42 The three clans

For a moment, Dashvara thought his mind was not working properly. Finally, the evidence hit him hard, and he didn’t know what to do, whether laugh in astonishment or ask Zefrek what the hell he was doing there. He did neither. He simply remained motionless and mute.

The Shalussi gave him a murderous look and spat in his direction. He struggled, but Maef, Orafe, and Shurta held him firmly.

“Answer,” Zamoy insisted, grabbing the man by the hair. “Who ordered you to murder Dashvara of Xalya?”

“That’s if he really wanted to kill him,” the captain reflected. “Maybe his target was Atasiag.”

This one had maintained a prudent distance and seemed to wait for the lord of the Xalyas to react.

“No,” Dashvara sighed at last, breaking his silence. “This man is Zefrek, son of Nanda. I suppose he came to avenge the murder of his father.” All disdain was swept away by a wave of sadness, and feeling more pain than fear, he leaned close to the Shalussi. The latter tried to bite him, and Maef pulled him back.

“Damned savage!” Miflin exclaimed.

Dashvara looked at Zefrek. He was dressed like a Matswad sailor, like a poor, disheveled, skinny pirate. He looked up into the savage’s face and held his icy gaze. He was not crazy, he realized. He was still the proud Shalussi who had nearly killed him on the steppe. He had simply clung to the one thing that kept him alive: revenge.

“That’s ironic,” he said at last. “Sad,” he added. “And absurd.” He paused for a moment without looking away from Zefrek of Shalussi’s seething eyes. “Your father was dying, Shalussi. He was ill. And he was not a good man. I will tell you the same thing I told you the last time we saw each other: I put him out of his misery. I did it out of revenge, not compassion, that’s true.”

He remained silent, not knowing what to say. He would never be able to convince Zefrek. He couldn’t reason with him. It would have taken him years to do it.

So what, Dash? Are you going to kill him? Or are you going to let him go free so he can try, maybe, to murder you again?

Dashvara looked up at the sword Zamoy now held. And to think that Zefrek had been about to skewer him with it, he thought in disbelief. After surviving the Border, Titiaka, and the ocean, here was this madman showing up and nearly killing him just when the possibility of returning to the steppe was finally becoming real. And he was going to let him live? He hesitated. He hesitated for a long time. And suddenly something unexpected happened: Zefrek sobbed and started to cry.

“My people sold me out,” he croaked. “My own people sold me out. I didn’t do anything to deserve this. This stupid tradition… I wasn’t sick. It was my father who was sick. But my people sold me anyway. Like I was a traitor.”

Zefrek’s despair made Dashvara’s heart skip a beat. He was about to give him a typical Xalya answer and tell him that he was not surprised, that those who had betrayed him were Shalussis, that there was no honor among the Shalussis… But he wisely kept silent.

“I’m sorry, Zefrek,” he murmured. “Can I… do anything for you?”

The Shalussi nodded, dazed.

“Kill me, Xalya. You killed my father. Kill me too. My life has no meaning anymore. I’m a pirate. A thief. But even gold means nothing to me anymore. Kill me,” he repeated.

Dashvara blinked. With a dry throat, he looked up at Zorvun. Uh… What do I do now, Captain? Should I tell him to kill himself if he wants to die so badly? He saw Zefrek open his eyes wide and turn them to his left. He had just seen Raxifar and was probably wondering what an Akinoa was doing among the Xalyas. Dashvara cleared his throat.

“Zefrek of Shalussi. You are not a pirate. You’re a Shalussi. You’re a steppeman. You are not deadly wounded, and I have nothing against you. Therefore, your honor should prevent you from claiming death.” He stood up and added, “I present to you Raxifar of Akinoa. Perhaps you already know each other.” Raxifar shook his head. “Well, you know each other now. Raxifar’s father killed my father, and he died at the hands of the Shalussis. I killed your father, but I did it in the name of Vifkan of Xalya. And now…” he shook his head hopelessly, “if you give me your word that you will not try to kill me, I promise to help you return to the steppe and recover your people.”

Kneeling in front of him, Zefrek gasped in amazement. There was a long silence. Then Dashvara ordered:

“Let him free.”

Orafe and Maef hesitated.

“Dash,” the Grunt grunted, clearing his throat. “Are you sure? That man looks half-crazy.”

“He is not crazy,” Dashvara replied. “He’s just lost.”

This time, they did not argue and released the Shalussi. The man stood up, his legs trembling.

“You’re not going to kill me?”

Dashvara shook his head.

“Not unless you leave me no choice.”

Zefrek made a disdainful face.

“Cursed Xalyas. I never understood you.” His voice broke. “I have no more business in Rocdinfer.”

“Not here either,” Dashvara retorted. “Your people have been enslaved by the Essimeans, Zefrek of Shalussi: perhaps you can try to help them.” He frowned at the glint of surprise reflected in the young savage’s eyes. “Didn’t you know that?”

Zefrek shook his head and whispered:

“No.” He sighed loudly. “Damn Essimeans.”

Several Xalyas smiled, including Dashvara.

“Okay,” Zefrek said. “If you don’t kill me, I won’t kill you either. I suppose… you had a legitimate reason to kill Nanda of Shalussi.”

Dashvara felt as if he had achieved something impossible. But Zefrek had given him his word. And his instincts told him that he would keep his word. Finally, Dashvara nodded and answered:

“May we never have a legitimate reason to kill a man, Zefrek of Shalussi.”

An almost mocking glint passed through the Shalussi’s eyes. The glint intensified when he turned his head slightly and saw something that seemed to surprise him. Dashvara turned to see a young man advancing into the courtyard with a dagger in his hand. His eyes were fixed on Raxifar, and he was shaking like a bird before its first flight. It was Kuriag Dikaksunora. The young student had come out of Lanamiag Korfu’s room and behind him Fayrah and Lessi were running in, followed by Kuriag’s slave. Exasperated, Dashvara swore.

“Drop the dagger, Kur!” Fayrah cried in a high-pitched voice. “Don’t hurt him!” she begged.

Dashvara snorted. What an idea, sîzin. Of course I’m not going to hurt him.

He exchanged a look with Raxifar, who shrugged. Dashvara rolled his eyes when he saw the young Legitimate throw his dagger on the ground, towards the Akinoa warrior, with a contemptuous gesture. He heard him spit:

“I will not be a murderer like you.”

“Happy to see you again, Kuriag Dikaksunora,” Dashvara greeted him calmly.

The young citizen stepped back. His chest rose and fell frantically.

“Happy?” Kur repeated, trembling.

Dashvara met Fayrah’s gaze. Her sister had exchanged her sumptuous clothes for a simple purple tunic. Her expression reflected tension and… fear. But what was she afraid of? With a gentleness that amazed him, Lessi approached Kuriag and took his hand.

“They were fighting for their freedom, Kur,” she whispered. “They were fighting for their lives. They are not monsters.”

Kuriag took two more steps backwards until he hit one of the courtyard walls.

“My father was not threatening their lives,” he croaked. His voice choked, but the elf stood stoically.

Atasiag intervened in a calm tone:

“You are mistaken, Excellency. Menfag Dikaksunora had given the order to kill me and my guard. The Xalyas fought for their lives. The Akinoas fought for their freedom. And now, my boy,” he added patiently, “listen to me. You were unlucky enough to run into pirates. And you were lucky enough to run into me. Return the favor and stop causing more trouble. As soon as Lanamiag Korfu recovers, you, he, and your companions will return to Titiaka.”

The elf’s green eyes filled with tears of rage.

“In exchange for a ransom,” he hissed. “You’re just a bandit, Atasiag. Rayeshag Korfu should never have trusted you. Your Eternal Bird is rotten.” His eyes fixed on Dashvara’s, and he added, “So is yours.”

Dashvara shook his head. He never thought he would hear one day a foreigner lecture him about his Eternal Bird.

“So is mine,” he asserted and took a few steps toward him. “I’ll tell you one thing, Kuriag Dikaksunora. If your father had not caused wars all along the coast, if he had not indirectly caused the death of my clan and Raxifar’s clan, if he had not enslaved me and my brothers… then I assure you that he would not have died under an Akinoa’s axe, because the Akinoas would never have left the steppe, it’s as simple as that.” He stopped just a few steps away from the student and Lessi and added in an unyielding tone, “If I had to go back and return to the Arena, I would do the same thing over and over again.”

Kuriag held his gaze.

“My father may have been a criminal. I know he was. But you are one too. With your actions, you have caused the death of many people.” His lips trembled. “Your Eternal Bird is rotten,” he repeated.

Dashvara staggered. Several Xalyas groaned in indignation; Zamoy growled.

“You want me to shut him up, Dash?”

Dashvara let out a grunt.

“Listen up, Kuriag. That the shaard Maloven has deemed you worthy of his lessons… commands my respect. But you can’t tell me about my Eternal Bird without having been in my situation. Obviously, your Eternal Bird is more innocent than mine, and therefore, it is purer and less… rotten. May life bring you nothing but joy. May you not lose your whole family, nor have to carry out revenge that serves no purpose, nor be enslaved by anyone. Review your prejudices. Try to understand your culture. Try to understand mine and the reason for my actions. I have never been a King of the Eternal Bird, nor do I know if I can really consider myself a lord, but what I do know is what I am: a man of the Dahars, who protects his brothers as they protect him. I am a Xalya, Kuriag. And you are a Titiaka. We are different, but there is nothing wrong with that. It’s just that the Titiakas must let the steppemen live in their steppe and not send them to kill milfids and orcs or whatever. We’re busy enough on the steppe with the red nadres, the scale-nefarious, and the sanfurient wolves.” He closed his mouth, opened it, and closed it again in silence. He had said enough.

Kuriag Dikaksunora seemed… oddly meditative. When Dashvara finished speaking, the teenager shook his head gently. All traces of rage had disappeared from his expression, and in his eyes appeared an echo of that serene affability he had shown Dashvara in Titiaka.

“I understand,” he murmured. “I suppose that, in a way, though it pains me to admit it, your actions were…” his voice dropped to a whisper as he said: “Justified.” He raised his gaze to Dashvara with determination. “I don’t share your way of thinking, Xalya, but I understand it. Forgive me for insulting your Eternal Bird. The shaard Maloven taught me to be a benevolent person. He taught me to respect the life of all living beings. He taught me to shun intrigue, hypocrisy, and violence. I may be a coward for wanting to run away instead of fighting. But this is how I am.”

Dashvara smiled, moved.

“The shaard Maloven did not teach you to be a benevolent person,” he replied. “That is something you have to learn yourself constantly.”

Kuriag smiled, albeit a little painfully.

“Perhaps, master. Perhaps.”

That he should call him master now, after so many disasters, seemed to him much more… valuable, but it did not seem any less ridiculous. Out of the blue, Dashvara held out a hand, and Kuriag shook it, surprised.

“You’re the best student I’ve ever had,” Dashvara declared and added in a mocking tone, “It must also be said that you’re the first.”

He heard several gasps behind him.

“You’re outdoing yourself, Dash,” Makarva said as Kuriag gave a hesitant smile.

“It was to liven him up a bit,” Dashvara justified.

“Well,” Captain Zorvun interjected in a light tone. “This is all very moving. My daughter, if you are thinking of marrying this young federate, let me know so that I can give him lessons on how to be a good Xalya husband.”

Lessi flushed as the Xalyas laughed, but she did not let go of Kuriag’s hand. The young man had blushed like a garfia. Dashvara smiled as he stroke his beard. They were both so naive at heart that they would surely get along just fine.

“Well, well, well,” a thunderous voice suddenly called out from a corridor. “What a bad habit to always fill your house with barbarians, Atasiag Peykat!”

Everyone turned to see Kroon coming out into the courtyard on his wheelchair. Following him were Azune, Rowyn, Axef, Aligra, and… Sheroda. The courtyard was getting more than crowded. Smiling, Atasiag approached the dragon-monk, patted him on the shoulder and mockingly replied:

“They may be barbarians, but they sure helped you get on the boat during the escape, didn’t they?”

One couldn’t see Kroon’s eyes, of course: he was still wearing his big black glasses.

“Bah,” he said. “Useless help. I’m sure, with the urgency, I could have gotten up and run like a hare.”

Dashvara laughed along with the others. Kroon’s humor was not very different from Xalya’s, he thought. He then noticed that Zefrek of Shalussi was fidgeting uneasily, and he approached him, while the others chatted happily.

“You know you almost killed me with that damn dagger back then, Shalussi?” he said in a friendly tone.

Zefrek pouted.

“Back in the cart? Mm. I have to say, if that Rokuish kid hadn’t texted his family a few weeks later, I would have sworn you were dead. I punctured your lungs.”

“Almost,” Dashvara nuanced.

For some reason, Zefrek of Shalussi smiled, albeit with a crooked smile.

“These years have been hell,” he growled. He wasn’t feeling sorry for himself: it was a simple observation.

Dashvara gave him a gloomy smile.

“Well, I can’t promise you that the next ones won’t be, but I’m confident they’ll be better.” He patted him on the shoulder. “Nothing is lost by being optimistic, Shalussi.”

He walked away to the place where he had seen Fayrah disappear, in the room of Lanamiag Korfu. He found his sister kneeling by a bed. The Legitimate lay there, pale as death and sound asleep… unless he was dead. Dashvara hesitated. He didn’t want to interfere, but he also didn’t want to leave Fayrah alone, consumed by that young federate. Finally, he stepped inside the room, took out the small eagle statue that the Compassion inspector had given him back and put it on a trunk at the foot of the bed. He met his sister’s shining gaze and swallowed before bowing his head and murmuring:

“He will recover, sîzin. Trust him.”

He smiled reassuringly. Not only the Xalyas can resurrect, sîzin. He left her there and returned to his brothers and his naâsga.

“A game of katutas, Dash?” Makarva proposed.

“You still have the checkerboard?”

“Ha! Well, of course I do. I wouldn’t have left without it,” he joked. “By the way, I also have your dictionary. And your shadow,” he smiled.

“I’m in!” Zamoy exclaimed as he approached them. “You’re talking about the katutas, right?”

Dashvara nodded and looked at his nails.

“Say, Mak, I hope you haven’t prepared one of your makarvaries?”

Makarva let out a fake complaint of indignation.

“What do you take me for, Dashvara of Xalya? I have prepared more than one!”

Laughing, he gave him a brotherly shove, and as he followed his brothers out of the courtyard, he tried not to look in the direction of Sheroda. However, before entering the hallway, he had the bad idea to turn to her. The shixan was watching him. And her golden eyes seemed to want to pierce his to split his mind.

You may be a shixan and a pure, unblemished soul, he thought. But I am human. I am fully human. You can’t ask me to stop being human. You can’t ask me to always act right. The Eternal Bird loses feathers. It always loses feathers. The important thing is not to lose them all before you die.

Dashvara continued on his way, wondering what life would hold for them now. They still lived under the roof of Atasiag, their “master”, and they still wore his seal, his beautiful red dragon, on their arm. And they would wear it until they died. When that time would come, that remained to be seen. But that wasn’t worth thinking about either. The truth is, it was better not to think about it.

He smiled as he repeated thoughts he had been spinning in his head during the last few days at Compassion.

Fate is not carved in stone, and it is a consolation to know that. What good would time do if we knew its mysteries? A wise steppeman said that the world spins like a crazy top, that we never know where it will lead us, but that as long as we see it spinning, as long as we live, it will always find a way to surprise us. Or to hurt us. Or to make us laugh. In the end, it always finds a way to kill us. It’s a fact: eternity has never been of interest except to those who cannot enjoy it. Every being has a limited life and does what he can with it. I do what I can with mine.

Sitting around a large table in the kitchen, he picked up some dice, weighed them, and with an affable smile, handed them to Raxifar.

“It would be an honor for me if you would play with us, Raxifar of Akinoa.”

The black warrior raised his thick eyebrows, glanced indefinitely at the faces of the Xalyas, and finally, after a long hesitation, accepted the dice. And he handed them to Zefrek.

“It would be an honor for me if you would play with me, Zefrek of Shalussi.”

The Shalussi refused the dice.

“I will not play a game of the Ancient Kings.”

You know, Zefrek? I was expecting you to say that. Dashvara crossed his arms and interjected:

“This is not a game of the Ancient Kings. Katutas were invented by the Dazbonians.”

Dashvara had already explained Hadriks’ theory to them, but it had never quite convinced him. To tell the truth, Dashvara wasn’t convinced either, but this was a good time to bring it up. Zefrek’s eyes smiled for the first time.

“I must confess that when I was a kid I used to play katutas on the sly with my friends.” He hesitated. He glanced at the Akinoa’s outstretched hand, looked the Akinoa in the eye, and suddenly, casually, he took the dice. Dashvara waved him toward a chair, inviting him to join them. As if they were about to begin some important inter-clan negotiation, Zefrek and Raxifar sat down with the poise of two small kings.

Dashvara smiled.

Damn pride.

Author’s note: End of book 2. I hope you enjoyed the reading! To keep yourself up-to-date about new books, follow my blog, or see the maps, please visit my website. Have a nice day!