowding the area. Todakwa and Garag insisted on leading Kuriag inside to avoid any more unpleasant surprises, and the former said:

“I offer my sincerest apologies, Excellency. I will reinforce the guard immediately, and we will find the culprit behind this, if there is one. Don’t worry, the best doctors in Essimea will treat Dashvara. Don’t fret.”

Dashvara could half hear them, and when they moved away, he hardly noticed. Now his arm was burning as if it had been put into a fire, his vision was blurring…

“It could have been worse,” the captain considered, quickly examining the wound. “I won’t let the Essimean doctors near you. Tsu will treat you.”

Dashvara nodded mechanically. The pain barely allowed him to breathe.

“C-captain,” he stammered. “I feel like I’ve been through this before.”

“No, come on, take heart,” Zorvun replied. “You’ve been through worse things. Maybe it’ll take you a few weeks to get the use of your arm back completely, but…”

He grunted loudly as Dashvara lost his balance, and he and Arvara supported him with a grunt. Then among the voices that echoed, vague and discordant, around the assassin, one reached them:

“Skâra shalé! This bottle contains red snake venom.”

The captain turned pale. And Dashvara finally understood the familiar sensation, the violent throws, the feeling that his whole body was paralyzed… He let out a dull laugh that sounded more like a moan.

“That’s… ironic,” he gasped. “I suppose… it was my fate.” Managing to straighten up a bit, he patted Zorvun’s shoulder. “Take care of our people, Captain. Make them free…”

Zorvun grabbed him by the shoulders sharply.

“Son, don’t,” he whispered, his eyes shining. “Don’t do this to me now.”

Dashvara gave a shaky smile.

“It’s… silly, huh? The red snakes are my curse. Maybe it’s the spirit of the… snake I killed that day in Nanda’s village. Even snakes want revenge. They are as stupid as sajits. As cruel. And they have no feathers.” He laughed at the ridiculous statement, and as the pain grew and grew inside him, expanding with the venom, he inhaled in fits and starts. “It’s not so bad, Captain. I’ll die on the steppe, like a good Xalya. I want to go to… the tower,” he decided with a sudden anxious longing. “Please, brothers, guide me to the tower. Now,” he insisted. “Please…”

His voice broke, but his brothers listened. Arvara lifted him halfway up and helped him to move slowly through an audience that Dashvara could only make out vaguely. A throbbing, agonizing pain came over his mind in waves. He was barely aware that, as he reached the tower, a multitude was following him.

No one interfered as a Xalya pushed open one of the frames and they entered the circular room. Arvara stopped supporting him, and Dashvara staggered forward to the statue of the Eternal Bird. It was small, modest, unassuming, like a simple stone dove covered with cracked blue colors. On the first visit, he had barely noticed it. Now it was the only thing he could see clearly in this room.

He reached out a hand to the bird, touched it, and smiled, breathing spasmodically. He barely listened to the voices of his brothers, who were entering the tower like a whirlwind. A strange serenity came over him.

“Dash…” Makarva’s muffled voice said behind him. “At least let us look at the wound. Maybe we can do something about it. Tsu’s a great doctor…”

His words were met with a terrible silence. Everyone knew that red snake venom had no antidote. Dashvara took a breath and turned to his people. It wasn’t just his brothers from the Border: he recognized other faces, Xalya women, and young people who, when Xalya had fallen, had been just kids and were now almost men. Seeing them all together made him smile with emotion.

“My naâsga is going to strangle me dead when she finds out,” he croaked. “Unless… she manages to resurrect me.” He smiled, and as he saw the strained, mournful expressions of his brothers, he struggled not to let their sadness get the better of him. Zorvun looked particularly devastated. With great calm, he added for this one, “My lord father needs not know this, but… you have been the best father I’ve had, Captain.” He drew in a breath in the face of a wave of pain, turned to his people, and in a firmer voice thundered, “Xalyas! Todakwa has agreed to free you all thanks to the intervention of Kuriag Dikaksunora. This Titiaka is a Xalya at heart. I hope… you will be grateful to him.” He staggered. He wished he could have said more. He would have liked to speak to his people. But the pain prevented him from going on. He breathed in. “May the Eternal Bird bless you all. And, now, leave me,” he ordered sharply. “Get out of here.”

There was a long silence. No one obeyed. Dashvara hissed in exasperation and turned his back on them to face the Eternal Bird.

“Leave me,” he repeated. “Out. Leave me alone until tomorrow. That’s an order.”

For a moment, nothing was heard. Then there was a sigh, and Zorvun’s footsteps went away with those of his brothers.

When the door closed and silence returned, he sat down on the cold mosaics and leaned against the pedestal of the Eternal Bird. He let all the air out of his lungs. As strange as it may be, he felt as if his mind was clearing, as if the crisis had already passed.

The calm before death, he thought. My conscience is clear. I have done everything in my hands to save my people. I saved Kuriag. And he will save the Xalyas. May the Dahars live a thousand more years…

With serenity he let his mind wander aimlessly, preparing himself for a death he had fought and feared so much. What did Maloven say about death? That it was a step towards nothingness. Once dead, one returned to nothingness and ceased to be. And, in that case, why bother? Why worship it as the Essimeans did? In Death, there were no thoughts, no desires, no hunger, no sadness, no honor, no history. Death existed only for the living.

Strangely comforted by these thoughts, Dashvara tried not to think of his brothers, or Yira, or his people. He tried to forget that, as his own heart would cease to feel, so would his naâsga’s break with pain.

Life is pain and joy. As long as it is not all pain, it is always better than nothingness, he reasoned.

He remained in the same position for a long moment, without moving, continuing to think about the existential problems of the Eternal Bird when a sudden thought made him stretch a little. He frowned. How the hell had the archer hit him in the right arm? The left would have been more logical: at the moment of the shot, it must have been right in front of Kuriag. But the right… He hadn’t had time to cover the Legitimate completely. Either that meant that the archer was aiming very poorly, or… Dashvara swallowed with a strange feeling in his body. Either that meant they had tried to assassinate him.

He took a deep breath, opened his eyes, and looked around the room in bewilderment. There was a profound silence throughout the tower, as if the outside had ceased to exist. He imagined that the tower had flown away, across the steppe, and was about to land far from Essimea, on Mount Bakhia, free and proud…

He smiled and looked down at his arm. Someone had cut the arrow and now only a thin shaft was visible in the middle of a bloody sleeve. He could no longer feel those infernal waves of pain. His breathing had calmed. His eyes could see clearly again… Was he already dead without realizing it?

“Liadirlá,” he murmured then with sudden exaltation.

Death existed!

18 A phoenix always rises again

Yes, maybe death did exist, but Dashvara quickly noticed that his arm still hurt and that, in truth, he was still alive and well. He needed a little more time to accept the fact that he wasn’t likely to die any time soon. And another moment for the disbelieving smile that lit up his face to fade.

“I’m alive,” he whispered.

He did not dare to say it too loudly, as if the observation might cease to be true at any moment. The red snakes were as treacherous as the Essimeans, and who knows how their venom worked. He knew it was lethal… and he also knew that it was very difficult to obtain that venom. He doubted that a mere vindictive steppian could have obtained it. Someone must have given it to him or sold it to him. But who? No matter how hard he looked for a name, Dashvara couldn’t find one. Well, actually, he could think of several, but all of them had good reasons not to kill him. Todakwa had no interest in cooling his relationship with Kuriag. The enslaved Shalussis had no interest in drawing Todakwa’s ire. In Dazbon, Lanamiag Korfu had vowed to finish off the Xalyas to avenge his father’s death, but he was supposed to be back in Titiaka with Fayrah, and he doubted he would dare to do anything that would upset his wife. In the end, Dashvara was unable to say for sure which of the three groups had been the culprit: the Essimeans, the Shalussis, or the Titiakas.

He shook his head and stood up. There was no point in turning this over in his head: the case was that he was alive, and the murderess had failed. He walked to the door, and a smile stretched his lips as he imagined the look on his brothers’ faces when he opened it. He reached for the handle… and stopped.

Wait a second, he thought. He took a step back, and excitement gradually overtook him as an absolutely brilliant idea blossomed in his head: what if he made Todakwa think he was dead? A dead man was free, he was nobody’s slave, a dead man was left in peace!

Holding back a laugh, he stepped away from the door and began to plan. First, he needed to get a message to the captain without the Essimeans finding out. And, under the present circumstances, there was no better messenger than Tahisran. With a little luck, he would show his nose during the night through one of the loopholes. The shadow was curious by nature… and Dashvara bet that the Xalyas would encourage him to take a look inside the tower. If by chance he wasn’t mistaken, and if by chance the Essimeans respected the Xalyas lord’s desire to rest in peace at the Feather until morning… and if by chance this crypt of Nabakaji’s actually existed and he could hide in it while he found a way to escape… then, yes, maybe his plan would work. However, so much “by chance” worried him a little. He felt like he was stacking too many wobbly stones.

Nevertheless, it was worth a try.

Light still came through the narrow loopholes, but it was getting dimmer and dimmer, and Dashvara needed it to search for the entrance to the crypt. He hoped Xalya’s books weren’t lying… He crouched down and quickly probed the mosaics on the floor and the statues on the wall before examining everything with increasing scrutiny. As the light seriously faded, he began to fumble with his hands, looking for a hole that could serve as a lock. He was at this point when he heard a mental gasp.

‘Dash?’

Overcome with relief, Dashvara turned his head and murmured happily:

“Hi, Tah.”

He saw the shadow. It was moving step by step in the growing darkness, obviously incredulous.

‘You’re not dead?’

Dashvara smiled quietly.

“Precisely, I am dead. Or at least that’s what we’ll make the Essimeans believe. Otherwise, I’m in relatively good shape except for this damn arrow in my arm. How are the Xalyas?”

Tahisran made a muffled mental sound.

‘You mean, it was all a show? The arrow wasn’t poisoned?’

Dashvara rolled his eyes.

“It was, it was. But since when can red snake venom kill a lord of the steppe?” He smiled broadly and repeated, more seriously, “How are the Xalyas, Tah?”

The shadow cleared his throat and sat down on the mosaics. Dashvara continued to grope the floor.

‘Well, what do you expect,’ Tahisran sighed. ‘They’re sad.’

Dashvara nodded to himself, and the shadow added:

‘Tell me, Dash. I hope you’re not going to ask me not to tell them you’re alive. That would be awfully nasty… What are you doing?’ he asked, intrigued.

Dashvara straightened up, huffing.

“I’m looking for the crypt. Kuriag has the key. It is golden, with signs drawn on it… If you could bring it to me now…”

‘By stealing it from him?’ Tahisran replied, reluctantly.

Dashvara pouted and looked in its direction. He hesitated, then said:

“I’ll tell you the plan. The trick is to convince Todakwa that I am dead. My people will ask to be allowed to take my corpse to the foot of Mount Bakhia, as tradition dictates… Well, actually, there is no such tradition, but Todakwa will swallow it: he knows that mountain is sacred to us. If Kuriag manages to convince Todakwa to let my people accompany me, problem solved: the corpse is transported, I hide in the crypt and, say three days later, when my people are already far from Essimea, I will escape from the tower without anyone noticing.”

He nodded, convinced and excited by the idea. Tahisran stirred and shifted.

‘What corpse?’ he asked.

Dashvara made a vague gesture.

“Whatever. We build it, add a little pheasant meat, whatever, and it’ll stink as bad as a real corpse.”

‘Mmph. And, according to you, Todakwa will not demand to see you dead?’

The question drew an embarrassed pout from Dashvara.

“It can go wrong,” he admitted. “But anything in this life can go wrong. The good thing is, if it works out, Kuriag will do quite well, and I’ll have a better chance of getting out alive. That is, dead but alive,” he observed, much amused. “But to carry out the plan… I need you, Tah.”

The shadow did not answer immediately. After a moment, Dashvara perceived its mental smile.

‘I’m glad you’re alive, Dash. Of course I’m going to help you. I’ll bring you that key. But it will be better if I tell Kuriag everything…’

“No,” Dashvara cut him off. “Only if you can’t find the key… You understand, Kuriag is an awful liar. Todakwa would see right away that there’s something weird going on. Tell the Captain and Sashava the plan. Only them. If the captain feels it necessary to tell the others, let him, but… I don’t think it’s a good idea to tell… all my brothers. Just a few so they can block the view and hide my corpse. It’s about finding a way to convince without letting anyone see. And to ask Kuriag to enforce the Xalya tradition: no outsider should see the face of the last lord of the steppe,” he pronounced with a small smile. “Not as long as this one is dead. And if Todakwa insists on seeing me before we leave… I can always play corpse for a while until…”

His ramblings were suddenly interrupted when his hand fell on a small hole at the foot of the statue of the Eternal Bird. He groped and shook his head, muttering:

“I can’t see anything at all, but it could be the entrance.”

He felt a slight energy beside him. Tahisran had come closer. Suddenly, a light appeared, as faint as the butterflies of light his naâsga was invoking, and Dashvara could see five black fingers supporting it… Swallowing his fear, he quickly examined the hole. The light disappeared.

‘Damn,’ Tahisran growled. ‘I’ve never been very good at harmonies.’

Dashvara smiled.

“That’s all right. Bring the key and we’ll see if it fits.”

Without answering, Tahisran moved closer and finally commented:

‘I may be a bad harmonist, but I’m a good perceptist. And that’s odd… This hole is strangely shaped.’ After a silence, he blew out a mental breath. ‘There’s a spell in there. A rather subtle spell. And a complex one.’

Dashvara arched an eyebrow. According to Kuriag, the golden key was enchanted. In that case, it was not surprising that the lock was enchanted as well. What struck him as odd was that the Ancient Kings used magical locks, even though they had so little love for magic…

And what do you really know about the Ancient Kings, Dash, you who didn’t even know they were demons. Books don’t necessarily tell the truths.

He smoothed his beard for a moment, and then finally reacted.

“So, are you bringing me that key, Tah?”

The shadow made an amused sound. The riddle of this lock seemed to have motivated him.

‘I’ll be right back,’ Tah promised.

And off he went. As soon as he left, Dashvara regretted not asking him to bring some instrument to remove the arrowhead. He’d never done it by himself, and he doubted he could do it, but… bringing Tsu along might arouse suspicion.

At the same time, if you’re losing all your blood here, Dash, you’re not going to have to fake this dead body thing.

He rolled his eyes, glanced at his wound again, and winced. He didn’t even have a knife to cut the blood-soaked sleeve and remove the leather armor. He tried to peel it off the skin… and almost immediately gave up. It was useless and only made the pain worse. Until Tahisran returned, he sat at the foot of the Eternal Bird, near the lock, dizzy, exasperated, and thirsty. His spirits lifted a little when the shadow placed the golden key in his palm.

“Thank you, Tah,” he murmured. “What would I do without you…”

‘Well, you’d probably be out of the tower by now, and they wouldn’t all be mourning your death,’ Tahisran chided him.

Dashvara swallowed. Damn. Tahisran was right, in a way, but… Without answering, he straightened up heavily and, taking the key firmly, was about to insert it into the lock when Tahisran insisted:

‘You know, Dash? The Xalyas are standing guard outside… And it’s possible they’re surprised I haven’t come out and told them yet… whether you’re dead or not. You should let them in. At least Tsu. You’re hurt. Your plan won’t work if you leave a trail of blood wherever you go.’

Dashvara frowned, thought it over, and nodded tiredly. Once again, Tahisran was right.

“Okay,” he yielded. “Talk to the captain and let him and Tsu in.”

He perceived Tahisran’s relieved smile.

‘I’ll do that right away.’

Dashvara shook his head and put the key away. Faster than he expected, the tower door opened and several figures entered. More than two, he noticed with some exasperation. The captain came first, a lighted candle in his hand. Miflin closed the door. In all, a good dozen had entered. Sensing the shadow on his right, Dashvara muttered in a whisper:

“For the discretion, bravo.”

Tahisran gave an innocent, mocking growl. Then, as the captain moved forward, squinting, trying to see in the darkness, Dashvara called out in a voice from beyond the grave:

“The Eternal Bird of Nabakaji greets you, Xalyas.”

He saw them tense up, and he laughed out loud, standing up.

“Does anyone have a canteen? I’m dying of thirst, brothers. And, by the way, that arrow, Tsu, if you’ll take it away…”

Dashvara’s words generated gasps, comments, curses, and blessings. Tsu was soon at his side, begging him to lie down so he could be treated. He sent Miflin to fetch water, Arvara was assigned the task of holding Dashvara still as the drow began the operation, and in the meantime, the captain, crouching beside him, commented:

“Tah explained your plan to us. Honestly, Dash, I don’t think it will work. Todakwa is an Essimean. A Death Wizard. Who knows, maybe he can even tell from a distance that the corpse we’re taking is not yours. And we would raise suspicions right away, you know how your people is…”

As Tsu palpated his arm, Dashvara gave a muffled grunt, ceasing to listen to the captain. Damn, it hurt a lot. Someone handed him a belt, and he bit down on it. The operation was carried out as quietly as possible. While Tsu tinkered with his arm and filled cups with blood, Dashvara tried to focus his thoughts on something else. His plan to leave Aralika as a corpse seemed more and more far-fetched, and at the same time, he couldn’t think of a better one. Sending his people safely to Mount Bakhia under Kuriag’s protection would have been a masterstroke.

As he felt himself fainting, he feared he would lose consciousness, and with effort, he removed the belt from his mouth and croaked:

“Captain…”

Zorvun had stayed close to him, holding his healthy arm for support. His expression became more animated when he heard Dashvara.

“Yes, son?”

Dashvara gritted his teeth, breathed in, and managed to say:

“Take the key I have in my pocket. And open the door to the crypt. Tahisran will show you where it is. Maybe… there’s something interesting inside.”

A flash of pain drew a muffled cry from him, and he hastened to bite the belt again. Zorvun shook his head, looking at him in amazement.

“The crypt?” he murmured as he reached into his pocket. “Nabakaji’s crypt?”

Dashvara nodded silently, and the captain took out the key. At that moment, Tsu said in a voice charged with tension:

“I’m going to pull it out, Dash. Lumon, can you hold him down too? Hang in there.”

Dashvara huffed and dropped the belt. He replied in a voice that was both strained and ironic:

“What does it matter if I die? I’ve already been resurrected twice, and they say all good things come in threes…” He gasped for breath with watering and feverish eyes. “Oh, Lia-dir-lá… Are you going to pull it out now?”

He saw Tsu’s dark look. The drow picked up the belt and put it back in his mouth, replying:

“Stop talking, lord of the steppe.”

The steppe lord stopped talking. And as Tsu began to withdraw the arrowhead, his mind flew like a bird and stopped even thinking. The darkness crushed him.

19 Crypts and plans

When he regained consciousness, it took him an interminable time to simply try to remember who he was and where he was. He felt terrible. After surviving one of the supposedly most lethal venoms, was he going to die because of a damned arrow in his arm? Unless this fire that was eating him up now was a side effect of the venom that should have killed him anyway. Either way, Tsu was a great doctor, and Dashvara trusted him to do everything he could to keep the steppe lord from ending up in the grave.

Time passed and his mind was still drowned and lost as if he had plunged into a sea of boiling water. He knew that he was still in the tower, that he had been put on a rather comfortable straw mattress and that he was suffocating in the heat, despite the cold it must have been outside.

He was vaguely aware of what was going on around him, but when he tried to remember, reality escaped him, his headache worsened, and he soon forgot everything around him. When he finally woke up with a clearer head and lay disoriented on his pallet, it was daylight, but he could not tell which day it was. The whole winter could have passed, and he would not have noticed.

As soon as he straightened up, Boron, sitting barely a step away like a silent watchman, looked up and smiled at him. The Placid’s questioning expression spoke louder than his tongue. Dashvara answered with a tired, smiling pout.

“I think I’m beginning to live again,” he assured.

In fact, his mind was no longer so confused, and his body was no longer burning with fever. He was just tired. He glanced down at his bandaged arm before glancing around the tower room. It was deserted, but the door, ajar, let in the quiet murmur of conversation. He recognized Makarva’s light voice, as well as Orafe’s deeper stentorian voice. After rubbing his eyes, he asked:

“How long have I been here?”

“Three days,” Boron answered. “The fever broke last night, and you’ve been asleep half a day. You burned like a campfire, but Tsu says that now you are out of danger. A little water?”

Dashvara agreed, then lay back down, feeling dizzy.

“Did the assassin spill the beans?” he asked after a moment.

Boron winced and hesitated.

“Apparently, she couldn’t say anything. An Essimean in the palace explained to us that her tongue was cut out a few years ago for rebellion.” Dashvara wrinkled his nose, and the Placid added with obvious embarrassment, “That night… some Xalyas lost their temper. They tried to get into the building where the Essimeans were keeping the murderess prisoner… Nothing serious happened,” he assured at once under Dashvara’s alarmed eyes. “Anyway, at dawn, the Essimeans themselves executed her.” He paused and uncomfortably corrected, “Let’s just say that nothing very serious happened, largely because of the Titiaka who interfered.”

Dashvara arched an eyebrow.

“He interfered?” he repeated, dumbfounded. “Kuriag?”

He paled at the thought of the young elf blocking the way of a bunch of angry Xalyas.

“He used a strange spell,” Boron nodded. “I was behind and didn’t feel anything, but Miflin says it had to do with the marks on our arms. He says they stood there for a while as if paralyzed. In the end, they surrounded us, and we had to put down our weapons.” He shrugged. “I guess the Titiaka prevented a tragedy from happening. But more than a few are angry with him after what he did.” He shook his head. “Anyway, he’s not a bad guy. He even came here to help Tsu fix you up when he found out you were still alive.” He sighed, “If only we could get out of this town…”

He fell silent, as if exhausted from talking so much in one go. Dashvara remained meditative, both relieved that nothing disastrous had happened during his delirium and exasperated by the fatigue that prevented him from concentrating on anything too complicated.

“What about the crypt?” he asked at last.

Boron’s eyes sparkled.

“We opened it.” Under Dashvara’s eager eyes, he lowered his voice and said with unusual excitement, “It’s full of weapons, Dash. The captain said we weren’t to touch it for now… But I got to see them. They’re old, but they’re in good condition. All of them belonged to the Ancient Kings.”

Dashvara smiled, but his smile gradually faded. Well, okay, they had weapons. But his brothers already had them. And arming Aralika’s young Xalya slaves to make their way through the Essimean soldiers would have been a death sentence. Definitely, they needed a well-thought-out plan to get out of this situation. Unless Kuriag renegotiated with Todakwa. In which case… demons, in which case, he was ready to hand the swords over to the Legitimate and make him lord of the Xalyas. And more. As if guessing his thoughts, Boron added in a low voice:

“There’s more good news. In this crypt, there is a tunnel that opens with the same magical key. It was Tah who found it.”

“A tunnel?” Dashvara repeated, gripped.

“Yep. It’s a bit of a narrow tunnel, but we can get through. According to Tah, it leads into an Essimean house on the outskirts of Aralika. The captain says it might become useful to us.”

And pretty damn useful, Dashvara thought cheerfully. Well, it would have been better if the tunnel had opened up even further, but… anyway, it could give them the advantage of surprise. Boron smiled and stood up.

“Tsu asked me to let him know when you wake up. I’ll be right back.”

Dashvara nodded, and from his pallet, he saw the Placid walk silently away towards the exit. He closed his eyes, opened them again, tried to fight off the fatigue… and failed. Almost without realizing it, he fell into a deep, restful sleep. He had one of those pleasant dreams he used to have regularly: he was sitting on the sparse grass of Xalya, accompanied by Lusombra and Sunrise, and with a heart full of peace, he was talking to his horses gently, under the immense steppe sky…

He awoke to a growing commotion outside. A single lantern on the statue of the Eternal Bird gently lit the interior of the tower. It was dark. The door was ajar, and he caught a glimpse of Lumon’s silhouette just in time as he stepped out, perhaps to find out what all the fuss was about. And, indeed, what could be the reason?

Frowning, puzzled, Dashvara tried to straighten up, but then, without meaning to, he moved his right arm, and a sharp pain left him paralyzed for a few seconds. Oh, hell… Maybe the Captain was right when he said he’d been through worse things, but… hell, it still hurt. He huffed, catching his breath. With some effort he managed to sit up, grabbed a jug of milk with his left hand, and took long sips before turning his attention to the plate full of strange vegetables that had been left out. Was it typical Essimean food? In any case, he found it tasted like the devil. He was chewing, hesitating whether to spit or not, when, noticing that the commotion was increasing, he left his meal aside with relief in order to satisfy his curiosity… However, as soon as he started to get up, a bald head appeared through the door. It was Miflin. The Poet’s eyes widened when he saw him sitting on his pallet, and he smiled broadly before exclaiming:

“Dash! You’re awake!” He walked in as he joyfully called out, “Guess what happened.”

Dashvara looked at him, intrigued. He ventured mockingly:

“A red nadre has swallowed Todakwa.”

Miflin laughed.

“If only that could be true. No. Apparently, the villages of Nanda and Lifdor have risen up. I bet my hair that Zefrek is behind it.”

Dashvara blinked, stunned. The Shalussis had “risen up”?

“Liadirlá, seriously?”

Miflin smiled with all his teeth, but it was Makarva who answered, storming in.

“So seriously that the Essimean are on the warpath!” He smiled. “How is the King of the Eternal Bird doing?”

Dashvara shrugged.

“Alive and more or less clearheaded at last. What exactly happened?”

Miflin explained all at once:

“Tsu and the Titiaka have taken care of you, you have risen again, and now Todakwa dares not lay a hand on you, because everyone think that Skâra has blessed you. Isn’t that wonderful?”

Dashvara had expected an explanation about the Shalussis, but the Poet’s answer made him pout in amazement. Skâra had blessed him? Had She? Makarva reasoned:

“I’d say it was rather the Eternal Bird in this tower that protected you.”

“Yeah, sure,” Miflin scoffed. “The Eternal Bird doesn’t work miracles, Mak.”

“No,” this one conceded, “but it is said that only the Ancient Kings were able to survive the red snake venom. And Dashvara did. It’s as if the Eternal Bird of the Tower adopted him. I’m not the only one who says so.”

Miflin gave Dashvara a mocking look.

“Mak thinks you’re divine, Dash.”

Makarva gave him a brotherly slap as he protested:

“So what if I thinks he is?”

“Divine or not,” Dashvara interjected, amused, “I don’t think Todakwa is very fond of this situation. On one side Zefrek, on the other the Xalyas…”

And perhaps Raxifar of Akinoa, he added mentally. Miflin approved with triumphant joy:

“He must be red with anger!”

Dashvara nodded with a crooked smile.

“This is all beginning to take a good turn,” he admitted. “But don’t be fooled, brothers. The Essimeans have already shown us their treachery. And we are still trapped in their kingdom.”

Makarva and Miflin nodded, and the former assured:

“Don’t worry: we sleep like cats. Besides, now that you’ve been blessed by Skâra, they won’t dare touch us.”

Dashvara looked skeptical, Miflin elbowed Makarva, and he was opening his mouth to throw some jibe when Tsu appeared through the door. For a moment, the drow showed a hint of exasperation, as if he was displeased that the two young Xalyas were talking with his patient, but then he resumed an inexpressive and quiet face and approached saying:

“I’ll change your bandage. I see you haven’t eaten it all yet,” he observed with a frown. “You should finish. These are ogroyes that come straight from Titiaka. They’re delicious.”

“Ogroyes,” Dashvara repeated in a hushed whisper. Since when did people eat ogroyes on the steppe? “Does it have anything to do with ogres? No, because they taste of the devil… A-a-yea,” he breathed in sharply, glowering at his arm.

“Try not to move your arm, will you?” the drow growled in a dry tone. “It needs absolute rest for at least two weeks. I’m not kidding. Wait, I’ll bring some boiling water. An infusion will do you good.”

“I’ll bring it,” Miflin interjected.

Dashvara sighed softly. Two weeks. Clearly, he was going to have the doctor behind him longer than the last time he’d been resuscitated. He caught Makarva’s mocking smile and rolled his eyes. No choice, then…

“Ayshat, Tsu,” he pronounced.

The drow, already leaning close to him, looked at him with his reddish eyes, arched an eyebrow, shrugged his shoulders, as if to say that there was no need to say thank you, and he was about to remove the bandage. Dashvara smiled inwardly. Skâra, what the hell, he thought. If She must bless someone, then rather than him, She should bless the drow.

* * *

For the next three days, Dashvara did not leave the tower under Tsu’s express orders… and the Captain’s. Had Zorvun guessed that Kuriag might not be the target of this assassination? Who knows. In any case, as long as Dashvara was in the tower, “protected” by the Eternal Bird and Skâra, the Xalyas had a sacred reason to keep the Essimeans from entering and, therefore, to keep the crypt’s weapons within their reach.

So Dashvara played the obedient patient and spent long hours on top of the tower, looking out over the steppe. He looked northeast, not toward Xalya, but toward the land of the Honyrs. Towards his naâsga. At times, he almost thought he saw her black eyes magically drawn before him. But most of the time, what he saw were the houses of Aralika, the vegetable gardens and the bands of horses and flocks of sheep, perhaps guarded by some Xalya child. The Fadul River, lined with shrubs and stones, meandered with its clear, sparkling waters from the northeast. And beyond the river, halfway between Essimea and Xalya, lay an ocean of rosy and white shrubs. The Xalyas called it the Death Meadow, because, four decades ago, they had won a bloody battle there against the Akinoas. Well… won, that was a way of speaking, because they had lost more men there than in all the following decades. Yes, they had managed to save the Dungeon of Nayul from the savage clutches… only to have it fall five years later in another battle that had ended in defeat for the sons of the Eternal Bird. It was said that, since then, on the meadow, the pink bushes bled brother blood, and the white ones cried out for vengeance…

So many senseless deaths.

Silently, Dashvara leaned back in his chair and looked up at a completely blue sky.

“So many senseless deaths,” he repeated softly. And what for, in the end? So that the Essimeans would end up dominating the steppe with the support of a foreign federation that lived miles away. Was there a more absurd reality?

The sound of footsteps on the stairs interrupted his thoughts. He looked down, heard panting, and soon saw the captain’s face, flushed with effort. No sooner had he arrived than he breathed out:

“Devils, Dash… One of these days you’ll end up killing me.” He exhaled, catching his breath under Dashvara’s amused look, and announced: “I bring news.”

Dashvara stood up, indicating the chair with his left hand:

“Age before beauty, Captain.”

The latter rolled his eyes and, ignoring the invitation, said:

“The Shalussis have taken control of their former villages, and the Essimeans will send about two-hundred warriors to claim them back. That would leave that many Essimeans ready to defend Aralika. It’s a good opportunity to leave this city all together,” he asserted. “If we manage to get far enough away, they won’t dare follow us.”

Dashvara nodded, excited by the prospect.

“When are those two hundred going to leave?”

“Tomorrow,” the captain replied. “They probably won’t get to Lamasta until the next day… We can leave during that night and go along the river. If they turn back to stop us… we’d be in trouble,” he admitted. “But it wouldn’t make sense to turn back and give the Shalussis more time to organize. This is not a harmless uprising,” he assured. “Zefrek knows what he is doing. I don’t know how he managed it, but apparently he’s armed his people to the teeth. According to Garag, the Dazbonians must have sold them weapons cheaply. That Federate kept spewing venom against the Republicans throughout the meal. He even says he’ll send some Ryscodran mercenaries he has in Ergaika to help the Essimeans crush the rebellion…” He shook his head with a grimace of disgust. “I don’t like that diplomat at all.”

“Do the Xalyas know yet?” Dashvara asked.

“Not the details. I’ll fill them in. But I remind you that you are still the lord, son. You’re the one who has to give the orders.”

Dashvara arched a mocking eyebrow.

“Aye, sir. I like your plan. Though I still think the corpse idea wasn’t so bad.” He smiled broadly and, regaining his seriousness, asked, “What do we do with the weapons from the crypt?”

The captain pouted.

“I suggest we take them out through the tunnel and hide them in our saddlebags. I don’t think it’s a good idea to give them to these boys so soon. Some of them I’ve instructed a little in Xalya, and they know the basics… but those under fourteen, I wouldn’t let them have a sword in their hands unless it was absolutely necessary.”

“Without a doubt,” Dashvara approved.

He scratched his neck nervously, all too aware that this escape could end in a bloodbath. If they all used the tunnel to get through, they could get to the outskirts of the city without anyone seeing them. The disadvantage was that it would take them at least an hour to get through, if not more, and they would run the risk of being caught by the Essimean in one place and killed like dogs. Or of being surprised by the dawn too early.

He shook his head.

“What about your son-in-law?” he asked.

“Bah,” the captain sighed. He dropped into the chair, saying, “The boy is not stupid, but he is more lost than a puppy. It’s a good thing he decided to travel to the steppe before returning to Titiaka, or else those citizens would have been all over him from the start.”

Dashvara huffed, meditative. He hadn’t told the Legitimate about the crypt yet. He had been able to visit it the day before, borrowing the golden key again under the pretext that he was “looking for the entrance to Nabakaji’s crypt”. Kuriag and Asmoan, according to Tah, did not suspect that he had already found it a week ago. And, so far, it had been for the best. However… hadn’t he promised Kuriag Dikaksunora that he would inform him of all his decisions whenever possible?

Well, go ahead and tell him, Dash, he scoffed. Tell him you intend to go with your people through a tunnel concealed under the Feather. He won’t know to do, he’ll be anxious, and in any case, the Essimeans will think him a complete fool for losing his newly acquired two-hundred Xalyas so quickly.

In fact, as far as he knew, Kuriag had finally succeeded in obtaining the Xalyas from Essimea in exchange for a promise to deny them the right to settle on the steppe as a free people. The condition was revolting, but Dashvara understood that it was the best the young elf could come up with to at least remove his people from Todakwa’s power. And he hoped that, in Kuriag’s presence, the Essimeans would think twice before rushing to attack his new slaves.

Anyway, you promised him, Dash. You promised to inform him.

And, after all he had done, he deserved a thousand times to be informed. His Eternal Bird urged Dashvara to talk to Kuriag Dikaksunora. He had to tell him about the crypt and show it to him… maybe once they had hidden the weapons? Then there wouldn’t be much left for him to see. Aside from the messy piles of swords, spears, and shields, and aside from the hidden tunnel, the crypt seemed all too ordinary: it was a simple rectangular room with a stone coffin in the middle. No one had dared touch the lid, not even Dashvara, even though he had burned an entire candle examining the writings engraved on it in ancient Oy’vat. Most of them were maxims that Maloven had repeated to him over and over during his childhood, but not all of them. One sentence had particularly stuck with him; it said:

‘Death to the man who leads his brothers to certain death.’

These words had robbed him of many hours of sleep, and still continued to torment him. Every time he recalled them, he couldn’t help but think of his lord father and remember how he had sent his people to their deaths. But at the same time, he scoffed at himself, because, on the day Xalya had fallen, had he not convinced himself that Vifkan of Xalya had done the right thing, that he had followed his Eternal Bird in fighting to the death, and that he had instead condemned his son to a shameful life by forcing him to flee?

How far away those times were now, and yet he kept such a vivid image of them in his mind… After a silence, he noticed the Captain’s curious look and shook his head with a snort.

“Philosopher’s worries,” he explained.

He turned and leaned on the edge of the tower, this time looking southeastward to the Shalussi lands. He seemed to see columns of smoke rising in the distance behind the hills. Houses on fire? Probably. He hesitated before deciding to ask:

“Do you think our Dahars is still the same as it was, Captain?”

He waited with impatience and apprehension for Zorvun’s answer. He heard him rise from the chair, approach, and lean against the battlements. The captain gazed along with him at the columns of smoke before finally replying:

“In Titiaka, if you remember, you repeated some words Maloven told you. ‘It’s not the feathers that are important, but the strength that sustains them.’” Dashvara faintly smiled, remembering, and the captain concluded, “Perhaps the feathers have changed a bit… Certainly, everyone’s feather has changed, and that is natural. But the strength has not changed, Dashvara. It is still the same.”

Dashvara believed him and nodded, relieved. Zorvun added in a lighter voice:

“You should come downstairs. A real meal will do you good, and not all that weird food Tsu gives you. You’ve got your head in the clouds, so much that you’re thinking like a shaard. And it’s not practical to have to climb all those stairs to visit the Immortal King.”

Dashvara rolled his eyes and stepped away from the niche with a sigh:

“You are right. My head is my undoing. If I could change it, I’d change it for Maef’s. His thoughts, at least, are always clear.”

“Too much clear, I’d say,” the captain snorted, amused.

As they headed for the stairs, Dashvara said:

“I’ll talk to Kuriag. We need to let him know we’re leaving.”

The captain grimaced, hesitated, and finally admitted:

“I think he already suspects something.” At Dashvara’s surprised look, he explained briefly, “My daughter. She reads my mind like an open book.”

Dashvara smiled.

“All the more reason to go talk to him then. We don’t want our master to get upset. Maybe he’ll even want to come with us,” he added, very amused.

The captain nodded, a thoughtful twinkle in his eye.

“If only that could be true! I would treat him like a son.”

And so, with a half-felt calm, one perhaps thinking of his daughter’s future, the other of his people’s, the two Xalyas began their descent from the Tower of the Ancient Kings.

20 Freedom

What the captain had not anticipated was that Todakwa would invite Kuriag Dikaksunora to be among the spectators who would watch as the Essimeans gloriously crushed the Shalussi revolt. Naturally, Kuriag had felt obliged to accept and had decided to take the opportunity to send all his new slaves to the port of Ergaika: he thought he would part with them halfway while he continued his journey to Lamasta. Dashvara had heard about it from Api: the Legitimate had not even felt it necessary to come and inform him directly. The news had stunned him. Why on earth was Todakwa going to travel for what he himself had apparently called “a riot of savages with machetes”? Well, maybe because he wanted to show the Titiaka how admirably his men put down revolts. In any case, Aralika awoke very early that morning, and the first rays of the sun found His Excellency under the morning drizzle, dressed in brand new sowna scale armor and surrounded by Ragails and Xalyas. Seeing the bustle of the Great Square from a loophole in the tower, Dashvara sighed. Why make plans if they always fell through?

They weren’t really going to fall through, anyway: the escape was still going to happen. Except that instead of running away from Aralika, they would be running away from a camp full of soldiers on the alert and armed to the teeth…

“Dash!” a voice whispered.

Dashvara looked away from the embrasure and saw Miflin waving at him with a big smile. Finally, he sighed, relieved. They had managed to hide the weapons. He walked down the stairs to the busy room.

“Are they all there?” he asked.

“Not the bigger shields,” the Poet admitted. “Those, we hid in the tunnel, in case one day… you never know. But there’s not a saber left, and the spears are all on the litter. You’re going to be lying on one hell of an arsenal, cousin,” he laughed.

Dashvara glanced at the litter the Xalyas had requested the day before to carry the injured steppe lord… He wasn’t particularly thrilled about having to travel in a litter instead of riding Sunrise, but he had to admit that it was a perfect way to conceal the weapons… It was Lumon’s idea: the Archer always had good ideas. The problem was, the thing was going to weigh a ton.

Makarva took him by the left shoulder, inviting him to come closer.

“We’ve put cushions and everything in to make you comfortable, my lord!” his friend cried out with mocking enthusiasm. “You’ll be like a king.”

Dashvara rolled his eyes. Well, no choice. He briefly examined the litter to make sure the weapons were well camouflaged, then climbed in and sat down with a broad smile.

“Like a princess,” he declared.

His assessment generated bursts of laughter, which turned to grunts as several lifted the palanquin. Orafe called out:

“Bah. I would have thought this thing would weigh more.”

“It was the ogroyes that made him skinny as a spear,” Kodarah lamented, jokingly.

Smiling, Dashvara stretched out among the cushions, listening to his brothers’ comments, and he chuckled good-humoredly:

“Forward, my brothers, gallop on! Let us not stay behind, or the Essimean will think us lazy.”

His words generated snorts. Sashava replied:

“Try to act sick, Dash. If you don’t, our people will think ill of you. Makarva, draw the curtains. It’s better if they don’t see him. Let’s go, boys.”

The Grumpy waved his crutch to encourage the troop, the tower doors opened, and the litter went out. Hidden in his comfortable palanquin, Dashvara concentrated on the sounds he heard: horses’ breaths and hooves, voices, shouted orders… Aralika’s exit was endless. At one point, he tried to look out, and someone slapped him. Devils, he sighed.

After crossing the river, the going was terribly monotonous. Fortunately Dashvara had borrowed a box of books from Kuriag Dikaksunora. He had started one on the history of the University of Titiaka, but he soon got bored and moved on to another volume. This one told of the life of a religious order of Cili who sent missionaries to places as far away as the Northern Empire of Iskamangra… He was not particularly interested in the subject, but at least, he understood it, and he read on, comfortably ensconced in his princess bunk as his brothers carried him off… All for the sake of those spears!

The thought of having all the surviving Xalya people following the litter moved him so much that he regularly interrupted his reading, and more than once, he stopped himself at the last moment from opening the curtains to make sure his people were alive and on their way to freedom.

Or to death.

He gritted his teeth in exasperation.

Well, you’re going to damn well encourage your people with such thoughts, Dash. Read your missionaries and stop thinking.

He followed his own advice and found himself finally captivated by the lives of these Cilian clerics who were landing in distant lands without even knowing what they would find. At noon, they took a break, and Tsu’s dark hand reached between the curtains to feed him. Ogroyes. Dashvara swallowed with a grimace that turned into a small smile when he saw that, on the other side, a human hand had slipped a generous piece of cheese inside the litter. He ate the whole thing, and then took a nap like a good Xalya. When he woke up, they had already started walking again, and a heavy rain was pounding against the ground. Ideal for an escape, Dashvara grumbled inwardly: they would slip and sprawl every two steps, and the Essimeans would get them back muddy, exhausted and ridiculed.

Liadirlá… sometimes I wish I could stop thinking.

He received a drop of water on the top of his head and looked up. The canvas above was not completely waterproof, apparently. Soon the drops turned into a steady stream and Dashvara had to change places and put all the books back in the box. After putting on his blue hood, he waited, getting wetter and wetter. Then the wind began to blow and, in a gust, the canvas flew away. Dashvara could not hold back a loud burst of laughter. Orafe grunted, Miflin clicked his tongue, and a Xalya child shouted through the crashing rain:

“The lord! I see the lord!”

Dashvara felt hundreds of eyes turn towards him. He gave them an emotional smile and a bow of the head. He couldn’t see their reactions very well because of the rain, and to his disappointment, his brothers were quick: they quickly retrieved the main canvas and put it back without almost having to stop.

When they camped for the night it had stopped raining, but the wind continued to blow stubbornly. Someone drew aside the curtain soon after the litter was laid, and Dashvara called out in Oy’vat:

“You guys are not going to leave me locked up here all night, are you? I’m as wet as a fish.” He swallowed his words as he recognized Kuriag. “Oh, Excellency,” he snorted in the Common Tongue.

Careful not to move his right arm, he stepped out of the litter box and straightened. Kuriag cleared his throat, took a quick glance at the Xalyas who were watching him out of the corner of their eyes while going about their tasks, and said:

“I need to talk to you seriously.”

“Of course,” Dashvara agreed. And, noticing the captain’s annoyed pout, he cried out loudly, “I feel much better right now than I did this morning. If I keep on staying in here like a man at death’s door, I’ll end up dying for good. Of boredom.”

No one protested. After all, what really mattered was to get the litter out. Pretending to be sicker than he was did not help dispel the suspicions of the Essimeans, nor did it contribute to the morale of the Xalyas. And the latter was fundamental. So he tried to keep himself upright, strong, and serene… As did my lord father, he thought wryly.

As his tent was not yet set up, the elf pointed to one of the many desert hills in that area, and they both walked away, watched by both the Xalyas and the Essimeans. As soon as they were out of range of prying ears, Kuriag blurted out:

“I know you’ll try to leave. I don’t know how or where to, but I know it. And I warn you that the Essimean know it too.”

He almost sounded apologetic. Dashvara shrugged and grunted in pain as he moved his arm. He replied:

“Fantastic. Everyone knows it and everyone knows that everyone knows it. What’s the big deal?”

The Legitimate frowned, and Dashvara smiled as he concluded:

“You listen to your Eternal Bird, Kuriag, without knowing it. Know that you are helping us escape. Otherwise, you would have split us up and had Garag escort the unarmed Xalyas directly to Ergaika. But you didn’t. It is you who is leading us to escape, Excellency. And yet,” he shook his head sadly, “you are still a prisoner of your obligations. You must maintain your family’s reputation, its trade agreements… and continue to support the Essimean people your father supported. But you could also do something different. I’ve been thinking about it for the last few days, and I’m certain now that Todakwa will never in a million years let the Xalyas settle freely on the steppe. Still, we want to stay. So… we will fight to stay. And we will not lose. Not if we can ally ourselves with the Shalussis and the Akinoas and get the support of the Honyrs. Essimea will tremble,” he asserted in a low, deep voice. “Don’t look at me like that, Kuriag. My Eternal Bird hates war. It really hates it. But this is not a war. This is a fight for our clan. For our steppe and our freedom. I don’t want to shed any more blood, except perhaps Todakwa’s, but it is what it is, Excellency. I cannot change the twisted ways of the Essimean. And I cannot give up freedom. So, in the midst of so much absurdity, I choose hope. I choose swords, Excellency. And now… it’s up to you to decide whose side you’re on.” The elf looked at him with wide eyes. Dashvara concluded, “Todakwa has betrayed the truce he made with my father. He is a traitor. And there is no dishonor in betraying a traitor. If you help us… if you prevent Titiaka from intervening, I swear on my life that once peace is won, I’ll give my Eternal Bird into your hands. I know I owe it to you.”

He cleared his throat, moved his arm unintentionally again, and cursed under his breath. Kuriag’s expression was one of fear, sadness and bitterness.

“You don’t owe me anything,” he said finally in a whisper. “You saved my life.”

Dashvara remembered the murderess and pouted. No, he hadn’t actually saved him, but, at that moment, he thought not to disabuse him. You’re worse than an Essimean snake, Dash…

“Maybe,” he replied. “Or maybe not. Who knows whom that steppian was aiming at, Excellency.”

Kuriag straightened up, stunned.

“You mean she wanted to kill you?”

“No idea,” Dashvara admitted. “Anyway, what does it matter now. I’m alive, you’re alive: it remains to be seen which side you want to live on.”

Kuriag bit his cheek, nervous.

“I see… In that case…” He scratched his head. “I don’t know, Dashvara, I’m in a tight spot here. I wanted to visit dungeons, I wanted to see the ancient monuments of the Ancient Kings… But Lessi is right. The sajits here are no better than in Titiaka.”

Dashvara wondered if he meant him or others. He wisely did not ask. He understood that Kuriag needed time to decide whether he should send the Essimeans to hell—along with his family’s agreements—or whether he should follow the straight and narrow, which Atasiag would most likely advise. The problem was that they had no time left.

“The Shalussis,” Kuriag said then, absorbed. He looked up at Dashvara with troubled eyes. “You say you’re going to ally with them?”

Dashvara couldn’t help but glance around uncomfortably before nodding.

“That’s the plan. Let’s just say… that’s what the Captain, Lumon and I thought we’d do. We haven’t told the others yet. I don’t know how they’ll take it. But it’s the best escape route, and certainly the Essimean won’t expect it: the Shalussis have always been our sworn enemies. This is our best bet,” he assured. “The Honyr lands are too far away. We don’t have enough horses. The Essimeans would have us surrounded before we got there.”

Kuriag moistened his lips.

“What if the Shalussis don’t want to join forces?”

Dashvara shook his head.

“If Zefrek is leading the rebellion, he will ally himself. I have no doubt of that.”

Kuriag nodded, breathed in, then out, saying:

“Then… I wish you luck, Dashvara of Xalya. But, as I told you once before, I disapprove of any conflict. I will disapprove of you using weapons. And I will disapprove of the Essimeans using theirs. I may be ingenuous in saying this, but I’d rather be so than have my hands stained with blood. I am fully convinced of that. Lessi too,” he added with a faint smile. “She and I have the same worldview. The same Eternal Bird. But I know that not everyone is fortunate enough to be able to keep an Eternal Bird so intact. So… may Cili guide your soul, Dashvara. You are free.”

For a moment, Dashvara nodded without fully grasping the meaning of these last words. Then he arched an eyebrow.

“Free?”

“I’m setting you free,” Kuriag asserted, getting a little flustered. “I don’t know who that murderess wanted to kill, but it doesn’t matter. You stepped in. And that’s a strong reason to set you free. No one can deny that. Even though… I suppose you already considered yourself a free man, anyway.”

Dashvara smiled.

“I will not feel free until my people are effectively free. But that doesn’t just depend on you, Kuriag. It depends on this,” he gave the pommel of the sword a firm tap, “and also on my ability to raise the spirits of a broken people,” he admitted with a chill.

Kuriag made a muffled sound. The young elf was now showing a distant attitude, as if he already imagined that this whole thing was going to end badly, yet he didn’t dare prevent Dashvara from throwing himself headlong into hell either.

“I understand,” the Legitimate muttered. “I suppose that… it’s better that I don’t know any more than this. As a matter of fact, I already know too much.”

Dashvara hesitated.

“Indeed,” he conceded. He reached into his pocket and handed him back the golden key. “Asmoan was right. There is a crypt beneath the Feather. It opens from the pedestal of the Eternal Bird. You will find down there the tomb of the first shaard of the steppe. On it… you will be able to read wise words that will surely be to your liking, Excellency.” Kuriag looked at him in amazement. The Xalya took a step back. “Know that… you will always be welcome in my clan, if one day you return in search of dungeons and Eternal Birds…” he smiled, “or even if you wish to stay forever. You know. Our Dahars is not so different from yours, I assure you.” There was a silence, and before Kuriag could replied, Dashvara said: “Good night, Excellency.”

He didn’t give him time to answer either: he bowed his head respectfully, turned around and went back to the Xalyas’ camp. The sky was darkening fast, and by the time he ate his dinner, it was already completely dark. Luck was on their side: there would be no Gems, no Moon, and no Candles to light the Essimeans that night. Only the stars.

During the meal, Dashvara glanced at his people, and they glanced back at him, as if waiting for him to do something… to tell them something, perhaps? And what could he tell them? That they should have courage? That now that he was here, he would save them all? Ha, that couldn’t be more pretentious.

His brothers had been more effective in reconnecting with the lost people. Miflin and Kodarah had been reunited with their mother, Sedrios with his grandson, Lumon with his bride, and Kaldaka with his son… All of them had been reunited with relatives, Dashvara included. But for some stupid reason, instead of going to them, he sat there, increasingly nervous and sure that if he opened his mouth, he would give his people the image of a mad philosopher and not a capable leader. Interrupting his crisis of confidence, Zorvun said:

“Go talk to them, Dashvara. I think they need it as much as you do.”

Dashvara didn’t require to be told twice; nevertheless, when he got up, he opted to approach them in a roundabout way, without entering directly into the midst of his people.

“You’re prowling around us like you don’t know if we’re nadres or sheep,” a voice suddenly scoffed.

Dashvara turned, and in the light of the torches, he saw a young Xalya who, though seven years younger, looked surprisingly like him. He laughed and exclaimed in disbelief:

“Eternal Bird, Tinan, my brother!”

They were not blood brothers, but they had grown up together in the dungeon despite the age difference. Tinan, as the son of an officer, had started patrolling with Zorvun at a young age, and Dashvara considered him just another little brother. They wanted to shake hands, but they ran into a silly problem: Dashvara still had his right arm in a splint and Tinan had his left arm amputated. They rolled their eyes, and Dashvara patted him hard on the shoulder, assuring:

“More like nadres than sheep. You have no idea how intimidating an entire camp of Xalyas can be. Terrifying.”

Tinan smiled broadly, and so did those beside him. From then on, Dashvara ceased to shy away and immersed himself in the midst of his people; he shook vigorous hands, ruffled the hair of curious children, and answered all sorts of questions:

“It’s almost healed already, thank you,” he assured, speaking of his arm. “Diumcili? Bah. Well, the others must have told you already. A country of civilized people. The boat trip was the worst part. Ah,” he smiled as he heard someone mention his two deaths, “the resurrections, yeah, what an odd story, huh? It all started with the red snake I killed in Nanda’s village. Since then, its spirit has been stalking me. But I left the evil spirits in the Feather for good… And now the Eternal Bird is smiling on me. But tell me how those years with the Essimeans went.”

The mere mention of their former masters made many of them gloomy. The stories poured in, and Dashvara listened to them. Most of the surviving Xalyas had been enslaved first by the Akinoas and Shalussis and sold almost immediately to the Essimean in exchange for food, horses and gold… gold for the incorrigible Shalussis. The abuse of their masters, the work in the mines, the prohibitions, the dehumanization that his people had suffered during those three years outraged him to the point he could not contain his grunts and cursing.

“They whipped my brother Namozara to death,” interjected a youth of about twelve, in the Common Tongue.

“Not Namozara, no: he died on his own,” a cousin of Dashvara’s replied. “They left him halfway between Xalya and Aralika because he couldn’t walk any further.”

“Because they had riddled him with lashes,” the kid insisted. “And, when we arrived, nineteen died in the name of Skâra. Isn’t that right? All because we are Xalyas. Because we are the cursed people.”

“We’re not cursed, Youk,” the cousin replied.

“The priests say otherwise,” the boy retorted. “And they say that that’s why we don’t have a dungeon anymore. And that Skâra—”

“And do you believe everything the black-tunics tell you, kid?” Miflin scoffed.

The child raised his head, looking at him with confusion.

“No?”

He said it hesitantly, as if questioning. The adult Xalyas gasped, Miflin gave Youk a friendly knock, and Dashvara shook his head in concern. How successful had the Essimeans been at indoctrinating Xalya children? From what he’d been told, during those three years, everyone who worked in the city had to attend at least one daily oration in honor of Skâra or face punishment. And it was clear that, for Youk, Skâra was not a foreign deity. Perhaps she was now even more familiar to him than the concept of the Dahars. Just thinking about it made him shudder.

“Cursed, yeah, perhaps we are,” Miflin’s mother then let out bitterly. “May Vifkan of Xalya still be alive! His death has taken the lives of us all.”

Several nodded darkly, and sitting down with his people, Dashvara… kept silent. Let’s face it, could he claim to replace his lord father? No. He didn’t have the same charisma or experience. He was, in truth, simply a slightly educated soldier who had spent his life thinking and not commanding, doubting and not deciding. He knew he could not inspire the same confidence as the previous steppe lord. And yet… He noticed the Captain’s watchful gaze from the other side of the circle, and he understood… he understood that, despite everything, his people wanted someone to take the reins. And the power of tradition demanded that it be him. He cleared his throat and stood up. His movement silenced the conversations and a respectful, appraising silence settled among the Xalyas. Dashvara cleared his throat again. Liadirlá, he frankly was not made for this… He finally spoke up:

“Xalyas. I wanted to tell you that… I’m glad to see you all at last and… Look, I’m not going to lie to you: I know I lack experience. I’m not like my lord father, and I certainly don’t intend to be either. Be that as it may, be sure that, as Xalya, I desire more than anything else the good of our people. That’s why I ask you… I just ask you to trust my decisions and those of the captain. Our goal is not to send you to Death, but to Life.”

There was a silence, and Dashvara tried not to fidget. There you go, Dash, rushing in demanding their trust when you’ve only just met them again. The perfect leader. It shows that you’re your father’s son…

Then Tinan intervened in a firm and fervent voice:

“Even if it were to my death, I would follow you, my lord. In Aralika, we lost everything. Even our dignity. Death doesn’t scare me. I only want revenge.”

This immediately generated a vehement wave of support and confidence. With some unease, Dashvara wondered where this support was directed, to him or to Tinan.

Revenge, he repeated to himself with a shudder.

That one word oozed all the pain of the vexations suffered during those three years. It oozed hope.

And blood, Dash. Your people are thirsty of blood.

But hey, being realistic, wasn’t he himself? He hesitated and said to himself: no. Yes, he wished to stay in the steppe, he wished to be done with the Essimean kingdom and with Todakwa. He wished for justice to be done. But he was not willing to send his people to their deaths for it.

However, this was not the right time to try to calm the spirits. It was good that they were heated: it would have been worse if they were downcast and discouraged. So he simply replied in a loud voice:

“The Eternal Bird is flying again for all of us, and with your help, I will do everything I can to make sure it does not fall again.” As he saw that many were nodding, he concluded, “And now rest and be ready to go. We will distribute the weapons as arranged. Do not show them and, by the Eternal Bird, do not use them without express permission. To do so might send us all to the grave.”

He glanced at the faces barely lit by the torchlight. They all looked so young… including most of the women that had been spared by the Essimeans. Very few of them knew how to wield a sword, and yet Dashvara saw not a single face that expressed fear: after three years of slavery, they were eager to embark on any path that would lead them to freedom.

He bowed his head, and instead of sitting back down, he left the circle, which quickly scattered. Makarva soon joined him, calling out:

“You’re not doing as bad as you think, Dash.”

Dashvara rolled his eyes. His friend had always had this uncanny ability to guess his brothers’ state of mind, and his own more than anyone else’s.

“If you say so,” Dashvara replied, rubbing his neck. “So, are you ready for the ride?”

“Of course,” Makarva assured with a slight sigh.

The plan was simple: they would take advantage of the darkness of the night to escape, without forgetting to show that they were armed so that the Essimeans would think twice before attacking them and prefer to wait until dawn to do so. In the meantime, Makarva and Alta would ride to Lamasta, ask to see Zefrek of Shalussi and offer him the support of the Xalyas if he would grant them refuge behind his lines in exchange. And, if he did not accept… they would always have the option of continuing east, leaving the Shalussi between them and the Essimean. What he knew for certain was that Zefrek would not fight the Xalyas when he had a stronger enemy at his doorstep.

They barely spoke for the next two hours. The Essimean watchers passed around the Xalya camp more and more often. The Ragails had settled in front of Kuriag Dikaksunora’s tent, and while some were sleeping, others were only pretending to do so.

Everyone is waiting.

Lying on his cloak by the litter box, Dashvara glanced down at his bag. It was almost empty. Who knows where Tahisran was now. Probably in the Agoskurian’s tent, chatting with Api: those two got along just fine.

Only the crackle of torches and the wind broke the silence as Atok crept up beside him and whispered:

“Everything is in order, my lord.”

Dashvara nodded, stopped fiddling with the pommel of Siranaga’s sword, and without further hesitation stood up. The Xalyas followed suit, and almost simultaneously, the torches around the Xalya camp went out. Darkness enveloped them almost completely as they grabbed their packs, weapons and reins and headed east. The alarm was immediately raised.

First, there was a shout in Galka, then someone blew the war horn. It was a sound so startling and so powerful that for a moment Dashvara feared that the Essimean would risk fighting them in the dead of night. Perhaps they had light spells like those of the Ragails. He had not thought of that, but in any case, he had no alternative but to continue to move away, so he bellowed to his people:

“Don’t stay back! Move forward. And silently.”

The flight turned into a breathless race. Dashvara, now riding Sunrise, was watching for movement in the Essimean camp. The warriors had already formed a defensive line, but for the moment, they did not seem to want to launch an attack. As for the Ragails, he did not see them anywhere. Captain Djamin must have stayed near the Legitimate.

They went down the hill, and more than one stumbled and fell in the mud, but all of them got back to their feet. The younger ones had been ordered to stay in the lead; the armed Xalyas led the way, some on foot, others perched on their mounts. The horses, disturbed by the sound of the alarm, unaccustomed to riding at night, stirred and snorted, but nothing a veteran rider could not handle. Alta and the Honyrs had done an excellent job in choosing them.

The first Xalyas were already reaching the next hill when Dashvara saw a horse ride through the lines of torches in the camp and into the night, towards them. He arched his eyebrows. An Essimean messenger, perhaps? It didn’t look like one, the way it galloped… Then he understood and muttered:

“What an idiot! His horse will end up twisting a leg.”

It was Api, no doubt. When the young demon caught up with them, Alta had to step in and grab and pull the reins to bring the mount to a stop. The boy called out cheerfully:

“Mawer, I’m not doing so bad, did you see?”

Alta grumbled something about unconscious riders. Approaching on Sunrise, Dashvara ranted at the demon:

“Exactly what are you doing, boy?”

All they needed now was that the Essimeans rushed in on them under the pretext of retrieving the young man. He could not see his face, but he guessed that he was smiling when he replied:

“I carry a shadow. I am curious to know: where are you going?”

Dashvara looked up at the starry sky and grumbled:

“That is our business.” He glanced around the Essimean camp again and called out: “Alta, Mak! You may leave. They don’t seem to want to attack, and the sooner you leave, the sooner we can get help.”

“If we manage to get any,” Makarva muttered. He obviously didn’t like the plan to go to the Shalussis, but Dashvara knew that he and Alta would make the best diplomats of all. At least, unlike the others, they were able to control their impulses.

As the two Xalyas waved and trotted off into the night, Api mused:

“Getting help, huh? The Honyrs are close, then.”

Dashvara huffed.

“I’d head back to camp if I were you, Api. This is not a game. If the Essimeans catch you in the middle, they are capable of mistaking you for a Xalya and ripping your head off.”

“Thrilling!” Api retorted with obvious mockery. “If you’ll allow me, great immortal lord, I’ll stand by your side and watch over your shadow. What do you say?”

Dashvara huffed again.

“How ridiculous. Tahisran can take care of himself. I’ll say it again: for your sake, go back to camp,” he growled at him.

He spurred Sunrise and started down the next hill. After a moment, he turned and thought he saw the figure of Api, following the troop. He suppressed a swearword that turned into a sharp sigh. Damn demons.

For the next hour the progress became more regular. No one, not even the youngest children, made a single complaint. They walked in silence up and down the barren hills of the ancient lands of Lifdor, barely lit by the stars.

The Xalya horsemen followed the advance from afar, forming a wide circle around it to ensure that no Essimean detachment would take them by surprise. It would not have been so unlikely that the Essimean would have sent their cavalry to surround them. However, time passed, and no one raised an alarm. That was not surprising either. All in all, Todakwa could at most offer to retrieve the lost slaves, but he would not dare slaughter them. Not without Kuriag’s prior permission. And Dashvara knew perfectly well that the Legitimate would never give such permission.

Even so, Todakwa could also take action without Kuriag’s knowledge. He was an Essimean. He was a treacherous snake. And Dashvara was suspicious. That’s why, even if allying with the Shalussis meant committing to a camp, he still thought it was safer than crossing half the steppe with two-hundred people without sufficient food and horses… The Essimean would just have to wait until they were weakened, then appear and sacrifice them to their cursed god without telling anything to the Titiaka good master.

They advanced eastward, with the objective of deceiving the Essimean’s surveillance and making them believe that they were heading for Xalya. After a while, however, the captain ordered a change of direction to the south. Now Dashvara was walking with his people, pulling the reins of Sunrise. His right arm was burning. Tsu’s ointments barely numbed the pain, and only the darkness managed to hide his strained face.

“My lord,” a voice came from his left. Dashvara turned his head. “Can I ask why we are heading south?”

It was young Tinan. Dashvara silently cleared his throat.

“You can. We are heading south because there is an ally there.”

There was silence.

“An… ally?” Tinan hesitated.

“That’s right, an ally,” Dashvara asserted casually. “Zefrek of Shalussi, son of Nanda of Shalussi.”

His answer generated gasps and murmurs. They already knew the story of Nanda’s murder and had recently been told about the reunion with Zefrek on Matswad Island… but until then, they had no idea that he and the captain were leading them to Lamasta. More than one must have thought: now I understand where Alta and Makarva have gone. And others must have thought: now I understand why our new lord said he was not like Vifkan of Xalya. Tinan inhaled sharply.

“A Shalussi,” he spat in a trembling voice. “The Shalussis killed us in Xalya too. They threw stones at you in Aralika! They are savages. They are enemies.”

Dashvara felt as if he were hearing himself a few years back. Liadirlá, how these words now seemed ingenuous. In any case, the young Xalya’s strong protest displeased him. He replied:

“They were enemies. Times are changing, Tinan. They too have been enslaved. You yourself have had to cohabit with them, I bet. And you must have seen… they are not demons.”

An amused murmur was heard: a little further on, Api muttered something in a low voice, perhaps to Tahisran. In a muffled voice, Tinan protested:

“But… excuse me, my lord, but why don’t we go north, to the Steppe Thieves people? The captain said they would help us.”

Dashvara sighed loudly.

“I’m sure they will. But, for now, they are too far away for us to do so, given our situation, sîzan. The Shalussis are our best option. The captain thinks so too, these are not delusions of mine, rest assured.”

He couldn’t help the hint of exasperation in his voice. It annoyed him that Tinan would try to question his decisions, not so much because it made him lose credit and legitimacy with his people, but because it only added doubt to the mountain of doubt he already had in his head. As if guessing that his intervention was not welcome, Tinan cleared his throat.

“All right, my lord. I was only trying to understand.”

Dashvara pouted in the darkness, both embarrassed and mocking. Had he said “all right”? Had he? He couldn’t remember any of his lord father’s officers ever saying “all right” to his lord father, as if he could disagree.

A thousand demons, Dash, you pay attention to truly ridiculous details… You who didn’t want to be a lord, now you’re going to take offense because you’re treated more like a brother than a steppe lord? Liadirlá, stop trying to imitate Vifkan, get off your pedestal, and be glad that young Xalya is willing to consider a Shalussi as an ally… That’s already quite a feat.

He shook his head and finally answered:

“I know, sîzan. And I would have explained it to you all better… if we hadn’t had the Essimeans spying on us. Don’t worry. Everything will be all right.”

The conversation ended there. There were still murmurs among the Xalyas, but none of them objected further. It was almost surprising. Was it because they were too tired? Or was it because they didn’t have such blind hatred for the Shalussis after all? Unless it was because they were used to being commanded and wanted to trust him and the captain. A mixture of all that, perhaps.

They went on for hours under the starry sky. They passed a barn and a slope full of bushes, but other than that, the path they took was simple: they just kept going straight on, sometimes crossing flat areas, other times small hills with more or less even ground. In the immensity of this space, one could only hear the murmurs of the wind and the furtive steps of two hundred Xalyas.

They were crossing a great plain, and the sentries had drawn nearer, seeing no danger, when they suddenly saw a light in the darkness. Dashvara was not the first to see it, because not only had he dismounted but he was also still a little weak, his arm was hurting more with every movement, and all in all, his mind was not very keen or attentive to what was going on around. He was even beginning to feel dizzy. If only that assassin had been less deft and his arrow had reached Todakwa…

He looked up when he heard the captain’s voice thunder:

“Halt!”

Dashvara frowned, stopped with the others, and felt his legs wobble. He breathed in, gritted his teeth, and since Sunrise was carrying two half-asleep children and he didn’t dare mount without help anyway, he left the reins in a random hand and walked up to the head of the line to see what was going on.

Then he saw the light, in the distance. To the southeast, he determined, after glancing at the constellations. In fact, there were several lights.

“… barn,” Lumon’s voice was saying from atop his mount. “There are too many lights.”

“Devils, and they’re coming!” Pik hissed.

There was a silence during which the Xalyas watched the lights, then Lumon asked:

“How do you know they are approaching? I don’t see it so clearly,” he admitted.

“It’s dark, that’s why,” Miflin joked. “If you can’t see, Archer, we cannot either.”

“I feel like they’re coming too,” Kodarah interjected.

There were murmurs, some approving, some not. Dashvara unintentionally hit the side of a horse and gasped in pain. Liadirlá… The Poet called out:

“Dash? Are you around here? I can’t see anything…”

“Down here,” Dashvara answered, exhaling and cursing his arm. “I can’t see much either, and even less from below. Maybe it would be a good idea for someone to approach the hills; hopefully they’ll manage to find out more from up there… Lumon?”

The Archer immediately replied:

“I’m going.”

He spurred his horse and rode off into the darkness. They waited with impatience and exhaustion.

If it’s the Essimean, we’re in big trouble. If it’s the Shalussis… maybe not so much.

Dashvara tried not to give vent to either his hope or his enormous doubts. Then the captain broke the silence by saying:

“They’re coming. And fast.”

Dashvara nodded. That was his impression, too. The problem was that they didn’t have time to run for the hills. So he bellowed orders to create a line with those who carried spears or swords, and the children and unarmed moved behind. By the time Lumon returned, the distant lights had become torches and a thunder of hooves was heading straight for them.

“There are about forty of them!” the Archer informed, stopping his mount.

More than one gasped, and muffled voices rose among the Xalyas. Forty, he said forty, they repeated. Forty horsemen. Dashvara could feel the anxiety of his people growing by the second. There were about eighty of them armed, but most of them had never fought in their lives.

They waited, their hearts clenched; then, amid a flood of tension, Sashava the Grumpy declared:

“The sky is beginning to clear.”

It was true. The sky to the east was no longer as dark as it had been a moment ago. And this allowed them to see the light-colored coats and leather helmets of the approaching horsemen. They were not wearing Essimean uniforms. Dashvara smiled with pure relief, and the captain murmured:

“Shalussis.”

Dashvara nodded. They were Shalussis. And the best news was that they were carrying a black flag as their standard. Not white, but black. The color of peace.

21 Rebels

They barely exchanged words with the Shalussi riders, one of whom informed them that they were patrolling the area and had been ordered to escort them to Lamasta. Makarva was accompanying them, and he added details. Apparently, Alta had stayed behind to arrange for the arrival of the Xalyas after Zefrek had promised that they would be welcomed. Orafe couldn’t help but comment aloud:

“Well, I hope this Shalussi knows that I’ll rip out his eyes, tongue and head if he sets a trap for us. In that order.”

“And so will I, by the Liadirlá!” Maef approved.

Both of them were met with a glare from the captain, a grimace from Dashvara, and an offended expression from the savages… Realizing that he had not been able to hold his tongue, Orafe stirred, coughed, and looked away, crossing his arms nervously. Maef, on the other hand, remained quiet: he was probably thinking it was just his heart that had spoken, after all. Dashvara sighed.

And this is Xalya diplomacy at its finest…

They were exhausted, but as no one was particularly keen on sleeping between two armies, they continued their march, escorted by the Shalussi patrol. They arrived at Lamasta in the middle of the afternoon, worn out and with only one thought in mind: to sleep and not to open their eyes until the next morning. And that’s what they all did. Dashvara the first. Since when was a Xalya able to close his eyes and sleep with an armed Shalussi only a few steps away? Well… sometimes fatigue put the most ancestral enmities to sleep. So, after settling down half-awake in a shelter with a more or less waterproof roof, the Xalyas let the savages watch over them and their horses.

Dashvara woke up to the sound of birds cooing. He opened his eyes and found himself face to face with a pigeon. It was enclosed in a small circular cage. A child, perhaps of Shivara’s age, crouched beside it, trying to stroke the bird’s feathers by running a finger between the bars, his expression very attentive. The rest of the Xalyas, for the most part, were already awake.

And the lord of the steppe sleeps like a lazy bodun.

Dashvara rubbed his eyes, glanced at his arm, and saw that Tsu had changed his bandage while he was asleep. He had slept so soundly that, if an Essimean horse had come along and trampled him, he would not have even noticed.

He straightened up on the dirt floor of the shelter, scanned the area, and noticed a group of Xalya children standing nearby glancing at him curiously. Not at him, he realized, but at his arm with the rolled-up sleeve. At the three marks he wore. He gave them a comical pout, and gesturing to his marks, he said casually:

“Nice tattoos, right? Good morning, kids.”

They answered him with a certain shyness, as if they did not dare to speak to him. Dashvara rolled his eyes, and after glancing around and making sure that all seemed to be relatively peaceful in the village, he spotted the plate of ogroyes, winced, and let out:

“If anyone manages to find me something edible for lunch, I’ll tell you a story that only the descendants of the Eternal Bird remember today.”

To his delight, they hurried to find him something to eat besides the ogroyes, and after settling down in front of this group of children, he began to tell the story of the wolf wanted by his brothers, the same story he had told Atasiag in Titiaka in the autumn, except that this time he told it with more theatrical effect, adding dialogue and onomatopoeia. He managed to elicit laughter and expressions of delight and amazement even from the older ones, who must have heard the tale more than once. He ended with this:

“Then the lone wolf thought: Liadirlá, how lucky they found me! And, for the first time in years, he howled with his brothers, AWOOOOOO!” As the children burst out laughing at his demonstration, he raised an index finger. “In the language of the wolves, that means: long live the pack! And he howled again: AWOOOOOOO! Which means… You already know that: Dignity, Trust and…”

“Fraternity!” several cried, glad to know the end.

Dashvara smiled.

“You too are Xalya wolves,” he concluded. “Did you like the story?”

Yes, they had liked it, and they showed it with big smiles and a loud uproar interspersed with more or less successful howls. Makarva came up to him with a half-mocking, half-amused expression.

“They’re starting to take on Xalya manners,” he commented, pointing to the noisy children with his chin, and resumed in a lower but no less quiet voice, “By the way, Dash. Just you know, we have an army at our doorstep. There’s a leaders’ meeting.”

Dashvara pouted and nodded.

“I’m going.”

With Makarva’s help, he fastened his belt with the sabers, then he put on the blue cloak of the Dikaksunora, ruffled the hair of the pigeon kid, who was in his way, greeted his young company and the other Xalyas who had stayed at the shelter, and finally went out with his old friend.

The day was fine, a little windy and cloudy, but few days were not so on the steppe. Dashvara looked around the village carefully as he walked up the hill behind Makarva. After seeing Aralika, Lamasta seemed small in comparison; the streets were imprecise, the herds roamed freely, and the only significant building was the Essimean temple under construction. However, during the revolt, the temple had suffered much damage, and Zefrek had decided to take refuge at the foot of the hill, in a small stone house surrounded by Shalussi warriors. The warriors observed them warily as they approached. In a quiet voice, Dashvara introduced himself:

“Dashvara of Xalya. Zefrek—”

“Come in,” one of the Shalussis cut him off.

He stepped aside with a haughty expression, and Dashvara suppressed a grimace before walking with Makarva to the open door. To no one’s surprise, he found that the Captain and Sashava were already there, chatting with Zefrek and other Shalussis. When he saw Yodara’s face in the midst of all those stern faces, he couldn’t help but smile. The officer had come out of the revolt alive. His smile froze and changed to a stony face when his eyes fell on a figure sitting before the large table. He had barely seen him three years ago, but he would have recognized him anywhere. Lifdor. His lips formed the name in a silent hiss. Lifdor of Shalussi had survived.

Lifdor, Qwadris and Nanda, of the Shalussi Clan. Shiltapi, of the clan of Akinoas. Todakwa, of the Essimean clan.

The words echoed in his head with his father’s deep, stern voice.

Lifdor of Shalussi. Murderer, thief, assassin…

He still remembered his fierce smiling face when he had chained his people and stolen their horses. He could still vividly remember his savage battle cry and the victorious kick he had given a dead Xalya officer in the middle of the battlefield… The captain’s strong hand on his left shoulder brought him back to reality. Only then did he realize that his left hand had grabbed the pommel of his sword and was starting to pull it out…

“Dashvara,” Zorvun urged him in a low, strained voice. “Come back to the real world, will you?”

With some effort, Dashvara finally looked away from Lifdor’s mocking expression and met the captain’s dark eyes. He cursed himself inwardly for allowing himself to be carried away by his impulses in such an irrational manner.

And you’re the one calling them savages, Dash? he snarled wryly.

He sheathed the sword completely and heard the clearing of Zefrek’s throat. The young Shalussi leader stepped forward.

“Welcome to Lamasta, Dashvara of Xalya. It is a pleasure to welcome your people into my ranks.”

He held out his hand. Oh, hell, damn the handshake habit… Dashvara put his hand out and shook it. Zefrek shook it vigorously, probably with no ill intent, but the pain brought tears to Dashvara’s eyes, he gasped, and the Shalussi let go of him, looking sorry.

“Oh, sorry, I forgot that you—”

“It’s all right,” Dashvara assured him under his breath. “It’s all right,” he repeated. Liadirlá, what an image of a steppe lord you give your hosts… He inhaled and added, “Thank you for welcoming my people, Zefrek. I see you’ve been efficient since the last time we met. Uh… Well. How is the matter with the Essimeans going?”

Zefrek shrugged.

“We are confident that we can drive them away.”

Dashvara nodded and spent the next few moments listening to the Shalussi warriors, not without noticing that the Xalyas were more of a spectator than an actor in this whole story…

Bystanders, but afterwards, no doubt we’ll have to draw our swords to help them. Well, except for me, who will just listen to Tsu and keep eating ogroyes.

At any rate, he noticed that Zefrek’s new position and recent power had made a radical change in him. Less leery, more confident, Nanda’s son led his little band of rebels with the air of knowing what he was talking about, as if he hadn’t spent the last three years earning his keep as a lowly pirate. Beside him, Lifdor was obviously trying to play the experienced guide, and Zefrek took his advice respectfully, but treated it as what it was, advice, not orders. The veteran warrior seemed to take his inferior position patiently, surely because the one who had brought the weapons and led the rebellion so far was Zefrek and not him. Despite the urge to remove him from his sight, Dashvara had to admit that Lifdor probably didn’t have the same venomous spirit as Todakwa: he was a Shalussi, and like the Xalyas, he probably had a sense of honor. He was, in the end, a damn savage capable of killing for gold, but who would never have had the idea of enslaving the entire steppe, let alone trading with such distant foreigners.

While the five Xalyas silently watched the defense plan, messengers came regularly to inform of the advance of the Essimean army. Apparently, they had not rushed forward, probably because they were waiting for reinforcements and because they did not want to provoke the Shalussis unnecessarily, knowing that they were holding several of their own prisoners, including Ashiwa of Essimea, Todakwa’s brother. Lifdor considered it very possible that a detachment would attempt to cross the river to surround the village and cut off any possible escape. Dashvara inwardly agreed that they would try to surround the village, but he doubted that it would be for fear of escape; rather, they must have feared that the rebels would receive more help from Dazbon at the south. However, throughout the conversation, no Shalussi mentioned the Dazbonians. In the end, who knows, maybe those didn’t yet know whether it was beneficial for them to intervene in the relations between Essimea and Diumcili and just wanted to sow discord. More discord. As if there wasn’t enough of it already. It was no wonder the Ancient Kings called this land the Rock of Hell. And yet, it wasn’t as if a thousand tribes lived here: now, they were basically just four big clans, plus the Honyrs… The thought of them tearing each other apart again made Dashvara very sad. Why was fate so intent on making their lives hell?

A change in tone in Zefrek’s voice made him turn his head towards him again.

“… enough weapons,” he was saying, “since we still have men expert in the art of war who do not possess adequate weapons. As I have seen, there are some of your people who are armed and have hardly been trained. I was wondering if you would be willing to temporarily surrender these weapons to us. This is about defending Lamasta as best we can.”

This stuck in his craw. Was Zefrek asking him to give up weapons to the Shalussis? Was it a joke? Abruptly, he forced himself to suppress any impulsive response and reasoned. Technically speaking, Zefrek was right: it was better for these weapons to be in the hands of experts than in the hands of dismayed teenagers, even if the idea of handing them over seemed no less risky and demoralizing. He glanced at Zorvun and Sashava. Whereas the latter was glaring at Zefrek, about to explode, the captain nodded slightly. Dashvara sighed inwardly, and under the watchful gaze of the ten or so Shalussi warriors, he crossed his arms, nodding calmly and saying:

“You shall have the weapons.”

Zefrek smiled.

“Thank you.”

In his slight smile, Dashvara thought he read a, “You see, lord of the Xalyas? Your people have barely a few capable warriors and you are not even in fighting condition: whether you like it or not, I am now in command.” Well, sure, and the ilawatelks fly too. Dashvara made a slight sardonic grimace and retorted:

“You’re welcome. These are weapons of the Ancient Kings. I hope that those who use them will shed murderous blood and save innocent lives.”

His words were met with impassive expressions. Perhaps some people saw some reproach in it. However, at this moment, Dashvara was not thinking so much about the past actions of the Shalussis, but rather that these weapons, old as they were, must have also defended murderers and shed the blood of the innocent. A sword had no other master than the one who wielded it.

It wasn’t long before they ended the meeting, and as the Captain hurried out of the house, Dashvara, Yodara, Sashava, and Makarva followed him. They did not forget to slow their pace so as not to leave the Grumpy behind.

“That’s the last straw,” this one muttered as he moved forward on his crutches. “As soon as they push the Essimeans back, they’ll come down on us and we won’t have anything to defend ourselves with.”

“First, they must repel the Essimeans,” the captain replied without stopping. “Those devils will bring reinforcements from Ergaika and more cavalry from Aralika. Let’s say about seven hundred in total. Zefrek’s army is barely two-hundred men strong. And even though they are very skilled in combat, they lack organization. Anyway, I don’t think Zefrek is coming after us, my friend. If I were him, I would worry about my own people first. A rider must control his horse before he can ride it.”

Back at the shelter, the captain took care of collecting the weapons, and Dashvara took Makarva aside, drawing a puzzled pout from him.

“What’s going on, Dash?”

He hesitated, for he knew that his idea would not be well received. He glanced at the clouds, at the dusty path, at the Xalyas’ faces listening intently to the captain’s orders, and finally, he made up his mind:

“Listen, Mak… I’d like someone to leave from here and head north to warn my naâsga of our position.”

His friend immediately turned darker.

“You’re not asking me to go, are you?” He let out a disgruntled snort. “Dash, there are only twenty warriors among us, the Essimeans are going to attack us, and you want me to leave you behind? You could send someone else…”

“Well, okay, then who?” Dashvara replied calmly.

Makarva frowned and shrugged.

“How could I know, anyone. Atok. He never complains.”

Unlike others, Dashvara completed. He gave his friend a mocking smile and nodded.

“Okay. Then I’ll just—”

“I can go,” a voice suddenly intervened, interrupting him.

Surprised, Dashvara turned and rolled his eyes when he saw that the young Tinan had been listening to the conversation. The teenager added seriously:

“I have an amputated arm anyway, so I cannot really be a warrior… But I am a good rider. And I want to help.”

His hopeful expression and desire to be of service drew a wave of affection from Dashvara. He hesitated for a moment, because the idea of sending Tinan out on the steppe alone worried him…

“I’ll go with you, friend,” Api’s cheerful voice said then. The young demon had emerged through a window. He passed inside the shelter with an acrobatic leap, adding, “I don’t like the prospect of being stuck in this village at all. And I’m a good rider too,” he joked. He turned sparkling grey eyes to Dashvara. “Is there any particular message we need to convey?”

Dashvara examined his eager face and shook his head. That demon…

“Let’s do that,” he agreed. “You’ll both go. Tell Yira everything that has happened and tell her that we are all fine, that the Shalussis are our allies, and that it will probably take a while for the Essimeans to decide to do something because the Shalussis are holding Todakwa’s brother prisoner.”

Tinan nodded, his eyes shining.

“I will deliver the message, my lord. Thank you for trusting me.”

Dashvara smiled and patted him on the shoulder.

“Thank you, sîzan. You better be careful.” He stepped aside, adding, “Bypass the area as much as you can from the east, then ride north. If you don’t find the Honyrs, hopefully they will find you. Good luck.”

“Good luck to you too!” Api smiled. “I’m afraid that you need it more than we do. Come on, let’s go, mate!” he said to Tinan.

After grabbing some food, the two teenagers soon mounted on horses, but it wasn’t until Zefrek gave his permission that the Shalussi warriors finally let them out of Lamasta. From the top of the temple hill, Dashvara watched the two riders gallop eastward until they became mere black dots. Then he turned to the north, to where most of the Xalyas who had walked up there were looking… to see the dark swarm of hundreds of Essimeans who had just settled on a hill about five miles from Lamasta.

Dashvara felt a disturbing sense of deja-vu at this situation. The Essimeans, the impending siege, the waiting… everything was so similar to what he had experienced three years ago! However, unlike then, they didn’t have a dungeon, but they did have allies. They were all rebellious slaves, no matter if they were descendants of the Ancient Kings or the savage tribes. All of them were seeking the same thing: their freedom.

And we’ll find it, in one way or another, Dashvara promised himself fervently.

Turning away from the enemy, his eyes wandered to the northeast, to the vast, simple, lively, peaceful steppe that the Steppe Thieves—as well as the Xalyas—loved like a mother.

“Mâ Sêt,” he murmured in Oy’vat to himself, calling to the steppe, and he whispered even lower, like a prayer, “Make your land mud and needles under the feet of your murderers.”

22 The power of Skâra

No needles formed under the feet of the Essimean and not a drop of water fell during the next three days. The weather was good, and the Essimean army waited patiently for the rebels to surrender. Todakwa had warned that, if Ashiwa was mistreated, they would suffer the wrath of Skâra doubly and that the maximum punishment would be meted out only to the leaders of the rebellion as long as the Shalussis surrendered in time. Despite the overwhelming Essimean superiority, his insidious response had only served to inflame the Shalussis’ rage.

In the midst of the storm, the captain and Dashvara had given orders to minimize contact with the Shalussis to avoid tension. So the Xalyas tried not to get too involved, they helped with the daily chores, fetched water from the river, fed and milked the livestock, and all in all, they were basically doing the same thing as they had done in Aralika, except now they were working for savages and not for the Death worshippers… Although the improvement was small, it was encouraging. As the steppian sages used to say, when you’re at the bottom of a well, you can’t go any lower.

A growing thunder of hooves made Dashvara look away from the distant Essimean tents. A Shalussi patrol had just returned from the east, and from the hillside of the ruined temple, he could see the lead rider quickly dismount and enter the Zefrek headquarters.

News and more news, and we Xalyas are not informed of anything, Dashvara grumbled inwardly.

Fortunately, he had Tahisran. Without him, he wouldn’t have learned half of what was going on in Lamasta, let alone what was going on behind the Essimean lines. The shadow was capable of creeping around just about anywhere; however, it had never yet dared to approach the tents of the death priests when they were awake, so he could not tell much about the Essimean leader’s intentions. When, the night before, Miflin had suggested that he stabbed Todakwa while he slept, Tah had been horrified; though the Poet had assured everyone that it was just a joke, the shadow had remained very pensive, then he had gone out at nightfall for a walk and had not appeared since. Dashvara had rarely seen Miflin so ashamed. Some thought Tah had gone to kill Todakwa and been captured, others that he was gone forever… Knowing him, Dashvara bet that he had simply gone for a long walk and maybe taken a detour to pay Kuriag a visit. According to Tah, the young Dikaksunora, as a worthy student of Maloven, was desperate for a peaceful solution to the conflict. Well, may he find it, but Dashvara doubted very much that the ancestral contempt all these clans had for each other could be swept away by common sense.

“Dash!” Kodarah exclaimed suddenly. “Did you see that?”

Following the Hairy’s gaze, Dashvara turned his attention back to the Essimean camp. Something was going on there.

He approached the wall of rubble and scanned the distance along with Kodarah and Lumon. He frowned. It seemed that…

“Dammit,” a Shalussi hissed, not far from them. “Dammit, dammit, dammit…”

You can say that again, Dashvara agreed darkly. The Essimeans were lining up Shalussi slaves in front of their lines. The warriors moved them forward enough to show them to the rebels. Then they stopped and waited. Dashvara shook his head in bewilderment.

“What do they expect? That we would hand Ashiwa over to them in exchange for these slaves?”

Lumon kept his gaze on the eight Shalussis for a few more moments before stating:

“They are not slaves. They are rebels. I think I recognize one of them. They were part of the patrol defending the southern route.”

Dashvara winced and preferred not to imagine what had happened to the rest of the patrol… but he didn’t have much hope for the survivors either. As new spectators crowded the hill, the Essimeans decided they had enough of an audience already and, one by one, they made the eight prisoners kneel down. A death-priest who had arrived in the meantime passed behind the prisoners, and laying his hand on each head, he recited words which were hardly perceptible from the distance but which sounded terrible nonetheless. Then, inexplicably, one of the prisoners collapsed, convulsing and screaming in pain. The others quickly followed. A few moments later, none of the eight prisoners was moving. The Essimeans returned to their camp, leaving eight bodies behind them and an icy silence.

Were they still alive? Two Shalussis went to check it out, and by their gestures, everyone guessed the truth from the distance: the prisoners were dead. The priest had killed them with his incantations. Skâra, Death Itself, had stolen their lives through its servant. Faced with such a display of power, fear of the God of Death gripped all the hearts of Lamasta, including Dashvara’s.

“It was nothing more than a crude show,” the steppe lord spat out loud, however, as he walked down the temple hill, surrounded by Xalyas, “They must have poisoned them first.”

More than one Xalya nodded, but none of them seemed to quite believe him, least of all the young men who had been slaves in Aralika: all of them were deeply affected by what had happened. When Dashvara caught one of them muttering a prayer in Galka, he gave him an incredulous look, and the boy blushed like a garfia.

Liadirlá, what have the Essimeans done to our people… he lamented.

At the foot of the hill, a large and noisy group of Shalussis had formed. Above the din of voices, someone roared with sharp gestures:

“Let’s destroy the temple! Let’s show these rats that their God does not scare us!”

His vindictive roar was accompanied by approving thunder, and within moments, without even consulting Zefrek or Lifdor, dozens of Shalussis were returning to the top of the hill with tools of every kind. They spent the rest of the day eagerly demolishing the temple of Skâra and using the rubble to build obstacles around the village. In the evening, they buried the eight murdered Shalussis at the top of the hill, and Zefrek himself conducted the ceremony, assisted with Lifdor. From afar, Dashvara and his brothers watched as they passed by, one by one, to pay their respects to the dead and to offer them objects of daily life that had characterized their lives in one way or another. As the rite was about to end, Dashvara stood up.

“Dash,” Makarva coughed, “Where are you going?”

Dashvara watched the curious looks of the Xalyas and shrugged.

“To act like a Xalya,” he replied.

And he walked away up the hill. He had hardly taken a few steps when a dozen Xalyas were already following him. At first, the Shalussis who noticed them looked suspicious, then curious, and when Dashvara arrived in front of the tombs, bent down and placed the wooden Eternal Bird on one of the mounds of earth, they were hesitant, surprised but not hostile, for they understood that his gesture had no other intention than to show respect. So both Zefrek and Lifdor nodded their heads in acknowledgement. Dashvara suppressed a gasp.

I’m not doing this for you, Lifdor, he muttered inwardly.

Then he actually wondered why he was paying such tribute to Shalussis who may have been involved in the fall of the Xalya Dungeon. Perhaps simply because of their death, he thought. Perhaps simply because dying in this way, defenselessly, as a prisoner, before the helpless eyes of their own people, was one of the worst possible deaths. And that made him feel such rage against the Essimeans that, at that moment, those eight dead men were almost like brothers to him. Almost.

He was about to get up and leave the Shalussis behind when he saw a Xalya toddler bend down beside him and place a feather next to his figure. His name was Jokuey, and as far as he knew, he was the son of a family of goat herders. Unlike the other children, he barely made a sound in the shelter, but for the past four days, he had never forgotten to feed his precious caged pigeon. Dashvara smiled and ruffled the child’s greasy hair before lifting him off his healthy arm and congratulating him:

“Your Eternal Bird is already beginning to understand the Dahars of your people, little boy.”

The toddler did not answer, but as they walked away, he kept looking over the shoulder of its bearer and did not take his eyes off his offered feather. Dashvara had scarcely taken ten steps when, moved by a sudden inspiration, his heart aflame, he turned to the faces of the Shalussis and thundered:

“Men of the steppe!” His deep voice tore through the air. “The Essimeans will pay for all these deaths. And their murderous leaders will pay with their lives! They think they are the masters of this place. The Ancient Kings thought the same thing, and they ended badly. These snakes have not yet understood that no one should rule the steppe. No clan has the right to enslave another as Essimea did. And, if the Essimeans do not understand this, we will teach them by the sword!”

He turned to Zefrek and Lifdor of Shalussi and concluded:

“If we don’t attack now, they will.”

The two Shalussis exchanged glances. Among the others, there was a grunt that turned out to be rather approving. Nevertheless, the Xalyas adopted a slightly defensive formation just in case; Boron took hold of little Jokuey, whose eyebrows had furrowed at the commotion.

Finally, Lifdor reacted before Zefrek did. The big man approached Dashvara without apprehension and said calmly:

“I’m sorry to tell you this, but your proposal proves your lack of experience, young Xalya. Attacking now would be a tactical mistake.”

Dashvara arched an eyebrow and replied:

“Really? Well, I think this is the perfect moment to buy time. We need to nip at their heels. We need to harass them enough to keep them from launching a major offensive before our reinforcements arrive.”

And before morale drops dramatically, he added to himself. Lifdor gave a mocking cough.

“Reinforcements?” he repeated. “You mean the Steppe Thieves? Those people have never intervened in any war. They won’t be coming.”

“They will come.”

It was not Dashvara who had spoken this time, but Sirk Is Rhad, the only Honyr left among the Xalyas. His face, distorted by the scar, reflected an unwavering confidence.

“My people will come and unite with the Xalya Clan,” he affirmed.

Voices rose from all sides. Lifdor raised a hand to calm the spirits, and his gesture alone was enough.

“Even if they do come,” the Shalussi chief said with less mockery than before, “I doubt that there are more than a hundred warriors. And correct me if I’m wrong, but I thought the Steppe Thieves were not allowed to fight the sajits.”

This generated a mixture of mocking smiles and curious expressions. Sirk Is Rhad rolled his eyes.

“Our Eternal Bird forbids us to kill without first knowing the deeds of our victim,” he admitted. “But I assure you, if anyone tries to steal our cattle, he will not go away without knowing our justice. It is not for nothing that foreigners say we are the best warriors on the steppe.”

His voice was not arrogant, but rather frank; however, Dashvara was certain that, at that moment, more than one Shalussi felt eager to verify such a statement. Zefrek intervened:

“Some little diversionary maneuvers can’t hurt. Do you have a particular attack in mind?”

Dashvara nodded.

“Mainly, attack the vanguards, seize their weapons… and regain control of the southern route.”

Zefrek nodded, convinced.

“Mind to take care of it?”

Dashvara smiled.

“With pleasure.”

“I’m joining the expedition,” interjected a voice among the Shalussis.

Dashvara turned, saw the brown-bearded face of the man who had spoken, and cocked his head to one side. It looked familiar. Then he understood, and his smile widened. It was Andrek of Shalussi, Rokuish’s older brother. He hadn’t found him particularly likeable three years ago, he had seemed an impulsive man with narrow-minded ideas, but time had changed them both. Perhaps for the better. So he bowed his head solemnly.

“Any help is welcome.”

And certainly very welcome, for now that they were down to eighteen armed Xalyas, without their allies, they would be hard pressed to do much. But, as he expected, the Shalussis were in a sociable mood that day, they had only one thing on their minds: revenge for their dead brothers.

* * *

After four days of inactivity, Sunrise was tugging at her bit, anxious to gallop away, but Dashvara held her back firmly. With all the healing energies Tsu had lavished on his injured arm over the past two weeks, it was almost healed, and despite the drow’s instructions, Dashvara was confident he would be able to fight and use at least one sword if needed.

The dusk was already filling the sky when the troop of horsemen, consisting of fifteen Xalyas and thirty Shalussis, reached the Rocky Meadows of the Bakhia River, southwest of Lamasta. They detoured to the south, and as the sky darkened, they emerged from the hills and spotted the Essimean squad’s campfire. According to Zefrek’s spies, there were about twenty of them. Dashvara did not wait to organize or plan. After observing the camp for a few moments, he only said in a low but deep voice:

“Remember, the more prisoners we take, the better. Let’s teach them a lesson, steppemen.”

And they launched the attack. They were already halfway there when a sentry gave the alarm. They still arrived at the camp, surprising their victims with shouts, screams and the thunder of hooves. The Essimeans reacted by making a desperate defensive formation, but some remained separated, and the attack lasted the time of a sigh: the Xalyas surrounded them around the campfire, and with an immaculate sword in his hand, Dashvara roared:

“Surrender, lay down your weapons, and we’ll let you live!”

The faces of the Essimeans, lit by the fire, reflected a glow of hope. It was not long before they all surrendered. Two of them had received slight wounds. The rest were unharmed. They stripped them of all their possessions, weapons, blankets, horses, and food.

“What about the sentry?” Andrek asked.

Dashvara glanced towards the dark steppe and replied with a touch of amusement:

“Let him run and explain to Todakwa what happened.”

The return to Lamasta was made along the river on the south bank. Although the way was more direct, it was dark, and they were leading prisoners, so they took as long or longer than on the way out. When they saw the distant lights of Lamasta and the Essimean camp, one daring man tried to escape. Having freed himself from the rope that bound him, he rushed towards the river… and he did not manage to reach it alive. When Dashvara heard the hiss of the sword and the splash of water, he grimaced but made no comment. Especially since the Shalussi who had acted was the father of one of the eight murdered that day… He could hardly talk to him about mercy and tact, and could only hope that it would at least ease his pain a little.

At any rate, the treatment received by the escapee convinced the other prisoners that they had better behave themselves, and they arrived at Lamasta without further incident. The success of the excursion was greeted with joy, and arms and horses were soon redistributed. The lives of the prisoners were respected, though the Shalussis abused them as much as they could by spitting insults at them and blaspheming against Skâra. Nevertheless, they did not touch them. By tacit law, they recognized that Dashvara, as leader of the expedition, had the right of life over them. The problem was that Dashvara would also be responsible for feeding them if he decided to leave them alive… and the Shalussis had no obligation to help him.

Well, they’ll starve if they have to, but I won’t kill them with my swords, Dashvara decided.

And so he ordered the eighteen prisoners to be taken to a stone house, and there, they were locked up. As they were returning to the shelter, Captain Zorvun approached. He had not participated in the outing, for he had spent the whole day giving combat lessons to the Xalya people, and so much activity had exhausted him.

“Congratulations,” he said, greeting him.

Dashvara smiled.

“Thank you, Captain. That was quite easy. We attacked them by surprise.”

“Hmm… Too bad I didn’t see it,” Zorvun admitted. “What are you going to do with the prisoners?”

Dashvara huffed, and as they entered the shelter, he said:

“For the moment, just interrogate their leader.” And, answering an implied question from the captain, he asserted, “I am not going to kill them. That would be playing into the hands of Todakwa and Skâra. We Xalyas are not like that.”

Zorvun nodded thoughtfully.

“That seems about right to me.”

With a smile, Dashvara accepted the bowl of milk handed to him by young Youk and drank as the captain added:

“By the way, Dashvara. Tahisran has returned. And he says the Essimeans have located a large group of people heading here from the northeast.”

Dashvara nearly choked on the milk. He looked at the captain, his eyes wide and his heart pounding.

“How far away?”

It was Tahisran who answered in a mental voice:

‘At two days. That is, at one day, now. Kuriag begs you to leave Lamasta at once, go east, separate yourself from the rebels and unite with the Honyrs. He says that, if you manage to get far enough away, Todakwa will not pursue you.’

The shadow didn’t put much conviction in his voice, and Dashvara knew why when he added:

‘I think Todakwa knows that Kuriag manages to communicate with you in some way, Dash. I don’t think he knows about me, but… I feel like the information he’s giving Kuriag is skewed. I don’t think the Essimeans have any intention of letting you leave Lamasta.’

Dashvara shook his head and handed the empty bowl back to Youk, saying:

“Even if they let us run, only a scoundrel would be abandoning the Shalussis at a time like this. But we will still have to clear the way to the northeast somehow.”

Despite his fatigue, excitement was coursing through his body. To think that his naâsga was so close, and to find that Shokr Is Set had actually succeeded in making the Steppe Thieves take action in favor of his people… it was the best gift he could have asked for in those moments. He turned his eyes to the dark shape looming between the shadows and the flickering light of a torch, and he smiled, happy.

“Thank you, Tah. You are a champion. Do you know that, all this time, the Poet has been more restless than Pik because he thought that you had gone to kill Todakwa and that you had been captured?”

“Beh, I didn’t think he’d actually do it,” Miflin protested, walking up to them with an embarrassed pout. “I was afraid he had got mad at me, that’s all.”

Dashvara caught Tah’s smile and let them both chat as he moved away to his pallet. He was exhausted, and his arm was starting to burn again. So when Tsu approached, he let him examine his wound without protest. It was already closed, though not quite healed. Dashvara felt the sense of peace that came over him every time Tsu cast his healing spells. For a few moments, he fought sleep, thinking of the Essimeans surrounding the village, thinking of his new prisoners and of the friendlier relationship that had begun to emerge between Xalyas and Shalussis, and, of course, thinking of his naâsga. Her soft voice echoed in his head as if she were actually speaking to him. Before fatigue overwhelmed everything else, he heard her whisper in his mind:

Just because you can’t see me, it doesn’t mean I’m not close to you.

23 The Queen of Death

Lamasta awoke to the burst of horns and chaotic screams. Dashvara woke up with a start and unintentionally moved his arm, which made him wince in pain, but that was an improvement: he did not see stars anymore and was no longer bent double. As the Xalyas were shaken out of their sleep in the shelter, he fastened his belt and cloak and was putting on his boots when, drawing aside the curtain of the entrance, Alta appeared and vociferated:

“The Essimean infantry have advanced from the north! They’re setting up their damn catapults.”

Dashvara made a face. Apparently Todakwa had given up hope of Lamasta surrendering on its own and was going to force the issue, starting with his infernal machines. The loss of his southwestern squad must have irritated him…

Suddenly, they were startled by a crashing sound like a dead red nadre exploding. For a moment, Dashvara stood still. He exchanged a look of confusion with his brothers.

“Liadirlá, what was that?” Orafe gasped.

To the warriors’ surprise, it was Lariya, Miflin’s mother, who bitterly declared:

“Explosive disks.” Seeing that everyone was looking at her in amazement, she coughed and explained, “A while back, I heard from a death-priest that they were perfecting a new weapon invented by Daeya, Todakwa’s wife herself. She is a powerful alchemist. And beautiful and cold as Death.”

Dashvara shuddered, remembering the pale, tattooed face of Todakwa’s wife. He had only seen her once, but he remembered well the absolute serenity that emanated from her. The serenity of Death.

To think that that witch of Skâra is now riding Lusombra…

Hearing another explosion, he let out a grunt and headed outside without a word. By the time the Xalyas approached the edge of Lamasta, dozens of magical explosive projectiles had already been launched. Many of them exploded in the air or didn’t even reach the village, but some hit the rubble walls, destabilizing them, causing them to collapse and damaging the ditches that had been dug on both sides of the hill. One of them even hit a house and created such a gap that Dashvara stood for a moment staring at the hole with bulging eyes, before another explosion drew him out of his stupor.

“We should keep the horses away,” Alta considered.

He was right: the horses in the paddocks sensed the danger and whirled around in anguish at the unusual noise. When one of them managed to jump over the fence, the Xalyas rushed to help the Shalussis calm the commotion, which was not an easy task. The Essimeans were probably having a great time watching the turmoil from afar… Throughout the morning, the damn devils kept using their catapults, throwing rocks, bags of black powder, or explosive disks depending on the mood of the moment. When a projectile shattered a hut and nearly burned an entire family alive, indignant Shalussis tried to ride out against the machines. Fortunately, Lifdor intervened in time and brought them to their senses: a charge in that situation would have been a massacre, they would have lost men and horses stupidly and, in the end, for nothing. The catapults, all things considered, caused more chaos and smoke than real casualties, for they had all taken cover out of their range. Moreover, when the attacks diminished, they took advantage of the stone rubble of the damaged outlying houses to reinforce the defenses. These were beginning to resemble real barricades, and after many hours of deafening noise and bangs, the realization that Lamasta was still standing proudly lifted everyone’s spirits.

It remains to be seen for how long, Dashvara thought as he stroked Sunrise’s forehead over the fence of the paddock.

Under his hand, chilled by the winter wind, Sunrise gave a snort and gently shook her head, shaking her freshly brushed white mane before leaning toward a shoot of grass at the foot of the fence. Now, the horses were quiet, and several Xalyas were busy petting them and giving them water, mentally exhausted after the stressful morning. In the air, there was still a slight cloud of smoke mixed with a strong smell of burning and dust. After the Shalussi rebellion and the explosions of Daeya, the beautiful Lamasta of Lifdor looked messy and ruined. But so what? The houses could be rebuilt. The important thing was that no one died that day.

Not yet, Dashvara thought darkly.

Stepping away from the paddock, he glanced toward the nearby Xalyas’ shelter. The women were busy, as were the men and the younger ones: they were shaking off the ever-present dust, bringing buckets of water from the river, stuffing arrows, and caring for each other. Just seeing them like this, hearing their voices and feeling the familiarity of the past come alive again, made Dashvara feel an unconditional respect for his people in that moment. The Xalyas might have seemed quite alien to the siege if they had not glanced frequently, like prey on the alert, at the dusty, treacherous sky. Did they fear another catapult attack, or a new and even more terrible invention by Daeya of Essimea?

Dashvara heard a rumour going up in the village and he stopped, his heart anxious and hopeful at the same time. His optimistic side was already showing him the approaching Honyr warriors led by his naâsga while his pessimistic side was telling him: this is it, Dash, we are doomed, Todakwa is attacking. However, no alarm horn sounded. Eager for news, he was about to head into the racket with his brothers when, seeing young Youk appear running, leaping through the rubble, he arched an eyebrow questioningly, and the boy’s face lit up with excitement.

“Guess what happened? The Essimeans have surrounded us!” he cried, stopping his run in front of the Xalya warriors. “They crossed the river last night, and Zefrek’s patrols saw nothing. At least two hundred riders, according to Lifdor. Hold on, there’s more!” he added as Dashvara and his brothers swore through their teeth. “Apparently, the Essimeans also attacked a village east of here. And they crushed them like rats! So said a man named Fushek who just arrived. He is wounded, and Zefrek wants to know if the drow can treat him. I know who Fushek is. A friend of mine from Aralika told me that he was a great master-at-arms and that for the last three years he has been living in the desert without water or anything to eat, waiting for the right time to return and free his people and…”

Lumon ruffled his hair to thank him for the information, and the Xalya warriors stopped paying attention to him. Some of them immediately moved away towards the river to check on Youk’s claims about the Essimean cavalry; the captain remained deep in thought, and one of Dashvara’s cousins scolded the boy for wandering around the Shalussis by himself… As a response, Youk snorted loudly, and Dashvara gave him a light knock on the head.

“Have some respect, boy. Atok, warn Tsu, will you? Captain,” he added and gave a quizzical nod to Sashava and Yodara. “What do you think of all this?”

Zorvun let out a long sigh.

“First, Zefrek would do well to rely on competent people. Second, if Todakwa launches the attack this afternoon, I doubt we can hold out for more than two or three days, at the most. They have more cavalry than we have, more ammunition, more men, more everything. These barricades will hardly delay them, and Todakwa knows it.”

Nothing new, but Dashvara had to acknowledge that the picture was indeed not encouraging.

“Then what is he waiting for to launch the offensive?” Orafe growled.

“Especially if he knows the Honyrs are on their way,” Miflin commented. “He should hurry up.”

As soon as the Poet had spoken, Dashvara noticed that both Taw and Ged changed their expressions slightly, as if they weren’t too sure that the Honyrs would actually come to their aid. And well, who could blame them for their distrust? The Steppe Thieves, after all, had always been perceived by the Xalyas as a distant people, full of secrets, and anything but sociable with other clans. Still, after listening to Shokr Is Set’s stories, Dashvara had come to understand that their two peoples were, at heart, very similar, and he trusted the new shaard and Yira to urge the Honyrs to at least help them get out of this siege alive. He opined:

“Todakwa is a very theatrical man. It would not surprise me if he wanted to make this rebellion a lesson for his slaves. He cut us off by seizing Nanda’s village… Now all he has to do is attack.”

And flood the land with rebel blood, he added to himself with a gloomy heart. Unless Kuriag can minimize the damage and manage to get them to let us live despite everything… but there are limits. Todakwa may be willing to do a lot to win Kuriag’s favor, but he won’t act as a weak leader. Lenient maybe… but not weak.

He suppressed a grunt.

Already thinking about surrender, Dash? he snarled at himself. It’s one thing to not be as stubborn as your lord father and another to start flapping your wings at the slightest sound. To run away or surrender now would be to throw yourself into the mouth of the wolf.

At that moment, he met Zorvun’s dark eyes and realized that he was nervously smoothing his beard. He stopped, uncomfortable, and the captain cleared his throat.

“Let’s go see Zefrek,” he suggested. Dashvara nodded, and as he walked down the dusty street, the captain added, lowering his voice, “You know? You should be a little more… how shall I put it, indignant about not being kept informed by the pirate. This is starting to get insulting.”

Dashvara pouted.

“It is,” he admitted. “I was thinking… maybe Zefrek thinks that giving us more attention would be detrimental to his charisma.”

The captain let out a dull laugh.

“Zefrek is losing his authority among his people for other, more obvious reasons,” he assured. “This young man could be a good leader, but he lacks experience. And, in a situation like this, it is understandable that a warrior would rather follow a veteran than a novice.”

Dashvara nodded, looking grim.

“You mean Lifdor.”

“Right,” Zorvun confirmed. “That man lost his reputation by resigning himself to being enslaved, but now he’s getting it back and… truthfully, if he can get his clan in order, it can’t hurt us.”

Dashvara did not reply. He preferred not to talk about Lifdor. The name alone irked him. Although he didn’t trust Zefrek completely, he would have preferred that he didn’t delegate decisions to this savage chieftain.

By the time they reached the Shalussi headquarters, the atmosphere was restless, and the arrival of the Xalyas went largely unnoticed. Anger and worry vibrated in the air. No wonder, for these Shalussis had companions and relatives in the village of Nanda, and now they had to wonder what the Essimean had done with them. A burly, gray-haired man sat outside Zefrek’s hut, a crossbow bolt still stuck in his leg and his clothes bloody. At that moment, Dashvara heard him refuse the blanket that was handed to him with a sharp gesture and insist in a deep voice:

“I couldn’t see everything. I was patrolling the northern area. By the time I galloped into the village, those bastards had already devastated everything. If I had been there from the beginning, I would have fought to the last drop of my blood, have no doubt.”

As the Shalussis hissed curses against the Essimeans, Dashvara detailed Fushek’s face curiously. Nanda’s master-at-arms was noticeably skinnier than the last time he’d seen him, and the rebellion, the injury, the flight on horseback had clearly exhausted him, but he nonetheless exuded a powerful force of rectitude and confidence. Remembering the beating Fushek had given him the first time they’d fought with training swords, Dashvara thought with amusement that, while outsiders might admire the elegance of Xalya close combat, the Shalussis’ was, frankly, more practical and less risky.

“You,” Fushek said suddenly.

The sudden silence that followed this word snapped Dashvara out of his thoughts. He then noticed that the master-at-arms had stood up despite his injury and was glaring at him. His lips managed to relax to spit out:

“You Xalya traitor murderer. You killed Nanda of Shalussi, and you dare to approach these honorable men?” His voice reflected anger and disbelief. He drew his sword in one swift motion, roaring, “You should be dead!”

Dashvara felt his brothers tense up and put their hands on the pommels of their swords. Alarmed, he abruptly raised a hand.

“Calm yourself, brothers. He won’t do anything,” he assured in Common Tongue.

At that moment, he saw how Zefrek, alerted by the voices, promptly exited the headquarters. The young Shalussi analyzed the situation at a glance and stepped forward, intervening:

“Fushek! The Xalyas are here to fight for freedom just like us.”

Fushek’s eyes flashed.

“His own son,” he growled in a hoarse voice. “Is his own son capable of fighting side by side with his father’s murderer? If, at least, he had killed him in a duel, but no!” He waved his saber angrily at Dashvara. “This man posed as a Shalussi. For two weeks, he stayed in my village, feigning like a snake to treacherously attack Nanda with the help of a whore.” This time, he really spat towards Dashvara, irate. “The Xalyas are incapable of accepting defeat and do not deserve the mercy we have shown them. After Nanda’s death, nothing but misfortunes happened. The death of innocent people. You Xalya rat,” he croaked. “Perhaps I will die fighting the Essimeans, but I will never agree to fight alongside such vermin. I would rather die than ally myself with a scoundrel.” His lips twisted. “Look at him! He can’t even defend himself and explain how a warrior can stoop to such vileness.”

Dashvara restrained himself from rolling his eyes or putting on an expression of disbelief and tried to remain impassive. Clearly, so much desert sun had not done this good man any good, he thought, trying to relax. He took a quick glance around. The Shalussis, friendly in the morning, seemed to have completely changed their attitude and were now looking at him with contempt. Without even touching the pommel of his swords, fully aware that he and his brothers were in a very bad position surrounded like this, Dashvara replied:

“I admit it was a villainy, Fushek. But Zaadma had nothing to do with it…” Fushek let out a contemptuous snort, and Dashvara hesitated. He thought to explain that the reason he had done all this was to obey his lord father’s orders even if it meant going against his own Eternal Bird. But he held back. The Shalussis could see him as a scoundrel if they wanted but never as a son who washed his honor over his own father’s. Finally, he concluded, “The past is the past. Our clans have been enemies, but they have no reason to be anymore. In the last three years, we have all suffered because of the Essimeans. And it seems to me that, at the moment, Todakwa is a more pressing problem.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Lifdor interjected. Surrounded by his most loyal men, the Shalussi leader took a few steps forward. “But, given that you have only eighteen warriors and we have two hundred and twenty… your presence doesn’t exactly help us. Zefrek’s hospitality has its limits. Your people use up our food, distract my men, and don’t work hard enough. Except for your doctor,” he gestured with his chin at the drow who was cautiously approaching Fushek, “the others are dead weight to Lamasta. I think they should play a part in the defense as well.”

Dashvara stared at him with a mixture of irritation and amazement.

“And with which weapons?” he replied.

“With rocks, rubble… I’d improvise something,” the Shalussi leader assured. “Given their lack of experience, they wouldn’t be much help, but we could use the faster kids to retrieve the arrows and send messages.”

Dashvara clenched his jaws. Was he really suggesting sending children into the middle of a battlefield to retrieve arrows? He suppressed a low growl.

This Shalussi believes that we Xalyas are, as the Federates would say, Doomed flesh. Damned scoundrel.

The answer was simple, so he didn’t hesitate and shook his head, saying:

“I am sorry, but I refuse to let you use my people in this way, Lifdor.”

The Shalussi leader’s eyes smiled, mocking.

“I thought so. Well. If it’s like that, you won’t mind going back to the shelter Zefrek lent you and letting us clan members talk in peace.”

Dashvara suppressed a grimace at his dismissal and nodded, feigning a calmness he didn’t feel at all.

“But of course,” he said.

He glanced at Zefrek’s dark face, met Fushek’s even darker gaze, and without further ado bowed his head curtly, turned his back on them, and left, returning with his brothers to the shelter, feeling the renewed hostility of the Shalussis upon him. The conversation had been a disaster. Not only had he failed to propose a negotiation plan to continue delaying Todakwa’s attack, but Lifdor had made it clear to him in front of his men that the Xalyas were there only thanks to his generosity and that it was better that they keep quiet. And all Dashvara could do was bow his head. He sighed inwardly.

Liadirlá, may the Honyrs come quickly…

A glance at his brothers informed him that Lifdor’s change in attitude worried them as much as it did him. Except for one of them: to his surprise, he saw that the captain was smiling. Faced with Dashvara’s questioning expression, Zorvun blurted out:

“Let’s rejoice, boys. Lifdor has given us the perfect excuse not to fight on the front lines. It will give us time to think. And time, my son, is the unarmed man’s greatest weapon.”

He patted Dashvara on the shoulder, and Dashvara coughed and smiled.

“Your optimism puts my mind at rest, Captain. Though, frankly, I’m out of ideas,” he admitted, stopping in front of the shelter. “This isn’t a typical clan fight where only a few die, we steal some loot, and make peace. Todakwa has Titiaka’s backing, a well-equipped army, plus explosives and all… He’s not going to negotiate.”

The captain walked into the shelter, replying:

“Let’s not rule out any possibilities. We still hold his brother prisoner, plus eighteen Essimean warriors, it’s not small matter. As long as they’re in Lamasta, Todakwa won’t dare push too hard.”

“But he won’t back down either,” Yodara pointed out. “Even with the arrival of the Honyrs. He will not leave without crushing the rebellion.”

“And even less so with the support of the Federates,” Sashava conceded, and he raised one of his crutches to tap Dashvara on the calf as he said, “If you ask me, boy, we should make sure the Honyrs are on their way, and if they are, try to breach to them. We’ll get nowhere by staying here putting up with this Shalussi scum.”

Dashvara nodded, fully in agreement, and turned to the Xalyas in the shelter; while some were looking at him out of the corner of their eyes, others stared openly at him with obvious expectation… Dashvara swallowed. Once, long ago, his father had told him that a good lord should be able to allay the fears of his people and allow them to understand his actions. He remembered that he had asked him then why they should understand; were they not men of the same Dahars? Didn’t they owe loyalty to their lord anyway? Lord Vifkan had nodded solemnly as he replied, Of course they owe me loyalty, but loyalty is earned with trust, my son. The Xalya lord leads the Dahars of his people and he must be strong. He must show at all times that he is a worthy reflection of the Eternal Birds of his people.

A worthy reflection… Well, Dashvara now understood how difficult it was to make decisions for an entire people. And he understood that he wasn’t born to do this. Because otherwise he wouldn’t have been standing there, motionless and mute in front of his people, his heart pounding with indecision and fear and with the shameful urge to gallop out of there… would he? He wished to do all he could for his people, of course, but as a man, as the man he had always been, not as a lord whose role he was far from understanding and who was supposed to get a whole people out of a deadly trap alive and with the Dahars intact.

Makarva slid in front of him, his expression worried.

“Dash? Are you okay?”

Dashvara gave his friend an absorbed look, mumbled something unintelligible by way of assent, made a vague, embarrassed gesture, turned, and walked out of the shelter.

Damn coward.

He strode toward the horse pen, growling inwardly:

Worse than that. A fool. If your own people frighten you, lord of the steppe, go back to Matswad, make yourself a pirate, and get busy boarding ships and freeing slaves. These will not frighten you, because you don’t know them, do you? Because they don’t expect you to do anything for them.

He snorted loudly and, leaning on the fence, exchanged a look with Sunrise. The mare approached and gently nudged him with her nose while Dashvara ran a hand through her white mane, between her ears.

“You are right, daâra,” he told her in Oy’vat after a silence. “There’s nothing worse than having a philosopher lord.”

The horse seemed to smile at him, and a voice behind him said in an amused tone:

“Of course there are worse things than that. Having an unconscious young man blinded by power would be far worse.” Rolling his eyes, Dashvara turned to see the captain approach and add, “Or a man capable of sending children to retrieve lost arrows. Or a man unable to doubt his own actions at a time when it is vital to do so.” He leaned against the fence and concluded with a shake of his head, “See? We Xalyas cannot complain about our lord.”

Dashvara shrugged.

“Well, I’ll be the only one complaining, then.” He gave a meditative pout under the captain’s questioning gaze. “You understand… I can’t help but think that my lord father would have done things with more discernment. He would not have accepted Zefrek’s hospitality, he would have crossed the steppe, I know that, and even if some had died on the journey, others would probably have survived. And we would have walked straight to Mount Bakhia.” He sketched a smile. “In the Tower of the Eternal Bird, I told myself that, if we reached that mountain, we would be safe at last. It’s something I keep thinking about lately,” he admitted. The captain arched an eyebrow, and Dashvara made an embarrassed pout. “I know it doesn’t make any sense… What the hell would we do on that mountain? Starve, at most. But my instincts keep telling me that we need to get to that mountain.”

In fact, the persistence with which he thought about it had managed to worry him. It was as if he had pinned all his hopes on a great pile of earth and rock… a pile that was somehow sacred to the Xalyas, true, but all in all, a mere mountain. The captain received his words with an intrigued expression.

“Who knows,” he mused. “Maybe your instincts are leading us down the right path. I won’t tell you not to listen to instinct. Although, as my father used to say, don’t let the future blind you. We are still in Lamasta surrounded by Essimeans…” His gaze wandered past his lord, and Dashvara saw him squint with interest as he finished, “And it looks like there are some breaking news.”

Dashvara turned and saw that Andrek of Shalussi was approaching them at a fast pace. The brother of Rokuish rounded the paddock and stopped a few paces from the two Xalyas, unceremoniously calling out:

“A messenger from Todakwa has arrived. He proposes a diplomatic meeting, and Lifdor and Zefrek are willing to attend. But Todakwa demands the presence of the…” His lips twisted into a mocking pout as he pronounced: “lord of the steppe.”

Dashvara frowned. A diplomatic meeting? Knowing the Essimeans, this smelled like a trap.

“Where is the meeting place?” he asked.

Andrek pointed to the northeast.

“When Zefrek leaves, he will blow the horn.”

He was already about to walk away when the captain called out:

“Wait. How many men can go with him?”

Andrek shrugged.

“No one specified anything, but… since this is a diplomatic meeting, I suppose it’s not appropriate to bring too many. Besides, I don’t think Zefrek would allow anything to happen to your leader.” He hesitated, and his eyes alternated between the two of them before he added, “From what the messenger said, there are going to be other guests at this meeting.”

Dashvara straightened up at the good news and smiled.

“Thank you.”

Andrek nodded and left. Dashvara watched him walk away with a mixture of impatience and concern. More guests… It could only be the Honyrs. Or the Akinoas, he corrected himself. He shook his head, and before the captain could comment, he said cheerfully:

“On second thought, I don’t think it’s a trap, and that means there’s not going to be an attack today. That’s good news.” He paused, thoughtful. “I’m curious as to what Todakwa wants to tell us.”

He clicked his tongue at Sunrise and, after opening the gate to the paddock, took the reins of his horse. He didn’t even need help getting on her back, proof that his arm was beginning to be not totally useless anymore.

“I hope you’re not thinking of going alone,” the captain coughed after quietly watching him move around.

Dashvara tugged on the reins and hesitated before admitting:

“Hm-no. Warn Lumon and Sirk Is Rhad. They will accompany me.” As the captain pouted, clearly displeased that he had only planned to have two men escort him, Dashvara observed, “Right now, there’s more danger in Lamasta than out there. And if Todakwa has planned to trap us…” he shrugged, “well, we already are trapped, aren’t we? I’ll be back alive, Captain, I promise.”

Zorvun frowned, but eventually nodded.

“You better.”

And he disappeared into the shelter to warn the Archer and the Honyr. Zefrek soon sounded the horn, and nearly all the Xalyas and Shalussis watched the little procession depart. There were nineteen in all. Sixteen warriors, Zefrek, a Shalussi sage named Meyda, and the lord of the steppe. Lifdor had remained in Lamasta as the relief leader, perhaps secretly hoping that Todakwa would liquidate Zefrek, allowing him to replace Zefrek for good… or perhaps not. Who knows what this Shalussi might have in mind. Maybe those thoughts were too twisted even for him. Maybe. But Dashvara didn’t trust him at all.

As they rode across the vast expanse of grass toward a wing of the Essimean army, Zefrek positioned himself beside him. The last three days had not gone well for him. His face was tense and dry, he had dark circles under his eyes… If he’d seen a Xalya with that look, Dashvara could only say: go to sleep, brother. With a face like that, he would inspire more pity and mockery in the Essimean than fear. Even Dashvara felt pity. The young pirate had thought himself very clever in obtaining weapons from the Dazbonians, he had initiated the rebellion, he had reclaimed the Shalussi territory in a matter of days… Until then, everything had been overwhelming victories, and now that he saw defeat approaching at the hands of the Essimean power, loyalties were waning, trust was wavering… and Zefrek was sinking.

Dashvara suppressed a compassionate pout. He found it stupidly comforting that, while he had no experience as a leader, Zefrek had even less.

The Shalussi then broke the silence.

“When you spoke with Fushek… you didn’t give him the real reason why you killed my father.”

Dashvara said nothing, and Zefrek continued:

“A son’s duty is also essential among the Shalussis. Mine should have been to kill you. But I didn’t.”

“You tried,” Dashvara replied with a hint of amusement in his voice.

Zefrek grimaced.

“I did. But in a way that makes me ashamed today. The past is the past, as you well said…” Dashvara nodded calmly, and Zefrek added, “But it is also the present. Fushek is right. My honor depends on this revenge. I betrayed my father when I promised not to kill you and when I allied myself with the Xalyas.”

He paused, and Dashvara gave him a confused look. What was he getting at by speaking to him with such frankness?

“I’m curious to know,” Zefrek admitted. “What would you have done in my place?”

Dashvara arched an eyebrow.

“If you had killed my father and spared my life for trying to take yours?” The young pirate nodded, and Dashvara pondered for a moment. He shrugged and gave him a sardonic smile. “I would think of other things, like doing everything I can to save my people and free them from the Essimean clutches… Fixing my people’s problems before my own. Out of curiosity, what would you have done if the Xalyas had destroyed your clan and your father had ordered you to kill the Xalya leader and his children?”

Zefrek’s tired eyes sparkled. He was silent for a moment before answering:

“I wouldn’t even need an express order.”

Dashvara nodded, and the conversation ended there. They had resolved absolutely nothing… but at least it was clear to those around them that the issue of honor between them was a complex one: both were right to have acted as they had, and both had decided to make peace… For the moment, the alliance still stood, which was all that mattered.

They came to the foot of a small elevation. Up there was the meeting point, a point supposedly equidistant from the two camps. As they climbed the hill, Dashvara could not help but notice that, in reality, it was significantly closer to the Essimean camp.

Todakwa was already there with his personal guard, as was Kuriag Dikaksunora with the Ragails. As he reached the top of the hill, Dashvara surveyed the area and could see a line of horsemen approaching from the north. They were little more than sixty or so. From a distance, they might have looked like Essimeans, since they were all dressed in black. But they wore scarves covering their faces, and the mere way they rode identified them as Steppe Thieves. The joy of seeing them at last made Dashvara forget the rather small number of riders, and he exchanged a broad, hopeful smile with Lumon and Sirk Is Rhad before turning again to follow the progress of the Honyrs. At the head of the line came two riders, one hefty, the other slender. Dashvara fixed his eyes on the latter feeling a flash of emotion welling up in his chest. It was Yira, wasn’t it? It had to be her. Yes, it was her! His heart confirmed it before his eyes. For a moment, he forgot all about Todakwa and, guessing that the Essimeans would not let them all get any closer than they had to, he rode out to meet them. It seemed to him that months had passed since he had seen his naâsga. When she dismounted with Shokr Is Set, he did the same and strode towards the Honyrs with a broad smile.

“You are a thousand times welcome!” he said in a deep Oy’vat voice.

Shokr Is Set replied:

“We would be more if we had arrived earlier. And there aren’t many of us… But we all come with the desire to help.”

“Thanks to you, Great Sage,” Dashvara said, moved. “And to all of you for coming,” he added, bowing to the riders who had stayed a few steps behind.

“The pleasure is all ours, Dash!” Zamoy replied in a loud, teasingly voice, as the Honyrs responded ceremoniously by bowing their heads in turn from their mounts. “I hear you did another makarvary in Aralika. Liadirlá, what you want is to scare us to death, cousin! How are my brothers?”

“They’re all fine,” Dashvara assured, and he bowed to the Honyrs again. “May the Eternal Bird bless you.”

He watched the Honyrs with the same intensity with which they watched him; it was the first time he had seen so many Steppe Thieves. They gave off those very same legendary mysterious vibes that Dashvara had admired as a child. And it was not only because of the black scarves: they rode with the pride of some steppian kings… and, at the same time, they looked like shadows from the past. He tried to guess, in spite of their veiled faces, whether there was a leader among these warriors who was willing to speak, someone who represented them… but no one spoke. Then he resumed:

“Honyrs, thank you for hosting the Xalya women who traveled to your lands, you have my gratitude. I would have preferred our meeting to take place in a quieter place but… Anyway, I hope we can talk more soon.” Then he spotted the teenager that was approaching them, pulling the reins of his horse with his one hand, and he added with a smile, “Good work, Tinan.”

The young Xalya blushed with satisfaction. Dashvara looked around for Api, but saw him nowhere, and deciding that he would worry about this demon later, he finally turned to Yira. Her eyes scanned the Essimeans with a strange intensity, but as Dashvara approached, the sursha raised her gaze to him, and lowered it with amusement when he bowed respectfully and kissed her gloved hand.

“Ayshat, naâsga. A thousand thanks for coming back safe and sound and bringing hope with you,” he said in common.

Yira rolled her eyes and whispered:

“I felt like an undead without you, Dashvara of Xalya.”

Dashvara widened his eyes and laughed.

“Careful, naâsga, that’s Xalya humor,” he warned her. He kissed her forehead covered by the black scarf and whispered, “It was I who felt like an undead without you. Your absence is worse than red snake venom,” he assured her. “But I am alive again now. It remains to be seen for how long,” he confessed casually, and he turned to the Essimeans, saying, “Now I have hope. Maybe a horse will just fall from the sky on Todakwa’s head, and he’ll finally leave us alone. That would be perfect.”

Yira laughed quietly, slightly tense. By now, all eyes were on Todakwa. The Essimean leader had already started a conversation with Zefrek, and it would have been natural for him to join them… but Dashvara did not approach them immediately. He left his horse in the care of his brothers and took advantage of the moment to ask the most important thing:

“Great Sage. How many days on horseback is the Honyr territory?”

“About five days at a brisk pace,” Shokr Is Set replied.

Five, Dashvara repeated to himself.

“How many others do you think would be willing to take up arms?”

Shokr Is Set gave him a curious look.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “Given the short time we had to convince them, and given that it’s not easy to reach all the families in the clan… fifty-six volunteers is more than I expected at first. It’s also true that in winter, they don’t have much else to do. But it’s understandable that many of the warriors didn’t want to leave their lands unprotected.”

Which means that we will hardly get more, Dashvara completed. He did not lose hope. That fifty-six Honyrs were willing to leave their lands to help a people of the Eternal Bird they had previously looked down upon was rather miraculous. Shokr Is Set must have been really convincing. And so must have been his naâsga.

Dashvara watched Todakwa’s and Zefrek’s movements for a few moments before taking a breath and saying:

“Well, let’s go.”

And with a quiet walk, accompanied by Shokr Is Set and Yira, he made his way towards the meeting. As he approached, his eyes met those of Todakwa. He gave him a defiant, mocking look.

If you lay a trap for us now, you rotten rat, I’ll send you go meet Skâra Itself…

24 The Pact

“Otherwise, I will have no choice but to send my army against Lamasta,” Todakwa was saying.

Dashvara stopped a few steps away from Zefrek. His eyebrows were furrowed.

“Your brother is in perfect health,” the Shalussi replied at last. “So are the other prisoners, including the eighteen Essimeans captured last night. The word of a Shalussi does not lie.” He glanced at Dashvara and added, “I am willing to exchange your prisoners for ours, but in the case of yesterday’s Essimeans, the decision belongs to Dashvara of Xalya. He was the one who made the capture.”

Dashvara suppressed an incredulous grunt. So they were talking about a prisoner exchange? Seeing no better opportunity to get rid of these captured Essimeans, he replied:

“I accept the exchange.”

Todakwa approved the exchange in turn, as if he was doing them a favor. Zefrek immediately sent one of his men to free the prisoners, and Dashvara stepped aside to call Tinan:

“Follow him and tell everyone that everything is fine for now.”

Tinan nodded and hurried after the Shalussis. Good. One problem less. Now came the question of Ashiwa and the siege, Dashvara guessed. Obeying a slight gesture from Todakwa, three young Essimeans approached an imposing, ornate chair, and the Essimean leader sat like a king as he was wrapped in a large cloak so pure white it looked as if it had never been used. That he should sit while the others remained standing seemed out of place to Dashvara. Others would have thought he was showing signs of weakness by doing so… but Todakwa was an Essimean, he had a different way of thinking, and Dashvara bet that his purpose was to assert his authority and stand out as the little ruler of this meeting.

“The illegitimate rebellion you have started, Zefrek,” he pronounced from his seat, “has resulted in the deaths of part of my people. I will hardly be able to forgive such an offense, but today I am willing to be merciful. The best you can do is to surrender, evacuate Lamasta, and abandon the steppe as soon as possible.”

“That’s not what we came here to do, Todakwa,” Zefrek replied, his voice strained.

“No,” the Essimean conceded. “But, if you were to open your eyes, you would see that my army is larger than yours, that Titiaka is willing to send more men, that the weapons they can provide us with are better than those of the Republic, and that the Republic is not helping you… If I wanted to, I could make you disappear like a grain of salt in the water, at any time.” He clasped his hands together under the loose sleeves of his immortal blue tunic and gave them a slight smile as his vivacious eyes detailed them all calmly. “Do you know what I see, steppemen? I see primitive tribal leaders facing a modern civilization and unable to accept that they must submit to it for the sake of their people. Xalyas, you have lost much of what the Ancient Kings taught you. Shalussis, you have never been more than uneducated shepherds who will never see beyond your flock… You are doomed to failure. You stay behind for fear of being defeated and you do not realize that you have already lost. Essimea brings the steppe back to life. And it will continue to grow, no matter how many obstacles stand in her way.”

And he believes it, the damned snake… Dashvara grinned fiercely at him and exploded first in a biting tone:

“It brings us back to life, eh? Well, I’m sorry to say that your modern civilization isn’t going anywhere, Todakwa.” He glanced tensely towards the Ragails and Kuriag before stating, “Diumcili is using you. It is selling you illusions of wealth, and all the while, it is extracting gold and salbronix from your mines, devouring your livestock… It will eventually devour your people and your modernity. Even the ancient kings did not succeed in destroying the steppe as you do. You want your land to grow, you say,” he huffed sarcastically. “I suppose you already know that he who grows much falls from greater heights and the fall is harder.”

Todakwa’s smile had widened, becoming truly obnoxious.

“Hmm. I chatted once with Vifkan of Xalya, perhaps eight or ten years ago,” he commented calmly. “A straight, rigid, stubborn man… He had no ambition other than to continue living as he had always lived. He and his father before him led your clan to its doom. Too bad you chose the same path. By now, you and your people could be on a ship to Titiaka. But you chose war.”

“I chose freedom,” Dashvara retorted with a dull roar. “If it were not for your army, Todakwa, if it were not for the slaves that you have subjugated and that wish to be free, I would long ago have gone to some part of the steppe where your abject modernity and your glorious Skâra are not heard of. And know, Todakwa,” he added angrily, “that my father did not lead my clan to its doom. You caused its doom by attacking it. You abuse your power as the Lords of the Steppe and the Ancient Kings once did against the weak. But you act differently. Instead of pushing back the neighboring tribes, you enslave them, you indoctrinate their children, you force them to worship a deity that is not theirs, you deform our Dahars by poisoning it little by little… If you think you have succeeded, you are mistaken. My people are still faithful to the Eternal Bird.”

Todakwa raised his eyebrows, looking unimpressed.

“Allow me to doubt it,” he replied. “I can assure you that you’ll found in your clan young people who think in Galka, pray in Galka, and dream in Galka. The power of Skâra is greater than that of the Eternal Bird, Dashvara. Because it goes beyond our sajit understanding. That’s why it has a greater impact among the young: because they believe in life and death before they understand them.”

Dashvara did not know how to answer that. He was aware that he had been carried away by Todakwa’s insulting words, and he recriminated himself for that. If they had gathered there, it was not to convince each other of their good ideals, it was not to sell deities to each other or to throw cutting remarks at each other, it was to find a satisfactory solution to the siege of Lamasta.

After a brief silence, Todakwa added:

“A conflict does not suit either of us now. The Diumcilians believe that the Dazbonians will continue to support you if you manage to settle, and while Republican support has been rather burlesque so far, a larger conflict between the Republic and the Federation could have disastrous results on the steppe if we do not resolve this in a civilized manner. That leaves us with two options: either I crush the rebellion and neither of us can doubt my victory, or I offer you the opportunity to surrender, but since you have so far only kept refusing to do so, Kuriag Dikaksunora here has suggested I offer a third option.”

Dashvara arched an eyebrow and turned to Kuriag. Seeing the attention focused on him, the young Titiaka moistened his lips. His face was almost as white as Todakwa’s majestic cloak.

“Well, here goes…” The Titiaka cleared his throat, finally breaking the silence, and took on a more ceremonious tone as he continued: “The Titiaka Council has ordered that Federated reinforcements be sent to Ergaika. They will arrive in a few days. The Council recognizes that these lands are Essimean and has condemned the rebellion as a slave revolt. And therefore,” he continued, as solemn as ever, “your claims are illegitimate and are not accepted by either Essimean or his allies. Common sense would dictate that you realize that your situation is untenable. I, Kuriag Dikaksunora, as a master of slaves involved in the revolt and as an official member of the Council of Titiaka, ask you, both Shalussis and Xalyas, to consider this.” He coughed softly, and though everything that Federate said stuck in his throat, Dashvara struggled to suppress a smile at seeing him so uncomfortable. “Essimea is willing to let the rebels live, acknowledge the existence of the Shalussi and Xalya clans and grant them rights. In exchange, the leaders of these clans will have to swear loyalty to Essimea, live under its wing as vassals and…” The gasps from Dashvara, Zefrek, and the Shalussi woman sage drew a grimace from him, and he hastily concluded, “and submit to certain obligations in exchange for certain rights, all of which are detailed in… uh… the written agreement here.”

He held out a paper scroll which a young Essimean took and passed, not to Dashvara, but to Zefrek. Dashvara was seething. A vassalage agreement. Kuriag was trying to sell them a vassalage agreement! He was so bewildered that it took him a moment to realize that Zefrek was looking at the parchment with real embarrassment. The young Shalussi cleared his throat and handed him the paper. Dashvara took it and, glancing at the long list of conditions and verbiage, realized that Zefrek had not read it. Simply because he couldn’t read.

Lucky you, he sighed.

Reading this scroll was going to be torture. Just glancing at it was already shameful. Todakwa’s mocking look didn’t help. He would have liked to throw not only the scroll, but an entire library in his face. However… did they have another option? Letting out a strangled, hoarse sound, Dashvara was about to read aloud, for Zefrek’s sake, but thought better of it. Yira was reading over his shoulder… Dashvara looked away from the sheet and rolled it up again.

“We will need three days to examine this proposal.”

Todakwa rolled his eyes.

“Two days,” he replied. “At the dawn of Alkanshe Day, you will give me your answer and release Ashiwa. If you do not deliver him alive and well, Skâra will fall on your heads.”

Dashvara frowned without answering. The Shalussi sage said:

“Death falls on all heads, and treachery has never been a good match for nature. Storms and drought will wipe out your empire if you are not careful, Todakwa.”

The Essimean leader smiled.

“That Skâra will decide, for everything is born in her and everything dies in her.” He stood up and turned to Shokr Is Set. “I will allow the Steppe Thieves to enter Lamasta if they so desire. However, if you enter, you will be showing your support for the Xalyas and you will have to suffer the consequences of Dashvara of Xalya’s decision. I understand that you come with the intention of uniting your clans… Vassalage would then extend to the Steppe Thieves if accepted.”

Dashvara hissed inwardly. Killing two birds with one stone, vermin? He replied:

“The Honyrs have yet to swear any loyalty to me.”

Todakwa wryly bowed his head as a farewell and gestured.

“May Skâra guide you to the right path and feed you with her wisdom.”

May your Eternal Bird pluck its feathers and burn in hell…

Dashvara bit his tongue and replied with a short, curt, polite bow. The meeting ended. Zefrek was red with anger. The Shalussi sage’s lips were pursed in a thin line of displeasure, Shokr Is Set was grim…

To hell with the snake! Dashvara pestered as he climbed back onto Sunrise.

25 Youk

The Honyrs decided to pass and enter Lamasta, a detail that didn’t worry Dashvara much, as he had come to the conclusion that sooner or later he would have no option but to accept Todakwa’s pact if he didn’t want the Xalyas wiped off the map, and under those circumstances, he was never going to accept the Honyrs swearing loyalty to a damned vassal of a damned rotten rat.

They arrived in Lamasta without him almost realizing the journey. His mind was racing. And the scroll in his right fist weighed down on him like an anvil. He held back the urge to smash it to bits, dismounted in front of the shelter, and let a boy lead Sunrise to the enclosure. The Xalyas surrounded him and greeted Shokr Is Set, Yira and the newly arrived Honyrs with welcoming smiles. Captain Zorvun stopped in front of Dashvara and, seeing the young Xalya hesitate, he arched an eyebrow and observed:

“It was a short meeting. And, from the look of you, something tells me it didn’t go well.”

“Are they going to launch the attack?” Shurta asked.

Dashvara grimaced and shook his head.

“No. Forget it. Todakwa is proving to be a reasonable devil. Er… It’s time to go discuss this… matter with Zefrek and Lifdor. We have two days to think about it.”

“Think about what?” Zorvun asked warily.

Dashvara looked him in the eye and coughed daintily.

“Remember what you told me in Titiaka about pragmatism and pride? Well… I think it is appropriate for us to consider Todakwa’s proposal,” he asserted and held up the scroll for a moment, adding, “While I read this to the Shalussis, please welcome and settle the Honyrs as best you can. Their coming is a credit to their people, and it honors ours.”

He bowed his head and walked away towards the headquarters. Several of the brothers followed him, full of curiosity.

“What the hell kind of proposal are you talking about?” Sashava asked, panting with his crutches as they sped along.

Dashvara shortened his steps and summarily explained:

“The serpent wants an oath of vassalage.”

More than one person was stunned. Zorvun huffed in disbelief. The newly arrived Xalyas had not yet been informed either, and now they were as dumbstruck as the others. Aligra wore a mournful expression worthy of a tale of terror—the Liadirlá knew why she hadn’t stayed with the other Xalya women in Honyr territory. Zamoy was the first to react:

“Ah the bloody devil!”

The Baldy was choking with indignation and said no more. The astonishment had left them all speechless. They were already reaching the headquarters when Lumon asked:

“What exactly does this vassalage imply?”

Dashvara shook his head.

“I don’t know. The scroll explains it in detail. I decided not to refuse rashly. It was Kuriag’s idea. Todakwa simply liked it… though I’m sure he imposed his own conditions anyway.”

This time, when they reached the headquarters, they were not turned away, and Dashvara went inside with the captain, Yira, Yodara, Lumon, and Sashava. The whole Shalussi leadership was present; given the variety of origins, the group wasn’t small. About twenty veteran warriors were already there, shouting in a thunderous hubbub. Dashvara stopped, watched them patiently and, little by little, the tumult calmed down, and the eyes turned towards him. When a relative silence had settled, he unfolded the paper scroll and said:

“Todakwa has suggested we consider his proposal. If you agree, I’ll read the terms aloud to you, and then we’ll comment on them separately if you feel it’s more appropriate.”

Zefrek intervened:

“I think in this case it is appropriate for both clans to have a joint discussion.”

The chieftains nodded one after the other with varying degrees of enthusiasm, and Dashvara began to read. The beginning was a tirade presenting the agreement, with technical words that half of the Shalussis present probably did not understand, Dashvara suspected. Even he couldn’t understand all those complicated phrases… This text had to come from the mind of a scholar… and he doubted it was from Kuriag Dikaksunora. From his cousin the diplomat, then, perhaps? Who knows. In any case, the series of conditions began without surprises: Todakwa demanded absolute loyalty, the right to conscript in case of war, freedom of movement in the territories of each clan, he prescribed certain prohibitions and reserved the right to impose more rules of a minor nature relating to hunting, livestock, and a long et cetera, without the possibility of refusal on the part of the vassals, even though they could “appeal”. He also imposed the presence of death-priests to educate and give glory to Skâra. He explicitly denied Lifdor the right to lead the clan of Shalussis and demanded that a single leader represent each clan. In exchange for all this, he promised to help his vassals when they needed it, to lower the prices according to their possibilities and to ensure the respect of their culture and identity within the new steppian power…

“The new steppian power,” Sashava spat. “I would gladly drag that Essimean snake across the steppe!”

“Better not. His blood would poison the land,” the captain growled with restrained rage.

Dashvara finished the section and finally reached the last sentence:

“The following signatories accept the pact and commit to abide by it for the next twelve years.”

Zorvun arched an eyebrow.

“Twelve years?” he repeated.

Dashvara shrugged.

“I suppose it must be so that we don’t get the idea of rebelling beforehand and wisely wait until the validity date.”

“Which is not going to happen anyway,” Lifdor croaked. “We’re not going to accept such humiliation.”

Many supported his view vehemently, but others did not seem at all so convinced. All in all, this was a victory over the servitude they had known until then. The pact, on the whole, was obviously appealing to them.

Once again, the Xalyas were more spectators than actors in the conversation that followed the reading of the pact. Voices became heated. Those who argued for vassalage were called cowards and traitors, and they in turn called the latter reckless fools for persisting in confronting a growing army of Essimeans who offered to free their enslaved women and children and leave them relatively in peace.

“The Essimeans fear us!” roared one with a grizzled beard and a powerful voice. “If they do not attack us, it is because they know that their spells are no match for a good sword stroke. We are warriors and they are mere wimps. Let us impose our own pact!”

“We can add conditions,” Zefrek commented, drumming on the table.

“Conditions are not enough,” Lifdor replied. “My honor categorically forbids me to even consider making a pact of vassalage with that vermin.”

His assertion ended in a stentorian thunder, which obtained many echoes. Dashvara rubbed his forehead, wrinkled by so much noise. He tried, in vain, to pick out some constructive comment from the chaotic voices that were rising. Zorvun commented in his ear:

“It reminds me of when we used to celebrate horse races in Xalya.”

Dashvara’s lips curved. But his smile twisted when he thought that the party now being held threatened to turn into a brawl. After waiting a few more seconds, Dashvara shook his head and said to his brothers:

“Today we will get nowhere. The sun will soon set. It will be better if we return to the shelter and share dinner with the Honyrs.”

Zorvun agreed but said:

“I’m going to stay here for a while longer. I’m curious to know what Zefrek thinks about all this.”

Dashvara shrugged, and leaving the captain there, he and the others headed for the exit after a quick general salute to which the Shalussi leaders barely responded.

As if we didn’t already have enough racket in the morning with the explosive disks… It will be best if the Shalussis go to sleep and let their dreams give them advice before they make a hasty decision.

Dashvara felt even more worried than a few hours earlier, for the simple reason that Todakwa’s proposal threatened to tear both Shalussis and Xalyas apart, between those who were happy to accept a ray of light in exchange for chains and those who wished to win their freedom and die carrying out an honorable revenge. And, honestly, something in Dashvara, perhaps fatigue, wisdom, love for his people, or who knows what, made him lean towards the former.

We’ll still be able to rebel if Todakwa doesn’t keep to the pact, he thought on one hand.

But another little voice mocked him:

Don’t you feel like you’re settling for less, Dash? You no longer seek freedom, nor revenge, nor justice. Your only concern is saving your people from death and complete slavery and you even feel grateful for Kuriag’s intervention…

He spent the whole evening with a muddled head. The Xalyas happily shared their little bit of food with the Steppe Thieves, and those in turn shared some sort of milk cake that drew enthusiastic comments, which were soon stifled so as not to disturb the Honyrs as they ate in their ritual silence. They had already finished eating for a while when a group of five teenagers returned noisily, surrounding a young Youk in wet and muddy clothes. Standing up, Miflin’s mother huffed.

“Eternal Bird, where have you been? Take off that shirt, Youk, it’s a mess. What the hell happened to you?”

“He’s so clumsy! He fell flat on his face!” one of the companions laughed.

The boy did not answer, and to everyone’s amazement, he made his way through the crowd with lightning speed and tried to escape. He did not succeed: Captain Zorvun, who was standing at the entrance, chatting with Yodara, grabbed him by the neck.

“Hey! Where are you going, kid?”

Alerted by Youk’s deeply altered face, Dashvara put aside his meditations on the pact and followed the scene with curiosity. Confronted with the Captain’s question, the child did not utter a word. Zorvun frowned, and Lariya joined them, obviously annoyed by the young Xalya’s behavior, but not only by that: seeing two of the kids who had accompanied him laughing under his breath, Dashvara turned dark, guessing what had happened.

“Come on,” Lariya sighed. “Take off that shirt, I’ll wash it.”

“No!” Youk retorted, stirring abruptly. If Zorvun hadn’t held him in a firm grip, he would have rushed for the exit.

Before his puzzling refusal, Lariya stepped forward and forced him to remove it. Youk didn’t resist, but his face became violently flushed. And everyone soon understood why. His chest was covered in tattoos. Skâra tattoos with patterns and Galka signs clearly identifiable by their black and blue colors.

Surprise seized them all, and Youk took advantage of it. With his cheeks flooded with tears and his eyes bulging, he jerked free and ran out of the shelter. The others did not react immediately; then finally, there were gasps and comments, and over them, Orafe bellowed:

“I curse the Essimean and spit on their dead!”

From the knowing looks the two kids who had laughed before exchanged, Dashvara deduced that they already knew Youk’s secret and had been pestering him because of it. He kept their faces in mind and decided that he would personally teach them a lesson they would never forget.

Looks like Todakwa gave me back Essimean demons instead of Xalyas, he muttered, annoyed.

Makarva had gone out in the night to look for the boy. After a few minutes, he returned, a worried expression on his face.

“I can’t find him. I have no clue where he disappeared to.”

Worried, others were rising to search for him when suddenly a loud cry was heard outside, whether of alarm or protest, Dashvara could not determine, but the sound of hooves that followed made him fear the worst. He was reaching the entrance when the stentorian voice of the captain tore through the night:

“Come back here, you fool!”

He was speaking to Youk. Except that Youk was already riding away into the night shadows and he could only hear him from a distance. He didn’t listen to him anyway: he kept galloping. Dashvara hissed an imprecation and took off running towards the paddock. More than one person had the same idea at the same time, and Dashvara braked before ordering:

“Boron, Alta! Your horses are the fastest. Bring the boy back.”

A few moments later, the Placid and Alta were galloping north out of Lamasta. Towards the Essimean camp. Dashvara exhaled sharply. Just the thought that Youk might think he’d be safer there than with his people made Dashvara feel horrible. Mostly because it wasn’t Youk’s fault but others’, and mainly his own fault for despising Skâra and its rituals, for condemning the death-priests and their practices, for denigrating everything the young Xalyas had learned in the past three years under the Essimeans. Certainly, Dashvara only felt fear and contempt for that deity, simply because she was Essimean and her worshippers were hostile to him… The problem was that the young Xalyas had felt that contempt. Hence some were ready to show their elders that, for them, Skâra was nothing, even if it was not true; and hence others, with the Divinity branded in their minds, even tattooed by the death-priests, were dying of shame in silence. And, as the great, blind, stupid steppe lord he was, Dashvara had seen nothing.

Brilliant, Dash. You are no match for the King of the Blind. Please remember that, first and foremost, these people are human like you. They are united by the tolerance and trust that reign between us. And, in this, you have failed Youk. We have failed all our young people completely.

He rubbed his forehead tiredly, and Todakwa’s words came back to echo in his head, ‘you’ll found in your clan young people who think in Galka, pray in Galka, and dream in Galka…’ True. It was true. Their death-priests had achieved something unthinkable. Something that would have made his lord father turn over in his grave.

Pah. At this point, Lord Vifkan would have already died of horror after everything that happened.

He felt a hand silently take his, and he answered gently, turning his eyes to those of his naâsga.

“What are you thinking about?” she asked, curious.

Dashvara glanced around. They were halfway between the shelter and the horse paddock, and the Xalyas were wandering and talking in low voices, scanning the darkness and hoping for the boy’s return. The Honyrs had almost all stayed inside, getting ready to sleep after an exhausting day. He hadn’t had a chance to really talk to them yet, other than the usual politeness. They were probably wondering if they had fallen into some sort of trap by entering Lamasta to defend a half-dead people who was, all in all, planning to betray one of the most essential bases of its Eternal Bird and submit to Todakwa. He sighed.

“About a thousand kinds of things,” he admitted at last. “Todakwa. The Shalussis. The Honyrs. My people. And my stupidity… As Maloven used to say, he who wants to embrace everything ends up grasping only emptiness.”

Yira let out a slight amused gasp.

“Are you trying to embrace your stupidity?” she teased.

Dashvara smiled and argued:

“To fix it, one must first understand it.”

He took his naâsga by the waist and scanned the darkness with her. On the village hillside there was an entire line of burning torches and the occasional silhouette of a Shalussi sentry. That Boron and Alta were taking so long was beginning to worry him seriously.

“Dash,” Yira said suddenly, breaking the relative silence of the night. “Tell me… what do you think of this pact?”

Dashvara grimaced.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “Sometimes it seems to me the right way, other times a folly—really, I don’t know. I’m suspicious of Todakwa, naturally.”

He sensed Yira’s assent.

“Maybe Todakwa isn’t just doing this to please Kuriag Dikaksunora,” she mused.

Dashvara arched an eyebrow and looked at her in surprise.

“What do you mean?”

“Mm… Well. If I were Todakwa, the ones I should be most worried about right now would be the Federates. They’re going to send soldiers to the steppe, and believe me, when the Titiaka Council sends soldiers, they don’t pack them back in anytime soon. By making the Xalyas and Shalussis his vassals, Todakwa is ensuring that you won’t weaken his own clan and that you will even help him in case of…” she shrugged, “potential unwanted invasions.”

Dashvara stood looking at her, stunned. Finally, he breathed out.

“Gosh.” He smiled broadly. “You are the worthy daughter of Atasiag Peykat, naâsga. You’re good at this sort of thing.”

The light of a torch illuminated Yira’s amused eyes.

“Not as much as my father,” she assured. “But, from listening to him, I’ve learned a few lessons.”

Dashvara smiled, once again glad to have her by his side despite the situation. He was pondering on her words when Miflin announced from a distance:

“They’re coming back!”

The horses’ hooves could be heard approaching. Anxiously, Dashvara scanned the darkness, and when he finally saw the riders, he felt a chill that had nothing to do with the cold of the night. Yes, Alta and Boron were coming back… but without Youk.

26 A Xalya does not surrender

Alta jumped down from his horse.

“Too late, he crossed the lines,” the Xalya gasped hastily. “I’m sorry.” He looked tormented. His brothers tried to console him despite their own disappointment and nervousness, and Alta exclaimed, “May the Liadirlá protect this boy! If I’d forced my Alrahila more, maybe I could have caught up with him… but doing so in this dark was madness. That boy… Devils. If the Essimeans were to hurt him…”

“They won’t hurt him,” the captain assured in a steady voice. “They’re waiting for an answer about the pact. It would be absurd to stir up trouble.”

“The Essimeans are absurd,” Orafe croaked. “To think that they branded a kid as an object…!” He choked and roared: “Wretched devils!”

More than one Shalussi had approached to see what was going on and were casting curious looks. Dashvara raised a hand.

“Take it easy, brothers. The captain is right: they will not harm him. And, tomorrow, I will go in person to bring him back.” Anticipating protests, he raised another hand—inwardly rejoicing that he no longer felt pain in his arm—and said, “I feel personally responsible for this incident. Besides, the captain is right: until this pact thing is settled, there will be no bloodshed. Todakwa will respect the truce.”

“Like he respected it three years ago, you mean?” Zamoy retorted sarcastically.

Dashvara grimaced and faced skeptical expressions. He insisted:

“That was different. Look, I’m the first to be suspicious of that snake, but in this case, he’s not interested in conflict. He wants peace with the steppe clans.”

“Peace, as if!” Zamoy protested. “He wants to see us subdued, Dash! He wants to humiliate us.”

Orafe elbowed him, and the Baldy huffed but fell silent. There was a deep silence during which Dashvara caught his brothers’ insinuation: they would follow him no matter what he decided. They understood the risks now better than ever and what was at stake: the future of two hundred Xalyas. But if Dashvara felt the risk was necessary, they would throw themselves body and soul into battle.

And you don’t know how much I fear you for that, brothers…

Dashvara breathed in and finally broke the silence.

“Today has been a very long day. Tomorrow will be a new day. And it will no doubt light up my head with more constructive ideas than I have right now, so… I bid you all good night, brothers.”

They answered him, and all but the watchmen went back inside to their makeshift pallets and extinguished the torches. As he did every night, Tsu again used his ointments and spells on his arm, and while the drow worked, Dashvara kept a pensive silence. Finally, despite the energies that were beginning to dull his mind, he tried to brighten up and said:

“Tsu.” The drow looked up, slightly arching a questioning eyebrow, before returning to his work. Dashvara hesitated, “How is Fushek?”

“Not very well,” Tsu admitted. “I pulled the bolt out, and he lost a lot of blood. But he’ll live, I think. He’s a strong man.”

Dashvara nodded, glad to hear that despite the rather hostile reception the Shalussi had given him.

“Good,” he muttered. And then he turned his head to the bouncing bag and inquired: “Tah? Are you sleeping? I was wondering—”

The shadow interrupted him with a mocking cough, completing:

‘Wondering whether I could go and see if everything is all right with the boy, don’t you? I’ll go.’

Dashvara smiled.

“Thank you, Tah. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.”

The shadow answered with a mental smile, stepped out of the bag in the dim light of the shelter and disappeared in a perfect silence. In the room, one could hear only whispers, throat clearing, and a few coughs. Tsu stepped aside.

“I’m done. You know, Dash? The more you think, the more you stress, and the more you stress, the longer it will take for the wound to heal and I’ll be forced to give you more of these ogroyes.”

In his eyes there was a slight joking glint. Dashvara looked at him with amusement.

“If you don’t give me any more of that nasty food, it’s because you ran out of it, admit it.”

Tsu shook his head, and a slight smile came over his dark, drow face.

“Bah, go sleep already,” he told him.

He got up, and Dashvara wished him good night. The essenciatic energies spared him a bad moment trying to fall asleep: entwined with his naâsga, he sank into a deep sleep.

* * *

He awoke after hours—or perhaps days—of climbing and climbing Mount Bakhia to the sky. He straightened up on his straw mattress, discarding the last fragments of his exhausting dream. His naâsga was not beside him, and the shelter was relatively empty: there was only a young woman sitting near the entrance with the youngest children of the group. Dashvara met her gaze and shook his head with a snort.

“Uh… Hello, Morgara. Where the hell is everyone?”

“We didn’t want to wake you up,” she explained. “The others are outside. Can’t you hear the commotion? Zefrek and Lifdor are about to duel.”

Dashvara was putting on his boots, but at these words, he looked up abruptly. They were going to duel? Seriously? He let out a scornful growl followed by an incredulous laugh, finished putting on his boots, and promptly buckled his belt, grabbed his cloak, and headed for the exit wishing all the brats good morning. As soon as he stepped outside, the cold whipped through him. He wrapped the cloak around himself, glancing up at the leaden sky before turning his attention to the large group that had gathered for the duel: it was taking place in one of the paddocks adjacent to the Xalya and Honyr horses, and many of his people had climbed on the fences to try and see over the Shalussis’ heads without needing to mingle with them. While there was a peaceful hubbub among the Xalya spectators, among the Shalussis it was different: they were shouting like brutes.

As he approached, Dashvara thought he heard a dull thump above the din, like a sword hitting a shield. Joining the captain, he asked:

“And do we know why they’re doing this exactly?”

Zorvun huffed, quietly stepping away from the fence.

“Just a matter between savages. By the way, Dash. Guess whose horse Youk took last night.”

Dashvara’s eyes widened in alarm.

“Wasn’t it ours?”

Zorvun sighed.

“No. It was a Honyr horse.”

Dashvara turned pale. Oh, devils. It wasn’t hard to imagine its owner’s state of mind. And even less so knowing the attachment the Honyrs showed to their horses: if the Xalyas took care of their mounts as if they were close friends, the Honyrs treated them like true goddesses.

“They’re trying to be understanding,” Zorvun assured, bringing his head closer to make himself heard over the ruckus the Shalussis were making. “But that horse… we have to get it back at all costs.”

Dashvara nodded.

“Surely. Where is the Honyr? Did you try to appease him?”

“I did, of course. But it’d be nice if you’d appease him too. He’s that big fellow with the red belt. That’s Sirk Is Rhad’s father. He doesn’t want to give his name.”

Dashvara detailed the man. Knowing Sirk Is Rhad’s initial contempt for all “zoks”, he guessed that his father must not be an example of tolerance either. He approached him, and as he got near, the Honyrs observed him gravely. Clearly, they didn’t seem to enjoy the duel as much as the Xalyas, and far less than the Shalussis. He stopped in front of Sirk Is Rhad’s father and got straight to the point:

“I apologize, Honyr. Your horse will be returned to you as soon as possible. I will try to make up for this… uh…” He was about to say “mishap”, but thought better of it and said, “this misfortune.”

A thunder of shouts and chants went up among the Shalussis. Dashvara snorted, and turning again to the Honyrs, he raised his voice and added:

“On the other hand, I promise you all that, if I agree to this pact, Todakwa will have to let you return to your land without causing you any trouble. You need not worry about that.”

Sirk Is Rhad’s father glared at him, his eyebrows furrowed.

“First you stole my son,” he pronounced in a bark, “then my horse…what’s the next surprise?”

Dashvara frowned in turn, tense.

Well, Dash, did you think that everyone came here to swear loyalty and die in exchange for forgiveness to their people for the actions of Sifiara the Traitor? You are so naive. Sometimes you seem as ingenuous as Maloven.

He forced himself to relax and said:

“You are mistaken. If you wish your son to return to the north, so be it. I have no right to interfere with a decision like this.” The Honyr watched him as if trying to guess whether this zok was sincere with him. Dashvara took a step back and added for all the Honyrs: “The Great Sage told me the history of your clan and said that some of you would welcome forgiveness from a steppe lord and… since I am most likely the only one still alive, I would like to take this opportunity to express this forgiveness to you in person, though I fear my word may not be worth much, but… as the last lord of the steppe, let me reassure all those who continue to doubt and tell them that Sifiara’s descendants don’t have to be ashamed of their ancestor’s betrayal. It’s enough for a man to be ashamed of his own mistakes; he doesn’t have to feel shame for the actions of all his ancestors.”

He fell silent, and only then did he realize that now not only were the Honyrs listening to him, but also the Xalyas. The commotion had died down. The duel had ended. And Dashvara had missed the result. He tried to guess it from the commotion he had heard, in vain. But then, who could have won? Lifdor most likely. He was a veteran warrior.

He bowed to the Honyrs, not quite sure if he should expect a response to his speech… Then Sirk Is Rhad’s father spoke:

“Your words are well received. I respect the wish of our Great Sage and appreciate the esteem he has aroused in you. But, you see, our history has taught us many things. And that is why my people will never agree to be reborn to a clan willing to give up their Eternal Bird under the Essimean yoke.”

His voice was steady, unyielding, but not hostile. Dashvara nodded with his throat tightened. Clearly, this Honyr had an obvious influence on his clan. He breathed in and acknowledged:

“I can’t feel hurt by your accusation.” Unlike others, he noted, seeing Xalyas’ expressions around him. “Besides, I can’t see it as a real accusation either. The Eternal Bird is not an unalterable mountain. Just as yours has learned lessons from your distant past, so ours has learned them from a more recent but no less harsh past. If I am to accept the Essimean yoke, it will be because I will have considered that not to do so would be to send my people to the slaughter. As Nabakaji said: death to the man who leads his brothers to certain death.”

Sirk Is Rhad’s father returned an indecipherable look and replied:

“The dissensions I have had with Lord Vifkan in the past will not fade with time. However, the Great Sage says that his son has an Eternal Bird more like ours. I have come to verify this.”

Dashvara arched an eyebrow, wondering what this Honyr expected him to do, in this case, for it was clear that he would not approve of him sending his people to their deaths, nor would he find it worthy of a lord to bow his head to zoks who had destroyed the ancient steppe. Not knowing quite what to say, he made a gesture and said in an affable tone:

“Well, you’re free to verify anything you want, good man. Meanwhile, our home is yours.”

He bowed, the Honyr did the same, and Dashvara joined his brothers. He pointed his chin towards the enclosure where the duel had taken place and asked:

“Is he dead?”

Zamoy laughed.

“Of course not! The pirate is a gentleman. He let him live.”

Dashvara gasped in surprise.

“Did Zefrek win?”

“By a stroke of luck,” Lumon confirmed as the others began to comment on the duel animatedly.

That caught him off guard. On the one hand, it was good news, and on the other, not so much. One good thing was that Zefrek was obviously in favor of a more peaceful arrangement of the siege: he must have thought that the pact would give him the official legitimacy he lacked, and as a matter of fact, what he had to worry about most now were the dissensions among his own people and the stories of internal revenge within his clan. The trouble was, the latter could potentially hurt them all, for if the Shalussis started fighting in the middle of Lamasta… the Xalyas would have to take sides or run away and accept the pact without possible renegotiation.

Dashvara turned his head in several directions, his eyebrows furrowed, increasingly agitated.

“Where is Yira?”

Several people looked for her with him, in vain. A dull fear came over Dashvara. She hadn’t gone off by herself to look for Youk, had she? Or, who knows, maybe a Shalussi had caught her prowling the village at night and… Then, to his relief, he saw her. The sursha had just appeared at the end of the village’s main street, along with Shokr Is Set. Everyone watched them approach with curiosity. Before anyone could ask, Shokr Is Set said:

“We’ve been talking with Ashiwa of Essimea. I think we should convince Zefrek to release him right away.”

Dashvara frowned in surprise. Free Ashiwa even before they agreed to the pact? Well, why not? At this point, it wasn’t going to do them much good whether they accepted or refused the pact, and with his brother freed, Todakwa couldn’t refuse to return the favor by handing over Youk. So he approved of the Great Sage’s advice without hesitation and promised:

“As soon as the Shalussis calm down, I’ll go see him.”

Except that the Shalussis refused to let them pass to headquarters: “we’ll send for you”, they said. As if we were their subjects, Dashvara hissed as he walked back to the shelter, seething with anger.

But they had no alternative but to wait, and so he waited impatiently. He ate a frugal breakfast, and after tending to Sunrise, he spent the morning carving a small wooden horse while receiving regular reports about what was happening in the village. Tah had not returned, and that worried him, but as Yira said, it could be that the sun had caught him in the middle of the Essimean camp and he had not dared to cross the sparse grassy terrain that separated him from Lamasta. Unless he’d stayed to talk with Api. As far as he knew, the young demon had been reaccepted into the camp thanks to the intervention of Asmoan of Gravia. The lucky boy seemed to be able to move with almost as much freedom as the shadow.

There were at least two more duels between the Shalussis that morning and more than one heated argument in the streets. The Xalyas who wandered off to nose around all told him the same thing: Zefrek was still locked up at headquarters, in a meeting with the chieftains. Some said he had been murdered, others that he had fled, and still others, inspired by the old Shalussi woman sage, believed that he was the Chosen One of their clan, that he was, by virtue of his travels, a learned man, and thus would finally, somehow, bring peace and freedom to their families… In short, Lamasta was tearing itself apart under the distant gaze of the Essimean army, and the Shalussi warriors, as ill-informed as the Xalyas, spent the entire morning worried and infuriated, nerve-racked and expectant. This explained why, in a few hours, there were more clashes with the Xalyas than in all the previous days: to begin with, after having accepted that the Xalyas milk their cattle, several Shalussis refused to give them a share of the milk as usual and demanded it all for themselves, stating that the devils “did not need to eat”; others even refused to let them work for them, and more than one provoked them with insults that were no longer hidden but clear as water… Since the Shalussis did not have the same scruples as the Akinoas towards the dead, their words made more than one Xalya explode with anger inwardly. But, to Dashvara’s astonishment, none of them violated his order not to respond to provocation. Not even Maef. Something Dashvara would not have thought possible. Surely, his people were beginning to show admirable composure.

In any case, the unspoken agreement of mutual respect fell apart, the alliance wavered, and it was on the verge of breaking completely when, around noon, four Shalussis came to him at the shelter, dragging a boy and accusing “that Xalya rat”, of stealing a cheese. They were beside themselves with rage.

“You know we’re not going to kill children so you send them to steal from us!” one roared. “You sons of rats… Now that the Honyrs are here to kiss your asses, you think you’re safe, huh? Well, you’re mistaken. This is Shalussi territory here. If you start not going straight, we’ll let you starve to death and cut your legs off!”

He violently shoved the alleged thief, who lay at his lord’s feet, holding back his tears like a brave man. Dashvara took the kid by the arm and lifted him up effortlessly.

“Tell me, boy. Is it true that you tried to take a cheese that wasn’t yours?”

The child shook his head without daring to speak. His movement generated more cursing from the Shalussis, which made Dashvara grimace with deep weariness. Unable to determine who was lying, he apologized in a gruff tone, and the story fortunately ended there.

He followed the four complainers with a dark look as they walked away with a kingly gait. The renewed hostility of the Shalussis troubled him deeply. Until now, they had treated the Xalyas with relative leniency and compassion… but the arrival of the Honyrs had reversed the situation. Was it because they feared the Xalyas would unite with the Steppe Thieves? With this union, the Shalussis would become the weakest clan in Rocdinfer, except perhaps for the Akinoas… and the prospect frightened them. Unlike Todakwa: he would not move a finger to prevent this union as long as Dashvara accepted to become his vassal, because he would be justly delighted to, at long last, have some influence over the Honyrs. But the Shalussis… they would have preferred that the lord of the steppe be buried fifty feet underground.

Well, let them try to bury me, he grumbled inwardly. When he lost sight of the four Shalussis, he spat out loud:

“Shalussis. They will never change.” He ruffled the little thief’s hair without holding him to account and admitted to Zorvun, “Either Zefrek is truly dead or he is deliberately ignoring us.”

It turned out that the second hypothesis was the right one, for in the afternoon, just when Dashvara was about to go and inform the Shalussi chieftains that, seeing the way things were, the Xalyas would make their own decisions without consulting anyone, a messenger arrived to announce that Zefrek had invited him to join him north of the village.

“Faster than a bodun,” Dashvara commented mockingly, pleased in spite of himself.

The young messenger merely made a puzzled face. Dashvara was ready. Accompanied by a dozen brothers, he strode to the north. Seeing him, Sirk Is Rhad hurried to separate himself from the Honyr group and join them, clearly determined to show his father who his true lord was. Dashvara couldn’t help but give him a brotherly smile despite the dark look the father was probably giving them at the moment.

The sky had become cloudless, and a cold sun now shone down on Lamasta. To the north of the village, near the barricades of rubble, was a large group of horsemen. The dense dust kicked up by their mounts mingled with the warm breaths emanating from their mouths in the winter air. No voices could be heard, except for some murmuring intermingled with the horses’ snorts. They were obviously preparing to go somewhere. Whether it would be with weapons drawn or with heads down remained to be seen.

Dashvara spotted Zefrek and approached with a firm gait and cautious eyes. He noticed the half-concealed bandage the pirate wore on his wrist, probably injured in the morning’s duel. Other than that, he looked much better than he had the day before, and he exuded a clear, bright confidence. The duel had been beneficial to him.

“Zefrek of Shalussi,” he greeted him in a deep voice.

“Dashvara of Xalya,” the Shalussi chief replied, without dismounting. “I apologize for not inviting you to the meeting this morning, but, as you must understand, I had to deal with matters that concerned only the clan. We have finally settled them, and we have also thought long and hard about the pact proposed by Todakwa… I suppose you must have done the same, and I would like to know your conclusion on the matter.”

Dashvara glanced at the Shalussi faces and scanned Zefrek’s expression, trying to guess what his conclusion was on the matter. Finally, he answered truthfully:

“It all depends on yours. If you accept, we will have no alternative but to accept as well.”

His answer drew an amused pout from Zefrek.

“Quite right,” he conceded. “And if I decided to refuse?”

Dashvara frowned. Are you playing with me, pirate? He shrugged.

“If you refuse, it’s probably because you know you’ll get more help from Dazbon soon.”

Zefrek’s smile widened. Yes, he didn’t care about his opinion, Dashvara confirmed without batting an eye. It was clear that he had already made up his mind.

“It’s not just the Republicans who could help us,” the Shalussi leader replied. “There are also the Akinoas.”

Startled, Dashvara squinted, watching him carefully.

“Have you heard from Raxifar?”

The Shalussi nodded calmly.

“He attacked the northern mines with about twenty men and women of his people.” As the Xalyas looked at him in amazement, he detailed, “Apparently the miners were almost all Akinoas. He rescued them, and since they were being chased and had no horses, they dug themselves into the Dungeon of Nayul, northeast of Aralika. And they are still there.”

Dashvara huffed. Clearly, Raxifar was in as much trouble as they were…

“How did you get that information?”

“Through an Essimean messenger,” Zefrek replied. “Todakwa must have thought that the news would prompt us to accept the pact more quickly.”

Dashvara wondered what other news this pirate could be hiding from him, and with a sardonic smile, he replied:

“Very kind of him. Let’s speak plainly, Zefrek of Shalussi: are you going to accept the pact, yes or no?”

Zefrek exchanged a look with his companions before nodding.

“I’m thinking of imposing new conditions, and I want to talk to Todakwa privately about it. But yes, I consider the pact to be beneficial to us. I have decided to release Ashiwa at once and speak with Todakwa. I invite you to accompany me.”

It took Dashvara a few seconds to digest his answer, though it was no surprise. He could feel the Xalyas’ lack of power in this matter painfully.

“So be it,” he said in a husky voice. “Todakwa had better keep his word. I’ll be right back.”

He greeted him and turned his back with some abruptness. He returned to the Xalya area, heavy hearted and surrounded by silence. As soon as he returned, he said to everyone in a loud voice:

“Xalyas, we surrender. Gather everything together and prepare to leave Lamasta. We are not going to stay in this Shalussi lair any longer than we have to.”

They all obeyed promptly without commenting once on Dashvara’s decision. They must not have wanted to think about it too much either: after all, the lord decided what was best, didn’t he? Dashvara sighed.

Stop complaining about your responsibilities, Dash: you were supposedly raised to handle them.

He climbed onto Sunrise’s back and gently patted her neck. His father’s voice resurfaced from death at that moment and resounded in his head with the force of a hammer: ‘A Xalya does not surrender!’ it thundered. And Maloven’s softer, calmer voice whispered to him, ‘To surrender because you’re facing an unavoidable outcome is not to surrender but to act wisely’. Dashvara’s lips curved into an ironic pout.

Surrender? Devils, no. A Xalya does not surrender: he signs pacts.

27 Reminiscences

Todakwa’s reception was pompous and unnecessarily paternal. He scarcely bothered to speak to the defeated chiefs: after ascertaining that Ashiwa had not been tortured, Todakwa at once sent cartloads of food and wood to Lamasta out of compassion for the starving vanquished, and, before anything was signed, he and his army entered the village and set up his own headquarters at the top of the hill to spend the night.

As a result, the streets were filled with Essimean guards, the Shalussis did not stray from their fires, and the Xalyas remained huddled in their shelter with the Honyrs, not daring to go out. They had no news of Tah, nor of Kuriag, nor of the Akinoas. And they didn’t know much about Youk: when Dashvara had asked to get him back, Todakwa, with obvious mockery, had replied that he wasn’t stopping Youk from coming back, that the boy was in the care of the death-priests for the time being and wished to stay with them. Nor had they recovered the horse of the Honyr patriarch: apparently it had galloped off to the north and no one had been able to catch it. Dashvara had reiterated his apology, increasingly ashamed and embarrassed by what had happened: this stupid incident had inevitably put Sirk Is Rhad’s father in a bad mood, and Dashvara understood him completely. Well… at least, that night they went to bed without a wisp of hunger. Todakwa must have believed the saying that hearts are won by satiating stomachs.

The official acceptance of the pact took place the next day, in the presence of all. It was Alkanshe Day, a sacred date for the Essimeans, and apparently during the Alkanshe, all conflict was forbidden because the Rebirth of Skâra was being celebrated and everyone had to sing and dance in her honor. Several Xalya boys had tried to explain to Dashvara how Death could be reborn, but it turned out that even they, after three years of praying, could not understand it.

Rest assured, Dash, he said to himself as he ate a hearty breakfast. Soon you’ll have a death-priest by your side all day to explain everything in detail.

Outside, there were already sounds of instruments and animated voices. His brothers were having lunch beside him, not as noisy as usual. They were not gloomy either, but rather worried about the future. As for the Honyrs, they had not tasted a bite of the food offered by Todakwa: they used their own provisions, surely secretly despising the Xalyas who accepted it without any scruples.

Bah, aren’t masters supposed to feed their slaves? Dashvara laughed inwardly, sardonically.

He had learned his lesson well in Diumcili: anything that was good for his people was welcome. There was nothing honorable about starving to death with delicious cakes at hand. Would he have thought the same thing three years ago? No, certainly not. Three years ago, he would have roared like a nadre, feeling his Eternal Bird under attack. He smiled. Sometimes he regretted losing that stubborn purity of his adolescence. And yet, with it, he would never have survived the Border, never have agreed to be Atasiag’s slave or treacherously killed Rayeshag Korfu, and never have returned to the steppe. Which didn’t mean he was especially happy to bow his head to Todakwa… but, in such a small clan, survival and common sense came first.

“Hey, Philosopher! You’re going to miss the ceremony if you think so much,” Makarva mocked him.

His brothers had already risen.

“They wouldn’t dare start without me,” Dashvara replied with a wolfish grin. “I only hope it won’t last too long. Modernity has a bad habit of making useless things last.”

“At any rate, today you will appear dressed as the lord of the Xalyas,” a cheerful voice intervened behind him.

Dashvara turned, eyebrows arched, and saw several Xalya women approaching, carrying a long dark cloth in their hands. He stood up, his heart beating rapidly. Could it be…?

“The shelshami?” he murmured, amazed.

It was the black scarf his father wore for ceremonies and peaceful encounters with other clans. He would have recognized it anywhere: it had the same decorations around the edges and a small white bead, a gift from Dakia, that Lord Vifkan wore against his chest, hidden from foreign eyes. He gasped.

“H-how…? I mean, how did the Essimeans not—?”

“Your mother gave it to me to hide,” his aunt Lariya explained. “And she told me that the day I gave it back to you, you would have accomplished your mission.”

Dashvara felt a chill and pulled his hand away from the cloth, looking serious.

“Then I can’t wear it. Not while Lifdor and Todakwa are still alive.”

He saw Lariya’s eyes smile and a fiery, defiant glint shine in them as she moved forward unfolding the cloth.

“Before the sun rises again, you will have saved your people,” she pronounced with serene solemnity, covering him with the shelshami. “If you must kill Todakwa, do it. Do justice. Save the pride of your people. It is I, Lariya, sister of Dakia of Xalya, who asks this of you. This serpent has robbed us of our dignity. If we must die to regain it, so be it. Either way, our dead will not rise again, my lord. Our clan is dying. And our pride… only your blade can restore it, Dashvara of Xalya.”

With the help of other women, Lariya had finished dressing her lord in the black scarf. Her words had left Dashvara stunned, confused, enthralled… He hadn’t expected this. And from the stricken expressions of his brothers, he guessed that they had not either. For a moment, he saw himself trapped by his own people. He wanted to do what was best for them, and it turned out that they were not asking for peace or love: they were asking for justice and revenge.

As Lumon had once said, they were more dead than alive, and his enslaved people had continued to live only in utter despair. But now that they had a lord back, they wished for him to give them back their lives, even if it was to die immediately after.

They wish you dead, Dash, he understood with a shudder. They wish Todakwa dead more than they want their clan to live, because they think their clan is already dead.

What madness.

But they’re your people, Dash, and you understand them, admit it, you understand their desire for revenge because part of you is dying to enact it.

But you won’t.

As if guessing his thoughts, Lariya’s eyes glowered.

“Only your blade can save the Dahars of your people,” she insisted.

And with what confidence and firmness she said it…! Both moved and appalled, Dashvara bowed to his aunt and the other Xalya women and said:

“I will do what my Eternal Bird dictates to me, sîzinez, and my swords will perform their duty. But at the proper place and time. Impatience is the enemy of the hunter.” He smiled at the young Xalyas’ serious but determined looks and took Lariya’s hand to squeeze it gently. “Thank you for keeping the shelshami, Aunt Lariya. I will try to wear it with as much dignity as my lord father.”

The mother of the Triplets hesitated, but seemed to consider that her words had had the desired effect, for she did not insist and merely said:

“May our Dahars guide you, my lord.”

Fortunately, Lariya was not as brash and overbearing as her sister was, and she hoped that her words would be enough to make her lord understand that the lives of his people should not be an obstacle to his duty. The problem was that, for Dashvara, his people had been more of a goal than an obstacle… as well as a shield that protected him from his own impulses. Duty, duty, he repeated to himself irritably. Who better than he could understand his real duty? The Dahars of your people, a small voice told him. But, according to tradition, it was the lord who was supposed to represent It. So, no matter what he did, his people would follow him, right? According to tradition, they would follow him to death or to the most brutal humiliation. Such was the power of the lord of the steppe. And such was what Atasiag had called the fanaticism of the Eternal Bird.

Rejoice, Dash: if you had five thousand Xalyas under your command, the whole steppe would be at your feet…

He suppressed a wave of self-deprecation and glanced at his people. His brothers were looking at him with a strange fascination. They looked as if they had seen a ghost under that shelshami. The ghost of his father, perhaps?

Well, don’t get your hopes up, brothers. It is not Lord Vifkan who stands before you: it is only me.

A horn sounded outside, echoed by others. It was time. With a calmness that surprised him, Dashvara reached out to take his naâsga’s hand, kissed it, clearly sensing her trouble, and took one last look at his people before saying:

“Let’s go.”

And they went out of the shelter.

The Essimeans had been active that morning: they had cleared the streets of all rubble, they had even decorated them with blue and white banners. The white symbolized the rebirth of Skâra; the blue, its immortality. And Dashvara always wondered: how could one be immortal and reborn? The Essimeans and their crazy stories…

He glanced back to see that the Honyrs had decided to accept the invitation and follow them to the ceremony site. Hell, he would have given his sabers to know what these men had really come looking for.

The ceremony would take place outside the village. The music had died down and now everyone was waiting for Todakwa to arrive. Dashvara stopped the Xalyas before they could advance into the midst of the Essimeans. More than one was watching them brazenly. Yet there was none of the ancestral contempt that the Shalussis had for them, but rather a mixture of curiosity and compassion. Yes, compassion. Perhaps because what their eyes saw was a harmless group of women and children defended by a handful of disgraced warriors and a leader wrapped in a traditional shelshami who clung stoically to his Dahars and Eternal Bird as he walked towards his own abyss.

You can keep your hypocritical compassion, Essimeans, Dashvara hissed mentally.

When Zefrek arrived with his men, the atmosphere became tense. Essimeans and Shalussis were glaring at each other with murderous eyes. They were the true rivals of the steppe now. It was strange to note that the Xalyas were now but a small secondary group of steppe people from a bygone age in this place. So were the Honyrs.

Soon after Zefrek’s arrival, Todakwa appeared with his cohort, and those of his people cheered him by bowing deeply to the ground while uttering words in Galka. With this stream of kneelers, the field of vision was cleared, and Dashvara could clearly see the Essimean chief stop in front of a large white flag. He was accompanied by his wife and his brother Ashiwa, but there was no sign of Kuriag Dikaksunora. As the Essimeans rose to their feet, Dashvara saw a tattooed death-priest walking up to the Xalyas. He bowed slightly to him and said in Galka:

“Peace be with you, Dashvara of Xalya.” And he added in the Common Tongue: “This way.”

He told him so in a courteous tone, waving him forward before leading the way through the Essimean crowd. Dashvara softly inhaled the cold morning air and stepped forward, surrounded by Yira, Arvara, and Makarva. The others had orders not to move from there unless things went really wrong.

The Essimeans watched in silence as the defeated approached the pavilion. Stopping in front, Dashvara gave a curt nod to Zefrek and glanced at the table with the scrolls before turning to Todakwa. The leader of Essimea was talking in a low voice with his wife. While the former was smiling, betraying his joviality, Daeya’s pale face crisscrossed with tattoos reflected an absent serenity. It was as if what was happening around her did not affect her, as if she was beyond the world of the living. And yet, she had taken great pains to invent those explosive disks to attack Lamasta…

Turning to the two steppian chiefs, Todakwa made a welcoming gesture.

“The Alkanshe awakens today to clear, sunny skies. I hope you had a pleasant night.”

Dashvara stopped himself from rolling his eyes and, nodding wordlessly, looked around at the many death-priests surrounding them. He noticed a small figure trying to hide behind the black tunic of one of them.

It was Youk.

The boy was staring at the ground and was so pale that he looked as if he were about to faint. His head had been shaved again, perhaps in honor of the Alkanshe, and he wore a grey tunic that reached to his feet. He looked up, met Dashvara’s gaze, gasped, and the death-priest at his side grabbed him by the neck and whispered something in his ear. His words calmed him immediately, and Youk remained as still as a statue. He did not look up again.

Meanwhile, Todakwa and Zefrek had finished their formalities, and Dashvara had not loosened his lips, merely shaking his head, grunting without paying any real attention. Finally, they turned their attention to the scrolls on the table. Zefrek signed his name—most likely, someone must have taught him how to do it the day before—and he knelt before Todakwa, pledging his loyalty. Dashvara took his time. He reread the pact from beginning to end, and when he reached the end, he frowned. In a dry voice he read:

“As the owner of the signatory, the Dikaksunora family reserves the right to terminate the pact at any time and regain power over its property.” He let out a growl and put the parchment down on the table with an abrupt gesture. “This was not in the original pact. What’s the meaning of this?”

He perceived Todakwa’s slight grimace; nevertheless, it was not he who answered, but a voice behind him.

“It means that you Xalyas are still property of the Dikaksunora.”

When Dashvara saw the tall figure detach itself from the Essimeans and walk around the table, he felt his blood run cold in his veins. That face… Liadirlá, he knew that face. It was the first foreigner he had hated with all his soul. The envoy of Menfag Dikaksunora. Tsu’s master and the one who had forced Tsu to torture him in Dazbon.

“Arviyag,” he snarled under his breath.

He spat out the name in disdain and disbelief. The elegant Titiaka gave him a slight, cold smile.

“Your heart must be darker than a well, Dashvara of Xalya. Kuriag Dikaksunora bought you to protect him and guide him on the steppe, didn’t he? He gave you weapons, horses, food, and money. And, in return, he simply asked for your loyalty. Loyalty!” he laughed. His laughter died as quickly as it came. “Let me sum up your exploits, Xalya. You mocked your master repeatedly, pretended to save him, posed as a resurrected man, and betrayed your master’s trust without any qualms by running away, confronting his allies, and not worrying for a moment about the man who bought you for a thousand-five hundred dragons.” His sentence ended in a bark. He clicked his tongue dismissively. “You’ve learned nothing in the last few years. If you had been my slave, you would have ended up in a pit with a bloody back, begging for your life to be cut short, Xalya.”

Several strong men stood by his side, along with his loyal servant, Paopag, and… Garag Dikaksunora, the diplomat. Seeing them together like this, it was clear that Garag and Arviyag shared familiar features, except that the former was clearly a half-elf, while Arviyag’s elf features were barely discernible. The latter placed both hands on the table without taking his penetrating eyes off Dashvara.

“Maybe I shouldn’t have let you live that day.”

Dashvara struggled inwardly not to pull out his swords and cut off this viper’s head. He replied:

“Maybe. Where’s Kuriag?”

A dangerous glint passed through Arviyag’s eyes.

“Where is Kuriag?” he repeated. “Are you worried about him now? Really?”

Dashvara frowned, suddenly concerned.

“Did something happen to him?”

He saw Arviyag exchange a mocking smile with Garag and drum on the table. That all the Essimeans and Shalussis were there listening to him did not seem to bother him.

“This pact between the Essimeans and the Xalyas is useless,” he said at last. “And Todakwa agrees with me on the matter: if you do not unite with the Steppe Thieves, your… clan?” he smiled mockingly, “will not live on. It has no livestock, it has no food, no weapons, no horses. You will not survive the winter. And Kuriag will not help you: you are runaway slaves.” He made a vague gesture turning back to Dashvara with predatory eyes. “Without help, you are doomed.”

Dashvara clenched his jaws. Why all the drama? To tell the truth, it was no surprise: Todakwa was simply not willing to make a pact if he didn’t unite with the Honyrs… And Arviyag was counting on him not doing so, but why? To give Kuriag back his escaped slaves and get into his good graces? Unless something happened to Kuriag? In that case… who knows who “owned” the Xalyas now. The mere thought that the young elf might have been murdered upset him, saddened him, and strangely enough, filled him with shame, for, if he had not fled from the Essimeans, perhaps he could have saved him. Ignoring Arviyag’s words, he repeated:

“Where’s Kuriag?”

Arviyag rolled his eyes.

“Again! Your master is on a sightseeing tour with his Agoskurian friend. Riding from dungeon to dungeon. It was better for him not to be here today. Your influence on him has proven to be very negative.”

Dashvara sighed with relief. Well, at least Kuriag was okay. After quickly running his eyes over Daeya, Todakwa, Garag, and Arviyag, he casually waved his hand.

“Well? What is your plan then? Slit our throats? I’m sure you’ll succeed, but not without us slicing off a few of your heads in the process too. Perhaps not many,” he acknowledged calmly. “But it won’t be for lack of trying.”

Arviyag laughed.

“And so spoke the barbarian!”

He straightened up, gripping the edges of his elegant Titiaka coat with both hands. His clothes made him look even thinner than he was. He reminded Dashvara of one of those dandies from Titiaka’s Bright-Casino. All he lacked was a baton.

From the corner of his eye, Dashvara calculated the distances…

‘Only your blade can save the Dahars of your people.’

His hunter’s eyes sought prey for his blade. But his mind kept telling him: not yet, Dash, there is still hope…

“Sentencing you to death would be a possibility,” Arviyag replied lightly. “But I don’t think Todakwa would appreciate a massacre being carried out on a holy day like this.” He inclined his head towards the Essimean leader and added, “Besides, we are civilized people, Xalya, and we prefer to kill the guilty. And in this case… I do believe that the one who must pay the price is the leader.”

Dashvara arched his eyebrows.

“Wise words,” he agreed. “Then, according to you, I should be civilized and beg Kuriag Dikaksunora to slit my throat.”

Arviyag smiled.

“For example. That would be a good start. But, if one of my men were to slice it for you, the problem would be just as well settled—”

“Do you really think so?” Dashvara interrupted briskly. “You really think the problem would be solved by killing the lord of the Xalyas? Touch me and you’ll have a hundred angry Xalyas ready to die to avenge me.”

Arviyag returned a mocking expression.

“Oh. Your people love you so much.”

Dashvara felt Makarva grow restless, and he placed a soothing hand on his arm while giving the Titiaka a venomous look. He turned to Todakwa and roared:

“Essimean! I agreed to the proposed pact. To change it now is to break the rules.”

Todakwa had watched the exchange with interest. He shook his head with an expression that was meant to be conciliatory.

“You are slaves of the Dikaksunora, Dashvara of Xalya. What I offered was a theoretical pact with the implied condition of allying the Honyrs within my domains. But it looks like they don’t want to support you, and since the Dikaksunora don’t wish to free you… your future depends on them. I don’t feel I have the right to interfere in this matter. You have been sold and bought, and the law of ownership is worth more than anything else.”

To hell with your modern laws, Dashvara hissed mentally. He glanced at Zefrek, but Zefrek had already sworn loyalty to Todakwa and had returned to his people. His message was clear: he would not interfere, and as a man of his word, he would honor the pact he had just accepted. Dashvara tried to remain calm under the clear eyes of Daeya of Essimea who was staring at him. Truthfully, he was really beginning to feel on the edge of the abyss.

“What about Raxifar of Akinoa?” he asked after a tense silence.

Todakwa rolled his eyes.

“Kuriag has agreed to hand him over to me for the damage done. His sacrificial blood will feed Skâra very soon.”

Dashvara exhaled and closed his eyes briefly. Liadirlá, give me strength… He couldn’t believe that Kuriag had acceded to sending Raxifar to his death. However… it should not be forgotten that this Akinoa had murdered his father. Kuriag’s leniency had been admirable, but perhaps his family had changed his mind. Devils. Certainly, with relatives like Garag and Arviyag, and knowing that Kuriag, despite his high principles, was quite impressionable… this young elf was capable of giving any order if convinced that it was the right thing to do. And if, by moving away from Lamasta, he had given full power to his cousins…

May the sand bury them, he raged.

Todakwa’s voice interrupted his thoughts. He had turned to his people, addressing a prayer in Galka, to which they responded in a deep chorus, intoning a song. The mournful melody of the beginning soon took on a happier and faster tone. Dashvara had no idea how long this would last, but it was clear that Todakwa had considered the pact ceremony over and had initiated the Alkanshe festival. He glanced at Yira, Makarva, and Arvara. All three of them returned his gaze, their eyes shining with concern. Yira whispered:

“We must find Kuriag.”

Dashvara had thought of fleeing, of fighting to the death, of stooping to humiliating pleas, but he had not thought that Kuriag could still come to their aid. However, his naâsga was right: Kuriag would never dare to condemn his wife’s people as long as they were in front of him. The problem was that they had no idea where he could be now. From dungeon to dungeon… Damn! There were at least a dozen monuments of the Ancient Kings in the area.

A few steps away, Arviyag was chatting with Garag… Dashvara took a step back. No one looked at him. He frowned and turned to Youk. The boy was still staring at his feet as he sang, but as if alerted by a sixth sense, he looked up at his lord. Dashvara motioned for him to come closer. His neighbor, the death-priest, was so busy singing that he did not notice anything as the boy walked away. At first his movements were hesitant, but, probably because he could read only forgiveness and friendship in Dashvara’s eyes, he grew bolder, approached, and even ceased singing to ask:

“Is it true that this foreigner will kill you?”

He said it in a tone of commiseration and solidarity, as if he understood that Dashvara might be his lord but he was also, like him, a slave, and there was nothing he could do to avoid it. Dashvara returned a fierce smile.

“I’m looking forward to seeing him try. You gave us all quite a scare by going off like an ilawatelk. Come on, let’s go home with the others.”

But Youk became reserved, and with his head down, he refused vigorously.

“I can’t,” he said.

Dashvara armed himself with patience.

“Of course you can. A few tattoos don’t mean anything, kid. I have tattoos too, see them?” He rolled up the sleeve of his right arm to show him the marks. “They’re paint. Colors. Nothing more.”

“That’s a lie,” Youk replied, backing away. “If they put those tattoos on you, it’s because they bought you. And it’s the same for me. Skâra bought me. I’m from Skâra. And I can’t go away because, if I do, She’ll punish me.”

He said it defiantly and firmly. Dashvara looked at him, gripped.

“Wait,” he told him, grabbing Youk by the arm when the boy pretended to walk away. Looking him in the eye, he said, “So be it. You belong to Skâra. No problem, you hear me? No problem at all. I only want you to come back with us. Because you are a Xalya, Youk. A Xalya of Skâra if you like, but a Xalya at heart.”

Youk pressed his lips together without saying anything. Dashvara added:

“I imagine it is not easy for you to choose. But know that your people want you to come back. A brother returns to his pack to help them. And you, you must help them, because they need you, Youk. Just because you’re a Xalya doesn’t mean you have to hate the death-priests or Skâra. You must only follow your Eternal Bird.”

Youk seemed to ponder, but Dashvara had no time to let him think, so he simply pushed him gently. The boy did not resist, and finally, they walked away to their people between two lines of Essimeans who were still singing. They were welcomed back with great concern, for although the Xalyas could not hear all the conversation, they had heard enough to know that things had gone wrong. Dashvara in any case briefly summarized what had happened in a neutral, almost casual voice:

“Todakwa may be a snake, but, in this case, the foreigners take the cake: they don’t want me to sign a pact because, naturally, we are their slaves.”

Inwardly, he couldn’t help but think that it was a miracle that they were all still alive. A more impetuous man than Arviyag would have had them all killed during the night, and the Liadirlá knew how easy it would have been to lock them in the shelter and burn them all alive. But Arviyag and Garag were pragmatic men, perhaps even the former more so than the latter, and apparently they were not going to make any hasty decisions.

Which doesn’t mean they won’t send us to our deaths in the near future, he mused.

The song of the Essimeans ended at that moment, and a death-priest declaimed words in Galka. The sons of Skâra broke off their lines and, led by Todakwa and his wife, went to the river to cover their arms with mud, to purify themselves perhaps, Dashvara did not know. As the drumming and clamouring subsided, his eyes wandered from the festive procession to the armed Essimean who were not participating. He also noticed the considerable number of foreign mercenaries that the Essimean lines had so far obscured from him. There were the twenty or so Ryscodrans from Garag, of course, but also other warriors, perhaps as many as eighty, who were likely in the service of Arviyag. All of them were sibilian, and there were faint dark patches on their greyish skin caused by the dry air and cold of the steppe. Their inscrutable faces, as well as their austere appearance and clothing, reflected the indifference and “mercenary spirit” that Dashvara had seen many times before on the Border. They were, in brief, men rescued perhaps from the galleys, from piracy, from misery, who had been trained to kill for money.

“The sibilians of the Skasna Islands,” Tsu’s voice croaked beside him. “Eight years ago, Menfag Dikaksunora promised them freedom for their families in exchange for their lifetime service. Apparently, they serve Arviyag now.”

He spoke the name of his former master in a terribly neutral voice. Dashvara looked at the sibilians with a certain solidarity, and his opinion of them improved, but they did not seem any less dangerous to him, on the contrary.

“The Honyrs are leaving,” Lumon said suddenly.

Dashvara did not turn to see them walk away: his eyes watched Arviyag and Garag approaching at a desperately slow pace. Had they made a decision? With a look of fear and shame, Sirk Is Rhad stood before him and bowed.

“Let me talk to my father, sîzan. I know I can convince him to help us.”

Dashvara shook his head sadly.

“Helping us would bring more trouble than benefit to the Honyrs, sîzan. Your father is being careful, that’s all.”

“He’s a coward,” Sirk Is Rhad hissed and, after a brief silence, admitted, “He ordered me to follow him.”

“Then follow him,” Dashvara said. Facing the Honyr’s defiant face, he smiled and laid a brotherly hand on his shoulder. “There is no point in throwing yourself into an abyss if you cannot save those who are already there. I have forgiven your people, and I am certain that the Honyrs will continue our Dahars. And that you will defend it no matter what, to the death, but in your own land, sîzan, not here. Tinan,” he called. “Accompany him to the paddocks and tell his father that from now on Sunrise belongs to him.” As Sirk Is Rhad widened his eyes and began to protest, he stopped him, “I would rather see my horse in the hands of a brother than in the hands of a stranger. And now go. Nandrivá, sîzan,” he insisted, pleading with him. “Nandrivá.”

His lord’s command added to his father’s made him desist: Sirk Is Rhad bowed, trembling slightly, and he uttered softly:

“My Eternal Bird will die with you, sîzan. Not before nor after.”

And with those words, he and Tinan walked quickly away towards the Honyrs who were leaving to take back their horses on the other side of the village. Arviyag and Garag were still approaching without hurrying. Shaking his head, Shokr Is Set sighed in Oy’vat:

“Kark Is Tork has a proud Eternal Bird.”

So that was his name… Dashvara shrugged.

“He wishes to save his son. I respect his wish and his caution. After all, we don’t know each other.”

From the corner of his eye he saw the curious look that the Great Sage was giving him. Dashvara wondered if he would obey him, too, if he asked him to leave. His intuition told him he wouldn’t. And, in a way, he was glad to have him by his side. In any case, he had no shortage of advisors: the captain with his pragmatic, proud, rational mind; Yodara with his practical, more thorough advice; Shokr Is Set with his knowledge; and… his people, who, just this morning had advised him to pull out the swords and face Todakwa. An advice that part of Dashvara was eager to put into practice. But the Essimean chief would never agree to a duel: he was a priest, not a warrior, and besides, fighting an enemy that was already defeated made no sense. Therefore, the only way to fulfill Lariya’s wish was to proceed as he had done with Nanda: kill him treacherously. And the Xalya people would be dishonored and avenged… And yet, the more he thought about it the more it seemed to him that listening to his people in this case, even on the verge of death, was a mistake. Because killing Todakwa now would mean leaving the steppe to the Titiakas.

Arviyag and Garag were approaching, surrounded by bodyguards. Both were in good spirits, chatting casually in a language that resembled Titiaka’s Diumcilian dialect but which Dashvara did not understand. He exchanged patient glances with his brothers. Tsu had his red eyes fixed on Arviyag. He didn’t seem to be listening to what the Titiaka men were saying, even though he probably could understand them. Something about his petrified face made Dashvara sense that he was stuck, recalling his past life.

Arviyag finally fell silent, paused, and looked down at Tsu. His eyes sparkled.

“Jovial as ever, drow.” He smiled. “It’s ironic that after letting you go, you’ve eventually returned to the same family. And I’m glad you did. The mission Cili assigns us is already written at birth. And you, drow, were born to serve me.”

He held out a hand and motioned for him to come closer. Tsu’s expression was one of stone. In fact, it looked as if he had turned entirely to stone, for he did not move, even when Arviyag frowned.

“Don’t you obey your old master, drow? Perhaps it is the surprise of seeing me. Come closer,” he ordered.

Tsu did not move. Dashvara intervened:

“He will move when you have explained what you think you are doing in our master’s absence.”

Arviyag grinned broadly before barking:

“Bring him to me!”

Two sibilians walked towards the Xalyas without any apprehension. Damn them…, Dashvara hissed. Before they could grab Tsu, he tried to intervene, but then the drow came out of his immobility, firmly pushed him aside, and moved forward as inexpressively as the sibilians who were escorting him. They removed a dagger from his boot and, without any need, pushed him forward. Tsu managed to regain his balance, and to the dismay of Dashvara—and probably of all his brothers—they saw him bow his head low and pronounce:

“I beg your pardon, khazag.”

Arviyag didn’t seem to mind the drow’s slow response, for he merely smiled at him, thoughtful, and turned to Garag to make a comment in his dialect before addressing Tsu in the same language. The drow nodded and briefly replied something that made his former master pout with satisfaction. Dashvara was contemplating the scene, his jaws so tight that his head was starting to throb.

It is I who beg your pardon, Tsu, he sighed. For not being able to keep our pride and our lives at the same time. I’m sorry, a thousand times sorry. You should have gone with Shjak’s drows and with that queen whose luck medallion you gave me.

His heart bled to see Tsu bowing down to a man who for years had made him hate himself for what he was, who had made him a torturer and scarred him for life. He, who had never known freedom, had had the misfortune to come across a people of steppian humans who, like him, wore the cursed marks on their arms.

Precisely at the moment he thought of the marks, he felt a sudden twinge in his arm that made him gasp in surprise. And he wasn’t the only one: his brothers huffed and grunted at the same time, and more than one grabbed his arm just where the Dikaksunora mark was… Dashvara hissed, and his eyes immediately turned to Arviyag. Seeing the Titiaka’s satisfied expression, he understood what had happened. By some means, this scoundrel had used the same trick that Kuriag had used in Aralika to prevent his brothers from killing the murderess. Except this time, he hadn’t performed any spells… or maybe he had?

Dashvara glanced at Arviyag’s hand, not the free one, but the one he held in his coat pocket. He was holding something there, he bet. Something, some damned magara…

“That kind of trick is limited,” Yira whispered, guessing the problem. “He’s only trying to scare you.”

Really? Well, let’s just say he succeeded. Oh hell, he did. Dashvara’s heart was pounding; whether it was due to surprise, magic, or apprehension, he couldn’t tell. If only he could tear off that mark! But it was rooted in his arm as if it were already part of his own body.

He breathed in to calm himself and glared at Arviyag. The Titiaka now wore a disapproving expression. He said in a stern voice:

“Kuriag Dikaksunora intended to release you at the end of his tour of the steppe. But the Xalya kinglet’s ambition knows no bounds. He wanted his master to make a fool of himself in front of a steppe chief by buying a hundred and eighty savages. One hundred and eighty,” he repeated with evident mockery. “And what did the kinglet want him to do with them? Let him set them free! Because he knew that his master was a young man who was still suggestible and didn’t know how to say ‘no’. And the kinglet ran away in the middle of the night with one hundred and eighty women and children,” he scoffed. “And he joined a rebellion! So to speak, without weapons, without horses, and without warriors. An anecdote worthy of a fairy tale, except that the kinglet had forgotten that he who betrays pays for it, and dearly.”

His smile had turned into a detached pout. He added:

“Bring him to me.”

The Xalyas reacted suddenly, positioning themselves in front of Dashvara. The latter growled:

“Hold your horses, Xalyas. You’ll have plenty of time to pounce on that snake if he dares not respect the Alkanshe peace of his host.”

He spoke loudly, so that Arviyag could hear him, and he made his way through his reluctant people to approach the sibilians and the foreign rat. They took away his swords, but they let him move forward without pushing him, until one of them held out a hand, beckoning him to stop. Garag was commenting something to Arviyag in his dialect. As soon as he fell silent, Dashvara spoke up:

“I am willing to pay for my escape on behalf of all my people. However, I’m afraid that only my master can decide the appropriate punishment.”

Arviyag rolled his eyes and quietly took a few steps forward, walking around him, while saying:

“Do you remember, proud Xalya, what state the drow left you in three years ago? Or perhaps you have forgotten? I think not. The interrogation thimbles destroyed your pure, unwavering ideals. They broke you. And that is something no man can forget.” Dashvara couldn’t help but feel again the wave of helplessness and despair that had overcome him that damned day. He shuddered very slightly. And he felt a hint of satisfaction when the Titiaka confirmed, “Something you’ll never recover from. You howled like a wounded dog in your savage tongue. Then you spoke. You betrayed your people in exchange of your life. And now you want me to believe you’re willing to die for your people? Really? After proving that you have more of a slave’s soul than a lord’s, after crawling on the ground to save your life, you want to show off your pride and sacrifice to me?”

He let out a jeering snort and, without warning, took him by the right arm, just at the level of the wound that had not yet fully healed, and squeezed. A sharp pain made Dashvara wheeze deeply and jerkily. He staggered, gasping for breath. Releasing him, Arviyag stood in front of him and watched him with a mixture of indifference and mockery. The Xalyas watched the scene like a bunch of angry and petrified nadres, aware that pulling out their swords would only condemn themselves and break the Alkanshe’s truce. Dashvara had not yet caught his breath when Arviyag added:

“You think your master will save your neck one more time. And he probably will. But, when he does, Xalya, he’ll be saving a loyal, submissive slave, not a rebellious, useless savage. And I will see to that personally.”

Dashvara glared back at him. At this moment, he would have gladly shown him how savage and rebellious he felt… However, he controlled himself, for there was a hint of hope in Arviyag’s words: the Titiaka had just admitted that he wouldn’t dare kill him… Or maybe he just didn’t want to. At the end of the day, what was stopping him from killing him? Kuriag? The young elf knew the limits of the patience of traditional Titiaka masters, and he could hardly blame his cousins for liquidating a fugitive slave, let alone one who was insolent and disobedient when captured. Therefore, if Arviyag let him live, it was because he hoped to get something out of him.

Maybe he wants to have fun with you one more time, Dash.

His heart clenched and burst with rage at the same time.

This devil wants to kill you inside.

The question was why. Perhaps for simple entertainment?

Bah. Be positive, Dash: as long as the viper’s eyes are on you, he won’t bite your people. You just have to put on a nice show of humility for him to be satisfied.

As Dashvara did not loosen his lips, Arviyag soon stepped aside and raised a hand. He ordered his sibilian warriors:

“Take them all to the camp! Confiscate the weapons and horses. And take that man to my personal tent,” he tossed, referring to Dashvara. He followed up with a gesture to Tsu, adding simply, “Drow.”

He wanted the drow to follow him. Tsu obeyed and walked away behind Arviyag and Garag. His red eyes looked like two ice diamonds. When he met his gaze, Dashvara tried to give him as reassuring an expression as possible. All in all, for the moment, they had just fallen back into the Diumcilian net, that’s all.

For a moment, he feared the Xalyas would resist and refuse to surrender their weapons. However, when he nodded at the silent question and the captain handed over his sabers, the others followed suit with silence or mere gasps of bitterness. At no time did Skasnan sibilians express mockery or pleasure in disarming them, but they showed no less cold indifference accompanied by unwarranted jostling. Eight years in the service of the Dikaksunora must have made them fools, Dashvara muttered through his teeth as he watched one of them search a ten-year-old. Or maybe they were already like that before.

They soon all started walking away from the Essimeans and Shalussis, and as he moved forward surrounded by sibilians, Dashvara bet that Lariya and Aligra must be cursing him inwardly. What kind of lord had fate in store for them, who deemed the lives of his people more important than their honor? “Unworthy lord who throws down his Eternal Bird and condemns our people!” they most likely thought. Fool who hopes that a foreigner whom he calls master will come to save us! Fool who humiliates himself for us before foreigners…

And I will humiliate myself as much as I have to humiliate myself, Xalyas, Dashvara thought. And I will fight as hard as I have to fight, humiliating myself if I have to. After three years of slavery in distant lands, it will not be impatience or pride that will make me make the same mistakes as my father. Perhaps I will make other kinds of mistakes. But I will not stop fighting to save you, Xalyas. And that’s just what I’m doing even if I don’t look like it.

Or at least he was trying to convince himself of that. For, while he was sure that provoking Arviyag would have been simply suicidal, playing along with him could be just as risky.

28 Race to the sunset

The Federates had set up camp on the riverbank west of Lamasta; there, dozens of workers of all kinds and races were busy doing chores. All were dressed in blue uniforms with gold patterns, and many wore black belts that marked them as recent slaves. Hearing a sibilian barking orders while gesticulating, Dashvara realized that these workers couldn’t even speak the Common Tongue. He assumed they were from some remote land, though he could not determine from where. No doubt Tsu would have guessed at a glance. The drow had a lot of experience in this area.

As they set up the other Xalyas near the camp, they led Dashvara between the tents to a pavilion as large as the one the Essimeans had set up for their feast; however, on it were many blue designs of the Dikaksunora bird next to a golden flower, Arviyag’s personal symbol.

They did not take him into the pavilion but into a small adjoining tent, and not surprisingly, they tied him in irons to a heavy chest. And there they left him, under the indifferent gaze of a sibilian who stood watch at the entrance. His guard looked as talkative as a rock. Sighing, Dashvara tried to find a comfortable position, and not finding it, he sighed again, crossed his legs and stopped fidgeting.

Arviyag was seemingly in no hurry to speak to him, for the next few hours he gave no sign of life, and Dashvara spent them in that same position, listening to the sounds of the camp. The more time passed, the more he wondered if Arviyag was not waiting for the end of the Alkanshe so that he could unsheathe the sword and execute the Xalyas without offending the Essimeans. Would he execute them all? Or only the warriors? Or only the leader, as he had said. And how would his people react then?

They’d try taking revenge, Dash.

He shook his head sarcastically.

Without swords? Do you really think they are that suicidal? No. They have a people to defend, and they would defend it. They would try to run away. And they’d probably end up just as badly.

He sighed.

Always imagining the worst, Dash. Think of Kuriag. He’s your final salvation. The son of the one who poisoned the entire Pilgrim Ocean coast. The loyal student of Maloven. And the boy who has kept an Eternal Bird intact until now. Let’s see if this one will still remain intact when he returns and discovers two-hundred dead bodies of the Eternal Bird.

He huffed, and his irons creaked and bit into his wrists. His thoughts swirled, and a growing anguish roiled inside him, an anguish that had to do with his people, but not only, no, it also had to do with him and Arviyag. With the fear that that man inspired in him. He had feared death, the brizzias of the Border, the loss of his people… but this fear was different. This was a fear branded into his memory with a red hot iron. And with it came that shame he had never been able to fully overcome, though he knew rationally that a tortured man rarely stood firm. Probably, his lord father would have. But he didn’t. And that was why he felt unmasked before Arviyag, he felt defenseless because that snake had seen that, in reality, the lord of the Xalyas was only a coward and, worse, a broken slave.

Will you please stop thinking nonsense? he lectured himself. Arviyag tortured you, Dash. You are not an Eternal Bird made of iron, you are a man. And Arviyag is one too. He too makes mistakes. Think about it. He too makes mistakes, he repeated to himself.

Outside it was dark, the crickets were chirping, the river water was murmuring, the wind was whispering against the tent, and Arviyag still did not appear. Now Dashvara was regretting that Yira had gone with them: he thought he was selfish to have fallen in love with such a beautiful soul and to have asked her to join his clan, only to see him die on the steppe two months later. Or to see him return to Titiaka, a slave as before.

Come now, Dash, have you forgotten that, when you were in Titiaka, you wished more than once to give up your freedom and stay with your naâsga? Your life there was good. Atasiag gave you everything you needed except freedom. Kuriag was even willing to make you free. The only condition was to leave the steppe. Only that. Only to say goodbye forever to the mother who saw you being born. Only to exile your clan and kill it inside.

He moistened his dry lips. His tongue was thirsty. And the position was so uncomfortable that he frequently moved, trying to improve it, but that only made the irons attached to the trunk shake and flay his skin, causing him searing pain.

Everything was dark except for the light of the torch shining outside. His eyes were following the hypnotic flickering of the flames as they suddenly saw a shadow pass in front of them. For a moment, he didn’t pay attention to it, thinking his own eyelids had just blinked, but then he felt a slight draft and heard a whisper.

“Dash…”

Dashvara squinted and turned his head in several directions before saying:

“Tah?”

But what he had heard was not a mental voice, it was a sajit voice. He called himself a fool for not recognizing it at once.

“Naâsga,” he gasped softly, suddenly worried, “you shouldn’t—”

“Shhh…” Yira shushed him, crouching down beside him. “I think I’ve figured out Kuriag’s whereabouts. I heard one of Garag’s secretaries mention Amystorb’s dungeon. And Alta says it’s located to the west. I’m going to go look for it. And you’re coming with me,” she affirmed. “Arviyag will not touch you.”

Dashvara’s eyes widened in the darkness in disbelief.

“What?”

Yira had just grabbed the irons and focused on freeing him, muffling the noise with spells. Who knows how she’d managed to steal the key… Dashvara shook his head.

“Naâsga,” he whispered. “I can’t—”

“Your people know nothing,” Yira interrupted him even quieter: “they will not be able to punish it any more than they already do. Trust me. Come,” she insisted.

Dashvara didn’t protest. Running away with Yira was risky, but the idea was a thousand times more attractive than staying in this tent and waiting for Arviyag to use his torture thimbles on him again… probably using Tsu once again. That possibility alone terrified him. No, it was better to leave and hope they could find Kuriag before Arviyag found them.

Freed from his shackles, he pulled the shelshami up to cover his face and followed Yira into an unearthly cloud of darkness. They were surrounded by harmonic shadows, he realized. It remained to be seen whether these tricks would be enough to fool the Essimean vigilance…

Instead of going through the entrance in front of the guard, they went through the back, tearing open the tent. The camp was relatively quiet compared to the distant drumming in Lamasta. A light brighter than the others caught Dashvara’s attention. He sighted four long rows of lying silhouettes between the tents, and his heart sank. For a horrible moment, he imagined that Arviyag had killed them all… but then he saw movement and sighed with relief: his people was still alive and well. Under close surveillance and chained, but alive. Everything seemed to indicate that his people had had a much more terrible day than he had… Suddenly, Yira tugged at his sleeve, and Dashvara followed her, barely controlling his rage. He was still wondering if he shouldn’t have stayed behind after all when they found themselves outside the camp, apparently unseen.

They walked along the riverbank, and the trees and shrubs soon obscured the camp and Lamasta. For a good while they said nothing and just kept walking in the dark. Then Dashvara said:

“Naâsga…” He felt Yira slow his pace. “How did you find the key?”

“Mm…” she said, amused. “A child’s game. I stole it from the guard. Problem is, he could find out at any time.”

Dashvara huffed, shaking his head.

“I don’t know if this was a good idea…”

“Would you rather have stayed and let Arviyag torture you?” Yira replied. “I know what he was planning. That man…” her voice trembled, “talked to Tsu. I couldn’t hear what they were saying. But Tsu looked… very shaken. Especially when Arviyag gave him that black case. The poor drow threw himself at his feet. Really, Dash. Tsu… is always so quiet and reserved… By Serenity, I couldn’t believe my eyes,” she admitted in a whisper.

Dashvara’s heart sank. He remembered perfectly the black case where Tsu once kept his torture thimbles…

“That snake,” he hissed. He stifled a growl, calmed himself, or at least tried to, and blurted out: “We need horses.”

“Zefrek will give them to us,” Yira assured, and perceiving Dashvara’s amazement, she explained, “I gave him the three hundred dragons my father gave me.”

Dashvara blinked, stunned.

“Atasiag gave you three hundred dragons?”

“Yep. I didn’t think I’d need it, but the captain says that, with the Shalussis, it’s a technique that always works. And it did work,” she declared, regaining some cheer.

Dashvara frowned.

“The captain,” he repeated. “The captain knows what we’re trying to do, then.”

Yira hesitated.

“Yes… And Alta too. Just them, I think. And Sashava.”

All of them then, Dashvara deduced. He shrugged.

“As long as Arviyag doesn’t take it out on them…”

The mere thought that his escape might bring retaliation on his people filled him with extreme anxiety. He only hoped that Arviyag would focus on pursuing him.

Interrupting his thoughts, Yira took him by the arm to stop him, and they crouched. They were already perhaps six hundred paces from the Titiaka camp, they had moved away from the river, and the trees had given way to shrubs. Beyond them lay the vast plain of the Kawalsh, which separated Lamasta from the ocean and the dunes of Ergaika. He asked:

“And you’re sure Kuriag is in the Amystorb domains?”

He heard the sigh of his naâsga.

“No,” she confessed. “That’s what I heard the secretary say. I could be wrong, but it makes sense that they’re to the west. That’s the safest area. Everything else could be infested with Shalussi rebels or red nadres or… well, I don’t think his cousins would let Kuriag go to a more dangerous area, do you?”

Dashvara huffed.

“No,” he agreed, “unless they intend to get rid of him. This murderess—we don’t know yet who she meant to kill.”

The idea seemed to catch Yira off guard.

“Well,” she coughed, amused. “You’re starting to think like Atasiag Peykat too, Dash.”

Dashvara rolled his eyes.

“I’m getting civilized. In spite of myself. Is this the meeting place?”

“It’s a little further. Can you see anything?”

Yira had straightened up slightly. Dashvara scanned the darkness. A winter wind was whistling in his ears. It was coming from the east, he noted with relief. This would be an advantage for them: the wind would carry any noise that might betray them away from their enemies’ ears and alert them to their pursuers. Besides, the Gem was clearly visible in the sky tonight and would light their way through the Kawalsh.

The Eternal Bird of the Steppe Lords is with me, he rejoiced. Or at least It hadn’t completely abandoned him… He shook his head. He could see no sign of a sentry in the area.

“Let’s go,” he said finally.

They stood up and walked on between the bushes. It was not long before they located the horses. They were saddled, fresh, and, wonder of life, they carried canteens full of water. Dashvara hastily pulled the shelshami away from his face for a moment to drink before slowly turning around. There didn’t seem to be anyone around. And, yet, he would have bet that there was someone. He gently stroked his mount’s forehead and then, to his amazement, he realized that he knew the horse. It was Sunrise! Surprise gave way to confusion. Had Tinan not been able to convey his message to Kark Is Tork? Had the Honyr refused the horse? And how was it that Zefrek had it in his possession if…?

He snorted.

“We bought our own horses?”

“Lifdor and his people stole some random horses to escape and continue the rebellion,” Yira explained. “And, before the Titiakas confiscated them, Zefrek took advantage of the mess to hide these two among his people.”

“Four,” corrected a voice among the shadows. “Four horses. Four riders.”

Dashvara turned, stunned.

“Sîzan!” he exclaimed. What in the world was Sirk Is Rhad doing here? The Honyr was approaching, pulling his horse, and he wasn’t coming alone. When he saw the fourth rider and recognized Tinan, Dashvara huffed, “And you expect me to believe that Todakwa didn’t notice?”

“Perhaps he’s realized something,” Yira admitted while taking the reins of her mount. “But, at the moment, he doesn’t seem to be in a hurry to help the Titiakas get their slaves back.”

Dashvara smiled.

“Devils. Now that’s good news.” He inhaled. “I propose we ride straight west. I think I remember where Amystorb’s dungeon is. I’ve never been there, but, fortunately, Maloven hammered the maps into my head…” He suddenly fell silent as he heard distant shouts from the camp. Oh, no, demons… so fast? He swore. “Mawer… we’d better get out of here.”

They led the horses out of the shrubbery before mounting them and heading west. They moved at a steady trot, not wanting to tire their mounts. With a little luck, by the time the Titiakas found their trail, they would be far enough away. Dashvara glanced back frequently, expecting the light of the torches to appear at any moment. And he was not mistaken. After a while he could see them in the distance. They were perhaps two miles off. Maybe less. It was difficult to calculate distances in the dark.

They crossed a small river by the light of the Gem, and the small undulation of the land made them lose sight of their pursuers. They took the opportunity to pick up the pace for a good bit of the way up the stream before dismounting to give the horses a rest. By now the torches of their pursuers were a good three miles away.

Though the cold wind continued to blow and numb them, all was deserted and quiet on the vast expanse of grass. Only now and then could one see some cloud of shining insects rising in the night to rest a few steps away.

“Those are alurhias,” Tinan said in a serene voice, addressing Yira. The boy walked beside her, a few paces behind Dashvara and Sirk Is Rhad, and the wind carried his words. “In Oy’vat, it means messengers of peace. They are the first to flee when herds of red nadres or scale-nefarious approach. In Xalya, we knew how to read their movements, and thanks to them, we could guess where the red nadres were before they attacked our herds. When they land on your hand, it means that you are trustworthy and that your Eternal Bird has no evil thoughts. And it is true. They used to land all the time on Boron’s hand.”

Dashvara smiled as he remembered. Well, really, the reason the alurhias landed on the Placid so much was more due to his lack of response than to any stories of good or bad thoughts, but the belief had its charm nonetheless. Tinan’s and Yira’s whispers were lost in the distance, and Dashvara could hardly hear them anymore. Sirk Is Rhad walked by his side, scanning the night. Out of the corner of his eye, Dashvara studied him and wondered for the umpteenth time: why has he returned? Finally, he broke the silence.

“Sirk Is Rhad,” he pronounced. “I am glad you have returned, and I thank you for your help. But I think you should return with the Honyrs now.”

In the light of the Gem, he saw the steppeman sigh and shake his head negatively. Dashvara insisted:

“By coming with me, you will only succeed in becoming a slave like me. My Eternal Bird owes you more than you know. And I would owe you even more if you would do me one last favor.” He moistened his lips and whispered to himself, “Take Tinan. He’s the only one you can save. And he’s a smart boy. In the absence of a direct heir… I appoint him lord of the Xalyas. You are witness, sîzan. If I die or if I return to Titiaka, I count on you to tell him.”

The request had come out of his mouth spontaneously. He guessed Sirk Is Rhad’s surprise. Perhaps he was surprised that he would choose a sixteen-year-old boy he hadn’t even seen in the last three years? Well, as Maloven said, know the boy and you’ll know the man. He knew Tinan as a blood brother: he was not sensitive like Makarva, he was not impulsive like Zamoy, nor lazy like Kodarah. He was young, that was a fact, but Dashvara perceived in him a lordly soul far more seasoned than his own. His decision, in the end, seemed quite wise.

“You have my word,” the Honyr said at last. For a moment, there was only the whistling of the wind. Then he said, “My father has left with another horse. He asked me to thank you for your gift, but he says he cannot accept it because he does not feel worthy of such an honor. I assure you there was no irony in his words.”

Dashvara nodded slowly, not quite understanding what kind of honor he was talking about.

“I believe you,” he said, however.

“I know he feels guilty for leaving you behind,” Sirk Is Rhad resumed after a silence. “And I ask your forgiveness again on his behalf, sîzan. And in the name of my people. My people have failed you. And they failed their Eternal Bird in condemning the last lord of the steppe…” He breathed in, “Perhaps you do not see it, sîzan, but what my people will lose, what they are giving up, is hope. From this day forward, they will be nothing more than a dead clan, forgiven by a lord they have abandoned… The worst betrayal of all, it was not Sifiara of Rorsy who committed it,” he murmured, “but my father.”

Dashvara shook his head and was about to protest his unjust conviction, but Sirk Is Rhad continued:

“I told Kark Is Tork that if he left behind the last lord of the steppe, he should also leave behind his own son. He answered me to follow my Eternal Bird. And that is what I have come to do, sîzan. I did not think to join my people because it is my people who must join you. But, if you wish me to take the boy to safety, I will. I will take care of him. But I will not go unless you tell me there is no hope.”

His words seized Dashvara’s heart for a moment. Well, Dash, what have you done for this man who used to despise you to be now willing to do anything for you? The Eternal Bird of the Xalyas must be rubbing off… But come on, Dash, he chided himself inwardly. Would you mock those who offer you their loyalty?

In reality, he was far from mocking the Honyr; rather, he felt even more crushed.

“Hope,” he repeated. He stopped Sunrise and glanced at the lights that continued to chase them. They had gained quite a bit of ground. He sighed somberly. “There is hope, there is. However, not in me, sîzan, but in Kuriag. I may be a lord of the steppe, but he is the heir to an infinitely more powerful family. Our beliefs, our values, cannot open the cage where the clan is locked up. Brute force would be fatal to us; so we will bow our head and wait for the young Titiaka to use his key to free us… or take us as prisoners to the Federation.” He climbed onto Sunrise, trying to move his arm as little as possible, and concluded, “That’s the reality, sîzan. As a steppian sage said, if you are weaker than your enemy, learn to be weak and not stubborn: your defeat will be less violent. And now choose: either you save my heir or…” a sardonic smile stretched his lips, “you come to humiliate yourself with me.”

Dashvara hardly waited for an answer. Immediately, he called:

“Tinan! Follow Sirk Is Rhad wherever he goes. That’s an order. Did you hear me?”

He saw the boy’s figure in the darkness, and his answer came with a touch of confusion:

“Yes, my lord.”

“Perfect. And now let’s move on. With any luck, by dawn, we will manage to see the dungeon.”

They all got back on their horses and rode on. For the moment, the best they could do was to follow the stream and hope they didn’t go the wrong way. One good thing was that their pursuers were wasting time groping their trail in the dark and their horses might not have as much stamina as theirs. The problem was that they were most likely accompanied by an Essimean or Shalussi guide who would lead them with much more discernment than Dashvara could, since he knew this area only from maps he had not studied for perhaps more than six years.

More than half the night had already passed when Sirk Is Rhad called out:

“You don’t leave me much choice, sîzan.”

Dashvara nodded with a slight smile and replied:

“Cross the stream and follow the path north. With any luck, they won’t see your tracks until tomorrow.”

“What…?” Tinan gasped. “I don’t understand…”

Dashvara replied:

“Safe journey, brothers. May the Eternal Bird light your way. Especially yours, Tinan.”

He heeled his horse, and as he and Yira rode away from the Honyr and Tinan, he felt a strange and consoling hope grow within him. Tinan was to be saved, along with the five Xalya women and the little Shivara who had remained with the Honyrs. Tinan would remain in the steppe. And there would still be a lord, no matter what Todakwa and the outsiders said… He shook his head, smiling. He couldn’t quite explain why that idea filled him with peace.

Hypocrite. Really, you can’t explain it to yourself? I’ll explain it to you, Dash: you just thought that, with a second steppe lord, the first one doesn’t have to act like one, right?

Dashvara sighed heavily, but he couldn’t help feeling oddly light. The lights behind were getting closer and closer.

As long as those lights don’t catch up with us before the lights of dawn, we’ll have a chance to see the dungeon and gallop towards it…

When the sky began to turn blue, their pursuers were significantly closer. They had wasted no time in making sure they were going upstream: they knew where the creek was. Also, seeing them so close, Dashvara had started to ramble, imagining that they were being captured. And killed. And his hope slowly turned into an unbearable and strange fatality.

“Dash!” Yira shouted, a few steps ahead of him. “Is this the dungeon?”

Dashvara’s heart leapt. He stopped watching his pursuers and looked with anxious avidity at what Yira was pointing to. There, in the distance between the morning shadows, perhaps five miles away, stood a ruined stone structure. Dashvara tugged on the reins and gave a thoughtful pout, his eyes glinting at the tower.

“I couldn’t say for sure,” he confessed. “But it may be.”

They gave their mounts a drink and drank in turn before resuming their ride. They were exhausted. Even Yira, for, even though she didn’t need to sleep that much, she had used a lot of harmonies to get around the Titiaka camp without being seen, and she hadn’t quite recovered yet. Fortunately, they hadn’t overtaxed their horses so far, and though they’d been trotting all night, they still seemed to have some energy left. And they were going to have to prove it, Dashvara understood, glancing back: their pursuers had accelerated their pace.

“At this rate, they’ll catch us before we reach the tower,” he calculated aloud. Yira returned his worried look, and Dashvara smiled, “Now you’ll see what steppe horses are capable of, naâsga. Don’t worry: trust your mare. Mine will guide her.”

He patted Sunrise’s neck and said in a powerful voice:

“Prove that you are the queen of the steppe, daâra. Oahey!”

And the race began. The ground was slightly uphill, but it was steady. Dashvara and Yira kept up a fast trot for a while until their pursuers, already seeing them without difficulty in the rising dawn, urged their mounts into a gallop. There were about twenty of them, and not all of them were Arviyag’s sibilians, far from it. Ten were. But the other ten were Essimeans, no doubt, and they went ahead, happy to show these sons of the sea that their horses were better, that they were better riders and that the steppe was their land. After a while, they were less than half a mile away… and the tower was still several hundred paces away. Dashvara scanned the tower. There were horses and tents near the ruins, and a standard. A white standard. The Dikaksunora’s, with any luck.

“Gallop, Sunrise!” Dashvara cried in Oy’vat as he rose in his stirrups. “Gallop like the wind!”

Sunrise bolted in excitement and dashed off. At that moment, she was just as fast as Lusombra: she rode across the steppe with a clatter of hooves and the elegance and confidence of a true queen. The Titiakas’ horses were fast… but Dashvara was sure that Sunrise would win the race. He made sure of that by continuing to prod and praise her, and not to be outdone, Yira’s mare followed closely behind. He only hoped that his naâsga, unused to riding, would trust her mount’s instincts.

“Arigá rhad kab, dawana is set!” he shouted. “Liá Liadirlá kab!”

Gallop like the wind, queen of the steppe, fly like the Liadirlá!

They arrived at the small dungeon of Amystorb having outrun the Essimeans. Dashvara let Sunrise slow her pace as he surveyed the area. In addition to the twelve Ragails, there were about twenty armed sibilians, he noted with a twitch. The arrival of the two pursued riders had caused a ruckus and awakened everyone. He saw the tall, strong figure of Asmoan of Gravia emerging from his orange tent, and he saw a Ragail stop the young Api from leaving the camp to satisfy his curiosity. But he did not see Kuriag Dikaksunora. However, given the presence of the Ragails, he had to be there.

He leapt down from his horse and stroked Sunrise’s forehead, whispering in her ear:

“Ayshat, Sunrise. The soul of the steppe vibrates in your heart. Bless you a thousand times over…”

“What’s the meaning of all this?” a voice roared.

Dashvara turned and found himself facing Captain Djamin. The Ragail wore a stern expression. Not hostile, for it was difficult to be hostile to a man who carried no weapons. But it was clear that he was not happy to see him again. In all fairness, since they had known each other, Dashvara had done nothing but deceive his vigilance.

And the time had come to atone.

As a group of Ragails approached with less and less apprehension, seeing that there was no danger, Dashvara stepped aside from Sunrise. And, dismissing his pride, he knelt on the steppe earth and uttered loudly:

“I have come to apologize to my master, Kuriag Dikaksunora, and ask him to have mercy on my people.”

29 The messenger

The Ragail captain reacted at first with a skeptical frown, then shrugged his shoulders and, without even answering, said to one of his men:

“Go and warn His Excellency.”

“I heard him,” a voice then replied among the soldiers.

They stepped aside, and Kuriag Dikaksunora stepped forward. Lessi, Zraliprat, Asmoan, and Api followed him. The young elf was covered in a thick fur coat and wore a dagger on his belt. A dagger, Dashvara repeated to himself in disbelief. Since when did the peaceful Dikaksunora carry weapons? Kuriag met his eyes before turning to the horsemen who had been chasing Dashvara and who were now arriving like a mighty thunder, raising a dense cloud of dust. Among the Essimeans was Ashiwa, Todakwa’s brother, Dashvara noticed. One of the sibilians shouted from his horse:

“My respects, Excellency! This man escaped from my master’s camp with the help of this woman. We have been following them since Lamasta. And we believe two more headed north.”

Kuriag nodded slowly. His rather impassive expression didn’t precisely calm Dashvara. The sibilian stepped down.

“With your permission, Excellency. Arviyag ordered me to bring him back.”

Kuriag frowned.

“I’ve seen everything here that I wanted to visit and I was already thinking of returning to Lamasta. You can go back and inform Arviyag, soldier. My men will take care of the other two fugitives as well as these two.”

Despite its natural lack of expression, the sibilian’s face reflected a certain resentment as his eyes fell on Dashvara, as if it was Dashvara’s fault that he hadn’t been able to sleep all night… and, in a way, it was. He nodded curtly.

“Yes, Excellency. However, we have been informed that this woman is not your slave but a freedwoman. She has entered our master’s own tent. Her actions deserve punishment. I ask your permission to take her to my master.”

Dashvara tensed and half-swallowed a hoarse growl, turning to Kuriag. The Titiaka breathed in.

“Yira is the adopted daughter of a good friend of mine from Titiaka. I hope Arviyag will take that into account.”

Dashvara was stunned, or rather, outraged. Was Kuriag really giving this sibilian permission to take Yira away? He stood up abruptly, stepping between his naâsga and the sibilian.

“You have no right to touch her!” he roared. “She’s a citizen.”

“She’s a freedwoman,” Kuriag replied. Dashvara was surprised by his dry tone. He softened it slightly when he added, “I’m sure Arviyag will merely seek compensation from Atasiag Peykat.”

Dashvara huffed.

“Well, he’s free to do so! But he won’t take Yira.”

Kuriag observed him with exasperation.

“I’m afraid you’re in a bad position to demand anything, Dashvara of Xalya.”

Devils, devils, devils… Dashvara felt Yira’s hand against his. He gently squeezed it. He had not expected this at all. Wasn’t Yira a close friend of Lessi’s? And she got along well with Kuriag. Why the hell was that Federate letting them take her away? To punish you, Dash. To show you how badly you’ve behaved… If only he could explain to him the consequences of leaving Yira in the hands of Arviyag’s men! Seeing three sibilians approaching, he hurriedly called out:

“Arviyag holds all my people in chains. I beg you, Excellency. You don’t know what this man is capable of. If you’ll allow me to speak to you in private…”

The Ragail captain himself interrupted him, grabbing him by the arm with one of his men and forcing him away from Yira. And as the sibilians grabbed her, Dashvara gasped, a stream of curses stuck in his throat, and he stammered a dying:

“Liadirlá…”

When they tried to take off her gloves and bind her hands, Yira resisted by struggling and enveloping herself with chaotic harmonies, the Ragails undid her spells, and Dashvara burst into curses. He had the wisdom to imprecate in Oy’vat. When they finally managed to remove the sursha’s right glove and revealed her bone hand, a silence of pure amazement fell over Amystorb’s dungeon. Dashvara took advantage of the moment. His racing mind cleared enough to realize that the two Ragails holding him were as stunned as the others at such a sight. With a jerk, he broke free and lunged towards Sunrise, dodged a sibilian’s arm, grabbed the mare’s neck and went up so fast that pain throbbed in his arm, but he barely noticed. His eyes were focused solely on Yira. He reached for her and… two sibilians who were in his way grabbed him and took advantage of the fact that he was still unsteady on his feet to pull on him. Dashvara fell heavily to the ground, and the pain exploded in his head. He heard Sunrise neigh in surprise and felt her rub her nostrils against his shoulder, as if to make sure he wasn’t hurt. Hurt? He was. Mortally wounded, at that. His heart had burst into a thousand pieces. Because he knew that, by the time he got to his feet, Yira would be dead. Dead.

“Arazmihá!” a voice suddenly exclaimed.

The scream echoed in other throats. Dashvara finally managed to raise his head and was stunned by what he saw. His naâsga had revealed her white hair and mortic face as if in defiance of death, and both the Essimeans who accompanied Kuriag and those who had pursued them had reacted not with horror but with obvious wonder. The proof of this was that many had fallen to their knees and were still clamouring:

“Arazmihá!”

If Dashvara remembered his Galka lessons correctly, the word meant “the messenger”. And not just any messenger, he guessed with amazement. They had taken her for the messenger of Skâra.

The reaction of the Essimeans further confused the sibilians and Titiakas. The former had retreated in fear, while the Ragails, more steadfast, tried to assess the situation coolly. They dared not execute the undead nor approach her. Out of the corner of his eye, Dashvara saw how several of them had positioned themselves in front of Kuriag Dikaksunora, perhaps fearing that Yira might become a real danger to their protégé. Asmoan’s eyes glowed brightly; he had a horrified expression on his face. Lessi, very pale, was moving her lips as if she were whispering a prayer to Cili. As for Kuriag… the young elf looked like he had been hit on the head with an anvil.

“Hey,” a nearby voice whispered to him then. “You knew, didn’t you?”

Api had crouched beside Dashvara. The Xalya was feeling as if a brizzia had crushed his right arm. He grunted.

“She’s my wife. Of course I knew, kid.”

Api smiled under his hood.

“Of course,” he repeated. “And Atasiag too, I suppose.”

Dashvara rolled his eyes, understanding what this young demon was getting at. That Atasiag had adopted a necromancer girl when demons abominated the death arts was…

“Interesting,” Api said, receiving no immediate response. Yes, interesting, to say the least, Dashvara completed. Not to say that it could get Atasiag into serious trouble when the news flew to Titiaka. The boy added, “Well, your wife has a chance of a thousand demons. These death worshippers are literally in ecstasy.”

Dashvara grunted in response, sitting up straight despite the pain. He took Sunrise’s head in his hands as she pawed restlessly, and he whispered softly:

“Calm down, daâra. Everything’s fine.”

“Everything’s fine,” Api agreed with a slight scoff.

Kindly, the young demon held out a hand to help him up. Dashvara hesitated, looking at him in amazement. I spoke to Sunrise in Oy’vat and that boy answered me in the Common Tongue… Really, I’m going to end up believing that demons can speak the Wise Tongue of the Ancient Kings. Shaking his head, he ignored Api’s helping hand, muttering, I’m not hurt, kid, and instead stood up, clutching at Sunrise’s leaning neck. As a matter of fact, he wasn’t hurt, or at least that was his impression, but he was dead tired and all the commotion around him wasn’t helping him focus. Once he was on his feet, however, all his attention was fixed on his naâsga. Her gaze reflected a mixture of amazement, concern, and fear, and when he met it, Dashvara pouted, guessing that neither of them knew how to handle the situation. He took a step towards Yira, but stopped when he saw Ashiwa of Essimea himself kneel before her. The Essimean said something, but it was in Galka, and Dashvara could not understand it. And, obviously, his naâsga even less. But, hell, who would imagine that the messenger of Skâra would not know the language of his worshippers? Dashvara suppressed a snort and turned his head toward the Ragails. Captain Djamin had joined Kuriag and was speaking to him in a low, agitated voice while the young man kept his eyes fixed on the black and blue magic that vibrated on Yira’s face. Black for death and blue for immortality, Dashvara thought in wonder.

“Praise be to Skâra,” he murmured.

Praise a hundred thousand times, he thought, gasping. Because his believers had just saved Yira’s life. At least for now.

Amazement gradually gave way to various reactions. Approaching on their knees, the Essimeans all spoke at once in Galka, transported, in a hubbub of prayers, requests, and blessings addressed to the Messenger. And Ashiwa, as Todakwa’s brother, showed no less faith and fervor. After all, everything in the image that Yira offered indicated to them that she was without doubt a messenger of Skâra. The sibilians, for their part, had regrouped and were casting questioning glances at Kuriag Dikaksunora and the Ragail captain, waiting for their intervention. Which did not come. Instead, Ashiwa made the first move; realizing that his people were making a spectacle of themselves and that Yira was not answering probably because she did not understand the Galka, he stood up, bowed to the messenger, and said in the Common Tongue:

“Allow me, Arazmihá, to have the honor of guiding you to our lords Todakwa and Daeya so that you may deliver the Message to them.”

The message, Dashvara repeated to himself, confused. Liadirlá… what message? At that moment, two Ragails blocked his view, grabbed him, and dragged him away. Dashvara did not protest. Now that Yira was safe, he didn’t care about anything but sleeping. Sleep. Yes, he wished he could have slept through the day. But they wouldn’t let him. They took him into a tent—Kuriag’s tent—searched him, took off his shelshami, made him kneel down, and one of them grabbed him, and punched him in the stomach, leaving him breathless.

“That’s for deceiving us, Xalya,” the Ragail growled at him. And, placing a hand on his head, he slammed it against the earth without too much roughness, adding, “If you raise your head again, I’ll let you have a taste of my new whip.”

Dashvara still did not answer. The Ragails were being more forgiving than he had expected. Maybe they felt sorry for him too. After all, Compassion was one of Cili’s Graces, and these elite soldiers were good Cilians…

In this position, he was sure to fall asleep within minutes. Unfortunately, Kuriag arrived too soon. He heard his voice near the entrance of the tent. He heard horses’ hooves. And he heard various shouts that told him the Federates were breaking camp. Finally, he heard footsteps in the tent, and a Ragail pulled him by the hair to his feet. Dashvara looked up at Kuriag. The expression on Kuriag’s face did not bode well. The young elf was getting more than tired of the continuous surprises his slaves had in store for him.

“You knew,” he threw out in a tone that was at the time incredulous, disgusted, and accusatory. “Does Atasiag know?”

Dashvara shook his head heavily and replied a simple:

“No.”

Kuriag clicked his tongue, agitated, as he approached him.

“Tell me the truth, Xalya,” he demanded. “Does Atasiag know?”

Dashvara breathed in calmly and looked him in the eye.

“Atasiag was my master before you. Even if he knew, I would not betray him. But I assure you he did not know Yira was using the arts of Skâra,” he lied.

An annoyed glint passed through Kuriag’s eyes. He opened and closed his fists. Dashvara suppressed a mocking pout.

Well, Excellency? Do you feel like using the whip? Well, go ahead and do it. You’ll prove that your Eternal Bird is not as peaceful as you said.

Kuriag must have seen the mockery in his expression, for he let out a snort and croaked:

“Keep laughing at me, Dashvara, and you’ll know what it’s like to have a Titiaka master.”

Dashvara felt a wave of disappointment and sadness when he heard this.

“I’m not laughing at you, Excellen—”

“Quiet,” Kuriag cut him off. And he made a curt gesture. “I mistakenly believed that the Eternal Bird was an ideal, a way of life towards a civilization of peace and tolerance. You have deceived me, Xalya. The Eternal Bird is a delusion. A fraud. It died with the Ancient Kings.” He shook his head and corrected, “It died with Maloven. But the essence, the energy that vibrated in the Ancient Kings, died with them. And it has not returned, nor will it ever return to your clan.”

Dashvara frowned. The energy that vibrated in the Ancient Kings… The demons, he realized with a twitch. Kuriag was referring to demons. Had Asmoan told him about them? Presumably. But he didn’t seem to have told him everything. In particular, he didn’t seem to have told him literally about demons. Otherwise, if they had found out that the Xalyas were descendants of demons… the Liadirlá knew what his benevolent master would have thought, but in any case he would not have used the word “peace” or “tolerance”.

As the silence dragged on, Dashvara fought off fatigue and tried to think of an answer. That the Eternal Bird was a delusion, he said? A fraud? He gasped and let out:

“This is… absurd, Excellency.”

He received a hard slap from a Ragail. Kuriag raised a hand to urge moderation.

“Absurd?” the Titiaka repeated then. “It is not. In fact, it is the reality: the Xalyas disowned the Eternal Bird two centuries ago. They betrayed their king along with other peoples of the steppe. Like that of Amystorb,” he said, pointing vaguely in the direction of the dungeon. “You doomed the kingdom to extinction. You killed each other. And the reason you don’t do it now is because you can’t. Because, if you send your people to fight now, it will die out forever. Not because you do not wish to struggle. Not because you are not capable of killing. Before you fled, you said you would choose hope and you would choose swords, but you soon realized that you were too weak. And that your only hope here… was me.”

Kuriag’s green eyes turned to him with a mixture of defiance and authority. He added:

“Now I understand that I was wrong about you, Dashvara. You want to save your people, and nothing else exists for you. I respect your feelings. But I don’t respect your ways. You’ve betrayed my trust again and again, and you’ve proven that you’re not capable of taking care of your clan any better than I am. To make matters worse, you run away from Arviyag and Garag’s camp, begging me to help you, even though I specifically ordered my cousins to take care of you while I was away. Did you think, then, that Arviyag was chastising your people without my consent?”

Dashvara returned a look of pure amazement, and another wave of sadness mixed with guilt and fear oppressed his heart.

What did you expect? he growled. That after mocking him in front of everyone repeatedly, he would forgive you just by kneeling before him? You didn’t just lose his trust, Dash. You also attacked his dignity. His family is setting him straight, and you’re not the one who’ll restore his Eternal Bird because you’re the one who stabbed it.

He sighed silently and, with sincerity, confessed:

“I thought so, Excellency. With all due respect, I thought so. I’m sorry.”

They both looked into each other’s eyes until Dashvara lowered his head and thought, I’m sorry that neither of us will be able to break free of who we are.

“Don’t pretend,” Kuriag then said briskly breaking the silence. “Don’t feign a submission you don’t feel.”

Dashvara could not avoid letting out an amused snort.

“Believe me, I feel it, Excellency. I feel it and I suffer it, but I would suffer it far more if you left my people in the hands of Arviyag.”

“Then perhaps that is what I should do,” Kuriag replied with obvious irritation. “To tame a horse, you start by tying it very short before you give it more freedom, isn’t that true?”

Without looking at him, Dashvara did not answer.

No, federate. To tame a horse, you must first let it run. He swallowed. So it’s like that, you no longer want to set us free. You want us all to yourself, don’t you? Because your family told you, enough is enough. Because now you truly believe that we Xalyas, we are unable to fend for ourselves. Because we are a lost and abandoned people who don’t even have an “Eternal Bird” vibrating inside. Have you forgotten what Maloven taught you, Kuriag? The Eternal Bird is not a fraud, it is not an energy, it is a star that guides and shines in all hearts.

Dashvara would have liked to tell him that, but Kuriag didn’t give him the time. In a tense, saturated tone, he ordered:

“Take him away. We’ll be on our way in half an hour.”

The Ragails put Dashvara on his feet and led him out of the tent. They did not bind his hands; it was not necessary. They simply led him back to Sunrise, and one of them said to him:

“Sit here and wait for the departure order.”

Dashvara nodded without loosening his lips, soothed Sunrise, released the saddle and harness and, despite his fatigue, continued to care for her and gave her a drink before making her lie down. Finally he lay down against her, glancing around. Most of the tents had already been packed up, the sibilians were saddling their mounts, and a few steppians had stepped forward to lead the way. In the distance, crossing the plain to the southeast, the distant silhouettes of a dozen horsemen could still be seen. It was Ashiwa and his men. And, no doubt, they had taken Yira with them. Dashvara couldn’t help but feel a dull ache, even though he knew his naâsga was safer with the Essimeans than with the Federates. He doubted that Todakwa and his wife would be as gullible as Ashiwa but…

But they’ll respect her anyway, he mentally asserted.

He would have bet his sabers. Sabers you don’t have, Dash, he reminded himself, lowering his gaze. His eyes fell on the red marks on his wrists, and he cursed Arviyag. He remembered the satisfied expression on his face three years ago when he had appeared in the torture chamber and listened to Paopag’s report. What had happened then was foggy in Dashvara’s mind, but he remembered that at one point the Titiaka trader had laid his hand on his head and said lightly, You will live, young man. You will live and serve the Federation. And he had been right: for three years, Dashvara had served the Federation. And there was every indication that he would have to keep serving it. Unless a blessed red snake bit Garag and Arviyag. Unless Kuriag changed his mind… Dashvara sighed and rubbed his eyes, exhausted. The morning light barely warmed the earth, and the wind continued to blow, carrying scattered clouds across the sky at great speed. The wind was now coming directly from the Bladhy Desert, and the air, laden with a sandy haze, was dry and cold. But this did not prevent Dashvara from sinking quickly into a deep sleep.

He dreamed that he was walking on the steppe, not the steppe of Kawalsh, but the steppe of Xalya. The sparse grass turned to dry earth and sand, the shrubs disappeared, and the Dungeon of Xalya in the distance was as beautiful as ever. He was alone. There was nothing in this vast expanse of land but air, distance, and immensity. Then his father’s voice called behind him:

“Behold, son, the land of your birth. Respect it because it is yours and you belong to it.”

Dashvara wanted to turn around, but for some strange reason he couldn’t, so he kept going.

“The savages have stolen the land from you,” his lord father added with evident rage. “The savages and foreigners invaded the steppe and killed my people. Your people.” His voice grew louder as he said, “Kill them all, son. KILL THEM.”

DISHONOR THEM!

The scream was so loud that Dashvara woke up feeling as if he had a pack of milfids screaming in his ears. He supported his head, gasping:

“Oh, Liadirlá…”

He received a light kick from a boot, and as he looked up, he saw Captain Djamin looking at him questioningly.

“Bad dreams?” he asked.

Still numb with torpor, Dashvara winced and shrugged.

“Stupid dreams.”

Captain Djamin arched his eyebrows and said calmly:

“Get up. We’re leaving.”

Dashvara nodded and stood up at the same time as Sunrise, noticing that the sky was now completely clear and that a good hour had passed since he had fallen asleep with that stupid dream.

Dishonor them, he repeated to himself. Sure, and how do you expect me to do it, my lord? By spitting in their faces? Even you don’t know what you would do if you were in my place, father. Without swords, without men, without dignity… You were so afraid to die like that that you chose to die taking your brothers with you. I don’t condemn you. Perhaps my Eternal Bird is too attached to hope. But yours was too attached to pride.

He noticed that the Ragail captain was watching him curiously.

“Thinking of a new escapade, Xalya?”

The tone was mocking but affable. Dashvara smiled.

“No,” he admitted. “I was thinking about that stupid dream.”

He took the canteen and drank before worrying about Sunrise. Most people were already riding away, heading east. East? Dashvara repeated to himself, frowning. Lamasta was to the southeast. Captain Djamin had just mounted his own horse when he said:

“May I ask what this stupid dream was about?”

Dashvara glanced at him in surprise and almost asked if slaves were also required to tell their dreams, but he changed his mind and shrugged before climbing onto Sunrise.

“It’s quite simple. I was walking on the steppe, and my father said to me: kill them all. He told me the same thing a few hours before he died. And the thing is, I haven’t killed them all yet.”

Captain Djamin had frowned. They were at the tail of the procession. In front of them, his men were riding. Kuriag Dikaksunora was almost at the head of the line beside his wife. After a silence, the Ragail calmly questioned:

“Who?”

Dashvara rolled his eyes.

Why in the world are you telling this to this foreigner, Dash? Because fatigue is making you think like a red nadre. Or because you simply need to talk about something. Or to talk about this to anyone. Or maybe not to anyone. So far, Djamin has always proven to be an honorable man, you have respect for him and… bam, here you are talking to him about killing them all. Very clever, Dash. Maybe he’ll get you in handcuffs just in case, you know?

He cleared his throat and replied:

“In the dream, he didn’t specify. But, anyway, captain, it was a stupid dream, as I said. Nothing more.”

The captain did not reply. After a moment, he observed:

“This is a gem of great value.”

Dashvara arched an eyebrow and then saw that the Ragail was handing him the shelshami. Really? Was he giving it back to him? No doubt he didn’t know what it represented. With a mixture of astonishment and avidity, he took it back.

“Thank you. It’s a desert gem.”

It was true: his mother had found it when she was still living as a nomadic Xalya trading with the Bladhy tribes. And she had given it to her husband years later. It was almost strange that she hadn’t given him a skull instead, he thought with some irony. Perhaps Dakia of Xalya had not been so gruesome in her youth.

Impassive, Djamin said nothing more, and Dashvara promptly adjusted the black scarf on his head. They rode for a long time in silence, crossing the stream and advancing towards the endless, bare hills that populated the area between Aralika and Lamasta. Was this some kind of shortcut to the latter? It didn’t look like it. It looked more like they were heading for the former. The sky, blue at dawn, had become cloudy, and a chill wind was whipping Dashvara’s face. It chilled him to the bone, but at least it washed away his fatigue. It was not long before the rain came down on them, accompanied by deafening lightning and thunder. A sibilian pointed through the rain to a lone tree that had caught fire, and Dashvara, fascinated, remembered in that instant the words of the Shalussi sage: Storms and drought will wipe out your empire if you are not careful, Todakwa. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Captain Djamin make a devotional sign in Cili’s name.

The storm did not last: it passed almost as quickly as a flash of lightning and left the steppe scarcely more humid and the air diaphanous and serene. The Titiakas and their slaves climbed back on their horses, glancing at the tree that continued to blaze in the distance. Now they were heading northeast, Dashvara realized. Taking advantage of the fact that Captain Djamin was riding close by, he asked him:

“We’re not going to Lamasta, are we?”

The Ragail glanced up from his horse and replied a simple:

“No.”

They took several breaks during the day and bought milk from a group of Essimean shepherds, but Dashvara was not invited to eat or drink. He did not complain. In any case, he was so tired that he did not feel hungry or cold. He could hardly even realize how tired he was. Towards evening, they stopped at the foot of a hill where an old Shalussi watchtower stood and pitched tents. Forgotten by the others who were busy, Dashvara looked after Sunrise as best he could, whispering soft words into her ear and caressing her as he recited in Oy’vat:

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.

His tender voice betrayed more sadness than vehemence. He repeated in a whisper:

“Honor your clan with love and strength of spirit. Love I do not lack, Sunrise,” he murmured, stroking her between the ears as she laid her large head in his lap. “And I do not lack courage. Nor the Eternal Bird, no matter what Kuriag says. What I lack is…”

His eyes lifted to the sibilians and the Ragails but barely stopped on them; they wandered beyond, to the rays of sunlight that still lit the sky towards the west. He sighed and looked down again at his mare with a melancholic half-smile.

“What I need are two hundred pearls like you. A steppeman without a horse is a bird without wings.”

“Nice phrase,” Api’s voice said. Dashvara gasped. The young demon was approaching him with a bowl. He handed it to him and, as Dashvara was slow to respond, added, “A man without food is a bag of bones.”

Dashvara made an amused pout and accepted the bowl.

“Thanks.”

“Don’t thank me. It was Djamin who asked me to bring it to you.” He crouched down as Dashvara gulped down the dinner and watched him for a moment before adding, “It’s funny. Oy’vat, I mean. So different from Tajal and at the same time so similar. I’ll be able to speak it in no time at all.”

Dashvara returned a thoughtful look before setting the empty bowl down and asking:

“What’s Tajal?”

Api smiled, looking mysterious and mocking.

“The Tongue,” he answered, with emphasis on the two words. “Oy’vat comes from it. But it’s much softer and less guttural and… maybe a little simpler. Yes, I believe it is. Learning Tajal is a living hell. That’s why I asked my mentor to teach me.” He let out a few soft grunts as if something had gotten stuck in his throat and smiled broadly. “I just said goodnight to you.”

Dashvara looked at him in amazement, for indeed he thought he recognized the strange guttural sound as a simple “Taü srin”. He shook his head.

“Demons.”

Api laughed as he stood up, empty bowl in hand, and repeated in Common Tongue:

“Good night.”

Dashvara nodded, and as the demon moved away into the growing shadows of dusk, he whispered:

“Taü srin, kid.”

That night, he had the same dream again, but worse, for along with his father’s voice came the image of Sheroda’s yellow eyes repeating, “You are guilty, you have killed!” and this, together with his father’s sempiternal “kill them all”, confused him so much that he woke up soon after falling asleep, breathing heavily, and he did not sleep a wink for the rest of the night.

His eyes gazed at the stars for a long time, as he once did in the courtyard of Atasiag’s house, except that, that night, Yira was not with him. The constellation of Scorpion was not visible: it was winter, and in winter, it wasn’t visible. Towards midnight, the stars were swallowed up by the clouds, and in a complete calm, the first snowflakes fell. They had been late in coming. This was a bad sign. As the saying goes: “Late snowflakes makes the winter long and sharp”. Wrapped in his cloak and huddled against Sunrise, Dashvara listened to the silence of the camp and tried in vain to fall asleep again. His mind seemed to have forgotten how to sleep.

Shortly before dawn, a murmur disturbed his unalterable vigil. He frowned and… heard a whisper again.

‘Dash, are you awake?’

Dashvara smiled.

“Tah,” he whispered. “Are you there?”

For a moment, he thought he had dreamed the mental voice, but then the shadow confirmed:

‘Yes. You can’t even imagine, it’s a real mess,’ he sighed. ‘I just got back from the camp where the others are. They’re just over there, a few hills away. They asked me about you, and I told them you were fine. Them, on the other hand… well, except for the younger ones, their hands are all tied and… I think more than one was whipped, but… I could barely talk to them because the Titiakas had lit quite a few torches around.’

Dashvara shuddered at his words. Hands tied. Whipped. And Kuriag knew about it. Yes, he surely did, didn’t he? And he was letting Arviyag abuse his slaves to tame them in their own land.

“What about Tsu?” he whispered.

‘Tsu? I haven’t seen him,’ the shadow admitted, and he blew out a mental snort, muttering, ‘I don’t like snow. It tickles even more than the rain.’

Alarmed by Tah’s agitation, Sunrise raised her head. Dashvara calmed his mare with a gesture before asking in a low, curious voice:

“Where have you been all this time?”

‘Oh, well…’ Tahisran coughed. ‘It’s complicated. I went looking for Youk and found him, but I couldn’t talk to him because they put him in the death-priests’ tents. So, afterwards, I went to see Api. And it turns out he was with Asmoan, Kuriag, and his two cousins and…’ He hesitated, ‘I heard something I shouldn’t have. Something about the pact.’

Dashvara winced.

“You heard that Arviyag and Garag would invalidate it for the Xalyas,” he guessed darkly.

‘That’s right,’ the shadow affirmed, embarrassed. ‘Kuriag didn’t want me to warn you because he was afraid you would try to run away. He told me it wasn’t in your best interest to run away, but he didn’t explain why and… Well, it just so happened that dawn caught me in the Essimean camp, I stuffed myself into Api’s pack, and… Boo, when I woke up, I was riding across the steppe visiting tombs and dungeons. Api said he only “half” realized I was in his bag. Mmph,’ he growled.

Dashvara couldn’t help but smile as he imagined Tahisran’s surprise upon awakening. The shadow added in a relativistic tone:

‘I suppose that, anyway, in daylight, I could hardly have returned to Lamasta without anyone seeing me. The steppe is a bad land for shadows.’

Dashvara nodded.

“Thank you for checking on my people, Tah. Arviyag will pay dearly for what he does,” he asserted and, realizing he had raised his voice slightly, lowered it as he murmured with no apparent connection, “The Essimeans took Yira away.”

He sensed the shadow’s assent as well as his concern.

‘I know. Api told me what happened.’

There was silence. The snowflakes kept on falling. The sky, though overcast, was beginning to lighten. Yira, Dashvara thought with a sudden wave of anxiety. A horrible thought had just crossed his mind. What if Yira wasn’t so safe with the Essimeans, after all? What if…? The image of his naâsga sacrificed to the glory of Skâra assailed him, and a tremor ran through his body. After all, what did he know of the Essimeans and their Divinity? He knew nothing. Perhaps, after she had delivered her message, the Arazmihá would die and… He let out an exhausted groan.

“Why?” He straightened, his heart racing, before he lay back down, unconsciously clutching the shelshami bead in his fist. “My Eternal Bird is going to die, Tah,” he muttered. “I feel like I’m riding into Death, pursued by monsters. I’m damnably trapped. I know what Arviyag wants to do with me, and I don’t know how to stop him. But that’s not the worst of all. If anything happens to my naâsga, my death will be the most horrible of all deaths.”

His eyes had grown wide open, staring at the darkness as if a red snake had slithered into his heart to bite him. Whether it was his fatigue or his constant inner struggle, he felt like he was on the verge of losing his mind, much like the day Atasiag had taken him to Sheroda’s. Except this time it lasted much longer. Tah’s consolations were useless: they slipped away like water on glass. As soon as daylight broke, he mechanically ate what Api brought him, and the only thing he managed to do properly was to saddle up Sunrise and get on his horse to continue the journey. The Ragails, the sibilians, the men who had joined them from Lamasta… they all seemed to have come out of a dreadful unreal world.

You’re losing your cool, Dash, a small, exasperated voice told him. Think about it: your hands aren’t tied, no one has tortured you yet, and why would they? Kuriag is not like Arviyag. He will protect you all…

Protect us, but of course, he replied sharply.

Bah. The thing is, you’re scared to death. Because of the thimbles. Admit it, he scoffed with a mental hiss.

His own thoughts kept him so busy that it was Sunrise who took it upon herself to follow the procession without the aid of her rider.

At nightfall, when they were setting up camp again, and as Dashvara watched from a distance as his people made their way across the steppe on foot, Api came and brought him dinner again, and this time, he said cheerfully:

“I hear your wife is creating quite a stir in Aralika. Todakwa is going to throw a big party in two weeks, and he has invited Kuriag to say goodbye before he leaves.”

Dashvara looked at him for a moment, as if dazed, before asking:

“Is Yira okay?”

Api watched him curiously.

“Yes. I don’t know much,” he admitted. “Except that Todakwa put her on a pedestal. Say, Dashvara, you know something? You look terrible. How long has it been since you last slept?”

Dashvara grimaced.

“I slept a little on the horse. I think.”

“Really?” Api marveled. “You can sleep on a horse? Well, I slept on a dragon—but a horse!”

He was impressed. Dashvara grunted and made a slight gesture before turning his attention to his bowl. He was still chewing without much enthusiasm when he heard the sounds of boots on the ground and a dry voice saying:

“My master wants to see you.”

Unsurprised, Dashvara looked up painfully into the greyish, impassive face of the sibilian. He was the one who had led the chase. Receiving no immediate response, two sibilians grabbed him, and Dashvara abandoned his bowl and stood up. Under Api’s worried, frowning gaze, he walked away, taking one last look at his mare, who was grazing quietly a few feet away, looking for grass in the snow. He saw her raise her head towards him, and he clicked his tongue gently, not to call her, but to tell her not to worry and to continue grazing.

Right now, you can’t help me, my sweet.

Soon, he could no longer see her because of the tents, the workers, and the horses. What he could see, however, were the Xalyas, whom the sibilians were setting up, hands bound, in several rows for the night. Only the youngest children escaped such precautions, and one of them, recognizing Dashvara, wanted to come closer, but his mother called out to him harshly with a touch of fear in her voice. As for the Xalya warriors, they all looked up at him with the same expectant movement. Zamoy stretched his neck. Captain Zorvun looked relieved and worried at the same time. And in the face of so many eyes, Dashvara tried to look more energetic than he really was. But as soon as the sibilians brought him into a large tent, and he saw the table set up in the middle, his heart froze completely, and he lost his composure. On that table were ropes. And behind it stood Tsu, his sleeves rolled up and a black case in his hand.

In the drow’s stony face, his eyes blazed, terrified. Dashvara suddenly felt overwhelmed by a wave of memories more vivid than ever. The pain. The helplessness. The terror. Death… Pain, he repeated to himself, dizzy. And he began to tremble from head to toe.

Your feather is not going to rise again from this, Dash…

30 A false god

If they had brought him into the lair of a brizzia or a nest of harpies, he would not have felt as terrified. Right now, this case, these thimbles, were a thousand times worse than death.

His reaction was not planned at all, it was spontaneous: he turned around and tried to run away. No sooner had he made his move than the sibilians grabbed him and pushed him further towards the table. Dashvara struggled, as he had struggled that day in Dazbon. All in vain. They stripped his torso, strapped him to the table, and only then did they move away, revealing Paopag, Tsu, and the case.

“Don’t think I’m doing this for the pleasure of tormenting you, son,” Arviyag’s voice said to him from a corner out of his field of vision. “The reason I’m so interested in you is because there are people in the Federation who continue to be convinced that the Eternal Bird is stronger than Cili and that you are the King. The true Immortal King who has already risen twice. What nonsense, isn’t it? But the fact is that you have at least a thousand and five hundred followers in Titiaka and to put an end to this madness, you’re going to have to publicly declare that you are a false king of a false god. And to make it sound convincing… I’m going to put it in your head until you, too, are convinced. Okay?” he finished in a serene tone, as if he were asking him for any banality.

Dashvara’s mind processed his words very slowly. His fatigue was not helping. Nor was the terror that was taking over him. But he still felt a wave of amazement and incomprehension. One thousand five hundred followers? In Titiaka? Where did Arviyag get such nonsense from?

“Just a moment,” he growled. “I never meant to convert anyone. These followers…” He exhaled sharply, lying on the table. “I had nothing to do with that. I am not a king. And the Eternal Bird is no god. That much is already clear in my head. It’s not necessary… it’s not necessary,” he repeated in a daze, and managed to finish his sentence by stammering, “t-to open that.”

He was talking about the case. He looked away from it, nauseated, and wandered his gaze over the faces of the sibilians and Paopag; he tried to turn his neck in vain to see Arviyag, and he insisted:

“It’s not necessary.”

There was silence. Dashvara saw that Tsu’s red eyes were shining. How had Arviyag convinced him? By threatening to go after the other Xalyas, surely.

“Perhaps,” the Titiaka merchant finally admitted in a thoughtful tone. “Yes, perhaps it is not necessary.” He paused. “I am curious to know. Do simple thimbles really scare you that much? I’m seriously asking. I’ve never tried.”

His tone was mocking and curious at the same time. Dashvara clenched his jaws and, trying to overcome the tetanizing fear that threatened to take hold of him every time he looked at that damned case, he replied:

“There’s nothing stopping you from trying.”

Arviyag clicked his tongue. Dashvara heard him move behind him and felt his hand rest on his right arm, examining the wound caused by the poisoned arrow. The Titiaka stepped aside after a few moments and appeared before Dashvara’s eyes, resuming:

“You didn’t answer me. What are you afraid of? Pain? Death? Don’t worry, I won’t kill you. That power is in Kuriag’s hands, and I’m not going to make you a martyr. I just want you not to disappoint me when Titiaka’s delegation arrives in Aralika and sees you. I want you to show yourself as what you are: the fugitive leader of a clan that has come crawling back to its master.”

Dashvara did not falter when he assured him in a neutral voice:

“I am very aware of that.”

Arviyag looked him in the eye and gave him a disapproving pout when he said:

“But not enough. Tsu,” he said, “I hope you haven’t lost your touch.” He took a step back inviting the drow to come closer. “He’s all yours.”

Wide-eyed, Dashvara watched as Tsu set the black case down and opened it. He protested, stirring on the table:

“That’s not necessary, Arviyag. You know it isn’t. I am a slave, I know that. I can promise you I won’t run away again.”

“I don’t care about that,” Arviyag patiently assured, “I care far more about the one thousand five hundred Titiakas followers. You can run away all you want once you deny your false god, but I doubt you’ll try after that. However, I promised your master that I wouldn’t be too hard on you…” He rolled his eyes. “And I will keep my word.”

He added some words in a Diumcilian dialect for Tsu, and Tsu nodded silently. A sibilian stepped forward to gag Dashvara, and Dashvara glared at him as he could not speak. Finally, the sibilian stepped aside, and Dashvara could see Tsu place the thimbles on his fingers… he placed all of them with amazing speed and, even more quickly, he placed them on himself, on his head, without hesitation and…

“No!” Arviyag cried.

Horrified, Dashvara would have roared even louder had he not been gagged. Fortunately, there were two sibilians right next to him, and they reacted quickly, pushing the thimbles away from the drow’s head before he had time to create a spell.

Damn it, drow! Have you gone mad?

Yes, he had gone mad. His mouth was now spitting out unintelligible words, and his eyes were blazing, disturbed. Dashvara had never seen him like this. Arviyag gave a curt command, obviously upset, and the two sibilians who were grabbing Tsu dragged him out of the tent after removing the thimbles. Arviyag exchanged a few words in Diumcilian with Paopag, and then he poked his head out at the tent entrance and barked:

“Darigat! Come in.”

The man named Darigat entered. He was not a sibilian, but one of the black-belted workers. A recent slave. He was a tall, blond, golden-skinned elf, perhaps an elfocane, and when he saw Dashvara lying on the table, his face quivered slightly. He bowed to his master with an interrogative:

“Khazag?”

His voice was soft and melodious. Arviyag ordered him:

“Take care of this man. Paopag: don’t forget to repeat the lessons. Tomorrow, we will arrive in Aralika. The journey will be a respite for the Xalya. Work hard.”

And with those words, he left without even glancing at Dashvara, who was starting to get seriously dizzy. He hoped they wouldn’t punish Tsu too harshly. And he hoped Paopag would be merciful and not be as demanding as Arviyag. And as he hoped, his body broke out in sweat despite the cold, his chest heaved precipitously, and his eyes feverishly gazed at Darigat as he put on the thimbles. Given his diligence and confidence, this was not the first time he had used them. He’d been in Arviyag’s service for less than a year, yet he had already used them… When he saw them approaching, Dashvara let out a groan that was muffled by the gag.

* * *

“Ho-Hope?” he whispered.

“No,” a voice said to him, “there is no hope if you don’t do what I tell you. There is no forgiveness.”

And another deeper voice reminded him: “The red nadres do not forgive, my son: they devour”. He opened his eyes wide. Captain? Was it the captain? No. It couldn’t have been. The steppe lord struggled to fill his lungs with air. They were on fire. His whole body was on fire.

“The steppe is dying,” he croaked in horror. “It’s being torn apart. I see it. It’s shaking. It’s shaking. Brothers… The world is falling apart. The sky … The sky! The Eternal Bird…”

“It doesn’t fly,” the voice told him in a suave tone. “It doesn’t fly because It doesn’t exist anymore.”

“It doesn’t exist,” the steppe lord repeated. “The Eternal Bird does not exist. Yes, it does,” he suddenly protested.

An excruciating pain shook him to the core, and the voice said:

“It doesn’t exist.”

The lord of the steppe was weeping.

“It doesn’t exist,” he repeated. “They lied to me. It doesn’t exist.”

Several shocks passed through him, his eyes dried up, and his mind sank deep into a sea of apathy.

“Tell me,” the voice said. “Who are you?”

The steppe lord did not answer immediately. Finally, he stammered:

“Dash. I’m Dash.”

“And who’s your master?”

“The steppe,” he stammered.

A new jolt of pain shot through him and left him convulsing in a dark world. It was a more powerful shock. He had been wrong, he realized. He tried to think and remember the lesson. At last, he found the answer and panted.

“Kuriag… My master. Please… Nandrivá…”

The pleading or perhaps the use of the savage tongue earned him another discharge. He didn’t know how long he had been like this. Days. Weeks. An eternity. It didn’t matter to him anymore. He just wanted the ordeal to end soon. But it did not stop … It would never stop, he understood. Never.

* * *

“What did you do to him?”

Fear and dismay vibrated in that voice. Sitting on a pallet, Dashvara slowly looked up and saw a different face. Let’s say, different from the ones he was used to seeing since he had started to cease to exist. That’s what he told himself inside: that he had begun to cease to exist. That was the little he could tell himself. He swallowed as he finally recognized the new arrival. It was the master.

“Not a single lash during our absence, Excellency,” Arviyag assured. He hadn’t seen that one in a long time either, Dashvara remarked. A helpless hatred came over him as the elegant Titiaka added, “He won’t give you any trouble for a long time, I give you my word. And, in any case, he’s ready to see the priest and his witnesses. This Eternal Bird thing will fall by itself after that,” he affirmed.

He spoke with satisfaction. His eyes fell on Dashvara, and the Xalya looked back at him apathetically. He couldn’t really feel anything. The hatred had vanished as quickly as it had come.

“Get up,” Paopag told him.

Now that was the voice of lessons and discharges. Glancing at Paopag, as if seeking confirmation, Dashvara stood up. His legs were wobbly. He felt like a dead feather suspended in time. Part of him longed to ask Kuriag questions, to talk about his naâsga, his brothers, the Eternal Bird… but the mere thought of saying the word “Liadirlá” terrified him. Helplessness chained him, and after ruthlessly repressing his thoughts, now he simply brushed them away, swept them away.

“Leave us alone,” Kuriag suddenly ordered.

Arviyag hesitated.

“I advise against it, Excellency. At least, let Paopag stay.”

“I said, leave us alone,” Kuriag insisted, stubbornly.

The next moment, Dashvara saw Paopag walk away, the door closed, and he found himself in the room, alone, before his master. He felt anguish and dismay at the new situation, and his heart quickened, but he did not move. The young elf looked at him, his face pale under the light of the lantern. The silence continued, and Dashvara was barely aware of it. He was beginning to faint and to see black spots in front of his eyes. Finally, he was forced to lean awkwardly against the wall and sit back down on his pallet. A muffled gasp broke the silence.

“I’m so sorry…”

Kuriag’s voice broke. The Titiaka approached him and, seeing that Dashvara remained impassive, he dared to put a hand on his forehead. Dashvara waited for the shock to come, but it didn’t come. Instead, he felt a slight flow of energy probing him. And he saw the elf’s expression contract into a pout of confusion. Finally, he withdrew his hand and stepped away, looking frightened.

“I didn’t know… I mean… I knew but… I didn’t imagine… Oh, merciful Cili. I’m doing this for my family,” he muttered in a guilty tone. “I’m doing it for Titiaka. The Federation cannot afford any more dissension than it already has. You… understand me, don’t you? I didn’t mean to hurt you. I’m sorry,” he repeated.

His words were to Dashvara like grains of sand lost in the desert. He understood them, of course he did. But he didn’t care. Shaken by a slight spasm, he finally let out awkwardly:

“The Eternal… The Eternal Bird… does not exist…”

Kuriag bit his lips and said nothing. After another long silence, he stood up and assured:

“You’ll get over it.”

Dashvara returned his gaze, expressionless, his eyes dry. He felt a thousand miles away. In another world. In another reality.

He hardly noticed when Kuriag left. But when Paopag and Darigat returned, and he saw the thimbles coming towards him, he focused all his attention on them. He no longer felt terror in front of them, or at least, he had learned to assume it. He endured them as one endures a horribly cold day, without even realizing that he was no longer tied up, that the door was not locked and that he could have tried to flee. Just at least tried… But there was no hope.

31 The Sons of the Eternal Bird

The earth shook beneath his feet. The five savage chiefs were advancing towards him, their swords drawn. There was no mercy in their eyes. Only death. Qwadris made the first cut and vanished into the dark fog that filled the steppe. Shiltapi, the great black Akinoa, was next. He lifted his axe, exposing his yellow teeth, and without a word he cut it down. At that moment, Dashvara thought, confused:

The Shalussis killed you. Raxifar lied to me. You are alive!

Then he felt Nanda’s cold blade of Shalussi coming from behind him and pressing against his throat.

This is justice, he acknowledged calmly; I did the same thing.

When Nanda disappeared and Dashvara died for the third time, it was the turn of Lifdor of Shalussi to approach; but the nearer he came the less visible he was, and at last, the savage disappeared before he could reach Dashvara. Only the tattooed figure of Todakwa, the son of Death, remained in the dark, dead steppe. In a suspended silence, the Essimean opened his mouth and a voice from beyond the grave echoed in Dashvara’s head:

“Your destiny is defeat. Civilization wins, the past loses.”

“Loses…” the echo said.

“The Eternal Bird does not exist.”

“Loses, loses…”

Suddenly, the earth shook with a creaking sound and Todakwa’s face turned into a skull that grew and grew, stretching its deathly mouth towards Dashvara, towards the steppe, towards everything around him…

Dashvara woke up with a start. Unlike the other nights, Paopag had not come to talk to him and Darigat had not come with his thimbles either. He was not immune to nightmares, far from it. Since Paopag had left him, he had woken up at least a dozen times, covered in sweat, exhausted, anxious, surrounded by darkness and silence. Maybe it wasn’t even night. He could only tell by the meals that were brought to him… and sometimes he couldn’t always remember if he had eaten. Time became blurred and ceased to make sense.

This time, however, the door had opened, and a light now shone into the room. There was only a straw mattress, two chairs, and a sturdy table. In the doorway, Dashvara could make out several figures. He recognized Paopag’s, and a mixture of anxiety and relief, of hatred and affection, came over him.

“Paopag,” he uttered in a slow voice, straightening up awkwardly.

His movements, saturated with energy foreign to his body, were awkward and clumsy like his mind. However, he could feel a slight improvement now, surely due to the fact that he had not received any visitors that night.

Stumbling, he walked towards the table as usual. To his surprise, Paopag stopped him with one hand.

“No, my boy. Today we’re going to treat you like a prince. Come.”

He took him gently by the arm, as one takes a lost child, and Dashvara let himself be led away without question. He didn’t even think of asking any.

He was disconcerted, however, when Paopag beckoned him into a bathtub that several workers were filling with water. Dashvara obeyed, and the warm water revived him. At least a little. When he emerged from the tub, they gave him back the shirt, tunic, leather armor, and blue cloak of the Dikaksunora. They even gave him back the shelshami. Despite his numbness, Dashvara felt a certain irony. They had just destroyed the lord of the Xalyas, and these foreigners were still dressing him in the scarf of leadership. It was ridiculous.

Paopag examined him from head to toe and smiled.

“You’re ready. Do you remember the lessons?”

Dashvara nodded and was about to recite the spiel as usual, but Paopag stopped him, looking amused.

“I trust you to impress our guests. Let’s go.”

Dashvara followed him out of the room. They went up the stairs. And, for the first time, he saw daylight. That is, for the first time since… Well, since he was Dash, the slave of Paopag? Of Kuriag, he corrected with a shudder. Kuriag, not Paopag.

“Dash,” Paopag’s voice said suddenly.

Dashvara realized that he had stopped in the middle of a corridor without realizing it. He started walking again. Finally, they came to a living room where the sound of cutlery and voices could be heard. After seeing Kuriag at the end of the table, Dashvara stopped looking at the other faces. He didn’t see Yira, he didn’t see any Xalya: the rest was dust in his eyes.

Paopag stopped him with a gesture, and they both waited. Dashvara didn’t feel so dizzy anymore, and this fact held all his attention until Paopag gently pushed him forward. The guests had turned to them and were staring at him brazenly. A brief flash of lucidity made him realize that he had to do something.

The lessons, he thought. You must repeat them.

And he repeated them slowly, shuddering, for in his imagination his body continued to receive shocks and continued to suffer. He could not make sense of them, they were only sounds to him. Yet deep down he knew that in another life he would have turned pale if he had listened to any Xalya deny the Eternal Bird in this way, but… he was no longer a Xalya, he was not even a man. He was a slave. He had not finished his fourth sentence when, to his confusion, a guest interrupted him with a laugh:

“And this is the man whom two thousand citizens worship? Any prophet in Titiaka does better than him!”

People laughed. A human Titiaka between two ages intervened:

“I confess I am disappointed. But perhaps the manners of this savage are due to the fact that he is intimidated.”

Laughter ran through the table.

“Intimidated! Maybe so,” Arviyag opined with a slight smile as joking comments were heard.

Among these guests, only two people did not show a bit of joviality apart from Dashvara: Kuriag and Paopag. The former was pale. The second looked impatient and watched Dashvara carefully. The latter had turned towards him, dazed. His apathy was gradually giving way to a feeling of anxiety, and his breathing quickened. He wanted to return to the room with the table and the pallet. He wanted silence. He wanted Paopag to get him out of there. But he didn’t dare ask.

“Well!” Kuriag then said. His voice trembled slightly, and he cleared his throat to make it firmer. “You tell us that this tale of the Eternal Bird is a fabrication. That means that you and your people have been wrong and have been wrong for centuries. Almighty Cili punishes the pagans. And a good Titiaka must apply her Law.”

Dashvara nodded. Meanwhile, Paopag had approached him and he helped him to his knees, whispering:

“Almighty Cili…”

That was the beginning of the lesson. Dashvara recited it, this time trying not to swallow the words.

“Almighty Cili, tear from this soul the spider of shadows that debases it. By Serenity, forgive me. By Courtesy, forgive me. By Discretion, forgive me. By Constance, forgive me. By Patience, forgive me. By Sacrifice, forgive me. By Dignity, forgive me. By Fortitude, forgive me. By Sympathy, forgive me. By Humility, forgive me. By Compassion, forgive me. By the Eleven Graces that glorify thee, receive thy… receive thy subject and let the graces… let the disgraces fall upon my soul if I break thy Law.”

He fell silent, suddenly stuck. He had performed very badly, he thought. He’d gotten it wrong at least twice. And something told him he hadn’t finished, that he was missing a sentence, and as he racked his brains to find it, he felt a hand rest on his shelshami, and a deep voice said:

“Almighty Cili is merciful to ignorance and accepts your repentance.”

It was a priest of Cili, who had risen from the table to forgive him. Dashvara felt a slight energy sweep through him, and when he looked up, he thought he saw a glint of understanding and compassion in the priest’s eyes. Relief washed over him as he saw that this priest was not upset even though he had not recited the entire lesson.

“Arise, creature of Cili. Serve your master well and Cili will be pleased.”

Dashvara stood up, and that was all. Paopag led him out of the living room, and when they had moved away, he said to him:

“Mission accomplished, good man. See how simple it was? You’ve calmed all these people down and done everything you had to do. And this is where I leave you,” he declared as they reached a door. “Your people are waiting for you outside.” He patted his shoulder. “Don’t let your condition distress you too much: any man ends up like this after two weeks of torture. In a few days you’ll start to feel better, don’t worry. Good luck, steppeman.”

Dashvara felt totally confused. His people were waiting for him outside, he said? His people? This was so incredible! He grabbed Paopag by the arm as this one was about to head back out into the hallway.

“No,” he growled. “Wait. Paopag, wait. You can’t leave me like this. My people… they’ll think I’ve gone stupid,” he huffed. “And I have. I have sand in my head. Sand that burns. Really.”

Paopag pouted, embarrassed, and jerked his arm free.

“You’ll get over it,” he assured. “I assure you, if I’d wanted to make a dimwit of you, I would have used even more intensive techniques.” He held out a hand and opened the door, adding dryly, “Go.”

Dashvara reluctantly stepped outside. His fear was swept away as soon as he saw that indeed, beyond the sibilian patrol guarding the gate, were Makarva, Lumon, the captain… Ignoring the sibilians altogether, he hurried toward his own. His brothers in turn came forward in a pack, calling his name and hurling words at him in the savage language… The Wise Tongue, a small voice in his mind corrected. The Oy’vat. The language of the Ancient Kings… It was so strange and beautiful to be reunited with brothers you thought you’d lost, to be in a familiar world again, and yet at the same time… at the same time, something inside him failed to get truly excited. He felt like a ghost moving in a world where he did not belong. The energy of the thimbles kept him chained and dead.

The hubbub of voices quickly died down, and expressions became worried. Someone spat a curse as he turned his gaze to the sibilians guarding the house where the Titiakas were staying… Aware that his lack of responsiveness was confusing them all, Dashvara forced himself to give them a slight smile and said:

“Mission accomplished, brothers.”

And he blew out a half-crazed laugh, for even in this state he could not help thinking:

They break you, humiliate you, enslave you, and steal your soul, and you can’t think of anything better to do than repeat Paopag’s words. Mission accomplished. Yes, mission accomplished: you buried your soul before your body, great lord.

His laughter did not seem to calm anyone, on the contrary.

“Come on, son,” the captain said, pulling him along. “Did they hurt you?”

Dashvara frowned and thought for a few moments before coming to the conclusion that the more he opened his mouth, the more they would see that his mind was misguided. He clung to this thought and shook his head in response.

His brothers led him to a large covered stable where all the Xalyas had settled until Kuriag left Aralika and returned to Titiaka. They brought him food, but Dashvara barely touched it. No one asked him about what they had done to him: Tsu must have explained the essentials to them. When he saw Tsu sitting in a corner, a forgotten book in his hand, Dashvara understood that these last days had not been kind to the drow either. He would have liked to go and see him, to talk to him, to tell him something that would erase the suffering of both of them… but he was too exhausted for that. So, after a few moments, he simply lay down on the straw mattress where brotherly hands had led him and fell into a deep sleep.

He awoke with his mind filled with horrible creatures and shrill sounds. Supporting his head with both hands, it took him a moment to realize that many Xalyas were surrounding him and another moment to realize that noises were coming from his throat. The noises seemed unintelligible before he finally heard the words:

“Death… death… Paopag… Please, kill me… Paopag…”

He fell silent as soon as he realized he was delirious, shame overtook him, and he let his hands fall back, though his head still throbbed.

“I’m sorry, brothers,” he snorted, his heart so oppressed it hurt. “You should throw me to hell, to the dogs, to the nadres, or something. I’m sorry.”

Tsu’s dark hand came to rest on his forehead. It felt like ice. Shokr Is Set knelt beside him, saying in a serene voice:

“Do not ask forgiveness for what your enemies have done to you. Ask your brothers for help, and your feather will rise again.”

My feather, Dashvara repeated to himself. There is something you don’t know, Great Sage: there is no such thing as the Eternal Bird. There is no feather, there is no will, there is no hope… There is only suffering.

He suddenly felt a spell flowing inside him, his mind went dark, his body shuddered with pain, and he nervously pushed Tsu aside.

“No,” he panted.

“I’m only trying to help you,” Tsu whispered. “Your body is saturated with energy. I’m only trying—”

“No,” Dashvara cut him off.

“It hurts, I know it does,” the drow whispered softly, “I know it does. But it will help you, trust me.”

Dashvara trusted Tsu, of course. And, not to disappoint his brothers, he accepted his help. Tsu gave instructions to be left alone, and they hung a screen in front of the pallet. It was still daylight, and distant music flowed into the shelter. The whispered voices of the Xalyas could be heard in the stables. Dashvara stopped worrying about his surroundings as Tsu began to balance his energies. He felt that the drow was torturing him, purely and simply, more than “balancing” him. And yet, instead of numbing him, the pain cleared his mind. It was as if Tsu was ripping out the mind-numbing claws that clung to him one by one. The problem was that so many spells required a lot of energy, and the drow eventually showed obvious signs of exhaustion. Seeing it, Dashvara gently pushed him aside with one hand.

“That’s enough, Tsu. Thank you. I feel better now. Really.”

His body was still sorely beaten, but his mind had cleared, and realizing it, filled him with joy, worry, fatigue, shame, hope, despair, and… well, a multitude of conflicting emotions flowed through him, leaving him at a loss. At a loss… but alive.

“A little more and I’ll stop,” Tsu promised.

The drow continued to cast spells until he really couldn’t go on anymore and went to bed, exhausted, with Dashvara’s silent blessing. How many times had he had to use this kind of spells on his patients? He preferred not to think about it.

Some time had passed, and the light in the stables had faded, but it was still daytime. Dashvara pushed aside the canvas and saw that his brothers had not strayed far. Makarva, Zamoy, Lumon, and Miflin were playing katutas in an unusual silence. As soon as he peeked out, his brothers turned to face him. All of them tried to hide their deep concern, but to no avail. With somewhat shaky limbs, but with the firm intention of proving to the Xalyas that their lord had not become a simpleton, Dashvara stood up and went to sit with the katutas players with a sigh. He asked:

“How much time has passed?”

Makarva arched an eyebrow.

“Since you’ve been in Aralika? Two weeks.”

There was a silence. Two weeks at Paopag’s hands. You could tell me a year, I’d believe it as well, Dashvara sighed. He shook his head and leaned against the wall, trying to sort out his thoughts. Makarva was about to move a piece on the checkerboard, when suddenly he let his hand fall back and exhaled sharply.

“Believe me, we knew nothing, Dash. We were chained, and the Ragails were watching us at all hours. They took us to Skâra Hill, west of here, to attend a ceremony, and we did not return to Aralika until last night. It was only there that we heard from Tsu that Arviyag…”

Makarva hesitated, and Zamoy hissed:

“That rat should be buried.”

“Death is little to this vermin,” Kodarah asserted. “His head will roll at your feet one day, Dash. I swear by my Eternal Bird.”

Rarely did one hear the Hairy assert anything with such fervor. Makarva shook his head.

“They only took the chains off us this morning, when they told us they would release you. Kuriag—”

“That damned demon!” Orafe raged. “He said he regretted it! Like hell he regrets it,” he spat disdainfully. “I liked Atasiag a thousand times better. That boy is a danger in the hands of his cousins. If he thinks apologizing is enough—”

Zamoy cut him off with a croak:

“If his wife wasn’t the captain’s daughter, I’d have punched that traitorous dog right in the face! He’d deserve to be tortured like he let you be, Dash. Yes, you bet he deserves it.”

He fell silent in shock under Dashvara’s fixed gaze. The steppe lord slowly shook his head.

“No,” he said. “He doesn’t deserve something like that.”

He meant it. Kuriag was probably guilty of closing his eyes, but his Eternal Bird had suffered enough on his own when he had opened them.

In your great generosity, lord of the steppe, you even feel compassion for your torturing master, he scoffed. All because his Eternal Bird has ceased to be so pure and innocent. And the more he listens to his cousins, the darker he will become… And he knows it.

He observed the position of the pieces without really paying attention to them. After a silence, he asked:

“And Yira?”

He immediately felt a change in the air and didn’t fail to notice the indefinable pouts of his brothers. Makarva cleared his throat.

“She’s fine,” he assured. “In all honesty, we haven’t been able to see much of her in the last two weeks. The Federates haven’t been mingling with the Essimeans. According to the captain, Todakwa didn’t like the fact that so many Diumcilians have landed at Ergaika.”

“That snake shouldn’t be surprised,” Lumon said calmly. “As they say, kill your neighbors and others will come and take your everything.”

Dashvara frowned and insisted:

“Yira. Where is she?”

No one answered him. Makarva moved a piece, his expression hesitant, and finally said:

“With the Essimeans. They took her up to the Hill of Skâra to bless the place and spend five days and nights there before pronouncing a certain message. We stayed at the bottom of the hill, so we didn’t see anything, but it really looks like… uh… it really looks like they took her as their messenger. And tonight there will be a party again because it’s Bushkia Baw, the Night of Immortality, and… well, Yira will be the queen of the procession, I guess.”

He was about to add something, but he stopped. In turn, Lumon opened and closed his mouth, undecided… Zamoy snorted and said:

“Say, cousin. Why didn’t you tell us she was…? I mean, Yira is… a beautiful person, but this is… Liadirlá,” he croaked, agitated, “you told us she wasn’t taking off her veil because it was a sacred tradition, Dash, and this…” He made a strangled sound. “Oh, hell, forget what I said.”

He looked down and nervously moved a piece on the katuta board. Dashvara tried not to take offense and, speaking in a steady voice, replied:

“My naâsga uses this magic to fight for her life. There is nothing wrong with that.”

Makarva nodded vigorously.

“I believe you, Dash. You have chosen her for your wife, and that is enough for me to consider her a sister. I know her. It’s just that…” he paused to search for his words and concluded, “it was a surprise.”

Other brothers and Xalya women corroborated with quiet gasps. Dashvara felt a slight dizziness, pouted, and said laconically:

“She didn’t say anything, so neither did I.”

Makarva smiled and gave him a gentle tap on the shoulder.

“We don’t blame you, Dash. Nor Yira, let that be clear. All things considered, we Xalyas are… uh… tolerant, aren’t we? By the way, how’s the wound on your shoulder?”

Dashvara arched his eyebrows at the sudden change of subject. Tolerant, but they haven’t assimilated it yet, he realized. Well, they would in time. So he moved his arm, gesticulated, and considered:

“I guess it’s healed. Which is good timing because…” he grinned both fiercely and tiredly, “I’m dying to decapitate Arviyag and Todakwa.”

“If I were you, I would wait instead of being rash,” a voice suddenly intervened.

It was the captain. He had just entered the stables and was walking towards them, accompanied by Sashava and Arvara. Attracted by the gathering, several Xalya boys and girls approached, curious. Zorvun gave Dashvara a delighted expression.

“You’re more alert now,” he observed.

“Not quite,” Dashvara admitted, “but Tsu brought me back to life. And I don’t think it’s being rash to go and kill those two devils now after all the time I’ve been waiting.”

“There’s news,” Zorvun replied in an enthusiastic tone. “And quite a few. I spoke personally with Todakwa and…” He glanced around the stables as if to make sure that only Xalyas were there and continued, “First, Yira convinced him to help us if we rebel against the Titiakas. And help us for real: weapons to defend ourselves and clothes, food and livestock to get through the winter. And he is offering us a lasting alliance agreement.”

All the Xalyas present stood and stared at the captain, their mouths agape. Dashvara massaged his forehead in a daze.

“This is absurd. If he invites us to rebel, his agreements with the Titiakas fall apart. Why would he do something so stupid?”

The captain had little control over his emotion as he explained:

“It is the Titiakas who are stupid. Wherever they go, they think they can impose their laws, bribe complacent clan chiefs, and take slaves by the handful, salbronix, horses… Well, Todakwa may be a treacherous snake, but he’s not a Shalussi fond of gold. For the past two weeks, the Titiakas have not stopped mocking Skâra, the Arazmihá, his people, and their traditions… And he can’t stand it. That’s why, among other things, he wants to send them back to the sea.”

Dashvara took in his words with deep perplexity. He could not understand why Todakwa would turn against his allies only because some Titiakas had mocked Skâra… Lumon objected:

“And how does he intend to send them back to the sea? His strength barely equals that of the Titiakas on the steppe. Has he gone mad?”

“Perhaps he thought the Arazmihá would scare them all away!” Zamoy joked. And he gave a curt pout of apology. “Sorry, Dash.”

Dashvara rolled his eyes. Shurta reasoned:

“Either Todakwa has gone mad or he wants us to rebel again so that the Titiakas will sentence us to death.”

Zorvun smiled. Dashvara cleared his throat impatiently.

“What are you hiding from us, Captain?”

The captain widened his smile and said:

“I have other reasons to believe that this time Todakwa is not trying to deceive us: it is said that Arviyag and an uncle of Todakwa’s want to foment a revolt precisely because the Essimean leader is not sufficiently complacent with their affairs.” He rolled his eyes. “The problem is that the arrival of the Arazmihá has delayed their plans, Todakwa has sensed the betrayal and wants to get ahead of them. And, naturally, this Essimean is very much hoping that you will help him throw his enemies into the sea, Dashvara.”

Dashvara suddenly burst out laughing in disbelief.

“Me? And how? By yelling at them, maybe?”

The captain shook his head and grew solemn as he finally said:

“The circle of Honyr sages has decided to support you. Nine-hundred Honyrs are marching on Aralika to demand that their rightful lord, the lord of the Eternal Bird, be returned to them.”

Dashvara stared at him, frozen. The Honyrs… the Honyrs were going to help them? In that moment, he no longer felt tired, dizzy, or lightheaded. Even Paopag’s lessons ceased to affect him as he stood up and fervently uttered in Oy’vat:

“May our Dahars bless the Honyrs!” He breathed in, filling his lungs with air, and stated in a voice vibrant with emotion, “There is hope, Xalyas. Liadirlá exists. The Liadirlá exists,” he repeated. “There is hope…”

Carried away by emotion, he was a little delirious, but his joy was obvious, and the Xalyas did not worry too much when they heard him repeat himself. They celebrated the good news with him, albeit quietly, in case some Ragail or sibilian heard them and went in to see what was going on.

When Youk came and brought Dashvara a bowl full of milk, Dashvara smiled, accepted it, and drank it all down as if he were drinking life itself.

“Thanks, kid. There is nothing better than mare’s milk to cure an Eternal Bird.” And as the boy smiled, he assured as he brought his hand to his chest, “I can feel it coming back to life here inside, brothers. These snakes will not make me believe that they have stolen my soul or that I have denied something I cannot deny as long as I live. As a steppian sage said, 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.” He smiled, because in reality no steppian sage had said that phrase: it was he who had written it, one day, on the wood of the Tower of Compassion… but it didn’t matter who had said it, as long as it was true. “I can feel It flapping its wings again,” he murmured, “and riding through the steppe skies.”

Zamoy elbowed Miflin.

“Poet, you should put rhymes to all this. Our lord is inspired today.”

The Xalyas smiled. Dashvara suddenly frowned.

“By the way. What about Sunrise? I haven’t even had time to…”

“She’s with the other horses,” Alta quieted him, pointing to the back of the stables, and assured him with sincerity, “I’ve been taking care of her like my own horse.”

Dashvara returned a grateful smile. He was feeling more and more alive by the second. Just the thought that the Honyrs were supporting him and coming in such numbers, just the hope that the Xalyas would not return to Titiaka filled him with happiness. In that moment, he did not even allow himself to scoff at his hopes, nor did it matter to him that the Titiakas might choose to fight to stay, because he would fight, this time he would definitely fight. They would push the civilized back to the ocean. And the thimbles would fly away, along with Paopag, Arviyag, and their damned civilization.

The Xalyas were now commenting spiritedly on how best to rebel, and the captain was expressing concern for Kuriag and Lessi, insisting that no harm befall them. Leaning against one of the stone walls of the stables, Shokr Is Set watched them serenely and quietly. Seeing him, Dashvara stepped aside from the others and bowed deeply to the Honyr.

“I am eternally grateful to your people, Great Sage. Whether or not they succeed in getting us out of here alive, their attempt proves that their Eternal Bird is the best in the entire steppe.”

“And worthy of the Xalyas,” Shokr Is Set smiled, inclining his head in turn.

Dashvara looked at him curiously.

“You don’t seem surprised at the decision they made,” he observed.

Smiling, the Great Sage shrugged his shoulders and, with unmistakable affection, simply said:

“I know my people.”

32 Night of Immortality

Apparently, the Night of Immortality did not impose peaceful laws like the Alkanshe, for the Essimeans planned to surround the Titiakas’ house that very night. Still exhausted, Dashvara took advantage of the last hours of the day to sleep. He awoke several times from nightmares and, for a moment, feared that his mind would relapse, but the closeness of his people gave him strength to put aside any concerns other than the impending betrayal. Betrayal? Yes, betrayal to the treacherous invaders.

It was past midnight, but religious music and songs could still be heard throughout Aralika when a death-priest came to the stables on the pretext of blessing the Xalya children and asking them to recite a prayer in honor of Skâra. The children obediently responded by creating a Galka chorus, and the Xalya warriors struggled to suppress their grimaces, but they did not protest, or if they did, it was in a low voice. In any case, they soon realized that the death-priest’s purpose was not to make the children sing: as soon as the song rose in the stables, the Essimean took advantage of the noise and bowed to the captain and Dashvara, saying:

“Todakwa sends his respects to Dashvara of Xalya and reiterates his offer of peace and alliance. Accept it and our warriors will act tonight and protect your people. Todakwa gives his word.”

This time, no need for civilized scrolls, Dashvara remarked with amusement. And they were even bowing to him. That an army of Honyrs was headed for Aralika was a game-changer… He replied:

“Tell your leader that we Xalyas accept the alliance and are ready to neutralize the foreigners.”

The death-priest bowed his head again and pointed to one of his assistants.

“Myarandi will give you all the information you need about the sibilian guard and the Titiakas’ house.”

“Thank you,” Dashvara said. “Just one thing. I would like to be sure that Kuriag Dikaksunora will not be harmed. As well as his wife and the Agoskurian accompanying her, her assistant, and… the Ragails. Killing the Ragails would be a mistake. They are the elite Diumcilian guard.”

The priest hesitated.

“I believe Todakwa and your captain have already agreed on the subject.”

Dashvara arched an eyebrow, surprised, and Captain Zorvun cleared his throat.

“I must have forgotten to mention it. Todakwa said he invited them all to the Temple to witness the sacred rituals of the… er… Arazmihá. Apparently they’re going to stay there all night.”

Dashvara was confused, for he had the impression that the Captain had already told him all this. Yet he couldn’t remember. Devils. Tsu may have freed his mind from alien energies, and his people had undoubtedly given him back hope, but it hadn’t fixed his head completely… far from it. With a shudder, he nodded, feigning tranquility.

“Oh, right, you did tell me, Captain.”

“In any case,” the death-priest interjected, “as Todakwa told your captain, our objective is to stop the invaders and drive them back to Ergaika and their ships.”

Invaders, Dashvara repeated to himself mockingly. Since when had Todakwa been calling his old civilized allies “invaders”? Since the Titiakas thought of getting rid of him for the sake of their plans of conquest, certainly.

The death-priest did not stay for long, but left the man called Myarandi to answer all the technical questions and to act as a messenger. On his way out, he made a sign of blessing to the children who were continuing their religious singing under the supervision of a disciple of Skâra. As soon as the priest and the disciple were gone, Orafe grumbled in exasperation:

“You can shut up now, kids, that’s enough of that!”

The song lost its harmony and died, and silence fell in the stables. The torch at the entrance barely lit them. There was no wind, it was cold, and a blinding fog seeped in, choking the light.

They learned from Myarandi the exact number of sibilians in the camp and the number of night guards watching the courtyard and the Titiaka house. The latter had been built by the Diumcilians themselves four years ago and had, as far as Dashvara could tell, all the amenities of a typical Titiaka house… not to mention the underground torture chamber, he thought wryly. The Essimeans would take care of the camp’s forces, leaving the Xalyas to neutralize the house’s guard of about thirty men and arrest the citizens and workers inside the building.

“The weapons will be here soon,” Myarandi assured. “The attack will take place two hours before dawn. The house will burn and those inside will have to come out.”

The Essimeans and their fire tactics… Dashvara thanked him for his explanations and inwardly hoped he wouldn’t forget them the next minute. Tension hung in the air. Some of his people were still convinced that Todakwa was setting a trap for them; they didn’t trust him, and that was understandable: three years of servitude at the hands of the Essimeans had scarred them for life. On the other hand, other Xalyas seemed even more willing to accept an alliance with them than their brothers on the Border. Dashvara could feel it. And yet, he knew that none of them were going to spit on what looked to be the salvation of their clan. Dashvara smiled.

A few more hours and you will have your freedom, lord of the steppe. A few more hours and you won’t have to fight anymore.

How many times had he said the same thing to himself! And how many times had he had to suffer a disappointment. But a disappointment was always better than nothing. It was better to walk and receive blows than to remain passive forever.

The steppe is vast, but if you keep riding, you’ll get everywhere, he thought with conviction.

The Ragails and sibilians may have been watching the stables just in case, but they didn’t know Aralika’s secrets. Among other things, the ancient Kark Is Set had many tunnels under the city. At one point, they heard a faint sound against a trap door hidden under a thin layer of earth, and Dashvara straightened up to see the boards lift and reveal, amidst the shadows, the figure of an Essimean. He came out and, not recognizing the Xalya leader in the darkness of the night, he bowed randomly and said in a low voice:

“Todakwa keeps his word.”

Other Essimeans were coming up, carrying bags. They brought weapons. Almost without making a sound, they laid their burdens on the ground, and the one who had arrived first said:

“Todakwa has asked me to guide those of you who will not fight to safety.”

Dashvara nodded. That was decided. He gestured, and the women and children began to descend through the hatch. The boys over fourteen had stubbornly stayed, and Dashvara had eventually accepted them, making them promise to follow his instructions to the letter. Some of the women who had led a more nomadic than sedentary life in Xalya and had learned to wield spears and bows also stayed. Aligra was not one of them… but she had expressed her desire to join them and Dashvara had not dared to say no. That Xalya had a way of getting what she wanted with a simple look.

In total, seventy-two of them remained, which was more than enough to defeat the Titiaka guard with Essimean help. The thought of killing these sibilians saddened Dashvara, because, all things considered, they were mere slaves who had given their lives for their families… But he wasn’t going to let them take away the lives of his own.

As the Xalyas worked silently to distribute weapons, one Essimean wavered, undecided, two blades sheathed in his hands. He scanned the faces until his gaze fell on Dashvara. Then he stepped forward, and Dashvara sensed more than one of his brothers turning, wary, to watch the Essimean’s movements. The latter bowed as he presented the two weapons:

“The Arazmihá sends these swords to the lord of the Xalyas.”

He bowed more deeply than any other Essimean, probably because this was a matter in which the Arazmihá in person was involved. Dashvara grabbed one of the weapons and understood that Yira had just sent him Siranaga’s black swords. By some means, she had managed to retrieve them from Arviyag, thanks to Todakwa probably. The best part of this gift is knowing it came from you, naâsga… Smiling, Dashvara accepted the swords, saying:

“Tell the Arazmihá that tonight these swords will dance together as our Eternal Birds.”

The Essimean bowed his head and soon disappeared through the trapdoor with his companions. They had done all of this so quietly that the Federates had not bothered to look in the stables. Dashvara girded his sabers as he approached the entrance. He came to where Lumon was standing guard and leaned over to look out to the southwest. In the fog, the torchlight of the sibilian camp, not much more than a hundred paces away, was barely visible. By the time the sibilians realized, the steppians would have fallen on them.

About three hours before dawn, instruments and songs could still be heard in the town square. A moment later, a young messenger appeared through the hatch, and the Xalyas led him to Dashvara in the dark.

“It is time,” the messenger declared in a whisper. “All are at their posts and ready to attack. I must guide you to your position.”

Dashvara frowned.

“Is Kuriag Dikaksunora still in the Temple?”

“In the Tower,” the guide corrected to his astonishment. “After the rituals of the Arazmihá, Todakwa has just invited him to contemplate the constellations above the mist atop the Feather. We don’t betray in the Temple. It is a sacred place.”

Mmph, and the Tower of the Eternal Bird is not? Dashvara shrugged, and the guide added:

“The Ragails are at the foot of the Tower except for the two who were standing guard out here: two of our own neutralized them,” he informed.

Dashvara tensed.

“Dead?”

“No,” he assured. “Unconscious. Ah, Todakwa doesn’t answer for the safety of the Ragail guard, but he assures that the Dikaksunora and his wife will suffer no harm.”

Dashvara sighed.

“Good.”

“I must lead you to your position,” the guide repeated with some impatience. “We must act quickly, for the wind will soon rise, and it will blow away the fog.”

Dashvara nodded.

“Well, let’s go.”

After scanning the darkness again, he waved, and Miflin extinguished the torch at the entrance. Grabbing the spears, they marched out in a line, the veterans in front and the younger men behind. They left only Sashava and a boy in the stables to watch over the horses and Tsu: the drow was still in a deep sleep, and it didn’t look like he would wake up all night.

The Essimean guide led them around the sibilian settlement, down a street to the north, and then out past the Titiakas’ house. The lights of the camp were visible, but not much more could be seen through the dense fog. The festive music and religious chants continued to drown out any noise that might betray them. The guide stopped, approached a figure in the mist, and for a terrible moment, Dashvara imagined that this had all been a set-up to highlight yet another betrayal by the Xalyas and force Kuriag to execute them all… But then there was an obvious cry of pain from the other side of the sibilian camp. The Essimeans were attacking. Dashvara squinted at the night and wondered how the hell they could fight in this darkness when suddenly there was thundering noise with a flash of light, followed by high flames… then more thundering flashes and more flames.

“Devils,” Dashvara muttered.

The Essimeans were using explosive discs against the sibilians to confuse and separate them. And they had just set fire to the roof of the Titiakas’ house. After listening for a few moments to the chaos of shouting and clashing, Dashvara reacted.

“Uh… Captain? Shouldn’t we be attacking?”

Zorvun took a moment to reply, and when he did, it was to comment calmly:

“The Essimeans are real snakes.” He said it in an impressed, not reproving tone. He paused and admitted, “Yes, I suppose it is our turn to attack. The Essimeans are leaving us a clear path to get to the home guards. And, by the way, Dashvara: stay back and see that the boys don’t advance any further than they have to.”

Dashvara nodded, the captain barked orders, Yodara repeated them, and the Xalyas approached the house. The sibilian guard was clearly visible from the flames rising from the house. There were about thirty of them, as expected. Once they were close enough, the Xalyas started running and shouting like savages, roaring in unison:

“XALYAS!”

The front line threw the javelins, the sibilian formation broke, and the Xalyas attacked with spears and sabers without ceasing to shout.

Obediently, Dashvara stayed between his brothers and the younger ones, making sure that the latter did not give in to their desire to imitate their elders and merely had their backs. From his position, he could see two sibilians trying to open the door to the courtyard of the house, but to no avail. Clearly, the brave Titiakas had locked themselves inside, leaving their soldiers with only one option: to fight. Seeing a sibilian fleeing the fight and running towards them blindly, Dashvara raised his black swords. In one motion, he wounded him, the sibilian rolled to the ground, and only then did Dashvara realize that he was unarmed. He was about to finish him off when a thought held him back. On his sword, wasn’t it written “Life Saver”?

But you do save them, Dash. You are saving some of them…and killing others.

The sibilian on the ground watched death come, unmoved. There was a mixture of resignation and immense fatigue in his eyes, but not a hint of fear. You can’t fear death when you think you’ve lived through it for eight years. Dashvara understood him so well… He shook his head and drew away his sabers before vociferating:

“Surrender if you want to live, slaves of Titiaka!”

Surprise shone in the eyes of the downed sibilian. Dashvara perceived his slight assent. He was surrendering. Perfect. Dashvara stepped aside and, seeing a group of young Xalyas who had come forward, he told them in an authoritative voice:

“Boys, get back! Don’t throw yourselves into battle. Search the man. He’s surrendered.”

In fact, the battle was over very quickly. The sibilian guards knew that they had lost, their companions in the camp were fleeing in disarray… At Dashvara’s request, the Xalyas repeated:

“Surrender!”

And finally, to everyone’s relief, the sibilians surrendered. It was a surprise in a way, but a good one. Dashvara counted them. There were thirty in all: none had escaped. Of the fifteen or so on the ground, more than one had suffered fatal wounds. Even in their agony, they managed to keep their faces inexpressive, Dashvara observed, impressed and glum at the same time.

“Don’t try to run and we’ll let you live,” he clamored loudly for the survivors.

None of the sibilians said a word or moved, not even when Orafe cut short the suffering of one of their own before their eyes. Makarva stopped beside Dashvara to inform him.

“We have some wounded, but nothing serious,” he announced, and he grimaced wearily as he admitted, “It’s kind of sickening to think we’re killing each other among slaves.”

Dashvara arched an eyebrow.

“Slaves?” he repeated. “We’re not slaves anymore, Mak. We’re free.”

Makarva opened his mouth, confused, and smiled.

“Right, Dash. We’re free.”

Dashvara sheathed the sabers and glanced at the flames rising from the Titiakas’ house. He observed:

“If I were them, I would get out quickly, unless they want to burn to death.”

“Devils die in fire,” Zamoy grumbled.

Yes, Dashvara conceded mentally. And yet, he couldn’t stop remembering that Titiaka priest who had forgiven him the day before… That priest didn’t deserve to die in the flames. He was an intelligent man who had even shown unmistakable compassion for him by guessing what Arviyag had done to him… Compassion for the compassionate, he affirmed inwardly. Yes. If it were possible, he would let this benevolent man live. And he would expel and send all his companions back to where they came from.

After removing the prisoners from the house and leaving them with the Essimean with a promise to treat them with respect, the Xalyas set about forcing open the main door while the Essimean patrols still surrounded the house. Meanwhile, the Titiaka workers managed to put out the fire, and all that could be seen was the flames from the torches that surrounded the building. The wind had picked up, clearing the fog, and the sky was already turning blue when the door finally broke. The Xalyas and Essimeans flooded into the courtyard of the house like a tide. The servants made no attempt to resist and surrendered immediately. The Titiaka citizens, on the other hand, defended themselves and entrenched themselves on the first floor. At the foot of a staircase in the courtyard, Dashvara bellowed:

“Put down your weapons, Titiakas! In the name of your Eternal Bird, put down your weapons!”

There was no more wild shouting in the courtyard. The workers had all gathered in a corner and were not making any noise, the Xalyas were searching the rooms on the ground floor, and the thirty or so Essimeans who had followed them were busy plundering everything before setting fire to all the furniture. Eventually, they all came out, and the Titiaka citizens, surrounded by flames, were forced to surrender. At last. The steppians saw them come out of the broken door, scorched, with various expressions that ranged from pure terror to the deepest hatred.

Dashvara sighed and turned to see the first rays of sunlight illuminating the steppe. It was a bloody day, both in the sky and on the ground. The sibilian camp had been ravaged by fire. Few of the tents had not been reduced to ashes, and between them the Essimeans dragged the corpses of the defeated to pile them in one place. In comparison, Essimean losses were minimal. And ours even more so, Dashvara rejoiced.

“Let’s take them to Todakwa!” an Essimean warrior shouted.

The Titiakas numbered more than thirty in all. Some were young, some not so young. Some were merchants, some were simple travelers, and some were adventurers who had come with their workers and wives to settle in the steppe and get rich… Dashvara recognized the priest from the day before. His three followers were surrounding him closely, perhaps to protect him or perhaps to make him protect them. As the line moved on, heading for the Tower of the Eternal Bird, Dashvara felt a growing restlessness in his heart.

“Where…?” he muttered.

Demons. Where the hell were Arviyag and Paopag? He spotted Garag in line, and without thinking, he stepped forward, grabbed him by the collar of his cloak, and pulled him out of line with a growl:

“Where’s Arviyag?” The citizen looked in shock and let himself be shaken for a few seconds without uttering a word as Dashvara barked, “Your cousin, damn you. Where is that assassin?”

Finally, the diplomat stammered:

“I-I don’t know. I swear I don’t know…”

Dashvara gave him an angry expression and let go, annoyed. Had he stayed inside the building? If so, at this point, he must have turned into a pile of ashes. But if, by some means, he had managed to escape, then… Liadirlá, then…

A shout drew him from his thoughts. He turned abruptly to see Youk running like a hare towards his clan. Hell, shouldn’t the boy have stayed with the rest of the Xalyas? However, his exasperation vanished and was replaced by a chilling fear when he realized why one of the Xalya boys had screamed: Youk had blood on his hands. The child came huffing and puffing and shouted hurriedly:

“My lord, my lord!”

He reached Dashvara and grabbed him by the sleeve, staining it with blood. Dashvara’s anxiety soared.

“Breathe, Youk. What happened?” he asked.

The boy was breathing heavily. He blurted out:

“Sashava is hurt and so is Okuvara, you must come to them!”

He pulled him by the sleeve, and livid, Dashvara hurried off to the stables with his brothers. When they arrived, more than one Essimean had gathered there, Tsu had woken up, and he and a priest were both trying to save Okuvara. The boy had a long cut on his back, he had bled a lot and was lying on the ground, unconscious. As for Sashava… Dashvara felt his heart clench as he saw the old Xalya lying on his back, his eyes open and fixed and his hand barely a span away from where one of his crutches had fallen. The crutches Dashvara had made for him at the Border. They had not helped him to defend himself.

He knelt by the body, and the captain did the same, his expression grave and mournful.

“Your Eternal Bird has guided you to your last breath, old friend,” Zorvun whispered.

He took off his glove and reached out to close Sashava’s eyelids. With moist eyes, Dashvara said in a deep, trembling voice:

“You died a free man, Sashava of Xalya. Ayshat for having lived this far with us.”

“Ayshat,” his brothers repeated in a low voice.

Dashvara looked at the fatal wound for a few seconds: it had been caused by a dagger. By Arviyag’s or Paopag’s? Who could tell, but knowing that Paopag had once stabbed a man in the back in Dazbon…

And what does it matter, Dash: you’ll kill them both, anyway.

He stood up silently, bowed his head stiffly, and walked to the back of the stables with a dull anger in his body. Anger at Arviyag, but also at himself for not leaving more Xalyas in the stables. Leaving a child and an invalid had been foolish. And he guessed that Captain Zorvun must be blaming himself for the same thing right now. However, what was done was done: Arviyag had simply signed his death.

He looked around at all the mounts and saw that Arviyag had stolen two steppian horses, leaving his great white Agoskurian horse behind. Boron’s horse and Alta’s horse, no more and no less. He heard Alta’s indignant imprecation as he became aware of the fact. He shook his head and, stroking Sunrise’s forehead, whispered to him:

“Arviyag is dead, daâra.” He closed his fist then opened it, suddenly calming down as he stated, “Dead.”

His mare huffed and puffed, guessing that she would finally be able to get out of her prison. Dashvara stared at the saddle, and when he took the reins, he found that most of his brothers had followed suit. They didn’t need words. He tugged on Sunrise’s reins and only stopped at the entrance to glance at Tsu and the injured boy. The drow was so focused on tending to him that he preferred not to disturb him, and without further ado, they exited the stables, mounted, and rode away.

The first thing they did was to ask the Essimean if they had found a trail indicating where the two Titiakas might have gone. They spent a good while circling around without getting any reliable information, until a dozen Essimean riders approached; Dashvara recognized Ashiwa among them.

“Hail to you, Xalyas!” the Essimean shouted. Dashvara bowed his head briefly, and Ashiwa added, “Our sentries say that two horsemen dressed in Essimean clothes crossed the river about half an hour ago. Todakwa saw them from the top of the tower. They headed east.”

“East?” Captain Zorvun repeated, surprised. “I would have thought they would be heading southwest, toward Ergaika.”

Ashiwa smiled.

“Arviyag must have assumed that Ergaika would not welcome him with open arms. The Titiaka Council sent a warrant for his arrest a few days ago.”

Dashvara arched his eyebrows. Really? Pff, if the Federates ordered Arviyag’s arrest, he doubted it would be for his crimes… Unless Atasiag had intervened… Yes, unless Atasiag had reached an agreement with the Yordarks and was up to some incomprehensible shenanigans of his own. He shook his head and threw out with a hint of sarcasm:

“Well, let’s go arrest him then.”

He spurred his mount to cross the river to the east, and all followed him, including Ashiwa.

They rode at a steady trot up the endless snow-covered hill. At one point, the slope became gentler still, and they could see the two riders galloping eastward past a stream which they had just crossed. They were about four miles away. Sunrise pulled on the reins, as if anxious to gallop behind them, but Dashvara held her back and watched the progress of the two Titiakas. They had just put their horses into a gallop. Dashvara suppressed a bewildered grimace. Their horses would tire and get nowhere. And to think that Arviyag was capable of trading, torturing, betraying… And he wasn’t capable of taking advantage of the two best mounts the Xalyas had.

After a while, the Titiakas’ mounts slowed down. They were no longer able to sustain any gallop. The Xalyas were now moving at a fast trot. As their figures drew nearer, Dashvara again calculated the distance and finally called out in a thunderous voice:

“Aswué, Xalyas!”

Death to them… They sent their horses galloping. They would catch up. Dashvara did not doubt it. When they were only a few hundred paces away, the Titiakas put their horses back into a triple gallop, and for a moment, Dashvara wondered if they had been faking… but no: soon, their horses slowed down again. Alta cried out in indignation at their mistreatment of his Alrahila, and as if sensing his indignation, the horse he had borrowed sped up even more, moving ahead of all the steppemen. The hills of Xalya were not far off, Dashvara observed. His heart was vibrating wildly, flying like Sunrise. The race frightened a band of wild horses, which fled south. Then Alta shouted:

“Yaoy-yaoy-yaoyiii!”

The Xalyas echoed the cry, and Dashvara smiled fiercely, betting that the steppe hadn’t heard such a barbaric yet magnificent howl in the last three years. Dropping the reins, Alta brought both hands to his mouth and whistled. Despite the wind, the horse keeper’s shrill whistle echoed across the steppe like the cry of an eagle. Alrahila heard it, recognized it, and reared up with a start. Arviyag lost his balance and… unaccustomed to the simple saddles the Xalyas used, he fell. Contempt filled Dashvara. Not only was he a murderer, but he couldn’t ride a horse, and he claimed to be conquering the steppe? Crazy foreigner!

Alrahila’s agitation had spread to Boron’s horse, but Paopag managed to keep himself in the saddle, pulling on the horse’s bit… Surely he was hurting it. Damned man…

Fortunately, they were already upon them. Without slowing his mount, Lumon shot an arrow at Paopag. And he hit him right in the chest. The Titiaka, however, did not fall or try to flee: his attention was fixed on his master. He had shouted something at him, Arviyag had answered, and Paopag, spitting blood, was now muttering incomprehensible things. At last, he fell, and the steppemen stopped their horses. Several Xalyas were pointing their arrows at Arviyag. Dashvara jumped down from his mount and shouted:

“Throw away that dagger, Titiaka. You won’t save your life with it.”

Arviyag had risen to his feet and was clutching his pretty dagger in a trembling fist. He had lost his elegant confidence. But that snake found it again at once when, throwing down the dagger, he replied:

“Well, savages, what are you going to do? Kill me? Nothing very difficult, but all you’ll get is more blood needlessly spilled on the steppe.”

Dashvara uncovered his teeth and asked loudly for Ashiwa:

“Is there a compelling reason to arrest him alive, Essimean?”

Ashiwa shrugged, and an amused twinkle in his eye told Dashvara that he, too, had no respect for this Titiaka. Dashvara nodded, and seeing that his aplomb had no effect, Arviyag stepped back and finally knelt down:

“You win, lord of the Xalyas. I was wrong about you. My goal was to bring peace to the steppe to enrich it and make Aralika a vibrant center of trade, but Todakwa is a traitor. He betrayed me. Just as he betrayed you three years ago by destroying your people. And he will betray you again.”

Dashvara shook his head. Unbelievable. Was he now trying to sow discord between them and the Essimeans? As he didn’t answer immediately, Arviyag thought perhaps he was on the right track, he opened his mouth to continue speaking without even glancing at his companion, his longtime slave, who was dying beside him. Dashvara didn’t let him say another word: he drew one of Siranaga’s swords with lightning speed and sliced off his head. Clean and fair.

He knelt down beside Paopag, met his gaze shining with pain, and felt a strange sadness for the man. He hated him, and at the same time, he had come to see him as his lifeline during his days of torment. It was… such an absurd feeling. But, in the end, everything about the man was absurd. Paopag was not a murderer’s soul, and at the same time he was; he was not a torturer’s soul, and how often had he had to assume that role? What he did have was the soul of a slave. Until the end, he had tried to save Arviyag. It made Dashvara’s heart ache just to think about it.

Then he saw Paopag’s lips move. He was saying something. Perhaps he was asking for a quick death? Dashvara leaned over and managed to hear the word:

“Sorry.”

Dashvara put his hand on his head, nodded, not knowing if he would ever truly forgive him, and then picked up Arviyag’s dagger, placed it over the Titiaka’s heart and gave him eternal rest. It was right that he should die with his master’s dagger, for it was his master who had led him to his death. He threw down the bloody dagger with contempt, and turning to his clan, he observed their grave but approving glances, and he uttered:

“The Eternal Bird flies on the steppe, my brothers.”

He staggered, and Lumon held him up with one arm. His mind was confused but clear at the same time because he knew he had just done the right thing. And happy and sad too. And very, very tired. He said again:

“It flies on the steppe. And freely, brothers. Freely.”

Then, turning towards the hills of Xalya, he saw a rider watching from the top of one of them. Soon another joined him. Then another…

The Honyrs had arrived.

33 The cup of blood

Dashvara tugged on Sunrise’s reins and waited for the Honyrs to join him. Leading the way was Kark Is Tork accompanied by two women. As usual, their faces were veiled, but Dashvara could tell that one of them was very old while the other was young. He confirmed it when the Honyrs stopped their horses in front of the Xalyas and revealed their faces. Dashvara smiled behind his shelshami and uncovered himself in turn before glancing at the Essimean riders who were already riding away: Ashiwa had offered to take the bodies to Aralika, and Dashvara had replied that he would do with them as he pleased. If it had been up to him, he would have left them to rot in the steppe.

“Lord of the Xalyas!” the old Honyr woman pronounced in Oy’vat. “In the name of my family, I, Shire Is Fadul of the Rahiltaw, have come to swear loyalty to you and your descendants. May my word seal the hearts of my children, my grandchildren, and all their descendants. Dahars nalkarat!”

Her voice was firm and wise. For a moment, Dashvara was left speechless. The old woman had just spoken the formula that the steppe lords used to swear loyalty to the Ancient Kings. Demons, it didn’t make sense: he was a steppe lord, not an Ancient King…

“Dash…” Zamoy’s worried voice whispered to him.

Dashvara reacted and reprimanded himself harshly. His head was playing tricks on him again and who knows how long the old woman had been waiting for an answer. With a leap, he dismounted and bowed deeply to the Honyr.

“Ayshat, Shire Is Fadul. I will never forget that the Xalya people were freed from their chains thanks to you. Ayshat and my best wishes to your family.”

The old woman bowed her head, watching him with smiling eyes. Dashvara lost himself in those clear, wise eyes, and his mind began to drift off again… He was startled when he felt Sunrise’s friendly head rest on his shoulder at that moment. He smiled and stroked her. It’s all over now, daâra, he thought. The Honyrs have decided to save us, and the foreigners will not send us back to Titiaka. This had been the simple goal since he had landed back on the mainland: to return to the steppe and unite with the Honyr Clan. Dashvara still had his doubts about where the Xalyas would stand in the new clan, but, if the Honyr Eternal Bird was like that of Sirk Is Rhad, Atsan, and Shokr Is Set, he had high hopes that it would ensure them lasting peace and friendship. Kark Is Tork spoke in a deep voice.

“You beheaded that man,” he said. “Why?”

Dashvara arched his eyebrows and, without hesitation, replied calmly:

“He was a slave trader. Last night, he killed one of our people and stole two of our horses. That’s why I beheaded him.”

He did not mention the torture he had endured, and he was sure that his brothers thought of it, but they remained silent. Kark Is Tork then dismounted and bowed, saying:

“Your swords have done justice, my lord. Dahars nalkarat!” he concluded.

That this middle-aged steppeman would give him his loyalty filled him with relief and, at the same time, with great embarrassment… because he wasn’t sure what they expected of him with their solemn oaths. The Honyrs who represented other families swore their loyalty in turn, and Kark Is Tork added:

“Our warriors are behind that hill. Let me guide you to them so that each family can see you,” he offered.

Dashvara smiled, and to conceal his trouble, he bowed again, replying:

“It will be an honor.”

He mounted Sunrise, and they climbed the first hill that separated Essimea from Xalya. Once at the top, he could see the Honyr army camp on the other hillside. The Essimean sentries had not exaggerated its size: when he asked Kark Is Tork how many men were there, the latter told him with obvious pride that there were nine hundred and thirty.

“Some are not Honyrs descended from Sifiara,” he admitted. “Over the past few centuries, tribes from the north and the desert have come to our lands. At first, they did not mix, but now all belong to the same clan. Even those from the Kabada tribe, from the Esarey Mountains, have come. They are also… uh… descendants of the steppe lords. They were deserters,” he explained at Dashvara’s curious look. “Or nomadic survivors who found themselves without a lord. For the first time, the Kabada were invited to the circle of sages. When they heard your story, they were among the first to support you.”

Dashvara did not know what to say. It was so strange to think that so many people he had never seen were so willing to support him only because, by some chance of life, he was the firstborn of Vifkan of Xalya and the blood of the Ancient Kings ran in his veins… He shook his head.

“My story?” he repeated.

Kark Is Tork glanced at him curiously as they rode, and it was Shire Is Fadul who replied with obvious satisfaction:

“The story that tells how the last lord of the steppe was sold into slavery and fought for his people without sending them to their deaths. The story that tells how he twice survived the red snake venom and revived the Eternal Bird of the Ancient Kings across the steppe and beyond.”

The old woman’s words left Dashvara wondering. Indeed, he hadn’t sent the clan to their deaths even though he had wounded their dignity many times along the way, but… reviving the Eternal Bird of the Ancient Kings, really? This was a credit that he did not deserve.

His eyes fell on the group of Honyrs riding out of the camp to meet him. He sighed.

“The last Ancient King died two-hundred years ago.” He sketched a smile and shrugged. “I am not a king. I am willing to put all my energy into improving the lives of anyone who respects the Dahars of the Xalyas. But I come to you as the lord of a devastated clan, not as a king. Let’s leave the kings to history. The heart of the steppe has no need of them.” He tugged on the reins and stroked Sunrise’s neck, adding, “The best king is the Liadirlá we have within us. And the best advisor, our horse.”

He fell silent, and there was a hush. He cursed himself inwardly.

As soon as your head gets a little better, you immediately start philosophizing again, lord of the steppe. They swear loyalty to you, and you tell them it is useless… They have just saved your people from slavery, Dash: you owe them what they ask, and, if they ask you to be their king, you will be.

He was about to try to correct his words when the old Honyr woman said:

“Dawana hassen-shi yetar.”

There are no kings among the wise, she said… Dashvara met her dark, smiling eyes, and perceiving approval and respect in them, he bowed his head slightly in reply.

However, a burst of wisdom does not make one wise, Dashvara thought. And he was sure that this old woman knew that and would not tire of evaluating his every sentence and every action.

When they reached the various members of the Honyr families, they welcomed Dashvara with multiple Dahars nalkarat! followed by the usual introductions. And once again, Dashvara was exasperated with his numb mind because he was completely unable to remember all the names he heard. Tinan was with them, as were the young Xalya women, and as soon as little Shivara appeared in their midst, Morzif called to him with an exclamation of joy and lifted him in his arms. Near them Sirk Is Rhad smiled broadly, and his scarred face lost its natural grim look. However, when Dwin was told that her grandfather had died, there was a respectful silence, and when Miflin comforted her and walked away with her, Zamoy commented to lighten the mood:

“Sashava will have poet descendants.”

They smiled, and there were mocking comments wondering if, besides being poets, they would be bald as well. Dashvara shook his head, smiling. It couldn’t be said that Sashava had a bad life anyway. Sure, he could have lived for several more decades, but… well, he had died on the steppe and with his people. As the steppe sages said, ‘Death is the best blessing of life, because it gives it value: it is like the wind that blows on the steppe, it is like the water that flows in the rivers, like the cloud that grows, like the child that is born: death is.’

Taking advantage of the fact that the good mood was returning among the Xalyas, several Honyrs invited him to share their meal, and Dashvara gladly accepted, as he was starving. Thus, he found that the Honyr people and their allies were enjoying more prosperity than he could have imagined. Sirk Is Rhad and Shokr Is Set had told them much about the traditions of their people and their past, but they had never commented on the present life. And, as Dashvara understood it that afternoon in talking with so many of the Honyr and Kabada chiefs, they very rarely went hungry in the way that the Xalyas had chronically over the last two decades: every family household had herds of horses and cattle, and they managed to feed them all well in the summer and autumn, driving them to the pastures of the Esarey Mountains, from west to east, and then east to west. With the first snows, they migrated to the tribes of Lake Faorok, on the border with the Red Desert, and traded there with many clans, including merchants from the Iskamangra Empire. It was from the Iskamangra Empire that they obtained the black steel to forge their swords, which were light and resilient as air. They were proud of their weapons, but when they saw that Dashvara was also carrying black swords and he explained that they had belonged to Siranaga, they all marvelled. After a long, noisy and animated examination, a Honyr woman said:

“I’d like to see how the steppe lord handles them. They say the Xalyas call you the Prince of the Sand like Siranaga. Is that true?”

Sitting on a comfortable colored rug, Dashvara looked at her and realized that she was the same young woman who had accompanied Kark Is Tork and Shire Is Fadul earlier. If he remembered correctly, her name was Ladli Is Fadul and she was the sister of Atsan Is Fadul and the granddaughter of Shire. He smiled.

“That’s what they call me,” he asserted.

“Ladli says Siranaga could fight ten warriors at once!” Shivara interjected, sitting down beside his lord with his top.

Dashvara smiled.

“Of course. And they say his horse had legs so wide that they could crush his enemies,” he said, taking on a storytelling tone.

Shivara’s eyes widened.

“How wide?”

With a rough expression, Dashvara pretended to embrace a huge trunk and those listening laughed.

“That’s not true,” the child protested.

Dashvara shrugged, amused.

“It’s history.”

He ruffled his hair and stood up heavily under the questioning gaze of the Honyrs. He explained:

“We Xalyas have a habit of taking a nap after eating. If you don’t mind…”

They immediately pointed out the best yurt for him to rest in, that of Shire Is Fadul and his granddaughter, Ladli. He did not even think of protesting that he should be given another more modest one: he was too exhausted, and he knew that, if he continued to wait, he would end up revealing not only his exhaustion but also his torpor. He had probably already revealed it enough. As soon as he lay down on the pallet, all the barriers he had erected against fatigue collapsed. His last thought before sinking heavily into sleep was for the Eternal Bird of Sashava, for the health of the young Okuvara, and… for his naâsga.

His dreams, however, were a succession of nightmares. He dreamed that the dungeon of Xalya was falling, he dreamed that the steppe was changing into a huge sinking ship, he dreamed that his naâsga was turning entirely into an undead and was saying to him gently and apologetically: I am the Messenger of Skâra… Skâra, repeated the echo. And then the echo grew louder and the Xalya children began to shout: Skâra, Skâra…! In the meantime, Paopag’s face appeared and said to him with his father’s voice: the Eternal Bird does not exist, my son, you have betrayed Siranaga, you and your ancestors, you have killed the Eternal Bird… The voice had gradually changed, replaced by that of Sheroda, and it hissed at him: you have killed, Dashvara of Xalya, you are guilty…! The Eternal Bird does not exist… And as the voices mingled and repeated themselves while the children continued to scream, Dashvara felt an immense anguish grow and grow… Until a small exasperated voice appeared and told him: you are dreaming, Dash. This is just a nightmare. Wake up, wake up, wake up… SKÂRA!

He woke up drenched in sweat and shaking like a leaf. He sat up to calm himself, rubbed his face and cursed his dreams. At first, he was convinced that everything—the fight against the sibilians, the death of Sashava, and the death of the Titiakas—had all been a dream too and that he was still, as always, in the room with Paopag. As always. He spoke his name in a stammer and… then he saw the inside of the yurt. A dim light shone through, and blinking, he saw Shire Is Fadul sitting in the centre of the tent before the embers of the fire; lifting the teapot, she was pouring hot water into a cup. He met the old woman’s gaze, and she smiled as she approached.

“The saoran will ward off evil spirits,” she assured.

Dashvara arched his eyebrows and accepted the cup with a nod, trying to brush aside his confusion. His hand was still shaking. He blushed and breathed in, calming himself down suddenly.

“Thank you,” he said. He could not avoid a slightly strained tone. He glanced around, at the cozy fireplace, the rich decor, the rugs, the fire… and flinched, waking abruptly to reality. “Liadirlá, is it night already?”

Shire uncovered her only tooth, and her wrinkled face wrinkled even more.

“You slept through the night, young man. The sky is already beginning to turn blue.”

Dashvara’s confusion grew. He looked down at the cup of saoran so as not to look at the old woman. It was the quintessential steppian drink and consisted simply of saoran leaves mixed with boiled water and mare’s milk.

He took a sip and, after a silence, asked:

“My brothers…?”

“They went back to Kark Is Set yesterday,” Shire informed. “Only one stayed behind, a young man named Makarva. He’s outside.”

And you, meanwhile, are sleeping soundly and raving about stupid nightmares… Dashvara sighed and took another sip of saoran. The old woman handed him a plate full of dried berries.

“Areberries of Esarey,” she explained. “The last of the year. Taste them. They’re delicious.”

Dashvara bowed his head and, under Shire’s watchful eye, tasted the berries. They were, indeed, delicious, but he dared not eat more than three and returned to his cup, his thoughts confused. The silence continued. He was vaguely aware that he should probably have asked questions, thanked her… in short, done something to do with the present. And yet he said nothing. His silence, coupled with the nightmare he kept rehashing, was making him more and more nervous. Finally, Shire said softly:

“I sense that your heart is troubled, young Xalya.”

The old woman sat on the other side of the yurt and went back to her spindle and distaff, spinning with expert hands. Dashvara made an embarrassed pout without knowing what to say, and, glancing kindly at him, Shire added:

“It is not easy to understand your own Eternal Bird.”

Dashvara breathed in and nodded, suddenly more at ease.

“The more I think I understand it, the more it changes and the more it escapes me,” he confessed.

Shire said nothing, but she nodded in turn, as if inviting him to speak. He did not know her, and yet Dashvara suddenly felt a wave of respect for this Honyr. Something about her reminded him of Namamrah, an ancient and renowned steppewoman sage who, it was said, unlike other sages, did not understand the language of water, or grass, or wind: she understood the language of the heart.

Know thyself, Namamrah said, and thy feather shall remain serene in the face of the fiercest wind…

Dashvara felt his heart clench painfully. Right now, although in theory he had achieved what he wanted, freedom for his people, victory, peace… he still felt more chained than ever. After another long silence, he put the cup down and said:

“That man…” He choked, and his face hardened as he resumed, “That man I killed yesterday was a murderer. My reason told me: kill him. My brothers’ hearts were crying out to me: kill him. And my Eternal Bird… also felt this desire. To eliminate this devil and make him disappear from the face of the earth.”

A sad rage came over him. He shook his head and looked down at his hands. In his confusion, he could almost see them covered in blood.

“I am as murderous as Arviyag,” he announced in a strangely calm voice, “I have killed men thinking that, by doing so, I was saving the lives of my brothers, of my people. But, in reality, if I killed Nanda, it was for revenge. If I killed Rayeshag Korfu, it was out of rage and contempt. If I killed Arviyag while he was helpless… it was out of fear and disgust. And hatred.”

He frowned and turned bright eyes to the embers that still gave off heat.

“My Eternal Bird has been weak,” he asserted. “A steppian sage, Moarvara, used to say that a person’s Eternal Bird was born bound to a cup of blood and that the way of the wise was that of centering oneself on the foot of the cup so that it would always be balanced and would never shed a single drop of blood. It is not the cups of my brothers that count, he said, nor are the cups of my enemies. The only cup that counts here is mine. The only one that is linked to my Eternal Bird. And with my will alone I can keep it full, if I keep vengeance, pride, cowardice, lust, ambition, and cruelty away from me. And if other cups try to break mine, they will not succeed, for my cup is made of black steel and the claws of my Eternal Bird clasp it in such a way that my body will spill all its blood rather than let a single drop of the treasure it clasps fall.”

Dashvara swallowed and concluded:

“My cup bleeds all over.”

He fell silent, stiffened, and muttered inwardly, Why in the world are you telling the old woman this, Dash? Maybe you think she’s interested in your philosophical ramblings because she’s sworn loyalty to you? Do you think it matters to her if your cup bleeds all over? He suppressed a burst of sarcastic laughter. The only thing you’ve shown well is that you’re absolutely nothing like a king. But, what the hell, as long as the Honyrs have some compassion and are willing to accept your people, who cares about the rest? He sighed, The best you can do is thank the old woman for breakfast, call Sunrise, and leave to join your brothers and your naâsga…

He finished the little that was left in his cup and said:

“Forgive my ramblings, ayulâa. My tongue is wagging more than it should and uttering nonsensical words. A thousand thanks to you and your granddaughter for having me in your yurt…”

He fell silent, for, as he straightened up, the old woman had raised a hand to stop him. He sat down again, respectful, though reluctantly. The old woman’s face no longer smiled, but it still reflected an unshakeable serenity.

“There is truth in your words, young man,” she assured. “Moarvara was not the only one who thought so. There was a time when our ancestors respected life above all else, they condemned the hunt, the clan leaders respected their people, and their people followed them not out of lust or fear, not for glory, but because respect and love united them.” A slight, nondescript pout stretched her lips. “But a mountain, no matter how solid, if it is gradually eaten away from within, will eventually crumble, and all that was left on the steppe was a home of ruins. Ruins crushed, desolate and paralyzed by a glorious empire forged on blood and power. As you know, young Xalya, over it reigned those who called themselves Ancient Kings. They dominated the entire steppe, from the end of Ges to Aïgstia, from the mountains of Padria to the Highlands. They were the ones who commanded, and their hordes of horsemen crossed the steppe, the desert, and the mountains like incendiary gusts. The Eternal Bird became a lie. Respect and love became only incomplete, selfish feelings, chained to one group and blind to the rest. Lust and ambition were the only motivations of these lords of the steppe: their hearts were made of stone, their swords were covered with the blood of their brothers. And those whom we call zoks—the Essimeans, the Shalussis, the Akinoas—responded with hatred to their own suffering; they countered death with death and the symbol of the Eternal Bird with other symbols. They allied themselves with the lords of the steppe against other lords. The zoks saw them kill each other without almost fighting and, therefore, they won.”

The old woman spoke peacefully, expressing no sadness for the history of the steppe. History, like death, is, Dashvara thought, understanding her. The past cannot be changed, but we can learn from it. He repeated the phrase to himself three times before he realized its deeper meaning: he had killed, but inwardly he had recognized his mistake, and all he needed was to be reborn, to put his feather back together… but this time so that it would never fall again. All he needed was willpower. Your will is like the air, a steppian sage said once: A sword may cut through the air, but it cannot break it. Your will is not a gust that strengthens and weakens: it is still air, it is like water that, without form, follows its course downward and becomes a burden to anyone who tries to give it form.

Dashvara remembered as if it were yesterday the upright figure of Maloven walking around the library room of the Xalya Dungeon while reciting the wise words of the ancients to his young students.

‘Every step,’ he used to say. ‘Every smile, every blink of the eye, will become a reflection of your Eternal Bird, and you must think of It through your actions to know It. The Eternal Bird guides you and you guide It because you are one with It: when you understand this, there will be no repentance, for there will be no contradiction in you. Peace and happiness will fill your soul and nothing can ever completely extirpate them.’

Dashvara shook his head with some amusement. I spent all these years thinking Maloven was an idealistic visionary and now I’m starting to admire his pacifist ideals. Rather convenient to do so now that I have an army of nine-hundred warriors ready to follow my orders.

He sighed and finally asked, confused:

“Why do you swear loyalty to me if you believe there should be no kings, ayulâa?”

The old woman smiled, and without ceasing to twist the wool on her spindle, she replied:

“We Honyrs have been a contradictory people since the birth of our clan. Sifiara never got over his betrayal, and after years of complete isolation, he returned to Kark Is Set every year to beg forgiveness from his brother and his descendants until his death. They never forgave him. His obsession with raising his feather was such that he imposed among his people very strict customs, so strict that he generated a real fanaticism. When one feels that one is losing one’s identity, one clings to it with greater strength.” She sighed softly. “Sifiara educated his children to ensure that his ordinances were passed down. Instead of nurturing us in a spirit of vengeance, he instilled in us a sense of guilt, convinced us that we were a cursed and irredeemably doomed people until the day a descendant of the Ancient Kings would forgive our faults.”

She shook her head.

“Then the wars came, and we watched from afar the lords of the steppe without understanding how sons of the Eternal Bird could act in such an absurd manner. Until one day we understood that the Eternal Bird they professed was no longer the same, that it had become darker and… that their cups of blood were falling without any restraint. From then on, we began to despise them,” she admitted with steady calm. “You were to us the devils who donned blue feathers in appearance and trod in practice a lake of blood, depravity, and oblivion.”

Dashvara nodded, saddened.

“And it’s true.”

The old woman stopped spinning for a moment and looked up thoughtfully, not at Dashvara but at the door, before continuing her task. Without disputing Dashvara’s statement, she said:

“There is a saying among our people that goes like this, ‘dying is an art, we all die, but we don’t all know how to die’.” She tilted her head to one side and observed, “In the same way, we all live, but we don’t all know how to live. Living is an art that is learned and forgotten. According to my people, children are the wise ones in life, teenagers forget what they knew instinctively, and adults… sometimes relearn.”

A thin smile lit up her aged face, as if this conversation brought back pleasant memories. She concluded:

“Despite their initial doubts, my people are now convinced of your good faith, Dashvara of Xalya. They yearn to find the forgiveness that Sifiara has so longed for, and they want to prove to you that, after so many generations, they are still loyal to the Eternal Bird of the Ancient Kings. The problem is… not everyone knows the difference between the Ancient Kings who lived in a friendly steppe and those who tried to dominate it by force. Some believe that you will take back your right and conquer the lands now occupied by the Essimeans and Shalussis… the zoks. But I know you will not,” she pronounced. “And I know you will ease the rules Sifiara has imposed on us. That is why I have sworn loyalty to you, lord of the steppe.”

Her keen eyes fixed on Dashvara’s, defiantly, as if to say: your Eternal Bird had better not deceive my hopes, because my people need it.

Dashvara struggled to suppress an incredulous pout.

“Do some people really think I’m going to fight with the Essimeans and Shalussis? That would be ridiculous.”

The old woman shrugged. She had stopped spinning.

“The Heart of the Steppe has always been the capital of the Ancient Kings.”

Dashvara rolled his eyes.

“The best capital in a steppe is one that moves and has no fixed location. The Essimeans and Shalussis have as much right to live in Rocdinfer as we do, and I’m not going to pull out the swords to take back a pile of stone. And I would say more: as long as the foreigners do not betray us, let them take the gold and the salbronix. We don’t need them. We Xalyas are only looking for a place to live. You Honyrs have offered it to us, and therefore, I swear by my Eternal Bird, Shire Is Fadul, that I will do whatever you tell me to ease the Honyr conscience. I wish only the greatest good for your people,” he assured.

“Which is yours,” the old woman smiled. “The Honyrs will always be Honyrs, but they desire no less that you consider them your people.”

Dashvara flushed slightly and agreed:

“Of course. Anyone who respects the Dahars of the Xalyas is my brother, ayulâa. I will always be a Xalya. But it will also be an honor for me to be recognized as a Honyr.”

As he spoke these words, he realized that this would be the best way to make the Honyrs understand that there was no longer any dishonor for their people since the lord of the steppe himself was willing to be adopted by them. The old woman’s eyes smiled.

“Ayshat, my son. May your Liadirlá fly in peace.”

The old woman took up her spinning wheel. She had said all she wanted to say to him. Dashvara stood up and bowed.

“Thank you for your hospitality, ayulâa.”

He was about to leave the yurt when the Honyr said in a soft voice:

“The smaller the bird, the lighter its flight.”

Dashvara arched his eyebrows in confusion. Shire was smiling, without looking at him, as she continued to spin. For a moment, he imagined that this old woman was Namamrah herself, then that she was her reincarnation and then… he scoffed:

Is it necessary to wear the name of an ancient sage to be a sage as well? Nonsense. And now stop reasoning and get moving.

When he came out of the yurt, the first rays of the sun were already shining in the east. Like those of the other chiefs of the clan, the tent was set up on a large cart. And on the steps of the cart, Dashvara saw with surprise that many draperies, plates, carpets, pretty vases, and other objects of unquestionable value were piled up. He stood looking at this display of wealth in perplexity and was descending the steps, taking care not to bump into anything, when a loud laugh made him turn. Makarva was approaching accompanied by Sirk Is Rhad and Atsan Is Fadul.

“Good morning, sîzan!” his friend said, cheerfully. “I hope you like presents because you have quite a few.”

Dashvara’s eyes widened, and he turned back to the pile of riches. Was this all… for him?

“Liadirlá,” he articulated, dumbfounded.

Makarva and the two Honyrs laughed, and the former added:

“And that’s not counting the five hundred horses they promised us.”

Five hundred…, Dashvara repeated to himself, stunned. Still unable to believe his eyes, he reached out a hand to a rolled up tapestry of purple, white and gold. On it was a wooden figure. He took it with a strange feeling in his body. It represented a magnificent horse with its rider. Perched on the rider’s arm was a bird ready to fly. The image of his lord father came to mind when he taught him to hunt and sent his eagle soaring through the sky in search of prey…

“This one was given to me by an old man who says he knows you,” Atsan Is Fadul interjected, “Apparently he was found half dead two years ago at the foot of the mountains. He is a zok, but all consider him a great sage,” he assured. “His name is Bashak.”

Dashvara suddenly looked up. By the Eternal Bird… The old Shalussi was alive. He smiled and took another look at the gifts. He let out, touched:

“The generosity of the Honyrs is overwhelming.”

Sirk Is Rhad and Atsan Is Fadul smiled, pleased. Dashvara paused and felt slightly guilty as he said:

“I suppose that, if they’re gifts, I can do whatever I want with them.”

They looked at him curiously.

“Naturally,” Sirk Is Rhad confirmed.

Dashvara nodded, and since there were other Honyrs not far away, he lowered his voice and asked:

“You think they’ll take offense if I pay a debt with all this?”

“A debt?” Makarva repeated, bewildered.

Dashvara cleared his throat.

“The forty horses, Mak. And the weapons and armor. And the huge favor Kuriag Dikaksunora did us by taking us to the steppe. That debt.”

Makarva grimaced, obviously upset that so much wealth was going to end up in the hands of a foreigner. He objected:

“But the Titiaka is rotten with riches, Dash.”

Dashvara shrugged.

“We must somehow repair the harm we have done to him. This is important,” he assured. “Kuriag must leave the steppe with his head held high. He’s the only one who can stop the Federates from throwing themselves at us.”

Zamoy, Orafe, or some other more impetuous brother would have huffed and puffed, saying that, if the Federates came, they would throw them back to the sea with their swords. But Makarva was a much more reasonable man. Probably more than I am, Dashvara thought. So the young Xalya eventually nodded, convinced by the argument, and said, pointing to a book:

“You can give him the rest, but not that. These are the thoughts of Sifiara himself. This is for you. And this…” he sighed, gesturing vaguely to a pretty checkerboard of katutas. He reluctantly articulated, “I suppose the Titiaka will know how to use it.”

Dashvara smiled, took the checkerboard with its finely crafted pieces and handed it to Makarva.

“On second thought, my friend, I’m sure you’ll make better use of it than Kuriag.”

Makarva looked stunned.

“Oh. Really? But… it’s yours, Dash. And it’s much nicer than the one we have.”

Dashvara laughed.

“Precisely. That way, when you’re united with Shkarah and have your own yurt, you can invite me to play katutas.”

Makarva blushed like a garfia. Smiling with all his teeth, Dashvara put the checkerboard in his hands and gave him a pat on the shoulder.

“Let’s get going to Aralika, sîzan.”

34 Life and death

Sashava’s coffin had been placed in the Crypt of the Feather, and the mournful chanting of his brothers had long since died away when Dashvara, leaning against a battlement on the top of the tower, let out an impatient grunt. It would soon be evening and his naâsga was still in the Temple. He hadn’t even been able to see her. Ashiwa had explained under his wrathful gaze that Todakwa and Daeya of Essimea had gathered with the Titiakas and that now they had locked themselves in the Temple with the Arazmihá and the death-priests to celebrate who knows what event of Skâra. Dashvara had not been able to repress an exasperated comment about the endless celebrations of the Essimeans. He hadn’t thought he’d said anything really insulting, just that he doubted the Arazmihá would want to spend another night celebrating Death, but… his words had offended, and following the captain’s advice, he’d had to apologize. Apologize. Dashvara huffed, his gaze fixed on the entrance to the Temple. He hoped to see Yira pop up at any moment, and at the same time his horrible imagination was making him see more and more ridiculous, horrifying possibilities that, had they been true, would surely have made him forget all his peaceful promises.

After looking over the steppe again and scanning the southern lands, he waved to Atok, and they both descended the Feather in silence. Apparently, the Titiakas had not retaliated immediately after what had happened. All in all, Todakwa had simply defended himself from treason, had his own uncle executed along with other Essimeans who had plotted with Arviyag, and had not even had the traitorous citizen killed, since “the savages” had already done it for them. The other Titiakas had been released almost immediately, receiving apologies and compensation. Probably more than one had known about the betrayal, but none had the power to carry it out now. In the end, Todakwa was still the master of Aralika and the southern and western part of the steppe, and the Titiakas would have no alternative but to send in their own troops if they wished to impose their rules as they pleased… which hopefully they wouldn’t do any time soon, since Faag Yordark and the Ragail guard were now in practical command of Diumcili, and for the time being, they had their eyes on their own people and not so much on the lands to be conquered.

When he reached the bottom of the Tower, the Eternal Bird on the pedestal irresistibly caught his eye. The magical door to the Crypt had already been closed and even Dwin had already left. In the main room, he found Zamoy talking in a low voice with the Hairy. The two brothers paused when they saw Dashvara appear.

It was bitterly cold, both inside the tower and out, and Dashvara thought with concern about the nine hundred warriors who had come to support him. If they didn’t make their way back north and to the winter huts soon, they were going to have problems, especially with the horses.

His gaze wandered back to the door of the Crypt, and in his mad rambling, he imagined that the door opened and Sashava reappeared with his crutches, throwing out one of his killjoy comments like the good grump that he was… He shook his head as he breathed in, suddenly aware that this was no longer the time to be dragged down by memories, and asked:

“Have you heard from Okuvara?”

Zamoy made a gloomy face.

“He’s not well, Dash,” he sighed. “Tsu’s doing what he can, but the boy has lost a lot of blood. We don’t know yet if he’ll survive.”

Dashvara nodded silently, and despite what he had said to Shire Is Fadul, he could only be glad, at that moment, that Arviyag and Paopag were indeed dead and buried.

Rubbing his gloves to warm himself, he left the Tower and was walking towards the Temple with his brothers when Youk appeared like a whirlwind and, breaking the peace of the square, shouted:

“My lord! Ashiwa says he’s already questioned the sibilians and you can go to them if you want. He charged me with giving you the message,” he boasted.

Dashvara smiled.

“Thanks, Youk.”

When he started walking towards the headquarters where they had locked up the hundred or so surviving sibilians, the boy followed him like a shadow. As they left the Pillar Square, Dashvara saw the captain join them, and faced with his questioning expression, he explained:

“I’m going to see the sibilians.”

Zorvun pouted and remained silent for a moment. Then he commented:

“I’ve been told that Yira will be out soon.”

Dashvara arched his eyebrows, and he caught himself thinking that the Essimeans were sending him to the sibilians to keep him from rushing to Yira as soon as she left the Temple… Mentally, he rolled his eyes, and preferring not to show his impatience, he asked:

“The gifts… Have they all been delivered?”

“It was made as you requested,” the captain assured, “half for Kuriag, a quarter for the Essimean snake… I mean, Todakwa,” he smiled mockingly. “The tapestry of the Ancient Kings for the Agoskurian. The flute for Tsu. And the rest is still in the carts,” he concluded.

“That’s for the sibilians,” Dashvara said.

A grunt was immediately heard. Behind him, Zamoy protested:

“By all the demons, Dash! Aren’t you going to keep anything?”

“Five hundred horses, is that not enough?” Dashvara smiled.

They arrived at the headquarters. Before entering, Dashvara hesitated and stopped, thinking about what he was going to do. He had made up his mind since he had left Shire’s yurt, but after the journey and the farewell to Sashava and the various conversations with the Honyrs, his new determinations had gradually started to fade away. He took them back firmly and, under the increasingly curious gazes of his brothers, nodded to himself and entered. The room where they had put the sibilians was large, but there were so many of them that they were packed together like grains of sand in a bucket. Several Essimeans were watching them, and standing by their side, Ashiwa greeted Dashvara.

“Todakwa thought that, since these men were slaves of the Diumcilian you killed, you would like to have them as slaves in turn.”

Dashvara heard several gasps behind him among the Xalyas. He himself suppressed a sarcastic grimace and ceremoniously bowed his head, understanding that this was the gift of alliance in response to his own. In fact, he was not unhappy to have legitimate power over the future of the sibilians, for he had feared Todakwa would keep them all and send them to the mines.

He approached the first line of sibilians. They were clearly beginning to suffer from the dryness of the steppe, and their naturally slimy, greyish faces were covered with black, chapped patches. Their eyes were reddened, and they blinked constantly. The steppe was no place for them.

As the Essimeans, realizing that their presence was no longer necessary, withdrew from the room, Dashvara ordered the doors closed, took another scrutinizing look at “his” slaves, and finally asked aloud:

“Who’s your leader?”

The majority remained impassive, as if he had spoken to a rock. A sibilian, in fact the same one who had chased him to Amystorb’s keep and brought him into the torture tent, stepped forward. He did not speak a word. Dashvara stopped in front of him and felt the tension rise among the sibilians. This confirmed his intuition: it was their leader, without a doubt. Out of unhealthy curiosity, Dashvara wondered how they would react if he were to pull out his sword and cut off his head like he did with Arviyag…

Enough of your idiotic thoughts, lord of the steppe.

And he drew the sword. He saw the eyes of the sibilians grow even darker. But no one moved. Strangely, he had the feeling that, if their leader died, they would not move either, perhaps because he had asked them not to. Dashvara heard a murmur behind him and guessed the anxious expectation of his brothers. He asked in a quiet voice:

“What’s your name?”

The sibilian leader frowned and glared at him, but he did not answer. Dashvara shrugged and said:

“With all due respect, I regret your losses, foreigners. I consider myself partly responsible. I know that you have been sacrificing yourselves for your people for eight years. I wish you could be free as we are and return to your home in Skasna. Thanks to the Honyrs, I will pay the expenses of your travel by ship so you can return to your island if you wish. If what you desire is to avenge your dead brothers or your master…” He took the black sword in both hands and offered it to the sibilian leader. “Finish quickly,” he concluded and proclaimed, “On the honor of the Dahars, no Xalya or Honyr will take revenge for the blood this sword may shed today.”

He had surprised their leader, he noticed, satisfied. For a long moment they stared at each other. Finally, the sibilian looked down at the sword he now held in his hands and, unperturbed, replied:

“What do you want, Xalya?”

“To kill the resentment in your heart, foreigner,” Dashvara explained simply.

The sibilian did not seem to take the answer well. It even seemed to annoy him that Dashvara hadn’t simply cut off his head and instead put him in a situation where he had to make a decision. Finally, he snorted.

“What about your grudge, Xalya? If it weren’t for my people, the krava wouldn’t have tortured you like a dog.”

Dashvara had no idea what krava meant in his language, but he guessed it was their usual way of talking about Arviyag between them… Nothing very flattering, he supposed.

“That’s true,” he admitted. “But I’m not holding a grudge against you.”

The sibilian man puffed his nostrils and added with irritation in a heavy accent:

“I tied you to the table myself the first time, and I spent more than a day guarding the door to the underground room. I could hear you howling. And I saw you cease to be a man and become a dog. I am the eyes of your shame,” he spat. “And you tell me you’re going to pay for a boat back to my hometown? Lies.”

He spoke with contempt, convinced that Dashvara was playing him for a fool. Dashvara sighed and nodded.

“These are not lies. But you don’t have to believe me. I’ll pay for a boat and let you see for yourself that its sailors will get you where you want to go.”

The sibilian leader’s face remained impassive as he retorted:

“We don’t need sailors. We are sailors.”

He returned the sword, and Dashvara hesitated before taking it back. Finally, he sheathed it and stepped aside. Turning his back on the sibilians, he could see the faces of his brothers. More than one had an exasperated glint in their eyes. The reason was simple: their lord had just toyed with their honor, chaining it to his will and risking his own life.

Don’t get angry, brothers. All things considered, if the sibilian doesn’t believe in the ship, how could he possibly believe that you’d let him run me through with the sword without reacting? Even I can’t believe it…

He went out and gave orders that the sibilians should be released and the horses returned. The Essimeans did not object to the first order, but the second fell flat, for the horses of the sibilians had been bought by Arviyag from Todakwa’s uncle, and both being traitors, the question had to be “investigated” as to who had right of possession over them. In conclusion, the sibilians would be left without horses.

Dashvara then busied himself with the matter of the ship and was trying to speak with a Titiaka merchant who refused to answer him, who knows whether out of fear or arrogance, when a tumult of voices made him desist, and he turned to the nearby Temple, hopeful. People were coming out of the building. Liadirlá… He hurried over with the other Xalyas. Several lines of red-coated death-priests and disciples were coming down the white steps, chanting with a deep voice in a monotonous, unearthly chorus. Even Dashvara found himself stopping and watching the procession with a mixture of respect and curiosity. Suddenly all the disciples fell to their knees on the cobblestones of the square in such an order that it looked like a dance. Without ceasing to respond to the chorus of their masters, they imitated their signs and repeated in Galka:

“Tush-ba-ni, Arazmihá!”

They called to the Messenger. This went on for a moment, and then suddenly all fell silent and lowered their brows to the ground. On the contrary, Dashvara abruptly raised his head towards the door of the Temple, and his racing heart skipped a beat. There, stepping out into the evening light, a creature of dreams had just appeared. Everything about her was white, except for her hand and the right side of her face. The dress, magnificent, was as white as her hair.

But her eyes are black, Dashvara thought, dazed. I know because I’ve gazed into them plenty of times before. It’s her, Dash. Don’t let Todakwa’s tricks fool you. She is not a divine creature, she is not a goddess: she is your naâsga.

And yet he felt something very different from love at that moment: he felt fear. Fear that his naâsga seemed so… unattainable. Afraid that she might have changed in those days. It was the first time he had considered this possibility: that his love might break. It seemed horrible and absurd to him. And, at the same time, it also seemed absurd to him that a goddess like the one he was seeing right now could even remember the savage who had given her his heart.

Halt there, Dash. Why on earth do you have a head if you don’t know how to use it? Yira is only playing a pantomime. She negotiated with Todakwa to save you, Dash. She saved your people as much as the Honyrs did. Don’t start doubting everything because of an appearance: your naâsga is still the same.

He had remained so absorbed, captivated by the image of sublimity that Todakwa had painstakingly created, that it took him a moment to realize that the Essimean chief was now facing the Arazmihá; he and his wife had knelt down and spoken a few words. In any case, they were too far away for Dashvara to hear them. He also noticed that the Essimeans had posted themselves near the Xalyas, as if to make them understand that this was a sacred ceremony and that they should not interrupt it. When he briefly met Ashiwa’s evaluating gaze, Dashvara gritted his teeth.

Rest assured, Essimean, I will not rush to my naâsga.

Then Arviyag’s last words flashed through his mind. ‘And he will betray you again,’ he had said, referring to Todakwa. Dashvara growled low. Nonsense. Todakwa had no reason to betray them. Not when he knew that he had nine-hundred warriors at his doorstep. Unless they surrounded them to slaughter them and… No, he croaked, irritated. The Honyrs have positioned themselves on the hills. They can see any Essimean patrol approaching from leagues away.

And yet… if he had been a man who wanted to establish his power and his modern civilization and, in short, if he had been a man like Todakwa, the first thing he would have done would have been to subdue the steppe peoples. And he would not have let the strongest people of the steppe after his own go, and he certainly would not have forged an alliance with them: he would have crushed them. As his lord father used to say, ‘The lord does not fear the shepherd: he fears the other lords’. In spite of everything, Dashvara did not think that Todakwa would betray them. Not because Todakwa had improved as a person, nor because the Essimeans could not launch an effective attack, but rather because Todakwa knew that the Honyrs would never submit. The only way to control them was through him, Dashvara of Xalya. Now this one had shown to be more open to negotiations: he had even agreed to a vassalage pact. But control is not just one way, Essimean. The Arazmihá has seduced you more than you care to admit. Perhaps you know that she is by no means a messenger… but, if you have freed us, Essimean, it is not only because of the nine hundred Honyrs: it is also because of her. Dashvara was convinced of that. And the thought hurt him. Liadirlá! How he wished he could get his naâsga out of there and ride away already from the Heart of the Steppe, away from the swords…!, away from the power of Skâra.

His eyes had met Yira’s, or so he thought. Shortly afterwards, a death-priest came and bowed to Dashvara.

“Lord of the Xalyas!” he proclaimed, “the Arazmihá wishes to speak with you.”

Dashvara did not repeat this to himself. At the priest’s request, he eagerly left his swords with one of his brothers, slipped between the Essimeans and climbed the white stairs of the Temple behind his guide. He felt clumsy, and so as not to make a fool of himself, he concentrated hard not to trip over any steps. When they reached the platform in front of the Temple and were only a few steps away from Todakwa, Daeya, and the Arazmihá, the priest who was guiding him knelt down, and Dashvara stopped, his gaze fixed on his naâsga. He was aware that everyone was watching him now. He could not think, at this moment, of Todakwa or his plans, and he thought only that any hasty move might be misinterpreted by the Essimeans… and perhaps by his naâsga. But how was he to be misinterpreted by Yira if he went up to her and took her in his arms as he longed to do and said, Let us go, naâsga, let us go away from these fools? Nevertheless, at that moment, he saw her so beautiful, he saw her so adored by all, that all his thoughts fell into a bottomless pit, and he dared not say anything to her. He remained there, silent, on the impeccable white stones of Padria, surrounded by the worshippers of Skâra and in front of what was then for him more an ideal than a real person. Then, Yira said in a soft voice:

“May your people be happy, Dashvara of Xalya, and may your heart be happy too.”

The sursha bowed, turned her back to him and returned to the Temple. She disappeared there silently, like a ghost, as if she had never existed. And all this time, Dashvara did nothing. It all seemed supernatural, divine, horrible, incomprehensible. His eyes filled with tears, and he could not understand why. Only when Todakwa seemed to be about to say something did Dashvara react and say:

“Yira!”

He dashed to the closing door of the Temple and, despite an Essimean guard standing by, managed to slip inside and repeated:

“Yira!”

The interior was dark. Light came in only through a skylight at the back of the huge building. He stepped between the columns and cried out, increasingly anxious:

“Yira, y-you must explain to me. I don’t understand.”

He got no answer, and convinced that she was there even though he couldn’t see her, he stammered:

“Please. I know you’re there. What you said…does it mean you don’t want to come with me anymore? That you’d rather…live in this temple?”

The silence lengthened. And the anguish and confusion spread through his body, consuming him, saturating him, and paralyzing his movements. Everything burned, even his eyes. Sometimes he felt mortally ashamed, sometimes he wondered what he was ashamed of; and then he realized that he had fallen to his knees on the hard stone and that his head was on fire. He did not know what the hell was happening to him.

It is Skâra, thought a small, frightened voice in his head. Yira is answering you with the power of Skâra and telling you that you are not worthy, that you are a savage, that you did not know how to worship her as the Essimeans worship her now…

A sob shook him as another small voice replied:

Fool, fool, a hundred thousand times a fool. Get out of here and make your people safe. Then you will come back and sacrifice to Skâra and worship the Arazmihá until you die.

Yes, he affirmed to himself. I swear by my Eternal Bird that I will worship her to the death.

His thoughts swirled, confused, in his head. Part of him thought that it was Skâra’s power that made him suffer like this. Another that the death-priests had bewitched him. Yet another that he was going mad. In all three cases, he felt equally useless and troubled. It was as if the energy that the torture thimbles had injected into him had resurfaced to torment him again.

How could she want to go back to a savage who can’t even pull himself together? he chided himself. How is she going to want to come back with someone who was tortured and turned into a dog?

When he thought his tears had stopped, they would relentlessly resurface, and he would laugh at himself and his desires.

Respect the desires of others, before you fulfill your own, he said to himself. Respect the choice of your naâsga.

And finally, creating a poor idea of himself and a sublime idea of the Arazmihá, he managed to calm himself. And from then on, he straightened up, cleared his throat, caught his breath, and began to think. And he thought that, if Yira had been there, it was impossible that she had not answered him, and that therefore she must be in some other room of the Temple. And then he thought that, if Yira wanted to stay, perhaps Todakwa had something to do with her decision. Perhaps he had convinced her in some way. Maybe by blackmailing her into releasing the Xalyas. Maybe… or maybe not.

Exhausted, he was about to stand up when he heard a quiet voice behind him:

“In principle, only the believers of Skâra are allowed to enter the Temple.”

It was Todakwa. Dashvara thought he heard a hint of mockery in his voice. He turned and saw the Essimean leader sitting on the edge of a column’s pedestal, alone. Through his reddened, swollen eyes, he could make out the figure, the tattoos, the casual pose, but he couldn’t see the face. Who knows how long he’d been waiting there. In any case, someone had lit a candelabra not far away and daylight no longer entered through the stained glass window at the back. Night had already fallen.

Dashvara stood up slowly and looked at the Essimean defiantly.

“Everyone believes in Death. And I believe more than ever in the Arazmihá, Todakwa. Your prying eyes have seen that.”

Todakwa did not seem to take offense at the biting tone. He stood up in turn, but did not approach.

“Your mind is muddled, lord of the Xalyas,” he said. “You think you have lost something of the Arazmihá when in reality you have lost nothing. As long as you do not forget her teachings, you will have lost nothing.”

Dashvara glared at him. You are the one confusing me, you Essimean snake. He glanced around the shadows of the huge hall and thought he could make out figures, but he wasn’t sure. His attention finally came to rest on the statue in the center. In the light of the candelabra, he could make out the shape of a pillar covered with markings. It looked like the one in the Pillar Square, but larger and taller. What could Yira have seen in that piece of stone? What did she see in the people of Skâra that she did not see among the Xalyas? Civilization? He let out a sinister, sarcastic laugh and said:

“I don’t believe it. I am sure the Arazmihá made it clear that you were to let her go with the Xalyas. To oppose her desire, is it not to go against Skâra’s desire?”

He was trying to trap him on his own ground… and he guessed instantly that he would get nowhere that way. Todakwa’s smile seemed hateful to him.

“To tell the Great Servant of Skâra that he is going against Her desire is insulting, young Xalya.”

There was a silence. Dashvara retorted curtly:

“To steal the heart of the Lord of the Steppe is outrageous.”

He caught Todakwa’s gaze and his pensive pout. He seemed to be saying to him: now that peace is so close, are we really going to let our people fight over a woman? Are we going to kill each other over a necromancer who hasn’t even expressed a desire to follow you?

With a heavy heart, Dashvara staggered back as if he had been hit. And yet, no one had come near him. It was his nightmares, his thoughts, that attacked him relentlessly in waves. They were telling him, Murderer. They were telling him, Your Eternal Bird is dead.

In a vain effort to regain his composure, he stepped away from Todakwa and walked to the center, to the pillar. He was angry at himself for losing his temper in front of Todakwa, but he was especially angry for not speaking to Yira when he had her just before him, in front of the Temple. Another mistake, he thought. And the more mistakes and oversights he made, the more he became convinced that Arviyag and Paopag had messed with his head.

Strangely enough, reaching this conclusion suddenly calmed him; his eyes were hazily wandering on the Galka signs on the pillar when he realized that Todakwa had approached with the candelabra. The Essimean placed the candelabra on the stone rim around the pillar and read in a quiet voice, translating:

“Death lives in time and time lives in us. In us lives Death.” He fell silent and murmured a respectful, “Skâra shalé.”

Dashvara looked at the Essimean out of the corner of his eye. Kill them, a familiar voice whispered to him. Kill them all. He let out a long sigh.

“I would like to speak with Yira,” he said in a strangely calm voice, “Just for a moment. I must hear her say that she wishes to remain with your people, Todakwa. If not, you must let her go where she wishes.” He sketched a crooked smile as he added, “Death is free. You cannot put chains on her.”

Todakwa walked around the pillar before answering to his surprise:

“You’re right. But I doubt my people would be willing to let her go without a good reason. And even less so if it’s to have her unite with a people of infidels.”

He paused a few paces, then turned again to the writings on the pillar and read them calmly, aloud and in Common Tongue as he made another turn. He didn’t read them all, only a few, and Dashvara guessed that he wasn’t choosing them at random. Most of them spoke of Skâra as an all-powerful entity that grew stronger and stronger with every living thing that was born, for to be born also meant to die, and in a way, Death also meant Life. Dashvara listened with increasing disbelief as he understood what Todakwa was waiting for. Finally, the Essimean fell silent. His expression of religious reverence did not seem to be feigned, but who knew with that snake… Dashvara cleared his throat in the silence of the Temple.

“Thank you for the reading, Todakwa. Tell me, you wouldn’t by any chance be suggesting that I… well, that I convert to Skâra?”

He almost laughed in disbelief as Todakwa nodded. Eternal Bird… Surely he was mocking him. However, the Essimean assured:

“I’m not just suggesting it: it’s a condition for you to speak with the Arazmihá and… for the alliance to endure.” At Dashvara’s stunned eyes, the Essimean shrugged. “Let’s be honest: my sovereignty over the other steppian tribes and my relationship with Titiaka will continue to give me power that you and the Honyrs will never have. But I am not a conquering warrior…” Here Dashvara could not avoid the look of one who was glad to hear this. Todakwa rolled his eyes and resumed with a casual gesture, “I offered you an alliance, and it’s still on the table, but the details have yet to be worked out.” Hands behind his back, he took a few steps across the mosaic-covered floor. His voice echoed in the huge hall as he declared, “I am willing to recognize the lands of Xalya and the northern part as Xalya territory. In exchange, the Honyrs will leave the road free to the Iskamangra Empire, they will give hospitality to my emissaries, travelers, traders from Essimea and… their lord will recognize Skâra as his true and only deity.”

Dashvara crossed his arms and glanced mockingly at the figures in the shadows before turning to Todakwa. He found it hard to believe that this man could think for a moment that a Xalya, an heir to the Ancient Kings, would embrace the religion of a savage people. Except now, Dash, they are the civilized ones while we are the savages… Receiving no immediate response, Todakwa observed:

“You would not be the first son of the Eternal Bird to recognize Skâra. The lords of the steppe may be gone, but their peoples were not entirely wiped out, and I know many sons, grandsons, and great-grandsons of slaves who worship Skâra. I am even willing to allow those who wish to join you to do so.”

Dashvara arched his eyebrows. The proposal was becoming more and more attractive to him, and for many reasons. Looking thoughtful, he turned to the pillar and observed the Galka signs without reading them. Finally, he said:

“Abandon the incursions into Honyr lands, open the road south for us, and allow our herds to go as far as the pastures east of the Araset and the wells to be used again. Free the slaves who wish to leave. Free the Arazmihá. And free Raxifar of Akinoa and his people and give them back their horses. And, finally, assume that the Eternal Bird is what we are and do, not a deity. If you accept all this, Todakwa, I pledge to recognize Skâra as a true deity. I know that your people call me the Immortal King, and that some think it is no accident that the Arazmihá was accompanying me.” This he knew mostly from the chatter of Youk and other boys. Seeing Todakwa’s pout, he hastened to assure, “There is nothing immortal about me, and frankly, I have no intention of creating more dissension among your people, on the contrary. But I doubt that the Essimeans will protest if the Arazmihá leaves with me just as she came.” He shrugged and concluded, “These are my terms.”

The silence lingered. At least, Todakwa wasn’t refusing immediately, but who knows if he was thinking about his proposal or if he was already laughing at some treachery he had in mind against the Honyrs and Xalyas…

Suddenly, Todakwa clicked his tongue. Immediately, the figure of a young disciple appeared silently in the shadows. His leader whispered to him, the disciple nodded, said something in a whispered voice, and vanished again into the darkness of the temple. Then Todakwa bowed to the pillar and said a prayer in Galka with a low voice.

Great, Dashvara snorted inwardly. I talk to him about negotiations, and the Essimean starts praying. Wonderful. Come on, keep praying, snake, and don’t you dare stop.

He tried not to get angry, though. Finally, Todakwa stood up, gave Dashvara a half-mocking, half-satisfied smile, picked up the candelabra, and walked away between the columns. Dashvara looked at him, dumbfounded. What the hell?! Now he was leaving?

He took a step toward him, opened his mouth, and was about to protest when he heard a door open and saw the figure of the Arazmihá appear between the columns. She was still wearing the white robe, but now Dashvara was prepared. That is, as soon as he saw her, he let out his name in a muffled exclamation and stepped towards her. His hands trembled as he reached for her hands. He took them from her, and his eyes looked into hers. He sensed her hesitation and whispered:

“You are free now, naâsga.” He bowed to her and kissed her hands with feverish fervor before promising, “You are free to go wherever you wish.”

Gently, Yira drew nearer, and gradually the harmonic shadows enveloped them. Soon, Dashvara was unable to see her.

“I can’t see anything,” he snorted.

Yira replied in an amused tone:

“Just because you can’t see me doesn’t mean I’m not close to you.”

Her lips found his. Dashvara kissed her and felt the most complete peace come over him. He bet that the Essimeans in the Temple could only see a large harmonic shadow, with perhaps two joined silhouettes, but nothing more. He smiled, his heart racing, feeling Yira’s mortic energy against his skin, and he thought:

After that, Essimean snake, you won’t be able to say that I don’t worship Skâra.

35 Messengers of Peace: Epilogue

His decision to bow to Skâra outraged both the Xalyas and the Honyrs, but once Dashvara explained that he was doing it out of conviction, they didn’t dare mention the subject again. At least not in front of him. And so, the next day, after spending the night at the Temple, he knelt before the pillar of Skâra and left the sacred building with his naâsga so that the Essimeans could cheer them and celebrate the peace between the two peoples. They gave them gifts, not to the Honyrs but specifically to the Immortal King and the Arazmihá. Dashvara gave half to Skâra and indirectly to Todakwa in order to show him that, despite the obvious support he received from the Essimean people, he had no intention of taking advantage of it other than to consolidate the peace.

With the rest, he paid for the boat for the sibilians, bought food for the journey north, gave gifts to the Honyrs and his brothers, and gave the Cilian priest who had seen him deny the Eternal Bird a beautiful steppe cloak made of horsehair. As the Titiaka priest looked at him in amazement, Dashvara explained:

“I spent three years in the Tower of Compassion, foreigner, and I deeply respect compassion. You showed it to me when you saw my dying soul, and for that, I am grateful.”

The priest’s disciples were staring at the Arazmihá and her mortic face, but then one of them turned to Dashvara for a moment, his eyebrows furrowed, as if thinking: What is this savage saying to my master? The priest, however, bowed his head ceremoniously and accepted the gift, saying:

“May Cili continue to light your way.”

Dashvara smiled and replied:

“Skâra and Cili are like the sun, foreigner: they light, burn, warm, and blind. And the Liadirlá flies, changes its path, gets burned, goes blind, falls, and takes flight again… A real dance,” he joked. “But worth it.”

He shook his head, amused, at the priest’s bewildered expression.

In other words, foreigner, whether the Eternal Bird flies singing to Skâra or to Cili matters not: the important thing is that it flies.

He left the priest there to ponder on the Immortal King’s lucidity and turned to Kuriag. He had not spoken with him since Kuriag had asked his forgiveness for allowing his torture four days ago. The young elf approached the crowded street of the Temple. He was surrounded by Ragails. Dashvara counted them. There were twelve of them. No one was missing. Even Captain Djamin was there, he noted with relief when he saw the serious face of the elite warrior. The Ragail’s eyes scanned the crowd as if he expected Todakwa to play another trick on them at any moment. He also looked tired and disgruntled, anxious to return home and leave this inhospitable steppe inhabited by barbarians. Although he wore a thick cloak, he struggled to keep still in the icy wind, his teeth chattering and his shaven face flushed with cold. After glancing at the other Titiaka warriors, Dashvara mentally confirmed, The steppe isn’t for you either, Ragails.

Finally, Kuriag Dikaksunora stopped in front of Dashvara and looked around nervously at the street full of curious eyes. He looked very uncomfortable. Lessi accompanied him and was the first to break the silence by addressing Yira and gently taking her left hand.

“I understand you at last, sîzin. I am so happy for you. I hope we’ll always be good friends.”

The Essimeans were getting restless, probably wondering if it was acceptable for anyone to touch the Arazmihá. Yira smiled.

“I hope so too, Lessi. With all my heart.”

Kuriag was pale and agitated. Not surprising, given that he was facing the man who had killed his cousin. And yet, there was no anger in him. In fact, there was such an innocence about him and Lessi that Dashvara marveled again at how much a pure heart could suffer without losing its purity. Or barely. Finally, the young elf nodded ceremoniously to the Immortal King and declared:

“Thank you for the gifts, Lord of the Xalyas.”

Not knowing what to do, the young Titiaka had opted to retreat behind formalities and a serious and distant tone. Dashvara smiled.

“It was only natural, Excellency. To tell the truth, I still feel indebted to you. I haven’t forgotten all that you have done for us and I want to do everything I can to repay you.”

Like returning his cousin’s head, for example? he thought, ironic.

He cleared his throat and said:

“All in all, you bought us for over ten thousand dragons.”

Kuriag Dikaksunora frowned and shook his head as if he felt uncomfortable just hearing him mention that.

“It doesn’t matter,” he assured. “I bought you knowing that I would set you free. You owe me nothing. Really. The best reward is knowing that my wife’s people will finally live free and at peace.”

He said the last words with a hint of doubt, as if he could not believe that the steppe would really live in peace from now on. Dashvara smiled, and under the intrigued gaze of the Titiaka, he took off the shelshami and said:

“It would be an honor for me, Excellency, if you would accept this stone.” He untied the pearl from the black scarf and handed it to the Titiaka. “It belonged to my father. It is a desert pearl. They say they are extremely rare.”

Captain Djamin frowned but did not move as a curious Kuriag picked up the pearl. Examining it, he let out an incredulous exclamation.

“By Serenity,” he gasped. “It’s… it’s a seren crystal! My father had a very similar one that he bought for six thousand dragons.”

Dashvara struggled to suppress a pout of amazement. Really? Six thousand? He shrugged in good humor.

“Well, if it’s valuable, so much the better. You can sell it or throw it in the ocean. It’s yours.”

He could see Kuriag’s protests coming, but he was wrong: the young elf was too stunned to make any objections. Dashvara exchanged an amused look with Yira and was about to walk away when, reacting, Kuriag took his eyes off the gem and said:

“Wait.” His voice sounded authoritative. He blushed. And, under Dashvara’s questioning gaze, he explained, “You’re forgetting the marks. The counter-seal. I have to apply the counter-seal to you to officially release you.”

Dashvara couldn’t help it: he burst out laughing, incredulous.

“That won’t be necessary,” he assured.

“Yes, it is,” Kuriag replied. Dashvara frowned, and the elf admitted, “They are marks with a special pattern. Normally, they are renewed every year. If they are not… nasty things happen.”

Dashvara stared at him. Devils, and he was telling him that only now?

“What sort of nasty things?” he asked in a dull growl.

Kuriag flushed.

“You… you’d rather not know. But I could easily dispatch one of my men to apply the counter-seal to you. Unfortunately, all our carrier pigeons escaped during the… the night of the Bushkia Baw and… I can’t send any messages from here.”

Dashvara sighed loudly.

“And you can’t undo the magic yourself?”

Kuriag Dikaksunora opened his mouth, hesitated, caught Captain Djamin’s gaze, and choked.

“No. I can’t.”

He was lying. Dashvara watched him, his eyebrows furrowed, as the young Dikaksunora grew more and more nervous and assured:

“Really, I can’t. It takes a lot of skill to properly disable the marks.”

Now he sounded sincere. Dashvara nodded mentally. Well, all right. What you want is to make sure you get out of here alive and well as soon as possible. Your caution was unnecessary and is a bit insulting, but… He glanced mockingly at Captain Djamin and nodded again more firmly.

“It’s fine. I will order that you be escorted to Ergaika with carts to carry all your belongings, and from there, you can send carrier pigeons, return home, and send us the counter-seal. You have my word as a Xalya.”

Kuriag swallowed.

“Good. Thank you,” he murmured.

Captain Djamin looked satisfied. Dashvara was about to walk away but stopped to add:

“It would be an honor for me if you and your wife would agree to share dinner with me tonight in the Honyr camp. We can…” he smiled, “talk about Eternal Birds, Ancient Kings, and whatever else you want, Excellency. You will tell me that the Eternal Bird no longer exists, and I will tell you otherwise. I will also be honored if Captain Djamin and Asmoan of Gravia agree to come.” And, seeing Kuriag’s slight hesitation, he hastened to say, “You know my Eternal Bird, Kuriag Dikaksunora. I may make mistakes, certainly, I have made mistakes and I know I will continue to make mistakes, but my soul is not that of a traitor. And I can assure you that, even if you consider us savages, hospitality is a sacred law on the steppe. My clan, the clan of the Honyrs, will welcome you as a brother whenever you come to visit us. Let dishonor fall upon him who does not respect such a fundamental law. There is no treason,” he insisted.

Kuriag had a sad and emotional expression.

“I believe you,” he assured. “I have come to know you, Dashvara of Xalya. I know that honorable principles guide you, I cannot deny that. But this is… well…” He shrugged and sketched a smile. “The other day, Asmoan and I were talking about justice, and we were debating whether it should be guided by the heart or by reason, and… at some point we came to the conclusion that, while I am a steady river, you are a river that easily overflows. No offense meant…”

“Believe me, I assume it perfectly,” Dashvara assured in a cheerful tone. “We’ve followed different paths of education. And you’ve broken free of yours better than I have, I’m afraid.”

“Not quite,” Kuriag muttered.

Dashvara looked at him curiously and decided to be sincere in turn:

“Not quite maybe, but enough to make a savage like me call you brother without hesitation. You know? I don’t think I’m wrong in saying that you’ve taught me far more about the Eternal Bird than I’ve ever taught you,” he pronounced, bowing his head respectfully, and smiled at Kuriag’s astounded expression. “At any rate, I can’t complain about the two Titiaka masters I’ve had. I hold you both in high regard. I really do. But don’t tell Atasiag: it would go to his head,” he joked.

Kuriag laughed, flushed. His expression became comical in its joyous innocence. He opened his mouth, seemed to suddenly remember something, and then bowed his head and said:

“It will be an honor to accept your invitation, Immortal King.”

If there was irony in the appellation, Dashvara did not perceive it, and he wondered if the young elf still believed that he had really resurrected in Titiaka and a second time in the Feather. In any case, there was definitely something supernatural about the whole affair, since he had twice survived the red snake venom… And all because of those damn magic powders I randomly swallowed in Rocavita, Dashvara laughed inwardly. Or at least that was the only explanation Tsu had been unable to refute. He bowed and replied:

“The honor is mine, brother.”

The Agoskurian scientist and the captain accepted the invitation, too, and Dashvara finally left with Yira. Throughout the day, he wisely followed the religious ceremony held in honor of Skâra and his two envoys. They dipped their hands in the icy river, drank a glass of blood from the best horse of the year, and returned to the temple to sit for an interminable time, so that the priests could read the signs in their every movement, and thus make sure that, although the winter was going to be hard, the spring would be early and the summer would be prosperous. Dashvara restrained himself from questioning their assertions and whispered to Yira with a slight gasp:

“And you’ve been putting up with this for two weeks, naâsga?”

The sursha cleared her throat in amusement. Dashvara admired her patience. He breathed in the fresh air of the Temple, closed his eyes, opened them again to see the priests, and… sighed.

“All we need is for the Essimean to start sacrificing children in our honor.”

Yira shuddered slightly, and as the priests continued their prayers, she stated in a low voice:

“They tried on Skâra Hill, but I told them that Skâra would not need sacrifices as long as the Arazmihá was with them.”

Dashvara arched his eyebrows.

“Unbelievable. And they listened to you?”

Yira’s eyes smiled.

“I am the Arazmihá.”

Dashvara sighed again and eventually got fed up with the ceremony. When, at last, Todakwa invited them to eat in his imposing house and the priests stopped tormenting their heads with their songs and blessings, he was about to explode. If he had been told that he had to endure this for two weeks, the Essimeans would not have found him at dawn. Fortunately, he had an engagement with Kuriag Dikaksunora, he had invited him to get to know the Honyrs, and this turned out to be the perfect excuse to cut the celebrations short. They clarified the alliance with Todakwa, bowed several times, received a few more blessings, listened to the sibilian leader’s terse thanks for the ship, and finally left.

Several dozen Honyrs who had accompanied them and two hundred Xalyas left Aralika. Along with them came two dozen heirs of the Eternal Bird who, though most of them had been slaves all their lives, were adventurous enough to hope for a better life with the Honyrs. Not surprisingly, the majority did not move. These steppians had their lives established, and the Xalya Dahars either no longer mattered to them or reminded them of old enmities with other steppe lords. So they showed no intention of leaving, and Dashvara made no effort to convince them either, for the simple reason that they had not bought enough food supplies for so many people.

As they rode eastward, crushing the thin layer of snow, Dashvara noticed that several of his brothers who had remained at the rear of the procession looked deep in conversation. They talked, shook their heads, and then fell silent for quite some time. Before they realized that Dashvara was watching them, he turned his gaze forward, a little nervously, for he was convinced that his brothers were talking about him.

Yes, of course, since you’ve spent the day receiving blessings, hymns, and lavish feasts, you now think they’re all talking about you, huh? You are full of yourself.

He pulled Sunrise away from the procession, stopped her, and patted her on the neck, whispering:

“Soon you will have a refuge in the north, daâra, and you will not be cold. In the spring, you will graze and grow strong. And you will see what it is to live free on the steppe. Yes, you will,” he murmured.

They were not far short of the Honyr camp when, seized with a sudden anxiety, Dashvara approached his brothers and said:

“Captain.”

He was dismayed by the reserved looks his brothers gave him. Liadirlá… What the hell was happening to them? The Captain cleared his throat.

“Yes, son?”

Dashvara hesitated, confused. He could not remember what question had brought him to Zorvun.

Pff, Dash, you fall apart at the drop of a hat. React, wake up, show some firmness! Your Eternal Bird tells you that you have done the right thing in kneeling before Skâra… Stop doubting: it is all over. Peace reigns in the steppe. Now make sure to bring peace to your soul.

“My son?”

Dashvara blinked and looked at the captain. The captain was watching him with serene patience. After a silence, Dashvara huffed and grunted:

“I know what I have done. Now the Essimean people are well disposed towards us. Something that was unthinkable a month ago. And Todakwa… well, I didn’t cut off his head, I didn’t fulfill my father’s revenge, I’m a bad son. But I can live with that. As long as there is peace on the steppe, what does it matter if I have to go and say to the Essimean ‘Skâra shalé’ from time to time? What the hell. The customs of the Essimeans are debatable, but the precepts of Skâra are not bad. And I did not kneel before Todakwa, but before Skâra. No, Captain: I do not repent of what I have done.”

He fell silent. The captain rubbed his forehead, smiling.

“I think we all get that, Dashvara.”

The lord of the steppe arched his eyebrows and looked at his brothers before shaking his head in confusion.

“Then why are you looking at me so strangely?”

“We’re not looking at you strangely,” Zamoy protested.

Dashvara gave him a skeptical expression, and he noticed that his brothers looked away uncomfortably. Zamoy was the only one to clearly and abruptly state his thought:

“You’re the one acting strangely. First, you lend your sword to the sibilian for him to kill you, then you convert to Skâra and send all the gifts to the four winds… And now, you accept that death-priests come to preach us stupidities, and you even accept that Yira stays in Aralika during the whole winter. I really didn’t expect that last one. As far as I know, it’s your naâsga, right? Or are you, too, going to stay with the Essimeans, Dash?”

Dashvara looked at him in disbelief and finally understood his brothers’ concern. He would have burst out laughing if he hadn’t seen them all so anxious. He assured them:

“By the Liadirlá, I wouldn’t stay with these priests for a thousand horses! If I allowed the priests to come to our lands, it was because I allowed any Essimean to come to our lands. As for Yira…”

He darkened and looked up to the head of the procession. There, the sursha was advancing alongside Lessi, Kuriag, Asmoan, Api, and two priests of Skâra who were escorting her. He noticed that the two demons were keeping their distance from Yira, especially the Agoskurian. He resumed:

“My naâsga…”

He smiled at his brothers and said:

“It’s her decision and I respect it. She hasn’t told me why, but I’m sure she has her reasons. In the spring, I will go to Aralika, and we will return north together. Don’t worry, brothers. She’s still a Xalya.”

He saw them nod and exchange glances. They couldn’t really understand him, but knowing that he wouldn’t be staying with the Essimeans to play the Immortal King made them almost sigh in relief.

Four months, Dashvara thought, thoughtfully.

Four months and the snow would melt, the grass would grow, the steppe would be covered with colors… and life would be reborn.

* * *

“My lord, my lord!” a distant voice shouted.

Dashvara laid a gentle hand on the sheep’s forehead, stopped shearing, and looked up. Youk rode up the flowery slope, towards the river and the yurt, and kept repeating:

“My looooord!”

With an expert leap, he dismounted, and the sheep bleated, agitated. Dashvara clicked his tongue, soothed them, and raised a hand to greet the boy. When they had traveled north to Faorok, pragmatism had led the Xalyas to divide themselves among the various Honyr families. They had dispersed as needed. There had been many unions that winter and a continuous movement from yurt to yurt. The Xalya children and teenagers now had new families and someone who could quietly teach them everything a good steppian should know. And, well, before any Honyr had the idea of pushing Youk away because of his tattoos, Dashvara had gone to meet him and asked him if he would be able to put up with a philosopher lord. The boy’s face had lit up with happiness.

Dashvara smiled as he remembered. He had no regrets at all about welcoming the boy into his yurt. His enthusiasm for everything amazed him, he learned eagerly, and although he still felt easily ashamed at the slightest mistake, that didn’t stop him from making plenty of them, and well, let’s just say that the boy’s presence alone—added to his herd, the union ceremonies, and the various meetings with the tribes near Faorok—had given Dashvara the most pleasant winter in years. Only the presence of his naâsga could have made him happier. And he would soon go meet her, he rejoiced.

The boy came up to him panting, and Dashvara said patiently:

“I thought you’d stopped calling me lord. What’s the matter, boy? Did you get bitten by a saravy?”

Youk exhaled sharply.

“You won’t believe it! I mean, if you see it, you will… but you have to come and see!” He put two fingers in his mouth and whistled before shouting, turning to the herd of horses grazing freely a little ways away, “Sunrise! Quick, quick, quick!”

He was elated. Dashvara sighed. One of Youk’s problems was that sometimes he just forgot to explain what was going on.

“Take it easy, kid,” he soothed him. “Calm down and don’t make me nervous. Sunrise isn’t going anywhere: she’s going to stay and graze on the grass. What do I need to see?”

Youk huffed, as if it were obvious.

“Well, who do you think, the Arazmihá! She has arrived at the lake. And she’s not coming alone.”

It was as if he had been hit on the head with a hammer and shown a paradise at the same time. A wave of amazement, haste, joy, and worry swept over Dashvara. But… but there were still two weeks to go before…

“Liadirlá!” he exclaimed in a trembling voice. “Youk… kid… stay here and look after the flock, will you? Don’t let any sheep escape, there’s no need for you to shear them, I’ll do it afterwards, and above all, don’t ride Rocdinfer while I’m gone, that stallion has a bad temper and he’s not ready, and, if I don’t get back before dark…”

“I’ll scatter them all with a shout and set the yurt on fire,” Youk replied with a broad mocking smile. “Don’t worry, Dash, I’ve been herding since I could stand on my own two legs.”

Dashvara nodded, rolling his eyes, and said in an equally mocking tone:

“Do not forget to pray, unfaithful soul, or the Arazmihá will punish you. But, tell me, just one thing. Yira is doing all right, isn’t she?”

“Wonderfully,” Youk assured. And he followed his lord as Dashvara was already hurrying away from the herd to fetch Silver. The horse hadn’t been ridden for several days and was in better shape than Sunrise. Behind him, the boy kept on talking, “Ah, I must not forget the jug of milk for Okuvara! Hasn’t he come yet? He said that today Tsu would not give him lessons and that he would come by here to teach me how to play the flute. You don’t know how much Tsu’s teaching him. It’s amazing. Magic stuff is so weird. I don’t know how he can retain so much. And by the way!” he added cheerfully. “There’s another piece of news, but the captain asked me not to tell you about it, because you might just fall off your horse if I do.”

Dashvara glanced at him, frowning. He hesitated to ask him for an explanation, but then decided to be patient, climbed onto Silver, and said:

“A Xalya never falls off his horse. And if he does, he does it on purpose.”

He smiled and raised his hand to Youk in greeting before trotting the horse off to the northwest.

The great lake was barely an hour from where they were, and the itinerary was easy: to get there, all one had to do was to walk down the slope following the river. More than one Honyr had already deserted Faorok to the south in search of new pastures, but most of the clan was still settled around the big lake and near the river. There was still snow in the lower mountains of Esarey, but below, it had melted completely. As a result, the steppe had been transformed into an ocean of scents and colors: flowers of all kinds covered it like a coat, white, blue, yellow, red… It was a real sight. Compared to the lands of Xalya, this region was pure life. It was another steppe. And a friendlier steppe, no doubt.

Dashvara made the journey to the lake, picturing in his mind the smiling black eyes of his naâsga, her hair as white as the clouds that glided across the sky that day, her unearthly face, alive and magical, and he heard again her sweet, joyful voice as if he were already holding the little sursha in his arms. He longed to see her again. He still did not understand what madness had made him accept so calmly Yira’s decision to stay in Aralika during the winter. No matter how much he thought about it, he could find no reason why Yira would have preferred to stay longer with the Essimeans. He had endured Makarva’s attempts to get him to take an interest in Ladli, Shire’s granddaughter, with impatience and irritation… Dashvara had come to understand that his brothers thought the sursha would not return. Of course, he hadn’t listened to them. And he’d been right, since Yira hadn’t even waited for Dashvara to go to her and she’d traveled to Faorok before the appointed date. Dashvara smiled. His heart had not doubted for a second that he would see her again.

The lake of Faorok was surrounded by trees. It formed a curious border between the Red Desert and the steppe. On one side was an irregular terrain of reddish stone bristling with impassable rocks. And on the other side… was the home of the Xalyas.

He waved at more than one Honyr from afar and rode around more than one herd before spotting a group of horsemen riding south. Dashvara’s heart stopped for a second before it began to beat more strongly. The closer the distance got, the bigger his smile grew. As soon as he recognized his naâsga among the riders, he became unable to focus on the others. Vaguely, he knew that the captain, Atok, and several Essimeans were with her, but that was all. His eyes devoured the figure of the sursha. Finally, he dismounted, the others walked the last few steps and… he saw the little creature tied to Yira with a white cloth. Astonishment filled him. Without a word, he helped her to the ground, his heart pounding. His gaze went back and forth from Yira’s smiling eyes to the little creature sleeping soundly against her. Finally, the sursha let out a muffled, slightly nervous laugh.

“Did your tongue freeze, Dashvara of Xalya?”

This one huffed, and he felt like a blissful idiot when he asked:

“It’s… it’s ours, isn’t it?”

Yira laughed.

“She’s our daughter,” she asserted.

“Our daughter,” Dashvara repeated, smiling broadly. “Liadirlá, that’s… that’s so wonderful,” he murmured.

He did not ask her at that moment why she had wanted to stay in Aralika all winter. Nor did he ask her how a girl could be born in less than nine months. He would ask her more questions later. At that moment, he simply took them both in his arms, kissed his daughter’s head and kissed his naâsga’s forehead for a long time before murmuring:

“Ayshat, naâsga. Ayshat for coming back.”

Finally, aware of the others, he wondered what the hell they were staring at, looked up, and saw them all smiling. He rolled his eyes. You’re all very happy now, but you still tried hard to offer me more naâsgas over the winter, brothers…

Among them, besides Zorvun and Atok, were Kodarah, Sirk Is Rhad, Atsan Is Fadul, and Shokr Is Set. But there were not only people from his clan. There was also a Titiaka—probably the one who was supposed to bring the famous counter-seal—as well as two Essimeans: a priest and… Ashiwa of Essimea? But it was not the presence of Todakwa’s brother that left him speechless. When he saw the young woman smiling from the top of her mount, he gently stepped away from Yira, not believing his eyes. Instead of being dressed in luxurious Titiaka clothes, she was in a simple white tunic and a thick steppe cloak, but it was definitely her. Before he could say anything, Fayrah jumped to the ground and said:

“You were right, sîzan: Lanamiag Korfu was a fool. When he learned that Atasiag had concealed a necromancer, that idiot accused me of being a witch, threatened to repudiate me, and even admitted to me that he had ordered your murder. A fool,” she asserted. “So Father paid me the boat to Dazbon, and I stayed a few weeks in a very nice house and went to visit Zaadma and Rokuish and their triplets, they are lovely, and the people there are very kind, but… Nowhere is better than home,” she admitted in a whisper. “So, I came back to the steppe and… well, in the last few months I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, sîzan. I hope… I hope you will forgive me. I only thought I was following my Eternal Bird.”

Dashvara shook his head, smiling.

“You don’t know how glad I am that you are back, sîzin. There’s nothing to forgive. All I can say is… welcome back to your clan.”

He kissed her forehead gently and thought:

The only thing you forgot to bring me was Lusombra, Essimeans. But I guess everything can’t be perfect.

Between brothers and Essimeans, they exchanged news. Apparently, the Shalussi still had quarrels among themselves, and the Essimeans were doing nothing to resolve them. It was said that Lifdor of Shalussi had become a bandit.

“Strange pastime for such an honorable man,” Dashvara scoffed.

No one had heard from the Akinoas: since they had regained their freedom, they had gone north and did not seem to have any intention of returning. The captain commented:

“And it looks like young Kodarah wants to do the same. He says he’s going off on adventures to the east with Api and Tahisran to look for a certain magical little girl. He’s going to be our legend hunter,” he said with mocking pride. “Miflin is already composing a heroic ode in his honor.”

“I do what I want with my life, Captain,” the Hairy protested.

“Of course, my boy,” the captain assured. “I won’t be the one to stop you from following your Eternal Bird.”

Dashvara could not avoid looking at Kodarah with sincere surprise. He would have never guessed that the Hairy had an adventurous spirit. He himself had intended to travel to Mount Bakhia this summer, as soon as their herds got a little closer, but… would he go off to have adventures in the eastern lands, after all the trouble he’d had returning to the steppe? No way. Kodarah, however, was younger and was apparently dying to see the world.

“When are you leaving?” he asked.

“In two weeks,” Kodarah answered excitedly. “We’ll cross the Red Desert to the Kingdom of Deygat, in Iskamangra. Then we’ll cross the entire empire and get to the Bayland. Then we’ll go all the way to the Fire Republic. That’s where Tahisran comes from, so we won’t get lost. And maybe we’ll meet that ternian girl, Shaedra. She’ll help us look for the faerie. I mean, the girl. It won’t be easy to find her, Zamoy says I’m crazy… but I don’t care, I’m going with them,” he said.

His voice vibrated with anticipation. Dashvara could only wish him good luck and a safe journey. He had a feeling he wouldn’t see the Hairy again for a long time, but, as Namamrah said, every Eternal Bird makes its own way through the wide sky of life.

Dashvara nodded to himself, paused contemplatively, and turned his eyes to Yira and his daughter. He watched them for a moment before deciding that he now wanted to be alone with them and to be able to talk at length and enjoy their presence and fill the void that the absence of his naâsga had caused… His impatience was growing by the second, so, pointing with his thumb in the southern direction, he declared:

“I have some sheep to shear, my brothers. We shall meet again soon to have this famous counter-seal put on us…”

The farewells were made quickly and in a serene hubbub of voices. Fayrah assured them that she preferred to stay by the lake and that Shire Is Fadul had offered to take her in. As the riders rode away, Dashvara took Yira back into his arms, and after looking down at the little creature and admiring her for a few moments, fascinated, he asked:

“What did you name her?”

Yira pouted innocently.

“She was born at night, so… I named her Zrifa. It means night in the language of my homeland.”

Zrifa had just woken up and opened her eyelids. A red glow shone in her dark eyes. She let out a babbling. Dashvara smiled warmly. Yira whispered:

“She was born small but strong. I guess since her mother was a sursha, she couldn’t have been born bigger. Surshas give birth earlier than humans, but Zrifa really came early. Apparently she was burning to see her father,” she smiled. She bit her lip and, turning serious, she admitted, “I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to deliver anything alive. It was one of my greatest fears and as soon as I knew that… Well. I preferred to stay at the Temple. Daeya and Fayrah have been very helpful to me over the months. And Atasiag has sent me all sorts of gifts. I heard that Kuriag has hired him as his High Councilor.”

Dashvara gazed at her, drinking in her words. Then he smiled.

“Kuriag certainly needs a good advisor so that the civilized don’t eat him alive.”

They fell silent. A fresh wind swept across the steppe, carrying with it the scent of flowers, the sand of the Red Desert, and the distant sound of bleating. Then Yira remarked with amusement:

“Didn’t you have some sheep to shear?”

Dashvara nodded vigorously.

“Oh right. Yes. That’s true. But there’s no hurry. I’ll show you the yurt, it’s a bit austere at the moment, but we’ll fix it up little by little. Youk lives with me. I hope you don’t mind. He is a very nice boy. Liadirlá, I know what I’ll do. I have some wood left. I’m going to make a crib for Zrifa as soon as we get there.” He paused. “Can I hold her?”

He took the little colt in his arms. She had gone back to sleep. Dashvara preferred not to ask Yira about her fears, since they no longer existed. He didn’t want to think about the past: the only thing that mattered was that his Eternal Bird was flying in peace and not alone.

They spent the way back home talking about everything and anything. Night fell before they arrived, and Dashvara looked pensively at the stars and the Constellation of Scorpion. Then he heard Yira breathe in softly, looked down, and saw the cloud of alurhias that had just passed them. It swirled around, and suddenly, butterflies of light appeared, and the alurhias moved away a little before returning. Dashvara rolled his eyes as he saw Yira playing with them. When he saw lights landing on him, he shook his head and protested:

“It doesn’t count. They’re harmonies, not real alurhias.”

Yira smiled.

“I swear these ones are not harmonies.”

Dashvara gave her a skeptical look, and when Yira started blowing away the bugs that had landed on her, he laughed heartily.

“They are messengers of peace, naâsga. They don’t do any harm, on the contrary. They only bless you.”

Yira snorted loudly.

“I’ve had enough blessings for my entire life, Dashvara of Xalya,” she growled. “Get these bugs off me. I don’t want them anywhere near Zrifa.”

Dashvara laughed and did his best to scare the alurhias away before resuming the walk towards the distant light of the yurt. To their home.

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Author’s note: End of book 3. 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!