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.