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.