35 Like a wave against a reef

Dashvara stayed in the library for two days before he could stand up. When he woke up the next time, he found Fayrah and Lessi sitting by his bed. They looked like they had been there a long time. By tacit agreement, the three of them avoided talking about the near past, Fayrah told him amusing anecdotes from her evenings with the Titiakas, and she recited a poem in Diumcilian that she had written a few weeks ago and to which Dashvara found no meaning. He gasped when Fayrah tried to explain it to him, talking about analogies, metaphors, and other abstractions.

“It would be better if you explained the poem to Miflin rather than to me, sîzin. It’s more or less like speaking to me in Agoskurian.”

Fayrah received his words with an amused pout, but from then on the conversation was reduced, and Dashvara regretted having interrupted it. Of course, he didn’t understand anything about rhymes and he wasn’t particularly interested, but it was important for his sister, and this was a good enough reason to take a minimum interest. Finally, he apologized to her, and Fayrah rolled her eyes.

“Don’t lie to me, sîzan. Poetry does not interest you. I already have to put up with the hypocrisy of the Diumcilians, that’s enough. So spare me yours.”

Dashvara laughed.

“It wasn’t hypocrisy, I assure you. Besides, it’s not true that poetry doesn’t interest me. I’m not interested in understanding it, but I like to listen to it. As our shaard used to say, may he rest in peace, every Eternal Bird has its inclinations.”

Since Lessi and Fayrah had been invited to the Korfus’ dinner that night, they soon took their leave, and short afterwards, Dashvara fell asleep again and returned to his usual nightmares. He was getting tired of seeing Sheroda everywhere in his dreams. She even managed to show up when he dreamed that he was riding on the steppe or when, like that night, he dreamed that he was dying under the huge mass of a brizzia. Even in front of his corpse, the eyes of Sheroda continued to look at him, accusing. Cursed shixan.

Atasiag had forbidden visits from outside, but he came in twice with gifts. The first time, he left a pot with a beautiful tulip on a small table, a gift from Zaadma. When Atasiag came to give him a handful of horsehair with a quizzical face, Dashvara smiled without even asking him whose idea it was to give him such a gift.

“Shalussi,” he said, moved. Rokuish could not have found a better way to express his friendship.

On the second day, a letter arrived from Rowyn apologizing for not being able to talk to him earlier and promising to come as soon as he could. Azune and Axef had attached their signatures to the letter, which bore the postmark of Seraldia. It seemed that police secretaries were always traveling throughout the Federation. It’s almost a wonder they remembered me, Dashvara thought.

Finally, he got tired of lying still, and on the second night, after being awakened by one of his ridiculous nightmares, he got up. His head spun a little, but after a few seconds the room stopped swaying before his eyes. He walked out of the living room and almost stumbled against a large mass near the sofa. In the darkness, he could not guess what it was and he continued his way as discreetly as possible before going out into the yard.

He took a breath of night and autumn air. With serenity, he breathed in and savored the smell of jasmine that scented the whole air of Titiaka when the wind was not blowing. It’s not for nothing that some people call it the City of Flowers, he thought. Hadn’t Zaadma said that, in Titiaka, they sold more ornamental flowers than potions? Smiling, Dashvara rested a hand against a column and looked up at the starry sky, where the Scorpion constellation shone. Without really knowing why, a verse from a steppian sage came to mind, and he said it in a whisper:

“It’s so easy to be happy.”

A sudden movement to his left startled him. Between the columns, he saw a figure get up and turn her back hastily.

“Yira!” Dashvara said, surprised.

“Don’t… don’t come any closer!” she stammered quickly. “You caught me off guard.”

He finally saw her turn toward him with the veil and hood tightly pulled down. What could she be hiding behind that veil? The question burned his tongue, but as always, Dashvara dared not speak it. He sighed and approached.

“You are still very weak, Dash,” Yira murmured, still a little altered.

Dashvara shrugged.

“Not so much,” he assured. “I was hoping to find you here. How are you?”

Yira was tense, that was obvious.

“Fine,” she said. “I’m glad to see you up and about. Here, this is yours,” she added.

To Dashvara’s surprise, he saw her step forward and hand him something. Another gift? Dashvara took it and recognized the Chubby’s wooden eagle.

“You dropped it when they took you to the library,” Yira explained. “It’s a beautiful sculpture.”

Dashvara smiled and observed with mocking modesty:

“Thank you. Actually, I carved it. Listen, since the inspector I gave it to gave it back to me, it is yours. I already have an amulet, a present from Tsu,” he added, amused, and gestured to the silver medallion hanging around his neck.

Yira hesitated and nodded.

“I can’t accept it. I don’t like gifts.”

Dashvara raised an eyebrow in surprise.

“Oh, well—”

“Sorry,” Yira said quickly. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“Offend me?” Dashvara laughed softly. “You foreigners will take offense at anything. Why should I be offended?” He looked at the girl with a broad smile. “Can I ask you why you don’t like gifts?”

“Mm.” Dashvara guessed her smile by the glint in her eyes. “That’s a good question.” The young woman leaned against a column and turned toward the courtyard. “I guess it’s because, until now, no one has ever offered me anything material that really makes me happy.”

Dashvara cocked his head to one side.

“The most important thing is not the gift, but the way to give it, don’t you think? Look, yesterday, Rokuish, the Shalussi I told you about, gave me a handful of horsehair. And he made me happy. I don’t need much to be happy,” he admitted, amused.

Yira’s eyes smiled before becoming unusually serious.

“When you died, I felt very sad,” she whispered.

Dashvara bowed his head, moved by the sincerity in her voice.

“And when I came back to life, you felt happy, didn’t you?” he completed lightly.

Her eyes were smiling again.

“Yes.”

Dashvara sighed, and with some boldness, took Yira’s hand with all the gentleness he could muster. Surprisingly, she didn’t shy away and cuddled in his arms like a little girl seeking solace. Her body seemed very fragile and frail.

“I hate death,” Yira whispered, her face buried against his chest. “I hate it because it has separated me from so many people I have known and loved.”

Dashvara perceived more sadness than vehemence in her words.

“Hating death is like hating the air, naâsga,” he whispered to her. “Death is. But we, being what we are, must respect life more than we fear death.”

After a silence, Yira stepped back a little and looked up.

“What did you call me?”

Dashvara’s face flushed.

“Naâsga,” he repeated, however. “There is no literal translation in Common Tongue. It means ‘respectful love’ or something like that.”

Yira remained silent for a few seconds.

“You never called your brothers that.”

Dashvara could not hold back a sudden burst of laughter.

“No, by the Liadirlá!” He shook his head, amused, and cleared his throat. “I know we’ve only known each other for a few weeks, but… sometimes you can know someone for years and not know them as well as I think I know you. It’s a strange feeling,” he admitted thoughtfully. “I’ve had it since that night you showed me those butterflies of light. And it’s only gotten stronger since then.” He smiled. “There is nothing more beautiful than to see the power of love beating in your own heart. It is invigorating. Maloven used to say that every good Xalya should walk through his life to the rhythm of its song. I have given love to my parents and my brothers, to Lusombra and my other horses, to the steppe, to the sky and the stars that shine every night. I have given my love to a thousand details that make life worth living. And now I would like to give it to you.”

Yira’s eyes suddenly reflected alarm.

“Oh, no, no, no…” she whispered. She took a step back, and Dashvara looked at her, not quite sure how to take her reaction.

Admit it: you were expecting it. Yira is like a bird that sings happily when you look at it from afar and flies away when you try to catch it. But who said you were trying to catch her? You only want her to trust you.

Yira passed a hand over her eyes.

“I guess that’s normal,” she finally said.

Dashvara huffed at the brevity of her words.

“What do you mean?” he encouraged her.

“I mean… I guess it’s normal that you love me, since I love you, too. This strange feeling… I felt it too. Well, maybe I made it up. But I assure you that your… love will not last longer than a wave against a reef.”

Dashvara frowned.

“It will last as long as my life lasts,” he assured. “You speak without knowing.”

Yira let out a bitter laugh.

“I speak with full knowledge, Dashvara of Xalya. If you really saw me, you would never have fallen in love with me.”

Dashvara shook his head. In some corner of his mind he felt apprehensive, but he did not let his treacherous imagination take over. He stepped forward, and Yira stepped back.

“No, Dash,” she whispered. “You’ll have nightmares.”

“I already have nightmares,” Dashvara replied.

He took another step, but this time Yira did not back down. She simply asked:

“Why do you need to see to love?”

Dashvara stopped.

“A good question,” he acknowledged and held out a hand. “Do you really want an answer?”

Slowly, Yira looked down at her hand.

And now she’s going to make some comment to calm me down, and she’s going to disappear like the mist, what do you bet?

Dashvara almost gasped in surprise when he felt Yira’s gloved hand in his. Did this mean… she trusted him? He promised himself that whatever horror he found, he wouldn’t run away. And this time, you better keep your promise…

He raised his other hand to her hood… staggered; and instead of removing it, he drew her face close and kissed her forehead through the fabric. He thought of telling her that he didn’t care if she was as ugly as a scale-nefarious, but then he realized that if he hesitated any longer, he would make his apprehension obvious, and he finally helped her to take off the veil. He discovered a smooth and soft hair whiter than that of Sedrios the Old. Yira trembled as she herself took off the veil that covered her face. Dashvara was unable to hide his horror. He had imagined that her skin was damaged, was full of scars, burned, or whatever. He would have never imagined that on the right side of her face there was simply no skin. The bones could be seen, covered by a thin bluish halo that darkened them, almost enveloping them in a dense black smoke. The vision was unearthly and terrifying.

“Like a wave against a reef,” Yira murmured.

Tears shone in her eyes. That look made him forget everything else. Dashvara smiled and stroked her left cheek.

“No, naâsga. Like a reef against a breath of air,” he corrected her. “And now, reassure me. This is not magic, is it?”

Yira looked at him, her eyes wide open.

“Dash,” she exhaled. “Of course it’s magic. It’s mortic energy. I’m half-undead. That’s why I sleep so little. I told you about Taymed. He’s the one who taught me harmonies. He was an ancient necromancer. Six years ago, there was a fire in his house while he was giving me a lesson. I think it was provoked. Taymed saved my life, but he couldn’t fix me completely. That’s why I hate death so much.”

She spoke in fits and starts, as if she wanted to explain to Dashvara why she looked the way she did. Half of her face was still, darkened by the energies. Dashvara swallowed hard.

“Well, it’s magic, then. I…” he choked, not knowing what to say.

“I understand, Dash,” Yira said in a hushed whisper. “I understand.”

She was about to leave. Geez, you’re not going to let a light in your life slip away because of simple prejudice, Dash? He was overcome with panic and almost forcibly restrained her.

“Please, Yira. Stop drawing conclusions that aren’t true,” he gasped. “How I wish a bolt of lightning would strike the one who started the fire! And how I wish I could thank old Taymed for saving your life. I have nothing against magic or the dead,” he smiled. “After all, I too am apparently dead and risen.”

And now stop talking, Dash, and prove to her that you love her.

And stop doubting…

Follow your Eternal Bird as you have always done.

Still, he had to fight the fear of magic when his lips touched hers. He felt an electrifying touch that had nothing to do with his feelings. A nameless fear invaded him.

What if I turn into an undead?

Don’t be stupid, Dash, he chided himself. And if you really do turn into an undead, well, what can you do. Those are the risks of life. Sometimes you die. And sometimes you half-die.

Gradually, Yira responded to his kiss, and this comforted him a little.

“You’re shaking,” Yira whispered.

Dashvara laughed nervously.

“A little,” he admitted. “Uh… I’ve not recovered completely yet, that’s why.”

“Recovered from what?” Yira smiled.

Dashvara gasped. His heart was beating like a runaway horse. Without answering her, he caressed her white hair and kissed her again without feeling any apprehension. Finally, he asked:

“About the mortic energy… how does it hold?”

Yira burst out laughing and covered her mouth as she glanced guiltily around the yard.

“By Serenity,” she breathed. “Mortic energy does not hold itself, it simply is. I renew it myself from my own bones. Taymed taught me how to do it.”

Dashvara made a not entirely sincere pout of semi-comprehension.

“Ah. And… excuse my questions, but… do you feel something even though you have no skin?”

Yira smiled.

“Of course I feel something, but it’s something very different from what I feel where I have skin. That is… I feel your energy vibrations. And I can hear your heartbeat as if someone were beating a drum a span away from my ears.”

Dashvara watched her as he stroked her tenderly. He felt more relaxed and relieved to know with complete certainty that he had not made a mistake. His Eternal Bird had not lied to him, and to top it all off, this laughing, sweet, and mysterious bird had not flown away…

“Are you human?”

Yira shook her head.

“I am half human and half hobbit. Where I come from, I was called a sursha, which means ‘in the middle’. There were quite a few surshas on the island. Although I don’t remember the details very well. I was very young.”

Dashvara felt his strength draining, and without letting go, he pointed down the hallway before sitting down.

“You should go back to the library,” Yira sighed. “Tsu said you shouldn’t move.”

Dashvara knew, however, that she didn’t want him to leave. And he didn’t want to leave now either. An atmosphere of serenity enveloped them, and Dashvara suddenly thought he was back in the innocent childhood of his early years. He smiled. This was truly a resurrection.

After a meditative silence, Yira asked:

“What are you going to tell the students, Dash?”

Dashvara looked at her, puzzled.

“Students?”

“They showed up today, in front of the gate. And so they did yesterday. They named you King of the Eternal Bird. What exactly does that mean?”

Dashvara sighed. The news left him indifferent.

“Bah. It’s probably a fantasy of Maloven. Obviously, he couldn’t help preaching the Dahars, and he wanted to make me a martyr or whatever. Tomorrow I’ll tell them to go away and go plant grass in the desert.”

A mocking glint passed through Yira’s slanted eyes.

“You can’t do that. Most of them are citizens. Maybe you could tell them the same thing, but in a slightly more diplomatic way.”

Dashvara smiled broadly.

“Yes. Otherwise they’d take it as a verbal attack, wouldn’t they? Those Diumcilians,” he sighed. “Then I’ll tell them to go study at their University and leave me in peace with my naâsga, my brothers, and my Eternal Bird. Better?”

Yira shook her head, amused.

“You can always try to tell them. But I doubt it will appease their curiosity. I feel like they’re expecting something from you.”

Dashvara arched an eyebrow.

“That I die and revive once again, perhaps? Well, I’ll deal with the problem when I have these students in front of me. For now, let them keep talking nonsense about a King of the Eternal Bird. Really, what funny ideas our shaard had…”

There was a silence, and then, Yira whispered:

“Is it true that I don’t disgust you, Dash? Doesn’t it scare you to have a half-dead being next to you?”

Dashvara was surprised by the harshness with which she expressed her condition.

“You ask such strange questions,” he breathed out. “You see, disgust is totally subjective. Personally, a sajit who acts with malice disgusts me more than a scale-nefarious, to give an example. Appearance… it just takes some getting used to.”

Yira relaxed but shook her head negatively.

“It’s not just appearance, Dash. Necromantic arts are strictly forbidden in almost all sajit societies. That’s why they tried to kill Taymed on Matswad Island. If Atasiag hadn’t gotten us out of there, the islanders would have killed my master, and then they would have killed me. I have to use spells regularly to hide my mortic regeneration. If anyone found out what I am, I’d end up on the stake. And they would execute Atasiag for protecting me. Reviving the dead goes against the nature of things,” she muttered. “To ordinary people, necromancers are dangerous madmen, and their creatures are horrible monsters. I don’t think that, among your people, they are very well regarded either.”

“Uh… I’ve never given it much thought,” Dashvara admitted. “But, on the steppe, it is said that the Essimeans use spells with the dead. They worship a God of Death. Perhaps their priests are necromancers. Certainly, we Xalyas don’t have a very good opinion of them. Not to fear death is one thing, but to worship it is another.” He fell silent and felt foolish as he said, “But… you are not dead.”

Yira looked up at the starry sky, and her black eyes sparkled.

“I am. Partly.”

Half of her face was as white as the moon, and the other half, as dark as night. Dashvara gazed at her with fascination. He thought he was looking at the vivid image of Life fighting Death. But in the end, Yira was much more than Life or Death. She was much more than a necromancer.

“You are mistaken,” Dashvara said. “Nothing in you is dead. Listen, if I lost a hand, a leg or an eye, would I be more dead than alive? No, right? And if I could replace what I lost with something, even if it was forbidden, what would be wrong with that? What matters is not the feather that is seen, but the strength that sustains it.” He smiled and concluded, “There is also little point in thinking too much about what we have been or what others wish us to be.”

Yira let out a quiet laugh.

“Who would dare to contradict such arguments? Coming from another person, I would think that you are saying these words only to calm me down, but coming from a Xalya like you, with such a high Eternal Bird…” She smiled, amused, though with a certain sadness. She murmured, “It all seems like a beautiful dream ready to break into a thousand pieces at the slightest blow.”

Dashvara felt slightly offended.

“A dream?” he repeated. “I know you are a great harmonic used to practicing illusions, but that does not mean you can live only on illusions, naâsga. I, for one, don’t want this night to have been a mere illusion. It is pure reality. And if I were recovered, and we were in the steppe, I would get you on Lusombra, and we would ride together to the east, to the desert and to Mount Bakhia. We would kneel at the foot of the mountain and seal our Eternal Birds as my parents and ancestors did before them.”

A deep feeling was reflected in Yira’s eyes.

“Thank you, Dash. Your words are real enough for me. I could tell you that you’re too good and that no undead like me deserve your tenderness but… I’m too selfish for that.”

Dashvara smiled, kissed her forehead, and closed his eyes. Hell, he had slept most of the day, and despite that, he now felt terribly tired.

Suddenly, a voice in his head startled him:

‘Someone is coming!’

Worried, he stood up awkwardly, and when he saw a mass of shadows near a column, he gasped.

“Tah…”

For a second, he thought of protesting his indiscretion, but then he remembered that a shadow could hardly stop being indiscreet anyway, and he let it pass to intently scan the surroundings. He could see nothing.

‘The roof, Dash,’ Tahisran kindly helped him.

Meanwhile, Yira had fully covered herself again, and Dashvara saw that she, too, was looking up to the roof of the north wing. A figure was trying to climb down by a rope.

“Thank you, Tahisran,” the young woman whispered in the shadows. Alarmed, Dashvara saw her draw the black sword. He didn’t want to see her use a weapon for anything.

“Sheathe your sword, naâsga,” he asked her, embarrassed. “If he is a thief, perhaps we can make him see reason.”

“That’s exactly what I’m trying to do,” Yira replied.

“To make him listen to reason with words,” Dashvara said with a snort.

“Like the day you first met His Eminence in Dazbon?” Yira asked softly. There was a hint of amusement in her voice.

She raised her index finger in front of her veil, and Dashvara kept his answer to himself. Hidden now in the darkness of the hallway, they watched the intruder’s careful advance. He had almost reached the last tiles.

Tahisran came and stood next to them.

‘I always knew you two would end up getting along,’ he commented cheerfully. ‘And I’m glad, because I think you’re both very nice. I’m sorry I eavesdropped on your conversation, Dash,’ he added. ‘I’m not a meddler, but… I’ve always been very curious, and my transformation into a shadow didn’t help matters.’

Dashvara rolled his eyes and glanced at Yira. She had her eyes fixed on the thief. When that one finally stepped onto the cobblestones, Dashvara began to faint and leaned against a wall for a few seconds.

‘Dash?’ Tahisran worried. Dashvara gestured that he was okay and watched as the intruder headed straight for the main door. When he was far enough away from the rope, Yira blocked his path.

“Halt there,” she hissed. “Who are you?”

The man stopped, looking surprised. Dashvara squinted as he too approached. And suddenly he recognized him.

“Cloud?” he breathed, stunned.

It was the scar-faced Honyr with whom he had spoken in the Yordark castle. He and the Steppe Thief watched each other silently for a few moments. Then the latter said:

“I want to talk to you alone, Lord of the Xalyas.”

Dashvara frowned, and for a moment, he was tempted to tell him that he could speak in front of Yira, since now it was her naâsga. But he thought better of it and nodded.

“Okay.” He bowed respectfully to Yira, as any Xalya lord would have done to his wife under such circumstances, and walked out of the gallery to walk away with the Honyr. He stopped in front of the fountain and looked at the steppeman curiously. “I’m all ears.”

The Honyr nodded firmly.

“My name is Sirk Is Rhad, and I come on behalf of Shokr Is Set, the Great Sage of our clan, to communicate to you his most sincere expression of joy at knowing you are alive and to declare that Shokr Is Set, Atsan Is Fadul, and Sirk Is Rhad are ready to serve the lord of the Xalyas to the death if he commits himself to returning to the steppe as soon as possible, introducing himself in person to the clan of the Honyrs, and forgiving them orally for their past faults.”

Dashvara took a deep breath and struggled to hold back the “demons” and the “oh my devils” of surprise. In one sentence, the Honyr had spoken to him in a totally fluid Oy’vat, revealed his name and those of his two companions, and sworn loyalty to him.

And now what do I say to him?

Dashvara felt himself faltering again, but he held on tight and resisted the temptation to sit on the low wall of the fountain. None of the typical Xalya formulas seemed to work for him, so he let his heart guide him.

“Sirk Is Rhad,” he said. “First, thank you for coming all the way here. And thank the Great Sage for his sincere words.” The arrogance of what he was about to say next made him wince, but he would not be silent now: “As lord of the Xalyas and last lord of the steppe, I accept Shokr Is Set, Atsan Is Fadul, and Sirk Is Rhad as members of the clan of Xalya, declare them brothers and sons of the Eternal Bird, and pledge to do my utmost to return to the steppe and to forgive the clan of the Honyrs for their past wrongdoings with my own voice.”

Both bowed respectfully, and moved, Dashvara thought: There is no doubt: we are true brothers.

Sirk Is Rhad then said:

“It is an honor to belong to your clan.”

“And it is an honor for me to have three new brothers,” Dashvara smiled.

Finally, Sirk Is Rhad straightened up, opened his mouth, and hesitated before adding:

“If you’ll allow me, I’d also like to apologize for not taking good care of your horse Lusombra.”

Dashvara remained perplexed.

“What?”

“The Essimeans captured it,” Sirk Is Rhad explained.

Dashvara looked at him. It couldn’t be…

“Was it you I gave my horse to three years ago?”

Sirk Is Rhad smiled, and his horrible scar distorted his face even more.

“It was me,” he confirmed.

This time, Dashvara sat down on the ledge, feeling the fatigue invade him like a dead fire.

“Sorry,” he apologized. “My head is spinning. So, it’s you,” he murmured. He pointed to his face. “Did a wolf do this to you?”

“A dog,” Sirk Is Rhad corrected him without sitting down. “An Essimean dog.”

“Mm.” He paused for a moment. “Out of the three of you, you seemed to be the most hostile towards the Xalyas,” he observed calmly. “For what reason?”

Sirk Is Rhad lowered his head, looking ashamed.

“I… I always thought that, deep down, you Xalyas had denied the Eternal Bird. With the disappearance of the Ancient Kings and the separation of the lords of the steppe, the Dahars remained fractured, the brothers began to kill each other, and the ancient sages were forgotten. The lord of the Xalyas of whom you are the heir has proven to be—”

“The ancient sages have not been forgotten,” Dashvara interrupted him gently. “I spent my childhood reading their books and being taught by a shaard. The last shaard, as far as I know. He died a few days ago, in this very city.”

“That’s what I heard,” Sirk Is Rhad muttered. “I beg your pardon for behaving in an insulting manner.” Dashvara gestured that it was already forgotten. The Honyr added: “I realized my mistake when the Yordark doctor came and I heard you shouting those words. There, I realized that you really deserved to be a steppe lord.”

Dashvara raised an eyebrow, uneasy.

“Really?”

Sirk Is Rhad seemed surprised.

“Really. I also realized, albeit a little late, that this was an opportunity for us to make amends for our mistakes.”

“Your mistakes?” Dashvara repeated. “But you have made no mistakes. Perhaps Sifiara made one by betraying his brother, but this happened almost three centuries ago.”

“That’s true,” the Honyr acknowledged. “But that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t fix the mistakes that can be fixed. And, being brothers, as I believe we are, should we not help each other?”

Dashvara smiled and stood up to put a hand on his shoulder.

“Do not doubt it, Sirk Is Rhad. From now on, I consider all Honyrs as my brothers, and I know that I am not making a mistake in doing so if it is true that your Eternal Bird has followed the same precepts as the Xalyas. You know?” he added, crossing his arms. “I have always had great respect for you. Not because you are great fighters, but because in addition to defending your clan, you defend the steppe, as if it were also a sister.”

“And it is,” Sirk Is Rhad smiled sadly. “As the sky is the cradle of the stars, so the steppe is the cradle of the Honyrs. But perhaps we shall never see it again.”

Dashvara shook his head. The desperation in the Honyr’s voice was almost palpable.

“It’s hard to be a slave,” Dashvara murmured. “And it’s even harder for someone who hasn’t been always a slave. However, one day we will cease to be.”

And that day, I will cease to be the lord of the Xalyas, he promised himself in his heart.

“We both rode the same horse,” he added after a silence. “If Lusombra has accepted us both, it means we are brothers. And brothers never lie to each other.”

Sirk Is Rhad smiled, amused.

“A reasoning worthy of a Honyr, my lord.”

Dashvara smiled back.

“You may call me lord. But you would honor me more if you called me brother.”

He saw a glint of respect in Sirk Is Rhad’s eyes.

“Of course, sîzan.”

“And now,” Dashvara sighed, “I think I’ll go back to bed. Under any other circumstances, I’d wake up my brothers to introduce you, but… I feel like I’m going to fall apart at any moment.”

Sirk Is Rhad looked worried.

“Do you need help?”

“No, thank you,” Dashvara smiled. “I’m not so bad yet that they’ll bury me. And if they try to bury me again, my naâsga will protect me.”

The Honyr opened his eyes wide and looked at the figure of Yira who had just appeared near the columns of the main gate. She had sheathed her sword.

“Is she your wife?”

Dashvara nodded and took an unsteady step toward Yira.

“Sîzan,” Sirk Is Rhad called him. “I almost forgot. I came out of the Yordark castle with Captain Faag’s permission. He asked me to tell you that, had you been fit, you probably would have won the duel.”

Dashvara rolled his eyes.

“These federates only give importance to duels. As if life was all about fights and nonsense like that.” He looked at Sirk Is Rhad’s curious expression jeeringly. “Tell Captain Faag that, had he been fit, he probably would have won the duel. And tell him to think about the question: what does it mean to be fit?”

Sirk Is Rhad smirked and nodded. Dashvara added more seriously:

“And, if it is possible, tell the Great Sage Shokr Is Set that, even though I am the lord of the Xalyas, our clan is ruled by the Dahars, not by a lord.”

Honyr raised an eyebrow before nodding again.

“I’ll tell him.”

Then the Steppe Thief took a few steps towards Yira and bowed deeply to her, saying:

“Saana do kay ayzaez dundet.” Good fortune to you and your husband.

Dashvara had just arrived at Yira’s side, and guessing her perplexity, he gave her an amused pout. For a moment, he thought of telling the Honyr that Yira did not know how to speak Oy’vat, but he decided that he would learn it when the time came. He simply thanked him:

“Ayshat, sîzan.”

Dashvara waited for Sirk Is Rhad to reach the roof with his rope. Then he whispered to Yira:

“If the Xalya clan has not just risen from the ashes, it should be only one step away from that.”

“Yes. Well, you should get inside because I don’t want to see you rise from the ashes again,” Yira commented with a clearing of her throat. “You can tell me tomorrow what this man said to you.”

Dashvara smiled, wished her good night, and entered the living room. No sooner had he taken a few steps than he suddenly met two large, bright eyes; it was the black dog of the foreman Loxarios. He shuddered. It was the mass he had almost tripped over before.

He made a careful detour and closed the library door so hurriedly that he was surprised when, turning around, he distinguished another black pile in front of him. But that was not the dog.

‘Good night, Dash,’ Tahisran’s pleasant voice said.

Dashvara shuffled forward and lay down on his bed. He was exhausted, but he found the strength to whisper:

“I missed you, Tah. It’s been days since you’ve been around.”

‘Sorry. Time flies, and I don’t realize it,’ the shadow apologized. He hesitated, then whispered, ‘What was death like?’

“Inexistent.” Dashvara closed his eyes and thought that the adjective was quite apt given the nil memories he had of those four days of death. He breathed in. “I can’t wait to get well once and for all. And I can’t wait to stop having nightmares. It’s starting to be…” he yawned, “a real pain,” he finished.

‘Do you want me to tell you a story?’ Tahisran offered. ‘When I was little, my older sister used to tell me stories, and then I would dream of unicorns, winged horses, and beautiful princesses.’

Dashvara smiled.

“If you don’t mind… I’m not that interested in unicorns, but it must be wonderful to be a winged horse. As for the beautiful princess,” his smile widened, “I already have one.”

For the next few minutes, Tahisran began to tell him a story about black pegasuses flying over the Underground Seas. Half asleep, Dashvara didn’t understand it very well, and anyway, he lost the end; in any case, whether it was the pegasus or something else, he didn’t dream of Sheroda that night. He dreamed of Yira. He saw her, with her smiling, expressive eyes; and her light laughter rang in his ears, much sweeter than any poem of Miflin.