17 The Feather

The next morning Dashvara awoke from a deep sleep, shaken by Makarva.

“Wake up, Daaaash! You’ll miss the tower.”

The tower, he repeated to himself, half asleep. The tower? For a moment, he thought Mak was talking about the rook piece in the game of katutas. Then he remembered and sat up suddenly.

“The tower!” he cried.

He stood up and hurriedly buckled his belt and put on his guard’s cloak. His brothers were also preparing themselves, for, although they were not all allowed to enter the tower, they were supposed to protect the Titiaka. He was about to make a quick exit from the room with the entire crew when he noticed Sedrios, Sashava, Taw, and Zorvun acting lazy. He arched an eyebrow, and the latter explained:

“Go on without us. I don’t think Kuriag will miss four old men.”

Dashvara gave him a mocking glance.

Old men, my foot, Captain, he thought. What you want is to have some free time to look for Xalyas in town.

He did not linger: he greeted the old men and left the building. The sun had been up for perhaps an hour, and the street was alive with busy slaves and curious inhabitants. Guided by the Essimeans, Kuriag Dikaksunora was already walking away towards the tower, along with Asmoan, Lessi, Api, and six Ragails. Dashvara winced. No one could really say he was late, right? As he started to run to catch up with the Legitimate, the Xalyas followed him. He received a half-reproving, half-mocking look from the Ragail captain, as well as a cheerful “hello” from Api. Dashvara smiled at the latter and caught his breath.

The procession was ridiculously large. Kuriag walked between Todakwa and a man in Titiaka clothing who must be Garag, his cousin the diplomat. That man’s Ryscodran mercenaries were following them, as well as a good troop of Essimean soldiers. The closer they got to the Tower of the Eternal Bird, the more imposing it seemed to Dashvara. At one point, he thought he saw Todakwa glance at the Xalyas and stop his gaze on him. However, when Dashvara turned around, the Essimean leader had returned to smiling and was talking cheerfully to Kuriag in a light, quiet voice.

Every time is the same, he thought darkly. Every time you think you find a devil, this one looks less devilish than he is—and, yet, Todakwa must be one of the worst murderers on the steppe.

His heart cried out for justice, but his reason forced him to restrain himself.

At last they reached the foot of the tower. Guards opened one of the large doors, and Dashvara stepped forward, leaving his brothers behind. A small staircase led him to a platform and from there to the door. Kuriag greeted him with a nod and whispered:

“Todakwa says that there are no rooms in the tower, that there is only one main room below with the stairs.”

Dashvara arched an eyebrow and, crossing the threshold, wondered if it was Todakwa who was lying or if it was the books in the Xalya Dungeon that were making up stories. For, according to the books, there was indeed a chamber: the crypt of Nabakaji, buried beneath the tower. Dashvara had always believed that it existed. And that Todakwa had not heard of it, even though it was within his reach, seemed unlikely.

“Impressive,” Kuriag muttered in wonder.

It was, Dashvara thought as he contemplated the place. What was impressive was that the tower was still standing, even though the Essimeans had always shown a deep contempt for anything to do with the Eternal Bird. What had not survived, however, was the rest: the supposed shelves with hundreds of books and precious objects, the famous triangular table, the stacks of scrolls the stories spoke of… Of all that, nothing remained. The empty hall was a simple circular room, covered with worn mosaics and surrounded by small, dilapidated statues. Except for the path that led to the stairs, it seemed as if no one had been there for years.

“Skâra does not forgive,” Todakwa commented in the Common Tongue. “Even sacred buildings become dust with the passage of time.”

The Essimean had remained near the entrance, arms crossed. He was taller than Dashvara, but noticeably thinner, as if by worshipping his God of Death, he had been rewarded with a skeletal figure.

You’ll turn to dust long before the Feather, Essimean, Dashvara mentally challenged him.

He wasn’t particularly interested in the faded drawings and deteriorating statuettes, but he took advantage of the fact that Kuriag was going to admire them to move away from Todakwa. He recognized more than one scene on the walls, and Lessi explained some of them to Kuriag. Dashvara had to explain others to them, but he did so absent-mindedly and without ever losing sight of the Essimean.

“And those, who are they?” Kuriag asked, pointing to a line of figures, a sword in one hand, a scroll in the other.

Dashvara barely glanced at them before answering:

“The sixteen lords of the steppe who swore loyalty to some king centuries ago.”

He heard Kuriag cough slightly.

“Could you be more specific?”

Dashvara blinked and snorted, trying to remember.

“Marbugara the Wise. About five hundred years ago. The classic story: there was a war, a betrayal, a peace treaty… I’ve always had trouble remembering things like that,” he admitted.

At that moment, Asmoan let out an exclamation of wonder, and Kuriag hurried to see the new find. Dashvara sighed. To tell the truth, the only thing that interested him about this tower was the part from above: he wanted to check if the whole steppe could really be seen from the tip of the Feather. So when Kuriag asked who was going up, it was with relief and excitement that he headed for the stairs. It was a long climb. The tower was about two hundred feet high and the steps were not all in good condition. Dashvara was the first to arrive. And what he saw left him fascinated. In fact, he could see the steppe, but it was even more impressive from above. Or, at least, different, as if one had suddenly turned into a bird and was paralyzed in flight. He approached the white stone edge and looked down at what had once been the domains of the Ancient Kings. He heard voices behind him but did not turn around. His eyes remained fixed on one direction: the Dungeon of Xalya. The vast expanse of green grassland grew more and more scorched and impoverished the further east one went from Essimea. The gentle hills made it impossible to see beyond forty miles.

“Books lie,” he muttered.

The steppe could not be seen in its entirety. That made sense: from Xalya, you couldn’t see the Tower either unless you traveled to the far west on a clear day. Dashvara had almost always patrolled the eastern side, where the bands of red nadres came from, and he could count on the fingers of his hand the times he had seen the tip of the Feather. Once, when he was but ten winters old, his lord father had taken him to the edge of the land and pointed to it, saying in a deep voice, ‘Behold, son, the tower that gave life to our Dahars.’ And, uttering these words, Vifkan had turned upon his mount and looked up to the southeast, to Mount Bakhia. Dashvara remembered that, at that moment, he had wondered, confused, which tower his father was talking about: that white needle that could barely be seen on the horizon, or that massive mountain that stood between the steppe and the Bladhy desert? With some surprise, standing near the edge of the tower, Dashvara thought he could make out the top of the mountain in the distance. The ancient peoples of the steppe said that Mount Bakhia was the pillar of hope. Suddenly, he had a strange intuition that if he could lead his people to this mountain, they would be free forever.

“The lands you see are the ones that are really worth it,” a quiet voice suddenly said.

Dashvara brusquely came back to reality and stiffened. He turned slightly. They were all on the opposite side, gazing at the mountains to the north and west. All except Todakwa. The Essimean, surrounded by two guards, had stopped a few paces away and was looking at him with a glint of curiosity and caution, as one looks at an unpredictable ferocious beast. Jaw clenched, Dashvara hesitated to answer, then asked abruptly:

“Then why? Why did you slaughter us if our land wasn’t worth it?”

He could not quite suppress the bitterness and anger in his voice. Todakwa’s pale face showed a poised smile.

“The lords of the steppe were poison to Rocdinfer. With them, the steppe died. With me, it is reborn, great and modern.”

Dashvara returned his gaze impassively. He speaks as if I am not the son and heir of Vifkan of Xalya, he realized. As if the last lord of the steppe died three years ago. He gave a sarcastic pout.

“Modern? What is modern to you, Todakwa of Essimea? A people with slaves?” He smiled, sardonically. “There is no more abject modernity.”

A mocking glint shone in Todakwa’s eyes.

“My system is similar to that of the Diumcilians,” he replied. “And, unlike them, here, we have only barbarian slaves.” Dashvara glared at him. Todakwa smiled. “I understand you’ve made quite a name for yourself avenging your former master of a betrayal in Titiaka. I, in your place, would not aspire to much more, young Xalya. Serve Kuriag Dikaksunora well and forget the past. You wouldn’t wish your people to suffer more than they have already.”

Todakwa fiddled with a necklace of bones and, considering the conversation closed, walked away casually. For a moment, Dashvara did not react. Then he began to suffocate inside, badly repressing the urge to throw himself at this devil. He gripped the pommel of his sabers tightly, met the watchful eyes of the two Essimean guards, and growled:

“May the wind blow you away and rush you from this tower, Todakwa. It would be the first and last time your Eternal Bird would fly a bit.”

He had spoken loudly and everyone in the tower heard his words. He noticed the alarmed expressions of Kuriag and Lessi, the icy features of Garag, the mocking face of Todakwa… The only one who did not seem to hear him was Api, who was looking north, dreamy. Captain Djamin intervened, calling out to him in a warning tone:

“Drop those swords, warrior!”

Dashvara dropped them. He hadn’t even drawn them, but the gesture had made a very bad impression, he realized. Kuriag stepped forward nervously, protesting in a reproachful tone:

“Calm yourself, Dashvara. My apologies, Todakwa. My guard will be chastised for his words as soon as we descend the tower. I know he did not intend to use his weapons.”

Todakwa nodded thoughtfully.

“I understand that, according to Diumcilian custom, the offended party may propose a punishment, may they not?”

Kuriag opened his mouth, dumbfounded.

“Indeed, it is the custom. Do you have… er… a suggestion perhaps?”

Todakwa pondered. Dashvara cursed himself a thousand times for opening his mouth. Brilliant, Dash. If it weren’t for Kuriag, Todakwa would have beheaded you by now, you know? Now go figure out how your master manages to save you along with his image. The Essimean finally thought aloud.

“Your slave wished me dead. That is a serious offence, I think we can both agree on that. With all due respect, Excellency, I know you are having some difficulty controlling your new guard. I would like to help you. And, to that end, I think it would be desirable if you would allow me to have this savage entirely at my disposal for a few days.”

Kuriag moistened his lips, pale.

“At your disposal,” he repeated. “Oh. I understand. As long as he doesn’t suffer irreparable physical damage, it seems correct to me.”

Dashvara looked at him in disbelief. Correct? Correct? The night before, he had been on the verge of considering the Legitimate as a brother, and now the Legitimate was agreeing to leave him in the hands of his worst enemy? Todakwa bowed his head.

“Thank you for your confidence, Excellency. You will not regret it.”

Oh, dammit, dammit, dammit… They left the top of the tower and climbed down the stairs; Captain Djamin stayed close to Dashvara, and Dashvara did not loosen his lips the whole way down. When they reached the bottom and crossed the threshold, a big crowd of onlookers awaited them, for it was not every day that a Legitimate from Titiaka came to visit them. As such, one could see the inhabitants dressed in long traditional Essimean tunics, mostly white, stretching their necks to see the rich foreigner. There were also people with faces covered with tattoos and dressed in black and blue tunics: those were the death-priests, the servants of Skâra. It was said that they had powers over Death and that by putting on this tunic, they ceased to be completely alive. When Dashvara saw them, he twitched and laughed to himself. Didn’t he have a half-undead naâsga? These magicians were nothing more than flesh-and-blood sajits.

He looked away and met the eyes of his brothers. They were clustered near the wall of the tower. He took a step towards them and… the Ragail captain’s hand grasped him firmly by the arm. Dashvara sighed and with a simple expression let the Xalyas know that something had happened, but that they need not worry.

It was then that he saw the mare. He would have recognized her anywhere. Her black coat, her eyes, her nostrils, everything told him it was her. His heart beating faster, he murmured in an upset gasp:

“Lusombra.”

She looked healthy. A woman in a black tunic was riding her. She was a middle-aged woman already, but she was beautiful and exuded a strong sense of confidence. When he saw her dismount and bow her head to Kuriag Dikaksunora, he knew from the words he could hear that she was Todakwa’s wife. So Lusombra was now being taken care of by an Essimean. Well, it could have been worse. She could have been in the hands of Todakwa himself.

“On second thought,” Todakwa said suddenly as the crowd grew thicker, “for now, your slave will remain in this square. In front of the Tower of the Eternal Bird. We will tie him to the Pillar of Skâra. Before we can train him, we must tame him, Excellency. And there is no better method of taming a proud savage than to give him a good dose of humility.”

He made a gesture, and Dashvara saw Kuriag about to protest… But then Garag whispered something in his ear, and his young cousin swallowed his objections. Perhaps because he was afraid of damaging his family’s business or appearing too compassionate. And perhaps because he preferred to leave Todakwa in charge of this matter. In any case, under the increasingly fiery gaze of the Xalyas, Kuriag gave his approval, the Ragails disarmed Dashvara, and he was led to a sort of stone obelisk. They took off his cloak, tied him with a shackle around his neck, and the steppe lord remained there, chained to the Pillar of Death and riddled with a thousand curious eyes.

Todakwa did not say a word, but Dashvara heard people murmuring: he is the son of Vifkan of Xalya! They did not say it with respect but rather with mockery. Dashvara returned them all a firm, detached look, and noticing that Makarva had managed to approach despite the Essimean guards, he lightly told him:

“It’s all right, sîzan. I just need to be tamed a bit.”

The Xalyas were pushed back, Orafe roared something, and several brothers had to quiet him. Dashvara sighed. He was already beginning to regret not running away with his naâsga the other night.

Kuriag and Todakwa soon moved away with the guards, leaving only two soldiers to watch the pillar to make sure nothing untoward happened. And instead of following the personalities, many of those present remained in the square, including many slaves. Clearly, Vifkan’s son was attracting more interest.

“You cowardly murderer!” a Shalussi woman shouted sharply. “You murdered Nanda by attacking him treacherously!”

“Kill him!” another woman cried out.

There followed condemnations, blasphemies of the Eternal Bird, and mockery of the Xalyas, which escalated when someone threw a stone that struck Dashvara’s armor head-on. He let out a snort and muttered:

“Damn you, savages…”

“Enough!” a soldier bellowed. “Stop throwing stones!”

The two soldiers had to bravely step in between the stoned man and the exalted crowd and draw their swords to finally enforce order. More than sore from the stones, Dashvara felt perplexed. Where did this attack of rage come from? Well, he had killed Nanda of Shalussi treacherously, and he understood that those who had known him wanted revenge. He also understood that they despised him for everything he represented, the past, the expulsions, the Ancient Kings… However, hadn’t the Essimeans acted in the same way, or worse, by enslaving them? Didn’t they see that, in practice, he was nothing more than a chained warrior who hadn’t seen the steppe for three years and who had never ruled anything in Xalya?

Gradually, the people in the square dispersed, calm returned, and the two Essimean guards, more tranquil, went to sit on a stone bench, a little further away. A few children remained, staring curiously at the chained man. Massaging a sore arm, Dashvara sat down on a ledge of the Pillar of Skâra, as comfortably as the iron collar around his neck and the rather short chain would allow. The whole obelisk, including the lower part, was covered with engraved Galka signs. One of the phrases read: Death is master of our lives, hand of justice and balance of time. Dashvara read the words curiously. To tell the truth, he had never been interested in the Essimean religion. It had always seemed to him unhealthy, gloomy and dangerous; what sane mind could worship death instead of life? Yet, from what he read on that obelisk, it seemed almost as if Skâra, Death, was the cause of life, the one who regulated it and watched over it. This did not seem any less absurd to him, but he had to admit that worshipping Skâra from this point of view was less disturbing.

A puppy interrupted his thoughts when he came up to sniff him, wagging his tail excitedly. Amused, Dashvara reached out a hand to his long sandy colored fur and commented:

“Sometimes I wonder why sajits make life so complicated. When life is so easy, huh?” he grinned at the pup.

“Narak!” said suddenly one of the children who had remained in the square.

The puppy turned towards him but did not move. Narak meant Sand in Galka, Dashvara remembered. The dog’s little master came closer and called again in the Galka language:

“Sand, come on!”

This time Narak darted towards the child, but the child, instead of moving away, looked at the Xalya intently. When he said nothing and did not go away, Dashvara asked in the Essimean language:

“How many months old is he?”

The Essimean child glanced at his companions who had stayed a little behind before answering:

“Five. And I’m eight.”

Dashvara smiled.

“Eight years old, I guess.”

The child nodded seriously.

“I live there, in that house,” he said, pointing to it. “I’m the oldest of my brothers. But I don’t work because I’m an Essimean. My best friend, Adrara, is ten years old and he works. He too was tied to a pillar once because he let some sheep escape. Did you lose sheep too?”

Dashvara arched his eyebrows, feeling both amusement and suppressed sadness. Because Adrara was a Xalya name, and he knew that one of Yodara’s sons was called that.

“And a good number of them, I’m afraid,” he answered in the Common Tongue. “You can speak the Common Tongue, can’t you?” The child nodded, and Dashvara smiled, “Good. Tell me, young one,” he continued. “This friend of yours… did they hurt him?”

The child nodded.

“They beat him, but he said it didn’t hurt. He says Xalyas never hurt. Hey, it looks like Narak likes you,” he smiled as the pup sat on Dashvara’s boots. “My father gave him to me. He’s from Titiaka. Because my father works at the port, and every time he comes back, he brings lots of presents.”

His four young companions had come closer and were now listening to the conversation with interest. One little girl asked:

“Does it hurt?”

She was talking about the necklace. Dashvara smiled faintly.

“No. Apparently Xalyas never hurt. By the way, kid,” he added, addressing the boy. “If you see Adrara again, could you tell him that his lord sends his regards to him and his family, and that his father is in good health?” As the boy nodded, intrigued by the commission, he added, “And that hope is the best of all weapons. That’s important.”

He doubted he would repeat his words accurately, but he had no better messenger on hand. He would have liked to ask him more questions to find out approximately how many Xalyas were still living in the steppe, but unfortunately one of the Essimean warriors had finally stood up and scattered the kids, calling out:

“Come on, kids, don’t stay here. We don’t talk to the people on the Pillar.”

The little ones said goodbye, the older one took the puppy in his arms, and Dashvara was left alone again. No one came back to speak to him all morning. He saw steppians, foreigners, breeders, merchants, dogs, and… he even saw an ilawatelk. When he saw the little deer obediently following a young Essimean woman, he was fascinated. He had never thought that ilawatelks could be domesticated.

In the middle of the afternoon came a group of Essimeans led by Ashiwa. Todakwa’s younger brother paused for a moment to observe him from a distance before ordering:

“Set him free.”

Puzzled, Dashvara looked at the warrior who was approaching to remove the shackle. Was the punishment really over already?

“My brother and lord wants to talk to you,” Ashiwa explained.

Dashvara was tempted to reply that no, thank you, that he preferred to stay at the Pillar of Death. But he wisely remained silent. They pushed him through the square and led him to the small palace of Todakwa.

The place was bustling with death-priests, red-clad novices, guards, and servants. They passed through the wide entrance, through an inner courtyard, and then into a garden covered with winter flowers. All were blue, except for the roses, which were black. The colors, the statues, the symbols on the ground… Everything in this palace was a reminder of Skâra’s presence.

Walking forward surrounded by the Essimean guards, Dashvara spotted Todakwa sitting in a chair along with Kuriag, Garag, and several unfamiliar steppian faces. They seemed to have settled in for a snack, enjoying the rather mild day. They were deep in conversation, and Todakwa let out a clear laugh before following the direction of Kuriag’s gaze. His smile did not fade, on the contrary.

“Ah! There’s the slave lord. I hope you enjoyed your day at the Pillar.”

Dashvara swallowed a biting retort and turned to Kuriag. The Legitimate’s hesitant expression did not look good. Todakwa continued.

“You will be pleased to know that His Excellency and his wife have convinced me to sell your people to them in order to free them.”

Dashvara’s heart leapt. He held his breath and tried to remain unperturbed, aware that two tens of eyes were watching him. When he said nothing, Todakwa continued:

“At the moment, His Excellency has not made up his mind to accept my terms. One hundred and eighty slaves, though many are very young, would cost nearly twenty thousand dragons.”

Dashvara could not contain a choked gasp. One hundred and eighty? Liadirlá, had he heard right? Was it true that “one hundred and eighty” Xalyas had survived? True, more than half of them had died in the dungeon, but… just the thought that there were so many Xalyas alive made his spirits soar. Then the second part of the sentence came to him, and he grimaced. Twenty thousand dragons was a lot. He met Kuriag’s gaze and saw how Kuriag looked away, uncomfortable. Dashvara confirmed for himself, glumly: twenty thousand dragons was too much.

“I’m sure His Excellency could pay that amount,” Todakwa commented with a respectful smile towards the Legitimate. “However, I have offered to lower the price to five thousand dragons. I see no harm in letting your people go.”

Dashvara could only look at him in disbelief. He shook his head, cautious.

“What are you up to, Todakwa? Are you going to let one hundred and eighty children of the Eternal Bird go, just like that, without cutting off their heads first?”

Todakwa gave a pale smile, and Kuriag cleared his throat, standing up.

“I would like to speak with Dashvara privately for a moment, if you will excuse me.”

Like a civilized and courteous Titiaka, Todakwa stood up at the same time as Garag. Kuriag walked away, pointing to a white stone path lined with blue flowers. Dashvara promptly followed him. As soon as they were out of range of the others, he muttered:

“If these one hundred and eighty Xalyas were warriors, I wouldn’t hesitate for a second: we’d be leaving here in force. But they are not,” he reasoned. “If there is a way to give them back their freedom and dignity without bloodshed… I know that five thousand dragons is a lot. But I’m willing to give them back to you even if I have to spend my whole life there,” he vowed.

Kuriag shook his head gently.

“Don’t worry about the money. I can pay that amount,” he assured. “That’s not the problem.”

Dashvara arched an eyebrow.

“It’s not?”

“No,” the young elf sighed. He glanced nervously at his cousin, who had not lost sight of him from his seat, and cleared his throat. “Listen. I don’t trust Todakwa.”

Dashvara smiled broadly.

“Congratulations, Excellency.”

Kuriag rolled his eyes and explained:

“If I bought your people now, I would have to take them by boat. To Titiaka. According to the agreement, I cannot release you to the steppe. So… if you leave before then, the Essimeans and… my cousin and the Ragails will consider you to have run away. Once you’re off the steppe, Todakwa promises not to retaliate for the past. But you cannot return to the steppe.”

He glanced apologetically at Dashvara, and to his surprise, the Xalya snorted wryly.

“And that’s what the agreement says, right? Todakwa is freeing my people to be sent to the slave capital. Perhaps he thinks that once in Titiaka, your mother will bring you to your senses and convince you to sell us all,” he ventured. “Then, yes, you would have made a good deal, Excellency. One hundred and eighty slaves for five thousand dragons—a very good deal. To tell you the truth, I can’t quite figure out why Todakwa lowered the price so much.”

Under his questioning gaze, Kuriag pouted and started walking down the path, moving further into the garden.

“Actually, he lowered the price in exchange for trade deals and… not only that,” he admitted, nervously. “Actually, in exchange for your people, Todakwa would like to… um… to buy you.”

Dashvara blinked in astonishment.

“Buy me,” he repeated.

Kuriag had turned red.

“Yes… That’s why I haven’t accepted yet. Among other reasons. Todakwa says he’ll be compassionate, and he seems sincere, but… well. I don’t know if I should refuse and see if I can remove this condition or… I don’t know. I’m not very good at business, and Garag is not being particularly helpful,” he admitted. “Everyone thinks I’m a fool who lets himself being manipulated by his slaves.”

The look on his face was clear: he was asking Dashvara for advice. The Xalya became agitated. What the hell was he supposed to tell him now? That he wasn’t very good at business either? He stroked his beard, meditatively. Then he smiled.

“I’m going to say something stupid. But, if you agree, Todakwa will think the matter is closed, and we will have more time to plan the escape.”

Kuriag looked at him, hesitant.

“You mean… your people wouldn’t leave the steppe?”

Dashvara huffed.

“No. The steppe is large. If we went north, with the Honyrs, Todakwa would leave us in peace. Not to mention that we’d save him quite a few invasions by red nadres and scale-nefarious.”

Kuriag pouted, unconvinced.

“What about you? Todakwa won’t let you get away that easily.”

“I am willing to sacrifice my freedom and my life for my people, Kuriag,” Dashvara smiled. And as a glint of sadness passed through the Legitimate’s eyes, he added, “I do not know what Todakwa intends to do with me. Perhaps he only wishes to sacrifice me to his god.”

“Only?” Kuriag repeated in a choked voice.

Dashvara shrugged quietly.

“From what I’ve heard, the Essimeans take weeks to prepare for one of these ceremonies. That would give me time to try something. Tahisran could help me. No one knows he’s here. Well, before I can think of that, my people must escape without the Essimeans bringing them back into the fold. There’s no point in anticipating.”

Kuriag nodded, concerned. Dashvara was trying to think of a way to get one hundred and eighty Xalyas out of Essimea efficiently without the Essimean guards immediately surrounding them. At the moment, he was out of ideas.

Your lord father would have come up with a solution by now, he urged himself, racking his brain. Maybe not the best one, but he, at least, didn’t hesitate so much, Dash. You, on the contrary, think too much. So much philosophizing in the Border made you lose your confidence…

The Legitimate coughed, pulling him out of his thoughts.

“So… I accept?”

Dashvara pondered. The more days passed, the more possibilities there were that Shokr Is Set and Yira had reached an agreement with the Honyrs. And, if so, they could perhaps count on the support of over a hundred Steppe Thieves who would help the Xalya slaves reach the north safely.

He nodded to himself and was about to reply that, if possible, he waited a few days before accepting, when a figure suddenly appeared from behind a small building, with a bandaged bow and an arrow ready to fire. Dashvara reacted with lightning speed. Without even thinking about it, he covered Kuriag just as the assassin fired. A sharp pain hit him, but in his sudden fury, he ignored it and took off running after the archer. The attacker had dropped his bow and was now rushing towards the small wall with the obvious intention of jumping over it towards the street. He jumped, and Dashvara followed as best he could. It delayed him, but he did not lose sight of the hooded man, and as he landed on the street, he darted towards the distant figure ready to turn the corner. He spotted a Ragail coming out of the stables only a few paces from the assassin, and he roared:

“Stop that man!”

Though surprised, the Ragail tried anyway, but the cursed man slipped through his hands and continued to run down a street that led directly into the noisy market square, full of animals, stalls, and caravans. Eternal Bird… If the archer managed to blend in with the crowd, they were going to have a hard time finding him… Dashvara whistled and redoubled his efforts with the Ragail. They had a stroke of luck, for several Xalyas were standing precisely at the entrance of the street with curious eyes, not daring to enter the market place completely… Dashvara thundered:

“Brothers!”

He was still a long way off for them to hear him clearly, but he pointed eloquently to the fugitive, and Arvara, who was nearest, managed to get between the assassin and his way out. The pursued man tried to escape to the left, saw that he could not, turned round, passed between the legs of a donkey, Captain Zorvun blocked his way, and, seeing himself completely cornered, the assassin began to climb the gutter of a house. He had some guts. Dashvara reached him before Zorvun and Arvara. He grabbed him by one leg, threw him to the ground, dodged a dagger blow, disarmed him, and was about to hit his head against the stone of the wall when, suddenly, as in a nightmare, the implacable eyes of Sheroda came to his mind.

You have killed, they said. You are guilty!

Dashvara gave the assassin a swift but precise blow to the head, and he collapsed, unconscious; the hood slipped off, revealing the face of a young steppian woman. Young but a killer anyway, he snorted. And he gasped.

“What the hell.”

He turned his gaze to the arrow. It had stuck in his right arm, which was shaking violently. The Xalyas were rushing towards him.

“Damn her,” Zorvun hissed. “Was it that savage who shot the arrow at you?”

Dashvara pouted, without answering.

“Dashvara!”

The cry came to him from afar, as in a dream. He turned, and between the din of voices and the approaching white and black coats, he saw Kuriag’s face distorted in horror. The Legitimate ran towards him, surrounded by Ragails.

“Merciful Cili… Are you okay?”

Dashvara nodded.

“Yes.” He propped up his right arm, and with a grunt, glared at the unconscious assassin. “A steppian,” he said, almost in a surprised tone. “Why on earth would a steppian want to kill you?”

Kuriag looked totally bewildered. His eyes landed on the woman and did not waver, as if hypnotized. A whole troop of guards, Xalyas, Ragails, and Essimeans were already crowding the area. Todakwa and Garag insisted on leading Kuriag inside to avoid any more unpleasant surprises, and the former said:

“I offer my sincerest apologies, Excellency. I will reinforce the guard immediately, and we will find the culprit behind this, if there is one. Don’t worry, the best doctors in Essimea will treat Dashvara. Don’t fret.”

Dashvara could half hear them, and when they moved away, he hardly noticed. Now his arm was burning as if it had been put into a fire, his vision was blurring…

“It could have been worse,” the captain considered, quickly examining the wound. “I won’t let the Essimean doctors near you. Tsu will treat you.”

Dashvara nodded mechanically. The pain barely allowed him to breathe.

“C-captain,” he stammered. “I feel like I’ve been through this before.”

“No, come on, take heart,” Zorvun replied. “You’ve been through worse things. Maybe it’ll take you a few weeks to get the use of your arm back completely, but…”

He grunted loudly as Dashvara lost his balance, and he and Arvara supported him with a grunt. Then among the voices that echoed, vague and discordant, around the assassin, one reached them:

“Skâra shalé! This bottle contains red snake venom.”

The captain turned pale. And Dashvara finally understood the familiar sensation, the violent throws, the feeling that his whole body was paralyzed… He let out a dull laugh that sounded more like a moan.

“That’s… ironic,” he gasped. “I suppose… it was my fate.” Managing to straighten up a bit, he patted Zorvun’s shoulder. “Take care of our people, Captain. Make them free…”

Zorvun grabbed him by the shoulders sharply.

“Son, don’t,” he whispered, his eyes shining. “Don’t do this to me now.”

Dashvara gave a shaky smile.

“It’s… silly, huh? The red snakes are my curse. Maybe it’s the spirit of the… snake I killed that day in Nanda’s village. Even snakes want revenge. They are as stupid as sajits. As cruel. And they have no feathers.” He laughed at the ridiculous statement, and as the pain grew and grew inside him, expanding with the venom, he inhaled in fits and starts. “It’s not so bad, Captain. I’ll die on the steppe, like a good Xalya. I want to go to… the tower,” he decided with a sudden anxious longing. “Please, brothers, guide me to the tower. Now,” he insisted. “Please…”

His voice broke, but his brothers listened. Arvara lifted him halfway up and helped him to move slowly through an audience that Dashvara could only make out vaguely. A throbbing, agonizing pain came over his mind in waves. He was barely aware that, as he reached the tower, a multitude was following him.

No one interfered as a Xalya pushed open one of the frames and they entered the circular room. Arvara stopped supporting him, and Dashvara staggered forward to the statue of the Eternal Bird. It was small, modest, unassuming, like a simple stone dove covered with cracked blue colors. On the first visit, he had barely noticed it. Now it was the only thing he could see clearly in this room.

He reached out a hand to the bird, touched it, and smiled, breathing spasmodically. He barely listened to the voices of his brothers, who were entering the tower like a whirlwind. A strange serenity came over him.

“Dash…” Makarva’s muffled voice said behind him. “At least let us look at the wound. Maybe we can do something about it. Tsu’s a great doctor…”

His words were met with a terrible silence. Everyone knew that red snake venom had no antidote. Dashvara took a breath and turned to his people. It wasn’t just his brothers from the Border: he recognized other faces, Xalya women, and young people who, when Xalya had fallen, had been just kids and were now almost men. Seeing them all together made him smile with emotion.

“My naâsga is going to strangle me dead when she finds out,” he croaked. “Unless… she manages to resurrect me.” He smiled, and as he saw the strained, mournful expressions of his brothers, he struggled not to let their sadness get the better of him. Zorvun looked particularly devastated. With great calm, he added for this one, “My lord father needs not know this, but… you have been the best father I’ve had, Captain.” He drew in a breath in the face of a wave of pain, turned to his people, and in a firmer voice thundered, “Xalyas! Todakwa has agreed to free you all thanks to the intervention of Kuriag Dikaksunora. This Titiaka is a Xalya at heart. I hope… you will be grateful to him.” He staggered. He wished he could have said more. He would have liked to speak to his people. But the pain prevented him from going on. He breathed in. “May the Eternal Bird bless you all. And, now, leave me,” he ordered sharply. “Get out of here.”

There was a long silence. No one obeyed. Dashvara hissed in exasperation and turned his back on them to face the Eternal Bird.

“Leave me,” he repeated. “Out. Leave me alone until tomorrow. That’s an order.”

For a moment, nothing was heard. Then there was a sigh, and Zorvun’s footsteps went away with those of his brothers.

When the door closed and silence returned, he sat down on the cold mosaics and leaned against the pedestal of the Eternal Bird. He let all the air out of his lungs. As strange as it may be, he felt as if his mind was clearing, as if the crisis had already passed.

The calm before death, he thought. My conscience is clear. I have done everything in my hands to save my people. I saved Kuriag. And he will save the Xalyas. May the Dahars live a thousand more years…

With serenity he let his mind wander aimlessly, preparing himself for a death he had fought and feared so much. What did Maloven say about death? That it was a step towards nothingness. Once dead, one returned to nothingness and ceased to be. And, in that case, why bother? Why worship it as the Essimeans did? In Death, there were no thoughts, no desires, no hunger, no sadness, no honor, no history. Death existed only for the living.

Strangely comforted by these thoughts, Dashvara tried not to think of his brothers, or Yira, or his people. He tried to forget that, as his own heart would cease to feel, so would his naâsga’s break with pain.

Life is pain and joy. As long as it is not all pain, it is always better than nothingness, he reasoned.

He remained in the same position for a long moment, without moving, continuing to think about the existential problems of the Eternal Bird when a sudden thought made him stretch a little. He frowned. How the hell had the archer hit him in the right arm? The left would have been more logical: at the moment of the shot, it must have been right in front of Kuriag. But the right… He hadn’t had time to cover the Legitimate completely. Either that meant that the archer was aiming very poorly, or… Dashvara swallowed with a strange feeling in his body. Either that meant they had tried to assassinate him.

He took a deep breath, opened his eyes, and looked around the room in bewilderment. There was a profound silence throughout the tower, as if the outside had ceased to exist. He imagined that the tower had flown away, across the steppe, and was about to land far from Essimea, on Mount Bakhia, free and proud…

He smiled and looked down at his arm. Someone had cut the arrow and now only a thin shaft was visible in the middle of a bloody sleeve. He could no longer feel those infernal waves of pain. His breathing had calmed. His eyes could see clearly again… Was he already dead without realizing it?

“Liadirlá,” he murmured then with sudden exaltation.

Death existed!