24 Will

A face loomed over him. A blue face, dark like the dark clouds when a sunbeam illuminates the steppe. Red eyes, just like those of demons in fairy tales… Dashvara’s eyelids fluttered.

“W-where am I?” he stuttered.

The dark creature was sitting beside him, working with needle and thread; it glanced at him.

“I’m sewing your wounds. None is grievous; you will recover soon.”

Dashvara then noticed he was undressed, chained, and lying on a large block of stone. He even had an iron collar that was impeding him from raising his head.

After these observations, he made an effort to remember while that weird being kept sewing a slash in his leg. Maybe Rowyn had got out alive, but he could not be sure; Almogan had probably died; and the others had to be safe, normally. And Aligra had no Lord of the Xalyas anymore, he added ironically. Dashvara tried hard to calm down.

“Are you a slaver?” he asked.

“No.”

Dashvara didn’t believe him.

“Are you a sajit?”

The physician interrupted his work for a second.

“I am a drow.”

Oh. A drow. Dashvara tried to recall what he already knew about drows. Maloven said they weren’t sajits, even though they looked pretty much like one. He said that a drow was incapable of feeling emotions other than hatred, greed, and pleasure of destruction. From how he had painted them, Dashvara had always imagined drows as huge and dreadful monsters with teeth sharper than those of red nadres. That doctor did not seem to be very tall, he wore a plain dress, though elegant, and a silver necklace with a big, circular, black pearl as a pendant. His face was expressionless, his eyes were demoniac, but all in all, he looked intelligent. And he healed injuries.

“Why didn’t they kill me?” he questioned.

The drow was tying the knot. He did not answer. Dashvara wiggled angrily. A terrible feeling was starting to peer into his mind.

“Why didn’t they kill me?” he repeated.

The drow rose and went to wash his hands in a bowl. Dashvara pulled at the chains. As he could have expected, these did not yield.

“Arviyag!” he howled. “Where is that murderer?”

The drow tossed his head up; however, he did not turn to him, but to something Dashvara could not see. A clatter of footsteps going downstairs was approaching, and then there was a squeaking sound of a key turning in a lock.

“Arviyag!” Dashvara hissed. “Is it you? Damn you.”

The new arrival ignored him.

“Did you finish?” The voice did not sound familiar to Dashvara. A few footsteps drew closer, but not enough to appear in his field of view. “Good. Let’s hope he’s willing to talk. What’s your name, prisoner?”

Dashvara growled.

“And yours? Show yourself and I may answer you.”

The coward did not move.

“What were you looking for in Arviyag’s office?” the slaver kept interrogating.

“And what do you think?” Dashvara replied after a silence.

“Why, I don’t know. The strongbox you tried to steal had gold and jewels in it. Was it that what you were looking for?”

Dashvara turned pale and said nothing. He decided that, from now on, he wouldn’t open his mouth again. He heard a cold laugh.

“Are you a Xalya?” Only the silence answered him. “It’s doubtless. You’re the one who robbed us of the prisoners in Rocavita, I guess. And you’ve come here intending to save the rest. Your bold action has no mystery. But tell me, who were your partners? They weren’t Xalyas. They were Dazbonish, weren’t they? I very much doubt they were mercenaries, because I don’t believe you had enough money to hire them. Am I right? Yes, I am. Those guys belong to a Brotherhood. But to which? There are so many brotherhoods in this city. A bit of help would come in very handy. And you want to help us too, trust me. You’re going to tell us the names of your partners and that of the Brotherhood.” There was another silence. “You don’t want to answer, huh?”

For an answer, Dashvara let out a sigh of relief. If the slaver was asking such questions, it meant everyone was safe. It meant that Rowyn was safe. Or at least that he wasn’t captured alive, he rectified. He felt as if he had a block of ice caught in his throat, and he swallowed, but the sensation did not disappear.

It seemed the silence would last forever. Finally, the slaver said:

“Get him ready, drow.”

He heard the noise of a door closing and footsteps moving away. Dashvara looked up at the drow.

“Ready for what?” he muttered.

Any stone was more expressive than that doctor. He saw him searching a bag, and he saw him taking out a black case and opening it. Dashvara frowned when the drow placed in each forefinger a sort of thimble. He tried to conceal his terror, and he failed masterly. The doctor finally stepped closer, and without a word, he laid his hands on Dashvara’s both shoulders.

“Let me give you a word of advice,” he suddenly whispered. “Next time, answer the questions.”

It happened abruptly. Stabbing lightning bolted through him and left him breathless. Dashvara’s teeth chattered, but the doctor did not let him recover, and he continued touching distinct parts of his body, though never the head. First, Dashvara burst into curses; and when he was sure he had used all the swearwords he knew, he started again, his breathing getting more and more wheezing.

After what seemed to Dashvara a life full of sufferings, the drow let go of him and took his thimbles back to the case. The door was opening.

“Answer the questions,” the drow advised in a quick whisper.

The Faceless went on interrogating him about the Brotherhood, and Dashvara spit out:

“Go plant grass in the desert!” He added a flow of insults that died long after the door shut. Dashvara clenched his teeth, and he thought he heard the drow sighing when this one drew closer again. This time, he had two thimbles in each hand.

“It’s no use fighting,” he said in a low voice. “The more you fight, the more it will hurt.”

“How many people have you tortured, you monster?” Dashvara bellowed. His voice sounded hoarse, and he coughed. There was a brief light of sadness in the drow’s red eyes.

“It’s no use fighting,” he uttered, like a litany.

He repeated it later, when he put three thimbles in his hands. This time, the doctor’s sadness was obvious. Dashvara’s body began to convulse with uncontrollable spasms even before the drow came beside him.

“No…” he whispered, gazing at the drow’s hands, his eyes bulging. “You can’t do that. No…”

“Are you going to talk?”

“No.”

“Why?” the doctor suddenly asked.

Control yourself, Dash. You are the son of Vifkan of Xalya and Dakia of Xalya. Your blood is Xalya blood. Your Eternal Bird is strong. You can’t let the feather fall down. He repeated the words in his mind like a child trying to convince himself that the winged horses exist. A bit calmer, he looked the physician in the eye.

“You mean, why am I defending my friends? I suppose it’s because I’m not a monster like you.” Then, he got the idea of talking on so that the drow would wait… so that he wouldn’t go closer. “If you had a friend to protect, would you betray him?”

The doctor shook his head slightly.

“I have no friend.”

In your face. You didn’t expect that answer, did you? Dashvara cleared his throat.

“That is even worse than being tortured, you know? Tell me, what’s your name?”

He thought he perceived surprise in the drow’s expression.

“Tsu,” this one answered. “I am Tsu.”

“A pleasure, Tsu. They call me Dashvara of Xalya, Dash for friends. Well, you know, it isn’t so hard to make friends. I could teach you. The first step is not to torture them. The second is to speak to them. The third, to know them. The fourth, to respect them. And the fifth step is to try to rescue them when they get into trouble.”

Tsu was looking at him with his red eyes. After a silence, he said:

“Why do you say your name to me and not to them?”

Dashvara raised an eyebrow.

“To them? Don’t you identify with the slavers?”

“I am not a slaver. I am a slave.”

Dashvara stayed speechless.

“Aw,” he breathed out at last. “That’s sure a terrible fact: that the slaves torture each other. Practical. In no time, the slaves will be their own slavers—”

“Silence,” Tsu hushed abruptly.

There were footsteps on the stairs. Tsu placed his hands on Dashvara’s chest with an apologizing face. Two seconds later, pain burst, his will fell like a stone onto the ground, and an inhuman scream got out of his dry throat. His head was ablaze, his eyes were blurred, life suddenly seemed awful to him, despicable…

“Enough,” a voice thundered. Panting, Dashvara would have widened his eyes even more if that had been possible. It was Arviyag. “Hasn’t he talked yet, drow?”

“No, sir,” the doctor answered, stepping aside.

“You’re tenacious, Xalya,” Arviyag commented, walking into the room. “You kill two men of mine in Rocavita. You harm four other ones tonight…” Dashvara saw him appear in front of him, and he would have died of hatred if hatred could have killed a man. The Diumcilian slaver’s face was peering at him with interest. “I like your style. We’ll give you a break, and let’s see if you feel brave enough to talk. Paopag, lead him to the cells. Drow, drop your tools and come with me.”

Mentally, Dashvara was preparing some speech to try, at least, to assure himself that not the faintest trace of kindness was left in Arviyag’s heart. However, either because his mind was working too slow or because time suddenly passed faster, the doctor and Arviyag left before he could say anything. Three slavers freed him from his grave. They even took off his chains. Dashvara watched them doing, his mind blank. Later, when they helped him to sit up, he felt a bit more conscious.

“Arviyag is gonna die,” he grunted.

One of the slavers, Paopag probably, smiled contemptuously.

“Oh, yeah? There, now. Put this on.” They dressed him in a clean brown tunic. Any movement required a great deal of effort, and yet, Tsu had not hurt him. He had simply… used magic?

They shackled him with handcuffs, and Paopag jolted him toward the exit.

“Get moving.”

Dashvara did not move—they dragged him out of the room. His mind was boiling with swearwords, but he didn’t manage to let out any of them. He walked between his captors, his legs shaking as if he were about to suffer some epileptic attack. Instead of going upstairs, they went down. They arrived in front of a door. He could hear muffled voices behind it, but they fell silent when Paopag opened it and shoved Dashvara in, toward the darkness.

“This way,” he said.

They backed him against a wall, made him sit down, and fastened him to a metal ring. Dashvara’s eyes strayed around. He was surrounded by pairs of eyes and breaths. He hadn’t enough time to look at the faces drown in the shadows. The door shut, leaving him in total darkness, and the footsteps fell away in the distance; and they vanished. Silence reigned for a long time. Then:

“Who are you, good man?”

That voice… was a voice he had believed he would never hear ever again. For an exasperating moment, he was unable to speak. His lips trembled.

“Makarva?” he croaked. “Is it you?”

There was a silence, and then his patrol comrade’s voice stammered:

“Dash? You’re… alive? But… how? Eternal Bird, you’re alive! Lumon, captain, he’s alive!”

His heart pounding, Dashvara blinked and cursed the darkness. He would have given his own horse only to see them!

“Captain?” he echoed, astonished. “Captain Zorvun?”

There was another silence.

“He’s here, Dash,” Makarva answered cheerfully. “The captain is alive. We are twenty-two. All patrols. Lumon is here. And Sashava. And the Triplets… And…” His voice choked. “Demons, Dash. I can’t believe it!”

“Are you really Dashvara?” Sashava’s steady voice asked.

Changing his mind, Dashvara thanked the darkness, because his cheeks were soaked.

“I am, Sashava,” he confirmed. “I tried to save you all, but they caught me.”

“You got right into the middle of a slavers’ den?” Makarva laughed. That good crazy man was capable of laughing in situations as critical as this one.

“That’s what I did. I tried to find proofs against the slavers, but I failed.” His voice choked, and he attempted to clear his throat. He was thirsty. “And Sigfen?”

It took time for Makarva to respond.

“He died. I saw him die.”

Dashvara nodded sadly. He had already given him up for dead anyway.

“Boron?”

“Here I am,” the placid warrior answered. Dashvara smiled, imagining him calmly sitting with his chains, incapable of feeling panic or despair.

“How did they catch you?” he asked.

“Well…” He guessed Makarva’s embarrassment. “Sashava’s patrol, as you know, was attacked by the Essimeans before arriving at the Dungeon.”

“They imprisoned almost all of us,” Sashava murmured. “And then they sold us. And here we are. And yourself, Dashvara? How did you escape?”

He noted a hint of suspicion in his voice. Dashvara did not hold it against him and answered in all sincerity.

“I escaped through the main gate. Disguised as a Shalussi.”

There were some snorts. Most of the Xalyas weren’t aware of Lord Vifkan’s trick.

“You passed yourself off as a Shalussi?” The voice belonged to one of the Triplets, but Dashvara wasn’t able to determine which. Miflin, perhaps?

“Crafty,” Lumon’s thoughtful voice praised. Dashvara smiled. Lumon’s Eternal Bird had always been quite pragmatic.

“It would have been unworthy,” a deep voice intervened, “only if Lord Vifkan hadn’t asked him to.”

All fell silent at hearing the captain. With a lump in his throat, Dashvara turned his head to where the voice had spoken. There was a jangle of chains. He didn’t know the captain through and through as he knew his patrol comrades, but he was well aware of how he was. Responsible, rough, sometimes sarcastic. Finding himself in a cell as a slave wasn’t something likely to improve his good mood.

“Captain,” Dashvara uttered, more because he felt relieved by knowing that the captain was alive than because he wanted to actually call him.

“Vifkan did that?” Disbelief vibrated in Sashava’s voice.

“He did,” Dashvara confirmed.

There was another silence.

“And… why it had to be you?” Lumon asked softly, a tinge of incomprehension in his voice. “You are his son, of course, but we all knew Lord Vifkan. He’d have rather saved any other Xalya instead.”

Hard to accept, but true, Dashvara thought. He hesitated. He didn’t know if it was suitable to tell them about the task his lord father had entrusted to him. In any case, why should he care right now? They were all locked up in a cell, prisoners of the Diumcilians. Lifdor, Shiltapi, and Todakwa were in the steppe, far, far away from there. Besides… Hellish demons. Who was the guiltiest—the savage that attacked a Xalya, or the wealthy slaver that sent the savage to catch the Xalya in order to enslave this one? Where did he have to start the revenge? The matter was disturbing.

“Dash?” Lumon said, concerned.

Dashvara shook his head, not answering. It took him some seconds to realize that his gesture had been completely useless in the darkness.

“I don’t know, Lumon,” he murmured. “I don’t know.”

If he said nothing, nobody would know. Only Rokuish and Zaadma were aware of that revenge. He swallowed. If he said nothing, nobody would know, he repeated himself as blood was rushing to his head. A feeling of shame overcame him, and he called himself a fool. All in all, did he have even the faintest chance of getting out of that den? The Pearl Brothers would never enter the building by force to get him out of there. They had no proof either, anyway. And Dashvara had no saber. In short, the situation gave, so to speak, very few possibilities of getting out of there. As a wise steppeman said: ‘Hungry souls forget any other goal’. Dashvara sighed silently. Fair revenge is fantastic, Father, but for now, the Xalyas, we have much more pressing matters.

He imagined him glaring at him, telling him to rack his brains and find a way out. Telling him to thrust at the slavers if necessary. ‘Between slavery and death, I prefer death’, he had said once, full of pride. Dashvara thought the same… up to a certain point. That is, up to the point that, when the time came to choose, he had to make a decision. Well done, Dash, you’ve just discovered you’re a coward. Good for you. It’s always a good thing to be aware of it. As you say yourself, the better one knows himself, the better he feels and stands himself. Come on, confess it: you’re a coward.

Dashvara closed his eyes. He could see nothing, anyway. In more normal circumstances, he had no doubt Makarva would have asked him what had happened to him during those past weeks. But the spirits were low, and even Dashvara’s arrival hadn’t managed to get the patrols out of their grogginess. However, long minutes later, Makarva broke the silence:

“Dash, are you there?”

Dashvara rolled his eyes.

“Where do you expect me to be, Mak?”

“I dunno. Perhaps you had gone to get the water bottle. I have the impression your throat is dry.”

A broad grin furrowed Dashvara’s face. Obviously, there was no water bottle.

“That was my intention, but then I thought to myself, why, with so many clouds there on the top, I even can’t see the stars. And I thought: what’s the use of moving if Mak may bring it to me?”

“Haw! Keep sitting and waiting for your water bottle, you fool.”

“Okay then, I’ll keep sitting and waiting. I’m sure it will get over here. Hope springs eternal.”

“Bah!” Makarva protested joyfully. “That expression is too common. Can’t you find something better?”

“Well, let me think… ‘You never give up hoping what you hope even if while hoping you feel hopeless’?”

“Better,” Makarva approved. “Absurd, but better.”

“You’re hopeless,” Lumon intervened.

There were some amused chuckles. They didn’t use to have those foolish conversations in the captain’s presence, but damned demons, the cell oozed asphyxiation and bad humor, and the better they could do was trying to brighten up the atmosphere. So they spent a long time teasing each other and kidding. The Triplets got into the conversation, of course—those three boys, cousins of Dashvara, had driven the Dungeon’s Xalyas mad throughout their childhood, and they joked more than they breathed. Between the five of them, they ended up fantasizing they were playing katutas. Makarva managed to get Boron into the game, but the Placid, as they called him, wasn’t overly fond of playing without a board.

“Cheer up, Boron!” Makarva exclaimed. “I don’t have the loaded dice.”

“Even if you had them, Mak, we couldn’t see the difference,” Miflin’s voice commented.

“Too smart, bro,” a teasing voice said. “I bet my hair that Makarva has the dice.”

“And you, who are you? Kodarah or Zamoy?” Makarva replied with a dry wit.

“Kodarah, obviously,” Zamoy lied.

There was a snort. The Maneman complained:

“I am Kodarah! And he is Zamoy. I have made no bet.”

“What? He’s just stolen my name! I’ve been Kodarah all my life,” Zamoy laughed.

“Now, okay, okay,” Dashvara muttered, feigning exasperation. “This way we’ll never go on. Whose turn is it?”

“Yours,” Makarva said.

“Are you sure?”

“No, but since you have spoken, the turn is yours. Remember we haven’t started yet.”

Dashvara was about to respond, but Sashava cut him off in a bad-humored voice:

“Give it a rest, boys. Your ridiculous games are starting to get on my nerves.”

The cell plunged into a startled silence. Sashava was not the captain, but still, he was a patrol leader; and even if he was often in a rather gloomy mood and lose his temper quite easily, he had always led his men masterfully, and Dashvara admired him almost as much as captain Zorvun. Blushing, he closed his mouth. All of us have lost parents, brothers, or children, and Sashava has just reminded us of it with his usual tact. Like we need to be reminded…

Suddenly, the captain intervened:

“Let them go on talking, Sashava. They do nothing wrong. All they are doing is enjoying the little freedom they have left: that is, talking. To be sure,” he added, “they can also enjoy the best freedom of all: that is, thinking.”

Captain Zorvun returned to his stubborn silence, and the others did not dare speak anymore. The silence grew heavy, solely interrupted by the noise of chains and clearing throats. A long, long time later, during which Dashvara began to doze awake, wishing to think only about the happiness of having found his comrades again, he heard the squeaking sound of a key turning in the lock. Dashvara jerked up, and his nerves went down in flames. He knew they were coming to take him upstairs. Were they going to pick a comrade to torture him and force him to sing? Even so, he wouldn’t sing, he told himself, convinced.

“It’s him,” a voice said.

He blinked, blinded by the torchlight. Some hands freed him from the metal ring and got him up. He went out of the cell in dead silence.

“This time you’re going to talk, my friend,” Paopag told him, closing the door. “And you will talk very loud so I can hear you clearly.”

Dashvara felt as if he had swallowed a bubble of compact air. He tried to summon courage, but he only managed it half.

They shoved him upstairs, and once in the room, they made him lie down again. Or they attempted to do it, at least, because, at that moment, Dashvara struggled like a possessed man. He knew it was useless, but he didn’t want to lie down there again. He didn’t want to. Sometimes, when fear is stronger than reason, you act foolishly and pointlessly. Paopag finally gave him a punch right in his stomach, three of them got hold of him, undressed his trunk, and chained him up.

“Where’s the doctor?” Paopag asked impatiently.

“There he comes,” one of the men said in a tired voice.

Tsu appeared before Dashvara’s eyes. He looked nervous. He laid his effects on the small table, drew out his black case, and put three thimbles on each hand. Then he turned to the men Dashvara could not see, lying as he was with his head almost completely immobilized.

“Are you going to stay?” the drow asked.

Paopag answered:

“It’s necessary. That damned Xalya must talk. If he doesn’t, drow, you will never be able to speak anymore, just like him, take my word for it.”

Dashvara perceived how Tsu’s dark skin slightly faded. Nevertheless, the drow nodded, quite inexpressive.

“Okay then.”

When he approached Dashvara, only his eyes expressed compassion. But the feeling was unmistakable. Why do you do something that disgusts you, Tsu? Is the fear of death really capable of wrecking a person’s soul to such a degree? Dashvara saw the thimbles drawing closer, and he could feel the cold contact. He clenched his jaw and looked at Tsu defiantly. I won’t talk, he wanted to tell him. Never.

This promise did not prevent him from howling as loudly as a man can howl. Time became blurred in his mind, torment never ended, and his mind began to shatter. The doctor gave him a break for him to catch his breath, and Paopag asked him a question. Dashvara knew what this one was about, but he preferred not to listen to it. He preferred not to think about anything. Tsu sighed almost imperceptibly, and he went on.

Torture, among the Xalyas, was a practice they had never employed. If someone was a criminal or a betrayer, he was sentenced to death. If he was a bandit, he was punished by whipping. But they didn’t torture a man. Not like that.

Dashvara knew from Maloven that, in the southern lands, they tortured men to get confessions. But he had never imagined something like that. Every time the thimbles touched him, pain ravaged his mind, pouring into it as if in a distorted chamber with no more room for more junks.

Paopag questioned again, several times; and with his eyes and throat on fire, Dashvara refused to answer again and again. If he had to die, he would. In any case, that was probably the destiny they had ordained for him. He had killed two Arviyag’s men, after all, hadn’t he? His thoughts were fraying; death was close, very close. He could almost touch it, now. The wise men said that death was just a stop-being. You must not fear it, though you must avoid it as long as possible. But, to Dashvara, the possible made no sense anymore.

“Put on one more thimble,” Paopag said. Frustration vibrated in his voice. “We’ve already wasted too much time.”

Tsu swallowed saliva, and for a moment, he looked as if he was about to protest. But he obeyed.

“It won’t kill him, will it?” Paopag suddenly asked as if concerned.

Tsu shook his head.

“I don’t know. That depends on people.”

He stretched his hands… Then, Dashvara saw It. Death—empty, useless, absurd. Dying didn’t make sense. He only had to talk. He only had to make some sounds. The world is large and full of people, he told himself with no apparent logic. Besides, Rowyn is not stupid. He knows how to hide. Azune too, doesn’t she? They can look after themselves… What does it matter what I say?

No, he thought. He had to keep faith with his feather, however strong the wind blew. He could bend but never fall completely. If he fell completely, how could he rise again? How could he recover his Eternal Bird if it had fallen into an abyss? He couldn’t abandon hope. Hope, he repeated, his eyes bulging as Tsu was laying firmly his hands on his shoulders. He met his unquiet gaze.

Hope, Dash. You have to feel it inside you… Hope to die without shaming yourself. Hope, steppe lord. HOPE, DAMMIT!

His mind shouted as strong as a battering ram. As if a latch had burst, as if the walls themselves had rushed toward their enemy, collapsing under the blows, Dashvara burst into tears like a child. Tsu withdrew his hands, not even having done anything, but the Xalya barely noticed it. He felt shattered, and he was sobbing in Oy’vat over and over:

“I don’t want to die… I don’t want to die…”

He had risked his life many times. Against red nadres. Against savages, scale-nefarious, bandits… He had been a man of the Dahars. A Xalya. But, now, a terrible certainty was overwhelming him; the selfsame certainty that forces a man to admit how limited his endurance actually is. The cruelest instinct had suddenly been unbound like a jailed demon being freed, and like a lake full of poison, it had spread in his mind, fouling everything in its path.

“Aswur naytar!” he howled, crying like a lost soul. “Aas…” he choked and then wailed: “Aswur naytar.”

“What the devil is he saying?” a voice asked.

“Water,” Dashvara finally stuttered in Common Tongue. “I d-don’t want to d-die.”

Paopag’s face appeared in front of him, expressing relief.

“Drow, bring water to the boy,” he ordered. Tsu obeyed, and Dashvara drank chokingly. “Well then, Xalya,” Paopag went on in a gentle voice. “Now you’re going to talk, aren’t you?”

Dashvara nodded, his eyes blurred with tears. And while he was talking, a small, sarcastic voice in his mind told him: Definitely proved, Dash: you are a coward.