27 Reminiscences

Todakwa’s reception was pompous and unnecessarily paternal. He scarcely bothered to speak to the defeated chiefs: after ascertaining that Ashiwa had not been tortured, Todakwa at once sent cartloads of food and wood to Lamasta out of compassion for the starving vanquished, and, before anything was signed, he and his army entered the village and set up his own headquarters at the top of the hill to spend the night.

As a result, the streets were filled with Essimean guards, the Shalussis did not stray from their fires, and the Xalyas remained huddled in their shelter with the Honyrs, not daring to go out. They had no news of Tah, nor of Kuriag, nor of the Akinoas. And they didn’t know much about Youk: when Dashvara had asked to get him back, Todakwa, with obvious mockery, had replied that he wasn’t stopping Youk from coming back, that the boy was in the care of the death-priests for the time being and wished to stay with them. Nor had they recovered the horse of the Honyr patriarch: apparently it had galloped off to the north and no one had been able to catch it. Dashvara had reiterated his apology, increasingly ashamed and embarrassed by what had happened: this stupid incident had inevitably put Sirk Is Rhad’s father in a bad mood, and Dashvara understood him completely. Well… at least, that night they went to bed without a wisp of hunger. Todakwa must have believed the saying that hearts are won by satiating stomachs.

The official acceptance of the pact took place the next day, in the presence of all. It was Alkanshe Day, a sacred date for the Essimeans, and apparently during the Alkanshe, all conflict was forbidden because the Rebirth of Skâra was being celebrated and everyone had to sing and dance in her honor. Several Xalya boys had tried to explain to Dashvara how Death could be reborn, but it turned out that even they, after three years of praying, could not understand it.

Rest assured, Dash, he said to himself as he ate a hearty breakfast. Soon you’ll have a death-priest by your side all day to explain everything in detail.

Outside, there were already sounds of instruments and animated voices. His brothers were having lunch beside him, not as noisy as usual. They were not gloomy either, but rather worried about the future. As for the Honyrs, they had not tasted a bite of the food offered by Todakwa: they used their own provisions, surely secretly despising the Xalyas who accepted it without any scruples.

Bah, aren’t masters supposed to feed their slaves? Dashvara laughed inwardly, sardonically.

He had learned his lesson well in Diumcili: anything that was good for his people was welcome. There was nothing honorable about starving to death with delicious cakes at hand. Would he have thought the same thing three years ago? No, certainly not. Three years ago, he would have roared like a nadre, feeling his Eternal Bird under attack. He smiled. Sometimes he regretted losing that stubborn purity of his adolescence. And yet, with it, he would never have survived the Border, never have agreed to be Atasiag’s slave or treacherously killed Rayeshag Korfu, and never have returned to the steppe. Which didn’t mean he was especially happy to bow his head to Todakwa… but, in such a small clan, survival and common sense came first.

“Hey, Philosopher! You’re going to miss the ceremony if you think so much,” Makarva mocked him.

His brothers had already risen.

“They wouldn’t dare start without me,” Dashvara replied with a wolfish grin. “I only hope it won’t last too long. Modernity has a bad habit of making useless things last.”

“At any rate, today you will appear dressed as the lord of the Xalyas,” a cheerful voice intervened behind him.

Dashvara turned, eyebrows arched, and saw several Xalya women approaching, carrying a long dark cloth in their hands. He stood up, his heart beating rapidly. Could it be…?

“The shelshami?” he murmured, amazed.

It was the black scarf his father wore for ceremonies and peaceful encounters with other clans. He would have recognized it anywhere: it had the same decorations around the edges and a small white bead, a gift from Dakia, that Lord Vifkan wore against his chest, hidden from foreign eyes. He gasped.

“H-how…? I mean, how did the Essimeans not—?”

“Your mother gave it to me to hide,” his aunt Lariya explained. “And she told me that the day I gave it back to you, you would have accomplished your mission.”

Dashvara felt a chill and pulled his hand away from the cloth, looking serious.

“Then I can’t wear it. Not while Lifdor and Todakwa are still alive.”

He saw Lariya’s eyes smile and a fiery, defiant glint shine in them as she moved forward unfolding the cloth.

“Before the sun rises again, you will have saved your people,” she pronounced with serene solemnity, covering him with the shelshami. “If you must kill Todakwa, do it. Do justice. Save the pride of your people. It is I, Lariya, sister of Dakia of Xalya, who asks this of you. This serpent has robbed us of our dignity. If we must die to regain it, so be it. Either way, our dead will not rise again, my lord. Our clan is dying. And our pride… only your blade can restore it, Dashvara of Xalya.”

With the help of other women, Lariya had finished dressing her lord in the black scarf. Her words had left Dashvara stunned, confused, enthralled… He hadn’t expected this. And from the stricken expressions of his brothers, he guessed that they had not either. For a moment, he saw himself trapped by his own people. He wanted to do what was best for them, and it turned out that they were not asking for peace or love: they were asking for justice and revenge.

As Lumon had once said, they were more dead than alive, and his enslaved people had continued to live only in utter despair. But now that they had a lord back, they wished for him to give them back their lives, even if it was to die immediately after.

They wish you dead, Dash, he understood with a shudder. They wish Todakwa dead more than they want their clan to live, because they think their clan is already dead.

What madness.

But they’re your people, Dash, and you understand them, admit it, you understand their desire for revenge because part of you is dying to enact it.

But you won’t.

As if guessing his thoughts, Lariya’s eyes glowered.

“Only your blade can save the Dahars of your people,” she insisted.

And with what confidence and firmness she said it…! Both moved and appalled, Dashvara bowed to his aunt and the other Xalya women and said:

“I will do what my Eternal Bird dictates to me, sîzinez, and my swords will perform their duty. But at the proper place and time. Impatience is the enemy of the hunter.” He smiled at the young Xalyas’ serious but determined looks and took Lariya’s hand to squeeze it gently. “Thank you for keeping the shelshami, Aunt Lariya. I will try to wear it with as much dignity as my lord father.”

The mother of the Triplets hesitated, but seemed to consider that her words had had the desired effect, for she did not insist and merely said:

“May our Dahars guide you, my lord.”

Fortunately, Lariya was not as brash and overbearing as her sister was, and she hoped that her words would be enough to make her lord understand that the lives of his people should not be an obstacle to his duty. The problem was that, for Dashvara, his people had been more of a goal than an obstacle… as well as a shield that protected him from his own impulses. Duty, duty, he repeated to himself irritably. Who better than he could understand his real duty? The Dahars of your people, a small voice told him. But, according to tradition, it was the lord who was supposed to represent It. So, no matter what he did, his people would follow him, right? According to tradition, they would follow him to death or to the most brutal humiliation. Such was the power of the lord of the steppe. And such was what Atasiag had called the fanaticism of the Eternal Bird.

Rejoice, Dash: if you had five thousand Xalyas under your command, the whole steppe would be at your feet…

He suppressed a wave of self-deprecation and glanced at his people. His brothers were looking at him with a strange fascination. They looked as if they had seen a ghost under that shelshami. The ghost of his father, perhaps?

Well, don’t get your hopes up, brothers. It is not Lord Vifkan who stands before you: it is only me.

A horn sounded outside, echoed by others. It was time. With a calmness that surprised him, Dashvara reached out to take his naâsga’s hand, kissed it, clearly sensing her trouble, and took one last look at his people before saying:

“Let’s go.”

And they went out of the shelter.

The Essimeans had been active that morning: they had cleared the streets of all rubble, they had even decorated them with blue and white banners. The white symbolized the rebirth of Skâra; the blue, its immortality. And Dashvara always wondered: how could one be immortal and reborn? The Essimeans and their crazy stories…

He glanced back to see that the Honyrs had decided to accept the invitation and follow them to the ceremony site. Hell, he would have given his sabers to know what these men had really come looking for.

The ceremony would take place outside the village. The music had died down and now everyone was waiting for Todakwa to arrive. Dashvara stopped the Xalyas before they could advance into the midst of the Essimeans. More than one was watching them brazenly. Yet there was none of the ancestral contempt that the Shalussis had for them, but rather a mixture of curiosity and compassion. Yes, compassion. Perhaps because what their eyes saw was a harmless group of women and children defended by a handful of disgraced warriors and a leader wrapped in a traditional shelshami who clung stoically to his Dahars and Eternal Bird as he walked towards his own abyss.

You can keep your hypocritical compassion, Essimeans, Dashvara hissed mentally.

When Zefrek arrived with his men, the atmosphere became tense. Essimeans and Shalussis were glaring at each other with murderous eyes. They were the true rivals of the steppe now. It was strange to note that the Xalyas were now but a small secondary group of steppe people from a bygone age in this place. So were the Honyrs.

Soon after Zefrek’s arrival, Todakwa appeared with his cohort, and those of his people cheered him by bowing deeply to the ground while uttering words in Galka. With this stream of kneelers, the field of vision was cleared, and Dashvara could clearly see the Essimean chief stop in front of a large white flag. He was accompanied by his wife and his brother Ashiwa, but there was no sign of Kuriag Dikaksunora. As the Essimeans rose to their feet, Dashvara saw a tattooed death-priest walking up to the Xalyas. He bowed slightly to him and said in Galka:

“Peace be with you, Dashvara of Xalya.” And he added in the Common Tongue: “This way.”

He told him so in a courteous tone, waving him forward before leading the way through the Essimean crowd. Dashvara softly inhaled the cold morning air and stepped forward, surrounded by Yira, Arvara, and Makarva. The others had orders not to move from there unless things went really wrong.

The Essimeans watched in silence as the defeated approached the pavilion. Stopping in front, Dashvara gave a curt nod to Zefrek and glanced at the table with the scrolls before turning to Todakwa. The leader of Essimea was talking in a low voice with his wife. While the former was smiling, betraying his joviality, Daeya’s pale face crisscrossed with tattoos reflected an absent serenity. It was as if what was happening around her did not affect her, as if she was beyond the world of the living. And yet, she had taken great pains to invent those explosive disks to attack Lamasta…

Turning to the two steppian chiefs, Todakwa made a welcoming gesture.

“The Alkanshe awakens today to clear, sunny skies. I hope you had a pleasant night.”

Dashvara stopped himself from rolling his eyes and, nodding wordlessly, looked around at the many death-priests surrounding them. He noticed a small figure trying to hide behind the black tunic of one of them.

It was Youk.

The boy was staring at the ground and was so pale that he looked as if he were about to faint. His head had been shaved again, perhaps in honor of the Alkanshe, and he wore a grey tunic that reached to his feet. He looked up, met Dashvara’s gaze, gasped, and the death-priest at his side grabbed him by the neck and whispered something in his ear. His words calmed him immediately, and Youk remained as still as a statue. He did not look up again.

Meanwhile, Todakwa and Zefrek had finished their formalities, and Dashvara had not loosened his lips, merely shaking his head, grunting without paying any real attention. Finally, they turned their attention to the scrolls on the table. Zefrek signed his name—most likely, someone must have taught him how to do it the day before—and he knelt before Todakwa, pledging his loyalty. Dashvara took his time. He reread the pact from beginning to end, and when he reached the end, he frowned. In a dry voice he read:

“As the owner of the signatory, the Dikaksunora family reserves the right to terminate the pact at any time and regain power over its property.” He let out a growl and put the parchment down on the table with an abrupt gesture. “This was not in the original pact. What’s the meaning of this?”

He perceived Todakwa’s slight grimace; nevertheless, it was not he who answered, but a voice behind him.

“It means that you Xalyas are still property of the Dikaksunora.”

When Dashvara saw the tall figure detach itself from the Essimeans and walk around the table, he felt his blood run cold in his veins. That face… Liadirlá, he knew that face. It was the first foreigner he had hated with all his soul. The envoy of Menfag Dikaksunora. Tsu’s master and the one who had forced Tsu to torture him in Dazbon.

“Arviyag,” he snarled under his breath.

He spat out the name in disdain and disbelief. The elegant Titiaka gave him a slight, cold smile.

“Your heart must be darker than a well, Dashvara of Xalya. Kuriag Dikaksunora bought you to protect him and guide him on the steppe, didn’t he? He gave you weapons, horses, food, and money. And, in return, he simply asked for your loyalty. Loyalty!” he laughed. His laughter died as quickly as it came. “Let me sum up your exploits, Xalya. You mocked your master repeatedly, pretended to save him, posed as a resurrected man, and betrayed your master’s trust without any qualms by running away, confronting his allies, and not worrying for a moment about the man who bought you for a thousand-five hundred dragons.” His sentence ended in a bark. He clicked his tongue dismissively. “You’ve learned nothing in the last few years. If you had been my slave, you would have ended up in a pit with a bloody back, begging for your life to be cut short, Xalya.”

Several strong men stood by his side, along with his loyal servant, Paopag, and… Garag Dikaksunora, the diplomat. Seeing them together like this, it was clear that Garag and Arviyag shared familiar features, except that the former was clearly a half-elf, while Arviyag’s elf features were barely discernible. The latter placed both hands on the table without taking his penetrating eyes off Dashvara.

“Maybe I shouldn’t have let you live that day.”

Dashvara struggled inwardly not to pull out his swords and cut off this viper’s head. He replied:

“Maybe. Where’s Kuriag?”

A dangerous glint passed through Arviyag’s eyes.

“Where is Kuriag?” he repeated. “Are you worried about him now? Really?”

Dashvara frowned, suddenly concerned.

“Did something happen to him?”

He saw Arviyag exchange a mocking smile with Garag and drum on the table. That all the Essimeans and Shalussis were there listening to him did not seem to bother him.

“This pact between the Essimeans and the Xalyas is useless,” he said at last. “And Todakwa agrees with me on the matter: if you do not unite with the Steppe Thieves, your… clan?” he smiled mockingly, “will not live on. It has no livestock, it has no food, no weapons, no horses. You will not survive the winter. And Kuriag will not help you: you are runaway slaves.” He made a vague gesture turning back to Dashvara with predatory eyes. “Without help, you are doomed.”

Dashvara clenched his jaws. Why all the drama? To tell the truth, it was no surprise: Todakwa was simply not willing to make a pact if he didn’t unite with the Honyrs… And Arviyag was counting on him not doing so, but why? To give Kuriag back his escaped slaves and get into his good graces? Unless something happened to Kuriag? In that case… who knows who “owned” the Xalyas now. The mere thought that the young elf might have been murdered upset him, saddened him, and strangely enough, filled him with shame, for, if he had not fled from the Essimeans, perhaps he could have saved him. Ignoring Arviyag’s words, he repeated:

“Where’s Kuriag?”

Arviyag rolled his eyes.

“Again! Your master is on a sightseeing tour with his Agoskurian friend. Riding from dungeon to dungeon. It was better for him not to be here today. Your influence on him has proven to be very negative.”

Dashvara sighed with relief. Well, at least Kuriag was okay. After quickly running his eyes over Daeya, Todakwa, Garag, and Arviyag, he casually waved his hand.

“Well? What is your plan then? Slit our throats? I’m sure you’ll succeed, but not without us slicing off a few of your heads in the process too. Perhaps not many,” he acknowledged calmly. “But it won’t be for lack of trying.”

Arviyag laughed.

“And so spoke the barbarian!”

He straightened up, gripping the edges of his elegant Titiaka coat with both hands. His clothes made him look even thinner than he was. He reminded Dashvara of one of those dandies from Titiaka’s Bright-Casino. All he lacked was a baton.

From the corner of his eye, Dashvara calculated the distances…

‘Only your blade can save the Dahars of your people.’

His hunter’s eyes sought prey for his blade. But his mind kept telling him: not yet, Dash, there is still hope…

“Sentencing you to death would be a possibility,” Arviyag replied lightly. “But I don’t think Todakwa would appreciate a massacre being carried out on a holy day like this.” He inclined his head towards the Essimean leader and added, “Besides, we are civilized people, Xalya, and we prefer to kill the guilty. And in this case… I do believe that the one who must pay the price is the leader.”

Dashvara arched his eyebrows.

“Wise words,” he agreed. “Then, according to you, I should be civilized and beg Kuriag Dikaksunora to slit my throat.”

Arviyag smiled.

“For example. That would be a good start. But, if one of my men were to slice it for you, the problem would be just as well settled—”

“Do you really think so?” Dashvara interrupted briskly. “You really think the problem would be solved by killing the lord of the Xalyas? Touch me and you’ll have a hundred angry Xalyas ready to die to avenge me.”

Arviyag returned a mocking expression.

“Oh. Your people love you so much.”

Dashvara felt Makarva grow restless, and he placed a soothing hand on his arm while giving the Titiaka a venomous look. He turned to Todakwa and roared:

“Essimean! I agreed to the proposed pact. To change it now is to break the rules.”

Todakwa had watched the exchange with interest. He shook his head with an expression that was meant to be conciliatory.

“You are slaves of the Dikaksunora, Dashvara of Xalya. What I offered was a theoretical pact with the implied condition of allying the Honyrs within my domains. But it looks like they don’t want to support you, and since the Dikaksunora don’t wish to free you… your future depends on them. I don’t feel I have the right to interfere in this matter. You have been sold and bought, and the law of ownership is worth more than anything else.”

To hell with your modern laws, Dashvara hissed mentally. He glanced at Zefrek, but Zefrek had already sworn loyalty to Todakwa and had returned to his people. His message was clear: he would not interfere, and as a man of his word, he would honor the pact he had just accepted. Dashvara tried to remain calm under the clear eyes of Daeya of Essimea who was staring at him. Truthfully, he was really beginning to feel on the edge of the abyss.

“What about Raxifar of Akinoa?” he asked after a tense silence.

Todakwa rolled his eyes.

“Kuriag has agreed to hand him over to me for the damage done. His sacrificial blood will feed Skâra very soon.”

Dashvara exhaled and closed his eyes briefly. Liadirlá, give me strength… He couldn’t believe that Kuriag had acceded to sending Raxifar to his death. However… it should not be forgotten that this Akinoa had murdered his father. Kuriag’s leniency had been admirable, but perhaps his family had changed his mind. Devils. Certainly, with relatives like Garag and Arviyag, and knowing that Kuriag, despite his high principles, was quite impressionable… this young elf was capable of giving any order if convinced that it was the right thing to do. And if, by moving away from Lamasta, he had given full power to his cousins…

May the sand bury them, he raged.

Todakwa’s voice interrupted his thoughts. He had turned to his people, addressing a prayer in Galka, to which they responded in a deep chorus, intoning a song. The mournful melody of the beginning soon took on a happier and faster tone. Dashvara had no idea how long this would last, but it was clear that Todakwa had considered the pact ceremony over and had initiated the Alkanshe festival. He glanced at Yira, Makarva, and Arvara. All three of them returned his gaze, their eyes shining with concern. Yira whispered:

“We must find Kuriag.”

Dashvara had thought of fleeing, of fighting to the death, of stooping to humiliating pleas, but he had not thought that Kuriag could still come to their aid. However, his naâsga was right: Kuriag would never dare to condemn his wife’s people as long as they were in front of him. The problem was that they had no idea where he could be now. From dungeon to dungeon… Damn! There were at least a dozen monuments of the Ancient Kings in the area.

A few steps away, Arviyag was chatting with Garag… Dashvara took a step back. No one looked at him. He frowned and turned to Youk. The boy was still staring at his feet as he sang, but as if alerted by a sixth sense, he looked up at his lord. Dashvara motioned for him to come closer. His neighbor, the death-priest, was so busy singing that he did not notice anything as the boy walked away. At first his movements were hesitant, but, probably because he could read only forgiveness and friendship in Dashvara’s eyes, he grew bolder, approached, and even ceased singing to ask:

“Is it true that this foreigner will kill you?”

He said it in a tone of commiseration and solidarity, as if he understood that Dashvara might be his lord but he was also, like him, a slave, and there was nothing he could do to avoid it. Dashvara returned a fierce smile.

“I’m looking forward to seeing him try. You gave us all quite a scare by going off like an ilawatelk. Come on, let’s go home with the others.”

But Youk became reserved, and with his head down, he refused vigorously.

“I can’t,” he said.

Dashvara armed himself with patience.

“Of course you can. A few tattoos don’t mean anything, kid. I have tattoos too, see them?” He rolled up the sleeve of his right arm to show him the marks. “They’re paint. Colors. Nothing more.”

“That’s a lie,” Youk replied, backing away. “If they put those tattoos on you, it’s because they bought you. And it’s the same for me. Skâra bought me. I’m from Skâra. And I can’t go away because, if I do, She’ll punish me.”

He said it defiantly and firmly. Dashvara looked at him, gripped.

“Wait,” he told him, grabbing Youk by the arm when the boy pretended to walk away. Looking him in the eye, he said, “So be it. You belong to Skâra. No problem, you hear me? No problem at all. I only want you to come back with us. Because you are a Xalya, Youk. A Xalya of Skâra if you like, but a Xalya at heart.”

Youk pressed his lips together without saying anything. Dashvara added:

“I imagine it is not easy for you to choose. But know that your people want you to come back. A brother returns to his pack to help them. And you, you must help them, because they need you, Youk. Just because you’re a Xalya doesn’t mean you have to hate the death-priests or Skâra. You must only follow your Eternal Bird.”

Youk seemed to ponder, but Dashvara had no time to let him think, so he simply pushed him gently. The boy did not resist, and finally, they walked away to their people between two lines of Essimeans who were still singing. They were welcomed back with great concern, for although the Xalyas could not hear all the conversation, they had heard enough to know that things had gone wrong. Dashvara in any case briefly summarized what had happened in a neutral, almost casual voice:

“Todakwa may be a snake, but, in this case, the foreigners take the cake: they don’t want me to sign a pact because, naturally, we are their slaves.”

Inwardly, he couldn’t help but think that it was a miracle that they were all still alive. A more impetuous man than Arviyag would have had them all killed during the night, and the Liadirlá knew how easy it would have been to lock them in the shelter and burn them all alive. But Arviyag and Garag were pragmatic men, perhaps even the former more so than the latter, and apparently they were not going to make any hasty decisions.

Which doesn’t mean they won’t send us to our deaths in the near future, he mused.

The song of the Essimeans ended at that moment, and a death-priest declaimed words in Galka. The sons of Skâra broke off their lines and, led by Todakwa and his wife, went to the river to cover their arms with mud, to purify themselves perhaps, Dashvara did not know. As the drumming and clamouring subsided, his eyes wandered from the festive procession to the armed Essimean who were not participating. He also noticed the considerable number of foreign mercenaries that the Essimean lines had so far obscured from him. There were the twenty or so Ryscodrans from Garag, of course, but also other warriors, perhaps as many as eighty, who were likely in the service of Arviyag. All of them were sibilian, and there were faint dark patches on their greyish skin caused by the dry air and cold of the steppe. Their inscrutable faces, as well as their austere appearance and clothing, reflected the indifference and “mercenary spirit” that Dashvara had seen many times before on the Border. They were, in brief, men rescued perhaps from the galleys, from piracy, from misery, who had been trained to kill for money.

“The sibilians of the Skasna Islands,” Tsu’s voice croaked beside him. “Eight years ago, Menfag Dikaksunora promised them freedom for their families in exchange for their lifetime service. Apparently, they serve Arviyag now.”

He spoke the name of his former master in a terribly neutral voice. Dashvara looked at the sibilians with a certain solidarity, and his opinion of them improved, but they did not seem any less dangerous to him, on the contrary.

“The Honyrs are leaving,” Lumon said suddenly.

Dashvara did not turn to see them walk away: his eyes watched Arviyag and Garag approaching at a desperately slow pace. Had they made a decision? With a look of fear and shame, Sirk Is Rhad stood before him and bowed.

“Let me talk to my father, sîzan. I know I can convince him to help us.”

Dashvara shook his head sadly.

“Helping us would bring more trouble than benefit to the Honyrs, sîzan. Your father is being careful, that’s all.”

“He’s a coward,” Sirk Is Rhad hissed and, after a brief silence, admitted, “He ordered me to follow him.”

“Then follow him,” Dashvara said. Facing the Honyr’s defiant face, he smiled and laid a brotherly hand on his shoulder. “There is no point in throwing yourself into an abyss if you cannot save those who are already there. I have forgiven your people, and I am certain that the Honyrs will continue our Dahars. And that you will defend it no matter what, to the death, but in your own land, sîzan, not here. Tinan,” he called. “Accompany him to the paddocks and tell his father that from now on Sunrise belongs to him.” As Sirk Is Rhad widened his eyes and began to protest, he stopped him, “I would rather see my horse in the hands of a brother than in the hands of a stranger. And now go. Nandrivá, sîzan,” he insisted, pleading with him. “Nandrivá.”

His lord’s command added to his father’s made him desist: Sirk Is Rhad bowed, trembling slightly, and he uttered softly:

“My Eternal Bird will die with you, sîzan. Not before nor after.”

And with those words, he and Tinan walked quickly away towards the Honyrs who were leaving to take back their horses on the other side of the village. Arviyag and Garag were still approaching without hurrying. Shaking his head, Shokr Is Set sighed in Oy’vat:

“Kark Is Tork has a proud Eternal Bird.”

So that was his name… Dashvara shrugged.

“He wishes to save his son. I respect his wish and his caution. After all, we don’t know each other.”

From the corner of his eye he saw the curious look that the Great Sage was giving him. Dashvara wondered if he would obey him, too, if he asked him to leave. His intuition told him he wouldn’t. And, in a way, he was glad to have him by his side. In any case, he had no shortage of advisors: the captain with his pragmatic, proud, rational mind; Yodara with his practical, more thorough advice; Shokr Is Set with his knowledge; and… his people, who, just this morning had advised him to pull out the swords and face Todakwa. An advice that part of Dashvara was eager to put into practice. But the Essimean chief would never agree to a duel: he was a priest, not a warrior, and besides, fighting an enemy that was already defeated made no sense. Therefore, the only way to fulfill Lariya’s wish was to proceed as he had done with Nanda: kill him treacherously. And the Xalya people would be dishonored and avenged… And yet, the more he thought about it the more it seemed to him that listening to his people in this case, even on the verge of death, was a mistake. Because killing Todakwa now would mean leaving the steppe to the Titiakas.

Arviyag and Garag were approaching, surrounded by bodyguards. Both were in good spirits, chatting casually in a language that resembled Titiaka’s Diumcilian dialect but which Dashvara did not understand. He exchanged patient glances with his brothers. Tsu had his red eyes fixed on Arviyag. He didn’t seem to be listening to what the Titiaka men were saying, even though he probably could understand them. Something about his petrified face made Dashvara sense that he was stuck, recalling his past life.

Arviyag finally fell silent, paused, and looked down at Tsu. His eyes sparkled.

“Jovial as ever, drow.” He smiled. “It’s ironic that after letting you go, you’ve eventually returned to the same family. And I’m glad you did. The mission Cili assigns us is already written at birth. And you, drow, were born to serve me.”

He held out a hand and motioned for him to come closer. Tsu’s expression was one of stone. In fact, it looked as if he had turned entirely to stone, for he did not move, even when Arviyag frowned.

“Don’t you obey your old master, drow? Perhaps it is the surprise of seeing me. Come closer,” he ordered.

Tsu did not move. Dashvara intervened:

“He will move when you have explained what you think you are doing in our master’s absence.”

Arviyag grinned broadly before barking:

“Bring him to me!”

Two sibilians walked towards the Xalyas without any apprehension. Damn them…, Dashvara hissed. Before they could grab Tsu, he tried to intervene, but then the drow came out of his immobility, firmly pushed him aside, and moved forward as inexpressively as the sibilians who were escorting him. They removed a dagger from his boot and, without any need, pushed him forward. Tsu managed to regain his balance, and to the dismay of Dashvara—and probably of all his brothers—they saw him bow his head low and pronounce:

“I beg your pardon, khazag.”

Arviyag didn’t seem to mind the drow’s slow response, for he merely smiled at him, thoughtful, and turned to Garag to make a comment in his dialect before addressing Tsu in the same language. The drow nodded and briefly replied something that made his former master pout with satisfaction. Dashvara was contemplating the scene, his jaws so tight that his head was starting to throb.

It is I who beg your pardon, Tsu, he sighed. For not being able to keep our pride and our lives at the same time. I’m sorry, a thousand times sorry. You should have gone with Shjak’s drows and with that queen whose luck medallion you gave me.

His heart bled to see Tsu bowing down to a man who for years had made him hate himself for what he was, who had made him a torturer and scarred him for life. He, who had never known freedom, had had the misfortune to come across a people of steppian humans who, like him, wore the cursed marks on their arms.

Precisely at the moment he thought of the marks, he felt a sudden twinge in his arm that made him gasp in surprise. And he wasn’t the only one: his brothers huffed and grunted at the same time, and more than one grabbed his arm just where the Dikaksunora mark was… Dashvara hissed, and his eyes immediately turned to Arviyag. Seeing the Titiaka’s satisfied expression, he understood what had happened. By some means, this scoundrel had used the same trick that Kuriag had used in Aralika to prevent his brothers from killing the murderess. Except this time, he hadn’t performed any spells… or maybe he had?

Dashvara glanced at Arviyag’s hand, not the free one, but the one he held in his coat pocket. He was holding something there, he bet. Something, some damned magara…

“That kind of trick is limited,” Yira whispered, guessing the problem. “He’s only trying to scare you.”

Really? Well, let’s just say he succeeded. Oh hell, he did. Dashvara’s heart was pounding; whether it was due to surprise, magic, or apprehension, he couldn’t tell. If only he could tear off that mark! But it was rooted in his arm as if it were already part of his own body.

He breathed in to calm himself and glared at Arviyag. The Titiaka now wore a disapproving expression. He said in a stern voice:

“Kuriag Dikaksunora intended to release you at the end of his tour of the steppe. But the Xalya kinglet’s ambition knows no bounds. He wanted his master to make a fool of himself in front of a steppe chief by buying a hundred and eighty savages. One hundred and eighty,” he repeated with evident mockery. “And what did the kinglet want him to do with them? Let him set them free! Because he knew that his master was a young man who was still suggestible and didn’t know how to say ‘no’. And the kinglet ran away in the middle of the night with one hundred and eighty women and children,” he scoffed. “And he joined a rebellion! So to speak, without weapons, without horses, and without warriors. An anecdote worthy of a fairy tale, except that the kinglet had forgotten that he who betrays pays for it, and dearly.”

His smile had turned into a detached pout. He added:

“Bring him to me.”

The Xalyas reacted suddenly, positioning themselves in front of Dashvara. The latter growled:

“Hold your horses, Xalyas. You’ll have plenty of time to pounce on that snake if he dares not respect the Alkanshe peace of his host.”

He spoke loudly, so that Arviyag could hear him, and he made his way through his reluctant people to approach the sibilians and the foreign rat. They took away his swords, but they let him move forward without pushing him, until one of them held out a hand, beckoning him to stop. Garag was commenting something to Arviyag in his dialect. As soon as he fell silent, Dashvara spoke up:

“I am willing to pay for my escape on behalf of all my people. However, I’m afraid that only my master can decide the appropriate punishment.”

Arviyag rolled his eyes and quietly took a few steps forward, walking around him, while saying:

“Do you remember, proud Xalya, what state the drow left you in three years ago? Or perhaps you have forgotten? I think not. The interrogation thimbles destroyed your pure, unwavering ideals. They broke you. And that is something no man can forget.” Dashvara couldn’t help but feel again the wave of helplessness and despair that had overcome him that damned day. He shuddered very slightly. And he felt a hint of satisfaction when the Titiaka confirmed, “Something you’ll never recover from. You howled like a wounded dog in your savage tongue. Then you spoke. You betrayed your people in exchange of your life. And now you want me to believe you’re willing to die for your people? Really? After proving that you have more of a slave’s soul than a lord’s, after crawling on the ground to save your life, you want to show off your pride and sacrifice to me?”

He let out a jeering snort and, without warning, took him by the right arm, just at the level of the wound that had not yet fully healed, and squeezed. A sharp pain made Dashvara wheeze deeply and jerkily. He staggered, gasping for breath. Releasing him, Arviyag stood in front of him and watched him with a mixture of indifference and mockery. The Xalyas watched the scene like a bunch of angry and petrified nadres, aware that pulling out their swords would only condemn themselves and break the Alkanshe’s truce. Dashvara had not yet caught his breath when Arviyag added:

“You think your master will save your neck one more time. And he probably will. But, when he does, Xalya, he’ll be saving a loyal, submissive slave, not a rebellious, useless savage. And I will see to that personally.”

Dashvara glared back at him. At this moment, he would have gladly shown him how savage and rebellious he felt… However, he controlled himself, for there was a hint of hope in Arviyag’s words: the Titiaka had just admitted that he wouldn’t dare kill him… Or maybe he just didn’t want to. At the end of the day, what was stopping him from killing him? Kuriag? The young elf knew the limits of the patience of traditional Titiaka masters, and he could hardly blame his cousins for liquidating a fugitive slave, let alone one who was insolent and disobedient when captured. Therefore, if Arviyag let him live, it was because he hoped to get something out of him.

Maybe he wants to have fun with you one more time, Dash.

His heart clenched and burst with rage at the same time.

This devil wants to kill you inside.

The question was why. Perhaps for simple entertainment?

Bah. Be positive, Dash: as long as the viper’s eyes are on you, he won’t bite your people. You just have to put on a nice show of humility for him to be satisfied.

As Dashvara did not loosen his lips, Arviyag soon stepped aside and raised a hand. He ordered his sibilian warriors:

“Take them all to the camp! Confiscate the weapons and horses. And take that man to my personal tent,” he tossed, referring to Dashvara. He followed up with a gesture to Tsu, adding simply, “Drow.”

He wanted the drow to follow him. Tsu obeyed and walked away behind Arviyag and Garag. His red eyes looked like two ice diamonds. When he met his gaze, Dashvara tried to give him as reassuring an expression as possible. All in all, for the moment, they had just fallen back into the Diumcilian net, that’s all.

For a moment, he feared the Xalyas would resist and refuse to surrender their weapons. However, when he nodded at the silent question and the captain handed over his sabers, the others followed suit with silence or mere gasps of bitterness. At no time did Skasnan sibilians express mockery or pleasure in disarming them, but they showed no less cold indifference accompanied by unwarranted jostling. Eight years in the service of the Dikaksunora must have made them fools, Dashvara muttered through his teeth as he watched one of them search a ten-year-old. Or maybe they were already like that before.

They soon all started walking away from the Essimeans and Shalussis, and as he moved forward surrounded by sibilians, Dashvara bet that Lariya and Aligra must be cursing him inwardly. What kind of lord had fate in store for them, who deemed the lives of his people more important than their honor? “Unworthy lord who throws down his Eternal Bird and condemns our people!” they most likely thought. Fool who hopes that a foreigner whom he calls master will come to save us! Fool who humiliates himself for us before foreigners…

And I will humiliate myself as much as I have to humiliate myself, Xalyas, Dashvara thought. And I will fight as hard as I have to fight, humiliating myself if I have to. After three years of slavery in distant lands, it will not be impatience or pride that will make me make the same mistakes as my father. Perhaps I will make other kinds of mistakes. But I will not stop fighting to save you, Xalyas. And that’s just what I’m doing even if I don’t look like it.

Or at least he was trying to convince himself of that. For, while he was sure that provoking Arviyag would have been simply suicidal, playing along with him could be just as risky.