Kaosfantasy. Dashvara Trilogy, Book 1: The Prince of the Sand
“Wait!” Dashvara said to the woman.
As he caught up with her downhill, Zaadma 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.