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.