The Prince of the Sand

Book 1

Dashvara Trilogy

Kaoseto

Website:

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

Work under a Creative Commons By license.

2016, reworked in 2021, 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 Príncipe de la Arena.

1 A knight of the Dahars

“I’m going to diiiiie…!”

The cry, loud and desperate, rose from the clamor of the battle, soared to the top of the dungeon, and made the young Dashvara grimace painfully as he leaned against the battlement.

This is chaos, he thought.

Chaos as he had never seen. It wasn’t the first time that the dungeon of Xalya was besieged by the Shalussis. It wasn’t the first time, either, that the Essimeans attacked it. Nor that the Savages of Akinoa scorched it. But, as far as he knew, it had never happened that the Shalussis, the Essimeans, and the Akinoas attacked together. That was unthinkable. However, apparently, their chieftains were capable of thinking the unthinkable.

Who would have imagined that these savages would collude to destroy us? By the Eternal Bird! The blood of all of them is already far too stained with dishonor for me to be surprised. Yet, what interest did they have in attacking lands as little covetable as ours? They will plunder them, they will take everything of value and then leave behind them nothing but a graveyard.

Dashvara glared at the distant catapults and the columns of smoke, he contemplated the desolation that more than a thousand enraged men had left in their wake, and a grimace of disgust distorted his face, already twisted by tension.

What to do or not to do in a lost battle? he thought, stroking his beard.

They might still survive another two days. Maybe. Or maybe only some hours. It all depended on the Xalyas’ morale.

Morale, he pondered then, smiling gloomily. What morale can we hope for, surrounded as we are by monsters? We are already dead men. Maloven was right. We should have at least found a safe place for the children and the women. The Xalyas are tired of all of this. Tired of fighting, tired of killing. Tired of dying.

Nevertheless, however much they were tired of all that, they were not going to surrender. Not to ruthless savages. That would have been like surrendering to a scale-nefarious army.

We will die killing.

The Xalya soldiers were well known throughout the steppe for their courage and their skill in wielding sabers. During those last two decades, every Xalya man in the dungeon had had the honor of receiving intensive training… and most of them had been also honored repeatedly with actual field practice. But still, two hundred starving men could not fight a thousand.

A howl of pain rang out—the frightening howl of a dying archer, who fell over the wall screaming at the top of his lungs. Dashvara shuddered. Recalling the desperate shout of the one who had foreseen clearsightedly his own death, he joined both hands on the battlement with a bitter certainty.

You won’t be the only one to die, brother. He looked at the gates, which miraculously held on under the assault. Many will die. All of us will die. Don’t forget that, demented savages: Xalya soldiers do not surrender.

Dashvara knew that, as soon as the gates fell, his death would be sealed. The firstborn of the Dungeon Lord would not be allowed to live. Perhaps the savages would let his two sisters live if Lord Vifkan did not kill them both before so that they wouldn’t be used as slaves, but in any case, no savage chieftain would let a male of a hostile family alive. The next-to-last lord of the steppe had seen it for himself twenty years ago. And the last lord of the steppe would see it very quickly.

Father, if you had let me guide these men, I could have died honorably alongside my comrades.

He rolled his eyes at the thought. Die honorably, huh? There was no honorable death in a battle against savages. Each death caused by an Akinoa deserved the massacre of his whole clan of brainless monsters.

Suddenly, the crackles of catapults and the shouts died away and a sepulchral silence reigned. The Essimeans had stopped their machines, and now the only visible foes were the Akinoas in front of the walls, shaking like bloodthirsty beasts. It was said that their tribe came from the north. They were tall and strong men with black skin, all brandishing giant two-handed axes. A ten of them were grabbing chains and holding a huge, hairy troll. Lord Vifkan had always admired the blacksmithing skills of the Akinoas, as well as their skill to tame monsters. Actually, Dashvara’s father was a great admirer of anything that filled his son with repulsion.

Dashvara turned his eyes away from the wavy, dry lands, and gazed at the blue sky. Did they intend to wait until the night fell before resuming the attack? Or was the alliance between the Essimeans, Akinoas, and Shalussis dying so soon? Lord Vifkan had sent secret agents to reach an agreement with the Essimeans, but no one had returned, and the officers had assumed that they had been slain. However, the doubt would still subsist; an honorable man would have at least sent their heads back—but what honor could those savages have?

He looked back again at the wall walk and the soldiers. There were fewer and fewer of them, but he could have bet that there had been more casualties on the other side so far. Certainly, that was a cold comfort since the adverse faction was five times stronger.

Footsteps clacking against the stone stairs warned him that someone was approaching—probably a guard coming on Lord Vifkan’s orders to request him to shelter himself into the Dungeon. He was his firstborn, after all, the heir of the family, and his safety was a priority, was it not? Such consideration irritated Dashvara as there were so many wounded soldiers who needed at this moment more help than he did. Wasn’t a knight supposed to fight side by side with his brothers to protect the Xalya clan?

“Dashvara of Xalya,” pronounced the shaard’s authoritative voice, behind him.

The… priest? Dashvara thought, startled. He turned around and made a face of confusion. Before him, four soldiers of Xalya were standing behind Maloven. The old wise man had been serving the family forever. He was the only shaard guested in the Dungeon, and as far as Dashvara knew, he was also the last priest of the Eternal Bird in the whole Rocdinfer Steppe.

“Maloven. Can you tell me what happens?” he asked. The shaard had never ever been escorted by four swordsmen.

“The Dungeon is going to surrender,” the old man explained. “We’re going to avoid a massacre. And your father asks you to escape as a Shalussi prisoner. To this end, you must put on these handcuffs.”

For an instant, Dashvara was so shocked he wasn’t even able to react. He would have felt the same if Maloven had asked him to kneel in front of a dark orc and pledge allegiance. The shaard cleared his throat, and he was going to break the silence again, but then Dashvara recovered himself, and he roared.

“I’d chop your head off for saying that if you weren’t who you are,” he warned. “My father will never surrender.”

The shaard sighed.

“I knew it. Cooperate, Dashvara, or I will have no choice but to persuade you by force.”

Dashvara’s eyes widened at such an offense.

“Try to put these handcuffs on me, Maloven, and your corpse will end up feeding our pigs.”

The shaard turned slightly pale, but he easily regained his composure. He looked at the four soldiers, and these pounced as one on Dashvara. After a second of astonishment, the young man shouted:

“Treason!”

He leaped back, and skimming along the parapet, pulled the dagger from his belt and the dagger from his boots.

I am an idiot.

He had left his two sabers in the room, downstairs.

“What are you doing, Maloven?” he snarled while trying to stay away from the four soldiers. These guards were quite old, and Dashvara had not worked with them in any patrol, but still, he knew their names. They were supposed to be men of the Dahars who did not betray their Eternal Bird. And now they wanted to surrender and have a humiliating death? Damned cowards. He hissed. “You’re gonna pay for this.”

“Don’t resist,” replied the shaard. “I want to save your life. I just want to avoid a massacre. Calm down and listen to reason.”

“You madman!” Dashvara shouted. “They will kill us all anyway!”

For an instant, he thought of throwing himself over the parapet. Soon, he reasoned and judged it foolish. No doubt it was better to die trying to kill these traitors. He attacked one, but this one reacted fast: he hit his hand with his saber and made him lose a dagger. Dashvara screamed in pain and rage.

“You’ve just soiled the blood of your family with your vile treason, soldier!” he spit out.

He saw the man hesitate, and he took advantage of it: he pushed him, trusting that the guard would not impale him, and he got away from the circle. He ran as fast as he could toward the stairs, praying that no one would have knives to throw. Of course, they weren’t supposed to try to kill him but rather humiliate him by helping him escape.

“Damnation, stop him!” ordered Maloven.

They caught up with him when he began to go downstairs. Dashvara threw his dagger to one of them, who miraculously avoided the strike. Perhaps forgetting Maloven’s intentions, another soldier attacked seriously. Dashvara saw the saber blow coming, and the traitor would have probably slashed his chest if he hadn’t fled in an unexpected manner. While he was backing on the stairs, one of his boots stepped on nothing. The young man lost his balance and began to roll down the stairs, protecting his head as much as he could. Once down, he felt as though all his body had been crushed under a huge rock. A throbbing pain pulsed in his back and in one leg. Moreover, he noticed that his right shoulder was dislocated. Fortunately, he was still conscious.

Excellent diagnosis, he grumbled mentally with derision. And now: run.

He stood up and hobbled into the dungeon, hearing hurried footsteps from the stairs. In the room, he grasped his two sabers, which he had left on a corner of the table; or rather he tried to.

Oh, how I hate traitors.

Growling a curse, Dashvara finally decided to leave the second saber back, understanding that his right arm wasn’t in any condition to fight. Trying to ignore the pain, he ran to the door, which led to the upper floor of the dungeon. He turned the knob. Locked.

Ha. Nice going. That’s all I need. Brilliant, Maloven. He swore under his breath.

He heard the soldiers entering the room, and he punched the thick wood door with his bloody fist before turning and facing the four attackers like a trapped wolf. The soldiers stopped apprehensively. They knew the qualities of Lord Vifkan’s son. He was said to wield the saber as fast as a red snake, and that’s why he was called the Prince of the Sand.

The old shaard arrived behind them, breathless.

“Maloven!” Dashvara roared. “You who have always preached honor, faith, integrity, and virtue… you! You dare betray your own clan? Is this how you put into practice everything you taught me as a child?”

The old coward did not dare approach any closer than the soldiers had; he answered calmly:

“If you were a man of honor, you would save the families of these soldiers, your brethren, and everyone who trusts you to do everything for their good. Your duty is to save them,” he insisted.

“So that they serve savages?” Dashvara laughed loudly, enraged, and looked into the eyes of the man who had hesitated just before. “Are you going to surrender and let the savages decide the future of your wife, of your sons and daughters?” He glared at the soldier who had almost killed him, and he noticed the small burned mark on his cheek. He grinned fiercely. “Munderef, would you betray the son of the man who, despite the fact that you were a fugitive slave of the Essimeans, gave you safety and allowed you to become a free member of Xalya?”

None of the soldiers gave him an answer. He hissed, and Maloven spoke.

“The escape is already prepared, and Lord Vifkan has decided to negotiate the surrender.”

Dashvara gritted his teeth, his ears seething at the mere word “surrender”.

“There is no way my lord father has accepted the surrender,” he bellowed. “It’s just impossible.”

“A shaard never lies,” affirmed Maloven.

Dashvara looked him straight in the eye. The old man was convinced he was acting correctly.

“Then, that means Lord Vifkan went mad just like you,” he said finally, and he studied the five traitors’ faces, one by one. “You want me to surrender? I won’t. So if you are already dogs of the Shalussis, kill me here. Now. At least, I will die as a Xalya.”

Well, well, Dash, I love when you act in such a lofty way, a small inner voice murmured ironically. Maloven shook his head.

“Don’t be ridiculous. Sometimes the time comes when surrendering may be the right thing to do, Dashvara. To surrender because you’re facing an unavoidable outcome is not to surrender but to act wisely. Now put this saber down.”

Dashvara glowered at him.

“Are you giving me an order?”

“Just a piece of advice. Don’t pretend to be a knight, Dashvara. You’re still a child. You’re not even twenty. You can’t go against your father’s decision. He wants you to escape. And you shall escape, even though this means you have to pass yourself off as a Shalussi prisoner. Put on these handcuffs, and I will lead you to Lord Vifkan.” He paused. “Are you going to disobey your father?”

Dashvara’s heart was burning with rage. Rage because he simply could not send the Shalussis, the Essimeans, and the Akinoas a thousand leagues away. Rage because he could not protect anybody. And rage because his father did not even let him try anything.

Suddenly, he dropped his saber, and one of the soldiers moved forward almost with reverence to manacle him with the handcuffs. They replaced his dislocated shoulder, and Dashvara saw stars. Then they took off his blue headscarf and tousled his black mane. Under his deadly look, they ripped his white shirt, soiled him, and gave him some old and black Shalussi pants. These seemed to have belonged to a real Shalussi until recently. In a matter of minutes, Dashvara felt as if he had suffered the worst humiliation in his life.

“Death is preferable to that,” he groaned.

“Disobeying a father is worse than surrendering to an enemy,” Maloven replied.

“If you want me to cooperate, it would be better for you to shut up,” Dashvara hit back.

The old shaard shut up. He opened the door, and they went right to the Dungeon Lord’s chambers, walking through corridors barely illuminated by the arrowslits. When the shaard knocked at the door of Lord Vifkan, this one opened almost instantly. A strong man with a certain age and sharp features appeared in the doorway. He wore a leather armor and the white tunic of war.

“When I asked you to shake him a little, I didn’t believe you would really dare do it, Maloven,” he said. “He looks perfect,” he added as he saw Maloven turn pale. He stepped aside. “Come in, son. I have a few minutes to talk to you. After that, we’ll go out to deliver you with the Essimean prisoners. And during these few minutes please don’t speak. I need you to listen to me.”

Dashvara shut his mouth reluctantly and limped into the room. This one was simple without being rudimentary. It smelled of incense, courtesy of the Dungeon Lady. Dashvara’s mother was not especially refined, but she did like perfumes. And she also liked collecting the skulls of the hostile chiefs that her lord spouse had defeated. Dashvara averted his eyes from the shelves. That did not mean he feared death, not at all—he had seen it so many times—but he could not completely understand the point of such a collection.

His lord father turned to look at him as soon as he closed the door.

“All right, son. Today you have to be the strongest man of all,” he pronounced. “When we deliver you, you will survive, and we will die. But do not think I let you live by some weakness of the heart. I govern the Xalyas with honor and dignity. I would never let a son of mine be humiliated for anything if there wasn’t a good reason to do so. My son, I entrust a mission to you. And you mustn’t fail. You mustn’t.”

He loomed over Dashvara, glancing at his firstborn with an intimidating and earnest expression.

“I command you, as a man of Xalya and my son, to kill all the chieftains who caused the fall of the Xalya Dungeon with that perfidious alliance.” His black-as-night eyes sparkled. “Kill them all without exception. You know their names, don’t you?”

A heavy sadness overwhelmed Dashvara. He nodded.

“I do.”

“Lifdor, Qwadris, and Nanda, of the Shalussi tribe,” recited Lord Vifkan. “Shiltapi of the savage Akinoas. Todakwa of the Essimean clan. Kill them all,” he repeated, and he growled showing his teeth: “But before killing them, son, kill their families. Dishonor them as much as you can.”

Dashvara looked him in the eye, not knowing how to respond to this. However, there was only one possible answer. His father was not mad: he was just acting like a hopeless man thirsty for a revenge he could not complete. For a moment, he was about to ask him why he did not demand this disgraceful sacrifice from one of his three younger brothers and let him die on the field with his family, with his father. Showag was sixteen. He could also… ‘Today you have to be the strongest man of all.’ Dashvara had no doubt: what Lord Vifkan was ordering him to do was much harder than dying. He was ordering him to let his family die and join the hostile faction in a surreptitious and shameful manner. He was ordering him to kill the clan chieftains. Not to defeat the clans on a battlefield. He was ordering him to renounce the code of the Eternal Bird to carry out a vindictive and traitorous justice. He expected a bloody vengeance.

“If that is what you want, father,” Dashvara whispered in a dying voice.

“That’s what I want and what I command,” Lord Vifkan replied.

He put his hand on his son’s shoulder, and only a slight shivering informed Dashvara of all the tension that the lord of the Xalyas was keeping hidden.

“Your name is Odek of Shalussi,” he claimed. “You have neither wife nor children. Your parents are dead. You belonged to a family that was annihilated by Xalya bandits. You were captured when you were stealing in the Xalya lands and you were jailed a month ago. You hate the Xalyas, you don’t like the Essimeans, and you don’t trust the Akinoas. You’re a typical Shalussi: savage, unreliable, someone who works and betrays for money and who doesn’t even know the meaning of the word ‘honor’. You’re a damned, freaking Shalussi,” he spit, and a dreadful smile appeared on his face when he fingered at his son’s heart. “But deep down you will always be Dashvara of Xalya, son of Vifkan of Xalya and Dakia of Xalya, knight of the Dahars, Prince of the Sand, and fighter of the Wind. Answer me. Why does your father force you to live, Dashvara?”

Dashvara did not look away as he answered:

“So I can kill the chieftains of the Akinoa, Shalussi and Essimean clans.” He bowed his head and added: “So I can avenge the Xalyas.”

It was probably then that his father was convinced of how well Dashvara had understood what he was ordered to do. Making a gesture he had not made for many years, Lord Vifkan held him with an arm and embraced him with tenderness.

“There is no dishonor in this revenge,” he whispered. “If they attack assembling their armies against one clan alone, there is no rule, no mercy that can stop you. The chieftains of these clans are vile. And their children will be too. Don’t hurry. Infiltrate into the Shalussis’ lines and act like them. Learn their combat techniques and don’t show yours. Learn to be clever, my son. Be cautious like a snake. And when the time has come to kill, do it.”

He stepped back, and after regarding his son for the last time, he went to open the door. Maloven was awaiting there with some guards.

“Deliver the prisoners,” he declared to the guards. “And put the shaard in jail. You can insist all you like, Maloven, but cowardice is neither part of my flaws nor of my men’s. We are not going to surrender. We’ll feign negotiate by delivering the prisoners. If we must die, friends, we will die stylishly. If you want to live as a slave, it is your problem, but then it would be better for you if they find you in a cell when the dungeon falls.”

The old priest went extremely pale. He did not answer, and a guard led him away. Turning to Dashvara, Lord Vifkan slightly inclined his head, and his eyes glowed.

“All the Xalyas trust you… Lord of the steppe.”

Dashvara could not think what to say. He was surrounded by the Xalya guards, who looked wan and tense but unquestionably dignified. In such a company, he went to what seemed to him to be a death in life.

* * *

The charge led by Lord Vifkan out of the dungeon inspired respect even in the savages. They went out and rushed forward with all the cavalry, desperately. First, they endured the catapult rocks. Then, they suffered the arrows. The horsemen were about a hundred, and a certain number fell before reaching the front line of the Akinoas. However, once there, they caused a lot of casualties.

From the Shalussi tent intended for the injured, Dashvara stared at the battle with an expression as fixed as that of an inanimate statue. His brother Showag’s red helmet lay on the battlefield near a catapulted rock. His lord father, unhorsed, was fighting among his loyal warriors, waving his two sabers against the huge war axes. Dashvara saw him die, and he saw how all the Akinoas and the Shalussis hastily ran to the broken gates of the dungeon, howling savagely. Immediately, screams and shrieks of horror started to pierce the evening. With the eyes wide open, Dashvara swallowed a deep breath of air. He understood that, even though there were no more warriors in the dungeon, the Akinoas weren’t going to stop until the last Xalya soul ceased to exist or surrendered. A frozen fire was burning within him.

The Dungeon was already taken by the savages when unexpectedly the Essimeans began to withdraw. Didn’t they want to get a part of the ruin they had left behind? Dashvara soon gave up on trying to find a reason for anything.

“They tortured you a lot, didn’t they?” suddenly asked the healer who had healed his wounded hand. Her gaze was… merciful?

Impossible, Dashvara thought.

“Damned Xalyas,” he only said. He staggered, and he fell awkwardly to the ground, before the healer’s tent, on the dry grass. “Damned, freaking Xalyas,” he muttered, his mind on fire.

The healer shrugged.

“You’ll get well—unlike the people inside the dungeon. I doubt that they’ll ever get well, if it reassures you.”

For a moment, he thought about ripping out that Shalussi woman’s tongue so hard that he believed he had stood up to do it. Lifdor, Qwadris, and Nanda, of the Shalussi clan. Shiltapi of the Akinoa clan. Todakwa of the Essimean clan. Like a litany, he repeated these names over and over. ‘Be cautious like a snake.’ It was getting dark, and the red sun covered with blood the white stones of the Xalya dungeon. Gazing at the sky, with his thoughts petrified, he came to the conclusion that life was a cursed illusion. A dream which breaks at the slightest sound. All the rest was emptiness.

Later, he looked away from the dusky sky, and he saw several lines of prisoners going out of the Dungeon, escorted by the Shalussis and the Akinoas. There were men among them, but most were women and children. After all that bloodbath, it was a solace to know that, at least, the savages intended to take prisoners.

Maybe one day they’ll manage to escape, he thought hopefully, straightening. He batted his eyelids. Perhaps we should have surrendered before, like Maloven said. He is a wise man, and he was usually right about a lot of things… He repelled the thought. Lamenting now was utterly useless. And it was useless, too, to want to tell Lord Vifkan that his hopeless charge would have been more proper to a pack of beasts than a group of Xalyas. And that this vengeance was more typical of a crazy man than of an heir of the steppe. All in all, when a man sees death coming, he is no longer a Xalya, nor a man, nor anything. And when a man has lost everything that matters to him, he is even less than that. And if he has a final wish he can cling onto, he clings onto it. Because that is all he has left.

The lines were divided and distributed. Some Shalussi men approached, pushing forward a queue of prisoners only made up of women. When Dashvara discerned among them a very familiar face, he felt dizzy, and he did not even know how to react. They had captured Fayrah, his eighteen-year-old sister. They had robbed him of everything. His patrol comrades. His parents. His family. His dreams. His entire life. And now they seized Fayrah.

He let himself fall onto the ground with a feeling of complete, endless, and terrible emptiness. He was finally utterly convinced that he had changed into a cold and dead statue. He didn’t know how long he stayed there, lying on the ground, gazing at the sky without seeing it, letting the pain overpower him, crush him, and freeze his blood to death. Afterwards, strong hands gripped him and led him into the healer’s tent. He let the savages guide him as one guides a lost child. That is what I am, he thought. He was not a knight of the Dahars anymore. He was not a Xalya of the Eternal Bird. He was Odek. A savage.

A damned Shalussi.

2 The caravan of death

“You’ve done a good job, boys,” captain Zorvun commended as the Xalya patrol arrived breathlessly on their horses. On the nearby hill, the scaled corpses of the creatures were starting to spark, and soon, they would explode, leaving only ashes behind.

Recovering his breath, Dashvara patted his horse’s neck and glanced at his comrades. They had spent three weeks following the trail of a nadre herd that had devastated a Xalya farmhouse; the relief of all of them at seeing these beasts vanquished was almost tangible. At last, they would be able to return to the dungeon.

The first nadre exploded. Lately, some of them burst as soon as they died; that is why the captain had ordered to spatter them with cold-oil using a trap before attacking. The fight had turned out well: no warrior had gotten serious injuries… Well, his cousin Miflin, one of the Triplets, had twisted his wrist. These three boys certainly didn’t lack guts or enthusiasm, but they still had so much to learn. Especially Miflin.

Suddenly, a fresh breeze rose. Awaking from the torpor after the battle, Dashvara gave a heavy look at the west. The sun was disappearing beneath the horizon, painting in red the Rocdinfer Steppe.

When the last explosion died away, the captain got off his horse, and all of them did the same. They set up the camp, cleaned their injuries, and prepared dinner. This night, the captain was gloomy. Something worries him, Dashvara guessed, as he was sitting by the fire. It wasn’t so hard to know what troubled him: they had had no news of Sashava’s patrol for a week. But Sashava has more men than us, he thought. Nothing bad could have happened to him, could it? Makarva recalled him from his reflections when he put his katutas board on a reversed pot.

“Who’s up for a game?” he asked. “Lumon, of course. What would we do without your damned good luck? Dash? You too, right?” He pulled an innocent face as he continued: “Sigfen? No? Sure? Oh! You’re not intending to abandon us, are you? With four people, it is funnier,” he protested.

“I have not forgiven you your dirty tricks yet,” Sigfen grumbled.

“Bah! I hope you’re not talking about the pawn I moved by accident, huh? I just wanted to know if you were paying attention, that’s all. I promise you I will be a gentleman this time,” Makarva swore. His mischievous smile didn’t inspire confidence in anyone at all. He sighed. “Yuck. You’re as stubborn as a stone, Sig. Placid! Sit down and play. This time you won’t escape. Where are the dice?”

“I have them,” Dashvara said as Boron the Placid settled down, smiling calmly. Makarva craned his neck to inspect the dice.

“Which have you brought?” he muttered.

Dashvara smiled and threw the dice on the board. One and five.

“The normal ones,” he answered. “Don’t you see I haven’t got two six?”

“Aw man. Do you have the others? I think I’ve lost them.”

“I bet my hair that a red nadre had run off with your dice,” Miflin intervened, installing himself with his two brothers to follow the game. The bet was an old silly joke: out of the three triplets, Zamoy and Miflin were born hairless; on the contrary, Kodarah had a black and impressive mane.

Dashvara replied:

“Bah, red nadres don’t cheat, cousin. Sigfen must surely keep them for the day he decides to take his revenge.”

“Or it can be Lumon,” this last one hazarded with an uninterested grimace; he was sitting not far. “It’s not for nothing that he is said to be lucky.”

The targeted person smiled mysteriously.

“Since when to be lucky is to cheat?” he replied.

“Since you play katutas with us,” Makarva gave back without hesitation.

They started to play. Soon, Boron the Placid began to yawn, and Dashvara copied him unconsciously. Makarva complained:

“Eternal Bird, stop yawning!” And he yawned too. Zamoy said:

“Kodarah, I bet my breakfast that the next to yawn will be the Placid.”

“You’re on,” Kodarah accepted. Zamoy grumbled when Dashvara yawned again without even doing it on purpose. The Maneman giggled. “You’ve lost your breakfast, bro.”

The games of katutas were usually that chaotic.

The Placid was moving a piece and just capturing a Dashvara’s pawn when a sentinel warned that a rider was coming. This one emerged from the night riding faster than it was safe. He dismounted and headed straight to the captain.

“It’s your move, Lumon,” Makarva reminded.

“Yeah, I know…” this one said, lowering his eyes.

As he would be the next, Dashvara focused his attention on the game while the captain and the messenger were talking quietly. Bad news, he predicted.

The captain confirmed that quickly when he went toward the two fires and barked boisterously:

“Break camp! The savages are marching towards the dungeon.”

Dashvara raised his eyebrows. Another attack? Lately, the savages had definitely developed a taste for the Xalya lands. He stood up with promptness. If Dashvara had learned one thing during these six years of being a patrol, it was to obey the captain’s orders without question. To be sure, he was the firstborn of Lord Vifkan, but to the captain and his companions, the fact was irrelevant: he was still a Xalya like everyone else. With efficiency, they kept the katutas, took their effects, and extinguished the fires. The horses snorted restlessly, guessing that the workday had not finished yet.

They were climbing onto their mounts when Lumon asked the messenger:

“How many are they?”

It was the captain who answered:

“About a thousand.”

* * *

During the days following the massacre of the Xalya Dungeon, Dashvara pretended to heal.

There were disorders between the Akinoas and the Shalussis to distribute the Dungeon and the lands. Moved by a foolish ambition, Qwadris of Shalussi tried to betray the Akinoas and slaughter them during the night, but eventually, he became the one betrayed: before dawn, two tens of mercenaries changed to the side of the Akinoas after murdering Qwadris and his captain in his own tent.

One less, Dashvara thought as he walked slowly through the barren steppe of Xalya. He was following a caravan of Shalussis without saying a word. After distributing the part of the gained plunder, the clan decided to go back home and let the Akinoas and the betrayers barricade themselves in the dungeon: apparently, they judged that the Xalya lands were no longer useful.

You miserable rats. Damn thieves. Assassins… His mind reviewed all the possible synonyms that might describe the horror these savages had perpetrated. At least the Essimeans had only assaulted with their catapults and hadn’t taken anything. Who knew if they had done so to honor their Death God or simply to annihilate those who represented, because of their blood, the tyranny of the last king of the steppe.

Dashvara felt empty. He had cried during the nights, but crying did not relieve his suffering. He had promised himself he would stand up and kill the Shalussi chieftains once and for all. But then he always recalled his father’s words. He had to not hurry. He had to be cautious. He had to be dignified. Anguish and hatred were finally replaced by a deep emptiness and an icy anger.

It took two days until they went into the Shalussi territory and another two days until they arrived in Nanda’s village. At the beginning of the journey, he didn’t speak with anyone. He responded to the comments only with grumbles. He received the meal as if they were giving him poison. His Xalya life was over, and although he knew that he was still the son of the lord those warriors had killed, he did not manage to identify with this rather macabre and sarcastic young man of ironic nature and strict principles. The little of his childhood that might linger had vanished. Two days later, when a woman offered him more decent clothes, he refused them with a rude gesture.

“You’re not totally right in the head, are you?” she said. Her deep dark brown eyes looked at him naughtily. “But it doesn’t matter. This ripped shirt suits you amazingly,” she teased, moving her face closer to the Xalya. She smelled strong of flowers. A shiver ran through his body as the woman added in the same teasing tone: “I’m Zaadma. And you?”

As he did not answer, she smiled and said:

“If you weren’t blinking, I would think I’m talking to a wall.”

She moved away in her red dress with a flashy walk, and Dashvara made a face of repugnance as he realized what this woman was doing in the middle of a troop of Shalussis.

You bloody savages.

All of them were. The Essimeans were fanatics of the Death God. The Akinoas were barbarian warriors who had been wandering for years in search of a land to defend with the blows of their axes. As for the Shalussis, they were the savages of gold. They were capable of selling everything for this metal, except their weapons. It was even said that they were capable of selling their wives and children to the merchants who came from beyond the Dazbon Republic. The Shalussi men sold their honor at the price of the grass. And it seemed the women did the same.

Savages, he thought again, his heart as lifeless as a stone.

That Zaadma spent all day watching him intently. Dashvara shot her deadly glares, but she did not get scared.

When the sun set and the armed caravan halted, Zaadma left him in peace. The campfires were lit, but instead of approaching them, Dashvara sat down, leaning back on the wheel of a carriage, and he lifted his gaze to the sky, where a shining Moon was gleaming. Soon, the healer woman came to bring him the dinner, a bowl full of hot rice; surprised that they had not forgotten him, Dashvara nodded silently as he took it. When the woman left, he looked at her. She was relatively older than Zaadma, and there were gray locks in her black hair. He saw her talking lively with some warriors; at some point, she let out a laugh, and some men smiled. They seemed to treat her with respect, he observed.

He glanced at the farthest tents, where they kept the hostages. Where they imprisoned Fayrah. What if he managed to save her? he wondered. What if he managed to free her and steal a horse, and then he galloped to the south, to the city of Dazbon? It was said that it was doable to hide even a whole clan there. Two people could easily hide. He ought to be cautious like a snake, yes, but snakes were also effective.

However, first, he needed a saber.

He put on the ground the bowl not even touched, and he stood up. Even as he began walking, he heard the soft clearing of a throat.

“Know what? You look like a dead man who has just been buried.”

Dashvara snorted and turned to look at Zaadma. The young woman sat on the rear of one of the wagons, her arms folded.

“Come on! You’ll never say anything?”

You’ll never leave me alone? he replied mentally.

He turned his back and walked toward the fires.

“You’re a Shalussi hard to convince, aren’t you?” Zaadma commented. She was following him. “You look like you had lost a battle. You’re supposed to have won one, all of you, right? Aren’t you pleased to be free? Or perhaps you have always been that talkative? Hold on a minute… Hell! Have the Xalyas ripped your tongue out?”

Zaadma blocked his way, and Dashvara stepped backwards abruptly.

“Get back!” he hissed.

The mindless stupid girl laughed.

“One point for me: you still have a tongue. Now I just need to…”

“Get lost,” the Xalya coldly rumbled.

Something in his voice frightened Zaadma, but she recovered herself quickly.

“You have a bad temper, Shalussi,” she noticed. While Dashvara kept walking, she continued: “Around the fires, there are plenty of boys ready to offer good coins in return for my favors, you know that? And all of them have the purses full… and you haven’t. Tell me, what’s your name?”

Dashvara would have gladly gagged her, tied her hands, and put her in a cart until the dawn.

“Odek,” he answered finally under his breath. “Odek of Shalussi.”

“Odek!” she cried, smiling. “I knew an Odek in Dazbon. He was my first true love. A saint. But he died. You don’t know how I envy these Xalyas,” she sighed. “Dazbon is a dream city. I should have never fallen in love with that Shalussi. That one wasn’t an Odek, but an Aldek.” She laughed softly. “What funny names you have, you Shalussis. So, the thing is that Aldek took me to his village to live together as husband and wife. And after not even a few months, he died too, in a stupid duel, and he left me alone in the middle of nowhere, with some goats and a mud hut smaller than a wagon.”

Dashvara stroke his beard thoughtfully while Zaadma was prattling.

“So they’re taking them to Dazbon?” he whispered.

“You mean the Xalyas? Yes. Well, Nanda will intend to sell them to a slave trader, a foreigner from Diumcili, you know, the federated state, in the south. The federates pay mountains of gold.”

Well, at least they are expensive slaves, Dashvara wanted to reply sarcastically. He stopped.

“And exactly what does that trader want to do with them?” he inquired.

Zaadma raised an eyebrow.

“Do you really care about it?”

Dashvara glanced at her annoyingly. He wanted to say: You ask me if I care? Not at all: I will free the Xalyas before that scum can even see them. But he just said:

“I just ask it to talk about something.”

“Oh! Don’t worry, you don’t need to talk about anything with me. Truth to tell, I’ve already wasted enough time. One cannot live on curiosity alone. Have a good night, Odek of Shalussi,” Zaadma said, waving at him with mocking deference.

Dashvara saw her going toward the fires, and he kept in his mind the troubling image of her beautiful dark brown eyes. After glancing at the prisoners’ tent, he looked again at the Moon.

Don’t hurry.

First of all, he had to learn to act only after thinking deeply about the consequences, as captain Zorvun did. One mistake might cause not only his death, which honestly no longer scared him that much, but also the assassins’ impunity. He had to concentrate on that, he repeated.

Deep down, he fervently wanted to grasp some sabers and use them in that camp to death. But that, besides being idiotic and barbarian-like, wouldn’t punish the Akinoas and the Essimeans. Dashvara sighed.

All right, father. You ask me to revenge ourselves on the chieftains. Okay. But what do the children have to do with all that? Don’t you think it is, er, well, I don’t know, to act just as roughly as the savages?

He had no doubt that Lord Vifkan was a man of the Dahars; but he belonged to another generation, and he did not always have the same view of honor as his son. Actually, there were a lot of things both of them had never agreed about.

“Don’t think about them,” he whispered. And he tensed up, suddenly realizing that he had spoken in Oy’vat, the Wise Tongue, the speech of the Ancient Kings. If the Shalussis caught him speaking so, he would survive in this camp as long as a spark. Keep calm. You will go only so far if you lose your sanity and your self-control, Dash.

He began to walk toward the tent where Fayrah was, without sabers or any other weapon, and without any idea about what he was going to do. There were two guards before the tent. Not even a sound came out from this one, as if the prisoners were gagged, asleep, or… dead. But that did not make sense, he reasoned: there was no way they would kill them after forcing them out of the dungeon to sell them.

One of the guards looked at him up and down.

“What the hell are you looking at?” he inquired finally.

Dashvara gazed at him, shrugged without even blinking, then let out:

“How many are they?”

Both guards exchanged a glance.

“Man! It’s none of your business, is it?” replied the same who spoke before. “You’re the Xalyas’ prisoner, aren’t you? You won’t receive even a grain of gold. You didn’t take part in the assault. Nanda is the one who sent us to capture the girls, and only those who work for him will get a bounty, is it clear?”

It is clear, you ignorant pig.

Dashvara nodded silently, then wordlessly turned around and moved away. He would not free Fayrah that night. Anyway, he could not save her without saving the others. These were Xalyas too, and he bet that some of them had attended Maloven’s lessons in childhood, as he did. He would not abandon them.

He went back to the wagon next to where he had left the bowl. The rice was cold now, but he ate it regardless. One after the other, the names of the assassins went through his mind. Lifdor and Nanda, of Shalussi. Shiltapi of Akinoa. Todakwa of Essimea… He closed his eyes. They were four. Only four. That did not make up for the crime, but did that actually matter? His father had ordered him to do it. And he would. He opened his eyelids and gazed at the cold Moon of the night; then, he lowered his eyes to his hands, and a fierce grin twisted his lips.

For the sake of the Xalyas, of my father and my family, I swear that I, Dashvara of Xalya, will kill you all.

3 The White Hand

The next morning, when he awoke, lying next to the food wagon, Dashvara found a black shirt painstakingly folded beside him. It was the same one Zaadma had brought to him the day before. Sighing, he took off the ripped white shirt and pulled on the other. This one was not new, but it looked clean and was in much better condition. There was also a traditional Shalussi black headscarf, and he only wavered a little before adjusting it around his head. When the caravan resumed the march, he noticed Zaadma’s gentle, knowing smile. Dashvara would have gladly cast her in the prisoners’ wagon.

When they penetrated the Shalussis’ territories, the warriors began to disperse in groups. Lifdor, the most important Shalussi chieftain, headed for his village, followed by his warriors and his stolen horses; while all of these were drawing away, Dashvara looked at them with a frozen heart then followed the wagon with the prisoners, led by Nanda of Shalussi. From what a warrior said, Nanda did not want to make the Xalyas walk. Considering the greed and the ambition of these people, perhaps the Shalussi chieftain merely didn’t want his wares to lose value by getting sick or sunburned.

Dashvara had no trouble identifying that evil bastard. And not for the clothes, since these looked quite similar to his men’s: Nanda wore a dark tunic, black boots, loose-fitting pants, a belt, and a saber… But his belt was adorned with silver, and the saber had precious stones on its hilt; two big necklaces of pure gold hung around his Shalussi thick neck.

A Xalya could never have such bad taste, Dashvara thought.

When they crossed a large, shallow river, he realized that they were very close to Nanda’s village. They saw farmhouses appear, and the landscape changed abruptly. There were no longer plains covered with dry grass and sand soil, sprinkled with stunted plants. Now there were holm oaks, carob trees, bushes, and big shrubs with blue berries and leaves with a strong scent. The Shalussis’ lands were rich. That was why the Xalyas had always trusted that their own lands would never attract the Shalussis or the Essimeans. Of course, for decades, they had had to confront the savages, the bandits, and the steppe creatures; for centuries, they had endured the plagues, the summer droughts, and the dry winter cold. The Xalya people had survived everything but greed.

As they progressed, some farmers approached the caravan and received money, the selfsame treasure that had been plundered in the Xalya Dungeon; Dashvara was surprised to see the sudden generosity of the warriors. The cattle breeders and the peasants left, carrying money, jewels, and others stolen goods, not giving anything in return. And the warriors seemed satisfied.

“You look surprised.”

Dashvara jerked up slightly; when he turned, he saw two big, dark brown eyes. He grunted but didn’t answer.

“Don’t your people offer gifts to the food makers in return for their work?” Zaadma asked.

“The food makers?” Dashvara echoed, raising an eyebrow. “You mean those who work the land?”

Zaadma’s eyes narrowed.

“Yes… Indeed.” She cast a mild smile at him, and without adding anything, she walked away with an odd expression on her face.

Dashvara got troubled.

Something I said has surprised her, he guessed. Something that had made her think that Odek of Shalussi didn’t know things he was supposed to know. A small, silly voice inside his mind advised him to kill Zaadma, but he didn’t listen to it.

I’m not a savage. If I have to kill, I’ll do it to survive, not because of vague suspicions, he decided.

They arrived in the village before nightfall. It was a hamlet on a hill, with white houses and courts as there were in Xalya. They were scattered, surrounded by grass, soil, and sheep flocks. At the foot of the hill, the same river they had crossed slid to the southwest, stroking stones and reflecting the last rays of the evening sun.

A cluster of children ran downhill from the village to greet the warriors, and these embraced them, laughing and singing a triumphal tune. Three children, however, stayed away with solemn and grave faces, searching for their fathers, to no avail. A bit surprised, Dashvara saw Nanda approaching them and patting them on the head with a fatherlike hand. It seemed as if… as if the Shalussis of this village formed a united family, like the Xalyas’.

The Shalussi chieftain did not utter a word, but at that instant, Dashvara felt a shadow of compassion for those children. All in all, they were humans, even though they were savages.

All the queue dispersed, and each Shalussi man went back home. The wagon carrying the Xalyas was led to the top of the hill, escorted by Nanda and another five warriors who must be his most loyal men.

I’ll probably have to kill these too, Dashvara thought as he followed them, barely looking around.

The wagon stopped in front of a two-storied house. Dashvara saw the prisoners go into the building without putting up any resistance. Did they have renounced freedom so soon? he wondered sadly. Unconsciously, he stepped forward, and one of the guards turned to him and stood in his way. He was the same he had talked to in front of the tent, last night.

“Where are you going?” he snapped. “Do you think that Nanda will take care of you in his own house only because the Xalyas have imprisoned you? Come on, my friend, move on. Get yourself home, wherever you come from. I’m sure you have a family that cares for you. Move along,” he persisted.

Dashvara looked at the man’s belt. He bore a saber and a dagger.

I could snatch your weapons and make you shut your mouth, you savage rat, he growled inside his mind.

He may not have as much war knowledge as Zorvun, the Xalya captain and master-at-arms, did, but with a saber, he could cause terrible ravages. However, acting rashly seldom brings any good.

“You look more sluggish than a sheep in a desert,” the Shalussi taunted. “Hey, Walek! Wait, you’re not planning on going home now, are you? Come back, let us help this poor boy and see if he perks up. Come on, son, come with us.”

He had approached him, laying a hand on Dashvara’s shoulder; the Xalya stiffened but hesitated to react. He could not make a mistake now. He remembered that his father had ordered him to act like the Shalussis so as not to arouse suspicions.

What an excellent piece of advice, father, but I wonder if you yourself would be able to act as one of these savages.

When the second Shalussi, Walek, took hold of his other shoulder with a kind expression, he let them draw him to a building different from the others, with a picture of a white hand painted on the door. As soon as he entered, he regretted not having resisted. He was immediately overwhelmed by smothering smells of strange herbs, which made him dizzy instead of “perking him up”. A slow-paced piece of guitar music was gliding lazily in the stifling smoke that shrouded all the room. Right after they had gone in, the music stopped.

“What the hell is that smoke?” Dashvara coughed. He blinked. The establishment danced before his eyes.

“Why, he can speak!” Walek laughed.

“Take a good breath, boy,” the other said, following his own advice. “These are herbs directly imported from Diumcili. That’s how gold and glory smell after a battle.”

Yeah sure! This place is rather a bloody den of vipers, Dashvara thought. He confirmed it when he saw a smiling, rosy face coming into view, through a green smoke spiral.

“Silkia! Fima!” the woman called loudly. “They’re back!”

Dashvara stopped dead and struggled with both warriors’ arms to get free. He would have never imagined that the Shalussis would be so “refined” to appreciate a foul air corrupted by drugs. As far as he knew, it was a pastime for the south people.

“Well, you’re already perking up a bit, but now stop shaking!” Walek complained without releasing him. “Let me buy you a drink. I’m sure you will cheer up after breathing this air for some minutes.”

Dashvara had no intention of staying here a second more. He perceived footsteps coming from the stairs as well as two women’s voices. With a pull, he finally wrenched himself free of the two warriors.

“Go deep to hell!” he rumbled.

He moved backwards to the door, and Walek and his companion shrugged. The latter replied:

“Go to hell yourself, boy. That’s too bad for you.”

“He seems to be as boring as Zefrek,” Walek gasped, sounding amused.

“Waleeek!” one of the three women yelled in a voice filled with emotion. “You don’t even imagine how much I missed you!”

“Oh! My dear Silkia!” the warrior laughed happily. “I missed you too.”

Dashvara was getting out of the establishment, walking backwards, when he suddenly hit a thing as hard as a stone. He turned and stood amazed. In front of him was a rock of flesh. A human being taller than seven feet, with iron muscles and a steel jaw, was looking at him, half-closing his small eyes. Oh, no, no, wait, is this really a human? It was huger than Arvara, one of his patrol comrades.

With his mouth open, Dashvara gaped at him and drew another breath of that disgusting substance that was floating in the whole store’s air. He coughed and tried to go around the well-built beast, but this one blocked him.

“No one leaves without paying. It’s the rule.”

It seemed to Dashvara that his voice made even the earth quake. He blinked, dazed. Then, he looked down and saw an enormous paw presenting its palm.

“Paying?” he echoed.

“Let him go, Shamvirz!” said a woman voice. “He hasn’t even drunk anything.”

The said Shamvirz knitted his eyebrows, and without moving back his hand, he suddenly gripped Dashvara by the collar and pulled him closer to his own face. The Xalya swallowed hard.

By the Eternal Bird, this beast could crush me with only one hand, he realized.

“And why did you not drink?” Shamvirz asked.

In a corner of his mind, Dashvara thought that the brain of that colossus was very likely inversely proportional to his mass. With a twisted smile on his face, he tried to answer in the most concise way not to breathe more than it was absolutely necessary.

“I don’t feel like it. I only want to leave.”

Shamvirz shook him, squinting his small eyes.

“I don’t hear you. Speak louder!”

Dashvara winced and attempted to get free, without success: Shamvirz’s grip was as iron as a steel hook. He glared at him. He was starting to feel seriously furious.

Don’t get upset, he admonished himself, clenching his jaw. Just don’t breathe.

“Let him go, Shamvirz!” a woman said.

“Wait, no!” said another one. “Bring him to me, Sham.”

“What? Silkia!” Walek exclaimed indignantly. “Get him out of here, Shamvirz. He wanted to leave, in any case.”

Silkia said something about how stupid the jealous men were, while Shamvirz correctly put Dashvara down back to the ground with an expression of uncertainty on his face. Keep hesitating, big boy… The Xalya made use of the opportunity: he pushed himself forward in a rush of despair, passed by the colossus… and crossed the threshold. He filled his lungs with clean air, then staggered and ran downhill, followed by the surprised looks of a knot of children. When he arrived at the river, he fell on his knees and spit out:

“Shalussis.” He washed his face, trying to rub off this stinking smell that was dulling his senses.

Walek was a murderer. As well as all the comrades with whom he had returned. He had killed Xalyas. As all of them had. And he did not even feel a precious little regret. Of course he doesn’t, how could he feel it? He is a savage.

As the sky darkened, Dashvara looked up at the top of the trees and their twisted branches. In the dusky silence, he pronounced:

“Lifdor and Nanda. Shiltapi. Todakwa.” His jaw clenched when he added: “Walek. And all the other warriors.”

And all the murderers of the whole Hareka, while you’re at it… And the last on the list will be you.

Obviously that wasn’t reasonable. But, in a certain way, it was more impartial than his father’s revenge. Sure, it was the clan headmen who had set up the attack. But each warrior who had assaulted the dungeon had taken part in the massacre. All of them were guilty. All of them had profited from the bounty.

True, but in a battle against the savages, people kill and plunder, what do you expect? It’s the main rule, after all. To kill, live, and win. Or to kill, die, and lose. The only solace is that, at the very end, everyone must die.

The thought didn’t especially cheer Dashvara, and it didn’t even help him soothe the rage that was consuming him. He knew that the uncontrolled wrath was counter-productive, but he couldn’t help it: after spending entire days with a heart as cold as death, he felt as though the flame of life was resurrecting inside him; however, by then, the flame cried only for vengeance. His fists clenched around invisible sabers.

I’d better try to calm down a bit, he thought, breathing quickly. A red snake doesn’t get overexcited like that, and it attacks when one expects it the least. He had always been a cautious man, not very patient, but not very given to act foolishly either. He had to get over all that had happened and become again the same Dashvara as before. One did not fight well with confused thoughts.

Night fell, fresh under the soft wind gusts. Dashvara drew away from the river and returned next to Nanda’s house. He wondered in which room the prisoners were being kept. He wanted to see Fayrah again, with her funny and shy smiles. He knew her well. She was two years younger than him, and both had played together when they were little, along with their brother Showag. They had shared secrets and tales, discovered the dungeon secret passages, and attended Maloven’s long lessons. Later on, when he had been fourteen winters, his lord father had named him as a patrol. Thereafter, Dashvara had spent more time in the steppe and the neighboring farmhouses than in the dungeon. Soon, he had realized that their childhood was over. Fayrah had become a shy and lovely girl, more ingenuous—if that was possible—than when she was eight. As for Dashvara, he had met a Steppe Thief, whipped bandits, fought monsters, and cut off the head of a criminal before Lord Vifkan’s merciless eyes.

They both had followed very different paths.

I need someone to talk with, he suddenly told himself. I need to stop thinking and remembering.

He wanted to go into Nanda’s house and talk to Fayrah. He wanted to tell her that things would get better, that she was not alone, and that he would take care of her come what might. Nevertheless, something kept him from even attempting to talk to her. It wasn’t a fear of being discovered. Actually, he was afraid that his wish to put her in safety would utterly destroy the anger simmering inside him. He needed to control that anger and kindle its fire to keep going. He needed it so that his hand wouldn’t tremble when the time came.

Like a shadow, he sneaked away from Nanda’s house and slipped downhill again. He avoided a watchman, and suddenly realizing he was weary, he sat down against the bark of a tree and fell asleep.

4 The chain link

Lifdor, Nanda, Shiltapi, and Todakwa just unsheathed their sabers and were looking around nervously in the barren steppe. Their eyes glowed with fear. His two sabers in hand, Dashvara was moving furtively under the Moon rays. He could see all the chieftains with a diurnal clarity. His face was not smiling, but within him, his heart was laughing just at seeing them exchanging suspicious glances, not even imagining that a shadow was going to kill them all. He raised a saber, and he hit the first throat. He jumped away even before he heard the gurgling sound of a man choking on his own blood, and he killed the next. Lifdor, Nanda, Shiltapi… All of them died. Dashvara turned as fast as a bolt, dodged Todakwa’s mortal blade strike, and leaped at the Essimean. A black moon appeared on the last throat. Todakwa collapsed to the ground, soundlessly. The Prince of the Sand drew himself up before the four murderers. A cold wind blew in the Rocdinfer steppe. All of them had died.

“Wake up, you sleepyhead brat!”

Dashvara woke up in a start and raised his hands to ward off any possible attack. Right after, he realized that he had no saber, and he gazed at Zaadma with an annoyed face.

“What did I do to you to suffer such a pursuit?”

“A pursuit?” she replied briskly. “For your information, this olive tree is my olive. It has never happened to me before that someone has fallen asleep in my yard. Get up,” she commanded.

Dashvara complied, glancing around with a surprised look. It was already daylight for maybe two hours. He was on a small elevation, not far from the river. About forty paces away, he saw a nice, white stone house surrounded by multicolored flowers. The jasmine fragrance was so strong he didn’t quite understand how he hadn’t suspected anything when he had fallen asleep under that olive tree.

“You have nowhere to go, do you?” Zaadma inquired, folding her arms across her chest.

Dashvara moistened his dry lips. He was thirsty.

“I’m going to drink water,” he declared.

“Don’t bother going to the river. I have a good wine from the Dazbon Republic. Don’t you want to try it?”

Dashvara turned to look at her with surprise. Why did she continue charming him and being so nice to him when it was clear as water he didn’t have even a damned gold coin?

“As long as you don’t ask me anything in return—”

Zaadma burst out laughing.

“You amuse me, young Shalussi. In return, I only ask you to like the wine and to be less rough. Come with me.”

She turned away, and the Xalya followed her into the house. As soon as he went in, the inside captivated him. It was simple but beautiful. There was a kind of rhombus-shaped canvas with lilies on the wall. The floor next to the window was crowded with pots and flowers. In the middle, there was a golden carpet, and on the left, a large bed. Dashvara averted his eyes and met Zaadma’s teasing gaze.

“Sit down, young Shalussi.”

Dashvara sat as she got a bottle out of a basket.

“It was a friend of mine, a wine merchant of Dazbon, who gave it to me. I once used to like wine, but not anymore, so—” She handed him the bottle. “I have five bottles, and none of them has been opened yet. Of course, I never dared say to my friend that I actually no longer drink them. Giving me presents makes him so happy…” She smiled, and after putting down a glass in front of the Xalya, she sat down on the carpet too, very formally.

Dashvara looked at her with a raised eyebrow, glanced down at the wine, and finally opened the bottle. It smelled intensely. He filled the glass silently and took a sip.

“Well?” Zaadma inquired.

“It’s not like I have tasted a lot of wine in my life,” he admitted, “but it seems quite good to me.”

Zaadma nodded wordlessly. They both kept a silence, which was neither embarrassing nor altogether peaceful.

“You call me young Shalussi,” Dashvara said suddenly. “Does it mean that you are not a Shalussi?”

Zaadma let out a crystalline laugh.

“Me? A Shalussi? No! Otherwise they wouldn’t let me do what I am doing in this village.”

Dashvara frowned, failing to understand, and Zaadma explained:

“The Shalussi women get married, have children, take care of the house, and work in honest jobs.”

Dashvara breathed out in disbelief.

“That is if men don’t sell them.”

Zaadma looked confused.

“Sell them? Men are lucky that women don’t sell them,” she joked.

Dashvara clenched his teeth. The more he spoke, the more he betrayed his own ignorance, he realized.

“Of course.”

Zaadma smiled.

“It seems that you don’t come from a typical Shalussi village. Which doesn’t surprise me, actually. There aren’t Shalussis only in the Shalussi territories. Proof of that is that Dazbon has a street called the Shalussi Road. Do you come from a hamlet? No, now that I think about it, you seem to be a nomad man. Do you come from the steppe or from the desert?”

“From a… zone rather in the middle,” Dashvara replied. “I don’t want to talk about myself.”

Zaadma made a bored face and let the silence drag before adding in a brighter voice:

“Okay, so let us speak about flowers. Do you know I managed to plant a moon narcissus? In Dazbon, it grows like weeds, but here, everything is deader than an aknosaur fossil. These plants are marvelous. I took with me some seeds when I departed with Aldek, to sow them, but sadly, I couldn’t see them grow up. And when this merchant friend of mine arrived, I begged him, I implored him whether he could bring me a special moon narcissus with a black stalk. This variety is very expensive because the black narcissus takes a lot of time to flower. Mine will flower soon, I hope. What do you think about it?”

Dashvara gazed at her, puzzled. For days, he had been only thinking about killing murderers after losing all his family and all his clan, and now that Dazbonish woman was talking to him about flowers? Oddly enough, a smile began to creep up his lips.

“Are you smiling?” Zaadma exclaimed as though she had just seen a miracle. “I can’t believe it!” Suddenly, her lips twisted, and her eyes narrowed into slits. “Do you think my flowers are a stupidity?”

Dashvara looked at the flowerpots that were inside. There were white and red petals, as delicate as a water drop. It reminded him of the botanic garden some Xalyas used to maintain on a terrace of the dungeon.

“No,” he said finally.

Zaadma cleared her throat.

“Your eloquence is amazing. By that ‘no’, do you mean you like flowers?”

Dashvara held back an exasperated sigh.

“I suppose.”

He drank the wine in one gulp and pointed at the bottle.

“May I?”

“Of course you may, young Shalussi,” Zaadma whispered seductively.

The Xalya rolled his eyes and filled his goblet.

“It is really good,” he pointed out after swallowing the second drink.

Zaadma looked as if she was trying to conceal a smile, without success.

“If you are not accustomed to drinking, a third drink may be excessive,” she ventured.

In fact, Dashvara was starting to feel the wine effects. He shrugged.

“A Xa… Shalussi man suffers neither hunger, nor sun fire, nor the bloody water,” he pronounced solemnly.

“Wine isn’t exactly bloody water, but it doesn’t matter. Drink as much as you want. You still have four bottles,” she bantered.

She watched him pouring himself another drink, and she added:

“It’s a pity because you seemed to be able to have an interesting conversation. But talking with a drunk man is likely to be less exciting.”

Dashvara was about to lift his third goblet, but then he stopped.

“Wine helps not to think.”

“True,” Zaadma approved. “And perhaps this way you will be somewhat less rough. I don’t deny it. I suppose you’re just attempting to forget what those Xalyas did to you in your cell.”

Dashvara cast a fuming glare at her.

“What do you know about my pain?”

The woman didn’t answer, and after a discomforting silence, Dashvara almost regretted having been so harsh. And the thing was that, looking at these delicate flowers and that golden carpet, smelling those perfumes of jasmines and emzarreds, he had the impression he was in a goddess’s house. He could not feel aversion for this young woman. She, after all, had killed no Xalya.

“Why do you no longer drink wine?” Dashvara suddenly asked.

Zaadma lifted her eyes with a pensive face.

“I don’t want to talk about me either.”

Dashvara nodded gloomily.

“I understand.”

“Oh, really?” A dangerous glint appeared in her eyes. “I doubt that you could understand.” After a silence, her face softened, and she smiled when she added: “I suppose our little traumas will eventually heal in time, don’t you think?”

Dashvara gazed at her, and he suddenly arrived at a deep certainty: sometimes it was cheering to know that not all the beings of the world shared your pains. Some were even able to call them “little traumas”. He swayed his head, feeling strangely relieved. After another silence, he looked at the flowers, thought about those soft, tanned hands that had given life to them, and he could not say anything else than:

“That place is… very beautiful.”

Zaadma’s smile had been slowly disappearing, but it came back when she heard his words.

“Thank you. It’s an awful lot of work, trust me. I have to go to the river every day to fill the buckets and water the flowers because, in these lands, you never know when it rains. Well, aren’t you going to drink this wine glass?”

Dashvara shook his head. Zaadma raised an eyebrow, and after a short hesitation, she leaned toward him, showing her generous cleavage, took the goblet, and poured its contents into a pot of white flowers. Seeing the Xalya’s surprised face, she pointed out:

“These flowers were a little lazy. This way, perhaps they will brighten up.”

Dashvara responded with a mere smile, and then he wondered what the hell he was doing here. He stood up and bowed politely.

“Thanks for the wine.”

“You leaving so soon?” Zaadma complained. “Are you going to go back to your home?”

Dashvara darkened.

“No.”

“So why wouldn’t you stay here? You have nowhere to sleep, right? Look, I propose you a deal. I let you stay in the other room, which I never use. And in return, you get a job, and you give me half of your profits. What do you think about that?”

That you have mistaken me for an idiot, Dashvara thought. He shook his head negatively.

“I’ve got to find a weapon, and I will never get it if I give you half of my profits.”

Zaadma sighed.

“Of course. You’re an irredeemable weapon lover. Good. I promise you that I myself will put up money to buy you a weapon if the deal turns out well for, say, an indefinite time.”

“An indefinite time!” Dashvara laughed sarcastically. “Do you also come to that kind of agreements with the Shalussis of the village? Perhaps you promise them some powerful miracle, and in return, they worship these so pure graces of yours from afar?”

Zaadma’s eyes widened, and she got up with an irate face.

“Get out,” she snapped.

The Xalya nodded calmly.

“I didn’t mean to wound you. You have already wounded yourself enough on your own. Anyway, thank you for the wine.”

He turned his back on Zaadma, crossed the threshold, and moved away from the house. After a while, he began to regret his words. At the end of the day, if Zaadma wasn’t a Shalussi and had ended up in this village against her will, what sort of rogue could reproach her for her behavior?

Bah, stop thinking over and over again about trifles, Dash.

He went uphill. While walking up, he saw two little girls running after a young boy while screaming a song in laughs. He also saw an old woman and a mother cradling her infant in her arms; they were animatedly chattering, sitting on the grass. More and more confused, Dashvara went past two old men that were walking slowly, and he heard them talking about the past in calm and good-humored voices. The Xalya breathed quietly while advancing. This village wasn’t as he would have imagined it a couple of weeks ago. People didn’t look at each other suspiciously. None of the Shalussis he saw bore weapons. They were cheerfully living their own lives. Seemingly, old men weren’t eliminated because of their incapability of working or wielding a blade. According to Zaadma, the Shalussi women weren’t sold, and men regarded them. The Shalussis had definitely a less advanced technology, they probably were all illiterate, and they did not really know what honor was, unlike the Xalyas, and yet, they weren’t as awful as he had always thought.

Wine is affecting me more than I expected, he guessed, worried.

He sat down in the shade of an acacia and observed the village intently. For some reason, he wanted to know what the Shalussis’ everyday life was like. A woman got out of her house, holding some carpets to shake them. A man sat down not far from Dashvara and kept carving a wooden bowl. A boy that must be not more than fifteen was fixing the hinges of a door while seeing that his younger brother didn’t go too far.

After a while, the village livened up even more. Dashvara began to hear a drumlike noise, and he stood up to see what was going on. A group of women and men were rhythmically beating seeds in large mortars with a pestle. They were speaking in a chaotic and joyful babel, and a gray-haired woman just struck up a song to keep the pace. No doubt: the Shalussis behaved like humans.

Nooo, what makes you think so? he thought ironically. They are humans, after all, Dash, or do you have yet to realize the village you are in is not inhabited by trolls?

At that point, a metallic tapping caught his attention. He went around the hill and found the smithy. It was large and had no wall all along the way; thus, the inside was in full view, with its machines, its forge, and its blacksmithing tools. There, a strong and sweaty man was just withdrawing a piece of hot iron with a pair of tongs to put it onto the anvil. Dashvara’s eyes twinkled. As befitted a good Xalya, he had learned blacksmith arts, and he had forged his own sabers. He knew all the steps for crafting a bladed weapon.

If this man could only give me a steel bar and the tools for working it…

When the man started tapping his work with a hammer, Dashvara stayed there, his hands at his back, wondering how he could convince that Shalussi to grant him the permission to forge the sabers before returning the favor. One saber, he corrected. He could not forge two, otherwise he would arouse suspicion: Xalyas were known for being two-handed fighters. Very few Shalussis abandoned their shield to pick a second saber.

He spent a long moment staring at the working blacksmith. After shaping the cleaver, the man plunged it in a cold water bucket, and a steaming sizzle followed the red sparks. Dashvara noticed that the Shalussi was looking sideways at him while approaching the sharpening wheel. He saw him run the pedal, and he began to hear a metal-stone grating noise.

He was so focused on the blacksmith and on his own thoughts that he didn’t notice the thud of hooves until it drew near. As soon as he turned, his face hardened.

“Why, if it isn’t the boy we left in the White Hand!” Walek cried, on his horse’s back.

Two horsemen followed him.

“No way! Are you really expecting Orolf to gift you a saber just to please you?” Walek mocked. “But he may get infected by the silkian madness, who knows. I have talked with Silkia; she asks you to meet her tonight,” he explained. “If she’s really willing to give you a night for free, you shouldn’t think twice. Gee up!” he yelled to his horse. “Have a good day, Orolf!”

Dashvara saw the three horsemen riding downhill to the river, stirring up a dust cloud in their path. They crossed the river and galloped toward the southwest.

“Are you really looking for a saber, boy?”

Dashvara jerked up slightly; then he noticed that the wheel had stopped making noise. Orolf stared at him, playing with his long beard. The Xalya nodded.

“I need a saber since the Xalyas stole the one I owned.”

“Fair enough. But depending on what metal you want to use, it can be a bit expensive. It costs five gold coins to forge a good dagger. And for a simple saber, about twenty.”

Dashvara didn’t despair.

“That is… more than I have.”

“And how many do you have?”

Dashvara looked him straight in the eye; he hesitated and then confessed:

“Nothing more than I have with me, that is, nothing. But you wouldn’t need to forge the saber. I can forge it on my own.”

Unexpectedly, Orolf grinned, and his thick lips revealed his white teeth. The blacksmith approached and went under the sunlight. An intense smell of metal slapped Dashvara.

“You’re the prisoner who’s been saved in the Dungeon of Xalya, aren’t you?” Dashvara nodded. “Well, I guess you must hate them with all your heart. Am I right?”

Dashvara clenched his jaw.

“With all my heart,” he confirmed.

Orolf shook his head as though he felt sad.

“Now you can leave that hatred behind. Why do you want a saber?”

Dashvara snorted.

“Do you always ask your customers about what they intend to do with the weapons you craft?”

Orolf gave a shrug.

“Not always. But when I see a broke boy who ends up in a village he doesn’t even know, of course I do ask him. I think you have higher priorities than trying to get a weapon. For example, working and earning the esteem of the villagers. If they all see you lazing around, no one will want to feed you. Maybe, just maybe, they will give you the leftovers.”

Hearing him talking about food was a hard blow. Dashvara hadn’t eaten anything since the noon of the day before, and now that he was starting to forget effectively his hunger, that blacksmith turned up and reminded him of it.

“A wise word of advice,” he said, however. “I am a nomad Shalussi. I don’t know much about the customs of the sedentary Shalussis. For me, a saber is a synonym of food.”

Orolf raised his eyebrows.

“Did you hunt animals with the saber?” He squinted his eyes. “Or did you hunt humans? Were you a bandit?”

Dashvara made a face.

Don’t play the poet, Dashvara. The less you invent, the better.

“No,” he answered. “I was not a bandit. But my family and I used to protect our goods from the Steppe Thieves and from bandits. With the saber.”

The blacksmith was still holding the cleaver he had just forged. Barely had he made a slight movement toward Dashvara when this one jumped backwards through pure reflex. Orolf looked thoughtful while bearing the knife horizontally with his two hands.

“How well do you know smith art?” he asked. “Have you ever forged a saber?”

Dashvara nodded.

“Do you know how to forge daggers?” The young man nodded again. “Cleavers? Horseshoes? Rakes, cooking pots, spoons, nails?”

A Xalyas’ firstborn doesn’t forge nails, Shalussi. He swallowed his proud words, just thinking that a nomad Shalussi who had somehow managed to forge his weapons must have also forged his cooking pots.

“Why are you asking me all that?” he replied without answering, implying that he was obviously able to forge anything so long as they gave him a bit of metal.

Orolf rocked his head side to side thoughtfully before saying:

“I don’t know you, and I don’t know whether I can trust you. But I want to verify whether what you say is true or, as I think, your pride gives you invisible wings. Come. You will forge some links.”

Dashvara could not repress a snort of disbelief. Still, he followed the blacksmith to the furnace. Orolf relighted the fire, and he showed him where to find the iron. Dashvara took a bar and put it into the fire with the tongs. He broke out in a sweat.

Links, he repeated mentally. That was going to be a fiasco, for sure. He met Orolf’s encouraging look, he gulped, and he got down to work. When the iron melted, he started shaping it. He was the Prince of the Sand, certainly, and he was a good saber forger… but he was no blacksmith.

At some point, Orolf left, declaring he was going to eat lunch and cautioning him not to take a break. As soon as Dashvara saw him moving away, he had the temptation to take another iron bar, abandon this damned chain, and forge a saber, but he noted very soon that the blacksmith lived just in front of the forge and that the man was glancing repeatedly through a window.

“Bloody Shalussis,” Dashvara muttered.

He had pulled off his shirt, and he was sweating profusely. He continued tirelessly. Forging chainrings was a subtle work that required all his concentration. He took advantage of the situation and sneakingly stole a metal bar from a crate full of debris. Rough but useful in case of emergency, he considered, after hiding the object in one of his boots. It was quite improbable that Orolf would notice the theft.

When he finally had no more iron to shape, he was exhausted, and he sat down awkwardly on the workshop floor, panting and opening and clenching his fists with the impression that his hands had become as numb as iron.

Soon after, Orolf came back, and he smiled when he saw him fallen and exhausted.

“Let’s see the work.”

He examined the chain, stroking his beard. After keeping an exasperating silence for a long time, he concluded:

“That’s a criminal job. It hardly looks like worked iron. Look at that, that link is stuck, and it needs to be molten again. Besides, one never ends a chain tip like this.”

The murderous look Dashvara cast him made him smile jokingly.

“You’re not skilled enough, I’m sorry. But today you have shown me that you are a tenacious boy. I like that. I will help you find a job in which you don’t waste my iron. You’ll repay me, and when I think the time has come, I myself will forge for you the best saber you’ve ever seen.” He held out a friendly hand. “My name is Orolf.”

Dashvara sighed, and he swallowed his dignity by force before standing up and shaking his hand.

“I am Odek.”

Orolf looked amused by his so tensed attitude.

“Follow me, Odek. I will introduce you to the old Bashak. He’s an expert at guessing vocations. I warn you: if he decides that you have no vocation, none of the villagers will respect you, and they will chase you out of here, so… Try to make a good impression.”

As long as he only guesses the vocations, Dashvara sighed.

5 Bashak

Bashak lived in an isolated small house near a mutsomo wood, on the opposite side of where Zaadma lived. When Orolf and Dashvara sighted the old man sat in front of the doorstep, the blacksmith waved at him and invited the young man to go on.

“If Bashak says that you’ve been born to become a blacksmith, I will think he has gone blind,” the blacksmith just added, and he began to walk back to the village, whistling an unknown song.

Dashvara scratched his forehead before going up the gentle slope to the house. Bashak was the oldest man he had ever seen. Or at least the wrinkliest. He had a black turban on the head, the way the Steppe Thieves wore it. In his hands, he held a piece of wood and a knife with which he was sculpting.

Dashvara stopped a few steps away from Bashak.

“Good day, old man,” he pronounced. “Orolf advised me to go see you to get a job.”

Bashak raised pale eyes toward him, he looked at him quietly, as if he had all the time in the world, and he finally nodded, smiling.

“Well, son,” he answered in a quivering voice. “Come and sit down.”

If my lord father could see me now speaking with an old Shalussi man… But Lord Vifkan was dead. He could not hear him, nor see him, nor advise him against anything. Dashvara went into the shade of the house and sat down on the dry ground in front of Bashak. The ancient was still carving the piece of wood.

“What are you carving?” Dashvara asked, curious, after a moment.

The old man moved aside the knife and lifted the wooden piece before Dashvara’s eyes.

“What do you think?”

Dashvara shrugged.

“You have just started the work. It doesn’t have a concrete shape yet.”

“What’s concrete?” Bashak asked.

For a moment, Dashvara believed that the old man had never heard the word “concrete”. Then he realized that it was not the case.

“Well. Concrete is an object that you can identify,” he responded. “Something you can name or feature. Something you can see and touch. Something that has a recognizable shape. And that,” he added with a gesture, “is only an unfinished piece of wood.”

Bashak smiled.

“Dragons exist, but I’ve never seen or touched one. Therefore, a dragon isn’t concrete, and yet it exists. Is it that what you meant?”

Dashvara got troubled.

“Air exists,” Bashak continued. “You breathe it all the time. But would you know how to recognize its shape? Would you know how to identify it by seeing it? This piece of wood,” he said further, “has a shape and can acquire any shape you want in a few days. It can be a lynx. A snake. A scorpion. A spoon. Or a piece of wood to which you can give a unique name.”

Keep raving, grandfather. Go on. It’s not like I didn’t need twenty gold coins to forge my saber.

Bashak was still smiling.

“What if I told you that this piece is finished? What if I told you that this is what the Ancient Kings were seeking for generations and that they named it the Jewel of Gold? Then it would be a little more concrete, don’t you think?”

Dashvara nodded ironically.

“Besides, that would explain why they haven’t found it yet,” he replied. “I bet that a lot of kings have died searching trees for gold.”

Bashak’s face wrinkled even more when he raised his eyebrows.

“The same happens with feelings,” he went on. “And with attitudes. Insolence, vanity, and pride, all are truly concrete ways. They can be easily identified, and one can almost even see them without using eyeglasses.”

Dashvara breathed out, amused, but didn’t respond. Bashak put the wooden piece and the knife on the floor.

“That is one of the Shalussis’ big flaws. They are too proud, and they’re convinced that they can understand everything on their own. Okay, young man. If you’re a real Shalussi, you should also learn to correct your flaws.”

Proud? The Shalussis? He almost let out a guffaw of disbelief. He frowned, however.

“I’m sorry if I’ve offended you, old man, but patience isn’t one of my virtues. I know I have faults, as anybody has, but I assure you that my pride is not among them.”

Bashak joined his both hands before him.

“The education is concrete too,” he observed. “And stubbornness. Not to mention that you speak clearly, without hypocrisy. All these things are virtues.”

Dashvara lifted an eyebrow.

“Is stubbornness a virtue?”

“Yes, it is, to a certain extent. It allows you to do a job that may seem to you laborious. And that may be a positive point. All the food makers are stubborn. They have to struggle to safeguard their farms against dryness. They hoe, cultivate, and don’t give up in face of plagues.”

“Warriors don’t give up either.”

Bashak leaned his head.

“That’s true enough. Warriors don’t give up either. Some, at least. You must have given up if the Xalyas imprisoned you.”

Dashvara remained as expressive as a rock.

“I assure you I didn’t give up,” he whispered coldly.

There was a silence in which only the rustle of mutsomo leaves could be heard, stirred by the breeze. Then, Bashak recovered his smile.

“So you want me to tell you what you have to become?”

Dashvara raised his eyes to the heavens.

“I know what I have to become, and I know what I am. I am a warrior. What I do not know is how to earn money to buy a weapon.”

“If a warrior doesn’t know how to earn money to buy a weapon, how could he possibly know how to fight?” Bashak kindly mocked.

Dashvara stared at him, and after several seconds, he stood up.

“I think I got it. I’ll manage alone,” he declared. “Thanks for your time.”

He turned his back on Bashak and began to walk, sloping down.

“They’re convinced that they can do everything on their own,” the old man’s voice said quietly behind him.

Dashvara took a pace forward… then stopped.

“All right,” he muttered, not even turning. “Do you intend to give me twenty gold coins so I can pay a saber? Or are you going to give me magic powers so I can pull knives out of my hands like the King Lanandar of the Steppes?” With a joyless grin, he twirled around to face the sitting old man. “Come to think of it, you look like a prophetic wizard.”

Bashak laughed.

“Learn to hold your tongue, and it will be already a big step forward! Let me tell you one of the most known sayings in our village: the child plays, the youth works, the man orders, and the elder speaks. Don’t grow older too early, boy. Go to Fushek’s court, next to the high hawthorn,” he added. “There’s where warriors train. Tell Fushek I send you. If you are smart enough, you’ll learn soon to be humble and follow whatever Fushek will order you to do. He’s a good man, and he’ll probably give you a chance. Now go.”

Dashvara nodded.

“Thanks.”

He left Bashak and returned to the main hill, with a confused mind. This old man had inspired something in him, something that no Shalussi technically should have inspired. Dashvara shook his head.

Begin respecting your enemies, and you will end up forgiving their atrocities, he reproached himself.

The sun was burning pitilessly, but Dashvara could tolerate heat rather easily: as a patrol, he had spent a lot of hours riding through the steppe under a deadly sun. He found the hawthorn not far from the White Hand and Nanda’s house. He scanned his surroundings and realized the village was still and drowsy at this time of the day. Fushek’s house had a large, empty court on one side. In front of the building door, an old woman was sweeping quietly with a broom. Dashvara saw her stop to look at him while he was crossing the court.

“Does Fushek live there?” Dashvara inquired.

“He does,” the old woman nodded. “What do you want with him?”

“Bashak sends me.”

The old woman stretched her lips thoughtfully, and then she called in a powerful voice:

“Fushek!”

She tilted her head to one side, as though sharpening her ears, then she kept sweeping. A tall, short-haired man with bushy eyebrows appeared on the threshold, rubbing his eyes as if he had just woken up.

“What happens?” he asked. “Who are you?”

A bit apprehensive, Dashvara looked up at that big head.

“Bashak sends him,” his mother explained, laconic, before straightening and entering the house.

Frowning, Fushek lowered his gaze to the young man.

“And what has Bashak told you?”

“That you’ll give me a job,” the Xalya responded.

The Shalussi pushed out his lips and then slightly smiled.

“A job, eh? I’m a master-at-arms, child. Are you sure you haven’t mistaken the name?”

Demons! Since when was a twenty-year-old man called a “child”? I have made no mistake, big fellow, Dashvara growled mentally.

“You are a master-at-arms, and I’ve come to ask you to hire me,” he pronounced. “Someone once told me that victory or defeat doesn’t care about sizes. That you are taller than me doesn’t mean I cannot beat you.”

Immediately, Fushek grinned.

“Why does Bashak always bring me all the most stupid boys that live in our village?” he said.

Dashvara blushed.

“I am not from this village,” he corrected him. “As for the stupidity, I suppose we each have a point of view about that question.”

“I see. Did you come alone? Don’t you have a family?” As Dashvara darkened, Fushek added: “No offense meant by these questions: just answer.”

“I have no family. But I need a job.”

“So you plan to stay in this village?”

Dashvara nodded sharply.

“So far, yes. Otherwise, I would have already left.”

Fushek raised an eyebrow. Apparently, the answer seemed to him not explanatory enough. Dashvara looked him in the eye.

“I’ll work like ten men if you promise me that you’ll pay me decently.”

Fushek appeared to think thoroughly. He examined Dashvara with a piercing look, and finally moved aside, on the right, picked up two saber-shaped sticks, and declared:

“Show your paces.”

He gave him one of the sticks, and Dashvara stepped away from the house and placed himself in the middle of the court. He nearly assumed a typical Xalya position; he managed to control himself and then shuddered, unsure. ‘Learn their combat techniques and don’t show yours’, his father had advised him. But, in that case, what techniques could he show when all those he had practiced were Xalya?

He sighed when he realized that he had put himself just facing the sun. Exactly what did Fushek have said about stupidity?

Focus.

He narrowed his eyes when he saw the Shalussi moving forward, and he took some hesitating steps to the left. Would that master-at-arms be able to recognize a gesture or suspect anything?

If he discovers you, you’re dead. But, if you keep moving like an old and useless beetle, shame will kill you.

The Shalussis didn’t fight like the Akinoas nor like the Essimeans. The Akinoas charged headlong; the Essimeans planned all their acts carefully and didn’t like battles in open fields unless they had set a good trap. The Shalussis were a blend of Akinoas and Essimeans. Less cautious than the latter and less hotheaded than the former, they relied on their shields to protect them from the mortal blows, and they didn’t seem to be as much attracted by the Dance of Sand as the Xalyas were. But obviously, with such a weight and size, it was difficult to move as agilely as a snake and have as much endurance as a wolf.

Fushek attacked. Instead of bending down, dodging, and striking back, Dashvara blocked the blow, and he felt as though an anvil had impacted against his arm at the speed of an arrow. He leaped backwards, breathing out loudly, but Fushek didn’t leave him time to damn the Shalussis. He parried a series of blows, and he was so focused on avoiding any Xalya usual movement that he not only didn’t attack but also received some blows on his shoulder, flank, and arm. When he saw that Fushek was getting bored, he got alarmed.

He is going to tell me to buy a wooden saber and play against the bushes, he guessed.

In fact, Fushek seemed about to say something when Dashvara lunged forward and started to attack. He narrowly avoided making a Xalya feint, and he transformed it into a more common Steppe Thieves’ attack. He involuntarily moved too swiftly, but well, the Shalussis moved as well, didn’t they? Besides, he was a nomad Shalussi. Not an ordinary Shalussi.

He was just about to reach his opponent’s chest when Fushek performed an odd maneuver, whirled, and struck him in his stomach with the saber point. Dashvara let out a painful growl, and the Shalussi smiled, lowering the training weapon.

“I have to admit that, at first, I felt as if I were fighting against a ten-year-old child. But, if I consider only the end, I think you have good potential. You must have the same level as Rokuish. You’ll train with him, and you’ll work with him. The boy is your age. He’s as placid as a donkey, and he’s not very talkative, but I’m sure you will get along very well.” He took back Dashvara’s wooden saber and leaned both weapons against the wall. “You both may come here to practice when you want.”

Dashvara looked at him, pleasantly surprised.

“So you hire me.”

“I give you an opportunity; that is not the same. Don’t expect me to talk about wages. The village will feed you, as they do with the other warriors, but it is Nanda who gives the money. Until he decides to hire more men, you won’t receive any coin.”

Dashvara restrained a nervous tic as he heard him mentioning Nanda of Shalussi. He nodded.

“It’s okay. But at least you will give me a weapon, won’t you?”

“If I send you out of the village as a sentinel, yes. But, for now, you’ll just do what Rokuish does: cleaning the stables, taking care of the horses, and going up to the watchtower at night. You will find your new companion just downhill, next to the corral with the horses.”

While speaking, he walked to the door then paused for an instant on the threshold.

“By the way, what’s your name?”

Dashvara of Xalya, firstborn of the Xalyas, knight of honor, Prince of the Sand, and fighter of the Wind.

The young Xalya cleared his throat and just answered:

“Odek.”

6 Shalussi life

He found Rokuish sleeping and snoring, leaning back on the fence that enclosed the horses. The sun was already falling to the west, and the stable kindly shaded the sleeping young man.

The Xalya rested his arms on the fence and looked at the enclosure. In all, there were fifteen beasts, and half of them seemed more like draft animals than war horses. Among them, there was a black one. He snapped his lips, and the animal lifted its head, shook it, and approached the fence docilely. Dashvara smiled when he caressed its nose. It was a good beast, and it reminded him so much of Lusombra, the mare he had ridden for the previous five years. At least, no Shalussi, Essimean, or Akinoa will be able to ride her, he told himself. Four months ago, Lusombra had been stolen by a Steppe Thief. Well, not exactly “stolen”, actually. The Steppe Thieves didn’t usually steal horses, and truth to tell, they just didn’t steal. The so-called thief had been found by captain Zorvun and his patrol in the Xalya territories, and as he had no horse, or water, or weapons, it was decided to bring him to the dungeon. Finally, after spending several days speaking with the prisoner, Dashvara had committed one of the so many crazy things that drove his lord father to despair: he had helped the Steppe Thief to flee, offering him his own horse. He could still remember the final words the mysterious steppeman had pronounced: ‘I will repay you for that, Xalya.’ He had raised his fist to his heart and ridden off like a bolt into the dark of the steppe. The two patrol comrades that were on guard duty that night had just shaken their heads without sounding the alarm: it was said, after all, that, if a Xalya defended his freedom tooth and nail, a Steppe Thief defended it to death.

Dashvara smiled. For some reason, among all the clans and tribes he knew, he had always respected the Steppe Thieves more than any others. According to that Steppe Thief that he had saved and whose name he did not know, the first priority of his clan was to protect the Rocdinfer Steppe from the avaricious hands of the “civilized people”. That was not easy at all.

A snore louder than the previous one drew his attention to the Shalussi. The black headscarf of this one had fallen smoothly forward off his head, and now his face was barely visible.

Dashvara sat down in front of him, on the grass, and he glanced at the sky. The sun was already setting. After a while, as he saw that Rokuish didn’t wake up, he stood up and went into the building. All the horses’ stalls were clean. He noticed a table placed beside a wall, with two benches, and on this table, he saw a slice of cheese.

Immediately, Dashvara salivated. He glanced around him, as though he were going to commit a terrible theft.

‘You shall flog the thief who robs your neighbor,’ the shaard Maloven once said, in his usual grandiose voice.

Flog, huh… Well, I’ve already flogged three bandits with my own whip, Maloven, but one thing is to steal, and another thing is to eat, he reasoned.

His thought drew an ironic smile on his lips, but that didn’t prevent him from taking the cheese and swallowing it with delight. It was goat cheese. When he went out of the stable, Rokuish hadn’t moved an inch.

As placid as a donkey, huh?

Dashvara snorted mentally.

“If only all the Shalussis were like you,” he whispered.

And if only the Xalyas could sleep as quietly as you do, he added gloomily, in silence.

Then he turned and went to the river. He drank water in large gulps: he felt as if forging those damned links had left him as dry as a sunned canvas.

He tossed his head up abruptly when he heard a lively tune of guitars. Frowning, he looked at the hill, rose to his feet, and began to ascend. On the square before Nanda’s house and beside the watchtower, was a Shalussi group with guitars, calling all the inhabitants. The neighbors had gathered, and now they were sitting in a circle around a man with gold necklaces. Nanda of Shalussi.

Dashvara stopped in the dusky darkness, several steps away from the ring of light shined by the torches.

“People of Nanda!” the headman exclaimed, and the inhabitants fell into an expectant silence. “As you all know, a week ago, the last bastion of the ancient steppe realms has been destroyed. The Xalya Dungeon has fallen, and the Xalya warriors who were threatening our lands have been defeated thanks to the Shalussis, thanks to our warriors!”

He leaned his head respectfully in some direction, and a pale Dashvara sighted the warriors who had traveled with him to the village.

“And thanks to our chief!” a voice yelled out among them.

This one was Walek’s comrade. Nanda smiled.

“We are not so damn greedy as the Xalyas were,” he continued. “We don’t want to dominate the whole steppe: we only want to live in peace in our lands, without worrying about conquests and oppression. The dignity of the Tyrant’s spawns is dead. You are free men, Shalussis. Our people’s revenge has finally been settled, and led by me, Nanda of Shalussi!”

If I ever had qualms about killing you, you have just removed them all, Nanda of Shalussi, Dashvara spit mentally while the villagers were accompanying Nanda’s shout with acclaims. There’s a great difference between avenging the death of your family and avenging the oppression of a people caused by a tyrannic king who died two hundred years ago. Or is it that your point wasn’t as much about avenging as it was about hoarding gold, you scoundrel?

Finally, Dashvara sat down on the ground so as not to draw the attention, and he concentrated his efforts on calming down his heartbeats.

“Yet, also, let us weep,” Nanda pronounced, “because we have lost five brave men. Three were married and had children. Two had parents who had educated them to be honorable Shalussis. Let us weep, my brothers, for our dead.”

The warriors didn’t exactly weep, but they kept a respectful silence. Nanda moved closer to a child who was crying silently, and he laid a hand on his head.

“Cry, child, for tomorrow you shall be a strong man.”

He straightened and concluded:

“The bounty of this fight has been generous. The food makers will double their efforts, and we won’t have to go hungry this year.” He smiled. “The merchants of Dazbon will come in two weeks. We will sell our prisoners, and a part of the profits will be shared between all the inhabitants as a sign of my generosity. Now bring on the party!”

The villagers let out high-pitched screams of gratitude, and the guitarists began to play music again. Everybody rose and continued to howl like raging lunatics. Dashvara shook his head, amazed.

This is clear proof of who the Shalussis are in fact, don’t you see? They are savages capable of committing the worst monstrosities for a fistful of gold coins. He paused abruptly, fixed his gaze on the square, and shivered. No way! Are they really going to dance?

The Shalussis, still screaming rhythmically, raised their fists to the sky and danced in a ring, smiling at each other.

“Eternal Bird,” Dashvara whispered. And he sealed his lips, cursing himself.

Fine. Everybody is happy because my people have been hacked to death. What a great joy. Seriously, can’t they find other less macabre reasons for celebrating?

They were absolutely repulsive. He stood up, and he was going to move away when Orolf emerged from the crowd, calling him.

“Odek! How did it go with Bashak?”

The blacksmith was smiling and holding hands with a little girl with tangled hair, who had just put a soiled thumb in her mouth.

“Er,” Dashvara said, lifting his eyes. “Very well. I’m going to work as a warrior. With a certain Rokuish.”

Orolf vigorously clapped him on the shoulder.

“So you’ll have to start training and eating more. Come to have dinner with us. My wife is a wonder at cooking.”

Come to have dinner with the ones who have robbed you of the blood of your blood, translated the macabre part of Dashvara’s mind. A shiver coursed down his spine.

“No, thanks, Orolf. I am not hungry.”

The blacksmith frowned, surprised; then he glanced in one direction, and he seemed to understand something.

“Don’t go to the White Hand tonight,” he whispered. “Walek will be waiting for you there to kill you if you approach that… woman. He is a warrior with a confused mind. Everyone tells him to get married and forget that Silkia, but it seems that that snake has chained him. That house is a poison to the village.”

Dashvara listened to his words, interested.

“So Walek wants to kill me.”

“I don’t believe he wants to. He just doesn’t want you to approach that woman. If you are not totally dumb, boy, don’t approach that den.”

“If nobody likes it, why is it still open?” the Xalya asked.

Orolf made a face.

“I never said that nobody likes it. Actually, it was a sort of ‘present’ gifted to Nanda by an important Diumcilian lord to maintain good commercial relations. You see, Nanda sells prisoners and salbronix grains, and Arviyag, the envoy from Diumcili, gives him gold. Though, honestly, I haven’t seen Nanda enter this house, not even once. Our chief gets drunk more easily with gold than with Diumcili smoke,” he joked. “Believe me, young man, don’t approach that woman, and everything will go well.”

The blacksmith waved his hand, and with his daughter, he went back to the feast. The guitarists had begun descending the hill. Behind them, flourishing the torches, the villagers danced, and from time to time, they let out a long burst of jubilant screams that pierced the night.

Dashvara watched them as they moved away. They were celebrating the victory. Their victory. And the death of his father. Of his family. Of so, so many people… It nauseated him.

“What are you doing out there, my darling?” a distant and sensual voice suddenly asked.

Dashvara looked up at the White Hand and distinguished a pale face at a window on the second floor. He breathed out noisily, and he was going to move away to find a place where he could sleep, but then he stopped short. He reflected. What if Walek really intended to kill him if he approached this woman? What would happen if he killed that Shalussi in self-defense? No one could accuse him of murder, right?

But he needed a saber to defend himself, and he wasn’t quite sure that Walek would be knightly enough to give him one in case of a duel. Yet, he had not forgotten the metal bar hidden in his boot. Depending on the situation, he could use it effectively.

Be cautious like a snake. And when the time has come to kill, do it. He shuddered on recalling Lord Vifkan’s words.

Has the time already come, father? he asked. He shook his head and glanced at Nanda of Shalussi’s house. He could not spend his whole life in this village of savages, waiting day after day for his father to answer: “now”. His lord father would never answer him anymore, neither would captain Zorvun. Now it was up to him to choose the best way and assume the consequences of his acts, be these good or bad.

He took a deep breath and walked toward the White Hand, keeping his senses cautiously alert. He expected to see, at any moment, a shadow popping up from one corner, a saber in hand. He could disarm him if he was dexterous enough. And then he would kill him.

He was so concentrated that, when a voice sounded behind him, he jumped from the ground like a crazy demon:

“There you are! I’ve been looking for you everywhere! You tell me you’d come tonight, and I find you here, in front of the White Hand door?”

As he turned, his eyes caught the glimpse of a form just moving behind a brush. Another human figure was crossing the square, looking like a woman scorned.

“Zaadma,” Dashvara muttered, narrowing his eyes. Argh, what had gotten into her now? She went on complaining out loud:

“You who promised to love me till death, you jump into the arms of someone else so soon?”

Window shutters suddenly clapped, and Zaadma chuckled wickedly.

“You are an idiot,” she added in a lower voice while coming close to Dashvara. “There are two men hidden behind a brush, waiting for you to kill you if you get near the door.”

Dashvara tried and failed to swallow his anger.

“Damned bastard,” he hissed. “I already knew that.”

Zaadma stopped short. A smell of flowers began to float on the night air.

“Oh. So your purpose was to die. Good. Great. Go ahead. If you insult me like that, I have no qualms about delivering you to those men. All in all, you’re just like the others. Hey, Silkia!” she called out all of a sudden in a more normally pitched voice. “I was kidding. This fellow is an ingenuous good man. I’m sure he has fallen in love with you. I’d even bet that he would gladly bring you a treasure full of gold coins only for you. Silkia! Hey, Silk—!”

She stopped yelling when Dashvara grabbed her by the shoulders and began to shake her as if she were a maraca.

“Let go of me!”

Dashvara let her go, suddenly feeling ashamed. He had never in his life shaken a woman.

“I’m sorry. And I’m sorry I called you a bastard. I didn’t mean to.”

I can’t believe it—are you seriously apologizing? Zaadma stared up at his eyes. Her own were glittering as if she was ready to cry.

“Go to hell,” she snapped. She turned her back on him and swiftly strode away.

“Is what Zaadma said true?” Silkia asked far away.

Dashvara drew a deep breath and exhaled loudly. He didn’t respond to Silkia. Two armed Shalussi warriors were too many. He could not disarm one of them while being attacked by the other.

Abruptly, he started running. He caught up with Zaadma downhill.

“Wait!” he said.

The woman turned and rumbled noisily before she went on walking.

“Now you’re pursuing me, Shalussi?”

“Before, you were pursuing me,” Dashvara replied, keeping pace with her.

As she said nothing, he continued:

“Orolf, the blacksmith, warned me of Walek’s scheme. That’s precisely why I wanted to pretend to go into the White Hand—to force him to reveal his presence.”

“And why should I care about all this?” she retorted.

For a moment, Dashvara stayed speechless, not knowing what to answer.

“Well… Actually, I suppose you shouldn’t care. But still, you came to warn me. Making a scene.”

“Making a scene?” Zaadma stopped not very far from the olive tree and her house. “I was just trying to convince Silkia to let you be. She is one of the worst vipers and the most ambitious of all. She has even succeeded in driving Walek mad. Ever since he met her, that fool isn’t the same.”

“You wanted to save my life,” Dashvara murmured. “Just like Orolf.”

Zaadma let out a brief, sarcastic laugh.

“Oh, come on! Why would I want to save the life of a shameless scamp who tells me over and over how brazen-faced and bastard I am?”

Dashvara saw Zaadma entering her house like a whirlwind and shut herself in with her flowers. She quickly withdrew a curtain, adding:

“And don’t even think about sleeping beneath my olive!”

She tugged the curtain close, and the light of a candle lit up the inside. Dashvara sighed. He didn’t know exactly why he felt so bad, whether because he had let pass the opportunity of getting rid of Walek or because Zaadma, on pretending to be an honorable woman, was messing his mind up.

He sat down next to the olive and listened to the distant music of the feast while his eyes were peering at the flickering light beyond the window. When he heard footsteps approaching, a naughty smile twisted his mouth. He stood up and got in the way of a young and beardless Shalussi that was not only somewhat drunk but was also following the wrong path.

“Go away, knave,” Dashvara pronounced in a low voice. “This is a decent home.”

The youth blinked.

“What are you talking about? She told me to come today.”

Dashvara gave him back a disgusted face, and without thinking twice, he drove his fist precisely straight in his stomach. The boy doubled up, out of breath, incapable of screaming.

“Who told you what?” the Xalya asked in a mild voice.

Some seconds later, he helped him to his feet and kindly steered him away from the house. Finally, as the Shalussi dropped himself down again on the grass, he advised him:

“Don’t come back around here, understood?” He saw him nodding mutely, the eyes wide open, and he smiled. “Good boy.”

He drew up and came back to the olive tree. He let himself down against the rough bark and gazed at the Moon, cold and distant. Like a litany, he repeated inside him the names of the clan chieftains, over and over. He finally fell into a fitful sleep.

He had a dream that was different and yet always the same. He saw his father falling on his knees before him with an Akinoan axe wound in his stomach. He whispered something to him, something important, but Dashvara could not hear him. And his father vanished. Then, he saw his brothers, and his mother, and Makarva, Boron, and all his patrol comrades. Inexplicably, all of them were smiling. Like a sand mermaid, Fayrah emerged from a light ring and appeared in front of him; her dark eyes were gleaming with tears, but inexplicably, she was also smiling. Why the devil were they all smiling? Dashvara asked himself. When he saw Walek, he spun and dashed toward him, his sabers unsheathed; he leaped as lightly as the wind and whirled like a red snake; a sunbeam flashed in his blades, and then…

He woke up in a start when he received a water bucket right on his face.

“Whoops!” Zaadma covered her mouth while the Xalya was spitting water and rubbing his bloody forehead. “I didn’t mean to throw the bucket. Did I hurt you?”

Dashvara was completely soaked. He sighed and shook his head.

“Then answer my question, you insolent rascal!” Zaadma exploded. “Can you tell me what did you do to this poor Fatiek? He didn’t come last night. It’s the very first time someone missed one of my dates, do you know that? Well, almost the first time. Now answer,” she hissed.

Dashvara moved his hand away from his forehead and realized that this one was bleeding significantly. He lifted his eyes to the red dress, then to the cleavage, the neck, and finally to the clenched lips and to the dark brown eyes, which, right now, were sparkling dangerously. He opened his mouth and uttered:

“Do you mean that child who came yesterday evening to visit you?”

“He is eighteen, Odek. He is only three years younger than me. So he came and you didn’t let him pass.”

“I told him this house was a decent house, and I helped him find the right way. That’s all.”

Instead of shouting, Zaadma kept silent and didn’t respond right away.

“A decent house?” she echoed. And suddenly, she gave out a loud laugh. “Did you really tell him that? You’re such a rascal, Odek. I tell you not to sleep beneath my olive, and here I find you. And what’s more, you meddle in my affairs. I have lost three gold coins because of you.”

Dashvara shrugged.

“I’m sorry. I believed you wanted to become an honorable woman.”

Zaadma gasped but kept smiling.

“You sure love making fun of people, eh? I don’t know what to think of you,” she confessed. “Sometimes, I get the impression that you’re keeping a terrible secret inside, and I’m dying to know more things about you. And other times, I just want to forget about you and let these Shalussi warriors thrash you as soon as you open your mouth and say one of those brilliant ideas of yours. And now come in so that I can control the bleeding.”

Dashvara got up and followed her into the house, confused.

“You don’t speak like a Shalussi,” he said abruptly as Zaadma was setting a water bowl and a white rag on the golden carpet.

“Well, as I already said to you, I am not a Shalussi,” she replied patiently.

She drew nearer, softly touched his forehead with the wet rag, and then withdrew it. She wet another corner and used it again on the wound. If he had not felt so confused, Dashvara would have at once taken care of cleaning his wound alone, but… something kept him from taking the rag from Zaadma’s hands.

“Since you always repeat that you’re sorry, I’ll also tell you that I’m sorry,” she said, not looking very guilty. “I never meant to throw you the water bucket. Only the water. But as you can see, I’m very angry at you. Who’s going to pay me now these three gold coins I lost forever?” she lamented, very sad.

Dashvara caught her eloquent look and shook his head.

“Yesterday, Fushek hired me—”

“Great!” Zaadma exclaimed.

“—But he said he wouldn’t pay me with money until he gives me some more important works… so I’m afraid you’ll have to survive without those three gold coins. I feel for you in your sorrow,” he taunted, holding his hand up to his chest.

Zaadma glared at him and threw the bloody rag to his face before scrambling to her feet. Dashvara laughed.

“Dignity costs much more than three gold coins, woman. The punch I gave to this brute was priceless.”

Zaadma folded her arms. Her face reflected a mix of incredulity and exasperation.

“How can it be that, whenever you cross the threshold of my house, I always feel the urge to kick you out of here?”

Dashvara made a pensive face as if pondering seriously upon the answer.

“Perhaps because we are too much different?”

Zaadma drummed her fingers on her elbows.

“Perhaps,” she admitted.

“And still, we may have something in common,” Dashvara added.

Don’t speak more than you should, or else you will regret it…

His words, however, had already aroused Zaadma’s curiosity.

“We are both human, is that what you mean?”

Dashvara rolled his eyes.

“Apart from that. You want to take revenge on Walek.”

Zaadma looked annoyed.

“Walek? What do I have to do with that man?”

Dashvara narrowed his eyes. Maybe my instinct leads me on a wrong path. Or maybe not.

“Walek betrayed you, didn’t he? You hate that man.”

Zaadma frowned.

“I don’t hate him. Hatred doesn’t bring any good. Besides, a man cannot betray me as long as he pays well.”

Dashvara noticed a slight quaver in her voice. He shrugged without responding and passed the rag upon his forehead. It was scarcely bleeding now.

Zaadma growled.

“And what if he did betray me?” she said finally, sitting before the Xalya. “In that case, it wasn’t his fault but mine, for believing that a Shalussi warrior would really marry me. For a wonder, after so many disappointments, I believed what that fool told me.” A wry smile stretched across her face. “Sometimes my stupidity amazes me. It was my fault,” she kept on talking. “And I already got my revenge: now he is with that Diumcilian woman, that Silkia, and because of her, he is going crazier than he already was. That viper will manage to send him to find the Hidden Treasure of the Ghost-Pyramid. Well,” she sighed. She lifted a curious gaze at the Xalya. “In conclusion: you want to take revenge on Walek for some reason, and you want me to help you.” She laughed teasingly. “Dream on: I won’t help you.”

“I only want you to give me twenty gold coins to buy a saber,” Dashvara pronounced.

Zaadma shook her head.

“Even if I had the money, I wouldn’t give it to you as a matter of principle. I don’t want you to harm anyone. Don’t you think there have been enough dead men for this year?”

Dashvara looked at her, surprised.

“Oh, of course,” Zaadma continued. “Perhaps it has been a good thing for you that the Xalyas died and the Shalussis saved you. But for my part, these absurd wars do not make me laugh at all. You are right, Odek. We are very different. You’re a Shalussi and a dignified warrior. And I’m sure you have already killed some man in your life. As for me, I’m a bastard, and I raise flowers. To be honest, I prefer my situation. And now, if you don’t mind, leave me alone. I’ve got to water my plants and fill the bucket I have thrown to you.”

Stunned, Dashvara saw her standing up lively. He took a deep breath.

“I’m not aiming to kill Walek.”

“I’m glad you aren’t,” Zaadma said in a level voice as she grasped up the empty bucket. “Would you be so kind as to leave?”

Dashvara nodded silently, pulled down the bloody rag onto the bowl, and stood up. A hint of a smile curved his lips.

“How can it be that, whenever I cross the threshold of your house, you want to kick me out of here?” he asked.

Stop talking and leave, a more serious voice commanded. Go out, steal two sabers, kill Nanda, take a horse, and disappear. And leave that Walek alone: he is not the chieftain; he is just a mercenary. Go away…

Zaadma’s dark brown eyes reflected a slight surprise.

“Do you want… do you want to stay here?”

Dashvara jerked up.

“No!” he said. Then, realizing that his refusal had been too rude, he added: “I’m not… I mean. Never mind. I’m off.”

He was crossing the doorway when Zaadma said in an affable tone:

“Stay if you want. I offer you again the same deal as before. A room to sleep in. Which you may not find so easily elsewhere unless you have already got along with some family. A room and good meals… in return for half of your future profits.”

The deal was generous and, therefore, suspect. What did Zaadma earn by suggesting that kind of deal to a person who was not likely to get more than a gold coin once in a while?

Dashvara ignored the small voice of his conscience and preferred not to think about tricks. He needed a bed to sleep in, and he preferred a thousand times more the house of a lady of easy virtue who was horrified by war to that of a Shalussi family full of murderers. He turned to Zaadma and half grinned.

“Is the indefinite time still valid?”

Zaadma grinned back.

“It most certainly is.” She held out the bucket. “Take it, start working now, and bring me the water. Later, you’ll attend to what you have to attend.”

Dashvara shrugged, took the bucket, and went to the river to fill it. It was the right decision, he told himself. It would be ridiculous to keep sleeping in the open. When he went back, he heard a melodious and joyful song.

Ho! I came to pick a carnation
in your eyes, sweet girl, in your eyes!
I got lost in the sea of your mouth,
’cause I thought it was blossom and light.

The Xalya stopped for an instant, amused, before extending the bucket through the window. Zaadma stifled a scream.

“Are you crazy? Next time, enter with the bucket through the door. And don’t you dare touch even one petal of my flowers while staying here. Do you understand?”

Dashvara breathed out.

“I do understand. Have a good day.”

Zaadma looked surprised and responded falteringly when the Xalya was already leaving:

“Likewise.”

When Dashvara arrived at the stable, Rokuish was already working. Apparently, Fushek had informed him that he had a new comrade, because he greeted him at once, calling him by his name, and smiled friendly at him.

“The last time I saw you I couldn’t say hello,” Dashvara mocked. “I said hello to the horses, though. Well, what do I have to do?”

“Technically, the same as I do,” answered the warrior apprentice. “Right now, I was cleaning the saddles. Do you know how to clean saddles?”

“Of course I do,” Dashvara affirmed.

He and Rokuish sat down at the table from where that famous slice of cheese had disappeared, and they began working. As Fushek had warned him, Rokuish was not very communicative, but Dashvara did not mind. Actually, it was better that way. It would have been much more annoying to stay beside a prier asking him about the past and forcing him to improvise.

“Do you like horses?” Rokuish suddenly asked.

Dashvara smiled. That was the kind of question worthy of conversation.

“A lot,” he nodded. “Especially if I know them. As a matter of fact, it is pretty much the same for humans.” He twisted his mouth. “And what about you?”

Rokuish smiled frankly.

“My mother says that the very first word I pronounced was ‘Breeze’, the name of my father’s horse. My father was a warrior.”

Dashvara looked sad.

“Did he die?”

Rokuish shrugged.

“Yes, he did. The Xalyas killed him.”

He added nothing more, but his words struck Dashvara like a frosty stab. He inhaled soundlessly to calm his breathing, and he said:

“I share your pain.”

Rokuish smiled.

“Thank you. But it happened fifteen years ago. I barely remember him.”

Dashvara nodded silently with his head and pretended to focus his attention on cleaning the saddle while recalling a maxim of the Ancient Kings: Skia distalur hunás kay vayhatur gas distalur askalonat duk. Revenge yourself on your enemy, and you will discover that he was taking revenge on you.

7 Training

He spent all morning in the stable with Rokuish, and at lunchtime, he saw the Shalussi wave with his hand, go out of the building… and come back, peeping his head through the door.

“Hey, Odek, by any chance, wouldn’t you want to eat with us?”

Dashvara raised his eyebrows.

“Me?” He hesitated, and then he smiled. “With great pleasure.”

The Shalussi smiled back, and they both headed for his home.

“Are you married?” Dashvara inquired.

The question seemed to amuse him.

“No. I live with my family. I have a sister and two older brothers. The oldest, Shuwaga, is indeed married. To our chief’s sister.”

He fell silent, as though he was surprised to speak so much. He gave Dashvara another smile and pointed to a house near to which a white-haired Shalussi was hanging up clothes.

“Rokuish, my son!” she greeted him. “Who’s your companion?”

“He is my new workmate, mother,” the young man explained. “I have invited him to eat… May he?”

The mother nodded instantly.

“Of course he may. Go in. Your brother Andrek will come soon, and we will be able to eat.”

“Thank you,” Dashvara said, slightly bowing his head.

“And he is polite as well!” The Shalussi woman smiled, pleased. “Come on, come in, I’ve almost finished.”

Rokuish and Dashvara went into the house. The inside wasn’t very large. There were some carpets and a big, iron cooking pot steaming on a slab of stone. The bowls were already set thanks to a shy-eyed, graceful young woman who was wearing a simple but practical dress.

“Let me introduce my sister, Menara,” Rokuish said. “He is Odek, my workmate.”

Dashvara briefly bowed his head.

“My pleasure.”

He sniffed the meal. There was a smell of wheat and mint.

“It’s semolina with beans,” Menara said shyly. “Water is almost completely evaporated. Had a good morning?”

“Excellent,” Rokuish replied.

Suddenly, an exclamation came from outside:

“Rok, I just learned you’ve been saddled with the stranger—!”

The voice of the new arrival died abruptly when, on crossing the threshold, he noticed who was inside.

Dashvara tensed. He knew this man. It was Walek’s friend, the one who had led him into the White Hand. He had also taken part in the fight against the Xalyas. How many of them had he killed? Dashvara instantly regretted having accepted the invitation.

Embarrassed, Rokuish attempted to fix his brother’s blunder.

“Andrek, this is Odek. He was a nomad Shalussi. And he knows a lot about horses.”

“Pf.”

Andrek, making a face not easy to interpret, advanced and sat down beside the cooking pot, giving a simple nod to the guest. The mother had followed him, and she promptly went on and on in a cheerful voice while Menara was serving the meal in the bowls.

“So, you’re a nomad Shalussi?” the mother said as they were eating. “One of those who spend their time going up and down the steppes? That sounds very interesting. And how come you’re not with your family?”

Dashvara swallowed the semolina and the beans. They were delicious. However, he would rather have eaten them alone.

“They were killed by the Xalyas,” he replied in an even voice.

The mother opened her mouth and closed it; an expression of sympathy appeared on her face.

“They also killed my husband. These swines thought that they could hand out justice everywhere with everyone. Now I understand why you’re out to become a warrior. Are you going to train with Rokuish this afternoon? A little of training would be good for both of you, don’t you think?” she added, directing a meaningful look at his son.

This one blushed.

“Yes, mother. We will train this afternoon.”

“That’s perfect,” she approved with satisfaction.

They didn’t speak much more. Dashvara thanked them for the invitation, and when he praised the meal, the mother exclaimed that he could come back anytime. Dashvara would have smiled before her kind welcome if he hadn’t met Andrek’s contemptuous look.

How many Xalya soldiers did your saber stab, Shalussi? he wanted to ask. And another troubling question came to his mind. How many Shalussi men were executed by Xalya sabers? He frowned. What of it? The Shalussis were still existing whereas the Xalyas were now a mere shadow of sand.

Joyfully, Rokuish said goodbye, and they both went uphill to Fushek’s house. When they got to the court and picked up the wooden sabers, the Shalussi cleared his throat.

“My mother is right. I should train more often. I guess you think I don’t know how to fight.”

Dashvara shook his head.

“Never think that the adversary doesn’t know how to fight before making sure he actually doesn’t,” he smiled.

He attacked. He knew that Rokuish had probably never seen a Xalya fighting, but even so, he didn’t lose his concentration: any Shalussi might be watching them. Fushek might be watching.

Even moving like a lame horse and attacking straight, he defeated Rokuish easily. The young Shalussi was panting, out of breath. He was clearly not accustomed to training. ‘You must have the same level as Rokuish’, Fushek had said. Only now he realized that his words weren’t particularly flattering. Dashvara straightened and looked at the Shalussi.

“You know what you should do?” the Xalya reflected out loud. “Run every day. Do stretching exercises. And acquire agility. Right now, you look like a turtle trying to defend itself, but the difference is that you have no shell.”

Rokuish made a face and sighed loudly.

“I know. I warned you. I’m afraid you won’t learn much by training with me.”

Dashvara smiled.

“Don’t worry about what I learn; just focus on your own learning. If you don’t train, you won’t progress.”

As the young Shalussi was nodding and drawing himself up again, a burst of laughter rang. Dashvara turned around and saw Andrek and Walek coming up with their own sabers unsheathed and their shields.

“A novice teaching another one! This is a first!” Walek pronounced nonchalantly. “Can we keep you company? Andrek and I want to train here too.”

Dashvara guessed that their point wasn’t so much to train as to annoy them. And looking at Rokuish’s sudden paleness, he saw they had apparently succeeded.

“Sure, you can,” Dashvara said, keeping calm. “The field is large.”

Both warriors took position a little farther away and began to fight. They moved swiftly; their shields clashed; their footwork was precise and correct. Dashvara shot an expecting glance at Rokuish, but this one was so occupied gaping at his brother that he didn’t take the hint. Dashvara cleared his throat, and with the training weapon, he gently hit his arm to awake him. The Shalussi jumped.

“Never let anything distract you in a fight, or else you will die,” the Xalya uttered.

He charged, and they both got into a fight during which Dashvara gradually noticed the numerous mistakes his adversary was making. He was also aware of his own mistakes, some of them made on purpose. ‘Never show your enemy what you can do’, said captain Zorvun’s authoritative voice. ‘But still, don’t pretend to be weak before your sworn enemy’.

He leaned aside, easily dodged a blow from Rokuish, and knocked him on the back with the flat of the weapon. Dashvara damned himself as soon as he saw Fushek watching them with interest from his threshold.

“He fights like a Xalya,” Walek’s voice suddenly spit.

Dashvara moved away from Rokuish and glared at the warrior.

“This is a Steppe Thieves’ technique,” he hissed. “Not Xalyas’. The Xalyas only attempt to copy them, without success.”

“Well said,” Fushek approved as he approached. “The boy is right, Walek. Our young nomad Shalussi seems to have learned to fight from a Steppe Thief.”

Andrek breathed out.

“Pfui. The Steppe Thieves are nothing more than females who stab in the back.”

Dashvara let out a sarcastic, restrained laugh.

“Tell me. Have you ever seen a Steppe Thief fighting?”

Andrek shrugged.

“No. But I’ve heard stories.”

With a lingering dark smile, Dashvara approached him, brandishing the wooden saber to make it more dramatic.

“The Steppe Thieves move like the wind,” he told. “At some point, you believe they are in front of you, and the next second, you find two of them right behind you. They are like lynxes running on soil and sand. They use two sabers, as the Xalyas do, but when they fight, it seems as if the air itself tells them their adversary’s secrets.” He murmured: “They know… exactly… what their next move will be.”

He lowered the point of his saber and came back to Rokuish as Andrek and Walek looked at him, frowning.

“Wait,” Walek said then in a taunting voice. “If what you say is true and if you have learned their techniques, you must be a master fighter.”

Dashvara smiled and replied humbly:

“I have only learned from them by observation. I’m very far from being a Steppe Thief.”

Walek approached, holding his saber.

“Take these two sabers of wood. And try to wield them. Show us how those Steppe Thieves fight. Go on! Or is it that a nomad Shalussi fights as poorly as Rok the snorer?”

“Walek,” Andrek warned him. “Don’t bother my brother.”

Walek shrugged without turning away his eyes from Dashvara. This one glimpsed at Fushek, who seemed to be more willing to watch than intervene. Sighing, he took the wooden saber from an expectant Rokuish, and Walek and he stepped away from the others.

“I’ll put a protection on the saber not to hurt you,” Walek smiled mockingly, doing what he was saying.

Dashvara looked at him with irony.

“You didn’t have such qualms yesterday, before the White Hand,” he whispered.

Walek raised an eyebrow, surprised, and then he declared in a low voice:

“As long as you don’t approach Silkia, we are in peace.”

Dashvara nodded.

“That seems fair to me.”

Walek let a chortle out and positioned himself.

“So you prefer the bastard?” he asked, very amused.

He attacked, and Dashvara jumped backwards, perplexed.

“Bastard?” he echoed.

Walek’s smile widened.

“Didn’t she tell you? This witch is the bastard daughter of a senator in Dazbon,” he explained. And then he lunged at him in earnest.

Dashvara set aside all the thoughts when he saw the shield blow coming. This time, he did not control himself as much as before. He was trying to copy the movements of the Steppe Thieves, and since he did not know them very well, he moved awkwardly enough not to impress and nimbly enough not to get blows.

Truth to tell, he had never fought against the Steppe Thieves, but captain Zorvun had taught him some techniques of them, and Dashvara knew that, if he had had to contend with a Steppe Thief, he would have probably ended up feeding the vultures.

He leaped sideways and counterattacked. At some point, he almost made Walek lose his saber, but then this one executed an unexpected movement. It was the same that Fushek had made the day before. The only difference was that this time his rival had a shield. He banged him in his side, and Dashvara was violently ejected to the ground. He lifted his head, frustrated. He would have been able to get up in one bounce, but he didn’t. I am not here to fight Walek, he remembered. Calm down and let this big boy relish his victory.

The Shalussi, in fact, looked quite satisfied.

“Not a bad fight, boy,” he recognized. “Not all the Shalussi warriors last so long against me. But still, you didn’t hit me even once. You have to attack, Odek. And not dance in the wind,” he laughed.

Dashvara saw him turn his back and leave with Andrek after saying goodbye to Fushek. This one went back into his house, half stifling a yawn.

The more I know the Shalussis, the more I am in a puzzle, he admitted. Walek did not look as cruel as at the beginning. However, he had killed people.

But I have killed too. Or is it that now I’m going to become a sainted hermit of the Eternal Bird?

He was going to stand up when he realized that his metal bar had nearly slipped out of his boot. Slightly pale, he put it back furtively as he rose up from the ground, and he held back the wooden saber to Rokuish.

“For my mother’s sake, you’ve been impressive,” this one said, enthusiastic. “You almost beat Walek! He is one of the best warriors in the village. Along with my brother.” As Dashvara was rubbing his painful side, he proposed: “Let’s take a break.”

Dashvara nodded, and they both sat down in the shade of a line bent with hung clothes.

“Tell me, Rokuish, with whom did you use to train before?”

The question seemed to embarrass the young Shalussi.

“Well… Sometimes with Fushek. And with some friends.”

There was a silence; then he rectified:

“To be honest, I barely train, actually. My old friends that wish to become warriors don’t want to train with me because, in their opinion, I don’t make any progress. Fushek is the only one who sometimes tries to teach me some lessons, but… I myself don’t insist quite much that he teach me. Andrek says that Bashak mistook my vocation and that it was my mother who dictated the old man what he had to say to me.” He smiled, but with no joy. “Bashak and Andrek can say whatever they want, but Fushek is the master-at-arms. He will decide whether I’m good at something or not.”

Dashvara stayed silent for a bit. He was beginning to like Rokuish, he realized. And that wasn’t a good thing.

“If Fushek is the master-at-arms, why didn’t he take part in the assault of the Xalya Dungeon?” he asked.

“Oh.” Rokuish looked surprised. “Didn’t you notice? His shield arm is crippled. He can’t fight on a battlefield. But he’s the son of the old master-at-arms, and he knows more combat techniques than anyone.”

Dashvara perceived in his voice a distinct hint of respect. He nodded.

“I see.” He got up. “So it will be better for you if you take the training more seriously because I’m not a patient man. I promise you that, if you do your best, you will progress.”

Rokuish made a face but rose to his feet.

“Okay then. I’ll do what I can.”

“You shall do what you must,” Dashvara replied, and as the young Shalussi raised an eyebrow, disconcerted, he smiled and moved away to the training field, thinking: Know what, Dash? Just say to yourself what you must do, and let the others do what they can, okay?

* * *

When he returned to Zaadma’s, it was already getting dark. Rokuish had assured him that, that night, it wasn’t their turn to go up to the watchtower and that there were several warriors who usually took turns. Their own night’s watch wouldn’t be until a few days later.

Dashvara stepped close to the house door, falteringly. Now that he was starting to put things into perspective about the indiscriminate hatred he felt toward the Shalussis, he wondered whether he had acted correctly agreeing to sleep in her house. But, on reflection, Zaadma had demonstrated a good heart by guesting him even knowing full well that he hadn’t the slightest piece of gold. As the ancient steppe wise men said: ‘Don’t repel the person who, instead of abandoning you, gives you bread, and a bed to sleep in.’

Whispers came from the inside. Dashvara sighed and withdrew his hand that was about to knock on the door. He turned back, sat down beneath the olive, and spent his time gazing at the Moon’s twinkling reflection on the river. This one was hardly one foot deep. He bet that, in periods of prolonged droughts, it probably diminished down to a brook.

He waited a long time before hearing louder voices and the creak of an opening door. Hidden behind the olive tree, Dashvara discerned the figure of a man… He rolled his eyes. Of course it was a man, what could it have been? His eyes widened when he recognized him. It was Nanda of Shalussi.

He could hardly keep himself from rising up and rushing at him. He was alone, far from the village—it was the ideal moment.

He let him pass. He could not believe what he was doing. He growled lowly when the Shalussi’s footfalls died away. It was one thing to be cautious, and another to be a coward. And he had the tremendous impression that, just right now, he had acted like a bloody coward.

Think a bit. If Nanda has come, he will come back again. You just have to ask Zaadma to warn you when he comes back. You kill him, steal a horse, and leave this place. You have already hesitated too much.

He stood up and crossed the doorway, which Zaadma had left open. The candle lit the inside. A scent of jasmine floated in the air. And Zaadma was singing to herself while slightly squashing the soil of a pot with white flowers. Dashvara observed her.

This woman has just offered herself to the man who allied himself with the Akinoas and the Essimeans to destroy my family. And, unbelievably, I accept her hospitality. Where did my honor get lost? Dashvara shook his head. Demons. If you really want to know, your honor got lost in the Xalya Dungeon, Dash. Anyway, it is too late to get it back.

He set aside the thought with a snort, and Zaadma started, just noticing his presence.

“Ah! Odek. Come in. I have prepared your bedroom—” She stopped speaking on seeing the Xalya’s expression, and then she smiled playfully. “Did you see him leave? You didn’t dare punch that man to conserve my dignity, not him, eh, did you?”

Dashvara clicked his tongue.

“How can you joke about dignity? Don’t you have moral values?”

Zaadma took a loud breath and raised her eyes to the heavens.

“Demons, Shalussi. I see you have your prejudices well embedded in your mind. My values are in good health, thanks. Okay, well, do you want us to philosophize or do you want to have dinner?”

Dashvara had to acknowledge that, after so much training, he was hungry.

“Let’s have dinner,” he declared.

Zaadma smiled with amusement and gestured to the cold plate of vegetables and figs that was set on the golden carpet.

“This is the meal that you should have eaten this afternoon,” she cleared up. “I prepared it with all my dedication and all my heart, and I waited, waited… I waited like a married woman for you to return, but you didn’t return. So I decided to keep it faithfully for you and make sure not even the smallest fig will be missing when you come back.”

Dashvara stared at her, not knowing at all how to take her mocking response. He apologized:

“I’m sorry. I didn’t think to inform you. I ate with Rokuish’s family.”

Zaadma sat down and crossed her arms.

“I suppose I have to be happy that you haven’t eaten at the White Hand.”

Dashvara raised an eyebrow. He sat, and he replied:

“I thought about you and about the terrible jealousy you would feel, and I decided not to approach that house.”

Zaadma smiled.

“Thanks for your understanding. Would you want me to warm up the vegetables? I have a heating slab made in Dazbon. It still runs like a charm.”

Dashvara shook his head negatively.

“No, no, really, couldn’t be better. Thank you,” he added, and he took a spoonful of vegetables.

When he finished the plate, he realized that Zaadma was looking at him. He frowned.

“What?”

Zaadma shrugged and smiled shyly.

“I don’t know… It has been a while since I have had someone to eat with. Well, I already had dinner. I mean, it has been a while since…” She gestured. “I’m sure you see what I mean.”

“Er, not quite, honestly,” Dashvara mocked.

They exchanged a gaze. Outside, only an utter silence could be heard. Zaadma cleared her throat.

“Your room is there,” she pointed.

Dashvara nodded and stood up.

“Thanks for taking me in. And thanks for the dinner.”

“Stop thanking and apologizing, and go to bed,” Zaadma replied.

Dashvara paused beside the curtain that separated both rooms.

“You don’t expect another visit, do you?” he asked a little sharply. “Because, in that case, I would rather sleep beneath the olive tree.”

Zaadma puffed.

“Don’t worry. This night I will sleep like a saint. Good night, young Shalussi. And, by the way,” she added, “I hope you’re not still thinking about taking revenge on Walek, are you?”

A sinister smile twisted Dashvara’s face.

“No. Don’t worry, I won’t kill Walek. Good night.”

He withdrew the curtain and felt his way to his bed. The chamber was small, but it had a window, and if one drew the curtain, one could see the Moon’s light reflected on the river. He took the headscarf off, removed his boots, and then glanced to the other room. The candle was still lighted.

He lay down, feeling agreeably tired. Even so, he could not deny it: as a fighter, Rokuish was a disaster, and what had exhausted Dashvara most had been to repeat recommendations in order to prevent him from making the same mistakes again and again. All in all, he had wielded a saber, yes, but it was a wooden one. And he would not kill Nanda with a wooden saber.

He made a wry smile in the darkness. Zaadma had already quenched the candle. He heard cloth murmurs, and then the silence. He closed his eyes and sharpened his ears. He listened to Zaadma’s quiet and rhythmic breathing. He listened to the light breeze. And, finally, he fell asleep.

He woke several times during the night, with a feeling of being lost. Oddly, he did not dream that he was murdering the savage chieftains, nor that he lost his family. He dreamed that he was fighting against red nadres with his patrol comrades. Makarva, Lumon, Sigfen, Boron, and the Triplets… and Captain Zorvun. All of them were well alive, and their faces were impressively clear. At some point, they began playing katutas.

He wrinkled his nose when he awoke in the dead of night. So much perfume befuddled him and kept him from sleeping deeply. The sun was scarcely peeking over the horizon when he got up. He pulled the headscarf on, put on the boots, and left the bedroom stealthily. The window curtain was half drawn, and a morning light faintly illuminated the inside. The sunbeams reddened the petals of the emzarreds, beautified the immaculate white kalreas, ploughed the firm earthy floor, slid onto the blanket, and caressed Zaadma’s back, half bared under the sheet.

Dashvara looked at her, wondering how such a beauty could have chosen a so little appropriate way of life. But maybe it didn’t seem to her inappropriate, who knows? He shook his head as though he wanted to awake himself utterly, and he stepped to the door. Silently, he went out and walked directly to the training field before Fushek’s house. The village was still half asleep, but it seemed that it would get alive before long.

He settled on the court ground, and after a while, he surprised himself drawing in the sandy soil with one of the wooden sabers. When he realized that he was stupidly writing his name in Oy’vat, he quickly removed the trace. I will never cease to surprise myself, he sighed, glancing around nervously.

Rokuish didn’t show up. After waiting in the court for a good while, Dashvara finally stood up, and he was going to put the wooden sabers back when his eyes suddenly fixed on something that was slithering toward a group of three children sitting on the ground, before a house.

It was a red snake.

For a second, Dashvara was petrified. Then he remembered his father’s words: ‘But before killing them, son, kill their families.’

Dashvara wavered. How many possibilities might there be that one of these children was a son of Nanda of Shalussi? Very few. And besides… He shook his head, astonished at his own thoughts.

No, father. I don’t kill innocents.

And he rushed forward.

“Don’t move,” he commanded as he saw the three children turning toward him.

When it was a question of giving orders, Dashvara gave them as Zorvun and Lord Vifkan did. The children didn’t move. In any case, they rapidly realized what was happening.

Dashvara approached the snake cautiously. The reptile wasn’t very long, but its venom was lethal, and its body moved at the speed of a bolt. Dashvara aimed with one of the wooden sabers, getting ready for any attack from the snake. A wrong move could cost his life.

Nimble like the wind. Subtle like the sand. Strike.

Dashvara struck, and he made no mistake. The snake’s head was crushed in the sand soil. Good. He twisted the stick and jabbed the head, assuring himself it was completely, utterly dead. Losing their silent expectation, the children burst into joyful cries and surrounded him to thank him. One of them squatted to grab the dead snake’s tail, and he dashed downhill, shaking the dead reptile like a trophy.

“A red snake!” he was crying. “He’s killed it! He’s killed it!”

Dashvara smiled.

“He will manage to awake even Rokuish if he keeps screaming like that.”

He heard the laughter of the little girl who was grasping his sleeve, and he suddenly realized that her face looked quite familiar.

“My, my, you’re the daughter of Orolf, the blacksmith, aren’t you?”

The girl nodded.

“And I am her brother,” said the other child, who seemed to be even younger.

Dashvara made a smiling face.

“Are you aware that, if that snake had bitten you, you would have died in a matter of minutes? Always beware of your surroundings, kids.” And as both of them were nodding, gaping at him as if they were eating up his words, his smile widened. “Go on. Go home and tell your father to give you a saber to defend yourselves next time.”

He saw them run to the blacksmith’s house, and he cloaked a laugh by clearing his throat. It was getting harder and harder for Orolf to refuse him this blessed saber he had promised.

Well, he thought, looking around. Where did you get lost, Rokuish?

He was supposed to be here now. Dashvara put down the wooden sabers, went downhill, and as he was passing before the Shalussi’s house, he saw his sister Menara taking clothes off the line; he greeted her.

“Is Rokuish still sleeping?”

The Shalussi woman denied with a shake of her head.

“No. He said he was going to train. He’s been gone for a while, now. Didn’t you see him?”

Dashvara gestured to reassure her.

“No, but maybe he was in Fushek’s house. Don’t worry. I’ll find him.”

“Come to think of it,” Menara suddenly said when Dashvara was already moving uphill again, “he didn’t go toward Fushek’s court but the river.”

To the river? Raising his eyebrows, the Xalya thanked her, returned to Fushek’s court to take the training weapons, and went to the river. When he arrived, he glanced at both sides, he looked straight, and… he let out a guffaw. Leaning sideways against a mutsomo bark, Rokuish was doing stretching exercises. Dashvara crossed the river and stopped before the Shalussi. This one was so focused on trying to lift his leg as much as he could that he did not even notice his presence.

“Exactly what are you doing, Rokuish?” Dashvara inquired, hardly suppressing his laughter.

Rokuish jerked up, and he almost lost his balance.

“Odek! You nearly scared me to death,” he gasped.

“Does that mean you are learning to walk diagonally?” Dashvara persisted, amused.

“Nope,” Rokuish replied, lifting both hands toward the sky. “I’m doing as you advised. I have run, and now I do stretching exercises. That is what you told me to do, isn’t it?”

Dashvara was grinning broadly.

“Well, more or less, yes. I’m glad you take the training so seriously. Where there’s a will, there’s a genius.” He raised one of the wooden sabers. “Look at this.”

He stepped backwards, stretched his saber-arm, and bent it; he lifted one boot, quickly spun around, and leaned backwards up to the point that a common man would have fallen; he supported himself on the ground with one hand and immediately propelled himself up, jumping aside and sweeping his saber.

Rokuish was laughing.

“I may go diagonally, but if you really fight throwing yourself onto the ground… well, I can’t tell if you’re going forward or backward. Nevertheless, it was not bad at all. I wish I had your agility.”

“Well, you just have to practice then.” Dashvara smiled. “And now that you’re stretched, there’s nothing like practicing against an adversary.” As Rokuish was nodding, he added: “And this time, Rok, it’s your turn to attack.”

8 The Dahars

The news about how the new arrival had saved three Shalussi children from a red snake spread all over the village, and when Dashvara and Rokuish returned at midday, half bent by tiredness, they found Orolf the blacksmith talking with the master-at-arms in the court.

They put down the training weapons, and as the blacksmith beckoned to Dashvara, this one came up, intrigued.

“Hey, young man,” the blacksmith began. “Fushek and I have been thinking about it, and I consider you need a true saber.”

Dashvara gave them both a half-smile.

“Only one?”

Fushek cleared his throat.

“The young man uses the combat techniques of the Steppe Thieves. He fights with two sabers.”

Orolf looked surprised.

“Oh. Fine. Two sabers, then.”

Dashvara looked at them, lost in thought.

So that means your children’s lives are worth far more than two steel sabers, he mused. That made him reconsider a lot of prejudices. But, to be honest, he had already begun to reconsider almost all of them.

The blacksmith kindly clapped him on the shoulder.

“I count on you to erase all those ugly snakes within three leagues of here, at least.”

Dashvara smiled.

“Thanks.”

“Thank you,” Orolf replied. “You will have your sabers in two weeks. And I’ll carve a red snake on them. They will be great.”

He pressed his shoulder with his big hand, and he left.

In two weeks?

Dashvara breathed in and tried to calm his impatience.

Two weeks is nothing. I can deal with that.

Fushek was looking at him with a thoughtful expression.

“I didn’t make a mistake. You have potential. And you seemed to have taught Rokuish more in two days than I have in one year,” he observed. “If you keep behaving like this, you might become a Shalussi warrior faster than you expect.”

He bowed his head briefly and went back into his house. Rokuish whistled.

“You’re only in the village for three days, and you’ve already gotten its regard. And Fushek’s respect. If only I had gotten the opportunity to save three children from a red snake…” he smiled.

Dashvara shrugged.

“More like: if only you had been there if I myself hadn’t,” he corrected him.

Both of them ate at Rokuish’s house, but this time, Dashvara had the decency of stopping by Zaadma’s house to warn her. However, he didn’t find his host anywhere, and he walked back to Rokuish, intrigued, wondering where she might have gone.

“I don’t quite understand why, of all the houses, you’ve chosen this one,” Rokuish murmured, as they walked up the path to his house. “I could ask my mother to guest you. I’m sure she will accept.”

Dashvara remembered the small house where Rokuish’s family lived… and he thought about Andrek. He shook his head negatively.

“I’m fine there, honestly.”

“That will get tongues wagging,” the Shalussi warned him.

Dashvara smiled.

“There are already tongues wagging because of the red snake. If they like, they can also gossip about how I’m guested by a…” —he was going to say, ‘Bastard of Dazbon’, but he contained himself, and he concluded—: “foreigner.”

Rokuish cleared his throat loudly while arriving beside his house.

“If she were only a foreigner…” he whispered eloquently. “But I see quite clearly that it doesn’t bother you.”

At this meal, Andrek behaved more friendly. The mother talked endlessly, Menara glanced at Dashvara repeatedly, with an innocent gaze, and the Xalya ignored them both as he was too concentrated on eating and on thinking about his sabers.

Right when they went out of the house, Rokuish and Dashvara returned to the stable to work and take care of the horses. The young Shalussi looked a little more willing to chatter, though his mother certainly had a good head start on him in this area.

“Whose is the black horse?” Dashvara inquired at some point, leaning against the fence.

“Nanda’s son’s,” Rok answered.

Dashvara felt a chill.

“I didn’t know he had children,” he continued after a silence.

“Mm, well, he does.”

Dashvara waited some seconds, and as he saw that the Shalussi didn’t continue, he thought:

If I had got a Rokuish with his mother’s spirit, I would probably be aware of all that happens in the village. But with Rok…

He cleared his throat.

“It’s a good horse. And this one? Does it belong to a Nanda’s son too?”

Rokuish’s head was gradually falling to his chest. So much training in the morning had got him exhausted, Dashvara guessed. However, the Shalussi made an effort to lift his eyes and look at the horse he was pointing at.

“Oh. Not this one,” he answered. “This is my brother Andrek’s. Actually, Zefrek is the only adult son of Nanda. The other son is twelve, and the daughter is fifteen. But women don’t ride,” he smiled. And he yawned.

Zefrek. So this one too.

“How long has he been your chief?” Dashvara inquired.

“Nanda? Since he killed Memfared in a duel. He challenged him, and he killed him. It happened about, well, about twelve years ago, I think.”

Dashvara nodded thoughtfully, looking at the black horse. A twelve-year-old son and a fifteen-year-old daughter. Did his father want him to kill them too? Just thinking of it made him feel repulsion. But still… deep down in his heart, he knew that his three brothers had died. Showag was sixteen and had gone to fight: he had died like a soldier. The others were even younger; but being who they were, it was very unlikely that a band of savages would have left them alive. As for Fayrah… Dashvara looked down to the ground. His sister Fayrah had been left alive, but actually, perhaps her future would be even worse.

In one week, the caravan from Dazbon would come to get the young Xalyas. They would pay a fortune for them; and then who knows what they would do with them. In one week. And Orolf wouldn’t give him the sabers before two weeks.

Dashvara clenched his teeth.

“Rok, that Zefrek, does he live at Nanda’s?”

As he didn’t get a response, he slightly turned and noticed that Rokuish had fallen asleep, leaning back on the fence. He half-smiled bitterly.

“Sweet dreams, Rokuish.”

He stepped away from the fence, opened it, and went into the enclosure. Slowly, he approached the black horse. This one looked at him with his dark eyes and let him come nearer. The Xalya gave the animal gentle slaps on its shoulder.

“I don’t know your name, but you remind me of Lusombra,” he whispered. “I’m sure you have the same noble soul as she has.”

The horse nickered as though flattered, and Dashvara grinned. After pampering the beast a bit more, he went out of the enclosure and decided to take a walk in the village neighborhood. He passed not far from Bashak’s, and when he saw the old man carving his piece of wood in front of the door threshold, he smiled and went closer.

“Is it getting now a concrete shape, grandfather?” he asked, greeting him.

Bashak shrugged with his everlasting amused smile.

“Please answer yourself.”

Dashvara raised an eyebrow and sat down. He took the piece of wood and examined it with dramatic attention. It had the unmistakable shape of a Shalussi man, and in truth, the piece was perfectly sculpted and seemed to be finished. The visage expressed a solemnity and a pride superbly rendered.

“Okay, well,” he said, “what I see is… a wooden jewel carved by the hands of a wise man.”

Bashak laughed.

“You really don’t see anything else? What does your imagination tell you?”

“My imagination?” Dashvara echoed. “Imagination kills, good man. Because it often shows wrong paths.”

Bashak shook his head, looking sad.

“What does your heart tell you?”

Dashvara gazed at him. My heart was shattered into pieces the past week, old man. What do you expect me to answer?

The old Shalussi tilted his head to one side and insisted:

“What does it evoke in you?”

Dashvara sighed.

“Eternal Bird,” he whispered.

He looked back at the piece of wood and its Shalussi’s solemn face.

“I see a proud man who looks at an empty future and struggles not to yield.” He shook his head, amused by his own, bitter words. “That’s what I see, old man.”

Bashak had frowned.

“An empty future?” he repeated. “That not exists but for the people who are dead or those who don’t have a will. A proud man cannot have an empty future.”

“Oh, really?” Dashvara smiled with no joy. “And what if the proud man were a dead person? A man with a heart as still as wood? What kind of future does a branch of a fallen tree have?”

He got up while Bashak was reflecting on his words, and he handed his sculpture back to him. Bashak shook his head and said:

“I had hoped to have carved a more cheerful thing, but things are as they are. Keep this dead-hearted man. And try to revive your own heart, young Xalya.”

Dashvara was about to move away, but his last word made his blood run cold.

“What… what did you call me?” he articulated, glaring at him.

With his serene, wrinkled face, Bashak was smiling.

“Only the Ancient Kings and their descendants, the steppe lords, swore by the Eternal Bird, young man.” Dashvara went ashen white, just realizing he could not have blundered more. The old man resumed in a quiet voice: “No Shalussi, no Essimean, no tribe that came later to occupy these lands and to expel the lords adopted their religion. The Eternal Bird, for many, is a synonym of domination, slavery, and repression. It’s the bloody eagle of a dark past. Since when does a Shalussi swear by the divinity that repulsed him to the most arid zones of the steppe for centuries?”

While he was speaking, Dashvara stared at him in dismay. His reason told him he ought to kill this old man, but his heart cried in pain at the mere thought of it. An old wise man who smiled at him so sincerely…

He suddenly snarled and approached the old man, his fist clutching the sculpture. His voice trembled when he spoke:

“Repulsed? The Xalyas that were destroyed last week didn’t repulse anyone ever. They were living quietly in their lands, even though these were more arid and inhospitable than yours. They were living in peace,” he hissed. “You can’t call a man who leads a few hundreds of people a steppe lord. The Xalyas you all destroyed were honorable men. They were decent men with an education and a way of life a great deal more advanced than this village of savages. And the Eternal Bird, fool old man,” he added with a pulverizing glance, “is not a bloody eagle. It’s the symbol of what we called the Dahars, which implies dignity, trust, and fraternity. That’s what you have destroyed,” he stammered. “That is what I’ve lost.”

He remained standing, staring at the old man with the eyes wide open, and suddenly, he knew he wouldn’t kill him. He wouldn’t commit the atrocities he condemned. He was a man of the Dahars, as Maloven had taught him. The shaard’s words he learned as a child still resounded in his mind: ‘Any action that forces you to commit shameful crimes against the Eternal Bird is shameful, and you must avoid it,’ he had said. Dashvara bowed his head. My hand will be stained only with criminal blood…

But according to the tradition of the Xalyas, he also had to obey his Lord Father, and this one had commanded him, as a final wish, to kill the chieftains’ families. All their members. Regardless of sex or age. Dashvara hadn’t obeyed his father all the time. He had been recurrently at odds with him, and that was why they had never completely gotten along. But, this time, it was different.

He raised his eyes to the old man. If Bashak didn’t keep his mouth shut, that meant he was able to kill a man just because he was a Xalya; and, in that case, he deserved to die. But if he kept his mouth shut…

Am I really going to trust the goodness of a savage?

He drew a deep breath, and he took a step backwards. As if the move had recalled him from his self-absorption, the old man slowly got to his feet and approached him. For a moment, Dashvara thought he was going to get hold of a hidden dagger and stab him traitorously, but the ancient only opened his arms and embraced him in a fatherly hug. For some seconds, Dashvara stayed stunned. Then, he wanted to resist, but… the old man’s sadness was unmistakably sincere.

This man, he thought, moved, is a wise man indeed.

Suddenly, the pain that burdened his heart spurted, cracked, and shattered into shreds. Dashvara felt tears trickling down his cheeks, and he felt a little more alive. He made an ironic face as he was crying.

Oh… excellent. Who would have thought that the last steppe lord would end up crying on the shoulder of an old Shalussi. It is almost romantic.

He drew away before, blushing and passing a sleeve on his eyes. Bashak gave him a friendly slap on the shoulder and said:

“I have been living for one hundred and twenty years now, and I long ago decided to give up trying to understand why humans act the way they act. But what I actually know is that it’s no use drowning yourself in your memories… even though it is impossible to forget them. Go with peace of mind,” he pronounced. “I judge men by what they are and not by what they represent. Don’t fear. I am a man with concrete ideas,” he smiled.

Dashvara gave him back a faint smile and inhaled noisily.

“Thank you. I, too, am a man with concrete ideas.” He took a surprised glance at the sculpture he was still holding in his hand; he saw the proud composure of the figure, and unconsciously, he straightened. “Thanks for the present.”

Bashak nodded.

“Whatever your future holds, I trust that you will find the right way. Let me advise you, however,” he added while the Xalya was taking a step backwards. “Don’t stay among the Shalussis. One day, you will accidentally swear by the Eternal Bird again, and I prefer not to think about what Nanda and his warriors could do to you then.”

Dashvara smiled, recovering his good mood.

“I will try not to stay here too much longer,” he promised. “And, if Nanda and his warriors turn against me before I leave, I assure you I won’t let them kill me easily.”

He held up a hand, and he walked down the gentle slope with a strange lightness in his heart. For some reason, he desired to trust this old Shalussi. After all, he who doesn’t trust anyone can’t expect others to trust him. Avoiding the village, he went straight to Zaadma’s house. The sun was already setting, and the sky was turning red. He heard a joyful song inside the house.

Bom, bom, bom!
The flowers, in spring,
smile like princesses;
all straighten and sing:
Bom, bom, bom!

Dashvara smiled, amused, when he saw Zaadma watering her flowers with a lovely love.

9 When a hand trembles

The next week, Shalussi life became a routine. Dashvara spent his days working and training with Rokuish, and although he knew it wasn’t a good thing, he had begun to consider the Shalussi a good comrade. He had not a warrior spirit, he was a terrible fighter, but his conversations were far from being hollow. During the breaks, both of them philosophized about the combat art and about life and death; they talked about concepts, which, from what Rokuish assured, had brought him more mockeries than friendships in his life.

“People mock what they don’t understand,” the Xalya said to him.

Dashvara returned to Zaadma’s house exhausted, but his heart grew more and more alive with every passing day. He could not complain about his hostess: she set the dinner and didn’t ask him to do much more than fill water buckets in the river. On the second day, as they were talking about plants, Zaadma expressed her surprise that a nomad Shalussi had heard about photosynthesis and morjas, the vegetable energy. Dashvara noticed the curiosity that was gleaming in Zaadma’s eyes, and without losing his self-possession, he answered with the sharpness of a proud Shalussi that, if he had heard about it, that didn’t mean at all he had any interest in her damned plants. That was possibly what damaged the relation and diminished the exchanges down to a few words of courtesy in the following days. Dashvara could not have found a better method to calm her curiosity. On the sixth day, however, Zaadma broke the silence to ask him to have a bath since his “smell of wild horse” seemed to her stronger than the scent of flowers in her house.

The sun was already set when Dashvara went out with, in the hand, a sponge that was stinking of flowers. He went to the river and walked along it, upstream. When he arrived near a shrubwood, he undressed and stepped into the black water; this one did not even reach his knee. The Moon was dying, and the stars were lighting the night softly.

Through the shadows, he discerned the distant forms of several people that were cleaning themselves in the river like him. Dashvara frowned, wondering. Usually, the Shalussis did not have modesty enough to wait until the sunset to take a bath. Soon, he got out of the water, put his clothes on, and crossed the river before going downstream stealthily. There were five people. Five women. They had just got dressed and were now whispering to each other on the bank. A few steps away, Dashvara sighted two Shalussi warriors standing guard.

My people, he realized, shivering.

With eagerness, his eyes looked for Fayrah’s face. But the night was very dark, and all the figures seemed alike.

It is better if she doesn’t see me, he insisted mentally. Anyhow, I can’t save her yet.

“Quit chattering,” one of the guards suddenly said. “Let’s go back.”

The young women immediately fell silent and followed the two guards uphill—up to where they were imprisoned, in Nanda’s house.

Dashvara closed his eyes briefly. When he reopened them, he saw the face of a young woman turning to the river as though by reflex. Dashvara tensed up.

It’s her.

He felt powerless when he saw her turning again to the shadows. He let her leave. A knight with honor wouldn’t allow anyone to sell her. A knight would save her after killing Nanda, and he would take her to a safe place before going on with the revenge.

You said, “the revenge”? And what have you been doing this week, oh Prince of the Sand? How many criminals have you killed to restore the balance? How many Xalyas have you avenged with your philosophical exchanges with this Shalussi “friend”?

The only thing he had done was hoard as many dried fruits as possible, anticipating the flight after the murder of Nanda. But he did not know yet how he was going to kill Nanda: his house was always guarded by at least two of his most loyal warriors, and unless he managed to steal two sabers from two sleeping warriors, he could not do anything but… hoard dried fruits.

Dashvara sighed and took the way back, thinking that Orolf had promised to give him the first saber the next day. With one saber, he could kill a man.

Zaadma’s house was already dark when he arrived. With a darkened expression, he went around to get in through his room window as silently as possible.

At least, this week, he had not had to sleep beneath the olive tree. And he had not had to punch anyone else. It nearly seemed he was being housed in a decent home. Dashvara smiled while contemplating the ceiling.

Tomorrow, I will get my saber.

His smile widened in the darkness, and he said in a whisper:

“Tomorrow, I will leave this village avenged.”

* * *

When he got up the next day, he was surprised to find Zaadma awake. The woman was braiding her long black hair with nimble fingers; she smiled at Dashvara when he left the bedroom.

“You smell much better,” she approved. “Now you smell of clean horse.”

Dashvara snorted but didn’t take offense.

“If you say so…”

“Trust me. Let’s see how long it lasts. How’s the job going? Are they ever going to pay you?”

Dashvara made a face, perceiving her interest.

“It doesn’t matter,” Zaadma went on, not letting him answer. “Today, if everything goes well, the caravan from Dazbon will arrive. Did you know it?”

Dashvara had turned pale. He did know, of course he knew. Nanda had sent the prisoners to clean themselves to sell them as soon as the merchants came.

“No, I had no idea. How long they will stay?”

“Not much. They will sell what they can and buy what they’re interested in. And they will come back to Dazbon.” Zaadma opened her mouth again, hesitated, and then closed it. “Well. I suppose today you’ll keep working with the horses.”

Dashvara nodded.

“I won’t come back tonight. I have the next watch.”

And, if I’m lucky, I won’t come back ever again, he added mentally.

“Ha, what a coincidence,” Zaadma smiled.

Dashvara raised an eyebrow.

“A coincidence?”

Zaadma seemed to doubt before declaring:

“Nanda of Shalussi promised me he would come tonight. As you asked me to warn you, I warn you. But as you will be outside, I suppose it doesn’t bother you.” Her smile broadened to a grin. “Besides, I’m sure he will come with the hands full of gold after selling the Xalyas.”

She frowned on seeing Dashvara’s glacial expression.

“So it’s perfect,” the Xalya said in a voice that was almost quivering in emotion. “I will be in the watchtower. Of course it doesn’t bother me.”

He noticed Zaadma’s startled look before turning his back on her and stepping toward the exit.

“Have a good day, Zaadma.”

Zaadma didn’t respond.

The first thing Dashvara did when he began to climb the village hill was go to the forge. There, he met Orolf, whose attention was totally focused on the red snake shape etched in the second saber.

“But you’ve almost finished the second one!” Dashvara exclaimed, surprised.

The blacksmith lifted his head.

“Don’t hurry. The sabers are finished, but the sheaths are not. Besides, the artistic touch is still to do. If all the weapons were identical, everything would be very impersonal.”

Dashvara rumbled lowly and seized the finished saber. He tore the air with a precise movement. The curved blade was perfectly balanced. A feeling of exaltation streaked through him as he suddenly felt able to defend himself.

“Today, Rokuish and I would like to train with true weapons. Do you mind if I take the sabers? They are just perfect.”

In fact, Orolf’s saber was even lighter than those he had forged himself.

“I do mind, boy,” Orolf replied. “Don’t be impatient. Perhaps I finish it tomorrow. Put this saber back.”

“Please, Orolf,” Dashvara insisted. “With those wooden sabers, I feel like a child playing at being a warrior.”

“A little humility will be good for you,” Orolf argued.

Dashvara felt the urge to tell him he could go to the deepest hell with his artistic touch and to explain to him that he actually needed those sabers to kill his chief, but he kept his mouth shut. After a silence in which he examined the saber blade and the red snake etched in the steel, he said:

“At least give me this one. It is finished, isn’t it?” he muttered as he saw that the blacksmith was unresponsive to his words. “You asked me to drop by here today to pick up the first saber.”

After a silence, Dashvara gave a shrug.

“So I take it.”

The blacksmith raised his head. Unexpectedly, he was smiling.

“You’re more insufferable than a west wind, son. Bah. Go with Rokuish to kill snakes, and let me concentrate.”

Dashvara smiled, waved goodbye, and went away with his saber, very pleased.

He found Rokuish in the stable giving hay to the horses, and he showed him the weapon.

“Light like the wind… and fast like a red snake,” he declared with a wide grin.

The Shalussi made an amused face.

“I see you woke up in a good mood. But, er, reassure me, you’re not thinking about training with true weapons, are you?”

“And why not?” Dashvara replied, strapping the saber to his belt before helping to feed the horses.

“The last time I trained with a true weapon, I spent a whole week at home because my arm hurt me so much I was unable to move,” Rokuish answered.

Dashvara looked at him, startled.

“Someone hurt you?”

“Not at all. I hurt myself with my own saber.”

For a moment, Dashvara stayed baffled; and then he burst into laughter.

“No kidding! Is that true?”

Rokuish sank the pitchfork in the ground, looking embarrassed.

“Hum, yes, it is. I see it makes you laugh like the others.”

Dashvara cleared his throat, trying to suppress his smile.

“Well, I’m sorry, I mean—”

Rok smiled and grasped the pitchfork again.

“I called me an idiot for a good month. And my mother made me promise I wouldn’t touch a true weapon until I don’t win a duel with a training saber.”

Dashvara reflected for a moment.

“This promise is stupid. Training duels aren’t won. You only win when the adversary dies well and truly.”

Rokuish made a face, and after a silence, he muttered:

“I suppose you’re right. You have the spirit of a warrior. And I, the spirit of a… horse feeder,” he smiled.

Dashvara leaned on his pitchfork, and his gaze fixed on the black horse.

“That’s what you think? Well. Maybe. Or maybe not. But, for now, let these horses eat alone, and let’s go to train.”

Rokuish sighed but didn’t complain.

“On the contrary, you seem to have swallowed a black crow at breakfast,” Dashvara observed. “See you on the other bank of the river, as usual. Get your saber. Today I’ll teach you the lynx’s eye technique.”

He saw Rokuish going back home, and he strode to the river. By mutual agreement, they both had left Fushek’s court and preferred to train far away from prying looks. Rokuish seemed to fight better when nobody was watching him.

An attitude tremendously useful for a warrior.

Truth to tell, Dashvara didn’t learn much during those exercises, but they helped him to keep fit, and they reminded him of the long duels with the Xalya warriors and with captain Zorvun.

He was almost at the river when he heard neighs, and wheel creaks against the dry soil. He slightly widened his eyes, and struck into a run, straight to the river. Soon, he saw the queue of wagons. There weren’t many: in all, there were five, drawn by horses and guided by some merchants. From what Dashvara had studied, Dazbon was located in the seashore of the Pilgrim Ocean, about five days away from the Xalya lands on horseback, riding fast. According to Maloven, to arrive there, one had to cross a wasteland maze of rock. Dashvara peered, shielding his eyes from the sun. These men from the port city looked weary, as though they had spent the whole night traveling.

The village had awoken sooner than usual. A cluster of children welcomed the wagons with screams and smiles. The Shalussi warriors went out of their home, armored and armed, to make a good impression. Shalussi women were coming up with their baskets, craning as if they were able to see, through the canvas, the wares inside the wagons.

The caravan crossed the river and stopped at the foot of the hill. A noise of voices spread rapidly over the whole area. Dashvara drew nearer to browse the caravan. The Dazbonish merchants were strange. They wore colorful dresses and brightly colored turbans, and among them, Dashvara saw one with long, pointed ears, scaled eyebrows, and slanting eyes. He looked at him fixedly. As Rokuish was just arriving with his saber unsheathed, Dashvara grasped his sleeve, and with the other hand, he pointed at the weird being.

“Is that an elf?”

Rokuish shook his head.

“No, I think it’s a tiyan.”

“A tiyan? Nonsense!” a voice protested right behind them. Dashvara turned around and saw Andrek, Rokuish’s brother. “He is a ternian. Don’t you see he has claws at his hands?”

“Don’t wonder he can’t see them, Andrek,” Walek replied, approaching. “Your brother is as blind as a bat. Actually, perhaps that’s why he wields the saber like a—”

“Walek,” Andrek growled, cutting him off as Rokuish slightly blushed. “We’d best move on. Nanda wants us to escort them here.”

With conflicting feelings, Dashvara saw the two warriors walking away up the hill. On one hand, he was glad that Nanda intended to sell the Xalyas. That way, the Shalussis wouldn’t be able to revenge themselves on the young women after losing their chieftain because of a Xalya. But, actually, if everything turned out well, nobody would know that the culprit was a Xalya… except for the old Bashak.

“Are we going to train, or do you aim to buy something?” Rokuish asked impatiently.

“Buy something? I’m out of money, how could I buy anything?” Dashvara replied, absent-minded.

He was taking glances towards Nanda’s house, waiting for the Xalyas to arrive. Rokuish sighed, but he followed him when he approached one of the wagons. There were spices, salt, dates, and tens of articles to which Dashvara wasn’t able to give a name. For as long as he could remember, the Dazbonish merchants had never traveled to the Dungeon of Xalya. The Shalussis had always blocked their way, and they were the ones who resold the products to the Xalyas for a fortune. Savage people, but smart, Dashvara thought.

At one moment, he leaned over a kind of big, black fruit, and as he noticed a merchant’s piercing look, he drew back and passed to another wagon. In this one, there were wine barrels.

“Truly, you’re so, so charming,” a familiar voice was saying to an older, long-bearded man.

Holding a bottle of wine, Zaadma was giving the merchant a strained smile.

“I’d like to give you something more,” the Dazbonish man said. “I owe you a thousand years of servitude for having saved my wife.”

“Oh!” Zaadma breathed out, sincerely touched. “You’re so kind, Shizur. But you’ve already brought me the moon narcissus. Do you know it has flowered? I water it every day. And every day, when I water it, I think about you, your wife, and your sweet children.”

Shizur smiled, though Dashvara noticed a slight frown.

“Heh. It’s flattering. Does it mean you want to ask me another favor?”

Zaadma made an innocent face.

“Er, actually, yes.”

She lowered her voice, and Dashvara could not hear what she said, but he saw surprise on the wine merchant’s face.

“Well, I dunno if—”

“Please,” Zaadma pleaded, joining her both hands and making a soulful face.

“Okay, okay,” the merchant yielded. “If that’s what you want—”

“You’re the best man I ever knew!” Zaadma exclaimed, and she jumped onto the wagon to embrace him as he laughed.

Dashvara rolled his eyes, and when he met Zaadma’s gaze, this one winked at him and vanished among the crowd.

“Hey, Odek!” Rokuish called him from another wagon. “Look at that!”

Dashvara approached and took a casual glance at a very well-crafted, white, small trunk. Next to it, there was a bracelet with a red light that was going around the metal piece.

“Magic,” he gasped.

“Harmonies,” corrected the merchant sitting on the wagon bench. Dashvara lifted his head and saw that elf-tiyan-ternian man looking at them with a serene gaze. “The red light turns when it perceives water around.”

Dashvara raised an eyebrow, skeptical.

“Interesting,” he just said.

“This is a unique piece,” the merchant went on, raising his voice so that the others would hear him. “A magara that will save your life when you find yourself in the middle of the desert.”

“If it could summon water, I would buy it,” Dashvara replied, and he moved away because he had just seen the Xalyas arriving in front of two other wagons. They were ten, dressed in Shalussi golden tunics, and they were bound and chained. For an instant, it occurred to Dashvara that this chain could be the one he had helped to forge in the smithy the last week…

He let out a low snort, and he went around the Xalyas to place himself behind them, among some Shalussis who were curious to see how the transaction would turn out. Next to the wagon, Nanda was talking to a tall merchant with an elegant bearing and piercing eyes. As soon as Dashvara saw him, he abhorred him.

“A hundred gold coins for each?” Nanda looked offended. “But they are the last Xalyas in all Hareka!” he exaggerated. Dashvara knew full well, as he had seen them, that there were some more Xalyas distributed among the clans. “The last ladies of the steppe,” Nanda insisted. “All of them have education, and all know how to write. They each are worth at least four hundred coins.”

The Diumcilian trader, not turning a hair, passed along the prisoners, examining them without touching them. The young Xalyas, including Fayrah, fixed the ground with their eyes. Dashvara swallowed the fury that was simmering inside him.

“How can I be sure you are not cheating me?” the Diumcilian man said. “You, the Xalyas and the Shalussis, have the same features.”

“Don’t insult me, trader,” Nanda snapped lowly. “And give a fair price.”

“They are ten. If I take the lot, I give you twelve hundred coins. Not any more.”

“Two thousand,” Nanda thundered.

“Fifteen hundred,” the merchant conceded.

A wry grin contorted Nanda’s face, and he seemed to be about to accept, but then he repeated stubbornly:

“Two thousand.”

The Diumcilian trader assumed a thoughtful expression and replied in a teasing voice:

“One thousand seven hundred. And that’s my final offer.”

Nanda was about to repeat his price, Dashvara saw it, but then, he thought better of it and offered his hand. The Diumcilian foreigner shook it.

“That kind of deal calls for a celebration,” Nanda grinned fiercely. “I invite you to taste the best mutsomo liquor.”

The merchant thanked him for the invitation, commanded his partners to bring the Xalyas into the shade, and followed the chieftain uphill. When Dashvara saw them passing by only a few steps away, he felt very clearly the weight of his saber fastened on his belt, and he thought of the first attacking movement, fast as a snake…

Eternal Bird! Calm down, he ordered himself.

Brusquely, the Xalya grabbed Rokuish’s arm and hissed:

“Let’s go training.”

“At last!” Rokuish sighed. Obviously, he considered the trade exchanges even more boring than the training.

When they arrived at the training field, beyond the river, Dashvara lifted his saber and fought stronger and quicker than usual, so much that, at one moment, he caught himself pointing his saber to Rokuish’s throat after executing a Xalya movement. A frightened light flashed in Rokuish’s eyes. Surrendering, the Shalussi dropped his saber to the sandy ground. Dashvara drew a deep breath, and slowly, he moved the blade away.

“This is the lynx’s eye technique,” he explained, expiring air.

“You win,” Rokuish coughed. “Again.”

“You only win when the adversary dies well and truly,” Dashvara repeated.

Rokuish looked at him with an apprehensive smile.

“Lucky that you are on my side and not on the enemy’s, eh?” he joked.

Dashvara made a contracted, crooked grin.

“What’s the enemy’s side for you?”

Rokuish stooped down to pick up his saber.

“Well… I dunno. Now that the Xalyas are gone, I suppose the Akinoas are the most dangerous tribe. They are sheer savages. They are said to kill mercilessly and lawlessly.”

Dashvara’s smile contorted even more.

“That’s funny. I bet that the Akinoas called the Shalussis savages too. After all, all of us, in the steppe, are heartless savages, don’t you think?”

Rokuish frowned.

“No, I don’t think so. I, at least, am not like that. I have a heart, and I even wonder whether I’d be able to ever kill anyone. And you… Have you ever killed?”

Dashvara nodded, and Rokuish got troubled.

“I should have guessed. And… didn’t you feel guilty, afterwards? Didn’t you feel disgusted with yourself for having put an end to the life of a sentient being?”

Dashvara gave him a teasing look.

“Haven’t you ever killed a fly, Rok? Or are your hands as clean as a baby’s?”

“Flies don’t think, Odek.”

“Ha! Who told you they don’t think?” he replied.

He caught the Shalussi’s bored look, and he sighed, more serious.

“I didn’t feel guilty,” he continued. “I killed a bandit who murdered a whole family to steal food. Maybe he was hungry, and maybe the family refused to feed him, possibly, but let me tell you I don’t repent of having killed him.”

Rokuish breathed out and sat down on the ground, meditative.

Technically, he isn’t the only one I’ve killed, Dashvara completed silently. One day, my patrol also wanted to capture a Shalussi thief in a Xalya farm. He got aggressive. I wounded him. And he died from his injuries. But I think, Rok, that speaking about one dead is more than enough for you.

“I wasn’t talking about such cases,” the young Shalussi said finally. “I was talking about cases such as the Xalya Dungeon. When the warriors kill each other to take hold of more pieces of land or… to exterminate a dominant family. You will probably take me for a coward, but I wouldn’t be able to act like my brother Andrek. I wouldn’t be able to obey Nanda just because he gives me a fistful of gold. I would feel cruel and stupid. In the end, we’re all humans, aren’t we? Why wouldn’t we be able to reach an agreement without shedding blood everywhere?”

He closed his mouth, as though he feared he had talked too much. He lowered his eyes, ashamed.

“Call me a coward, if you want. You won’t be the first, so don’t worry.”

Dashvara stared at him, speechless. A thing was clear: perhaps the Shalussi warriors that worked for Nanda had stupid and cruel fits, as Rokuish said, but in this village, there were people that really worshiped the Eternal Bird, even though they didn’t know It.

Deeply moved, he squatted down beside Rokuish, laid aside the saber, and put a hand on the shoulder of the one who, without a doubt, had proven himself to be a man of the Dahars.

“He is no coward who refuses cruelty or stupidity,” the Xalya murmured. He felt that Rokuish lifted his head in surprise. He sat, crossing his legs, assuming the same wise posture as Bashak. “Someone once taught me that every action that forces you to commit shameful crimes is shameful in itself. If you want to kill a criminal and you have to kill innocents for it, you have to give up killing him or choose another way. If you doubt before an innocent, you are not a coward. If you doubt before a criminal, you definitely are.”

They kept silent for some seconds. Rokuish seemed to think hard about his words. Then, a joking smile lit up his face.

“I just feel like I’ve been freed from a heavy burden. Next time Andrek calls me a coward, I will know what to answer.” He clapped Dashvara on the arm. “Thanks, brother.”

He stood up, and Dashvara did the same, grasping the saber more tightly than needed.

You’re welcome… brother.

* * *

The merchants of Dazbon were entertaining the Shalussis the whole afternoon, and when Dashvara and Rokuish went up to the watchtower at night, they could still see the torches burning around the wagons.

Dashvara rested his elbows on the stone edge of the tower and cast at Rokuish a sidelong glance. Incomprehensibly, he felt guilty. He had forced him to train for much longer than usual, and now, the Shalussi was burned out. He had not complained, not even once; Dashvara had to acknowledge it.

“I have the impression that tonight I will stand guard with an eye closed,” Rokuish admitted.

Dashvara smiled.

“Don’t worry, I’ll watch over you as the Moon Tree watched over the Sleeping Princess.”

Rokuish, however, leaned over the edge beside Dashvara and gazed at the stars. After a peaceful silence in which Dashvara began to wonder whether it wouldn’t have been better to tire him a bit more, Rokuish spoke:

“The old Bashak says that the stars, for the Xalyas, are feathers with eyes of their bird-god that watch over their believers. I wonder why they think so.”

Dashvara breathed in silently and patiently. He wanted to answer: The Eternal Bird, Rokuish, is an internal ideal each Xalya has; it’s a way of life, not a god with just one body like the one the Essimeans adore. But he kept silent. He knew that the Shalussis had no god and that they simply adored Nature and, more than anything, beautiful and valuable things. As the concept of beauty was subjective, their culture had developed an intense adoration of gold. It would have been more logical to adore something that could be eaten. Dashvara smiled.

“Perhaps it is nothing more than a poetic tale to make people dream,” he said. “I guess children like to look up toward the heavens and think that, up there, there are feathers with eyes gazing at them from the inside.”

Rokuish seemed to like the explanation, because he did not answer.

If you don’t get asleep by yourself, Rokuish, I will have to give you a good punch, and we both will regret it deeply.

Trying to hide his nervousness, Dashvara turned his eyes toward the torches beside the wagons. They were already burning out, he noticed. Then, he saw Nanda’s door opening. The elegant merchant of Dazbon went out. He didn’t return to his wagon; instead, he entered the White Hand. Dashvara narrowed his eyes.

“Who is this slave-trader?” he asked. He didn’t try to conceal his repulsion: the Shalussis—even though they took prisoners—sold them but never used them as slaves themselves. At least that was something.

Rokuish made a face while stepping away from the wall to sit down on the ground of the small tower.

“He’s a guy called Arviyag,” he answered. “He comes from far away, from Diumcili. He is the owner of the White Hand. He settled his three workers five months ago, with Nanda’s consent, and some warriors seem to be delighted, but… as for my mother, she scolded my brother Andrek many times for hanging out at that house. She says he’d better be more wisely, stop his pranks, and get a true wife from our village.”

Dashvara raised an eyebrow.

“So I take it you never went in there, did you?”

Rokuish choked on his saliva.

“Me? Well… they pushed me inside once. I was distracted,” he justified himself.

Dashvara shrugged and kept silent, getting more and more nervous. He was sorely tempted to ask him whether he needed some lullaby to help him sleep. He contained himself and said no word.

Rokuish had leaned back on the base of the parapet. At first, he seemed to try keeping awake, but as soon as he closed his eyes, he didn’t last long: the somnolence overcame him, and his breathing became steady.

Dashvara let out a sigh of relief. He felt both tight and light. Soon, everything would come to an end. He looked at the dark sky, at the terraces, the White Hand house, and the smithy… He had spent not much more than a week in Nanda’s village, and he already knew he was going to miss quite a few people: Orolf the blacksmith, even though he had probably forged sabers that had been used to kill Xalyas; the wise Bashak, the peaceable Rokuish, and even his mother’s endless talk, and Menara’s kind glances. And, of course, he could not forget Zaadma either. After all, she had lodged him, fed him without anything in return, and she had proven herself to be a kindhearted person.

Dashvara shook his head and set aside all his reflections and doubts. Nonetheless, he would never miss anything more than his people. He invoked his memories and Zorvun’s lessons.

‘To kill by treason is shameful. If a man hurts you, challenge him to a duel to the death.’

He awaited. He did not have to wait much: soon, Nanda left home, holding a torch. Behind him, his son followed; he was probably the eldest son, given his height, though he could not perceive his face. Dashvara guessed he was asking his father where he was going; gesturing authoritatively, Nanda ordered him to go back home. Zefrek went back into the house, and when the chieftain found himself alone, he began to walk downhill.

Now, Dashvara told himself. Cautiously.

With a fluttering heart, he bent over Rokuish. The Shalussi had removed his saber to sleep more comfortably.

Sweet dreams, friend.

He took the weapon. Or rather he stole it.

‘He who steals to survive doesn’t dishonor his soul,’ Maloven’s lenient voice sounded inside him. The Xalya made an ironic smile.

I assure you I only try to survive the Xalyas’ revenge, shaard, he thought.

Maloven certainly would have disapproved of any slaughter. He would have even certainly succeeded in forgiving the Shalussis, Akinoas, and Essimeans for their crimes. Maloven could be a wise man in some ways, but in others, he was a damned coward… or a visionary.

Anyway, he had no time to care about details of honor.

He went downstairs and left the tower, scanning the shadows. He followed Nanda through the deserted path and abandoned the hill, moving stealthily. At some moment, Nanda looked over his shoulder, lifting the torch, as if he had heard something or as if he wanted to make certain his son wasn’t following him. Crouching close to the ground, Dashvara stayed immobile in the darkness. The Shalussi chief, looking not anxious at all, resumed his walking. They reached Zaadma’s olive tree, and Dashvara immediately frowned, startled on sighting one of the Dazbonish wagons in front of the house. Nanda paused, as though surprised too.

Are you intending to wait till the Shalussi goes into Zaadma’s house to kill him, you bloody fool? he suddenly asked himself.

Silently, Dashvara unsheathed Rokuish’s saber. He laid the scabbard on the ground and took a step forward, ready to kill. Now his body was moving with the slowness of a snake that awaits the opportune time to strike.

‘To kill by treason is shameful,’ thundered Zorvun’s voice in his memories.

He clenched his teeth. And why should I care? The Shalussis killed the Xalyas by treason, forming an alliance with the Essimeans and the Akinoas. They are the real murderers. Nanda is the murderer. Besides, if I want to leave this place alive, I can’t make an uproar that sounds all over the village. Hadn’t his lord father said that there was no rule and no mercy that could stop him?

Suddenly, the door flew open, and Zaadma appeared into view, holding a flower pot in her arms. The young woman stopped short on seeing Nanda. Dashvara crouched in the shadows.

“Why, I… I didn’t expect you so soon,” Zaadma apologized. “I’m just, er—”

She fell silent, and stepping a little forward, she laid the pot in the wagon, in which there was already a good heap of plants. Dashvara’s eyes widened. Was she going somewhere?

Nanda had become tense.

“What’s that?” he demanded to know loudly. “You’re not intending to leave, are you?”

“Me?” A troubled smile curved Zaadma’s mouth. “Not at all. Well, I do, but…” Her characteristic self-confidence seemed to have vanished. Dashvara got worried when Nanda went closer to her.

“You won’t go anywhere,” the Shalussi hissed.

Zaadma’s skin turned red.

“Go find another apothecary, or show your warriors who you truly are, Shalussi!” she replied briskly. She closed her mouth. “I mean,” she went on in a honeyed voice. “I’m grateful for your protection and your money, but as I already told you, if the pain that afflicts you has become stronger than my potions, there is nothing I can do.”

She fell silent again, but this time it wasn’t because of indecision but because her eyes had just met Dashvara’s.

In any case, Nanda was too upset to notice anything. He stepped forward and squeezed Zaadma’s arm roughly. Dashvara moved and sneaked forward.

“Bring back these plants home,” the Shalussi commanded in a threatening voice.

“Let go of me!” Zaadma protested. “I can’t do anything more for you. I’m sorry.”

“I’ve killed a lot of men,” Nanda growled. “I’ve given you my gold. I’ve given you everything you asked for. I’ve protected you from the other warriors. What do you want from me, woman? Do you expect me to kneel before you? I’d sooner kill you and kill myself after. You have asked me too much. Give me that potion and those plants!” he barked out. “Answer and tell me which of them is the remedy. Answer at once!”

“There is no absolute remedy, Nanda!” Zaadma cried. “I’ll give you the remedy’s secret. But promise me that, then, you will allow me to leave and you won’t kill me.”

“You want me to leave you alive, woman bastard? Despite all you know?”

Zaadma breathed out, daunted.

“It’s a disease, Nanda. You don’t have to feel ashamed of that—” She gave a muffled scream of fright and hurried backwards when Dashvara crept up on the Shalussi leader and put a saber on his throat and another on his back.

“You move, I kill you, Nanda,” he whispered; his voice was so bitterly cold and calm that he even scared himself.

Nanda gasped but recovered his composure with a promptness worthy of respect.

“Who are you?” he croaked.

Dashvara grinned fiercely. Zaadma, half sheltered in her house, gagged herself with both hands not to scream. At least she didn’t run away to alert all the villagers. Dashvara licked his lips, and he murmured:

“If you really want to know, I’m Dashvara of Xalya, son of Vifk—”

He did not finish his sentence. Scarcely had Nanda given a hint of a desperate movement as he realized he would not come out alive when Dashvara gave a clear cut and let the Shalussi tumble down to the ground. In his dreams, he had felt happy and free after accomplishing his revenge. But seeing Nanda dead, he felt nothing. Only a vast emptiness.

He stared at Nanda’s torch flame, he squatted, and he put it out rubbing it against the soil. Only the candlelight inside the house kept them away from the complete night darkness.

“Aswua masjak tarnatar,” Dashvara pronounced lowly.

Shadows do not deny death, the Ancient Kings said. But they were able to hide it.

After a silence, he noticed Zaadma’s uneven, quick breathing.

“Why did you do it?” the young woman finally stammered. “Did you really intend to save my life?”

Dashvara breathed in and out several times before looking up at her.

“Save your life? Well, er… Why not? I mean, yes,” he rectified, embarrassed. “I did. But not only.”

“But not only,” Zaadma repeated in a whisper. She had dropped to her knees, on the threshold, dead scared, but she managed to get to her feet. “Are you really who you said you are? Dashvara of Xalya? The steppe lord?”

Dashvara gave her a dark look.

“I am no lord. I only came here to avenge my family.”

Zaadma lowered her gaze at Nanda’s corpse; her lips quivered slightly, and then she shook her head slightly.

“Come to think of it, that makes a lot of sense. Your strange behavior, the things you did not know… Demons, I should have suspected. Know what? I’m glad. I’m glad I’ve let you stay at my house. Without you, Nanda would have probably killed me. He couldn’t stand the thought of depending on a foreigner.”

A chill went up Dashvara’s spine, and he withdrew his eyes from the corpse. Speaking in such an unpleasant place made him shiver quite a bit.

“So. He was ill?”

Zaadma nodded.

“He had chronic spasms, and in my opinion, he wasn’t going to live much more than a couple of months. My potions didn’t quite neutralize the disease symptoms anymore, and that was driving Nanda terribly mad.” She paused. “Even if I had told him what ingredients the potion has, he wouldn’t have been able to make it by himself. The remedy I administered to him was a celmist potion that required brulic and essenciatic energy.”

For an instant, Dashvara forgot Nanda and looked at Zaadma, stunned.

“You’re a wizard?”

Zaadma smiled faintly.

“I am a celmist. In a way, I’m an alchemist. And now, if you don’t mind… Well, actually I was thinking about leaving tomorrow with the merchants after having convinced Nanda to let me leave, but” —she cleared her throat— “it would be better if we move away right now, because when the warriors find Nanda, I guess they will not appreciate so much what you have done.”

An alchemist, Dashvara thought in a daze. According to Maloven, the alchemists were capable of doing wonders with plants. He dropped a perplexed gaze to Nanda of Shalussi. This man… had been at the mercy of Zaadma’s remedies. Who would have thought?

“Odek!” Zaadma rushed him.

That jolted Dashvara out of his thoughts. They dragged the corpse behind a bush so that it could not be seen easily from the hill in daylight, and when he saw Zaadma hurrying to and fro, carrying her plants from her house to the wagon, his face screwed up.

“What the hell are you doing?” he inquired, bemused. “I hope you’re not plannig on bringing all these plants with you, are you?”

Zaadma gave back an arrogant look.

“That’s exactly what I’m planning to do,” she replied.

“Are you mad?” Dashvara sprung in disbelief as he followed her. “If you leave and I leave too, they won’t know who has killed him. If they think you are guilty, and if you run off with all that stuff, they will catch you.”

“Oh, what a smart boy, I didn’t even think about it,” she responded sarcastically as she was putting a big pot full of kalreas in the wagon. She turned to Dashvara, arms akimbo. “If you cared so much about my safety, you could have killed him somewhere else and not in front of my house. Now would you quit complaining and help me take the bare necessities? Hitch the two horses to the carriage.”

Dashvara had planned to take, from under his bed, the bag he had prepared, run to the stable, steal the black horse, and leave. He hadn’t planned to flee with a crazy woman in a wagon full of flowers and barrels. He felt overwhelmed.

“What horses?” he asked.

“Those that are tied behind the house. They’re Shizur’s, you see, the wine merchant. He lent me one of his wagons for the way back.”

“The way back?” Dashvara echoed weakly.

“Quit asking, will you?” Zaadma’s voice grunted from the inside of the house.

Dashvara sighed. He put the sabers in the carriage and walked around the house. When he found the horses, he drew their reins and managed to guide them to the right place. Right after, he cast an inquisitive look at the front of the wagon. He had never tied a horse up to such a big wooden contraption.

So he just tied them clumsily to a pole so that they wouldn’t move, and he entered the house to pick up his bag and the blanket. When he went out, Zaadma was carrying her splendorous and flowering moon narcissus with both hands as if she were holding the world’s soul. She got on the wagon with an expression of intense concentration, and she put down her treasure between two barrels.

“You will be fine here,” she smiled.

Dashvara put his bag on a barrel, and he was about to explain his problem with the horses when Zaadma growled:

“Don’t put it there. If it falls, it will crush my narcissus!”

Dashvara sighed loudly and placed the bag farther.

“Is it fine here?” he inquired, exasperated. “Good. Now, tell me, how would you hitch the horses to the carriage?”

The woman looked at him, glanced at the horses, and then lifted her eyes to the heavens as if pleading for mercy.

“We are going to go very far harnessing them like that, for sure.” She got down and hitched up the horses promptly as she commanded: “Get these torches, but don’t light them.”

Holding back a reply, Dashvara fetched the torches. Then, he went where they had laid Nanda, and averting his eyes from the face, he commandeered the sheathed saber, the belt, and the coin purse. When he came back to the wagon, Zaadma had just finished fastening the reins. She looked at him gloomily.

“You have… looted a corpse?”

Dashvara shrugged.

“I’ve already lost my honor tonight by stealing the saber of a friend.”

Zaadma raised an eyebrow.

“Oh, well. Let’s get going, then.”

She shook the reins, and the horses started to advance. They went far around the village, going upstream along the river before crossing it and jogging the horses through the dry, dark earth. Now a Gem’s blue beam was gleaming in the sky, replacing the Moon almost dead, but the light was so dim they could scarcely see where they were going.

After a silence, Dashvara let out a deep sigh.

“So I have killed a man who was about to die in any case. That’s kind of ironic,” he mumbled.

Zaadma kept her eyes fixed ahead. She seemed to have recovered from all this mess a great deal faster than Dashvara.

“If that may reassure you, besides killing a man, you have probably saved my life,” she said after a pause.

“Wait just a couple of days before affirming it,” Dashvara replied.

He glanced back. He could see nothing. There was no burning torch. For all that, he barely managed to relax. He was not foolish enough to dream and hope that the Shalussis would let the murderers of their chief live. They were savages, yet they had honor.

Dashvara breathed in the night air.

I can’t die, he told himself. Not yet.

10 A tear of gratitude

When Dashvara awoke, the first thing he saw was a silver flower with two blue antennas hanging a palm away above his eyes. He stiffened and sneezed violently. When he sat up, he more or less shook all the jungle that was surrounding him. After noticing that one of the white petals had fallen from the flower, Dashvara took it and shoved it into his pocket with an innocent face. Then, he frowned on noticing a detail. The wagon wasn’t moving.

Zaadma was crooning at the rear of the carriage. Dashvara saw her watering the flowers with a water bottle, and he grumbled lowly.

“How long have we been stopped?” he asked.

“Good morning, sir Xalya,” Zaadma greeted him without answering.

Dashvara straightened, forced himself to be patient, and stepped out of the wagon. The landscape was more similar to that of the Xalya lands: sparse grass through and through, and endless hills. There was no tree in view. He stroked the heads of the horses. He had to admit that both had deserved a good rest.

“Are you going to drain all the water we have?” Dashvara inquired, moving to the rear of the wagon.

Zaadma shook her head.

“We only have two water bottles. I’m using wine.”

For an instant, Dashvara remained confused, and then he grasped it.

“Of course. The wine merchant. So aside from the cart and the horses, he gave you his merchandise.”

“Only one barrel. This one has my belongings. And that one is empty. Besides, he didn’t ‘give’ them to me. Shizur lent me the wagon and the horses this night so I could put the plants inside. I was supposed to travel back with him the next day…” A light of guilty flickered in her eyes. “I fear our friendship is going to suffer a hard blow after all this.”

Again, Dashvara’s eyes swept around. The sun had risen about one or two hours ago, he estimated. Over their heads, the sky was blue, but the northeast was dark. Dashvara narrowed his eyes, observing the phenomenon with a nasty premonition. The clouds were approaching fast.

“Zaadma,” he pronounced. “A storm is about to burst upon us.”

She looked where the Xalya was pointing at, and her face became thoughtful.

“I think this wine doesn’t pick the flowers up. We have an empty barrel. We could put it outside.”

Dashvara stared at her.

“And wait calmly until it gets full while the Shalussis are searching for us?” He shrugged. “I’ll go untie a horse and keep going alone. If you’re longing to die, no problem, I will leave you alone with your plants and your barrels—”

Zaadma grumbled.

“Okay, okay! We will set the wagon tilt backwards. If it doesn’t blow too much, we will be able to go on and fill the barrel with rain at the same time.”

Dashvara made no objection, and while Zaadma slightly untied the hood and opened the water barrel, he got up again into the wagon, glancing darkly at the black clouds. He encouraged the horses with the reins, and they continued.

“Where exactly are we going?” he asked.

“Do you really care about such a trivial matter now?”

Dashvara took another glance at the clouds.

“All night, you’ve gone straight to the southwest,” he observed. “I guess you plan to cross the Rocky Maze to go to Dazbon.”

“The Rocky Maze?” Zaadma repeated, amused. “Is it how you, the Xalyas, call it? Come on, there are signals indicating the way. It’s impossible to get lost.”

Dashvara raised an eyebrow but didn’t answer. For now, the most important thing was to leave the Shalussi lands behind as far as it was possible.

Now only three are alive, he thought cheerfully. Lifdor of Shalussi. Shiltapi of the Akinoas. Todakwa of the Essimean clan… At this rate, if I don’t die, I will kill them all within a year, and what then?

A sudden wind began to blow, and the first raindrops fell. No thunder could be heard, and no bolt could be seen, but the rainfall lasted long. The rain got stronger, and Zaadma grew livelier, looking each second at the inside of the barrel to see how it was getting full. At one moment, she even had the idea of keeping the water with the wagon tilt, and she untied it completely to bind it again so as to let the water flood into the barrel. The wind was getting up, and Zaadma was swearing and growing more upset against the gusts by the minute. When Dashvara heard a louder scream beyond the gale, he turned, exasperated, handling the reins with one hand and clutching a bench edge with the other to keep his balance. He breathed out loudly when he noticed that the wagon tilt had blown away through the grassland, and he let out a loud guffaw.

“My plants!” Zaadma shrieked despairingly.

She embraced several pots, trying to protect them from the gusts, which were growing more and more violent. Dashvara pulled at the reins when he saw one of the horses taking a step aside, pushed by the wind. It sure would have been a pity if the animal got hurt. He got down, bending against the wind, and he scanned the plain, searching for the wagon tilt. This one had flown away to the ends of the world, he determined. Besides, the wind was still dragging it farther away. He shrugged and approached the horses to calm them. He whispered some peaceful words in their ears, and when he heard Zaadma utter an exclamation, he wondered with amusement whether the same technique would work on the alchemist too.

Finally, the wind slowed down, and the storm blew itself out, leaving behind an unquiet breeze, a smell of wet soil, and an odd silence.

The horses snorted. Dashvara gave both of them a friendly slap on their nose, and he went back up to the wagon, soaked. Zaadma was hugging her narcissus, her eyes closed and her braid tangled. Tears were trickling down her cheeks, and Dashvara felt concerned.

“Zaadma? Zaadma! Are you all right?”

When Zaadma opened her eyes, her terrible look made him fall silent.

“I myself am fine,” she said. She paused, and then sobbed: “But my flowers…”

Dashvara furrowed his brow and glanced at the moon narcissus. It seemed it had survived. Then he glanced at the rest, and he made a face.

“I see. What a mess.”

All the stalks were completely flattened, and the wagon floorboard was covered with petals. Zaadma took a deep breath as if trying to recover her self-possession. She seemed so shocked that Dashvara instinctively drew closer to comfort her. Zaadma jolted.

“Don’t come any closer! The narcissus is now all I have.”

Dashvara desisted and kept silent for a moment. Finally, he said:

“Well, shall I throw these pots away?”

The murderous glare Zaadma gave back recommended him not to go on talking about her plants.

“All right,” the Xalya muttered.

He went back to the front, and he was just about to spur on the horses when Zaadma complained:

“Why did I ever have to remove the wagon tilt?”

Dashvara glanced at her over his shoulder. After a hesitation, he smiled and pronounced:

“In life, you have to take a lot of decisions, and sometimes you’re wrong. That’s all.”

He shook the reins, and the wagon started moving. It passed maybe an hour until Zaadma decided to come and sit down beside him. She seemed to have recovered herself.

“At least my narcissus has survived,” she said, putting things in perspective. “You don’t know how many wonders you can do with a moon narcissus. The ancient alchemists said you could even cause resurrection with a lot of practice. Well, they are just legends, you know, but I assure you that you can do wonders with a moon narcissus.” She paused, and then she added in a trembling voice: “And with my kalreas I’d be able to concoct a remedy against intestinal infections…” Her voice cracked, and she sniffed loudly. “With that invention, I’d be able to get the consideration of the most important alchemists in Dazbon. Wait—what am I saying?” she sighed sharply. “What I really needed was a remedy against stupidity.”

Dashvara smiled as Zaadma was adding in a whisper:

“We’d best have brought Nanda’s corpse with us instead of…” She sighed again, noisily. “Come to think of it, maybe it would have been a better idea. At least it wouldn’t have been blown away as my flowers were.”

Dashvara’s smile widened.

“Indeed,” he answered, “all we needed was to travel with a corpse buried among pots. Now, now! Don’t distress yourself.” He touched his drenched headscarf and added: “Know what? I’m glad to see your interests are not limited to money. You could have told me you were an alchemist.”

Zaadma put a proud face.

“And so you would have thought better of me? Just for a matter of job? In Dazbon, I was an alchemist apprentice. But I was such a foolish girl. I used to carry out forbidden experiments that led to nothing but more problems; I ran away from the Celmist Citadel to go into the gambling houses; once, I even pretended to be a healer when I was sixteen. As a student, I was a complete disaster. Believe you me. And then I got into trouble, and when I fell in love with that Shalussi, Aldek, I made the most tremendous mistake a sajit can make in his whole life.”

Sajit, Dashvara repeated to himself, thoughtful. He remembered that Maloven sometimes used the term sajit to refer to an ensemble of races that included humans but also elves, ternians, dwarves, tiyans… However, all his childhood, Dashvara had never seen anything but steppe humans. And he was not accustomed to hearing the word “sajit”. Unlike Zaadma, he observed. Naturally: she was a republican.

“When those savages captured me, those who made me hate wine, everything changed,” Zaadma proceeded, absorbed. “Two goodhearted Akinoas found me. They took me to their village when I was half-dead, and when I recovered… I convinced myself that it was less dangerous to stay on the steppe than to return to Dazbon. In Dazbon, I got in a little trouble, you know,” she explained evasively. “So I spent several months traveling from village to village, and from farm to farm. And one day, some women kicked me out of their house. I left quite injured and without water and that. And then, I bumped into Walek. He really saved my life, because I had already resigned myself to death. He took me to Nanda’s village, he lodged me, and he took care of me like I’d been a little girl.” Tenderness relaxed her face. “He fell madly in love with me. I can’t deny that, at first, I seduced him on purpose so that he would continue to protect me. The poor man has a heart more tender than a petal of siseliad, though he sure is ‘a Shalussi with honor’,” she teased. She sighed, gloomy. “In the end, his family told him that our wedding was unacceptable because I was not a Shalussi. Obviously, he bent to the wise people’s will. Believe me, among the Shalussi customs, there are some ones very worthy of respect, but other ones are deadly ridiculous.”

She cleared her throat and continued:

“The next day, Nanda came personally to tell me he offered me a house if I leave Walek alone. As if I had been the culprit of everything! Walek took it like a punch in his stomach, and small wonder he did: his chief was trying to keep us both apart with the obvious purpose of turning me into his lover! The devils know how much time it took me to console him. He swore he was going to kill Nanda, and I made him swear he wouldn’t.” She gave Dashvara a vague look. “I long ago realized that you, the steppe people, settle everything by stabbing each other.”

Dashvara said nothing, and she went on more cheerfully:

“So you can imagine what happened next. I realized that Nanda had spasms and that he had breathing disorders. I offered to help him, not for compassion, but for blackmailing him. He was a hypocrite man, greedy to the bones, but he was rich, and I could get from him what I wanted as long as I gave him what he asked for. I had a hold over him, and he had a hold over me.” She paused, and then she smiled. “That foolish barbarian was superstitious. Ever since I made up the potion for him, he was afraid of me because he had taken me for a Witch of the Darkness, you know, those whom the Essimeans adore.” She giggled. “I never enlightened him. Well, I believed that after some time his health would get better: he was young, he was scarcely fifty years old. I believed that, one day, he wouldn’t need me and would let me come back to Dazbon with a good reward.”

Zaadma fell silent. Dashvara had been furrowing his brow as she spoke. He was getting the impression that this woman was as cunning and devious as a witch. She seduced Walek, then blackmailed Nanda… On reflection, would it be so unlikely if she was in fact the culprit of that damned disease the Shalussi chieftain suffered from? Nonetheless, it was clear that she had not been very fortunate in her life, and Dashvara knew that any person, if desperately in need, was likely to turn into a blessed demon.

After a long silence, Dashvara whispered:

“But his health didn’t get better, and he didn’t allow you to leave.”

Zaadma nodded.

“That damn fool was convinced that I knew the absolute remedy for his disease and that I was keeping it for myself.” Tears came into her eyes, and her jaw tightened. “‘I’ve protected you from the other warriors’,” she pronounced in an ironic voice, repeating the Shalussi’s words. “This man lied more than he spoke. Yet, to be honest, I was the one who seduced voluntarily several Shalussi warriors to obtain their protection, because… you know, I wanted to go back to Dazbon. So, at first, I drew up a plan to coax some strong warrior, tell him about Nanda’s disease as soon as I could trust him, and then convince him to kill Nanda. But I never dared put into practice my project because I was scared of being uncovered by Nanda. You can’t imagine how happy I am that you killed him.”

Dashvara felt uneasy. He kept his gaze fixed toward the horizon. Why the devil was Zaadma telling him her story with all the details? Because she is a compulsive talker, perhaps?, suggested a teasing voice in his head. After a silence, Zaadma let out a chuckle.

“Well, well, who would have guessed that a savage would take me to Dazbon?”

Dashvara half suppressed a grimace.

“My purpose is not to go to Dazbon.”

“But this is my wagon, and the narcissus, the wine, and these horses will go where I want them to go,” Zaadma warned him.

Dashvara gave a hint of a smile.

“It’s Shizur’s wagon, not yours.” He glanced over his shoulder and confirmed: “Anyway, I don’t intend to steal your wagon nor your horses.”

“Oh, really?” Zaadma frowned suspiciously. “So you will travel on foot?”

Dashvara’s smile widened while looking at the dust cloud on the horizon.

“Not on foot,” he answered. “On horseback.”

Zaadma followed his gaze and turned pale.

“The Shalussis? They are pursuing us?”

Dashvara nodded and slightly held back the reins.

“Why, what are you doing?” Zaadma objected, her voice trembling in panic. “If you slow down, they will catch us!”

“Two horses with a wagon cannot go faster than a band of Shalussi horsemen,” Dashvara explained calmly.

“So we’re going to die,” Zaadma sighed after a pause.

Dashvara smiled sadly.

“Are you afraid?”

“Me?” Zaadma gulped. “Aren’t you too?”

Dashvara kept smiling, even though, deep down, he had to admit that, despite the fact he had spiritually died about two weeks ago, he felt apprehensive.

“Could you do me a favor?” he replied without answering. “Clear the floorboard.”

“Clear the… what?” Zaadma snorted, looking at him with a face of disbelief. “Hey, wait! Please tell me you’re not going to fight them.”

“They come to kill me. We won’t get a chance to negotiate, and I won’t bow down and let them kill me, so, have you a better idea?”

Zaadma did not answer, and after a moment of hesitation, she rose to her trembling feet and went to put the carriage in order. Minutes later, Dashvara looked back. Now he could make out dark shapes from afar, galloping at full speed. He lowered his eyes and grunted under his breath.

“I told you to clear the zone, not to arrange it.”

Zaadma glared at him.

“I’m not going to throw the pots out.”

“Okay, if you don’t, I’ll do it.”

“Don’t you dare!”

They looked at each other, unfriendly. Finally, Zaadma opened the barrel with rainwater and began throwing the pots inside along with the plants. Dashvara watched her in astonishment.

“I begin to doubt you haven’t lost your reason far away,” he commented.

“My reason is fine, thank you,” she retorted.

Zaadma continued emptying and stacking pots. After a while, Dashvara was able to calculate how many horsemen were pursuing them. They were five. He had expected that there would be more men willing to avenge Nanda’s death. But perhaps that was only the advance party. Anyway, five were more than enough to put an end to one man’s life. Dashvara frowned. The Shalussis were drawing closer fast. They would catch up with them too soon. He encouraged the horses, and these set off at a trot. Then, he called Zaadma:

“Hold the reins!”

The alchemist was protecting her moon narcissus as best as possible, putting it between the barrels. There were still several pots on the floorboard.

“Forget this damned plant if you want to live,” Dashvara hissed.

Zaadma snatched the reins roughly. Fear showed in her widened eyes.

“I have a nasty feeling that we are going to die, and I hate this impression.”

“Make sure the horses keep pace,” Dashvara just said before jumping to his feet and grasping Orolf’s saber with one hand and Nanda’s with the other.

He went at the rear and took down the three wooden bows that had been holding the tilt: they could only hinder him from moving his best, and the slightest saber blow would have broken them anyway. He strained his eyes. The hooves against the ground were thundering louder and louder. He could not recognize the faces from so far away, but he easily recognized one of the horses.

Zefrek son of Nanda, you come to get revenge, he understood with a shiver. The black horse was galloping ahead, leading the warriors to a doubtless victory.

“You can’t kill them all, Xalya,” Zaadma said.

Dashvara nodded gravely.

“Probably.”

“Pfft, ‘Probably’ he says,” Zaadma mumbled. “Crazy savage…”

Now he could clearly distinguish the faces of the two closest riders. One of them was a man not much older than Dashvara, and he had the same Nanda’s rugged features. The other was one of the most loyal warriors of Nanda.

Zefrek let out a Shalussi war howl when he was about twenty paces away from the wagon. Dashvara saw him lifting his hand, and he rumbled, throwing himself down onto the floorboard.

“Zaadma, duck down!”

She hadn’t time to move. Fortunately, the knife thrown by that damned Shalussi wasn’t aimed at her: it flew just over Dashvara’s head and went to bury itself into one of the barrels. Swiftly dropping one of his sabers, Dashvara drew the knife back, and a jet of wine spurted out. He hurled the weapon at the other rider. Thanks to captain Zorvun, he had trained his ability to launch knives, but he had never stood out as he did with the sabers. That’s why he was taken aback when the knife lodged into the saber arm, and losing his balance, the warrior fell down to the ground, yelling; soon, he was left far behind.

“Well done!” Zaadma congratulated him in a high-pitched voice.

“Go faster!” Dashvara asked as he saw Zefrek about to overtake them.

Zaadma shook the reins, and the horses doubled their efforts. The wagon wheels were turning at breakneck speed. The slightest hole in the ground could cause a full and unheard-of disaster.

Zefrek rode closer, brandishing his saber, and Dashvara launched him one of the removed wooden bows. On the other side of the wagon, Andrek executed a twirl with his weapon, and Dashvara, seizing one of the pots, hurled it at him with all his might. It did not hit him but the horse, and this one must be in pain because it reared, and Andrek had to concentrate on getting control of his mount. He was left behind. Dashvara felt sorry for the horse.

“Don’t throw more pots away, for the Divinity’s sake!” Zaadma screamed. “There are gold coins in them…”

Dashvara raised his eyebrows. At that instant, on the spur of the moment, Zefrek foolishly launched himself from his black horse and nimbly landed on the wagon. Zaadma let out a cry.

“I’ve said nothing! You kill them all!”

Dashvara crouched hastily to pick up the second saber again. He met the Shalussi’s eyes, and he shivered.

“You have killed my father,” Zefrek barked out.

Dashvara gave him a thoughtful look.

“I’ve only soothed his pains,” he corrected him.

And he attacked. And he slipped and nearly fell: the floorboard was being overflowed with wine because of the broken barrel, and the wood was getting damp and sticky. He avoided a shield blow and regained his balance, praying to the Eternal Bird for being fortunate enough to survive.

Zefrek gave a savage shout. And he sprung on him.

Dashvara dodged and counterattacked, but Zefrek blocked the blow with his shield. Suddenly, the wagon turned to the right, and Dashvara hissed, not daring to look backwards, but he guessed that Andrek was attempting to stop the horses. Zaadma screamed, and for an instant, it seemed that the wagon was about to overturn… Dashvara and Zefrek kept their balance, but not the broken barrel, which fell over and began to roll toward the rear. Dashvara was narrowly carried away. Gushing more and more wine, the barrel hit Zefrek, who was trying to keep standing. Burdened with his shield, the Shalussi was so focused on avoiding the cask he got distracted.

Never lose sight of your enemy.

Zefrek received an empty pot right in the face that left him dazed. Dashvara thrust at him, sabered his hand causing a deep slash, disarmed him, and pulled him backwards against the edge boards, which were jamming the fallen barrel. He was going to throw him overboard, off the wagon, when unexpectedly, Zefrek woke himself up and banged him with the shield. Dashvara miraculously dodged it and got puzzled when he realized that Zefrek had just dropped it. He had scarcely time to perceive a metallic flash before the dagger stabbed his side. He let out a painful roar, and he was going to deal a lethal saber blow to the Shalussi when the boards suddenly collapsed, and they both fell down out of the wagon. Dashvara violently jolted against the ground and rolled over and over on the soil, gulping dust. A scream was heard, followed by a bang of broken wooden mixed with a loud, explosion-like noise. When Dashvara felt he had stopped rolling, he opened his eyes, dizzy, his side burning him like fire. He had to get up if he didn’t want to die, he reminded himself.

That was much easier said than done. When he managed to pick himself up, he thought he had just climbed at full speed all the stairs of the Xalya Dungeon with a bag loaded with stones. He did not dare take a look at his wound, so he lifted his eyes. And then he stared at the wagon, astonished. The front part had vanished, so to speak. Zaadma was ridden one of the two horses and had left the destroyed wagon behind her, as well as Andrek’s moaning body lying on the ground.

Try to arrive at Dazbon safe and sound, Dashvara wished her. He staggered. His eyes blurred, and he blinked only to notice that Zefrek was lying several steps away, his face and his hand covered in blood.

The clop of horses’ hooves and a sudden scream ripped the silence. Dashvara turned awkwardly, convinced that death in person had just called him. He saw Walek and Rokuish on their horseback dashing toward him, one yelling like a madman, the other one drown in dead silence. The Xalya didn’t think twice: he started running as fast as possible where he had lost his sabers. The grassland danced before his eyes devoured by pain.

It’s the end, he thought. He wasn’t going to make it to his sabers in time.

Rokuish’s horse got in his way and loomed over him. Dashvara backed and half jerked to avoid being knocked over; he lost his balance. When he tumbled down, pain shot through his side wound, and he groaned.

“Eternal Bird!” he stuttered, out of breath. He lifted a hand red with blood and laid it again over his wound as if he could heal it just like that.

Life is so delicate and so beautiful, he thought faintly.

Walek roared:

“Finish the boy off. I deal with the bastard!”

There was a thunder of galloping hooves. Dashvara averted his eyes from Rokuish’s horse and noticed that Walek had gone after Zaadma.

“Damn it,” he grunted, and not knowing exactly from where he drew energy to shout, he roared: “Come back, Walek, Zaadma is innocent!”

The Shalussi ignored him. With trembling movements, he attempted to sit up, but a saber point threatening his chest prevented him from doing so. He looked up, met Rokuish’s dark eyes, and lay down again on the ground, backing away from the blade; his heart sank.

“At least I will die in the arms of a friend,” he muttered to himself.

Pure horror was twisting Rokuish’s face. He was uncertain, Dashvara noticed with surprise. They stayed immobile for a while, as tense as a bow string. Dashvara could only hear both Andrek’s panting and his own wheezing breathing. He felt the weapon point sliding along his chest to reach his throat. It was the second saber made by Orolf, he noted. It had a red snake shape etched on the blade. He raised his eyes again to his Shalussi friend. Rokuish’s lips were quivering. Unexpectedly, Dashvara managed to give him a faint smile, and he whispered hard:

“If you doubt before an innocent, you are not a coward. If you doubt before a criminal, you definitely are.”

“Why?” Rokuish asked briskly. “Why did you kill him?”

“Because my father and my people asked me to.”

Suddenly, a strange, peaceful feeling engulfed Dashvara. He hadn’t done all that his father had ordered him to, but he had tried. Rokuish widened his eyes.

“What do you mean? Did Nanda command his men to kill your nomad family?”

Dashvara inhaled slowly, trying to forget his pain.

“You ingenuous Rokuish,” he expired. “I am not a nomad Shalussi. I am a Xalya.”

“A Xalya!” Rokuish cried, amazed. “It cannot be true…”

“I’m the firstborn son of the last steppe lord,” Dashvara continued. “And my duty as his son is to kill all the leaders that have taken part in the treason against my people. However…” He swallowed, and a taste of blood overwhelmed his mouth. “Now I realize that to kill them will not solve anything. Other men like them will replace them, and the warriors will keep killing each other, and the tribes will keep scorn for each other.” He looked at Rokuish, and he found it almost surprising that he let him talk. “The warriors of my people killed your father, and the warriors of yours killed mine. What’s the point of all these absurdities, Rokuish?” he murmured. “What’s the point of all that stupidity?”

There was a long silence. Then, Rokuish said:

“Vika the healer examined Nanda’s wound. She said you attacked him from behind.”

Dashvara felt his lips stretching in a gloomy smile.

“A true Xalya would never act like that,” he replied. His energies were flowing away.

Rokuish frowned.

“If you have killed a Shalussi to avenge your father, I should kill a Xalya to avenge mine.”

Dashvara saw the saber point going closer. He did not feel afraid, but sad.

“I understand,” he only whispered.

He noted how the cold steel touched his skin. Only then he began to fear. Dying slowly was quite a bit worse because it let you think more than you should.

Eternal Bird, forgive my disgraceful acts and shelter me under Your wing, he prayed. And he added ironically: Who would have predicted that my killer would be a man who hardly knows how to wield a sword?

Rokuish withdrew the saber. Dashvara stared at him, astonished.

“I can’t kill you,” Rokuish stated, the jaw clenched. “And not because of cowardice. I can’t kill you because I know that, deep down, you’re a good man. Even though you’re a Xalya.”

Dashvara raised an eyebrow. And he smiled.

“You are the good man, Rok. But, anyway, I’m dying.”

Rokuish lowered his gaze to the wound and turned pale.

“I see. Vika could heal you.”

Dashvara laughed, a lightning pain jolted through his trunk, and he spit blood out.

“Zaadma could save me. She is an alchemist. She says she can do wonders… If you’re not a coward, Rokuish, go after Walek and prevent him from hurting her.” He gargled, swallowing blood, and he added in a tiny voice: “Zaadma is a good soul too.”

Torture kept him from going on. Before Rokuish’s doubtful silence, Dashvara closed his eyes.

What’s the point now. Kill me, brother. Have the same mercy I had accidentally with Nanda, and put an end to this hell.

“I’ll take her back here, and she will save you,” Rokuish suddenly promised.

He heard a few uncertain footsteps, then followed the clop of horse’s hooves that clattered inside his head like a drum dance.

Dashvara half opened his eyelids, and through the mist of death, he saw the blue sky. A tear, in his eyes, glittered under the burning sun before vanishing. A tear of gratitude.

11 A son’s duty

“You have disappointed me, son.”

The low voice flowed slowly, icy and frustrated.

“Didn’t your patrol comrades call you the Prince of the Sand? I let you alive for you to accomplish your duty. They injure you, and you die like a dog, lost in the middle of the steppe! Is that all my heir could do? Kill an ill man to protect a Shalussis’ whore and let himself be killed like a miserable rat?”

Dashvara bowed the head, remorseful. He was furious with himself. Furious at his own powerlessness. He heard voices around him, but his father’s, wreathed in mist, was the strongest.

“I’ve tried, father.”

Lord of Xalya’s misted face got closer, and his disappointed expression hurt Dashvara more than any wound.

“Get up,” Lord Vifkan mandated. “I forbid you to die until you have accomplished your duty. Get up.”

Dashvara coughed, and an acute pain spun through all his mind to the point of letting it off. He wanted to get up, but he couldn’t. There was nothing more than death. Only death…

Damn it, get up yourself, he thought, irritated. His own wheezing breathing alarmed him. He had the impression of having plunged down into a well full of bubbling water.

“Will he live?” a voice asked.

“He has lost a lot of blood, and the wound is getting infected,” another one said.

Dashvara was still seeing the face of his father, who stared at him imperiously, with a flare of vengeance in his eyes.

I will kill them, father. I will kill them, Dashvara repeated. He moaned, and his breathing hastened. I haven’t forgotten my duty.

Like a bolt, darkness ripped the fog, and his father’s face frayed like a memory. Like smoke. Like life.

12 The Tunnels of Aïgstia

“Don’t spit it, darn it!” Zaadma exclaimed.

Dashvara swallowed, and then he coughed to force out the liquid that was choking him. A shooting pain jolted through his stomach, and he blindly tried to find a grip and cling onto it not to faint. He came across a hard stone and then across a tight hand that moved his own away from the rock.

“And now he’s stabbing his hands. That’s all we need,” Zaadma grumbled.

Dashvara could not find out who had just held him: his vision blurred, and he drifted into unconsciousness.

When he came back to his senses, the first thing he saw was the young face of the alchemist, leaning over him. She was frowning with a concerned expression. Her presence calmed Dashvara a bit, and he blinked to look around. The place was unimaginable. Gray rocky blocks, about forty feet in height, towered above him. Recovering his breath, he asked in a whisper:

“Am I alive?”

Zaadma twisted her mouth, worried.

“It seems so. I don’t know how much longer, though. I did what I could, but I’ve never healed such an… ugly wound.” She hesitated. “I know you said to Rokuish that I make miracles, but unfortunately, it’s false. It’s flattering but false.”

Dashvara frowned when he saw a familiar shape appearing from behind a rock holding a hare in one hand.

“Rokuish!” he breathed out, surprised.

The Shalussi smiled and crouched beside him.

“Well? Does it still hurt?”

Dashvara gave back a silly smile that turned soon into a painful grimace.

“My pride hurts,” he puffed. “I made a mistake of beginners. I believed Zefrek was too dazed, and I was fooled by him like a child. What are you doing here, Rok?” he added.

“Taking care of two crazy fools,” the Shalussi smiled.

“What a coincidence,” Zaadma said teasingly.

Dashvara felt as if someone had forcefully pushed an anvil spiked with needles between his ribs. It took him an infinite effort to string together two rational thoughts. However, a memory made him breathe out and speak with difficulty:

“What about Walek?”

“Oh. The great Walek has succumbed to my charms again,” Zaadma answered. Her playful smile twisted into a pout of sadness. “I told him there were five hundred gold coins hidden in the pots and the barrel. Walek is not as greedy as Nanda, but” —she shrugged— “he’s a Shalussi. He agreed to let both of us live in exchange for my gold, and since Rokuish showed his worry about your health, I had him help me carry you to the end of the steppe.”

To the Rocky Maze, Dashvara understood as he lifted a vague look again at the blocks of rock. Then he frowned.

“Walek agreed?” he repeated, incredulous.

“Yeah, he did. I told him about Nanda’s disease. You know how the Shalussis are. Well, on reflection, perhaps you don’t: when a disease strikes a chief, this one is discredited as well as his descendants,” she explained. “So Walek has spared your life on condition that you don’t come back to the village ever again, and he has proclaimed himself chieftain by giving an infernal howl. He’s gone back home with Zefrek tied up, and…” —she sighed— “he’s also gone away with my gold. But I still have my narcissus,” she informed, as if it was the happy touch that was putting an end to the story. “Do you want to eat something?”

Dashvara opened his eyes wide at the bare idea of gulping down food, and he shook his head carefully.

“No.”

Rokuish and she exchanged a look.

“So rest,” Zaadma concluded. “And try not to die while we wait for the merchants to pass by.”

Dashvara felt a soft breeze caressing his sweaty face, and he closed his eyes. A thought forced him to open them again.

“Zaadma, is it you who caused that… explosion?” he asked, with pain tensing his voice.

The alchemist smiled slightly.

“It was the only potion I had. I untied the horses, mounted one, lit the fuse of the flask, and threw it to Andrek when he got closer with his sabers. Believe you me, I’m sorry for your brother, Rokuish. The odds are that the damages will last for ever.”

“I would be more sorry if he had killed a woman,” the Shalussi assured.

Dashvara smiled weakly and closed his eyes again. Whatever remedy Zaadma had made him drink, he felt more lucid a while later. His head stopped boiling, blood ceased throbbing against his temples, and a deep drowsiness overwhelmed him. He sank into sleep.

He found himself back to Zaadma’s house, surrounded by flowers. The young woman, sitting before him, was crooning a song, and as she was combing her long black hair, she gave him occasional, captivating looks. Outside, the ground was shrouded in shadows, even though the sky was bright and clear. The sun was burning like a perpetual fire. Painful screams ripped the open air, and the harmonic peace broke. The people of Xalya were screaming. His father, his brother Showag, and captain Zorvun were fighting fiercely against the Akinoas and the Shalussis while Dashvara was still sitting in a house only ruled by tenderness and serenity. Why are they fighting? he asked himself. When he could not stand the screams any longer, he knew doubtlessly why. He stood up hurriedly, sprung the door open, and drew his two sabers out of their scabbard. Zaadma begged him to stay, but Dashvara just gazed at her with aversion. At this moment, Zaadma’s face changed into his mother’s, who smiled at him and showed him a shelf full of skulls of defeated foes. She was inviting him to fight. With barely a thought or a doubt, Dashvara went out to defend his people, or at least to die with them. Shadows engulfed him. Cries changed into howls of death. Dashvara lunged forward blindly and killed all over the place, his heart seething with rage. And then, he had nothing: he was alone. He had not even rescued his sister Fayrah. Shadows had caught her. Why am I fighting? he asked himself. He dreaded even to think. He was simply striking back, in return for the caused pain… He could not stop fighting or they would think he had yielded.

The shadows became denser. The figures disappeared, and the screams with them. Now he was completely alone, he thought. He did not even have enemies. Everything was silent. It seemed he had died. Or perhaps it wasn’t only an impression. Zaadma’s house wasn’t anymore. Nor the flowers, nor the song, nor happiness. A thick smoke wreathed Dashvara, wanting to crush him, end his soul, and strangle him for ever.

In life, you have to take a lot of decisions, and sometimes you’re wrong. But when it comes to not surrendering to death, you are never wrong.

Dashvara repelled the thick smoke and saw the light of the sun. This one was beating like a heart, lighting his eyes fleetingly. Dashvara opened his mouth.

“Water.”

Someone gave him water. He slowly drank the warm liquid. His mouth was as dry as a rock in the desert. He blinked and looked at the face of a man with a garish blue turban and greenish scales on his eyebrows. He frowned when he noticed the continuous rattle, and he finally understood. He was in a wagon. The light of a big candle lit the inside.

“More water?” he muttered. He was thirsty.

The man gave him more water.

“Who are you?” Dashvara asked. He felt better. His body was exhausted, yet he felt better.

Only then he recognized the merchant. It was this Dazbonish sajit who had tried to sell him his magic contraption with the red light. He had claws at his hands. Dashvara gazed fixedly at them, trying not to show his apprehension.

“My name is Aydin Kohor,” the merchant introduced himself, withdrawing the bowl. “And from what your cousin told me, you’re a certain Odek.”

Dashvara looked at him, perplexed.

“My… cousin?” he repeated.

Aydin Kohor got him wrong.

“She is in another wagon, with master Shizur and your brother. I could not work with them by my side. Don’t worry about her, she’s fine,” he assured as he saw Dashvara still gazing at him.

I just discover I have a cousin and a brother, and you tell me not to worry, Dazbonish man? Dashvara suppressed a snort and tried to sit up.

“Does it hurt you?” Aydin asked.

Yes, it hurt, but Dashvara only grunted, glanced at the boy who was holding the carriage reins in the front, and asked:

“Where are we?”

“Getting out of the Tunnels of Aïgstia, now,” the merchant answered calmly. He held out a plate with a smooth piece of bread and dried fruits. “In four hours or so we will arrive at the village of Rocavita.”

Dashvara frowned as he accepted the food. Rocavita. The name sounded familiar, but he had spent the last six years riding and watching over the Xalya lands, and the days when the shaard Maloven was teaching him geography were long since gone… Not to mention that he had never been interested in learning by heart the names of places he didn’t even know.

Then he remembered the huge blocks of rock he had seen before. Those merchants came from Dazbon, and logically, they were on their way home after having sold and bought goods. Therefore, Rocavita and the Tunnels of Aïgstia were in the same direction they had taken.

He left the plate almost full and lay down again.

“Are we far from Dazbon?” he inquired.

“Not so much. We’ll arrive tomorrow about noon,” the merchant answered.

Dashvara jerked up.

“Tomorrow?”

Aydin smiled and nodded.

“Tomorrow. It’s only normal you feel surprised. You received a major stab that didn’t puncture the lungs by pure chance. You’ve been delirious for four whole days. From what I can see, you don’t remember a thing.”

Dashvara received the news with an impassive expression.

Four days, huh? And you’re taking me to Dazbon, far away from the steppe, and Zaadma appropriated the title of my cousin. If my father knew it, he would turn over in his grave.

But, obviously, Lord Vifkan was very likely in no grave. Dashvara slightly shook his head and sat up again. He could stand the pain, he deemed.

“How long before sunrise?” he asked.

“It must be about three o’clock after noon,” Aydin estimated. “It is not nighttime yet,” he added as he saw Dashvara give him a confused look. “As I was telling you, we are passing the Tunnels of Aïgstia. You’d better not move or else the stitches will break,” he commented when he saw the Xalya dragging himself to the front.

Dashvara avoided several rolled Shalussi carpets, and he stopped beside the Dazbonish boy who held the reins. This one immediately stiffened and cast an apprehensive look at him.

“Give me the reins, Hadriks,” Aydin suggested.

The boy hastened to give up his place to Aydin. Dashvara sat on the bench, perplexed.

“Well… Do I look like a hungry dragon, and that’s why he avoids me?” he asked.

Aydin smiled.

“Not quite, but the boy is still a newcomer, and he hasn’t got used to the… Shalussi customs yet.”

Dashvara frowned and began to understand.

“Are you talking about what happened with my pursuers?”

“Somehow, yes.” Aydin shrugged. “But since you, the Shalussis, are smart enough not to quarrel with the Dazbonish, I don’t care about your problems, be reassured.”

Dashvara finally realized that this man did not know who he was. He had probably assumed he had killed the village chieftain out of some internal clan matter.

He kept silent for a long time, gazing at the tunnel and the torches of the two leading carriages. The rock was uneven, and dark holes peered in the shadows. Some appeared to be true tunnels, though narrower than the one they were traveling through.

He thought about Fayrah. His heart told him she was in one of those wagons, only a few steps away from him. If he managed to save her before arriving at Dazbon…

“You should lie down,” Aydin Kohor said suddenly.

Dashvara averted his eyes from a sort of big beetle that was moving slowly near a rock, and he looked at the merchant. His claws had disappeared inside his hands. His skin was unnaturally pale, and his eyes were green. Dashvara had never seen anyone with green eyes.

Aydin shifted on his bench as if nervous for being watched so blatantly.

“You’re not human,” Dashvara let out.

Aydin raised a scaled eyebrow, and he smiled.

“I am not. I am a ternian. Haven’t you ever seen one before?” Dashvara shook his head. “I suppose it’s normal. In the steppe, there are only humans, aren’t there?”

Dashvara nodded, and as it seemed to him that Aydin was beginning to think of him as an ignorant, he pronounced:

“When I was a kid, I was told about the sajits and the various races. I know what the ternians are. This is the first time I see one, though.”

Dashvara kept silent for a moment before adding:

“Why did you show the claws when I woke up and now you don’t?”

Aydin looked at him sideways as though the question surprised him. He shrugged.

“I suppose that, before, I bared them instinctively. Sometimes I bare them when I’m nervous or scared.”

Dashvara screwed up his face; Aydin gasped, and his voice changed when he said:

“Look, our cultures are noticeably different. I had never in my life healed a man who, whenever he wakes up, repeats the words ‘I will kill them’ like a fanatic assassin.” He cleared his throat. “I just feel a little apprehensive, you know, about that.”

Dashvara looked at him fixedly for a moment, and then he turned away his eyes to gaze thoughtfully at the tunnel walls.

Well… Now I understand the fear of that Hadriks.

He glanced inside the wagon. The boy, quite younger than him, was scrutinizing him motionlessly. When he met his gaze, Hadriks immediately withdrew his eyes to the wagon floor.

Dashvara sighed, and he recalled some words he had said to Rokuish the day he had killed Nanda: ‘After all, all of us, in the steppe, are heartless savages, don’t you think?’

Deep down, Dashvara had always thought that it was not true. That the Xalyas were different from the Shalussis and Akinoas. They were the heirs of the lands reigned by the Ancient Kings. In Dashvara’s veins ran the blood of the steppe lords. The blood of a knight of the Dahars.

And still… the Dazbonish people seemed to see him as a savage. Without even knowing the reasons for his acts. Yet, certainly, that hadn’t prevented the ternian from healing his wound and bringing him back to life.

The Xalya looked again at the merchant and gestured his gratitude.

“Thanks.”

Aydin’s face reflected surprise, and Dashvara specified:

“Thanks for saving my life.”

Aydin relaxed a bit.

“You’re welcome. I was once a healer.”

And is that a reason for healing a ‘fanatic assassin’ you don’t know? Dashvara smiled. He began to think of Aydin as a sympathetic man.

“And why aren’t you a healer anymore?”

The ternian shrugged again.

“Well. Life and its decisions. I married the only daughter of a merchant family. We inherited some wagons and commercial favors, and my wife convinced me that healing poor people wouldn’t help us pay the education of our children.” He smiled. “For all that, I still offer my services as a healer whenever possible.”

Dashvara looked at him with increasing respect.

“Have you saved a lot of lives?”

Aydin breathed out as if amused.

“Yes. Quite a few. But I can only heal the physical wounds,” he added.

Dashvara met his thoughtful gaze before the merchant turned it forward again. What wounds can’t you heal, merchant? Do you believe I’ve lost my sanity? The Xalya cleared his throat almost imperceptibly.

“The other wounds heal by themselves very well, given time,” he commented.

“Maybe,” the ternian agreed. “You should lie down and sleep or else you will end up ruining my bandage. Your wound on the side needs rest and time too.”

Dashvara made a face but didn’t reply. He got up with difficulty, he passed by Hadriks giving him the hint of a smile, and he lay down again on the straw mattress. No sooner had he shut his eyes than darkness dragged him far away.

13 The combat of the feather

He awoke hearing bells, and for a brief instant, he believed he was with captain Zorvun and his soldiers, sleeping under the stars in Xalya lands, in some pasture with flocks. He opened his eyes and came back to reality. The sun illuminated everything, even through the thick tilt of the carriage. It was stiflingly hot.

The wagon was rolling slowly, and the wheels creaked and screeched. Aydin and Hadriks were both sitting in the front, and they were whispering at each other without breaking the calm of the atmosphere.

Dashvara dropped a look at his wound. He was shirtless, and his skin was sweating hard. A big, white bandage was tightening the top of his abdomen. As he saw no blood upon it, he felt relieved.

Hadriks laughed softly at some words whispered by the ternian, and he put up an arm to point to one direction. As he did not want to interrupt them nor to talk with them for now, Dashvara leaned his head again on what seemed to him to be a folded carpet. A bag, on his right, looked familiar. Lying on it, he recognized his shirt, still bloody, and his Shalussi headscarf. So he had kept his effects, he observed gladly. He stretched a hand and opened the bag. There inside, there was a piece of rope he had gotten from the stables, as well as some rags, a clay bowl, and dried fruits. He also recognized the steel bar stolen in Orolf’s store. He wasn’t the one who had placed it here, and he supposed that someone else had retrieved it from his boot and put it in the bag. He did not see the water bottle, though. At the bottom, his hand came across the small, wooden figure that Bashak had given to him. He grasped it from the bag, and for a long time, he stared at the serene solemnity of the sculpted face.

“I forgot there was the Feast of Gifts in Rocavita,” Hadriks’s voice commented. “Do you think it would be worth trying to sell some magaras?”

“If you want to try,” Aydin shrugged. “But, as for the carpets, we will sell them in Dazbon.”

Dashvara put the small figure back in the bag and sat up. Immediately, Hadriks, warned by some sixth sense, looked back at him.

“Master,” he whispered. “He’s awake.”

Aydin Kohor followed Hadriks’s gaze, and he nodded briefly.

“How are you feeling?”

“Better,” Dashvara answered. “Much better.”

“We’ve almost arrived at Rocavita,” Aydin informed him. “Once there, I recommend you should stay in the inn until the wound heals up completely. I will tell a healer about you and he will change your bandage.”

Dashvara didn’t reply at once. He had just neared the front of the wagon, and the sight awed him into silence. At one side, there was a large field covered with weird, twisted bushes. At the other side, a grassland stretched far away, with several sheep flocks led by shepherds. And ahead, a small, rugged hill was full of houses even whiter than those of the steppe people. They weren’t made of stone extracted from Padria Mountains but from the southern quarries of Maeras, he guessed.

“It’s a big city,” he observed. Dashvara had never seen so many houses together.

He noticed the ternian’s slight smile.

“More exactly, it’s a small town,” this one corrected him with a cheerful tone. “It has two thousand inhabitants at most. Dazbon had sixty thousand.”

Dashvara quivered with a strange feeling of smallness in his heart. He knew, thanks to Maloven, that Dazbon was thought to be one of the biggest cities of the Pilgrim Ocean’s shore, but he had never imagined that, one day, he would find himself so close to it.

Suddenly, the stillness was interrupted by exclamations of surprise and joy. The two wagons heading the march stopped, and after leaning riskily over one side, Hadriks cried with a wide grin:

“It’s Atisua’s caravan!”

“Atisua,” Aydin smiled. “I haven’t seen her for maybe a year! She’s a very well-known magarist,” he explained to Dashvara as he halted the carriage. “Hadriks, stick around. I’ll be right back.”

Leaving a moody Hadriks, he got down and passed by the other wagons to greet his coworker. Dashvara put on his boots, shirt, and headscarf, he took his bag, and he got down too, carefully. Hadriks considered him with an unsteady look.

“Er—” he said, coughing softly.

Dashvara raised an eyebrow once he had the feet on the paved road.

“What is it?”

Hadriks shook his head wordlessly. The Xalya rolled his eyes, and he was about to tell him he didn’t intend to bite him if he dared speak when he saw Zaadma getting down the following wagon, and he completely forgot the boy. The Dazbonish woman had changed her red dress into a blue taffeta, puffed pants, and a white tunic. She didn’t look anything like her.

“You shouldn’t move, cousin!” Zaadma rebuked him, drawing closer. “For the Divinity’s sake, go up back. Why have we stopped, Hadriks?”

Dashvara looked at her thoughtfully while Hadriks was explaining that they would go on in no time. He opened his mouth, and Zaadma pinched his arm.

“Not now,” she whispered. “How are you feeling?”

Dashvara’s mouth twisted. He didn’t understand what was the point of that masquerade about cousins.

“Marvelously,” he replied. He squeezed her arm and took her apart from the road, whispering: “And now do me the favor of explaining to me why on earth you pretend to be my cousin.”

Zaadma gnashed her teeth.

“Please don’t speak so loud.”

“I am not speaking loud,” Dashvara retorted.

Zaadma screwed up her face and glanced at Hadriks. This one was looking at them out of the corner of his eyes with a curious expression.

“Look,” Zaadma whispered. “I—”

She fell silent when they both saw Rokuish getting closer with a jovial expression.

“Wow, you look just fantastic!”

Dashvara stared at him, astonished.

“I’m glad to see you, Rok, but… exactly what are you doing here?”

“I’ve already answered that question some days ago,” the Shalussi replied. “I’m taking care of two hopeless, crazy fools. And visiting the world,” he added, grinning broadly. He turned to Zaadma. “Have you already explained your problem to him?”

“I’m on it,” she replied, and she took some steps farther from the road. “Look, Odek. I apologize for taking the liberty of lying about that, but I had a strong reason for acting this way. I’ll get to the point. I’m the illegitimate daughter of a senator from Dazbon called Sarfath Andeyed. Sarfath is a man very upright that hates the uproars, and therefore, he hates me because he is scared that I might mess up his career if I reveal the affair he had with the Countess of Twach. When my mother died, I found myself out of money and couldn’t afford the enrollment in the Citadel. He offered me an income of thirty gold coins per year, but he offered it in such a contemptuous way that I didn’t accept it out of my stupid pride. The last time I saw him, three years ago, the Tribunal had shut me up in a monastery for an offense I committed. My father told me that I would have been confined for five years without his intercession. And as I ran away with Aldek…” Zaadma paused, took a glance at the wagons, and added quickly: “If the guard or my father finds out that I am in Dazbon, they will order to capture me because of my escape. But… we don’t have to tell them anything about it, right?” she smiled. “If I pretend to be a pure steppewoman that travels to Dazbon with her two cousins, no one will be able to find out who I am. From now on I am Zaetela of Shalussi, Zae for you two. I hope… that you don’t mind. Rokuish says it doesn’t bother him, eh? You don’t have to do anything more than usual,” she assured. “You even may return to the steppe whenever you like. Shizur, the wine merchant, promised me he would help me find a job in an apothecary’s shop introducing me as Zaetela of Shalussi. Shizur is an awesome man. He forgave us for having banged up his wagon. And, well, I just… I mean…”

She fell silent and swallowed under Dashvara’s fixed look. This one was pondering over the strange acts of Zaadma when Aydin beckoned them over. Several wagons were already passing by, in the opposite direction, and the first wagon of the Dazbonish caravan got going.

“So. How do you feel about it?” Zaadma hurried him.

Dashvara waved his hand.

“I will answer as soon as we arrive at Rocavita.”

Dashvara got up back to the wagon with his bag, and Zaadma and Rokuish returned to their own. The horses kept advancing, and soon, they reached the first houses of Rocavita. Dashvara clearly felt that his strength was failing him, but he was sick of staying lain, and thus he settled himself near the front to view the city. He had never seen anything like that. There were people dressed in richly adorned, long tunics; others wore puffed or tight-fitting trousers; and most of them had covered their head with bright colored turbans and hats. The majority were humans, but not all. There were elves, tiyans, and he even saw a little figure that he mistook for a child at first sight and that turned out to be a halfling. There were paved streets, shops, and even three-storied houses with engraved, stone columns, and artistic sculptures on the doors. The Dungeon of Xalya had always been thought by the steppe people as an imposing building with an ancient and tough architecture; Rocavita wasn’t imposing: it was beautiful. He rectified himself soon when they passed through a square and he saw the statue of an enormous dragon built of white marble. In awe before such a wonder, Dashvara felt his eyes mist up. He knew that, in Dazbon and the neighboring cities, people were strong believers in the White Dragon, which was also called the “Divinity”. No doubt the artists who had built this sculptured White Dragon had succeeded in inspiring, at the least, an utter respect for it.

“This is amazing,” he commented.

“Ha!” Aydin laughed. “If Rocavita seems to you amazing, Dazbon will seem to you a divine gift.”

The horses didn’t ascend to the top of the hill: they passed around, crossing a street, and stopped in the southern part of the town, before a high build with open gates. They got in a court where six merchant wagons were already lined up along a wall. Several cats, lying comfortably in the shade of a wall, observed the sudden hustle and bustle with lazy eyes.

As soon as the caravan stopped, Aydin went away to pay for the wagon space with the other merchants. The village rumble was very different from the one Dashvara was accustomed to. Curious to see more, he took his bag again, and he was getting down when Hadriks, who had stayed on the wagon bench to stand guard, asked briskly, as if screwing up his courage:

“How did you get this scar?”

Dashvara gave him a surprised look.

“Which of them?”

“The one on the shoulder. Master Aydin says that this one couldn’t be caused by a weapon edge.” He averted his eyes and hastened to say very formally: “Sorry for my indiscretion.”

Dashvara smiled. For some reason, Hadriks reminded him of Saodar, his youngest brother.

“Your master is right. A furient wolf caused me this wound when I was fifteen.” He leaned against one of the carriage lower boards and told: “One night, I was standing guard when I heard the beast. As I was an utter fool at that time, I did not scream right away, and I wanted to frighten away the wolf by myself. I didn’t know, then, that the furient wolves do not get frightened even before a dragon. When it got too closer, I make my second mistake: I turned my back on it, and I ran to the camp, screaming like a madman. By chance, I was struck by a lightning of lucidity, and I turned just in time to avoid being devoured by the wolf because it was just springing on me. And I killed it.” He smiled before Hadriks’s stupefied face. “So from now on, boy, you know that you’d best never turn your back on a wolf, and if you see one, go back cautiously, and scream.”

Hadriks nodded, open-mouthed. An amused cough sounded just beside the wagon, and Dashvara turned. Zaadma and Rokuish had heard the story, and both were looking at him with entertained faces.

“Did you really kill it only by yourself?” Rokuish asked skeptically.

A slight smile stretched across Dashvara’s face.

“If I hadn’t killed it myself, it would have killed me. My comrades would have arrived too late.”

“So the story is true?” Hadriks said, excited.

Dashvara’s smile widened.

“As true as my scar. Is that the inn?”

The boy nodded and pointed out a door.

“There’s the lodging entrance. And, out of the court, you’ll find the door of the tavern. It’s called the Cathoney. It’s a good place, and it’s quite cheap for Rocavita. You can order a meal for three people for the price of twelve dettas.”

Pleasantly surprised, Dashvara could notice the abrupt change of Hadriks’s attitude.

“Thanks,” he told him.

As soon as they moved on, getting out of the court to go to the tavern, he commented:

“If my memory doesn’t fail me, the dettas are silver coins, aren’t they?”

They walked slowly, at Dashvara’s careful pace. Zaadma nodded.

“Aye. A detta is a tenth of the dinars. And there are also the dragons, which are gold coins.” She sighed. “It will take me a while to get used not to seeing so many gold coins. With those five hundred dragons I gained with the Shalussis, I’d be able to spend ten years in Dazbon living rather comfortably and not even worrying about money. But, hell, surprises in life are worthier than five hundred dragons,” she added, smiling.

Dashvara and Rokuish exchanged an amused look. Jingles of cutlery came from within the tavern, as well as a moderate noise of voices. The two steppemen were going to enter when Zaadma held up a hand to stop them. She gave Dashvara an eloquent look.

“You still didn’t answer my question, cousin.” She made an embarrassed face and looked at them both with an honest light in her dark eyes. “I don’t mean to get you into trouble, believe you me. But you’d do me a great favor just by pretending to be my cousins, without doing anything more.”

Dashvara had reflected a bit about the matter, though the problem in itself was easy to sort out. He joined both hands and said calmly:

“I don’t deny your reasons make sense. The only weak point in your plan is that you assume that I will go to Dazbon.”

Zaadma shook her head vigorously.

“Dazbon is just a few hours away from Rocavita on horseback. And if you haven’t ever seen the City of the White Dragon, it would be nearly a sacrilege to turn back now we are here, don’t you think?” She gave him an innocent smile.

Dashvara rolled his eyes, amused.

“Let’s go settle down. And if, by any chance, you have money, I would be grateful to you for paying these four dettas for the favor of being called cousin.”

Zaadma grinned from ear to ear.

“For my cousin, I would buy the whole inn if I could.”

“Haw!” Rokuish smiled. “Beware, don’t make promises that might tempt me.”

“I was speaking to Odek, not to you,” Zaadma retorted naughtily.

Dashvara shook his head wordlessly. The pain of his wound had gotten worse with the movements, and when they entered the tavern, he felt so dizzy that he staggered and flopped down into the first empty bench he found. Rokuish and Zaadma had to turn back, surprised.

“The cousin is not quite up and about yet,” the Xalya explained.

They both sat down at the table, and while Zaadma was reading to Rokuish the daily special menu, which was written in chalk next to the bar, Dashvara let a faint gaze sweep all around as he rubbed his beard absently. The expressions passed before his eyes: smiling, half-asleep, naughty, or severe. One old couple was playing cards at a nearby table; farther, some youths with turbans were about to have dinner and were chattering calmly; in a corner, two men with their faces hidden under a black scarf were scrutinizing the customers, as if they were looking for somebody. Dashvara met the gaze of one of them, and he furrowed his brow. He turned to Rokuish when he saw this one shaking his head briskly.

“I must learn to write,” the Shalussi affirmed. “It can’t be that I’m not able to understand these weird drawings when they seem to mean so many things.”

“I could teach you,” Zaadma suggested.

Rokuish looked at her, agreeably surprised.

“Are you seriously proposing it?”

Zaadma made a face as if she was musing on the matter, and she finally confessed:

“Mm. It depends. If it turns out that you’re as useless at wielding a quill as at wielding a saber as Odek said—”

Dashvara jerked up.

“I never said he was useless,” he protested.

Rokuish had turned pale. Zaadma rolled her eyes.

“Perhaps you didn’t say it, but it showed in your face whenever I asked how the training went. What?” she added with a laugh as she saw them both embarrassed. “Why, there’s no reason at all to feel ashamed! In my view, it’s not because a man knows how to wield a saber that he seems more appealing or cleverer to me. That’s why I was never able to completely get along with Walek. Or with Nanda. The two of them have always thought that the respect to themselves increases proportionally to the number of defeated enemies. It’s another culture—” She closed her mouth and glimpsed at the old couple at the nearby table. “Ahem, I mean, technically, it’s our culture,” she rectified, “but I will never be able to understand it.”

Dashvara and Rokuish looked at each other and smiled.

“You’re absolutely right, Zae,” the Xalya commended. “Killing doesn’t produce respect. At most, it may save your life.”

Zaadma’s expression changed.

“Or it may help carry out a revenge,” she whispered.

Dashvara frowned.

“Or dispense justice,” he replied.

At that instant, a dwarf with a colored tunic came up to them. He wore a characteristic bracelet around his arm, and in hand, he held a small book and a black graphite pencil.

“Welcome to the Cathoney! Come to have dinner?” he asked, and as the three of them nodded, he recited: “Here’s the daily special menu: paste of wheat with vegetables, pumpkin, and fried eggs seasoned with premium-quality olive oil from Kwata. It would be four dettas per each. Would you care for a special drink? We carry white wine of Hikutia, black wine of Atalbella, and red wine from our best vineyards of Rocavita,” he enumerated in an enjoyable voice. “One bottle costs eight dettas. For the dessert, we also have fresh lemonade, coco wine, goat milk, apple liquor, tea of—”

“No, thanks,” Zaadma interrupted him, smiling. “A bit of water with the menu will be fine.”

The dwarf performed a quick bow.

“Anything you want.”

Obviously taking his job with an exemplary happiness, the dwarf moved on; Rokuish whistled.

“Well, this menu seems to be somewhat substantial.”

With a broad grin, Zaadma just said:

“That’s the way a republican menu is.”

Thoughtful, Dashvara saw the old couple at the nearby table withdrawing the cards and getting up to pay for the beverages. All the people in the tavern paid for eating. That was… a confusing idea. He himself had never cared about money. In Xalya, after all, he had never had to pay for food or lodging. In his lands, the commercial exchanges were rare, and the metals were barely used but for making weapons or tools. What was the good of using money when, all being brothers, they shared their products according to their needs? It was true his ancestors had hoarded a considerable gold reserve in the dungeon, and it was also true that this reserve had saved them a lot of trouble when, ten years ago, a cattle flu had forced Lord Vifkan to part with half of the gold to buy food to the Shalussi and Essimean merchants. The other half, by now, had to be shared all over the steppe between the clans.

If only they had just settled for taking possession of the gold…

Zaadma’s voice recalled him from his thoughts.

“So,” she said in a low voice, leaning over the small table. “Now that our neighbors are gone, I’d like to ask you a question, Odek.”

At that instant, a movement drew Dashvara’s attention: the two face-hidden men had just got up on seeing a bearded man with a black turban come in from the door leading to the lodging part of the inn. Dashvara hardly didn’t bare his teeth like a sanfurient wolf when he recognized him. This man was one of Arviyag’s guards, the slave-trader that had bought the Xalyas for one thousand seven hundred gold coins. The one who imprisoned Fayrah.

He forced himself to turn his eyes away and not to get upset.

“Please call me Dash,” he said.

Zaadma looked troubled.

“All right. Dash then. Look, I’m dreadfully sorry for what happened to your clan. I can imagine your despair and… well, I’d better not talk about it because you’re surely going to tell me that I’m not able to imagine something so gruesome, so I simply wanted to know whether—”

Zaadma stopped speaking, nervous. Meanwhile, Dashvara saw the veiled men leave the inn. They hadn’t said any word to that Arviyag’s man, but even so, he had the certainty that it was his presence that had caused their sudden leaving. They didn’t look like bodyguards, but if Dashvara really wanted to save the Xalyas and succeed, he had to make sure he wouldn’t have any pursuer; and he had to make haste, because he had no doubt tonight would be the best moment to carry out his plan, before arriving at Dazbon.

Good. Now I’ve just got to elaborate a plan that will work and that will not bring any problem to my sister and the others, he reflected. He turned to Zaadma, and as he saw her still wavering, he encouraged her:

“What do you want to know?”

Zaadma gave a quick glance to Rokuish before going on:

“Look, Rokuish and I have thought hard. If you really are the son of the Xalyas’ chief, that means your father delivered you as a false prisoner to save your life. And he saved only you?”

Dashvara didn’t answer at once because, at this moment, the dwarf came back with a big, steaming tray that contained three large bowls with eggs, pieces of pumpkin, and other vegetables put on a pancake.

“Specialty of the Cathoney. Enjoy your meal!” he exclaimed happily.

They thanked him. Dashvara salivated: he was starving. When Rokuish and he tilted their heads, examining the plate, Zaadma asked, startled:

“What are you looking for?”

They both lifted their eyes and answered as one:

“The spoon.”

Zaadma chuckled.

“You don’t need a spoon to eat this plate. You take it with both hands, like so, you fold the extremities, and you eat it like a sandwich.”

As she spoke, she had put into practice her own words, and she took the first bite into her portion. She let out a cry of pleasure.

“It’s been three years since I last ate a dinner so delicious!” she said, excited.

Dashvara took his own sandwich, and when he began to eat, he had to admit it was not bad, and yet… it had a taste really, really special. Soon, his mouth was on fire. He snorted and cursed, hastily poured himself a water glass, and drained it.

“For my mother’s sake!” Rokuish exclaimed.

Zaadma burst into laughter as the Shalussi snatched the water bottle to drink straight out of it.

“It must be the pepper,” the alchemist mocked. “In the Most Illustrious Republic of Dazbon, almost all the plates carry pepper.”

Dashvara snorted again. He took some more bites of that treacherous fire, and he finally left it on the plate and drained the remaining water of the bottle while giving another glance around him. He noted that the Arviyag’s man had gone without having dinner. Laying the bottle again on the table, he guessed easily that both Zaadma and Rokuish were waiting for him to speak.

What’s the point now, he thought. Let them know what I am and what my purpose is. Both of them have saved my life.

He leaned back on the wall that was beside the bench where he sat. The pressure against his wound diminished a bit, and he felt more relaxed.

“You asked me why my father saved only me,” he started to say calmly. “The reason is simple: it was because he thought I was the only one capable of carrying through on what he ordered me to do. It would be easier for me to die beside him than to watch from the enemy camp how a clan alliance was massacring my own family and my people.”

He perceived a slight flinching movement from Rokuish, and he turned to him.

“I’m sorry I lied to you, Rok. I lied to you when I told you my family was murdered by the Xalyas. I stole your saber like the worst thief among all. And then I half lied to you when I told you that a true Xalya would never attack a man from behind. I apologize, as you have proven yourself to be a true brother when you spared my life that day.”

Rokuish shook his head.

“Zae told me how Nanda died,” he replied. “Perhaps someone like Walek would not understand, but I would have acted the same way you did… assuming that I’d have been able to gather enough courage to carry out my revenge. Honestly, if I’d ever had the slightest clue about who you are…” he blushed, “I really don’t know what I would have done then,” he admitted.

Dashvara smiled faintly.

“You’d probably have wanted to make sure I was a Xalya by asking me directly. And then you would have forced me to escape or to kill you.”

Rokuish rolled his eyes and quoted:

“‘If you want to kill a criminal man, and you have for it to kill innocents, you have to give up killing him or choose another way.’ You were the one who said it.” He smiled. “I know you wouldn’t have been able to kill me.”

Dashvara gave him back an unsteady smile, amazed by his confidence.

“Maybe not,” he admitted.

His conscience would have prevented him from doing so, to be sure, but sometimes even conscience wasn’t able to appease a mind overwhelmed by panic and by the thirst for revenge. Hellish demons, he thought. An innocent’s life was infinitely worthier than a murderer’s death. Letting the instincts lead him in acts that were likely to bring big consequences was always not only dangerous but also completely foolish; and a Xalya never bowed to anything, even to the passions of his own mind.

His smile stretched.

“Surely,” he added. “Anyway,” he continued, “my father did not let me alive out of compassion, and if I renounced to die with dignity, it was only out of a sense of duty, because a Xalya son had to obey the wishes of his parents and his ancestors. If it wasn’t for Lord Vifkan, I would have died to defend my family. Though I’m well aware that, in that case, I would have acted like a coward for wanting to accompany them on the road to death and avoid the suffering.”

Zaadma bit her lip, and she made as if to speak but Rokuish spoke first:

“And, despite everything, when I nearly finished you off, you said that Xalyas’ revenge was pointless. So that means you have given up on killing them all. Am I right?”

Dashvara looked him in the eye, stupefied.

“You’ve hallucinated if you heard me say that I gave up on the revenge, Rok. I said the greed of the Shalussi, Essimean, and Akinoan chieftains had caused the death of my clan. And I said that, if they died now, there would be others to replace them. But I’ve never said I gave up on anything. I am the heir of the steppe lords, and my sabers will dispense the Eternal Bird’s justice.”

There was a brief silence at the nearby table, and he became aware that he had raised his voice. Fighting against exhaustion, Dashvara stood up.

“And now, if you’ll excuse me, I am going to go to sleep.”

Zaadma nodded, and she stood up too. Anxiety showed in her eyes.

“Yes, I think you’d better go to sleep. I’ll pay for a room for three people. And I’ll look for Aydin so that he will examine your wound again.”

Dashvara nodded, and he was heading to the lodging door when he sensed Rokuish’s words:

“We have to get him to reason, Zae. Or else he’ll wind up killing himself.”

Dashvara smiled slightly as he was moving away. Don’t worry, Rok. I have no intention to die. He passed by the men with turbans, and he saw them fixing his shirt still stained with blood. He crossed the room without hurry, and he was pushing the door when Rokuish reached him. Silently, they went into the lodging part of the inn. The Shalussi looked as though he was struggling to find his words. Dashvara stopped before the open door that led to the court, and he glanced at the wagons. He counted them. There were nine. How to know whether the wagon that had carried the Xalyas was among them?

Rokuish laid a brotherly hand on his shoulder.

“I think that what you need is to sleep in a good bed,” he remarked. “After a good rest, you’ll surely see the situation more clearly.”

Dashvara glanced at the sky. It was getting dark. Abruptly, some words came to his mind, and he pronounced:

“Sdatalon Ohode’l masja saari ilsiuatar.” He gave a glance to Rokuish and then remembered that this one was a Shalussi and therefore could not understand the ancient language of the steppe. “Fleeing sun’s shadow never reaches the soul,” he explained. He vacillated and then added: “Except when the soul dies.”

Rokuish stayed silent for a moment.

“What’s this language?” he inquired curiously. “The Xalya?”

Dashvara smiled. There was a small stone edge beside the wall, and he sat down to rest while explaining:

“In some way. It’s the Oy’vat. The Wise Tongue. The language of the Ancient Kings. In the dungeon, most of the books were written in the Wise Tongue.”

He smiled slightly on seeing the Shalussi listening with interest, and he let his gaze stray to the shadows shrouding the court, absorbed.

“There were… great wise men among the ancient steppe people, Rok,” he murmured. “Each individual had a different view of life. But everyone shared the same fundamental values. Everyone respected each other, and everyone gave an essential relevance to dignity, to confidence, and above all, to brotherhood, because it’s the mother of all the True Life existing in this world.” He smiled, amused, when he saw Rokuish’s fascinated expression, and he resumed: “One day, while we were training, I told you that the main combat is fought inside oneself throughout the whole life. Perhaps you don’t remember.”

Rokuish nodded.

“I do remember.”

Dashvara bowed his head briefly.

“The great wise people said that the combat consisted more or less in keeping, with your willpower, a feather standing at the brink of the abyss. When the wind doesn’t blow, the feather stands easily, but it has neither to get distracted even once nor to bend toward the abyss because, as soon as the storm approaches, the feather will have to fight against the wind if it doesn’t want to be cast into the depths.”

Rokuish made a skeptical face.

“Er… How could a lone feather fight against the wind, Odek?”

Dashvara joined both hands before himself. Why the hell am I talking to a Shalussi about the Eternal Bird? Life’s mysteries, without a doubt.

“That’s precisely the key,” he answered. “A person who doesn’t believe that a feather can fight against the wind will be dragged believing that it’s impossible to fight against the impossible.”

Rokuish shrugged his shoulders, frowning.

“Uh. Fighting against the impossible seems impossible indeed.”

“Indeed it does,” Dashvara smiled. “An impossible thing won’t cease to be so, no matter how hard you’re persuaded of the contrary. But what if it was just very hard and not really impossible? In that case, if the feather doesn’t let itself be bent from the beginning, it will be more likely to overcome the force that is threatening it,” he smiled, looking at Rokuish with a convinced expression. “If you have no choice, it is better to be positive and think that your feather can resist a gale. If you think it can, that may become true.”

Rokuish was pondering over his words when the door leading to the tavern swung open and Zaadma appeared holding a key.

“Room number ten!” she declared. “It’s on the first floor. Give me this bag, cousin, I’ll carry it. Shizur says he can wait one more day in Rocavita so that you can rest as much as you need to, and so we will be able to travel by his wagon. He says that he has a friend here and that he would like to pay him a visit.”

Dashvara nodded, and he stood up without giving her the bag.

“It’s very kind of him to do that,” he said.

“Shizur is the kindest man I ever knew,” Zaadma affirmed while passing them both to head for the corridor and open the right door.

The room turned out to be small, but tidy. Zaadma sniffed the air, pleased.

“There’s a smell of thyme,” she noticed. She turned to Dashvara with an authoritarian face. “Well. Lie down at once, cousin, and rest how much as you can. And don’t play at being the hero. I’m going to recover my moon narcissus from the wagon. Rok, don’t move from here. I’ll search for Aydin straight after.”

Dashvara observed her going out of the room with a mix of amusement and exasperation.

“She gives more orders than a captain,” he commented teasingly.

After laying his bag on the floor, next to the bed nearest the door, he sat down then pulled off his shirt to look over his bandage. No sooner had he begun to remove this one than Rokuish lunged at him.

“What are you doing?” he protested, nervously agitated. “You can’t take off the bandage!”

“It doesn’t seem to be that impossible,” Dashvara replied calmly without stopping.

Rok stared at him, annoyed.

“If a catastrophe happens, don’t come blaming me later.”

“No catastrophe is going to happen. Tell me, Rok, did you keep my sabers?”

The question surprised the Shalussi.

“Oh, well, I did, apart from Nanda’s. Walek kept it. I have Orolf’s sabers and mine in Shizur’s wagon. But what—?”

He fell silent when Dashvara, putting the bandage aside, bared the poultice. It was half-transparent, and it could be seen through. The wound looked well healed up, and Dashvara, who had enjoyed the privilege of examining his wound before anyone, had to admit that Aydin had performed a miracle.

“Darn,” Rokuish muttered, impressed. “It looks like completely healed. But looks can be deceiving,” he added. “I remember that, five years ago, a man received a wound pretty similar. Vika took care of him, and two days after being considered healed, the man died. So don’t cry victory, lie down, and stop thinking about your sabers.”

Dashvara lay down cautiously, and he judged that he had never tried a mattress so comfortable. He joined both hands behind his head and said:

“I need answers. That Arviyag,” he clarified. “He travels with the caravan. And he holds my sister, as well as nine Xalyas that belong to my people. I have to stop him before he arrives in Dazbon,” he declared.

Rokuish looked as though he had received a pot right on the head.

“W-what?” he stuttered.

The door opened at that instant, and Zaadma came in crooning and holding her narcissus. A tender smile was lighting up her face. She laid the pot by the window, and only when she turned her expression became stern.

“You took off your bandage?” She hurried toward him to inspect the wound. “For Divinity’s sake! I didn’t know Aydin was so skillful. It looks like it’s scarring over quickly.” She moved her face closer to sniff the product. Her nose screwed up. “It stinks of Isakia flower.”

On seeing her inspecting him from so close, Dashvara made an embarrassed face.

“Please, Zaadma…”

“Zae!” she corrected him, straightening. “I’ll call Aydin right away. And I’m telling him you have taken off the bandage without my permission. Rok, keep an eye on him. Don’t let him remove the poultice.”

She lightened a candle to illuminate the room, and she left again, walking with quick, long steps. When she closed the door, Rokuish flopped down into the sole chair of the room, and he snorted.

“The Xalyas,” he whispered. “Of course. I had completely forgotten about them. So your sister—?”

“Is alive, and I swear on my honor that I will rescue her from the claws of this slave-trader this very night,” Dashvara vowed. “I’ve already waited too much time.”

Rokuish bit his lip, stunned.

“I dunno, Odek—”

“Call me Dash.”

“Dash.” He smiled. “I’ll have to get used to it. Anyway—” He frowned. “Dash, listen to me. Arviyag is a dangerous man. From what Andrek told me, he is a relative or some favorite worker of a man known as the Master, the one who leads all the traffic. If you annoy Arviyag, you’ll be in trouble with the worst people of Diumcili. If I were you, I would rather go back to the steppe and kill the clan chieftains than annoy this trader,” he assured.

Dashvara shrugged and looked up at the ceiling. The candle illuminated the room, and shadows were dancing smoothly on the walls.

“I can do both things,” he said finally. “The shaard that educated me traveled to Dazbon, once, more than twenty years ago. He told me that slavery was forbidden and severely punished. If that’s still true nowadays, Arviyag has probably taken the Xalyas to some secret place.” He paused. “That’s what I am going to do: I’m going to get Arviyag to free the Xalyas or at least to tell me where the girls are. And if he doesn’t—but I doubt it—I will free my people anyway. I only need you to do me a favor.”

Rokuish raised an eyebrow without changing his reluctant expression.

“A favor, eh? And what do you want me to do? Hold you standing while you threaten the trader, perhaps? You’re recovering from a wound that nearly killed you, friend. If I were you, I would wait some more days, and I would think thoroughly about the question—”

Dashvara interrupted him briskly.

“I have thought about the consequences. If I wait for Fayrah to go to Dazbon, I’ll probably never find her track in my life. I would be pleased if you find out in which room Arviyag lodges, that if he really lodges in this inn.” He hesitated. “However, if you don’t want to help me, I will understand. You just have to tell me that’s too much to ask of you.”

Rokuish stared at him fixedly for some seconds, and then he sighed.

“I suppose that, if I don’t do it, you will.”

Dashvara gave him a twisted smile.

“Your supposition is right. Find out where the Xalyas are, if that’s possible. Ask Hadriks; perhaps he’s aware of something. Hold on a minute, Rok,” he called him, as he saw him standing up. He nodded gratefully. “Telling you ‘thanks’ wouldn’t be enough. Trust me, after that, even if you ask me to cut my own arm, I would do it.”

Rokuish made a grimace of disgust.

“What the devil are you saying?”

Dashvara gave him an innocent face.

“Excuse me. But I really meant it.”

Rok shook his head in amazement, and while opening the door, he let out:

“I will do what I can. As for you: rest.”

Dashvara held up his forefinger to his lips and withdrew it with a solemn gesture:

“I promise.”

He waited for a time, and after a hesitation, he got up. He took on the bloody shirt and left the room, closing the door without locking it. The tavern was considerably noisier now than before; anyway, he did not go there but to the wagon court. Outside, it was dark, and the portal was closed. That probably meant that the boys who took care of the wagons had been allowed to get out and have dinner, including Hadriks. However, when he passed by Aydin’s wagon, he saw the boy sitting on the bench, holding a still lute in his arms. He was asleep.

Dashvara went to the next carriage, and he got up stealthily, squinting at the inside. Where might Rokuish have put the sabers? He searched several bags full of dried figs, jarred on something metal that turned out to be a nail badly spiked, and he finally stumbled on a blanket that wrapped three long objects. Three sabers. Dashvara drew them, examined them in the dark, and thought he recognized the red snake engraved in two blades. He put the other one back in its place, and he was getting down from the wagon, bearing the two weapons, when he spotted a quick movement on the right. Wanting to avoid any brusque jump, he just raised his weapons.

“Who’s there?” he grunted.

He perceived a panting breathe.

“It’s… it’s meee, Shalussi,” a scared voice stammered. “Please don’t hurt me.”

It was Hadriks. Dashvara sighed and lowered his arms.

“Don’t fear, Hadriks. I’m just here to take my effects. Go back to sleep without worries. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

The boy was half-hidden under his wagon. He went out, holding out his lute as if intending to defend himself. Dashvara smiled.

“Hey, boy, you would defend yourself better playing your lute than using it as a club. By the way, as you’re here, tell me, do you know Arviyag?”

Hadriks got troubled.

“You mean… do I know who he is? Yes… He’s a merchant. Why?”

“Does he lodge in this inn?”

“I don’t think so. His wagon stopped by here, but after, it went away. He’s certainly lodged in some private house. He’s a rich man.”

Dashvara peered at him, searchingly.

“He traded in people,” he whispered. “Isn’t that a crime in the Dazbon Republic?”

Hadriks squirmed.

“Yes, it is. But, please, Shalussi, don’t ask me more questions about him. I don’t want to get into trouble.”

Dashvara narrowed his eyes.

“Denying a problem doesn’t make it less real, and it doesn’t make you wiser either. Quite the opposite. Good night, Hadriks.”

He passed by him, and Hadriks embraced his instrument with both hands, as if ashamed.

“Are they all like that, in the steppe?” he asked.

Dashvara stopped.

“Like what?”

“Like you. I mean, the way you speak you don’t seem like a savage, you know, but even so, you kill people. And now it seems you want to start again.”

Dashvara meditated for a moment.

“Well… They’re not all like me. Actually, I think that each soul of this world is potentially capable of being unique and acting as such.” He strapped his both sabers to his belt, and he added: “Don’t worry, Hadriks. This night, I will not kill people. I will rescue them.”

He waved at him kindly, turned his back on him, and returned to the inn, wishing with all his heart that his affirmation was right.

14 The Faerecio

No sooner had he pulled off his shirt and lain down in the bed than the door opened again, and Aydin walked in. The ternian had changed his clothes and abandoned his turban, and now black and curling locks of hair fell down around his face.

“I feel a lot better, healer,” Dashvara declared, straightening before his visitor could say anything.

“Well,” this one smiled, sitting down on the chair with a glass in one hand. “Your cousin explained to me that, if you die, it will be only because of your foolishness, so I’m free of any responsibility. However, I think that it would be better for you if you drink this.”

He handed him the glass. Dashvara didn’t take it.

“What’s that?”

“A strong sedative. For a restorative sleep. I’ve given the recipe to Zaetela. If you also take the beverage tomorrow, I think you’ll be ready to resume the trip the day after tomorrow. You don’t have a fever, do you?”

He accompanied his words with a motion of his hand over his patient’s forehead. He looked satisfied, and he offered his glass again. Dashvara took it. It had a water-like transparent color.

“Thank you,” he only said. He laid the glass on the bedside table under Aydin’s frowned look. “I will drink it,” he assured. “Are you going to get the poultice out?”

Aydin nodded.

“The wound is stitched. As soon as it scars over, ask any healer or any apothecary master to remove the thread.”

Dashvara gave a nod without responding, and Aydin ordered him to lie down. He cleaned the wound and put a sticky, cold ointment. When he finished, he gave him a general look.

“Do you want me to help you take off the boots?”

Dashvara put a surprised face.

“No, thanks.”

Aydin vacillated in the silence of the room.

“Are you going to drink the sedative?”

Dashvara looked him straight in the eye.

“No.”

Aydin breathed out.

“That doesn’t make sense. It’s only a sedative for you to have a good night. I feel you are nervous. You should listen to me.” He paused. “Bah, whatever. Do as you want, steppeman. I wish you well.”

Dashvara smiled.

“I’m grateful for your attention. And please don’t get angry with me. I’ve never been a good patient.”

Aydin raised an eyebrow, amused.

“No worries. You’re not the worst patient I’ve had. May the White Dragon watch over you.”

“Likewise.”

Aydin had already opened the door when he stopped, a teasing expression on his face.

“How can you say ‘likewise’ if you’re not a believer?”

Dashvara twisted his mouth funnily.

“Considering that the White Dragon represents, in that case, good luck and fortune, why couldn’t I use the same metaphor?”

Aydin didn’t look convinced.

“The White Dragon isn’t a metaphor, Shalussi. It exists.”

“You’re right, it exists in sajits’ conscience,” Dashvara conceded. “But, from what I read, the White Dragon you adore died thousands of years ago. What you all adore now are its ideals and its great strength. Therefore, the White Dragon is a metaphor. The symbol of your beliefs.”

The symbol of your Eternal Bird, he completed mentally.

Aydin, instead of getting offended, seemed to ponder over his words.

“Well. It’s a possible point of view,” he admitted. “But I still think the White Dragon exists.”

Dashvara smiled.

“And you have all the right to believe it. Just as I have the right to use its name as I feel.”

Aydin rolled his eyes. The conversation seemed to entertain him.

“Good night, Shalussi.”

“Good night. And, by the way, I am not a Shalussi.”

The healer, with a comical expression on his face, left the room, closing the door.

Dashvara waited. He knew that he still had about four hours to sleep and recover energy before moving into action, but he could not relax. He still did not know where he could find the Xalyas, or Arviyag, and he had not yet worked out a precise plan of what he was going to do. If the slave-trader was in a private house, this one surely belonged to the slaver network, and therefore, it could occur that Arviyag had at his command not only his own wagon guards but also those of partners and friends.

The objective was simple: to free the Xalyas this very night. Preferably without using the sabers since he could not completely trust his wound yet; even Rokuish would have managed to beat him by just exhausting him. On reflection, his aversion to Arviyag was a hundred times deeper than his aversion to Nanda of Shalussi. What honor could have a person who was capable of buying prisoners and reducing them to slavery? The Essimeans enslaved their war prisoners, and for that, the Xalyas had always considered them the most savage, even though these proclaimed themselves the most advanced clan in Rocdinfer and the chosen people of the Death God. In short, the Essimeans were shockingly bad people, but that “Master” of Diumcili was worse. He didn’t even seem to worry about the provenance of the slaves. Apparently, he had no scruples about enslaving people that came from far lands.

At some point, Dashvara changed his posture, and a sharp prick wrested a growl from his throat. He stood to use the chamber pot, and then he lay down again. His gaze fixed the candle, then turned to the narcissus, and he had all the time to examine thoroughly its silver petals as well as its fine, dark-as-night stalk. Sleep was about to drag him into the darkness when, at last, the door opened.

It was Rokuish.

“Well?” Dashvara interrogated anxiously.

The Shalussi sat down on his own bed and began to take off his boots while answering in a dispassionate voice:

“Arviyag lodges in the house of a family called Faerecio, in the outskirts of the town. Logically he must have brought the Xalyas with him.” He let the second boot fall, and he crossed his legs on the mattress. “From what the cook I spoke to said, the Faerecio are a patrician family of Dazbon. It’s a very powerful family. They probably have a dozen mercenaries standing guard.”

Dashvara meditated for a long time, and Rokuish finally lay down too and let out a long sigh.

“I understand you want to free your sister at all costs, but the Faerecio support both Arviyag and this Master… I dunno, Dash, I don’t think she’s treated badly. Maybe she will end up being happy. That’s the only consolation I can give you.”

Dashvara withdrew his gaze from the ceiling and stared at the Shalussi in disbelief.

“If you doubt before an innocent, you are not a coward. If you doubt before a criminal, you definitely are,” he quoted. “These words never cease to be true.”

“Don’t come with your philosophic lessons right now,” Rokuish mumbled, sitting up on his bed. “The ten Xalyas are alive, and they will continue to be alive. And you, you’re going to charge headlong to a doubtless death only to remove some chains?”

Dashvara clenched his jaw.

“Freedom, Rokuish. That’s what I intend to give them back. I grant that you may have a different view, but I want you to know that, for a Xalya, freedom is worthier than life, and if they have to risk their lives to recover it, no woman among the ten Xalyas will hesitate when I ask them to follow me, you can be sure of that.” He fixed him in the eye. “Think about it, Rok. What would you do if they were holding not my sister, but Menara instead? Would you give up saving her just because some men hinder you from doing it? Would you let fall the feather just because the gusts of wind are stronger than what you think your principles can bear? It’s all a matter of confidence.”

Rokuish remained silent for a while.

“Of confidence, eh?” he repeated. “Truly, I would like to believe it, but if you find yourself in front of five warriors aiming at you with their weapons, what kind of confidence can you have that you will get out alive? It’s like jumping into a red snake nest. There’s not a chance of you getting out alive, Dash,” he articulated.

Dashvara smiled.

“I will have confidence that nothing like that will happen. And the better the evasion is planned, the more confidence I will have that everything will turn out well, so” —he stood up and crouched down to draw the sabers from under the bed— “the time has come to spy out the land. Did the cook indicate to you where the house is exactly situated?”

Rokuish was staring at him, bewildered.

“Yes… I mean, no. The fact is…” He gulped. “Dash, why the hell did we save your life if your purpose is to lose it today in all certainty?”

Dashvara attached the sabers to his belt, amused.

“Don’t be pessimistic, Rok. If I die, I’ll let you curse my stupidity all you want. But I trust I’m not going to die. The house,” he insisted.

Rok breathed in.

“Follow the road to the south. And after that, straight to the east. The cook has talked about a way fringed by olive trees. You’ve gone totally crazy,” he added, slipping his boots on.

Dashvara frowned on seeing him getting up.

“Where are you going?”

“To help you, naturally,” the Shalussi replied. “I’ll go and get my saber.”

Dashvara blocked his way. He couldn’t believe it.

“No way. You have helped me find the house: you’ve already done more than enough. From now on, I’ll manage alone.”

Rok snorted, and he stood up to him. It was the first time Dashvara saw him so determined.

“Do you know why I left my village, Xalya? It was because, there, I’ve never felt I was accepted by anyone. You were the only one who taught me that, even though I am not a warrior, I have my qualities. So, you know, I will show you these qualities. The first of them is that I am as stubborn as a mule.”

Suddenly, a voice behind Dashvara mocked:

“Is that supposed to be a revelation?”

The Xalya turned around and saw Zaadma entering, a pile of clothes in her arms.

“I don’t want to be a pain but…” —her calm voice became hissing, and she glowered at Dashvara with a terrible look— “can I ask you why on earth you’re not in bed and why you’re holding those sabers?”

Dashvara and Rokuish exchanged a glance. The former nodded.

“You can ask, of course you can. But, out of a respect for your nerves, I don’t know whether I should answer.”

Zaadma was really angry.

“Don’t you realize you were about to accompany Nanda in his peregrination only four days ago?”

Dashvara tilted his head aside, thoughtful. He remembered that, in republican believer’s opinion, the soul, on dying, started a peregrination to the Holy Mountain, where—hypothetically—the White Dragon lived.

“I realized it very well,” he assured, “but now the matter is quite different.”

Zaadma looked at him up and down, skeptical.

“Oh, really? When you use a saber, the result is often very similar, whatever the reason.”

Dashvara slowly shook his head.

“I don’t expect to use the saber tonight.”

“Oh. Glad to hear it. So” —she sat down in the chair without averting her eyes from his— “let’s talk about that problem. What’s it about?”

Dashvara hesitated for an instant, and then he went to close the door and came back to his bed. Helped by Rokuish, he explained the problem in a few sentences. Zaadma kept strangely silent.

“So,” Dashvara concluded, “without any intention to spoil your story about cousins, my duty to free my people determined me to leave this caravan and to wish you best of luck.”

Zaadma crossed her arms. Dashvara had expected her to burst into a string of curses and sermons, but actually, she only opined:

“That sounds like an action worthy of respect. If you really intend to save them, I promise you I will work night and day in my apothecary’s shop to pay for your funeral.”

Dashvara sighed. Another pessimist, he thought. He was going to answer that she didn’t need to go out of her way to pay for his funeral when Zaadma went on:

“Since I know you, your behavior taught me that you know how to wait for the opportune time without rushing. Well, I advise you not to rush now. Believe me—I lived for eighteen years in Dazbon. If the Faerecio are accomplices in the Master’s slaver network and they catch you bearing sabers in their own house, you will spend the rest of your life in jail, in the Cages, and this only if they don’t decide to kill you before to prevent you from revealing any compromising detail in the remote case that the Tribunal Secretary summons you.” She took a breath and made a vague motion of her hand. “If Arviyag is planning to take the Xalyas to Diumcili, the best thing to do is to try to stop him not here, in Rocavita, but in Dazbon. It’s a big city, with plenty of places where you can hide, and that also may be an advantage for you. Arviyag will certainly have to wait several days before embarking the Xalyas. There’s no reason to hurry.” She joined her both hands and reasoned: “What I recommend is that you stay in Rocavita for one more day. Rokuish and I will go to Dazbon tomorrow with one of Shizur’s horses. We’ll find out where the Xalyas are taken, and you’ll come to Dazbon by Shizur’s wagon. You will wait to recover fully. And, meanwhile, we will find a good way to help your friends. I myself would opt for acting through legal means. You prove before the court that Arviyag is a slaver, and that’s all. Though… it’s not that easy, I guess,” she admitted. “And I suppose that, whatever you do, you will get into trouble anyway.”

Dashvara heard out her speech with extreme patience. Then, he cast Rokuish a sidelong glance, and he rose to his feet.

“Your reasons are inspired by the confidence you have in that Tribunal…”

“I do not have any confidence in the Tribunal of Dazbon,” Zaadma cut him off briskly.

“Well. Neither do I, for I just don’t know it,” Dashvara assured calmly. “So, nevertheless, I still think this is the ideal night to move into action. And now, if you please, I leave, because the night, just like a flower, isn’t eternal.”

He headed to the door, and Rokuish followed him.

“You crazy fool boys,” Zaadma grumbled. “Wait. Don’t go out dressed like that. Put on these clothes. You will draw less attention, and that way, if they catch you sneaking in their gardens, perhaps they will mistake you for some republicans with a certain status, and they will think twice before slaying you.”

Dashvara took a glance at the pile of garments she was pointing to. He could see two thin, loose-fitting pants, white tunics, and black, large veils that would probably cover the whole trunk once on. There were even two belts, richly adorned with strange, colored stones. He looked at Zaadma, perplexed.

“Where did you get all that?”

A mischievous smile stretched across Zaadma’s face, and she admitted:

“From the market. There’s the Feast of Gifts this week, and people gamble and bet. A young aristocrat won these clothes in a bet, and I offered him a dragon for it. He gave me the whole, and he even thanked me for allowing him to keep gambling without being burdened. I couldn’t imagine then that I would spend this money for two men who want to kill themselves so soon,” she sighed.

Dashvara rolled his eyes, and while Rokuish and he were getting dressed as republicans, Zaadma went close to her narcissus. Dashvara wondered whether she expected it to have grown during her absence. When he had put on the new belt and the black veil, he noticed that the strap was designed to bear two weapons.

Perfect, he thought, pleased.

He lifted his eyes, and when he saw Zaadma pouring liquid over her plant while crooning, he made an embarrassed grimace.

“Zaadma… I mean, Zae,” he rectified on receiving her warning look. He pointed to the glass. “That what you just poured wasn’t water, do you know that?”

Zaadma looked at him, startled, and she sniffed at the glass bottom.

“For the Divinity’s sake! It was the sedative made by Aydin, wasn’t it?” she guessed. Dashvara nodded, suppressing a teasing smile, and she sighed loudly. “First, it was the wine, and then a sedative… If my narcissus survives after this, I will sell it for one hundred dragons together with its historical memoirs. At least someone has made good use of Aydin’s kindness,” she added eloquently.

“Someone?” Rokuish mocked. “It’s a plant, Zae.”

Zaadma laid the glass back on the small table, grumbling.

“Plants are alive, and they can feel full well everything surrounding them, young Shalussi,” she asserted. She looked at them both with calculating eyes, and a thin smile appeared on her face. “Now you have the eccentricity of two young, wealthy gentlemen. You look perfect. Apart from the beards: they’re completely disheveled—but I suppose it’s not important at all right now,” she added at seeing the bored expressions of the two steppemen. “So! Well? Are we going to free your people, steppe lord?”

Dashvara saw her opening the door, and his eyes widened while staring at her. What the demons! Is she really intending to come with me? He let out a biting, short laugh.

“I will go to free it,” he corrected her. “It’s quite enough that Rokuish wants to get into that trouble because he’s as stubborn as a mule. But, as for you, you’re going to go to bed and to sleep like a saint feather.”

Zaadma laughed, and a cunning light gleamed in her dark brown eyes.

“You didn’t listen to me, did you? I will repeat my question: are we going to free your people, steppe lord, yes or no? And, for your information, I am as stubborn as a wall, and by the way, I have nothing ‘saint’ inside me. Besides, I know this region better than you two. So let’s go. I can’t believe I’m doing this,” she added in amazement.

She left the room with quick steps. Dashvara snorted, and he came to a conclusion:

“She’s definitely worse than captain Zorvun.”

Rokuish smiled nervously. Dashvara was tempted to suggest again he reconsidered his decision, but he thought better of it: the Shalussi was master of his own acts, and he did not want to offend him by reminding him of it. He used the old clothes to wrap his sabers to prevent any traitorous reflection. Then, he attached the bag to his belt, covered the low part of his face with the veil, and followed Rokuish out of the room.

* * *

The country house of the Faerecio was surrounded by a vast olive grove. Before arriving on the way that led straight to the mansion, they got off the road and kept advancing between the scattered trunks, getting their bearings thanks to the crescent Moon’s light.

Dashvara did not feel the tiredness anymore: he had shooed it away as one shoos a fly. Later, he would have all the time in the world to sleep. Now he needed all his concentration.

They arrived at the end of the olive grove, and they sighted a large, paved court in front of a two-storied building. A blinding light was burning through several windows and softly illuminated the arabesques engraved in the high columns surrendering the construction. A white and large stairway led to the main entrance. This one was lit with a big, red lantern, and Dashvara was able to make out the armed figures that were sitting on a bench by the entrance. They were awake, and at that moment, one of them got up to stretch his legs.

Zaadma, Rokuish, and Dashvara stopped in the darkness. They could perceive a muffled, adjusted, instrumental music from within one of the lighted rooms, on the first floor.

“Now what?” Zaadma inquired in an ironic whisper.

“First,” Dashvara murmured, “I’ve got to find out where they are hidden. I’ll go around the house.”

He was going to leave them when Zaadma grasped him by the sleeve, annoyed.

“And what about us?”

Dashvara looked at them both. He scarcely distinguished them despite them being so close.

“You…”

He frowned. What might he ask them to do?

“You stay here. I’ll be right back.”

He moved on and began to go around the house, half crouching close to the ground. The veranda that surrounded the whole building was in some parts totally covered by vines. Once he arrived at the opposite side of where Zaadma and Rokuish were, Dashvara noticed that, outside, there weren’t more guards than those he had seen in front of the main entrance. The other doors weren’t guarded; some of them were even open to let the fresh night air come in. Not far from where he was, squatting next to a rock, there was a flowered garden, and at the back, he could see another building, wide and looking rather like a stable.

Dashvara stayed immobile for a while, scanning his surroundings. Assuming that the ten Xalyas were confined somewhere inside Faerecio’s house, and considering that he managed to free them without raising the alarm, where he would take them? He had spent all the way asking himself the same question. He had come to the conclusion that, since the lands were vast, hilly, and covered with fruit trees and bushes, he could, with any luck, manage to hide them and erase the track, and then walk to Dazbon ceaselessly until arriving there, and pass unnoticed in the crowd. But, for succeeding in such a plan, he was well aware that he would probably need the help of Zaadma and Rokuish.

A movement, on the veranda, drew his attention. As soon as he saw the two hounds fastened with chains to a column, his heart sank. He damned under his breath. If he had carried on just a little more to the south, the breeze would have probably betrayed his smell. It would be impossible to get closer to the house without them noticing his presence.

Dashvara backed a bit, as silently as he could, and he turned back enough to place himself straight in the east. He sat down at the foot of an olive tree, and he paused to think. However hard he pondered, all led him to the same conclusion: he could not get into the house without making an uproar.

Unless…

Dashvara picked an olive hanging at some palms from his eyes, dropped the pit, and swallowed the fruit thoughtfully.

When arriving in Rocavita, he had seen cats. The idea that was infiltrating his mind curved his lips into an auto-deprecating smile. It wasn’t that bad, though. Capturing a cat and carrying it to the mansion would not be easy, but it could fix one of the most urgent problems. The objective was simple: to get into the house without being suspected by the owners. Once close to the veranda, when the dogs began to bark, Dashvara would wait for someone to go out and find out what was happening, he would release the cat so that it would rush away in full view of everyone, and he would glide himself through one of the open windows without being noticed. It was a solution. And the only one a bit elaborated that occurred to him at this moment.

He stole another olive before half straightening and going around the house northward. He found Zaadma and Rokuish where he had left them.

“You’ve been long,” Zaadma muttered. “Well? Have you found out something?”

“I have a task for you,” Dashvara informed her without answering. “Could you capture a cat in Rocavita and bring it to me?”

The Dazbonish woman stared at him, puzzled.

“A cat?”

“A cat,” Dashvara confirmed, and he clarified: “It’s chiefly a distraction maneuver.”

Zaadma and Rokuish exchanged a perplexed look. Dashvara sighed.

“Trust me. You wanted to help me, right? Go to capture a cat and bring it to me. Take,” he added, drawing some rags and his rope. “Tie it with this. I mean it,” he insisted as he noticed that the expressions of both of them were still showing disbelief.

Dashvara fell into an expectant silence.

“I will bring you a cat,” Zaadma determined. “But keep your damned rope. I would never tie a poor animal.” She got up. “I’ll be back in less than an hour.”

Dashvara saw her draw away between the olive trees, and then he gave Rokuish an intent look.

“Lend her a hand, Rok.” He handed him the rope and a rag. “Just in case.”

The Shalussi sighed, but he took both objects and adjusted his veil.

“I hope you know what you do, Dash.”

He moved away, following Zaadma; Dashvara rubbed his eyes. He had slept a whole day, and even so, it seemed that the wound had drained all his energies.

He clenched his teeth and went back close to the rear of the house. He spent the next minutes peering at the lights inside the building and figuring out the house plan using the location of the windows as a guide. He determined which rooms were worth avoiding, and he had eaten more than twenty olives when his gaze was drawn by a flight of small stairs leading down to a door situated in the basement of the house. Was there a better place to hide a few slaves than a cellar? He pondered. But, if they were really there, the door would be surely locked. He still had in the bag the steel bar stolen from Orolf’s smithy, and he deemed it possible to try to force the lock. The problem was that he could not be sure how much time he would need to open the door, nor whether he would succeed. On the contrary, he didn’t doubt that, as soon as the hounds started to bark, not much time would pass before someone went out to see what was going on. And this someone would see him quite easily if, instead of getting into the house, he decided to try his luck in the cellar. In that case, a cat wouldn’t be so useful.

Dashvara suppressed his apprehensions, and then he suppressed his fatigue. He picked some more olives and began to make them burst, smearing their juice over his skin and clothes. With any luck, that would delay the hounds’ reaction. He grasped the steel bar, hid the bag, and got up. He moved closer to the end of the olive grove, and after lying down on his front, he began to crawl toward a small circular structure enclosed with columns and roofed with a dome, which stood about twenty steps away to his right.

He was arriving next to the pavilion when a sudden snap made him flinch. A door had just opened, and two figures passed by the half-sleepy hounds. They went downstairs out of the veranda, hand in hand. Pale like death, Dashvara tried to crawl back to the olive trees. However, as he saw the two silhouettes going closer, he finally went as immobile as a stone, hardly daring even to breathe.

One of the figures was a man with a saber on his side. The other one was a young woman dressed in a long tunic with glittering pearls shining under the fine light of the waxing Moon. Dashvara saw them passing by and penetrating the olive grove. They could have gone farther, but not at all: they stopped only a few steps away, and Dashvara had to turn his head slightly not to lose sight of them.

“Oh, Al,” the girl’s sweet voice sighed. “I feel that my father will break my heart tomorrow. You know his purposes. He wants me to marry that man.”

“Don’t cry, my princess,” the man’s gentle voice whispered. “I won’t permit Arviyag to get what he’s seeking. You’re the light lighting my way, Wan. And you will keep lighting it until you decide to left it in the dark.”

“Oh, Al,” she repeated, moved. “I would never leave it in the dark. Never. But my father…”

“I don’t care what your father says,” the other replied. “I only care about your wishes, Wanissa. We’ll elope. I’ll take you out of the Republic, and we’ll live for each other. What do you say?”

“Oh, Al!” the girl said excitedly. “Would you really do it?”

From then, the sweet nothings went on, mixed with passionate kisses. Dashvara suppressed a sigh of pure tension. He believed that his situation could only get worse if one of the lovers saw him, but he was wrong: at some point, the house door opened again, and another two silhouettes went out of the mansion, this time with an unhurried and moderate gait.

For an instant, Dashvara believed they would catch that Al and that Wan showing a relation that was obviously furtive, but then the young woman murmured urgently:

“Someone’s coming!”

They moved farther between the olive trees, and Dashvara, hoping they wouldn’t look too much over their shoulder, grabbed hold of the very opportune seconds of grace to straighten and step back. He had the luck to come across an olive tree rather bushy, and he squatted. The voices became more and more audible. They were approaching the pavilion. Dashvara forced himself to keep patient.

“I will propose it to her tomorrow morning,” a calm voice was saying. “And tomorrow afternoon, I will send you her response.”

“I’ve gotten the impression she was a little unwilling to talk to me today,” the other voice commented. Dashvara recognized it with almost full certainty. It was Arviyag’s.

“Don’t worry about it. My daughter may seem like a girl a bit shy in society, but, trust me, you will manage very soon to inspire her with respect and affection.”

“I know. She’s lovely. But that Almogan—”

“Forget Almogan Mazer. He’s a good boy, and a family’s friend, but he has not a chance. He’s just a secretary. My daughter is smart enough not to pay attention to him. With some presents and more frequent visits to our palace in Dazbon, the matter will be settled. I predict that both of you will have a future full of happiness.”

“You’re so kind, Lord Faerecio. I, for one, will consider myself a fortunate man if my relationship with your daughter prospers positively.”

“I trust it will. As for the other matter that has brought you here—”

Between the columns of the pavilion, both figures looked like two tall, gaunt, black sticks. Lord Faerecio continued:

“—I would like to know the provenance of these young girls.”

“They are Xalyas,” Arviyag answered. “As far as I am aware, the clan was annihilated less than a month ago by an alliance of clans. They say it was the last clan of the steppe lords. There’s another caravan full of prisoners that will arrive in Rocavita in a few days, of Essimean village provenance. I ask one of the chiefs to minimize the losses, but according to what he said, unfortunately, it took a lot of time for the Xalyas to surrender.”

Dashvara suddenly felt a nervous contraction that had nothing to do with his wound, and he tried but failed to relax.

“So the steppe lords have been defeated to the last,” Lord Faerecio said thoughtfully. “Does it mean there won’t be prisoners from the steppe anymore?”

“I doubt it,” Arviyag denied. “All the sources are not exhausted in the north. There are still small independent tribes likely to be captured. Like the Steppe Thieves. They have an excellent reputation in Rocdinfer. They are great fighters. In Diumcili, some buyers would certainly pay more than five hundred dragons for one of them.”

“Five hundred dragons for only one?” Lord Faerecio whistled, amazed. “If so, that would be a good investment.” He shook his head, and Dashvara, overwhelmed by the horror he felt for this conversation, was sure to perceive a pleased smile on his face before he turned toward the house. They left the pavilion. “By the way,” he said, “I was told by my informers that you have changed the store to hide the prisoners. Now you hide them under the Temple, don’t you? What’s the reason?”

“Oh… There’s not a particular reason. It’s a matter of security, that’s all,” Arviyag assured while following him.

“Well, you will have to change the place, Arviyag: it’s a sacrilege to put pagans beneath a Temple of the White Dragon.”

“Of course. I will take it into account for the next arrival, Lord Faerecio.”

The voices faded out in the distance. Only then Dashvara realized that he was holding his breath, and he inhaled slowly, casting a sidelong glance to the nearby olive trees.

He closed his eyes and opened them almost instantly. He could scarcely believe such a stroke of luck. It was as though a luck-fairy had blessed him and had brought him his most hungered answer. Now he knew that Fayrah wasn’t in Faerecio’s mansion. Perhaps that would make the task easier.

He heard a stifled noise behind him, and he turned around. Wanissa Faerecio had just stopped between two olive trees, and though he couldn’t see her face clearly, Dashvara guessed that she had seen him.

“Al…?” her quivering voice let out.

His lover, that Almogan Mazer the girl’s father had talked about, emerged from the shadows. He positioned before her, drew his saber, and aimed at Dashvara about three paces away.

“Who are you?” he demanded, hissing. “Are you a tramp? Answer me!”

From a short distance, his juvenile features were even more noticeable. Dashvara, still crouching on the ground, answered:

“You’re obviously a knight, and between knights, I think we can reach an interesting agreement. I don’t tell anyone about your touching relationship with the lady, and you act as if we’ve never come across each other. A fair deal, don’t you think?” he smiled.

The republican, far from lowering his weapon, drew closer. Dashvara sighed. He would have to guess that the man would try to make the brave in the presence of the “light of his way”. Almogan declared:

“If you’re a knight, as you say, your own heart would prevent you from betraying us.”

Dashvara rolled his eyes, and he stood up.

“Of course, my friend. I told you: I don’t care a sand grain about what you do or not do together. And now be a good boy, return this weapon to its scabbard, and forget me. By the way, the olives of this place are delicious,” he added, before turning his back on them and moving away with long strides.

He didn’t worry that Almogan might attack him from behind: he was a knight, and knights are not traitorous. Dashvara smiled, and he made a circle before returning to the same place. The lovers had already entered the house. He recovered his bag, put some olives into it, and after noticing that his oily bath had given him a smell of olive stronger than he had expected, he wondered how many actions in a person’s life ended up eventually being useless. He shrugged his shoulders and walked away to the place where he had left Rokuish and Zaadma. He waited some time until he lost his patience, and deducing that both of them had probably backtracked choosing the same way as before, he drew away from the mansion, went back to the road, and began to advance along its edge. He discerned the inn of the Cathoney, and he was about to go around it when he perceived a complaining meow. Not daring to run because of his wound, he picked up the pace, though, and he crossed the road, which was illuminated by festive lanterns. What he saw then made him smile teasingly. A figure holding a bag was running after a cat across a small square with a fountain. The feline disappeared at the speed of an arrow behind a mountain of flax bundles.

“No way!” Zaadma grunted, stopping exasperatedly. “At this rate, it will get light before we manage to catch one.”

Rokuish sat in a small stone wall, panting.

“I give up,” he wheezed.

“To give up before the unavoidable isn’t to give up but to act wisely,” Dashvara let out, and he sat down beside the Shalussi. This one had jolted, and he stared at him with open wide eyes.

“What the—?” He swallowed. “For my mother’s sake, you nearly scared me to death. What are you doing here?”

“Well…” Dashvara smiled with a playful expression. “I only wanted to admire your cat hunter’s talent.”

On hearing his voice, Zaadma spun around and crossed the small, earthy square with a troubled expression.

“Does it mean you have come to help us?”

“No. It means that we leave the poor cats in peace. I know where the Xalyas are, and they are not in the Faerecio’s house. They are under the Temple of the White Dragon. I suppose you know where it is, right?”

Zaadma let her arms fall with the bag, and she sat down on the wall letting out a snort of disbelief.

“Under the Temple of the White Dragon? In the catacombs? Impossible! I don’t believe it.”

Dashvara made an impatient face.

“Do you know where these catacombs are?”

Zaadma nodded.

“On the top of the hill. The temple has a main entrance. And you can go into the catacombs through inner stairs. I only went in once, when a celmist master of Dazbon made us visit it, to all the disciples, but that was… well, many years ago. It was quite chilling,” she confessed. “But I can’t believe Arviyag has managed to make the Xalyas enter there without a dragon seeing them.”

“A dragon?” Rokuish echoed, startled.

“A priest,” Zaadma clarified. “It could exist a secret entrance, but for finding out where it is, you would need a divine revelation.”

“Unless the dragons are in on the deal,” Dashvara meditated out loud.

“Impossible,” she affirmed without the slightest hesitation. “The Dragon Brotherhood has probably some small flaws, but they would never defend a man like Arviyag: they were the quintessential opponents of slavery for decades.”

Dashvara took a soft breath, and he stood up.

“All right. Thanks a lot for your help, you two,” he declared.

He moved away, and he heard distinctive footsteps behind him. He didn’t turn to see Rokuish and Zaadma following him. He just said:

“If anything happens to you, it will be only your fault.”

He didn’t get any response. He smiled, amused, and kept climbing the hill.

There was still music flowing out of some buildings. The heat had vanished, replaced by a cold breeze. They came across some groups of people; some of them were happy, others were drunk, and some people looked already half-sleepy. The crescent Moon had advanced in the sky, and Dashvara estimated that, in two hours, it would disappear completely, replaced by the Gem. So, after an interval of deep dark, the blue brightness of the new celestial body would light their way if they succeeded in fleeing… and it would also light that of their potential pursuers.

The Temple of the Dragon occupied all the top of the hill, and it was separated from the rest of the houses by a rock platform about fifteen feet in height and a white marble stairway. Whereas other streets of Rocavita were still a bit lively, the Temple was lying in dead silence.

“Are there night guards?” Dashvara inquired as the three of them crouched down behind high bushes, at the foot of the stairs.

“Outside? No idea, but I don’t think so,” Zaadma answered in a whisper. “Inside, however, there surely will be. At the very least, there will be a lookout. The inside of the temples have valuable objects, and they keep them well. If you intend to get in through the main gate, I warn you straight now: we would need a battering ram to bring it down.”

Dashvara nodded thoughtfully, and he examined the building narrowing his eyes. Four svelte towers rose in each corner. In the middle, the temple was roofed with a dome crossed by a long corridor that seemed to represent two dragon wings. These went even beyond the limits of the outside walls, at about one hundred feet high. The stained-glass windows adorning the frontage were not only impossible to open without breaking them but also were probably too narrow to slid inside. And they were also too high without a ladder.

Dashvara shook his head.

“Good. I have studied the White Dragon religion, but I would like a confirmation, Zae. Isn’t it said the White Dragon accepts any soul willing to worship him?”

Zaadma set an expectant face.

“Indeed, it is,” she confirmed.

“And isn’t it said the faithful have to help any soul willing to pray to the White Dragon?”

Zaadma frowned and nodded.

“Yes, it is. But what are you driving at?”

Dashvara pondered.

“I remember that Maloven, the shaard who educated me, talked once about the republicans who went to the temples at night hours in an impulse of faith or simply because of routine. Is that true?”

Zaadma nodded again.

“It’s unfortunately true. I myself went only once into a temple at night, to steal something. And everything turned out badly because of a pious who caught my partner taking a small dragon figure.”

Dashvara stared at her for some seconds.

“You’re a thief?”

“I was a thief. That’s why I was confined in a monastery, what do you expect? I already told you I’m not a saint at all. Well, are you going to explain to us what brilliant idea you’ve gotten now?”

Dashvara preferred to comment nothing, and he came back to the main matter.

“Look. Perhaps I manage to get these lookouts to open the doors if I tell them I want to pray to the Dragon. With a little acting and luck, they will let me go into one of their chapels. And as soon as they stop looking at me suspiciously, I will go into the catacombs.”

Zaadma and Rokuish didn’t know how to respond. Dashvara nodded thoughtfully.

“That’s what I’m going to do.”

He stood up, and Zaadma reacted.

“That brilliant idea of yours leaves much to be desired. If I recall correctly, the catacombs’ entrance is situated in the main dragon. You would need the lookouts to be blind if you don’t want them to see you. Besides, unless you intend to appear in the blacklist of the Dragon Brotherhood, I remind you that you can’t go in there with weapons.”

Dashvara raised his eyebrows. Of course. He removed his sabers from his belt and handed it to Rokuish.

“Please keep them, Rok.”

“Are you crazy?” Zaadma snorted. “What if you find yourself in front of an Arviyag’s man?”

Dashvara waved vaguely.

“I will improvise. And this time, you definitely can’t help me, so instead of staying there arousing suspicion, I advise you to go to sleep. Tomorrow, you will know if my attempt has been a success or a failure. Good night, friends.”

He was going to move away when Zaadma grasped him by the sleeve.

“In the catacombs, everything is dark. Take this,” she grumbled as if unwillingly, pressing a cold object into his hand. “At least it will light your way a bit. You have to heat it. Just rub it with your hands: it will work.”

Dashvara squinted at the flat and circular piece of metal. He barely saw it in the dark.

“I hope it is not some object you don’t want to lose, is it?” he asked.

Zaadma muttered under her breath.

“Maybe it is. But you won’t lose it because I simply forbid you to do so.”

Dashvara bowed his head, feeling both moved and amused.

“Your confidence honors me.”

He gave Rokuish a brief nod, and he broke cover, going upstairs with a remorseful expression. It was not hard to get the effect: his wound did not hurt him, but his head was spinning. He knew, thanks to captain Zorvun, that some grievous injuries could affect the nervous system, and he knew personally the case of a soldier that, after being stabbed by a Shalussi, was suffering unexpected and chronic faints. He could only hope that his convalescence would not last and would leave nothing more than a scar.

When he arrived before the door, he could check Zaadma’s affirmation: those gates, reinforced with metal bars, seemed to be even more resistant than those of the Xalya Dungeon. Without giving himself time to think about what he was doing, Dashvara grasped the knocker with a hand and he knocked. He pricked up his ears. Did he ever expect to hear something through all this amount of wood?

Then, a sudden clap jolted him. A spyhole had just opened through a grating fixed in the door. A tanned face with grayish eyes came in sight, softly illuminated by a distant light.

“Who knocks at the Dragon Door?” he asked.

Dashvara lowered his veil upon his face and answered:

“A humble heart who feels the need to cloister himself for a night into its bosom.”

There was a silence.

“Are you drunk?”

“I am not,” Dashvara replied patiently. “I come with a clear mind. A doubt torments me, brother, and I need to consult the Dragon right now.”

He stared at the lookout intently, signifying that to deny him access to the temple would be contrary to the wish of the White Dragon itself. He perceived a brief nod before the spyhole shut. He heard a noise of chains, and soon, a small door set in the right-wing opened. Dashvara hardly suppressed a triumphal smile, and he waited for the lookout to open the door fully before walking in with a steady gait. The man who had opened was human and smaller than he was. He bore a saber, and Dashvara didn’t doubt he knew how to wield it. He looked beyond. The hall looked rather huge. The scarce Moon’s light was infiltrating through the translucent dome, and with the flame of several wax candles, it caressed shyly columns, sculptures, and glazed tiles.

“Would you want me to guide you to a particular chapel?” the lookout asked.

Dashvara had no idea whether there were chapels with specific names in the temples. Anyway, he didn’t want to arouse suspicions by asking he be guided to the main dragon, so he improvised.

“I will pray in all of them,” he decided.

“In all of them, brother?”

Dashvara looked at him with determination.

“In all of them.”

The lookout bowed his head respectfully.

“The doubt that afflicts you must be profound. I will guide you to the Main Chapel, and from there you will be able to go to the others.”

Dashvara bowed his head haughtily. It seemed as if this lookout had taken him for some man with class. He certainly wasn’t going to waste the opportunity. The lookout shut the door, and Dashvara discreetly paid attention to the mechanism. If he did not find another exit, this one might be a possible way of escape, though not exactly very stealthy.

Wordlessly, the lookout passed ahead. His steps resounded on the tiles of the temple. Dashvara followed him silently, his inquisitive gaze sweeping around. His eyes were attracted by large frescoes representing discrete periods of the White Dragon’s life. It could be seen jailed in a cavern, flying in the sky, fighting against terrible monsters, smiling benevolently at its first followers… There were figurines in precious metal, imitations of the eternal pearls gifted by the White Dragon to its more generous worshipers… Whatever his eyes looked at, it was a burst of the Dragon Brotherhood’s wealth and power.

With all those painted lizards, how to recognize the main dragon? he asked himself. His instinct told him that the catacombs must be somewhere at the back of the halls. Behind a locked door, probably. If this lookout was the only one in all the building, Dashvara had the feeling that he wouldn’t last long conscious.

However, as he could notice, they weren’t alone. A tall man with a candle in hand was shaking a kind of aromatic maraca around a stone mound, at the back of the hall. Dashvara realized pretty soon that this stone mound was actually a dragon’s huge head. He gazed at its glittering, black-as-obsidian eyes. They looked almost alive. He had no doubt this one was the main dragon.

The lookout bowed.

“May the White Dragon guide you so you can appease your doubt,” he pronounced.

Dashvara made a grateful gesture, and for a whole minute, he stood there, before the dragon’s mouth. He thought, at that moment, that he had forgotten to ask Zaadma about a detail. How did the republicans pray? He knew there was a specific ritual, but however hard he tried to remember Maloven’s words, they escaped him. So when he saw that the man who was scenting the hall began to dart curious glances at him, he kept a stiff upper lip, and he improvised.

15 Rescue

What really made him take a decision was his tiredness rather than logical reasoning: he headed for the column closest to the dragon, and he sat down, leaning back on the cold marble. He immediately saw, from the priest’s expression, that his behavior wasn’t standard, but he decided not to get alarmed. An annoying sting had begun to spin through his wound, and he judged that the calming effects of the poultice were probably starting to wear off. He assumed the most comfortable position he could while the two lookouts were whispering at the opposite side of the hall.

I hope I haven’t committed a sacrilege by sitting down this way, because if they call the guard now, I’m lost, he pondered.

He set a focused and serene expression, and he risked a glimpse to his sides. Zaadma had said the entrance to the catacombs was in the Main Chapel. The good point was that this one was the most lighted, thanks to the dome and the candles. But this detail, in the long run, was also likely to become a bad point.

He used his time to study the place. The hall was slightly circular, and the columns were bluish. These were engraved with endless artistic characters, which surely formed sentences extracted from some holy book. Despite the dark, Dashvara was pretty sure to recognize the Sagipse script, the common writing.

His gaze lowered to the corners of the hall, looking for some opening. He couldn’t stop thinking that everything inside the temple oozed the splendor of the Dragon Brotherhood. After a long time searching for an entrance, he realized that the two lookouts were still whispering at each other. They wouldn’t have been chatting so calmly if they had wanted to wake some dragon or some guard. Then, the whispers stopped, and there was the noise of a grating opening. Dashvara saw the tall man disappear into an adjacent hall. He was not a human, he thought. He looked like an elf, but his skin was golden. An elfocan, perhaps, he supposed.

He kept shooting inquisitive glances to the dark corners whenever he saw that the lookout near the entrance wasn’t looking in his direction. On both sides of the dragon’s huge head, there was a grating leading to a small chapel plunged into darkness. In front of him was a wooden, thick table with some receptacles that were reflecting the soft light of the three lit candles… Suddenly, an infernal noise resounded in the whole temple, and Dashvara, paralyzed, believed for an instant that the White Dragon itself had woken up from its long sleep. The banging occurred again, twice. Dashvara was shivering. He had no idea what all that could mean.

He heard some footsteps approaching, and he lifted his eyes again. The lookout emerged from the shadows and stopped before him.

“It’s the hour of the Blind Eye,” he announced. “The dragons of Rocavita are processing to the temple, and they should arrive any time now. Please, brother, I have to ask you to go to a minor chapel if you haven’t finished with your solitary prays.”

Dashvara nodded, swallowing his consternation. Apparently, at night, everybody went to the Temples of the Dragon. Even the slave-traders, he thought bitterly. He stood up, and he noticed that his muscles had become totally numb. Instinctively, he held up his forearm to his ribs, and the lookout made a concerned face.

“Are you ill?” he worried.

Dashvara scowled at him, but he regained his composure. If the lookout thought he was ill, perhaps he would suspect him less.

He didn’t answer, and he headed for the nearest open chapel walking proudly as someone who doesn’t want to let know his weaknesses. He nearly asked the lookout how much time these dragons of Rocavita would be praying, but he held his tongue. The less he talked to him, the better.

He also nearly lunged at him to give him a good punch on the head. He hesitated, and he tried to guess whether what was holding him back was his common sense or simple apprehension. He sighed, and he sat down in a corner of the chapel, in front of a stone pedestal upon where there was a big, silver cup. He pretended to be lost in thought, and the lookout moved away as soon as psalms began to raise outside. Dashvara got up abruptly. If he managed to find the door before the arrival of the prayers, he could disappear without being seen. They would notice his absence, of course, but how could he prevent it?

I should have gone in with those prayers, he thought, biting his lower lip.

Then, he saw the elfocan, who was descending some inner stairs, and he realized that he himself had just walked out of the minor chapel. He gave a sharp nod, and the elfocan responded quietly before heading toward the big stone dragon. There was a metallic sound of chains, and the prayers overran the temple. Dashvara felt even kind of happy about such an invasion. They were more than forty. A ten was wearing white tunics, and a purple belt around the waist. The others wore festive and proper clothes, and Dashvara guessed that they were inhabitants of Rocavita who accompanied the procession.

And do they do this every night, or do they do it just today to provoke me? the Xalya grumbled.

Sitting down again in the corner of the chapel from where he could see part of the Main Chapel, he saw all the faithful kneeling down before the dragon’s head without ceasing to chant. He had to admit that the scene was quite surprising. But exactly how much time they had planned to stay?

“Owrikasteir!” one of the prayers suddenly exclaimed, making Dashvara jerk up. A half-dwarf-half-another-thing had just got up to his feet in front of the dragon, and he joined both hands cloaked under the large sleeves of his tunic. “White Dragon of Goodness! You who saved us from hatred and death, you who showed us the way of knowledge and who placated the fears of our ancestors! My brethren and I bring you our souls tonight for you to purify them from the lethal breath of the Black Dragon. Receive, in return, our mortal devotion.”

The psalms were by now extinguished, and a deep silence of respect and adoration reigned over the vast hall. Dashvara suppressed a sigh of impatience, and he leaned back again on the wall, caressing with a fingertip the long, thin body of a red snake painted on the floor. Be patient, he told himself.

He was so patient that, when he heard voices, he opened his eyes realizing he had fallen asleep. This simple observation filled him with disbelief and irritation, but it was on seeing a figure dressed in dark blue clothes sitting down beside him when he became fully awake. He made a motion to grasp his sabers, but he stopped halfway through, remembering where he was. And then he remembered that he hadn’t any saber anyway. His eyes narrowed then widened.

“Aydin?”

The ternian smiled slightly.

“I see that my recommendations as a healer have failed badly,” he murmured.

The prayers were now dispersed among the distinct minor chapels, Dashvara noticed. How long had he slept? Surely no more than one hour, he deemed. He held back an ironic grimace. With such efficiency, anyone would think he had decided to rescue his sister by waiting until the time knocked down the temple.

“Can I ask you what a pagan does here, praying to a divinity he doesn’t believe in?” Aydin asked.

Dashvara’s mouth contorted.

“You can. Actually, I could ask you too why you pray to a dragon that is supposed to have a good heart, and at the same time, you allow a man to buy the life of ten people without even denouncing him.”

Aydin’s pale skin lost the little color it had.

“What are you talking about?”

“You know it full well,” Dashvara whispered. “You have been there, in Nanda’s village. You saw how ten young Xalyas were sold to that scoundrel. You know they are in Republic’s territory, in Rocavita. And you don’t denounce it… because of cowardice?”

A trace of pain showed in Aydin’s face; however, unexpectedly, this one smiled.

“I’ve never denied I was a coward.”

The glare that Dashvara cast him didn’t wither him.

“I have a wife and children,” the ternian whispered. “My act of bravery is to accept my cowardice. My selfishness would be not to accept it. Boy,” he sighed, “please tell me you won’t denounce Arviyag.”

Dashvara did not even hear the question. He had half straightened, and he was trying to give some sense to that merchant’s words.

“You have a wife and children,” he echoed back at him. “Is that an excuse to behave like a scoundrel? What kind of education can the children receive when their father helps such a miscreants’ trade?” Suddenly, all the scorn he felt towards that man vanished, and he blew out, amused. “I envy you, republican. My father would have rather killed all his children with his own hands than renounce his honor. But, all in all, who knows what the honor really is?”

Aydin’s expression was startled.

“You’ve called me miscreant and scoundrel, and then you say you envy me?” He wiped a hand across his forehead, and Dashvara noticed he had the claws out. He continued: “I do wonder if the life of those unfortunate women won’t be more fortunate now than in your village full of savages. I didn’t come here to argue, man of the steppe,” he added when he saw Dashvara frowning. “This is a holy place. If I came up to talk to you it was only because I was curious to know what you were doing here. Now, for my family’s sake, I prefer to know nothing more,” he affirmed, rising to his feet. “May the Dragon guide you.”

Dashvara watched him bowing down respectfully before the silver cup. He didn’t answer, and he waited for him to move away before standing up and glancing at the main hall. The prayers were leaving the prayer rooms, and they were gathering by the entrance, silently; the elfocan was putting out the candles lit up in the minor chapels. As for the lookout, Dashvara saw him walking toward the gates with a bunch of keys.

The moment was ideal.

Dashvara dashed for the Main Chapel, where only a candle was burning now, just in front of the marble mouth of the dragon. He drew away from the light furtively, went around the chapel behind the columns, frantically searching for an opening or some stairs… He heard a grating of chains. The lookout was opening the gates. Dashvara breathed in deeply, and he stopped in his tracks when, on arriving at the back of the hall, he saw something he hadn’t noticed before: the Dragon White’s head was hacked. A small corridor about one step and half wide separated it from a wall richly adorned. Zaadma hadn’t said that the entrance was situated in the Main Chapel. She had said it was in the dragon. In its head.

With a sudden shiver, he glanced at the exit. The prayers were leaving in an orderly way. The lookout would probably think he had left with them. The elfocan was emerging from a chapel, and Dashvara knew that, if he had moved then, the elfocan would have seen him in all likelihood. He waited, motionless as a statue, until the priest turned his back toward him. Then, he rushed forward. He reached the small corridor and found the door, plunged into darkness.

He was surely the man who thanked the White Dragon of Rocavita the most and the best that night. He touched the old wood, and he tried not to demoralize when he discovered there wasn’t a latch. A big lock was locking the two leaves.

No time to be sophisticated, he thought. He seized the metal bar from his boot and glanced cautiously out of the corridor. The last prayer was already crossing the doorway, and the lookout was about to close the door…

Just when the temple entrance shut, Dashvara, gripping the bar with both hands, blindly smashed down on the lock. He didn’t wait to check whether this one had gotten broken, and when the lookout began to move the chains, Dashvara hit again with all his strength. There was such a bang that, for a second, he wasn’t able to move. The lock had fallen to the floor, destroyed.

He stretched a hand, yanked at the chain links, and shoved. Before the lookout had finished setting the chains, he jumped down to the first step, turned around, and quickly shut the door.

This time I sure am totally in the dark, he thought.

He rubbed Zaadma’s metal disk hopefully, and he sighed in relief when he saw light. It barely lit the next steps, but at least it lit a bit. Without stopping to wonder how this strange object did work, he put his metal bar back in one boot, and he started to go down.

The stairs were made of white marble, and as he descended, Dashvara noticed that the disk light was getting brighter. Up in the vaulted ceiling, there were carved characters written in an elegant calligraphy, as well as finely engraved sculptures. Dashvara just took a casual glance at it, without stopping. When he arrived downstairs, he could make out, beyond the light halo, big cavities in the rock. And in each one, there was a coffin.

My mother would have loved this place, he thought.

The Dungeon of Xalya had catacombs too, and to tell the truth, they were much more stifling and gloomier than these. Instead of black rock, the catacombs of Rocavita were covered with white and golden paintings, as if the dead could care.

Just where the stairs ended, there was a wide, perpendicular corridor. Uncertain, Dashvara looked left, and then right. He sharpened his ears. There was no sound.

If you don’t know where to hit, feint and test the water, captain Zorvun had advised him once.

Dashvara shrugged, and he chose the right-hand path. Soon, he found stairs again, also wide and white, but shorter. The next corridor led to a squared room, and then to stairs again. For a moment, passing by coffins and more coffins, he asked himself who those people were. The dead of Rocavita? Sure, they did not look as old as most of the coffins that were lying under the dungeon. Dashvara would have never imagined that catacombs could be so large.

At some point, the white marble was replaced by gray rock, and Dashvara suddenly thought he had just woken up from a dream. Walking among the dead was not one of his most favorite activities. But at least he didn’t need to fight them.

The corridor he was crossing now looked pretty much as if nobody had visited it for decades. He was casting curious glances to both sides when, suddenly, he came across a grating. Furrowing his eyebrows, he noticed that the iron, though old, was very solid. He tried hopelessly to open it, but it didn’t even slightly move. He held out the lantern between the iron bars, attempting to see what there was on the other side. Perhaps it was only a sort of grotto, he reasoned. The light of the disk was fading away. Sighing, he rubbed it vigorously, and the object gleamed intensely.

From the shadows, a skull face popped up, smiling at him sinisterly.

Dashvara promptly jerked backwards, shivering.

“It’s okay,” he whispered to calm down. “It’s dead. Full dead.”

He moistened his cold lips with his tongue, and he turned around. He had to choose another way. He was returning to one of the crossings when he heard a loud, grating noise that made him turn deathly pale.

At this rate, you will have a heart attack before finding your people, o great steppe lord, he upbraided himself.

There was another banging, and Dashvara tried to control his trembling limbs. In the catacombs, the only living beings were the visitants, he repeated inside.

And stop raving about walking dead men.

He heard voices, and he narrowed his eyes. Perhaps it was the Xalyas? No, he thought. They were men’s voices. And they were growing louder.

He glanced at his metal bar, and his mouth twisted. He had no way to know who those men were. Maybe they were just some lookouts. Deep down, he knew they weren’t, but that didn’t prevent him from crouching down on the ground and rolling into one of the lower cavities that didn’t have coffins. At least he thought they didn’t until his hands touched wood. He lifted his disk and noted that the lower cavities were tunnels about two feet and half in height where coffins were forming a long row—so long that the shadows engulfed them.

He heard a laugh and footsteps. He gave a dismayed look at the disk, which was shining like a full Moon. How to put it out? He supposed that it would get extinguished if he could cool it but… With a grimace, he pushed the cover of the first coffin, and without looking at it, he flung the disk into it and shut it again.

Soon, Dashvara perceived the trembling light of a torch, accompanied by footsteps. They weren’t more than two, he calculated.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Stim,” a sarcastic voice said. “Dead men tell no tales. How could they denounce us?”

“I dunno,” that Stim answered, wavering, “but… Vand, there are holly tombs here.”

“All of them are, in theory,” Vand snorted. “Come on, let’s hurry up before we are relieved. That’s the opportunity of our lifetime, buddy. Are you going to waste it?” There was a chuckle. “Rings with precious stones. Beauties as you have never seen, Stim. Come on. Let’s split us up. If you see one of those individual crypts, give me a shout. Those are made for the governors and the wealthy people. We see us in this crossing, okay?”

“Okay, but, Vand…” Stim cleared his throat as if to conceal his quivering voice. “They can’t arrive before we return. If they see we have forced the grating, and if they find out we have left the prisoners alone—”

“Go back if you’re such a coward, boy,” the other replied bitingly. “See you later.”

Some footsteps went away, along another corridor. Stim kept immobile for a while. And then he chose the corridor where Dashvara was hiding.

So these were the efficient prison guards of Arviyag. Dashvara hardly suppressed a sarcastic laugh. He saw leather boots passing by his cavity, and he guessed that, as soon as that Stim found the grating, he would hasten to join his partner. He drew a deep breath, veiled his face, and came out of hiding. Swiftly, he sprung to his feet, and he was already lifting his metal bar when Stim stopped short. He had not even time to turn around. Dashvara gave him a rough blow strong enough to knock him to the ground and make him out cold. The torch fell down onto the floor with a dull sound, and the Xalya held the unconscious body before laying it down kindly.

Why haven’t I killed him?

However hard Dashvara sought a precise answer, he couldn’t find it. This boy, who must be his age, worked for a slave-trader. But Dashvara doubted this was a sufficient reason to dispatch him.

He picked up the torch and looked over the prison guard’s belt and pockets, searching for the keys. He found nothing. He shrugged and took a dagger from the boy’s strap before making him roll into one of the cavities. When he woke up, he sure would be frightened to the bone, he thought, with a macabre smile.

He returned to his hiding place, and he got his disk back. He shoved it in his pocket, and then he began to go along the corridor where the slavers had come from. He had the impression that he was very close to his aim.

The walls became rougher, and then there were no more cavities with tombs. About fifty steps away, he found another grating, and he noticed it was slightly open. He crossed to the other side, and pretty soon, he began to hear voices, as well as an unremitting metal creak. He stepped forward cautiously, and he passed by some stairs that led somewhere up. The secret way out, perhaps? He could not be totally sure, but the noise did not come from there.

“They will kill us all,” a girl’s voice was whimpering. “There’s no way, Fayrah. Even if you manage to open the grating, we don’t know where we are. Who knows, perhaps we’re locked in the dark dungeons of Dazbon. Or in the—”

“Enough, Lessi,” another whispering voice admonished her.

Dashvara felt a wave of happiness when he recognized his sister’s voice. Without hurrying, he kept moving along the corridor. He didn’t bother to be stealthy.

“They’re coming!” one of the Xalyas hissed.

The metallic creaks stopped instantly. He went into a room plunged in a total dark. Thanks to his torch, he discerned some immobile silhouettes behind a large grating. Almost all the prisoners were sitting on the floor. Two of them had a bench, and one was near the grating with an expression of pure horror on her face. Dashvara had just enough time to see the piece of metal his sister was holding before she hid it out of his sight. This simple fleeting sight filled him with hope. Fayrah hadn’t renounced freedom, he understood gladly. He approached the iron bars, and he gazed at their faces for some seconds before focusing on the iron door. This one was locked with a thick chain and a lock. It wouldn’t be easy to open it, he deemed. Even though, he couldn’t get discouraged now that the Xalyas were just in front of him. He placed the torch on a candelabra fixed to a wall, he closed the door of the room, and he went back to the grating, lowering his veil upon his face. He smiled at them all.

“Hello, princesses. I’ve come to rescue you all,” he announced.

The silence lasted, and Dashvara was startled to see that Fayrah didn’t recognize him at once. He made use of it by giving instructions:

“Don’t be scared. I will get you out of here. It’s likely that someone will hear me, so when I open this door, don’t get out until I ask you to, okay?”

Fayrah stammered:

“Dashvara? It can’t be. I saw you die.”

Dashvara got troubled. Could it be that Fayrah was starting to have hallucinations?

“Everything will be all right, Fayrah,” he affirmed. He took out his metal bar, and he drew closer to inspect the lock. This one seemed as if it came from the best Akinoa smithy, he complained.

He was considering the possibility of attacking a link when Fayrah stretched a hand between the iron bars and touched his arm.

“You’re alive,” she whispered. Fear was still showing in her beautiful face as if she expected her brother to change into a prison guard at any moment.

Dashvara swallowed, and he set an appeasing face.

“Everything will be all right,” he repeated. “And now, if you please, keep an eye on the door entrance while I’m working, and warn me if someone comes in.” He took Fayrah’s hand and squeezed it tenderly to inspire her with courage before adding: “Step away from the grating, sister.”

Fayrah stepped away, tottering backwards, and Lessi, her best friend, held her with an anxious expression that would have inspired the best artists. Who would have thought she was the daughter of the brave captain Zorvun…

Dashvara didn’t allow himself to nourish any fatal thought, and he fell to work. Praying for the door to muffle the noise, he calculated the best angle, and he gave a strong blow on one of the links. The metal was barely damaged. He hissed.

“Damned chain.”

Some blows later, noise no longer bothered him. He would wake up all the people of Rocavita if he had to! He wasn’t going to leave without his sister.

After a while that seemed endless to him, he managed, at last, to make the chain burst. An axe would have been more effective, but the metal bar worked marvelously well too.

“Fayrah, help me remove it,” he rushed her.

They both started turning the chain as quickly as possible.

The shadow on the floor warned Dashvara before Lessi gave a high-pitched shriek. He whirled around just to see the hem of a cloak fleeing away across the open door.

He didn’t think twice. He abandoned the chain, and he dashed after the prison guard. This silly fool was carrying a chest, and as he didn’t want to drop it, Dashvara reached him in a few strides. He hit him on the neck, and the slaver slumped onto the floor letting out a stifled shout. He didn’t fall unconscious, and Dashvara had to give him another blow for him to stop crying.

“Eternal Bird,” he panted. He noticed that the prison guard was still grasping his beautiful chest, surely belonging to some governor of Rocavita. He shook his head. “You fool.”

Getting hold of Vand’s saber, he kept the bar and went back to the room just when Fayrah was pushing the grating.

Immediately, the Xalyas rushed out, forgetting Dashvara’s order. He glowered at them, irritated.

“Don’t panic!” he barked. “You are Xalyas. Behave as such.”

Instantly, they all calmed down. Fayrah lunged forward to embrace him.

“Dashvara!” she sobbed. “I… I thought all of you had died.”

Dashvara drew her away tenderly and stretched a hand to lift her chin. There was such a pure innocence in Fayrah’s eyes!

“Please, sister. Now you have to be strong. Follow me to the corridor, you all. Make sure the prison guard doesn’t wake up, and if he does” —he drew out his bar again and handed it to Fayrah— “give him a good blow.”

His sister widened her eyes, but she nodded without complaining.

“I’ll find a way out,” Dashvara added. “If you hear more than one person going down these stairs, run to this corridor. You will find other stairs that lead to the temple. There, there is a lookout who has the keys of the entrance.”

He seized the torch, and he was going to give it to Lessi, but when he saw her trembling like a leaf, he decided to give it to another girl. He laid a boot on the first step, and he realized that the ten Xalyas were staring at him, expectantly. He looked pointedly at them all, setting a determined face.

“Don’t forget we are children of the Eternal Bird. Don’t let fear overwhelm your minds. You still have a people and a life to defend.”

His words lit up their faces, and Dashvara started to go upstairs, wondering how many miracles and how many disasters a few words were capable of causing.

The stairs were short, and he took out Zaadma’s disk again when the shadows began to engulf him. He rubbed it just a bit, praying for it not to light too much. A soft light, like that of a lightning bug, awoke.

And a foul odor slapped him. His face screwed up, and he arrived in something that seemed to be the bottom of a huge, bricked well. He made the light stronger, and for a moment, he stood fascinated. He was in a circular room about thirty feet in diameter. A narrow corridor crossed it, fringed by thick horizontal gratings, which opened onto emptiness. The evil-smelling air was almost choking. Seemingly, just below, the sewers passed there, with all the sewage.

He lifted his eyes, and what he saw at the back cheered him up. There was a door.

Knowing full well that he was exposing himself, Dashvara crossed the room and extended a hand to the door. It was made of wood. He sharpened his ears. He heard nothing more than the distant flow of the pipes water. He thrust the disk into his pocket, and he unsheathed the saber.

It’s now or never.

He turned the door handle, and he almost jumped in surprise when this one opened effortlessly. A soft, fresh breeze bit his face. He went out, crouching down, searching for signs of any Arviyag’s man standing guard outdoors. He saw nothing. Only a long, dry earthy corridor fringed by a high wall. The Gem’s light scarcely managed to illuminate the alley.

He went back inside and hurried back to the Xalyas. Leaving them behind had only been a waste of time, he realized. He found them in the same place, but on hearing his footsteps a few had risen like some awkward hares. It hurt Dashvara’s heart to think that, if instead of him it had been prison guards, the Xalyas wouldn’t have remained free for more than ten minutes.

“Follow me.”

“And what about this man?” one asked.

Dashvara remembered that her name was Aligra and that she was a good friend of his brother Showag. She was sixteen, was an orphan, and if he remembered well, she was known for being a lunatic. Her weird question proved it. Dashvara took a glance over the avaricious prison guard, and he checked without any surprise that he was still unconscious. He didn’t answer Aligra’s silly question, and he grunted:

“Let’s go.”

All the women started to go upstairs. Dashvara went ahead, and they were already crossing the stinking room when the outside door burst open. Dashvara cursed under his breath.

“Get back!” he roared.

The Xalyas were immediately overcome by panic, and they backed in disorder. For some seconds, the two figures standing in the doorway stayed as if petrified. It wasn’t hard for Dashvara to understand that they were the next watch relief. Fearing that they would warn more companions, he thrust at them. He underestimated the courage of Arviyag’s men, for these, without even an exclamation, went in and unsheathed their sabers. They had recovered from the surprise in an impressively short time. And, seemingly, they knew how to fight.

They are warriors, what did you expect?

Gripping the saber and the dagger, Dashvara took one step back toward the corridor. At least he could take advantage of the room arrangement: they could only fight in turn. Unless they were reckless enough to fight on the gratings, at the risk of stamping some foot in a hole, but…

All his thoughts vanished at once when he noticed that one of them was drawing a gadget from a purse fastened to his belt. A dart. Dashvara had no sooner dodged the projectile than the man threw another one at him. The second got hammered in his right shoulder, but the third never reached its target. He jumped almost literally into the other attacker, hiding from the ranger.

The Xalyas were so silent that Dashvara felt the temptation to look backwards to make sure they were still alive, but obviously, he didn’t.

Never lose sight of your enemy.

This time, he didn’t have to conceal his Xalya attacks: the main objective was to survive. He disarmed the slaver, and he was just about to give him a fatal strike when the man, stepping backwards, took out a dagger using his available hand. His lips twisted in a terrible grimace.

“You’re good, but not enough.”

He let out a stupid laugh, and Dashvara paused, startled. Anyone would have thought he was still holding his saber, the way he behaved. Or was there some trick he had not noticed?

“Don’t attack!” his companion advised him. “Just make sure he doesn’t approach. The poison is starting to affect him.”

Indeed, Dashvara felt that his shoulder was burning like a fire. His right hand was becoming numb. He let his dagger fall and shifted the saber to the freed hand before attacking without allowing his adversary enough time to adapt himself. With a quick slash, he left him bleeding, lying down facing the grating, and he lunged at the poisoner.

Something, in his head, burst like a flame. What if the poison was fatal? He had no way to know. He was aware that the most reasonable thing to do would have been to neutralize the man and interrogate him about the matter, but… he didn’t want to die in the meantime and let the Xalyas at the mercy of the slave-traders once more.

He disarmed him more easily than the other, and the man, widening his eyes, reeled backwards, toward the grating.

“I have the antidote. Don’t kill me or else you will die. I have the—”

Dashvara slit his throat. Immediately, he thought that the hell itself had just exploded inside him. He dropped to his knees, with his body writhing around with convulsions. He mustered his last energies to shout:

“Xalyas, your steppe lord orders you to escape! Now!”

He did not fall unconscious yet. He pulled the dart out of his shoulder, and he dragged himself to the corpse while hearing hurried footsteps and whimpers full of tension. One of the purses was empty, the one with the darts. Another one contained a small box. He opened it with trembling hands, and he blinked, trying to see the contents clearly. There were powders ordered in cells. Maybe antidotes. Or maybe not. Probably not. It was clear that, the way the slaver had formulated it, the poison of that dart was lethal, so Dashvara didn’t think twice before lifting the small box, throwing back his head, and pouring everything he could into his throat.

“Dash!” Fayrah yelled. She grasped him by the arm. She was crying in tears. “Dash, tell me you’re not going to die.”

Dashvara stared at her, swallowed the last mouthful of powders, and suddenly, he burst into laughter like a madman.

Tears welled up in his eyes; his laughter resounded noisily in that stinky room. Fayrah was gaping at him, open-mouthed. The other Xalyas seemed to have escaped, all of them, except two. One of these was lying on the floor, unconscious.

“Aligra, wake Lessi and run away,” Fayrah pronounced in a quivering voice, her eyes fastened on Dashvara. “I think my brother can’t help you more.”

Dashvara had cracked up uncontrollably.

“Eternal Bird, I sure can’t!” he howled, writhing about on the floor. “But I’m not going to die, little sisthahaha…!”

He choked, and he began to cough. He felt as if his whole mind were about to burst. A beam of hope lit Fayrah’s eyes.

“Truly?”

“It’s what you asked me to say,” Dashvara teased, trying to sit up. Each breathing gave him the impression that he had stakes hammered into his whole body, but a strange euphoria engulfed him. His throat croaked. “Hehe. I don’t know whether that poison was fatal, but with all that stuff I’ve just gulped, no doubt I’m going to meet our parents and siblings very soon!” He guffawed, and despite the fact this way the pain was getting worse, he kept laughing loudly, flopping down slowly onto the floor while the light was being devoured by the shadows.

And then, his dulled ears perceived Fayrah’s exclamation of surprise.

“Wh-who are you?”

“We have no choice,” whispered a voice that sounded to Dashvara as if coming from beyond the grave. “Come with us. We’ll get this fool out of here.”

Before being swallowed by the darkness, Dashvara could see the face of a woman with lovely eyes and thin and pressed lips. Her expression seemed so funny to him that he burst into laughter, and the pain knocked him out.

16 The Pearl Brotherhood

“Hehe…”

Dashvara was smiling alone in his dream. He was pursuing a furient wolf, and he was grasping its tail. The creature bared its teeth, and he laughed and called it “brother”. The wolf growled and marched off, exasperated. Then, he fell onto the ground, but the steppe turned into emptiness, and he fell and fell endlessly, until he began to fly like the Eternal Bird and changed into an eagle and then into a…

A rough jolt inside him dragged him away from his wonderful dream. He felt a horrendous headache, and he gasped. Everything was dark. He opened his eyes and sighed out in relief when he saw he didn’t go blind. He was in a room plunged in darkness. He saw the shape of several pieces of furniture, and a small window in the upper part of a wall. He closed his eyes again, feeling that something within him wasn’t working well, but he opened them again almost instantly on recalling a fact.

“Fayrah,” he whispered.

He had saved her. He remembered she was there when he had been poisoned. He had succeeded in killing their prison guards, and he hoped all the girls had managed to escape.

Then he recalled every detail, and he sighed, disheartened. Some people had popped up and taken them the Eternal Bird knows where. More optimistically, he thought that, if they had been slave-traders, they would have probably finished him off.

He saw a door on his left, and then he realized that he was only wearing pants. They had taken off his shirt, and he noticed that, on the wound caused by Zefrek son of Nanda, someone had put a sort of poultice again.

He looked over the bedside table, and as he saw a water pitcher, he picked it up with both hands, ignoring a sudden faintness. He took a sip. The water was fresh and good. He rose to his feet with the sensation that he was trying to keep his balance on an unsteady ground, and he poured the water just right on his head. Immediately, he felt much more awake.

He staggered toward the door, and he sharpened his ears. He heard nothing. Since only a weak light slipped through the window, it seemed as though the dawn had not yet come to life. His gaze swept around the room inquisitively. He saw a chair, and for a moment, he thought of breaking it to get a club, but then he reasoned. If those strangers had left him a chair, if they had been taking care of him, it meant that they couldn’t be so evil. Right?

I wouldn’t affirm it, but it could be, he pondered.

When he turned the handle and the door opened, he paused, perplexed. Then he peered at the corridor. This one was dark and silent. He took a step forward, blinked, and struggled with a new fit of dizziness. It was as if his mind were suffering an assault of whippings. He kept standing miraculously.

He was widening his eyes without even daring blink when suddenly, he spotted a movement through the shadows. No, he rectified: he spotted a movement of shadows. A compact mass of darkness had just moved, by one of the walls. He was almost sure he recognized the shape of two arms, a head, some hands, and a mouth… This figure was a human. Or at least it was a sajit. But it had only shadows.

Swallowing all these powders didn’t do you any good, I’m afraid; at the most, it may have saved your life, he thought, dizzy.

He tottered, and he clutched at the wall at the opposite side from where was standing that illusory creature that could not exist. Then, suddenly, he heard a voice in his head.

‘May I help you?’

The voice was deep and caring. The eyes so wide open that they were beginning to sting, Dashvara gazed at the shadow fixedly.

“Eternal… Bird,” he stammered weakly.

He attempted to move, but he couldn’t. Something incomprehensible was happening to him: his limbs didn’t respond. He was as though paralyzed. For a moment, he thought it was due to the impression caused by so many absurdities. He tried to convince himself that this shadow did not exist. He was dreaming it. He forced himself to relax, and he tried to move. In vain.

The creak of a door would have jolted him if he had been able to move one of his limbs. His head was beginning to burn him more than an inner flame, and his body vibrated as if spiked by a thousand needles. At that instant, Dashvara almost regretted not having died.

The shadow vanished, and instead, a light appeared at the end of the corridor. A silhouette of skin and bones drew closer with a quick step.

“You shouldn’t leave your room,” the new arrival muttered.

Dashvara could see her pointed ears, and he was pretty sure to recognize her eyes and her thin lips, but at this moment, it didn’t dawn on him: he only stared at her, unable to move.

The woman, letting out an exasperated sigh, withdrew the candle she was holding, and she grasped him by the arm… Scarcely had she touched him when there was a crackle accompanied by a bright bolt of lightning: the stranger, without emitting the slightest sound, slumped onto the floor.

Dashvara was so amazed he took a while to realize that his body had recovered his mobility. The candle’s flame had got extinguished upon falling, and the stranger was lying motionless.

What the hell is happening to me?

He wished that all this were only a dreadful nightmare, but his experience had taught him that it was better to see reality as it was, even if it might seem incomprehensible in the beginning. Calming down, he was about to kneel by the stranger when his body suddenly convulsed, and he began coughing so badly that he would have dropped to his knees anyway.

The coughing fit lasted longer than ever before, and when he, at last, was able to catch his breath a bit, he truly believed that, as well as the woman, he was going to faint in that very place. The metallic taste of blood filled his mouth. He swallowed, and he sat up on the stone floor, trying to think coherently. Instead, he heard voices.

“What have you done to her, you boor?” roared a figure running toward him. He laid the lantern on the floor and squatted hurriedly by the unconscious woman. The man, a wide-faced, blond-haired human with bushy eyebrows, showed a face contracted in worry and mistrust. His blue eyes sparkled when they fixed on Dashvara’s. “What have you done?” he repeated.

Dashvara was going to answer that he had no idea, but he choked, and when he cleared his throat, he spit blood.

“For the Divinity’s sake,” the blond-haired man murmured. “Are you hurt?”

Dashvara shook his head, and he answered in a hoarse and level voice:

“If I’m not dreaming, tell me, republican, what’s happening to me.”

For some seconds, the man did not move. Then he glanced at the woman, and his face relaxed when he saw her blinking.

“What the—?” she grumbled. She sat up briskly, and she gave a snort that deformed her beautiful face. “That idiot struck me with lightning!”

She attempted to rise, and on seeing her vengeful expression, Dashvara had no doubt about her intentions. Fortunately, the blond-haired man stopped her.

“Azune, relax! Explain what happened here,” he commanded.

Azune, standing only about two steps away from Dashvara, looked as if she was making tremendous efforts to calm down. Her brown eyes were flaring, threatening.

“I heard a noise,” she finally explained in a tense voice. “I left my room to know what was going on. And I saw him standing still, in the middle of the corridor. I told him to go back to his room, but he didn’t listen to me, and when I touched him, a flash of lightning bolted, and I fainted.” Her young forehead wrinkled angrily. “This man is a celmist. A conjurer. I swear, I speak the truth.”

“If you didn’t, you wouldn’t be worthy of our Brotherhood,” his companion replied while casting at Dashvara a thoughtful look. This one was trying to pick himself up, but the sudden throbs of pain were starting to blind his mind.

Great, he thought. And he was going to finish his thought full of irony when a blistering wave burnt him at the speed of a bolt. He cursed, and he did not know how he managed to draw enough energy to stand up again.

“All right,” he said. “We are all alive. Nothing too bad happened. Now let me die in peace. Or at least let me sleep. Because I suspect that, if I keep conscious one minute longer, I will go mad like the young Amerio, may he rest in peace, and—” He let out a guffaw and instantly stifled it, realizing that it had no place in the current situation. “Eternal Bird, if I lose my head, promise me that you will kill me,” he sputtered, and he roared with laughter. “It would be terrible to live without a head!”

This time, his laugh got stifled by another fit of coughing. He fell to his knees in front of the two amazed sajits, and a silly small voice said to him that it was humiliating to kneel before some strangers.

“Be quiet,” he muttered, spitting blood. His mind was even more befuddled than in his worst drinking bouts. “I am not a man anymore. I am a wreck. Unless I’m dreaming. Yes, perhaps I am dreaming and the Dungeon is still standing. Showag, Mildran, and Saodar,” he pronounced. “They are alive. Do you realize? My parents are alive. All of them are alive. And the Shalussis are dead,” he added, smiling dreadfully. “The Essimeans and the Akinoas are dead. May they be tormented by the fire that is tormenting me. May they be thrown and drown deep into the depths of the abyss—”

Darkness surrounded him abruptly, and then there was nothing but silence.

When he awoke, he found himself again in the bed of the room. But, this time, everything was even darker. Only a shy Gem’s blue beam was twinkling through the small window. Dashvara sat up, and he noticed that everything was all right: his head wasn’t aching, and it reasoned coolly, his eyes weren’t closing by themselves, his mind had no longer to struggle against armies of piercing firebolts… All the suffering seemed to have been only a bad dream. A weird, dull pain in his chest was still bothering him a bit, but these were trivial matters.

Good, he told himself. Now that he was in condition to think, he had to discover where he was, who the hellish demons had been taking care of him, and where Fayrah and the others were.

Scarcely had he thrown back the blankets when he perceived a shadow movement, and he stopped dead, scrutinizing the room. Everything was quiet. He shook his head, setting aside his ridiculous phantom visions, and he got up. Stealthily, he crossed the door, and as he began to slink across the corridor, he got the disturbing impression that something was stalking him. He spun around, but he could see nothing but darkness.

Don’t think about specters, and do concentrate on finding the Xalyas and getting out of here.

He sighed, and he started to go down the stairs at the end of the corridor. Down, a soft light was shining. When he arrived at the last step, he stopped next to the hollow. He was about to peep his head to glance at the room, but a sudden voice, Azune’s, glued him to the spot.

“Well, Duke, if you really want to know my opinion, I think you are a—”

“Fool,” the voice of the blond-haired man completed. He heard a dull sound. “Sister, could you remind me of the basic motto of the Pearl Brotherhood?”

Now Azune’s voice sounded unemotional:

“You will protect the innocents and punish the culprits. I know, Rowyn! But this steppeman has messed up all our plans. And now you’re planning to help him!”

“I hope you’re not suggesting I should take revenge on him, are you?” Rowyn’s voice sounded teasingly amused.

“No, but if they are really looking for him because he has stolen the Dragon of Spring, and if someone finds out that we are sheltering him… that could easily harm the Brotherhood’s reputation, don’t you think?”

“He didn’t steal the Dragon of Spring, and you know it.”

“Haw! We didn’t find it on him, but he could have an accomplice,” Azune replied.

“He didn’t go into the catacombs to steal, but to rescue his people, Azune. Don’t deceive yourself. And if you are still in doubt, you can ask him directly: he’s listening.”

Dashvara restrained a curse, and he broke cover. He found the blond-haired man standing, joining his hands on his back, and the young elf sitting in an armchair. Though, at that instant, Azune had half leaped to her feet in surprise. Her stern expression reminded him that eavesdropping on other people was impolite. He bowed his head slightly.

“Excuse my poor manners. I didn’t mean to interrupt you.”

The blond gave a hint of a smile.

“Do you see, Azune? Perhaps he is a steppeman, but he knows how to apologize. How are you feeling?” he inquired while Azune was sitting down back into her armchair with an ill-humored face.

Dashvara looked at them both quickly. From what he had heard, both of them belonged to the Pearl Brotherhood. He had never been told about them, but if they worked on protecting innocents, they couldn’t be evil.

“I’m much better. Thanks for your care, though I don’t quite understand its cause. Where is my sister? And the other Xalyas?”

Rowyn gestured elegantly at an empty armchair.

“I’m glad you’re recovering. Please sit down. The Xalyas are perfectly well. Now it’s late and the three of them are sleeping.”

Dashvara hadn’t moved, but on hearing his very last words, he jerked up.

“The three of them? But there were ten!” he exclaimed.

There was a brief silence.

“True enough,” Rowyn granted. “The others escaped before. I have no idea where they might be. Please, be quiet or else you’ll wake up the three girls. It’s four o’clock in the morning.”

Dashvara calmed down, and he decided that perhaps it was better this way. He only hoped that the slave-traders did not know either where the other seven Xalyas were. But… four o’clock in the morning? If he recalled correctly, the last time he had woken up, dawn was just breaking. That meant he had spent at least one night and one day in this house.

“Please sit down,” Rowyn invited him again as if he was trying to calm down some nervous horse.

Dashvara didn’t pay attention to him.

“Who are you, and what’s this story about the Dragon of Spring?”

Rowyn cast a teasing glance at Azune before insisting:

“Sit down, and I will explain to you.”

Under a kind look and two inscrutable eyes, Dashvara sat down in the armchair. This one was as comfortable as his lord father’s but less worn.

“Good,” the blond said, sitting down too in a chair. “Your sister Fayrah told us a bit what happened. The assault on your dungeon, her stay in a Shalussi village, and the journey through the Tunnels of Aïgstia—”

“How could you dare interrogate her?” Dashvara roared.

Azune let out a sarcastic chuckle.

“We save his life, and then he talks to us in that bossy savage’s voice. Duke, why do you bother talking to such a—?”

“Enough,” Rowyn thundered. He recovered a calm tone. “I interrogated Fayrah just in case she had some relevant information about the slave-traders that take prisoners from the steppe. I am a Pearl Brother, and I work on destroying this slave trafficking,” he explained. “My name is Rowyn. And she is Azune.”

Dashvara looked him in the eye. He knew he shouldn’t trust appearances, but at that moment, he wanted to believe that Rowyn was saying the truth.

“My name is Dashvara of Xalya,” he introduced himself formally. “Son of Vifkan and Dakia of Xalya, knight of the Dahars, prince of the Sand, and fighter of the Wind.”

Rowyn smiled.

“My pleasure.”

Azune chuckled.

“My Pearl! He’s madder than a—”

She fell silent before the imperious look his companion cast her. Rowyn considered Dashvara with a serene face.

“Good. I respect your intention to free the Xalyas, though I can’t figure out how you managed to sneak into the catacombs through the Temple without being noticed… but it doesn’t matter. The fact is that you succeeded, unfortunately for us because our intentions were to follow them to their hideout in Dazbon. This way we would have been able to find out who is behind it and to get an evident proof to denounce the leaders and put an end to their traffic.”

Dashvara perceived Azune’s ironic smile as Rowyn leaned back on his chair and continued:

“Your intervention has delayed our plans, since we’ve got to wait for the next caravan now, and I suspect the slave-traders will reinforce their precautions.”

“Not to mention that, with all that hustle and bustle, we have lost track of Arviyag,” Azune whispered.

“Bah! Don’t worry about Arviyag, Azu. This man doesn’t hide,” asserted the Pearl Brother with a dark expression.

Dashvara cleared his throat, and he spoke.

“I suppose you’re expecting me to apologize for causing you so many troubles.” The mere idea made him smile sarcastically. “I must admit that your objective inspires me with respect, and I understand that mine doesn’t claim to be so altruistic.”

Rowyn raised his bushy eyebrows.

“But you saved ten captive women. Isn’t that altruistic?”

Dashvara frowned.

“It is not. Those women are Xalyas. They are my people. And my people, it’s me.”

These were the very same words that Lord Vifkan pronounced every time he received the announcement of a Xalya’s death. A bit arrogant, but definitely true. He smiled back at Rowyn’s thoughtful look, and he stated teasingly:

“My rescue was only founded on my selfishness. Good,” he went on. “You haven’t explained to me yet why the authorities are looking for me. Isn’t the Republic of Dazbon supposed to fight slavery?”

Rowyn nodded, but it was Azune who answered:

“Your supposition is correct. They don’t accuse you of freeing slaves but of stealing the Dragon of Spring. The tomb of the First Governor of Rocavita was desecrated yesterday, during that night.”

Dashvara stared at her inquisitive expression. That Dragon of Spring clearly seemed to be a valuable object. Great…, he sighed mentally. All he needed now was having the republican guards looking for him. He shook his head slightly.

“Tell me, this dragon, could it fit in a box about this size?” he asked, opening his arms to show a distance of two feet long. “The two prison guards went into the catacombs to steal jewels. And one of them went back to the cell with a box like that.”

“I believe you,” Rowyn assured. “But, actually, those two men disappeared during the night, as well as the corpses you left. So it’s kind of logical that all the suspicions are focused on you.” Dashvara sighed, and Rowyn continued: “They describe you as a man with steppe features, average size, disheveled beard, and” —he smiled— “a strong smell of olive. Believe me, if you don’t want to spend a lifetime in jail, you’d better trust us.”

Dashvara noted how Azune clenched her jaw. He reflected quickly. This Rowyn seemed very interested in inspiring him with confidence, and he couldn’t make out why. But, to be sure, both of them had sheltered him from the authorities and helped him to heal. There’s no worse mystery than a person acting selflessly, he pondered. Tired of thinking over and over about the same doubts, he lifted his gaze and met Rowyn’s blue eyes. He remembered the basic motto of the Pearl Brotherhood that Azune had mentioned, and his mouth twisted.

“I killed two men,” he pronounced. “That makes me more a culprit than an innocent, don’t you think? Why are you helping me?” he specified.

The questions seemed to amuse Rowyn.

“According to your sister, those men drew their weapons before you. Therefore, they left you no choice. As for the reason why we’re helping you, the answer is simple: you’ve spoiled our plans, and now you owe us a favor. Therefore, we will take you from Rocavita to Dazbon to speak to the Supreme. And she will decide the rest.”

Dashvara nearly asked him what gave him the right to control his decisions so freely, but he thought better of it. After all, his purpose was to go to Dazbon, put his sister in a safe place, and then return to the steppe to finish off the work. If those Pearl Brothers made his task easier, so much the better.

“I will come with you,” he affirmed, “but not without the three Xalyas who are here.”

“Great,” Rowyn said gladly. “We’ll wait three days for the situation to get calmer, and if no suspect caravan comes, you will leave for Dazbon. You will guide them, Azune.”

The elf jerked up.

“Me? But—”

“You will guide them,” Rowyn repeated. The characteristic tone of someone who is giving an order reminded Dashvara of how much he missed captain Zorvun’s calm and powerful voice. He set aside his memories, exasperated, and he observed how Azune nodded sharply, despite herself.

Well, Dashvara sighed, optimistic. At least he had not been captured by the slavers. At that moment, he thought about Zaadma and Rokuish. They had surely heard about the theft, he reasoned. Perhaps they thought now that either he had managed to save the Xalyas and left Rocavita far behind, or he had died. Anyway, he had not forgotten the light disk he was still keeping in one of his pants pockets. He ought to find some way to bring it back to Zaadma, he promised himself.

He realized that his eyes were half closing by themselves, and he opened them again. Giving him a pitying look, Rowyn said:

“You should go back to your room. The poison this scoundrel injected into you was red snake’s venom, you know.”

Dashvara gazed at him, skeptical.

“Really? I thought no antidote existed to this venom.”

Rowyn winced, embarrassed.

“There’s a temporary antidote, but a definitive one? I don’t think so. And if it exists, only a few know it.” He paused, and he admitted gloomily: “The powders you swallowed later only counteracted the effects temporarily, I’m afraid. Red snake’s venom is, er, very powerful.”

“No need to tell me,” Dashvara replied, stifling his apprehension. He had already seen some Xalyas dying because of a red snake: Xalya lands, besides arid, were a graveyard for the unwary. However, no one, before dying, had suffered those odd attacks he had. All indicated that mixing the powders had provoked unexpected effects.

He looked at Rowyn carefully. This man has saved my life, he thought. As well as Rokuish and Zaadma did. But as for Rokuish, anyone could see he was a good person from a mile away, and Zaadma, despite her weird behavior, had also proved to be so, in her own way. That man, on the contrary, had the composure of a war captain, he smiled at him like a father or a brother, and still, he was surrounded by a halo of mystery that kept him from trusting him. Dashvara was curious to know the Pearl Brotherhood more thoroughly, and he would have liked to know what kind of favor that Supreme could ask him, but scarcely had he opened his mouth when a coughing fit seized him so cruelly that his curiosity just vanished. Coughing convulsed him until, once again, a throbbing pain pulsed through all his body.

Rowyn came closer, holding a handkerchief, and Dashvara would have jerked back if all his efforts weren’t focused on catching his breath. The blond-haired man withdrew the handkerchief bloody.

“As soon as we arrive in Dazbon, we’ll call a healer,” he promised. A deep wrinkle furrowed his brow.

Dashvara staggered to his feet.

“I begin to doubt it was a good idea to swallow all these powders,” he muttered. Rowyn seized him by the arm in a caring gesture, and Dashvara snorted. “I can walk alone, republican. I would like to see Fayrah.”

The blond gave a shrug.

“If it doesn’t bother you to wake her up…”

Dashvara frowned mistrustfully.

“I want to see her. Not to wake her up. Or is it that you are imprisoning people too?”

For the first time, Rowyn looked a little annoyed.

“I do not imprison anyone, Xalya. Follow me. The three of them are sleeping in the same room. It’s in another corridor.”

Holding a candle, he guided him to the room and opened the door quietly; after casting an inscrutable look at Rowyn, Dashvara entered. There were four beds, and three of them were occupied. The Gem’s light illuminated the blankets and the carefree faces of the three Xalyas. Aligra slept with her hands joined on her chest. Lessi was curled up, hugging her pillow. In the nearest bed, sleeping as innocently as a little bird, there was Fayrah. Dashvara felt so relieved and happy on seeing her safe at last that he fell to his knees by the bed, with his eyes misted and fixed on his sister.

Eternal Bird. He closed his eyes, overwhelmed by an emotion he couldn’t identify. Why does a man who has lost almost everything cling so desperately to the little he has left?

“Dash,” a voice whispered.

He opened his eyes and met Fayrah’s sweet smile. His sister stretched a hand and took his own, horny and rough.

“How are you?” she murmured.

Dashvara smiled.

“Fine, sister. Sorry I woke you up.”

Fayrah raised a hand to Dashvara’s brow, and he, afraid of her finding out the inner fire that was burning and consuming him, pushed her away tenderly and kissed her forehead before whispering:

“Sleep. Tomorrow we’ll have all the time in the world to speak.”

He stood up, and as he saw that his sister had shut her eyes again, he left the room and closed the door. Rowyn had stepped a bit away in the corridor, but Dashvara guessed he had been listening to them. He ignored his kind look, and he headed straight to his room. On the way, however, he couldn’t control himself: he stopped short and turned to the republican.

“Tell me, why are you helping me?” he asked. “I mean, what’s the true reason?”

Rowyn averted his eyes with a thoughtful and amused face.

“Well, I don’t know exactly why, not yet, but you know, anyhow, I don’t need to have a particular reason to help a person.”

Dashvara pondered on his strange words for some seconds. He cleared his throat.

“I see. In any case, if your intentions are good, you can rely on me to return you the favor.” He smiled at him, and he gave him a slap on his shoulder before adding: “Good night, republican.”

The blond bowed his head slightly, smiling.

“Good night, steppeman.”

Dashvara closed the door of his room, and for a while, he kept standing, motionless, examining his state. He didn’t feel good, that was clear enough to him, but now that the fit of coughing had passed, he didn’t feel bad either, only… strange.

An admirable diagnosis, he thought ironically. As Maloven used to say, he would have been a better fisherman than a healer, even though he had never seen the sea. What of it, anyway—what actually did matter was that he was still alive and that he had not lost his sanity yet.

He got into bed, and he gazed at the shadows covering the ceiling. After spending all day being unconscious, he could not get to sleep. At some moment, he caught himself recalling his past life, his riding races through the steppe with Showag and his childhood friends, his not always very productive conversations with the shaard, his disagreements with his father… He sighed loudly, and another fit of coughing seized him. He attempted to restrain it, but he failed. It was as if a demon had possessed him and was, absurdly, controlling his body.

Suddenly, he saw the shadow once again, sitting at the end of the bed. The fit of coughing stopped short, and he felt that his heart was beating at the speed of a horse set off at a gallop. He was paralyzed again, he realized, scared. Very slowly, he stretched a leg aiming to touch this shadow with his foot. He had to make sure his mind wasn’t playing a mean trick on him. The specters, if they ever existed, hid far away from the civilization. They did not enter a sajit house.

His foot was inches away from this shadow blob that was hiding the Gem’s light when the thing drew away with a movement that was unmistakably human. Suddenly freed from his immobility, Dashvara began to shiver.

“Am I dreaming?” he stammered. “Are you a specter?”

He thought he saw two eyes even darker than the shadows. And then, he heard its voice.

‘I am no specter. I am a shadow. My name is Tahisran, and you have dragged me away from my lethargy.’

Dashvara let out a chuckle of disbelief. Immediately, he felt that another fit of coughing was threatening to shake him, but this time, he managed to stifle it.

“What the hell,” he muttered. “Tahisran, huh? A shadow. Great. Who would have thought. And now, please shed light on all that: am I dreaming, am I talking to my own mind, or are you telling me the truth?”

The shadow moved to the light, and Dashvara could see its shape perfectly well. He suppressed a scream of horror. It was a spirit coming from the catacombs, he realized suddenly. He had disturbed its rest, and now it had come to take revenge… Dashvara made a wry smile, and he told himself: nonsense. Dead men don’t get up.

‘You are not dreaming if you are awake,’ the shadow reasoned calmly. ‘I told you the truth. I was imprisoned in death for many years because I felt discouraged and dispirited. In the past, I was an elf. But an awful accident wrenched me away from my body. It was because of a Berry of the Hell. And as people usually fear shadows, I had to emigrate to the Undergrounds. One day, I met a lost little girl, I helped her to survive, and I left her in order to look for her parents. I searched for them for years, all across the Bayland. I passed across the Empire of Iskamangra. Across the High Lands. The Desert of Bladhy. Kunkubria. And across far lands which names I don’t even know.’

In a state of shock, Dashvara saw the shadow lean its head.

‘So, in the end, I lost hope,’ it whispered mentally. ‘When I went back, I could find the little girl nowhere. I know, deep down in my heart, that she is dead. She was the only one who was giving me a bit of light in my existence, and I lost her.’

Dashvara nearly thought he heard the shadow’s heartbreaking sigh. And he was certain he saw it giving him the hint of a sincere smile when it added:

‘But as the little girl said: it’s no good to be sad. So I decided to follow you and to start to do things again.’

Dashvara’s lips were trembling.

“D-d-do what?” he stammered.

The shadow shrugged its shoulders, and it took a pace backwards, so that it went away from the light halo and disappeared simply whispering:

‘Things.’

Dashvara kept peering into the shadows, his heart frozen. It couldn’t be that his mind had made up such a story, even if his blood had been as heat as volcano lava. So either someone was playing some trick on him with magic illusions, or he had really been talking to a shadow.

He leaned his head back on his pillow, and he sighed. This time, he wouldn’t be able even to close his eyes, he thought. Because, depending on what sort of “things” this creature intended to do, he couldn’t feel calm. In fact, his hands were shaking by themselves like those of a child fearing the dark.

It is in such incomprehensible circumstances when a man commended himself to entities he doesn’t understand.

“Liadirlá, kayástaram,” Dashvara prayed fervently. And as if to make sure his prayer was heard by the Liadirlá, he whispered in Common Tongue: “Eternal Bird, don’t forsake me.”

Feeling a ray of peacefulness emerging from nowhere, he finally got to sleep in a room with a shadow inside.

17 The patron’s house

When he awoke, the first thing Dashvara did was take a look around, searching for the shadow. He didn’t find it, and he sighed, relieved. However well he knew that his conversation with that creature the day before hadn’t been a dream, he couldn’t help convincing himself that he had been hallucinating and raving because of those strange powders.

But still… Dashvara peered once again at the corners of the room. This one was lit by the sunlight, but the corners were still a bit dark. On a sudden impulse, he lay down on his belly and looked under the bed. He screwed his eyes up, and at the very moment when he heard the doorknob turning, he distinguished in the shadows five black-as-night fingers that were jiggling as if to greet him.

“Brother!” Fayrah said, entering the room. She stopped, startled. “What are you doing?”

Pale, Dashvara swallowed, and he sat on the bed correctly.

“Oh… Nothing. Just exploring the zone.”

They looked at each other for a moment. Intense worry showed on his sister’s face. She had changed her golden tunic into a red skirt and a blouse. Her straight, long dark hair tumbled down to her waist. And despite all that had happened, her eyes were still calm and limpid like two rising lights. She was more beautiful than ever, Dashvara smiled. He stretched a hand to her.

“Come, little sis.”

Fayrah took a step forward as if hesitating. Then, tears welled up in her eyes, and seconds later, she was embracing Dashvara, holding him in a tight grip.

Her sobs broke his heart. Dashvara would have liked to tell her that, once the revenge accomplished, everything would be as before. But, obviously, he hadn’t the power to revive the dead, so he just enclosed her in his arms and tried to console her wordlessly.

“Dash,” Fayrah stuttered after a long silence, without moving away. “You don’t know how many times I wished I hadn’t got out alive of our home.”

“Don’t think about it,” he recommended. “Now you’re alive, and you’re with me, thanks to the Eternal Bird.”

Fayrah sniffed, and she drew away, her eyes glittering.

“It wasn’t thanks to the Eternal Bird, Dash. I… I’m a coward,” she confessed. Her words were flowing from her mouth hastily. “Mother let me in charge of our little brothers. She went to get Misadeya. To kill her. And she told me to kill Mildran and Saodar so that the savages wouldn’t murder them. When she came back, she got very angry because… I hadn’t dared.” She let out a sob, and Dashvara grasped her by the arm, trying to comfort her. “When she wanted to kill me… I ran away. And the last thing she said to me was that, from that moment on, I wasn’t her daughter anymore.”

For a long moment, Dashvara was unable to speak. On one hand, he understood the desperate act of Dakia of Xalya. All in all, Mildran and Saodar would have died anyway. Vifkan’s blood ran in their veins. They were condemned beforehand. However, his sister, for some reason, had been left alive.

He wiped away a tear rolling down Fayrah’s cheek, and she did the same with his own.

“I lied about my identity,” Fayrah whispered. “I said I was the daughter of a shepherd.” She drew a deep breath. “I renounced the Eternal Bird, Dash. I lost my honor, and yet, I don’t want to give up my life. We don’t have to feel ashamed,” she affirmed. “I’ve never been a true Xalya.”

She thinks I fled too, Dashvara realized, surprised. He was going to tell her the truth, but something stopped him. He shook his head. His lord father would have certainly felt utter scorn for his daughter’s cowardice. But Dashvara only felt compassion for the inner conflict that seemed to be consuming the girl. After all, who in his right mind would have chosen to die when able to live? He would, perhaps; but not Fayrah.

“Don’t dwell on it,” he advised her. “Xalya lands have fallen, and our people with them. You owe nothing to anyone but yourself, Fayrah. Know what? It was to see you as a prisoner that helped me not to give up and to get here.” He smiled. “We saved each other, and now we have to go on.”

Fayrah kept a dark expression.

“Go on… what for, brother? I feel like a ghost that lives after having left its body and doesn’t dare to die.”

Dashvara suppressed a grimace, wondering what the shadow lying under his bed could think about that.

“Lessi spent whole days unable to pronounce a word,” Fayrah continued. “She saw captain Zorvun fighting against five Akinoas. And Aligra,” she went on, in a whisper. “I had never heard her scream, and when she saw our brother Showag’s red helmet…”

Dashvara’s face hardened, and he decided he had heard enough.

“Don’t think back, sister. It’s pointless. They will remain in our hearts, but don’t cry more for them.” With his middle finger and his forefinger, he touched his sister’s forehead, and he whispered: “Nandrivá, sîzin, halur hunástaram.” —‘Please, sister, don’t make me cry’. Dashvara breathed in, and he smiled at Fayrah. “I assure you you’ve always been a Xalya. And, whatever you say, you still are. I remember full well how you used to teach the shaard philosophic lessons. A question of yours kept him confined to his contemplation tower for hours. You remember that?” Fayrah nodded, and they both laughed quietly. Dashvara affirmed in a joking tone: “Only a Xalya could drive a shaard mad.” He recovered his seriousness as he stretched a hand to lift her chin. “A Xalya woman never lets herself be swept away by despair. No matter how strong the wind is, the feather keeps standing. We may have lost everything, but now we’ve got to bring ourselves back to life. And I need you.”

Fayrah seemed to make a real effort to fight back her tears, but when she gave a smile at him, her smile did not quiver.

“Now you are our Lord of Xalya,” she whispered. “I know you’ll protect us.” Her eyes sparkled. “I… I don’t want to be a prisoner of anyone, Dash. Never again.”

Dashvara took her face with both hands, and he kissed her affectionately on the top of the head.

“I will protect the three of you with all my heart. And now,” he added, standing up, “let’s go eat something. It’s been a whole day since I ate anything. I could eat a whole flock of goats!”

Fayrah laughed, and she rose to her feet too.

“I see you’re feeling better. Rowyn says it’s a miracle this venom didn’t kill you.”

“Why, it’s totally normal,” Dashvara replied in a light tone. “After all, isn’t it true that captain Zorvun said I was faster than a red snake? Its venom cannot catch me.”

Fayrah rolled her eyes, and she left the room first. Following her, Dashvara rubbed his own eyes, and a sarcastic pout twisted his face.

You ask your sister not to cry, and there you are, crying like a baby, he thought with derision. He had better go eat and stop being too sentimental.

In the living room, they found Aligra and Lessi breaking their fast and talking to Rowyn. As a matter of fact, Rowyn was the only one who was talking: Lessi was staring at him, fascinated, and Aligra didn’t avert her eyes from the fried egg she had in front of her. The Pearl Brother’s voice became slightly infuriated as he was telling a story:

“‘Impossible’, said then the wizard Bramanil to the pirates. ‘I still have my spell book! If you don’t give me my rod, you ignorant fools, I will change you all into hairy and ugly frogs!’” Lessi giggled, and Rowyn grinned broadly, interrupting himself. “Lord of Xalya! How did you sleep?”

For an instant, Dashvara stopped near the table, wondering if the blond was making fun of him by using such a name, but only kindness showed in republican’s eyes.

“Fine, thanks,” he answered. He took a look over the table. There was bread, cheese, fruits, fried eggs… He didn’t think twice before sitting down and starting to help himself.

Rowyn smiled, and he made as if to comment something, when Lessi asked:

“Did they give his rod back?”

“Oh… Yes. Well, not directly. The wizard began to whisper strange words. His voice resounded like Death itself. It was frightening. The pirates were so scared that they threw themselves over the gunwale, leaving the ship deserted and without any boats. ‘Damned cowards’, Bramanil muttered. As he couldn’t sail the ship by himself, he picked up his rod, freed his cat Mawrus, and made a raft. And with his rod, he crafted an oar. He abandoned the ship—”

“And why didn’t he use some magic spell to sail the ship?” Lessi broke in.

Rowyn made a slight, mysterious smile.

“You want to know why? You will know it very soon. The wizard and the cat paddled until they reached the coast of Dazbon thanks to a light and fair wind. Bramanil went back home leaning on the rod, and when he arrived, his sons welcomed him in all happiness. He told them what happened, and he said joyfully: ‘I had no sooner said, ‘potato, salt, sesame, leek: saffron crocus, poppy seed,’ than they let me in peace. Who would have thought that a shepherd’s crook and a cookbook would save my life from these credulous pirates!’”

Lessi laughed, Fayrah and Dashvara smiled, and Aligra tossed her head up as if wondering what was happening.

“As I was telling your lovely friends, this is one of the many adventures about the shepherd Bramanil and his cat Mawrus the Wrecker,” Rowyn explained cheerfully. “They’re old-fashioned, but when I was a kid, all my comrades knew the adventure with the pirates and a lot more by heart.”

Still smiling, Dashvara turned his eyes to see Azune appear in a doorway. She wore a dark dress very similar to the ones worn by those two mysterious men Dashvara had seen in the inn of the Cathoney. But, come to think of it, perhaps these hadn’t been two men, but a man and a woman. Rowyn and Azune.

“At least the venom doesn’t seem to make him lack appetite,” the elf woman pointed out.

Dashvara perceived mockery in her voice, but the coldness that was gleaming in her eyes the day before had flown away.

“Nothing like a good breakfast to heal a sick person,” Rowyn smiled.

“If you say it, it may be true,” Azune commented. She sat down at the head of the table as swiftly as a cat. Were the Pearl Brothers warriors? Dashvara wondered. He gulped down a big piece of egg hungrily.

“Actually, I feel totally recovered,” the Xalya affirmed. “Tell me, as we’re going to see this Supreme, I would like to know a bit more about your clan.”

Rowyn frowned an eyebrow, grinning.

“Our clan?” he repeated. “It’s not a clan, steppeman. It’s a Brotherhood. It’s a kind of… corporation in which we help each other. And each of us has a specialty.” When he noticed that Dashvara’s eyes were sparkling with curiosity, he proceeded: “Look. We’re quite a few. We have a team sort of varied with four official members, and an acolyte. Azune and I are investigators. We have an ancient reformed thief—”

Azune chuckled sarcastically.

“Haw! Reformed, he says…”

Rowyn snorted.

“Azune, please.” He cleared his throat. “We also have a retired dragon-monk of the Order of Sifra. A celmist disintegrator—that’s the acolyte—and of course…” —he smiled, and he swept his arm around the room while adding—: “a rich patron that permits us to enter some domains when they’re not occupied.”

“And we also have a bigmouth who says anything to the strangers,” Azune cut off bitingly.

Rowyn joined both hands as if to summon his patience.

“Azu,” he pronounced mildly. “Our Brotherhood isn’t exactly a secret nest. You’ve already seen how Dashvara is. He’s an honorable man. He shares our point of view.”

“Oh, really?” She looked at Dashvara with a teasing pout. “Please note, steppeman, that Rowyn knows exactly how you think. Scary, eh? Not only has he a flair for talking like a bigmouth, but he’s also a mind reader master—that’s for sure.”

“Azu!” Rowyn protested. Dashvara hardly stifled a smile. “I didn’t mention that I am the captain of the band, so in theory, all the members should treat me with respect.”

The elf gave him a beaming smile.

“Who treated you with disrespect, Duke? Just tell me who and I beat him up,” she assured.

Rowyn shook his head as if giving the conversation up for lost, and he rose, making the chair scrape.

“I’d better move on. I will watch over the north way, in case a caravan comes. You stay here, Azu. Have a nice day, you all.”

He was already crossing the doorway when Azune let out a snort and ran after him, to the hall. Dashvara clearly distinguished her voice.

“Rowyn, you can’t ask me to stay. You know full well I hate sitting around twiddling my thumbs…”

The exit door slightly creaked when it opened. Rowyn’s voice had a tinge of exasperation when he spoke.

“Azu, we all agreed to make me the captain of the band, do you remember that? When I give you an order, I want you to obey. If you get bored, talk with our guests. You may be my sister, but when it comes to working, you are, above all, a member of the Brotherhood, do you understand?”

There was a silence, and then the noise of a door getting shut. Dashvara saw Fayrah and Lessi exchanging curious looks. When Azune came back to the living room, her eyes were on fire.

The way she looks, I guess she has not enjoyed Rowyn’s speech, Dashvara noticed, amused. So Azune and he were brother and sister. That affirmation didn’t make sense. He was human whereas she had pointed ears like the elves. Dashvara was already helping himself to the fifth fried egg when Fayrah, who must have followed the same path of thinking, inquired:

“I don’t understand. How can he be your brother if he is human and you are an elf?”

Pronounced by anyone else, the question might sound meddling, but Fayrah had a talent for asking anything without appearing inquisitive.

Azune sat down again at the head of the table, and for a moment, Dashvara thought she wasn’t going to answer. Finally, she sighed as if she had come to a conclusion.

“I am not an elf: I’m a half-elf. And Rowyn isn’t a human: he’s a kampraw. We have the same father, but his mother is a caitian, and mine is an elf. Are you satisfied?”

Fayrah blushed.

“Sorry. Well, you know, in the steppe we saw nothing but humans, eh, Lessi? It’s quite confusing to see that variety of… people.”

The half-elf looked at her without answering. All of them had finished breakfast, and the silence lasted. Dashvara felt more vigorous, and he would have gladly gone out and taken a walk if the guard weren’t looking far and wide for him in Rocavita.

“Well,” he said, suddenly breaking the silence. “Since we can’t go out of here, it might be interesting to know more things about that Pearl Brotherhood.” He waited for some seconds. Under the look of the four Xalyas, Azune didn’t even flinch. Dashvara let out a sigh, but he didn’t give up. “Who is this Supreme?”

Azune shrugged, and her brown eyes roamed over him.

“The Supreme’s name is Sheroda. And when Rowyn introduces you to her, she will send you frying snakes in the dragon’s mouth. But don’t tell Rowyn the Duke, because he’s the captain, after all, and he does anything he wants.”

Dashvara raised his eyes to the heavens at her grumbling tone.

“Why do you think Rowyn shouldn’t introduce me to the Supreme?” he asked after a silence.

A surprised half-smile curved Azune’s lips.

“Why do I think he shouldn’t introduce you to her? Ha. What a question to ask.” She smiled, shaking her head, and under Dashvara’s inquiring look, she set a serious face and concluded: “I won’t tell the captain what to do, but in my view—and there’s nothing personal—the Pearl Brotherhood doesn’t need help from anyone. And let alone from foreigners coming from the back of beyond. No offense meant, of course.”

She had joined her hands and was twiddling her thumbs, slightly nervous.

“Have you already had breakfast?” she added sharply. “Do you need anything else?”

Fayrah smiled pleasantly.

“No, thank you—”

“So,” the half-elf cut her off, “unless you’re intending to go on with the conversation, I suggest you go back to your rooms and don’t make too much noise.”

After a few seconds, Lessi and Fayrah got up to their feet, obediently, and headed for the stairs. Without warning, Dashvara burst into laughter, and four surprised gazes fixed upon him. He hadn’t budge an inch. Truth to tell, Azune’s behavior amused him more than it annoyed him.

“Guess what, I was intending to go on with the conversation,” he said, smiling teasingly. “You see, now that I’m neither fainting nor casting bolts nor spitting blood, I’ve felt, all of a sudden, a symptom that is worrying me.”

Aligra gazed at him strangely intently under her sleepy eyelids. Azune’s lips were pressed.

“A new symptom?”

“It’s called, ‘Pointed ignorance about the Republic of Dazbon’,” Dashvara explained. “And I thought you could heal it.”

Azune remained puzzled. Bit by bit, a smile curved her lips.

“Of course I can heal it.” She stood up. “Follow me.”

Dashvara raised an eyebrow and wavered for a bit before leaving the room, followed by the three Xalyas. Azune guided them to a closed double-leaf door. She pushed it open, and with a sweeping gesture, invited them to enter.

“Here you are: your medicine.”

The room had two big racks full of books, big and small, thin and thick. Dashvara snorted laughingly.

“Your skill as a healer amazes me. It’s slow medicine, but effective in the long run, I guess.”

Azune gave the hint of a bantering smile.

“Knowledge is only noticeable in the long run.” A light full of curiosity gleamed in her eyes. “Well, I take it you can read.”

“We all can read,” Dashvara affirmed. “We were the last shaard’s disciples of the Eternal Bird.”

“Oh…” Azune looked as if pondering on the matter. “So perhaps you all want to settle down in the room and heal that pointed ignorance. You’ll need two extra seats. I’ll get you that.”

“Don’t bother,” Dashvara hastened to assure. “I’ll get them, thank you.”

Azune’s face softened, and when Dashvara went to get two chairs from the living room, he smiled inside.

You’ve just gotten rid of us like an expert, half-elf.

* * *

The four Xalyas settled down in the mysterious patron’s small library. After a little hesitation, Dashvara let the door open before sitting down comfortably in the empty armchair. He noticed that this was the most comfortable of all, and when Fayrah asked him if he needed some help to find a particular piece of information, Dashvara raised an eyebrow.

“So far, no, thanks,” he replied as he opened the first book he had picked from one shelf.

The volume was relatively light, and the scribe’s handwriting was neat and clear. Dashvara was so used to seeing the typical flourishes and curlicues of the old books in the dungeon that he felt surprised. The book was entitled The Most Illustrious City of Dazbon: plans and chronology. He had never taken a particular interest in the History of far countries, but as Dazbon was now just a few hours on horseback away from where he was, studying it was starting to be an activity more understandable.

He only took a glance through some old drawings of the city preceding the year 5500, skimmed the hundred next years recognizing some names of well-known senators, and his eyes stopped on the name of “Zafandria Andeyed”, woman born in 5530 and ancient senator of Dazbon. Zafandria Andeyed, he repeated mentally. Wasn’t Zaadma’s father a certain Sarfath Andeyed? He kept on reading, and he understood that the Andeyed family was one of the twelve patrician families of the republic. That Zafandria had led the Senate for eight years, during which time she had conquered the mines of Maeras and founded the Order of Sifra. Once again, Dashvara paused. Didn’t Rowyn say that there was, in his band, a retired member of the Order of Sifra? From what he read, the dragon-monks of that Order were the most important road guardians in the Dazbonish domains. Despite such “achievements” throughout her career, the senator master was blamed for gross negligence toward maritime security, since, in that period, piracy had started to cause big problems. In the year 5602, she was succeeded by a certain Licente Faerecio, who used all the republican navy to fight against a real pirate armada. He suffered a crushing defeat, and the magistrate chamber claimed a punishment for such bad governing. Licente Faerecio was removed from power, though—Dashvara raised an eyebrow—he was crowned by the White Dragon for the good relations established with the Federal State of Diumcili.

It’s no wonder, Dashvara thought ironically, that if that Licente Faerecio is the selfsame I heard talking with Arviyag in his pavilion, he certainly has wonderful relations with Diumcili and its slavers.

The chronology stopped in the year 5612, that is twenty years ago, and it ended with a plan of Dazbon that showed in capital letters the six main districts of the city: the Dragon District, the Autumn District, the Kwata District, the Beautiful District, the Dawn District, and the Docks District. This page was slightly faded, and it took some time for Dashvara to guess at the meaning of the smallest letters. Some indicated the water canals in the Dragon District, on the shore. Others located the Senate, the four Time Towers, and some more monuments Dashvara had never heard of. In the background, he could guess the shape of a dragon twisting as if to embrace the town with its claws so as to watch over it… or so as to crush it.

Dashvara shut the book and took the next in the pile he had arranged. This one was written in Oy’vat, the Ancient King’s speech. This mere oddity appealed to him in the same way that gold appeals to a Shalussi. According to Maloven, the Oy’vat was a language almost completely forgotten by everyone save the Xalyas. So what was a book written in the Wise Tongue doing on the bookshelf of a Dazbonish patron? Oniri’l soen, the title went. The foundations of knowledge.

As soon as he opened it, he stifled an astonished grimace, noticing that all the page margins were filled with annotations written in Common Tongue. They were some translation attempts, he understood. In the beginning, the book reasoned about health and life, and further on, it dealt with plants and remedies. After some pages, the annotations became less and less frequent, until they disappeared utterly.

He got tired of trying to translate it, it would seem, Dashvara smiled. After reading several annotations, he realized that its author didn’t know much about the Oy’vat language. That way, the sentence, “Just as the body must be healthy, so must be the curative plants” had changed, in the Common Tongue, into “Living beings, as a natural condition, have a body to keep healthy”. Dashvara smiled to himself and then shook his head, lifting his eyes to the Xalyas. Fayrah’s gaze was fixing a geography book, though she did not seem to be reading. Lessi, sitting on the ground next to one of the racks, was admiring colored pictures. As for Aligra, she was twiddling with a wooden cube in her hand. Dashvara felt nervous when he realized that her large eyes were riveted on him.

Why, is it that I have some egg leftovers in my beard, and that’s why she looks at me with that gloomy expression?

Dashvara was aware of the great love Showag professed towards that young girl with a face uncommonly pale for a steppewoman. He recalled that his mother did not think much of her and was afraid that Showag would end up marrying her. Dashvara had never spoken much with her, but he had confidence that, if Showag loved her, she certainly was not as mad as some said. Though, outwardly, she did not look so…

Averting his eyes from her troubling gaze, he looked back at the plant book. He was turning the page when Aligra, speaking in the Wise Tongue, said in a level voice:

“You should have died.”

Dashvara tossed his head up, and despite his confusion, he smiled. In Oy’vat, he answered:

“So it’s a very good thing I didn’t, don’t you think?”

Fayrah and Lessi had remained motionless, looking at them both alternately. Aligra’s face was as hard as stone.

“You are Lord Vifkan’s firstborn,” she hissed.

Dashvara’s lips stretched in a bitter smile.

“Really? It’s good of you to remind me.”

“You escaped from the dungeon leaving your people behind!” Aligra accused him.

Dashvara frowned. He had never seen her so upset. Glancing at Fayrah, he knew that she was surprised too.

“Did I?” he replied.

A dangerous gleaming lit the Xalya girl’s eyes.

“You had a family and brothers to protect.”

‘I only had Showag, and you let him die’, her cold eyes were screaming.

Dashvara clenched his jaw. He was tempted to tell them about what his father had commanded him to do. However, that, besides not providing any comfort, would do nothing but sully Lord Vifkan’s honor. Helping his son to escape so he could carry out revenge as an assassin was not something any Xalya could feel proud of.

“Well, now we are all in the same case,” he finally said, leaning back on his armchair. It felt strange to speak in Oy’vat so far away from home. “We all are orphans, and we all should have died, but here we are, out of the steppe. And it seems we all feel guilty to a greater or lesser degree.” He looked at the three girls, and he shrugged. “If you consider that the fact of having survived means I don’t deserve the title of steppe lord, do as you want: I won’t blame you for it. And now” —he stood up and picked up his pile of books— “I hope you will excuse me. I’ll go back to my room.”

He silently headed toward the door of the library. Aligra’s words hurt him more than he would ever admit. He believed he had gotten over it, but obviously, if you twisted the knife in the wound, it was hard for this one to heal up. However, he had no doubt that if he had… He hesitated. That if he had only had… He stopped near the door, and he uttered his thought out loud without turning:

“If I could have died instead of Showag, you can be sure, Aligra, that I wouldn’t have hesitated, not even for a second.” He smiled darkly. He didn’t remember to have pronounced such a self-evident truth in his life. “You can be certain.”

“But then… why?” Aligra whispered in Common Tongue.

He guessed that the young girl was crying, and courtesy kept him from turning.

“I can only tell you it wasn’t my decision.”

He had talked too much, he realized. Who, if not his father, would have been able to force him to obey?

He left the Xalyas there, and he went upstairs to his room. He believed he had gotten over it; he believed so. But the fact was that, now that he had found his people again, he could clearly feel how the wound was bleeding inside him once again. He took a glance around the room, and he sighed with a grimace.

“Know what, Tahisran? I understand why you locked yourself in those catacombs: I myself would do it gladly if I wasn’t so much afraid of the dead.”

The shadow did not answer, but Dashvara was certain it had heard him.

18 The Rain Path

In the morning, he may have felt full of energy and healthy, but after noon, he relapsed and went back to his coughing fits. Around twilight, he suffered fits of faintness so strong that, when Fayrah came to call him to eat dinner, he assured her that he wasn’t hungry and was not going to move. She made as if to comment something, but before her brother’s imperious look, she just said in a mild voice:

“Get some rest, brother.”

Dashvara closed the book he was holding. It dealt with the security measures the Senate had taken during the past century. It spoke about weapons licenses in the urban area and about hygiene rules to fight against rabies transmitted by rodents called sirelokes. Then it talked about the serious danger that the creatures coming from the desert of Bladhy were posing on the east border. The Dazbonish guards repelled every invasion of scale-nefarious, stopped aggressive orc tribes, and fought obstinately against the red nadres, which they also called “budrays”. Living in a land rich in resources had its advantages but also its disadvantages: everyone envied them, including the ever evilest creatures in Hareka.

Dashvara let out a sigh. His chest was a mess, and his throat was on fire. He didn’t manage to get rid of the blood metallic taste. As the light shining through the window wasn’t enough to read on, he had lit a candle, and even so his eyes got closed involuntarily.

I’d better recover, because if I’m going to be in this state for all my life, it will be kind of hard to stand myself.

He heard voices inside the house, and thinking better of it, he felt the need to join the others. Perhaps Rowyn was telling a story about the shepherd Bramanil and his cat. He sat up, more cheerful, and… an uncontrollable coughing fit shook all his body.

“Damn it,” he panted when it stopped.

He was clenching his fists, and he would have gladly freed himself of the coughing with some punches if only it had been possible. He heard a creaking, and the door opened. There was nobody in the doorway. Dashvara peered into the shadows.

“Fayrah?”

A soft voice answered:

‘It’s me—Tahisran. I bring you a remedy.’

The shadow moved forward in the room, a glass in his hand. The glass was flying. Flying… held just with some shadows.

Dashvara was a steppe warrior, and as befitted a steppe warrior, he wasn’t scared of a lot of things that would have turned the most valiant republican pale white. But seeing a shadow holding a glass… that was more than his mind was able to tolerate.

When Tahisran handed him the glass, Dashvara cringed back to the other side of the bed and jumped to his feet.

“Don’t approach.” His voice trembled. “You… er, you wait for me to calm down, okay?” They both waited some seconds in silence, and finally, Dashvara, not feeling the slightest relieved, spoke again with a tone of disbelief: “You have brewed this… for me?”

The shadow nodded, laid the glass on the bedside table, and turned to close the door while explaining:

‘Long ago, I was a disciple in the Gon School, in the Republics of Fire. I am not an endarsic celmist, I specialized in perceptism, but I know some tricks. My master suffered a cough similar to yours, and this remedy relieved him a lot.’

Never in his life had Dashvara heard of the Gon School, but naturally, as far as he knew, the Republics of Fire were far, far away from Dazbon, beyond the Desert of Bladhy. Dashvara shyly went closer to the small table.

“How do you do that?” he asked.

‘You mean the potion? The main ingredient is a plant with white flowers. A kalrea. I add a thimbleful of brulic energy. Drink up. It will soothe your cough,’ the shadow assured.

Dashvara swallowed saliva, sat down on the bed, near the glass, and he was going to take it when he confessed:

“I wasn’t talking about the potion. What I wanted to know was how do you do to hold a glass with your hands… Well, they are made of shadows, aren’t they?”

Dashvara clearly perceived Tahisran’s playful smile.

‘I am not only shadows, human. I am a shadow.’

Dashvara raised an eyebrow.

“Ah.” He paused. “That explains everything. So you expect me to drink this and to trust you not to poison me, huh?”

Tahisran nodded again, and Dashvara noted irony when it added:

‘After all, you are already poisoned.’

Reminding him of it wasn’t very kind, Dashvara thought, sighing. Deciding not to think more over the strange gift, he seized the glass and quaffed the contents. It not only smelled of kalrea—it also had its taste. Barely had he laid the glass back onto the table when a strong shiver went down his spine, and his teeth began to chatter. His sight darkened; his heart pounded, out of control… Fighting to stay conscious, Dashvara roared.

“You’ve poisoned me!”

The shadow took a pace forward with a surprised look.

‘That is not normal,’ it pondered. ‘You should be sleeping placidly now. It used to have marvelous effects on my master…’

Dashvara opened his mouth, sneezed, and a darting pain ran through his whole body, followed by an explosion of blind fury. He looked up at the shadow with a terrible glare.

“You’re a dead shadow… You’re going to pay for that!” he thundered.

Dashvara staggered to his feet and lunged at the shadow. This one slipped away, and Dashvara smashed into the wall like a berserk bull. Dismissing the throbbing pain that was running through him like an acid arrow, he spun around, and he was just about to charge again when the door burst open and Rowyn and the others rushed into the room, yelling.

Dashvara felt just as if an ice block had suddenly crushed him. Rowyn’s strong arms forced him not to move, and Dashvara struggled faintly.

“Damned shadow! I’m gonna kill it, Rowyn. I swear I will.”

His eyes were bugged out, and blood was gushing from his mouth—or at least that was the impression he had. The effects of that potion had been too immediate to doubt that it was a coincidence. This shadow had cheated him, telling him silly stories and even managing to make Dashvara feel compassion for it… and now it turned out that it had poisoned him! It had murdered him. Unless it had never existed; unless it had…

Dashvara collapsed, and Rowyn helped him to lie down on the bed.

“It doesn’t seem that he’s healing with time, Duke,” Azune’s gloomy voice commented.

Dashvara feverishly eyed the corners, searching for the shadow. He would have been so happy if only he could have struck it down with just one look!

A beautiful face distorted in worry appeared before his eyes. Dashvara instantly got furious with himself. He just couldn’t leave Fayrah alone now. It would be too ridiculous. He tried to force a smile, and he stretched a hand to take his sister’s.

“I’m fine,” he grumbled. A bloody gargle accompanied his words. Realizing he was lying like a rug, he laughed, and blood flicked in his throat. “I’ve never been better,” he added, laughing and coughing. “Oh, boy… Now I understand. This is the panacea for life, sister: Death.”

A light of fright gleamed in Fayrah’s eyes, and Dashvara, recovering a bit of good sense, upbraided himself severely.

“Don’t mind me, sister. I’m raving. But” —his voice sank to a mere whisper— “if I die, Fayrah, no matter how strong the wind blows, don’t give up the fight…”

* * *

He came back to his senses hours later, in the dead of night, hearing noise around him. Dashvara noticed he was still alive, although he could have sworn that he had died and revived, and even that he had been killed several times. He felt completely oblivious to what was going on around him. Why should he care about what might happen to him if in any case he was dying and reviving, and dying and reviving unceasingly?

Since when do I ask myself such stupid questions? a small voice reasoned in the back of his mind.

Dashvara weakly moved his head.

“He’s awake!” a voice whispered. It was Azune.

Dashvara blinked, and he saw Rowyn kneeling by the bed with a deep wrinkle on his forehead.

“How are you feeling, steppeman?”

“I feel alive, republican,” Dashvara answered. He even frightened himself when he heard his own voice, a mere dying croak.

Rowyn turned to Azune.

“Help me get him up, Azu.”

Dashvara let out a low, surprised grumble when Rowyn helped him to sit up.

“Where do you want me to go, republican?”

“Azu will take you to a healer in Dazbon,” Rowyn answered. “You’ll get in there in two hours at most. You can’t stay here.”

“I can’t?” Dashvara echoed, dizzy. Following an impenetrable reasoning path, he recalled what he had said to Rokuish: ‘A person who doesn’t believe that a feather can fight against the wind will be dragged believing that it’s impossible to fight against the impossible.’

“You mustn’t,” Rowyn affirmed lugubriously. “Otherwise you will die, I’m afraid. The poison is killing you.”

“Which of them?” Dashvara asked, not knowing exactly why.

Rowyn frowned, shook his head, and helped him to stand up.

“Azu, help me…”

“I can walk,” Dashvara protested. “I’m not dead yet.”

Nevertheless, both of the Pearl Brothers helped him shuffle out of the room and then downstairs. Only when they arrived in the living room, Dashvara thought of the shadow. He gave a blazing glare over his shoulder, convinced that the creature was following him, but he saw nothing but darkness. With a sarcastic smile, he flopped down into a chair. Azune was coming back with a pair of scissors, and a puzzled Dashvara stared at her when she handed it to Rowyn.

“Don’t move,” the Duke recommended. “I’m going to cut your beard.”

Dashvara couldn’t but gape at him, and for a moment his mind became sheer lucid.

“What? No way! You won’t touch my beard, republican.”

Rowyn smiled with an appeasing expression.

“They are looking for a steppeman bearded thief, remember? It’s only a disguise. Like I were going to cut your neck!”

Dashvara looked daggers at him, and he swayed to his feet, bracing himself against the table.

“Be more worried I might cut yours,” he growled.

Rowyn’s face paled.

“Azune, please explain it to him.”

The half-elf snorted.

“You explain it to him while I’m giving him a good blow. I don’t want to ride with a madman if he’s awake, Row. Besides, if he has a fit of coughing, we’ll certainly fall off the horse. I’d best travel with him being unconscious.”

Or dead, Dashvara thought. A wave of extreme fatigue came over the Xalya’s heart, and he sadly staggered back to his chair.

“Okay, then. Damned republicans. Cut my beard, and even my arm if you wish. I won’t last much longer anyway—”

“We’ll cut your tongue if you keep on talking,” Azune muttered.

Rowyn got to work. Dashvara was so tired he almost broke down in tears when he saw his splendid beard falling onto the paved floor of the living room. When noticing his distress, Rowyn cleared his throat.

“I’m not cutting it all. I’m just trimming it a bit.”

Dashvara said nothing. At some moment, he coughed, and Rowyn nearly impaled him with his scissors. When he caught sight of a spot of blood upon the republican’s nose, he sighed.

“Sorry. I splashed you.”

Rowyn finished his work before wiping the blood from his face and stretching an arm to Dashvara.

“Up, Lord of the Xalyas. Cheer up: I’m sure you will come out well.”

“We all come out somewhere,” Dashvara whispered, slowly getting up, “but we never know whether dead or alive.”

Rowyn gulped.

“For the Divinity’s sake,” he mumbled, “even Axef beats him at optimism. Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you, Azu?”

“No,” she rejected outright. “You take care of the Xalyas and go to sleep. The steppeman will arrive in Dazbon.”

Dashvara gave a dreadful smile.

“We all arrive. But we never know whether dead or alive.”

Snorting, they made him put some boots on, as well as a thick tunic smelling of lavender, and as they were guiding him outside, Dashvara caught himself thinking about Zaadma and her plants. In the small stable they entered, there were three horses. Azune opened the box occupied by a white mare, and Dashvara looked at it woozily. It looked so much like his father’s. It had the same elegance and the same beauty. But, obviously, it wasn’t the same.

Azune mounted, and they both were going to lift Dashvara when the Xalya pushed them away.

“I will mount on my own,” he affirmed.

He mounted, and he felt so dizzy that he almost fell. Azune firmly helped him stay in his seat, and Dashvara was thankful, for there was no worse humiliation for a Xalya than to fall alone off a horse.

“Take the Rain Path,” Rowyn whispered to Azune. “The caravan will leave tomorrow, and it will arrive around noon. If you want, wait for me on the Dragon Road.”

Azune nodded.

“I’ll be there.”

Rowyn smiled, and he glanced at Dashvara.

“Don’t die too early, boy.”

Dashvara was as stiff as a stick because he was trying to hold back a new coughing fit.

“And you, take care of my people,” he rumbled lowly. “If anything happens to them, you’ll have to deal with me, dead or alive.”

“Stop threatening and try not to fall off the horse,” Rowyn replied with a worried expression.

Dashvara puffed.

“A Xalya… never falls off his horse,” he panted. He didn’t manage to master himself longer—he began to cough like a mad demon, and Azune cursed under her breath.

“He’s going to wake up all the neighbors!”

“May the Pearl protect you!” Rowyn said with a parting gesture, as the half-elf spurred her mount.

They left Rocavita at full gallop, and Dashvara had to cling to Azune not to lose his balance. It seemed to him as if his whole body was turning into a burning sand soup. They galloped for an interminable time on the Dragon Road, only having the stars to guide them. During the journey, Dashvara struggled to keep conscious, and he tried not to stain Azune’s tunic with blood.

The caravan, he told himself after a long silence only interrupted by the thundering clatter of the hooves on the stone. Rowyn had said that the caravan would get into Dazbon the next day. Could it mean it had already arrived in Rocavita? His eyes widened. If so, that meant there were now probably more Xalyas in the Republic of Dazbon than in the steppe.

But this time they will have to free themselves alone, he thought morosely as he opened his eyes wide not to close them forever. Unless I manage to survive.

The only thing he saw when getting into Dazbon was a downing high hill covered with roofs plunged in darkness. He heard a mighty noise when they passed by the Great Cascade, but Dashvara couldn’t see it. Taking a path through a grove of trees, Azune slowed the pace before reaching the first houses.

“How are you going, steppeman?” she asked.

Dashvara was pressing his lips so strongly that, for a moment, he thought he wouldn’t manage to open them. When he did it, he felt a streak of blood flowing out.

“Fine,” he croaked.

In spite of the awful situation, Azune let out a sarcastic chuckle.

“Fine, he says. I bet you would keep saying you’re fine even if three blades were piercing you.”

Dashvara didn’t respond: he had the terrible impression that, if he opened his mouth again, all the blood of his body would flood out like a poisoned cascade.

They got into the city. Dashvara’s foggy mind could only find two adjectives to qualify it: foul-smelling and maze-like. Abruptly, the white horse stopped. Dashvara could feel Azune swinging down from her mount, and as he lost his support, he clung onto the saddle with shaking hands. All he needed now was to fall down and break his head.

Hastily, Azune knocked on a door. This one took a while to open, and when it did, a square of light appeared, and a worried voice could be heard.

“Azune! Dear, what happened?”

“I’m fine, Aydin. It’s my companion. He’s in a very bad way.”

The jerk Dashvara felt at the sound of Aydin’s name turned into a disaster: seized by a new coughing fit, he lost his balance. Azune held him just in time.

“Help me carry him inside,” Aydin said.

Between the ternian and her, they led him into the house, half-conscious. Dashvara finally found himself lying on a bed, with a face floating before his eyes. When he recognized the merchant, his heart twisted.

“I don’t want to be healed by a coward,” he articulated.

Aydin shook his head slightly, and a glint of challenge sparkled in his eyes when he said:

“And I don’t want to heal a fool.”

Dashvara looked him in the eye, and then he smiled… and he fainted.

19 The Most Illustrious Republic

“How come I can’t go out with my father?” Dashvara asked, unhappy. He was sitting on the top of the shaard’s tower, and he was looking at the old man, his head up. “How come you confine me here, master?”

Maloven, as usual, gazed at the faraway horizon, lost in thought. He answered in a quiet voice:

“No one confines you anywhere, child. There are simply some things a person cannot do. Just as my leg stops me from running, neither can you ride by your father’s side to defend our lands. But you shall, son.” He turned to him, his hands on his back, and his eyes twinkled. “I feel that, someday, you will defend the Xalya lands from an atrocious storm. But” —he smiled— “you still have to grow up and learn…”

* * *

When he awoke, Dashvara got the impression he had just emerged from an endless hole. He was lying on a quite comfortable mattress, and the light was shining through his eyelids. He felt… fine. He was soaked in sweat, though.

Coming from not so far away, he heard voices and noises he wasn’t able to recognize—among them some strange cries of birds. He half opened one eye, and he looked at the room for a long time. The sunlight illuminated it harmoniously. He opened the other eye when he perceived some footsteps. Aydin appeared in a doorway. He stopped short on seeing him awake.

“Oh,” he just said.

He walked forward, and after filling a glass with water, he handed it to Dashvara. This one sat up. It was hot in the room. That was why he was sweating. Of course.

“Ternian. Please tell me I am not in your house.”

“You are in my house, human.”

Dashvara looked at him for some seconds before draining the glass and pointing out:

“You’ve saved my life.”

“Again,” the healer smiled.

Dashvara made a face.

“Sorry for what I said in the temple. You’re not a scoundrel. I take it back.”

“Only that?”

Dashvara gave him a grim look, but this time Aydin did not look daunted. The Xalya shrugged his shoulders.

“A wise man once said that he who saves the life of someone who insults him is either a madman or a knight. But actually, according to him, both things are the same.” As he saw Aydin’s face frowning, he added teasingly: “I take back everything you want, healer. How the hell did you get me out of that?”

“You didn’t get out of anything,” Aydin replied. “Your body energies are still a mess. The poison of that dart should have killed you, and something in those powders has saved your life, but it has caused serious lesions in your inner energy. You’re unbalanced.”

Dashvara would have rather never heard his words. He felt energetic and fully recovered. Or, at least, he felt much better than when he was dying, he rectified.

“Unbalanced, huh?” he echoed back at him with sarcasm.

“It’s just a medical term,” Aydin clarified. “You suffer from a lack of inner energy balance, and I don’t know how to cure it.”

If there wasn’t a cure, why worry? Dashvara changed the subject.

“Where is Azune?”

“I have no idea. She left shortly after you arrived.” Aydin rose to his feet. “Do you want to eat something?”

Dashvara nodded and stood up too. Soon, both of them were settled down at a small table with a plate full of delicious cookies set on it.

“So you’re a member of the Pearl Brotherhood,” Dashvara hazarded.

Aydin rolled his eyes.

“Not at all. I’m an acolyte of the Dragon Brotherhood. But I’m a sympathizer of the Pearl Brotherhood.”

Dashvara chewed his cookie thoughtfully.

“A sympathizer and a collaborator,” he observed. “You were spying on Arviyag, weren’t you?” Aydin didn’t respond. A faint smile stretched across Dashvara’s face. “Maybe you’re not such a coward, after all.”

The ternian shook his head.

“Are you a Pearl member? No, right? So then, don’t meddle in affairs that are none of your concern.”

Dashvara didn’t like his tone at all.

“I’m afraid that’s more my concern than yours. The prisoners that scum bought are Xalyas.”

“Yes. That’s what Azune told me,” Aydin replied with his claws bared. “She also told me you have spoiled their plans. Now it will be more difficult for you to free the new prisoners.”

Dashvara then remembered that the second slave caravan would arrive in Dazbon around noon. He wiggled impatiently.

“Have they arrived already?” he inquired.

A sarcastic light sparkled in Aydin’s eyes before darkly fading away.

“It’s quite likely.” He raised his head, and his face lit up when he took a glance through the window. “Ah. Here’s your savior. It’s a doctor, not a simple healer, and believe me, if he doesn’t manage to heal you, no one will. Go on, lie down on the bed.”

Dashvara swallowed his impatience and obeyed. Soon, the door opened, and the boy, Hadriks, came in with a face strangely reddened by irritation. Behind him, was a gray-haired man scrawny like a stick. Only a thick silver chain broke the monotony of his black dress.

“Where’s the patient?” he asked, as he walked into the room acting like he owned the place.

Aydin had remained stunned for a reason that Dashvara didn’t quite understand. Before anyone was able to answer, the new arrival came quickly by the bed and laid his bag on a stool while talking in a continuous stream.

“For the Divinity’s sake, is it hot! I’ll be glad when the autumn actually comes. Why didn’t you ever decide to live in the Beautiful District, Aydin? These tiring walks take it out of me. Well, well, well. What do we have here? Haw! He doesn’t look like he’s about to die. I should have guessed you were exaggerating, boy. From how you described him, I was nearly expecting to find him dead! These youths and their fantasies,” he guffawed with a sharp laugh. “Sit down, citizen, and keep still for a moment, will you?”

Dashvara looked at him in the eye, but the doctor wasn’t looking at him: he laid his lanky, bony hands on Dashvara’s chest and began to examine it as if he was searching for some remedy hidden under his skin. Aydin and Hadriks were watching them uneasily. Dashvara could hear the ternian whispering to the boy:

“And what about Doctor Fenendrip?”

Glancing above the doctor’s grayish head, Dashvara saw Hadriks’s apologizing face.

“He’s on vacation, master. Only Doctor Exipadas was on call in his office. He asked me what I was doing here, and I—”

Aydin had begun to nod, and gulping, Hadriks fell silent. Dashvara sighed. He was starting to get really bored with this Doctor Exipadas and his palpating.

“I see,” the doctor muttered. “Yes. Come on, hold this bowl tightly under your forearm, like so, very well.”

He took out of his bag a small, cutting tool. Aydin’s expression alarmed Dashvara immediately.

“What are you going to do?” he asked, withdrawing the bowl.

“I’m going to bleed you, nothing more,” the doctor assured calmly. “Just a little cut to make you expel the bad humors.”

Dashvara gaped at him, and he finally understood his purpose. Something inside him burst into blazing flames. He hardly mastered himself. It was a long time since he had spoken so icily.

“Get out at once,” he breathed.

The doctor paused, and for the first time, he looked up at him. What he saw in Dashvara’s eyes made him turn paler than he already was.

Aydin cleared his throat, extremely embarrassed.

“Doctor. Doctor Exipadas, I don’t think bloodletting is the most appropriate remedy. I actually think that—”

Doctor Exipadas’s face hardened.

“Am I dreaming or are you questioning my way of working, healer? And you, stretch your arm!”

When Doctor Exipadas got his knife closer, Dashvara couldn’t suppress his impulse: he grabbed the bowl and smashed his face in with it. After that, he stood up, flung the knife into the bag with some pieces of the broken bowl, closed it, and began to drag the doctor toward the open door. Exipadas was shrieking like a hog on the way to the slaughterhouse. Dashvara ejected him outside, with his bag.

“You criminal!” the scrawny doctor howled, covering his bloody face. “You’ll regret this, believe you me, and a lot! I have powerful friends!”

“Be happy I haven’t bled you, you leech,” Dashvara spit out, disgusted. He noticed that several people passing by in the street were glancing curiously at the scene. He closed the door just as the other one was yelling:

“You shall pay for this!”

Dashvara turned to Aydin and Hadriks. They both were staring at him mutely. Only then he thought that perhaps his hurried action was likely to get Aydin into trouble. But at the same time he bet that, if he had not reacted, Aydin wouldn’t have done anything to stop that smug idiot. Breaking the silence, Hadriks let out a guffaw. He immediately repressed it under his master’s glare.

“I don’t know how to take it,” Aydin confessed.

Dashvara cleared his throat.

“Yeah? Well… Was he some important person?”

With a calmness only apparent, Aydin informed him:

“Exipadas Andeyed is the brother-in-law of Altagar Parvel, the master senator of Dazbon.”

Dashvara pondered for some seconds, not knowing exactly how to interpret the case. The only thing he could finally think of was to justify himself:

“I wasn’t going to let him bleed me, right? Bah, besides, I did nothing to him.”

“Oh, you did nothing to him!” Aydin echoed with a burst of sarcastic, nervous laughter.

“Well… My method wasn’t that bad,” Dashvara defended himself. “I’ve only put him out of your house.”

“Of my house. Oh. Yes. Yes, your method was straightforward. Effective. I think you’ve forgotten the detail about the projectile.”

“What projectile?”

“The bowl you’ve hurled to him.”

“I didn’t hurl it to him, I smashed it on his face,” Dashvara specified.

“You do well pointing out the nuance,” the ternian replied ironically. “When the Mestre comes with all his officers to interrogate you, don’t forget to mention it.”

Dashvara raised his eyebrows, alarmed.

“The Mestre?”

“The one who’s in charge of arresting people.”

“Ay. I see.” Dashvara felt ashamed. “I didn’t mean to get you into trouble, Aydin.”

“Neither I meant to let this louse enter my house.” Hadriks paled, and Aydin laid an appeasing hand on his shoulder. “Never mind, Hadriks. Now you know that the less you see Doctor Exipadas, the better you feel. Indeed, the less you see the doctors of the Hospital, the better. You can only trust Fenendrip and a few more. What are you doing?” he suddenly asked, surprised.

Dashvara had just put on his tunic, and now he was slipping his boots on.

“I leave. I don’t want to cause you more problems. Besides, I have things to do.”

He was heading for the door when Aydin barred his way.

“No way. If Azune comes back and learns you have left, she will condemn me to hell. I won’t let you leave until she comes back.”

Dashvara looked at him, startled. At this moment, he heard hard knocks at the door.

“Urban Militia!” a powerful voice shouted outside.

“A thousand dragons…” Aydin cursed. He opened the door. A strapping human appeared in front of them. Behind, was the bloody face of Doctor Exipadas, who seemed to flaunt his wound as if it was proof of his innocence. The fact was that he only had a small cut on his cheek—the rest of the blood was coming from his nose. The militiaman greeted:

“Good afternoon. Just a question. Has this man been in your house recently?” Aydin nodded. “He says that one of your patients has hit him in an abusive way. Can I speak to him?”

Dashvara hardly suppressed his laughter. Hit him in an abusive way? Aydin stepped aside, letting the militiaman and Dashvara see each other. The guard was dressed in a gray uniform; on his chest, he had a badge with the picture of a black hand.

“Tell it like it is,” Aydin advised him.

“This man nearly killed me!” Exipadas shrilled.

Dashvara snorted lowly, and he explained every last detail of the case, like a model victim. The militiaman listened to him calmly, without paying any attention to the doctor’s moans. Finally, he gave a short jerk of his head.

“According to the Law, if the patient refuses to be bled, the doctor has to accept it. I consider that you acted in self-defense and that the doctor had no right to force you to do anything. End of story.”

The doctor was open-mouthed. Dashvara smiled, pleasantly surprised.

“Thank you, militiaman,” he said.

The human bowed his head slightly as a parting greeting.

“Whaaat?” Exipadas snorted. “No! Militiaman!” he called out. “I command you to arrest him! Militiaman!”

He grabbed him by the sleeve, and the militiaman’s face became cold as ice; the doctor cringed.

“I suggest you move away from this street, Doctor,” the officer said.

“How you dare—!”

“Please don’t utter insults you might regret later,” the militiaman cut him off with a deadly serious expression. “Law is Law.”

Exipadas’s pale face crimsoned, and he looked as if his ears were going to puff out steam. I bet those are just the bad humors he wanted to free me of, Dashvara thought sarcastically.

“That boor shall pay anyway,” the doctor grumbled before turning around and walking away through the street with a quick step. When Dashvara looked at the other side of the street, the militiaman was already far away.

With a sigh, Aydin closed the door.

“Well. Let us hope the case is settled.”

Hadriks giggled.

“You’ve made a patrician bite the dust!”

“Yes, what a success,” Aydin told him back ironically. He had bared his claws. Dashvara felt concerned.

“Do you think that idiot could try to take revenge for such a petty accident?”

Aydin raised his eyes to the heavens.

“Petty accident? Remember you’re not in your wild lands, Xalya. In Dazbon, there is a Law. And a Court. Perhaps Exipadas is an “idiot”, as you say, but if he has friends among the Council of Seven, he could make your life hell, believe me.”

Dashvara shrugged.

“Don’t worry about it. Okay, perhaps my inner energy is unbalanced, but I feel just fine right now, so—”

“So you’re going to lie down without complaining,” Aydin retorted.

His uncompromising tone proper to a veteran healer had some effect on Dashvara. They looked at each other, and finally, the Xalya mumbled:

“At the end of the day, I suppose I owe you that.”

He lied down back on the bed, and Aydin, after asking him whether he knew how to read, brought him a book. Dashvara grinned on reading the title. The Adventures of the Shepherd Bramanil and His Cat Mawrus the Wrecker.

“Do you know Rowyn the Duke?” he asked.

The ternian’s joking expression led him to understand he was treading on shaky ground once again.

“I know him. Hadriks, stay here, will you? And don’t talk too much.”

He left the room, and his footsteps fell away. The boy sat on one of the two chairs beside the small table, on the other side of the office. He was playing cards alone. Dashvara craned his neck. Obviously, he had never seen such pictures on a deck of cards.

“Are they Dazbonish cards?” he inquired curiously.

Hadriks shrugged.

“Sailor cards, they call it. Now I’m playing solitaire.” He was grinning more and more widely. “Do you know how to play republicans?”

Dashvara shook his head and sat up on the bed, putting aside the book.

“The cards I used to play with weren’t like that at all. In fact, we used to play katutas quite more often. You play it with a board,” he explained. A sudden wave of memories came over him. Makarva, Lumon, Boron, Sigfen… my patrol brothers and I were inveterate katutas players. Dashvara stifled a sad smile. And yet, what an awful band of players we were. Damn it. He blocked his memories.

“I know what the katutas are,” Hadriks mocked. “It’s a Dazbonish man who invented the game.”

Dashvara jerked up, astonished. The katutas were a Xalya ancestral game. Demons, it was as if Hadriks had told him the republicans had invented the Wise Tongue.

“Nonsense. The Ancient Kings are the ones who invented the katutas. That Dazbonish must have imported the game.”

“I swear it was a Dazbonish man,” Hadriks protested. “Ask Aydin. He’s a keen katutas player.”

Still with his skeptical pout, Dashvara got up.

“I sure will ask him. How do you play republicans?”

During the following hours, Hadriks and he played several games of cards.

“It can’t be!” Hadriks growled at some moment.

“Bad cards, huh?” Dashvara asked with a satisfied tone while watching his own cards. This time, he had good luck.

“Mph,” was all the boy said, focused on his cards.

He threw a low card, his lips pressed. Dashvara smiled, and he played his turn. The more cards they played, the more Hadriks darkened. He lost the Golden Ace in an avalanche of Clerks. And then he exclaimed:

“Aha!”

He put his last card on the table. A District Magistrate. Dashvara frowned. He had only an Administrator left. With that play, Hadriks prevented him from winning the hand, he realized.

“You bastard,” he growled, throwing away the Administrator while the boy was laughing. “Didn’t you say you had bad cards?”

“I did have. Haven’t you seen my disastrous hand? The only valuable thing was my Magistrate. You simply shouldn’t have parted with the Senator so soon. Such things will happen when you play with a novice.”

Dashvara rolled his eyes, amused.

“Hey, and aren’t the senators annoyed about this ‘republicans’ game? Because some people must swear profusely at their cards, I suspect.”

“Bah! The senators the firsts,” Hadriks replied. “Look, once, a captain of the militia went into the Senate to warn about some matter, and he caught them all playing republicans, and one of them was just yelling, ‘A senator! Deal me a damn Senator!’.” Dashvara let out a guffaw just imagining the captain’s face. Hadriks grinned broadly. “I swear. Well, it’s a popular legend,” he admitted, “but that must be true, wanna bet?”

Still smiling, Dashvara turned his eyes away when he perceived footsteps near the door.

“I don’t bet on popular legends,” he replied.

Someone knocked at the door, and Hadriks hastened to open it. It was Rowyn and Azune.

“Where is Fayrah?” Dashvara asked before neither of them could even utter a word.

The blond was sweating profusely, and he was shaking his tunic to get some fresh air. However, his face relaxed when he saw the Xalya standing.

“I do see Aydin has saved you from hell. I advise you not to go out to get into another one: the demons are burning the air out there. How are you feeling?”

“I’d bet it’s the twentieth time you ask me that question since I know you, republican.”

Rowyn smiled at his reply. Azune asked:

“Where’s Aydin?”

“In the market, in his magaras stall,” Hadriks answered.

Rowyn’s face lit up when he sat down at the table.

“Playing cards, huh? Republicans game?”

Hadriks nodded.

“I was teaching him, but he still gets easily tricked like a beginner.”

Dashvara sat down again, insisting:

“Where is my sister?”

“Eh? Oh. The three of them are fine,” the kampraw assured in a light tone. “I left them in an inn. The Golden Dragon. Well, Lessi feels a little dizzy because of all the hustle and bustle of the city, and because of the bad smell.”

Dashvara raised an eyebrow. The daughter of the indestructible Captain Zorvun. Of course.

“And what about the caravan with the other prisoners?” he inquired.

Azune growled ironically:

“What do you know! I wasn’t aware that the Supreme had a beard. Come on, Duke, answer to our leader’s question.”

Hadriks burst into laughter, and Rowyn assumed a patient expression. Dashvara wasn’t so understanding.

“I’m sorry, Azune, but I remind you that those prisoners are my people. It’s no laughing matter.”

Azune breathed out.

“I spent all night riding to save him, and not even a word of gratitude. Haven’t you been taught to say, ‘thanks’?”

Dashvara didn’t know how to respond. After a silence, he cleared his throat.

“Thanks.”

“If you say it in such a tone, you’d better keep quiet,” Azune snorted.

Dashvara began to feel irritated.

“I used no particular tone, republican woman. What do you want me to say? I’m just not used to thanking foreigners, okay? Don’t push me. I need time to adjust.”

All signs of offense faded away from Azune’s face; only that teasing sparkle remained.

“You call us foreigners, and you’re in our city. Did I miss something? Okay, frankly, Rowyn, the less we say, the better.”

The Pearl Brother was twiddling with the deck of cards thoughtfully. At that instant, he let out a long sigh.

“Azune is right. You’d better not meddle in our affairs now. It’s too late. We have a plan to rescue your companions. We’ll free them, and we’ll put an end to the traffic of Arviyag and his henchmen. But we can’t allow you to interfere in our task.”

The Duke wasn’t going to answer his questions, Dashvara guessed. He felt heavyhearted. He would have been able to get some weapon-like object and to threaten them, but the mere thought—unless it was the unbalanced inner energy—gave him a cramp in his stomach that forced him to remain stiff like a statue.

“I’m sorry, steppeman,” Rowyn sighed after an embarrassed silence.

He did look sorry. Actually, he looked as if he were acting despite himself. Azune, on the contrary, looked satisfied.

“Don’t be sorry, republican,” Dashvara responded. “Tell me, what about this conversation you promised me, with your Supreme?”

Azune let out a forced laugh.

“My brother promised you nothing. He said you will go to see her. That’s that. Don’t distort the words.”

Dashvara gave her a grim look.

“I’m getting the impression that you have taken a dislike to me, half-elf.”

“I’m getting the impression you don’t care a frog if Arviyag is or not in jail as long as you rescue your people.”

Dashvara glared at her.

“That’s not true! And if the favor I owe to you is to eradicate all the slavers in the Republic, so be it. I will accomplish it.”

Azune’s face quivered, and her ironic mask crumbled away for an instant.

“Enough,” Rowyn intervened in a tired voice. “If I let you two continue, you would end up promising to wipe out the slavery all along the Pilgrim Ocean’s shore—or even in the whole Hareka! Come on, Azune. We have work to do. Steppeman,” he told him as he strode to the door. “I’m happy you feel better. Get some rest, and tomorrow we’ll come back to take you to see the Supreme, and after that, we’ll guide you to the Golden Dragon.”

“No. I’d rather go to the Golden Dragon right now,” Dashvara assured.

“I’m sorry,” the kampraw sighed. “We don’t have enough time. Perhaps Hadriks might guide you. But I suppose Aydin won’t appreciate it. He doesn’t release his patients until he pronounces them completely recovered,” he smiled. “Keep playing cards. Have a good afternoon.”

The two Pearl Brothers were already leaving when Dashvara asked:

“You’re not going to act this very night, are you?”

Rowyn closed the door without a word. Dashvara swore under his breath. He snatched the cards again to shuffle them with nervous movements. If Rowyn and Azune intended to sneak into the slavers’ hideout this very night… he was going to miss something he wouldn’t miss for the world.

“Damned republicans,” he swore again.

“How long do you intend to shuffle the cards?” Hadriks inquired, sitting in front of him.

Dashvara began to deal.

“Tell me, Hadriks. Do you know where the merchant Shizur lives?”

The boy frowned.

“The wine merchant? The friend of your cousin who isn’t your cousin?”

“How do you know Zaadma is not my cousin?” Dashvara replied.

Hadriks showed a naughty smile.

“Well. First, because the cousin’s name is Zaetela and not Zaadma. Secondly, because Azune said you were a Xalya. And thirdly—”

“Okay, okay,” Dashvara cut him off. “So?”

“So what?”

“Shizur,” the Xalya grumbled.

“Oh. He lives in the Autumn District. Beside the Amethyst Canal.”

Dashvara tried to recall the city plans he had studied in the house on the Pearl patron.

“Next to Shubor’s candy shop,” Hadriks specified after a pause. “Why do you ask? Do you have some score to settle with him?”

On seeing the sparkle in his eyes, Dashvara guessed he was already fantasizing about some incredible fight. That boy looked not quite as reserved as before but unmistakably more hotheaded, he noticed with a grimace.

“No, I have no score to settle with Shizur.”

Hadriks glanced at his own cards, then lifted his eyes, met Dashvara’s… and he bit his lips.

“What?”

“I would like to ask you a favor.”

As he sadly expected, those words lit up the boy’s face.

“Truly? What favor?”

“Go to Shizur’s and ask for Zaadma and Rokuish. Try to learn whether they live there or they are staying somewhere else. But, if they are there, don’t tell them where I am.”

“Quite difficult—they will guess it just by seeing me,” Hadriks pointed out shrewdly.

Dashvara licked his dry lips.

“That’s true enough.”

The door burst open, and Aydin hobbled into the room, holding a fainted woman.

“For the Dragon’s sake!” Hadriks called out, rushing to help him. Taking a look at the rather plump woman, Dashvara decided to lend a hand. “She’s Lira, Tantoro the Tanner’s wife, isn’t she? What happened to her?”

“Faintness. Heat,” Aydin explained with difficulty. His forehead was sweaty. He laid her patient on the bed. “Get me some water.”

Hadriks obeyed hastily. Aydin gave a slight slap on the woman’s cheek, then snorted, and flung himself down on a stool next to the wall.

“If this heat continues just a few days more, all the Dazbonish people will end up melting into a pool.”

Dashvara had sat down back at the table, and now he was wondering whether, with this new guest, the ternian would approve of him going out of his house. Hadriks finally brought the water, and before anything else, Aydin swallowed a large gulp. Then he drew a glass closer to the patient and wet her forehead, her neck, and her ears. As soon as Lira moved her head, Aydin waved Dashvara and Hadriks away.

“Go out of here,” he whispered.

Hadriks grasped Dashvara by the arm, and they both went to the adjacent room. He led him farther, to the kitchen. A detail intrigued him.

“Where’s the family?”

Hadriks was wetting his head with water to stand heat better.

“You mean Aydin’s family? Well. His two sons are studying in the Citadel. One is going to become a magarist, and the other one wants to become a celmist warrior.”

Dashvara knew that these jobs had something to do with magic; well, with the magic that some didn’t call magic because they thought it was an uncultured term. He followed Hadriks’s example, soaked himself with water, and then went on:

“A magarist is a magic object maker, isn’t he?”

Hadriks had an indulgent smile.

“Yes. He makes objects enchanted with asdronic energies. Aydin lives by doing that, but he uses simple enchantments. I learn from him. When I have enough level, I will be able to ask the Citadel for a scholarship to study there.”

Dashvara nodded thoughtfully. Maloven had already explained to him several times how the asdronic and darsic energies did work. He remembered the lessons, and not with a great delight. As Maloven was no wizard, all his explanations had always remained vague theories. In any case, Dashvara had the feeling that, even if Maloven had been the best magician in all Hareka, he wouldn’t have felt more attracted to the subject. As he himself used to say to Fayrah when they were little: nobody can know everything.

Dashvara thought back of Hadriks’s words, and he smiled. He had said, ‘when I have’; he didn’t even consider the hypothesis he could fail in his attempt.

“I have no doubt you’ll become the best object enchanter wizard,” Dashvara commented, comfortably leaning back on a wall. “And what about the celmist warrior? What does he do? Does he cast some asdronic bolts? Acid punches?”

Hadriks shook his head at Dashvara’s joking tone.

“Some are shield maker celmists, and others are conjurers—among other things,” he added, after a hesitation that gave the impression he didn’t know much about the subject. “The shield makers make shields, and the conjurers make… plenty of conjurations. Among them, there are the perceptists, the disintegrators, the invokers, the… Well,” he interrupted himself. “As I say, there are plenty. They say the best celmist warriors spend their last years of study at the Bastion. Those ones move in a… different sphere. You won’t see them very often walking in the street.”

“And what do they do with their conjurations?” Dashvara asked curiously.

Hadriks twisted his mouth to gesture his ignorance.

“They defend the Republic, I suppose.”

Dashvara made a smiling face. He almost identified with those celmist warriors.

“That’s as good a way as any to enjoy your life,” he approved. “And what about Aydin’s wife?”

Hadriks was looking at him, obviously amused at such an amount of questions.

“She’s a sculptor.”

“Oh.”

Dashvara tried to conceal his curiosity, but he failed. He couldn’t help but think about Bashak and his wooden figurine. He had always liked the idea of shaping a piece of material, even though he did not consider himself patient enough to carry out such tasks.

“She mostly sculpts in marble,” Hadriks continued, maybe guessing the Xalya’s interest. “But she also sculpts ships. Some months ago, she finished sculpting the prow, the edges, and the cabin of the Alamagna. It’s the private ship of the Parvel family.”

Dashvara nodded, his arms crossed. After a hesitation, he took Zaadma’s light disk out from his pocket, and he showed it to Hadriks.

“It belongs to my cousin who isn’t my cousin,” he explained with a playful smile. “I would like you to bring it back to her for me. Don’t rub it with your hands or else it will light up.”

Hadriks’s eyes had widened.

“Is it a magara?”

“I suppose. Could you bring it back to her? I can’t do it by myself, because Shizur could recognize me. You do understand, don’t you?”

Hadriks nodded.

“You mean the Dragon of Spring? It must be frustrating to be falsely accused,” he sympathized. Dashvara cleared his throat.

“Frustrating, I don’t know. At least annoying.”

“Annoying,” Hadriks repeated, looking not altogether convinced. “Yes. At least. I’m out of here,” he declared more briskly. “If she’s at Shizur’s, I should be back in less than an hour. I run fast.”

Dashvara was tempted to tell him that it was no race, but he saw him so cheerful he only gave a pat on his arm and said:

“You’re growing bolder than I was expecting. Remind, boy: be bold if need be, but never act rashly.”

Hadriks was already rushing out of the kitchen when Dashvara stopped talking; he doubted the boy had listened to him. He sharpened his ears. He heard a door slamming… and suddenly he heard a shout and voices. Maybe some problem with the spouse of the tanner? Dashvara headed hurriedly toward the door, but Aydin popped up before, his eyes colder than a north wind. He was holding up Zaadma’s metal disk as though he were seizing a red snake. Dashvara shrank back involuntarily.

“What does this mean?” the healer exclaimed.

Dashvara stared at him, amazed. He only knew the ternian a short time, but he certainly wouldn’t have imagined his look could get so terrible.

“I lodge you, I heal you, I feed you, and after all that, you pay me back this way?” He threw the disk in his face, and Dashvara, astonished as he was, did not even try to dodge it.

As he was a Xalya and had patrolled his lands for years, he was quite accustomed to facing surprises. But the ternian’s mood swing took him completely unaware. What had gotten into the healer all of a sudden? In dead silence, he leaned down and picked up the disk. This one was gleaming softly.

“I really don’t—”

“Get out of my house,” Aydin thundered.

Dashvara peered at him. He looked like a man whom someone has just threatened to kill his son. It wasn’t the finest moment to discuss, he understood.

“Okay. I’m going. But—”

“Get out of my house,” Aydin insisted in an icy tone. “And leave Hadriks alone.”

Dashvara did not delay. He passed by the healer and went to the living room. There, he bumped into the boy, who was as pale as a sheet.

“May the Eternal Bird guide you, boy,” he murmured.

He headed for the office and saw that Lira was already gone. He opened the door and then looked back. Aydin had followed him as if to make sure he wasn’t going to cause another incomprehensible disaster. Dashvara mustered up his courage.

“Could I please ask you why you are—?”

His question died in his throat, quenched by that frosty look. Aydin seemed to have turned into a cold statue of snow. Not even the wave of heat coming through the door was able to melt him. He had already caused him too much trouble, he determined. Asking a favor to his apprentice had tried his patience, apparently. He gave him a stern nod, and he went out.

The sun was beating down on the paved street. Dashvara got to walk, not knowing where to go. He wandered for a long time, among people, carriages, and noise. Without a doubt, Dazbon was more impressive than Rocavita. It had no end of alleys, canals, bridges, workshops, and squares with small parks… But Dashvara just couldn’t be impressed with anything. It smelled bad, it was hot, and everything was too big.

When something seems too beautiful or too “whatever”, it doesn’t seem attractive anymore. Lost in philosophical thoughts, Dashvara was roaming in the long street of a wider canal, observing his surroundings as if in a dream. I don’t act like I am in Dazbon, he realized. In his heart, he was still on Lusombra’s back, riding up and down the hills, scanning the horizon.

He sighed. He listened to the high-pitched cries of some big and white birds. Seagulls, he deduced. Maloven had lived in Dazbon for a year; he had told him a bit how it was. But, as usual, the little Dashvara did not take interest in what, in his view, he would not actually know in his lifetime.

He arrived at the end of the canal, in a square, in front of an elegant building which entrance door had the shape of an eye. The river forked off in two big streams flowing into the sea. Looking in the opposite direction, toward the north, Dazbon was climbing steeply up a hill. On one side, the Great Cascade was within sight, white and foamy; on the other side, were the Stairs: an endless stairway about fifty feet wide, with sand-colored stone, and with regular steps, was going up and up to the top of the hill, far up away. The houses of the Autumn District were stacked on both sides.

Dashvara looked down again, blinded by the sun, which was just beginning to come down. He had to find that Golden Dragon and make sure that Fayrah, Lessi, and Aligra were doing fine. And once done, he would go find the Pearl Brothers. If they didn’t want him to interfere in their task, they would have to let him in on their plans. He only had to find a way of forcing them to let him in on it.

Dashvara smiled slightly while looking for some kind soul willing to show him the right track.

20 In the canal

He found the inn built over a canal, in the Dragon District. The tavern was crowded with people coming to have some refreshments. Laughter burst out of a powerful throat. Someone was playing the lute in a corner, people were drinking, and the innkeeper chatted with his friends while two waiters were working. Dashvara did not draw the attention at all in this teeming hive of life.

He walked forward, dodging the tables, searching for the way to the lodging part of the inn, and he stopped beside the bar before drawing away as he realized this one was jammed. And then he saw them.

Aligra, Lessi and Fayrah were sitting at a table, in front of two smiling and unmistakably drunk men. Dashvara smelled trouble. Frowning, he headed straight to the table.

“So from farther, eh?” one of the drunks said. “From Maeras? No, let me guess, from the Holy Grove!”

Fayrah looked embarrassed. Lessi was watching both drunks alternately with a curious expression. Aligra had a gloomy face.

“How could they come from the Holy Grove?” his comrade mumbled. “They’re Shalussis, for sure. Eh? Right? Am I right?” he repeated, very amused.

Aligra exploded before Dashvara could reach them.

“Shalussi yourself, you drunk donkey! I am a Xalya, and the blood of the ancient wise people of the steppe runs in my veins—!”

She gasped and fell silent when Dashvara smashed his fist down on the table, toughly. The neighbors didn’t even flinch, but the two drunks looked a bit more alive.

“Uh? What are you doing, buddy? What’s the matter with you?” one of them asked.

“It’s simple: you’re going to get up from your bench. At once.”

This time, a few customers turned their heads toward them. The drunks exchanged a glance.

“Get up, you said, sir? And what for? We’re fine here.”

“Oh, really? In that case, stay here.” He shot an imperious look at the Xalyas. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

Instantly, Fayrah and Lessi scrambled to their feet. Aligra folded her arms.

“We were here before them. Those oafs are the ones who must leave.”

One of the drunks spit firewater out all over the table with an offended face.

“Oafs? I am no oaf. I am a student! I am a—”

Dashvara hissed.

“You shut up. Aligra, get up and don’t be childish.”

The Xalya held his glare. Dashvara caught, in her eyes, a glint of rebelliousness he didn’t like at all. He considered leaving her there, but then he thought that, if anything happened to her, he would blame himself for the rest of his life, so he opted to settle the problem otherwise. He stretched the arm and got her up by force. In astonishment, Aligra let him draw her away from the table. The student was shocked.

“I don’t like this at all!” he shrieked. “Who are you to treat the young girl like that? Her brother?”

“Her lord,” Dashvara retorted. “And now do sit down, good man, and keep drinking.”

The drunk was about ready to provoke a fight—Dashvara guessed it. Fortunately, his comrade pulled at his sleeve, whispered something to him, and they both sat down back on their bench. Fine. Dashvara dragged Aligra out of the tavern, toward the lodging staircase. Only then did he let go of her. He felt frustrated, and he did not quite understand why.

“I see you feel better,” Fayrah observed while they were climbing the stairs.

“Quite better, yes,” Dashvara replied. His sister was obviously shocked by his manners. But so what? If he had treated Aligra like an unruly child, it was simply because she did act like one. They entered the room, he shut the door, and he gazed at the three of them, wondering what the devil he was going to do with them. They needed money to stay in Dazbon. But how to earn it?

“Ali, what’s wrong?” Lessi asked with a tormented expression.

Aligra was crying silently. Dashvara breathed out loudly. That’s all they needed.

While Fayrah and Lessi were trying to comfort their friend, he went to the window and peered out. It was looking out over the south. They were just above the canal, and at its end, between the house walls, he discerned something that seemed to be… Yes. A huge ship with white sails upon an enormous amount of water. The Pilgrim Ocean.

“I want to go back home,” Aligra was sobbing.

Dashvara felt sad, and then he turned. Abruptly, he regretted having been so tough on her.

“We all wish to go back,” he said gently. Coming back from the window, he sat down on the only chair in the room, and he drew it closer to the bed where the three girls were sitting. “Listen. Listen to me, you three. When the prisoners of the caravan are freed, we will be more. We won’t be like before, that’s impossible, but—”

“You’re a traitor, a coward, and a liar!” Aligra cut him off, her eyes full of glittering tears. She stood up, trembling. “You won’t free the prisoners, and I know it. You will find an excuse not to do it. Go away.”

“Aligra!” Fayrah was startled. “You can’t blame him for having survived. We all fled.”

“He’s the firstborn son,” Aligra replied sharply.

“Aw, come on! The firstborn… Here we go again,” Dashvara snorted, standing up too. “Don’t try my patience: there are limits to it. I already told you I didn’t flee willingly. My father asked me to flee. And I did it,” he affirmed while the three girls were staring at him with wide-open eyes. There was a silent gap, and Dashvara calmed down. “Is Rowyn the one who paid for the room?”

Fayrah nodded.

“He paid for three nights,” she answered.

Dashvara pondered. Did those three nights have some connection with the plan Rowyn was intending to execute? Perhaps he had thought they would stay there until the prisoners got free… That would mean that they wouldn’t move into action tonight. Maybe. Or maybe not. He shook his head slightly, and another question rather disturbing struck him.

What would the republican have done with the Xalyas if I had died?

He didn’t know Rowyn enough to guess it, but his instinct told him he would not have left them alone. Or at least not voluntarily.

He looked intently at the faces of the three Xalyas and finally fastened his gaze on Fayrah.

“Sister… can I rely on you not to go down to the tavern again? I don’t want anything bad to happen to you three.”

Fayrah shook her head.

“Nothing bad will happen to us, Dash. We will stay here, but stop treating me as if I were a child.” Dashvara made a face, and she added worriedly: “Are you going to go out?”

“I’m going to try to find out where the Pearl Brotherhood resides,” Dashvara explained.

“Good idea,” Fayrah approved. “We want to help too, eh, Lessi?”

Lessi nodded vigorously. Dashvara opened his mouth, but Aligra spoke first, in an oracle-like voice.

“A steppe lord understands the usefulness of delegating tasks.”

The Xalya girl had recovered her calm, and her eyes regained that lunatic and abstracted aspect. Why, among all the ten Xalyas he had saved, Aligra had to stay with his sister? Dashvara sighed, forcing himself to be patient, and he tried to think quickly.

“All right. If you really want me to delegate, I will delegate. Stay here, and if Rowyn or Azune comes while I’m out, tell them that I have stopped by here and…”

Dashvara knew with almost sheer certainty that no Pearl Brother would come by the inn this afternoon, but that, at least, would keep the Xalyas busy and compel them to stay in the room.

“And?” Fayrah encouraged him, intrigued.

Dashvara racked his brains, trying to come up with a convincing task.

“And tell them that I have no intention to stand here twiddling my thumbs while they put in motion their plan of rescue. Understood?”

He clearly perceived a glint in Aligra’s eyes, but he wasn’t able to interpret it. Anyway, her look would have discomfited even a blind man. He hummed.

“Do you have money to order dinner?”

Fayrah and Lessi shook their heads. Dashvara frowned. That, perhaps, meant that Rowyn planned to come back, right? Unless it didn’t occur to him that the Xalyas could go hungry too.

“I’ll come back for dinner,” he concluded.

He left them there. In the inn, he noticed that the two drunks were going on quaffing drinks, this time with two republican young women who seemed to have a wonderful time. He went out into the street with relief.

Outside, a breeze had risen, carrying an air heavy with salt. Dashvara inhaled, and the first thing he did was head south, driven by a sudden desire: he wanted to see the sea. He smiled to himself. Makarva, that good Makarva, had always wished to see the sea. The Xalya warrior, who hated reading, had read all the books dealing with the ocean. According to him, the sailors were steppemen on the sea, and they rode on wooden dragons with white wings. Dashvara picked up the pace when he felt he was close to his goal. The houses, from two to four floors, drifted along the alleys. And, abruptly, there was nothing but water.

For a moment, Dashvara remained motionless in front of that flat, dark blue desert. Even if he had tried hard to imagine it, he wouldn’t have been able to. He was attempting to recall what Makarva had told him about the ocean, when a voice called out:

“Look out!”

Someone tugged at his arm. Dashvara leaped backwards, and avoided just in time the rushing wheels of a carriage.

“Look where you’re going, you fool!” shouted the old man who had saved him, raising his fist at the cart.

“Shut up, old codger!” the driver replied without even taking a look backwards.

Dashvara furrowed his brow, and he would have liked to give a good punishment to that boor; however, his gratitude came first.

“Thanks, old man. I owe you one.”

The old man wore a simple dress, and he stunk of fish.

“You’re welcome. Are you a foreigner?”

“I am,” Dashvara affirmed. “Is it that obvious?”

“You don’t look in your element walking along the street,” the old man smiled. “As you say that you owe me one, if you want, you may help me carry one of these sacks.”

Dashvara saw the two large sacks, and he guessed that the old man had dropped them onto the ground before tugging him backwards.

“Sure. I hope nothing has been broken,” he said, concerned.

The old man rolled his eyes.

“As much as a rope can be broken.”

Dashvara raised an eyebrow, curious, and he lifted both sacks. They were quite heavy, but he was able to carry them.

“And what do you do with all that rope?”

“I make nets. Are you sure you can carry the two sacks?”

“Yes, don’t worry, old man. And what do you do with the nets?”

The old man had begun to walk along the street skirting the coast, trying to stay in the shade of the houses to avoid the sun.

“Want to know what I do with them, foreigner? With the fishing nets, you catch fishes, logically.”

Dashvara looked back at the sea. Of course, there, in the bottom, there were fishes, and you had to get them out somehow to eat them.

The apartment wasn’t very far, and it was fortunately on the first floor. An old woman, surely his wife, greeted them with affability.

“Being helped from time to time is really welcome,” the old man said as Dashvara put the sacks down in the right place. “Tell me, good man, what brings you to Dazbon? If we can guide you, it will be a pleasure.”

“Oh.” Dashvara vacillated. “Well, actually, I’m looking for the Pearl Brotherhood’s place.”

The old couple looked questioningly at each other.

“The Pearl Brotherhood?” the old man echoed.

“I’ve never heard of it,” the woman admitted.

“Me neither,” her husband confessed. “I’m sorry, good man. There are loads of brotherhoods in Dazbon.”

Dashvara was unable to conceal his disappointment. Seemingly, the Pearl Brotherhood wasn’t very well-known.

“It doesn’t matter,” he assured. “I’ll find it anyway.”

“You should ask Shaf, the innkeeper of the White Coin. It’s at the end of the street. He has been in a ten of brotherhoods before joining the Smuggling Brotherhood.”

“The Smuggling Brotherhood?” Dashvara echoed, surprised. As far as he knew, smuggling was an illegal practice in the Republic.

“Their members fight against the abusive taxes, and all that stuff,” the old man explained, with a funny face. “His name is Shaf,” he repeated.

Dashvara thanked him, and a moment later, he arrived at the tavern. He had the nasty feeling that the man known as Shaf wouldn’t be able to help him, and actually, he wasn’t: the man, pretty tall and friendly-looking, assured him he had never heard of the Pearl Brotherhood, just briefly, if at all—he said—but he ignored where its headquarters were.

He resumed his wandering in Dazbon, more and more convinced that this city was maze-like not only by its alleys and canals but also by its organization. The sun was falling, the air was a bit cooler, and Dashvara’s heart cheered up. That walk was wonderful after sleeping and bleeding for so many days.

For a long moment, he completely forgot about the Brotherhood, and he entertained himself watching the people go by. He smiled at seeing some children playing in a park with strange toys; he witnessed a quarrel between two men, soon broken up by a militiaman. Shortly after, he entered a kind of temple, and he was awed by the statues. Most of them represented dragons, and Dashvara regretted not having paid more attention to the shaard’s religious lessons. When he was heading to the Stairs, the sky was already darkening, and he decided to turn back. Only then he thought about the Pearl Brotherhood.

It’s quite obvious you’re in a hurry to save your people, my steppe lord, he muttered mentally. Sighing, he began to retrace his steps, he got lost, went into a dark alley, emerged into an avenue, and then stopped, yielding to the facts: he was completely lost. Full of hope, he searched in the distance for the Great Cascade; he couldn’t see it. And yet, as far as I know, I must be in the Dragon District, he told himself. It was the lower district of the city, where all the canals were. Technically, he wasn’t too far from the Golden Dragon.

He snorted. Orienting himself in a maze of houses wasn’t exactly his strong point. Besides, after all that hot, sunny day, clouds were covering the sky, hiding the stars. A light mist began to spread across the streets.

He asked a woman, who indicated a direction with a sullen look. He resumed his walk. At last, he came to a narrow canal with a bridge that looked familiar to him. He was trying to determine the north and the south when he heard a noise behind him, and he instinctively pushed himself aside. A man fell face down onto the paved street, a few inches away from him. As if he had been hurled. Or as if he had thrown himself forward. In fact, if Dashvara hadn’t stepped aside, he would have crashed into him. With some suspicion, he asked:

“Are you all right?”

The stranger, a boy who must be Hadriks’s age, cursed under his breath and regained his feet, threatening:

“Your purse or your life!”

He paused as if noticing some detail. He glanced down at the floor and picked up his dagger so awkwardly that Dashvara got the temptation to offer him his help. What a knucklehead. Dashvara looked at him for a while. The boy got unnerved, but he dangled his weapon in front of him.

“I said: your purse or your life,” he repeated. At least he spoke firmly.

Dashvara sighed.

“If I got your expression well, you’re a thief, aren’t you? Well, you’d better spend your time doing something more useful.”

Apparently, the young republican had not expected to strike up a conversation. Dashvara did not let him enough time to repeat his refrain: he disarmed him with a quick hit on the wrist, stamped on the dagger with his boot, and went on:

“But do realize that there’s a big difference between stealing and killing. If stealing without imperative need is shameful, killing a stranger is despicable. You kill a criminal because, since he has violated his internal law, no dignity binds him to life. But what about a perfect stranger? How can you threaten the life of a stranger? Don’t you have any dignity? Don’t you have a will of your own to get what you need without robbing the others? You have two arms, two legs, and what is more important, a head. With all this, I’m sure you can do better things than annoying the passersby.”

Dashvara hardly repressed a guffaw when he saw the boy opening and shutting his mouth. That thief didn’t seem to have much experience in his job. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have let him finish his lecture.

Suddenly, behind him, there were four claps. Dashvara turned around, and he discerned a silhouette sliding out from the shadows, hidden behind a veil. Two eyes sparkled.

“A stupendous speech,” the man appreciated. His voice didn’t exactly fill Dashvara with confidence. “Let me tell you, little man, that you are the worst apprentice I’ve ever had. Move away,” he ordered. The boy took some paces backwards, and as if some gust had propelled him, he left in a hurry through another alley. “Philosopher,” said then the one who, apparently, was the master of that incompetent fool. “Don’t even think all the members of our Brotherhood are like him, mm? We don’t steal anything from the common townsfolk. That was only a special exercise for that hopeless case. Alas, the boy doesn’t assimilate my advice very well: he has chosen the worst possible victim. I bet you don’t have in your pockets more than a few dettas. Am I right?”

Dashvara was eyeing him with a frowning face. That man was a thief, and in his lands, the thieves were whipped.

“Good,” the hidden man went on as he saw that Dashvara did not answer. “Let us forget what happened here. Can I recover my dagger?”

Dashvara was still stamping it with his boot. His lips stretched into a wry smile.

“You can. Just try it.”

The thief kept silent for some seconds. His position wasn’t showing any trouble. What am I doing? Dashvara suddenly asked himself. Is it me or now am I really trying to educate the Dazbonish people?

“I get the impression that you have no idea who you are talking to, do you?” the thief whispered. “You don’t want to be my enemy. They call me Cobra. You have certainly heard of me.”

Obviously, Dashvara had never heard of him. He almost burst into laughter at hearing such pompous words. He was going to answer something about the certainties and the uncertainties when a sound of footsteps made them both turn. The thief hissed.

“A guard. Hand me over the dagger, you,” he urged him. “He can’t see it.”

Dashvara raised an eyebrow. He remembered he had read something about weapons licenses in the book The Most Illustrious City of Dazbon. It seemed that the thief had no such a license. Neither do you, remember? Dashvara hesitated. The footsteps were approaching, and the thief wiggled. With a deft jump, he hid again in the shadows of the nearest doorstep. Just in time for him: the figure of the guard crossed one of the bridges and appeared well into view. He wore a sword at his belt.

“Don’t be such a joker,” Cobra whispered from his hiding place. “If he sees it, you will get yourself into a fine mess. And if you betray me, you’re dead.”

Dashvara nearly doubted out loud about the veracity of that last statement, but then he thought better of it, and he kicked the dagger away. He threw it into the canal. There was a splash of water. Great, he thought with satisfaction. Alarmed by the noise, the guard picked up the pace. He didn’t wear, on his chest, the urban militia’s badge with the black hand, Dashvara noticed. Instead, he had a red cross marked on his forehead. Who knew what that meant.

“Have you dropped something, citizen?” Suspicion vibrated in his voice.

“Dropped? Oh, no. It was a stone,” Dashvara simply answered.

The guard looked at him up and down and then muttered sternly:

“These streets aren’t very safe at night, citizen. You should go back home. May the Dragon protect you.”

“Likewise,” Dashvara responded, and he wondered why on earth he didn’t ask him to arrest the thief. Perhaps because the guard looked even less sympathetic than Cobra. Besides, he had no proof, and he suspected that his word wasn’t worth a sand grain in a city like Dazbon.

As soon as the guard rounded a corner, Dashvara began to move away. Cobra protested:

“Hey! Did you throw the dagger into the water?”

“So it seems.”

“But do you even realize how expensive it was?”

Dashvara did not answer.

“No, no, no,” the thief added, blocking his way. “You won’t leave just like that. You’re going to go down there and get it back to me. Or do you think you can get away with it that easily?”

Dashvara stared at him, sincerely surprised.

“Do you really want me to go and search for your dagger?”

“It’s not my dagger. But it’s not the boy’s either, so get moving, young man. The tide is low. I’m sure it’s not so hard.”

Dashvara chuckled sarcastically. That exchange was getting quite amusing. He insisted:

“Wait a minute. Do you really want me to get into the canal to recover your damned dagger? Dream on, snake. At the very most, if you want, I can cover your back while you try to get it. The tide is low, as you said. I’m sure it’s not so—”

He swallowed his words when the thief suddenly drew two daggers out of nowhere. Dashvara cursed himself, realizing that he was cornered with the canal behind him. He knew how to fight in the steppe, not in a city full of holes.

“If you want me to help you go down, just ask,” Cobra murmured in a mild voice.

Dashvara muttered under his breath. The bloody bastard pointed out:

“There’s a ladder on the other side of the bridge.”

He sort of guided him to the said ladder, crossing the small bridge, and once there, Dashvara ground his teeth.

“How the hell can you expect me to see anything in that darkness?”

The thief didn’t respond at once. Then he decided:

“I’m going with you.”

Dashvara began going down the ladder. He quickly reached the bottom. As Cobra had said, the tide was low, and there was a narrow stone edge barely covered by a few inches of water. But, even so, the rest of the canal had to be three feet deep, if not more. And, of course, the water stunk.

When Cobra landed on the narrow edge, Dashvara considered the possibility of throwing him into the water, but he changed his mind when he saw this one drawing out his daggers again. He did not doubt that this man, unlike his apprentice, knew how to wield them properly. He turned his eyes to the dark water, but he soon raised them again when a sudden flash of lightning ripped the sky. Seconds later, an endless thunder enshrouded the whole Dazbon. Cobra laughed softly.

“Do the storms frighten you?”

Dashvara realized he had remained pale and immobile like a marble statue. He didn’t respond.

“Jump in,” Cobra ordered. “Come on, the water will only reach your waist.”

Dashvara looked daggers at him before getting into the middle of the canal. The water was cold even after the hot day. And it reached his waist, as the thief had guessed. Which was lucky, because if he had been beyond his depth Dashvara wouldn’t have been able to affirm that he would have managed to float: he had never had the occasion to test it.

“Haven’t you thought that, after getting the dagger, I could try to take revenge?” he asked, hardly repressing his irritation.

Cobra’s white teeth appeared in the darkness.

“Stop talking, philosopher, and find it. If you don’t, I will light the water with my lantern.”

Dashvara cast him a skeptical look. His lantern? Of course! he told himself, suddenly thinking about a detail. The lantern. In the water, he drew Zaadma’s light disk and rubbed it. No light appeared. Naturally: the water was cold.

“What the hell are you doing?” Cobra mumbled impatiently. “If you don’t put your head in at once—”

Dashvara didn’t hear his threat: he plunged—or rather he squatted—into the water. Even if an Akinoa army had been in front of him, he couldn’t have even noticed it. He could see nothing. He drew the disk again and rubbed it frantically. It almost slipped from his hands, and he hastened to shove it back into his pocket. He closed his eyes. The bottom, of stone, was slippery. At some moment, his hand felt something even colder. The dagger? No. It was a metal hoop firmly fastened to the ground. His lungs were starting to cry for air. Dashvara pushed his head out of the water and gulped for air before glancing around.

It was raining now, he noted. And the sky was still thundering.

“Well?” Cobra inquired.

Dashvara only replied:

“Where’s that lantern?”

Cobra looked annoyed. He tucked one of his daggers under his cloak and drew a small disk. Dashvara widened his eyes. It was just like Zaadma’s. The thief knuckled it vigorously, and the object illuminated the waters. Dashvara took a look toward the bottom of the canal. The raindrops clouded the light rays, but still, between seeing a bit and seeing nothing, there was a notable difference.

“And you call this a lantern?” Dashvara asked.

“A thief lantern,” Cobra replied. “And now get back into the water.”

Dashvara almost choked on his words. Only then he began to understand why Aydin had gotten so angry. Those kinds of lanterns were probably illegal.

He plunged again, and this time, he found the dagger quite easily while Cobra was lighting his way. He had just managed to grasp the hilt when the light vanished. Dashvara frowned and came up to the surface.

“What the hell—?”

He clenched his teeth. Several men were walking along the canal. Dashvara kept immobile, hoping that, with the rain and the thunder rolls, they hadn’t heard him. In any case, those people seemed to be in a hurry. Soon, they went out of view.

“Did you find it?” Cobra asked straightaway.

Why do you care so much about that dagger? Dashvara thought, intrigued. The thief had said it wasn’t his. Maybe he had borrowed it from some friend?

He hitched himself up onto the narrow edge: his boots weighed a ton. A chill ran through his body.

“I’ll give it to you when we’re up,” he said, dripping and splashing water.

Cobra swore, and for an instant, Dashvara believed he was going to thrust at him, but then he only said:

“As you want.”

He climbed first, and Dashvara followed him after emptying his boots. Once up, he jumped agilely on the pavement, wary of any possible attack; but Cobra was busier glancing around.

“The dagger,” he insisted.

Dashvara threw it to his feet.

“There you are, you snake.”

He turned his back on him, and pricking up his ears, he walked away, his boots squeaking with water. He heard Cobra picking up the weapon. And he heard him moving closer. What did that man want now from him?

“Hey, boy.”

Dashvara whirled around and saw, astonished, that Cobra was smiling and extending his hand.

“Thank you.”

His veil had slipped at some moment, baring his human face. Dashvara weighed him up with suspicion.

“I don’t shake hands with thieves,” he replied.

An amused glint flashed in Cobra’s eyes.

“Even if his hands are full of money?”

Dashvara looked at his stretched hand and noticed the three coins. Cobra clarified:

“A dinar for your nice speech, another one for the rescued dagger, and another one for your name.”

Dashvara snorted.

“My actions have no price. Nor my speeches. As for my name, I’m not sure you want to know it.”

Cobra rolled his eyes.

“Philosophical even when it comes to the purse, huh? So you refuse my money?”

Swallowing his dignity, Dashvara extended his hand.

“I’ve never said I refused it: I’ve only said your compensation leaves much to be desired.”

Cobra laughed and shoved the three coins into his hand.

“Take what I give you, and be thankful, Philosopher. And now clear off.”

Dashvara went away, hoping not to cross paths with that snake ever again. When he glanced at his hand, he realized it had only two coins. He raised his eyes to the heavens. Of course: he hadn’t given him his name.

* * *

“You needed to take a bath anyway,” Fayrah opined, smiling.

Dashvara had no sooner told the Xalyas about his first adventures in Dazbon than Lessi and Fayrah had laughed at him boisterously. He had even got a smile from Aligra. At least they looked a bit more cheerful, Dashvara thought happily.

He got out of the bathtub and dressed in one of the golden tunics the Xalyas had used while being prisoners. It was tight on him, but he still could put it on. If he remembered well, it was the first time in many years he was using a bathtub. In the Dungeon of Xalya, they rarely wasted the water like that. He sat down on one of the beds and dried his hair with a towel. That room was supposed to be for three people, but he had given one of the dinars to the innkeeper, and this one had changed his mind and gently set a straw mattress in a corner. By the way, he told himself. Where’s my bag with the rope, Bashak’s figurine, and my bar? Dashvara’s eyes swept around. When he saw it, he found it strange that it was so plump.

“What’s with my bag?” he asked, stretching a hand to grasp it.

Fayrah stifled a cry.

“Dash! Wait! Don’t open it. I’ve not explained the thing to you yet.”

Dashvara furrowed his brow.

“Explained what?”

“Explained… the contents.” His sister licked her lips nervously. “You see… When I went to get your bag, before leaving Rocavita, I met… I met him.”

“Whom?”

“I met” —she looked meaningfully at the bag— “him. And he explained everything to me,” she continued as Dashvara went ghastly pale. Was she talking about the shadow? He looked at the bag fixedly. “He said to me that he had given you a remedy and that it didn’t work well. He said that he feels terribly ashamed and that he wants to make amends. And he also said that you asked him not to abandon you. Eh, didn’t he say so, Lessi?”

Lessi nodded. With a pounding heart, Dashvara gasped.

“Whaaat? I never ever asked him anything like that.” Abruptly, he lunged at the bag and opened it. “Get out of there, you sneaky shadow.”

The bag shook. Inside, everything was dark.

‘I’m not a sneaky shadow,’ Tahisran’s voice sounded in his mind. ‘I haven’t dreamed it. I swear you said, ‘don’t forsake me’.’

Dashvara thought back, and when he recalled, he let out an exasperated growl.

“I said it, but I didn’t say it to you but to the Eternal Bird. Are you identifying yourself with the Eternal Bird, shadow?”

“His name isn’t ‘shadow’,” Lessi opportunely intervened. “His name is Tahisran.”

Dashvara snorted, and he sat back on the bed just when the shadow was peeping his head out of the bag.

‘So you forgive me?’ he asked shyly. Dashvara stared at him for some seconds.

“Do you really care whether or not I forgive you?” he mumbled. “I must admit that seeing you here now that my head goes a little better comforts me a bit: at least I know I’m not going crazy. You really exist.”

‘Of course I do!’ Tahisran gasped, appearing completely. ‘Like I were some weird being!’

Dashvara looked at the three Xalya girls. Their gazes were fastened on the shadow in awe and surprise. If they could see and hear it too, that meant he wasn’t going mad. He sighed, somewhat relieved. There was nothing worse than questioning your own good sense.

“Do you want to have dinner?” he asked suddenly.

Fayrah looked as if she was jarred out of some dream.

“What say?”

“I said, do you want to have dinner? I have a dinar left. With that, perhaps we’ll be able to pay for two portions, that if the prices aren’t higher than in Rocavita.”

No one appeared to have much appetite, but Dashvara was starving. He stood up.

“I’ll bring the dinner here.”

The tavern was quieter than in the afternoon, but it was still crowded. The rain was drumming against the window panes, and the innkeeper, who seemed to be an incurable talker, was chatting with some women customers. Anyhow, Dashvara had guessed that the fast way to order a meal wasn’t to talk to the innkeeper but to a lively boy who was continuously crossing the kitchen door. One-half hour later, he was back in the room with a steaming tray full of fan-shaped, stuffed pastries called “pasties”.

“Careful,” he warned the Xalyas. “They probably contain pepper.”

He tasted, and yes, they did. However, he mustered up his courage, because he was much too hungry. In practice, he ate half of the dinner, and when Fayrah handed him the very last pasty, he hesitated.

“Are you sure you don’t want it?”

An amused smile appeared on his sister’s face.

“Totally sure, brother.”

Dashvara cast a glance at the shadow, which was sitting formally on the other bed.

“Don’t the shadows feel hungry?” he asked.

Tahisran jerked up as if waking up to reality.

‘No. I have not felt any taste for many, many years.’

That must be quite disconcerting, Dashvara thought with a shiver.

“Guess what, this doesn’t surprise me at all,” he still replied. “Only a shadow with bad taste can poison a person who’s already sick.”

Then, he thought that he had murdered a sick man himself, and he regretted having opened his mouth. He opened it again for something more useful: he ate the last pasty.

“You’re too harsh with him, Dash,” Fayrah complained. Lessi was frowning—Dashvara didn’t know exactly whether to show her own displeasure or Fayrah’s; Zorvun’s daughter had the bad habit of adopting all his sister’s feelings as hers.

Dashvara swallowed down.

“Harsh with a shadow, huh?”

“He has feelings. I assure you he never meant to poison you—”

“That’s what he says.”

“Dash,” Fayrah gasped, exasperated. “He’s lovely! He has a noble spirit. You can’t blame him just because you got the idea he’s guilty.”

The shadow had straightened up a bit as if cheered up by Fayrah’s flattering words. Dashvara nodded.

“Okay, okay. I have nothing against him,” he lied.

Fayrah looked at him, skeptical, and Lessi copied her. That pair of friends knew how to try one’s patience, Dashvara sighed.

“What?” he mumbled.

“Make peace,” Fayrah demanded.

Dashvara let out a guffaw.

“Make my peace with—?” He fell silent under his sister’s glowering glare. Hell, what a sister he had, he thought. “All right. If he is capable of shaking hands with me, I’ll shake his hand and I’ll forgive his murder attempt.”

He stood up, smiled at the shadow, and offered his hand. Tahisran shook it. Dashvara felt a cold, very cold tingle. He flinched and tottered back.

“Eternal B-Bird,” he stammered. “He has touched me!”

‘Did you believe I was only air?’ Tahisran sighed patiently.

Dashvara sat down on the other bed in dismay. At that very instant, someone knocked at the door. Fayrah went to open.

“It’s Azune!”

As soon as the half-elf entered, Dashvara took a glance at her before turning his eyes back where the shadow had disappeared.

“A relapse?” Azune asked. Her voice sounded colder than concerned.

Dashvara shook his head and got up.

“Not at all. I’m perfectly fine.”

The Pearl Brother examined him for some seconds.

“I was told about what happened at Aydin’s house. Now you have covered me in glory. I had no intention to get a troublemaker into the house of a friend.”

“And I didn’t mean to cause any trouble, really,” Dashvara assured. “Look. It’s all a misunderstanding. When I gave the thief lantern to the boy, I didn’t know what it was. That thief lantern belongs to a… woman,” he concluded. He certainly wasn’t going to involve Zaadma in all this, was he?

Azune nodded.

“Yes. I’ve been informed. A certain Zaadma, isn’t she? Okay, so, if this thief lantern really belongs to her, that means she’s a member of the Dream Brotherhood, so you owe her nothing: she’s a thief. Can I see the magara?”

Dashvara showed it while saying kind of acidly:

“She was a thief, she did say it to me. But she isn’t anymore.”

“Oh, really?” Azune replied while inspecting the object. “A thief of the Dream Brotherhood is a thief forever. You shouldn’t go outside with that. I’ll keep it.”

“No way,” Dashvara sprung. “It’s not yours. Zaadma gave it to me to help me cross the catacombs of Rocavita. Without it, I would be still wandering among the dead, and they would be still prisoners,” he affirmed, pointing at the Xalyas with his thumb.

Azune raised an eyebrow.

“Ahem. And tell me, how is it that now you know what the magara is when you didn’t at the beginning of the afternoon? For the Divinity’s sake! Tell me you didn’t show it to anyone, did you?”

Dashvara shook his head, exasperated, and he extended his hand to snatch the disk back.

“I didn’t. I’ve just found someone who had one, and he told me what it was.”

Azune stared at him, bewildered, and then Dashvara told her about his encounter with Cobra as well as his damp yet interesting walk in the canal. When he finished, the half-elf briefly covered her mouth with her hand to conceal a smile.

“I understand now why you changed into a tunic. That’s exactly what I was saying to Rowyn—the things that happen to you are stranger than Bramanil’s adventures. First, they accuse you of stealing the Dragon of Spring, then you get an unbalance in your inner energies, and now you meet one of the most famous thieves in all Dazbon. Congratulations, steppeman. At this rate, you’ll surely end up in the bottom of a canal before the end of the week.”

“By the way,” Dashvara said, ignoring her teasing tone. “I’d like to talk to you about my people. I’d like to inform you that I’m not going to let you work without me. And I have a very good reason for it.”

Azune’s face expressed boredom.

“I already told you it’s impossible. The plans are ready, and as soon as we put them in motion, things will run together, and your people will be freed.” She sighed as if yielding to Dashvara’s patient look. “What’s your very good reason?”

“The Xalyas won’t be willing to follow your instructions if I’m not here to tell them to trust you.”

The reason was simple but might be right. In fact, depending on which Xalyas had been imprisoned, the Pearl Brothers were likely to have a hard time trying to get their attention.

“Damned demons, steppeman.” Azune looked in distaste. “I think we’re not going the same directions. In any case, we’ll consider the matter. And tomorrow, when Rowyn comes to take you to the Supreme’s house, we’ll tell you our point of view about the subject, does it work for you?”

Dashvara nodded.

“Excellent.”

“Good. I see you’ve already eaten dinner,” the half-elf noticed. “Do you have some money?” The Xalyas shook their heads, except for Aligra, whose gaze was fastened on her like a soothsayer’s. Azune drew out some coins and put five dinars onto Fayrah’s palm. “Well. Don’t move from this room before Rowyn arrives, okay? And, particularly, see that he doesn’t move,” she emphasized teasingly. “He would be capable of making a mess all over Dazbon.”

Dashvara raised his eyes to the heavens. He nodded to her, and before she left, he sputtered:

“If you talk with Aydin, could you tell him that I’m ashamed and that, if he has any idea about how I can make amends, he just has to say it to me?”

The half-elf’s brown eyes smiled.

“I sure will.”

She left, and Dashvara remained sitting on the bed, drumming with his hands thoughtfully. Fayrah and Lessi were commenting something about the five dinars, and Aligra had lain down on her own bed, her gaze fixed on the ceiling.

“Tahisran,” Dashvara whispered.

The shadow slipped out under the bed, looking curious.

‘Yes?’

“Do you still want to make amends to get my forgiveness?”

The shadow smiled.

‘Now, I believed you had already forgiven me.’

Dashvara rolled his eyes.

“Let me rephrase it: do you want to do me a favor so that I forgive you totally?”

Tahisran’s smile widened.

‘Maybe. What is it about?’

The Xalya girls had fallen silent and were now paying attention to the conversation with interest. Dashvara explained:

“Follow Azune and tell me where she goes.”

‘But she’s already gone,’ he objected.

“She’s just gone—she probably hasn’t even left the inn yet. If you hurry, you can catch her.”

The shadow wavered.

‘Are you asking me to spy on a person?’

Never in his life would Dashvara have imagined that a shadow could have a code of conduct too.

“I’m asking you to follow her. I only want to make sure the Pearl Brotherhood is not going to move into action without me. Let me remind you that the objective is to free innocent people.”

That seemed to encourage the shadow, who nodded outright.

‘Count on me, then, Dash.’

Tahisran crossed the room, he opened the door, and after waving a night hand at him, he left. For an instant, Dashvara wondered whether he would come back one day. Then he had the certainty that he would.

After all, I’ve asked him not to leave me, right? He smiled, shaking his head.

21 The Supreme

That night, he slept like an unquiet cat. At least at the beginning, because after Tahisran came back and launched into a long speech about where Azune had gone, he managed to cast himself into a more peaceful sleep. He didn’t even bother trying to remember the details: after tossing and turning in his straw mattress, the only thing he wanted to do was to be dead to the world for some hours. He dreamed that he was sitting on a hill, talking alone with Lusombra. The dream was pleasant, the black horse was smiling, and Dashvara felt free and happy. Everything was wonderful. Thus, when he began to hear knocks at the door, Dashvara covered himself with the cushion and growled with ill humor. He got to sleep some seconds more, only to wake up again, shaken by a merciless hand.

“Get up, steppeman!” Rowyn’s voice called out.

“I’m already awake,” Dashvara muttered, not even opening his eyes. It was too cruel. He wished he could punch the republican so he could continue talking with Lusombra, but the room was seething with noise. Lessi was laughing. Fayrah was chattering. Dashvara growled again, and once more, Rowyn shook him.

“All right already! I’m awake,” he sighed, sitting up.

Rowyn grinned.

“That’s the fourth time you repeat it. I hope for you that this time it’s true, because, if not, I was figuring on eating your doughnuts.”

Dashvara’s eyes suddenly widened.

“What? Doughnuts?”

Rowyn laughed and patted his shoulder before standing up.

“I should have started with that,” the kampraw commented to himself.

The doughnuts were delicious. Dashvara was already with the third one when he truly started to wake up.

“Azune has told me about your adventures yesterday,” the Pearl Brother communicated to him cheerfully, his arms folded behind his head. “You look just terrible with this tunic, you know?”

Chewing on, Dashvara lowered his gaze to the tight tunic. Rowyn was right.

“The other clothes are drying,” he only replied.

“That’s why I brought more with me.”

Dashvara observed the kampraw fixedly while this one was taking out a tunic and some pants from his bag. He bit his lips thoughtfully.

“Are you aware that I have no money right now to pay you for all these favors?”

Rowyn snorted.

“You won’t pay me with money.”

“So you admit you aren’t helping me selflessly?” Dashvara ventured.

Rowyn’s face darkened.

“Does it seem so strange to you that someone does something for you selflessly?”

Dashvara didn’t answer at once.

“No,” he said finally. “Not if that someone is a Xalya. But the foreigners I used to know, that is, the bandits and that kind of people, never do anything selflessly. I apologize if I offended you.”

Rowyn drummed his fingers on his forehead as if concealing a smile.

“You didn’t offend me, steppeman. I am a tolerant man. And now get dressed and let’s go to see the Supreme.”

“Can we go too?” Fayrah asked excitedly.

Dashvara gave her a piercing gaze.

“No.”

* * *

The headquarters of the Pearl Brotherhood was situated in a house that didn’t clash at all with the other ones. Located in the Dragon District—and, from what Rowyn said, not very far from the Court—its front was half-timbered with red lumbers, and its door was richly adorned. The same as most of them, actually.

Rowyn and Dashvara left the morning warm heat behind, and they went into a room with a long table set in the middle. There were more than twenty seats there, Dashvara evaluated. According to Rowyn, the Brotherhood hadn’t so many members.

“How many are you in all in the Brotherhood?” he asked out loud.

Rowyn shook his head, saying nothing, and Dashvara sighed.

“Is that a secret too?”

Rowyn smiled.

“Somehow,” he admitted. He pointed to a door at the back of the room. “Sheroda, the Supreme, is still in a meeting, but when this door opens, we will be able to go in. Sit down wherever you like.”

Dashvara glanced around, and as nothing drew his attention, he sat down.

“How many members are involved in that plan for wiping out the slavers?”

Rowyn swallowed saliva.

“We are not going to wipe out anybo—” He fell silent. “Please, steppeman, don’t ask me tricky questions.”

His answer struck Dashvara like a punch.

“You said you’re not going to wipe out the slavers? But didn’t you mean to put an end to them?”

Rowyn glimpsed at the closed door before answering:

“Put an end, yes. But through legal means.” He paused. “We aren’t warriors, steppeman. I am an investigator. I search for proofs, and I give them to the Supreme. And then, she decides what to do with them.”

Dashvara crossed his arms, pondering on his words.

“You mean… the city warriors themselves will take care to do away with the slavers?”

“They will arrest them and condemn them,” Rowyn confirmed.

“On the orders of the Court?”

“Yes, indeed. The urban cohorts will take care of all that. If it all turns out well, the arrest will work out without spilling even a drop of blood.”

Dashvara could not feel as optimistic as Rowyn.

“I suppose that attacking a Diumcilian man isn’t so difficult for the Tribunal of Dazbon, but what about the Faerecio?”

Rowyn stiffened.

“The—” He gulped. “Those… oh, er, well.”

Dashvara guessed the truth.

“Those won’t be punished, huh? Yeah. They are a patrician family. How could anyone attack them even though their Eternal Bird has flown away where the wind carried its feather?”

Rowyn had blushed, but he looked at him curiously when he heard the rhetorical question.

“What is the Eternal Bird?”

Dashvara suspected that Rowyn’s intention was to change the subject; all the same, he briefly explained to him what the Eternal Bird was.

“Dignity, trust, and fraternity,” Rowyn echoed, absorbed. “I like it.”

“Few people in their right mind do not like it,” Dashvara smiled.

Rowyn made as if to speak when, suddenly, the closed door opened, and a red-haired human in an orange tunic appeared, standing inside the doorway—his face was ashen, and there was a mad glint in his eyes. He grinned, baring all his teeth; two of them were of gold.

“Aha, lo and behold! The famous big mystery,” he laughed, crossing the door. His laugh was hoarse. Dashvara’s ears ground only at hearing it. He estimated his age. He was relatively young. Though his extravagant composure was so natural that Dashvara could have sworn he had spent fifty years improving it.

“Dashvara, may I introduce you to Axef,” Rowyn said. “The disintegrator. Axef, this is Dashvara of Xalya.”

“Oh, of course! Dashvara of Xalya, son of Pifpan and Tapia of Xalya, the mighty daft steppeman, prince of the fans, and fighter of—”

“Axef!” Rowyn thundered, reddened.

Before the Duke’s intervention, Dashvara would have gladly smashed that wizard’s face in. And after it, he would too. But he remembered he was in someone else’s house.

“—And fighter of the ring,” Axef concluded, looking very decent. “Or was it, ‘fighter of the limp’? Fighter of the bliss? I can’t recall. I don’t lie. Unless I lie because I don’t recall…”

“Don’t pay attention to him, Dash. He’s a jerk.”

Axef did not seem to take offense. He just smiled mockingly and tucked his hands into the pockets of his orange tunic. He looked like a rascal dressed like a fool. With a composure more feigned than real, Dashvara got up.

“The door is open. So I supposed we can go in now,” he hazarded.

Rowyn turned to Axef.

“Are they already gone?”

The wizard nodded, and assuming a thoughtful expression, he said:

“But even if they weren’t gone, I wouldn’t tell you. The idea!”

Dashvara shook his head. Is it me or did I get into some den full of mentally unbalanced people? Well, according to Aydin, I am unbalanced too after all… With Rowyn, he headed for the door.

“Let me guess, he is mad, isn’t he?” he whispered to the Duke.

Before answering, this one glanced at Axef; the wizard was still gazing at them from the other side of the room.

“Not quite. That’s the worst. But he’s happy making us believe it. Don’t take his words to heart: he is only testing you.”

Dashvara met the wizard’s smart eyes again, and he averted his own. I see. What a curious freak. They crossed a corridor in the dark, and Rowyn knocked on a half-open door.

“Come in.”

A cold breath went up Dashvara’s spine and an eerie feeling came over him. That voice was both authoritarian and soft; a voice that encourages you to know it but also to fear it. In the six years he had patrolled the Xalya lands, he had learned to pay attention to instinct. But he had also learned to overcome it when the circumstances required. So he silenced his small, cautious voice and followed Rowyn inside.

The room was utterly different from the other one. High and semicircular, it had white marble walls and large glazed windows through which the sunlight was shining. Dashvara blinked, and then he saw the silhouette sitting on a sort of throne. Like a queen of fairy tales. Arrayed in a splendid black dress.

“Come here, Xalya man,” Sheroda asked.

The Supreme had very beautiful golden eyes. A skin white like the foam, and a hair silvery like the Moon. She was like a…

“Not so much,” her rosy lips warned him with a thin smile.

Dashvara stopped about four paces away, blushing, and he took one pace back. He would have liked to take some more steps backwards, but he didn’t dare. He felt awkward, and he didn’t know why. Only Rowyn’s presence, behind him, relaxed him a bit.

“I am Sheroda, Supreme of the Pearl Brotherhood. Rowyn talked to me about you and about your actions in Rocavita. He wants you to work in his team about the Arviyag’s affair. And if I got it right, you, too, want to work with him. Am I right?”

She was direct, Dashvara commended mentally.

“That’s right. I want to punish those slavers and free my people.”

“A goal worthy of consideration,” Sheroda signified in a leisurely tone. “At this moment, we have four active members. Plus Axef. Another one would be welcome.”

So the mad wizard is the acolyte, Dashvara remembered. The rest of the members had to be the reformed thief and the retired dragon-monk. With five persons, it certainly was quite difficult to enter the slavers’ hideout by force to neutralize them. Sheroda continued:

“Rowyn has suggested that I, with your consent, name you as an acolyte of the Pearl Brotherhood. They say your people were destroyed by an alliance of savages,” she whispered mildly. Dashvara could even feel his pitiful hand on his cheek… but that didn’t make sense, because Sheroda had not moved from her throne. “So you have no place to go to,” she went on. “Rowyn told me you are a great warrior, aren’t you?”

Dashvara nodded. He qualified:

“A warrior, at least. Greatness is subjective.”

Sheroda smiled.

“Look. Our Brotherhood has had a lot of practice in assisting the lost souls. These are not members of the Brotherhood, not even acolytes, but they receive our protection whenever they need it.”

Dashvara was now sunk in her golden eyes, and he was barely paying attention to her. The Supreme was smiling in such a lovely way…

Dashvara’s eyes fluttered, and he swore silently. You could have warned me, Rowyn, that I was going to meet a bloody witch… He was almost sure that she was bewitching him. Unless he was just imagining it?

“So, then,” Sheroda said, concluding, “if you want to punish the slavers, I invite you to join our Brotherhood. Being an acolyte supposes no irrevocable compromise. You can leave when you like. In exchange for your services, you will receive money and protection.”

Sounds like quite a good deal, Dashvara acknowledged in his mind. He withdrew his gaze toward the glazed windows, and he sighted a bird perched on a tree branch. For an instant, he came back lucidly to the world.

“So? What do you say?” the Supreme asked impatiently.

The last thing he wanted to do at this moment was to turn his eyes back to Sheroda. However, he did.

“So I will be able to take part in your plans of rescue, right?”

A teasing sparkle lit Supreme’s eyes.

“Right.”

“Good. And… from what I’ve seen, in this town, you need coins to pay for board and lodging, so… You said you will pay me, didn’t you?”

He heard Rowyn’s snort. Sheroda gave the hint of a smile, and without any reason, Dashvara gave it back at her… and then erased his smile, exasperated.

“I did. But, of course, the pay depends on our patron’s satisfaction,” the Supreme answered with composure.

Oh, the Patron. Of course. Dashvara did not ponder longer: he needed money, and it was in his interest to be on good terms with the Pearl Brotherhood. He suspected that, being alone, he was as much likely to save his people as to sing being mute.

“It will be a pleasure to work with you,” he finally said.

The beautiful golden eyes gleamed.

“That’s fine. Rowyn will tell you what to do. Just a point: you work with them. And you work for me. Don’t forget that,” she whispered. “Welcome to the Brotherhood.”

* * *

“Who is she?”

They were walking along a street, and Dashvara was following Rowyn, not even worrying about where this one was guiding him now. He was still as if spellbound by two golden eyes, even though these were not in front of him anymore.

“You mean the Supreme?” Rowyn said. “Well. Nobody knows for sure. They say she is a witch, but she says she isn’t. She bewitches like one, though. I think you’ve already noticed it.”

“Mph. And how. For a second, I even thought you had poisoned me with your doughnuts. Her eyes are inhuman.”

“Well, you know, nobody knows for sure if she’s actually a human,” Rowyn smiled. “Tildrin says she comes from beyond the Pilgrim Ocean. He loves fantasizing about the Supreme’s past. But, in fact, we know very little about her.”

Dashvara dodged a little girl who was running, a wide smile on her face, and he asked:

“Tildrin is one of the members, isn’t he?”

“Aye.”

“The dragon-monk or the reformed thief?”

Rowyn grinned.

“The reformed thief. I’m going to introduce you to them now. I asked them to go to the refuge. They must be waiting for us now.”

“What?” Dashvara looked at him, confused. “Wait a minute, the refuge? But didn’t we just leave it?”

“No. That was the Supreme’s house,” Rowyn explained, “the Brotherhood’s headquarters. I meant the refuge of our band. Once there, I’ll explain to you what we’re going to do.”

This time, Dashvara had to dodge a tall woman; and he nearly crashed into a militiaman as impressively bulky as that Shamvirz of the White Hand. Rowyn tugged at his arm as the guard was growling:

“Hey! Look where you’re going!”

Dashvara snorted, as tense as a bowstring. That noisy hive of activity was even more bewildering and overwhelming than the Supreme’s eyes. He could have sworn he had seen, that morning, more different people than there actually were in the whole steppe. Minutes later, Rowyn tugged again at his arm when he almost received a plank blow in his face: the carpenter who was carrying it was a reckless fool, and some passersby raised their voices. At last, they went into an empty alley.

“Eternal Bird, that’s insane,” Dashvara muttered.

He heard a giggle behind him, and he turned, surprised. It was Axef. He hadn’t even noticed that the wizard had followed them.

“You’ll get used to it,” Rowyn assured, slowing the pace. “Come on. We’re almost there.”

I’ll get used to it, eh? Dashvara doubted it very much. Mainly because, as soon as he had rescued the prisoners, he would have to go on with that damned revenge. He snorted to himself. So you don’t want to punish the murderers anymore? Of course, you’re far from the steppe, most of your people are dead, and you have no one to remind you of your duties as a firstborn son. Except for Aligra… I should have delegated her the title of firstborn. I’m sure she would come out better than I would.

Rowyn stopped in front of a door.

“Here we are,” he announced.

He gave some knocks, and seconds later, the figure of a gray-haired, wrinkled-faced ternian appeared in the doorway; he wore a blue tunic richly adorned.

“Duke!” he grinned. “I was starting to believe that the Supreme had eaten you alive.”

Rowyn gently pushed Dashvara inside while replying:

“Didn’t you say, some days before, that the Supreme never eats? Let me introduce you to Dash, our new acolyte. Is Kroon here?” he asked.

The ternian nodded and pointed at a small shape that was sitting in an armchair, apparently asleep, in front of a table plunged in shadows. Dashvara felt his heart in his mouth when he saw the dragon-monk. The individual didn’t have legs, his face was ravaged by scars, and a white blindfold was hiding one of his eyes. The other one was shut. It was quite hard to guess what sajit race he belonged to.

Good, fine, he thought. A mad wizard, an old thief, a one-eyed cripple… The team was truly assorted.

“My name is Tildrin,” the ternian introduced himself with a smile while Axef was closing the door, plunging the room into darkness. “So you’re the man who’s going to cover our backs while we steal the papers, eh?”

The question confounded him.

“The papers?”

Rowyn cleared his throat meaningfully.

“Sit down. Can I draw the curtains a bit?”

“No!” Kroon snorted sharply, opening the eye.

Rowyn smiled, sarcastic.

“You are not so asleep, after all.”

“A tallow candle, perhaps?” Axef suggested, sitting down at the table. “Or a shadow swaddle for covering Kroon’s eye.”

The dragon-monk growled, and his eye detailed Dashvara.

“So you are the barbarian from the steppe.”

Barbarian yourself. Dashvara breathed out silently.

“And you must be the dragon-monk of Sifra,” he replied.

Kroon made a face and stretched a hand to snatch a bottle.

“Sit down. Duke, you too. Let’s get down to business.”

“Would you like a bit of wine, brother?” Tildrin offered.

Quite surprised, Dashvara realized that the ternian was looking at him; he shook his head. On the contrary, Rowyn helped himself to a cup filled to the brim.

“Where’s the Poisoned-woman?” Axef asked in a tone of voice almost normal. The wizard was twiddling nervously with a tassel of his long tunic.

“She couldn’t come,” Rowyn merely replied.

Dashvara felt curious.

“Who’s the Poisoned-woman?”

“Nobody. Axef calls Azune so.” Rowyn turned to Kroon. “How’s the plan going?”

The dragon-monk drew a folded scroll out of one of his pockets and threw it on the table as if he were dealing out cards. Rowyn flattened the parchment, and Dashvara craned his neck, intrigued. The plan showed several buildings with their inner rooms. Some colored lines crossed it.

“I’m sorry, Kroon, but we need a candle,” Rowyn apologized, lighting one. “It would be kind of stupid if we get in a muddle for so little.”

Kroon grumbled and covered the other eye with another cloth. Axef suggested bringing him a bag to put it over his head, to which the monk replied he could go jump in the sea with it. With smiling eyes, the wizard fell silent, dove into his pocket, took hold of a small knife, and began to file his nails while Tildrin and Rowyn studied the plan carefully. Dashvara got impatient.

“Can you explain to me what the plan does represent?”

Rowyn nodded, and without withdrawing his gaze from the scroll, he pointed at a rectangle.

“There’s where we’re going to steal the proofs. Here” —his finger drew a circle— “you have Arviyag’s private rooms. And this” —he drew a bigger circle— “is the building the slavers owned in the Docks District, with the ‘commercial’ warehouse. There’s where they have confined the twenty-five prisoners. But, anyway, that doesn’t matter for now: what matters is to steal Arviyag’s cash book and his correspondence with the Master and the Faerecio. Something that might charge him and scandalize the Court enough to make them deliver an order to search Arviyag’s house.”

At first sight, the objective seemed good enough to him, but in any case, Dashvara’s attention had been caught by something said in the middle of the explanation.

“Did you say twenty-five prisoners?” he gasped.

Rowyn gave a glance at Tildrin, and the thief nodded.

“Approximately. I counted them while they were getting off the wagons. I may have missed one, or I may have counted one twice. The Duke says they seemed to be less than twenty. Azune says the same as I do.”

Twenty-five Xalyas… Dashvara felt the corners of his own mouth stretching into a quivering smile. That was the best news he had heard since he had left the dungeon.

“But yet, we aren’t sure that all of them are Xalyas,” Tildrin added.

Go ahead! Come and dampen my hopes, you thief.

“What the heck! They are prisoners, and that’s all we need to know,” Kroon replied, taking off the blindfolds from over his eyes. Apparently, his both eyes could perfectly see, though he still narrowed them into slits. “This time, they won’t reach Diumcili. Ha! That rotten devil will die of frustration when the cohorts show up in his house.” A sardonic smile furrowed his awful visage. Echoing him, Axef let out a giggle that covered Dashvara’s forehead with a cold sweat.

Rowyn cleared his throat.

“Let’s get back to the point. There are about twenty men in that building, and among them, there are about a dozen mercenaries. All of them, including the retainers, come from Diumcili. Right, Tildrin?”

“Right.”

“There’s a main entrance, and also a service door that leads to the warehouse. There was once a wooden staircase leading to the flat roof, but it has been destroyed not long ago. All the windows are barred, including those of the upper floor. By day, the doors are guarded, and by night, they latch everything. The second floor is what interests us,” Rowyn said, “because there’s where Arviyag’s office is, just over the main entrance.”

Kroon mumbled.

“I’m getting the impression we’ve already heard all of this, don’t you think, Duke? Now can we proceed?”

“I was repeating it for Dash,” Rowyn defended himself.

“Permit me,” Dashvara intervened. “Why don’t we ask directly the urban cohorts to search the house? As you seemed to like the legality and all that stuff—”

“Precisely,” the Duke cleared his throat as the others smiled. “We can’t send the cohorts to search anybody’s house without having some kind of proof beforehand. It’s quite obvious. You need a document capable of causing a real scandal to activate the bureaucracy and carry out a raid of that magnitude. Otherwise, you can be shouting at the judges the greatest truths every day, they won’t pay any attention to you.”

Dashvara made an eloquent face to show his opinion about the matter. Those civilized people… he thought. Tildrin intervened, obviously excited:

“Look, Dash, the goal is simple. Now we only need a plan.” He smiled, baring his old, yellow teeth. “The idea is to enter there when Arviyag isn’t at home. You know—from what I’ve found out by eavesdropping on the guards in the inns, he sleeps in his office. So we have to get him out, in one way.”

“Or another,” Axef remarked. “There’s not only one way to solve a problem, Til. What a narrow mind you have.”

No one responded, and Dashvara supposed that, eventually, not encouraging him to go on talking nonsense was the best behavior.

“Yeah, okay…” Rowyn meditated. “In four days, the Stairs races will be celebrated. The races last the whole night,” he explained for Dashvara. “And Lord Faerecio is an enthusiastic follower of this sport. Arviyag will accompany him, and he’s likely to go out with most of his guards.” He paused. “Speaking of stairs, what about the ladder? How’s it going?” he inquired.

“Ready,” Tildrin declared, grinning broadly.

Rowyn looked pleased.

“Things are taking a turn for the better, it seems. Let me explain to you, Dash. We’re going to get into the building from the top, through the flat roof. We have crafted a ladder with a length of forty feet. In principle, it should be enough. On the roof… as far as I know, there’s no guard. Right, Tildrin?”

“Right, Duke. That was my impression, at least. But, as you already know, my sight isn’t very reliable.”

“Yes… Well. All the flat roofs have a trapdoor,” Rowyn continued. “This one will probably be locked. So—” He hesitated, and he looked at the wizard. “Axef, you will go with Dash and me, and you will open it.”

“And how, if I’m not allowed to cast spells?” the wizard objected bitingly.

“Axef… You said you’d do it. Will you?”

“I will, I will. Though, who knows, actually. I don’t like the ladders.” As his three friends cast him a dark look, he giggled, amused, as if he had reached his aim. “Duke, if the ladder collapses, I swear I will blow you up in the air.”

Rowyn paled.

“It won’t collapse, Axef. Besides, you are no levitator. Remember? You are a disintegrator.”

“Oh. Does it matter? With an explosion, everything blows up.” And he concluded serenely, “Truth to tell, your scheme is an amazing and dreadful garbage.”

Once again, they ignored him. The scheme didn’t seem so bad to Dashvara, except for a detail: he would have rather concentrated his attention on freeing his folk and not on stealing some damned papers.

“Good,” Kroon said. He stretched a hand and took the candle. He blew it out, plunging the room again into the dark. “Much better like that. So you two are going to go in there with the barbarian. What about Azune?”

“Someone has to retrieve the ladder while we are inside, and those will be Tildrin and her,” Rowyn determined.

The crippled monk raised his eyebrows and let out an amused and low “hoho”.

“I’m afraid that won’t be to her liking, Duke.”

Rowyn assumed a helpless expression, not looking too much concerned.

“That’s life. Now we only have to pray to the White Dragon that we will be lucky and that we’ll find those documents at the first attempt. If we don’t find them in the office… we’ll have to find another way to get your people out of there, steppeman.”

There was a silence. Kroon was twiddling with the little of his beard that remained on his wretched face. Tildrin was scratching the table with one of his ternian claws. Rowyn was piercing the scroll with his eyes as if trying to memorize it. As for Axef, he was braiding one of his red locks, putting a dreaming face.

Well, what a team I have here… Dashvara smiled. Finally, he spoke:

“I have no intentions to wait four days. My brothers could embark in the meantime. And what interests me is my brothers, not Arviyag’s destiny. I’ve got an idea.”

Rowyn and Tildrin looked at each other, teasingly.

“Steppeman,” Rowyn said calmly, “these things aren’t done overnight. That sort of operations have to be planned and planned over and over, and…”

Dashvara cut him off. To be sure, his idea seemed to be drawn from a fairy tale, but he bet it would work:

“You see. In Rocavita, while I was trying to find out where the Xalya women were, I passed by the Faerecio’s house, and I overheard a conversation between Arviyag and the house owner. From what I heard, Arviyag wants to get married to the daughter of that Faerecio, but this daughter, Wanissa, is in love with someone else. I propose to go and see that young woman and suggest she write a letter to Arviyag asking him for a date. How do you feel about it?”

Kroon frowned, Rowyn and Tildrin made a reluctant face, and Axef breathed out, shaking his head and looking up at the ceiling.

“I think you’ve just deserved the place among us,” the wizard declared in a strangely earnest voice.

Rowyn gave a hint of a smile, erased it, got back to smile, and finally shrugged his shoulders.

“It could work,” he confessed. “The Docks District is about twenty minutes away from the Beautiful District by coach. That should give us about an hour, at the very least. Who takes care of it?”

“I will,” Dashvara assured, standing up. “If you only give me the address of the Faerecio’s house.”

The four of them suddenly squirmed on their seats, nervous.

“Wait a moment. Are you planning to go there right now?” Rowyn inquired.

Dashvara shrugged, surprised.

“Do you have something more urgent to do? I suspect that writing that kind of letter may require several hours.”

“Are you seriously suggesting that she send the letter to set a date this very night?” Tildrin asked, alarmed. His wrinkled cheeks had slumped down.

“We are not prepared yet, Dash,” Rowyn explained patiently. “Do sit down.”

Dashvara frowned.

“And what do you have to prepare? The ladder is ready. According to you all, the wizard is able to open the trapdoor. Then we only have to put things in practice, don’t you think?”

Rowyn swallowed, a deep wrinkle furrowing his brow. Tildrin’s head dandled, and Kroon stared at him thoughtfully.

“The barbarian is right,” this one suddenly said. “You’re driving me crazy with those useless chatters of yours. Let’s go!” he shouted briskly.

Dashvara almost expected him to stand up. But, of course, he couldn’t.

“Honestly, I don’t know if…” Rowyn vacillated.

Then, Dashvara understood. That group, as Rowyn had pointed out, had no warriors—except Kroon, perhaps, but obviously, he wasn’t one anymore. They probably had never risked their life getting into a den full of slavers that would make no bones about killing them if they found them in their house. Dashvara recalled his first battle; skillful with the saber, and proud like a fool, he had stood astounded in front of a red nadre foaming at the mouth. He had only managed to kill the small biped dragon when he had realized he was going to die if he hesitated just a second more.

“It’s a lost bird that hesitates too much,” Dashvara sighed patiently. “Where do the Faerecio live?”

To everyone’s surprise, it was Axef who answered:

“In the Beautiful District. Blue Lady Street. It’s a huge mansion with blue and golden stripes on the edge of the windows. Run and fly, brave knight, for tonight the flower dies,” he sentenced.

“They won’t let you go in,” Rowyn intervened. “They will never let a stranger talk to the Faerecio’s daughter. Forget it, Dash. We have to find another way to do it.”

Dashvara wavered.

“And what about Almogan Mazer? Where does he live?”

Kroon raised an eyebrow.

“Al? He’s the secretary of the Faerecio. What does he have to do with—?” Then he understood, and his disfigured face lit up. “Ah!”

Rowyn narrowed an eye.

“Ah, what? I didn’t get it. Does it mean you know that Almogan Mazer?”

“I know him. He’s the son of a comrade of mine, an ancient dragon-monk that died in an orc attack. I myself helped to pay for his last year of studies so that he could be graduated. He lives here, in the Dragon District. In the Liberty Square. Just next to a gambling house. That boy—” He smiled. “Ah. Don’t say hello to him for me. I am supposed to be dead, got it?”

Dashvara did not ask for a reason.

“Got it. If all goes well, I’ll be back right away.”

“Hey!” Kroon called him when he was already laying a hand on the door handle. “And not even a word about the Pearl Brotherhood. You only talk about the slavers, got it?”

Dashvara rolled his eyes.

“Got it.”

The cripple’s narrowed eyes sparkled, approving.

“Good barbarian.”

22 The Poisoned-woman

He did not find Almogan in his house but in the gambling house. The young man was getting drunk, and while walking closer between the tables and the noisy gamblers, Dashvara guessed that his relationship with Wanissa wasn’t prospering in the right direction.

“You gamble?” a woman inquired, a greedy glint in her eyes. She was asking that to Almogan. The youth sighed, staggering backwards.

“I’ve lost all my money,” he stammered.

Everybody lost interest in him, and the circle closed around a table. How sympathetic those people look. Frowning, Dashvara took the last steps and grasped Almogan by the arm.

“Sit down, good man. We need to talk about something.”

Perhaps he was too drunk, or perhaps his memory wasn’t just very good—the fact is that Almogan did not recognize him. Of course, Dashvara told himself. He had been wearing a veil in Rocavita. Anyway, the man let himself be dragged to an empty, small table, and once there, he asked with a furred tongue:

“Are you going to buy me a drink?”

Dashvara decided it was time to wake him up, and he held up a hand to call a waiter.

“Please can you bring a big glass of fresh water for my comrade?”

“Water?” Almogan echoed with displeasure.

“Water,” Dashvara confirmed. “You’ve already drunk enough filth.”

Almogan squinted his eyes, detailing his censurer’s face through a veil of alcohol. The waiter brought the glass with a foreseeable smile.

“It’s on the house,” he declared.

Dashvara thanked him. In a heartbeat, Almogan’s face was completely soaked. He gave a cry of surprise that only drew some teasing smiles, and he cast an irate glare at Dashvara.

“Who do you think you are?”

“Your savior,” Dashvara replied. “You will marry Wanissa, and I’m going to make sure you will.”

That, along with the water, woke up Almogan utterly.

“Who are you?”

“I’ve already answered that question. Look, what I’m going to propose to you is a bit out of the knight code that you and I like to follow, but seeing your state, I think it’s necessary to take drastic decisions. Yet, before everything else, one question: how much do you love that woman?”

For an instant, Almogan waffled, both suspicious and hopeful. Then, his face flustered, and an intense woe appeared on it.

“Wan is the light of my way,” he answered in a choked whisper.

“Sure. I guessed it was. So you’re willing to do whatever is needed to keep this light from disappearing from your life.”

“Yes,” Almogan affirmed. “No… it depends. I don’t want to prejudice her.”

“And you’re not going to prejudice her. You’re going to act in such a way that Arviyag will not want to be interested in her ever again.”

Almogan Mazer’s eyes bugged out.

“Are you suggesting a duel to the death? He would never keep the appointment.”

Dashvara puffed out.

“No, of course he wouldn’t. You see, as you well know, Arviyag is a slave trader.”

The secretary got troubled.

“I know.”

“Don’t you think it’s horrible?”

“Despicable,” Al agreed. “Everything that man does is despicable.”

Dashvara gave him a satisfied smile.

“Good. Think a little further: if you get clear proofs of Arviyag’s activities, wouldn’t you bring them to the Court?”

Almogan stared at him thoughtfully.

“I would, without a doubt,” he finally answered. “Do you have those proofs?”

“Not yet,” Dashvara admitted. “But I will have them soon. I only need you to do me a favor.”

He explained the idea about the letter, and Almogan’s face became gloomy, though, after, it gradually lit up.

“I understand your idea. But,” he smiled darkly, “what proof do you have that those proofs actually exist?”

Dashvara remained startled. He hadn’t thought about that. Had Rowyn and the others ever thought about it?

“No proof,” he confessed.

“Ah.” Almogan was clearly disappointed. “Let me tell you that a man as cunning as Arviyag never puts his accounts down on paper. And if he does, everything must be encrypted. Believe you me: I am the secretary of the Faerecio. You never leave traces of any shady deal.”

Dashvara pondered, and then he shrugged.

“It doesn’t matter. The fact is that we’re going to try it. You just speak with Wan. And my comrades and I will take care of the rest.”

“What if we kidnap Arviyag?” Almogan abruptly asked. He looked almost ashamed that the idea had ever occurred to him. Dashvara considered it anyway.

“No, I don’t deem it doable,” he finally said. “He’ll probably go out with his henchmen. We don’t want to make an uproar in plain sight, in the street. Besides, then, maybe we would have a hostage, but the slavers have twenty-five.”

Almogan nodded.

“I guess those twenty-five prisoners aren’t strangers to you, sir.”

Dashvara estimated that he had talked enough.

“That’s right,” he answered, standing up.

“You are not a Dazbonish, are you?” Almogan kept asking.

“I am not. And now, dear secretary, see that Wan sends that letter in time.”

Almogan put a determined face.

“No. I won’t do it unless you tell me your name and your origins. I don’t make deals with strangers.”

Dashvara gave him a look of approval.

“That’s a good rule to live by. My name is no secret. I am Dashvara of Xalya.”

Almogan’s lips slightly stretched into a mournful smile.

“Do you know what? I had already guessed it. I know—because I heard Arviyag himself saying it—that the prisoners are Xalyas. Only another Xalya would be capable of risking so much to free them.”

Dashvara shook his head.

“Only a Xalya… or a true knight with just principles,” he replied.

Almogan flinched.

“Fair enough. I’ll tell Wan to set a date with Arviyag for this midnight, next to the grating. But she won’t go there,” he said clearly.

Dashvara shrugged his shoulders.

“As long as he goes there, I don’t care about the rest. Let me know that the letter is sent. Go to the Golden Dragon. I will stop by there in the afternoon… say, around eight o’clock, at nightfall.”

When he left the gambling house, he got a nasty feeling, but he didn’t know why. Perhaps because he was neither used to planning thefts, nor machinations, nor that kind of stupid things.

Before becoming aware of his surroundings, he had already crossed the large Liberty Square, and he found himself walking along an adjacent street. This one looked familiar to him, and he soon realized why: it was Aydin’s street.

He didn’t hesitate long before knocking at the office door. Hadriks opened the door, and on seeing him, he looked upset.

“Is Aydin here?” Dashvara asked.

“No… Well, yes,” Hadriks rectified, recovering himself. “But he’s busy crafting a complex magara. Come in.”

Dashvara vacillated.

“I only want to apologize, actually.”

Hadriks smiled.

“Azune dropped in here yesterday evening. She explained to us that you didn’t know what that magara was. Come on in.”

“I did not know,” Dashvara affirmed, entering at last. “Truly, I feel—”

He fell silent when he saw Aydin standing by the other door. His face was stern, but his claws weren’t bared.

“Ashamed?” the ternian helped him in an even tone.

Dashvara blushed.

“Yes.”

The healer pointed at Hadriks with his forefinger, and then at the adjacent room with his thumb. Hadriks left obediently.

“You know, Xalya,” Aydin went on, “healing ignorance and foolishness is beyond my power. So I’m afraid you’re wasting your time coming here.”

Dashvara felt like a little child lectured by his father. He cleared his throat.

“I suppose that apologies won’t help.”

“You’re making a lot of assumptions. Making an apology is a good step forward.”

Dashvara perceived the subtle change in his tone, but even so, he didn’t feel less contrite.

“That thief lantern… Is it truly so bad?” he asked.

Aydin let out a sigh, and he sat down at the table.

“They are illegal. And, obviously, they are used for contemptible purposes. No honest man carries one of those lanterns. Just after I chased you out, it occurred to me that you may have not known what it was, but… I was angry. And that doesn’t happen to me very often.”

That sounded quite like forgiveness. Dashvara relaxed.

“Well. I’m happy the misunderstanding is solved, though I’m afraid that my ignorance is still likely to cause great damages. Well,” he repeated, uneasy. “Can I do something for you?”

Aydin peered at him, and he shook his head, smiling.

“The only thing that comes to my mind is to free those poor prisoners. And I know you are capable of doing that.”

Dashvara smiled back at him.

“Count on me, ternian. Are you sure you don’t want something else?”

“Go to see Doctor Fenendrip as soon as you can. He will heal you,” the ternian assured.

Dashvara’s smile widened.

“I will. Nothing else?”

Aydin thought more thoroughly.

“Well. Keep an eye on Tildrin, will you?”

Dashvara eyed him, slightly startled.

“Of course I will, but… why Tildrin more than another?”

Aydin shrugged.

“Because Tildrin, that damned Tildrin, needs it more than anyone else.”

Precisely, to Dashvara, Tildrin and Rowyn seemed to be the most normal members of the team. Could it be that—? Yeah. Tildrin, the reformed thief, was a ternian, as Aydin was. Therefore, it wasn’t impossible that he belonged to the same family. He could be his uncle or maybe his father. He considered the possibility, and it didn’t seem so extravagant to him. Something had to have happened to make Aydin hate all the thieves so fiercely. However, it was clear that the healer wasn’t willing to be more specific.

“I’ll keep an eagle eye on him,” Dashvara finally promised. He gave him a parting wave, and deciding that renewing his apologies would only devalue the ones made before, he left his home promising himself not to trouble the healer’s life anymore, unless it was absolutely necessary.

“Hey, Dash!” a voice suddenly called out.

Hadriks caught him up in the street. He looked much more relaxed than before, as if the peace between his master and him had freed him from a heavy burden.

“What do you want, Hadriks?”

The boy got to the point:

“When I went to draw water from the well, I saw your brother. Well, you know, the comrade of your cousin who isn’t your cousin.”

Jerking up, Dashvara looked at him with an eager impatience.

“Where did you see him?”

“On the Liberty Square. But that’s about an hour ago. I couldn’t speak to him. There were a lot of people, and I lost sight of him. Do you want me to let you know if I see him again? I can try to find out where he stays.”

Hadriks’s excitement was obvious. Dashvara took a glance at Aydin’s house and stiffened.

“No, Hadriks. You’d better not do it.”

Hadriks looked as if he had received a cold shower over his head. He sighed, exasperated.

“Aydin is my master, not my father,” he said. He shrugged before Dashvara’s comical expression. “Say what you want—I will try to find him. Come to the tavern of the King Count at six o’clock in the afternoon. You’re likely to meet your brother, and perhaps even your cousin.”

There is nothing worse than a fifteen-year-old boy who begins to make his own decisions. Dashvara sighed.

“Where is that tavern?”

“In the Liberty Square,” Hadriks exulted.

“I will be there. And spare me your smile. You do that only because you want to. And, by the way, he’s not my brother, he’s a Shalussi, is it clear?”

Hadriks grinned from ear to ear.

“Inescapably clear.”

Dashvara did not wait for seeing him go back home: he turned his back on him and headed again to the Refuge. That boy will end up getting himself into a mess, and then I’ll have to get him out of trouble… He sighed patiently.

When he went into the room, this one was still plunged in the dark. Kroon was there, of course, but Rowyn and Tildrin had left to carry the ladder to the Docks District. Dashvara told the dragon-monk about his conversation with Almogan.

“Well, well,” Kroon merely replied. He had put a blindfold on his eye again, and the other eye was scarcely open. “Do you want a bit of wine?”

“No, thanks.”

“Teetotal?”

“Not exactly, but where I come from, we don’t drink with such a profusion nor with such a regularity.”

“A moderate barbarian, then,” Kroon qualified, before he took a sip from his bottle.

Dashvara raised his eyes to the ceiling, more amused than offended.

“What’s your definition of barbarian?”

“Whichever I like. The dictionaries have never been my friends. But it is widely known that we name the Northmen ‘barbarians’.”

“And what about the ones who did this to you?” Dashvara asked audaciously, casting an eloquent look at his missing legs.

He instantly regretted having spoken. For a second, he feared that Kroon would throw the empty bottle right in his face.

“That was a damned rock,” he finally growled. “Thrown by a band of damned orcs. Pass me another bottle, will you?”

He indicated a sideboard where the bottles were, and Dashvara, desirous of avoiding his surly one-eyed gaze, brought him one, though randomly, because it was impossible, with the dark, to see the color of the contents. Anyway, Kroon didn’t seem to care. He opened the bottle and took another sip.

After a silence, Dashvara asked:

“Where’s Axef?”

“Don’t ask me. That fool always has things to do.”

“Is he really capable of opening a trapdoor?”

Kroon’s mouth stretched into a wry grin.

“Of opening it? I dunno. Of disintegrating it, of course he is. Axef studied at the Bastion. They used to consider him the best, according to him. Till they considered him the worst.”

Dashvara raised an eyebrow.

“What happened?”

“Mph. They expelled him, and nobody knows why. Don’t you have seen the orange tunic he wears?”

“What does that have to do with the expulsion?” Dashvara replied, bemused.

“Bah. I forget who you are, barbarian. They dressed him in that long orange tunic he wears to punish him publicly. He had to wear it for two years, but they’ve already expelled him four years ago, and he still wears it. He has become enamored of it, and he has even given it a name, go figure.”

An orange tunic so as to be punished publicly? Never in his life had Dashvara heard of such a crazy idea.

“I may sound ignorant, but what’s wrong with an orange tunic?”

Kroon was twiddling the empty bottle on the table.

“Orange is the color of shame. Historically, it was the color of the Real Guard. When the republicans crushed it, four hundred years ago, the color was finally considered negatively. That’s also why red-haired people are thrashed with priority. Truly, Axef has got it all.” He paused. “Are you going to annoy me much longer? I’m sure you have far more interesting things to do rather than speak with a crippled drunk.”

Dashvara stood up hastily.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb you. But… know what? I’m not sure you should drink so much.”

“If you’re not sure, then shut up, barbarian. Come back at around five o’clock, in case there’s something new.”

Dashvara was about to ask him if he needed something: leaving him there alone, in his armchair, made him feel a bit concerned; however, the monk was very busy with his new bottle and his thoughts, so he shut his mouth, left him, and headed directly for the Golden Dragon.

That day was not as hot as the day before. In fact, a fresh and gentle breeze blew, sweeping the streets of the Dragon District. Dashvara hoped that this night it wouldn’t rain… and that no storm would come. He hated storms.

It had to be lunchtime, because the streets were relatively calm. When he arrived at the inn, however, he noticed that there was as much noise as the day before, if not even more.

He found Fayrah, Aligra, and Lessi in the room, sitting with a steaming tray between them. Good.

“Dash!” his sister exclaimed in Oy’vat. “We’ve just ordered a meal. Since we didn’t know when you would come back—”

“Or if you would ever come back,” Aligra amended without lifting her eyes from her pasty.

Dashvara ignored her.

“You did very well. I’m afraid that, today, I’m going to be a little busy. How much money is left?”

“Four dinars,” Fayrah answered. “We’ve gotten a discount thanks to Darlan, because he says that the innkeeper doesn’t take a hint.”

Dashvara raised an eyebrow.

“Darlan?”

“The waiter. For a stranger, he’s a very sympathetic man. He was truly kind, eh, Lessi? He even brought us a flower.”

She showed it to him. It had blue petals. Dashvara sighed, and he sat down, snatching a pasty.

“And Tahisran?” he inquired.

He caught the glance his sister cast to the plumped bag. No way… Had the shadow put himself inside again?

“He’s sleeping,” Fayrah answered.

“Sleeping?” He didn’t know why, but it hadn’t occurred to him that a shadow could need to sleep. He cleared his throat and spoke in Common Tongue. “I see he’s kind of in love with my bag. And I see you three are somewhat partial to pasties.”

Fayrah and Lessi exchanged a smile.

“Now, the other plates have odd names,” Fayrah explained. “So we don’t take risks. Did you see the Supreme?”

Hearing about the Supreme immediately reminded him of the golden eyes, and he shuddered.

“Aye. I saw her, and I talked with her. I’m going to join the Pearl Brotherhood as an acolyte. This way, I could work with them to free our folk. According to Rowyn, they are twenty-five.” The three Xalyas jumped.

“Twenty-five?” Fayrah whistled.

“Well, perhaps not all are Xalyas. We’re going to move into action tonight,” he explained. “We will enter Arviyag’s house, and we will steal some papers to prove that they are slavers.”

He wasn’t more explicit because, just as he never spoke about the way he had killed this or that red nadre in the steppe, so neither it seemed to him adequate to let the three Xalyas in on that matter. They had already suffered enough from being prisoners for three weeks.

“So you’re not going to free them tonight,” Fayrah concluded.

Dashvara tried to ignore the disappointment vibrating in his sister’s voice, and he took a second pasty.

“The Tribunal will take care of condemning the slavers. No slavers, no slaves. And the question is settled.”

“The Tribunal,” Aligra echoed in a ghastly voice. “Is it trustworthy?”

“I don’t know,” Dashvara admitted, embarrassed. As no better answer came to his mind, he focused on chewing his pasty.

“What sort of punishment does the Tribunal use against slavers?” Fayrah asked after a silence.

“Why, demons, I don’t know. Death, I suppose.”

“You suppose?” Aligra grumbled in a more normal voice. “So it could be that those slavers won’t die.”

Dashvara would have gladly killed Arviyag with his own hands, but hell, at this moment, the priority was to free the prisoners without those being harmed.

Saying nothing, Dashvara took a third pasty, gulped it down, and went to lie down on his straw mattress, not forgetting to pat gently the bag when passing by, out of purely scientific interest. That damned shadow really seemed to be sleeping.

Fayrah cleared his throat.

“Lessi, are you coming? I’m going to bring back the tray,” she said.

They both went out, leaving behind a room as placid as a deserted battlefield. Exuding waves of tension, Aligra lay down on her own bed, her gaze fastened on the ceiling. Dashvara could almost hear her blaming and accusing him: ‘You’re the firstborn son! You should have died! Don’t offend your Eternal Bird…!’ But Aligra did not open her mouth. It was almost even worse when she didn’t speak.

Dashvara sighed silently, and he had started to ask himself what the hell Lessi and his sister were doing, when Tahisran said:

‘I have a question.’

Dashvara opened his eyes, feeling grateful to the shadow for his intervention: as the drowsiness was stealing over him, he had been about to fall asleep.

“What’s your question?” he inquired in Common Tongue.

Aligra and he sat up to see the shadow slipping out of his nest. It was hard to determine the expression of such a creature, but Dashvara was almost sure to perceive curiosity.

‘I’ve had a dream, and you were in it, Dashvara,’ Tahisran announced peacefully. ‘We were both walking along a long paved path in the midst of the desert. You looked back regularly as if you were searching for something. And then I ask you, ‘What are you looking for?’ and you answer, ‘I’m looking for what I have lost forever’.’

Dashvara stared at him, perplexed.

“It’s a dream, Tahisran. What I have answered came from your mind, not from mine.”

The shadow nodded.

‘I know. But that gave me food for thought. Why a person would be looking for something he can’t recover? That’s my question,’ he pointed out with earnest curiosity.

Dashvara breathed out. Good grief! Do we have to deal with a philosophic shadow now? He felt Aligra’s cloudy gaze, and he fidgeted, awkward.

“Well, er… I suppose that person must have lost his good sense,” he only said.

“Or maybe that thing he’s looking for is the only one he can look for,” Aligra added in a throaty voice.

Tahisran showed his disagreement with a mental snort.

‘Neither. That person is looking for what he can’t reach to copy it and then blaze a new trail,’ he opined.

Dashvara guessed that his words had some deeper meaning, but as the torpor was overcoming him, he preferred not to reflect, and he said:

“If you already had the answer, what’s the point of asking us, shadow?”

Tahisran squirmed.

‘Oh… Well… It was just to debate, I suppose. And I never said my answer was the right one, just for being clear.’

Dashvara smiled when he saw the shadow crossing his arms. He looked like a child who had just been caught cheating. Suddenly, Tahisran raised his gaze up to the door. Seconds later, this one opened, and Fayrah and Lessi walked in… followed by Azune.

Dashvara leaped to his feet, and so brusquely that he even perceived an odd twinge in his wound. Ashen and with her eyes fixed on the shadow, Azune looked as if she had just swallowed a stone. Dashvara understood with some surprise that Tahisran had stayed in plain view, sitting on the bed, on purpose so that she could see him. To what end, he could not guess.

Fortunately, Fayrah and Lessi reacted promptly, and they tried to calm and reassure the half-elf before this one could do anything; Dashvara couldn’t help but admire both friends’ synchronized explanations. They clarified where the shadow came from, and Tahisran himself made his introduction with sheer elegance. Finally, Azune commented something about the spirits of the dead and her ancestors, and she said in a strained voice:

“Dash? Come with me. I’d like to have a word with you.”

She hastened to leave the room, as if a sanfurient wolf was running after her. Dashvara cleared his throat.

“Know what, Tahisran? I guess the sajits generally don’t appreciate the shadows a lot. I dunno, that’s the impression I got. Perhaps you’d better be a bit more discreet, don’t you think?”

Tahisran smiled.

I am a sajit, Dash. Besides, Azune is a friend, isn’t she?

Thoughtful, Dashvara didn’t answer. He gave an apologizing look at the Xalyas, he took two dinars of the four ones that remained, and he followed the half-elf outside. Her face had not recovered its normal color yet.

They settled down in the tavern, at a table away from the others, and the first thing Azune said was:

“You have to get rid of that thing, steppeman, whatever it is.”

“You mean the shadow? He decided to follow me on his own. When he gets tired of sleeping in my bag, I suppose he will leave. Don’t worry about Tahisran,” he added, as he saw her opening her mouth again. “Why weren’t you at the meeting?”

Azune gazed at him for some seconds. And then, at last, she sighed and responded:

“I was busy. And I regret it because I have the impression that I’ve lost the most important meeting of the year. How can you propose that we act this very night? I’ve rarely seen the Duke so upset.”

Dashvara shook his head slightly.

“Well. The plan seemed to me quite well elaborated. Now, I wouldn’t mind some sabers, but perhaps I may get them this afternoon. Apart from that, if that girl sends the letter in time, everything else depends on our ability and our luck—”

Azune hushed. At that moment, Darlan, a young, good-looking man with a beaming smile, came over. A sympathetic man, Fayrah had said. Dashvara tried to suppress a grimace but didn’t totally succeed.

“Would you like to eat or drink something?” the boy asked.

“A plate of garfias,” Azune ordered.

As Darlan moved away, the half-elf let out:

“Letting you go in there with a pair of sabers doesn’t look to me like a good idea. You guess why, don’t you?”

Dashvara gave back to her a bored look.

“You think I’m going to spoil your operation again. Well,” he breathed in. “I don’t deny it: my main objective is to save my folk, logically. Anyway, I suspect that the Supreme has accepted me in her Brotherhood in case everything turns badly and we need to fall back. Am I right? So if you want me to protect you, I need some sabers.”

Azune remained silent a long while. Darlan came back sooner than expected, holding a plate full of strange red little balls, and he seemed to even give a bow when he said:

“Enjoy your meal. Would you like something el—?”

“No, thanks,” Dashvara cut him off.

Darlan blushed, took the two dettas Azune offered him, and moved on with a nervous step. So that was the little man who had given a blue flower to the Xalyas, huh? Those republicans sure had odd ideas. As soon as he lost sight of him, Dashvara focused his attention on those red garfias. He picked one and twiddled it with his fingers, curious.

“Have you never eaten a garfia, Xalya?” Azune asked, swallowing one. “Over here, they call it the food of the poor.”

Dashvara tried it, and a sweet-and-sour flavor spread in his mouth. It wasn’t bad, and at least it hadn’t pepper. Azune joined her both hands on the table, and she went on in a slightly teasing tone:

“Rowyn told me your encounter with the Supreme made a strong impression on you. Axef says you were drooling.”

She smiled naughtily, and Dashvara snorted.

“Axef wasn’t in the room. How could he know if I was drooling, yawning, or dancing the dianka?”

Azune kept smiling.

“True. So you’re planning to obtain some sabers. And would you mind if I ask you where you intend to find them?”

“Rokuish and Zaadma are in the city,” Dashvara explained. “Hadriks told me. I gave my sabers to Rok when I entered the temple of Rocavita. He probably still has them.”

“Or not,” Azune contradicted him. “If he didn’t conceal them, the urban militia must have requisitioned them. May I remind you that you need a license to bear weapons? Or perhaps you didn’t know.”

“No, I already knew that,” Dashvara assured. “Thanks to a book of that mysterious patron of yours. Incidentally, who is he?”

Azune shrugged and answered laconically:

“A member of a patrician family.”

They both stretched a hand toward the plate of garfias, and Azune withdrew her own with an uneasy grimace.

“At eight o’clock, to the Refuge,” she declared, standing up. “And don’t be late.”

“Impossible,” Dashvara hastened to say before she moved away from the table. “I told Almogan to come here at eight o’clock to confirm that the letter was sent. So I will be late.”

Azune raised her eyes to the heavens.

“You won’t be the only one, I’m afraid.”

She was turning away again when Dashvara, out of an impulse even he couldn’t understand, asked:

“Why do they call you the Poisoned-woman?”

Azune stopped short, and when she looked at him, her brown eyes struck him almost as strongly as Sheroda’s eyes. She didn’t even bother to answer.

Now then, Dash, he told himself patiently as Azune left the tavern. Will you one day stop being a damned meddler?

When his gaze turned back to the table, he noticed the almost full plate of garfias. He shoved the red peas into his pockets, and after a hesitation, he decided not to return to the room: he needed calm, and he knew that it would be hard to obtain it with Fayrah and Lessi. So he went out for a stroll. He still had three hours before going to the Refuge, since Kroon had asked him to stop by again only at around five o’clock. He went to the Beautiful District and could see enormous mansions with gardens. He was almost sure to recognize the Faerecio’s house, but he wouldn’t have bet his life on it. He retraced his steps, crossed the canals again, and walked along the Autumn District, southward, through a swampy esplanade more deserted than inhabited. The Docks District, where Arviyag’s house was located, was very different from the rest of the city: it had houses with flat roofs, its streets were dirtier, and the people did not dress so richly and colorfully as the folk of the Dragon District. Even so, some buildings occupied a wide surface. When he saw some men entering one of them, bending under the weight of huge sacks, he understood that those buildings were used as warehouses.

And, in one of those warehouses, Arviyag was hiding twenty-five brothers.

Dashvara didn’t last long: he knew full well that staying there, besides being a waste of time, was no good for his nerves. He returned to the Dragon District and stopped by the Refuge. He found Tildrin and Kroon. The thief, sitting at the table, was sharpening a dagger while the dragon-monk was snoring in his armchair, completely oblivious to the reality. From what Tildrin told him, Rowyn was buying some “tools”, and Axef was still with his “lot of things to do”. Dashvara noticed that the old ternian looked more excited than frightened of the looming night expedition. Then he rectified: actually, perhaps he was too much excited. Luckily, he would stay at the foot of the ladder.

“Why are you sharpening this dagger?” Dashvara asked, putting aside the plan. He had studied it once again, but the lines indicating the rooms were simple suppositions, as Tildrin had affirmed. As soon as they passed through the trapdoor, improvisation would be their best guide.

Tildrin laid his dagger on the table while confessing:

“A sheer habit. I sharpen it for thirty years now, and I only use it to cut the bread.”

Dashvara smiled.

“If only we all used the daggers just to cut the bread.”

Tildrin raised an eyebrow, and after a thoughtful silence, he kept on sharpening his dagger. As it was almost six o’clock, Dashvara said goodbye to him and headed for the Water Square and the King Count. Aydin had better not find out anything about all this…

The tavern was roomy and relatively calm despite the hour. He shut the door behind him and scanned around while stepping forward. He imagined the healer gripping him by the neck and saying he had caught him again giving tasks to his apprentice… He heard someone clearing his throat.

“Hey, are you purblind, friend?”

Dashvara turned to his right, and for some seconds, he stared at a cleanly shaved, styled-haired man with a wide-brimmed hat in his hands. A beaming smile was lighting up his face. Dashvara choked.

“Rok?”

He whistled under his breath and sat down in front of him.

“You’re—hell—you’re different. You look like a republican.”

“And you, like a steppeman,” Rokuish replied, extending his hand.

Dashvara shook it happily, and he felt surprised. He would have never imagined that, one day, he would feel happy to meet a Shalussi.

“I really believed I wouldn’t see you ever again. Where’s Zae?”

“At work. Since yesterday. She got a job in an apothecary’s shop,” he explained, and he lowered his voice. “Odek, it’s madness. The Dragon of Spring—you’ve heard about it, haven’t you?”

“Ahem. How could I have not heard about it, Rok?”

“Do you know who stole it?”

Dashvara silently blessed the Shalussi: he did not even consider the possibility that he himself could be the thief.

“Two of the slavers did it. Those who were watching the Xalyas in the catacombs. Either Arviyag has it, or that Vand has it. In any case, it doesn’t matter whether it is a dead or a living man who has it, as long as it is not me.”

Rokuish made a face, and he gave an awkward glance around him before saying:

“We saw the Xalya girls lighting out along the streets. We guided five of them to the Cathoney. But we don’t have the other five ones.”

Dashvara was astonished.

“What? You have taken five Xalyas to Dazbon?”

A satisfied smile spread over Rokuish’s face.

“We took them here by Shizur’s wagon. The poor man was as frightened as a sheep in a volcano. As for me, I wanted to stay and try to know if you were still alive, but I just couldn’t let Zae taking care of five Xalyas alone.”

“I understand you perfectly,” Dashvara murmured. He breathed out, blessing the Shalussi once more. “Where are they?”

“In Shizur’s house.”

Dashvara’s eyes got wide.

“Is that man a saint or a fool?”

Why on earth would a wine merchant be willing to lodge five lost Xalyas? Rokuish cleared his throat.

“He is a saint, Dashvara, make no mistake about it. He’s a man of those you can push into committing the maddest things if you win their confidence. But, in this case, it’s for a good cause. I only lament we were not able to save the other Xalyas. From what those we saved told us, you had to struggle with four slavers, and you were hit by two poisonous darts and an arrow. It’s simply unbelievable that you survived.”

Dashvara chuckled.

“Unbelievable indeed. They were two, and not four, and only one dart hit me. As for the arrow, I personally didn’t notice it.”

“Oh. Well, it’s still impressive, anyway,” Rokuish assured.

“Mph. In any case, out of the other five Xalyas, three are with me.”

“Well.” Rokuish looked relieved. “And… your sister?”

“With me,” Dashvara confirmed. He pondered for some seconds. “So only two are missing. Either Arviyag caught them again, or they managed to escape by themselves.” He looked around. The nearby tables were empty. Beyond those, two women were, like them, talking in whispers. “Where is Hadriks?”

“The boy?” A teasing sparkle fleetingly lit the Shalussi’s eyes. “He just came over me, grasped me by the arm, and told me to go to this inn at six o’clock because you would be here. He said nothing more.”

“Well, I hope he will no longer meddle in affairs that are not his concern,” Dashvara said, clearing his throat. Though, of course, he ought to thank him for that.

Rokuish leaned back on his chair and put his hat on with such an elegance he seemed to have trained since he was five.

“So?” he said. “What’s the next adventure?”

Dashvara smiled, deeply amused.

“You’re late, Shalussi: it has already started.”

Rokuish raised his eyebrows.

“For my mother’s sake, that sounds interesting indeed. By the way, before I forget,” he added, putting his hand in a pocket of his tunic. “Hadriks asked me to give you this.”

Dashvara examined the small wooden box curiously. After struggling a bit, they managed to open it, and an amazed smile curved Dashvara’s lips when he could finally see the contents.

“Sailor cards,” the Shalussi noticed, meditative, as Dashvara kept silent. “Andrek had a deck of cards like this. You look surprised.”

Dashvara shook his head, moved, and then he started to laugh.

“That blessed boy… May the Eternal Bird watch over him.”

23 The fury

“I’ve stepped on something.”

“That was my boot, Duke.”

“Whoops, I’m sorry, Dash.”

“No harm done.”

“Be quiet!” Azune intervened in a whisper.

Rowyn, Azune, Dashvara, and Rokuish had just halted, holding the long ladder, in an alley of the Docks District, at the opposite side of the main entrance of the slaver building. Rokuish’s arrival in the group had gladdened the Pearl Brothers rather than bothered them. Naturally—they had mistaken him for a steppe warrior just by seeing him bearing a saber, and that stubborn Rok had not deemed necessary to disabuse them.

Dashvara sighed mentally, and he peeked out of the alley, copying Azune. In theory, according to Rowyn, the Gem and the Candle were twinkling in the sky. But this one was dull, and Dashvara had the disturbing certainty that, if a band of slavers had been watching them from the wall just in front of them, he wouldn’t have noticed them.

“Can any of you see Tildrin?” Azune inquired, narrowing her eyes.

They had sent the old thief and the mad wizard at the forefront to guard the main door. Dashvara shook his head.

“I can’t see anything.”

Rowyn snorted.

“Now, if we can’t see him, it sure will be harder for him to see us.”

They remained silent for a moment. They could hear the shrill breeze against the ship lines, as well as the lapping of the water against the stone dike. Then, there was a strange singing, and Dashvara started.

“What was that?” he breathed.

“An owl,” Azune answered. “A bird.”

Rowyn laid an appeasing hand on Dashvara’s shoulder, and this one realized that his own hands had dropped to the hilt of his sabers. He relaxed a bit.

“All right. How can we know if Arviyag is gone if those two don’t come by?”

“They will come,” Rowyn assured. For a moment, Dashvara envied his confidence. Then, he just awaited.

While, at those hours, the streets of the Dragon District were still slightly busy, in the Docks District everything was empty. Rokuish yawned; Dashvara put a garfia in his mouth. There were still some left, and he shared them with the others out of an equity question. Azune puffed out.

“If Arviyag doesn’t go out, I’m going to pull you by the ears, you and the Duke.”

“He will go out,” Dashvara affirmed.

“Is it a matter of faith?”

“It may be,” he admitted.

“Just what I was afraid of,” Azune sighed. And she stepped away to peep her head out of the alley.

An endless time passed before Axef appeared, running in the middle of the street, followed by Tildrin. On seeing them, the wizard let out a giggle. Even in the dark, the pearls adorning the wizard’s orange tunic reflected some light. Azune hissed.

“Frankly, you couldn’t be stealthier.”

“He’s gone,” Axef replied.

The relief was general. In Azune’s view, it wasn’t so obvious that Arviyag would accept an informal date with Wanissa behind Lord Faerecio’s back. Rowyn elbowed the half-elf.

“I told you so!”

Immediately, Dashvara went back to his place by the ladder.

“Did you bring my things?” the wizard asked Rowyn.

The Duke growled, nodding, and he handed him two bags. Dashvara would have liked to ask what those contained, but Rowyn lifted the ladder, and he had no choice but to follow the movement.

“Let’s go,” the Pearl Brother murmured.

They get out of the alley, and they arrived next to the building wall, peering into the shadows. There was nobody, or at least no suspicious sound could be heard.

“Let’s unfold it,” the Duke said.

The wooden ladder had a rotating mechanism. They unfolded it in the street surrounding the building, and between the Duke, Rok, and Dashvara, they pulled on it.

“Easy does it,” Rowyn whispered. “This is the head of the ladder.”

The extremity Rowyn was pointing to was covered with small pillows to muffle any sound of the ladder hitting the roof edge. They tugged at it, raised it, and set it. Rowyn tried a rung.

“It seems to be steady.”

“Of course it is!” Tildrin breathed.

Already perched on the ladder, the Duke declared:

“Azu, watch the main entrance. Remember: if you see Arviyag coming back before Tildrin tells you we’ve already gone out, go back here, and set the ladder again.”

The half-elf was in a bad mood. She did not answer.

“Tildrin, Rokuish, support the ladder, and then remove it. Dash, Axef: let’s go up.”

The Duke began to climb. The Shalussi sighed, and Dashvara easily guessed that his assigned task wasn’t especially to his taste. Would you rather go up, bold Shalussi? Dashvara smiled.

As soon as the kampraw reached the top, Axef began to ascend quickly, his two tied bags hanging around his neck; no one would think he did not like the ladders, the way he was climbing up. Dashvara glanced around nervously. He thought it was quite unbelievable that nobody had got the idea of passing along that street.

“Your turn, Dash,” Rokuish whispered.

Dashvara fastened the headscarf over his head and began to climb.

“Hey!” the Shalussi called him in a hiss. Dashvara looked down at him. “Don’t do any crazy thing, okay?”

Dashvara merely shook his head, and he kept climbing. Up, the flat roof, about sixty paces long and thirty paces wide, was spacious and completely empty. He made out the two figures of the Duke and Axef, squatting by a rectangle blacker than the rest. Everything seemed to go all right. He slightly moved the ladder so that Rok and Tildrin knew they could remove it, and he hurried to join Axef and Rowyn. The wizard was taking something out of his bag, and he was spilling it over what seemed to be the trapdoor hinges.

“I assume you have checked it was locked, first, haven’t you?” Dashvara inquired under his breath.

Rowyn sighed, and he signaled to him for silence. After completing his task, Axef earnestly took hold of some black gloves, put them on, and laid both hands on the powder line he had left over the trapdoor slit. What he did next went faster than Dashvara had expected: the product he had poured began to flash like white lava. Impressed, Dashvara shivered but did not move away. It was the very first time in his life he saw a person casting a spell.

When the last white glint extinguished, the hinges had vanished, and Dashvara bet that all the iron that was locking the trapdoor had melted down. Axef drew back and sat down on the ground.

“Ready,” he let out. “Now it’s up to you to lift it, my friends.”

Rowyn handed a hooked iron bar to Dashvara, and they used it as a lever to open the trapdoor. It was not easy, primarily because the door was thick and weighed like a horse. At last, they dragged it on the flat roof stone, uncovering a black hole.

“I don’t know why, I half expected all the guards to wait for us behind the trapdoor,” Axef commented. He almost looked disappointed.

Panting, Dashvara handed the crowbar back to Rowyn, and he drew out Zaadma’s thief lantern. He rubbed it. A light sparkled and slightly illuminated the inside of the room. This one was large. In fact, it was no room, but the inner staircase of the building. A small ladder led down to the floor.

“Go down first with the light,” the Duke said.

Dashvara went down. Not a sound could be heard. Could it be that everyone was sleeping except the door guards? As long as they did not sleep in Arviyag’s office…

Rowyn landed by his side, and Axef followed him. Dashvara clearly caught the warning look the Duke cast at the wizard: “if you open your mouth now, I will hate you for the rest of my life”, he seemed to tell him mutely. Axef rolled his eyes, and with a meaningful expression, he pointed to a door at the end of the corridor. Dashvara would have liked to ask him how he could be so sure that this door was that of the office. He guided his two companions to the indicated door, passing by two other ones. On the opposite side, there was a banister, over which you could distinguish the three flights of steps and part of the first floor. If someone went upstairs, we’ll see him arriving from afar, he thought, pleased.

Axef indicated the door lock, and Dashvara lit it with his lantern. While the wizard was working to force—or rather to disintegrate—the lock, nervousness grew stronger. Rowyn stepped away to make sure nobody was coming. He was going back and forth, turning more than an unquiet cat. At last, they heard a crack, and the door opened.

“How surprising, isn’t it?” Axef whispered. His sparkling eyes were detailing Dashvara’s face. Failing to conceal his discomposure, the Xalya turned to Rowyn to wave him closer. He perceived perfectly the mocking smile stretching the wizard’s lips.

“Stay here,” Rowyn murmured, pushing the door. The inside was just as silent as the rest. The Duke extended the hand to ask him the lantern; sighing, Dashvara gave it to him and then stood alone beside the half-open door and before complete darkness.

He could hear distinctly short noises of opening drawers and rustles of papers, and he asked himself how the hell it could be that the guards did not hear them at all. Then he wondered what he would do if a slaver emerged from one of those doors and saw him. Kill him? No doubt he would. But it would be difficult to do it before the man gave a shout.

He heard a sound of voices, and he tensed up. Then he understood it was only Rowyn and Axef. They were talking. Damn it, they’re going to wake up everybody… Dashvara was squeezing the hilt of one of his sabers as if an orc were trying to grab it. He could not forget the relief he had felt when Rok had given him the two sabers made by Orolf: entering a slaver house with a simple dagger would have been to him like throwing himself from the top of a tower without having wings. It was a matter more psychological than anything else, since anyhow, with two sabers, he wouldn’t have been able to take on all the Arviyag’s men and hope to survive.

He heard a metallic jangle; a curse; and a giggle. And then, distinctly:

“You’re a fool, Axef.”

The door opened, and Rowyn blinded Dashvara with his lantern. The Xalya walked in, hissing:

“Did you go mad?”

“We have a problem,” the Duke communicated to him, and with his lantern, he indicated a large iron box. “We suspect that the papers are here. Do you think we would be able to carry it between both of us?”

Dashvara stared at him, amazed.

“And go down the ladder with it? I don’t think so, republican.”

Rowyn nodded sadly.

“Neither I do, steppeman.”

Suddenly, a flash lit the whole room for a split second, and a clap of thunder boomed out. Oh, no, Dashvara lamented. Another storm? The rain began to thrum against the glazed windows.

“So. Do I try to open it?” Axef asked, sitting by the strongbox.

Rowyn nodded as if despite himself.

“But, whatever you do, don’t damage the contents. Dash, go out and just stand guard.”

Dashvara went out of the office and pricked up his ears. He could only hear the raindrops and the crashes of thunder. All in all, the storm wasn’t so inopportune…

Lightning lit the corridor through the trapdoor hole. The hells themselves seemed to have erupted in the sky. Then, Dashvara turned pale.

“Oh, no,” he breathed. He rushed toward the trapdoor and inspected the floor. A brook was growing, flowing right to the banister. And as this one had no upper platform, the water had already started to leak down to the first floor. There was nothing he could do but hope that no one passing by would notice it… Yeah, and you can also hope that we will get out of here alive with the proofs. Hope costs nothing, after all…

He heard the noise of a door behind him and he hastily jumped back next to the wall. For an instant, he believed it was the Duke, but not at all. It was a child. He had to be no more than six. He could see him because the boy was holding a candle in one of his small hands. When he turned to him, Dashvara’s heart sank. The child did not seem to see him, though: all his attention was caught by the open trapdoor.

“Oh,” he said, surprised.

After a brief hesitation, he turned to the stairs. Just in time: a bolt of lightning illuminated the whole corridor. Then this one plunged into the darkness, hiding Dashvara again. The candlelight began moving away, and the child’s stealthy footsteps with it. Why it had to be a child? Why it could not have been a damned slaver?

Dashvara stifled a growl and hurtled into the office.

“We must get out of here right now,” he gasped out in a rush. “A child has seen the open trapdoor, and he has gone downstairs.”

“Help me,” the Duke merely replied.

Dashvara noticed that the strongbox was still intact. The wizard was wheezing and staggering like a drunk.

“A powerful disintegrator, huh?” Dashvara said ironically in a panicky voice.

Rowyn glowered at him.

“The strongbox is protected with enchantments. We couldn’t guess it beforehand. Help me carry it. We have no choice.”

Dashvara helped him, and he puffed out.

“That weighs like a horse.”

He stepped backwards out of the office, and since lifting it to the top of the ladder was unthinkable, he turned to the stairs.

“Where do you think you are going?” Rowyn panted. “We could try, at least, to lift it up on the roof.”

Dashvara clenched his teeth out of the efforts.

“That’s just impossible. And you can be sure I will get out of here either with the proofs or with the prisoners. You choose.”

Rowyn didn’t protest. There was clearly nobody else on the second floor: otherwise, the house would have already been in turmoil for a good while. Going downstairs was a painful task. Axef was stumbling, sliding along the banister; Rowyn and Dashvara were laying the strongbox every few steps, less and less careful of making noise… And finally, they reached the bottom of the stairs. They laid their load on a table in the corridor as stealthily as possible.

“And where’s that kid?” Rowyn inquired in a whisper. “Are you sure you haven’t had some hallucination, Dash?”

“I wish.”

With his sleeve, Dashvara wiped his forehead and his cheeks. They were soaked in sweat.

“And what if the proofs are not in the box?” he asked.

Rowyn shrugged and looked at the end of the corridor just when a flash of lightning illuminated it. He turned wan.

“Dash. The kid.”

Dashvara whirled and stretched a hand just in time to prevent Axef from slumping down over the table.

“Just a lack of practice, that’s all,” the wizard assured with a furred tongue. “As I’m not allowed to cast spells—”

Dashvara craned his neck and could finally see the child—he was walking closer with his candle like in a nightmare. Some sounds got out of his child’s throat. He understood nothing.

“What did he say?” he whispered.

Rowyn shook his head, and Axef responded:

“He asks us whether we are friends of his brother and whether the storm woke us up too.”

“Well, say yes to everything,” Rowyn muttered. “And tell him that it would be much better if he goes back now to his room without making noise.”

Dashvara didn’t like that situation at all. Axef took care of translating the child’s words, then both held a conversation until the wizard nodded, took his small hand, and walked to the stairway, almost not staggering. Rowyn and Dashvara followed them with their gaze, puzzled.

“Where are you going, Axef?” the Duke asked.

“Where is the world going?” Axef replied, and he clarified: “He says that the storm scares him but that a certain Paopag, who usually cares about him, is now out with his brother. So I accompany him back to his bedroom.”

Dashvara choked, and Rowyn gazed at his comrade, open-mouthed, while the wizard started going upstairs with the child.

“Axef…” Rowyn croaked in a muffled voice.

Taking a sudden decision, Dashvara grasped the Duke by the arm to silence him, and he said to the wizard in a whisper:

“You get out through the flat roof, okay?” Axef nodded without stopping, and Dashvara sighed, “At least, we get rid of the child.”

And of the wizard. When Rowyn was in a bad mood, he looked much like Azune, Dashvara noticed. The Duke pointed at the box.

“Your idea of going downstairs was really fantastic. How are we going to get out with this now? Through the main gate, perhaps?”

Dashvara stroked his beard. He had not yet got used to it being so short.

“It’s the only way,” he admitted. “The windows are barred, and without the wizard we cannot do much.”

Besides, the other exit door was that of the warehouse, and as likely as not, it led to the guard barracks. Dashvara unsheathed his sabers.

“You wait here,” he whispered.

The blond nodded, swallowing saliva. Dashvara was just arriving close to what, he supposed, led to the hall and the main entrance, when a sudden clatter of hooves petrified him. Arviyag? So soon? Or maybe it wasn’t that soon. He had no idea what time it was, but he didn’t remember having heard the gong of the temple striking midnight, and according to Rowyn, it had to strike. Perhaps the claps of thunder had muffled the noise.

If Arviyag was coming back, he would come back with his companions; added to the probably two guards who were there, by the door, waiting for him… That was a considerable number of opponents. Maybe he could have sprung outwards by force, but he would have done it without Rowyn… and without the proofs.

Dashvara sheathed and turned around. He pushed the door nearest to the strongbox, and he almost let out a frantic chuckle when he saw it wasn’t locked.

“Answer me, Duke,” he said, “you can still get out through the flat roof. Do you want to get those proofs, or do you want to live?”

“Stop asking silly questions,” Rowyn replied.

Dashvara shook his head sadly; he had no time to argue. Wordlessly, Rowyn and he lifted the box, entered the new room, and shut the door behind them. It was… a pantry? It looked much like one. Dashvara breathed out softly, trying to calm down. Getting into a hole wasn’t a good idea; no, it wasn’t. But given the situation, he was starting to understand that the possibility of escaping had almost diminished to none.

Some laughs resounded in the hall, and then in the corridor. Fortunately—or unfortunately—they spoke in Common Tongue.

“As stupid as they come,” one was laughing. “He thought he would fight in a duel, like we were equals! Bah, this takes a load off my mind. That girl will regret this night for the rest of her life.” There was another laughter.

It was Arviyag, Dashvara understood, horrified. Still, the words did not manage yet to make sense in his mind. He was more worried by imagining the slavers opening the pantry and finding them out with their strongbox.

“But have you left him dead?” another man was asking in a curious tone.

“Now, I can’t say. Paopag has knifed him in the back while the boy was letting out his diatribe, and we have left at a gallop.” Arviyag guffawed. “If only all the nights were just as thrilling. Leriyag, prepare a bath for me, will you?”

There were footsteps in the staircase. The ransacked office would be discovered very soon, and then even the ants wouldn’t be able to get out of the house. Dashvara, who was holding the thief lantern against his chest to deaden the light, finally understood what had happened. Instead of Wanissa, it was Almogan who had awaited the arrival of Arviyag to challenge him to a duel. What an idiot. What a fool. What a… He suppressed his thoughts, in distress. He wasn’t able to find a suitable word to qualify the secretary’s action.

May a lightning strike you, Arviyag! he vociferated mentally.

Then, he noticed Rowyn’s gaze. This one was sitting, as straight as a stick, between two big sacks, and he had the expression of the one who has just seen what it is really like to die. You should have thought better of it before coming here, friend. Dashvara made a wry, sorrowful face, and he took a look over the strongbox. It had a mechanism with numbers, and he guessed that, with the correct number, he would be able to open it. That was what you call heartening, indeed. He only needed the number.

He closed and opened his eyes. For a moment, he considered seriously going out with Rowyn through the main entrance, killing the two guards, and running away. But, even if they managed to do it, then they would have done nothing more than alarm the slavers, and the twenty-five Xalyas would become slaves in Diumcili maybe forever… He rose, and he went to place an empty sack in the lower slit of the door. Right after, he rubbed the lantern and concentrated on inspecting the room. This one was longer than wide, and it had no window. He wouldn’t have planned it better if he had wanted to let the slavers catch them and kill them like defenseless foals.

Infuriated voices burst.

“Ah,” Dashvara said, sitting down beside Rowyn. “I bet my head that Arviyag is irritated. And you?”

The kampraw was shaking violently. Dashvara patted him on the shoulder with that nonchalance of the one who knows himself doomed and enjoys his last minutes of life.

“You’re a good man, Duke. I’m happy I met you.” Rowyn gave him back an empty look. A clack of doors could be heard on the second floor, and then on the first. They were reaching the house.

“They have entered through the flat roof!” a slaver cried. “Sutag, go with your men and surround the house.”

Dashvara contemplated moving the strongbox to block the door with it, but Rowyn was as if thunderstruck, and he wasn’t able to move it alone. Anyway, even so, they could have broken the door. He heaped some flour sacks and set away the small table to make room. When he did not know what more he could do, he sat down again and handed the lantern to Rowyn.

“Keep it in your bag, will you?”

Rowyn didn’t react, and with a sigh, Dashvara himself shoved it into his bag. The light disappeared, leaving them in a total dark. It was almost strange that no one had tried to open the pantry door. With a bit of luck, they might forget to open it.

A ghostly, lifeless voice spoke beside him.

“Don’t you fear death, steppeman?”

If he had not known they were the only two living beings in the pantry, Dashvara could have sworn Rowyn wasn’t the one who had spoken. He swallowed. If you could see my expression at this very moment, friend, you would have never even thought about asking me such a question, believe me…

Suddenly, someone pushed the door and shouted on seeing it was stuck. It was about time. Dashvara inhaled and got to his feet with the heavy-heartedness of an old wolf.

“Of course I fear death, republican,” he finally answered. A beam of light sprung through the narrowly opened door. It opened an inch. “Where I come from, they say even Death fears death.” He unsheathed the sabers and lowered his gaze to Rowyn’s dark figure as he murmured: “But I don’t fear it as much as my brothers’ slavery.” A flour sack fell down from the heap. Dashvara glanced at his weapons and added: “Listen, Rowyn. As soon as the way is clear, run for the exit. You have a dagger, don’t you?”

Rowyn’s nod was almost imperceptible. The door opened another inch. It was enough to pass through. In some occasions, a hesitation may cost your life; in others, madness may save it.

Dashvara bounced forward and sank a saber into the nearest body. He roared:

“Wake up if you want to live, republican!”

In a commotion full of screams, he set on the slavers to get out of that hole of death. Fortunately, he caught them completely off guard: they didn’t expect to come across a wild demon armed with two sabers. He wounded another one, but they rapidly drew away from him and took hold of their daggers and short swords; one of them nearly slipped onto the floor, which was wet because of the open trapdoor. They were four. And the other ones wouldn’t take long to come thanks to the bawls that one was uttering in his Diumcili dialect. Dashvara didn’t let them encircle him: he lunged at the man on his right. He noticed a gleam of surprise in the slaver’s eyes. Logically, they were all expecting he would have gone to the left, toward the exit. Not toward the warehouse.

He dodged the slaver’s blade, gave him a slash in the side, and leaped backwards, in such a way that he placed himself several steps closer to his objective. His four adversaries had followed him, and he felt a stir of hope when he saw out of the corner of his eyes a silhouette bolting out of the pantry.

If you die, I hope I will die before you, Duke…

He avoided another attack, and he finally managed to move away from the staircase and draw backward into the corridor. This one was wide enough to wield the sabers easily but wouldn’t allow more than two opponents to attack him at once.

If more men come from the warehouse and attack me from behind, I am definitely lost.

He squinted his eyes. No one of the four men dared attack. A sudden skirmish burst over the main entrance, and then there was a scream. Dashvara went ashen white, but he decided it was no time to fantasize. He repelled an attack, and just when the slaver was stepping backwards, the muscles of his chest contracted. Aghast, he saw a fit of coughing coming over him. Eternal Bird! He had passed two whole days not even sensing the poison effects! Could it be that an infernal hand had decided he had to die inevitably this very night?

He stumbled backwards, struggling against himself. His lips stretched into a demented smile. Are you going to die of a coughing fit, Dash? Truth to tell, I can’t find any better way to die. I can almost hear my father telling me solemnly: this death, son, is worthy of a Xalya. Worthy of the Prince of the Sand. You tried, son. Now rest in peace.

He stopped raving when one of the Diumcilian men, encouraged because other companions were coming into the house, thrust at him, raising his daggers. Dashvara crouched, waiting for him, but no attack came. The slaver stopped dead, and a scornful smile stole across his face. Hearing a sudden noise behind him, Dashvara darted aside, and he received a club blow on his arm. Traitors… He spun around, his eyes wide, and he charged, but he couldn’t say if he had aimed straight or if he had smashed into a wall. He whirled over and over like a madman, striking all over the place, not caring about anything anymore, because he was in a mousetrap, after all, and all he could do was keep moving. Kill red nadres, or slavers. It was all the same. He received another blow in his side and a cut on his shoulder. Then he stopped counting the hits until someone threw him a lasso around the neck, and he began to suffocate. He attempted to cut the rope with one saber while blocking an attack with the other one. He was choking. He drew a wheezing breath, and suddenly a fit of coughing seized him as if he had to expel some demon, but he only expelled blood. He heard a scream, and then there was another blow. And then he couldn’t know what happened next.

24 Will

A face loomed over him. A blue face, dark like the dark clouds when a sunbeam illuminates the steppe. Red eyes, just like those of demons in fairy tales… Dashvara’s eyelids fluttered.

“W-where am I?” he stuttered.

The dark creature was sitting beside him, working with needle and thread; it glanced at him.

“I’m sewing your wounds. None is grievous; you will recover soon.”

Dashvara then noticed he was undressed, chained, and lying on a large block of stone. He even had an iron collar that was impeding him from raising his head.

After these observations, he made an effort to remember while that weird being kept sewing a slash in his leg. Maybe Rowyn had got out alive, but he could not be sure; Almogan had probably died; and the others had to be safe, normally. And Aligra had no Lord of the Xalyas anymore, he added ironically. Dashvara tried hard to calm down.

“Are you a slaver?” he asked.

“No.”

Dashvara didn’t believe him.

“Are you a sajit?”

The physician interrupted his work for a second.

“I am a drow.”

Oh. A drow. Dashvara tried to recall what he already knew about drows. Maloven said they weren’t sajits, even though they looked pretty much like one. He said that a drow was incapable of feeling emotions other than hatred, greed, and pleasure of destruction. From how he had painted them, Dashvara had always imagined drows as huge and dreadful monsters with teeth sharper than those of red nadres. That doctor did not seem to be very tall, he wore a plain dress, though elegant, and a silver necklace with a big, circular, black pearl as a pendant. His face was expressionless, his eyes were demoniac, but all in all, he looked intelligent. And he healed injuries.

“Why didn’t they kill me?” he questioned.

The drow was tying the knot. He did not answer. Dashvara wiggled angrily. A terrible feeling was starting to peer into his mind.

“Why didn’t they kill me?” he repeated.

The drow rose and went to wash his hands in a bowl. Dashvara pulled at the chains. As he could have expected, these did not yield.

“Arviyag!” he howled. “Where is that murderer?”

The drow tossed his head up; however, he did not turn to him, but to something Dashvara could not see. A clatter of footsteps going downstairs was approaching, and then there was a squeaking sound of a key turning in a lock.

“Arviyag!” Dashvara hissed. “Is it you? Damn you.”

The new arrival ignored him.

“Did you finish?” The voice did not sound familiar to Dashvara. A few footsteps drew closer, but not enough to appear in his field of view. “Good. Let’s hope he’s willing to talk. What’s your name, prisoner?”

Dashvara growled.

“And yours? Show yourself and I may answer you.”

The coward did not move.

“What were you looking for in Arviyag’s office?” the slaver kept interrogating.

“And what do you think?” Dashvara replied after a silence.

“Why, I don’t know. The strongbox you tried to steal had gold and jewels in it. Was it that what you were looking for?”

Dashvara turned pale and said nothing. He decided that, from now on, he wouldn’t open his mouth again. He heard a cold laugh.

“Are you a Xalya?” Only the silence answered him. “It’s doubtless. You’re the one who robbed us of the prisoners in Rocavita, I guess. And you’ve come here intending to save the rest. Your bold action has no mystery. But tell me, who were your partners? They weren’t Xalyas. They were Dazbonish, weren’t they? I very much doubt they were mercenaries, because I don’t believe you had enough money to hire them. Am I right? Yes, I am. Those guys belong to a Brotherhood. But to which? There are so many brotherhoods in this city. A bit of help would come in very handy. And you want to help us too, trust me. You’re going to tell us the names of your partners and that of the Brotherhood.” There was another silence. “You don’t want to answer, huh?”

For an answer, Dashvara let out a sigh of relief. If the slaver was asking such questions, it meant everyone was safe. It meant that Rowyn was safe. Or at least that he wasn’t captured alive, he rectified. He felt as if he had a block of ice caught in his throat, and he swallowed, but the sensation did not disappear.

It seemed the silence would last forever. Finally, the slaver said:

“Get him ready, drow.”

He heard the noise of a door closing and footsteps moving away. Dashvara looked up at the drow.

“Ready for what?” he muttered.

Any stone was more expressive than that doctor. He saw him searching a bag, and he saw him taking out a black case and opening it. Dashvara frowned when the drow placed in each forefinger a sort of thimble. He tried to conceal his terror, and he failed masterly. The doctor finally stepped closer, and without a word, he laid his hands on Dashvara’s both shoulders.

“Let me give you a word of advice,” he suddenly whispered. “Next time, answer the questions.”

It happened abruptly. Stabbing lightning bolted through him and left him breathless. Dashvara’s teeth chattered, but the doctor did not let him recover, and he continued touching distinct parts of his body, though never the head. First, Dashvara burst into curses; and when he was sure he had used all the swearwords he knew, he started again, his breathing getting more and more wheezing.

After what seemed to Dashvara a life full of sufferings, the drow let go of him and took his thimbles back to the case. The door was opening.

“Answer the questions,” the drow advised in a quick whisper.

The Faceless went on interrogating him about the Brotherhood, and Dashvara spit out:

“Go plant grass in the desert!” He added a flow of insults that died long after the door shut. Dashvara clenched his teeth, and he thought he heard the drow sighing when this one drew closer again. This time, he had two thimbles in each hand.

“It’s no use fighting,” he said in a low voice. “The more you fight, the more it will hurt.”

“How many people have you tortured, you monster?” Dashvara bellowed. His voice sounded hoarse, and he coughed. There was a brief light of sadness in the drow’s red eyes.

“It’s no use fighting,” he uttered, like a litany.

He repeated it later, when he put three thimbles in his hands. This time, the doctor’s sadness was obvious. Dashvara’s body began to convulse with uncontrollable spasms even before the drow came beside him.

“No…” he whispered, gazing at the drow’s hands, his eyes bulging. “You can’t do that. No…”

“Are you going to talk?”

“No.”

“Why?” the doctor suddenly asked.

Control yourself, Dash. You are the son of Vifkan of Xalya and Dakia of Xalya. Your blood is Xalya blood. Your Eternal Bird is strong. You can’t let the feather fall down. He repeated the words in his mind like a child trying to convince himself that the winged horses exist. A bit calmer, he looked the physician in the eye.

“You mean, why am I defending my friends? I suppose it’s because I’m not a monster like you.” Then, he got the idea of talking on so that the drow would wait… so that he wouldn’t go closer. “If you had a friend to protect, would you betray him?”

The doctor shook his head slightly.

“I have no friend.”

In your face. You didn’t expect that answer, did you? Dashvara cleared his throat.

“That is even worse than being tortured, you know? Tell me, what’s your name?”

He thought he perceived surprise in the drow’s expression.

“Tsu,” this one answered. “I am Tsu.”

“A pleasure, Tsu. They call me Dashvara of Xalya, Dash for friends. Well, you know, it isn’t so hard to make friends. I could teach you. The first step is not to torture them. The second is to speak to them. The third, to know them. The fourth, to respect them. And the fifth step is to try to rescue them when they get into trouble.”

Tsu was looking at him with his red eyes. After a silence, he said:

“Why do you say your name to me and not to them?”

Dashvara raised an eyebrow.

“To them? Don’t you identify with the slavers?”

“I am not a slaver. I am a slave.”

Dashvara stayed speechless.

“Aw,” he breathed out at last. “That’s sure a terrible fact: that the slaves torture each other. Practical. In no time, the slaves will be their own slavers—”

“Silence,” Tsu hushed abruptly.

There were footsteps on the stairs. Tsu placed his hands on Dashvara’s chest with an apologizing face. Two seconds later, pain burst, his will fell like a stone onto the ground, and an inhuman scream got out of his dry throat. His head was ablaze, his eyes were blurred, life suddenly seemed awful to him, despicable…

“Enough,” a voice thundered. Panting, Dashvara would have widened his eyes even more if that had been possible. It was Arviyag. “Hasn’t he talked yet, drow?”

“No, sir,” the doctor answered, stepping aside.

“You’re tenacious, Xalya,” Arviyag commented, walking into the room. “You kill two men of mine in Rocavita. You harm four other ones tonight…” Dashvara saw him appear in front of him, and he would have died of hatred if hatred could have killed a man. The Diumcilian slaver’s face was peering at him with interest. “I like your style. We’ll give you a break, and let’s see if you feel brave enough to talk. Paopag, lead him to the cells. Drow, drop your tools and come with me.”

Mentally, Dashvara was preparing some speech to try, at least, to assure himself that not the faintest trace of kindness was left in Arviyag’s heart. However, either because his mind was working too slow or because time suddenly passed faster, the doctor and Arviyag left before he could say anything. Three slavers freed him from his grave. They even took off his chains. Dashvara watched them doing, his mind blank. Later, when they helped him to sit up, he felt a bit more conscious.

“Arviyag is gonna die,” he grunted.

One of the slavers, Paopag probably, smiled contemptuously.

“Oh, yeah? There, now. Put this on.” They dressed him in a clean brown tunic. Any movement required a great deal of effort, and yet, Tsu had not hurt him. He had simply… used magic?

They shackled him with handcuffs, and Paopag jolted him toward the exit.

“Get moving.”

Dashvara did not move—they dragged him out of the room. His mind was boiling with swearwords, but he didn’t manage to let out any of them. He walked between his captors, his legs shaking as if he were about to suffer some epileptic attack. Instead of going upstairs, they went down. They arrived in front of a door. He could hear muffled voices behind it, but they fell silent when Paopag opened it and shoved Dashvara in, toward the darkness.

“This way,” he said.

They backed him against a wall, made him sit down, and fastened him to a metal ring. Dashvara’s eyes strayed around. He was surrounded by pairs of eyes and breaths. He hadn’t enough time to look at the faces drown in the shadows. The door shut, leaving him in total darkness, and the footsteps fell away in the distance; and they vanished. Silence reigned for a long time. Then:

“Who are you, good man?”

That voice… was a voice he had believed he would never hear ever again. For an exasperating moment, he was unable to speak. His lips trembled.

“Makarva?” he croaked. “Is it you?”

There was a silence, and then his patrol comrade’s voice stammered:

“Dash? You’re… alive? But… how? Eternal Bird, you’re alive! Lumon, captain, he’s alive!”

His heart pounding, Dashvara blinked and cursed the darkness. He would have given his own horse only to see them!

“Captain?” he echoed, astonished. “Captain Zorvun?”

There was another silence.

“He’s here, Dash,” Makarva answered cheerfully. “The captain is alive. We are twenty-two. All patrols. Lumon is here. And Sashava. And the Triplets… And…” His voice choked. “Demons, Dash. I can’t believe it!”

“Are you really Dashvara?” Sashava’s steady voice asked.

Changing his mind, Dashvara thanked the darkness, because his cheeks were soaked.

“I am, Sashava,” he confirmed. “I tried to save you all, but they caught me.”

“You got right into the middle of a slavers’ den?” Makarva laughed. That good crazy man was capable of laughing in situations as critical as this one.

“That’s what I did. I tried to find proofs against the slavers, but I failed.” His voice choked, and he attempted to clear his throat. He was thirsty. “And Sigfen?”

It took time for Makarva to respond.

“He died. I saw him die.”

Dashvara nodded sadly. He had already given him up for dead anyway.

“Boron?”

“Here I am,” the placid warrior answered. Dashvara smiled, imagining him calmly sitting with his chains, incapable of feeling panic or despair.

“How did they catch you?” he asked.

“Well…” He guessed Makarva’s embarrassment. “Sashava’s patrol, as you know, was attacked by the Essimeans before arriving at the Dungeon.”

“They imprisoned almost all of us,” Sashava murmured. “And then they sold us. And here we are. And yourself, Dashvara? How did you escape?”

He noted a hint of suspicion in his voice. Dashvara did not hold it against him and answered in all sincerity.

“I escaped through the main gate. Disguised as a Shalussi.”

There were some snorts. Most of the Xalyas weren’t aware of Lord Vifkan’s trick.

“You passed yourself off as a Shalussi?” The voice belonged to one of the Triplets, but Dashvara wasn’t able to determine which. Miflin, perhaps?

“Crafty,” Lumon’s thoughtful voice praised. Dashvara smiled. Lumon’s Eternal Bird had always been quite pragmatic.

“It would have been unworthy,” a deep voice intervened, “only if Lord Vifkan hadn’t asked him to.”

All fell silent at hearing the captain. With a lump in his throat, Dashvara turned his head to where the voice had spoken. There was a jangle of chains. He didn’t know the captain through and through as he knew his patrol comrades, but he was well aware of how he was. Responsible, rough, sometimes sarcastic. Finding himself in a cell as a slave wasn’t something likely to improve his good mood.

“Captain,” Dashvara uttered, more because he felt relieved by knowing that the captain was alive than because he wanted to actually call him.

“Vifkan did that?” Disbelief vibrated in Sashava’s voice.

“He did,” Dashvara confirmed.

There was another silence.

“And… why it had to be you?” Lumon asked softly, a tinge of incomprehension in his voice. “You are his son, of course, but we all knew Lord Vifkan. He’d have rather saved any other Xalya instead.”

Hard to accept, but true, Dashvara thought. He hesitated. He didn’t know if it was suitable to tell them about the task his lord father had entrusted to him. In any case, why should he care right now? They were all locked up in a cell, prisoners of the Diumcilians. Lifdor, Shiltapi, and Todakwa were in the steppe, far, far away from there. Besides… Hellish demons. Who was the guiltiest—the savage that attacked a Xalya, or the wealthy slaver that sent the savage to catch the Xalya in order to enslave this one? Where did he have to start the revenge? The matter was disturbing.

“Dash?” Lumon said, concerned.

Dashvara shook his head, not answering. It took him some seconds to realize that his gesture had been completely useless in the darkness.

“I don’t know, Lumon,” he murmured. “I don’t know.”

If he said nothing, nobody would know. Only Rokuish and Zaadma were aware of that revenge. He swallowed. If he said nothing, nobody would know, he repeated himself as blood was rushing to his head. A feeling of shame overcame him, and he called himself a fool. All in all, did he have even the faintest chance of getting out of that den? The Pearl Brothers would never enter the building by force to get him out of there. They had no proof either, anyway. And Dashvara had no saber. In short, the situation gave, so to speak, very few possibilities of getting out of there. As a wise steppeman said: ‘Hungry souls forget any other goal’. Dashvara sighed silently. Fair revenge is fantastic, Father, but for now, the Xalyas, we have much more pressing matters.

He imagined him glaring at him, telling him to rack his brains and find a way out. Telling him to thrust at the slavers if necessary. ‘Between slavery and death, I prefer death’, he had said once, full of pride. Dashvara thought the same… up to a certain point. That is, up to the point that, when the time came to choose, he had to make a decision. Well done, Dash, you’ve just discovered you’re a coward. Good for you. It’s always a good thing to be aware of it. As you say yourself, the better one knows himself, the better he feels and stands himself. Come on, confess it: you’re a coward.

Dashvara closed his eyes. He could see nothing, anyway. In more normal circumstances, he had no doubt Makarva would have asked him what had happened to him during those past weeks. But the spirits were low, and even Dashvara’s arrival hadn’t managed to get the patrols out of their grogginess. However, long minutes later, Makarva broke the silence:

“Dash, are you there?”

Dashvara rolled his eyes.

“Where do you expect me to be, Mak?”

“I dunno. Perhaps you had gone to get the water bottle. I have the impression your throat is dry.”

A broad grin furrowed Dashvara’s face. Obviously, there was no water bottle.

“That was my intention, but then I thought to myself, why, with so many clouds there on the top, I even can’t see the stars. And I thought: what’s the use of moving if Mak may bring it to me?”

“Haw! Keep sitting and waiting for your water bottle, you fool.”

“Okay then, I’ll keep sitting and waiting. I’m sure it will get over here. Hope springs eternal.”

“Bah!” Makarva protested joyfully. “That expression is too common. Can’t you find something better?”

“Well, let me think… ‘You never give up hoping what you hope even if while hoping you feel hopeless’?”

“Better,” Makarva approved. “Absurd, but better.”

“You’re hopeless,” Lumon intervened.

There were some amused chuckles. They didn’t use to have those foolish conversations in the captain’s presence, but damned demons, the cell oozed asphyxiation and bad humor, and the better they could do was trying to brighten up the atmosphere. So they spent a long time teasing each other and kidding. The Triplets got into the conversation, of course—those three boys, cousins of Dashvara, had driven the Dungeon’s Xalyas mad throughout their childhood, and they joked more than they breathed. Between the five of them, they ended up fantasizing they were playing katutas. Makarva managed to get Boron into the game, but the Placid, as they called him, wasn’t overly fond of playing without a board.

“Cheer up, Boron!” Makarva exclaimed. “I don’t have the loaded dice.”

“Even if you had them, Mak, we couldn’t see the difference,” Miflin’s voice commented.

“Too smart, bro,” a teasing voice said. “I bet my hair that Makarva has the dice.”

“And you, who are you? Kodarah or Zamoy?” Makarva replied with a dry wit.

“Kodarah, obviously,” Zamoy lied.

There was a snort. The Maneman complained:

“I am Kodarah! And he is Zamoy. I have made no bet.”

“What? He’s just stolen my name! I’ve been Kodarah all my life,” Zamoy laughed.

“Now, okay, okay,” Dashvara muttered, feigning exasperation. “This way we’ll never go on. Whose turn is it?”

“Yours,” Makarva said.

“Are you sure?”

“No, but since you have spoken, the turn is yours. Remember we haven’t started yet.”

Dashvara was about to respond, but Sashava cut him off in a bad-humored voice:

“Give it a rest, boys. Your ridiculous games are starting to get on my nerves.”

The cell plunged into a startled silence. Sashava was not the captain, but still, he was a patrol leader; and even if he was often in a rather gloomy mood and lose his temper quite easily, he had always led his men masterfully, and Dashvara admired him almost as much as captain Zorvun. Blushing, he closed his mouth. All of us have lost parents, brothers, or children, and Sashava has just reminded us of it with his usual tact. Like we need to be reminded…

Suddenly, the captain intervened:

“Let them go on talking, Sashava. They do nothing wrong. All they are doing is enjoying the little freedom they have left: that is, talking. To be sure,” he added, “they can also enjoy the best freedom of all: that is, thinking.”

Captain Zorvun returned to his stubborn silence, and the others did not dare speak anymore. The silence grew heavy, solely interrupted by the noise of chains and clearing throats. A long, long time later, during which Dashvara began to doze awake, wishing to think only about the happiness of having found his comrades again, he heard the squeaking sound of a key turning in the lock. Dashvara jerked up, and his nerves went down in flames. He knew they were coming to take him upstairs. Were they going to pick a comrade to torture him and force him to sing? Even so, he wouldn’t sing, he told himself, convinced.

“It’s him,” a voice said.

He blinked, blinded by the torchlight. Some hands freed him from the metal ring and got him up. He went out of the cell in dead silence.

“This time you’re going to talk, my friend,” Paopag told him, closing the door. “And you will talk very loud so I can hear you clearly.”

Dashvara felt as if he had swallowed a bubble of compact air. He tried to summon courage, but he only managed it half.

They shoved him upstairs, and once in the room, they made him lie down again. Or they attempted to do it, at least, because, at that moment, Dashvara struggled like a possessed man. He knew it was useless, but he didn’t want to lie down there again. He didn’t want to. Sometimes, when fear is stronger than reason, you act foolishly and pointlessly. Paopag finally gave him a punch right in his stomach, three of them got hold of him, undressed his trunk, and chained him up.

“Where’s the doctor?” Paopag asked impatiently.

“There he comes,” one of the men said in a tired voice.

Tsu appeared before Dashvara’s eyes. He looked nervous. He laid his effects on the small table, drew out his black case, and put three thimbles on each hand. Then he turned to the men Dashvara could not see, lying as he was with his head almost completely immobilized.

“Are you going to stay?” the drow asked.

Paopag answered:

“It’s necessary. That damned Xalya must talk. If he doesn’t, drow, you will never be able to speak anymore, just like him, take my word for it.”

Dashvara perceived how Tsu’s dark skin slightly faded. Nevertheless, the drow nodded, quite inexpressive.

“Okay then.”

When he approached Dashvara, only his eyes expressed compassion. But the feeling was unmistakable. Why do you do something that disgusts you, Tsu? Is the fear of death really capable of wrecking a person’s soul to such a degree? Dashvara saw the thimbles drawing closer, and he could feel the cold contact. He clenched his jaw and looked at Tsu defiantly. I won’t talk, he wanted to tell him. Never.

This promise did not prevent him from howling as loudly as a man can howl. Time became blurred in his mind, torment never ended, and his mind began to shatter. The doctor gave him a break for him to catch his breath, and Paopag asked him a question. Dashvara knew what this one was about, but he preferred not to listen to it. He preferred not to think about anything. Tsu sighed almost imperceptibly, and he went on.

Torture, among the Xalyas, was a practice they had never employed. If someone was a criminal or a betrayer, he was sentenced to death. If he was a bandit, he was punished by whipping. But they didn’t torture a man. Not like that.

Dashvara knew from Maloven that, in the southern lands, they tortured men to get confessions. But he had never imagined something like that. Every time the thimbles touched him, pain ravaged his mind, pouring into it as if in a distorted chamber with no more room for more junks.

Paopag questioned again, several times; and with his eyes and throat on fire, Dashvara refused to answer again and again. If he had to die, he would. In any case, that was probably the destiny they had ordained for him. He had killed two Arviyag’s men, after all, hadn’t he? His thoughts were fraying; death was close, very close. He could almost touch it, now. The wise men said that death was just a stop-being. You must not fear it, though you must avoid it as long as possible. But, to Dashvara, the possible made no sense anymore.

“Put on one more thimble,” Paopag said. Frustration vibrated in his voice. “We’ve already wasted too much time.”

Tsu swallowed saliva, and for a moment, he looked as if he was about to protest. But he obeyed.

“It won’t kill him, will it?” Paopag suddenly asked as if concerned.

Tsu shook his head.

“I don’t know. That depends on people.”

He stretched his hands… Then, Dashvara saw It. Death—empty, useless, absurd. Dying didn’t make sense. He only had to talk. He only had to make some sounds. The world is large and full of people, he told himself with no apparent logic. Besides, Rowyn is not stupid. He knows how to hide. Azune too, doesn’t she? They can look after themselves… What does it matter what I say?

No, he thought. He had to keep faith with his feather, however strong the wind blew. He could bend but never fall completely. If he fell completely, how could he rise again? How could he recover his Eternal Bird if it had fallen into an abyss? He couldn’t abandon hope. Hope, he repeated, his eyes bulging as Tsu was laying firmly his hands on his shoulders. He met his unquiet gaze.

Hope, Dash. You have to feel it inside you… Hope to die without shaming yourself. Hope, steppe lord. HOPE, DAMMIT!

His mind shouted as strong as a battering ram. As if a latch had burst, as if the walls themselves had rushed toward their enemy, collapsing under the blows, Dashvara burst into tears like a child. Tsu withdrew his hands, not even having done anything, but the Xalya barely noticed it. He felt shattered, and he was sobbing in Oy’vat over and over:

“I don’t want to die… I don’t want to die…”

He had risked his life many times. Against red nadres. Against savages, scale-nefarious, bandits… He had been a man of the Dahars. A Xalya. But, now, a terrible certainty was overwhelming him; the selfsame certainty that forces a man to admit how limited his endurance actually is. The cruelest instinct had suddenly been unbound like a jailed demon being freed, and like a lake full of poison, it had spread in his mind, fouling everything in its path.

“Aswur naytar!” he howled, crying like a lost soul. “Aas…” he choked and then wailed: “Aswur naytar.”

“What the devil is he saying?” a voice asked.

“Water,” Dashvara finally stuttered in Common Tongue. “I d-don’t want to d-die.”

Paopag’s face appeared in front of him, expressing relief.

“Drow, bring water to the boy,” he ordered. Tsu obeyed, and Dashvara drank chokingly. “Well then, Xalya,” Paopag went on in a gentle voice. “Now you’re going to talk, aren’t you?”

Dashvara nodded, his eyes blurred with tears. And while he was talking, a small, sarcastic voice in his mind told him: Definitely proved, Dash: you are a coward.

25 At Kroon’s table

One of the things Kroon most hated was being the last person to know what was going on around him. He was the last person to know what had happened in the slaver’s house. The last person to learn that the Pearl Brotherhood’s headquarters had been attacked during the night by some hooded strangers. And the last person to be aware that Sheroda had vanished and that her two trustworthy bodyguards had been murdered. Kroon had always thought of them as two great warriors. But even a great warrior may be defeated if a murderer stabs him in his own bed.

He raised a tired gaze around the table. Tildrin was propping up his head with his hands, looking unusually mournful. Azune was splintering the table with a knife, and for an instant, Kroon felt the urge to remind her that she was spoiling his table, but he swallowed his words and turned to Rowyn. The “captain” of the band looked as if he was suffering from brutal indigestion. His conscience—he had said—had become as dirty as a canal of the city because he had abandoned the barbarian while this one was saving his life. When Kroon had remarked that, anyway, the barbarian probably hadn’t a clear conscience either, the Duke had looked daggers at him.

“Well, well, well,” the monk said suddenly. The others jumped in their seats. “So we no longer have a Supreme. Any volunteer to replace her?”

Azune gave back a gloomy look at him.

“Kroon, the Pearl Brotherhood is dead.”

Kroon shook his head slightly. He saw the room with a crystal-clear clarity even though this one was, for the others, plunged in the dark. He had never quite understood why the effects of that healing potion had left him that way; but, honestly, finding out the reason wasn’t something he felt overly interested in.

Dead, Azune had said. Yes, perhaps she was right, but what did it matter? It was only a name.

“The Duke, Tildrin, Axef, you, and me,” Kroon enumerated eloquently. “No, Azu, the Pearl Brotherhood is not dead.”

Azune kept ruining his table wordlessly. Again, Kroon watched his three companions, and he sighed, exasperated.

“This is ridiculous,” he grumbled. “You cannot keep that dejected look on your face. Like it’s the end of the world.”

Abruptly, the door opened, and Kroon lowered his eyes down to his missing legs, avoiding light. When the door was finally closed, he looked at Axef’s smiling face with a squinted eye.

“What of the boy?” he inquired.

Axef furrowed his brow.

“What boy?”

Kroon croaked.

“Almogan Mazer, for the Divinity’s sake!”

“Oh. The boy. Do you really want to know? He was still there when I left him. Alive, but in despair, unless he was furious. Yes, he was too. Not dead, I think. He threw the lamp in my face. That is, he attempted to. Luckily, he didn’t manage to grasp it; otherwise, he would’ve actually thrown it. The boy,” he repeated with an ironic smile.

Kroon joined his hands in relief.

“Good. What are those voices behind the door?” he asked.

Axef’s smile widened.

“Some people. They just wanted to follow me. I think it is because they like Orange,” he added, looking down over his tunic. “Or perhaps it is simply a coincidence.”

Immediately, they all tensed up.

“Whom you brought?” Azune asked. “Open the door.”

Axef opened it and waved the outside people inside. Kroon saw five people coming in: a man with a hat, a woman with generous curves, and three young ladies. Azune snorted.

“What are you doing here?”

The Shalussi barbarian took off his hat like a gentleman before answering:

“We’ve come to help.”

The Duke, Azune, Tildrin, and Kroon stared at him, not knowing exactly how to react to such an absurd statement. At last, Kroon said:

“Help, huh? Sit down, barbarian, though I have no idea how you can help us.”

“Where’s the shadow?” Azune inquired. Kroon noticed that the half-elf’s eyes had rested on a bag that one of the Xalyas was carrying. The bag was hanging down, almost empty.

“He’s gone,” the barbarian girl whispered in a soft voice. “He said he was going to save Dash.”

Neither she nor Azune commented anything else. Kroon still hardly believed that a shadow had been following the barbarian. Well, he did know that those creatures existed, but… he couldn’t help recalling what was said of them: they were evil, brought bad luck, were insidious and deceitful… Bah. If the little monster was gone to look for the barbarian, so much the better.

All of them sat down, including Axef, who seemed to be the only one a bit enthusiastic. Kroon wondered why.

“First off, what were your names again?” he demanded. “My memory is not as it used to be.”

They introduced themselves: Rokuish, Zaadma, Fayrah, Lessi, and Aligra. The first one was nervous, the second looked thoughtful, Fayrah’s and Lessi’s eyes were glittering, and Aligra wore the expression of a murderous night owl.

“Well, well, well,” Kroon said. “So you are the one who saved the Duke from the slavers, huh, barbarian?” Rokuish shrugged modestly. Kroon looked at the young woman beside him. “And you are the owner of the thief lantern.”

“I am not the owner,” Zaadma replied, producing the notorious disk. “Let me say it clearly: I don’t belong to the Dream Brotherhood. This lantern does not belong to me but an old partner of mine. Besides—”

Kroon interrupted her by holding up a hand. The way Zaadma talked, it was clear she was an incurable talker, and he had a pointed lack of patience towards the people afflicted with verbosity.

“Thank you for the clarifications,” he emphasized. “And now, tell us you guys, how do you want to help us?”

Rokuish cleared his throat.

“Those slavers…”

Kroon cut him off.

“We’ve already had enough problems with those slavers. We don’t want to get deeper into trouble. If you really want to help us, give us gold: our Supreme has run off, and as for our patron, she will probably not want to have anything to do with us anymore. Actually, only the Supreme used to deal with her. Hey, barbarian, do you really want to help us? Or are you expecting to find more hands to try to save your friend, the barbarian? Assuming he’s still alive.”

The steppe people turned pale, and the Duke clenched his fist.

“Kroon!” he bellowed. “That barbarian, as you said, was a good man.”

“Yes, I do believe he was,” Kroon approved with a sudden certainty. “But we cannot save all the good men of this world, Duke. The slavers have proved to be smarter than we are. Now it’s time to accept the defeat and go back to healthier habits. Your dear Dashvara has betrayed us, Duke.”

Rowyn went white, but he said nothing. In the silence, Azune was jabbing her knife into the table, looking unaware of what she was doing. Then, one of the Xalyas, Fayrah, shook her head briskly.

“No,” she said. “My brother has not betrayed you. He would never betray anyone,” she affirmed.

Her friend Lessi approved with a nod, looking at them all with conviction. Aligra, after a second of hesitation, confirmed the assertion. They did believe so. Brave barbarian girls. Kroon was too old to have faith like them. He couldn’t think of another possibility: the barbarian had sung.

“It doesn’t matter,” he finally muttered. “Anyhow, the slavers discovered the Supreme, and the Brotherhood has one foot in the abyss. We cannot afford to take more risks right now.”

As if he had taken any risk himself, he thought sarcastically. The Duke smashed his fist down on the table in an unusual outburst, and he half got up.

“If he’s still alive, we’re not going to let him in the claws of those ruffians,” he thundered. “And if he’s dead, we’re not going to let him die in vain.”

Kroon stifled a sigh. The Duke was capable of committing the craziest things when he was in that knightly mood of his.

“Then, what do you suggest?” he murmured in a level voice.

Rowyn’s jaw clenched.

“I suggest freeing Dazbon from the slavers once and for all.”

“Oh. Yes. A wonderful idea,” Kroon approved mildly. “And what’s the plan? To fight to the death? To poison them by stealth? Or to beg them to go away and bring us back the corpse of our dearest barbarian?”

Bitterness tinged Kroon’s mild tone. Not surprisingly, the Duke resumed his seat, looking dispirited. Kroon noticed how Fayrah quickly wiped her misted eyes. He didn’t mean to discourage anybody, he told himself with a sigh. But things are the way they are, and of course they weren’t going to carry out any crazy plan now that the slavers were on a war footing… Kroon was about to open his mouth to inform the barbarians and the thief woman that they were free to go away, just when a distant clap of thunder rolled, loud, very loud.

A startled silence fell all over Dazbon.

“What happened?” Azune asked, standing up to draw near the window.

Kroon averted his eyes, letting out a grumble of protest when the daylight poured into the room. There was no storm. Hell, in theory, there were no claps of thunder if there was no storm, right? All rushed outwards, except Kroon, of course. And except Axef. The monk looked at the disintegrator through the slits of his eyelids.

“What do you laugh at, Axef?”

This one was filing his nails with dedication, a demoniac smile on his face.

“Why am I laughing, Kroon?” He interrupted his movements, and when he raised his eyes, these were glinting. “I don’t know. Are you sure I am laughing?”

“It’s the Bastion!” a voice exclaimed outside. “The big tower has just collapsed!”

Kroon frowned with a nasty feeling.

“What have you done, Axef?”

The disintegrator was not laughing. He was smiling, but not laughing. He responded calmly:

“Don’t worry, there was nobody inside. I have just destroyed the machine. My machine. I had to do it someday, don’t you think, Kroon?”

Kroon had not the slightest idea of what that madman was talking about. He knew that Axef had studied in the Bastion. He knew that something serious had happened there and that the celmist had been expelled for that reason. He had never heard of any machine.

“You’ve also destroyed the tower,” he whispered, flustered.

Axef nodded.

“Yes. Unless it was no tower but something much worst. If only the whole Bastion could blow up. But there are people inside. And I am not a murderer. Kroon,” he added after a silence. “Do you think he really sang?”

Kroon raised an eyebrow at the sudden change of subject.

“I…” He shrugged. “Does it actually matter, Axef? I don’t think he sang of his own free will.”

Axef shook his head with sadness.

“We all sing of our own free will. But you’re right: it doesn’t matter. What shall we do now?”

“I have a suggestion.” An unknown voice resounded next to the door, exactly where Kroon was taking care not to look at.

The Pearl Brother’s voices, outside, hollered.

“Hey! Who the hell do you think you are?” Azune burst out. “Get out of our house at once!”

Kroon heard someone clearing his throat as if amused, and he discerned the silhouette of a hooded man. At that very moment, he revealed his face.

“They call me Cobra, I’m with the Dream Brotherhood, and I come here to propose an accord and a reward.”

As he spoke, he had walked through the room, and he stopped a few steps away from Kroon, peering at him with a blatant gaze.

“May I?” he asked, at last, pointing to a bottle set on the table.

Kroon made a face.

“You may, damned thief.”

Cobra made a smiling grimace and grasped the bottle. He took a sip while the other ones were going back to their seats, looking wary. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve, and he patted Kroon on the shoulder.

“Thanks. We know each other, don’t we?”

Kroon’s eye was fastened on his face. Yes, he knew him by sight. He would have never been able to forget the day when the Order of Sifra had gotten their hands on the thief. At the time, Kroon was still serving as a dragon-monk in Dazbon, and he was punished for neglecting his duty when Cobra had managed to escape before the cohorts arrived to catch him. That was why he had been sent to the border, to fight the orcs. And that was why he had lost his legs.

Cobra grinned.

“You look better than the last time.”

Kroon mumbled.

“Get to the point. Why do you come over here, in an honest people’s house?”

Cobra shook his head and went to sit down too, at the opposite head of the table.

“Am I glad to see you, dear,” he said as he passed by Zaadma. This one had turned pale.

“Answer, you scoundrel,” Azune hissed.

But Cobra took his time. He smiled at each one, asked them to introduce themselves, behaved like a perfect gentleman, and then, when the nerves were about to burst, he stated:

“We are all honest people. Yes,” he added, looking at them again. “All of us without exception. And I think we’re going to come to an agreement very quickly. Your Supreme is with me.”

“You’ve captured her!” the Duke called out.

“Don’t be ridiculous. That woman is the one who’s captured all of us,” Cobra replied with a small smile. “And now, being serious, your Supreme had decided to ally herself to the Dream Brotherhood and to work together. Our objectives, after all, aren’t opposed.”

“Oh, really?” Azune replied with a skeptical grimace.

“Really. You fight slavery. I rob traffickers. Your Supreme will explain it to you much better than I could. She has talked to me about you all. I admire your dedication and your commitment. And I am willing to ally my Brotherhood to yours. I warn you: I am not an idealist. I fight for people’s happiness—not for their freedom.” He smiled. “I don’t demand you to think likewise, of course, but if we are going to work together against the slave trade, it’s necessary to understand each other. You want to find documents accusing the slavers in Dazbon. So be it. I will lend you a hand. But don’t rush. That kind of matter must be carried out calmly. If it turns out well, that’s fine. If not, you have to opt for another way. Unless you want to end up like the Philosopher, that Xalya friend of yours.”

The Duke choked.

“How do you know he’s dead?”

Cobra raised an eyebrow.

“I do not know. In fact, I can confirm the contrary. Well, at least, he was still alive last night when they have embarked them.”

For some seconds, his words were meaningless to all of them.

“Embarked?” the Shalussi barbarian echoed, at last, squeezing his hat nervously.

Cobra grinned, not looking affected at all.

“Yes, embarked, that’s what I said. The ship with the slaves has cast off in the direction of Titiaka. I bet it’s the first time in all history that twenty-three Xalyas go to sea.”

Kroon opened his mouth and then closed it. He shrugged. So the barbarian had cheated death. Smart boy. Before anyone could really react, Cobra rose and announced:

“Now, my friends, hurry up and evacuate this place. The slavers have discovered your refuge, and in this case, I think that what betrayed you all wasn’t precisely the Xalya but rather your lack of precautions.”

Some of them got up quite hastily. Kroon let out a curse. Three days had already passed since the attack against the headquarters, and as they had not detected any espionage around the Refuge, they had finally returned to this one… Perhaps a bit too early, Kroon had to admit it. But, hell, it was his house, after all…

“Hold on a minute,” Azune intervened. “Are you proposing that we work with a gang of thieves?”

Rubbing his cheek, Cobra smiled.

“Yes, indeed. Any objection?”

26 Freedom

Each and every one of those men knows.

Dashvara scrapped the bottom of the wooden bowl with his spoon and gulped the last garfias.

That’s the little family I have left, and what a disastrous impression I made on them.

Pathetic. But such is life, Dash, and as you often say: you must accept your actions. Even if you don’t want to admit it, if you have betrayed your friends, you have betrayed them. The logic is quite simple. As for your remorse, you can do without.

Still, his comrades, sitting in the ship hold, didn’t look at him with scorn or disapproval. They had heard the screams—according to Makarva. And, in some secret corner of their mind, all of them had wished that Dashvara talked. According to Makarva.

The captain’s gaze did not express disdain either. Actually, it expressed nothing at all. Captain Zorvun had not uttered a word since he had advised his men to just meditate. Apparently, he had a lot of things to think about. On the contrary, Dashvara was beginning to fear his own thoughts dreadfully. That’s the next step: first they break you down, and then they persuade you that, deep down, you have always been a disguised scoundrel.

They heard the hatch creaking, and then a slaver’s footsteps. It was Paopag. Unlike Arviyag, he wasn’t dressed elegantly. He was a warrior… or rather an assassin. He had stabbed Almogan Mazer from behind. He was a great knight, for sure. Once downstairs, the Diumcilian man ordered calmly:

“Ten Xalyas stand up. You’re going to go up on deck and get some fresh air.”

Dashvara had no intention to stand up, but Makarva stretched a hand to lift him to his feet.

“Now, now, brother, don’t let yourself fall,” he murmured.

Dashvara nodded, and when Paopag began to free them from their feet chains, he was about to commit a folly, but he controlled himself. Fighting in a ship full of Diumcilians was a desperate action, and now Dashvara knew better than anyone how stupid a desperate man can be.

Paopag guided the ten hands-tied Xalyas to the stairs.

“Going up,” he said.

When Dashvara passed by him, the slaver made a slight grimace that looked like a smile. To his surprise, he extended a hand. Well, more like, he was handing him a small, wooden box.

“They’re yours, Xalya.”

Quivering, Dashvara took Hadriks’s gift with his tied hands. The cards were in it. He nearly said, “Thanks”, but he swallowed the word in time, amazed. How could he thank a man who had watched him while Tsu was torturing him? Eh, how could he? Or was it that he had stooped so low that he was now capable of thanking his enemies for the leftovers they were giving to him after destroying his dignity?

Damn it.

He noticed Makarva’s inquiring look, but he gave him a mere nod. On the deck, the wind brightened him up, and when he saw the landscape, he remained awestruck for long minutes. They were surrounded by water, and the ocean stretched endlessly on the four horizons. For an instant, he felt free. Infinitely small, but free.

Then he looked down at his tied hands, and reality seemed less terrible. We are not free, brothers, no: but we will someday, he thought.

He observed Makarva, leaning against the ship’s edge. The Xalya’s expression reflected a sheer fascination. His eyes were shining like two Moons. Dashvara smiled, and he went beside him as the other Xalyas scattered over the deck. All of them had their eyes fixed on that vast ocean.

“At long last, you see it such as it is, Makarva,” Dashvara said in Oy’vat after a silence. “Satisfied or disappointed?”

Makarva made a thoughtful face without averting his eyes from the horizon.

“Neither,” he responded. “Simply impressed.”

Dashvara raised an eyebrow.

“Impressed? Is that all? After having devoured all the books we had about the sea?”

Makarva smiled.

“Mm… As the shaard used to say, sometimes you set your dreams just for having one. And the hardest thing is when you live them out, because then you don’t know what to do next,” he quoted.

“Ah! That’s Maloven all over,” Dashvara replied.

He could feel a strange calmness overwhelming him as if, in that ship lost in the midst of nowhere, the chains were less heavy. There beside Makarva, he almost felt as if he were back at home.

“That old man used to talk tremendous nonsense,” Makarva admitted, “but sometimes he spoke truths.”

Yes, he did, Dashvara agreed inside him. And he contradicted himself all the time when he spoke. But not when he acted. Maloven had always acted according to his Eternal Bird, even though he didn’t manage to explain It very well to the Xalya children. During all those lessons, the shaard had taught Dashvara to be generous towards his brothers, to be cautious towards strangers, to be a knight of the Dahars. And Dashvara had learned nothing. He had made his principles his own, deeming them good. He had created his own rules, as befitted a good Xalya. And with that, he had built a small fortress inside him, trusting nobody would shatter it…

Everyone learns from his mistakes, Dashvara. Now you know that you must be cautious not only towards strangers. The greatest danger comes from yourself. You who talked so much about falling feathers, you haven’t even been able to keep yours safe. But never mind. What’s done is done, and while I am at breaking laws, I only have to believe that the feather has straightened up again, and that does it… right? Yes, I already start thinking like a true bastard: as soon as I make a mistake, I ignore it and try to forget it as the worst scoundrel of all. Stunningly honest. Upright. And practical as all get out. No doubt the Duke and Azune would approve my reasoning with a round of applause. That is if they are still alive.

Makarva gestured with his head, recalling him from his thoughts.

“What’s that box Paopag has given you?” he asked curiously.

Dashvara lowered his gaze to the box and gave a hint of a smile.

“It’s a gift from that Dazbonish boy I told you about.”

“Hadriks?”

“Aye. They are ‘sailor cards’,” he said, switching to Common Tongue. He had not denounced Hadriks in that room, had he? He could not have sworn to it, but he believed he hadn’t. Or perhaps you just want to believe you haven’t.

Makarva’s interest doubled.

“Sailor cards? You mean a deck of cards?”

Dashvara rolled his eyes.

“I think it will keep you busy during the whole journey,” he joked.

Makarva gave him a teasing look, and Dashvara guessed that his friend felt relieved to see him a bit more cheerful; the first days after the torture had been hard. Then, his eyes turned to the sea.

“Dash,” he said earnestly. “Tell me, aren’t you worried about the captain’s mood?”

“Bah. He has always been a bit taciturn.”

“Mph.” Makarva cast him a skeptical glance. “He has barely spoken a word in three weeks. And those last days, he has said nothing at all. Precisely, when he is in a bad mood, he speaks and mutters. And this time, he doesn’t.”

Dashvara did not answer at once. It was clear that the captain was dying within himself, and that worried him as much as Makarva. But he couldn’t do much. If he had tried to console him, the captain would have suggested he went plant grass in the desert.

“Maybe he’s thinking about a way to get all of us out of here,” he finally said.

Makarva smiled.

“Yes. Maybe. Surely, if he cannot do it, nobody can.”

Dashvara nodded, pensive. Makarva was probably right.

“Xalyas, get in line!” Paopag suddenly thundered.

Makarva and Dashvara turned around and approached the slaver. The fresh air had invigorated them all, and the Xalyas were talking to each other cheerfully. For an instant, they seem to have forgotten about their chains, Dashvara thought. He was about to go downstairs when he met Tsu’s gaze. The drow was sitting on the steps that led to the prow. After torturing him, he had examined him painstakingly on the order of Arviyag so as to make sure that Dashvara hadn’t suffered any irreparable harm. He had been working for hours, and after noticing that he no longer felt that constant shooting pain in the chest, Dashvara suspected Tsu of having done something more than healing the damages he might have caused in his inner energies. He didn’t know exactly why, but he gave him a nod to greet him before going down back into the hold.

Once down, they chained them up again, and the thirteen remaining Xalyas stood up to go up on deck… except for the captain. This one did not move. Dashvara caught Makarva’s unquiet gaze when Paopag walked toward Zorvun.

“Stand up, captain,” the slaver told him. “You’ll see how the air will perk you up.”

There was a note of respect in his voice.

Respect? Dashvara peered at him in disbelief. Were slavers really able to feel respect towards their slaves? Very slowly, captain Zorvun stood up. His eyes, surrounded by dark rings, were frightening. He stepped toward the stairs, and for a minute, Dashvara was afraid of meeting his gaze. Did he know? he wondered abruptly. Had Lord Vifkan told him about what he aimed for by saving his firstborn son? He shook his head slightly. Do I really still care about that at this juncture? Then, the captain stopped.

“Man of Diumcili,” he croaked in a hoarse voice. “Answer me. What are you going to do with us?”

It wasn’t the first time that one of the Xalyas asked Paopag about that, but this one had never answered. To their utter amazement, this time, he responded:

“You are warriors, aren’t you, captain? Well then, as warriors you will serve.”

The answer wasn’t as bad as Dashvara had expected. The captain just nodded thoughtfully before following the rest of the Xalyas. When the hatch closed again, Makarva let out a chuckle.

“This Paopag has forgotten the lantern. Where are those cards?”

Dashvara doubted that Paopag had really overlooked the detail: he had more probably done it on purpose. Some fit of kindness, perhaps?

In the hold, their feet were chained, but their hands were not. Dashvara took out the cards, and as Boron was on the other side and could not get close enough to them, he asked his neighbor on the left to join them. His name was Sedrios. Even before Dashvara had started the patrol rounds at fourteen age, they called him the Old Man. He wasn’t really old actually—he was eighty years old at most—but his hair was already completely white like snow, and they thought of him as a wise man. Even the captain consulted him sometimes.

“If I have to play, I need to know the rules,” Sedrios warned with a slight smile as Dashvara was dealing the cards.

“The rules?” Dashvara echoed playfully, feigning incomprehension. “Since when do we play following the rules?”

Makarva was looking at his cards, intensely interested.

“If you want to not follow the rules, brother, you have to know them before,” he remarked wisely. “What’s that figure with the red hat?”

“A Senator.”

“Do real Senators have red hats?”

“You got me there. No idea. I’ve never seen one. Wait, let me think…” Dashvara paused. “I don’t even remember the rules.”

“Great,” Makarva laughed. “Why not think them up?”

Dashvara bit his lips, attempting to remember out loud what Hadriks had explained to him. He finally managed to recall the main things. For the rest, they improvised. They were going to play the first serious hand when the Xalyas on the deck returned. Captain Zorvun passed by them… and halted. Dashvara returned his gaze with apprehension. There was no despair nor sadness in the captain’s dark eyes: there was pride. A pride much more deeply embedded than that of any Xalya present here. How did they succeed in imprisoning you alive, Zorvun? Dashvara wondered, perhaps for the twentieth time. He didn’t manage to accept the idea that the captain could have preferred to be a slave rather than to die. A weakness, perhaps? Dashvara berated himself. A thief believes everybody steals.

He thought that the captain was going to pass by without a word, but then this one spoke, in a deep, calm voice, loud enough to be heard by everyone in the hold.

“Xalyas, don’t get discouraged. As long as we stay together, everything will be all right.”

For some secret reason, his tone soothed the spirits. The patrols nodded, including Dashvara; everyone was relieved to see that the captain looked, at last, more alive than dead. Zorvun said nothing more, but the corners of his lips rose slightly. When he went back to his place, Dashvara followed him with his gaze.

I wish I were like you, captain, he thought suddenly. You are a true Xalya. As my father was, but he had a heart of stone, and sometimes he was too obsessed with honor. But you’re otherwise—you care about your men. About your folk. About what really matters. He looked down at his cards with a gladdening certainty in his heart. A man couldn’t amend his past mistakes, but he could avoid those of the future. He took a deep breath. I swear I won’t disappoint you ever again, captain Zorvun. I swear it. He hesitated, and he rectified out of his chronic cautiousness: Or at least I will try.

“Your turn, Dash,” Makarva said.

“Yes,” Dashvara answered, waking up. He took a glance at the played card. “It’s my turn.”

* * *

* * *

Author’s note: End of book 1. 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!