1 The Pirate Island

A knife scraped the wood in the afternoon silence. By the stone parapet from which the whole pirate city could be seen, the Xalyas were lazing about after a day of working with the islanders. Arvara and the captain lay on their backs on the grass, enjoying the last rays of sunlight as they slept. Sitting at the foot of an oak tree, Shkarah, Ged’s daughter, was teaching Shivara to tie sailor’s knots, and Makarva had come over to listen to the lessons with obvious interest. Settled on the steps of Atasiag’s house, Lumon was chatting quietly with the Great Sage Shokr Is Set.

Dashvara smiled as he continued to carve. In just two days, the Great Sage had become the new clan shaard by unanimous consent. He was not as learned as Maloven in some matters, but he certainly knew how to tell stories and it was invigorating to hear him quote sayings of the ancient steppian sages. When he listened to his words, Dashvara felt transported back to the steppe, and for a moment, he forgot everything.

“Dash,” Tsu said suddenly.

The drow was sitting next to him, on the parapet. His eyes were lost on the horizon. The clouds blazed like fire swords in the sunset and made his reddish eyes shine. After a silence, Dashvara raised an eyebrow.

“What is it, Tsu?”

“I was just thinking,” he murmured without taking his eyes off the ocean. “Do you think I’m the first Xalya drow in history?”

A smile had appeared on his face. Dashvara laughed softly.

“It’s likely. Just as I am the first Xalya lord in history to have an entire clan confined to an island lost in the middle of the Pilgrim Ocean.”

Tsu gave him an amused look.

“I suppose, then, that my uniqueness can be accepted without problems.”

Dashvara sensed a slight doubt in his voice and looked at him with surprise.

“Of course it is accepted. You know well one of our Dahars’ maxims: as long as you accept our Eternal Birds, then we accept yours. Whether one is a drow, a baldy, or an idiot, it does not matter.”

“Of course,” Tsu muttered. Serenity reflected on his usually inexpressive face as he resumed his contemplation of the darkening clouds.

Dashvara shook his head and returned to his piece of wood. After a moment, he made a final touch and said:

“Shivara!”

The boy leapt to his feet and left Shkarah in the middle of explaining a knot.

“Go on, please,” Makarva said, pleading with the girl. “It’s fascinating.”

With a small, half-joking, half-mocking smile, Shkarah continued as Shivara ran towards Dashvara.

“Did you finish it? Did you finish it?” Shivara asked, jumping up and down.

Dashvara raised a hand.

“Patience, little Xalya. You should have thanked Shkarah for her lessons before you ran off like an ilawatelk.”

Shivara opened his mouth and blushed.

“So… you’re not going to give me the top?”

Dashvara smiled.

“What the hell did I make it for if not to give it to you, you little demon?”

He handed him the toy, and Shivara’s eyes widened with excitement. He examined it for a moment before taking a few steps away. He set it on the parapet and spun it around. Very bad idea, Dashvara growled as he rushed over. He reacted too late: the top went over the edge. Shivara was left speechless and pale.

“S-Sorry,” he stammered.

“Shivara!” Morzif barked, flabbergasted, from a few feet away.

Shivara wanted to climb the parapet to see where the top had fallen, and Dashvara caught him with a grunt.

“It’s one thing to throw a top, kid, and another to throw yourself with it.” He glanced down and grimaced, “Demons, I think you sent it right over.”

“Right over what, Dash?” Zamoy inquired, curious. He was sitting with his brothers and with Alta’s cousins a little further away, but obviously they had all noticed the foolishness Shivara had just done.

Dashvara met the eyes of a man in dark clothes walking up the ramp. He winced again and finally replied:

“Atasiag’s head.”

In fact, the federate was massaging his head. He really hadn’t had any luck. Dashvara spoke aloud:

“Are you all right, Eminence?”

He was accompanied by Yira as well as Zaon and Len, two of his most loyal thieves. The twins looked at the Xalyas with annoyed eyes. Without answering, Atasiag continued forward, and Dashvara pulled Shivara by the hand to approach the top of the ramp. When he reached the plaza of his home, the Titiaka wore a stern expression.

“Attempting to murder me with a spinning top, Philosopher?”

“Me? Bah. The kid was just practicing. I mean, practicing playing with the top,” he clarified. “Hmm. Did it hurt?”

Atasiag rolled his eyes and handed the toy to the child.

“I do hope that’s the last time you practice spinning top throwing, boy.”

Shivara took up his spinning top, red as a garfia. Before he walked away, Dashvara held him back.

“Hey, kid. Don’t walk away from us. Say sorry.”

Shivara swallowed.

“Sorry, Eminence,” he threw out hastily. “I didn’t mean to throw the top at you. It got away from me. Sorry.”

He looked genuinely contrite. Atasiag smiled and ruffled his hair.

“Forgiven. As long as it doesn’t happen again.”

Shivara smiled ear to ear, nodded, and ran off to a safer place to spin his top.

“How was the day, Eminence?” Dashvara asked.

Atasiag shrugged.

“Pretty quiet. The meetings with the pirates are even more boring than the Council meetings. Aside from some dagger stuck in the table for show and some conversation that has little to do with business… it’s all idealistic blather. The only time they become reasonable is when they talk about stuff actually related to Matswad. Whether to expand the wharf, whether to improve the defenses, whether the hunting permits aren’t strict enough… The worst part is that they never agree, so I always come away from those meetings feeling like I didn’t do anything. But who cares, after all, it’s their island. Let them do what they want with it. I’ve already warned them that as long as they only attack slave ships, the Dream Brotherhood will continue to support them. Deep down, they are good people. So, Philosopher? Aren’t you going to ask me the question?”

Dashvara looked at him, bewildered. Then he remembered that, lately, whenever Atasiag came back from the harbor, he’d ask him if he knew when they were finally going to leave the island and sail for Dazbon. He huffed.

“Frankly, why ask? I already know the answer. One day, Philosopher, one day. Or: Patience, Philosopher. Don’t pester me, philosopher. Enough, Philosopher. You’re a pain in the ass, philosopher…”

Atasiag laughed, Yira’s eyes smiled, and Dashvara fell silent, half-amused and half-exasperated.

“You can be quite a pest sometimes, Philosopher,” Atasiag admitted. “But I assure you, if you were to ask me the question today, the answer would be a little different.”

Dashvara felt his heart skip a beat. He glanced at his people before looking at Atasiag with anxious eyes.

“Really? So… when are we leaving the island?”

“You’ll sail for Dazbon the day after tomorrow, Philosopher.”

Dashvara hissed through his teeth, and immediately, a smile lit up his face. A Xalya echoed the response, and soon everyone heard the news.

“Demons, Eminence. And… are we all going together? I mean, are you coming with us?”

Atasiag smiled.

“What if I did?”

Dashvara raised an eyebrow.

“Well… I’d be glad, of course. And I’d enjoy it even more if you’d come with us to the steppe. Really,” he insisted casually, “it would do you good to gallop across the plains and leave your stuff about slaves and thieves and pirates behind for a while…”

Atasiag’s serene laughter interrupted him.

“I’m afraid that’s not possible. I have too much business to attend to. Among other things, returning to Titiaka as soon as Lanamiag has recovered enough, and returning all these young people to their families. I only hope the trip to Dazbon doesn’t make Lan’s condition worse.”

Dashvara looked embarrassed.

“Is he better?” he asked. He didn’t know much about the two young Legitimates: both lived in the north wing of the house with their companions, and they never came out. Atasiag had warned them that they were on a pirate island and that pirates didn’t take kindly to Titiaka citizens. According to Lessi, Kuriag Dikaksunora spent his days reading books lent to him by his generous host. As for Fayrah, she watched over Lanamiag Korfu day and night without ever leaving his room.

“Better, I think,” Atasiag replied. “But he still hasn’t gotten up. Anyway, can you warn Kuriag? I need to get a number of things in order before we board. If anything happens or if Kuriag has any questions, tell him I’ll be in my office.”

He walked away towards the house, and Shokr Is Set and Lumon stepped aside to let him and his two thieves pass. Dashvara turned to Yira. He guessed that she too was looking forward to leaving this island, though perhaps not for the same reasons: Matswad was where she had spent her childhood, but it was also where she and her necromancer master had been on the verge of death in a fire.

“I knew that, if I pushed a little, your father would eventually make his mind,” he commented. Yira’s eyes smiled. Gently, he took the little sursha by the waist and turned to his people. The Xalyas were in high spirits, even Aligra was smiling, and Zamoy’s excitement had managed to rouse the captain from his torpor.

“Hey, Miflin!” the Baldy cried. “Don’t forget to compose an ode about the epic departure of the Xalyas.”

“Ah, yes!” Makarva nodded from the oak tree, and in a pompous voice, he declaimed, “And so did the Xalyas all set sail together in a fabulous three-masted ship.”

“It doesn’t rhyme, Mak,” the Poet observed. He was sitting with the Chubby’s dictionary: it looked like he was trying to learn it by heart. He was already halfway through it.

“It sure doesn’t rhyme, Mak,” Zamoy scoffed, “Say, brother, how’s that ode to the most beautiful princesses of the steppe coming along?”

“It’s coming along,” Miflin replied with a clearing of his throat. And he smiled. “I’ll recite it to you this very night.”

“You’d better do!” Myhrain joked.

As they continued to chat and look forward to their departure, Dashvara walked away with Yira towards the house to go and warn Kuriag of the upcoming trip. Who knows why Atasiag had asked him to do so. He hadn’t spoken with the young man since he had disembarked in Matswad a month earlier.

“Dash!” the captain’s voice came suddenly. Dashvara turned and saw him approaching the steps of the house. “Did you ask him about the horses yet?”

Dashvara rubbed his beard and shook his head.

“I should, shouldn’t I?”

“Well… we don’t lose anything by asking, right? And, if he won’t help us buy them, we’ll do without. As the Akinoa says, we can always wait for the winter to pass then walk the steppe, praying that the Essimeans don’t capture us on the way. If it turns out that the Honyr Clan is willing to accept us, we won’t spend much time without mounts,” he smiled, “according to Cloud, they have the best horses on the steppe.”

“Our young companion tends to exaggerate a bit,” Shokr Is Set interjected, approaching along with Lumon. A joking smile lit up the Great Sage’s face as he added, “But, in this case, he has a point.”

Dashvara glanced towards the Xalyas, looking for Sirk Is Rhad. The Honyr was sitting next to Boron the Placid. Oddly enough, he seemed to be able to rouse the Placid from its peaceful silence more than anyone else. Dashvara smiled and promised:

“I’ll ask Atasiag about the horses, Captain. But just once. I don’t want to push it, or he’ll end up thinking I’m more of a pain in the ass than his adulators,” he joked.

He entered the house with Yira and left the warm air of dusk behind. Normally, it was barely a month before winter, but in Matswad, it seemed the seasons didn’t affect him as much. Yira said it was because the earth and rock gave off natural energies that warmed the air. Surely the pirates couldn’t have chosen a better place to live. The only thing that bothered Dashvara was knowing that Matswad was an island and that to get out of it… he had no other way but to get on a boat.

“So, how boring was the meeting?” he asked as they walked down a hallway.

“Boring,” Yira gasped. “It’s a good thing I brought your sea cards with me. Len and I played a good ten games of xalyans. His brother Zaon, however, didn’t want to. I’m afraid he doesn’t like the new rules you’ve imposed on the Republican game.”

“Hey, a conservative, eh?” Dashvara scoffed. “Well, let’s send him to the Border for a few years and I’m sure he’ll eventually change his mind…”

Voices in the kitchen silenced him.

“Aldek? Are you kidding or what?” Zaadma cried.

“You’re the one who asked me to suggest a name,” Rokuish’s voice protested. “Aldek is not so bad.”

They entered the kitchen and found Zaadma kneeling before her flowerpots while Rokuish sat at the table helping Uncle Serl, Wassag, and Yorlen chop vegetables for dinner.

“Oh!” Zaadma gasped as she saw them enter. “Dashvara, tell Rok that he should stop trying to give my son a Shalussi name. Now he wants to call him Aldek! That’s awful! I have nothing against Shalussi names. Rokuish is nice. But Aldek, Odek, Walek, Fushek… just hearing them makes my teeth grind.”

Rokuish shrugged and gave Dashvara a smile.

“She wants to call him Meliskren. Like her alchemy teacher… But I personally think it’s horrible. And Wassag too, don’t you?”

“Let’s just say it sounds very Republican,” the Wolf smiled, his eyes shining, as he chopped an onion.

“You see, Dash,” Rokuish continued. “I only hope that our son, or daughter, will be understanding the day we explain to him why he doesn’t have a name…”

“He’ll have to be even more understanding the day we explain that he was born on a pirate island,” Zaadma cut him off. She stroked her round belly with an annoyed pout.

“That we may be able to avoid,” Dashvara intervened in a light tone. “Haven’t you heard? Atasiag says we sail the day after tomorrow.”

For a second, everyone was stunned. Then Zaadma burst out in joy, knocked over a pot, screamed in horror, and hurried to pick up the dirt…

“The day after tomorrow?” the Republican repeated. “Oh—by the Divinity! And what shall I do with my plants?”

“The ones you can’t take with you, we’ll take to old Sharas tomorrow,” Yira assured in a serene tone. “Don’t worry about that. He’s a great botanist. You said so yourself. He’ll know how to take care of them as well as you do.”

“Did I say he was a botanist? He’s a former pirate!” Zaadma protested.

The Republican was even more elated than usual, Dashvara observed with a gasp. When he saw Yira trying to calm her down, he admired her patience and gave her a quiet bow before hurrying across the room and down another corridor. He exited into the inner courtyard and crossed it, passing by the closed door of Lanamiag’s room before entering the north wing. No sooner had he entered than he heard rumors of voices coming from a room.

“Almost, but that’s not it,” said the quiet voice of young Kuriag Dikaksunora. “You see, you forgot to multiply. The loss of energy is much greater. That’s why the summoning spell is so dangerous: because it merges energies and remodels them. You need to be very well trained, otherwise any fusion could consume your energy stem to the point of risking apathy.”

“Boof.” Dashvara smiled as he recognized Lessi’s voice. “Don’t tell me you would be able to summon something?”

“Me? No… I tried it in the University, but summoning has never really appealed to me. Nonetheless, the theory is exciting.” There was a silence. “Hmm. We were calculating, Lessi.”

Dashvara hesitated before approaching the open door. He found the two youths lying on a carpet, with a notebook and several books in front of them. Zraliprat, Kuriag’s slave, was sitting in the corner, dozing. Seeing the Legitimate press his lips to the steppian’s, he hurriedly knocked on the door, and they jerked up.

“Excuse me for interrupting you,” he cleared his throat. “I only came to tell you that we’ll be sailing for Dazbon the day after tomorrow. And from there you will travel to Titiaka. Atasiag asked me to inform you. He’s in his office.”

As Kuriag and Lessi kept looking at him, mute, Dashvara nodded nervously in greeting and was about to leave when the Legitimate stood up and called out:

“Wait, don’t go.”

Dashvara stopped and waited, one eyebrow arched. After a silence, Kuriag observed:

“You are still wearing Atasiag Peykat’s uniform. I thought he was going to free you.”

Dashvara glanced at his tunic and his elegant red embroidered dragon. He shrugged.

“He will free us in Dazbon. Atasiag left the counter-seal in Titiaka,” he explained with a small wry smile.

The young Legitimate nodded, meditative. After another silence, Dashvara sighed, Are you going to keep me here waiting until tomorrow, foreigner? He was about to wish him goodnight when Kuriag said softly:

“So… are you going back to the steppe with your people?”

With some surprise, Dashvara thought he saw a glint in his eyes, a mixture of joy and disappointment.

“Certainly,” he answered firmly.

Kuriag hesitated.

“Good. I hope you find a peaceful and happy home with the Honyrs.”

Dashvara stared at him, dumbfounded.

“Thank you.”

“Good,” Kuriag repeated. He cleared his throat. “You can go.”

Dashvara smiled mockingly at his authoritative tone, and Kuriag flushed.

“I mean—”

“Yes,” Dashvara cut him off. “Thank you for giving me permission to withdraw, Excellency.”

He bowed his head mockingly and walked away, leaving the Legitimate with a confused expression. These citizens, he sighed. He headed straight for Atasiag’s office, albeit with little hope. He found the twins chatting outside the door and greeted them.

“Can I get in?” he asked.

“Cobra is rather busy,” Zaon replied. “But, if it’s urgent, you can always knock.”

After a brief hesitation, Dashvara knocked, and when he heard Atasiag’s voice, he pushed open the door. The Titiaka was sitting at his desk, writing a letter.

“What is it, Philosopher?” he questioned, hardly looking up.

Dashvara closed the door and leaned his hands on the back of a chair, embarrassed. He didn’t like to ask Atasiag for more favors but…

“Well, there you go, Eminence,” he began. “When we get to Dazbon, my people are going to be without a penny, and therefore, we won’t have money to buy weapons, food, or… horses. And you see, Eminence,” he continued, growing more and more uneasy. “I have heard from Titiaka that, when masters free their slaves, they make sure that the slaves will not… be left with nothing.”

Atasiag was now watching him with a deeply amused pout.

“And you want me to buy you horses and weapons and food so your people won’t be left ’with nothing’, is that it?”

Dashvara flushed and cursed the captain. Why did he always have to do all the dirty work?

“We’d be… very grateful,” he replied. “And, if you want us to do something in return, we will. We just don’t feel like spending ten years working in Dazbon to buy steppe horses. They’re expensive.”

“Damn expensive,” Atasiag commented, putting down his pen. “A good horse doesn’t sell for less than seventy crowns. I’ll make a confession to you, Philosopher. I expected that one day you would come to me with this matter. Unfortunately, I haven’t come up with any solutions yet, so… for now, I suggest you continue to serve as my personal guards for a while, and I will continue to maintain you until I have an idea to fix it. Are we agreed?”

There could hardly be a more vague agreement, but at least, Atasiag had not refused the proposal. Dashvara nodded.

“We are. What I don’t understand is how we’re going to continue to serve you as personal guards in Dazbon. Normally, there are no slaves in the Republic.”

“Nonsense,” Atasiag retorted as he dipped the quill into the inkwell. “What is not tolerated is for a Republican to have slaves. I, for one, have been a Titiaka all my life. I will leave you in the service of Lanamiag, Kuriag, and the other two students. You will protect them until I return them to their families. What do you think?”

“That suits me just fine. Are you going to ransom them?”

“No. Of course not.” Cobra flashed a slightly guilty smile. “I’m taking them to Dazbon at their request: they fear their families will oppose their chosen partner, and I’m going to help them get married quietly in a Cilian temple. I think Kuriag is beginning to see me as a benefactor. He is the heir to the Dikaksunora. I’m not going to spoil such a promising relationship for a few thousand crowns.”

A few thousand crowns that could pay for our horses… Dashvara kept the thought to himself and nodded.

“So, you think you can go back to Titiaka without the Council pouncing on you?”

“I believe so,” Atasiag affirmed cheerfully. “As I told you, Faag Yordark is now the provisional governor of Titiaka, and he has the full support of the Ragail Guard. And the Yordarks know that I have always remained loyal to them. They’ll make sure the little privateer leader doesn’t slip through their hands. And now go, Philosopher. I’m writing an urgent letter. Hold on a second,” he added as Dashvara reached a hand towards the handle.

“Yes, Eminence?”

Atasiag looked at him thoughtfully.

“How did you like the stay in Matswad?”

Dashvara gave him a bewildered look. Why did he ask?

“The stay… well. Pleasant,” he admitted. “The pirates are less pirates than I thought. And they have a lifestyle quite similar to that of the Xalyas… though more peaceful, of course: they don’t have to fight off attacks from the red nadres or the scale-nefarious.”

A slight smile stretched Atasiag’s lips.

“I’m glad you found it enjoyable. Now you have a whole clan, Philosopher. Six Xalya women have joined you. A little spinning top thrower… And, besides, everything seems to indicate that you intend to take my daughter away.”

Dashvara’s eyes widened. And he smiled wryly.

“You took away my sister,” he replied.

Atasiag arched his eyebrows in amusement.

“Well, all in all, we’re a family.”

Dashvara gave him a mocking look.

“Demons. If you go on like that, I’ll end up believing you. But, you’re not fooling me: a real father would have paid for the horses and supplies and… I’m kidding, Eminence,” he laughed at his exasperated expression. “I promise not to bring up the subject again for a reasonable time. After all, Shokr Is Set says that the more pressure you put on a donkey, the slower it goes.”

“Well, keep listening to your Great Sage and leave me alone, Philosopher. The letter is really urgent.”

“Good night, Eminence.”

“Good night.”

Dashvara opened the door and went out into the hallway with the slight hope that the Xalyas would return to the steppe on horseback.

Len and Zaon sat at a small table in the wide corridor, and a lighted candelabra lit up their pale faces. One was sharpening his daggers; the other was sewing an inner pocket to a tunic. The two ternians were so similar that Dashvara could hardly tell them apart when he saw them from a distance. As he passed by them, he asked in a friendly tone:

“Is it true that you don’t like xalyans, Zaon?”

The thief passed the needle through the fabric before explaining:

“I’m committed to tradition.”

“We, Xalyas, are too, but we accumulate traditions,” Dashvara joked. He hesitated before inquiring, “Why don’t you ever come to dinner with us? Are my brothers and I too loud?”

They both smiled.

“A little,” Len acknowledged. “But that’s not why. We prefer to eat alone.”

“We are committed to tradition,” Zaon repeated with a small smirk.

Dashvara arched an eyebrow and shrugged.

“Okay. But just so you know, if you feel like going through the kitchen, we’re not going to throw tops at your head. Good night.”

They wished him goodnight too, and Dashvara was already heading for the kitchen when a loud sneeze sounded from the kitchen, followed by thunderous laughter and a:

“Thousand thunderclaps, Baldy, that was my plate!”

“Come on, Hairy, don’t get mad! If you think we can control this sort of thing,” Zamoy protested.

“I want to hear Miflin’s ode!” Myhrain and Sinta demanded in chorus.

“We want the ode! We want the ode!” loud voices thundered.

Dashvara laughed inwardly as he pushed open the door. By the Liadirlá, we are noisy indeed…

They left Matswad after many farewells. The Xalya women parted from their friends with grand gestures and light jokes. They had spent the three years in Matswad much better than the Xalya men: they had learned to make fishing nets, to clean fish, to hunt… and they confessed that some pirates had even taught them how to fight. But, to everyone’s relief, they swore that they had never been involved in piracy.

The only one to come directly on board was Aligra. This month spent with her clan had positively transformed the girl: she still had her slightly moody air, but she smiled with more ease, and her vindictive Eternal Bird seemed to have calmed down with the good weather of Matswad. What’s more, she hadn’t thrown any accusations back at Dashvara, and she seemed to have accepted him as her lord.

I’m even beginning to accept myself as such, Dashvara smiled. He stepped onto the dock and shook hands with a tall, smiling islander he’d been working with, building houses for the new refugees.

“Glad to have known you, Skansh,” he told him.

“Likewise,” the other one grinned widely. “I hope you can return to your land, Xalyas.”

“Thank you. Aren’t you going back to yours?”

Skansh was from a southern tribe. The caitian shook his head.

“What’s the point? There’s nothing left for me there. The Diumcilians have ravaged everything, and my son works in the mines, in Titiaka.” He shrugged. “Damn life. I decided to become a pirate. You know that. To take justice into my own hands, like you did in the Arena.”

Dashvara felt some sorrow as he imagined this brave man attacking ships, but he understood his decision. He nodded.

“I wish you luck, my friend.”

He shook hands with several other islanders before boarding the ship with his brothers. As Atasiag’s boat started, Dashvara watched the beautiful island slip away with a mixture of longing and relief. It was curious to note how much it cost him to leave a place, no matter where it was. Even when he had left the Border. He smiled wryly. Just two months ago, he and his brothers were still deep in the mud, surrounded by milfids, borwergs, and orcs, and now… He glanced out at the deep, mysterious ocean, and his face darkened. Now they were surrounded by water.

Leaning against the rail next to Makarva, he glanced at the bag he had placed at his feet.

“Well, Tah?” he murmured. “Glad to be off the island of evil pirates?”

Tahisran huffed mentally.

‘Sorta,’ he admitted. ‘You may have found them sympathetic, but they didn’t lock you in a crate for two years and ask you to tell them about the future.’

Dashvara grimaced sympathetically. The poor shadow had spent most of the last month in Atasiag’s house without daring to go out. Once, he’d taken a walk in the nearby woods and, stumbling upon a hunter, he’d been so frightened that he’d fled to the other end of the island and taken two days to return. He really looked traumatized by his past experience.

“Well, Tah. Be happy. In Dazbon, you’ll have all the freedom in the world again to resume your nightly walks.”

‘Oh, but I am happy,’ Tahisran replied. ‘I just hope I never have to get back into a boat.’

Dashvara looked at the treacherous waters with dread.

“Me too,” he admitted. He glanced mockingly at Makarva, “I suppose you, on the other hand, will miss the sea, eh, Mak?”

The latter was looking at the island as the ship was moving away. He shrugged his shoulders.

“Not as much as you think. All things considered, I’m not a sailor. I’m a steppian,” he smiled, and added, looking thoughtful, “Do you know what my new dream is?”

Dashvara rolled his eyes.

“You and your dreams. You’re worse than the Dream King. So? What’s your new dream?”

Makarva looked up at the blue sky with a slight smile.

“Riding again. To have a horse and know it as I knew Dancer.”

Dashvara nodded, moved, and thought of his own mare Lusombra who had fallen to the Essimeans.

“It’s a dream any good Xalya can understand.”

Makarva gave him a curious look.

“What about you, Dash? What’s your dream?”

Dashvara thought for a moment. What was his dream? To return to the steppe and found the Xalyas clan again? That was one of the many dreams he had, yes. But not the main one.

“My dream, Mak?” he said finally. “Nothing more simple: my dream is to fulfill the dreams of my clan.”

Makarva seemed to be seized.

“Well…” He shook his head and suddenly put on a wolfish smile. “Then we’ll have to make a list with all our dreams and wait to see if the Lord of the Xalyas manages to make them come true.”

“Don’t make fun of me,” Dashvara protested, amused.

“I’m not making fun of you,” Makarva assured, more seriously. “It just seems to me that your dream… we all have it a little, don’t we? We’re a clan, Dash. We all want each other’s dreams to come true. So, be honest. What’s the one dream you really want to see fulfilled right now?”

Dashvara gave him a weary look, and after another moment’s reflection, he answered the truth:

“Get to Dazbon. I don’t want to end up drowning at the bottom of the sea.”

His friend huffed and patted him on the arm, smiling.

“You have such ideas, Dash. I give you my word that, in seven days, we’ll go ashore and set foot on land.”

“Yes. But, what if the boat sank right now, what would you do?” Dashvara replied. “There aren’t enough canoes for all of us. And down there, the water must be a lot of feet deep, with monsters of all kinds wandering around. To die drowned is a dreadful death…” Makarva gave him a grunt with an exasperated growl, and Dashvara chuckled, “Okay, I’ll shut up. But, it’s still disturbing, don’t you think?”

“Your imagination is disturbing,” Makarva retorted, leaning back against the rail. After a silence, he added, “Look. Raxifar is talking with the captain.”

Dashvara turned to see the tall Akinoa near the bow. Captain Zorvun was one of the few Xalyas who had made a small effort to communicate with Raxifar and Zefrek… in fact, the only one besides Dashvara, Lumon, and Shokr Is Set. He saw the Shalussi, alone, leaning against the railing of the quarterdeck. His gaze was lost, focused on the north.

Dashvara frowned.

“Frankly, the Xalyas are stubborn. We too have killed Akinoa and Shalussi warriors. We killed Raxifar’s grandfather. And yet, this man saved my life. And our brothers still look at him as if he were the world’s worst assassin. By the Liadirlá,” he shook his head, “is it so hard to leave the past behind?”

Makarva pouted. He scratched his neck. And he didn’t answer.

Stubborn as a mule, Dashvara sighed.