38 Betrayal

Dashvara fell asleep quickly and dreamed that he was sailing the Pilgrim Ocean with Brohol, towards infinity, without ever finding those legendary lands of which the militiaman had spoken. He did not wake up until the next day, which filled him with frustration as soon as he opened his eyes.

“Oh, Tah,” he whispered as his brothers were stretching and brightening up. The shadow was sitting by the pallet playing katutas with Zamoy.

‘What is it, Dash?’ Tahisran asked, curious.

“Nothing,” Dashvara grunted. He straightened up and finally blurted out, “Yesterday, I didn’t see Yira all day.”

The Baldy barely concealed his smile.

“She was with us, Dash. In the Arena. Didn’t she tell you last night?”

Dashvara grumbled.

“I slept like a lazy bodun.”

Makarva and Zamoy laughed at his annoyed expression, and Dashvara made a vague gesture to brush aside their mocking words of consolation, then stood up. The shadow smiled mentally.

‘Last night, I spoke with her,’ he informed him. ‘We talked about celmist arts. And we shared tips on how not to consume the energy stem too quickly.’

Dashvara raised an eyebrow, amused.

“Really? Good thing I didn’t join your conversation, then,” he commented.

He left to have lunch with his brothers, and when he put on the armor and his official uniform, Tsu just gave him a dark look. He fastened his sabers and patted the drow on the shoulder.

“After all the time you’ve been with us, Tsu, you should be used to dealing with stubborn people.”

The drow gave one of his indefinable smiles.

“I should,” he sighed.

Inwardly, Dashvara knew he was not quite recovered, but enough to follow Atasiag Peykat and his two daughters to the arena and witness what promised to be a boring inauguration. They left Dafys and Leoshu in charge of the house, and as soon as Atasiag’s followers arrived with their wives, offspring, and slaves, they began the procession to the Arena. All of Titiaka was abuzz with excitement. Children, slaves and citizens alike, ran screaming and singing past each family procession; merchants came out of their stores laden with goods in hopes of increasing their earnings at the Arena; public slaves, with baskets under their arms, scattered orange blossom petals along the main streets; and militiamen formed a long, lavish line along the Avenue of Sacrifice to ensure that the entire procession proceeded without incident.

As soon as he could, Dashvara let himself be outpaced by his brothers and kept advancing by Yira’s side, bringing up the rear of the procession. Even on this day, the sursha wore her usual black clothes, with her veil tightly fitted and her sword buckled on her belt. Her eyes smiled as she saw him approach.

“Do they always need so much pomp and circumstance for their parties?” Dashvara inquired after greeting her.

“Oh. This is nothing compared to the Cilian festivals,” Yira assured. “When the Supreme Priest comes out of his Happy Temple and goes up to the Bridge of Joy to give his sermon to the whole world, all Titiakas without exception come to hear him.”

Dashvara looked thoughtfully at the huge bridge that crossed the Sacrifice District and linked Mount Serene to Mount Courteous. So far, most of what he knew about Cili and the Eleven Graces, he had learned it from Towder, the leader of the Tower of Dignity. He wasn’t actually very curious about the subject, but he was intrigued to know why Fayrah and Lessi had adopted this religion. According to them, it taught good morals… Dashvara had deduced that its believers were not very religious.

“Is what he’s saying that interesting?” he then asked.

Yira let out an amused gasp.

“Well. Half of it are anecdotes from the Holy Book. Although I have to admit that the current High Priest has quite an imagination. He’s a good speaker. Atasiag likes him. Most people do, really. The Korfu have always had a good reputation in religious and artistic matters.”

She fell silent abruptly, and Dashvara quickly understood why when he looked up and saw two officials with golden masks standing on either side of the street. They wore the red sashes of the register celmists. When they had passed them by a good number of steps, Dashvara whispered:

“Could these mages really…?” He didn’t finish the question, but Yira understood and answered softly:

“Maybe, if they cast perceptist spells focused on me. An unlikely risk,” she admitted. “But one can never be too careful.”

Dashvara could only agree with her cautiousness.

When I think that the mere fact of removing her veil would condemn her to death… He shuddered. How could Yira muster up enough courage to even go out on the street? Dashvara tried to put himself in her shoes and concluded that he would probably have left long ago to find a more tolerant people. He smiled inwardly. But, after all, hasn’t she already found them? He wasn’t blind: he knew the fear that magic inspired in the Xalyas, and yet… he hoped that his brothers would make a small exception and overcome that fear. After all, they had already done so with Tahisran.

Finally, after a maddeningly slow advance, they reached the Arena. All the open entrances were guarded by the Ragail Guard. As far as Dashvara knew, the permanent forces numbered about six hundred men, but that day other auxiliary citizens, with their own weapons and insignia, had come to assist them. All around the imposing building, every imaginable color was blazing.

It took them a full hour to enter the Arena, even though it had many entrances. The commotion was deafening. Citizens were greeting each other, laughing, making bets, chatting and hanging out instead of moving forward. Dashvara drummed his fingers on the pommel of his swords, growing increasingly annoyed. Zamoy and Makarva were playing a new game of being the first to spot a badge of a particular color in the crowd.

“Yellow!” the Baldy cried, pointing to a troop of guards. These wore the golden clover of the Kondisters.

“Demons!” Makarva swore. “I had seen them before, and yet…”

“Frankly, no one would have guessed that you two come from the Border,” Foreman Loxarios commented as he passed them.

Far from getting flustered, both smiled.

“Precisely,” Mak replied. “We’ve been practicing the simplest possible games for three years.”

“In the swamps, we bet on which monster would die next,” Dashvara interjected. “Even in that game, Makarva almost always won…” He smiled grimly. “Oh, my brothers! Why do I always get to make the most macabre comments?”

“Because you’re twisted in the head?” Makarva offered.

Dashvara looked falsely pensive.

“And how do I differ from you then, Mak?”

His friend rolled his eyes and slightly nudged him before resuming his place in the row under the exasperated looks of Loxarios and his dog.

They entered the tunnels of the building where, to slow things down even more, Atasiag met several of his company’s traders; he then greeted the Nelkantas, the Yordarks, and finally, the Korfu. The conversations went on and on. Dashvara did not see Captain Faag and assumed that he had left with his company, perhaps to the border with Shjak. He did see Lanamiag Korfu, however, and he felt his heart clench painfully when the young Legitimate kissed Fayrah’s hand and whispered something that made her blush.

Can you really feel affection for this man, sister?

In fact, it was obvious that she felt more than just affection. And from the look of Lanamiag, it was also obvious that the feeling was sincerely reciprocated. Who knows, maybe he wasn’t such a bad person… The old Korfu woman that Dashvara had bumped into so smartly a few weeks ago then came to greet Fayrah and Lessi. Lanamiag stepped aside with a courteous bow, and distracted, his eyes quickly fell on the Xalyas. They stopped a few seconds on Dashvara, and his words suddenly resounded in the head of the Xalya with the echo of his blows:

‘A worker does not look a citizen in the eye.’

Dashvara sighed with a grimace but looked away. As he used to say: reckless if need be, imprudent never. In any case, Lanamiag’s expression made him suspect that he hadn’t even recognized him. Of course, how could he? For him, it would be like trying to identify a mouse among twenty identical mice: laborious… and useless.

He almost regretted looking away when his eyes fell irrevocably on the faces of the Akinoas, posted behind the Korfu. He exchanged a glance with Raxifar. And remained stony. This time, out of compassion for his own nerves, he turned his eyes away again and looked at Atasiag. Immediately, he sensed that something was wrong. The Diumcilian looked unusually worried and listened to Rayeshag Korfu, his expression tense. Finally, he bowed, and Dashvara heard him say:

“Of course. I understand, Excellency.”

He added something else and bowed again as the Legitimate and his retinue walked away to the upper bleachers. When Atasiag turned around and passed by the Xalyas, Dashvara gave him a quizzical pout.

“Do not separate yourselves from me,” the magistrate asked them in a dry tone. “As soon as we can, we will leave the Arena. There’s something here that I don’t like at all.”

Dashvara nodded briefly to assure him that he understood. We are warned, he thought. Although he wasn’t sure about what. Some tension with the Korfu, perhaps?

He saw Atasiag whisper something to Wassag. The Wolf nodded quickly and disappeared into the crowd. It was all getting weirder and weirder.

“Are we not going to the bleachers, Eminence?” Licentiate Nitakrios asked.

Atasiag smiled at him, but his eyes remained cold.

“Go ahead and find a seat. I’ll wait here for a while. I have an appointment with one of my right-hand men. Business,” he explained. “My daughters, accompany our friends,” he said to Fayrah and Lessi. “Yorlen, go with them. I won’t be long,” he promised.

With troubled expressions, the followers bowed and walked away with their families toward the interior of the tunnel. Escorted by the Mute, Fayrah and Lessi followed them with worried pouts, dragging their ridiculously long dresses. They left behind an Atasiag surrounded by Xalyas.

With her hand on the pommel of her sword, Yira approached him. Her eyes were reduced to mere slits.

“What’s going on, Father?” the sursha asked in a whisper.

Atasiag admitted bluntly:

“I have no idea. But something tells me that the Korfu no longer require my support. The change is subtle, but… when the Legitimates let go of you like that, it doesn’t bode well.”

Dashvara sensed his nervousness, although he had to admit that he hid it quite well.

“And what do we do?” Loxarios asked.

Atasiag glanced around the wide, crowded tunnel before saying:

“We’re waiting for Wassag.”

The Wolf took half an hour to return, and when he did, he was very pale. Even before the magistrate asked him to speak, he said in a hurried whisper:

“Eminence, they just arrested the Shiirs. The guards were masked, but… I’d swear it was the Telvs.”

Atasiag did not falter. Dashvara knew the Telvs were a Legitimate family, but… the Shiirs? He had no idea. Wassag added:

“They didn’t see me. At least, I don’t think so,” he corrected. “I suppose most of them managed to escape by boat, but…”

Dashvara couldn’t hear what he said next, and he exchanged a frown with Captain Zorvun. Inwardly, he knew it was only natural that he didn’t understand what was going on: no one had ever explained the affairs of Atasiag to them, and probably deliberately so. The magistrate shook his head.

“Their intentions are clear. For some reason, the Korfu have betrayed us,” he concluded. “Loxarios, go to the house and warn Serl, Dafys, and Leoshu. You know what you must do.”

The foreman nodded, looking grim, but Dashvara thought he recognized a glint of excitement in his eyes. He watched him leave then turned to Atasiag:

“Could we know a little bit about what’s going on?”

Atasiag suddenly seemed serene.

“Exactly what I would have liked to avoid has just happened,” he explained quietly, “the Dikaksunora and the Korfu must have come to an agreement to divide up the spoils of the colonized lands, and the Korfu no longer have as much interest in maintaining good relations with Agoskura. Nor with me. I would bet all my assets that one of the points of the agreement must be to eliminate the Dream Brotherhood. Or at least to try to subdue it.” He grinned maliciously. “The Dikaksunora must not have appreciated the scandal caused by the documents the Pearl Brotherhood sent to the Dazbon Senate. And the Shiirs’ infiltration of Titiaka must not have pleased them much either. Bah. They must have offered the Korfu some advantageous concessions. Good enough to convince the Korfu of the need to do away with our ‘band of thieves’, as they surely consider us. Wassag,” he called calmly. “Do you have paper and ink?”

The Wolf turned pale.

“No, Eminence.”

Atasiag sighed, and Miflin intervened, pulling out his notebook and pencil:

“Will this do?”

The federate smiled.

“This will do,” he said. “Thank you, Miflin.”

He sat down on a bench in the hallway and wrote a quick note. He tore off the sheet, folded it and handed it to Wassag, saying:

“Take it to the Shyurd.”

He looked down at the notebook again before the Wolf had even taken the message. He handed the next note to Yira.

“This one is for Sheroda. Wait,” he said. He scribbled a sentence. “This one is for you.”

Yira glanced at the message and shook her head.

“I can’t do it, Eminence,” her voice sounded muffled behind the veil.

“Of course you can, my daughter. Just read that sentence again when the time comes. Go,” he ordered, and as Yira walked away, he added, “Dash. Go get Fayrah and Lessi. Tell my clients that I’ve suffered a little discomfort and that I’m going home, but don’t let them worry. Try to look calm.”

Dashvara smiled sardonically.

“But I am very calm, Eminence. Why shouldn’t I be?” He paused for a moment. “Who are the Shiirs?”

Atasiag took off his wig and put it back on with a sigh. He replied:

“They’re pirates, Dash. And friends of mine for decades. And now go.”

Thoughtful, Dashvara left his brothers and walked away toward the stairs that led to the bleachers. So the Korfu had already known for a long time that Atasiag Peykat was the leader of the Dream Brotherhood. And, obviously, they had spread the word. Unless Atasiag had jumped to conclusions. The question was what did Atasiag intend to do and what would the consequences be for the Xalyas.

By the time he reached the stands, the games had already begun: a large orchestra was playing joyful music, and in the arena itself, they had unleashed about twenty swamp orcs against five sanfurient wolves. The former seemed to have trouble gripping their weapons, as if their hands were burning. They had probably been coated with something so they couldn’t even try to climb the walls. The fight was… pathetic. Dashvara watched it for a moment, his heart pounding with revulsion. They were monsters, yes, but those who were able to make a spectacle of their deaths were even worse.

Bah, Dash, stop assessing the degrees of monstrosity: they’re all foreigners. As the captain says, these are their customs. And now go get Fayrah.

With a wry pout, he lost interest in the chaotic fight interrupted by screams and bursts of applause and looked around for his sister. He had no idea where she had settled. After a few minutes of wandering through the crowded stands, he saw Licentiate Nitakrios sitting among a bunch of excited students. Dressed in his long black academic tunic, he wore a deeply bored expression.

“Licentiate,” he greeted him. “Do you know where the Peykat ladies are installed?”

Nitakrios frowned.

“They met the young Korfu again and stayed to talk with him,” he replied. “But now they may be in the eighth terrace.” He stood up. “I will accompany you. I am sorry, friends, duty calls,” he said gravely to the students. They did not even hear him.

Dashvara armed himself with patience and followed the Licentiate to the eighth tier. There he found three of Atasiag’s followers. Neither Fayrah nor Lessi were there. He took it upon himself to speak about Atasiag’s supposed discomfort, and Vorxag, without taking his usual servile tone, said:

“Gee, what bad luck! Dafosag and Lurdag too have retired home due to indisposition. Communicate to His Eminence my most sincere wishes for a speedy recovery.”

Dashvara suppressed a gasp.

Indisposition? Come on…, he laughed inwardly, growing more and more nervous. Rather, say that you two have got a nose for it and that you suspect that your friendly magistrate won’t be able to support you so easily anymore… He wondered how long it would take for the other adulators to abandon Atasiag. Parasites, he spat with disdain.

Nevertheless, he bowed and was about to walk away when the Licentiate held him back.

“Tell me, what’s going on?” he whispered to him.

Dashvara looked at him, stunned.

“Are you asking me, Licentiate?” He smirked. “Well, to be honest, I have no idea.”

“His Eminence is in trouble, isn’t he?” the citizen questioned.

Dashvara looked up to the sky.

“He’s suffered a little discomfort. I guess you could call it a problem.”

“Take me to him,” the Licentiate ordered.

Dashvara gave him an annoyed look.

“I am looking for the Peykat girls, Licentiate. I can’t do ten thousand things at the same time. His Eminence must be at home by now. But I doubt he wants to receive visitors. Good day to you.”

He turned his back on him and continued to search. The arena was packed. How on earth was he going to find Fayrah in the middle of this crowd? He was walking down an inner corridor, grumbling and ignoring the thunderous cries of the audience, when he met the person he least expected: the Duke. He was dressed in a civilian militia uniform and wore the golden mask of the officials in his hand. He was moving with rapid steps, and if Dashvara had not blocked his way, he probably would not have noticed him.

“Hey, republican,” he said. “What have you been up to?”

Rowyn stopped short and blinked as if he had just come out of a whirlwind of particularly absorbing thoughts. Then the blond man smiled.

“Steppeman.” He hesitated. “How are you?”

“I’m alive,” Dashvara said cheerfully. “And you?”

The Pearl Brother glanced around the hallway full of people before answering in a low voice:

“Well, at this very moment, I couldn’t tell you. The Supreme sent me a message asking me to look for Atasiag. Do you know where he is?”

“At home,” Dashvara said.

Rowyn huffed.

“What happened? Did they try to murder him?”

Dashvara frowned in surprise.

“No. Not that I know of. The Korfu have simply turned against him, and the whole Legitimate troop with them, I suppose. And inevitably Atasiag is scared.” He shook his head. He couldn’t manage to feel very affected by what was happening though he knew that, in practice, it could cause serious problems to all of them. “Do you really think they can try to kill him?”

Rowyn winced and fidgeted, as if he wanted to run off somewhere.

“Bad news, bad news,” he muttered.

“This is what happens when you depend on unreliable people,” Dashvara commented quietly.

The Duke looked him in the eye.

“Do realize, steppeman, that if Atasiag dies by order of the Legitimates, the situation of your people can only get worse.”

Dashvara felt irritated.

“What if Atasiag jumped to conclusions, Duke? Perhaps the Telvs only attacked these Shiirs by pure chance…”

Rowyn gasped.

“They attacked the Shiirs? By the Dragon. Now I see it clearly. Are you going to Atasiag’s now?” he asked quickly.

“No, I—”

The Republican cut him off with agitation:

“If he tries to escape, tell Atasiag not to do it through the port of Alfodyn, but through the port of Xendag. They must have commandeered all the Shiir ships. I’m going to look for Azune and Axef. This was bound to happen sometime,” he said as if to himself. “It’s time for a general retreat. We have no business here without Atasiag’s support.”

He took off down the hall almost at a run, and Dashvara watched him walk away with a frustrated sigh. It was rather exasperating to have to act knowing only the tenth part of the reasons that stimulated so much Atasiag and Rowyn. Still, he immediately started walking again and cursed his sister for not being where she was supposed to be waiting. Then he tried to calm down again, and a sudden worry came over him. The possibility that a misfortune happened to the two Xalya girls became oppressive.

Finally, he reached the highest bleachers, and the Ragail Guard blocked his way. One of them was the sergeant who always attended the trainings in the Arena.

“What are you looking for, Xalya?” Dashvara explained, and the sergeant shook his head with a sad glint in his eyes. “They came here, but they went down a while ago.”

Dashvara suppressed a grunt, thanked him, and turned his back on the Ragails. It was a mistake. Several Ragails had just drawn their swords. In the tone of one who gives an order reluctantly, the sergeant said:

“Kill him.”

Dashvara roared and made his second mistake: he tried to draw his swords. A second later, he realized that he didn’t have the time.

‘Attack instead of defend. Surprise your opponents.’

He followed Zorvun’s old advice, turned around, and charged at the sergeant with a war cry. Both fell to the ground. Dashvara leaped to his feet and ran down the hallway that led to the last bleachers. There was no way he was going to get out of there alive, he knew it, but if he had to die, at least he would die killing people who really deserved to die.

Ignoring the cries behind him, he drew his swords and went out into the daylight. He saw the Korfu, he saw the Akinoas, and he saw Lanamiag. He rushed towards them causing chaos in his path. The citizens threw themselves on the ground, shouting in terror and begging for Cili’s mercy.

Tremble, mortals, Dashvara thought. A terrible grimace appeared on his face, vaguely resembling a smile. You have pushed me to the limit.

He did not understand how he managed to get to the Korfu without any swords going through him. He leaped onto the small step that separated him from the family of Legitimates, and to the amazement of the Akinoas, he went around them. He dodged Lanamiag’s sword blow. This one shouted something. Deafened by the fury that vibrated in his heart, Dashvara did not hear him. He pushed him aside, thrust his sword into the leg of a man who stood in his way, and forgot everything but his objective. And he finally reached it. He wounded Rayeshag Korfu, that treacherous dog, in the arm, and then finished him off with another blow of his saber, and without waiting to see the result, he continued on his way to the Dikaksunora.

Morzif’s words sounded like a drum in his mind: ‘Freedom is not earned, my lord: freedom is something you take’.

He was halfway there when he received a sword blow against his armor, in the back.

Cowards without honor…, he spat mentally.

He did not turn around, and incredibly, did not receive another blow until he reached the Dikaksunora. He saw the young Kuriag, sitting paralyzed in his seat, his eyes glaring at his “King of the Eternal Bird”. And he also saw, closer, a troop of guards pointing their swords at him. He stopped, glared at them, and shouted:

“Get out of the way!” And he thundered: “Menfag Dikaksunora! You who are called the Master, show yourself! I will kill you. You will regret having enslaved my people.”

He barely flinched when he saw Raxifar standing beside him, his axe raised, brandishing it at the Dikaksunora. The Akinoa said nothing, but he let out a roar that was explicit enough. Glancing back quickly, Dashvara saw that, for some reason, the black savages had been carried away by his rage and were now fighting the Ragails.

“We’re going to die,” he muttered.

Raxifar showed him a fierce smile.

“I will die with you, Xalya. And not against you.”

Dashvara grimaced with a smile, gave a last thought to Yira, his brothers, and his Eternal Bird, and shouted:

“Death to the murderers!”

“Freedom!” Raxifar shouted.

They rushed against the guards. Not surprisingly, they soon found themselves retreating under the blows.

A few moments later, an uproar of voices erupted from the lower bleachers and grew louder. Dashvara hardly grasped what was going on, but he finally understood when he heard a citizen shout from a fairly short distance, “For the Union, down with the Legitimates, down with privilege!”. For some reason, the assault had pushed the Unionists into action, and the arena had now turned into chaos. Like a wave, the screams rose. The last tier was soon filled with excited citizens armed with their own weapons. The citizens had been so well prepared to counter the slave revolts, and why in the end? To sow destruction among themselves. Oh great united Titiaka…

Before him, a guard died choking on his own blood under Raxifar’s axe. Dashvara dodged a shield and kicked a basket in his way. He wounded the arm of the nearest soldier, took a step back and shouted:

“Raxifar, fall back! Let’s not separate ourselves from the rest.”

The “rest” were about fifteen Akinoas who caused a real carnage on their way. But they were wisely retreating towards one of the tunnels leading to the inner galleries, unlike Raxifar.

Damned reckless fool. Now that the Ragails are focusing on the Unitarians, here comes this savage to stick his neck out in the middle of the fight?

“Raxifar!” one of the Akinoas called out to him.

The idiot did not listen to him and charged again against the guards surrounding the Dikaksunora.

“He’s crazy,” Dashvara gasped. He was too far away to join the other Akinoas and make his way through the galleries with them in the middle of the fleeing crowd. The guards would have surrounded him immediately. He had no other option but to follow Raxifar and cover his back. This time we’re dead…

He lost count of the number of times he was nearly skewered by the guards. He felt that he was too slow in handling the swords. There would come a time when he would not be able to parry every attack. There would come a time when a sword would pierce him, and finally, he would die. And this time he would not be resurrected. And he would not have a coffin. He only hoped that Atasiag had planned a good escape route. And that he wouldn’t abandon his brothers to the Titiakas.

He dodged a sword strike that was headed straight for his face and charged.

Cursed, cursed life of madness…, he thought.