40 In the middle of nowhere

They left the harbor without lighting any lanterns and entered the darkness. Dashvara fell asleep shortly after they pulled away from the shore. He awoke at first light. His throat was dry, and cramps in his stomach made him wince with pain. He was aching all over. So many falls down the stairs and so many blows… it wasn’t healthy.

Took you long enough to figure that out… he scoffed. He cleared his throat, and Captain Zorvun glanced at him. The latter was eating a piece of bread. He gave him half of it, and Dashvara ate it greedily. As he chewed, he looked around the ship with a curious eye. There were about thirty people in all, huddled on the benches and on the deck. Yira was sleeping next to him, her hand on her veil. It was the first time he was seeing her sleep, and Dashvara contemplated her for a moment before looking up at the sky. It was relatively clear, and the clouds rode like galloping horses. The sails, inflated by the wind, were pulling the boat as best they could across the ocean. The pitching quickly made him annoyingly seasick.

“Where are we going?” he asked.

The three Honyrs, Arvara, and the captain sat on his right. Rokuish and Zaadma on his left. The Dazbonian seemed to take the impromptu emigration calmly, but that didn’t stop the Shalussi from giving her constant worried glances, as if he feared that at any moment she would be taken ill or who knows.

“To Matswad,” the captain replied. “Apparently, that’s where most of the freed slaves go. It’s full of pirates, I hear.”

“Great,” Dashvara smiled. “I suppose if Atasiag is there, he’ll be generous and give us a ship to Dazbon. It would be the least he could do after all I’ve done to avenge him for the Korfu’s betrayal, don’t you think?”

His sardonic smile had widened as he spoke.

“Did you really kill him?” the captain whispered.

“Rayeshag Korfu,” Dashvara confirmed. “And Raxifar son of Shiltapi killed Menfag Dikaksunora. I don’t think they’ll get up again,” he joked. “But now, let’s not think about these people and think about the steppe. About our land. Our home… Uh…” He ran a hand over his face. His head was spinning. “Sorry, I’m still a little confused.”

The captain smiled mockingly.

“It’s been happening to you for quite a few years now, don’t worry.” And he pointed out: “Since Makarva is not here, someone else had to say it.”

All smiled. Yira had opened her eyes and was now sitting up in silence; she looked around as if wondering where the hell she was. Dashvara took her hand, not sure if it was to calm her or himself. Because, although he was surrounded by brothers, he was also surrounded by water on a crowded boat that looked like it could sink at any moment; and this could be quite scary… especially when you can’t swim. After a silence, Rokuish whispered:

“Dash, do you really want to go back to the steppe? I heard that over there it’s a complete disaster. The Essimeans have enslaved the Shalussis. Those demons won’t let you settle in your dungeon again.”

The Shalussis, enslaved by the Essimeans? With a grimace, Dashvara sighed:

“There is no dungeon anymore, Rok. The Essimeans destroyed it. In the end, these worshippers of the God of Death will prove to be the worst dogs on the steppe,” he reasoned. The he suddenly wavered as he heard a voice, Sheroda’s voice, whisper a familiar litany in his ear. He added, “Unless the dogs are us. But I don’t think so.”

There was another silence. Then Zaadma murmured softly:

“You talked in your sleep, Dash. You spoke a name.”

Dashvara raised his eyebrows in concern.

“Oh, yeah? And what name?”

Zorvun cleared his throat, looking embarrassed.

“Actually, there were several names,” this one said. “Lifdor of Shalussi and Todakwa of Essimea were two of them. As far as I know, the others are dead.”

Dashvara had blinked.

“Oh,” he said. “The famous list.” He didn’t remember dreaming about it. As a matter of fact, he hadn’t dreamed about it in three years. He glanced at his companions before admitting, “Lord Vifkan asked me to kill them. By means of a vile and unworthy revenge. You were right, Sirk Is Rhad,” he added quietly. “My father had his faults.” He shrugged, thought of the treacherous attack he himself had provoked in the Arena, and gave a caustic smile. “Everyone does, after all, don’t they?”

Zaadma ran her tongue over her lips, uneasy.

“Yet you’re thinking of crossing names off this list,” she muttered.

Dashvara shook his head.

“To hell with the list. I gave my promise to the Honyrs to go to their clan, and I will. Then… we’ll see. But I’m not crazy, Zae. A few dozen Xalyas can’t fight against hundreds of Essimeans. If they won’t let us settle on the steppe, we’ll try to avoid them. I will not send my people to their deaths,” he said.

He realized that he had raised his voice and lowered his voice when he saw that several foreigners were giving him half-curious, half-apprehensive looks. The steppemen were one of the few people who carried weapons on this ship: perhaps these Titiakas feared that they would be able to use them if the need arose.

He breathed inwardly. For the Liadirlá’s sake, be at ease. It may not look like it, good people, but we are pacifists.

From his seat, Shokr Is Set, the Great Sage of the Honyrs, spoke in a calm tone.

“I believe I have not yet had the opportunity to express in person my gratitude for the honor you do us, Xalyas, by accepting us as brothers.” His eyes reflected a strange mixture of gratitude and expectation.

Thoughtfully, Dashvara bowed his head to the sage, and Captain Zorvun replied:

“And it is an honor for us to have you in our clan.”

“The honor is ours,” Arvara the Giant said with a frank smile.

Dashvara was looking for some more original answer when he felt Raxifar wake up. The Akinoa was half crushing him with his great mass, but he moved aside a little when he opened his eyes. He let out a grunt of pain. He had a wound in his arm and another in his abdomen… And his bandages were completely soaked with blood. He didn’t look good.

“Raxifar?” Dashvara asked quizzically.

The Akinoa answered him with another grunt.

“I’ll change his bandage,” Zaadma murmured.

Concerned, the Republican stood up and was about to touch the bandage on his arm when Raxifar let out a roar:

“No!”

He showed his fist to the Dazbonian, and she stepped back, eyebrows furrowed.

“Come on!” she protested, “I just wanted to take a look at the wounds—”

“Back off, foreigner,” the steppeman spat.

Dashvara placed a soothing hand on Raxifar’s chest.

“Calm down, Akinoa. It looks like these wounds have become infected. It would be stupid to let yourself die now, don’t you think?”

The Akinoa clenched his jaws. He wasn’t looking at him: his eyes were lost in the distance.

“If I heal, I live. If I die, I die.”

Dashvara winced and almost told him to stop acting like a stubborn savage, but he thought better of it. How had he reacted when his people had been slaughtered? He had wanted to die. He had wanted to fall to the ground and wait for the sun and thirst to send him to serve as food for the beasts of the steppe.

He bowed his head respectfully.

“So be it. Sit down, Zaadma.”

The young woman sat down and grumbled at the stupidity of the steppemen.

“Don’t include the Shalussis, my dear,” Rokuish asked her in a joking tone.

“You maybe not, but I include the Shalussis more than any other clan,” Zaadma replied briskly. “I’ve lived with them for many years, I think that gives me the right to give my opinion. Well,” she sighed. “The Titiakas didn’t leave a very good impression on me either. These Unitarians will destroy their own city before they can control it. We were lucky they decided to revolt just now. It looks like we hired them to create confusion so we could get away.”

Mmph. We didn’t even need to hire them, Dashvara thought, just to encourage them a little: they were already on the warpath. Then he frowned, puzzled.

“Wait, you and Rok didn’t have to run away, did you?”

Zaadma exchanged glances with Rokuish before clearing his throat.

“Well, to tell you the truth, I work for Cobra too,” she murmured. “I didn’t start my flower shop without help. Anyway, maybe we could have stayed without any harm coming to us,” she conceded. “But as Cobra says: as soon as you feel the wind change, pick up your things and set sail. I know that old pirate escaped more than one betrayal by applying this method. And I thought it was a good time to follow his advice. But I didn’t leave without a good supply of seeds,” she added, purring and looking at the big bag Rokuish had carried from their home to the port.

Dashvara could not suppress a grimace of disappointment. He had hoped that the bag contained something more… edible. But, anyway, his stomach probably wouldn’t accept anything at the moment. He closed his eyes, nauseous, and tried to doze off while his companions exchanged a few sporadic words.

After a few hours, the sun began to beat down on their heads like a merciless fire. The star was at its zenith when Raxifar of Akinoa, burning with fever, began to rave. His words were not all that comprehensible, but at one point Dashvara overheard a fervent prayer to his god Akinoa. Out of the blue, he began to scream and half stood up. Dashvara had to grab him by the shoulders and whisper soothing words to him for many minutes before he stopped fidgeting. Finally, the warrior fell back to the deck and sank into a dying silence. His outburst must have impressed the passengers because they did not dare to say a word for a long time. Finally, a child asked for water. After a moment’s hesitation, one of the sailors took a barrel out of the hold and observed:

“We only have one barrel. Don’t waste the water. One glass each, no more.”

Dashvara felt a surge of sympathy for the passengers when he saw them nodding serenely and sharing the water in peace.

Well, Dash. Most of them were slaves. They’re used to hardship. And they’re used to obeying orders. They even know how to share.

Night came, the Moon, the Gem, and the Candle rose into the starry sky and disappeared again, replaced by the rays of dawn. The day found Dashvara nauseous, hungry, and numb. The four sailors on the boat were the only ones who could move a little. One in particular climbed the mast between the sails with the agility of a swamp orc.

The wind was favorable to them until the afternoon; then it died suddenly, and the boat remained as if frozen in the middle of nothingness, in a desert of water.

Dashvara heard one of the sailors cursing in Ryscodranese. He saw him pull out a long oar and place it at the stern to move the boat forward. Captain Zorvun laughed through his teeth, nervous:

“At this rate, the ocean will dry up before we get there.”

The fisherman glared at him.

“Do you have a better idea, O great warrior?” he replied.

Zorvun did not answer, and for the next few hours, they continued to move forward at the pace of a limping mule.

The sky was already darkening and clouding over when Raxifar came out of his silence to whisper:

“Xalya.”

Dashvara looked at him and shivered. The Akinoa barely looked conscious; his eyes were bulging, and his throat made a barely audible sound. Dashvara was sure he was the only one who heard it:

“Do not let me die.”

Dashvara let out a sigh of relief; nevertheless, he could not feel quite at ease, for he was not at all certain that the Akinoa would survive. He called Zaadma, and refraining from sarcastic comments, she set to work. It turned out that one of the passengers also had some knowledge of medicine, and he kindly offered to help. The next morning, the Akinoa was doing much better than Dashvara. Dashvara had tried to eat some of the garfias that Atsan Is Fadul had brought, but he had given them all back. Pale as a shroud, he finally concluded with a drunken voice:

“Oh, ocean, curse you. Curse you a thousand times.”

With mocking eyes, Yira patted him on the shoulder.

“It’s a matter of habit,” she assured, cheerfully.

Dashvara snorted. Then snorted again.

“No, naâsga. This is the last time I lock myself in a wooden box in the middle of salt water,” he swore.

“Ah!” Rokuish laughed. “Then you will stay in Matswad forever, my friend. One cannot leave an island except by boat.”

Dashvara shook his head.

“Not at all. According to Tah, the Underground exists. I’ll go down there.”

The captain smiled, distracted. That cursed man did not seem to suffer from seasickness. Dashvara leaned against the edge of the boat and added:

“I will fly like the Eternal Bird and fly over the waters. But I swear on my life that I will not set foot on a boat again. I don’t know how Makarva can love them so much…”

In the afternoon, the water barrel ended, and as if nature had wanted to help them, a storm raged over them, piercing them to the bone. They retrieved the water, but found themselves as soggy as they had been in the Compassion barracks. They spent a terrible night, and when the sun finally came out, they were all more silent and miserable than ever. Not a wisp of wind blew the sails.

Dashvara sighed, yawned and looked around.

The three Honyrs, Arvara, and the captain were sleeping; Zaadma and Rokuish had drifted off a bit and were murmuring to each other; Raxifar, with his arms crossed, was watching his boots, listless. And Yira, sitting on an edge, kept her eyes fixed on the distance, immersed in her thoughts. If he remembered correctly, the sursha hadn’t eaten anything since they boarded. Dashvara wondered if it was because she didn’t dare remove her veil or simply because she didn’t need to eat as much. He would have to ask her as soon as they got to Matswad Island. If they ever got there. With another sigh, he laid his head against the wood and let out in a whisper:

“How long will we have to live like this?”

To his surprise, one of the sailors who was sitting not far away answered:

“About two days if we are lucky with the wind. Four if we’re unlucky.”

Dashvara raised an eyebrow, glanced at the flaccid sails, and concluded:

“Four, then.”

It didn’t take them that long. Eventually the wind picked up, and late in the afternoon, they found a caravel heading straight for them. At first, Dashvara feared they were slave traders. He was relieved when he realized they were pirates. Then he laughed inwardly at such relief, but what the hell, he was relieved. The pirates explained their friendly intentions, transferred them all to their ship, and towed the fishing boat. They immediately set course for Matswad.

“Sit there,” a hard-faced sibilian said. He wore a black cloak over his shoulders and a sword at his belt. His stony face was as unexpressive as Dafys’.

Dashvara followed the survivors to the designated area and was bitterly surprised when the pirates began to take away their belongings.

“That’s my pipe!” one of the sailors protested. “You all are nothing but thieves.”

A red-haired pirate laughed.

“Did you doubt it? Keep your pipe, my good man.” He returned the object and continued to search them. He took a dagger from an old man and said loudly, “We are not stealing anything from you. You can probably reacquire your possessions later. We’re just requisitioning them temporarily. However, we keep all the sharp weapons.”

Dashvara gave him an offended pout, but as the pirate passed him by, he willingly handed him his remaining sword.

“The armor too, friend,” the pirate said.

Dashvara looked at him, shrugged, and took it off. The captain had a harder time getting rid of his things, but when he saw that the Honyrs and Raxifar were even more reluctant, he straightened up and told them:

“This is not a surrender, steppemen. Let us lay down our weapons.”

The redhead picked them up and asked:

“Were you gladiators?”

“Mmph.” Dashvara rolled his eyes. “No. We were bodyguards.”

When the pirate reached out to Yira, she remained motionless.

“You have a sword,” the redhead pointed out.

The sursha didn’t budge and just looked him in the eye. Dashvara stiffened. What’s so special about that black sword, Yira? He thought he knew her heart as well as his own, but there was so much he didn’t know about her yet! Who knows, maybe it was a forbidden object. A necromancer’s item or… Bah. It could be anything.

The redhead was about to lose his patience when Yira, recovering her mobility, took out something from her left sleeve. A coin? In any case, the pirate turned pale when he saw it, took a step back and continued to strip the Titiakas, leaving Yira in peace.

“What’s that thing?” Dashvara questioned in a low voice as she approached.

The sursha shrugged and showed it to him.

“The badge of the Brotherhood.”

Dashvara paled as the pirate did. It was a metal disc with a crude figure engraved in the center, representing the shape of an hourglass. It was a thieves’ lantern, like the one Zaadma had lent him three years ago to enter the catacombs of Rocavita. But this one had a blue circle, and all around it were words written in a script he did not recognize.

Yira tucked the disc into her sleeve, and her eyes smiled.

“This lantern marks me as a special protégé of Cobra,” she explained. “There are only three of them in the entire Brotherhood—”

“You will burn in hell!”

Zaadma’s sudden outburst startled them both. Dashvara took one look and realized what was going on: the Dazbonian was adamant that they not take her seed bag.

“If you steal them from me now, you will spoil the result of years of work. There are very special seeds that need special attention… The White Dragon will burn you alive. You will not take my plants!” she cried sharply.

Under the worried look of Rokuish and to the exasperation of the redhead, Zaadma sat down on the bag. Probably, her pregnancy was a strong argument to convince the pirate not to force her to get up. The republican’s obstinacy seemed to amuse him, and he pronounced:

“If only everyone would defend the fruits of their labor with such tenacity! Keep your seeds, Republican. But, when you get to Matswad, promise to use them for the good of all the islanders.”

Dashvara smiled. He was beginning to find this pirate sympathetic.

Finally, claiming that they didn’t want to have so much mess on deck, they asked them to go down to the hold, and two sailors brought them food and drink. They did not eat to their hearts’ content, but they recovered some strength and Arvara declared, jovially:

“Every time life seems to be coming to an end, something comes along to pull us out of the abyss. Isn’t that wonderful? It must be fate.”

Zorvun and Dashvara looked at him with a small, mocking smile.

“Surely,” the latter said. “Fate, and damn good luck.” After a hesitation, he added in a low voice: “Yira, you… you won’t eat?”

Yira’s eyes sparkled.

“I will eat when I get to Matswad.”

Dashvara cleared his throat and smiled.

“Now I understand why you are just a bag of bones, naâsga.”

A look of surprise passed through Yira’s eyes. Far from being offended, she laughed, amused.

“Is this Xalya humor?”

Dashvara laughed quietly and brought the sursha’s gloved hand to his lips.

“Humor never killed anyone,” he said, and lovingly added, without letting go of her hand, “naâsga.”

A few hours later, when he awoke, he found Yira snuggled up to him and sound asleep. A white lock of hair had escaped from her tightly fitted hood. Dashvara caught it in his calloused fingers and it felt softer than silk. For a moment, he wanted to remain like that, motionless, embraced forever. Why did time always have to pass, why did there always have to be a beginning and an end? He smiled.

You’ve completely lost your mind, Dash. Remember what Tahisran said: when time has no limits, it stops making sense. And there is nothing more disconcerting than something that has no meaning. There you have it, O great lord. You can love as much as you want, but what good is a paralyzed love? As Maloven used to say, love is like a gust of wind: it blows like a hurricane and then dies out with life. But, as you often say yourself, think of the horse that gallops, not of the day when it will stop galloping.

Gently, he hid the white hairlock under Yira’s hood. No sooner had he straightened up than a shout rang out on deck:

“Matswad in sight!”

It was like hearing the cry of salvation. As everyone awoke, Dashvara hurried out of the hold. The Xalyas and Yira soon joined him. Outside, the sun was already shining in the east, gently shimmering the waters of the deck and illuminating the sea.

“Earth,” Dashvara murmured, his voice trembling. He felt as if he had not seen it for months.

His eyes filled with wonder, he detailed the island, its cliffs and leafy forests. He wished he could fly over the waters like a bird to reach it. Finally, he saw the port of Matswad. It was a real city. Full of people. But there were no tall buildings or straight streets: only a cluster of houses crammed on the slope between two cliffs. As soon as the boat was moored at the quay, Dashvara had to restrain himself from running off like a madman. Titiaka’s foreigners, on the other hand, looked apprehensive, as if they were suddenly afraid to discover what kind of island they were landing on.

In a town of poor pirates, folks. Of poor but free pirates.

“Onward, mates!” the red-haired pirate said. “Everyone get off. Those who don’t know anyone here can wait on the dock. People always come to help. Come on, cheer up.”

The Titiakas disembarked, and Dashvara followed them, his hands sweaty. When he stepped onto the firm stone of the dock, he took a few steps to make sure the island wasn’t rocking like the ship. Satisfied, he smiled to himself as he looked curiously at the city.

“The shepherd Bramanil didn’t like boats either,” he commented when the captain joined him. “And yet, according to the story, he was born on a boat. Ten leagues away from the coast,” he added with a broad smile. “In the middle of the land, on a mountain with sheep.”

“Mm,” Zorvun smiled. “It’s kind of like being born on a horse in the middle of the sea.”

“Kind of,” Dashvara admitted cheerfully. He looked around the crowded docks, and when he suddenly saw familiar faces, his heart leaped. “Brothers!” he exclaimed. He started to run, and when he was only a few steps away from his twenty brothers, he fell to his knees before them and cried, “May the Dahars bless your Eternal Birds for a thousand years!”

The twenty Xalyas stopped and exchanged amused looks, shining with joy.

“And why should the Dahars bless them, Dash?” Makarva asked, mockingly.

“Because you are alive,” Dashvara replied.

Makarva laughed.

“So may the Dahars also bless your Eternal Bird, Dash. And now stop kneeling before your brothers. Unless you want us all to kneel down and keep you company.”

The Xalyas laughed. With tear-filled eyes, Dashvara smiled and stood up.

“Bah, damn you,” he muttered. “You’re always mocking your lord!”

“I must say, you were asking for it, Dash,” Captain Zorvun laughed behind him.

The captain stepped forward and greeted them all with pats and hugs. At one point, Arvara the Giant stepped aside to let him pass and revealed something that amazed Dashvara: a child of about six years of age was staring curiously at the docks, sitting on the shoulders of the Blacksmith. Dashvara laughed out loud and hurried over to him.

“I can’t believe it… Is this your son?”

Morzif smiled happily.

“Yes. Hey, Shivara,” he said to his son. “Look closely at this one. You don’t remember him, do you? Well, I remember that, when you were two years old, he put you on a horse with his little brother. That’s your lord, Shivara. The lord of the Xalyas.”

Dashvara observed the child with a big smile. This one gave him a serious look. There was no doubt, he had some resemblance and steppian features… He wouldn’t have sworn by his Eternal Bird that he was really his son, but if Morzif said he was, it surely must be. Dashvara raised a hand and ruffled the child’s black hair as he uttered:

“Welcome to your people, little Shivara.”

Alta intervened, his voice trembling with emotion:

“Dash, Captain. Azune was telling the truth. The five Xalya girls are really here, in Matswad. I’ll tell them you’ve arrived. My cousins will jump for joy. They’ve always had a lot of admiration for you, Dash,” he joked.

With a light heart, Dashvara saw the Xalya run off into the crowd. Thirty-two Xalyas, he counted. There are thirty-two Xalyas on the island. He smiled widely. And then they say there is no such thing as resurrection. Then he turned to the Honyrs, who had remained slightly apart, and corrected: Thirty-five. He placed a hand on Atsan’s shoulder and drew the Xalyas’ attention before declaring:

“This is Sirk Is Rhad, Atsan Is Fadul, and the Great Sage Shokr Is Set: treat them as brothers, because that’s what they are.”

While the Xalyas greeted the new members fraternally, Dashvara turned around, surprised not to see Raxifar. He finally saw him, still near the boat, watching Matswad’s agitation, looking a little lost. He approached him with a quick step.

“Raxifar of Akinoa,” he said in a friendly tone. “You have saved my life. Now allow me to save yours. Please accompany me to my brothers. I swear to help you return to the steppe.”

The Akinoa looked at him with piercing eyes, from his giant height.

“I will never be a Xalya,” he said in a tired voice.

Dashvara smiled.

“I’m not asking you to be one.”

Raxifar took a deep breath and finally nodded.

“Then I accept your help.”

Dashvara bowed his head.

“Thank you. It will be an honor to help you, Raxifar. Uh… Just one thing: don’t be offended if, at first, my brothers look at you the wrong way.”

Raxifar’s white teeth showed.

“You, too, don’t take offense if I don’t look favorably on you, Xalya.”

The amused glint in his eyes died as quickly as it came. Dashvara felt his heart break as if it were his own, and it hurt. It hurt like hell. He would have tried to comfort him… if he hadn’t remembered all the Xalya blood spilled by that man’s savage people.

They walked away from the ship in silence. Raxifar’s encounter with the Xalyas was cold. There was no better word for it. Cold as a winter squall in Compassion.